#and then gojo stopping his little game and leaning in

[airandyeah]

Footballplayer!Sukuna X Toughgirl!Reader Who Do You Think I Am? Pt.7

My Masterlist Series Masterlist

You’re still in his arms.

The roar of the crowd is a distant blur now, white noise swallowed by the heat of his lips still lingering on yours. His stupid grin hasn’t left his face. Your brain has yet to catch up.

And then, just as the shock begins to wear off—

You slap his chest.

“Put me down, dumbass!”

Sukuna actually laughs. Not the condescending one you’re used to—but breathless. Giddy. Like winning the game didn’t mean a thing unless he got this.

“Didn’t hear you complaining,” he smirks, but he gently sets you on your feet, hands lingering just a little too long on your waist.

You’re about to tell him off—really tell him off—when a voice cuts in.

“Goddamn, I leave you alone for five minutes and you get engaged?”

You whip your head around to see Gojo, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead, his eye-black smudged and a crooked grin plastered across his face. He throws an arm around Sukuna’s shoulders with zero regard for the mood.

“So when’s the wedding?” he continues, already pulling out his phone. “You know I’d make a killer best man—oh wait, I already am.”

“Go die somewhere,” you mutter, pushing past both of them, but not before Sukuna reaches out and tugs you back by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Wait—” his voice drops, low and rough again, a little nervous.

You glance back, heart beating like a war drum.

He leans in, still close enough to make the stadium lights feel too warm. “Thanks for coming,” he says, quieter now. “You really were my good luck charm.”

You blink at him once.

Twice.

“Still a fucking idiot,” you grumble—but your voice is softer.

Then you’re gone, stomping away before anyone else sees the stupid heat in your cheeks.

And behind you, Sukuna is smiling like he just won something way more important than a game. “Are you kidding me?” Yorozu’s voice slices through the air like a blade dipped in venom. You don’t stop. You don’t need to. Because the second she grabs your shoulder and yanks—you turn around with fire already in your eyes. “I knew you were a slut,” she spits, voice high with humiliation. “But seriously? Sukuna? That kiss was mine—” You don’t hear the rest. Because your fist connects with her face so hard it snaps her head to the side. Gasps ripple from the crowd like shockwaves. You can still feel the heat of the impact radiating up your arm, the stinging satisfaction of skin on skin. She stumbles back, clutching her cheek, lips parted in disbelief. “You hit me—” “Finally,” you snap, voice shaking with rage. “You’ve been running your mouth since the second I got here. Throwing drinks, spreading rumors, trying to trip me like you’re in some low-budget high school drama. I’ve had it.” You step forward, heart pounding, voice steady. “I don’t care who you think you are. Next time you come near me like that—I'll break your nose.” Behind you, someone whistles low. Probably Gojo. Someone else mutters “Holy shit.” Sukuna? He doesn’t say a word. But when you glance at him—he’s beaming. Like he’s never seen anything so perfect. Yorozu lets out a wounded sound, something between a screech and a sob, and turns on her heel. You roll your shoulder once, like shaking off the tension, and mutter under your breath, “Bitch.” Then, with all eyes still on you, you walk off the field like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just become a goddamn legend.~~~ You’re actually smiling.

It’s not a full-on grin—God forbid—but it’s there. Subtle. Relaxed. Something light on your face that hasn’t been there in a while.

Tiffany’s beside you, chattering like always, but for once... you’re answering her. Teasing her. Laughing under your breath at her stories instead of zoning out.

She notices.

“Oh my God,” she gasps dramatically, clutching your arm. “You’re smiling. Like, actual teeth! Did you hit Yorozu so hard you knocked the stick out of your own ass too?”

You roll your eyes. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

You're halfway through telling her about how Yorozu’s lip definitely split on impact when the first group approaches.

Two underclassmen, eyes wide and starstruck.

“Hey—um—was it true?” one stammers. “Did you really deck Yorozu last night?”

You raise a brow. “Did it look like I missed?”

They break into awkward giggles before scurrying off, and Tiffany snorts.

“You’re such a menace,” she says with way too much pride.

More people approach as you walk—some offering high-fives, others whispering not-so-subtly behind their hands.

“Dude, that was legendary—”

“Did she really punch her in heels—?”

“Yorozu hasn’t shown her face all morning.”

You pretend not to care, but the buzz is addicting. And maybe for the first time, the campus doesn’t feel so stuffy. You don’t feel like a background extra in someone else’s life anymore.

You’re the main event.

Tiffany glances over at you as you both lean against your lockers, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“So...” she starts, a little sly, “are we gonna talk about the other big moment last night?”

You freeze. “What other—?”

“Oh please,” she cuts you off with a grin. “Tall. Pink. Muscles. Kissed you like he meant it.”

You groan and press your forehead against the cool locker door.

“Don’t start.”

“But you like him,” she sings. “You so like him.”

“Do not start.”

She leans in, stage-whispers: “Do you wanna wear his jacket again, or do you wanna wear him—”

“TIFFANY.”

She cackles, unapologetic.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Because the truth is?

You haven’t taken the jacket off since last night.

You're still half-laughing at Tiffany’s dramatic reenactment of the punch when your phone dings.

It’s a quiet sound. One you've heard a million times before. But this time… it makes your breath hitch.

You glance down at the screen, expecting some meme from Tiffany’s group chat or a dumb campus notification.

But it’s not that.

It’s him. With his newly changed contact.

Ryo 💀 📍Location pin 🕒 8:00 PM. Friday. 🌸

You stare at the screen, the faintest bloom of something strange and warm curling in your chest.

“What’s that face?” Tiffany squints, trying to peek over your shoulder.

You angle the phone away and shrug, pocketing it. “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s nothing.”

Except it’s not.

It’s a place. A time. A flower emoji.

He didn’t say what for. Didn’t ask if you were free. Didn’t even include a question mark.

Just an invitation disguised as a statement.

Because he already knows you’re going.

You don’t know what pisses you off more—how bold he is, or how the corner of your mouth is still twitching upward long after you close the notification. ~~~ You tug at the hem of the skirt for the fifth time, hating how it fits perfectly.

“Why am I doing this?” you mutter under your breath.

“Because you’ve been making heart eyes at your phone for the past two days,” Tiffany chirps from behind you, adjusting the back of your top with delicate fingers. “And because you like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You wore his jacket.”

“It was cold.”

“You kissed him back.”

“...”

“You saved his contact as ‘Ryo 💀.’”

“...Shut up.”

Tiffany only giggles, grabbing the lip gloss. “Tilt your chin up, menace.”

You do, sighing as she swipes a shimmery nude over your mouth. Your reflection in her mirror stares back at you—soft makeup, a sleek black skirt hugging your hips, and a dark red top that flirts with your collarbones. Nothing too dramatic.

But enough to say this matters.

She grabs your wrist when you move to grab your jacket. “No. He gave you his. Wear it.”

You pause. And then… you do.

You pull Sukuna’s jacket over your shoulders, the scent of his cologne still clinging faintly to the fabric. It settles around you like a second skin.

Tiffany grins.

“There,” she says softly. “Now go make him fall in love with you.”

You scoff and head for the door. “I’m just showing up.”

“Yeah,” she calls out after you. “But he won’t survive it.” ~~~ The restaurant is low-lit and quiet, just a bit upscale. Not fancy enough to be pretentious, but definitely too nice for the kind of mess you expected from him.

You hesitate at the entrance, eyes scanning the place until a waitress approaches with a polite smile.

“Reservation for two?” she asks.

You nod, adjusting Sukuna’s jacket on your shoulders.

“Right this way.”

Her heels click against the dark wood floors as she weaves between tables. You follow, trying to keep your expression unreadable, your heart not beating out of rhythm. You pass the polished glass, the hum of soft jazz, the quiet clink of forks and wine glasses.

And then—

You see him.

He’s already seated at the far table near the window, one arm slung over the back of the booth, hair freshly tied, tattoos peeking through the collar of his fitted black shirt. The silver chain around his neck glints under the overhead light.

But he doesn’t look cocky tonight.

No smug smirk.

No lazy wave.

Just... awe.

His red eyes are locked on you, jaw slightly slack, like the moment stunned him stupid.

Like he wasn’t ready.

The waitress barely finishes saying, “Your date is here,” before you’re sliding into the booth across from him.

Sukuna doesn’t speak at first.

He just stares.

And then, slowly—quietly—he breathes out, “Holy shit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That a greeting?”

His lips twitch into something crooked. “Nah. That’s just me losing my entire mind.”

You try to bite back the smile forming at the edge of your mouth, fingers toying with the sleeve of his jacket.

He notices.

Tag list is always open! Okay but, restraining order.... Tags: @nina6708 , @sherrieblossoms , @charlie-xo , @iloveredwineee , @kyo-kyo1 , @clp-84 , @book0fdr3ams , @enhasrii , @sanzuhoe , @strangelovedream , @keiva1000 , @tsumoorin Perm tags: @thenightperson , @makingtimemine , @nina-from-317

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

plagued by the thought of telling bully gojo to cut the shit or you'll start screaming and he just grins real big.

i cannot go down this rabbit hole again bc im much more comfortable writing heinous content now and the absolutely diabolical dubcon im willing to write now is dangerous territory

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ professor!gojo is insatiable. from the second you walked into his class, he's had his eyes on you. he's always doing whatever he can to get your attention, to get more of you.

it's ridiculous, at times, really.

how he'd use you as a human prop, swinging an arm around your neck, leaning against you — whenever you were presenting, he'd claim it was to loosen you up. it was all causal, after all. and, no, you didn't point out how it was just you he was loosening up.

how he'd give you unsolicited compliments, telling you how today's outfit made your body look great. how nice you looked in it, and then jokingly adding in how you'd look better out of it. one of those things that borders dangerously on the territory of not quite being a joke.

how he'd play little games with you, asking you questions throughout class, prolonging them, just to get to speak with you longer.

or, maybe, how he'd come up from behind you, hand on the small of your back, as he leaned in by your ear, asking if you needed any assistance. telling you that if you ever needed anything, ever, he'd be more than willing to help you out.

how was he supposed to help it? you were just so kind. especially, when he accidentally dropped his chalk, and you'd bend over to grab it for him, the fat of your ass peeking out from under that tiny little skirt. it just long enough for him to memorize how snug your panties sat on your pussy lips.

if anything, he was the victim. it wasn't easy hiding a boner from a class of twenty-five, you know.

you may have been a little virgin, unable to comprehend the depths of his need for you, but you weren't dumb. you knew it was odd, but whenever you brought it up to your friends, they shot you down, telling you he was just like that. gojo was eccentric, and all the students loved him for it.

besides, they told you, you'd be lucky if he was, by chance, lusting after you. had you even seen him? what was a greek god like him doing here? didn't he belong in heaven?

he'd make you feel like you were in heaven, another one of your friends would add.

so, you dealt with it. ignored how a certain something pooled in your stomach when his eyes roved, shamelessly, over your figure.

but, he's a lot less insatiable when he's looking down at you, like that, holding pure adoration in his eyes. his red-tipped, leaky tip is lined up between your thighs, prodding your swollen clit. your legs are wrapped around his waist, a pool of arousal on his desk you're on.

"fuck, do you even know how pretty you are like that?" he coos, a hand moving up to your chest, to gently fondle a tit. you can't even remember how you got here, hot, naked, and whiney on your physics teacher's table.

on second, he's asking you to stay back after class, insisting to talk to you about your grades. the next?

whatever was going on now. you only whimper in response, tired from when, just moments ago, he'd made you cum once with just his tongue, and twice more with his fingers. you don't protest, not as he pushes his thick length in. you're clenching around him, already, and he's maybe only an inch-and-a-half in.

gojo groans, "ah, shit, baby. s— squeeze like that, 'n' i won't last much longer."

you writhe under him, with tears dotting at your lash line, digging your nails into the flesh of his back. "o— oh, s'too much! ngh, won't fit," you plead, though, you're not sure for what.

"shh," he murmurs, forcing himself past your spongy walls of resistance. "it'll fit. don't worry about it, yeah? i'm gonna take r— real good care of'ya."

a cry leaves your throat, and he presses his lips to yours, silencing you. "god, you know i love those noises, but you gotta stay quiet, princess."

tears stream down your cheeks, and he kisses them away. you've never felt so much at once, a bitter pain washing into a warm pleasure. you let out a shaky moan, and his thumb rubs against your clit, trying to get you to relax.

it's when he finally bottoms out, that he has to stop and go though a roster of baseball teams, in order not to cum. oh, well, it serves as a moment for you to adjust. with how you're scratching up his back, he's sure you've drawn blood — but, shit, the pain is exhilarating.

and, jesus, you don't think you could ever adjust to his size. you call feel him everywhere, deep in your body. gojo's lips pepper pecks all over, his hands roaming.

he clicks his teeth, slowly starting to thrust. his movements are cautious, as if he might break you, and you wouldn't be surprised if he did. "so— so tight, f'me."

it takes him a moment, but it almost gives you whiplash, how his demeanor changes. his hips snap against yours, mean and relentless. you're made for him, he's sure, with how perfectly you mold against him.

he's rambling nonsense, babbling on about how beautiful you are, how well you take him. you don't know if it's directed at you, whether you're meant to listen, but you can't focus, anyways.

gojo doesn't last long, and neither do you. you're sobbing as you release onto him, clenching and unclenching around his cock. he spurts hot ropes of cum into you, your back arching. his movements slow, riding your orgasms out.

"you know," he pants, burying his face in the crook of your neck, "you've always been my favorite student."

[sixeyesonathiel]

free throws and figure drawings

pairing – star player! gojo x broke artist! reader

summary : satoru gojo is many things—basketball star player, campus menace, objectively the best-looking guy in any room—but he is not a model. so when you, some quiet, intense art student, shove a flyer in his face and ask him to pose for a painting, his first instinct is to laugh. his second instinct is to say no.

it’s supposed to be easy money. sit still, look pretty, collect cash. but between your infuriating perfectionism, your absolute refusal to be flustered by him, and the way you stare like you’re trying to figure him out, satoru starts to suspect he’s in way over his head

tags –> one shot, 22k wc, university au, oblivious mutual pining, slow burn, idiots to friends(?) to lovers, banter, fluff, light angst, first kisses, reader has questionable financial priorities

playlist. | collection m.list.

satoru hates being late.

he’s not a model student, not by a long shot, but failing a long quiz because a horde of fan girls blocked his way to class? unforgivable. he was so close to making it in time, too—if only he hadn’t stopped to sign that last autograph. normally, he’d brush it off, but this wasn’t just any quiz—this was for a professor who already had it out for him. if he fails even one subject, the coach might force him to take a break from the team to focus on his studies, even if he was their star player.

he thrives on attention, okay? what’s the point of being their university's star player if he can’t bask in the privelege and the fame? that last game was legendary—he clutched the final shot, the crowd went insane, and now half the campus is screaming his name. still, if he gets benched over grades, that win won’t mean a damn thing.

now, he’s sulking on a campus bench, spinning his phone between his fingers, wondering how hard his professor is going to roast him next lecture. probably a lot. maybe enough to make him consider actually studying. his teammates will be insufferable about it, especially suguru.

and then, like a gift from the universe, you show up.

“excuse me.”

he barely glances up. he’s still bitter. still annoyed. but when he finally does look—oh, he knows your type. wide-eyed, a little nervous, clutching a sketchbook like it’s a lifeline, like it holds something more important than just paper and ink. he bets you’re about to ask for a selfie, or his number, or—

“i need you to model for me.”

his head tilts slightly, brow arching in lazy amusement. huh?

he waits for the punchline, but you only stare, unwavering. there’s something unnerving about your gaze—not shy, not desperate, just… intent. like you’ve already decided something, and his answer doesn’t matter. then, as if confirming it to yourself, you give a small, determined nod. “yeah. you’re perfect.”

his lips twitch, the ego in him flaring up instantly. “obviously.”

“so you’ll do it?” you lean in, hopeful, hands gripping the edges of your sketchbook like it’s anchoring you.

“obviously not.” he leans back instead, stretching an arm along the back of the bench, his smirk turning sharp. “listen, i know i’m pretty, but i’m not that easy.”

your expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable—then, with a breath, you square your shoulders. “i’ll pay you.”

he barks out a short laugh, blue eyes gleaming with amusement. “oh? and what’s my going rate, then?”

without hesitation, you pull out a flyer from your bag, movements quick and businesslike. “i have an hourly rate. cash upfront.”

he plucks the paper from your hands, more entertained than anything, scanning it with a smirk. this is, without a doubt, the most absurd thing to happen to him all day (and that’s saying something). you’re actually serious. actually offering him money to sit still and look pretty.

you must be so down bad.

“sorry, sweetheart,” he drawls, handing it back lazily. “but i’m a busy man. can’t waste my precious time sitting around just so you can stare at me.”

he expects you to stammer, to get flustered and retreat. most people would.

there’s a pause, thick with hesitation, before you finally speak—like you’re pulling the words from somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t usually let people see.

“hold still,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. your gaze moves over his face with the kind of scrutiny that makes people uncomfortable, but satoru doesn’t squirm—he preens under it, smirks like he’s used to being admired. but that’s not what this is.

your eyes narrow slightly, head tilting. “your features are sharp, but not harsh. the lines of your face—” you trail off, thoughtful. “they flow too well. it’s almost unnatural.”

he blinks. “uh. thanks?”

you ignore him, scanning lower. “your collarbones frame the composition perfectly. and your hands…” your gaze flickers to them, fingers twitching against your sketchbook. “deliberate. expressive.”

his brows lift. “you’re checking me out.” he accuses, tone dripping with amusement.

“i’m analyzing your composition.” your voice is absentminded, matter-of-fact. you’re still staring, still studying, like he’s some kind of divine anomaly.

and maybe he is.

satoru should be smug about this. should be teasing you. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—serious, unwavering, like you’ve seen something no one else has. something not even he knows how to name.

his smirk falters, just slightly. “…so?”

