junuru

[junuru]

hi lovers!! i move in tmr and have orientation after so tumblr notifs are off :( i promise i will be back so so soon (end of next week hopefully) with a treat for u guys😶

[junuru]

🁪 ・HOTEL LOBBY

PAIRING — nanami x f!reader x gojo

SYNOPSIS — after traveling hours to see your long distance boyfriend, you end up feeling more like a burden than his girlfriend. so when two strangers you meet in the hotel lobby offer you a distraction, you can't say no. based off of this song.

WC — (13k)

CONTENT — infidelity, smoking, drinking, threesome kinda i guess, oral (f! and m! receiving), restraint, multiple orgasms, fingering, sub!gojo if you squint, consent is clearly given but all parties are (slightly) drunk, praise, slight hair pulling, nanami is yearning, mentions of masturbation, big dick, edging?, dirty talk, gagging, p in v, mentions of porn

a/n: i wrote this before the song got big on tiktok... beta read by @taomyou my goat and my hg helped write the freak m. list | divider | read this on ao3

"Hey, give me a minute," your boyfriend mutters, barely glancing at you as he pushes himself up off of you, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

The dim glow of the screen lights up his face, and you watch as a slow smile creeps across his lips.

"Shit," he chuckles, swiping at the screen. "I gotta take this. You can clean yourself up, right?"

You barely have time to nod before he's already tugging his boxers back on, running a hand through his hair as he heads toward the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you sprawled across the hotel bed, skin still warm from where his hands had been just moments ago.

Alone.

Tonight was supposed to be special.

You had been waiting for months to see him again, counting down the days, telling yourself the distance was only temporary. The two of you had only been together for two months before his job moved him to the other side of the country. Your years of friendship were supposed to turn into a whirlwind romance, but instead, it had left you with late-night calls that always ended too soon and half-hearted I miss yous over iMessage.

Before he left, you never had the chance to sleep together. It wasn’t that you hadn’t wanted to, life just got in the way. So, when you both finally found a break in your schedules and decided to meet halfway (though, if you were being honest, you had done most of the convincing), he booked a hotel room.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

But here you were, sheets tangled around your legs, body aching for a release that never came. You had already made him cum twice, waiting, hoping, expecting him to return the favor—but it never seemed to happen. You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 12:13 AM.

Nearly four hours.

Four hours of kissing, touching, waiting, hoping that maybe he’d pay attention to you the way you did to him. That he’d notice the way your body tensed, the way your breaths hitched in anticipation, the way you kept giving and giving and giving without ever getting anything in return.

But, now, he’s gone, locked in the bathroom with his phone, laughing at something that clearly matters more than you. And you’re still here, lying in bed, unsatisfied and alone.

You sigh, lifting your hips just enough to pull out the dry towel from underneath you, wiping his cum off your stomach. The warm fabric feels clinical against your skin, scrubbing away the last remnants of a night that was supposed to mean something.

You slip back into your lacy black set—the one you had picked out just for him—before reaching for the dress you had spent way too much time choosing, hoping it would catch his eye, earn you a damn compliment, or at least some acknowledgment. But it hadn’t.

Not once.

Barefoot, you pad across the carpet toward the bathroom, hesitation lingering in your steps before you knock softly on the door.

There’s a pause, then the muffled sound of his voice. “One sec, man.” A beat of silence, then he adds, “Woman, I’m on the phone, I told you.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly at your sides. “I, uh… I’m just going to get some air.”

You don’t wait for a response, not that you expect one.

You grab your room key from the dresser by the door, slip into your shoes, and step out into the hallway. The air feels different out there. Less stifling, less heavy.

By the time you make it to the lobby, you know you don’t want to stop there. You push past the glass doors, stepping outside into the cool night air. The city hums softly around you. Distant traffic, the occasional laugh from a passing couple, the buzz of a neon sign flickering just above you.

You take a deep breath, wrapping your arms around yourself, letting the cool air settle on your skin. It’s quiet out here, peaceful in a way that makes you feel alone, but not lonely.

The sound of a door creaking open breaks the silence.

You glance over as a man steps out of the hotel, flicking a lighter open with one hand and slipping a cigarette between his lips with the other. He looks about your age, maybe a little older, with dark, tired eyes and a suit jacket slung lazily over his arm like he had just come from something important but didn’t care enough to keep up the appearance.

He catches you staring, exhaling a slow stream of smoke before offering a small, knowing nod.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Something like that.”

He nods, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Yeah. Me too.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward or forced. The distant hum of the city fills the gaps where conversation doesn’t, the occasional flicker of his lighter, and the soft crackle of burning tobacco the only real sounds between you.

A few minutes pass before you speak again.

“What’re you here for?” you ask, shifting your weight slightly as you glance over at him.

“Work,” he says simply, taking another drag of his cigarette. He exhales slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air. “Meetings, schmoozing, pretending I care more than I actually do.”

You huff a quiet laugh, crossing your arms. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Oh, it is.” He smirks, flicking the cigarette between his fingers before glancing at you. “What about you?”

You hesitate, your fingers grazing over the hem of your dress before you sigh. “Vacation.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “You don’t sound like you’re having a very good one.”

You let out a small, dry laugh, looking away. “Yeah. Guess not.” "That’s a bummer," he says, his voice light, like he’s making an observation rather than prying.

You don’t respond.

He places the cigarette between his lips again, inhaling deeply before pulling it back and holding it out to you. The glowing ember flickers in the dim light as he tilts his head slightly.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

You hesitate for a moment before reaching out, plucking the cigarette from his fingers. You bring it to your lips, inhaling, and immediately regret it as the smoke burns down your throat. You cough, turning your head away as you try to compose yourself.

He chuckles, amused. “Been a while?”

You clear your throat, exhaling the rest of the smoke in a slow breath. “High school, maybe.”

He hums, watching you for a beat before you finally say it.

“My boyfriend’s a dick.”

There’s no hesitation in your voice, no need to sugarcoat it. The words sit in the air between you, hanging there like smoke.

He doesn’t look surprised. Just nods, shoving his free hand into his pocket. “Yeah?”

You take another drag, this time slower, letting the taste linger before you exhale. “Yeah.” You hand the cigarette back to him, watching as he takes it between his fingers with ease.

“You?” you ask, glancing up at him.

“My colleague’s annoying.”

You huff out a small laugh. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms, taking another drag. “Got stuck sharing a room with him. Guy doesn’t shut up. I’m supposed to grab a drink with him right now.”

You shake your head, smirking. “I feel like that’s not quite on the same level as my problem.”

He grins, tilting his head toward you. “Maybe not, but hey, annoying can be exhausting.”

You hum, leaning back slightly against the hotel’s brick wall, the cool surface grounding you.

The silence between you stretches again, but it’s easy, natural. You find yourself watching the cigarette glow between his fingers, the way the smoke curls into the night air, disappearing just as quickly as it came.

“Why’s he a dick?” he asks, not looking at you this time. It’s casual, like he’s just making conversation.

You think about it for a second, then shrug. “Because I flew across the country to see him, and he’s currently locked in a hotel bathroom on the phone with someone he clearly enjoys talking to more than me.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Yeah, that’s a dick move.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right?”

He offers you the cigarette again without a word. You shake your head.

"That’s a shame," he says, exhaling smoke as he flicks the cigarette between his fingers. His gaze flickers toward you, unreadable yet intent. "Pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve that."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s casual, effortless, like he didn’t even have to think about saying it, but something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You let out a soft scoff, looking away. "Guess not."

He hums, taking another slow drag. "So, what are you gonna do about it?"

You blink, glancing back at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, like it’s the simplest question in the world. "You flew all this way for a guy who won’t even give you the time of day. You planning on spending the rest of the night waiting for him to remember you exist?"

You stay quiet.

Because you don’t know.

You had come here with a picture in your mind, an expectation of what this night was supposed to be. But now, standing outside a hotel with a stranger who smokes like it’s second nature and looks at you like you actually matter, you’re starting to think maybe… you had it all wrong. Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the hotel door swinging open.

You whip your head around, eyes landing on the man stepping outside.

He’s handsome, no doubt. Tall, broad-shouldered with sharp features, but something about him is off. He’s wearing a compression shirt tucked into dress pants like he couldn't decide between casual or formal. And then there are the sunglasses. Tinted so dark you wonder how the hell he can even see through them.

It’s night, after all.

“Nanaminnnn,” he calls out, voice loud and exaggerated. “There you are!”

The man beside you, Nanami, apparently, closes his eyes for a brief second, inhaling like he’s summoning patience from the depths of his soul. He takes one last drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the pavement and crushing it under his heel.

You glance at him, amused. “Colleague?”

“Unfortunately,” Nanami mutters, his voice carrying the distinct tone of a man questioning all of his life choices.

The new guy approaches, a wide grin stretching across his face. “I thought you ditched me, man.” He finally notices you standing there, and his grin only grows. “And who’s this?”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “Gojo, don’t.”

Gojo ignores him entirely, turning his full attention to you. “Are you a friend of Nanami’s, or did he just get lucky tonight?”

You blink, caught between amusement and secondhand embarrassment as Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose, looking like he regrets every decision that led him to this moment.

You raise an eyebrow, biting back a smirk as you glance between the two men.

“Lucky?” you repeat, tilting your head toward Nanami. “Is that what you call sneaking out for a smoke?”

Nanami exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gojo, I swear to—”

“Relax, relax,” Gojo says, waving him off before turning his attention back to you. “I’m just messing with him. But, seriously, what’s a pretty girl like you doing standing out here alone at this hour?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Who says I’m alone?”

Gojo grins, looking way too pleased with himself. “Oh? So you are with Nanami.”

“She’s not,” Nanami interrupts flatly.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “No, I’m not.”

Gojo hums, clearly interested. “Then what’s the story?”

Nanami starts to interject, but you beat him to it, shrugging. “Came here to see my boyfriend, but he’s not really paying attention to me.”

Gojo whistles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Ouch. Hate to see it.” He tilts his head, a teasing lilt in his voice. “And here I thought Nanami was the sad one tonight.”

Nanami exhales through his nose. “I’m leaving.”

Gojo ignores him completely, leaning in slightly toward you. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna wait around for him, or…” He lets the question hang in the air, like he’s daring you to finish it.

You pause, looking down at the pavement. Just an hour ago, the answer would’ve been obvious. But now, after standing out here, talking to Nanami, having Gojo barrel into your night like a wrecking ball of energy.

You’re not so sure anymore.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

Gojo nods, rocking back on his heels. “Well, lucky for you, I do.”

Nanami sighs. “Gojo.”

Gojo waves a hand dismissively. “Come hang out with us.”

You blink. “What?”

“Come out,” he repeats easily, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You flew all the way here just to be ignored. Might as well have a good time instead, right?”

You hesitate, glancing at Nanami, who looks entirely done with this conversation.

Gojo grins. “C’mon, we’ll get drinks. Nanami can complain about work, you can complain about your boyfriend, and I’ll make fun of both of you while looking ridiculously good doing it. Win-win-win.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, considering. You should probably go back to your room. Wait for your boyfriend to finish his call. Try to salvage whatever’s left of the night.

But something about Gojo’s grin and Nanami’s barely-contained exasperation makes you hesitate.

And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to go back.

"Alright, but," you say, crossing your arms. "I have to be back upstairs in an hour. I don’t want him to worry."

Gojo lets out an exaggerated groan. "Oh, come on, he’s clearly not worried about you."

Nanami exhales sharply, already regretting every decision that led him here. "Let it go, Gojo."

"Fine, fine. One hour. But if I do my job right, you’re not gonna want to go back upstairs."

You roll your eyes. "Uh-huh."

The hotel lobby bar is quieter than you expected, dimly lit with sleek, dark wood furnishings. A few businessmen sit hunched over their drinks at the counter, murmuring among themselves. A jazz tune plays low in the background, barely cutting through the hum of conversation.

Nanami leads the way, choosing a booth toward the back, away from the other guests. Gojo, of course, slides in beside him, sprawled out comfortably while you take the seat across from them.

A waitress comes by almost immediately, taking your orders.

“Sake,” Gojo says without hesitation, flashing a grin. “And keep it coming.”

Nanami sighs. “One bottle is fine.”

Gojo ignores him. “Two bottles.”

The waitress nods, clearly unfazed by their dynamic, before turning to you.

“I’ll have the same,” you say, deciding to lean into it.

Gojo beams. “That’s the spirit.”

When the waitress walks away, Nanami leans back against the booth, leveling you with a look. “So, you actually plan on going back up there?”

You shrug. “I mean… yeah. He’s my boyfriend.”

Gojo scoffs, resting his chin in his hand. “And yet, here you are.”

You glance away, suddenly interested in the menu lying on the table. “It’s complicated.”

Gojo hums, clearly amused. “Isn’t it always?”

Nanami, ever the pragmatist, doesn’t bother commenting, choosing instead to check his watch, probably counting down the minutes until he can leave.

The waitress returns with your drinks, setting the bottles and small cups in front of you. Gojo is the first to pour, filling his and yours before pushing the bottle toward Nanami, who takes his time before finally conceding.

Gojo raises his glass. “To… uh?”

Nanami gives him a flat look. “To making it through the night without regretting this.”

You smirk, lifting your own cup. “To free drinks.”

Gojo grins, and the three of you clink glasses before tossing back the first shot.

The sake is warm and smooth, a slow burn spreading through your chest. You exhale, setting your cup down as Gojo immediately pours another round.

“So,” he says, resting his elbow on the table, “tell me about this boyfriend of yours. What exactly makes him worth all this effort?”

You hesitate, fingers playing with the edge of your sleeve.

You’re not sure if you have an answer. “See what I mean,” Nanami says after downing his glass.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “About what?”

Gojo leans in slightly, swirling the sake in his cup. “That you’re putting way too much effort into a guy who wouldn’t do the same for you.”

You scoff, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You don’t even know him.”

Nanami sets his glass down with a quiet clink. “Neither do you, apparently.”

That one stings a little.

Gojo smirks, watching your reaction as he refills your cup. “Ouch. Brutal, Nanamin.”

Nanami ignores him, his gaze steady on you. “If he actually cared, you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out.

Because he’s right.

You shouldn’t have to sit here wondering why your boyfriend hasn’t checked his phone, why he hasn’t even noticed that you left the room.

You toss back the second shot, the warmth spreading faster now, numbing some of the frustration curling in your chest.

“Okay,” you admit, setting the glass down. “Maybe he’s kind of an asshole.”

Gojo grins, topping off your drink again. “And there it is.”

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. “Took you long enough.”

“It’s a real shame, you know,” Gojo says, rolling the cup between his fingers before exchanging a glance with Nanami. His smirk is playful, but there’s something sharper lurking beneath it. “If I had a girl as sweet as you, I’d make sure I knew how to treat you right.”

You let out a soft scoff, setting your cup down on the bar. “Big words from a guy wearing sunglasses at midnight.”

Nanami huffs, shaking his head. “Don’t encourage him.”

Gojo grins, unfazed. “Hey, I’m just saying. If I had a girl fly across the country for me, I wouldn’t be locked in a bathroom taking some other call.”

The words shouldn’t sting. Not when they’re coming from Gojo, of all people. But somehow, they do.

You swallow, tilting your head. “And what exactly would you do?”

Gojo leans in just slightly, that ever-present smirk still tugging at his lips. “Wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Nanami lets out a quiet sigh, finishing off his drink in one smooth motion. “I’m going to need more alcohol for this.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two really know how to make a girl feel better.”

Gojo refills your cup, his grin widening. “That’s what we’re here for.”

And just like that, you take another sip, letting the sake settle warm in your chest, pretending, just for a little while, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. “Can we talk about something else?” you ask, setting your cup down on the table. The warmth of the sake helps, but not enough. You don’t want to think about him anymore—not when you’re sitting here, feeling lighter than you have all night.

Gojo leans back, tapping a finger against his glass. “Alright, fine. New topic.” He pauses, thinking, before his lips curve into a smirk. “How about… the worst date you’ve ever been on?”

