Spicy Dwarven Crafts

“Mind if I cut in? Since I’m right here anyways.” He looks to Nobara as he asks and she frowns and goes to respond, but you cut in before she can get a word out.

“Yes, I do mind, very much in fact.” You snap your head back to Nobara, “I’m going outside for some air, I feel like I’m suffocating right now.” You say loud enough to get your point across to everyone.

She lifts her eyebrows and it says, ‘yeah, I bet’ Before you both turn to head in opposite directions.

The cool night air hits your overheated skin as you step out of the club, prickling goosebumps across your chest even though you’re anything but cold. Stars dot the sky above, it’s not quiet by any means but it still feels calm here, soothing the frayed ends of your very confused nerves.

You get about two minutes of peace before a bright and familiar laugh sets your skin buzzing and your eye twitching. You contemplate just taking off in a sprint until you’re out of range and walking back to the estate Yuuta is putting you all up in, but you’re not fast enough.

“Silver! What are you doing up here?” Gojo walks right up to you, Geto leans against the wall next to you, lighting up a cigarette.

“Sorry, I told him he didn’t have to come with.” Geto offers sympathetically, you shake your head as he holds the pack out to you.

“It’s fine. It’s a public street, anyone can be out here,” Your eyes narrow at Gojo, “even the riffraff.”

“Pfft, riffraff? What, are you accepting your fate as a seventy year old cat lady already?” He laughs and it sends your stomach flipping up into your throat and your hand itches like it wants to say hello to his face. Gojo grins and it’s all straight white teeth and bright blue eyes lidded under stupidly long white lashes. “Y’know, it’s been scientifically proven that smiling and saying positive things out loud can improve mood and one’s overall health, even if it’s disingenuous. You should try it, it might even help your grade too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind and make sure to mention it next time you throw a temper tantrum over another internship spot.” You make a point of smiling as sweetly as you possibly can when you’re in Gojo’s vicinity. 

Geto sighs next to you like he just wanted to have a cigarette in peace. But peace is never an option when it comes to you and Gojo.

“I’m over it,” Gojo waves a hand, brushing you off. “But you’re clearly still stuck on the midterm. You shouldn’t take it so hard, everyone else got the same question wrong too—well,” He grins again. “Except for me that is.”

It stings. It always does when it’s this fresh. The hours spent studying, pouring time and effort and your life into preparing for yet another test just to have him beat you by one stupid fucking question. It wouldn’t bother you so much, sure you’re competitive, but it wouldn’t hurt if he wasn’t always such an asshole about it. Rubbing your nose in your own loss. 

“Fuck you, Gojo.” You spit the words with a glare.

“How vulgar,” He tuts, “I thought you were better than that.”

“Thought wrong, guess you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

“You’re so bitter, you really need to loosen up a bit.” He smirks, casting a glance over his shoulder before setting his eyes back on you with a brow lifted. “Wanna go for a ride? It’ll take the edge off and I can show you what it’s like to finally win.”

You can’t hold in the barked laugh that bursts out at that. You’re expecting him to admit to the joke, but he just stands there. Silent with a pale brow up expectantly as he stares like he’s waiting for something, an answer? “You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t joke about winning.”

“Yeah,” You start with a flat look, “It’s gonna be a hard no, I’d like to survive till graduation.”

“Oh come on,” He drawls, wandering over to where the sleek black bike is parked and throws a leg over, leaning back in the seat with one hand on the grip. “Live a little, Silver, we can even race someone and you can ride the coattails of my win, the usual stuff.”

The bike starts with a momentary roar, quieting down to a purring hum that you can feel even at a distance. You shiver a little but it’s not from the cool night air. The memory of that race earlier today comes flooding back, the adrenaline that filled those seconds seeps in, making your pulse hum in time with the engine. It’s all just so… confusing. Knowing it was Gojo under that helmet is fucking you up a little.

You hate him.

So why are you getting kind of excited at the idea of taking him up on the offer? Why are you even considering it?

“What makes you think I’d go anywhere with you, Gojo? Especially not when you’ve been drinking.” You cross your arms, trying to ignore the little voice urging you to do it.

“Nah, don’t worry, I’m stone cold sober.” He assures with a nod. “And because I know you want to know what it’s like,” He revs the bike a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like you did with your foot to the floor trying to keep up with me.”

He’s kind of right, but fuck him.

“So what happens when we crash? I like my dermis as it is—attached to the rest of my body, not smeared on the road.” His eyes flick down, dragging back up and over you as he hums.

Is he… checking you out?

You feel very aware of the kind of skimpy outfit you decided to wear out tonight as his eyes rove up your legs—bare up to the skirt that barely hits mid-thigh—and over the low cut top Nobara stuffed you into.

“We won’t crash, I’m pretty good at driving this thing.” He meets your eyes again with a smile that’s not the smug or cocky one he usually gives you, there’s something else there.

God damn it.

How could it be him? Does the universe really hate you that much?

How could your street racer, the biker boy of dreams you didn’t even know you had, be Gojo?

It feels like a prank, a cruel one. Or maybe a test, and you were already thinking about taking it, tempted to give in to an adrenaline junkie side that you had no idea even existed, not before him.

But you huff and give him grief because that’s what you and Gojo do. “You’re not going to stop until I say yes, huh? Why? Do you just want to scare the shit out of me?” He shrugs and you both stare silently for a few seconds.

Geto clears his throat next to you, “You can use my helmet... if you want.”

“Not helping.” You throw him a side eyed glare.

“See!” Gojo throws his hand out to Geto, beaming at you. “Totally safe. Just say yes, it’s so obvious that you want to.”

Fuck.

Are you really about to do this?

“Clearly my judgement is severely impaired right now.” You mutter, peeling off the wall to approach Gojo as he grins like the god damn cheshire cat.

Geto grabs his helmet for you and your stomach tightens as you watch Gojo slip his on, transforming into your faceless street racer right before your eyes once more. He flips the visor up and watches as you pull your hair back, tucking it behind your ears before tugging the helmet on.

You fiddle with the clasp a little, trying to clip it, head tilted back to expose your neck and give your hands more room. You flinch as warm fingers brush your jaw, taking the clasp out of your hands.

“Chill, I got it.” Gojo murmurs as his hands work, you let yours drop away and watch him as he secures the clasp, tightening the strap a little with head tilted and brow furrowed, a few pieces of snowy hair falling in his eyes.

You try to fight it, but as his thumb grazes your throat, right over your pulse point that’s humming away, you swallow hard.

“There we go,” He pulls back and slaps the top of the helmet, gripping it to shake your head a little and you jerk back out of his grasp. “All set, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” You sigh, the sound muffled with the helmet covering your mouth.

“Hop on then, let’s go.” He twists to pat the space behind him. You eye it, then Gojo.

Against all better instincts, you lift and throw a leg over the back of his bike. The cool leather is like a shock as your ass meets the seat, holding your skirt down until you're sat. You grip the back of the seat, scooting and holding yourself back to keep distance between you and the ridiculously broad back right in your face.

Gojo turns, looking over his shoulder at you. “Hold on tight, I don’t go slow.” You can hear the smirk on his face and you roll your eyes. 

You keep your hands on the back of the seat as he flicks the visor down and hefts the bike upright, flipping the kickstand up with his foot. Your toes lift off the ground and your balance falters, hands shooting out to steady yourself on the only thing in reach; Gojo’s back. Your feet search for purchase and find the rear pegs, settling there you regain some balance.

You can feel his laugh as you slide forward a little on the seat, chest pressed right up against him now. Closer to him right now than you’ve ever been in the three years you’ve known him, closer than you’ve ever wanted to get. 

The purr of the bike as he walks it back goes right through you and it has to be fucking with your head because this all feels too good. The heat of his body against yours, feeling nothing but hard cut lines under your hands as you give in and wrap them around his waist.

Geto waves you both off. Gojo toes the shifter and nods to him, twisting the throttle a little and your knees squeeze around him, hands gripping the front of Gojo’s shirt as he shifts into gear, and peels off.

It’s all squealing tires and whipping wind and you realize that he was totally holding back when we raced. In a matter of blinks, you’re going faster than you think you ever have in your life and…

It feels amazing.

The adrenaline pumping through you now is greater even than when you raced him.

It feels almost natural, leaning a little with him as he takes corners, feeling him press his back into your chest as he brakes to make a sharp turn, leaning forward into him as he twists the throttle hard to get back up to breakneck speed on straight stretches.

Doing all of it with your mouth curved in a smile hidden by the front of Geto’s helmet as you look out at the scenery. The road he’s taken you both up to runs almost right next to the water. Winding and curved, only a couple of other cars are on the road with you, but he leaves them behind quickly.

You’re thinking it’s just going to be a ride like this, quiet and just the two of you aimlessly speeding along with the pretty view of a darkened—inky and almost black—ocean on your left. You’re admiring said view when Gojo slaps your thigh a few times, just above your knee and you startle and suck in a sharp breath at the sudden contact, turning your attention back to him as he points at something in the distance.

It’s a car. A little hard to tell what kind in the dark but it’s low and sleek and looks like it could probably go fast. You’re about to yell at him to ask ‘what about it?’ but he grips the handle again, downshifts, and cranks the throttle.

He catches up to the car quickly, coming up close on the bumper of maybe... a mustang? You're not sure, you've never really been into cars outside of their function and utilization in hypotheticals for momentum in Newtonian mechanics.

Your grip around Gojo tightens further as he swerves around to pull up next to the car and it dawns on you exactly what he’s doing.

He’s about to fucking race this guy.

The thought sends a jolt of lightning up your spine, making you shiver again. The night air is cool, but the drinks you’ve had tonight and Gojo’s body heat leeching through his shirt and right into you keeps you warm despite the wind tearing around you.

A silent conversation passes between Gojo and the guy driving the car, revving and nosing ahead of each other in a mechanical dick measuring contest. Through the open window you can see there’s a girl in the passenger seat of the car, leaning hard into the driver with his hand high up on her thigh.

You’re all too aware of how you and Gojo look right now, how you’re touching, chest pressed to his back and thighs around his hips. To the couple in the car, you probably look, well, the same as them.

It’s so confusing because it doesn’t disgust you like you expect it to. Like his hands on your neck, on your thigh should have. He’s an asshole, a nerd with an ego too big to fit inside his helmet or even his big fat stupid head. 

When did he even start riding a bike? It’s so out of character for him—at least from what you know about him with all the annoying back and forth you two have been doing over the years.

From the very first interaction, when he’d pointed out how close your score was even though you topped his, not even saying ‘hi’ before he got under your skin, you’ve felt nothing but burning, white hot hatred for him. Three years worth of it built up. You’re definitely still burning, but it’s something alive, hot and deep in your gut that makes your knees clench tighter that you’re feeling right now.

Gojo yanks you out of your churning thoughts, urging the bike faster and faster. The sound of both the car and his bike peaking to max RPM’s before shifting and somehow getting even faster. You can’t see the speedo, but you know it’d probably make your stomach flip to see as you approach a straight stretch, coming out of a turn that has you so close to the car as its tires squeal and fight for grip.

You come out of the turn and the back tire skids a little, fishtailing in a terrifying wobble that steals your breath and stops your heart, white-knuckling his shirt as Gojo fights it, throttling to push the bike through, and he does.

He opens the bike up again and tears ahead, faster than the car could ever hope to recover from the corner and taking the lead, only gaining more distance between the car as he pushes harder, faster.

There was never a finish line set for the race, but in unspoken street-racing rules, you assume Gojo has all but actually claimed gold here as you round another corner and the car disappears from sight, defeated and backing off.

Even over the wind and the bike, Gojo’s whooping laugh rings out loud and clear as he pumps a fist in the air, savouring his victory lap as he slows a little to a slightly less heart-pounding speed.

And you’re grinning. Laughing right along with him because that was exhilarating. It feels so good, the way your heart beats at your ribcage, thudding against his back with your senses so alight the air smells sharper, the dark waves that roll and lick at the shore seem alive.

Everything around you feels crisp and clear.

The feeling that spreads as Gojo slaps his hand on your thigh, gripping and leaving it there with his long fingers pressing into your soft flesh higher than before. Laughing victoriously still, like he’s claiming a prize.

You know the feeling. It’s not unfamiliar, but it’s foreign and confusing for it to be flooding in around Gojo.

Hands unclenching from his shirt, your fingers ease and splay out against his sternum, palms pressed to abs you had no idea he had.

You feel almost high and chalk it up to adrenaline from a near skid out and the endorphins of winning. Not the way he squeezes one more time and pulls his hand off so slowly, fingers dragging tortuously over your skin to replace on the grip after what feels like somehow way too long and not nearly enough time.

The touch is seared onto your thigh, the heat of his hand there burned into your skin and brain as you cruise on, looping back to head into town again. Head turned and resting the side of the helmet against Gojo’s spine as you look out at the quiet streets that blur past, it all feels so good and you let yourself just feel it. Knowing it’s fleeting.

He hates you just as much as you hate him—well, maybe you hate him just a little more—and that still stands of course, but maybe just for tonight you can allow yourself to feel something else.

For this ride, he can just be your nameless, faceless street racer instead of your mortal enemy. You deserve that, right?

You press hard into Gojo as he brakes, screeching to a near full stop and pulling the bike around to park in front of not the club as you’re expecting, but a small shop. Windows lit with colorful neon signs that cast bright colors on the sidewalk out front.

“What are you doing?” You ask, pulling away from him as he shuts the bike off. “We should probably get back to the club.”

“Just a quick pit stop, this place has really good ice-cream sandwiches.” He’s muffled a little with the helmet still on, twisting to look over his shoulder as he gestures to the shop. “They use monster cookies and like half a pint of whatever flavor you want.”

You’re stopping for… ice-cream? You make a face behind the cover of the blacked out visor. “Oh, um… okay.”

He leans the bike and hops off first, holding a hand out to help you off. 

You stare at it. 

It feels weird. Sure you’ve been smushed against his back with your arms around him for the last—you’re actually not sure how long you two have been out for, you realize—but that was out of pure necessity.

This is just… nice?

Gojo Satoru, being nice, to you?

You think it might be a trick, a prank to let you fall on your face should you actually lean on him at all. But, for some reason, you take the offering anyway. Taking his hand as you swing your leg over and slide down the side. You don’t fall, he doesn’t yank his hand away at just the right time, he just… helps you get off the bike.

He pulls his helmet off, shaking his head to make already messy platinum hair even fluffier, like one of those Persian cats after they’ve been blow-dried and you chuckle at the sight, getting a flat look back.