“so,” you say, straightening, gripping your sketchbook tighter. “i need to paint you.”

not want. need.

and for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo is left without a clever comeback. because—okay. wow. that was a lot.

for the first time, he actually looks at you, really looks at you. and there’s no hint of deception in your expression, no underlying flirtation. your eyes—burning with something too raw, too genuine—throw him off completely.

“sounds like you’re obsessed with me.” he tries, aiming for his usual brand of cocky. but it’s weaker this time. a little off.

“i’m obsessed with getting my pieces right,” you counter, and it lands like a challenge. your voice doesn’t waver, steady in a way that makes his smirk twitch. “i’ll even raise your pay.”

his smirk falters for half a second. “yeah?”

“i—” you hesitate, fingers tightening around your sketchbook, knuckles pale from the pressure. “i can go up to… ten bucks per session. upfront.”

he snorts. “sweetheart, do i look like a discount model to you? you want me to sit still for hours, me—an in-demand athlete, a social necessity at every party, the backbone of this school’s sports program—for a measly ten?” he leans back, draping an arm over the bench like he’s getting comfortable for a long negotiation. “at least pretend to respect my market value.”

you exhale sharply, visibly weighing your options, then straighten with new resolve. “fine. twenty-five bucks per session. i can push to fourty, but you have to commit to at least three sittings.”

he opens his mouth to refuse—just for the drama of it, just to watch you scramble for a better offer—but then he hesitates.

and he sees it.

the way your fingers tighten around your sketchbook, the way your shoulders hold a quiet, unyielding tension. the way your eyes stay locked onto him, not with admiration, not with infatuation, but with something deeper, something urgent. there’s a pull in them, a quiet desperation—not for him, not for his attention, but for the shape of him, the angles of him, the way light bends and softens around the sharp edges of his face. he realizes, with a strange flicker of something he can’t name, that you aren’t begging him—you’re needing him.

…ugh.

satoru groans, throwing his head back dramatically, hands flopping uselessly onto the bench like the universe has personally inconvenienced him. “you’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“nope.” your jaw sets, firm, unwavering.

a sigh. a pause. a moment of self-reflection where he briefly considers if the extra cash is worth sacrificing his free time—his parties, his practices, the worship of a school that already thinks he’s untouchable.

then—he grins, sharp and easy, like he’s the one who’s won something here. “alright, mystery artist. i’ll be your muse.”

he leans in, cocky and insufferable, but there’s something new behind it now—a flicker of intrigue, the curiosity of a man who knows he’s irresistible but has never quite been needed like this before. “but only because i’m feeling generous.”

the next day later, satoru reminds himself—firmly—not to let this happen again. he should have held out longer, should have played hard to get, should have, at the very least, haggled for more cash. but no, he let himself get swept up in whatever this was, in your weird little artist intensity, and now he’s sitting on a questionably stable stool in the middle of your cozy, cluttered studio space. regretting. just a little.

your “studio” is barely more than a corner of your dorm room, wedged by the window where the light slants in at an annoyingly aesthetic angle. the floor is a battlefield of abandoned sketchbooks and paint tubes, half-squeezed and discarded like fallen soldiers. unfinished canvases lean against the walls in various stages of completion—some just rough sketches, others hauntingly close to done but left untouched, as if you lost interest mid-stroke. it’s clean and chaotic all at once, the strange contrast between the precisely arranged brushes—lined up by size, bristles all facing the same way—and the paint-stained rags draped carelessly over the back of your chair. the room smells like turpentine and old paper, sharp and familiar, like stepping into the mind of someone who never really stops thinking.

he should be bored—but he’s not.

“shoes off.” you say the moment he steps inside, not even looking up as you sort through your supplies.

satoru stops mid-step, blinking. his latest purchase—some limited-edition basketball sneakers, bought with the last of his cash prize from securing mvp last season, the sheer reason why he is broke right now to be here in the first place—suddenly feel heavier on his feet. his gaze flicks from you to the floor, then back again, a slow, deliberate movement as if testing whether you’re serious.

“seriously?” he drawls, shifting his weight.

“yes.”

“what, afraid I’ll track in dirt?” he tilts his head, smirk lazy, but his fingers hook around the back of his shoes, already anticipating your answer.

“no, i just don’t want you stepping in paint and crying about your expensive sneakers.” you finally glance up, eyes flickering to the telltale logo on the side of his shoes. there’s no mockery in your tone, just detached amusement, but he still bristles slightly—maybe because you’ve already figured him out so easily.

satoru exhales, exaggerated and put-upon, before kicking them off with a bit more force than necessary. the shoes land haphazardly by the door, slightly askew, pristine against the chaos of your floor. “...fine. but I better not step on a thumbtack and die.”

“noted.” you murmur, already moving on.

he takes in the room as he tugs at the hem of his hoodie, adjusting it. the space is a contradiction—small, but alive, every inch used with an artist’s careless precision. tubes of paint lie scattered like relics of past battles, pages of half-formed sketches peek from beneath stacks of books, and the air smells sharp—turpentine, charcoal dust, something faintly citrusy, probably from the cup of tea cooling by your desk. he should be unimpressed, but his gaze keeps getting caught on the little details—the careful arrangement of brushes, the single paint-smeared rag draped over your chair, the faint blue smudge on the back of your wrist.

"sit here." you drag a wooden stool into the light, the scrape of its legs against the floor cutting through the quiet.

his eyes narrow. “this thing gonna hold up?”

“unless you plan on moving around like a child, yes.”

satoru hums, unimpressed but intrigued, tapping two fingers against his thigh before finally dropping onto the stool. his posture is lazy, all careless sprawl and long limbs, arms hanging over the backrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

you click your tongue, stepping closer. “sit up straight.”

he sinks even lower, stretching his legs out in front of him. “but I like this angle. mysterious. brooding. like I have a dark past.”

you don’t even hesitate. “it looks like you have scoliosis.”

he barks out a laugh, sharp and genuine, teeth flashing under the dim light. “maybe that is my dark past.”

“fix your posture.”

satoru sighs, rolling his shoulders back—but not enough. you click your tongue, unimpressed, and before he can react, your hands are on him, firm but careful, adjusting his posture with practiced ease. your fingers press lightly against his upper back, trailing down to nudge at his shoulder blades, guiding him straighter. clinical, detached, nothing more than necessity. but he still goes still, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

your hands are cool against his skin, grounding in a way he doesn’t expect. for the first time, he realizes you’re really looking at him—not like most people do, with admiration, envy, or that desperate need to impress. no, you look at him like he’s a problem to solve, a subject to study, something to be rendered on paper in strokes and shadows. he should say something—flirt, tease, break the moment before it turns into something else—but the words sit strangely in his mouth. and then you’re already pulling away, back to your desk, already moving on.

"good," you murmur, reaching for a pencil amid the mess of supplies. you don’t sound satisfied, exactly—just focused, as if his presence in your studio is nothing more than another detail to get right. then, after a beat, you look up again, really look at him, and say, “don’t move.”

satoru smirks, tilting his head just enough for his bangs to shift, casting a fleeting shadow over his eyes. “no promises.”

you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you adjust the angle of your easel. the wooden frame creaks as you tighten a knob, movements brisk, precise—like you don’t have the patience for his nonsense today. “relax your shoulders.”

he spreads his hands, a lazy, exaggerated gesture, his varsity jacket slipping slightly off one shoulder. “my shoulders are relaxed.”

you glance up, unimpressed. “you look like you’re trying to fight god.”

“that’s just my natural aura.”

your hand pauses over your palette, fingers hovering just above the tubes of paint. then—a twitch. fleeting. almost imperceptible. but he sees it, the tiny, reluctant quirk of your lips, and his eyes glint with amusement.

“was that a smile?” satoru's grin is all teeth, sharp and victorious, as he leans forward, resting his forearm on his knee. “are you falling for me already?”

you don’t even bother looking up as you squeeze out a streak of cadmium red onto your palette. “i was smiling at the thought of shoving you off that stool.”

he lets out a low chuckle, leaning back again, hands bracing the edge of the seat as if testing its limits. “that’s fair.”

acrylic meets oil in a slow swirl, the colors blending as you mix with deliberate strokes. outside, the sun shifts, casting golden streaks through the dusty windowpanes, dappling his profile in warm light. he watches you in the silence that follows, something unspoken settling between the brushstrokes and banter.

and that’s how the first session goes—him trying to be difficult, you trying to make him less difficult.

but somewhere between the banter, the occasional begrudging moments of stillness, and the quiet scratch of pencil against paper, something shifts.

at first, he’s just counting down the minutes until he gets paid, watching the clock, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. but then, he starts watching you instead.

satoru notices the way your brow furrows in concentration, the way your fingers hesitate before committing to a line, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when something isn’t turning out right. there’s a softness to you when you work, an intensity that feels different from how people usually look at him. no awe, no expectation—just a quiet, unwavering focus, like he’s something worth capturing.

he should be bored. this kind of thing isn’t for him—sitting still, staying quiet, being studied like some museum exhibit. but he’s not. instead he is interested.

not by the painting itself—he still doesn’t get the whole ‘art’ thing, still doesn’t see why people obsess over lines and colors and whatever meaning they think is hidden beneath. but he gets this. gets the way you treat it like it matters, like it’s something real, something worth your time.

so he keeps coming back.

SPRING bleeds into familiarity as summer approaches. the air carries the scent of sun-warmed pavement and freshly cut grass, the kind of early heat that settles into your skin before you even realize it. days stretch longer, the sunsets grow richer, but in this quiet, in the hush between afternoon and evening, it’s routine now—as natural as practice drills, as effortless as muscle memory.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper, the faint drag of graphite as you sketch his form for the hundredth time. the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you concentrate, brows furrowing in that particular way that means you’re unhappy with a line. the way satoru makes a grand show of complaining, of stretching obnoxiously, of sighing like he’s been sentenced to something far worse than sitting still for an hour—but he always shows up anyway.

“this is cruel and unusual punishment.” satoru groans, slumping back in the chair like the very act of modeling is siphoning the life out of him. his long legs sprawl out, one foot tapping idly against the floor, an unconscious rhythm that betrays his restlessness. strands of white hair fall messily over his forehead, catching in the afternoon light, but he makes no move to fix them. instead, he tilts his head back dramatically, like a man resigned to his fate, letting out a sigh so deep it should echo through the room.

“you’re literally getting paid.” you remind him, tilting your head, adjusting the angle of your sketch with a practiced flick of your wrist. your voice is steady, patient, but there’s a weight to it—a quiet exasperation that makes the corners of his mouth twitch.

the soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the space between you, a contrast to his theatrics. your fingers move with precision, thumb smudging a shadow, expression unreadable as your gaze flickers over him like you’re dissecting every line and curve.

“at what cost?” satoru presses, shifting slightly in his seat, the chair creaking beneath his weight. his arms drape lazily over the armrests, fingers tapping against the wood—anything to keep himself occupied. his restlessness isn’t feigned; he’s never been the type to sit still, and the urge to move tugs at his muscles like an itch he can’t scratch. but he waits, because the way you sketch—brows furrowed, lower lip caught just slightly between your teeth—has him more intrigued than he wants to admit.

“at the cost of you shutting up for five minutes.”

“bold of you to assume i’m capable of that.”

his eyes flick toward you, sharp and searching, waiting for the reaction he knows is coming. for a moment, you’re still, the only movement the subtle shift of your fingers against the page. then—your lips twitch, the barest ghost of amusement, before you catch yourself and shake your head, returning to your work. satoru leans forward just slightly, just enough for the smallest smirk to pull at his lips, because he saw it—saw the way you almost gave in—and he counts that as a win.

you start talking more.

not just the usual corrections or critiques, but more—about your process, your ideas, the frustration of trying to capture his proportions because “seriously, satoru, why are your legs so stupidly long?”

“can’t help that i’m perfect, sweetheart.” he says, flashing a grin, stretching in his seat like he’s on display. his limbs sprawl out with practiced ease, one arm draped over the back of the chair, the other lazily resting against his knee.

“you’re built like a faulty character model,” you mutter, erasing a line with more force than necessary. your brows pinch together, irritation bleeding into your strokes, and satoru watches the way your lips press into a thin line, your focus so sharp it almost cuts.

“so you admit i look unreal.” satoru says smugly, tipping his head to the side, silver strands slipping over the curve of his cheekbone.

you exhale through your nose, controlled and measured, but he catches the slight twitch in your jaw. “yes, satoru. that’s exactly what i meant.”

his grin spreads wider, pleased and easy, tapping his fingers idly against his knee in a steady rhythm. you’re getting used to him now—the sarcasm, the running commentary, the way he moves like he owns the space around him. you roll your eyes less, sigh less, even smirk sometimes—tiny, almost imperceptible, but he catches it every time, cataloging each one like a victory.

he starts talking more, too.

about his classes, about basketball, about how he wasn’t late to his quiz this time because he jumped out a window to avoid his fan girls. he says it so casually, like it’s just another tuesday, like it’s not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard.

“you jumped out a window?” you ask, blinking, your pencil hovering mid-stroke. your brows pinch slightly, lips parting like you’re trying to process the sheer idiocy of it.

“listen, it was a short fall.”

there’s a beat of silence—just enough for him to catch the way your eyes flick over his face, searching for any sign of exaggeration. his smirk is lazy, easy, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll scold him for it.

and then you laugh.

it’s sudden, unfiltered, slipping past your lips before you can catch it. breathless, a little incredulous, like even you can’t believe he’s that ridiculous.

he wasn’t expecting that.

it’s not like you never laugh—you do, just not at him. not like this, not in a way that feels so real, so genuine, so—unfair. it hits him square in the chest, something sharp and electric threading through his ribs, like a perfectly aimed free throw sinking straight through the net.

“oh my god,” you say, shaking your head, still grinning. “you’re actually ridiculous.”

“thank you,” he says, flashing a smug grin, because he made you laugh.

and that’s the first time he realizes he likes your laugh.

so he starts playing it like a game—how many times can he make you laugh in one session? how many times can he distract you before you start scolding him? it’s almost too easy, the way you fall into the rhythm of his teasing, the way your lips press together like you’re fighting back a smile even when you’re glaring at him. he takes it as a challenge, a personal mission to pull a reaction out of you, to chip away at your stubborn focus just enough to make you crack.

“hey, what if you sketched me mid-dunk? you know, capture my essence—” satoru leans forward, gesturing dramatically, his white hair falling into his eyes.

“sit still.” you mutter, not even looking up, but he catches the way your brow furrows just slightly, the way you grip your pencil a little tighter.

“but imagine the drama! the movement! the raw athleticism—” he babbles, spreading his arms wide as if to showcase the sheer grandeur of his idea.

“sit still or i’m deducting your pay.” your voice is flat, but the way your eyes flicker toward him—just for a second—tells him you’re at least half-listening.

“cold.” he pouts, slumping back into the chair, but his grin never wavers.

sometimes, when you’re too absorbed in your work, he shifts in his seat just to see if you’ll notice. a tiny movement, barely anything—but your head always snaps up, your gaze sharp, the slightest exasperation flickering in your expression. “stop that,” you’ll say, and he’ll throw his hands up in mock innocence, feigning surprise. it’s stupid, really, but he likes it.

(he starts winning. he always wins.)

but somewhere along the way, he starts losing, too.

because he catches himself watching you between poses.

satoru catches himself noticing things he shouldn’t—the way you tuck your brush behind your ear when your hands are full, leaving a faint streak of graphite on your temple. the way your sleeves are always smudged with paint, like you’ve been too caught up in your work to care. the way your fingers twitch when you talk, tracing invisible shapes in the air, like you want to sketch your thoughts into existence. it’s the little things, the ones that slip through the cracks when he isn’t paying attention—except he is, now, and he doesn’t know when that started.

catches himself waiting for your sessions.

it sneaks up on him—slow, creeping, like a game he didn't realize he was playing until he was already losing.

one moment, it’s just a side gig, a funny little arrangement, an easy paycheck. another, it’s something else entirely, something that lingers in his mind longer than it should.

because sometimes—which is already a lot—when he steps onto the court, ball tucked under his arm, the first thing he wonders isn’t about the game, but whether you’ll be sketching from the bleachers. sometimes, when he sees something stupidly pretty—the golden slant of light cutting across the gym floor, a perfect shot arcing through the net, the weightless seconds before it sinks—he thinks, you’d know how to capture this.

sometimes, when you’re concentrating, when your brows pull together, when your lips part just slightly in thought, when your whole world narrows to the page in front of you, he thinks—he doesn’t finish that thought. because it’s just routine, right? just the same way he looks forward to practice, to games, to winning.

it’s nothing more than that.

right?

but then, it starts happening—subtle at first, easy to dismiss. a text invitation left on read, a half-hearted ‘maybe’ in response to a party he’d normally say ‘hell yeah!’ to.

it’s a gradual shift, barely noticeable at first—until it is. until suguru eyes him from across the court, spinning a basketball on his fingertips, gaze sharp and knowing.

“you skipping out?” suguru asks one afternoon, his tone casual, but the way he watches satoru says he already knows the answer. “big party tonight. everyone’s going.”

“got plans.” satoru says easily, crouching to tie his laces, fingers tugging the knots tight like he’s sealing the conversation shut.

suguru bounces the ball once, catching it smoothly. “since when do you have plans that don’t involve getting wasted?”

satoru straightens, rolling his shoulders until they pop, shaking out his arms like he’s gearing up for something. his hair is a mess of white strands falling over his forehead, a little damp from practice, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he flashes a smirk, weight shifting easily onto one foot. “i’m broadening my horizons.”

suguru snorts, spinning the ball in his hands. “yeah? what’s her name?”

satoru flicks his wrist, and before suguru can react, his hand snaps out to intercept the ball satoru just stole from him, catching it last second. suguru narrows his eyes, unimpressed. satoru just grins, rocking back on his heels, the picture of insufferable ease. “shut up.”

he tells himself it’s not a big deal. he’s just picking his battles, choosing his nights, being selective.

but then, one evening, his phone buzzes with an invite—exclusive rooftop party, vip only, the kind of thing that would’ve had him saying ‘hell yeah’ months ago. the kind of thing he used to crave, to thrive in, all flashing lights and endless noise, a crowd that could never quite keep up.

instead, he glances at the time, sees that your session starts in half an hour, and swipes the notification away without a second thought.

he doesn’t even hesitate.