Nanami exhales, already looking tired. “This is going to be insufferable.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “That’s easy. High school, blind date, the guy showed up twenty minutes late and spent the entire night talking about his fantasy football team.”

Gojo winces. “Brutal.”

Nanami nods in agreement. “That is bad.”

You glance between them. “Alright, your turn. Worst date?”

Gojo grins. “Oh, mine’s legendary. Took a girl to dinner, she spent the entire night texting her ex under the table. Didn’t even try to be subtle about it.”

You snort. “Ouch.”

Nanami, to no one’s surprise, takes his drink and says, “I don’t go on bad dates.”

Gojo scoffs. “You mean you don’t date.”

Nanami ignores him, pouring himself another shot.

You shake your head, smiling. “Alright, so if you’re too perfect to have a bad date, what’s the worst night out you’ve ever had?”

Nanami considers for a moment before sighing. “This one.”

Gojo barks out a laugh, clapping him on the back. “See? Now that is the kind of honesty I respect.”

You smile, taking another sip of your sake. The conversation flows, easy and natural, the weight of the night slowly fading into something lighter.

Maybe you don’t have to go back upstairs just yet. Gojo watches you over the rim of his cup, his smirk lingering, eyes sharp behind those ridiculous sunglasses. He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night. Not in an obvious, predatory way, but in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. Like he’s sizing you up, playing a game you don’t quite know the rules to yet.

You meet his gaze for a beat longer than necessary before turning back to Nanami. “You seriously never had a bad night out?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, giving Gojo a pointed look. “Every night I spend with him qualifies.”

Gojo grins, unbothered. “Oh, come on, Nanamin. You love me.”

“I tolerate you,” Nanami corrects, taking another slow sip of his sake.

You chuckle, leaning forward slightly, fingers tracing absent patterns against the rim of your cup. “You two always like this?”

Gojo hums, tilting his head. “What, charming?”

You roll your eyes. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

Gojo smirks, but he doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he refills your cup, fingers brushing lightly against yours as he passes it back to you. The touch is fleeting, barely there, but it lingers, warm against your skin.

You swallow, taking a small sip.

Gojo notices.

���So,” he drawls, shifting slightly toward you, his knee knocking against yours under the bar. “What’s your best night out, then? If this—” he gestures vaguely around the bar, “—isn’t the worst, what’s the best?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Mmm. There was this one night, years ago, a guy who actually paid attention to me.”

Gojo smirks. “Sounds like a rare breed.”

You shrug, swirling the sake in your cup. “Maybe.”

His knee stays pressed against yours. Not an accident.

“You know,” Gojo says, voice dropping just slightly, smooth and playful, “I could make sure tonight is one of your better ones.”

Nanami groans. “Jesus Christ.”

You let out a breath of laughter, but your fingers tighten slightly around your cup. Because Gojo is still looking at you like that.

Like he already knows how this night is going to end. You arch a brow, smirking slightly over the rim of your cup. “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Gojo grins, tilting his head toward you, his knee still pressing against yours. “Well, for starters,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I’ll actually pay attention to you.”

Your breath catches just slightly. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the way his smirk deepens. He caught it.

Nanami groans, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

You chuckle, but your eyes stay locked with Gojo’s. He’s enjoying this. The push and pull, the way your lips curve just slightly, like you’re considering playing along.

And maybe you are.

Gojo leans over a little more, just enough for you to catch the faint scent of his cologne— something warm, woodsy—intoxicating in a way that makes your head feel a little lighter. His fingers drum against the table before he reaches for the sake bottle again, pouring another drink for you, slow and deliberate.

“Tell me something,” he says, watching the liquid rise in your cup. “Why exactly are you still giving that guy upstairs the benefit of the doubt?”

You exhale, glancing down at the drink in front of you, the answer heavier on your tongue than it should be. “Because I want to believe he’s better than this,” you admit.

Gojo hums, setting the bottle down. “And do you?”

You hesitate.

Nanami exhales sharply. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Gojo ignores him, leaning closer, his knee pressing more firmly against yours, like he’s testing you, waiting to see if you’ll pull away. You don’t.

“That’s the thing about people like him,” Gojo murmurs, voice low enough that it’s just for you now. “They make you wait. They make you think if you’re just patient enough, they’ll change.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. You know he’s right.

He tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression before his gaze drops. To your lips, just for a second, before flicking back up to your eyes.

“But you don’t have to wait,” he adds, the words slow, deliberate. “You could make tonight about you for once.”

Your breath catches again, and this time, there’s no chance he didn’t notice.

You arch a brow, smirking slightly over the rim of your cup. The alcohol takes over “Oh yeah? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

Gojo grins, tilting his head toward you, his knee still pressing against yours. “Need me to say it again, pretty?” he says, voice smooth as silk, “I’ll actually pay attention to you.”

Your breath catches just slightly. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you see the way his smirk deepens.

He caught it.

Nanami groans, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve left when I had the chance.”

You chuckle, but your eyes stay locked with Gojo’s. He’s enjoying this. The push and pull, the way your lips curve just slightly, like you’re considering playing along.

And maybe you are.

But then you glance to your left, catching the way Nanami’s fingers tighten around his cup.

He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even looked at you since Gojo started playing this game. But there’s something about the way his jaw is set, the way he takes a slow sip of his drink—like he’s listening to every word being exchanged, carefully dissecting them in that sharp, calculating way of his.

Gojo notices too.

His smirk widens.

“See?” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles lazily along the rim of his cup. “Even Nanami agrees with me.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Gojo tilts his head toward the man beside you. “Nanamin’s got that look on his face,” he continues, as if he’s letting you in on a secret. “Like he wants to tell you the same thing I just did but doesn’t wanna say it out loud.”

You turn toward Nanami, raising an eyebrow. “That true?”

Nanami exhales through his nose, setting his drink down with a quiet clink. “I think your boyfriend is an idiot,” he says simply.

Your breath catches for a completely different reason now.

Gojo grins. “See?” He nudges your foot under the table. “Told you.”

Nanami sighs, but he doesn’t deny it.

You’re suddenly hyper aware of everything. The heat of Gojo’s knee pressed against yours, the solid presence of Nanami sitting at his other side, the way the air feels thicker now, like something unspoken is settling in between the three of you.

And neither of them seem in any hurry to break it.

You grip your cup a little tighter, rolling your tongue along the inside of your cheek as you glance between the two of them. The weight of their attention is different now; Gojo’s is teasing but pointed, sharp like a blade wrapped in silk, while Nanami’s is quieter, steadier, like he’s waiting to see where this goes before committing to anything.

The three of you sit in the dim bar, the soft hum of the hotel lobby just beyond, but it might as well be a world away.

Gojo leans in slightly, voice smooth. “So? What do you think, sweetheart?” He tilts his head, watching you. “Are you gonna go back upstairs and wait for a guy who clearly doesn’t give a damn, or…” He trails off, his fingers drumming once against the table once again before he lazily gestures between the three of you.

Your stomach tightens. The implication is there, laced in his tone, in the way his gaze flickers toward Nanami just long enough to mean something.

Nanami sighs across from you, rubbing his temple. “Gojo, you’re being obnoxious.”

“Am I?” Gojo hums, taking another sip of sake before setting his cup down. His eyes flicker back to you. “She doesn’t seem all that opposed to the idea.”

You exhale slowly, feeling the warmth of the alcohol settle in, your inhibitions loosening ever so slightly. There’s a part of you that knows this is probably a bad idea. That this is dangerous in ways you haven’t even fully considered yet.

But there’s another part of you—the part that’s spent the last few hours feeling unappreciated, neglected, unwanted, that finds itself staring at the two men in front of you: one playful, cocky, and completely shameless; the other composed, unreadable, yet not stopping any of this. And wondering if, maybe, just maybe, Gojo is right.

Maybe tonight should be about you for once.

You swirl your sake in your cup, glancing toward Nanami, whose fingers are resting against the bar, his expression unreadable. “And what do you think?” you ask, voice softer, testing.

Nanami doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts his gaze, meeting yours evenly. “I think you’re looking for an excuse to do something reckless.”

Your lips curve slightly. “And if I am?”

He exhales through his nose, reaching for the sake bottle. “Then I’d tell you to be sure it’s what you actually want.”

Gojo chuckles, watching the exchange like it’s the most entertaining thing in the world. “Gosh, Nanamin. You make it sound so serious. I think she deserves to let loose a little, don’t you?”

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately, but you catch the way his fingers tighten just slightly around his glass before he takes another slow sip.

Gojo grins, eyes flicking between the two of you before settling back on you, amusement dancing behind his dark lenses. “So, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth. “What do you want?”

The weight of the question settles over you, thick and expectant.

You hold Gojo’s gaze, the weight of his question lingering between the three of you, thick and unspoken. Your heart is beating a little too fast now, not just from the sake, but from the shift in the air, from the way both men are waiting, watching, giving you the space to decide.

You could end this now. Laugh it off, finish your drink, head back upstairs like a good girlfriend should.

Or you could let yourself have this. Just once.

Just tonight.

Your fingers trail lightly along the rim of your cup before you set it down. You turn to Nanami first, watching the way his jaw tenses slightly when your eyes meet. “And if I do say what it is I want?”

Nanami doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t answer right away either. Instead, he exhales slowly, setting his own cup down with precise control. “Then I’d tell you to be sure,” he says, voice steady. “Because once you go down that road, there’s no taking it back.”

Gojo hums, watching him with amusement. “Damn, Nanamin. Didn’t know you had such a dramatic side.” He turns back to you, smirking. “But he’s right, you know. No turning back.”

You already know that.

You know this is dangerous, that this is a choice that will change something, whether you want it to or not. But for the first time tonight, you feel seen. Wanted. Like you’re not just something to be forgotten in a hotel room while someone else makes you an afterthought.

And you don’t want to be an afterthought anymore.

You inhale slowly, fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the bar as you look at both of them.

“I’m sure.”

Nanami watches you carefully, as if giving you one last chance to take it back. Gojo, on the other hand, just grins, like he knew you’d say that all along.

“Good,” Gojo murmurs, voice dropping just slightly. “Then why don’t we get out of here?”

He stands first, tossing a few bills onto the bar without looking. Nanami hesitates for a fraction of a second before sighing, following suit.

And then you’re standing too, heat curling low in your stomach as Gojo leads the way out of the bar, his fingers grazing the small of your back just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

Nanami lingers just behind you, quiet, unreadable.

The elevator ride up is thick with tension, the air between the three of you charged and humming with something you don’t quite have a name for yet.

You stand between them, acutely aware of the space (or lack thereof). Gojo leans against the mirrored wall, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lazily against his thigh. His sunglasses are still perched on his nose, but you can feel his gaze on you.

Nanami stands on your other side—still composed, still unreadable—but his fingers twitch just slightly at his sides. He hasn’t looked at you directly since you left the bar, but his presence is solid, grounding, deliberate.

A soft ding echoes through the elevator as the doors slide open to the highest floor of the hotel.

The suite is exactly what you expected; large, sleek, and expensive, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. Dim lighting casts long shadows across the space, the glow from the skyline outside flickering against the glass.

Gojo kicks off his shoes lazily, stretching as he walks toward the minibar. “Well, now that we’ve successfully escaped your trainwreck of a night, I’d say this calls for a proper toast.” He reaches for the stocked bottles, pulling out something dark and expensive-looking. “Whiskey? Wine?”

You hover near the entrance, heart still beating faster than it should be. Nanami steps inside after you, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

His eyes meet yours, steady, calculating.

One last chance to walk away.

But you don’t.

Gojo glances back at the two of you, smirking as he unscrews the cap of the bottle. “You’re looking a little tense over there, sweetheart. You sure about this?”

You inhale slowly, fingers brushing against the hem of your dress.

And then, finally, you meet his gaze.

“I’m sure.”

Gojo hums, pouring a drink. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping closer, pressing a glass into your hands. His fingers brush yours, lingering just a second too long.

Nanami exhales quietly from behind you, but he doesn’t step away and neither do you. You take the glass from Gojo’s hand, the warmth of his fingers lingering against your skin for a second too long. The whiskey is smooth when you take a sip, but it does nothing to cool the heat curling low in your stomach.

Gojo watches you over the rim of his own glass, amused, patient, expectant.

Behind you, Nanami is silent, but you feel his presence, the steady weight of his gaze, the way he hasn’t moved from where he’s standing, like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s still waiting for the moment you change your mind.

You won’t.

The room hums with unspoken tension, and it only grows heavier when Gojo finally steps closer, plucking the glass from your hand with an easy smirk. “You’re overthinking, sweetheart.”

His voice is smooth, almost teasing, but there’s something deeper there, something that makes your breath catch when he leans in just slightly, his presence overwhelming in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

His fingers trail lightly along your arm, slow and deliberate.

Gojo hums, satisfied, and then he’s closing the space between you, his hand finding the curve of your waist as he presses his lips against yours.

It’s slow at first, teasing, coaxing, like he’s savoring the moment, like he knows you won’t pull away. His other hand lifts, fingertips ghosting along the side of your neck before threading into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss.

And then a shift. A presence at your side.

Nanami.

You barely have time to react before you feel the weight of his hand settle against your thigh, warm and steady through the fabric of your dress. It’s not forceful, not urgent. Just there, just waiting.

Gojo smirks against your lips, pulling away just enough to murmur, “Looks like Nanamin finally made up his mind.”

You exhale shakily, caught between the heat of them both.

Gojo’s lips are still hovering near yours, his smirk lazy, smug—like he already knew this was going to happen, like he had seen this moment playing out before you had even realized you wanted it.

But it’s not just Gojo anymore.

Nanami’s hand on your thigh is solid, warm, his touch deliberate. He hasn’t moved beyond that, not yet, but the weight of it alone sends a shiver up your spine.

You turn your head slightly, glancing at Nanami through the dim light. He’s watching you, eyes dark, unreadable, lips pressed into a firm line like he’s still debating the morality of this even while his hand tightens slightly against your leg.

“Relax, Nanamin,” Gojo murmurs, his fingers still tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough that he can brush his lips over your jaw. “She wants this.”

You do. You don’t even hesitate when you reach for Nanami, your fingers brushing against his wrist, encouraging. His chest rises and falls slowly, measured, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he exhales through his nose, his fingers slipping just a little higher against your thigh.

Gojo chuckles, clearly pleased, his breath warm against your skin. “See?” he muses, trailing soft, teasing kisses along the side of your neck. “You’re already making her impatient.”

Nanami’s fingers flex against you, but he doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t have to.

Because the next thing you know, his other hand is tilting your chin toward him, and then his lips are on yours.

Gojo pulls back just enough to watch, his thumb skimming along your collarbone, his smirk widening. “Now that’s what I like to see.”

Gojo downs the rest of his drink, the sound of the glass being placed back down against the counter barely audible over the way your breath hitches against Nanami’s lips.

Nanami tastes like cigarettes. He kisses you slowly, carefully—he’s trying to commit this moment to memory, like he already knows he shouldn’t be doing this but can’t bring himself to stop. His hand on your thigh tightens just slightly, grounding, steady, possessive.

Gojo watches, his smirk widening, amusement flickering behind those ridiculous sunglasses that still haven’t left his face. “Nanamin,” he drawls, tilting his head. “You’re being greedy.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately.

Gojo leans in, his fingers ghosting along your arm before trailing up to your chin, tilting your head just enough that you have no choice but to look at him. His voice drops, teasing and smooth.

“You have to share.”

Nanami huffs, finally pulling back, his lips barely inches from yours. He says nothing, just watches as Gojo closes the space between you, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before his lips press against yours.

Where Nanami was steady and sure, Gojo is teasing, playful, his kiss slow but purposeful, drawing you in, taking his time, making sure you feel every second of it.

Nanami exhales sharply beside you, but his hand doesn’t leave your thigh. If anything, it only moves higher. Your hand moves up, fingers curling around the delicate strap of your dress, pulling it down one slow inch at a time. The fabric slips over your shoulder, baring more of your skin to the cool air, to the weight of their stares.