Pulling off Geto’s helmet, Gojo gets one look at you and howls, throwing his head back to laugh at you with zero hesitation, returning the favour.

You tuck the helmet under an arm and pat your head, feeling your own messy hair. Scowling at Gojo as you fix it a little with a finger comb.

Leaving both helmets on the seat of his bike, Gojo walks into the shop ahead of you. Holding the door for you to grab behind him—not like a gentleman, but also not letting it slam in your face as would be usual.

Tonight just feels weird. Nothing is going how you would imagine it to—hell, you never would have imagined getting on that bike in the first place, not while knowing who was driving it. But here you are, getting ice-cream with Gojo.

There are already a couple other people inside when you walk in, one on his phone at a table trying to focus on the screen and failing miserably—very clearly drunk—and a girl ordering at the counter.

“So, you’ve been here before?” You ask Gojo as you line up behind the girl.

“A few times, yeah.” He peers at the display case, humming and looking over the options as the girl ahead pays for her order. “For you, I’m gonna say… vanilla seems fitting, with oatmeal raisin cookies, also fitting.” He turns back to you, shit eating grin stretched wide across his face.

You ignore that and step up to the case to look in. “For you, cotton candy—predictably over the top—and… ah, sugar cookies, same reason.” You turn back to Gojo and he’s still just smiling down at you.

“Sounds like you just think I’m sweet.”

“Sounds like you think I’m classic and consistent.”

“To a fault, although,” He tilts his head a little, “Maybe not as boring as I thought.”

Usually, you’d snap something back at him, call him a loser or tell him to get back to moderating his Digimon reddit forum and quit thinking about you. 

But you don’t.

Instead, you lift your chin a little, hands loosely clasped in front of you instead of crossed and guarded. “Yeah, I’ve been surprising even myself today.”

Now he looks surprised, blinking once as the grin slips a little like he wasn’t expecting that either. 

“Yeah…” His jaw works, a muscle feathering for a moment like he’s holding something back and he clears his throat. “If you really feel like living it up tonight, you should try the salted caramel. There are crunchy caramel bits and a ripple in there too. Still on the boring side, but with a little bit of, mmm, something else.” Your lips part and he steps up to the counter.

These personality reads disguised as ice-cream flavours are weird. Is he kind of right, though? Maybe about you, but maybe about himself too. He’s being weirdly nice. Weirdly sweet.

What the fuck is going on?

Gojo gets strawberry cheesecake with—and you grin as he does, brimming with satisfaction at being spot on with your assumption—sugar cookies. Deciding to take Gojo’s advice, you get the salted caramel with classic chocolate chip cookies and he grins as you do, looking equally satisfied.

You go to pull some cash out of a pocket in your skirt, Gojo has his wallet out and taps a sleek dark card on the reader. You go to hand over a few bills for your order, but Gojo says something that makes your face screw up, mouth hanging indignantly.

“I got it.”

Okay… what the actual fuck is going on?

Taking you for a ride on his bike, touching you, stopping for ice-cream, paying for said ice-cream, being kind of nice to you all the while.

It’s all too much like stuff people do on dates and if you didn’t hate each other's guts, you’d say it kind of feels like that too.

But you do.

You hate him.

He hates you.

So it’s all just weird instead.

The woman working hands Gojo a dark purple box, beaming at him as she does and you eye Gojo as he takes it, returning her smile with one of his own. She’s giving him that look people do when they see something they like, eyes lit up and glued to his face like it’s the best part.

Your body is doing stupid shit as he turns to you, box in hand and tips his head to the door, some of his fluffed up platinum hair falling across his bright eyes, so weird to see unobscured by glasses. Smile almost as bright as the shade of cerulean in his irises. You turn away, from Gojo and from the weird feeling tightening across your chest, twisting in your stomach and making this shop too warm all of a sudden.

He follows you out, opening up the box and handing you your dessert. He leans on his bike and you lean against the wall outside the shop as you both take the first bite.

You really, really hate to admit it, but Gojo was right.

“This is—mmf—really good.” You mumble around cookie crumbs and the not too sweet ice-cream that coats your mouth with a slightly salty tinge that compliments the ribbon of thick and creamy caramel perfectly, those little crunchy bits offering something kind of nutty too.

“Mmm—I know right,” He nods, mouth full of his own sickly sweet concoction. “I knew you’d like that one.” You’re about to take another bite, but that makes you falter, hand halted just before the thick sandwich reaches your open mouth.

He’s munching away at his own dessert and his hand comes up like he’s about to adjust his glasses, but realizes they’re not there and he drops it back to hold the cookie. It’s something you’ve seen him do hundreds—god, probably thousands of times and it forces the last bit of the realization in through a crack opening.

You’ve known Gojo for three years, been around him for a lot with you both working towards the same degree in the same field, you’re in pretty much every class together, spent almost the entirety of your college life with him.

You do know him, maybe not well, but he clearly knows you too. Maybe not by choice but more by the forced proximity despite M.I.T. being a massive school.

But this is the first time you’re seeing him like this, a little softer around the edges.

“Y’know,” You start, lowering your hand from your mouth. “I think this is the longest we’ve ever gone without insulting each other.” His eyes find yours and he swallows the mouthful of cookie and ice-cream.

“Feels kinda weird, right?” You nod slowly and he chuckles. “I can say something about the midterm and you can call me an egotistical asshole or something, get back to the usual stuff if you want?”

“You don’t have to bring up the midterm, I’ll call you an egotistical asshole anytime.” He laughs at that.

“Of course, silly me.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and you take a bite to force your mouth to do something else.

Gojo finishes first, that big fat mouth is good for more than just shit talking you guess, and you peel off the wall as you pop the last bit in your mouth, walking back to Gojo leaning on his bike. He stands and gives you a look that makes your stomach flip a little.

“Wanna try sitting up front?”

“You mean like… driving?” The ride was fun, but the thought of being the one in control of the sleek black rocket makes that flip in your stomach turn to full on somersaults and he laughs.

“No, no,” He wipes a fake tear. “No way I’m letting you drive,”

You scowl, “What’s so funny? Don’t think I can?”

“I never said that,” He lifts his hands, palms out and placating. “And it’s not while the bike is moving, just to sit.”

“Just to sit?” You echo and he nods. “What’s even the point of that?”

“It’s fun,” He shrugs, “and I can show you how to work it.” You feel heat flood into your cheeks at that, going wide eyed and he laughs. “Get your mind out of the gutter, the bike, I mean.”

“Tch, whatever.” Your eyes roll again, but you do step up and swing a leg over, taking the front seat. Up on tip toes, your hands splay on the tank for balance, expecting him to stand there and point out all the buttons and controls.

But he doesn’t.

Gojo takes the seat behind you, his weight sinking the bike’s suspension a bit. His hips pressed to your ass. Breath catching as he leans forward to look over your shoulder, his chest against your ramrod straight spine, your whole body going stiff as his closes around you.

A pale forearm, veins and muscle prominent under his skin, reaches around you to point things out on the bike in front of you. “Okay, the important stuff first, throttle, clutch, and—you’ll like this one—brake.” The teasing lilt to his voice makes you itch to turn and scowl over your shoulder, but he’s right there and if you do… it’d be too close.

“Alright, hands on the grips and feet on the pegs,” You do as he says, holding the grips tight and shifting your toes to rest on the pegs—thankful you opted for cute sneakers instead of heels for tonight, they’re coming in handy for more than just the dancing you’d planned. “Good, you’re a natural! Stay just like that.”

You swallow hard against something tight in your throat as heat spreads throughout your entire body, emanating from deep in your center. You don’t think he’s ever commended you, definitely not like this, not with his hard chest against you as he pushes the bike upright, both feet on the ground to balance.

“Okay, this switch here, flick it.” He points it out and you do so with your thumb, staying silent as he walks you through the steps of starting the bike and it roars to life. He shows you the shifter near your foot, how to work the clutch in tandem with it and the throttle and you try to follow along, but your head is a little scattered.

“Okay so… hold the clutch, shift to gear, ease off the clutch and onto the throttle, right?” You ask, going through the steps over again.

“Yeah, you’ve got it. But remember to steer too, no smashing into walls.” You scoff, turning to give him a look like ‘yeah, no shit.’ before you can think twice on it and come face to face with Gojo. The look wiped right off to instead stare wide eyed back at him.

“So,” He looks ahead of you, to the bike as his other arm comes around, hand brushing yours as he thumbs a button near the grip. “That’s the horn,” His hand drops, flicking a switch near the speedometer. “Lights are—“

“Why are you doing this?” You blurt, the words jumping up and out of your throat, forced out by your stomach twisting on itself with Gojo so close, pressed in and around you.

He looks at you again, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

His mouth opens, hesitating for a second and letting a sigh out as his eyes drop, feeling his breath fan over your lips as he does. “Just trying to be nice, I guess.”

Your jaw clenches, hands tightening on the grips. “But, why though?” His eyes flick back up to yours, brow low but not frowning, not smiling either.

“Felt like trying something new, doing something different. Is that allowed?” His voice is thin, words clipped like you’ve hit something and it’s irritated him. You almost want to ask what’s wrong, but you don’t.

“You’re so all over the place.”

A smirk quirks his mouth, smugness tugging his lips. “I think you just have a hard time keeping up with me.”

There it is.

“It’s impossible to keep up with inconsistency.” Your eyes narrow a little and his do too, but there’s a slight lift to them as well.

“It doesn’t even seem like you’re trying.”

You glare now, the usual irritation that simmers between you two rising to cut through whatever else you’re feeling having him so close. “Have you crashed this thing already? You’re talking like someone with head-trauma. Trying to do something impossible sounds pretty damn similar to the definition of insanity people love to misquote.”

He’s acting crazy right now, toeing waters that aren’t meant for you and Gojo. The familiarity of butting heads isn’t pleasant but it’s less heart pounding than whatever else is stirring—has been stirring since that race.

“Right back to insulting me, lasted all of five minutes with that one, nice.” He scoffs and you return it, whipping your head forward.

“It was like ten minutes, and it’s hardly an insult if it's true.”

“So if I’m ever nice, it has to be because of head-trauma?” He barks a laugh, loud and humourless in your ear. “How else am I supposed to take that if not as an insult? Last time I ever buy your ungrateful ass ice-cream, damn.”

“Ungrateful?” You echo, pitched and undignified and more like a squawk than a retort. “I never asked for that,” You scramble to get off the bike, needing space and to not be six inches away from his face when you look at him. You slide off, leg up and on the seat and your foot gets caught. Gojo goes to help you and you snap. “Don’t, I’ve got it.”

He backs off, hands up as you yank your foot off and stumble back. “Okay! God, don’t pop a blood vess—”

“I never asked for this, never asked for any of this actually.” You jab a finger at him, probably looking a little wild with wide eyes and helmet hair. “You dragged me out here and I have no idea why—“

“Oh stop, just admit it,” He cuts you off. The engine dies as he flips the kickstand out and leans the bike again. “You had fun.”

You blink, finger still aimed accusingly but curling in on itself as he stands. “What?”

“I know you’re not actually deaf,” You have to tilt your head to look up at his stupid smug face again as he stands with hands in his pockets barely two feet away, again. “Even though it does seem like it sometimes with how shit goes right through your skull like it’s empty or something.”

“Me?” You scoff, incredulous. “Your brain must be fried from all the hot air blowing up your fat head if you think I’ll admit that this was anything other than dangerous and idiotic. I was right, you are insane and not nearly as smart as you think you are if you decided to start riding a motorcycle.”

“Says the one who snatched that helmet from Suguru like it was the One Ring and hopped on my bike like you were dying to ride it.” Your nose scrunches, frowning as he bends, leaning just a little closer. “Admit it, when we raced—I was letting you keep up by the way, but I saw how you looked at me, you were totally dying to ride it. Which was it though? The bike, or me?” He smirks like he knows the choked noise of disgust that rips from your throat is feigned.

“You are such a fucking pig, I can’t believe I ever thought—” You cut yourself off with a forced huff, turning away from him. Again, does the universe just fucking hate you or something? And how could you have ever thought that Gojo would be anything but your mortal enemy.

“Thought what?” He prods, straightening a little as you take a few steps towards the wall with your fists balled at your sides, nails digging into your palms again.

“That you would ever be anything other than a disgusting, egotistical asshole.” You snap over your shoulder.

“Yeah, I can’t believe I ever thought you’d be anything other than a boring, stuck up bitch, but I guess I can be wrong sometimes.” He laughs and it’s devoid of anything resembling humor and you whirl around at that.

“Fuck you.” You spit out, glaring as he does the same right back.

“Yeah? Well fuck you too.”

Your whole body is tense, rigid again and burning hot as you glare at each other. Your eyes betray you, flitting over him for a split second, seeing his thick biceps flexed, broad shoulders hiked a little like he’s coiled up in anticipation for something.

You can feel it. The heated static charge that sits in the space between you. The ‘fuck you’ you exchanged hanging somewhere in there too. His icy blue eyes betray him just that same as yours, dragging over you for a moment as a muscle feathers in his jaw.

God, you fucking hate this guy.

So why does it feel like the moment after lightning strikes, when you’re waiting for the inevitable clap of thunder that follows? There’s no thunder with you and Gojo, there’s no lightning, there’s no storm that could ever bring such things.

He’s Gojo Satoru, your natural nemesis. Your faceless street racer doesn’t exist because it was Gojo the whole time and that will just never happen.

He might be ridiculously hot, but in no world would you ever—

Space disappears way too easily. Your hands grip the front of his shirt, feeling his toned chest as your fingers splay and ball the soft fabric up, yanking him. He grabs your waist with one hand, fingers digging hard into the curve there as his other tangles in your hair, tugging to tilt your head back as he pulls you flush against him.

Your spine curves with the position he’s forced you into and your mouth opens for a sharp gasp to escape at the sting of your hair being pulled not so much with pain, but with a sharp jolt of something hot that floods your body as his mouth crashes against yours.

It’s not nice and soft and romantic as first kisses often are, as they’re supposed to be. It’s heated, rough and hard, his lips bruising against yours and you push back against it, pulling at his shirt and pushing up to fight back.

That’s what it is. It’s a fight, just as you and Gojo do in every aspect of your lives. A clash for dominance that neither of you will ever give up without tearing each other apart for first.

He tugs your hair again and you groan into his mouth, around his tongue as it sweeps along yours, tasting strawberries and sugar and something else underlying that must just be Gojo as you meet each wet slide of his tongue.