SUMMER arrives with a vengeance. spring’s fleeting softness is long gone, replaced by air thick with humidity, pavement hot enough to sizzle, and days that stretch into slow, languid eternity. campus, once alive with restless energy, now feels like an echo of itself—half-abandoned dorms, quiet hallways, the distant hum of cicadas filling the silence. no fan club lurking outside his lectures, no teammates calling his name across the quad. just heat, stillness, and a lot of free time.

satoru gojo is losing his mind.

your dorm is somehow even worse than outside, the air stifling, unmoving, dense with trapped summer heat. the pathetic excuse for a fan in the corner barely stirs the air, its dull hum doing nothing to ease the sweat clinging to his skin. he’s slouched in a chair, legs stretched out, head tilted back dramatically as he groans to no one in particular.

“this is inhumane,” satoru whines, shifting again, the fabric of his jersey clinging uncomfortably to his skin. his arm drapes lazily over his forehead, white bangs damp with sweat, eyes half-lidded in a show of exaggerated suffering. “you can’t expect a man to look this good while melting, y’know.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you move one more time—” you mutter, not looking up from your easel, brush moving in slow, deliberate strokes. there’s a tension in your shoulders, one he recognizes by now—focused, immersed, determined to ignore him.

he cracks an eye open, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “you’ll what?” he drawls, voice syrupy with amusement. “paint me uglier?”

you don’t dignify that with a response, just exhale through your nose and keep working.

it’s been months since you first hired him, and somewhere between his insufferable attitude and your exasperated sighs, something shifted. something settled. something... comfortable.

satoru is still impossible—never quiet, never fully still, always testing limits. but you’re used to him now, the same way you’re used to the hum of your fan or the scratch of your brush against canvas.

and he’s used to you, too.

he knows you never play music while you work (insane). he knows you paint in layers, slow and methodical, as if each stroke is a commitment too big to rush. he knows you hate when people hover over your shoulder—but for some reason, you let him stay.

so he stays.

“remind me why we’re even in the dorms right now?” satoru complains, flopping back onto your bed without permission, limbs splaying like he owns the place.

“because it’s a hassle to go home.” you murmur, brush dragging against the canvas, expression unreadable.

“you say that like normal people wouldn’t want a break from all this,” he gestures vaguely, letting his hand fall limply onto his stomach.

“i don’t like breaks,” you say simply, not bothering to look at him. “breaks mean i stop making things.”

he squints at you, the weight of your words settling in his chest. it sounds like a joke, but it’s not. and just like that, something clicks. maybe you’re here for the same reason he is. not because you have nowhere to go. but because being here is easier than being somewhere else.

he doesn’t say anything. just shifts further onto your bed, limbs sprawling even wider, purely out of pettiness.

the sheets beneath him smell like you—something faint, something warm, something familiar. he exhales, eyes slipping shut for a moment.

yeah. he could stay a little longer.

“seriously,” he groans again, tugging at the neckline of his jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer. with a restless sigh, he rolls onto his stomach, sprawling out across your bed like a cat too lazy to move from a sunspot. his cheek presses against the sheets, indigo eyes flicking lazily toward you, half-lidded from the heat. “why is it so hot? isn’t there some artist trick where you suffer for your work without making me suffer too?”

you don’t bother looking up, your focus unwavering, the soft scratch of your brush against canvas filling the silence between you. there’s a faint crease between your brows, a telltale sign of concentration, though your expression remains unreadable.

“maybe if you stopped talking, you’d cool down.”  you murmur, dipping your brush into a shade of blue.

he scoffs, shifting onto his elbows, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead with a lazy flick of his fingers. “bold of you to assume that’s an option.”

and it irritates him—how unfazed you are. does nothing shake you? does nothing break through that focus?

so it turns into a game.

at first, he starts small—subtle shifts in posture, exaggerated sighs, ridiculous flirtation, all carefully designed to draw your attention. a slow roll of his shoulders, the slight tilt of his head, the stretch of long limbs sprawled across your bed as if he owns the space. each movement is deliberate, each word carefully chosen to poke at you, to pry beneath that layer of calm focus you always seem to wear.

“what if i posed like one of those renaissance statues?” satoru muses, arching his back slightly, stretching his arms over his head, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath sun-warmed skin. his voice is thick with faux contemplation, his white lashes lowering as if he’s actually considering it. “y’know, real dramatic, real divine. make me look like a legend in the making.”

“you already think you’re a legend.” you mutter, the barest flicker of amusement crossing your face, so quick he almost misses it.

his grin sharpens, flashing teeth, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow to watch you work. his hair falls slightly over his forehead, messy and weightless, catching the light in wisps of silver and white. “i mean, aren’t i?”

you don’t even look at him. just reach for your paintbrush, flick your wrist—and suddenly, a few drops of cold paint water splatter against his bare arm.

he yelps, jerking away like you’ve actually wounded him. “the hell—” he glares at the tiny droplets seeping into his skin, like they’re an offense to his very existence. “are you serious? that’s abuse.”

you hum, not bothering to hide the faint smirk on your lips as you dip your brush back into the paint.

his narrowed eyes linger on your expression, on the relaxed set of your shoulders, on the tiny, satisfied twitch of your mouth.

(point goes to you.)

when that doesn’t work, he switches tactics.

his gaze flickers to the stack of empty ramen cups in the corner, precariously balanced like a monument to bad decisions. his lips twitch, smug and knowing, before his eyes drift toward the mini fridge tucked against the wall. last time he checked—which was purely out of curiosity, mind you—it was nearly empty, save for a half-full bottle of water and a single, sad yogurt cup. it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“do you always paint this obsessively?”

“yes.”

“do you ever eat?”

“obviously.”

he hums, stretching his arms behind his head, the movement making his damp jersey stick even more uncomfortably to his skin.

“…you sure?”

your brush hesitates—a fraction of a second, barely noticeable, but he notices. then, just as quickly, you resume painting, voice perfectly even, expression carefully blank.

“what’s with the interrogation?”

“just curious,” he says, shifting until his long legs are stretched across the bed. his head tilts back against the sheets, white strands of hair falling messily over his forehead. “plus, if you pass out mid-session, who’s gonna pay me?”

you roll your eyes, exhaling through your nose, the corners of your mouth twitching. “i’ll put that in my will. ‘to satoru gojo, my life drawing model and worst financial decision.’”

satoru's laughter bursts out of him, loud and unfiltered, cutting through the thick, oppressive heat of the room. it’s the kind of laugh that makes walls feel smaller, that shifts the air, that lingers longer than it should.

and you don’t hide your small smile fast enough.

his laughter stutters for half a second, his sharp eyes catching the curve of your lips before you press them together again. fleeting, but unmistakable. something smug and delighted unfurls in his chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the summer air.

his grin stretches slow and wicked. “oh, you like me,” he sings, rolling onto his back, looking at you upside down with that insufferable glint in his eyes.

“i tolerate you.” you correct, but your hand twitches, and before he can blink, another flick of your brush sends a tiny splash of paint in his direction.

he yelps, twisting away, but it’s too late.

(he’s still winning.)

but then—he moves too much.

a shift of his shoulders, an exaggerated sigh, the creak of your mattress beneath him. his knee bumps against your sketchbook, disrupting the careful balance of supplies stacked at the foot of the bed. then, as if testing the limits of your patience, he stretches, arms extending above his head, his basketball jersey riding up just slightly—just enough to reveal the sharp dip of his waist, the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. his head tilts back against your pillow, and he groans, long and drawn out.

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a click before pushing yourself up from your stool.

satoru's eyes track your movement, bright and sharp even in the dim light of your dorm. he’s expecting a scolding, maybe even an irritated glare. but there’s something different this time—your expression unreadable, your gaze fixed on him with that same unwavering focus that always throws him off. you move with purpose, deliberate steps closing the space between you, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the heat pressing heavier against his skin, against the air between you.

he watches, waiting for the usual sigh, the exasperated reminder to stop fidgeting. he waits for you to roll your eyes and mutter something about how he’s impossible to work with.

instead—your fingers catch his chin, tilting it just so.

satoru's breath hitches, barely perceptible, but you don’t notice—or if you do, you don’t acknowledge it. your touch is firm, not hesitant, your thumb grazing just beneath his jaw as you adjust the angle of his face. then, without a second thought, your hand shifts, fingers ghosting along the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, brushing against the sensitive skin below his ear. there’s dried paint smudged on your fingertips, faint streaks of color that leave invisible traces against his skin, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

you don’t stop there.

your other hand lifts, smoothing his slouched shoulders back against the pillows, fingertips pressing briefly into the fabric of his jersey. then you reach for his wrist, shifting his arm so it drapes more naturally across his stomach. and all the while, you’re silent, your movements efficient, unthinking—like touching him is no different than adjusting the angle of a still life, like he’s just another part of the composition you’re perfecting.

before the silence stretches too long, before his brain can fully process the casual way you just handled him, he grins, slow and wicked.

“damn,” he drawls, voice lazy, smug, but there’s something tight beneath the ease of it. his head tilts back slightly against your pillow, eyes half-lidded, watching you with a mixture of mischief and something deeper—something that makes his smirk seem almost too deliberate, like he’s waiting for you to react. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“what?” you say absently, fingers still deftly adjusting the angle of his jaw, your touch steady as you tilt his chin just another fraction higher. the concentration in your expression is unreadable, but your gaze never wavers, sharp and focused. he notices how your brows furrow just the slightest, the way your lips press together in a line that says you’re not going to let him distract you this time.

“nothing,” he smirks, his grin widening, amused by the way your hands move over him with such intention. his fingers twitch where they rest against the blanket, itching for something to do, but he forces himself to remain still, curious to see how far he can push you. “just—y’know, if you wanted me like one of your french girls, you could’ve just said so.”

your fingers tighten slightly in response, the faintest press of your nails against his skin—not quite a warning, but close. you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat under your fingertips, steady but accelerating just slightly, as if your touch has an effect on him he’s unwilling to admit. there’s an almost imperceptible shift in his posture, as if he's bracing himself, but his eyes are still locked on you, playful but careful.

“if you don’t shut up,” you say, voice perfectly even, calm in the face of his teasing, “i will paint you uglier.” the words roll off your tongue without hesitation, but there’s an edge to them, something you both know you mean more than you let on. your hand doesn’t move from his jaw, but your fingers tighten for a moment—enough to make him flinch, just barely—and it’s enough to make his grin falter.

“mm. bold of you to assume i have a bad angle.” his voice is dripping with sarcasm, his smirk returning in full force, and his hand twitches again as if he’s resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you in return. but he holds himself back, all too aware that this is your space—your process—and he’s simply a subject in it. yet, his confidence remains unshaken, a challenge flickering behind his eyes.

you give his jaw a deliberate little nudge, the motion slow and purposeful, and barely suppress a sigh as you watch him react—his body tensing under your touch, as if the slight pressure is just the right amount to make him ache for more. but you’re not finished, not yet.

“stay still, satoru.” you murmur, your voice the slightest bit sharper this time, but with a subtle undercurrent of something softer. he could almost mistake it for a command, if not for the way you adjust his position with gentle precision, ensuring every detail of his form is just as you want it. your eyes flicker over him, tracing the angles of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his neck—something about the way you hold him, make him stay, makes him feel like you’re in complete control, and that’s when it hits him.

he doesn’t dare move.

not because he suddenly respects the process.

but because your fingers are cool against his overheated skin, an unexpected relief against the oppressive heat of the room. because for a moment, when you adjusted his posture, you were close enough for him to see the flecks of paint on your cheek, the way your lashes framed your eyes, the soft crease in your forehead when you concentrate.

because you touched him without hesitation. without thought. without treating him like something fragile, something distant, something untouchable.

and he doesn’t move for the next three hours.

...oh.

he’s in grave danger.

AUTUMN arrives with brisk winds and golden light, the air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and distant bonfires. the campus shifts with the season, summer’s lazy sprawl giving way to hurried footsteps and layered clothing, students caught between clinging to warmth and embracing the inevitable cold. the world feels sharper now, edges clearer, the sun hanging lower in the sky, stretching shadows across the pavement. satoru gojo hasn’t changed much, still striding through campus like he owns it, but there’s something different in the way he keeps showing up.

it starts with a realization: you’re an idiot with money.

satoru has been modeling for you for months now, first as a casual arrangement, then as an unspoken habit, and now—now he’s not even sure what to call it. at first, it was just a side hustle, a way to fund his snack addiction and make up for his tendency to forget that classes required effort. he still shows up late sometimes, still complains about holding the same pose for too long, still finds ways to annoy you just to see how you’ll react. but somewhere between summer and autumn, it stopped being about the money.

because you’re routine now.

just like basketball practice. just like late-night convenience store runs. just like winning. he doesn’t think about it too much, doesn’t poke at the feeling, just lets it settle into the spaces between his days. but then, one evening, it clicks—this thing between you isn’t exactly balanced. because for all the money you pay him, you’re the one stretching yourself thin.

it happens when he catches you eating a sad cup of instant noodles for what must be the fourth day in a row.

at first, he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you peel back the lid, steam curling weakly into the cool autumn air. he thinks maybe it’s a preference thing, some weird artist habit, until his gaze drifts—to the extra commissions stacked on your desk, the supply receipts stuffed into your sketchbook, the way you barely check your phone unless it’s him texting about a session. your fingers tighten around your chopsticks, movements slower than usual, exhaustion threading through the way you stir the noodles.

you are, quite literally, funding him instead of yourself.

“again?” he finally asks, gesturing at your dinner. his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else behind it, something sharper, like he’s waiting for you to slip up. he watches the way you barely react, how your grip on the chopsticks stays loose, how you keep your focus on the pitiful cup of noodles steaming in your hands instead of looking at him. his knee bounces once, a restless motion, before he stills it with a pointed exhale.

you shrug, not meeting his eyes, stirring half-heartedly, and the broth sloshes over the rim, spilling onto your sleeve in a dark stain. but you don’t react, don’t even seem to notice, just keep stirring, keep avoiding his gaze like you can will this conversation into disappearing. “i have a budget.” you say, voice even, detached, like you’re stating a fact and not making an excuse. your fingers tighten around the flimsy cup for half a second before you force yourself to loosen them, nudging a stray noodle back under the broth like you can’t feel his eyes on you.

satoru narrows his eyes, shifting where he sits, the mattress creaking under his weight. his arms stretch over his head for a beat, but there’s tension in the motion, his jaw tight even as he forces himself to lean back, feigning nonchalance. “you literally raised my pay just to get me to pose.” he says, voice incredulous, edged with something between concern and irritation. he isn’t laughing anymore, isn’t teasing, just watching, waiting, expecting you to have some kind of answer.

“those two are completely different things.” you mumble, slurping up some noodles like the conversation isn’t happening, like you can hide behind the motion. your posture shifts, shoulders curling inward, the steam from the cup rising in thin wisps against your face, half-obscuring your expression.

different how?

but you don’t elaborate.

you don’t meet his eyes, either, just keep pushing your noodles around the cup, the movements small, aimless, stalling. his gaze flickers down, catches the little details—the fading paint stains on your fingers, the slight tremor in the way you stir, the tension coiled in your shoulders like you’re bracing for something. he exhales, head tilting, watching you with the same sharpness he saves for an opponent about to make a move, for a moment of weakness he can take advantage of—but this time, it doesn’t feel like a game.

and then, all at once, it clicks. how much you’re actually paying him. how much of your already-limited allowance is going to him just so you can paint. how much you’re giving up without a word, without a complaint, without even a hint of hesitation.

and suddenly, his next paycheck doesn’t sit right with him.

so from that moment on, satoru starts caring for you in ways you don’t even notice.

it’s subtle at first, woven into the fabric of your routine, slipping in so seamlessly that you almost don’t register the shift. he still shows up late sometimes, still drags his feet through the doorway like he’s doing you a favor, but now—now he’s always carrying something. a plastic bag crinkles against his fingers as he drops it onto your desk, careless and offhand, like he isn’t watching for your reaction.

“leftovers,” he says way too casually when you glance up at him, suspicion flickering in your eyes. his voice is loose, unconcerned, but there’s something too deliberate in the way he nudges the bag closer, the way his hand lingers just a second too long before he pulls away. “figured you’d want ‘em before i threw them out.”

you eye the freshly wrapped onigiri and convenience store sandwiches, brows knitting together as your fingers hesitate over the bag. the packaging is neat, unopened, no signs of the mindless picking and half-eaten portions he usually leaves behind when he’s actually careless. “…since when do you not finish your food?” your voice is skeptical, flat, but there’s something guarded in the way you ask it, something careful.

“since now,” he says, flopping onto your bed with the kind of dramatic ease only he can manage. his hoodie rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of pale skin, but he doesn’t bother adjusting it, too busy stretching his arms over his head. “just eat it before i change my mind.”

you do. you don’t question it, don’t pick apart the way he shifts his weight against your mattress like he’s making himself at home, don’t dwell on the way his voice sounded just a little softer than usual. he pretends not to notice when you eat in silence, barely glancing at him. but later that night, when you’re alone, you find yourself smiling down at the empty wrapper before tossing it in the trash.

then he starts paying for your drinks when you go out, slipping the cash over the counter before you can argue, calling it his ‘treat’ like he’s some kind of benevolent patron.

“you only say that because i’m the only artist you know.” you deadpan, reaching for your coffee, fingers brushing the warmth of the cup.