Gojo makes a low noise in his throat, somewhere between approval and amusement. “Now we’re talking,” he murmurs against your lips, his fingers ghosting along the newly exposed skin before trailing lower, teasing the edge of the dress as if testing how far you’ll go.

Nanami doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His fingers, firm and unwavering, move higher along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your dress up in the process. There’s a tension in him, tightly wound, he’s trying to convince himself that this is a bad idea even as his body betrays him.

Gojo, on the other hand, has no such reservations. He chuckles, pressing another kiss to your lips before leaning back slightly, his smirk downright wicked.

“You look real pretty like this,” he muses, watching the way your breath catches when Nanami’s fingers tighten just slightly against your thigh. He reaches up, slipping the other strap of your dress down, letting the fabric slide lower, leaving you more bare beneath their gaze.

Nanami exhales slowly, his eyes dark, half-lidded, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to move even further. Gojo's lips ghost along your ear, his voice a low murmur. “Think he likes what he sees, baby.”

Your breath catches, a shiver running down your spine as Nanami’s fingers flex against your thigh. He still hasn’t spoken, but his silence speaks louder than words.The tension in his body, the way his grip tightens just slightly, the heat in his gaze when your eyes flicker toward him.

Gojo chuckles, pressing a teasing kiss just below your jaw. “You’re getting shy on us now?” He tilts his head, brushing your hair back over your shoulder, exposing more of your skin. “Didn’t seem so shy downstairs.”

You swallow, fingers curling against the fabric of Nanami’s sleeve, anchoring yourself. You feel the way his arm tenses beneath your touch, the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

“I’m not shy,” you murmur, your voice steadier than you expected.

Gojo hums approvingly, slipping a finger under the loose strap of your dress, dragging it down your arm. “Good.”

Nanami exhales through his nose, his hand on your thigh unmoving, still waiting, still watching. His other hand lifts, fingers skimming along your arm, tracing a slow line up to your shoulder. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the way you feel beneath his fingertips.

Gojo leans back just enough to watch you, his smirk lazy, his amusement laced with something deeper. “You gonna let Nanami touch you, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitches, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin. You don’t need to think. You already know the answer.

You turn your head toward Nanami, eyes locking with his. His expression is unreadable, his lips slightly parted, his grip still firm but hesitant. Like he’s still waiting for something.

So you give it to him.

You reach for his hand, guiding it higher along your thigh.

Nanami exhales, slow and measured, but his restraint cracks just enough for his fingers to move on their own, pressing into your skin, claiming the space you’ve offered him.

Gojo whistles lowly, dragging his thumb along your collarbone. “Now that’s more like it.”

His voice is smooth, teasing, but you barely register it, because Nanami is finally touching you like he wants to.

And you don’t think you’ve ever felt more wanted in your life.

His hand slides higher, fingers splaying possessively over your hip as Gojo’s lips ghost along the curve of your neck. Every touch feels electric, igniting a fire that courses through your body. The world shrinks to just this: Nanami’s steady, grounding heat; Gojo’s playful, teasing desire; and the way they consume you completely, leaving no room for anything else.

Your breath catches as Nanami’s rough hand glides over the soft skin of your thigh. His touch is deliberate, his calloused fingers tracing slow, maddening circles that send shivers racing up your spine. A shaky exhale escapes you before you can stop it, and your eyes dart to Nanami’s face in search of his reaction.

His brow furrows, not with annoyance or anger, but with restraint. The intensity in his gaze is palpable, his pupils blown wide with barely contained want. Your eyes trail downward, from the tension in his jaw to the undone collar of his shirt, to the way his slacks strain against him. The realization hits you like a spark to dry kindling, he wants this. He wants you. Badly.

When he notices your lingering stare, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and unyielding. The air between you thickens as you grip the sheets beneath you and nod silently, giving him permission.

“Come on, Nanami,” Gojo’s voice breaks the silence from behind you, low and edged with impatience. “Don’t keep her waiting.” He tries to sound casual, but the desperation lacing his tone betrays him.

Gojo’s touch and teasing voice keep you distracted. Before you can fully process what’s happening, you feel your panties being slid aside. Nanami’s movements are deliberate, his hands steady as he gently pulls the fabric down your legs, discarding it without ceremony. The absence of the barrier leaves you feeling exposed, vulnerable, and achingly desperate for more.

His hands return to their place on your thighs, grounding you with their rough warmth. The anticipation is unbearable, a tension coiling tighter in your core with every passing second. You’re sure Nanami can feel it, sense it, because just as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers find you.

A loud gasp escapes your lips as he positions his hand, and the first experimental brush of his thumb against your clit sends a jolt through your body. The sound you make is involuntary—a soft whimper that betrays just how much you need this. Nanami’s lips twitch into a faint smirk at your reaction, the first hint of amusement he’s shown all night. His composure cracks just enough to reveal the satisfaction he takes in unraveling you.

He doesn’t stop there. His movements grow more confident, his pace quickening as he watches the way your body responds to him. Each touch feels like a revelation, a reminder of what it’s like to be truly seen and cared for in such an intimate way. The noises you make are uncontrollable now, soft cries spilling from your lips as pleasure builds inside you.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Gojo murmurs against your neck, his voice low and soothing despite the hunger behind it. His teeth graze your skin lightly as he adds, “You’re so good for him, huh? Is he making you feel good?”

You want to answer him, to tell him how good it feels, but every attempt at forming words dissolves into pathetic whines. Gojo chuckles softly at your struggle and cups your chin in his hand, tilting your face toward him. His lips capture yours in a kiss that steals what little breath remains in your lungs. His tongue brushes against yours, deepening the connection as the tension inside you threatens to snap.

Just when you think you’re about to fall over the edge, Nanami stops. The sudden loss of contact makes you whine in protest, your eyes darting down to meet his with frustration painted across your face.

“Can I do something else?” he asks softly, his gaze searching yours for permission. You nod quickly, desperately, needing him to finish what he started.

But what comes next catches you off guard. Nanami leans closer and closer until you can feel the heat of his breath against your inner thighs.

“Wait, you don’t have to—” Your protest dies in a moan as his tongue runs between your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, and all you can do is surrender to it. A hand finds yours amidst the chaos; Gojo’s fingers interlace with yours as if anchoring you against the storm of pleasure crashing over you.

Nanami’s hands creep up your thighs until they settle firmly on your hips, holding you in place like he’s afraid you might escape him. But escape is the last thing on your mind as wave after wave of sensation pulls you under.

Nanami’s tongue continues its relentless work, his movements precise and deliberate as he adjusts his position. When his tongue flicks over your clit, a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you instinctively cover your mouth, trying (and failing) to muffle the sounds spilling out of you. The sensation is overwhelming, so much better than his fingers alone.

Then, you feel it—one of his hands leaves your hip, and a finger gently prods at your entrance. Slowly, he dips it inside, pushing deeper with care before curling it just right and beginning to thrust. Your back arches off the bed at the sensation, but Nanami’s firm grip on your hips keeps you grounded. He presses you back down against the mattress with a quiet authority that only makes the heat pooling in your abdomen burn hotter.

When he adds a second finger, the stretch is perfect, just enough to make you gasp again. His mouth works in tandem with his hand now, lips and tongue lapping and sucking at your most sensitive spots. His fingers curl inside you with precision, hitting that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. The pleasure builds impossibly fast, and the sounds spilling from your lips grow louder and more desperate.

Before those cries can echo too loudly, Gojo leans in to capture them with a rough kiss. His lips press against yours hungrily, swallowing every moan and whimper as if they belong to him. His tongue pushes into your mouth, dominating the kiss even as Nanami drives you closer and closer to the edge.

Nanami’s pace quickens, his fingers thrusting faster, his tongue working harder, and it’s too much. You try to pull away from Gojo to catch your breath, but he only deepens the kiss, holding you firmly in place. The next thing you know, a loud moan tears from your throat into Gojo’s mouth as the tension inside you snaps. Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, leaving you trembling as you spill into Nanami’s waiting mouth.

Nanami doesn’t stop, not immediately. He continues to lap up every bit of you with an almost reverent hunger until the overstimulation becomes too much. Your body twitches involuntarily as you pull away from his mouth with a soft whimper.

Completely spent and breathless, you collapse against Gojo’s chest with a sigh. “Fuck…” is all you manage to say between ragged breaths.

Gojo chuckles softly, his voice low and teasing as he plants featherlight kisses along your face and neck. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Nanami slowly sitting up at the edge of the bed. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable but undeniably satisfied.

It takes a few moments for you to collect yourself enough to sit upright again. Your gaze shifts to Gojo, who is lounging back against the headboard like he owns every inch of this moment, and maybe he does. His lazy smirk only adds to his infuriatingly cocky demeanor. The top buttons of his expensive collared shirt are undone (of course he’d wear something so effortlessly stylish), revealing just enough skin to tempt you further.

You reach out to cup Gojo’s face in both hands before shifting onto his lap to straddle him. His smirk widens slightly as he watches you move, but there’s an unmistakable hunger simmering beneath those impossibly blue eyes—eyes that seem even more piercing without his signature glasses.

Smiling softly, you let your hands trail down his chest toward the remaining buttons on his shirt. One by one, you undo them slowly, deliberately, before sliding the fabric off his shoulders and letting it fall away completely. You study him carefully as you do this: every flicker of emotion in his gaze, every subtle shift in his expression.

Without the barrier of clothing, your hands roam freely over him. You trace each scar and muscle on his chest and abs with reverence, memorizing every inch of him under your touch. Leaning forward slightly, you press soft kisses down his chest as your fingers continue their exploration.

The sharp intake of breath he takes when your hands dip lower sends a thrill through you. His stomach tenses beneath your touch, and when he exhales through gritted teeth, a soft hissing sound, you can tell he’s trying hard not to let any more noise escape him.

But that cocky smirk still lingers on his lips, and, oh no, you can’t have that.

Your hands trail down his chest, teasingly slow, until they reach the waistband of his slacks. You glance up into Gojo’s eyes as your fingers brush over the hard length straining against the fabric. His jaw tightens, and you watch with satisfaction as his hands grip the sheets tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Come on, princess,” he growls through gritted teeth, his brow furrowed in frustration. “No need to be such a tease.”

“You just need to have some patience, hmm?” you reply sweetly, though there’s a playful edge to your tone that makes his lips twitch into a strained smirk.

Your fingers move to his belt, taking your time undoing the loop and sliding it free. The deliberate pace earns you a low groan from him, but he doesn’t stop you. Once the belt is in your hands, an idea sparks in your mind. You wrap it around his wrists, looping it securely before fastening it back with the hook. It’s not the tightest restraint, you know he could snap it easily if he wanted, but when you look at him, all he does is let out a low laugh.

“Really?” he asks, raising an amused brow. “You know this won’t hold me, right?”

“I know,” you say with a sly smile. “But you’re being so good for me right now…I have a feeling it will.”

His smirk widens slightly at your confidence, but before he can respond, you turn back to Nanami. The moment your eyes meet his, your newfound boldness falters under the weight of his gaze. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you, like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.

“You didn’t forget about me, did you?” His voice is deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. The hunger in his tone makes your stomach tighten with anticipation.

“I—” You try to form a coherent response, but the heat pooling in your core makes it impossible to think straight. Your brain feels fuzzy, consumed by thoughts of what lies beneath his pants.

Nanami leans closer, his large hands finding your waist as he pulls you toward him effortlessly. “Let’s give him a show,” he murmurs against your ear.

You manage a small smile before glancing back at Gojo over your shoulder. “Watch closely, sweetheart,” you tease with a giggle.

Gojo tsks but doesn’t move an inch; instead, he leans back against the headboard with a lazy grin that doesn’t quite mask the fire in his eyes.

Turning back to Nanami, you reach up to cup his cheek. The moment your hand touches him, his lips crash onto yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. Unlike Gojo’s playful teasing kisses, Nanami’s are raw and consuming, he kisses like he needs you more than air itself. It’s messy and desperate and so intoxicating that you never want it to end.

Your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt as his hands slide around to support your back. A soft moan escapes you when he latches onto your neck again, sucking and biting at the already sensitive skin like a man starved. His warm breath fans over your skin as his teeth graze along your pulse point, making it nearly impossible for you to focus on anything else.

Still, despite the distraction of his mouth on your neck and the way his hands grip you so firmly yet tenderly, you manage to pull off his shirt at last. Wasting no time now, you move to unbuckle his belt and undo his pants with an urgency that surprises even you. You don’t think you’ve ever stripped someone this quickly in your life.

Once his slacks are discarded onto the floor alongside Gojo’s belt and shirt, your hands trail down Nanami’s chest again. His breath hitches when your fingers trace over each defined muscle before dipping lower toward his waistband. You take note of every reaction, the way his breathing quickens slightly when you brush over his v-line; the way his lips part ever so slightly as if trying to hold back a sound.

When your hand finally slips beneath the fabric of his boxers and wraps around him fully for the first time, you freeze for just a moment. He’s thick, so much so that your hand doesn’t fully close around him, and somehow that realization only makes the ache between your thighs burn hotter.

You pull him free from the confines of his boxers and guide him away from your neck so you can kiss him again. This time it’s slower but no less intense, your lips moving against his as if savoring every second of contact. As soon as he relaxes into the kiss, trusting you completely in this moment, you give him an experimental stroke.

The sharp inhale he takes against your lips sends a thrill through you. His hips twitch slightly under your touch as if instinctively seeking more friction, but for now, all he does is kiss you harder in response.

Nanami groans into your mouth, the sound deep and guttural, sending a jolt straight to your core. Everything feels so hot, so overwhelming, you almost can’t take it. With steady movements, your hand works him, using the slickness of his precum to glide smoothly up and down. The way his breath hitches and his grip tightens on your waist tells you he’s close, so close.

But, just as he’s about to tip over the edge, you pull your hand away. His head falls back with a frustrated groan before he looks down at you, his blown pupils locking onto yours. The intensity in his gaze sends another wave of heat through you.

You flash him a soft smile before shifting further down the bed until you’re face-to-face with his erection. His chest rises and falls heavily as he watches you, realization dawning in his eyes. Before you can move any further, his hand reaches out to cup your face, turning it so you’re looking back at him.

“Wait,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You don’t have to—”

His words are cut off by a sharp groan as your tongue glides up the length of him, slow and deliberate. His hand moves to grip your hair instinctively as his head tilts back, the muscles in his neck straining with pleasure.

You open your mouth wider, taking him in inch by inch. The stretch is intense, but the sounds he’s making spur you on, low moans and curses spilling from his lips like music to your ears. You go as far as you can until you feel the urge to gag, using your hand to take care of what you can’t fit.

The noises filling the room are obscene, wet sounds from your mouth mixed with Nanami’s ragged breaths and quiet curses. Spit dribbles down your chin, mingling with the precum leaking from him, but none of it matters. All you can focus on is how beautiful he looks above you: flushed cheeks, furrowed brow, and parted lips that let out the most sinful sounds.

“Shit,” Nanami mutters through gritted teeth. “It feels so good, baby. You’re doing so fucking good, taking my dick like that.”

His hips twitch slightly as his restraint starts to falter. He grips your hair tighter, guiding your head down just a little more as his breathing grows more erratic.

“Shit, shit—I’m gonna—you gotta get off…” His voice is desperate now as he tries to pull away before losing control.

But instead of stopping, you move faster, determined to push him over the edge. It doesn’t take long before his groans turn into a deep growl, and with one final thrust of his hips, he spills into your mouth. The warmth floods down your throat as he comes undone beneath you.

You slowly pull off him, swallowing everything before meeting his gaze again with a satisfied smile. Nanami looks at you with a mix of awe and apology as he cups your cheek gently. “I didn’t mean to do that,” he murmurs softly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You scoff lightly at his words and lean into his touch. “If I didn’t want it,” you reply with a playful smile, “I wouldn’t have done it.”

Leaning forward, you kiss him again, a slow kiss that reassures him there’s nothing to apologize for.