It’s all teeth and tongue and noses bumping. Both panting with each break of your lips from his to gasp for the oxygen your racing blood demands, only getting more of his hot breath before being suffocated again.

Why does it feel so good? He tastes too good, his body feels too good against yours, under your hands. His own hungry and desperate and exploratory, gliding and squeezing up and down your side, drifting under your shirt to grip bare flesh. That feels way too good.

It’s like every insult you’ve ever hurled at each other is just fuel on flames licking at your heels, urging you further and it seems Gojo is feeling the same demanding heat.

He steps forward, forcing you to take one back. His mouth never leaves yours as he grips your hips with both hands, thumb digging into the bone hard enough to ache. Walking you backwards until he shoves you to hit the wall behind you and you break apart with a sharp gasp.

Your eyes fly open to find his lidded and dark with pupils wide, pieces of messy, silvery hair falling across them. Your hands splay out flat on his chest and shove, but the six-foot-something bastard barely budges, just leaning back a little to give you space as you both huff and pant for breath.

Your lips waver, you want to say something, ‘what the fuck?!’ maybe, or another ‘fuck you’ but nothing comes out except for the sound of gasping desperately for oxygen. His eyes searching your face, from your eyes, to your lips. Throat bobbing as he swallows, looking for something in your features.

Palms still flattened over the plane of his chest, his hips pressed to you and pinning you to the concrete wall, all of it still feeling too good for this to be Gojo.

Maybe you went through a dimensional rift when you raced and you’re in an alternate reality now, or something like back to the future. But there’s no past, present or future where you’d ever do this with the Gojo from your universe.

Maybe this is actually a body-snatcher alien that you’re grabbing the shirt of again to yank back down to you.

Feeling the shitty smile spreading on his face as you give in and kiss him again, arms up over his shoulders and threading your fingers into soft hair.

The moan that escapes is involuntary, ripped from your throat as he slots a leg in the heated space between yours and pulls your hips to him. Dragging you over the hard muscle of his thigh with nothing between your cunt—sensitive after sitting on that vibrating seat pressed up against Gojo—and the texture of his jeans but cotton panties already damp and sticking to you.

His smile widens at your noise and he rocks your hips as his leg lifts, pressing harder into the sticky heat between your legs, sparking electricity to make your clit throb. Made only worse feeling where he’s hard and heavy behind the closure of his jeans, the thick heat of his cock pressing into your hip. Moaning softly into your mouth as he pulls you closer and thrusts against you a little.

Something hot and needy floods in, deep in your core making you chase the friction. The insane amount of pleasure that sparks as your clit grinds on his thigh. As you feel the guy you fucking hate getting hard against you, for you.

You tug his hair and hisses, biting your lip, catching it between his teeth. Sharp and prominent canines sink in hard enough to make you gasp, feeling his smile around your caught lip.

“I hate you,” It comes out breathy and quiet on a whine, want cloaked behind hot and simmering hatred as you practically hump his leg. “So fucking much.”

“Yeah? You do this with all the guys you hate?” His tone is thick and condescending, but he’s breathless too with his own undeniable desire underlying it all. “If you hate me so much, tell me to stop.”

That doesn't happen. Your mouths crash together again, hard and spiteful and full of desperation you hate that you feel for him. Hate that you like this brand new fight for dominance you’re clashing against and grinding into him for.

Hate him.

Your tongue swirls with his and you arch up. He moans into your mouth with your tits pushing up to his sternum and your hip rubbing on his cock. Blunt nails dig into your hip as one hand drifts under the hem of your skirt and up to grip the cusp of your thigh—almost your ass—and you rock back into his hand for a moment.

Lost in this and falling deeper, chasing the heat and tension twisting through your gut with every slide of your lips against his, every touch and breathless sound. With your skirt riding up, pulled up by Gojo’s wandering hand squeezing your ass now, somehow your dazed and clouded mind knows you have to stop now before this goes any further with him, and with you in public like this.

Your palms flatten on his chest again and you shove, harder this time and he must not have been expecting it because he actually staggers back a step, leaving the space between your legs achingly empty.

“Fuck you, Gojo.” You pant out, glaring as you straighten and pull yourself off the wall, yanking your skirt down. His lips are glossy and dark pink from your kiss and he drags a hand through his hair, the rise and fall of his chest slowing as he catches his breath.

“Fuck you too,” His laugh is breathy and low, tinged with something beside the smug tone. “Kinda seems like it’s what you want.”

“Fuck off, don’t talk like you know me.” You scoff, brushing past Gojo to walk back to the bike and grab Geto’s helmet. “Just take me back, we’ve been gone for way too long.” You pull it on and fiddle with the clasp again, shaky fingers fumbling with the complicated fixture. “Fucking stupid—fuck, I hate this thing!” You drop your hands and take a deep, cooling breath with eyes shut tight.

“Hateful little thing, aren’t you?” Gojo asks, and your eyes open to him in front of you, too close again. “Need me to get it again?” He offers and you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. But you tilt your head back and Gojo takes the clip and fixes it closed for you, fingers brushing tortuously over your jaw again, down your throat in a way that feels purposeful.

Hate him, I hate him. It repeats in your head like a mantra over and over as he takes his hands away, going to pull his own helmet on again as he takes his seat on the bike, starting it up as you move to sit behind him.

You stifle a whimper as the vibration of the engine humming through the seat goes right into you, reigniting everything Gojo started when he pushed you into the wall. Putting your arms reluctantly around his waist as he walks the bike back, shifts, and takes off again.

The ride is brief and absolute torture. The shop wasn’t far from the club and it takes maybe five minutes to get back. But it’s five minutes of being pressed up against Gojo again with his bike purring reverberations exactly where you’re already overheated and stimulated.

You quite literally leap off the bike the moment he rolls to a stop beside the others, scrambling to get off before he’s even shut the thing off. Geto is standing out front again and you undo the clasp quickly as you walk towards him, luckily that part is easier than doing it up.

“You guys were gone for a while, how was the ride?” He asks, taking a drag off his cigarette. You say nothing as you yank his helmet off and shove it at his chest, jaw tight and your whole body stiff and hot as he takes it from you with an eyebrow raised, looking over your shoulder for a moment. But he doesn’t say anything else and you stomp back into the club, flashing a stamp on your wrist at the bouncer.

The bar is your first stop and you down a full glass of water in an attempt to cool yourself down from the inside out. It doesn’t work.

It’s something deep that’s keeping you burning and overheated, something unfulfilled that you know won’t die down and go away until it’s sated. But you’re not about to give it what it wants.

Your pussy does not have your best interest in mind.

“Oh my god! I was looking everywhere for you, where the fuck did you go?” Nobara grabs your shoulder and leans into your line of sight as you’re leaning on the bar, deep in contemplation over the life choices that have led you to this point.

“Oh, um…” You start, not looking her in the eye and swallow. You can’t tell her, you can’t tell anyone and you’re praying to whatever god will take mercy on you and listen that neither will Gojo. “I, uh, went for a walk, lost track of time.”

“You had everyone freaking out, send a text or something next time, jeez!” She thumps you over the head, not hard but enough to get the message across and you nod. You don’t really have it in you to fight back or argue that it wasn’t your fault, because what would you even say?

No, you’ll be taking this one to your grave.

“Let’s go, we’re gonna stay for a few more songs then we can dip!” She tugs your arm and you allow yourself to be dragged back to the dancefloor. No will to fight, and it’s not as if you could get any hotter than you already are right now anyways.

Hopefully you can just make it through the rest of the night without bumping into Gojo again, then flee to the safety of Yuuta’s mansion and stay there for the rest of the break.

The faint crashing of waves and a soft pool of golden light across the bed are the first things you hear and see as you stir awake. Stretching out and taking up the entirety of the massive king size mattress, a smile curls your lips as you silently thank Yuuta for his newfound family and for sharing the insane getaway with you all.

The sun is peeking, just getting started with its early rise as you do the same. Your internal clock has been reset to function around early classes so getting up with the sun is typical for you, that won’t change even on vacation you guess.

There’s a mild ache in your head, likely from the alcohol but it might be thanks to the amount of justification and mental gymnastics you’ve been doing since getting back to the club last night. Your body is certainly feeling the after effects of every stupid thing you did—your back is stiff, hip aching with a reminder.

But you’re safe from all of it now. Safely tucked away behind wrought iron gates and tall hedges and are free to hide here for the rest of break with your one obliged outing done and over with. Whatever Gojo is doing here, wherever he is, you won’t have to see him again until school starts up and there, you’ll be back to the usual dynamic.

There, he’ll be hidden away behind geeky glasses and oversized hoodies again with absolutely no motorcycles nearby to stir heated excitement.

Because that’s what it was. It was the bike.

You hum as you stand and shove the thin gauzy curtains aside, agreeing with yourself and the statement in your mind out loud to solidify it as you look out over the view of the quiet beach bathed in honeyed light.

Coffee. Sitting on that picture perfect beach with coffee as you watch the sunrise, now that might just be the perfect morning.

You shuffle barefoot along the cool hardwood floor towards the stairs down to the main floor. The house is quiet, everyone else is likely still passed out and yet to feel the effects of the rowdy night out. As you finish the steps down, the heated marble flooring seeps warmth into your feet with each step. Your cold bare feet grateful for the insane amount of modern tech this place has.

The air is cool against your bare arms and legs with just pajama shorts and an over-sized tee-shirt, but once you head outside and sit under the warm glow of a sunrise, you’ll warm up in no time. Maybe you’ll even get a little bit of a tan if you do this every day.

The thought makes you kind of giddy and you walk faster to the kitchen, the sound of your quickening footsteps slapping on stone echoes through the long, wide hallway. 

The tour Yuuta had given you all was brief, only showing the things he and Maki had found when they had first arrived. You know where the kitchen, a living room with a TV that takes up almost an entire wall, a couple of bathrooms, and your room are. You’ll have to do some exploring at some point.

You round the corner to see the bright kitchen, the countless large windows that line the room, modern stainless appliances, pristine white cupboards and cabinets. The large island with a pale marble counter to match the rest and a breakfast bar with Gojo sitting in one of the tall chairs.

Wait, what?

Your eyes sweep right over him at first and you halt mid step into the kitchen as it registers in your sleepy one track mind. You do a literal double take and actually look at him sitting there with a mug in one hand and his phone in the other.

He hasn’t seen you yet, didn’t hear you walk into the kitchen with a pair of black headphones on and your mind churns, contemplating backing away and questioning what the hell he’s even doing here?

The realization dawns on you, hitting like a bucket of icy water as Yuuji’s words slam in like a truck.

Long lost cousin. Sharing the place with a long lost cousin.

“Fuck my life.” You mutter, still standing frozen and staring dumbly at the edge of the kitchen with your veins thrumming under your skin like they might burst out.

The universe does hate you. It’s an absolute fact now solidified by the platinum headed menace sipping coffee, screen reflected in black rimmed glasses and head nodding slightly to whatever music is playing through the headphones. The sleeves of a loose white tee-shirt with a cute Sanrio character plastered on the front rolled up a little, showing relaxed biceps and a peek of broad shoulders. His hand envelops the coffee cup so wholly as he lifts it to his lips, lips that had been pressed hard to yours not even twelve hours ago.

As he takes a sip, he looks up from his phone, eyes flickering in your direction and going wide and round as they find yours and he chokes on the sip of coffee.

You feel a twinge of satisfaction as he splutters, coughing into his arm. He drops his phone to the counter and sets the mug down, yanking off the headphones and taking a few ragged breaths.

“What the—why are you just standing there?” He manages to get out as the fit dies down. “Creep.”

You ignore all of it as you finally break from the spot to approach the coffee maker. “So you’re Yuuta’s long lost cousin? Fuck, that figures.” You start opening cupboards, searching for the mugs.

“Well actually, he’s kinda the ‘long lost’ one, I've been here the whole time.” Gojo huffs a laugh and stands, walking into the other side of the kitchen. “They’re over here.” 

You turn to Gojo as he grabs a mug out from one of the far cupboards, his shirt rides up as he reaches for one on the upper shelf, showing pale skin and a curved line that disappears into the waistband of grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. A trail of wispy white hair leading down from his bellybutton, to where you can see the outline of his—

You look away quickly, heat rising up your neck to creep into your face like you can feel it all over again, feel the heat of his hands all over your body. Cut that out.

You go to take the mug from him as he approaches, but he walks right past you to the machine. “I’m capable of making a cup of coffee.” You say flatly, crossing your arms.

“Didn’t know where the mugs were, but you know where the spoons are? Where the sugar is?” He replies, amused as he grabs both from a drawer and another cupboard.

“I would’ve figured it out, there’s only so many—” Your face scrunches, confusion furrowing your brow. “Hold on, why do you know how I take my coffee?” Your eyes are scrutinizing as he puts a spoon of sugar in and just enough cream to lighten it to a dark caramel colour. Exactly how you take it.

“Lucky guess,” He hands you the mug, one corner of his mouth lifted. “Or maybe you’re so basic that you take your coffee how literally everyone else in the world does, makes it pretty easy to remember.”

A smirk tugs your mouth, “I take up so much space in your head that you remember my coffee order?” You hum and take a sip, and it’s perfect.

Gojo leans back on the counter next to you, a hand gripping the edge to brace. “Like a parasite that feeds on my synapses. Every time I learn something about you I can feel the connectors dying and I get a little dumber.” He flicks his own forehead and you laugh before you can catch it.

“You might be on Toji’s level by the end of break then.”

His head tilts a little, straightening against the counter. “Are you saying I’m gonna get to know you?”

Just like last night, the idea of it doesn’t totally revolt you. You open your mouth for something unusually genuine to come out, but it dies halfway up your throat as you think better on it.

This isn’t what you two do, you don’t want to get to know him and you don’t want him to know you. But the confusion, the whiplash of going from insulting each other to him buying you ice-cream, back to insulting each other just to crash together and into the best and definitely most confusing kiss you’ve ever had, feeling something so intense and foreign that is just not going away.

That feeling followed you last night, persisting through till morning and now it’s hanging over your head and curling up to set up permanent residence in your body. Relentless as you look up at Gojo with his hair still messy from sleep, dressed in pajamas and those glasses that take up damn near half his face. 

No bike in sight, just the familiar nerdy guy who made you a perfect cup of coffee from memory alone.

You ignore the question, repeating the mantra in your head to stifle down something else whispering that his glasses are kind of cute. “Why are you even hanging out with those guys? Trying to fit in with the cool kids now?”