“yeah,” he grins, unapologetic, smug, like he’s already won something. his fingers drum lightly against the side of his own cup, restless energy bleeding through the way he leans just slightly into your space. “and you’re killin’ it at first place.”

your fingers twitch slightly against the cup, grip adjusting like you’re trying to steady something that isn’t your coffee. you pretend not to feel the warmth in your chest, pretend his words don’t settle somewhere deep, somewhere dangerous. but when you take a sip, you don’t fight the way the heat lingers.

but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

satoru watches the way you flip through your sketchbook, fingers skimming the edges of each page like you’re weighing how much space you have left. he sees the way your gaze lingers on your paint tubes, the way your thumb presses absently against the label, as if debating whether the color is worth using. he notices the way your sleeves push up slightly when you mix paints, the faintest crease forming between your brows when you check how much is left. you won’t take money from him outright—he knows that much—but maybe, just maybe, he can get you to make money some other way.

so he tries introducing you to sports betting, grinning like he’s telling you the best-kept secret in the world. his energy is relentless, all sharp confidence and easy arrogance, like he truly believes he’s about to change your life. you don’t even need to look up to know he’s leaning in too close, elbows braced against your desk, practically radiating self-satisfaction. it’s unbearable.

“satoru, that’s literally gambling,” you say flatly, dragging your pencil across the page, deliberately uninterested.

“it’s strategic investing,” satoru corrects, voice smooth, pleased with himself, like he’s just introduced you to some kind of financial loophole. he shifts slightly, and his jersey slips off one shoulder, exposing the curve of his collarbone, but he doesn’t seem to notice—too caught up in his own nonsense. his fingers tap against your desk, impatient, restless, waiting for you to take the bait.

you don’t. instead, you finally glance up, brows raised. “you lost thirty bucks last week.”

his lips part like he’s about to argue, but then he pauses, reconsiders, and pivots. “okay, but that was a fluke,” he says, already curling his mouth into a perfectly crafted pout.

“was it?”

satoru exhales dramatically, like this conversation is somehow exhausting him, and drops his head onto your sketchbook, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re still holding a pencil. “have a little faith in me, damn.”

you shake your head, amused despite yourself. you shouldn’t be. you should shut this down, make it clear that you have no intention of entertaining whatever scheme he’s trying to rope you into.

but then—

“fine,” you say one day, flipping through your sketchbook, voice too casual, too offhanded. like this is barely worth mentioning, like you’re not actively indulging him. “i’ll bet on your team.”

the change is immediate.

satoru's body goes still, and for once, there’s no teasing, no smirk, no cocky remark. just a blink—slow, calculating—like he’s processing the words more carefully than anything else you’ve ever said to him. the tension lasts only a second before his mouth curves into something dangerous, something sharp, something entirely too pleased.

oh. oh, no.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice all silk and trouble, reaching up to ruffle his already-messy hair. his fingers linger for a second, pushing back the damp strands before he tilts his head at you, grin widening. “you’re not gonna regret that.”

he doesn’t wait for your response. he’s already out the door. and frankly, you didn't expect the game to be brutal.

clearly, your estimate was wrong. the gym is packed, filled with students from both universities, the air thick with tension, sweat, and school pride. banners hang from the walls, school colors clashing, chants echoing through the space like war cries. the visiting team—tall, muscular, built like they were engineered for this—carries themselves with the weight of confidence, a roster of starters who have dominated the league all season. they tower over the court, standing like an immovable wall of defense, but it only takes one play for them to realize they’re in trouble.

because satoru gojo is simply faster. better.

the moment the ball is in his hands, he moves like he owns the court. the opposing point guard—a solid 6’5 with broad shoulders and a killer defensive record—lunges to block him, but it’s over before it even starts. satoru feints left, shifts right, and leaves him grasping at air, breaking into a sprint toward the basket before the others can react. their power forward—tall, heavy, built for blocking shots—steps in, arms raised high, but satoru barely acknowledges him.

because satoru is 6’3, fast as hell, and has a vertical leap that makes people question physics. he jumps, body twisting mid-air, and the slam dunk is so violent it rattles the rim.

the crowd erupts.

the visiting team’s coach is already shouting, hands flying in frustration as his players scramble to reorganize. they try to lock satoru down, try to double-team him, but it’s pointless—his crossovers are disrespectful, his footwork impossible to track, his speed completely unfair. one defender—6’7, easily one of the best in the league—steps up, stance wide, arms ready, but satoru doesn’t even give him time to think.

because satoru is playing with purpose.

his second shot? half-court. no hesitation.

the ball soars through the air, clean, perfect, and the second it lands through the net, satoru is already turning away, smirking as if he knew it would go in before he even let go.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” nanami mutters, watching as the other university’s shooting guard—who up until now had been known for his defense—grabs his knees like he’s questioning his life choices.

“they’re frustrated,” suguru notes, amused, stepping up beside satoru during a dead ball.

“they should be.” satoru says, rolling his shoulders, letting his sweat-slicked jersey shift against his skin. he looks completely relaxed—untouched, unbothered, infuriatingly smug—as if he isn’t systematically destroying one of the best teams in the league.

but this isn’t just about winning.

because every time he scores, he looks at you.

he doesn’t even try to be subtle. his icy blue eyes flick up to the bleachers, head tilting slightly, lips curving into a knowing grin. his fan girls scream, convinced he’s looking at them, but you know better. because satoru isn’t just playing—he’s showing off.

he breaks past another defender with ridiculous ease, dribbling once before stepping back for a three-pointer that barely even touches the rim. the opposing team’s captain calls for a switch, barking out orders, but it doesn’t matter—they can’t stop him.

the timeout huddle is a mess.

players are breathing hard, jerseys clinging to sweat-damp skin, shoulders rising and falling as they try to recover. the gym is loud—too loud—the crowd still buzzing from the absolute disaster that was the first half. their coach is talking, something about holding the lead, tightening defense, not getting cocky, but no one is listening. because across the circle, satoru is still grinning like he’s having the time of his life.

“yo, what the hell is wrong with you today?” suguru mutters, tossing him a towel, brow furrowed like he’s genuinely concerned.

satoru catches it with one hand, absently wiping the sweat from his forehead, movements lazy, easy, completely unbothered. his white hair is a mess, strands curling slightly from the heat, the glow of the overhead lights catching on the sharp angles of his face. his jersey is clinging to his frame, fabric damp where it stretches over his shoulders, his chest, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or care. instead, he tugs the collar away from his skin, letting the cool air hit, eyes flicking up toward the stands like he’s looking for something.

or rather, someone.

“nothing.” he says, voice easy, light, like he didn’t just dismantle an entire university’s defense and humiliate half their starters in front of a packed gym. his breath is steady, not a hint of exhaustion, only the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his damp jersey, fabric clinging to his frame, sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone. his hair is an absolute mess, strands sticking to his forehead, white against flushed skin, but he makes no move to fix it. he just breathes in deep, exhales slow, and grins wider, a lazy, knowing curl of his lips, all sharp edges and unchecked arrogance.

then, too casually—“just gotta make sure my girl gets paid.”

suguru blinks. once. twice. then exhales, a slow, measured breath, like he’s trying to process what he just heard.

his expression shifts—not shocked, not confused, but amused. a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, dark eyes glinting with something knowing, something entertained. because this is the same girl, isn’t it? the same girl satoru was ditching party invitations for, choosing study sessions over late-night drinks for, showing up to campus early for when he barely woke up on time for class.

“...oh?” suguru says, just to hear him say it again.

but satoru doesn’t elaborate. doesn’t even look away from the stands. just flips the towel over his shoulder, rolls his wrists like this is just another game, like he hasn’t just set the entire gym on fire with a single sentence.

the buzzer blasts. second half starts. and satoru gojo is playing for blood.

the other university comes back from halftime determined, desperate, their coach gesturing wildly from the sidelines, barking orders as if sheer strategy will make up for the fact that they are losing to one man. they throw everything at satoru—double teams, switches, aggressive press defense—but none of it matters. he slips through them like water, like air, like something untouchable, moving with the kind of ease that makes even the referees hesitate before blowing the whistle.

he isn’t just scoring—he’s playing with them.

he spins the ball between his fingers, a lazy smirk curling at his lips, then passes it off last second, only to sprint across the court faster than anyone expects and sink a corner three. when their shooting guard tries to lock him down, satoru just laughs—actual laughter, low and effortless, before stepping back and draining another deep shot, his wrist flicking with a perfect follow-through. it barely touches the net.

you shouldn’t be this invested.

but your eyes track him anyway, caught up in the rhythm of his movements, in the way his jersey clings to the shape of his shoulders, the sweat glistening at the hollow of his throat. he’s moving like this is personal, like the entire game is some elaborate performance meant for you alone, and it’s starting to get to you. every time he scores, he glances up, searching for you in the stands, and you hate that your stomach flips when his gaze finds yours.

you hate it even more when you catch yourself smiling.

he’s impossible to ignore, too bright, too loud, too much. the crowd responds to him like he’s some kind of basketball god, voices rising every time he moves, a mix of screams, chants, and what you’re pretty sure is an entire row of students calling out his name. his fan girls are in absolute chaos, some clutching each other’s arms, others dramatically swooning, like they’re seconds away from fainting just from watching him exist.

the other team is beyond frustrated.

they’ve thrown everything at him—double teams, switches, aggressive defense—but it doesn’t matter. because satoru isn’t just playing to win. he’s playing to humiliate.

his next victim is their shooting guard, 6’4, all muscle, built like he should be a defensive wall. he steps up, arms wide, eyes sharp, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. but satoru? satoru doesn’t even look like he’s trying. he bounces the ball once, twice, just enough to let the anticipation build, before shifting forward like he’s about to drive in.

the defender lunges and satoru, the absolute menace that he is, just stands there.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even attempt to go around him. just watches—completely unbothered, completely still—as the guy flies past him, momentum carrying him forward, stumbling face-first onto the court.

the crowd gasps.

the defender scrambles to recover, but it’s already over. satoru spins the ball in his hands, takes a single step back, and—without even looking at the rim—launches a half-court shot.

the ball soars, clean, effortless, perfect. it barely even touches the net. the gym absolutely erupts. and then—he winks up at the bleachers.

or rather, at you.

it’s infuriatingly slow, deliberate, the corner of his mouth curling up in a way that is both cocky and playful. his white hair is a mess, damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, but it only makes the sharpness of his features more pronounced. his lips part slightly, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, the blue of his eyes catching under the lights—bright, focused, sharp enough to be dangerous.

the reaction is immediate.

“he saw me!” someone shrieks, grabbing their friend’s arm in a death grip.

“no, he was looking at me!” another one yells, voice already breaking.

“oh my god, he’s literally flirting with our section!”

meanwhile, you’re still just watching him play, like he didn’t just incite a full-scale riot in the stands. you don’t even think—you just lift your hand, give him a thumbs up, then go right back to pretending this is normal.

satoru freezes.

for a split second, he stares, blinking like he wasn’t expecting you to actually respond. the gym is too loud, too chaotic, but all of it fades into static as he holds your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his expression.

then—his grin stretches slow and sharp, something almost dangerous flashing in his expression.

the opposing team barely has time to react. the second satoru turns back to the game, he’s already moving.

their point guard makes the mistake of hesitating, fingers gripping the ball a second too long as he scans the court for an opening. satoru doesn’t wait. he lunges forward, impossibly fast, cutting through the space between them like a blade. his hand shoots out, fingers slapping against the ball with a sharp, decisive smack, and suddenly—it’s his.

the steal is clean, effortless, unfair.

the defender barely has time to curse before satoru is already gone, already breaking into a full sprint down the court. his movements are fluid, sharp, ruthless, his jersey clinging to the sweat on his skin as he takes off, the crowd roaring in anticipation.

a single defender manages to keep up, breathing hard, desperate, sprinting beside him in a last-ditch effort to block him. but satoru doesn’t even look at him. doesn’t even acknowledge him.

he takes one step inside the paint—then jumps. and he just keeps going. the crowd screams as he soars, legs tucking, arm pulling back, body arching so high it feels unreal. the defender leaps, arms stretching, trying—failing.

because satoru gojo is 6’3, fast as hell, and plays above the rim like the air belongs to him.

his fingers clamp around the ball, grip firm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he swings forward—then slams it through the net with enough force to make the entire backboard rattle.

the gym explodes. the other university’s bench is silent. their coach buries his face in his hands.

satoru drops back down to the court, landing lightly on his feet, rolling his shoulders as if he didn’t just commit a crime in front of a full audience. he turns, gaze flicking up toward the bleachers—toward you. his fan girls lose their minds.

but you? you don’t stand a chance.

you exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips, trying to ignore the warmth creeping into your face. you’re not swooning—you refuse to be one of them, one of the girls throwing themselves at him like he’s some kind of untouchable idol. but your fingers curl against your sketchbook, grip tightening, and you know you’re falling for him anyway.

the game is already over.

the scoreboard doesn’t say it yet, but everyone knows. satoru knows. the other university knows. even their coach, red-faced and exhausted from yelling, has stopped trying to call plays that might turn things around. but satoru? he’s still playing like he has something to prove.

his next move is straight-up cruel.

their point guard is waiting for him at the three-point line, arms wide, stance low, feet planted like he’s ready for anything. he isn’t. satoru bounces the ball between his legs once, twice, then shifts forward just enough to make it look like he’s driving in. the defender lunges, panicked, reaching out to block him—but satoru is already gone.

a single, fluid crossover sends the guy sprawling onto the court, hands catching empty air as satoru steps back and sinks another three-pointer like he’s just shooting around at practice. the bench erupts, players falling over each other in disbelief, a mix of laughter and shouts filling the gym. even the referee—usually stone-faced and neutral—lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.

you cover your mouth with your sleeve, shoulders shaking as you try to stifle your laughter. it’s unfair, really, how easily he does this—how easily he turns the game into his own personal stage, his own playground.

he doesn’t even look at the scoreboard. he looks at you.

your breath catches, because this time, there’s something different in the way he holds your gaze. he isn’t just searching for a reaction—he’s watching. like he’s waiting for something. like he’s confirming something.

your fingers tighten against your sleeve. you know.

and from the way his smirk softens just slightly, the way his head tilts, eyes bright beneath the glare of the gym lights—he knows, too.

the final seconds tick down.

the other team stops trying to chase the score—they know it’s hopeless. some of them don’t even bother running back on defense anymore, hands on their hips, breathing hard, completely defeated. when the final buzzer blares, it’s almost mercy at this point, the end of a game that should’ve stopped being competitive long ago.

final score: 112-39.

satoru lifts his arms in a lazy stretch, grinning, completely unbothered, as if he didn’t just personally crush one of the highest-ranked teams in the league. sweat clings to his skin, his jersey damp, hair an absolute mess, but he still looks ridiculously good, annoyingly confident.

his teammates crowd him immediately, patting his back, ruffling his hair, laughing at his absolute disrespect on the court. he takes it all in stride, leaning against suguru’s shoulder like he didn’t just outrun everyone on that court, fingers lifting in a lazy peace sign as cameras flash.

but the moment he’s free—he looks for you.

he doesn’t find you right away.

by the time the final buzzer blares and the court erupts into cheers, you’re already making your way down the bleachers, tucking your sketchbook under your arm like you can pretend you weren’t watching him the entire time. the gym is still loud, electric, the energy of the crowd vibrating against your skin as students swarm the court, players getting swallowed up in a mess of high-fives and celebratory shouts. you keep your head down, moving quickly, telling yourself that you’re just avoiding the chaos, that you’re not actually running from him.

but then—footsteps. fast. deliberate. coming straight for you.

“oi, oi—why are you leaving so fast?”

too late.

you barely have time to react before satoru catches up, falling into step beside you, grinning like he’s won something more than just a game. he’s still breathless from the court, his jersey damp, sweat clinging to the edges of his hair, but he moves easily, like the entire game was just a warm-up. the fluorescent lights overhead catch on the sharp line of his jaw, on the bright blue of his eyes, on the smug tilt of his lips as he leans in slightly, invading your space like it’s his right.

“so,” satoru drawls, voice still rough from exertion, breath still a little uneven. his skin glows under the fluorescent lights, sweat clinging to the sharp lines of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the stray strands of white hair sticking to his forehead. but he doesn’t seem to care—too busy grinning, too busy basking in his victory. he leans in slightly, crowding into your space the way he always does, eyes alight with something smug, something expectant. “how’s it feel to profit off your favorite athlete?”

you blink, gripping your sketchbook a little tighter, pressing it against your chest like a shield. this is not a conversation you want to have right now—not when he looks like that, not when he’s still riding the high of the game, not when he’s standing too close, towering over you, sweat-drenched and insufferably pleased with himself.

“…i think i probably only made like twenty bucks.”

he freezes. for the first time all night, satoru gojo short-circuits. “...huh?”

you shift your weight slightly, trying not to smile, but he sees the way your fingers twitch, the way your gaze flickers away for half a second, like you’re barely keeping it together. “i only bet the minimum,” you admit, voice calm, unaffected, like you didn’t just shatter his entire perception of the game. “didn’t wanna risk too much.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

satoru's grin falters. his gaze sharpens, like he’s replaying the last two hours in his head, like he’s remembering every dunk, every deep three-pointer, every ridiculous play he pulled off—all under the assumption that you had gone all in.

you see the exact moment he realizes. he ruined a college team’s entire morale for twenty bucks. he also accidentally started several dating rumors.

“no way.” his voice is flat, almost horrified. “no actual way.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, struggling to keep your expression neutral. it’s too easy.

he runs a hand through his hair, pushing back the damp strands, still looking like he’s processing an entire life-altering event. “you—you barely even bet?”

“yup.”

“so you weren’t—” he gestures vaguely, looking genuinely lost, like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe itself. “you weren’t, like, invested?”

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, because you suddenly feel kind of bad. “not really.”

his expression crumbles.

“oh my god.” he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his temples like this is causing him actual physical pain. “i wasted all my best moves for twenty bucks?”

you nod, lips pressing together, but this time, the guilt outweighs the amusement. you peek up at him, watching the way he slouches slightly, shoulders dropping, his usual confidence momentarily replaced with the weight of sheer disbelief.