Nanami pulls back slightly and glances over at Gojo still sitting at the head of the bed with an exaggerated pout on his face. “You should probably do something about that,” Nanami says with a small smirk.

Rolling your eyes fondly, you press one last kiss to Nanami’s lips before crawling over to Gojo. “You didn’t think I forgot about you, did you?” you tease with a soft giggle as you straddle him again.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Gojo replies smugly, though there’s an unmistakable edge of impatience in his tone.

Smiling sweetly at him, you tug down his boxers to free him completely. Reaching over to grab a bottle of lube from the nightstand (because of course Gojo has one conveniently nearby), you quickly lather your hand before wrapping it around him and stroking at a ruthless pace.

“Fuck—” Gojo gasps sharply but doesn’t get far before you shut him up with a kiss. His lips crash against yours hungrily as if trying to distract himself from how good your hand feels on him. You feel him struggle against the belt still binding his wrists together, the tension in his arms mirroring the way his legs tense beneath you.

Breaking away from the kiss momentarily, you trail kisses down his chest and stomach until you reach his abdomen. Without hesitation this time, you take him into your mouth easily, your movements smoother now after earlier practice with Nanami.

“Fuck… beautiful,” Gojo groans softly above you. “Please…”

You move teasingly slow at first just to savor every little sound spilling from his lips, the low moans and sharp intakes of breath that only spur you on further. But when he suddenly thrusts up into your mouth without warning, catching you off guard for just a moment, you react quickly by pressing a firm hand against his hips to hold him down.

Your pace quickens then, your mouth working in tandem with your hand as Gojo’s breathing grows more ragged by the second.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck,” he chants breathlessly between moans. “Please, sweetheart. I’m so fucking close, you’re doing so fucking good, I feel so fucking good right now… please—”

With one final groan that sounds almost like a plea, he spills into your mouth. You stay there for a moment longer before pulling off slowly as he finishes releasing completely.

Quickly swallowing and wiping your mouth, you wrap your hand around Gojo again, stroking him with deliberate precision. His reaction is immediate, a sharp groan muffled as he turns his face into the pillow, his body trembling beneath your touch.

You frown slightly, leaning closer. “Come on, Satoru,” you tease softly. 

His flushed face turns toward you reluctantly, his breath coming in short gasps. His pupils are blown wide as he meets your gaze. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice strained. “I just came, it’s too much. I can’t.”

You giggle at his vulnerability, but before you can respond, strong hands grip your waist from behind and lift you effortlessly off Gojo’s lap. You let out a surprised yelp as Nanami pulls you back against him, settling you onto his lap instead. The sudden shift makes you release Gojo’s length, much to his visible relief.

“You’re having fun, aren’t you?” Nanami’s deep voice rumbles in your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His tone is calm, but the heat behind it makes your stomach twist with anticipation. “Well,” he murmurs smoothly, “don’t stop on my account. Keep going.”

You glance back at Gojo, who lets out a soft whimper as you take hold of him again. His hips twitch as though trying to escape your touch, but it doesn’t last long.

“Really?” he mutters breathlessly. “In front of Nanamin? This is pretty embarrassing, you know he’s an underclassman, right? Fuck—”

Your giggle fills the air as Gojo squirms under your hand. But before you can respond with another playful remark, a gasp escapes your lips as Nanami’s hand slides down between your thighs. His fingers trace over your heat with an almost maddening slowness.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” Nanami whispers in your ear, his tone laced with amusement. “You have to finish what you started.” You can hear the smile in his voice, cocky and self-assured, and it only makes the fire inside you burn brighter.

‘Cocky bastard…’ you think to yourself before refocusing on Gojo.

Your hand moves faster now, stroking him with an intensity that has him whining and writhing against the belt restraining his wrists. But as Nanami slips a finger inside you, curling it just right, a groan escapes your lips despite yourself. The dual sensations threaten to overwhelm you—Gojo’s soft whimpers blending with the way Nanami’s touch sends sparks shooting through your body.

When Nanami adds a second finger and presses firmly against your stomach to hold you in place, it’s almost too much. Your movements on Gojo falter slightly as your mind goes fuzzy with pleasure.

“Don’t stop now,” Nanami murmurs behind you, his voice low and commanding.

Whining softly at the loss of Nanami’s fingers as he pulls away suddenly, you glance back at him in protest. But all he does is smirk at your frustration.

Turning back to Gojo, whose flushed face is now framed by sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead, you grumble under your breath before gripping him again. This time there’s no teasing, your hand moves impossibly fast, drawing out broken cries from him as his body tenses beneath yours.

It doesn’t take long before Gojo lets out a strangled moan and spills over your hand again. His head falls back into the pillow as his eyes squeeze shut tightly in the throes of release. You watch him intently as he rides out his high, the way his chest rises and falls rapidly; the way his lips part slightly as he struggles to catch his breath.

“Good girl,” Nanami whispers from behind you, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear. “Your reward now.”

Before you can process his words fully, you feel him enter you in one smooth motion. A gasp tears from your throat at the sudden fullness as he sets a relentless pace almost immediately. His hands grip your hips firmly to keep you steady against him as he moves deeper with each thrust.

Nanami holds you firmly against him as your body trembles in the aftermath, his strong arms keeping you grounded while you catch your breath. His lips brush against your ear, murmuring softly, “You did so well, darling.” The praise sends a lingering shiver down your spine, even as your muscles feel like jelly against him.

Gojo, still sprawled out on the bed with his wrists bound by the belt, lets out a breathless laugh. “Well,” he says through ragged breaths, his voice tinged with amusement despite his exhaustion. “I guess I wasn’t the only one completely wrecked tonight.”

You glance over at him, his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair making him look uncharacteristically vulnerable. The smirk tugging at his lips is still cocky, but there’s a softness in his gaze now, a rare glimpse of sincerity beneath the teasing exterior.

Nanami shifts behind you, his hands sliding down to your thighs as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Don’t let him fool you,” he murmurs quietly enough for only you to hear. “He’s already planning his next move.”

Gojo catches the tail end of Nanami’s comment and grins lazily. “What can I say? I’m a man of ambition.”

You roll your eyes at him but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Slowly, you push yourself off Nanami’s lap and crawl back toward Gojo, who watches you intently as you approach. His wrists are still bound, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his gaze—the way his eyes follow every movement like he’s already imagining what comes next.

“You’re insatiable,” you tease softly as you lean over him.

“And you love it,” Gojo replies without missing a beat. His smirk widens slightly as he tilts his head up to capture your lips in a kiss. It’s slower this time—languid and unhurried—but no less consuming.

Nanami watches from behind you with an unreadable expression. You can feel his presence even without looking, his steady gaze burning into your skin like an anchor that keeps you grounded amidst Gojo’s chaos.

When Gojo pulls back from the kiss, he glances down at his restrained wrists and raises an eyebrow at you. “So… are we keeping these on all night?” he asks playfully.

You giggle softly before reaching over to undo the belt around his wrists. As soon as it falls away, Gojo stretches his arms above his head with a satisfied groan before pulling you down onto the bed beside him. His hands find your waist immediately, fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

Nanami moves closer then, settling beside you both with an air of quiet confidence that contrasts sharply with Gojo’s playful energy. His hand brushes against yours briefly, a subtle gesture that feels grounding amidst the lingering heat in the room.

For a moment, everything feels still, quiet except for the sound of heavy breathing and soft murmurs between kisses. The tension has eased now, replaced by something softer.

“I should go,” you say, voice barely above a whisper as you tug your clothes back into place, already feeling the distance growing between you.

Before either of them can protest, you lean in and press a kiss to Gojo’s lips, soft, lingering, just enough to say everything you can’t. Then to Nanami, whose hand is still resting on your thigh, unmoving, as if letting go might make this real.

They don’t argue. They know why you have to go back.

“I said an hour,” you murmur, slipping your shoes on with trembling fingers. “And it’s been more than that. I can’t just abandon my boyfriend.”

The word tastes bitter in your mouth. Not out of guilt, but because for the first time, you’re starting to understand what you want, and it isn’t where you’re going back to.

Still, you gather your things, smoothing your dress, brushing your hair back into place like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just come undone in the hands of two men who made you feel more desired in a single hour than your boyfriend had in months.

Gojo watches you with unreadable eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something, joke it off, maybe, or ask you to stay.

Nanami just watches you, jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath his button-down.

You open the door.

“I’ll see you around,” you offer softly, not sure if it’s a promise or a lie.

Then you step out, leaving behind the warmth, the tension, the ache. And walk back into the cold of the hallway. Just as you reach the elevator and press the button to go down, your name echoes down the hallway, low, steady, and unmistakably familiar.

You turn, startled, and find Nanami striding toward you. His shirt is now buttoned, his pants back in place, but there’s something different about him. The cool, composed confidence he carried in the hotel room is gone, replaced by something quieter, almost unsure.

“Did I forget something?” you ask, brows slightly raised.

“No,” he says, stopping a few feet in front of you. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the side. “God, this is awkward.”

You smile a little, trying to ease the tension. “What’s up?”

He exhales, then meets your gaze. “Can I get your number?” he asks, voice softer now. “Or... you give me yours.”

You blink, surprised.

“I know you have a boyfriend,” he continues, the words tumbling out quicker now. “But if it doesn’t work out, or, hell, even if it does and you just want to talk sometime, I’d like to hear from you.”

There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just honesty. A flicker of hope.

You hesitate, then reach into your bag and pull out your phone.

“Here,” you say, handing it to him. “Put yours in.”

Nanami’s shoulders ease as he takes it, quietly typing in his number. He hands it back without a word, but there’s something a little lighter in his expression now.

The elevator dings behind you, doors sliding open.

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod once, stepping inside.

“Goodnight, Nanami.”

“Goodnight,” he murmurs.

Two days later, just before you’re supposed to head out for dinner, your boyfriend tells you he’s not feeling well.

“I think I’m gonna stay in,” he mumbles from the hotel bed, one arm slung over his eyes, his phone clutched loosely in the other. “Headache, stomach’s off. You go, though. Enjoy it for the both of us.”

You hesitate in the doorway, one earring in, the other between your fingers. “Are you sure? I can cancel the reservation, grab takeout—”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in quickly. “Seriously. You were looking forward to this.”

Were you?

The truth is, you don’t even remember what restaurant he picked. The excitement that had fluttered in your stomach when you first arrived in this city with him is long gone, replaced by a heavy, restless guilt that sits just behind your ribs. A cold, quiet voice that’s been whispering you crossed a line every time you look at him.

So maybe you are a little relieved when he insists you go without him. Maybe you’re glad for the space.

Dinner is uneventful. The server is nice, the wine is fine, the food is probably decent—you can’t really tell. You scroll through your phone between courses. Check messages you’ve already seen. Re-read texts that don’t mean anything. You don’t post a picture of your meal to your story. That used to be your thing.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet. Your driver doesn’t say much. You stare out the window, the city passing in blurred smears of gold and red lights.

It’s only when you slide your key card into the lock and step inside the room that something shifts.

The lights are low. Not off, but dimmed, your boyfriend’s usual preference when he's watching something late at night. The curtains are drawn shut. The TV is playing, but muted.

You hear a sound before you see anything. Something faint. A pattern of breath, uneven and fast.

And then, from the corner of your eye, you spot movement. A silhouette in the bed. His back propped against the headboard, the blanket low on his hips, one hand moving under it.

You stop in your tracks.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, turning away instinctively. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pause.

“Didn’t think you’d be back yet,” he says casually, breathless, not even looking at you.

Your stomach twists. You glance back, just for a second.

His phone is still in his hand. Unlocked. Lit up.

It’s not porn.

It’s photos. Messages. Videos.

Not yours.

You stare for a beat too long, your brain slowly catching up with your eyes. His screen shows a string of open messages, a conversation so explicit you don’t even need to scroll to know exactly what it is.

“What the fuck,” you say, your voice quiet. Too quiet.

He finally meets your eyes then, and you expect guilt. Embarrassment. Something.

But there’s none.

“Does it matter?” he says flatly. Like the answer should be obvious. Like it’s your fault for being shocked.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The room feels too small. Too loud, even in its silence.

“How long?” you ask instead.

He shrugs, indifferent. “I don’t know. A while.”

The words don’t fully register, but the meaning does. Your mind flashes back to the months of phone calls, the “I miss you” texts, the effort you put into visiting him here, halfway across the country. Every part of you that twisted with guilt after that night, and now it turns to something else.

Anger. Clarity. Sadness, maybe. But mostly just done.

You grab your purse, your jacket, and your phone.

And you leave.

The door slams behind you, the echo sharp in the quiet hallway.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

Your legs carry you to the elevator before you’ve even made the conscious decision. You press the button, then press it again. Like that’ll make it come faster.

Your phone is still in your hand. It buzzes. A calendar reminder. You swipe it away.

Your fingers hover over your contacts. You scroll past his name. Then past a few others. Then stop.

There it is.

The one you shouldn’t be thinking about. The one who looked at you like you were wanted. Who touched you like he meant it.

Nanami.

You don’t let yourself hesitate.

[You]: Hey. Are you still in town?

You stare at the screen after you hit send, your heart thudding behind your ribs.

For the first time in days, it’s quiet and the guilt no longer eats at you.

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[junuru]

ex husband!satoru four

18 + mdni, hate sex, breeding, piv, oral, sukuna appearance

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ < prev | next >

Your second glass of wine goes down easier than the first, warmth spreading through your chest and softening the edges of the first-date nerves you haven’t felt in… God, you don’t even know how long. Long enough that you’d almost forgotten what it’s like to measure your words, to search for safe topics, to try and read someone new in the flicker of candlelight.

You swirl what’s left in the glass before setting it down. When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You look good,” Sukuna says, pausing only to spear another bite from his plate. “Really good.”

Your lips tug into a small smile. “So you’ve said.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at his temples with the heel of his hand, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m sorry—this is so awkward.”

You laugh, the sound easing something between you. “Awkward’s fine. Means we’re not pretending.”

He looks at you from under his lashes, a flash of something sharp but playful in his eyes. “Careful, you’ll make me think you like me.”

You lift your glass again, letting the wine touch your lips before murmuring, “Maybe I do.”

The silence stretches, the kind that’s not exactly uncomfortable but feels like it’s waiting for something to tip it over. As much as you try to sip your wine and let it pass, you can feel him watching you, turning something over in his head.

“So,” he says finally, voice casual but not careless. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but I wasn’t sure how.”

Your head lifts, curiosity piqued. “About what?”

“That guy you were with,” he begins, leaning forward just slightly. “At the aquarium. Who is he?”

You blink, taken off guard. “Oh.” The corner of your mouth twists as you set your glass down. “My ex. Ex-husband.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction, like he’s putting the pieces together.

“I thought you could tell,” you add, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Juni has the same eyes.”

His gaze lingers on you. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, his tone softer. “Guess I see it now.”

You hum in agreement, chewing slowly, buying yourself a second before you answer.

“So, he’s still in the picture,” Sukuna asks, eyes steady on you over the rim of his glass.

You nod. “For Juni, yeah.”

“And he’s over you?”

Another nod. “Yeah.”

Lie count: 1.

You stab another bite with your fork, trying to make it look casual. Typical first-date questions, you tell yourself. People want the basics—family, kids, messy history—just enough to sketch an outline without getting too close to the truth.

But the way he watches you now, chin propped on one hand, feels less like curiosity and more like… assessment. Like he’s keeping his own tally.

“Good,” he says at last, leaning back in his chair. “Makes things simpler.”

You raise a brow. “Simpler for who?”

His grin is slow, deliberate. “Guess we’ll see.”

You both settle into silence again, before he speaks.

“I wanted to show you something,” he says, setting his fork down, tone careful. “And I don’t want to overstep.”

“What’s up?” you ask, curious but wary.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb scrolling through the screen.

“It’s a TikTok,” he says.

You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Why the hell do you have TikTok?”

“Oh, I’m an influencer,” he replies without missing a beat, still scrolling. “I make bike videos.”

