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djotummy · 8 days ago

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holy motherfucking shit

i absolutely adore this. i adore flustered and pouty bucky, and you wrote him so so well. your writing is impeccable! i’m in awe. in awe, and quite frankly speechless. this is a dream, i have no words.

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut.

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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deviouz · 7 months ago

Text

the nanami bit at the end had me like

Animals - G.S.

Synopsis. Yes, your best friend is secretly an alpha. Yes, he acts like a fúcking anímal when he rúts. No, you don’t think you’ll make it out alíve.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! oméga! reader, alpha! Gojo, rúts, best-friends-to-lóvers, creampíes, bréeding, GOJO’S POWERS, knots, MARATHON SÉX, overstím, knots, MATÍNG BÍTES, cúmplay, OMÉGAVERSE AU, pússy-spánking, héats tríggered, semi-public, matíng press, oraI (fem), slight bondagé, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 7.0k (uh-oh)

A/N. Nanami always gets the short end of the stick LMAO, anyway hope y’all have the loveliest week <3

“Satoru, you’re being strange.”

Granted, Gojo Satoru acting weird wasn’t anything new.

Especially not when he’s two hours deep into the most droning meeting you’d bribed him into attending as of late - knee bouncing, fingers tapping, head turned towards that firmly shut door like he just wanted to escape. Needed to.

Then again, even you found your attention waning. Finding whispering with your best friend much more interesting than whatever latest mission statistic Yaga had to present.

“M’doing just peachy, sweetheart.” Gojo smiles - but it looks stilted, pained. And even through his blindfold, you already knew his snowy brows were furrowed. “Who’s the one not listening to ol’ man Yaga now?”

You scoff, narrowing your eyes down at his figure beside you - draped over the cool mahogany table as if he owned the place. “Well- you better not be faking sick to get out of this meeting. Again.”

He only hums, “Don’t worry your pretty lil’ h-head about it, m’kay?”

With a final, tired rub at your temples, you’re turning back to Nanami to ask for all the world where Yaga was on his fifty-page report now-

And then, it hits you.

Suddenly.

Something smells sweet.

Like candy - particularly that sugary, strawberry-flavored kind you’ve had to tell Gojo off on more than one occasion for eating too many of. Tilting your head just a bit, you think you could also catch hints of honey and pine, such a strange, hypnotic combination.

“S-Satoru…” your words come out in a syrupy gush, feeling your head whirl.

“Hm?”

And despite yourself, you’re taking in deep, heavy inhales of the air surrounding you. Hungry. Mouth salivating as that heady, perfumed whiff clouds up all your senses. “Do you- hah- what is- do you smell-”

“Ngh- no?” he’s cutting you off with a barely-audible groan, one you probably wouldn’t have even caught if your abilities weren’t so sharpened right now. Gojo’s movements seem sluggish, languid as if he was moving through molasses when he raises up one hand to massage the back of his neck.

You can only watch as his head droops down onto the long table with a wince.

Strange. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have almost thought-

No, there was no time to be entertaining wild conspiracies. Because at this very moment you’re too caught up flitting through the dates of all your previous heats in your mind. Urgently.

Three weeks.

Your next heat wasn’t due for another three weeks. So, sure, you didn’t take your suppressants just yet but, that really didn’t matter, did it?

It wasn’t normal for jujutsu sorcerers to be anything other than a beta - and as an omega, you knew firsthand just how difficult it was to fight tooth and nail just to be able to sit at this table.

Historically, any other faction of society would rather be caught dead than outed, and have their second gender be taken advantage of by the very curses you were supposed to exorcize. Forced to face the stigma of alphas and omegas being too “unstable” or “vulnerable” to be trusted with missions.

This was the very thing you’d been trying to avoid ever since you argued your way into studying at Jujutsu Tech - losing control.

Especially now.

But god, you were burning up. It smelled so sexy.

And, taking a sweeping glance around the table of betas - at your fellow sorcerers, those grim elders, and your disheveled best friend - that left only you to explain the scent.

You were only thankful that their noses weren’t as powerful as yours. Clinging onto this as a saving grace, with a shaky gulp, you gently nudge Nanami on his side. “Hey- Ken?”

“Yes?” And maybe it was the heat - whatever this was - but Nanami’s deep baritone sends shivers down your spine, and you find yourself leaning in traitorously closer to his heated body. His jaw ticks, “Is something wrong? You look…”

“Satoru’s also-”

“So what?”

Without warning, one of his hands comes to splay out across your forehead. Just a mere touch has him sucking in a sharp gasp, “You feel warm, I think you have a fever. You can’t continue the meeting like this.”

You shake your bleary head in protest.