“I felt like doing some fun, dumb stuff and that’s their thing, so I invited them to come with Suguru and I.” He crosses his arms, fixing you with a lifted brow and a sly smirk. “Are you implying that I’m not cool too?”

You snort, “Yes.” Gojo’s face falls, you aren’t sure what he’d been expecting, a no?

“Like you can talk, that might be the one thing you beat me out at.” The smirk pulls the corner of his mouth again.

Your eyes narrow but your mouth is curved a little as you scoff. “Yeah right, being the biggest dork in existence is the one thing I’ll gladly admit that you beat me at.” You jerk your chin at him, “You have Hello Kitty on your shirt for fucks sake.”

“Cinnamoroll.” He corrects, and your eyes roll.

“Whatever, same shit. Doesn’t change you being a dork.”

“Yeah, but I’m like the cool, hot dork,” You scoff at that and he looks you over again, eyes flitting in a quick once over before meeting yours again and tilting his head. “And you’re… boring.”

There it is.

Your hand grips the mug so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t shatter. “Fuck you.” You bite it out with heat coiling throughout your body, boiling your blood and setting your skin on fire as he straightens off the counter. 

Close, he’s too close again, so close you could just reach out and grab him, just like last night—not gonna happen.

“Fuck you too.” He says it with a smile, eyes lidded but intense and locked on yours like he’s remembering what happened after you’d thrown the same lines at each other last time.

But that’s not happening. That’ll never happen again. “Thanks for the coffee, too bad that parasite hasn’t eaten whatever makes you an insufferable asshole.” You say with a polite smile and turn to leave, ready to get as far away from this kitchen as possible.

“You’re welcome!” He chirps behind you and the noise grates on the frayed ends of your spent nerves.

How are you going to make it through a week of this? This house is massive, you can definitely avoid him if you try hard enough but this was supposed to be a break, from school and everything there.

But it’s just followed you here, and it’s worse than ever because even as you settle into one of the cushioned chairs on the porch, looking out over the perfect beach as the sun continues its journey, every sip from the mug in your hand is like swallowing liquid flame.

A hot, creamy, perfectly sweetened reminder of everything you’ve done.

Gojo Satoru, is inescapable.

This is hardly new information to you, but you’ve been avoiding him like the plague for two days, and just like the plague, he always finds you.

Laying out on the beach with Nobara and Maki, finally getting through a spicy book you picked up nearly six months ago? Gojo is running around with the other three stooges in a water gun fight, white tee-shirt sopping wet and transparent, clinging to every stupidly defined muscle. Making you re-read the same line five times before huffing that you need to go somewhere quieter and storming off.

Watching a movie with everyone in the living room? Gojo waltzes through and casually leans over the couch, way too close to you as he grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl in your lap, spoils the plot twist, and leaves.

In the kitchen making breakfast in the peace and quiet before everyone else is up? Not with Gojo under the same roof. He’s strolling in, calling out a chipper “Goooood morning!” Reaching over you to grab a mug from the cupboard, muttering that what you’re making smells good. Stealing your god damn food right off your plate before you can smack his hand away. Muttering that it “tastes good too” before walking away, leaving you overheated and suddenly without an appetite.

Taking a walk around the property to explore? Gojo is hopping on his bike with Geto to head into town, calling out to you as you head for the front door, “Wanna go for another ride?!” Laughing as you flip him off over your shoulder and shut the door hard behind you. Jaw clenched so hard your teeth might shatter.

He’s a god damn torture specialist.

It all feels so purposeful and you’re on the verge of snapping. Your nerves are so frayed you’re convinced you’re going to actually punch him if he says another god damn word to you, even if it’s just hello.

The worst part? The way he looks at you as he does it. Like he knows the set to your jaw is in a confused and complex frustration and he’s feeding off of fuelling it.

No. Actually, the worst part was finding out that he’s in the room right next to yours.

Leaning against the railing, you’re drinking wine on the balcony just outside your room against your own better judgement. But you’re determined not to let your vacation be completely ruined by the menace next door, you’re going to enjoy the quiet starry night sky with the sound of waves lulling you into a false sense of security, even if it’s the last thing you do god damn it. 

Your mind already fuzzy around the edges, like a vignette has been laid over to keep your focus narrowed on the bright, near full moon reflecting off the inky expanse of ocean.

No thoughts of school and the mountain of assignments and reading and immediate quizzing professors will inevitably be throwing you into the moment break is over to snap you back into reality. All those thoughts sit at the back of your brain to make room for appreciation for mild weather, great views, rosé and…

…The memory of being shoved up against a wall. 

The dark rolling waves of the ocean below annoyingly remind you of the view from your tandem ride. The bright white moon reflecting off the ocean is silvery just like the annoyingly soft head of hair your fingers had tangled in. The warmth from the wine that emanates from deep in your body out through your limbs is all too similar to the fire that danced across your skin at every lingering touch, every bruising grip.

Oh yeah, he left you with a nice reminder of everything on your hip where he’d pressed his thumb in hard. You’re pretty sure the mark that bloomed and has been darkening to a light indigo was from when he actually pushed you into the wall, it certainly felt like it in the moment.

Apparently, you’re such a god damn masochist that you find yourself pressing your own fingers into the bruise without even thinking of it. Gasping a little at the ache as it floods your entire body with a heated tingle that leaves you feeling breathless and frustratingly empty.

The heated exchanges from the last few days are nothing new. But it feels like every ‘fuck off’ or ‘fuck you’ or ‘dear god, do you ever shut up?’ is different. The eye contact that lasts a little too long like fuel on a raging fire you’re throwing pitiful cups of water on in an attempt to douse, and when it doesn’t work, you turn around and stroll away like it’s definitely not a problem. Not yours at least.

You’re so lost in the thoughts that have overtaken your mind like a forest fire, singeing everything in its path, that you don’t notice Geto until he’s leaning over the railing right next to you.

“Jesus fuck!” You jump as he appears in your periphery, sloshing rosé over your hand as you startle. “Don’t sneak up like that, asshole. Look what you made me do.” You mutter, taking the mug into your other hand to flick the liquid off your fingers.

“Sorry,” He lights a cigarette and slips the rest of the pack into the pocket of his dark sweatpants. He gestures to the mug in your hand as you shake residual wine off the other. “You do know there are actual wine glasses here? Crystal ones too, fancy shit.” 

“Yeah, I don't really feel like footing the bill if I break one. This seemed like the safer option.” You sigh at your own sticky fingers, shoulders dropping a little as you glance sidelong at Geto. “Where’s thing two?” 

It’s not like you want him around, but it’s unusual to see one without the other.

Geto exhales through his nose, almost a laugh and a wisp of smoke curls. “We do some things separately, we’re not attached at the hip, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“We fool a lot of people.”

You chuckle at that and take a sip of the significantly depleted wine in your mug. Another glance at Geto and you hold up your mug. “Wanna swap?” 

He lifts a slim, dark brow. “I thought you didn’t smoke?”

You shrug, “You’re right, but spring break rules say fuck it, right?” He concedes and takes the mug, hands you the lit cigarette and you cheers the two. 

“Fuck it.”

Geto takes a sip and watches as you take a drag. Bitter smoke fills your mouth and trickles into your lungs, burning and tickling at the same time. Your eyes water, nose stinging and you struggle to hold the coughing fit in that's threatening to tear out.

Geto sighs, “Just let it out, it'll be worse if you try to hold it.” 

A cloud of smoke bursts out with the first choked cough. Your lungs feel like they're collapsing in on themselves as you hack and splutter. The taste of burnt tobacco coats your mouth, your throat, the lingering bitterness goes all the way down to your stomach that's currently threatening to turn itself inside out.

Geto pats a hand on your back as you lean over the railing on the verge of death. “I would’ve warned you not to hold it but I thought you knew.” He laughs a little, getting some amusement out of watching you suck sputtering, ragged breaths of fresh ocean air in finally.

“Nope,” You wheeze. Geto takes his cigarette back, the filter a little squished from your pinched fingers death gripping it and replaces the devil stick with your wine again. The alcohol doesn't help exactly, but it's liquid and it eases the smoky residue coating your insides when you take a few small sips. “Thanks, and don't ever let me do that again.” 

Geto laughs at that, taking an easy drag off the half finished smoke. “Satoru said the same thing the first time he tried one too.”

“Oh, please tell me he died at least as much as I did.” 

“Worse. He puked.” You snort a laugh, vindicated. “Don't tell him I told you that.”

“I'm gonna shove his face in it the first chance I get.” Geto shoots you a side eyed look and you raise a defensive hand. “Kidding, his mortifying secret is safe with me.”

You’ve never had an issue with Geto, it was always more of his proximity to Gojo that made it difficult to get along, or even just be around him. You tend to try to get the fuck out of wherever Gojo is as fast as possible, which doesn’t leave much room for conversation with his dark haired counter part.

As you look back out at the water, the near full moon mirrored off the inky expanse and putting that reminder back in your head, you can’t help but ask. The wine might be lowering your guard a little too much. 

“Was smoking part of the new, wannabe bad-ass thing he’s going for?”

You catch the slight smirk that pulls the corner of his mouth as he quips back quickly, “Why do you care?”

Shit. 

Why do you care?

“I-I don’t. It’s just…” You drum your fingers on the mug, chewing your lip for a moment as you think. Why? “It all just seems out of character. That’s all. He’s not going through a quarter-life crisis, is he?” You chuckle a little and glance at Geto, expecting him to join in, but he doesn’t. 

He takes a long drag, eyes on the glowing cherry and holds the breath, looking up to the stars. He looks almost pained, sad at the mention. When he lets the breath out, it's a sigh. And when he finally answers, it’s not what you’re expecting either.

“There’s a lot going on right now, he’s kind of… coping, in a way.” The smirk returns as he meets your eyes again. “But you should ask him yourself if you want to know, it’s not really my place to say anyways.”

“Well… I mean, I did, kind of. I asked him why you guys were hanging out with the meatheads.”

“And?”

“What do you think?” You deadpan. “He brushed it off, and then insulted me.” 

Geto throws his head back and lets out a laugh, shoulders shaking a little. “Ah, yeah, that sounds about right.” He drags a hand down his face, exacerbation tinged with fondness. “For two of the smartest people at school, it’s uncanny how terrible you both are at proper communication.”

“I’m great at communication so don’t group me in with that asshole.” You snap back immediately and Geto gives you a questioning look. “What is that even supposed to mean?”

He raises both brows at you expectantly and realization hits a moment later with a furious flush that begins to creep up your neck.

You scowl. “Fucking big mouthed asshole.” 

“You really expected that he wouldn’t tell me the moment you guys got back? That’s just naive.” You feel the sudden need to down the last of the wine in your mug, and you do. “I mean, come on, you know him. He can’t shut up on a normal day, he finally kissed the girl he’s been tripping over himself for for the last three years and you expect him not to explode? The poor guy was practically dying to tell me.”

“What?” Your head snaps to Geto fully. Maybe you just misheard, you’re pretty tipsy right now and the single drag of that cigarette definitely made your head a little fuzzy, even lighter than before.

Geto looks at you, sees the bewilderment and disbelief in your eyes and immediate regret floods his features.

“Oh fuck.” He mutters, turning fully to you. Incredulity twists your features and you take a gasping breath, readying to go off, but he cuts you off, waving his hands up in your face. “I thought you—fuck, you can’t tell him I—shit, ugh, just-just please for the love of god, talk to him.”

“What do you mean? Finally? What—I-I don’t, what does that—”

“No! Just-just, please, don’t tell Satoru I said anything, and talk to him yourself.” Geto runs a hand up through his dark hair, pushing his bangs up just for them to fall back down almost immediately.

As if on cue, the voice that sets your skin on fire and lights up every nerve ending on your body with a much more confused kind of simmering heat calls out from the room next to yours. 

“Suguru! Hurry up, we’ve been paused for like an hour!”

“Eh, shut up you idiot!” Geto calls back over his shoulder, “It’s been like ten minutes, don’t get your panties all twisted!”

He gives you one last pleading look and you groan, pressing your forehead into your hand. “Do whatever you want to, but leave me out of it, please.”

“Fine,” You sigh, resigned at least for tonight to let the jarring topic go. “Go, your boyfriend is waiting.” You wave him off, peeling yourself off the balcony and Geto gives you a flat look but doesn’t say anything else. Just nods and walks off to the cracked door adjacent to yours, leaving you alone with the bomb he dropped.

It is a bomb. 

Finally? Finally implies time, time spent wanting something before it happened.

That kiss was probably one of the most impulsive things you’ve ever done, second only to getting on that bike with Gojo in the first place.

You hate him.

And he… hates you, too?

For the first time in your life, you’re questioning that fact. Is it even a fact anymore? Facts are indisputable, cold and hard and not open to scrutiny or questioning. 

But Geto dropped a bomb that’s forcing that tiny crack open. The one that you could feel splintering in front of that ice cream shop in the reality where you hate Gojo and he hates you and that's all there is to it. 

Impulsivity doesn’t have rationale behind it. That's the point of it being impulsive, you don’t think, you just do. Was that kiss impulsive for Gojo?

Your brow furrows, lip catching between your teeth.

Was it impulsive for you?

It was weird, sure, but that night was… it was nice. Well, up until you exploded at each other, but hell, even then it wasn't bad. You kissed, had his body against yours, pawing at you like he was desperate to touch you. Had he thought about that before it happened?

Everything before that. The ride, eating ice cream together, laughing with each other, laughing at him, the version of him you're used to after he made you coffee that first morning.

Could you and Gojo ever be more than enemies?

He’s been terrible to you, feeding uncertainty and the idea that you’d never quite live up to a standard he’s set and insists on pushing you to keep up with. Laughing at you when you trip and fall behind.

Maybe he could never be nameless and faceless and just a hot stranger again, but you did get along with him knowing full well who was under that helmet. Jabbing and teasing each other without it being painful. 

Is that possible? Could it be like that instead?

Geto is right, annoyingly so because this is definitely a conversation you’re not looking forward to. But you need to talk to Gojo. 

Finally? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

“Choso…don’t. You can do this. I believe in you. You can be good. I know you can.”

“This is really unfair,” he mutters, subconsciously rutting against your ass as he marvels at the colour of your underwear peeking under your shorts. Purple. His favourite. “How can you dangle this in front of me and expect me to be good? You brought this on yourself.”