You roll your eyes, about to tease him, but then he finds what he’s looking for and turns the phone toward you.

On the screen is a still image—Satoru, Juni curled up against his shoulder, fast asleep, while he kisses the top of her head. The caption reads: Single father, working full-time, restarting.

You’re about to ask where the hell this came from when the image fades into the next slide.

And your jaw goes slack.

The caption changes: But there was a time.

And the photo… you know it instantly. You don’t even have to see the whole frame before the memory hits. It’s your wedding day—Satoru’s arm around you, your face tucked into his chest, both of you smiling in a way you haven’t in years. The same photo that once sat framed on your bedside table for most of your marriage, now tucked away in the back of a drawer you never open.

Something cold threads through your chest, tightening under your ribs.

You force yourself to exhale through your nose, willing your face into neutrality.

“Someone sent me this,” Sukuna says, watching you closely. “Didn’t think it was real at first.”

You take a sip of your wine, letting the stem of the glass steady your hands. “Guess it is,” you say lightly, eyes fixed on the table instead of the screen.

“You okay?” he asks, still studying you.

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly, adding a small shrug.

Lie count: 2.

“Just wasn’t expecting to see… that.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a pause. You reach for your plate, cut another bite, and change the subject before the weight in your chest can show on your face.

You’re outside the restaurant an hour later, the night air cooler now, streetlamps casting long shadows across the parking lot. You slip your arms out of Sukuna’s jacket, holding it out to him as you walk together toward where his motorcycle waits under a flickering light.

“I brought an extra helmet,” he says, crouching slightly to unbuckle a worn leather pouch on the side of the bike. “If you want to come over.”

You hesitate, the hum of passing traffic filling the silence between you. His eyes flick up from the latch, watching for your answer.

You shake your head, keeping your tone casual. “Juni’s at my mom’s,” you say. Truth. “I have to pick her up tonight.”

Lie count: 3.

He nods slowly, not calling you on it, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers—like he’s filing it away for later. “Fair enough,” he says, slipping the helmet back into the pouch and straightening up.

You hand his jacket back, but his fingers brush yours when he takes it, deliberate enough to make your pulse trip. “Another time, then?” he asks, voice low, almost testing.

You manage a small smile. “Maybe.”

And even as you turn to go, you can feel his eyes on you as if he’s wondering exactly what you’re hiding and how much longer you think you can keep it from him.

You find your way to the end of the block, heels clicking against the uneven pavement, the restaurant’s warm glow shrinking behind you. You stop beneath a streetlamp, fishing your phone from your bag and pulling up the rideshare app.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a moment before you type in an address—not home, not your mother’s. Somewhere else. Somewhere you haven’t been in months.

The app pings, finding you a driver just a few minutes away. You glance down the street. Sukuna’s motorcycle is still parked under that flickering light, and he’s still there—leaning against it, smoking, watching you like he knows exactly what you just did.

You look away quickly, locking your phone and shoving it back into your bag. The air feels heavier now, like the night knows you’re lying.

The car turns the corner, headlights flashing over you, and you step toward it without looking back. 

It takes twenty minutes, but you finally get there—long enough for the city to settle into a quiet hum, for your nerves to cycle from restless to calm and back again.

The high-rise lobby is sleek, marble floors reflecting the dim gold light from the chandeliers above. You give the front desk your name, forcing a polite smile as the receptionist hands you a visitor’s pass.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should, the steady ascent and faint buzz of the cables loud in the silence. Your reflection stares back at you in the mirrored walls—hair a little messy from the wind, Sukuna’s jacket still faintly smelling of his cologne.

When the doors slide open on the 34th floor, they don’t reveal a hallway. Instead, you’re stepping directly into a living room—spacious, modern, all glass and clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows throw the city skyline at you, glittering against the black night.

You step fully inside, the warmth of the apartment swallowing you whole, heels clicking against the marble until you toe them off by the door. The place smells faintly like coffee and something sweet—probably the same sugar cookies he’s been buying from that bakery downstairs since you left.

“Satoru!” you call out, tossing your purse onto the couch like muscle memory. “Satoru!”

There’s a pause, then his voice from somewhere deeper in the apartment. A moment later, he appears from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand, white hair falling into his eyes.

“Hey,” he starts, gaze sweeping you from head to toe like he’s checking for damage. “What are you doing h—”

“Give me your phone,” you cut in, stepping toward him with your hand out.

His brows lift, that half-lidded amusement already tugging at his mouth. “Well, hi to you too.”

“Don’t start,” you snap, fingers curling impatiently. “Just—phone. Now.”

He takes a slow sip from his glass, clearly stalling. “I don’t think you’re supposed to barge into someone’s apartment and start making demands.”

You take another step closer, your palm still open between you. “And I don’t think you’re supposed to post our wedding photo on TikTok.”

The air shifts. His smirk falters just enough for you to know you hit the mark.

His glass hits the counter with a dull thunk, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“So that’s what this is about,” he says, voice dropping low—not loud, but sharp.

“That’s exactly what this is about.” You step closer, the space between you tight, suffocating. “Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Seeing that photo—our photo—spinning around online with some sad little caption about the past?”

His jaw works, his hands bracing on the edge of the counter like he’s holding himself back. “You think I posted it to hurt you?”

“I think you posted it without thinking. Like always.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Right, because God forbid I remember the day I thought we had forever.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t flinch. “You don’t get to play the poor me card. You made your choices.”

“And you made yours,” he shoots back, stepping in until the heat of him is right there against your skin. “So what—now I’m not even allowed to miss you?”

“You’re not allowed to drag me back into your narrative when I’m trying to move on.”

He leans down, his voice almost a whisper, but the tension in it is coiled tight enough to snap. “Maybe you’re not as far moved on as you think.”

“The fuck?” you snap, shoving him just enough to put space between you. “So what—you get to have your little girlfriend, and I just have to sit back and—”

“I told you—” he cuts in, voice rising.

“—smile and play nice? Pretend it doesn’t bother me? Pretend it doesn’t—”

He groans, running a hand through his hair before pacing away from you, his boots heavy against the marble. “There is no girlfriend,” he says finally, turning back to face you.

You blink. “What?”

“I made it up,” he says, the words falling flat, almost bitter. “She doesn’t exist.”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out right away. You’re caught somewhere between relief, anger, and the slow burn of something you don’t want to name—because if there’s no girlfriend, then what the hell is he doing to you right now?

He exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s studying your reaction. “What, you disappointed?”

“Disappointed?” you bark out a laugh that has no humor in it. “You think I’m disappointed? No, Satoru, I’m pissed.”

He tilts his head, like he can’t quite believe you. “Pissed… because I don’t have someone else?”

“Pissed because you lied,” you snap, taking a step closer. “Because you make up some imaginary girlfriend just to—what? Push me away? Keep me in check? Make me jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “And did it work?”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re deflecting,” he counters, moving toward you until there’s barely a foot between you. “You’re mad because you still care. Because no matter what you say, you’d lose your damn mind if I actually did have someone else.”

You clench your fists, trying not to let him see how right he might be. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And you,” he says, leaning down just enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your ear, “are still in love with me, whether you admit it or not.”

You push him back hard this time, the sharp sound of your palms against his chest echoing in the open apartment. “Go to hell.”

He grins.

Your breathing is already uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly, and you hate that he notices. His gaze dips down your body, lingering in a way that makes heat crawl up your neck.

“Still lying to yourself,” he murmurs, his voice low and infuriatingly calm.

You take a step back, but his hand catches your wrist before you can get far, warm fingers wrapping around you. “Let go,” you warn, though your voice doesn’t sound as sharp as you want it to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you a fraction closer, your hip brushing his. “You came all the way here to fight with me,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Could’ve just called. Unless…” His thumb traces over the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Unless you wanted something else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His mouth tips into a half-smile. “I don’t have to. You’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”

The space between you is barely there now. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he’s wearing—familiar and unfair.

“You think I don’t notice?” he asks, voice dropping even lower. “The way you look at me when you’re trying to be mad? The way you can’t stand still when I’m this close?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s already won.

And then, just to make it worse, he leans in—close enough that his nose brushes your cheek, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “If you wanted me to stop… you would’ve walked out by now.”

Your breath catches, and for a second you swear your knees might give.

“Maybe I was about to,” you whisper, but your voice betrays you—too soft, too shaky.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your skin. “No, you weren’t.”

You can feel his hand sliding up your arm now, over your shoulder, until his palm cups the side of your neck. His thumb brushes just under your jaw, coaxing your head back enough that you’re forced to meet his eyes.

They’re steady. Intense. And absolutely unreadable.

“Tell me to stop,” he says again, slower this time. His fingers tighten just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you hyperaware of how close you are to losing whatever line you came here to draw.

You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands betray you, curling into the fabric of his shirt. He dips his head the rest of the way, his lips hovering above yours, so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing his mouth against yours in the faintest tease of a kiss, “but you’ve always liked those.”

When he finally closes the distance, it’s not gentle—his mouth is hot, urgent, claiming yours like it’s been waiting for this all along. You make a muffled sound into the kiss, your fingers fisting tighter in his shirt, and he groans against you like the sound alone could undo him.

You barely notice when your back hits the wall—only that his hands are already on your hips, guiding you toward the kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times in his head.

The kiss is messy now, desperate. You stumble a little, your shoulder bumping against the doorway, but he doesn’t let you go. One of his hands snakes up your spine, pulling you closer until you can feel the hard press of his body against yours.

You break away just long enough to gasp for air, your lips tingling. “Satoru—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters against your mouth, already walking you backward. The cool marble counter meets the backs of your thighs, and he brackets you in with his arms on either side, caging you in.

His mouth finds yours again, but it doesn’t stay there long—he trails down your jaw, over the sensitive spot just under your ear, making your breath hitch. The scent of him crowds your senses until the only thing you can focus on is his mouth and the way his hands are gripping you like he’s not ready to let go.

“Beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth, the words hot and sharp all at once. “So beautiful… for another man, baby.”

It knocks the breath out of you—not just the words, but the way he says them, low and possessive, like he’s tasting the bitterness on his tongue. His thumb drags along your jaw, tilting your face up so you can’t look anywhere but at him.

You don’t answer right away, and he smirks like he’s already won something. His free hand slides up under your dress as he hikes it up, fingers splaying against your stomach before skimming higher, his touch deliberate, taunting.

“You think about him when you’re with me?” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing yours now. “Or do you think about me when you’re with him?”

The question hangs heavy in the charged air between you, daring you to answer while his body presses you harder into the counter.

His smirk deepens when you don’t answer.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand trails down from your waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He gives them a slow, deliberate tug, the fabric sliding down your thighs in a lazy path that feels far too intimate for how casual he’s making it look.

“Let’s even the playing field,” he says under his breath, balling the lace in his fist before tossing it aside onto the counter. “No hiding now.”

You can feel the cool air rush between your legs, the marble counter at your back, his body still caging you in. His thumb brushes the inside of your thigh, slow circles that make your pulse jump, his eyes fixed on you like he’s reading every twitch and breath.

“Now,” he murmurs, leaning in so close you can feel his breath against your ear, “tell me again who you belong to.”

You shake your head, your bare foot pressing against his hip, nudging him back just enough to put an inch of air between you. Leaning back on your hands, you steady your breath.

“We shouldn’t,” you say softly, the words tasting like a lie the moment they leave your mouth.

He takes a single step back. “Then go.”

It isn’t sharp. It isn’t a challenge.

It’s an open door—a way out. An offer to walk away now and keep the last year and a half of distance intact. Keep the divorce clean. Keep your lives separate.

But the way he’s looking at you… it’s the same way he used to look at you before you’d even said yes to a date. Like he already knew what your answer would be.

You don’t move.

His jaw tics. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, closing the distance again, slower this time, deliberate. His hands find the counter on either side of you, trapping you in without touching you, giving you one last moment to decide.

And still, you don’t move.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make your pulse stumble. “Say you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, because you can’t.

He hums, sinking to his knees like he’s done it a thousand times before, big hands prying your thighs apart until the counter digs into your hips.

“Scoot forward, baby,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel.

The backs of your thighs peel from the cool countertop as you inch closer, breath catching when his palms slide over your skin.

His lips find your knee first, warm and unhurried, leaving a wet kiss against the cap.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, almost reverent.

Then the other knee gets the same treatment, but his eyes—God, his eyes—stay fixed on the place between your legs. Your slick catching in the low kitchen light.

Another kiss, just above your knee.

“Missed this pussy so bad,” he breathes against your skin, each word punctuated by another slow press of his mouth as he works his way higher, higher, until his breath is fanning over you, hot and wanting.

You can feel his restraint in the way he pauses there, so close you can taste the tension, but not yet giving you what you know you both want.

His mouth hovers just shy of you, and you swear you can feel the smirk forming against your skin before you even see it.

“Mm,” he hums, nose brushing along your inner thigh.

“You feel that? How you’re already soaking for me?” His tone turns sharp, mocking. “Guess your body remembers me just fine… even if your mouth swears you’ve moved on.”

He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss right beside where you need him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Missed how sweet you taste… how you shake when I touch you just right.”

His fingers trace the crease of your thigh lazily, deliberately avoiding your center.

“Missed the way you’d beg, baby. You used to be so good for me. Still are, huh?”

Your breath hitches, and he chuckles, the sound dripping with self-satisfaction.

“Yeah,” he says, dragging the flat of his tongue up your slit, slow enough to make you shiver. “Still mine, even when you pretend otherwise.”

Your hand tangles in his hair, yanking just enough to make him look up at you.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you snap, the edge in your voice cutting through your shaky breath. “You don’t get to claim me anymore.”

That smirk of his only deepens, and you watch his pupils darken as if your defiance flips some switch in him. His grip on your thighs tightens, thumbs digging into your skin.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. Then, louder—“Fine, baby. You want it?”

Before you can answer, he’s pulling you forward, burying his face between your legs like a man starved. His tongue slides through your folds in a single, unhurried stroke that makes your back arch, and then he’s sucking at your clit with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your lips.

“Mm, there she is,” he groans against you, eating you like he’s got something to prove. “So fucking sweet. Gonna make you forget every word you just said.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair as your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can bite it down.

“Toru—” you warn, but it comes out too breathless to sound like a real protest.

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs twitch. “Knew it,” he says between licks, his voice low and smug. “Your body still remembers me… every. damn. inch.”

Your hips jerk when his tongue slides deeper, curling against you like he’s mapping out every nerve ending. One of his hands leaves your thigh to press flat against your stomach, holding you steady while he works you over.

“You can hate me all you want,” he murmurs, lips glistening when he pulls back for just a second. “But this—” his fingers spread you open for him again, “—this still belongs to me.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your toes curling against the counter.

He grins like you just gave him permission. “Make me.” And then he’s sucking you again, harder this time, his tongue flicking over your clit in quick, relentless strokes that have you teetering right on the edge.

Your hands are fisted so tight in his hair you’re half afraid you might hurt him, but he doesn’t seem to care—if anything, he groans into you like he wants you to pull harder.

“Satoru—” you gasp, hips starting to roll against his mouth without you even realizing. The pressure in your belly coils tighter, his tongue dragging in steady, maddening circles, lips sealed around your clit like he’s determined to drink down every sound you make.

Your thighs start to shake. “Don’t—stop—” you breathe out, the words breaking apart.

He growls low in his chest, sucking harder, and that’s all it takes—white heat crashes through you, your vision blurring as your body locks up. The pleasure rips through you so sharply you cry out, clamping your thighs around his head.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even slow down. He licks you through it, shameless, until you’re twitching and whimpering, until you finally sag back against the counter, chest heaving.

When he does look up, his face is wet with you, lips shiny, eyes half-lidded like he’s drunk on it. He swipes his tongue over his mouth slowly, deliberately, before smirking.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I missed this.”

You hop down from the counter, feet hitting the cool marble, and his gaze follows the trail you’ve left—slick smears glinting faintly under the kitchen lights.

Your fingers find the zipper at your side, dragging it down until your dress loosens and slips from your shoulders. It pools at your feet, and you step out of it without a second thought, standing in nothing but your bra.