“…i mean,” you murmur, hesitant, before reaching into your pocket. “you looked pretty cool.”

he doesn’t react immediately, still looking far too devastated to register your words, but when you pull out a neatly folded handkerchief and raise it toward him, he finally glances down.

his brows lift.

“what’s this?” he asks, voice suspicious, but there’s something softer in it now, something curious.

you swallow, suddenly self-conscious, but you don’t pull your hand back. “you’re, um… sweating.”

his lips twitch.

“oh?” he says, and now he’s watching you instead of the handkerchief, instead of anything else.

you avert your gaze, cheeks warming slightly, but you still reach up carefully, dabbing the cloth against his forehead with quiet, deliberate movements. he goes still, just for a second, just long enough for you to register the shift in the air, the way his breath hitches almost imperceptibly.

then—slowly, teasingly—

“damn,” he murmurs. “if i knew you’d be this sweet about it, i would’ve played even harder.”

your fingers pause, pressing against his skin just a fraction longer than necessary, before you pull back abruptly, heart stumbling over itself.

“forget it.” you mutter, stuffing the handkerchief back into your pocket, turning on your heel.

satoru laughs, bright and unbothered, falling into step beside you like he wasn’t just existentially wrecked a minute ago. and somehow, you know this isn’t the last time he’s going to make you feel like this.

but as it turns out, offering satoru a handkerchief isn’t enough to alleviate his mood—he sulks for an entire week.

he still shows up, still lounges around your dorm like he owns the place, but everything he does is unnecessarily dramatic. he sighs—loudly and often—collapsing onto your furniture like his limbs don’t work properly. he sprawls across your bed without asking, flopping onto his stomach like some overgrown cat, muttering about betrayal every time you glance at him. he pokes at your art supplies absentmindedly, dragging a finger along the rim of your paint jars, staring mournfully at your sketchbook like it personally wronged him.

satoru refuses to play pickup games at the campus court, claiming he’s ‘retired’ after his efforts were wasted on someone who only bet the bare minimum. he stretches out on your floor instead, staring at the ceiling with the air of a fallen war hero, occasionally tossing a basketball in the air and catching it one-handed—just to remind you of what was lost.

“you could’ve told me.” he grumbles one evening, sprawled out in the middle of your dorm, arms crossed like a petulant child. his hair is still damp from practice, the ends curling slightly where sweat has dried, but he hasn’t even changed out of his jersey yet—too busy sulking.

you hum in response, dipping your brush into a fresh shade of blue, too used to his dramatics to entertain them. “what, that i wasn’t planning to go broke over a basketball game?”

“yes!” he says miserably, rolling onto his side so he can stare at you like you personally ruined his life.

his arms are still crossed, but one hand is half-buried in his hair, fingers tugging lightly at the strands, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and heartbreak. “i would’ve toned it down.”

you snort, finally glancing at him. his blue eyes are fixed on you, sharp but lazy, like he’s waiting for you to admit you were wrong. “no, you wouldn’t have.”

satoru opens his mouth—probably to argue, probably to deny that he's the most dramatic person alive—but then he catches the look on your face. something shifts in his expression, something slower, something warmer, like he’s seeing you in a way he hadn’t before. for the first time since he walked into your dorm today, he goes quiet.

you don’t look away.

outside, the wind rattles against your window, golden leaves scraping against the glass. the air smells crisp, cold, like the start of something new. autumn is settling in.

“…did you at least have fun?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. your voice is lighter than usual, quieter, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it anyway.

he doesn’t answer right away.

he just grins, lazy, easy, completely insufferable, like he knows something you’re not ready to admit yet.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “guess i did.”

the last days of AUTUMN slip in quietly, fading into the edges of routine like the final strokes of a painting.

the air is sharper now, biting, enough that satoru finally stops showing up in just his jersey—though he still refuses to wear anything heavier than a hoodie, claiming he’s "built different." the wind rattles your dorm window more often, slipping through the cracks to nip at your fingers as you paint, and the trees outside stand bare and skeletal, their golden leaves now forgotten heaps on the pavement, damp and crumbling underfoot.

and then, there’s finals.

campus shifts with the season, brimming with stress, the energy heavier, more desperate. the library is always full, lights flickering through the windows at all hours of the night. students hunch over laptops in cafés, their cups stacked high with unfinished coffee, their fingers smudged with ink and exhaustion.

and you—you are pushing yourself too hard.

satoru sees it before you do.

he sees it in the way your hands don’t move as fluidly when you paint, how your brushes sit in murky water for too long before you remember to rinse them out. he sees it in the way you rub your eyes more often, fingertips pressing against your temples when you think no one’s looking. the way you sip your coffee like it’s medicine, like you need it just to stay upright.

but more than anything, he sees it in the way you’ve stopped sketching between sessions.

at first, he doesn’t say anything.

because he knows you. knows that you hate being told to slow down, that you treat breaks like enemies, that unfinished work sits on your conscience like an open wound.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, not even bothering to pretend they’re leftovers anymore. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, side-eyes your instant noodles with blatant, unfiltered disapproval.

so instead, he tries harder in ways you don’t notice.

he starts bringing you food more often, no longer bothering with the flimsy excuse of calling them leftovers. he tosses a granola bar at you before every session, always with an offhanded comment—"don’t die on me, yeah?"—before flopping onto your bed like he didn’t just shove sustenance into your hands. he drops a water bottle onto your desk without explanation, the plastic cool against your wrist as you sketch, and side-eyes your instant noodles like they personally offend him. when you ignore him, he clicks his tongue in disapproval, muttering something about "atrocious dietary habits" like he’s one to talk.

“you’re not my mom, satoru.” you say one evening, peeling the wrapper off the snack he just unceremoniously threw at you.

“nah,” he scoffs, propping himself up on one elbow, watching you unwrap it with clear satisfaction. “if i was your mom, i’d actually let you starve so you’d learn a lesson.”

you pause, narrowing your eyes. “...what lesson?”

he shrugs, grinning like he didn’t just say something completely unhinged, dimples showing slightly. “i dunno. that eating real food is important or some shit.”

you roll your eyes, but you still eat whatever he brings.

and when you think he’s not looking, you chew a little slower, savoring the warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the food.

he starts texting you more, too.

[10:47 PM] still awake?

[10:48 PM] wait dumb question. ofc you are.

[10:48 PM] go to sleep before ur brain melts. if you can’t sleep we can call, im a wonderful singer.

[10:49 PM] also if ur ignoring me rn i’m gonna be soooo hurt u don’t even know.

[10:50 PM] i’m okay, satoru.

[10:51 PM] just a little tired. i’ll sleep soon.

[10:51 PM] thank you for checking, though.

he doesn’t reply right away.

you stare at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, wondering if he fell asleep or got distracted, if he’s still there. as if sensing this, his replies arrive.

[10:54 PM] yeah, i know.

[10:54 PM] but take it easy, okay?

[10:55 PM] i’ll see you tomorrow.

you exhale, something warm settling in your chest, something you don’t have the energy to unpack right now.

[10:56 PM] okay.

you flip your phone over, tucking it beneath your pillow, but you fall asleep easier that night. because it’s nice. having someone to notice. having someone to care.

then, one evening, it happens.

you’re halfway through a painting, something that’s been frustrating you for days, something that isn’t coming out right no matter how many times you fix it. the colors aren’t blending the way you want, the strokes feel too heavy, too forced—like your hands aren’t listening to you anymore.

satoru is there, sprawled across your bed like he has nowhere else to be, phone in one hand, the other tucked lazily behind his head. he glances at you between scrolling, sighing loudly whenever you don’t react, making just enough noise to remind you of his presence. when that doesn’t work, he shifts onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow, eyes flicking toward your hunched form at the desk. “you’re supposed to entertain me, y’know.”

“i’m busy,” you mutter, barely sparing him a glance, your focus locked on the canvas in front of you. your brush hovers midair, colors blending under the dim light of your desk lamp, but there’s a tightness in your grip, a frustration in the way your shoulders remain stiff.

“so?” he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, his head tilting slightly as he watches you. “i am literally your muse.”

you exhale sharply, setting your brush down with a little more force than necessary. “you are literally annoying.”

he gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “harsh.” his voice is light, teasing, but his eyes stay on you, watching as you tilt your head, exhale through your nose, then lean forward again, brush hovering over the canvas.

you’ve been fixated for too long now, barely moving except to mix colors, sigh, and frown at your work. your posture is too stiff, too tense, your shoulders drawn up, the curve of your spine locked in place like you’ve forgotten how to relax. your fingers tighten around the brush, knuckles whitening, the bristles pausing mid-stroke as your breath shudders slightly—too shallow, too uneven.

something itches in his chest. for the first time all night, he frowns.

“hey,” he says, sitting up, his phone forgotten beside him. “id you even eat today?”

"“huh?”

your reaction is delayed, your head turning toward him like it takes effort to shift your focus. you blink at him, slow, eyes unfocused, as if you’re still caught between here and the painting, like you don’t quite register what he’s saying.

then—the brush slips from your fingers. before he even registers what’s happening—you sway.

his heart stops. then he’s off the bed in an instant, faster than thought, hands reaching, catching you before you can hit the ground.

“woah, woah—hey.” his voice is too sharp, too urgent, nothing like his usual lazy drawl. one arm curls around your waist, steadying you, while the other grips your wrist, fingers pressing against the faint pulse beneath your skin. you’re too light in his hold, your weight sinking into him like you can’t hold yourself up.

your head lolls against his chest, and he barely registers the faint smudge of paint you leave on his hoodie because—you’re not responding.

panic flares white-hot in his gut.

“okay, no. you don’t get to just faint on me,” he mutters, adjusting his grip, his breath coming quicker than he’d like. he taps your cheek lightly, the warmth of your skin too cool against his fingertips. “wake up, idiot.”

you groan softly, brows pinching together, your expression twisting like even the act of regaining consciousness is too much effort.

“...m’fine,” you mumble, barely coherent, words slow and heavy like your tongue can’t quite keep up.

satoru lets out a sharp breath, his grip on you tight but careful, like he’s still processing the fact that he had to catch you in the first place. “oh, yeah? yeah? that why you just dropped like a damn sack of flour?” his voice is sharp, edged with something that’s not quite annoyance, not quite panic, something he doesn’t know what to do with.

you don’t answer.

his jaw tightens, muscles flexing as he exhales through his nose, his chest rising and falling too fast, too unevenly. without another word, he shifts, carefully maneuvering you onto your bed, his movements stiff, deliberate, too controlled.

“unbelievable,” he grumbles under his breath, pulling the blanket over you with a little more force than necessary. “who even does this? who just forgets to function?”

you mumble something unintelligible, your voice so soft that it barely even reaches him, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his. they’re glassy, unfocused, struggling to stay on him, and for some reason, that frustrates him even more.

satoru exhales sharply, running a hand over his face before pushing his hair back, his fingers tangling into the damp strands at the nape of his neck. after a beat, he crouches beside the bed, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze steady as he studies you.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, but there’s an edge beneath it, something pressing.

“…m’fine,” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper, but you don’t even sound like you believe it.

his eyes narrow.

“you literally just passed out.” his tone is flat, unimpressed, laced with something dangerously close to concern. “try again.”

you blink slowly, like it takes effort, like you have to search for the words. “…just… tired..” you admit, the syllables slipping together as your lashes flutter, fighting to stay awake.

he doesn’t like the way that sounds.

“yeah, no shit.”

you shift slightly, eyes slipping shut again, breath evening out, and he presses his lips together, watching you too closely, his expression unreadable. his fingers twitch against his knee, like there’s something else he wants to say, something else he wants to do.

then, quieter—like he’s speaking more to himself than to you—“you gotta stop this.”

you hum softly in response, already half-asleep, your breathing slow, steady, but he’s still watching you, still too aware of how small you look like this, how fragile you felt in his arms.

but he means it. you can’t keep doing this. can’t keep running yourself into the ground, pushing past your limits like they don’t exist.

he won’t let you.

his arms remain loosely folded over his knees, but his fingers tap restlessly against his leg, his jaw tight. his hoodie is still stained with the smudge of paint from where your head rested against him, but he doesn’t move to wipe it off. instead, he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the faint crease between your brows even in sleep, like you’re still carrying the weight of exhaustion. he exhales, rubs a hand over his face, then reaches for the blanket crumpled at the edge of the bed and drapes it over you, movements slow, careful.

he stays until he’s sure you’re really resting.

when  you wake up, the first thing you notice is the blanket draped over you. the second thing you notice is the smell of something warm, something fresh.

your fingers twitch against the fabric, gripping the edge of the blanket like you’re grounding yourself, like you’re trying to make sense of where you are. your head feels heavy, dull with leftover exhaustion, but there’s something comforting in the warmth pressed against your legs, the scent curling into the cold air. you blink blearily, sitting up, and there—

satoru, on your floor, typing away on his phone. beside him, a steaming cup of instant miso soup sits on your desk.

his back is against the bed frame, legs stretched out, hair a mess of uneven strands where his fingers must’ve run through it too many times. his hoodie hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose the sharp cut of his forearms, and when he hears you shift, he glances up—expression unreadable, gaze sharp but softer than usual.

“you’re awake,” he says, this time without looking away, without the usual smug edge to his voice.

satoru's eyes flicker over your face, assessing, sharp but softer than usual, like he’s searching for something—proof that you’re really okay, that you’re here, conscious, breathing. his posture is relaxed, but there’s something unnaturally still about him, like he hasn’t quite settled since you collapsed. the glow from your desk lamp casts uneven shadows across his face, catching on the messy strands of his hair, the faint crease between his brows.

“...what happened?” your voice is hoarse, rough around the edges, like you’ve been asleep for much longer than you should have. you shift under the blanket, fingers tightening around the fabric, the weight of exhaustion still pressing against your limbs.

he gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“you died.”

you blink at him, lips parting slightly—stunned, too tired to argue.

he holds your gaze for half a second longer before exhaling, reaching for the cup on your desk. “...briefly,” he amends, his fingers barely touching the ceramic as he pushes it toward you, the soft scrape of porcelain against wood filling the quiet space between you. “drink. before you die again.”

your fingers curl around the warmth, hesitating for just a second before lifting it. the heat seeps into your palms, steadying, grounding, and for some reason, your chest tightens in a way you don’t want to name.

you take a slow sip, the warmth spreading through your bones, reaching into the cold, exhausted parts of you that you hadn’t even realized were there.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter now, the steam from the soup curling into the cold air between you.

satoru shrugs, but his gaze lingers, watching you a little too closely, a little too long, like he’s waiting for something. there’s no teasing grin, no smart remark—just a quiet, unreadable weight in the way he looks at you. his fingers tap absently against his knee, the rhythm uneven, restless, like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s still deciding whether or not to say.

then—"you know," he starts, voice too casual, too calculated, like he’s testing the waters before fully stepping in. "you never let me see your sketchbook."

your grip tightens slightly around the cup, the warmth pressing against your palms, suddenly too much, too distracting.

he notices.

satoru's gaze flickers down—just for a second, brief but deliberate—before meeting yours again, sharper now, curiosity replacing the usual lazy amusement in his expression. the teasing edge is gone, replaced by something steadier, something unreadable. ���why is that?

“…no reason,” you lie, shifting under his stare, trying to appear unaffected. but the soup in your hands is suddenly too warm, too grounding, your fingers curling tighter around the ceramic like it might steady you. you can feel the weight of his attention, the way he’s watching you too closely, too intently, like he’s waiting for the cracks to show.

his brows lift, his expression flat, unimpressed. “bullshit.”

you scowl, gripping your soup tighter, like it’ll shield you from this conversation, like it might somehow block him from seeing through you.

“it’s private.”

“so? i’m literally the subject,” he argues, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his presence suddenly heavier, more insistent. “i should get at least a sneak peek.”

“no.”

his eyes narrow slightly, the corner of his lip twitching like he’s already planning a new approach. “why?”

“because,” you say, and that’s all you give him. because you don’t know how to explain it. because you don’t want to.

his lips press into a thin line, his gaze lingering just a little too long, just sharp enough to make you shift under the weight of it.

a challenge.

but you’re still half-buried in exhaustion, your limbs too heavy, your mind still foggy, and he knows it.

so after a beat, satoru exhales through his nose, then leans back against the bed again, arms folding behind his head, stretching out like he’s already decided this conversation isn’t over.

“fine. for now,” he says, voice light, easy. but there’s something about the way he says it—something low, something certain, like a promise rather than a concession.

you glare at him, because you know him—know the way his mind works, know that he never lets things go, never drops anything without a reason. you see the way his grin lingers, the way it tugs at the corner of his mouth just slightly off-kilter, like he’s already planning his next move. it’s not a matter of if he’ll bring this up again—it’s when.

he grins wider, because he knows you know. because you’re predictable in a way that amuses him, in a way that keeps him entertained. you’re trying too hard to brush this off, to pretend like the question doesn’t rattle something inside you, but he’s always been good at noticing the little things. your avoidance, your tight grip on the cup, the way your shoulders stiffen just slightly whenever he pushes too close.

and just like that, the weight of the moment lifts, the air turning lighter again, slipping back into something familiar. you take another sip of the miso soup, the heat seeping through your fingers, spreading through your chest, anchoring you in the quiet. satoru shifts, arms still behind his head, gaze flickering away from you for once—out the window, toward the sky, toward the city beyond.

outside, the wind rattles the glass, slipping through the cracks, curling into the room like the first whisper of something colder.

autumn is ending. and winter is near.