“I won’t let you.” Nanami’s voice hardens with a tone of finality, and yet, you still find yourself trying to whirl around to look at Gojo. Maybe for help, maybe for a distraction to escape when your colleague speaks again - this time directed at Yaga. “Principal Yaga, it seems my dear friend here is sick.” Circling an arm around your shoulders to pull you up from your seat and onto weak legs. “If you’ll please excuse us, I will escort-”

Nanami stills - everything stills.

Everyone stills when his voice tapers off with a ragged grunt, and you feel his chest heave in unsteady breaths. So close now that you can mark the exact moment Nanami’s eyes widen, “Are you…”

Shit.

Shit shit shit-

“Wait.” Yaga’s voice bellows reproachfully. “Is this- That smell-” But even he can’t find the words, slumping back down into his seat.

Truly, the scent was so saturated now, so primal that even the most stubborn of unmated betas were sneaking peeks at you. You bite your lips raw at another glossy gush from your already-heated cunt. It was so embarrassing - your heats have never acted like this before, let alone come three weeks early.

Sure, perhaps that one time on your very first day at Jujutsu Tech itself - which was embarrassing by itself. And, yet, your mind had never been clearer than it was right now.

Eyes sliding over to a familiar, trembling mop of white hair - never been needier.

Fuck, what was your delirious self thinking-

As if drawn by an invisible string, Nanami’s inching impossibly into your hot proximity, hazel eyes falling half-lidded when he takes in a deep whiff. Grumbling, “My love-” Another. And another. Nose almost grazing your pulse now, “-you’re in-”

Slam!

“Out.”

It’s a threat.

That was the first thought that slammed into you, and then the voice continues, slow, snarling like a predator on the edge of ripping something to shreds. “I won’t repeat myself.”

Before you finally understand, it’s a command.

There’s one strong hand around your front, pinning you against a sculpted chest. Something about it has your pulse booming in your ears, fingers clawing at that pale wrist at your shoulder. Yet, he doesn’t even flinch.

Nanami, however, reluctantly detaches his hands from your body, and you finally have enough strength to look towards the origin of the words. Only for your glassy gaze to meet with a towering Gojo Satoru standing at his full height - when did he even get up?

Jaw clench, sharp canines bared, blindfold dangling haphazardly around his neck - ah, he looked like a man that crawled from hell and back simply to take you all along with him.

With you at lucky number one.

First in his line of sight. Close enough that you can finally smell him.

Oh.

And you swear you saw his eyes tint with the faintest blue lightning when your own scent perks up. Boring into you for just a millisecond before narrowing his gaze down at a stupefied Nanami, cracking the kinks in his neck. “Unless ya wanna watch.” He bares the rest of the room with his flooring glare, “Unless all of you want to watch.”

It’s chaos.

They understood - perhaps long before even you did.

Chairs clatter, the desk trembles, and that safe haven of the door is swung open. That weezing council of elders are first to stumble over one another into the hallway, Yaga following shortly with a wordless sigh.

Until the only ones left are you and him - and Nanami.

Blond brows raising, his eyes flit frantically between you and a possessive Gojo. Sputtering out, each word jagged, and dry as if they’re being wrenched from his chest. “What is the meaning of this- We- I thought you were a- a beta.”

Everyone did, and Nanami was speaking what your mind couldn’t right now.

Gojo Satoru always presented himself as a beta - never affected by your heats, never disappearing once every few months for his ruts as you remember Suguru did. He always seemed so normal - perhaps the one thing about him that was. Unaffected by the stupid little trials and tribulations of alphas and omegas in sorcery.

But it was undeniable, he was an alpha.

And taking a deep inhale of his saccharine sweet perfume - so overpowering - he might just be the strongest you’ve ever encountered. How fitting.

“You thought.” Gojo’s voice was clipped, rumbling with a low growl that sent electrifying shivers down to your very cunt. And his tone just makes Nanami jolt. “And I can’t right now so I- fuck-”

Gojo’s body wracks with a violent shudder, making him hunch over - with you in tow. His hot breath puffs out in feverish pants near your ear, abs clenching as another velvety wave of pheromones emit from him.

You mewl when your body is jostled in his toned arms, nudging the very curve of your ass - tight uniform skirt hiking up just enough - so that you push in a slow drag against something rock-hard. Massive. Weeping out in a sticky damp spot that seeps into your skin.

“Hah-” you’re gasping, face swirling to nose up the crook of his neck - where the candied scent was most prominent. “Toru–”

There’s a gasp - and it’s not from you this time.