His jaw flexes, eyes raking over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Bedroom,” you say, voice low but leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

For a second, he doesn’t move—just stares, chest rising and falling like he’s weighing whether to listen. Then his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow, and he reaches out to take your wrist.

“Lead the way, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You turn toward the hall, and he follows close behind, his hand still around your wrist, the heat of his body at your back. You don’t even make it three steps before you feel him crowding you against the wall.

You barely make it through the doorway before he grabs you by the hips and tosses you onto the bed—not rough, but with enough force to make you gasp.

You sit up, legs bracketing his hips as he follows you down, still half-sitting on the edge of the mattress. The heat between your thighs is unbearable, your cunt pressed right against the hard line straining his slacks.

A wet patch is already blooming against the dark fabric, your slick soaking through as you roll your hips, slow at first—just enough to watch his head tip back, his hands tightening on your waist.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “You’re making a mess already.”

“That’s the point,” you breathe, leaning forward to work at his belt. The clink of the buckle echoes in the quiet room, your fingers slipping the leather free with practiced ease.

He watches you like he’s starving, hands sliding from your waist up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

“Better hurry,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling. “Before I lose my patience and rip the damn thing off myself.”

You finally get the belt undone, your fingers making quick work of the button and zipper before you start tugging his slacks down his hips. The bulge pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs makes your mouth water, and you shift down his body, settling between his knees.

You lean forward, fingers hooking into the waistband, but his hand shoots out, gripping your chin and tilting your face up toward him.

“Mm-mm,” he hums, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Not tonight.”

You frown slightly, lips parting against his touch. “Why not?”

His eyes darken, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse kick. “Because,” he says slowly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You try to protest, leaning forward again, but he catches you by the jaw, pushing you back onto your knees on the bed.

“No distractions,” he murmurs, sliding forward until his chest presses to yours. “You’ve had me on edge since you walked through that door, baby. I’m not wasting another damn second.”

Your hands are faster than his grip this time, tugging his slacks and briefs down in one motion. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy, and you bite your lip at the sight of him—already thick, already leaking for you.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it, only heat. His hands land on your hips as you crawl back over him, straddling his waist.

You drag your soaked cunt along his length, slow and deliberate, catching the head against your clit with every pass. His breath stutters, fingers digging into you like he might leave bruises.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his head tipping back. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You hum in mock innocence, doing it again—this time lingering at the tip, letting him feel just how wet you are. Then you reach down, take him in hand, and guide him to your entrance.

The stretch makes you sigh, your head falling forward against his shoulder as you sink down inch by inch.

“Yeah,” he groans, hips twitching up into you. “That’s it. Take me.”

And when you finally bottom out, you start to move—slow at first, just rolling your hips, letting him feel every squeeze before picking up the pace. His hands are everywhere now—your ass, your waist, your back—dragging you closer like he still can’t believe you’re here.

Your palms flatten against his chest as you ride him, your pace quickening with each bounce. His eyes are locked on you, half-lidded but burning, watching the way you take him like he’s been starving for it.

“God, you feel the same,” he says, voice rough.

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your hips hard just to hear the sharp inhale it pulls from him. 

He grins and meets you halfway, thrusting up into you so deep your breath catches. “Yeah, that’s muscle memory, baby. This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

“Don’t,” you warn, but it comes out shaky, your nails dragging down his chest.

He just laughs low in his throat, gripping your hips and using them to pull you down harder onto him, making you gasp. “What? Don’t remind you? Or don’t make you admit it?”

Your head falls back as the friction builds, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “Shut up, Satoru.”

“Can’t,” he smirks, voice a rasp. “Not when you’re fuckin’ yourself stupid on me like this.”

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him so he can kiss you—stealing the air from your lungs as his hips pound into you from below.

His thrusts slow for half a second, just enough for him to growl against your ear, “God, Mrs. Gojo, you take me so fucking good.”

The words shoot straight through you, but your brain catches up faster than your body. “We’re divorced,” you pant, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

He doesn’t even flinch—just grins, dark and certain. “That paper means nothing. You’ll always be mine. Always my wife. The only woman I’ll ever love.”

Before you can answer, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the mattress as he climbs over you. His weight pins you down, his chest warm and solid against your back.

“I love you,” he murmurs, thrusting deep enough to make you gasp. Another push, harder this time. “I love you.” Again. “I love you.”

It becomes a rhythm, each declaration paired with the press of his hips into yours, his voice rougher every time. You can feel the emotion in it—not just lust but something heavier, something that makes your chest ache.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’ve always been yours. I’ll always be yours.”

And as much as you want to deny it, as much as you know you should, a part of you melts into the way he says it.

His pace gets rougher, more urgent, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow.

“I’m gonna finish,” he groans, voice breaking against your ear. “Can I—fuck—can I do it inside?”

Your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching back against him. “Don’t stop,” you gasp. “I’m close. You can.”

He lets out a low, filthy laugh, the kind that rumbles against your spine. “Yeah? Gonna let me put another baby in you, Mrs. Gojo?” It’s half a tease, half a desperate plea, and it makes your stomach flip.

You should tell him to shut up. You should pull away. But instead, you feel yourself clench around him, your voice shaking as you whisper, “Yes. Please.”

That single word seems to undo him. His thrusts turn ragged, his breathing uneven as his lips brush your ear again. “God, you’re perfect,” he says, hips snapping forward. “Mine. Always mine.”

The heat between you builds and crashes all at once—you’re falling apart under him, your moan spilling into the pillow as his weight bears down, filling you in every sense of the word.

When he finally stills behind you, both of you breathless and sticky with sweat, he presses one last kiss to your shoulder before pulling out slowly. You feel the loss immediately, but then his warm hands are on your hips, coaxing you to roll over.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, already heading toward the bathroom. The faint sound of running water and the shuffle of towels follows, and then he’s back—gentle as he cleans you up, murmuring soft, half-embarrassed praises under his breath like he can’t help himself.

He disappears for a second again, this time returning with one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. “Arms up,” he says, sliding the shirt over your head before helping you into the shorts. It smells like him—fresh detergent and that expensive cologne he never really changed over the years.

You watch in silence as he wipes off your makeup with slow, careful swipes, like he’s afraid to hurt you. “You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a quiet, “I want to.”

When he’s done, he strips down and changes into sweats before sliding into bed beside you. His arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct, like no time has passed at all.

And lying there, warm and safe, your head tucked under his chin, it feels exactly like when you were married—every little detail, from the weight of his arm around you to the steady beat of his heart under your ear. Like the divorce was nothing but a bad dream.

He strokes your back lazily, his fingertips tracing idle patterns against the fabric of his shirt that now hangs loose on you.

“You still talk in your sleep?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell of the moment.

You smile faintly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “I would. I used to wake up just to listen to you mumble nonsense.”

“Sounds creepy,” you tease, your voice already heavy with sleep.

“Yeah,” he says softly, kissing the top of your head. “Guess I’m a creep then.”

You don’t answer right away, just snuggle closer, your hand finding the spot over his heart. “You’re warm,” you murmur.

“You’re tired,” he counters, tucking the blanket around you.

There’s a comfortable silence after that, the kind where you both know the other is still awake but neither of you needs to say anything. His thumb rubs slow circles against your hip until your breathing evens out, and the last thing you hear before sleep takes you is his low voice whispering, “Goodnight, my love.”

Steam curls around you, clinging to your skin as the water beats down, rinsing away the sweat and the sins of the night before. You’re lost in the hum of it—until you hear the soft creak of the bathroom door.

Instinct kicks in; you turn your back to him, curling in on yourself.

“I’ve seen you naked a hundred times,” Satoru murmurs, voice low and scratchy with sleep as he leans against the counter. The faint sound of a toothbrush wrapper crinkles before the bristles scrape against his teeth.

You keep your gaze fixed on the tiled wall. “Doesn’t mean you get to now.”

There’s a pause, the faint clink of his toothbrush against the sink. “Want me to join you?”

“I’m leaving,” you say, reaching for the water tap.

“Where?”

“I have to get Juni.”

“Then we’ll go together.” His voice is too casual, like he’s trying to slide into your morning without asking.

You finally turn toward him, water dripping from your lashes. “Last night was a mistake.”

Lie count: 4.

The words land like a blow—you see it in the way his face changes, his jaw tightening, his eyes dimming just a shade.

“A mistake,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing out the weight of it. “That’s what you call it?”

“I’m not doing this right now,” you mutter, stepping out of the shower and reaching for your towel.

“So what—” he pushes, voice sharper now, “—you get to decide what it meant for both of us?”

“Don’t twist this,” you snap, turning away from him as you wrap the towel tight around your body. “I’m late. We’ll talk later.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stands there watching you pull on your clothes with quick, purposeful movements. You sling your bag over your shoulder, avoid his eyes as you open the bathroom door.

And maybe it’s the echo in the tiles, maybe it’s your imagination—but as you step into the hall, you swear you hear the shaky, muffled sound of him sobbing.

[junuru]

babe ur getting backshots for the ex husband gojo update

can u use the gojo themed strap🥹🥹🥹

[junuru]

hi daddy

hi baby ngh~

[junuru]

ex-husband satoru tags

find part 4 here

@nanamisss @backinmyphase @caffine-exe @heh123321 @thewonderlandgardener @satorupied @rxeae @artbymin @erzys @vicravluv @ethereal-moonlit @salmonroebonitoflakes @evamame @crispycatt @b-is-obsessed @ghostsoapwhore @fuffyfun123 @whytfisgojosohot @dreamypirate @thirtykiwis @anime20183 @dreamypirate @d1viyne @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @kat-su-ki @thegriffinbird @kanaojacksonofc @aymilen @beabamboo @lily-bisque @yozora7154 @toesucker59 @lailamatepeque @fuffyfun123 @thisuserisnotfunctioningproperly @jjluvspink @iii6lf @ehcilhc @dollyschii @v1x3n @bistrocatxx @xonyoka

[junuru]

ex husband!satoru four

18 + mdni, hate sex, breeding, piv, oral, sukuna appearance

୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆ < prev | next >

Your second glass of wine goes down easier than the first, warmth spreading through your chest and softening the edges of the first-date nerves you haven’t felt in… God, you don’t even know how long. Long enough that you’d almost forgotten what it’s like to measure your words, to search for safe topics, to try and read someone new in the flicker of candlelight.

You swirl what’s left in the glass before setting it down. When you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

“You look good,” Sukuna says, pausing only to spear another bite from his plate. “Really good.”

Your lips tug into a small smile. “So you’ve said.”

He exhales through his nose, rubbing at his temples with the heel of his hand, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I’m sorry—this is so awkward.”

You laugh, the sound easing something between you. “Awkward’s fine. Means we’re not pretending.”

He looks at you from under his lashes, a flash of something sharp but playful in his eyes. “Careful, you’ll make me think you like me.”

You lift your glass again, letting the wine touch your lips before murmuring, “Maybe I do.”

The silence stretches, the kind that’s not exactly uncomfortable but feels like it’s waiting for something to tip it over. As much as you try to sip your wine and let it pass, you can feel him watching you, turning something over in his head.

“So,” he says finally, voice casual but not careless. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but I wasn’t sure how.”

Your head lifts, curiosity piqued. “About what?”

“That guy you were with,” he begins, leaning forward just slightly. “At the aquarium. Who is he?”

You blink, taken off guard. “Oh.” The corner of your mouth twists as you set your glass down. “My ex. Ex-husband.”

His eyes narrow just a fraction, like he’s putting the pieces together.

“I thought you could tell,” you add, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Juni has the same eyes.”

His gaze lingers on you. “Yeah,” he says after a beat, his tone softer. “Guess I see it now.”

You hum in agreement, chewing slowly, buying yourself a second before you answer.

“So, he’s still in the picture,” Sukuna asks, eyes steady on you over the rim of his glass.

You nod. “For Juni, yeah.”

“And he’s over you?”

Another nod. “Yeah.”

Lie count: 1.

You stab another bite with your fork, trying to make it look casual. Typical first-date questions, you tell yourself. People want the basics—family, kids, messy history—just enough to sketch an outline without getting too close to the truth.

But the way he watches you now, chin propped on one hand, feels less like curiosity and more like… assessment. Like he’s keeping his own tally.

“Good,” he says at last, leaning back in his chair. “Makes things simpler.”

You raise a brow. “Simpler for who?”

His grin is slow, deliberate. “Guess we’ll see.”

You both settle into silence again, before he speaks.

“I wanted to show you something,” he says, setting his fork down, tone careful. “And I don’t want to overstep.”

“What’s up?” you ask, curious but wary.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb scrolling through the screen.

“It’s a TikTok,” he says.

You can’t help the laugh that slips out. “Why the hell do you have TikTok?”

“Oh, I’m an influencer,” he replies without missing a beat, still scrolling. “I make bike videos.”

You roll your eyes, about to tease him, but then he finds what he’s looking for and turns the phone toward you.

On the screen is a still image—Satoru, Juni curled up against his shoulder, fast asleep, while he kisses the top of her head. The caption reads: Single father, working full-time, restarting.

You’re about to ask where the hell this came from when the image fades into the next slide.

And your jaw goes slack.

The caption changes: But there was a time.

And the photo… you know it instantly. You don’t even have to see the whole frame before the memory hits. It’s your wedding day—Satoru’s arm around you, your face tucked into his chest, both of you smiling in a way you haven’t in years. The same photo that once sat framed on your bedside table for most of your marriage, now tucked away in the back of a drawer you never open.

Something cold threads through your chest, tightening under your ribs.

You force yourself to exhale through your nose, willing your face into neutrality.

“Someone sent me this,” Sukuna says, watching you closely. “Didn’t think it was real at first.”

You take a sip of your wine, letting the stem of the glass steady your hands. “Guess it is,” you say lightly, eyes fixed on the table instead of the screen.

“You okay?” he asks, still studying you.

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly, adding a small shrug.

Lie count: 2.

“Just wasn’t expecting to see… that.”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a pause. You reach for your plate, cut another bite, and change the subject before the weight in your chest can show on your face.

You’re outside the restaurant an hour later, the night air cooler now, streetlamps casting long shadows across the parking lot. You slip your arms out of Sukuna’s jacket, holding it out to him as you walk together toward where his motorcycle waits under a flickering light.

“I brought an extra helmet,” he says, crouching slightly to unbuckle a worn leather pouch on the side of the bike. “If you want to come over.”

You hesitate, the hum of passing traffic filling the silence between you. His eyes flick up from the latch, watching for your answer.

You shake your head, keeping your tone casual. “Juni’s at my mom’s,” you say. Truth. “I have to pick her up tonight.”

Lie count: 3.

He nods slowly, not calling you on it, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers—like he’s filing it away for later. “Fair enough,” he says, slipping the helmet back into the pouch and straightening up.

You hand his jacket back, but his fingers brush yours when he takes it, deliberate enough to make your pulse trip. “Another time, then?” he asks, voice low, almost testing.

You manage a small smile. “Maybe.”

And even as you turn to go, you can feel his eyes on you as if he’s wondering exactly what you’re hiding and how much longer you think you can keep it from him.

You find your way to the end of the block, heels clicking against the uneven pavement, the restaurant’s warm glow shrinking behind you. You stop beneath a streetlamp, fishing your phone from your bag and pulling up the rideshare app.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a moment before you type in an address—not home, not your mother’s. Somewhere else. Somewhere you haven’t been in months.

The app pings, finding you a driver just a few minutes away. You glance down the street. Sukuna’s motorcycle is still parked under that flickering light, and he’s still there—leaning against it, smoking, watching you like he knows exactly what you just did.

You look away quickly, locking your phone and shoving it back into your bag. The air feels heavier now, like the night knows you’re lying.

The car turns the corner, headlights flashing over you, and you step toward it without looking back. 

It takes twenty minutes, but you finally get there—long enough for the city to settle into a quiet hum, for your nerves to cycle from restless to calm and back again.