WINTER has settled in, quiet but undeniable.

the air is colder, sharper, slipping through the cracks of your dorm window no matter how tightly you close it. the ground outside is dusted in frost, the once-vibrant autumn leaves now forgotten beneath slushy sidewalks and the occasional crunch of ice. campus is emptier now, students retreating home for winter break, leaving the dorms quieter, the hallways less crowded, less alive.

but he’s in your dorm all the time now.

it started with quick drop-ins after games—an excuse to complain about how sore he was, to stretch out on your floor like a lazy cat, to toss you a snack without explanation. then it turned into late-night visits when he had nowhere better to be—until, eventually, he stopped pretending he needed a reason at all.

your dorm isn’t much, just a tiny room barely big enough for the both of you, but somehow, it’s become his space, too.

he kicks his shoes off without thinking, leaves his jacket slung over your chair like it belongs there, flops onto your bed without asking. he always brings something with him—sometimes food, sometimes a new brand of tea he insists you try, sometimes just the lingering warmth of conversation when the room feels too quiet.

(you complain about it. “this is not a hangout spot.” “stop making a mess on my desk.” “for the last time, satoru, my bed is not your personal couch.” but you never actually tell him to leave.)

and lately, you seem less exhausted when he’s here.

finals are over. winter break has started. the campus is quieter, the stress that had settled into your shoulders finally lifting, loosening its grip.

you still overwork yourself, still get lost in your paintings for hours, but you’re taking care of yourself now, too.

he sees it in the way you actually eat full meals instead of just instant noodles. in the way you don’t fight him when he shoves a bottle of water into your hands. in the way you’ve stopped waking up with smudged paint on your cheek from falling asleep at your desk.

he’s proud of you. not that he’d ever say it out loud. maybe one day. but for now, he’ll just keep showing up.

tonight, though, you’re running late.

some meeting for an art exhibition, something you were weirdly cagey about when he asked. you had waved him off, barely sparing him a glance as you gathered your things in a rush, stuffing papers into your bag, adjusting your coat with hurried movements. he had teased you—“look at you, so professional. should I start calling you sensei?”—but you had just rolled your eyes, muttered something about being late, and disappeared out the door.

he almost doesn’t notice at first, too busy digging through a plastic bag of snacks he brought for you, tossing a pack onto your desk, then tearing open another for himself. he stretches out against your bed frame, one knee propped up, his phone in one hand, snacks in the other, making himself comfortable in the way he always does. your absence doesn’t bother him—you’ll be back soon, and besides, he’s already claimed this space as his own.

but then—his eyes flicker to your desk. to your sketchbook.

it’s right there.

he’s been curious for months.

he’s seen the way you snap it shut the second he moves too close, how you always turn it facedown, tuck it under your arm, keep it pressed against your chest when you leave a room. it’s deliberate, protective, like it holds something you don’t want him to see—something more than just rough sketches from your sessions.

and he’s been good. he’s been patient. but now? now, he’s alone. and, well—what’s the harm in taking a little peek?

his fingers brush the cover, hesitating for just a second—a quiet moment of restraint before curiosity wins out. then, with one last glance at the door to make sure you’re not back yet—he flips it open.

he expects sketches of his poses from your sessions. the usual. the planned. the predictable.

what he doesn’t expect is—pages and pages of him.

not the carefully composed ones, not the ones you’d shown him before. no, these are different. the lines are loose, unpolished, real—like you weren’t drawing to impress anyone, like you were just trying to capture something before it slipped away.

his fingers still against the page, breath catching slightly, pulse stuttering in a way he doesn’t understand. his own face stares back at him, over and over again, not the carefully arranged expressions from your sessions, but the ones he didn’t know you were paying attention to.

him, tying his shoes before a game, the curve of his shoulders loose and relaxed. him, tossing his head back, laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled—drawn in a way that makes him look softer than he’s used to. next to it, in small, slanted handwriting: ‘loudest laugh in the world.’

satoru exhales slowly, flipping the page, movements quieter now, more deliberate.

him, spinning a basketball on his fingertip, drawn from multiple angles like you were trying to get it just right. him, leaning against your dorm room wall, arms crossed, head tilted, gaze sharp but amused—like he’s in the middle of teasing you. his eyes flick to the corner, where you’ve written, ‘always watching. annoyingly perceptive.’

he huffs out a quiet breath—not quite a laugh, not quite anything. his throat feels tight.

he turns another page, his fingers careful now, almost hesitant. a corner of a napkin peeks out—he pulls it loose, unfolding it carefully. a quick, half-finished sketch of him mid-sprint, lines rushed, motion barely captured, next to a coffee-stained note that just says: ‘too fast to draw. unfair.’

his lips part slightly, breath catching at the words, at the fact that you even tried.

another, taped messily into the spine of the book—a full-body drawing of him from behind, hoodie pulled up, hands in his pockets, walking away. ‘somehow takes up more space than anyone else.’ you wrote in the margins, the ink slightly smudged, like you had run your fingers over it absentmindedly.

he swallows, jaw tightening. his thumb brushes the edge of the page, lingering there, like if he just holds still, he’ll figure out what to do with the way his chest feels too full, too tight.e because this—this isn’t simply a collection of sketches. this is him, through your eyes.

and then—he flips another page. this one is different.

not a quick sketch, not a half-finished doodle on the edge of a napkin, not something you scribbled in passing. a full portrait. detailed, deliberate, like you took your time with it. like you wanted to get it exactly right.

he recognizes the jersey immediately—it’s from last week, when he had come over grumbling about practice, throwing himself onto your bed like it was his own, arms sprawled out, eyes shut, muttering about how being the best was exhausting. he remembers laughing, remembers the weight of your gaze on him, remembers teasing you about how you were always staring anyway.

but this—this means you had watched him even longer. the expression you captured—it’s him, but it’s softer. relaxed. comfortable. unaware.

oh.

his fingers pause against the edge of the paper, grip tightening just slightly.

but you couldn’t have done all this in front of him without him noticing. you’re always preoccupied, always doing something else whenever he’s around—never reaching for your sketchbook. had you drawn this only after he left? had you memorized these moments, watched him for far longer than he realized, until you could capture him this accurately?

his stomach does something weird again.

like a sharp twist of something unfamiliar, something heavy, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with. his throat feels tight, his pulse uneven, a strange warmth creeping into his chest and settling there, stubborn and unmoving.

his gaze lingers on the portrait, taking in the details—the careful shading of his jawline, the way his hair looks slightly messier than usual, the way his arms are draped carelessly over the sheets. he looks like he belongs there.

he swallows, jaw tightening. because he does.

he hears your footsteps before the door even opens—the soft, familiar rhythm of them padding down the hall, the faint rustle of your coat as you shift, the quiet exhale you always let out before stepping inside.

the door creaks open gently, slow and careful, like you’re trying not to startle the silence of the room. “i’m home,” you say softly, the words barely past your lips before you step inside.

but satoru isn’t paying attention. because his heart is still racing, his hands are still gripping the sketchbook, and he’s way too fucking giddy to think of a way to get rid of his crime in time.

you take two steps in before your gaze lands on him—seated on your bed, sketchbook open in his hands, looking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. your expression shifts in an instant—relaxed to confused to absolutely horrified.

“satoru, what are you—” your voice cuts off mid-sentence, sharp and sudden, like you physically can’t finish.

he looks up at you, eyes bright with mischief, lips already curling into a grin, the kind that spells nothing but trouble. fingers still pressed against the pages, holding them open like evidence, like proof. then—casually, effortlessly, like he didn’t just get caught red-handed—“you like me.”

you freeze, body going rigid, fingers twitching at your sides like you don’t know whether to snatch the book back or bolt.

he tilts his head, grin widening, flipping through the pages with exaggerated slowness, dragging out your suffering. “and here i thought you only liked me for my bone structure—”

“give it back.” your voice comes out too fast, too sharp, laced with something close to panic.

he laughs, flipping another page, gaze flicking between the sketches and your rapidly reddening face. “so you have been staring.”

"satoru—" you take a step forward, but he just leans back against the bed, completely unbothered, holding the sketchbook out of reach.

“oh, this one’s nice,” he teases, holding up the sketch of him mid-game, spinning the book slightly between his fingers like he’s inspecting it. “was this from last week? so you were watching me train and not just pretending to be absorbed in your sketchbook—”

“i was drawing!—”

“—drawing me.” his voice is light, teasing, but there’s something else under it—something quieter, something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

you snatch the sketchbook out of his hands so fast it nearly smacks him in the face.

he expects you to yell at him. maybe shove him. maybe even hit him with the sketchbook. but instead your expression twists, your cheeks burning, lips parting like you want to say something but can’t, and before he can react, before he can stop you—you groan and slam the sketchbook back to your bed, turn on your heel and leave.

“hey—!” he scrambles after you, nearly tripping over a stack of books, nearly sending an entire pile of papers flying, nearly proving why you never let him near your workspace unsupervised. his breath comes out in sharp puffs of white against the cold air, but he barely notices, too focused on closing the distance between you, on the way your shoulders are stiff, the way you move like you’re fighting the urge to break into a full sprint.

outside, the first real snowfall of the season is drifting down, dusting the campus in white, clinging to the bare branches, softening the edges of the world. but you’re too preoccupied with storming away to notice, too caught up in your own mortification to care.

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, catching up with long, easy strides, like this isn’t a crisis, like this isn’t your worst nightmare unfolding in real time. “don’t just run away—”

“i am not running away.”

“you totally are.”

“i—!” you whirl around so fast he nearly crashes into you, nearly walks straight into your personal space like an idiot. he stops just short, breath catching slightly, eyes flicking down to the tiny sliver of space left between you.

the air is cold between you, breath visible in the space that suddenly feels too charged, too warm despite the winter creeping in.

your arms are crossed so tightly it looks like you’re holding yourself together, like if you let go, you might actually combust from sheer embarrassment.

“you’re so—” you huff, flustered, frustrated, desperate to change the subject, desperate to claw back even a fraction of your dignity.

“handsome? charming? incredibly kissable—”

“—infuriating!”

he just grins, all teeth and shameless amusement, because you’re easy to read now. because no matter how much you glare at him, your ears are pink, your fingers are twitching, your weight is shifting like you want to run again but can’t bring yourself to.

“you like me,” he says again, softer this time. more certain.

you don’t answer.

snowflakes land on your lashes, catching in your hair, melting against your skin. your lips are parted like you want to argue, but nothing comes out. your eyes are too bright, too wide, too caught between wanting to flee and wanting to stay.

satoru gojo is not known for his restraint.

so, naturally, he kisses you.

he moves before he can think, before he can overcomplicate it, before you can run again. his head tilts, his breath warm against your skin, and then—he leans down, slow, deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

but you don’t.

and oh—oh.

his lips are warm despite the cold, despite the way the winter air bites at your skin, despite the snowflakes melting between you. his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks when he closes his eyes, those impossibly bright baby blues disappearing beneath pale lashes. he doesn’t rush, doesn’t tease, doesn’t turn it into something playful. for once, he takes his time.

his free hand lifts just slightly, like he wants to cup your cheek, like he wants to hold you there, but at the last second, he hesitates. instead, his fingers curl lightly around your wrist, grounding, steady, just enough pressure to keep you from slipping away.

you freeze for half a second.

then, you melt.

your breath stutters, your fingers gripping at the fabric of his uniform, hesitant at first, then firmer, anchoring yourself to him. your body tilts forward, just the slightest bit, just enough to tell him—yes.

and he’s already grinning into the kiss, absolutely insufferable, because he knew it. because he knew you wouldn’t pull away. because he knew you liked him.

when you finally pull back, breathless, he doesn’t let you go.

doesn’t want to.

his grip on your wrist stays firm, not tight, not demanding, just enough to keep you here, to keep you in this moment a little longer. his breath is warm against your skin, fanning softly over your lips, his fingers twitching like he’s debating pulling you back in.

“so,” he murmurs, forehead pressing against yours, nose barely grazing your own, “are you gonna admit it now, or do i have to go through another sketchbook’s worth of proof?”

your fingers tighten slightly around his sleeve, your heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, like it’s trying to make up for every second you spent pretending this wasn’t real. your cheeks are burning, the cold doing nothing to help, but still—you force yourself to meet his gaze, to stare straight into those impossibly bright baby blues.

“…i do.”

his breath hitches.

“you… do?”

“i like you,” you clarify, somehow both firmer and shyer at the same time, words tumbling out too fast and too soft. then, before he can say anything stupid—“now you say it.”

his grin falters—not in amusement, not in teasing, but in something softer, something fonder, something that makes your stomach flip.

“i like you,” he repeats, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he never doubted it for a second. his ears are pink, his fingers twitch against your wrist, but his voice stays steady, stays sure. “a lot.”

your stomach twists, your face burns, and before he can get even more unbearably smug about it, you shove him, pushing at his chest with more force than necessary, just to wipe the grin off his face.

he laughs, stumbling back a step but still holding onto your wrist, still looking at you like you’ve just handed him the greatest win of his life.

but this time, you don’t walk away.

instead, you sigh, shaking your head as you grab his sleeve properly and start pulling him back toward your dorm, fingers curling around the fabric like you’re holding on without realizing it.

“what, no dramatic speech about how i misread everything?” he teases, falling into step beside you, his free hand slipping lazily into his pocket.

“shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled by the scarf you’ve pulled higher over your face, like it’ll somehow hide the warmth still lingering in your cheeks.

“soooo,” he drawls, bumping his shoulder against yours, “does this mean i’m officially your muse and your boyfriend now? multi-purpose?”

“no.”

“cold.”

he laughs, and it’s light, easy, painfully warm despite the winter air, like it’s found a home between you, settling there without permission. his breath fogs in the cold, but the space between you feels warmer somehow, lighter, like the weight of something unspoken has finally lifted. his steps are relaxed now, shoulders looser, head tilting toward you every so often—a quiet, effortless gravity pulling him closer, even when he doesn’t realize it.

when you get back to your dorm, he kicks off his shoes like always, sending them haphazardly toward the corner. shrugs off his jacket like always, barely looking where it lands. flops onto your bed like always, stretching out like he owns the place, arms behind his head, hair messy from the wind.

but this time, you roll your eyes and curl up beside him, too.

he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even try to fight the smug grin tugging at his lips. he just shifts, adjusting without thinking, making room like he’s been waiting for this—like you’ve belonged there all along.

when he tucks his arm around you without thinking, you don’t complain.

when you mumble, half-asleep, voice softer than usual, “thanks for taking care of me.” he just hums, low and content, the sound barely more than a vibration against your skin. his fingers move without thought, absentmindedly tracing slow, lazy circles against your back, the rhythm steady, grounding.

when he presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head, breath catching just slightly against your hair, you don’t push him away.

outside, the snow keeps falling, soft and slow, blanketing the world in quiet. winter settles in around you. and for once, you let yourself rest.

the last of WINTER lingers in the early mornings, cold air curling against skin, clinging to rooftops, biting at fingertips. but the afternoons are warming up, the sun stretching a little higher in the sky, melting the ice that once lined the sidewalks. students swap heavy coats for lighter jackets, trading chattering teeth for the kind of energy that only comes with knowing winter is finally loosening its grip. cherry blossoms are just beginning to bud, hesitant, as if uncertain the cold is truly gone.

campus is filling up again. winter break is over. the once-quiet halls are alive with movement, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing against tile, the hum of life creeping back in. the scent of freshly brewed coffee drifts from the cafés, mingling with the crisp air, a sure sign that students are shaking off their winter sluggishness.

and satoru gojo is a public menace.

he was already bad enough as their university’s basketball star before. always loud, always impossible to ignore, always moving through campus like he owned it, like he was more event than person, someone you watched because you couldn’t help it. with that ridiculous, effortless kind of charm, all long limbs and easy smiles, like he’d never once known the weight of the world.

but now? now, he has a girlfriend. and now, he has you. and he makes sure everyone knows.

“my beloved!”

his voice slices through the courtyard like a warning bell, sharp and unmistakable, sending heads turning with an almost comical synchronicity. he’s leaning against a vending machine when you spot him, his navy varsity jacket loose over his shoulders, white t-shirt just barely clinging to the lean muscle beneath. his hair is a mess of soft white strands, tousled from the wind—or maybe practice—but his grin is bright, his blue eyes locked onto you with alarming precision.

you freeze for half a second—just half—but that’s all it takes for him to zero in on you, and you can feel the shift in the air, the heat of his gaze on your back as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. the sound of his footsteps quicken, and before you know it, the familiar, teasing voice slices through the space between you.

“lovey! sweetheart! honeybunch sugarplum—”

you don’t even hesitate. the instinct to escape rises up, and you walk faster, head forward, eyes fixed on some imaginary point in the distance. it’s an old trick, pretending like if you just focus hard enough on something far away, you can ignore the fact that satoru gojo is loudly, dramatically, chasing after you like some over-the-top rom-com hero.

“stop it.” your teeth grind together, a faint blush creeping up your neck as you force your shoulders to stay stiff, trying to hold onto whatever dignity you have left.

he laughs, delighted by your discomfort, the sound almost echoing in the quiet space. with a lazy, unbothered air, he shoves his hands into his pockets and easily falls into step beside you. his white hair is still a mess from practice, some strands falling into his eyes, but he looks effortless, like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. “you wound me, darling.”

“i am not doing this with you.” you mutter under your breath, barely glancing at him, hoping that if you ignore him long enough, he’ll just go away. but it’s futile.

he’s faster. it’s always the same. his long legs carry him with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone so tall, and with barely any effort, he’s at your side, matching your pace, his grin stretching impossibly wide. his head tilts slightly, his white hair falling over his eyes in that way you’ve come to recognize so well—shifting and effortlessly falling into place. his blue eyes catch the light, looking so damn intense, you can’t help but notice the way they gleam through the long lashes, unguarded and almost playful.