That’s the only warning you get before your shorts and panties are pulled down and a face dives into your pussy. You cry out, heat rising to your face.

He takes a deep inhale. “Haven’t showered yet? Oh, thank you god.”

“Choso,” you screech. “Get away from me! You freak! Pull me back in, asshol–AH!”

A pierced tongue works its way between your folds with no hesitation. “I will, I promise. Just -mmm- just give me a moment.” He finds your clit with finesse, easing the small thing out of its hood. The wet appendage feels like a worm wriggling all over your sensitive parts. It collects the budding wetness from your hole and spreads it all over your clit. 

The vibrations are going straight to your clit. Clinging to the window until your knuckles turned white, you pray and pray that you won’t plummet to your death because your roommate is the most out of control pervert in the world.

“Sweet,” he mumbles, “so sweet.” Hard piercing rolling against the bundle of nerves, your hips jerk simultaneously away and towards his face, seeking out the overwhelming pleasure and running from it. 

“Choso! S-stop -ngh!- don’t.” So much juice leaks out at an embarrassing rate, you should be ashamed or horrified, but you can only focus on the way his rings shock your skin with their metallic coldness as his hands spread your legs and ass apart. There’s no rhyme or rhythm to the way he’s drinking and lapping up your essence. And it has your eyes rolling back. “N-no. Shit. Choso, that’s enough. Not like this. I’m gonna fall.”

He shakes his head between your thighs, sucking on your clit especially hard to prove his point. “I’d never let you fall. It’s okay.” Positively manic, he eats you out with sickening fervour, a starved man. Two long fingers work their way into your cunt, forcing your walls to welcome them in. “I got you.”

Panting, you say, “That is not the -hngh!- p-point.” 

He’s scissoring them inside you, not merely feeling your pleats or curling against your g-spot. No, this is purposeful. Intentional. 

Preparatory. 

In horror, you squirm harder, feet kicking. It’s no use; he’s immoveable. That man always has been when he’s focused. He never budges when you shove at him, trying to snatch your panties from his clutches. It always takes all your power to pry him away from your pussy every time you give in to his pleadings and promises to make it good for you. “No, Choso. Do not. I’m literally hanging out of the window!”

Of course, he doesn’t listen.

Not to your face mouth, anyways — your pussy is saying other things to him, and it’s not listening to you either. He probably can’t hear you over the lewd SLURRRRRRRP! of his filthy mouth and your greedy cunt making out with each other anyway.

Then, when you find yourself inching further and further out of your room, constant wriggling pushing you out, you scream, and not for long. Strong hands yank you back...onto an awaiting cock.

“FUCK!”

His dick entered you in one swift move, balls deep. Choso lets out a loooong groan.

It stings at first. His tongue and fingers weren’t enough to stretch you out properly for his cock. Although, the bullying of his cockhead against your gummy walls quickly has you drooling like a dog and forgetting the pain. You hold onto the window pane for dear life, trusting his desperate grip with not much choice. Despite all the relentless jostling, the ground remains far away from you; your roommate’s too strong to let you slip.

“S-should get stuck like this more often. I’d pay your -hah- rent for the next,” gulp, “month if you did.”

You want to shout that you can’t be bought, that you wouldn’t risk your life so he can dick you down, but honestly, that sounds like a fair deal. Not that you’d ever say that to the horny gremlin; he was bad enough without the encouragement.

Thrust after thrust. 

Ramming. 

Impaling. 

Stuffing. 

Ploughing. 

He’s doing it all, using you like the fleshlight he named after you, which you threw out after finding its existence. And he later brought back in, having fished it from the trash, you realised with horror some time later.

SQUELCH! SQUELCH! SQUELCH!

There’s no stopping him. He’s groaning, grunting and whining your name out. “So tight -hah- so so tight. Love this pussy. W-wanna stay here forever. God, you’re so hot, so pretty. If only you could see yourself like this.”

Squeezing and groping, he does whatever he wants to your body, taking advantage of the fact that you’re stuck and unable to kick him or push him off, like you always did when he tried to have you in any other position than cowgirl — you love being on top.

Like this, however, he can pump and pump with no care for whether you’re orgasming. It’s selfish, inconsiderate and depraved. He’ll surely pay for this when you get free, but right now, he can’t find it in him to care. It feels too damn good to. 

Choso has uninhibited access to the body he stares at in secret as you shower or as you touch yourself under the covers. The ass he wished he could hold to his hips, could watch ripple with every slap of skin, the tits he wanted his face buried in now swinging with his thrusts. Today's miracle allows him to indulge in your tightness and heat without your bossiness.

In this heavenly moment, he’s the boss and you have to take it.

“You like it deep?" Choso asks, smiling to himself. “You tighten up so much when I -hngh- when I hit t-this spot.”

To punctuate his point, the particularly merciless ram of his cock inside sends a pig-like squeal leaving your lips. "F-fuck you, Kamo.”

“You are.”

Oh, he’s positively obsessed with the rough texture near your entrance; he loves the way they tickle his red-hot cockhead.

There really is nothing better than your pussy — not his hand, your panties, your pillows, or his fleshlight. They don’t wring his cock with their pleats, because they have none, they don’t pulse around him, clench down when he hits the right spot, nor gush on his dick and create a creamy white ring around the base that he can’t resist thumbing and sucking. “Oh fuck, tastes so good. Feels so good.”

Dazed, he stares at your puckering hole. It’s winking at him. You hate being touched there. No amount of begging ever let him get a taste. Once, he tried and you gave him the silent treatment until he promised to leave it alone. Ah, well, he’s saving your life — eventually — he can have this one thing, right?

A calloused thumb experimentally presses in your tighter hole. You squeal. “Choso! Not there. Please, not there.”

Please?

His cock throbs. 

He hasn’t heard that from your lips in a long, long time. Maybe ever. Oh, it’s so nice. Choso likes when you’re nice to him, it gets him equally as hard as when you’re mean to him. Late at night, he imagines that you’d be the one that creeps around at night, stealing his boxers and sucking the wet mark he leaves after he thinks of you. He imagines you on your knees, begging for a taste of his cock, to suckle on the tip till you fall asleep.

Maybe he’d be mean to you. Maybe he’d make you work for it, make you play with yourself to work him up until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

But, you fighting against his hold, against the pleasure you pretend you don’t need nor want but always indulge in when he comes crawling, is just as good. 

In a way, this is as close to you being nice as he can get — you’re not telling him off, pushing him away or rolling your eyes when he cums from humping the bed. You’re being a very good girl.

It’s almost like he’s being rewarded for doing the dishes without needing to be asked or going a week without stealing your panties.

The word ‘please’, carried by the melodic note of your voice, rings in his head. It sends him over the edge with a whimper. “Shitshitshitshitshiiiiitttt.” 

Before you can bring your eyes from the back of your head, hot cum floods your walls. “Ngh! Choso, not inside!”

Choso gasps for breath, trembling and grinding his softening cock inside you. All while fingers bruise your hips with the way he holds onto you to steady himself, as if he’s the one in danger of falling. “Fuuuuuuck. S-sorry.”

Scalding and branding, the strength of his orgasm leaves you shuddering and mumbling random things. “Hanging out of the window -mmm- gonna -hic- fall. It’ll be your f-fault. Gonna kill you. Make you pay, stupid idiot”

“That was a -hah- bigger load than usual,” he muses to himself, paying you no mind whatsoever. “How lucky; it’d be nice if it stuck.”

Thank god you’re on the pill, you darkly muse to yourself. Imagine if he got his way and he babytrapped you. The horror.

You’re used up, limp and catching your breath. He really did fill you up; you can taste the saltiness of his cum on your tongue, in a sick, fucked up way.

This will teach you never to test what he’d do if he could have his way with you — the answer is obviously have his way with you. You expected too much from the heavy-metal-listening, panty-sniffing, pussy-munching, bed-humping, banging-at-your-door-when-you’re-playing-with-yourself-because-he-wants-an-invite, pigtail-wearing loser.

Out and tucking his softening cock back inside his pants, he scoops up his leaking cum from your cunt. You feel him write letters onto your cheeks with the mixed juices like it’s ink. 

It says, MINE.

Your roommate walks back out the room, feeling pretty damn good about himself, and runs back only when you scream bloody murder. 

“Choso!”

“Sorry!”

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

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

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

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

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

His friends didn’t understand.

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

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

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

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

“She’s not-” Gojo huffed. “I-I-”

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

You were real. 

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

princess <3: toruuuuuuu

princess <3: how are you today? 

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

blu3yedbigd1ck: Dreamed about you last night. 

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

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

Buzz. Buzz.

You already replied. 

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

princess <3: oh yeah?

princess <3: what position? 

His dick was getting hard again. 

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

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

princess <3: i was actually thinking about u too

That meant something, right? It had to.

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

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

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

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

princess <3: your favorite color? 

blu3yedbigd1ck: My favorite everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo only wanted you. 

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

Did you think he was annoying?

Just a loser in love with you? 

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

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

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

blu3yedbigd1ck: Hi beautiful

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers were already flying across his keyboard.

blu3yedbigd1ck: You know I’ll be there. 

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

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

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

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

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

Anything he wanted? 

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

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

You didn't say it was a competition. 

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

Gojo had to fucking win. 

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

Or the one underneath you for this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which okay, wasn’t totally untrue. 

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

He’d do anything to be with you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you not want him to win? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo meant it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now there was no fucking chance-

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

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

Gojo won. He won.

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

And cum. 

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

princess <3: promise? 

princess <3: send me your information? 

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

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

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

Or you-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had a point. 

Gojo was getting addicted to you. 

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

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

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

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

He just left out that it was to see you. 

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

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

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

You protested, but Gojo won in the end. 

He always did. 

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

He tried to hype himself up. 

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

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

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

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

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

The door opened before he could keep deliberating. 

You were somehow prettier in person. 

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

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

“Hi,” he breathed back. 

Way to go. 

“Do, um, do you wanna come inside?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t need to tell him twice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked, struggling to figure out what that meant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are those for the stream or-” 

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

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

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

“Whenever,” he shrugged. 

Was he being off-putting? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever he wanted went. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo didn't want it to end. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One he was more than happy to accept. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, y-you-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your clothes off,” you instructed. 

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

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

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

Big? Huge? Pretty? 

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

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

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

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

You wanted to trade spots again. 

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

You didn't look. 

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

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

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

Knew how to shut up the voices inside his head. 

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

He shattered. 

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

Nothing could compare to you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

His cock practically jumped inside you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo looked, and he came. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To tell you how much it meant to him. 

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to stay the night?” 

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

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

Nothing had ever sounded so fucking good. 

But the morning after managed to be even better. 

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

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

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

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

Suguru: Fucking answer asshole. 

Shoko: he’s probably asleep

Shoko: or dead lol

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

Oops? 

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

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

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

Suguru: Not funny. 

Shoko: ? 

Suguru: Where tf are you? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you blinked. “Do they-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A date?” 

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

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

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

Actually, he never really left. 

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

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

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

You were greedy. You’d always known that. 

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

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

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

But you wouldn’t want him any other way. 

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

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

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

One you happily accepted. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tapped on his shoulder before he could finish. 

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

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

“You're real?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I get to say I told you so now?” 

You’d been working at your family’s bookshop most of your life. Managing the finances, stocking the shelves, working the cash register. Whatever was needed whenever it was needed. No questions asked. But your mind drifted, dreamed of doing something different – where you weren’t sleeping in a tiny studio apartment you could barely afford and got to express yourself outside of the stupid chalk signs you drew on to advertise on the sidewalk. 

“Are you still all prissy because I said-”

“No,” you interrupted him, even though you knew he hated that. You sipped the awful beer, nose scrunching as you pressed your lips together and forced yourself to swallow. 

“Good,” he grunted. “Don’t need that shit today.” 

You didn’t reply to that. Stared ahead at the bottles of liquor lined up on the wall, the distorted mirrors behind them as you listened to the heavy music thumping behind you. 

“First client was fuckin’ awful, didn’t even tip after I spent-” Sukuna was still talking, grumbling under his breath between swigs of his own beer. You weren’t paying that much attention though. Picking apart what you could make of yourself in those stretched-out mirrors, wondering if you’d really only be Jin’s friend to him. Someone annoying he could boss around, that he barely tolerated. 

How much time were you wasting waiting for him to wake up and notice you were a girl? That you liked him? 

“God, I need to get laid,” he continued, and your head swiveled over to him, brows knitting together as it hit you what he said.

He noticed, chuckling at whatever expression you were making before slamming his now-empty beer down.

“What? Are you, like, a prude?” Sukuna asked, and you flinched, flustered as your mouth fell open.

“N-no, I’m not,” you defensively said, heat crawling inside your skin, uselessly shaking your head just for him to laugh at you. 

“C’mon,” Sukuna snickered, rolling your eyes. “I’ve known you, what? Like a decade? And you’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“I’ve had boyfriends,” you muttered, wishing you could drown yourself in your beer when you forced yourself to take another drawn-out sip. 

Several of them. Some longer than others. 

But they all came to the same conclusion you had a long time ago. 

They weren’t the guy you wanted. And the one you did couldn’t care less about you.

“Sure,” he shrugged, all gruff and gravelly, waving over the bartender to get another beer. “Whatever you say.”  

“You don’t believe me,” you pointed out before you could stop yourself, and all you got was another bob of his shoulders. 

“It’s not my business.” Which really just meant he didn’t give a shit. 

You could probably pick a random guy from the dancefloor and drag him back home with you and he wouldn’t blink. 

Instead of a beer, the bartender pushed a stein of something strong to him, nodding down the bar to a pretty girl who was already looking at him, glossy lips curling up when his head turned in her direction. “On her.” 

Sukuna smirked, and you wondered if he’d be leaving with her tonight.

“Someone’s got you beat,” he commented, glancing back over to her with a glint of interest in his eyes. It was a joke, you guessed. But you didn’t laugh. 

Just felt it sit in the bottom of your stomach like a goddamn boulder. 

She had his attention, and she barely had to try. 

You pulled out your purse, scrounging together enough crumpled cash to cover the bill before tossing it on the bartop, swinging your legs off to stand. 

“You’re mad at me,” he huffed, and you wanted him to stop you. Some sad little shriveled part of your brain desperate for him to do something to show you were more than just – well, whatever it was he saw you as. 

“I’m not,” you insisted, even though a hot lump had formed in your throat, lungs constricting as you became acutely aware of how little air you could suck in. 

He frowned for a second, but he didn’t say anything. 