Both you and Gojo are snapping your dazed heads upwards at a frozen Nanami, his hand shooting to cover his nose. Eyes wild- “I-”

Before thinking better of it, it seems like Nanami opted to keep some part of his sanity as he abruptly turns on his heels without a second glance backwards. Marching robotically, the only moment he stops is once he’s at the doorway. One hand tugging on his suddenly too-tight pants, the other on the doorknob. Eyes still trained forwards when he calls out gruffly, “Don’t break the table, insurance doesn’t cover it.”

SLAM!

Finally alone.

Your vision swims - is the door even locked? Is this- God, you feel hot. So hot - too hot.

And Gojo’s burning up, arms wrapping around you so tight that you could feel the way his skin flushed with a thin sheen of sweat. He breathes out into your ear, “My pretty girl…”

“Oh sh-shit–” you’re whimpering, big fat tears welling up behind your eyes. And without wasting a second, as soon as it splatters hotly on your best friend’s skin, he licks a long, lazy stripe to lap at the hazy saltiness. Babbling away, “Feel so dizzy hngh- and you- you’re an alpha?”

Honestly, part of you still didn’t want to believe it.

But as soon as he husks out a gravelly moan, as soon as his tongue dips down a wet pathway to the scent gland on your neck - you already know you won’t be making it out of this alive. “Why did you hide it from me?”

“Mhm- fuck! m’sorry.” he grunts into your skin, slightly muffled. Nipping ever-so-slightly, “M’sorry m’sorry- had to- my sudden rut made my- hah, made my pretty omega go into heat, didn’t it?”

His soft palms glide down your trembly body, greedily kneading every dip and curve that comes his way. He’s lost. So, so lost.

Plastering his lips down every inch of skin he could reach, that sweet scent sticking to you like a sloppy second skin. And you can barely even think when you feel his swollen dick just twitch behind you, a fresh wave of swelteringly hot precum sloshing right through your silken skirt.

You whimper when you’re rutting messily back and forth, and he drags a thick thumb to pry your spit-glossed lips open. “Aww, poor baby. Tell me- fuck tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

And all you can really give him right now is a circular swivel of your hips, which evidently wasn’t enough.

Because Gojo’s furious tip only hardens, and he hisses with a slight tug up your skirt. Cold fingers dancing ravenously up the edge of your drenched panties, gliding the very rounded tip of his index slowly across your sopping slit.

“Tha’s not enough.” he snickers, and suddenly you’re hit with another wave of emanating pheromones. Enough to make you just slobber a glistening coating all down his long digits. “Use your ah- w-words like a big girl now. Because when I start…” His teeth find your earlobe, and his fingers find themselves planting a dripping wet slap! across your puffed-up clit. Unwavering. Unapologetic. “I won’t be able to stop.”

“Please, Toru.” That cute little nickname makes him jump, makes him throw his head back with a low moan. Brows scrunching together as if pained. “Don’t want you to stop-”

Maybe you were going to say more - maybe you would’ve called him that nickname and driven him even crazier.

But Gojo doesn’t wait to find out.

In one, fluid motion he’s picking up your body into the easiest princess carry you two would’ve laughed at if this was one of those romcoms you watched together. Just splaying you out on your back across the cool table, he situates himself in the perfect position between your legs.

Oh, how he loved this view. How he’s spent so many ruts just like this imagining this view.

“F-fuck- You have no idea how- how crazy it drove me.” rasping groans drag out from his throat, strained with every slow drag of his cock down the front of your now-see-through panties. “How wild-” You’re nearly screaming when his canines dig in to that soft spot underneath your ear. “-to pretend I didn’t know you smelled so hah- so fucking delicious.”

And then you feel him still - alert, ready.

Chest heaving, an almost chilling tone dipping into his words when he spits, “Except when you smell like him.”

Your jaw falls slack when the temperature in the room heats up another few heady degrees, and the sheer power of your two scents mixing together is almost maddening.

“He- he? Toru, what do you-” you’re gasping out in tiny huffs, while he busies himself with biting and licking down your exposed neck. Enough to leave you smeared all over with marks. “Who- Kento?”

“Oh, sayin’ another man’s name when you’re with- fuck- me?” Gojo’s bucking powerfully into you, his body was pinning you down. Scorching, now. “Such a naughty omega- I should kill him for how he touched you.”

Truly, his alpha was fucking clawing at him to trek out of this room right now and finish off the job - but, no, you were too hypnotic. And Gojo Satoru, the strongest, was no match for you.

The wet thwack of his fingers once more kisses in a rude smack against your clit, making you squeal. Ringing across your thundering ears, he swears at that broken, blissful noise from you. “Fuckin’ oh, would ya let him see you like this, too? Let him touch you like th-this?”

And Gojo looked so starved, velvety blindfold tickling your chin when he leans in close. Lips ghosting your own - but not quite. You’re suddenly brought back to the very first thought you had - that this is about to be a bloodbath.