“starlight, love of my life, future mother of my children—”

you stop mid-step, throwing him a sharp look, and his smile only widens at your frustration. “satoru.”

he gasps, clutching his chest in mock horror, eyes widening as if you’ve physically hurt him. he stumbles back a step, just for effect, and lets out an exaggerated sigh. “are you—” his voice drops to a dramatic whisper, his expression feigning scandal as he leans in closer. “are you ashamed of me?”

your jaw tightens, the irritation mixing with something else you’d rather not address. “i would like for people to know quietly.”

satoru halts mid-step, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just ripped out his heart. his face contorts into exaggerated pain as if you’ve just shattered him with a single sentence. “you—you don’t want to scream our love from the rooftops? you don’t want the whole world to know how much you adore me?” he flutters his fingers dramatically in the air as if visualizing the grand spectacle of it all.

you groan, shoving your hands into your pockets, doing your best to ignore the amused glances and curious whispers around you. it’s not bad, really. the attention.

you had expected—well. you don’t know what you expected. for people to react badly? for them to wonder why he’s with you, of all people?

but mostly, people are just… surprised. conversations halt mid-sentence, heads whip around for second and third takes, and whispered speculations weave through the air like static electricity.

a lot of:

“wait. gojo has a girlfriend? for real?”

“damn, i thought he was just messing around.”

“no way. no actual way.”

a handful of utterly devastated fangirls, clutching their textbooks like lifelines, staring as if their world has just come crashing down. but no one says anything cruel. no one scoffs or sneers. no one looks at you like you don’t belong next to him.

it’s a little overwhelming. but not awful. just… loud. and satoru? he thrives in it.

he’s absolutely ridiculous about it, keeps throwing his arm around your shoulders, keeps making a show of lacing his fingers through yours, keeps finding ways to bring it up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. when you’re walking together, he tugs you just a little closer, just a little tighter, like he wants everyone on campus to see. his hand is always finding its way to your waist, resting there like it belongs, fingers tapping idly against the fabric of your sweater. sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly dramatic, he’ll spin you around in the middle of the hallway, dipping you like you’re in the final scene of a romance movie, just because he can.

and you—earnest, quiet, and in love despite yourself—you let him.

you don’t indulge him the same way he does you. your affections are smaller, tucked between the spaces he leaves, a quiet echo to his relentless declarations. but you don’t pull away when he leans into you. you don’t protest when he sneaks his fingers through yours. and when you think no one’s looking, when his head is turned just so, when he’s grinning at something dumb and impossibly satoru, you let yourself look at him the way he looks at you.

one time, in the middle of lunch, he just sighs dramatically, leaning back in his chair, stretching his arms like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. his white hair is a mess from practice, sweat-damp at the nape of his neck, but he still looks effortless, still looks like he belongs under the sun, basking in the warmth of his own theatrics. he exhales, long and suffering, tilting his head back so far his chair almost tips. and then, with all the weight of the universe pressing down on his chest, he declares;

“man, having a girlfriend is crazy.”

you don’t even look up from your sketchbook. you’re used to this. you barely even blink anymore when he starts talking like the main character in a tragic love story. “you literally asked for this.”

“yeah, but still.”

he hums, thoughtful, like he’s truly pondering the gravity of his situation—then abruptly flops onto your lap, draping himself across you like he’s meant to be there. his head lands against your stomach, arms sprawled, legs stretched out across the bench, the weight of him pressing down on you like an overgrown cat. his hair tickles your wrist, and when you peer down, his eyes are already on you, bright and full of trouble. he’s grinning, of course he’s grinning, his lips twitching like he’s barely holding back a laugh.

you grunt under the sudden weight, the pressure of his body settling onto you like a heavy, careless blanket. you barely stop yourself from elbowing him off, your muscles tensing from the surprise, but he’s already too comfortable, sprawled across your lap with a dramatic sigh. “get off me.”

“no.”

he sounds so certain, so annoyingly nonchalant as he rests his head on your stomach, his hair messy from practice, damp strands sticking to his forehead like a defiant halo. you sigh through your nose, fingers tightening around your pencil, the sharp tip pressing against the paper as if it could ground you. “what do you want.”

“you know,” he says, his voice light, almost sing-song, as his head tilts just enough to meet your gaze, those ridiculously bright, ridiculously smug baby blues peering up at you with a look that’s both teasing and entirely too pleased with himself. “you kinda have a responsibility now.”

your sigh is louder this time, escaping through your nose as you flip to a new page in your sketchbook, trying to ignore the weight of him and the pull of his presence. you shift a little beneath him, adjusting to make space as your gaze flickers down at him. “what responsibility.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t break the casual pose, his arms still spread wide like he’s claiming the space between you, his legs stretched comfortably across the bench, his fingers tapping lightly against your stomach. “you have to come to all my games. non-negotiable.”

you finally glance down at him, unimpressed, but your eyes soften just a little when you see the way he’s looking up at you, his grin wide, eyes twinkling like he’s saying something that’s a matter of life and death. you roll your eyes but can’t help the quiet smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth. “all of them?”

“yes. all.”

you blink at him, your hand drifting to your lap, pressing down the fluttering feeling in your chest, the soft affection you try so hard to keep from spilling over. “but i already go to most of them—”

“all. of. them.” his tone is firm now, a little playful but undeniably serious, his finger poking at your side like a reminder of his claim over your attention. he lifts his head just slightly, his lips pulling into a smirk that’s far too smug for anyone's good, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s completely and utterly certain of his win.

you sigh, louder this time, rolling your eyes as he grins up at you like he’s already won. his hair is soft when your fingers brush against it, a stray lock falling over his forehead as he waits, expectant. you hesitate for just a second, then let your fingers linger a beat longer than necessary, smoothing it back into place. “and why, exactly?”

his smirk falters, just for a fraction of a second. almost imperceptible. but you catch it, the flicker of something softer beneath the bravado, the way his throat bobs slightly before he answers.

“because you have to witness your incredibly talented, best-athlete-on-campus boyfriend in action, obviously.”

“obviously.”

“plus,” he adds, reaching up to poke your cheek with the most obnoxious little tap, “i play better when you’re there.”

your fingers tighten around your pencil, just slightly. you don’t answer immediately, because if you do, it might come out too soft, too earnest, too much. but your lips press together, and your gaze lingers, and when you finally murmur, “…is that true, or are you just saying that?” it sounds quieter than you mean it to.

his grin widens, eyes gleaming, mischief and sincerity tangled together like a promise. “guess you’ll have to keep coming to find out, huh?”

you shove his face away.

but later, when his attention is stolen by something else—when he’s laughing with his friends or zoning out as he stretches— you find your gaze lingering, the subtle shift of your focus as you tilt your head. your eyes trace the smooth curve of his cheek, the way the sunlight catches in his hair, making the white strands look like a halo around his face. there’s the easy slope of his shoulders, the way he leans back with that effortless confidence, his legs stretched out over the bench like he owns every inch of space around him. you notice all these things in the quiet moments when he’s not looking, and it’s almost like a secret you keep tucked away.

and then you think, helplessly, hopelessly— he plays better because he’s looking for you. it's not just the game he’s focused on. it’s the stands, it’s you. and for all his teasing, all his dramatic declarations, there’s this undercurrent you can’t deny—that he needs you there, in that spot, where his eyes always find yours.

you go to all his games anyway. it’s not a question, not a choice. you sit in the stands, your eyes fixed on the court, but your mind elsewhere, always waiting, always watching. every time, without fail, he looks for you before tip-off, and the moment he spots you, his expression shifts—just the faintest change in the curve of his lips, the way his eyes brighten as if he’s found something precious. every time, he finds you, like there’s no other place he would rather be. every time, he grins that obnoxious, confident grin, the one that says he will win, that he knows you’re there, and that’s enough.

spring creeps in. the last of the cold melts away, and you notice how the days stretch longer, how the warmth settles in your bones as everything begins to bloom around you.

and satoru gojo never stops being loud about loving you, his voice always rising above the noise, always unafraid of being seen. and you, quiet as you are, never stop loving him right back, holding it all in the space between the moments, where words aren’t necessary.

a/n : i would like to formally announce that i was this close to killing her off in winter via tragic anemia-induced collapse, but in a rare act of mercy, i decided against it. as such, i will be accepting 100-word minimum essays filled with gratitude in the comments. failure to comply may result in me rethinking my generosity. choose wisely.

kidding aside, im glad i finally got this fic out of my drafts—this has been rotting and slowly cooking since the episode with satoru playing basketball released😋 idk much about western school year so i apologize if the schedule is all wrong! i only relied to google writing this. not like they will read this but i still wanna thanks my homeboys for helping me write the basketball scene, i definitely needed that <3 im not an artist so i apologize if there are any misconceptions in my fic ^^

[suguann]

Possessive!Gojo who makes you wear his jersey when you go to parties at his fraternity after games, openly admiring the way you dwarf inside his clothes. He leans forward on the edge of the bed to get a better look, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes raking over every inch of you from head to toe. 

"Toru, it's too big," you pout, checking out your reflection in the floor-length mirror on his closet door. “I look silly.”

The tent growing in his sweats says otherwise—all the blood in his body rushing from one head to the other just from seeing two things that are his coexisting—and he gives you another once-over, thinking of several ways to describe you, silly not being one of them.

"You’re so pretty, baby.” He swears he’s a little drunk from the sight of you, but he means it.

Possessive!Gojo who pushes you up against the door inside the locker room before a game—slightly jealous from the guys looking at you as they filed out into the hall, and equally turned on because he knows they can’t have you—telling you he can't play with a hard-on before he's pressing into you from behind.

He can feel your tummy quivering under his hand where he holds you close, feels how his cock is carving its way inside of you, and you both moan when he presses down lightly. It makes him dizzy how tight and small you are; pulsing, wet, and swollen-soft velvet that gives every time he buries himself into you.

"You gonna hold all of my cum in this cute cunt until after the game, y-yeah?" he sucks the question into your neck. “Don’t worry, I’ll lick it out of you afterward. Just keep it warm for me, ’kay?”

You answer him with a high-pitched whine as you clench down hard around him, cumming with a muffled scream against his palm and nearly pushing him out of your warm, fluttering heat.

Possessive!Gojo makes sure to stuff his cum back into your drooling cunt with two thick fingers, curling them into your front wall to pull another soft orgasm out of you—just a little more, ah, there you go, always so good for me—before he helps you fix your panties to trap it there.

His arms wrap around you before he presses a tender kiss to your temple. “Don’t forget to cheer for me.”

Possessive!Gojo whose smirk from watching you squirm in the stands, melts into a glare when a guy takes the empty seat beside you, sitting almost too close for his liking.

“Stop staring at your girlfriend and hit the fucking puck already,” Sukuna grumbles, leaning against his stick.

Possessive!Gojo who makes sure to fuck you in the backseat of his car afterward with the windows cracked in hopes that the guy from the stands would walk by to you moaning Gojo’s name, and he eats you out just like he promised—bending you over the center console, smiling to himself at how shy and squirmy you get—only to fill you up again.

Possessive!Gojo who pouts whenever Nanami manages to steal your attention with something sciency and nerdy (something entirely up your alley) whenever you come over on weeknights. 

“That’s so neat, Nanami,” you smile, hearts practically in your eyes as you listen to him talk about his latest research. “Maybe I can stop by the lab and check it out sometime.”

Possessive!Gojo who doesn’t miss the way Nanami’s ears turn a shade of red from your praise—color high in his cheeks—how he gives a sheepish smile whenever you talk to him.

“Toru,” you say, finally bringing your soft, pretty gaze on him again. “Are you even studying?”

Yeah, he is, but something else entirely, he thinks as he watches how your shorts hug your ass while you walk around the house’s common room—and he’s not the only one staring.

Possessive!Gojo who slaps your thigh, making you jolt in his lap. "Did I tell you to stop, huh, baby?"

You shake your head, biting your lip and avoiding the pair of eyes watching both of you (intently) from across the room—especially you—a quiet observer as you slowly sink onto your boyfriend’s cock while Nanami thrusts his own into his fist. 

"Ah, fuck—b-but–"

Your words break off into a choked moan when Gojo thrusts his hips up underneath you, pressed as deep inside as he can get, and when he looks down, he swears he can see the imprint of himself pressing against your stomach. 

"Tell me what I said,” he says through gritted teeth as he starts bouncing you, the couch continuing its steady squeaking under your knees.

Possessive!Gojo who can tell that it's hard for you to concentrate with the way his cock moves inside you, and you’re unable to answer with anything other than babbling nonsense. He decides to take mercy on you and stops to grind you in his lap instead.

He kisses your cheek, your neck, anywhere he can get his mouth on. "I said, don't stop until you cum, and you’re going to let Nanami see how fucking pretty you look when you do."

The next sound out of your mouth is a squeal when he holds your inner thighs to keep you open as he thrusts up into you again and again—letting Nanami see what can never be his.

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “So good for me. Go on, show him how my good girl takes cock.”

Possessive!Gojo who locks eyes with Nanami just as he’s about to cum, burying his groans of pleasure into your neck as white-hot sparks shudder up his spine and heat pools in his gut.

Mine, he tries to say, but Gojo thinks his frat brother gets it when Gojo’s the one cumming inside you and Nanami’s spilling all over his fist.

Masterlist

[reignpage]

His Loss, Their Gain

Synopsis: in which you get stood up and the jjk men are more than ready to step up for you (pre-relationship) Warnings: a little cursing, vaguely sexual language or allusions, a little angsty, but mostly fluff, crack and comfort, one-sided pining perchance, not proofread Featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna Word Count: 3.6k

Gojo

He heard all about your date from Shoko when he took a student to her dark, miserable corner to get all fixed up that morning. To say he was peeved was a massive understatement. In fact, the man had been muttering ‘ooh y/n’s got a date with some non-sorcerer ooh good for her’ under his breath pretty much the entire day. 

The students are both amused and irritated by his constant yammering. 

“I go on loads of date!” He grumbled, flicking a leaf as he leans against a tree, watching the kids spar. “What’s the big deal?”

At lunch, he strolled into the teacher’s lounge and whistled some tune. As always, you were sat by the window enjoying a bento box that made his mouth water — man, what would it be like to enjoy a meal made by you.

Casually, he mused, “I heard through the grapevine, you’ve got a hot date tonight.”

You threw him an unimpressed glower. 

“Who the hell told you about that?”

Satoru shrugged. “Oh, y’know, just the grapevine. So, what’s he like?”

Nonchalant as he may have seemed, he had enough self-awareness to know that he was pretty bothered by how spruced up you’ve gotten for this guy, whoever he is. God, did you have to make your hair all pretty like that? And oh hell, is that a new perfume? 

You didn’t entertain his game, choosing to ignore his thinly veiled attempt to pry, and chose simply to poke his side, tickling him away from the path to the exit he was blocking. The white-haired man rolled his eyes, desperate to quell the smile twitching at the corner of his lips. 

That one interaction, that fleeting touch he never blocked out and that momentary glimpse at your shy smile, smothered the complaints that had been festering inside since he visited Shoko. You looked anxious, embarrassed, but more than anything, excited. Happy.

He was quiet the rest of the day. 

The students didn’t know what to make of his sudden shift in mood; he was contemplative, focused and serious. None of them complained, after all they were finally learning a thing or two but it was an odd sight, him without a smile on his face.

When the sun was lowering, and the students had all headed home, Satoru leisurely exited the school feeling, for reasons he wasn’t ready to acknowledge, more tired than usual. But then he saw you, standing at the gates staring at your phone. Checking his own, he frowned.

You were supposed to be long gone by now. 

When he appeared right beside you, you weren’t the least bit taken aback by his sudden voice. 

“Ugly loser not coming?”

Muttering, you weakly replied, “You’ve never met him. How can you possibly know he’s ugly?”

Satoru threw back a retort that you didn’t respond to. He sighed. With his hands tucked into this pockets, he nudged you. “Alright, stop pouting, let’s go get dinner. I’m starving. God, being a teacher really takes its toll on the body.”

“You barely do anything.” 

Despite yourself, you smiled. 

So did he. 

“Yeah, well, I’m still hungry anyways. So, let’s get going. Your treat.”

And despite his incredibly annoying, pretentious tone, you found yourself walking away from the school, the dwindling warmth of the sun setting behind you, with Satoru. He tried to hide his self-satisfied grin and the slight pep in his steps, and especially the peak under his blindfold at the two shadows you cast. 

For as long as other men sucked, he knew he still had a chance.

Geto

“Got plans?” 

You gave him a side glance, pulling your panties back up your legs. That arrangement of yours was complicated, to say the least. An on and off thing, neither of you could really keep your hands off each other, and all while staying as friends. Of course, the being friends part was easy — he’s fun and you’re sweet. But the staying as friends, and just as friends, was oh so difficult. 

Clearing your throat, you took the bra he was dangling from his finger with a brow raised. And you said, “Yeah. Kinda. Some guy asked me out so we’re gonna get some dinner or something.”

“Sounds exhilarating,” he mused. 

He was always like that — judgemental, mocking, and irresistible. Desperate to not be that weak, pathetic girl, you’d force yourself to move on, to see what else was out there because that thing you had with him?

It was unsustainable. 

With a sigh, you shrugged on your shirt. “Suguru, don’t.”

He chuckled and raised his arms up in surrender. And then you turned to leave but you didn’t get every far, how could you when he grabbed your wrist and pulled you back to his chest? You were breathless when he brushed your hair back, skimming his lips down the curve of your neck to plant a soft, barely there kiss on your shoulder. 

“Have fun.”

And then you were off. 

Leaving a long-haired man alone and frowning. Truthfully, he was itching to keep you there, to distract you with some more pleasure or a movie, but he knew that wasn’t fair. The unspoken part about the type of arrangement you two was that no one could get jealous or lay some moronic wolfy-claim on the other. 

He focused his attention instead on showering, washing away the remnants of you and even tried to wash away the idea of someone else taking you away. If this date of yours worked out, then that would effectively end your special relationship, devolving back to just ‘friends’. 

How pathetic.

No, that wasn’t the most pathetic thing about the entire ordeal. What was truly more pathetic was that he was sat, in his car, outside your place, waiting for that light in your bedroom to go and for you to leave. 

You didn’t. 

Geto groaned and threw his head back. Relieved as he was that you weren’t with some other prick, he couldn’t shake off that discomfort in his chest at the thought of you being disappointed, embarrassed or anywhere close to sad. He sent a quick text to you. Come out, he said. 

Your reply was, I’m not in the mood for sex.