Didn’t reach out. 

“Gotta get up early tomorrow,” you excused, even though he didn't ask. 

For the first time in forever, you didn't look back when you left. And when you got home, you blocked his number after deleting the message chain that was mostly you sending him stupid shit he probably only ever skimmed over.  

Removed the temptation entirely to text him now, tried to call and clip the image of him from the corners of your heart when you curled back up in your bed. 

It wasn't like it was easy. But the humiliation of wanting someone like him had sliced too deep this time, embarrassment etching into your fingers every time you attempted to draw and thought back to his reaction. His rejection. 

So you did the only thing you could do. 

Move on. 

Focus on your job, your meager social life, although you made Jin come over to your apartment when he wanted to hang out purely out of fear you'd bump into Sukuna’s at his place. 

Two weeks passed, then three, killing time while you scrubbed the ghost of him from your mind. 

Today hadn't been much different. 

Stuck with another hour left at an exhausting shift, feet aching as you shifted behind the counter, a pen in hand as you attempted to sketch something on the back of a sticky note. A few animals, a couple of fish, thin lines and unsure strokes as you questioned what was even the point any more. 

“Whatcha doodlin’?” A cheeky voice distracted you, snatching the crumpled paper from underneath your palm before you could stop him. You knew who it belonged to before you saw him.

The white-haired menace who only showed up for the sweets in the adjoining bakery, chocolate usually smeared in the corner of his mouth when he pretended to browse books. Although he'd always find some excuse to come chat with you, sometimes bringing around his friends who would buy stuff. 

“It's nothing-” You started, straining over the counter to yank it back, but he was too fast. 

Gojo held it over your head, squinting at the lines you etched into it and tilting his head to the side with faint surprise. 

“These are cute,” he smiled, pointing at the little koi fish at the bottom. 

“You don't have to lie to me,” you frowned back at him, getting just close enough to grab it. You rolled it into a ball, throwing it away in the trash can under the counter. “It's nothing.” 

“I meant it,” he grinned, propping himself up on his elbows and getting on your eye level. “Don't believe me?”

Gojo was full of shit. 

You hadn't known him as long as Sukuna or Jin – but you still knew him well enough to know he liked to flirt and fawn, none of it worth anything when he was like that with everyone. He was more of a mutual friend than just a friend, but boundaries were more like suggestions he preferred to ignore, physical, emotional, every flavor of rule he rejected. 

“Not really,” you muttered, glancing down at both his rather huge hands. All pale and veiny, long fingers that weren't holding anything. “No treat today?” 

“Want something a little sweeter tonight,” he hummed, and you stared blankly at him.

“Like what?” You deadpanned. 

“A date with you.” 

You blinked. But he didn't budge, waiting for an answer. 

“Like, a date date?” It made you feel like a moron to ask, halfway thinking he'd laugh at you even when he brought it up. 

“Duh,” he chuckled. “What time do you get off?” 

“Um, an hour, but-” You started, and since it wasn't a no, he was already smiling like it was a yes. 

“Or we could do dinner tomorrow if it's better, y’know, whatever's good with you is great with-’

“Tomorrow,” you answered, surprising yourself a little bit at how quickly you said it. Gojo was cute, even if he wasn't exactly the type you usually went for – i.e. tattooed men with commitment issues. He probably had a big dick if it was even half the size of his attitude. 

It might not go anywhere, but didn’t you deserve a single night without him on your mind? 

Sukuna could sleep around. 

So why couldn't you? 

Something was fucking wrong with him. 

Sukuna’s life had been oddly quiet lately.

Something was different, missing, maybe– but he hadn't quite figured out what. Just that the world had been duller. The days dragged on longer, nights bleeding into morning in broken fits of sleep. 

He'd never exactly been a man of emotions. Most of them he rejected entirely. But there was a pervading feeling that he could only describe as bad. One that refused to go away no matter how much he tried to drown it in alcohol or nicotine. 

He hated half of his clients. Couldn't stand the bright city lights or boring chatter people constantly tried dragging him into. His old favorite songs sounded more like static and background noise, grating on his nerves when he turned it on to focus on new designs. 

But despising the universe wasn't anything new to Sukuna. 

Loathing his life was typical. 

But this slimy pit in his stomach, balled up too tight to dislodge, stuck there and festering, that was something he wasn't used to. 

It wasn't until he went to Jin’s to talk shit about his latest awful day that he figured out what it was.

Guilt. 

Jin was alone, watching some boring movie on his couch, feet propped up on his coffee table without even sparing him a glance as he went straight to his fridge to find a cold drink. He glared at the healthy foods, fruits and meats neatly organized inside – only a couple sparkling waters in the back. He begrudgingly grabbed one, cracking it open and looking back to the living room just to freeze. 

He stared at the empty spot next to Jin for a few seconds, struggling to conceive why he was looking at the couch like an idiot until it hit him why. 

You weren't there. 

“Where's your friend?” He gruffly asked, bringing the drink to his lips to sip. 

“On a date,” Jin casually said, and he choked. 

Drink dripped down his mouth and onto his shirt, wiping it away with the back of his hand as he cleared his throat. 

“Her?” You? 

It was inconceivable. 

The girl who could barely even look him in the eye half the time? Who stuttered and stammered and could hardly get through a single sentence without getting flustered? 

Honestly, Sukuna figured you were probably a virgin and too shy to admit it. It wasn’t like you weren’t attractive, but you’d always been off-limits. 

Besides, there were always tons of other women out there – why would he stoop so low as to sleep with one of Jin’s friends? 

“With Gojo,” his brother added, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth, completely oblivious to the way he froze behind him. 

Did Jin just not give a fucking shit about you? Was he seriously letting you go out with that prick? 

Gojo’s reputation was almost worse than his. 

But just because he took girls on dates before he fucked and fled, he was somehow better. 

At least he didn’t pretend he wanted a relationship just to get someone in the sheets. At least he didn’t lead them on and let them think they were something more. 

“And you just fuckin’-” He clamped his lips shut right as Jin threw a confused look over his shoulder at him. 

“What?” He asked, all confused, like he couldn’t fucking perceive the very apparant problem. 

“That guy’s an asshole,” he protested.

Jin didn’t say it, but the look on his face made it obvious that he thought Sukuna was one too.

“Where’s the date at?” He grumbled, arms folding tight across his chest as he tapped on Jin’s fake wood flooring. 

You weren’t his friend.

So why the fuck was he walking into some upscale restaurant on the nice side of town, fixing the collar of his jacket, ignoring the stares sticking to him. 

“Sir?” A hostess tried talking to him, but he waved her off, already scowling.

“I need a drink,” he dryly said. 

Preferably a strong one. 

He beelined over to the bar, reluctantly ordering a ridiculously expensive whiskey in his best attempt to blend in before scanning the dining room for any sign of you. 

He spotted you almost immediately. Sitting in one of those back booths, probably one Gojo told you would be more private – even though you were really just on display for the rest of the restaurant. 

You dressed up. For him. 

Sukuna didn’t know why it surprised him so much, dumbly staring at the sight of you in a short dress, the kind that clung to your thighs and your chest, too much cleavage showing. Too much skin showing period. Elbows on the table as you leaned in to listen to Gojo ramble on, who was surely too focused on the sound of his own voice to pay attention to how good you looked tonight. 

He shook the thought from his head. Strangled it, actually, tried to twist it into nothing. Glad he didn't have any utensils to gouge his eyes out so he couldn't consider the cute tilt of your head or how glossy your lips looked when you chewed on your bottom one nervously. 

Why the fuck were you here? 

You weren't a moron. You knew better than to buy a guy like Gojo’s bullshit. 

His last conversation with you came back up, floating from the depths of his brain in bits and pieces, his own words echoing. Was it because he commented on your lack of a love life? Asked if you were a prude? 

Did you just go to the biggest manwhore (other than him) that you could find? 

If you wanted to get laid, you could've just asked- 

No, no. That was wrong, Sukuna reminded himself, blinking hard like it would change what he was seeing. You smiled at Gojo, mouth moving as you said something that made him chuckle and lean forward, reaching over the table to grab your hand like you were a couple. His thumb tracing down your knuckles, drawing little shapes on your skin that obviously made you giddy. 

Sukuna wasn't jealous. 

He'd never been jealous before. Over anyone. 

He was, uh, just doing what Jin should've been doing. As your friend. Even if every giggle and grin of yours made him feel physically fucking ill as he watched and waited for the moment to intervene.

It wasn't like he could just let this happen. 

Leg bouncing anxiously until Gojo got up, counting to thirty in his head before he followed him to the bathroom, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure you hadn’t noticed him. But you were glancing down at the table, tracing over the scratches on it, your face soft, almost serene. Pretty. 

He kept walking, picking up the pace to catch up to Gojo, wondering how hard he’d have to deck him to make sure he’d stay down long enough for him to block off the bathroom door to prevent him from leaving. The staff would probably notice after a couple minutes – sooner if someone else tried to use it. 

He didn’t have a real plan, his brain jumping from idea to idea too fast to let him land on one.

If he was less impulsive, more in control of the monster twisting around inside of him, maybe he would have considered having a conversation with Gojo. Threatening, sure, but mature enough to make it clear that you were not a girl he could screw and scram from. 

Instead?

He was scanning the stalls in front of him to make sure no one else would overhear, noting that they opened out instead of in. Only spotting Gojo’s ridiculously shiny loafers, listening to him yap on the phone with one of the other pricks he chose to surround himself with.

“I know, I’ve gotta go, she’s waiting for me,” he was chuckling, his casual confidence already grating down his resolve not to dunk his head in the toilet. He laughed again at whoever was on the other line. “Shut up, you know I’ve been trying to get in her panties for months.”

Anger didn’t suffice. 

Couldn’t cover the heat warping his judgment, boiling into something he couldn’t control at the idea of that white-haired fucker slinking around and searching for a way inside of you. 

His body was moving on autopilot, banging hard on the stall door, fingers clenching into a fist right just in time for Gojo to hang up the phone and yank it open, his annoyingly bright blue eyes narrowing in an appalled squint at him. 

“What the-” 

His punch connected. Busting open his bottom lip, bruising Sukuna’s knuckles too as Gojo’s head snapped to the side. He groaned, stumbling and losing his footing, probably slipping in his own piss from his surely shoddy aim. 

“The hell is your problem, dickhead?” Gojo grunted, pushing off the toilet seat, palm pressing on the stall as he struggled to stand up straight. 

It was easy to push him back down, just another rough punch that he hoped fucking hurt.

But recognition was now glittering across the bloody face beneath him, amusement dancing in his dark stare as Gojo let out a low laugh.

“You’re here for her?” He said it like it was some joke Sukuna wasn’t in on. Or maybe he was just the butt of it. 

“You’re not getting in her panties,” Sukuna repeated in a hateful hiss, more repulsed by the word when it was on his own tongue. “So stay the fuck away from her.” 

“Or what?” Gojo challenged, a plucked brow arched up. “You’ll drown me?” 

His eyes flickered from the white-haired fraud in front of him to the toilet, considering it. 

“Maybe.” 

He saw the second it registered for him that it wasn’t just a threat. Then Sukuna leaned down, grabbing his phone from where it had hit the ground during his first hit. 

“Wait-” 

He tossed his phone in the water instead. 

Sukuna kicked him while he was down, hard enough he heard a rib crack before he stepped back, slamming the stall door shut and looking around at what he had at his disposal. Dragging over a ridiculously heavy trash can from the corner, one of the obnoxiously designed ones that was supposed to be art as if people weren’t just tossing trash in it. He shoved it against the stall while Gojo groaned again inside. 

He’d be able to get out, if he crawled under or climbed over the stall, or summoned the strength to shove it out of the way. But it’d delay him for a while. Enough that Sukuna was able to look back out of the bathroom, getting lucky enough to see one of the staff heading into a supply closet down the hall, marked employees only. 

“You asshole,” Gojo snarled, voice muffled, strained from the pain of a probably broken rib. 

But it was too late. 

He was sneaking out and into the closet once it was empty, snagging an ‘out of order’ sign from a shelf before he put it back up on the bathroom door when no one was looking. 

Sukuna wasn’t really one for fate, didn’t hold any believe in some higher power pulling his strings, but he could admit that it seemed like the universe was colluding with him when he caught the attention of some overworked waitress and casually commenting that they should probably block off the men’s bathroom if there was something wrong with it, pointing to the sign. 

It had taken ten minutes, maybe fifteen, walking back to your table with a smirk twitching up in his lips at the thought of how long it would take Gojo to pull himself off of the floor and figure out how to leave. Especially now that he managed to get someone to move a bunch of those huge ceramic fake-potted plants in front of it to stop it from opening – and no one would hear him requesting help through the thick walls and the bland dining music still loudly thumping through the speakers.

He had won. 

A little voice in the back of his brain said, for now, added addendums to his meager victory. Marked it down with the reminder that you might not be thrilled to see him after you left the last time you were together. 

You were still staring at the table when you came back into view, but your nose was scrunched up, lips pressed together tightly. Aware that it was taking too long for your date to come back, fear starting to seep in that you’d been ditched. 

And then you saw him. 

For half a second, just a brief moment he almost missed, you smiled, relaxing reflectively before you suddenly went stiff again. Forcing a frown and tucking some hair behind your ear self-consciously, defensively.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, all wide-eyed, fiddling with your hands in your lap. Pulling the hem of your dress down like he hadn’t seen how high it’d been earlier. 

“Saw you on a date with that loser,” he muttered, begrudgingly glancing around like he didn’t know where he was. “Did he leave?” 

You swallowed, squirming as you shrugged.

“He said he was going to the bathroom,” you muttered, fishing your phone from your purse to check the time, or maybe send Gojo a message. Sukuna could see the way disappointment snuck up in your face, how it crept into the corners no matter how hard, how desperately you were trying to hide it. 

There was an awkward pause, tense and heavy as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to. 

“You wanna get out of here?” He gruffly suggested, pulling his wallet from his pocket and tossing down some cash on the table. Enough to cover your half – even though there was only an appetizer out. 

You hesitated, your eyes finally flickering up to him. 

Your stare was as soft as it had always been, but it was like he was seeing your face for the first time, the air in his lungs sucked out like he’d been knocked flat on his back. 

Reassessing every little line, realizing that you weren’t just pretty, or cute, but beautiful. Lashes fluttering, canines chewing on your bottom lip as you looked back in the direction of the bathroom one last time. 