“I wouldn’t–” you bite back in your honeyed tone, and you can feel your omega just purr in satisfaction. “N’ it’s not my fault that someone-”

Smack! Harder, sprinkled with tiny bolts of electricity.

“Correct.”

It’s breathed out into your mouth - a quick, hedonistic peck. Gojo just taunting your sanity before he’s pulling away with a gruff string of profanity, like it hurt him just as much as it did to you.

You feel your slick dribble down into a saturated puddle below you. And the mere sight of it makes Gojo just reel his hips deliriously forwards, grinding his massive bulge across your dripping cunt until you could see it soil a fountainy dark patch on his pants.

“F-fuckin’-” his eyes roll to the back of his head at how hot you were. How pouring wet. Wrangling your quivering legs painfully stretched open, “-woman of my dreams.”

With two, thick fingers hooked over the hem of your skirt, it’s being torn off in an easy pull. Falling somewhere in a pile of impractical tatters onto the meeting room floor, along with your shirt.

And as soon as it’s off, Gojo’s only growing more feral. More hungry.

He’s drooling from one corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t even notice at this point. Honestly, barely even realizing the burning pain when he falls to the floor on his knees. Clattering haphazardly, insatiably nosing up your jittery inner thighs.

“Oh sweetheart- oh my pretty girl. My pretty, pretty girl–” he’s breathing out, head lolling drunkenly against your legs. And Gojo gulps when he spreads your panties away with a wet glide of his thumb, just enough to see your messy hole winking up at him eagerly. All soaked and needy. “M’gonna have so much fun being yours.”

He kisses wetly through your panties - without warning, without even breathing. Just surging his pretty face into the heated crevice between your thighs, taste buds on his pinkish tongue grazing up the soaked fabric.

Like he was addicted.

“Oh- oh my god-” you’re mewling out, lower lip wobbly at every sultry swirl of Gojo’s tongue over your pussy lips, painting your messy hole in every mesh of slick and spit he could conjure up. “It feels too- hah–”

You were always so sensitive during your heats, every single one of your senses heightened to the max. So it made your mind all overwhelmingly melty inside to have his steaming hot mouth on your equally ravenous cunt. Hungry.

Yeah, he was addicted.

Dragging a few fingers in-between your glistening folds, scissoring them shamefully open to spit. Once. Twice.

Some of it splatters strayly onto the start of your thighs, which Gojo glady licks up all over again to stream out a thick wad back onto your silt. Until your cunt was drooling translucent dredges of everything he has to give, he smears his messy thumb in easy rotations around your clit. Filthy.

“So gorgeous- so good f’me.” Gojo titters, biting down teasingly on the very edge of your panties. And he can’t hide that fucked-out little groan when pulls it back, back, back to just snap! it meanly right on your cunt. “Fuck- you taste as s-sweet as you smell, mmm–”

You’re yelping when his long tongue draws a slow circle around the edge of that first ring of muscle, just barely pushing back against how your gummy walls are trying to hug him. To milk him for everything he has.

“S-such a tease-” you whine, fingers tangling into his cloudy white hair. Soft - the silken tresses smoothed over your palm, slotting between your digits when you pull his mouth roughly onto your pussy. “Jus’ want you on me- ngh!”

“Ohh ya can still t-talk easy, huh?” Gojo raises an amused brow from in-between your legs, that won’t be possible soon with how he’s going to have you. “Well then, don’t you dare beg me to go easy on you, girl.”

And he keeps the panties on - fuck, he keeps the panties on when mashing those ragged, rosy lips of his in a steamy make-out with your cunt. It’s as if he was breathing you in, so close that you could feel every clench of Gojo’s jaw, every grind of his chin into the very base of your pussy.

“Sh-shitttt-” he spits, stray wisps of white covering his eyesight. Dragging you on his tongue through pure instinct. “Shit wait- ah you’re so fuckin’ so-”

Unable to even finish his sentences with that usually-sharp tongue of his. No, that tongue right now was too occupied with the steady, repetitive drag along your snug channel. Bullying into your sodden sensitive spots, thrusting back and forth back and forth back and-

And his fingers, oh those infamous fingers were straying back onto the sensitive nub of your clit. Drawing tight, tempestuous circles that have you keening at the dual stimulation, thighs stuttering to an embarrassed close.

“Open.”

It’s just like before - and Gojo’s using that annoyingly baritone tone of his that hits you at your very core, that makes your omega snap open your legs for him.

Even you’re surprised at how pliant your body acts before your mind right now - and so is Gojo. though, his expression doesn’t show it, every bit of that feral animal that scared everyone out of this room not too long ago.