The high-rise lobby is sleek, marble floors reflecting the dim gold light from the chandeliers above. You give the front desk your name, forcing a polite smile as the receptionist hands you a visitor’s pass.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should, the steady ascent and faint buzz of the cables loud in the silence. Your reflection stares back at you in the mirrored walls—hair a little messy from the wind, Sukuna’s jacket still faintly smelling of his cologne.

When the doors slide open on the 34th floor, they don’t reveal a hallway. Instead, you’re stepping directly into a living room—spacious, modern, all glass and clean lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows throw the city skyline at you, glittering against the black night.

You step fully inside, the warmth of the apartment swallowing you whole, heels clicking against the marble until you toe them off by the door. The place smells faintly like coffee and something sweet—probably the same sugar cookies he’s been buying from that bakery downstairs since you left.

“Satoru!” you call out, tossing your purse onto the couch like muscle memory. “Satoru!”

There’s a pause, then his voice from somewhere deeper in the apartment. A moment later, he appears from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand, white hair falling into his eyes.

“Hey,” he starts, gaze sweeping you from head to toe like he’s checking for damage. “What are you doing h—”

“Give me your phone,” you cut in, stepping toward him with your hand out.

His brows lift, that half-lidded amusement already tugging at his mouth. “Well, hi to you too.”

“Don’t start,” you snap, fingers curling impatiently. “Just—phone. Now.”

He takes a slow sip from his glass, clearly stalling. “I don’t think you’re supposed to barge into someone’s apartment and start making demands.”

You take another step closer, your palm still open between you. “And I don’t think you’re supposed to post our wedding photo on TikTok.”

The air shifts. His smirk falters just enough for you to know you hit the mark.

His glass hits the counter with a dull thunk, water sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“So that’s what this is about,” he says, voice dropping low—not loud, but sharp.

“That’s exactly what this is about.” You step closer, the space between you tight, suffocating. “Do you have any idea how that made me feel? Seeing that photo—our photo—spinning around online with some sad little caption about the past?”

His jaw works, his hands bracing on the edge of the counter like he’s holding himself back. “You think I posted it to hurt you?”

“I think you posted it without thinking. Like always.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Right, because God forbid I remember the day I thought we had forever.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t flinch. “You don’t get to play the poor me card. You made your choices.”

“And you made yours,” he shoots back, stepping in until the heat of him is right there against your skin. “So what—now I’m not even allowed to miss you?”

“You’re not allowed to drag me back into your narrative when I’m trying to move on.”

He leans down, his voice almost a whisper, but the tension in it is coiled tight enough to snap. “Maybe you’re not as far moved on as you think.”

“The fuck?” you snap, shoving him just enough to put space between you. “So what—you get to have your little girlfriend, and I just have to sit back and—”

“I told you—” he cuts in, voice rising.

“—smile and play nice? Pretend it doesn’t bother me? Pretend it doesn’t—”

He groans, running a hand through his hair before pacing away from you, his boots heavy against the marble. “There is no girlfriend,” he says finally, turning back to face you.

You blink. “What?”

“I made it up,” he says, the words falling flat, almost bitter. “She doesn’t exist.”

Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out right away. You’re caught somewhere between relief, anger, and the slow burn of something you don’t want to name—because if there’s no girlfriend, then what the hell is he doing to you right now?

He exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s studying your reaction. “What, you disappointed?”

“Disappointed?” you bark out a laugh that has no humor in it. “You think I’m disappointed? No, Satoru, I’m pissed.”

He tilts his head, like he can’t quite believe you. “Pissed… because I don’t have someone else?”

“Pissed because you lied,” you snap, taking a step closer. “Because you make up some imaginary girlfriend just to—what? Push me away? Keep me in check? Make me jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “And did it work?”

Your jaw tightens. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re deflecting,” he counters, moving toward you until there’s barely a foot between you. “You’re mad because you still care. Because no matter what you say, you’d lose your damn mind if I actually did have someone else.”

You clench your fists, trying not to let him see how right he might be. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And you,” he says, leaning down just enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your ear, “are still in love with me, whether you admit it or not.”

You push him back hard this time, the sharp sound of your palms against his chest echoing in the open apartment. “Go to hell.”

He grins.

Your breathing is already uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly, and you hate that he notices. His gaze dips down your body, lingering in a way that makes heat crawl up your neck.

“Still lying to yourself,” he murmurs, his voice low and infuriatingly calm.

You take a step back, but his hand catches your wrist before you can get far, warm fingers wrapping around you. “Let go,” you warn, though your voice doesn’t sound as sharp as you want it to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you a fraction closer, your hip brushing his. “You came all the way here to fight with me,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “Could’ve just called. Unless…” His thumb traces over the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate. “Unless you wanted something else.”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His mouth tips into a half-smile. “I don’t have to. You’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”

The space between you is barely there now. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the faint trace of whatever cologne he’s wearing—familiar and unfair.

“You think I don’t notice?” he asks, voice dropping even lower. “The way you look at me when you’re trying to be mad? The way you can’t stand still when I’m this close?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s already won.

And then, just to make it worse, he leans in—close enough that his nose brushes your cheek, his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “If you wanted me to stop… you would’ve walked out by now.”

Your breath catches, and for a second you swear your knees might give.

“Maybe I was about to,” you whisper, but your voice betrays you—too soft, too shaky.

He chuckles under his breath, the sound vibrating against your skin. “No, you weren’t.”

You can feel his hand sliding up your arm now, over your shoulder, until his palm cups the side of your neck. His thumb brushes just under your jaw, coaxing your head back enough that you’re forced to meet his eyes.

They’re steady. Intense. And absolutely unreadable.

“Tell me to stop,” he says again, slower this time. His fingers tighten just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you hyperaware of how close you are to losing whatever line you came here to draw.

You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands betray you, curling into the fabric of his shirt. He dips his head the rest of the way, his lips hovering above yours, so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing his mouth against yours in the faintest tease of a kiss, “but you’ve always liked those.”

When he finally closes the distance, it’s not gentle—his mouth is hot, urgent, claiming yours like it’s been waiting for this all along. You make a muffled sound into the kiss, your fingers fisting tighter in his shirt, and he groans against you like the sound alone could undo him.

You barely notice when your back hits the wall—only that his hands are already on your hips, guiding you toward the kitchen like he’s done this a hundred times in his head.

The kiss is messy now, desperate. You stumble a little, your shoulder bumping against the doorway, but he doesn’t let you go. One of his hands snakes up your spine, pulling you closer until you can feel the hard press of his body against yours.

You break away just long enough to gasp for air, your lips tingling. “Satoru—”

“Don’t start,” he mutters against your mouth, already walking you backward. The cool marble counter meets the backs of your thighs, and he brackets you in with his arms on either side, caging you in.

His mouth finds yours again, but it doesn’t stay there long—he trails down your jaw, over the sensitive spot just under your ear, making your breath hitch. The scent of him crowds your senses until the only thing you can focus on is his mouth and the way his hands are gripping you like he’s not ready to let go.

“Beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth, the words hot and sharp all at once. “So beautiful… for another man, baby.”

It knocks the breath out of you—not just the words, but the way he says them, low and possessive, like he’s tasting the bitterness on his tongue. His thumb drags along your jaw, tilting your face up so you can’t look anywhere but at him.

You don’t answer right away, and he smirks like he’s already won something. His free hand slides up under your dress as he hikes it up, fingers splaying against your stomach before skimming higher, his touch deliberate, taunting.

“You think about him when you’re with me?” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing yours now. “Or do you think about me when you’re with him?”

The question hangs heavy in the charged air between you, daring you to answer while his body presses you harder into the counter.

His smirk deepens when you don’t answer.

Without breaking eye contact, his hand trails down from your waist, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. He gives them a slow, deliberate tug, the fabric sliding down your thighs in a lazy path that feels far too intimate for how casual he’s making it look.

“Let’s even the playing field,” he says under his breath, balling the lace in his fist before tossing it aside onto the counter. “No hiding now.”

You can feel the cool air rush between your legs, the marble counter at your back, his body still caging you in. His thumb brushes the inside of your thigh, slow circles that make your pulse jump, his eyes fixed on you like he’s reading every twitch and breath.

“Now,” he murmurs, leaning in so close you can feel his breath against your ear, “tell me again who you belong to.”

You shake your head, your bare foot pressing against his hip, nudging him back just enough to put an inch of air between you. Leaning back on your hands, you steady your breath.

“We shouldn’t,” you say softly, the words tasting like a lie the moment they leave your mouth.

He takes a single step back. “Then go.”

It isn’t sharp. It isn’t a challenge.

It’s an open door—a way out. An offer to walk away now and keep the last year and a half of distance intact. Keep the divorce clean. Keep your lives separate.

But the way he’s looking at you… it’s the same way he used to look at you before you’d even said yes to a date. Like he already knew what your answer would be.

You don’t move.

His jaw tics. “That’s what I thought,” he mutters, closing the distance again, slower this time, deliberate. His hands find the counter on either side of you, trapping you in without touching you, giving you one last moment to decide.

And still, you don’t move.

“Say it,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to make your pulse stumble. “Say you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, because you can’t.

He hums, sinking to his knees like he’s done it a thousand times before, big hands prying your thighs apart until the counter digs into your hips.

“Scoot forward, baby,” he murmurs, voice like honey and gravel.

The backs of your thighs peel from the cool countertop as you inch closer, breath catching when his palms slide over your skin.

His lips find your knee first, warm and unhurried, leaving a wet kiss against the cap.

“Missed you,” he says quietly, almost reverent.

Then the other knee gets the same treatment, but his eyes—God, his eyes—stay fixed on the place between your legs. Your slick catching in the low kitchen light.

Another kiss, just above your knee.

“Missed this pussy so bad,” he breathes against your skin, each word punctuated by another slow press of his mouth as he works his way higher, higher, until his breath is fanning over you, hot and wanting.

You can feel his restraint in the way he pauses there, so close you can taste the tension, but not yet giving you what you know you both want.

His mouth hovers just shy of you, and you swear you can feel the smirk forming against your skin before you even see it.

“Mm,” he hums, nose brushing along your inner thigh.

“You feel that? How you’re already soaking for me?” His tone turns sharp, mocking. “Guess your body remembers me just fine… even if your mouth swears you’ve moved on.”

He presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss right beside where you need him, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“Missed how sweet you taste… how you shake when I touch you just right.”

His fingers trace the crease of your thigh lazily, deliberately avoiding your center.

“Missed the way you’d beg, baby. You used to be so good for me. Still are, huh?”

Your breath hitches, and he chuckles, the sound dripping with self-satisfaction.

“Yeah,” he says, dragging the flat of his tongue up your slit, slow enough to make you shiver. “Still mine, even when you pretend otherwise.”

Your hand tangles in his hair, yanking just enough to make him look up at you.

“Don’t say shit like that,” you snap, the edge in your voice cutting through your shaky breath. “You don’t get to claim me anymore.”

That smirk of his only deepens, and you watch his pupils darken as if your defiance flips some switch in him. His grip on your thighs tightens, thumbs digging into your skin.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. Then, louder—“Fine, baby. You want it?”

Before you can answer, he’s pulling you forward, burying his face between your legs like a man starved. His tongue slides through your folds in a single, unhurried stroke that makes your back arch, and then he’s sucking at your clit with just enough pressure to draw a gasp from your lips.

“Mm, there she is,” he groans against you, eating you like he’s got something to prove. “So fucking sweet. Gonna make you forget every word you just said.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair as your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips before you can bite it down.

“Toru—” you warn, but it comes out too breathless to sound like a real protest.

He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs twitch. “Knew it,” he says between licks, his voice low and smug. “Your body still remembers me… every. damn. inch.”

Your hips jerk when his tongue slides deeper, curling against you like he’s mapping out every nerve ending. One of his hands leaves your thigh to press flat against your stomach, holding you steady while he works you over.

“You can hate me all you want,” he murmurs, lips glistening when he pulls back for just a second. “But this—” his fingers spread you open for him again, “—this still belongs to me.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your toes curling against the counter.

He grins like you just gave him permission. “Make me.” And then he’s sucking you again, harder this time, his tongue flicking over your clit in quick, relentless strokes that have you teetering right on the edge.

Your hands are fisted so tight in his hair you’re half afraid you might hurt him, but he doesn’t seem to care—if anything, he groans into you like he wants you to pull harder.

“Satoru—” you gasp, hips starting to roll against his mouth without you even realizing. The pressure in your belly coils tighter, his tongue dragging in steady, maddening circles, lips sealed around your clit like he’s determined to drink down every sound you make.

Your thighs start to shake. “Don’t—stop—” you breathe out, the words breaking apart.

He growls low in his chest, sucking harder, and that’s all it takes—white heat crashes through you, your vision blurring as your body locks up. The pleasure rips through you so sharply you cry out, clamping your thighs around his head.

He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even slow down. He licks you through it, shameless, until you’re twitching and whimpering, until you finally sag back against the counter, chest heaving.

When he does look up, his face is wet with you, lips shiny, eyes half-lidded like he’s drunk on it. He swipes his tongue over his mouth slowly, deliberately, before smirking.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I missed this.”

You hop down from the counter, feet hitting the cool marble, and his gaze follows the trail you’ve left—slick smears glinting faintly under the kitchen lights.

Your fingers find the zipper at your side, dragging it down until your dress loosens and slips from your shoulders. It pools at your feet, and you step out of it without a second thought, standing in nothing but your bra.

His jaw flexes, eyes raking over you like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Bedroom,” you say, voice low but leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

For a second, he doesn’t move—just stares, chest rising and falling like he’s weighing whether to listen. Then his tongue swipes over his bottom lip, slow, and he reaches out to take your wrist.

“Lead the way, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough in that way that makes your stomach flip.

You turn toward the hall, and he follows close behind, his hand still around your wrist, the heat of his body at your back. You don’t even make it three steps before you feel him crowding you against the wall.

You barely make it through the doorway before he grabs you by the hips and tosses you onto the bed—not rough, but with enough force to make you gasp.

You sit up, legs bracketing his hips as he follows you down, still half-sitting on the edge of the mattress. The heat between your thighs is unbearable, your cunt pressed right against the hard line straining his slacks.

A wet patch is already blooming against the dark fabric, your slick soaking through as you roll your hips, slow at first—just enough to watch his head tip back, his hands tightening on your waist.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “You’re making a mess already.”

“That’s the point,” you breathe, leaning forward to work at his belt. The clink of the buckle echoes in the quiet room, your fingers slipping the leather free with practiced ease.

He watches you like he’s starving, hands sliding from your waist up to your ribs, his thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

“Better hurry,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling. “Before I lose my patience and rip the damn thing off myself.”

You finally get the belt undone, your fingers making quick work of the button and zipper before you start tugging his slacks down his hips. The bulge pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs makes your mouth water, and you shift down his body, settling between his knees.

You lean forward, fingers hooking into the waistband, but his hand shoots out, gripping your chin and tilting your face up toward him.

“Mm-mm,” he hums, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Not tonight.”

You frown slightly, lips parting against his touch. “Why not?”

His eyes darken, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse kick. “Because,” he says slowly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You try to protest, leaning forward again, but he catches you by the jaw, pushing you back onto your knees on the bed.

“No distractions,” he murmurs, sliding forward until his chest presses to yours. “You’ve had me on edge since you walked through that door, baby. I’m not wasting another damn second.”

Your hands are faster than his grip this time, tugging his slacks and briefs down in one motion. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy, and you bite your lip at the sight of him—already thick, already leaking for you.

“You’re impossible,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it, only heat. His hands land on your hips as you crawl back over him, straddling his waist.

You drag your soaked cunt along his length, slow and deliberate, catching the head against your clit with every pass. His breath stutters, fingers digging into you like he might leave bruises.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his head tipping back. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You hum in mock innocence, doing it again—this time lingering at the tip, letting him feel just how wet you are. Then you reach down, take him in hand, and guide him to your entrance.

The stretch makes you sigh, your head falling forward against his shoulder as you sink down inch by inch.