You’d been there for so long. Lingering in the background and by his side. And he’d been completely goddamn blind.

“I’ll buy you some real food,” he added, nodding towards the barely-touched plate of pretentious-plattered blobs of food with herbs thrown on top. 

“Fine.”

You weren’t that happy in the passenger seat of his car, riding shotgun, knees pointed away from him while you leaned against the cool window. He turned up the heat, the lump in the back of his throat bobbing watching you shiver and curl up inside yourself. 

He couldn’t remember if you’d ever been in his car like this before. A couple years ago, he’d been stuck in the backseat with you in Jin’s sedan, crammed against the window while you were stuck in the middle, but back then, he’d been too distracted arguing with Kaori in the front seat to notice the weight of your thigh against his. 

Now he couldn’t stop himself from wishing he paid more fucking attention. 

Eyes flitting over to your form, throat going dry at the sight of your still-plush thighs so out of his reach. 

“Why him?” He grunted when he pulled up to a stop light, fingers tapping his steering wheel, molars grinding as he stole another glimpse at you. 

You shrugged, just a little raise of your shoulders while you sighed. 

“He said he wanted to go on a date with me,” you murmured, refusing to look back at him. “Guess he changed his mind.” 

“He’s a moron,” Sukuna half-snarled, cringing when he realized how it came out.

A flash of hurt crossed your face, as he felt the fear of fumbling this chance with you rear back up. 

“For changing his mind,” he clarified, omitting the tiny detail that you’d be back on your date discussing Gojo’s salary or how big his cock was if he hadn’t intervened. “Not for-” 

“Don’t,” you mumbled. Stopping him before he could say what he meant.

“Look, I’ve been a dick,” he started, discomfort churning in his stomach having to apologize for anything in his life. 

“When aren’t you?” You muttered under your breath, swallowing hard as you continued to avoid looking straight at him. Just scanning over the road, glancing out the window or down at the floorboards, anywhere that wasn’t him.

He let out a disappointed huff, brow twitching. 

“The last time we talked, I was a fucking asshole,” he added, gravelly and gruff, even when he was trying to sound sincere. “You didn’t deserve that shit.” 

You turned to face him fully, but the light turned green, and he couldn’t see what face you were making as his foot shifted back to the gas pedal. He could make out your mouth starting to open in the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to continue. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You made a small noise that sounded like a squeak – and he was pretty sure his heart stopped. Something small but fierce sprouting in the deepest crevices of his chest, all his organs constricting as he struggled not to react with a noise of his own. 

“You’re sorry?” You repeated, as if an apology was totally absurd. 

“Yeah,” he soberly said, knuckles tightening across the steering wheel, barely able to keep his eyes on the road instead of studying your reaction. 

“For what?” You asked, and it felt like a test. 

One he was embarrassingly desperate to ace. 

All of it? 

Dismissing you and distancing himself the same way he always did? Convincing himself that all you would ever be was Jin’s friend? 

“For not seeing you,” he said under his breath, the answer landing in the air. 

You hesitated, pausing before you nodded. 

He didn't know if he got it right. 

But you relaxed over his version of dinner. Trading in your fancy appetizer for fast food, intently watching you dip your fries in sauce as you listened to him grumble about how shitty everything had been lately, begrudgingly admitting that he missed you coming around to his shop. 

You casually shrugged, as if you didn't miss him back. 

“Been busy,” you hummed, and he hated how the little curl of your lips after you said it made his stupid heart stall. 

Somehow though, you were still free tonight.

Enough that by your fourth or fifth yawn, he talked you back into watching a movie at his place. 

Jin would probably kill him if he knew. But then again, he hadn't stopped you from seeing Gojo. So how much could he actually care?

It wasn't like he was fucking you. 

Even if he was beginning to consider just how much he'd like to. 

But it felt almost more intimate for you to be this close, your thigh not quite touching his, knees curled up against your chest while you shared a blanket with him. Grabbing popcorn from the bowl on his lap and cracking jokes he might've called lame a few months ago before rolling your eyes at whatever was happening on screen. 

“This movie kinda sucks,” you whispered to him, as if you were in a theater instead of his apartment.

Speaking to him like a friend, giggling a little as one of your buttered fingers reached up to poke the crease between his brows. 

Were you always this fun? 

This pretty when your the shadows from the tv flickered across your face? Did your eyes usually glimmer like that, looking up at him like he was some kind of knight instead of just another dickhead? 

“Want me to change it?” He grumbled, already about to grab the remote before you shook your head. 

“I still want to see how it ends,” you half-whispered, and the softness to your voice did something treacherous to the pit of his stomach. Ripped open a gash, pried him apart until all he could think of was how hollow he felt. Hyper aware of a missing piece he was pretty sure was right in front of him. 

He wanted to see how this would end too. 

If you were another girl, he would've made a move. Slipped a hand underneath the blanket and ran it over your thigh, leaned in to trail hungry kisses down your throat. A means to an end – all to get his dick wet. 

But he wrapped his arm around your shoulders instead, pretended he didn't see the suspicious little glance you tossed his way. Satisfied himself just with the fact you didn't shove him away. 

You didn't get to see the end of the movie after all. Lulled to sleep with the pressure of his arm or the quiet comfort of the dim lights and low volume. Head tilted to the side at an uncomfortable angle as you dozed off and dreamed about – well, he didn't know what, but he hoped it was about him.

He waited until the credits were rolling to creep off the couch, readjusting you until you were resting on one of his pillows instead, pulling up the blanket so you were covered. 

Sukuna paused, just staring for a moment before he picked you up, cradling you against his chest and carrying you back to his bedroom where you'd be more comfortable. 

You didn't wake up. Not even when he walked over to where you left your stuff by his kitchen counter. Or when Sukuna slipped your phone out from your purse, coming back to unlock it with your thumb while you were still passed out. Scrolling through your recent slew of texts to find where Gojo was basically throwing himself at you and clicking on his contact. There was a message from an unknown number too, a huge paragraph that Sukuna didn't need to read to know was from him too, pointing fingers and directing the blame for tonight right his way. 

Blocking Gojo was easy.

Getting him to stay away from you? 

Well, it wasn’t that much harder. 

You softened up around him the next morning when you woke up and realized he'd taken the couch, nudging him awake to thank him before ditching like a one-night-stand would. But you were smiling again when you saw him, saying yes when he offered to pick you up and drop you off at work. Beaming when he admitted your drawings were never actually bad and asked to see them again. Letting him occupy your free time by slyly suggesting you come to his shop or his place for extra lessons and tips, a new weekly occurrence he caught himself thinking of as dates as one month bled into the next. 

It wasn't like Gojo could slip back in your life if you were too busy. 

And he couldn't visit you at work when Sukuna had made sure your family was aware of your, ah, stalker, and suggested they get a guard – claiming it would deter shoplifters too. 

If you were suspicious, you didn’t say anything. 

“So what, are you like, in love with her or-” Jin stopped himself mid-scoff, staring at Sukuna from across the counter, propping himself up on his elbows as he blankly stared at his brother. “You are.” 

“No, I’m not,” he grumbled, counting the cash left in his register as the sun set behind the trees outside. You had said so yourself. Called him a good friend for showing you proper shading on your last piece, before tucking a sketchbook underneath your arm and disappearing through his door to go back to your place. 

Despite his best efforts, you were still keeping him at arm’s length. 

And through all his attempts at shutting down his own feelings, they only seemed to burn brighter, the flames fanned by the realization you were more than he had ever given you credit for. Far more than he fucking deserved. 

Your awkwardness had become endearing. You were attentive and attractive and it was awful how many other things had only now started to register and rob him of his breath when you were around. 

“Don’t even think about making a move on-” 

The bell on the door chimed, and you were stepping through before Jin could say your name. 

Your eyes landed on Sukuna, soft and sparkling, a lit match thrown inside his chest as your mouth curled up in a pretty smile. His brother knew him better than he knew himself. 

Sukuna was falling for you fast. And he wasn’t sure he could catch himself anymore. 

“If you guys have plans, I can-”

He didn’t let you finish.

“Jin was just leaving,” Sukuna grunted, glaring at his brother like he’d toss him out if he didn’t go soon.  

You didn’t really get it. Couldn’t fully comprehend his sudden shift into being a semi-decent guy. You kept waiting for him to go back to normal, to push you back into the sidelines where you always belonged.

But he didn’t.

Week after week, he just seemed to worm his way deeper into your life, trying to occupy as much of it as he could. What? Did he have some weird change-of-heart and decide he didn’t want to be a dick?

Or were all those lingering touches and drawn-out stares just a figment of your imagination?

You glanced up at him again, mouth twitching into a smile you couldn’t help when you caught him already zeroed in on your face. 

Jin let out a low exhale, but you didn't even turn. 

“Don't make me an uncle,” he muttered, quiet enough you almost didn't hear him on his way out. Once it registered though, your nose scrunched up, now fully twisting towards him, ears perked like you were expecting Sukuna to scoff and say how ridiculous that was. 

“Get out,” he grumbled. 

You watched both of them, unsure eyes flickering back and forth until Jin left through the frosted glass doors. 

Sukuna sighed, shutting the cash register a little too hard, his cheeks almost tinted pink under the warm lights, aware you were studying him and still not offering some snarky retort back. 

“Surprised you didn't throw something at him,” you commented. This was it. 

The moment he'd make it clear how he saw you and remind you of where you were meant to be in this weird relationship.

Except – he shrugged. 

As if Jin wasn't in the wrong for suggesting there was something going on between the two of you. 

“Are you really surprised?” He muttered, and you could only blink. 

Holding your breath so he didn't catch how instinctively it hitched, frozen in place as your fingers fidgeted around your sketchbook. 

And then Sukuna stepped closer, cocking his head to the side as he assessed your stunned expression. 

“I like you,” he abruptly admitted, like he had to drag it from the depths of his stomach. Begrudgingly chewing over his next works as he walked right up to you, stopping just shy of touching before he plucked the book from your hands. “A lot.”

You waited for him to rip the rug out from under your feet and reveal that he didn’t actually mean any of it. 

“Sukuna,” you started, swallowing hard like it would make it any easier to choke down. 

How long had you been dying for him to say something like that? Dreaming of this moment right here? 

And the best you could offer was his name? 

“You don't believe me,” he accused, and all you could think of was being back at the bar, when those words came from your own lips. 

He had said it wasn't his business then. 

But what had made him decide you were now? 

Was it just the idea of you slipping away? Becoming someone else’s? Faced with the fact you weren't who he thought you were when he saw you on that dumb date? 

“Should I?” You asked. 

“What can I do to prove it to you?” He frowned, thick brows scrunched together. 

“I don't know,” you honestly answered. 

And you didn't really expect him to try to find an answer for you. 

It started small. Sort of. Awkward compliments he grumbled under his breath. Soda cans and snacks waiting for you when you came over. His fingers skimming over your skin, always standing a little too close. 

But after a couple weeks of you squinting at him, convinced he was still just trying to have sex with you, something changed. 

You just weren't sure which one of you cracked first. 

Perched prettily on the stool behind his counter, drawing on spare paper as he cleaned up from his last client of the day, pretending you couldn't feel him staring. 

“Hey,” he grunted, grabbing your attention easily as you glanced back at him. 

“Hm?” You tilted your head, fingers pausing on the pen. 

“You want a tattoo?” 

He was a bad influence. You'd always known that. But his dark eyes dragged you right down to his level. 

You couldn't believe you said yes. 

Or that you agreed to a goddamn tramp stamp. 

You readjusted, turning your head to the side, cheek squished against the cool leather as he tugged your shorts down. 

Shivering as you tried to keep yourself from reacting, painfully aware of everything that he was doing.

Every step felt excruciatingly slow, each drag of his gloved fingers over the small of your spine as he cleaned and prepped it. 

“Scared?” He grumbled, and you barely nodded. 

“Kinda,” you breathlessly admitted. 

“You change your mind?” He asked, and if you were smarter, maybe you would've told him to stop. 

Instead, you shook your head no. 

“Keep going.”

What was a better work of art? 

You, face-down and shivering on his chair? Or the fresh ink on the base of your spine, permanently marking you as his? 

The design was his, one you picked and approved, his initials worked into the fine lines. 

R.S. 

Maybe he should've pointed it out, but then again – you spent ten minutes reviewing the mock up and said you loved it.

And besides, he could always get your name on him too. Ask you to draw something just for him, sign it all pretty.

Make it even. 

“You wanna take a look?” He softly asked, jaw locked as he tried to permanently imprint the image of you like this in his head. 

“You can take a picture and show me,” you hummed, a cute little whine to your voice that made him unfortunately hard. 

Sukuna was still working on his listening skills, pulling his phone from his pocket and obediently snapping a few, ah, artistic photos. Ones that included your pretty ass and how your panties were pulled low on them so he had the space to work on your tattoo. 

It would be easier to walk around and show you, but instead he leaned forward, let his chest touch the top of your back as he held his phone in front of your face. 

“Pretty,” you softly said, pleased. 

“You're prettier,” he automatically replied, cringing when he remembered he was putting down his own work by accident. 

But you just giggled, trying to crane your neck back to look at him. 

“You did so good for me, gorgeous,” he murmured before you could mock him, purposely letting his mouth graze against your neck as you shivered. Shoulders scrunching up as you reflexively glanced up at you. 

God, he wanted to fuck you right here.  

And the way you were looking at him right now? 

He'd wager you would let him. 

“Do I have to pay for it?” You whispered, and he grunted. 

“I don't want your money,” he scoffed. 

He wanted something else. 

And after so fucking long, he was finally about to have it.

Sukuna hooked two fingers in the band of your panties, tugging them down hard and letting them get caught around your knees. Pausing, waiting for you to tell him to stop just to be met with silence as he readjusted, moved to where he'd have better access. 

Dragging his gloved hands up your thighs, spreading them apart and looking at how prettily you glistened for him. Soaked just from being in his seat.

He slowly took his gloves off, needing to feel you for real, skin on skin, truly touching instead of just skirting around it. Tracing over your ass, tender this time, taking his time to slip inside. 

Your warmth was a fucking wonderland. 

How many nights lately had he spent stroking it to the idea of this?

Hearing you moan was the closest he'd get to heaven, the sound reverberating inside of him as he added another digit, slowly shoving them in deeper, scissoring you open as your slick dripped down into the leather. 

“Gotta stretch you out,” he hissed, throat constricting when you clenched down around him. “Make sure it'll fit.” 