“That’s it- that’s it–” he can’t hold back, hands glued to the globes of your ass to pin you still against his mouth. “Ha- so fuckin’ different when ya listen to me, so fucking sweet.” Breathing in deeply, “Were ya giving off this scent so Nanami could do this, too?”

Thwack!

Another mocking slap against your clit - not enough to make you cry, but with just enough buzzing jujutsu to make your batting lashes teary - forces you to find your words.

And fuck, Gojo swears there’s no sweeter music than the sound of your voice - especially when you’re moaning like that.

Voice breaking into a whine, accompanied by a few raw clenches of your pussy around his furious tongue. “N-no fuck- don’t know-” your hips arch into the most perfect curve he’s ever seen. One that makes his mouth water, cock straining against his pants. “Toru- jus’ want you, wanna cum- wanna- want you so bad.”

Fuck - and who was he to not go along with each and every one of your pretty whims?

Pussydrunken already. He’d read about this - but he really had no clue how potent an omega in heat was, never having spent a rut with one. That little special occasion was always saved for you but, ah, that was a story for another time.

“M’gonna cum- hah- so- close-”

Right now, he couldn’t think of anything other than how gorgeous you would look when you cum. How delicious - your sweetened scent raising up by a few notches, taking over his sentences.

He feels his cock just throb at the mere thought.

Which is why Gojo’s pulling away with one final, sodden kiss on your pussy. You feel the curvaceous curl of his smirk against your cunt, and a deep, filthy inhale.

“Nah.” he smiles a glistening smile up at you - grin glossed all over with a sheen of your sweet, sweet juices. And the rest of his face was almost-obscured with a curtain of his white bangs, but you still think you could peek the glow of his inhuman eyes through them. Powerful. “Don’ think you’re c-cumming anywhere other than on my knot first, pretty girl.”

And he’s so tall that Gojo’s blocking out the dim meeting room lights when he stands up - slow, smug, making you spend each passing second in such anticipation.

Face expressionless - almost hypnotized - when he shrugs his shirt off. Lips parted into a soft oh! eyes half-lidded, heaving he slides his belt off almost lazily.

It clatters! to the ground, and he’s sliding down his drenchingly wet boxers with it - leaving a gleaming trail of precum down the front of his toned pelvis. Letting his achy cock finally spring free, he hisses when it hits the too-cool air.

And you do, too - though, for much different reasons.

Because Gojo’s so unfairly big - fitting, for an alpha of his stature. Blushed the prettiest pink at his rotund head that matched his cheeks right now, gradiating down into creamy tufts of white at his thick base. Showing the starting of his knot swelling. It made you wonder whether he tasted as sweet as he smelled. So hard it looked painful, curving into a long, solid shaft that glides a wet smear across his washboard abs. It makes your omega just preen, rabid to have him inside you right now now now-

“Heh, impatient lil’ thing, aren’t ya, sweetheart?” Gojo huffs out in a heady bout of laughter. “Can practically feel yer omega ngh- calling out to me, is this what you want?”

You claw ferally at the milky display of his back, branding him in your own way. “Yes- please-”

A sudden rip! makes you realize you still had your panties on - up until a few seconds ago, at least. Jostling him ever-so-slightly closer, you mewl when the rounded tip of his angry cock nudges against your pussy lips. Melding into a slight kiss that already makes him stream steaming hot ropes of precum.

And if you were in any better state of mind maybe you’d have noticed the way the light above flicker, fizzing with electricity just as much as you were right now.

“Heheh- oh y-you made me like this, ya realize?” he chuckles out - but his voice didn’t show even a hint of humor. It’s like he was out of control, out of rationality with each languid drag in-between your folds. Babbling, “You threw me into- fuck fuck fuck this is all- your-”

Honestly, Gojo’s so utterly shocked he managed to grit even half that sentence out.

Because every sloppy second has him grinding upwards in the tiniest of ruts into your sung cunt, tiny, mindless grinds that make a low ah! ah! ah! rip from his throat.

“Open that mouth f’me, sweetness-”

As soon as you do, you’re feeling a thick, glossy stream of saliva slosh onto your lolling tongue. Mouth wrenched shut until you swallow - and you do. Happily. Filthily.

That’s enough to make Gojo lose it.

And he’s plunging headfirst into your toasty insides, shoving back that tiny bit of resistance before your elastic walls are milking him so well. Greedily swallowing up every one of his generous inches, and it only seemed like more was to come.

“Oh shit- ohhh sh-shit-” His eyes are rolling to the very back of his head, mouth hanging open, that tiny trickle of drool splatters onto your skin.

“T-Toruu—” your cunt was addictive, and so were those moans of yours. Craning your neck upwards, “Kiss me, please.”