“Yeah,” he groans, hips twitching up into you. “That’s it. Take me.”

And when you finally bottom out, you start to move—slow at first, just rolling your hips, letting him feel every squeeze before picking up the pace. His hands are everywhere now—your ass, your waist, your back—dragging you closer like he still can’t believe you’re here.

Your palms flatten against his chest as you ride him, your pace quickening with each bounce. His eyes are locked on you, half-lidded but burning, watching the way you take him like he’s been starving for it.

“God, you feel the same,” he says, voice rough.

You let out a breathy laugh, rolling your hips hard just to hear the sharp inhale it pulls from him. 

He grins and meets you halfway, thrusting up into you so deep your breath catches. “Yeah, that’s muscle memory, baby. This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

“Don’t,” you warn, but it comes out shaky, your nails dragging down his chest.

He just laughs low in his throat, gripping your hips and using them to pull you down harder onto him, making you gasp. “What? Don’t remind you? Or don’t make you admit it?”

Your head falls back as the friction builds, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “Shut up, Satoru.”

“Can’t,” he smirks, voice a rasp. “Not when you’re fuckin’ yourself stupid on me like this.”

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him so he can kiss you—stealing the air from your lungs as his hips pound into you from below.

His thrusts slow for half a second, just enough for him to growl against your ear, “God, Mrs. Gojo, you take me so fucking good.”

The words shoot straight through you, but your brain catches up faster than your body. “We’re divorced,” you pant, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

He doesn’t even flinch—just grins, dark and certain. “That paper means nothing. You’ll always be mine. Always my wife. The only woman I’ll ever love.”

Before you can answer, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach, your cheek pressing into the mattress as he climbs over you. His weight pins you down, his chest warm and solid against your back.

“I love you,” he murmurs, thrusting deep enough to make you gasp. Another push, harder this time. “I love you.” Again. “I love you.”

It becomes a rhythm, each declaration paired with the press of his hips into yours, his voice rougher every time. You can feel the emotion in it—not just lust but something heavier, something that makes your chest ache.

“I’m yours,” he says. “I’ve always been yours. I’ll always be yours.”

And as much as you want to deny it, as much as you know you should, a part of you melts into the way he says it.

His pace gets rougher, more urgent, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’re sure you’ll feel the bruises tomorrow.

“I’m gonna finish,” he groans, voice breaking against your ear. “Can I—fuck—can I do it inside?”

Your nails dig into the sheets, your body arching back against him. “Don’t stop,” you gasp. “I’m close. You can.”

He lets out a low, filthy laugh, the kind that rumbles against your spine. “Yeah? Gonna let me put another baby in you, Mrs. Gojo?” It’s half a tease, half a desperate plea, and it makes your stomach flip.

You should tell him to shut up. You should pull away. But instead, you feel yourself clench around him, your voice shaking as you whisper, “Yes. Please.”

That single word seems to undo him. His thrusts turn ragged, his breathing uneven as his lips brush your ear again. “God, you’re perfect,” he says, hips snapping forward. “Mine. Always mine.”

The heat between you builds and crashes all at once—you’re falling apart under him, your moan spilling into the pillow as his weight bears down, filling you in every sense of the word.

When he finally stills behind you, both of you breathless and sticky with sweat, he presses one last kiss to your shoulder before pulling out slowly. You feel the loss immediately, but then his warm hands are on your hips, coaxing you to roll over.

“Stay there,” he murmurs, already heading toward the bathroom. The faint sound of running water and the shuffle of towels follows, and then he’s back—gentle as he cleans you up, murmuring soft, half-embarrassed praises under his breath like he can’t help himself.

He disappears for a second again, this time returning with one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. “Arms up,” he says, sliding the shirt over your head before helping you into the shorts. It smells like him—fresh detergent and that expensive cologne he never really changed over the years.

You watch in silence as he wipes off your makeup with slow, careful swipes, like he’s afraid to hurt you. “You don’t have to—” you start, but he cuts you off with a quiet, “I want to.”

When he’s done, he strips down and changes into sweats before sliding into bed beside you. His arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you into his chest like it’s instinct, like no time has passed at all.

And lying there, warm and safe, your head tucked under his chin, it feels exactly like when you were married—every little detail, from the weight of his arm around you to the steady beat of his heart under your ear. Like the divorce was nothing but a bad dream.

He strokes your back lazily, his fingertips tracing idle patterns against the fabric of his shirt that now hangs loose on you.

“You still talk in your sleep?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell of the moment.

You smile faintly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your cheek. “I would. I used to wake up just to listen to you mumble nonsense.”

“Sounds creepy,” you tease, your voice already heavy with sleep.

“Yeah,” he says softly, kissing the top of your head. “Guess I’m a creep then.”

You don’t answer right away, just snuggle closer, your hand finding the spot over his heart. “You’re warm,” you murmur.

“You’re tired,” he counters, tucking the blanket around you.

There’s a comfortable silence after that, the kind where you both know the other is still awake but neither of you needs to say anything. His thumb rubs slow circles against your hip until your breathing evens out, and the last thing you hear before sleep takes you is his low voice whispering, “Goodnight, my love.”

Steam curls around you, clinging to your skin as the water beats down, rinsing away the sweat and the sins of the night before. You’re lost in the hum of it—until you hear the soft creak of the bathroom door.

Instinct kicks in; you turn your back to him, curling in on yourself.

“I’ve seen you naked a hundred times,” Satoru murmurs, voice low and scratchy with sleep as he leans against the counter. The faint sound of a toothbrush wrapper crinkles before the bristles scrape against his teeth.

You keep your gaze fixed on the tiled wall. “Doesn’t mean you get to now.”

There’s a pause, the faint clink of his toothbrush against the sink. “Want me to join you?”

“I’m leaving,” you say, reaching for the water tap.

“Where?”

“I have to get Juni.”

“Then we’ll go together.” His voice is too casual, like he’s trying to slide into your morning without asking.

You finally turn toward him, water dripping from your lashes. “Last night was a mistake.”

Lie count: 4.

The words land like a blow—you see it in the way his face changes, his jaw tightening, his eyes dimming just a shade.

“A mistake,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing out the weight of it. “That’s what you call it?”

“I’m not doing this right now,” you mutter, stepping out of the shower and reaching for your towel.

“So what—” he pushes, voice sharper now, “—you get to decide what it meant for both of us?”

“Don’t twist this,” you snap, turning away from him as you wrap the towel tight around your body. “I’m late. We’ll talk later.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stands there watching you pull on your clothes with quick, purposeful movements. You sling your bag over your shoulder, avoid his eyes as you open the bathroom door.

And maybe it’s the echo in the tiles, maybe it’s your imagination—but as you step into the hall, you swear you hear the shaky, muffled sound of him sobbing.

[junuru]

vote for nanago and ill lick ur clit

similar to my stsg x reader texts

[junuru]

hai miss you

i miss u more my sweet girl💗

[junuru]

the kids you babysit have an older brother. he wants you, and youve given him the perfect opportunity - gojo x fem!reader

cw/tags: dubcon, piv, mdni

Mrs Gojo was a lovely woman, and she paid well.

Far above asking rate for your average babysitter. And, she was as lovely as she was lively.

So, extremely generous pay, adorable children, and lounging about in the massive estate.

What other benefits were you forgetting?

"Sa-satoru," you gasp, trying to squirm away. "Sl-slow down."

Right. Mrs Gojo's eldest son, who lived across town — studying engineering or whatever — but was now coming back home more frequently. Mrs Gojo was thrilled, but maybe she wouldn't be if she knew it was because he was addicted to the sweet, new babysitter.

Sly glances over breakfast, him across from you, sipping his juice while looking like was already imagining the taste of you instead. Pool days, where when he caught you alone — the conservative swimsuit you'd slipped on, chlorine-soaked skirt clinging to your thighs — he'd brush by, fingers ghosting along your hip like a secret. Lingering in the space between 'too much', and 'not enough', letting your naive mind do the dirty work for him, smiling when your breath hitched.

And how could you forget the evenings, when you'd tucked the kids in and the house had gone still, you'd find him leaning against the doorway, arms folded, a lazy smirk curling his mouth like he'd been waiting hours just to corner you. The kind of look that made your pulse trip, made you forget which rooms in this sprawling mansion had locks — and which ones didn't.

But weeks, and weeks of this tension had to go somewhere.

So, was it wrong for Satoru to access your calendar, slot in an extra shift for you, on the day he knew that his family were going to be out?

It's not wrong for him to message you from Mrs Gojo's phone, is it? Letting you know that 'she' knew that this wasn't your job, but 'she'd' pay extra if you helped with a few household chores.

And it wasn't bad that he snuck into his own house like a criminal, slipping through vast hallways until stumbling upon your figure — bent over, rooting under the bed for something. Scared you, so you'd startle, knock over the very expensive lamp.

He almost laughed when you reacted how he thought you would — begging on your hands and knees before him, tears collecting on your lash line like glittering jewels — to keep your job, that you'd do just about anything.

Anything?

"Bad girls don't get to decide how hard they're fucked," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice — dragging your humiliated sobs out like he was made for this, and only this. "You want to keep this job, don't you?" he asks, lazily — oh, and of course you do.

The answer's written in the way your pussy clenches and clamps around his throbbing cock, like you don't want to let him go.

The words feel like molten lava in your throat, a clump of fresh, hot shame. "Of…of course."

"Of course. Of course you do." Mocking, mean. Your eyes fly open at the hard thrust, back arching, as his fingers dig into your hips in a way you know will leave bruises later, even through your thick skirt. Gossamer strands of hair plaster to his forehead, beads of sweat by his temple like a sinful crown. The sight makes your walls flutter around him, and he throws his head back with a groan, like you were going to kill him with sheer lust.

Suddenly, he wraps his arms around your limp body, pulling you upright until your chest is flush with his — he doesn't stop rutting into you for a second, like it'd kill him to part from your heated core. You cling to him as he stands, the only thing you can do.

"W-why—" Your question is cut off with a harsh rock of his hips. You can feel the curve of his lips as he plants kisses up your neck, up your jaw — stopping just shy by the corner of your mouth. "'Cause up here, you just have to take it."

"Are you gonna take it?"

You nod, forehead pressing to his sweat-slick one. Breathing in his groans and gasps, letting out your own whines and noises. Your sensitive clit — swollen, aching — presses against his heated skin, giving you the friction you oh-so needed.

"That's my good girl." And the whimper you let out doesn't escape him. His fingers hook under the band of your skirt, stretching it wide — and something thick, something cold, presses into your side as the elastic snaps back.

Your neck strains as you try to get a look, and then you see it — a familiar gleaming wad of green. Catching your stare, Satoru hooks your chin, turning you back to face him with a pout — like he couldn't believe your attention wasn't solely on him, like his cock wasn't a good enough distraction.

That's okay, he'll fuck you until the memory of his cock is what keeps you up at night. Until your stomach flips when he's in the same room, cunt aching for him to just take you.

"Satoru."

"Figured you deserved a—" he thrusts into you, kissing your cervix with his leaking tip, "—raise."

Looks like your job just got a little more…demanding.

[junuru]

heyyyyyy ivyyyyyy

block button looking so good rn

[junuru]

Asmrtist!Gojo who’s kinda a loser. That’s it. That’s all this is.

A/N: thank you to @junuru for this audio uhh idk what else to say

Asmrtist!Gojo who acts too cool for school. Strolls through the halls like he owns your whole uni, cocky grin written all over his smug-like-an-asshole-who-knows-he’s-an-asshole face. You hate him. Hate his (admittedly not so bad) voice, his annoying quips. Hate that he clings, hate that he teases when you tell him to go away, hate that he seems to be friends and fuck around with everybody.

Asmrtist!Gojo who likes to tease. Calls you his good girl when you glare at him and halfheartedly answer a question, brushes his hand down your side to “steady” you when you walk down the stairs, murmurs a quiet you’re doing so good beneath his breath. Fucking asshole.

Asmrtist!Gojo who, when he’s in his apartment all by himself in the comfort of his own room, pulls out a mic and his dick. Shuts his eyes and thinks of the way your brows knit when he said some stupid shit in calc, thumbing the tip of his length, all flush a pretty blushy pink as he imagines you glaring up at him with his cock stuffed in your mouth, imagines you bouncing on him as you whisper that he’s just a nasty fucking asshole right against the shell of his ear.

Asmrtist!Gojo who lets out the filthiest little whimper when he imagines you hovering above him, telling him to beg before you sink down on his length. Imagines how wet you’d be, just for him, calling him an idiot as you flutter around him and take him all in. Fuck, you’d be gorgeous. You are gorgeous.

Asmrtist!Gojo who has to hold back from whining your name when he reaches his high.

Asmrtist!Gojo who posts the raw audio still panting, typing out the tags and title with one hand because the other has his cum pooling in his palm. Almost accidentally writes your name in his post-nut delirium. Clicks post and slumps back in his chair for a moment before getting up and heading to take a shower.

Asmrtist!Gojo who acts really fucking weird the next day. His eyes trail the scowl of your lips as you tell him to stop clinging onto you, and he almost lets out a choked whine when your hand connects with his chest briefly to push him away.

Asmrtist!Gojo who sits in the back of the lecture hall pretending to scroll on his phone, but really he’s got one earbud in, listening to last night’s recording just to hear the tremble in his own voice when he’d said please. The smug grin is gone, for once – replaced with this faraway, glassy-eyed look every time you shift in your seat or run the back of your pen across your notes. He’s half-hard before your professor even finishes the opening slide.

Asmrtist!Gojo who bumps into you (totally by accident) in the hallway after class, shoulder pressing into yours. He mutters a low careful now, baby, into your ear. With that same infuriatingly lazy drawl. But you catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s swallowing down something else entirely. You think it’s arrogance. He knows it’s because if he opens his mouth any longer, he might beg for something you’d never give to a loser like him.

Asmrtist!Gojo who keeps up the cocky act because he’s terrified of what you’d think if you ever found out he spends hours in his dimly lit bedroom, talking into a mic more expensive than his bed about how good you make him feel, voice pitched just a little higher and just a little softer and just a lot more desperate. He’s got a folder labeled ambient noises that’s really just clips of you saying his name in exasperation from one of your recorded group projects.

Asmrtist!Gojo who stumbles mid sentence during a recording because he can hear faint movement through the paper-thin wall. You, laughing as you say goodbye to one of your friends. And suddenly his script is useless. He’s fisting himself, groaning under his breath, chasing the echoes of your voice like he can pull it through the wall and wrap it around him.

Asmrtist!Gojo who will never know that every time he posts an audio, you’re in the next apartment over, earbuds in, listening to it with your back against that same wall.

[junuru]

GIRL IF YOU DON'T CHANGE IT BSCK 💔 BREAKING EVERYONES HEART WE STAND FOR GOONFORGETO 🗣️🙏🏻👅 BREAKING MY HEART 💔🥹 I LOVE YOU THOUGH

its sooo so similar to one of mu irl accoutns i fear i cannot...

[junuru]

Is your jjk college commons thing still going on or???

I started something, but got kinda bored and forgot about it, but I feel like writing it again now.

yes yes it is!! i have ONE spot open lol so dm me!

[junuru]

wait girlie, you’ve had this tumblr account since 2007???

NOOO lol thats my birthday heh

[junuru]

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD. Once you’re given this award, you’re supposed to paste it in the ask of eight people who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing happens but it’s sweet to know so. I think you’re beautiful inside and out, never forget to love yourself! ❤️

ANYWAYS WHYD YOU CHANGE YOUR NAME 💔 NICE THEME THOUGH 🩷👅

LOL MY IRLS FOUND ME...

ILY THOUGH THANKU

[junuru]

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD. Once you’re given this award, you’re supposed to paste it in the ask of eight people who deserve it. If you break the chain, nothing happens but it’s sweet to know so. I think you’re beautiful inside and out, never forget to love yourself! ❤️ (ivyyyy you're so amazing! ilyyy!)

ciggy baby ILYYYYY u are so amazing <3