“Y-you're so cocky,” you whined, your lip forming a cute little ‘o’ as your cheek smushed against the seat. Moving in time with the thrusts of his fingers, wiggling down to meet his knuckles. 

“Gonna show you why,” Sukuna promised, just to feel the way you shifted and squirmed underneath him. 

It was addicting. You were. 

All your reactions, all those pretty faces you would make, everything about you left him craving more, more, more. 

His cock was leaking, aching pathetically where it was constrained in his boxers. Pre-cum dribbling out and making him aware of the dampness as he reluctantly pulled out to tug the zipper of his jeans down next, his dick springing up the second it was freed. 

Your eyes went wide, glancing back at him with an expression that made his cock twitch. Veins pulsing Z he tried to contain his impulse just to shove it all the way in. 

“I'll be careful,” he grunted, and you just nodded. 

You trusted him. 

And the thought of that made that little invisible string inside him snap. 

Careful. 

He repeated the word in his head, leaned against it like a crutch he could actually rely on. Shoving your shirt up higher, knowing he should probably fish a condom from his wallet for this, but unable to do anything except stare. 

“I thought you liked me,” you murmured, hips shifting like you were trying to snare him even more. 

“I do,” he breathed. 

“Then show me.” 

He was seeing fucking stars the second his cock was inside you. Eyes rolling back as inch by inch of his girth sunk into your heat, how you fit even better than his gloves did, snug and tight as he drove in deeper. Groaning your name, grabbing your hair, trying to tether himself to your body. 

His sanity tied to the sounds you were making, those cute whimpers as he rammed his hips down into your ass, careful not to press down on your new tattoo. 

“My pretty girl,” he claimed, gritty possession in his voice he no longer cared if you picked up on. So what if you did? You were his now. Not a fling or a fuck. Forever. “You're so goddamn perfect.”

“S-shut up,” you hissed back, nails digging into the chair as your grip on your own rationality slipped. 

You didn't need reason anymore. 

You had him. 

“You like me,” he accused, cock throbbing inside you when you whined at his tip kissing your cervix. 

“I-I-” You stuttered, so painfully pretty here. Sweat collecting on your brow, broken breathing loud in the quiet space, only the background music of his playlist joining it. 

“You do,” Sukuna huffed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. 

Maybe he'd leave another tattoo there some day. His teeth marks? Some other subtle sign to mark you as his? 

 “M-maybe,” you half-whispered. 

And that was enough for him. 

Fucking into you harder, the chair beneath both of you creaking and protesting at the combined weight, his muscles straining as his thick cock continued to stretch you thin around him. His free hand slipped around your front, your body squirming at his touch, shuddering so sweetly. Rubbing drawn-out circles over your clit, massaging it with dedicated pressure, paying attention to how you liked it and adjusting properly. 

Sukuna wanted to drag his tongue over your throat, taste your sweat and tears as you whimpered his name. 

But he'd settle for feeling you twitch when you came, how your thighs trembled and shook, his hips rutting down as warm ropes of his cum spilled out into you. 

You'd be dripping by the time he pulled out, but he kept you plugged full of his cum even when you were both finished, relief still some far-fetched dream when his body was burning so hot for you. 

“Did you-” You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering as you looked back at him.

“I can buy you plan B,” he exhaled, still not pulling out – halfway hoping his seed would take anyway. 

“Okay,” you sighed too, shutting your eyes as your face relaxed. Just accepting it. Letting him hold you like this the same way you let him leave his mark on your skin. 

“We can shower at my place,” he muttered. “Still have to cover up your new tattoo.” 

“Oh,” you yawned, like the sex had made you sleepy. Content. “Okay.”

You blinked though, eyes slowly opening back up as you looked back at him one more time. 

“You're acting like you're my boyfriend,” you commented. 

“Because I am now,” he huffed. 

One of your brows arched up, lips pressing together. But you didn't say no. Didn't turn him down. 

Your hips shifted, and he saw the pearly-white cum starting to seep out from where his cock was slotted between your folds, connecting him to you. 

It was probably wrong to hope you'd get pregnant. 

But really, all he wanted was to take care of you now. And that couldn't be wrong. 

Could it? 

"Wow," You swallowed, flexing your fingers like you were admiring the glittering diamond framed by small blue stones the shame shade of Satoru's eyes. Inheritance was funny like that - fate or doom or whatever you wanted to call it. You'd always end up here, and he would too. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Did they notice how hollow your words were?

Or were they all so shallow that they didn't care? Didn't see it as something different when they were already carved out and painted with pretty faces?

"Have you gone dress shopping yet?" She asked, and you could only shake your head no.

"We were-" Your mom started, just to get interrupted.

"I'd like to take you next weekend, if that's alright with you. Some bonding time for my future daughter-in-law?" It wasn't really a question.

All the Gojos got what they wanted.

"Sure," You softly said, forcing a smile like you weren't shuffling uncomfortably on your feet and acutely aware of how much the forsaken ring on your finger weighed.

"Why don't you two go get some food? I know you don't like what they're serving here, sweetie," She added, turning to say that last part to her son, reaching up to ruffle his hair. You didn't know if it was a deliberate dig at your mom's hosting skills, but you were just glad it meant you could leave.

"Yeah," Gojo blankly agreed, but his face was hard to read. Brows knitted together like he was deep in thought. "Did you drive or-"

"No," you awkwardly answered too fast.

"We can take my car then," He said, the lump in his throat bobbing hard as he looked back towards the exit.

He started walking fast, but before you could follow, your mom was hurrying after you, grabbing your arm to pull you close enough to whisper. Making it look friendly, like a quick goodbye, placing a soft peck on your cheek when her nails were digging into your skin.

"If you fuck this up, I'll set you up with the Zenin brat instead," She threatened.

You'd rather jump off a fucking bridge than be Naoya Zenin's bride.

Your posture straightened, fear stabbing and twisting in your stomach as you nodded in understanding. You pulled away from her, catching up with Satoru as he held open the door for you.

His eyes were dark as they glanced down at his mom's ring on your finger, jaw locked as he tried to keep his composure in front of everyone.

"Are you hungry?"

You felt like you were going to puke, but you still nodded yes anyway. Scared to say the wrong thing and push him away when he might be the only person you were left with after all.

He opened the car door for you, shutting the door hard after your seatbelt clicked in, but you saw the guilt flash across his face when you flinched. Mumbling sorry when he got in after you, but other than your awkward reply that it was fine, the rest of the drive to the farthest fast food chain in a ten mile radius was spent in stilted silence.

Eventually, he switched on his signal to turn right, pulling in the parking lot of some place you'd never actually eaten at before. It was half-full, a couple cars already in line for the drive-thru.

You shifted in your seat, glancing down at your hand, hyper aware of every stupid movement you made. Uncomfortable in your own skin, nipples still sore and sensitive and getting irritated in the dress you were wearing, unable to stop your leg from bouncing as you pulled down your hem only to get reminded of the ring you were itching to take off.

"Can we eat in your car?" Your voice wavered, your eyes still stuck on the diamond. "I don't really want to be around other people right now."

"Fine with me," He shrugged, pulling up to the drive thru too.

You nodded, not sure what to do. Paralyzed by your own indecision, your inability to do anything other than roll with the latest punch that threatened to knock you down.

"What does my fiancée wanna eat?" Satoru sarcastically hummed, tapping the steering wheel before he glanced over and saw whatever expression you were making. He winced, smiling apologetically. "Sorry, not funny?"

"Did you know?" You asked, although you weren't sure what kind of answer you wanted.

"Probably as much as you did," he dryly muttered, rolling his shoulders back and running his fingers through his hair. "But I didn't think I'd have to deal with marrying anyone for, like, years-"

He paused, and you picked up where he left off. "I knew my parents wanted me to marry someone this summer, but not you."

Satoru's face scrunched up in a pout, pushing out his bottom lip like you accidentally hurt his feelings with your dismay over the whole situation.

"No offense," You muttered.

"None taken," He replied, but his next smile was too tight.

Neither of you really wanted to be here. Wanted each other. But you didn't have a choice.

Your parents were pretty much shoving you two together like you were dolls for them to play with.

He ordered for you and used his sleek gold credit card to pay, finding a spot in the back of the lot that wasn't around any of the other cars before he put it in park. Rummaging the greasy bag of food he got back before passing you some french fries, sticking straws in the oversized drink cups and shoving one down where it wasn't all the way in his cupholder.

"So, um, what now?" You asked, barely audible under the low music playing on his radio.

You wanted him to tell you it'd be alright. That this wasn't as awful as it fucking felt, being shredded by your own guilt and the crushing expectations of what the next twenty, thirty, forty years would look like.

Even though he was just as trapped as you.

Watching him from the corner of your vision as he hesitated, his mouth twitching down in a frown before he shrugged again slowly. Stiff, unsure, like he wasn't used to someone looking to him for answers.

"We get married," Satoru spoke softly.

He wasn't trying to be an asshole, it even almost sounded like a question, but it unravelled an untouchable rotten thing inside of you. How long had the tightrope you'd been walking on been fraying? Always heading towards here, this moment you knew was coming and kept ignoring like it could change anything.

It was over.

You and Sukuna. Suguru. The rest of your summer would be spent wedding planning and being prepared to be the next Mrs. Gojo.

You started sobbing. Sucking in rough breaths and breaking down in front of your groom, gasping and trying to wipe away the tears as they fell.

"Shit, I didn't mean to-" Satoru panicked. He awkwardly tried to lean over and hug you, but he forgot he was wearing a seat belt, having to fumble and fuck with it to get it to unbuckle before actually hugging you.

The fries were still warm in your hand, the paper bag crinkling between your bodies as one of Satoru's large palms slid up-and-down your back in his best attempt at soothing you.

You were hiccuping, desperately attempting to control yourself and calm down as you started stammering, "M'sorry, I-"

Not even totally sure why you were apologizing to him, of all people, chest heaving as you rubbed underneath your eyes again just for your palms to come back streaked with makeup.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," He reassured, even if you could hear his uncertainty.

"You d-don't either." Your voice was muffled between gasps, strangled inside your throat when you forced a reply out.

You pulled back from him, sniffling and struggling to stop hyperventilating as you told yourself that he had his own complicated feelings too. That was much as it wasn't fair to you, it wasn't fair to him either.

He exhaled, brows knitting together as he abruptly opened the bag to start eating his own fries. You listened to him eat, taking deep breaths and pulling yourself together. Leaning against the cool window, watching people come and go from inside the restaurant, all preoccupied with their own lives.

Satoru tapped your arm, and you looked back to see him holding out the drink he got you.

You accepted it like it was a truce, some weird olive branch in a cup of soda, taking a small carbonated sip before sighing.

He dug through the bag again, grabbing a napkin from the bottom before using it to dab at your cheeks. It was rough on your skin, already a little damp as he dragged it under your eyes.

"Thanks," You mumbled with another sniffle. He crumpled the napkin, popping open the dashboard to toss it in there with some other trash stuffed in with the manual and insurance papers. And the open box of condom conveniently crammed on its side where it'd be easiest for him to grab from.

God, you didn't even know if he was dating anyone.

Did he have a girlfriend who'd be heartbroken? Someone else he hoped to marry someday?

You doubted he'd just stop seeing them even if he did marry you.

"Maybe it's for the best," He softly suggested, reaching over to place a soft hand on your knee. You immediately twisted to squint accusingly at him, words choked up in your throat. "Look, I know it sucks. But at least we know each other. And if you want to keep seeing Suguru-"

Fuck.

How the hell were you supposed to tell Suguru you were marrying his best friend?

The tears were welling back up, and it took every ounce of self-control you had left not to start hyperventilating again. He noticed, squeezing your knee again. It was all over his face he didn't know what he was doing, that he never had to comfort anyone before you.

"I'm just trying to say that our lives don't have to be over, you know? I'll support you, alright, whatever you want to do or who you want to see. And we can just keep up appearances for our families," He murmured.

You knew Satoru wasn't wrong.

It was the best option you had. He was. Especially when a guy like Naoya would probably rather never let you leave the house once you were married - would only care about you having kids or keeping everything clean.

"So what? Like move in together and wear rings and just live our own lives outside of what our parents want?" You sniffled, trying to imagine it. He wouldn't mind you working, would he? Saving up and stashing all your checks in a private account?

You'd probably have to do the whole prenup thing before the wedding anyway.

"Yeah, like that," He nodded. "I'll inherit my dad's company in a couple years, and after that, we could always get divorced."

He was being reasonable, making the best of a bad situation, but you were so sick and tired of feeling like a tool.

And more than anything?

You were exhausted from fighting the inevitable. Pretending like you were someone you simply weren't.

You never had Sukuna's fight inside of you. Would never be as strong as Suguru.

"Okay," You numbly agreed.

"God," He groaned, and the air tensed. It was heavy, some invisible oppressive weight pressing down on your chest. He rested his head back, closing his eyes and rubbing them. "Suguru's gonna kill me."

But forty minutes later, you were both standing outside of his dorm anyway, your makeup smeared and the armpits of his shirt damp with sweat as he wiped his clammy palms on his pants.

You hadn't checked your phone still. Unable to convince yourself to see what Sukuna wanted to say when you only had news he'd consider bad back.

Would he even want you if he had to share you? If another man would be calling you his wife?

Thinking about Suguru's reaction hurt too much to linger on. Even if your relationship wasn't exactly real, it felt like you were betraying him. Especially when he occupied a piece of your heart you hadn't meant to give him. When he lingered in the corners and cracks in your heart and mind despite how much you knew better.

You told yourself it was just because you'd given him your firsts. That he just had a knack for making someone feel special. Wasn't that why you picked him in the first place?

But the reality was it was easier to lie to yourself than to face the truth that you were still a loser who'd been lying to him.

"Maybe let me do the talking," Satoru quietly said, giving you a thumbs up as there was even a sliver of confidence shared between the two of you.

You almost leaned against him while he knocked, making yourself stand straight and wobbling on your heels. Twisting the ring around on your finger and wishing you could find it inside yourself to just take it off. Satoru kept looking at it too, brows scrunching together every time like he still couldn't believe it.

The door creaked open, and you felt your chest constrict, heart painfully pounding as you held your breath.

"Hey, Sato-" Suguru stopped talking the second he saw you. "What's wrong?"

His voice dropped low, dark, like he could feel the change before he even knew.

Satoru grabbed your left hand, holding it up as Suguru's dark eyes narrowed and locked onto your new accessory.

"So, uh," Satoru started, already flailing at this. "We're sorta engaged."