For a second, he’s leaning in - making it seem like he was about to smear that firmly placed gloss all over his lips onto yours. But Gojo only sneaks a peck at the corner of your mouth, then the other - and then one on the tip of your nose.

“I will I will-” he’s musing, giggles bursting from his lips. “Once we’ve mated, can’t get too greedy at once now? Can I?”

But oh how his actions spoke otherwise, because Gojo’s powerful hips absolutely refused to stop until he was well and fully buried into the hot depths of your cunt. Sheathing himself in all your soppingly wet walls, the sheer tightness was enough for him to throw his head back, heavy balls squeezing. In and out in and out.

“Ohhh fuck-” Two hands of his roughly attach themselves to your hips, pitching up your needy whines when he drools down your pussy even more thoroughly. “You sure do make it f-fuckin’ hard though-”

You whine when your ass hits against something bulging and hot, whirling those dazed eyes of yours down at the intrusion.

“Shit-” you’re gasping, eyes widening. And the sheer awe in your eyes is enough to make him grow, blood pumping to every thick inch of his cock until he was expanding even girthier, molding your pliant walls to his size. “That’s your knot- I-I-”

“I-I-I-” Gojo mocks, in a voice octaves higher than usual. Fucking the rest of that sentence with a harsh roll of his hips, knocking bruisingly at your cervix. “C’mon now ah- tell me- you can t-tell me anything.” Kissing softly at your ear lobe, zaps of jujutsu making you jump. “M’your best friend, right?”

How ironic.

All you can gift him in response is a few soft whimpers that only make him wilder.

“Fuck!” you’re keening when another one of his slams leave you gasping for air, feeling like he was clashing into your very womb. Glissading a deep, wet glide of his fat, curved tip across your spongy cervix, his breath hitches at the slight recoil. “I want it-”

Your words make him almost falter with his ruthless pace, and you take it upon yourself to just drag him down by his muscled shoulders. Until he was hunching over you, abs flexing against your front, “I want your hah- knot in m-”

And you can’t even finish the sentence - you don’t know if you want to.

Because just that syrupy jumble of words is enough to make Gojo Satoru snap.

To cut you off with a rough growl, teeth bared at you, in a split-second he has you limp legs thrown over his shoulder. Biceps flexing in such a mouth-watering way when he makes them lock at the ankle, bending down, down, down into the meanest little mating press your joints would allow.

The change in angle has you scrambling - has him scrambling to crash his leaky head into your swollen g-spot. Hitting that bulging bullseye with no regrets - over. And over. And over and over and-

“Oh, marry me sweetheart.” he’s panting into your mouth. His pulsing girth rummaging your insides so good, dragging every ridge and thumping vein on his shaft against your sweet spots. He was so big that you felt like your syrupy cunt had already forgotten what it felt like without him pounding into you. Suckling wetly at the corner of your lips, “Marry me marry me- oh, fuck- gonna give you m-my knot. Don’ think I could go on hah- l-living without ya, pretty.”

He was feral - eyes glowing a blazing blue, sparks of lightning bolting down his milky skin. And you swear with each speeding cadence of his, the lights flickered on and off.

Every slippery smack of his tight, cum-filled balls has you seeing stars, yearning for the additional burning stretch of being plugged by his knot.

You’re throwing your arms over his neck, reeling him in like he was your prey, though his hips were devouring you. “W-we’re not even dating and you want me t-to be your hngh-”

“-wife!” He kisses every inch of your face, down your neck, over that soft scent gland of yours - now so overstimulating his senses with your sweet scent that he’s almost forgotten what his own smelled like. Buzzes of electricity skimming down your skin with each touch. He’s groaning, “Be my wife- please- fuck, I need you to be my wife.” Planting an almost-french kiss on that one sweet spot. Once. twice. “M-my mate- sh-shit-”

And you already knew Gojo was close with the way his pretty eyes are almost fluttering shut, the way his hefty balls clamp. Twitching in desperation, his thickened base pumps in even deeper - harder. As if he was trying to rut every single inch into your clingy depths.

Every single inch.

“Mhm–” you moan, feeling the staggering stretch of his even hotter cock shape your walls. “I wanna- wanna be your-”

You don’t even bother finishing your sentence - and neither does Gojo let you.

Because it only takes a few more sloppy jackhammers before he’s finally sinking his taut knot into you. The stretch is so insane you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head, being plugged so suddenly full.

And then you’re hurtling headfirst into your high - toes curling, white-hot pleasure flashing behind your eyes, your spine bowing so sluttily into his. And Gojo-

Oh, Gojo had his mouth sagging open the moment he felt his massive knot intrude against your silken sweet walls, stretching that snug channel around all of him. And he wishes he had the willpower to look down at the heavenly sight, he wishes he could do anything but sink his teeth down hard into your precious scent gland as he cums and cums and cums.

The lights burst, shards deflecting off the limitless he’d coated over the both of you.

Teeth breaking skin, metal tasting on his tongue, scents tangling together into one now.

You do your best to bite him back on his heady neck, breaking through Gojo’s milky skin to reveal a set of pretty pink indents.

Finally yours. Finally his.

“O-oh, pretty girl–” he hiccups, voice cracking. Hips not moving even the tiniest second of momentum while he stuffs your tight pussy full of his potent seed. “My wife- my mate.”

And Gojo almost bawls when the tight lock of his knot prevents him from plunging into you as deeply and thoroughly as he wanted to right now. Sobbing down big fat tears that splatter! against your lips while he kisses your mind dizzy.

You could feel the syrupy slosh of his cum inside you with each one of his dragged-out grinds, milking your orgasm for as long as possible. Unmoving. Unapologetic in how he was spitting out such voluminous loads of milky white seed that overfilled you.

“Shit- so much-” you’re whining, still clinging to him. And you don’t think he even hears you right now, mind blanking. “I feel so full, Toru-”

But you didn’t have to babble out those words for him to know, somehow, he just knew. Knew every single thing about you, but couldn’t dredge up the words to respond.

Too pussydrunken to do anything but bite you on your scent gland all over, he kisses a wet trail up to your lips, “Now you- really hafta m-marry me heh.”

Bang!

Gojo’s fist comes crashing down on the rickety table - it’s too much for him.

Those ringing squelches and the way you were sucking out every single drop of his cum makes his sensitive shaft twitch. Tears blimping up into his eyes again, more and more velvety ribbons ooze out. “My wife- my wife my wife my wife- my mate-”

It’s just about all he can say - like a mantra. Over and over against your lips, until the peaks of your pleasure turn into mere tingles, until Gojo’s own knot is softening down. Slightly.

Just enough that he can pull out-

“Toru, what-”

“Shhh, pretty girl-” He’s kissing your puffed-up clit with another spank from his trembly fingers, and then an actual kiss. Mouth slotting over the mess he’s made below. Grazing all over like a creamy gloss. Filthy. “Rut’s just started.”

His ravenous tongue drags out your overstimulated high, and you’re clinging onto a lock of his snowy hair for dear life.

“Please-” you beg, voice shot. You don’t even know what you were begging for, but god was Gojo Satoru happy to let himself be used. “Please please please, Toru-”

Oh, his fingers tighten on your thighs - imprinting neat patterns of crescents. Animalistic, in how Gojo just drags your twitchy body forwards.

His eyes were drooping shut, gaze crazed - frantic where he looked you right in the eyes from down below. Head craning to ram his stretchy tongue even deeper, quirking up deftly like he’s wanting to bruise his taste buds along your walls.

Slurping at and collecting the creamy mess on his tongue - only to spit it back into your sloppy hole. Messy.

Even with the dark, lightless room - with only those stray sparks of power to accompany you two - such loud squelches echo across his own ears. And just by the noise Gojo could tell how wet you were - as if you weren’t drooling over the lower half of his face, up to his cheekbones, already.

Sticking to your inner thighs in an obscene drip! drip! drip!

It’s so shameful and you love it.

And you love that you’re so cockdrunken that you aren’t even sure when you’re cumming - if you’re cumming. Whether those sudden crashes of pleasure were because of your nth orgasm tonight, or because of the way Gojo kisses you with another thwack!

Adrenaline and electricity coursing through your veins, ears thundering with your rapid pulse. Oh god, you never knew a heat could feel this good - this maddening.

You moan, and he’s eagerly lapping up every sweet bead of slick you have to offer, like a man that hasn’t had an ounce of water in weeks. Brows furrowed, jaw sagging open-

“Shit shit shit-” he’s rasping out, and the very slide of his fingers across your skin sends waves of powerful jujutsu - somehow bunching at your clit just right. “M’cumming- m- m’still cumming fuck- won’t- stop-”

Just as soon as your orgasm is ending, Gojo’s is just starting. Like he’d been holding back on this from the moment he’d started eating out your overspilling pussy - happily.

And exactly on time, too, because you barely even have the time to catch your breath before Gojo’s standing on his two unsteady feet. Just splitting you open on all of his red, raw inches - uncaring for your little mewls and those tears.

Because you were sucking him up madly.

Spearheading his swollen cock into you like he was trying to fuck another orgasm out of you. His strokes are long, harsh, showing off all the years of strength he built up boasting the title of the strongest.

And this hastily put-together mating press has his cum just overspilling out of you by now, dribbling down in wet globs that made you wonder how much more he could fill you up. It seeps in a white circle underneath your ass, slicking you back and forth along the wood at each harsh ram.

Again. And again. And again and again and-

“Made me this- hngh- this way, y’know?” he spits into your mouth - followed by a slurred string of swears. Every time his heftily smacking balls clench, you could feel the table creak under pressure. “Sat next to me with that fucking skirt- smelling so fucking- ngh- good- do you even know how delicious ya are?”

You can’t answer - because he’s back to squeezing in his staggering knot into you. Sparks exploding out from the corner of his scrunched-up eyes, forehead knocking into yours.

Gojo kisses you like he couldn’t get enough, letting you taste all the sin from just before.

“Three weeks away, huh?” That accusatory little inflection in his words isn’t lost on you, only growing stronger and stronger as his staccato grows sloppier. “Have your- hah- heat in three weeks and fuck- I could just- smell it on you-”

It’s incredible. Sliding your frenzied bodies across on another, stinging with skin-on-skin and how your gooey walls constricted around him.

“Showing off in that scent and that skirt-” His eyes are almost bulging out of his head now, hips stuttering like just the very thought of that pile of fabric at the corner of the room drove him mad. “-fuck that skirt- always fuckin’ hated it. Hated how Nanami loves hngh- it. Made me lose fucking control a-and you know what?”

One of his hands curls around your throat now, the other taking hold of your left - kissing your ring finger pointedly. “I’ll do it all over again if it means I’d get to have ya like this, my mate.”

And just then he’s coating your melty insides in a creamy sheen, that overworked divot right at the end of his dick was firmly pressed up against your g-spot. Plugging you with his knot, and you swear you could see a little inflation forming where he was filling you to your limits.

Cumming and cumming so hard it’s like he couldn’t stop - didn’t want to stop until his body practically forced him.

Gojo’s biting down hard exactly over those deep indents on your scent glands when his gushing spurts of seed turn into almost-painful blanks.

Over and over, he’s cumming nothing.

“L-love you, Toru-” you’re babbling out, reeling him in to peck the corners of his smirking mouth.

Utterly fucked out of your mind enough that you don’t even register the loud boom! from somewhere in the distant grounds of Jujutsu Tech. Barely even care that the overpriced meeting table is now sagging on one side, just about in splinters.

“Aww, m-my c-cockdrunk baby–” he titters shakily into your glossed-pout. “Love you, too, always have always- will-” Patting the bulge on your stomach, before kissing you gently, “Ever since I th-threw ya into heat the ngh- first time ya met me.”

Oh.

And later, you’ll learn that that almost-deafening boom was the generator for Jujutsu Tech, mysteriously bursting after a sudden spike in atomic pressure in the surrounding area. You’ll find out that every piece of furniture in the surrounding buildings had moved about six inches in your direction, and that the now-ruined table was an irreplaceable heirloom.

But for now, all you register is soft.

Warm.

With a gasp you realize you’re in a bedroom - Gojo’s bedroom.

“Did- did you teleport-”

“Mhm-” he pants, and in the dim lighting you could spot his leering grin. Satisfied. Pussydrunken. And you could feel his knot swell up hotly, halfway through to its previous size.

You sputter, trying so desperately to find the words. Difficult, when Gojo still had you wrapped around his thick cock, all the way up to his fat, drenched base. Swiveling his cock in slow, sultry grinds for how much he couldn’t ram exactly how he wanted to right now. “Wh-why didn’t you do this before–?”

“Because-” he licks over his mating mark on you. “-wanted to show off what animals we were.” His grin grows wider, as does his tired cock. And that dangling blindfold around his neck ends up around your wrists, tying you up pliantly for him. “What animals we will be.”

---

Right now, all Nanami can think about is you you you- Yet,he doesn’t expect to see you for about the next week. Or, at least, that’s the hopeful side of him - knowing Gojo, and the state he’d left the meeting room in, he won’t see you again for a month.

Possibly not walking.

Perhaps, that’s for the best. Looking down at his swollen, throbbing cock - one fist wrapped around its thick base, the other around his shaky phone, he clicks on that familiar app.

Shit, his rut is near. Now, actually.

Nanami sighs, it’s hard pretending not to be animals.

A/N. Was soooo giggling writing about how the table was some heirloom.

Plagiarism not authorized.

#RAHHHHH this was sosososo good #tonycries will never not be writing goals #my numbah one inspiration fr fr #. . . fic recs 📖#. . . jjk 💭#. . . gojo 💭#. . . nanami 💭#tw abo #tw omegaverse #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #jjk smut #gojo smut #satoru gojo smut

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