Good. Neither am I.

'...' danced on the screen for a solid minute or two and he thought you were coming up with colourful ways of telling him to disappear, like 'walk off a cliff' or the classic 'fuck off', but you didn’t. Instead, he got a thumbs up and he sighed. 

Guess neither of you were willing to give up the game after all. 

Choso

He heard it from his brother. 

Who heard it from Megumi and he in turn heard it from Nobara. And the details might have differed somewhat as the information got passed along, like the time and place and with whom, but one thing remained consistent. 

You have a date. 

And man, was Choso distraught. At first, he was speechless, eyes blinking and jaw hanging. Then, he was making odd noises like steam was coming out of his ears. No one knew what to do, no one had ever taught them what the procedure was when a half-curse, half-man suffered from a nervous breakdown.

Eventually, he regained enough life to splutter, “WHAT?”

He fainted.

When he awoke, laid down on a bench, he was very surprised to find you looming over him. You looked beautiful. Positively stunning, and he was certainly stunned. He had a terrible dream, one that left him trembling, but your laughter stilled his shaking hands. 

“Choso, did you actually pass out? That’s so crazy.” 

The man couldn’t even blush. He was just so happy you were there, with him, talking and laughing, and he could pretend nothing was wrong in the world. Because, if you could smile at him with so much warmth and light and familiarity, there didn’t seem a plausible way for things to be wrong.

Pushing himself upright, he said, sheepishly, “Yeah, I think so. Um, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, y’know, just stopping by to check up on you –”

“That’s really nice of—”

“Before I head off to meet my date!”

"...what.”

You blinked at him. “I have a date. Surprised you didn’t know since the kids have been bothering me about it all day. Well, anyways, happy to see you figuratively back on your feet. Gotta get going now. Bye!”

And then you were gone, completely oblivious to the twitching of Choso’s eye and the way his pigtails quite literally deflated. 

There was a pout on his face the rest of the day. 

Only on his way back home did that pout disappear because, there, at the end of the street, was you. Only you could look that pretty when miserable. Oh, he was so happy to see you! 

Sure, you looked upset, and you were kicking a streetlamp, but he wasn’t the least bit discouraged from skipping over to you, pigtails swinging and a big, wide grin on his face. He shouted your name. You looked up, still mad, but brows relaxing ever so slightly. 

“Oh, hey, Cho. What’s up?”

“Nothing! Just heading home. What about you?”

You shrugged. “Well, I was supposed to be on a date, but he never showed up. Didn’t even text me so I guess I’m gonna head home too.”

“Oh, no. That’s terrible.”

The amused look on your face clearly conveyed your disbelief. Choso was many things, a great man, loving brother, fun friend. But a convincing liar? He was not. 

“Well,” he began, scratching the back of his neck, “do you wanna just be with me? I mean! Do you want to spend some time with me? Hang out?”

You shrugged again, this time with a smile. And the both of you began walking side by side with no particular destination. He didn’t talk much, just wandered the streets with you. The sun, or at least what remained of it, was warm and the roads were empty. Neither of you could think of a better thing to do than just exist. 

Together.

Toji

“Whatd’ya just say?”

He was staring at his kid, the little boy peering back at him with a look of pure innocence. The father, holding a spoon up to his lips, was pissed the hell off. Immediately, he was calling you, still feeding the baby. Your nonchalant voice on the phone made him even more irritated. 

“Ya going on a date? Whatd’ya mean ‘none of y’r business? ‘Course it’s my business. Mother of my son prancing around with some other guy ain’t a good look on me, is it? Oh, yeah yeah, the divorce didn’t look good on you either, whatever. So? Is it true? Oh, hell. Can I use my veto? Whatd’ya mean I don't get a veto? What kinda bullshit is that?”

The little boy blabbered, rubbing salt in the man’s wound, as he reminded him his diaper needed changing, immediately, and he had blueberry compote all over his face and clothes. How the hell did the kid manage to get food on the window?

You didn't sound impressed at all, but that was always how you talked to him. And the conversation wasn't going anywhere, much to Toji's frustration. Why did he have to find out from a toddler?

Call ending soon after that, the two boys decided to make the most of their day together. 

Sat on his lap, they watched a football game on the TV. Of course, his son wasn’t really paying attention, he was far more interested in the rattling toy in his hand, and in all honesty, neither was Toji. He just kept thinking about the fact that you should be there, with them, cuddled up to his side. Not with some fucking loser. You should be home, comfortable, looking pretty for him and with a ring still on your finger, the way his ring remained on his. 

But who was he to say shit?

It was his damn fault to begin with that you were living apart. If only he had cut back on the bad habits and the dangerous jobs. Regret was a damned thing, like a coin dropped in a well and never hearing it drop. 

And then searching for another coin so you could wish to get back the fucking coin you should have never dropped to begin with ‘cause you weren’t a fucking pussy. 

Ah fuck it. 

“Wanna go piss off y’r mum?”

The kid grinned. 

And so there the two were, showing up at the door, both with shit-eating grins contrasting your stern glower. You were in a dress, a very sexy dress and Toji wasn’t shy about letting his eyes wander, and you weren’t shy about the finger you showed him. 

“Are you kidding, Fushiguro?”

“Kid couldn’t stop asking for ya, so just wanted to let him get a peek before you go off on y’r fancy date,” he replied. 

You let them in and with embarrassment lacing your words, you admitted, “Well, date’s cancelled. So, good timing.”

Grin widening, he assured you, “Ah the bastard doesn’t know what he missed out on.”

And soon, you two fell into old routines. You cooked dinner whilst Toji set the table, kid on his back. The conversation shifted from anything and everything and nothing. And after, he cleaned up as you put the baby to sleep. He followed soon after, looping an arm over your shoulder.

“We did good with him, didn’t we?”

When life was that easy, that simple, and good, one was left wondering where did it all go wrong? When did you, or him, or both start wanting more? Or was it the case that things just didn’t work out? Was there still a chance? Should there be? And for whose sake?

Guess none of that mattered. Whether that piece of paper was still there or not, the core of your relationship would never change. Not really.

“Yeah. We did.”

Nanami

There you were, a vision in your suit, sitting at your desk, the way you did every day. He loved his seat; he had the best view of the entire office. Kento especially loved that, for you to get to the water cooler, you had to walk past him, and every single time you did, you’d always stop by, asking how his day was going and whether he’d like his water bottle filling up. 

Of course, he declined your very kind offer, but only so he could walk to the water cooler with you, and for the five minutes you two had, you’d chat about all sorts of things – he was more of a listener than a talker, but you never seemed to mind. 

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that you were the one good thing about this office, and he certainly looked forward to every little interaction with you. 

Until one such interaction became his worst nightmare: you had a date. Oh, and how casually you brought that up to him, as if the fluttery atmosphere between you was a figment of his imagination and the way you gushed about this other man certainly left no doubt in his mind. 

You did not like him the way he liked you. 

That was all he could think about the rest of the day. Even as he wrote up a progress report, attended a client meeting, ate his lunch with the interns he was in charge of, and even when he went to the bathroom to splash cold water on, what he was only then realising to be, a very pale face. Kento must be coming down with something. 

For the first time ever, when you got up from your desk and strolled over to his, heels clacking, and asked if he’d like his bottle filling up, he declined. It came out faster than he could process and the shock evident in both of your faces was like a crack in his glasses. 

Oh, dear. 

You were silent until the end of the day. He didn’t walk out with you, didn’t even get to say goodbye and ‘see you tomorrow’, and he had never been more miserable in his entire life. 

With a heavy sigh, he walked out of the office an hour or so later than everyone else and pulled on his tie. A nice warm bath was all he could think about, at least until he spotted you, waiting on the side of the road. You were restless, shuffling on your feet and checking your watch every couple seconds. Being of above average intelligence might not have meant he was a genius but it sure did mean he was smart enough to figure out what had happened. 

That bastard. 

“Would you like to have a drink or two with me? There are some things I’d like to talk to you about,” he said. Perhaps he shouldn’t have walked up so quietly but it was a habit of his. In that moment, as his pulse was beginning to speed up, all he could think about was how creepy he sounded – he certainly wouldn’t blame you if you ran to HR. 

“What things?” You asked. 

He smiled, a desperately casual smile to show he was sorry for his cold display. “Well, for one, I’d like to make my case clear; I’d never leave you waiting for me on a date.”

And he never did.

Sukuna

“Repeat that for me. Slow.”

You bit your lip, not at all surprised by his reaction. The King of Curses wasn’t known for his calm disposition, in fact, he was known for exactly the opposite. Still, he was nice to you, an ordinary servant in his grand estate doing this and that. One could not put a finger to exactly when this...friendship, should we say... developed but it was one you so terribly cherished. 

Working at the estate of a mass murdering, sadistic monster – your family’s words, not yours – meant you didn’t maintain many friendships. So, to have one with him felt like standing in the eye of the storm, even if that storm was always so fickle and the eye kept moving. 

“I’m. Going. On. A. Date,” you recited, enunciating every syllable loud and clear. When he gave an instruction, you’d found it was always best to be quite literal, lest he tired of your mortal limitations. 

“No.”

Blink. 

Blink. 

Adjusting your robes, you clarified, “No? Sorry, my Lord, but whatever do you mean by ‘no?’”

The tall, hulking man, or rather curse, walked on, his long legs taking him so far within seconds you had to run to catch up. He loved doing that. He thought it funny, you supposed. “Just that. No.”

“But, my Lord, I don’t think you can really interfere with my personal life.”

He stopped. 

You bumped into his back, the smell of sweet death and gentle fire filling your senses. And when he turned, looking down at you with all those eyes, one of his hands gripped your jaw, pulling you upwards and much closer to his face than ever before. 

“Can’t I?”

Then he was gone. 

You didn’t see him the rest of the day. Neither did any of the servants. Perhaps he was mad at you, after all you had no business, and no authority at that, to tell him what he could or couldn’t do. You got complacent, too confident and cocky. You overestimated the depth of your friendship and the limits of his patience. It would be a surprise to no one if you were found dead before dusk. 

There were no texts from your date. Not a single one. Not even after you texted to ask if you were still on for night. And when every call when to voicemail, you were so sure you had been ghosted before you could even meet the guy. Sukuna was right. 

Men were no good.

Living at the estate had its perks: no commute, easy access to your necessities lest you forgot something essential, and the walk over to your quarters was magnificent. The well-kept garden was beautiful and that was really as far as your feeble mind could go in terms of putting into words the glorious sight you saw every morning and night. 

But that evening had been different. 

Your master was there, in his robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the sleeves whilst the top set were crossed. He looked just as regal as he always did, and the sight made your heart clench. One secret you’d take the grave would be that the friendship you so sincerely cherished was one you also sincerely resented; to be a teased with all that you could have but would never get was a torturous pain you wouldn't wish on your worst enemies.

“My Lord, may I help you?”

He beckoned you over. When his hand reached for your head, you were sure it was to slice it clean off, but instead he picked at a fluff and flicked it away with so much disgust, revulsion, and abhorrence you couldn’t help but laugh. 

Something flashed in his eyes. And then his features softened. 

“You did not go on your date?”

You couldn’t even pretend to be sad. “No, he never replied so I guess he lost interest.”

He hummed.

The two of you began strolling again, just as you did most days, sometimes even multiple times a day when he was feeling especially irritable. The tone of his voice held a certain sharpness you couldn’t quite place and when he met your gaze, the soft glow of the lanterns making him look gentler, much more human, more...attainable, you finally spotted a speckle of what you knew to be blood, having cleaned it off the floors and walls yourself too many times. 

And your imagination ran wild, a frenzy of butterflies appearing in your stomach. 

Sukuna really was too sweet for your own good.

[kashverse]

uncle gogo = gojo

it always starts the same way. gojo, in all his insufferable glory, casually drops that he’s taking babykuna out. milan? paris? hong kong? tokyo? “already been there,” sukuna replies smugly each time, arms crossed, watching gojo’s confident smirk start to falter. but this is gojo we’re talking about. he steps up his game. he pushes up his sunglasses, leans down to babykuna’s height, and with the most dramatic, reverent whisper asks,

“have you been to equestria?”

silence.

babykuna’s eyes go wide. her little hands clutch her labubu tight. her tiny body vibrates like she’s just downed a gallon of sugar. “EQUESTRIA?!” she screeches, sending labubu flying across the room as she grabs gojo’s face with both hands. “i can go to equestria?! THE land of my little pony?!”

“of course!” gojo grins. “we’ll meet rainbow dash, twilight sparkle, and—”

he doesn’t even get to finish before she’s sprinting around the living room in pure, unfiltered joy. gojo, just as hyper, joins her, spinning in circles like he’s five years old too. babykuna suddenly stops mid-spin. “mama! mama!” she cries, running up to you. 

“pplllleeeeasseeeee pack my rainbow dash onesie! uncle gogo and i are going to equestria!”

you’re still trying to process everything, but sukuna? oh, he’s sulking. arms crossed, brows furrowed, a dark cloud hanging over his head as he glares at gojo, who’s currently flapping his arms like wings and making airplane noises. “i don’t see what’s so great about a bunch of damn ponies,” sukuna grumbles.

gojo grins, tossing an arm around his shoulder. “oh, don’t feel bad, sukuna. the ponies just wouldn’t like you.”

babykuna, nodding very seriously, chimes in, “yeah, papa. they wouldn’t.”

if sukuna wasn’t already sulking, he sure as hell was now.

[shewasverynice]

Cow *space* Boy - Part 1

@baobei-bu made this fucking INCREDIBLE art and I cannot stop looking at it. SO here's the result of that.

((It's also a three parter with Suguru and Nanami next))

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Rating: Explicit

Content: Cosplay, Overstim, Established Relationship, Fingering, Creampie, Multiple Orgasms, Eating Out, SATORU GOJO HIMSELF <3

Sarah stood with her fingers pinching between her eyes and her other hand on her hip. This was not it. This was not it at all.

"What?" Satoru shrugged, the cow bell attached to his pink bow tie clanging as he stepped closer, "Cow boys right? You said cow boy, didn't you?"

"Yeehaw cowboys," Sarah sighed, opening one eye, then looking away again, "As in, not the cow himself, Satoru."

"Ah," Satoru looked down at his outfit. A tiny little crop top that barely covered his pecs. Some straps that probably could have gone around some tits or something but were around his waist just hanging decoratively. The thong holding on for dear life. All of it was covered in pink cow spots. That's not to forget the headband of course. Very important. Cute fluffy cow ears and pink horns. He was so sure she'd be into it!

"You like it though, right?" He asked. That notorious cocky grin appeared on his pretty pink lips when he reached forward to lift her chin and make her look him in the eyes.

"I dunno, man! Of course I do- I don't- I just- I-" she stammered, struggling to keep eye contact.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping low and husky, "Yeah, I know you do. Just admit it."

Before she could say anything else he leaned closer to her ear and let his lips brush just enough so that when he asked, "So, little farm girl, are you gonna milk this cow dry," she shuddered.

"Why is that hot," she muttered, pushing him back, "Why is everything you do so fucking hot?"

"You like it, don't lie," he laughed, and his wife surprised him suddenly with his favorite thing.

Her eyes met his with a certain defiance, a devilish smirk as well. The kind of look that defined the very reason he was willing to put on any kind of stupid costume she wanted. It didn't matter what she wanted. He'd do it. He'd do it enthusiastically just to see that look on her face.

"What?" Satoru asked, unable to hide the obvious excitement in his voice. As if he didn't know what she was about to do.

She tilted her head, shifting so she was hovered above him, balancing on her forearms. “I've never milked a cow like this before,” she murmured playfully, "She seems a bit odd, but what do I know? I'm new to farming after all.”

He bit his lip, reaching up to trace along her jawline. “Moo?”

"Don't do that," she huffed, then shoved him back onto the bed. He allowed himself to land on the comforter, his tongue swiping across his lips as she crawled over him.

"Sorry," he chuckled, "But what are you going to do to me, Miss Farmer?" He fluttered his long white eyelashes, making his best innocent eyes up at her.

There was a hot flush on Sarah's cheeks, and it was seeping steadily down her neck to the pale skin on her chest. Her eyes were positively wicked when she purred, "You want to find out?"

"Fuck yes, I want to," Satoru murmured. He tilted his head down, his sunglasses sliding down his nose, and got real close to Sarah's pretty lips. They had all the time in the world today. They could take all the time they wanted to play this little "cow boy" game. 

Apparently she knew that too because Sarah shifted, attempting to pin his wrists in her small hands over his head on the pillows. Satoru chuckled at her, but a groan rumbled in his chest as her palm slipped between their bodies and across the strap around his exposed middle. Her fingers tugged and teased at the pink leather and it took more restraint than he expected to hold still for her.

Sarah let up a little to look down at him underneath her, catching her thumb in his belly button. "Want me to do a southern accent too?" She mumbled with a grin, and Satoru made an undignified snort. He shook his head at her, barely biting back his own grin.

"Damn, baby, I do actually love this," Sarah breathed out, snapping the band of his cow spotted thong. Satoru's skin was already warm, flushed just a little pink from his impatient needs. It turned just a shade darker when he watched her eyes rake over him. They were tight enough for her to see the exact outline of his cock as it throbbed and thickened. The damn thing would probably tear off if he was all the way hard, and wasn't that a hell of a thought.

Sarah let her grip on his wrists go, sliding down his body and shoving up his crop top. She sunk her teeth in gently, just between his pecs where the skin was thin and especially pale, sucking a little. Satoru made a little huffing sound and lifted them both up on his hips invitingly. But because Sarah loves to tease him, and because Satoru's skin tasted good and just a little salty from sweat, she bit and suckled all across his chest. Pulling the blood up to the surface long enough to leave dark red patches that would be purple soon enough. Biting at him until he hissed for relief. 

"Oh?" She chuckled. Sure enough, Satoru's cock was threatening to tear the cheap fabric. They never made these slutty little costumes for more than one use clearly. That or he just bought the first thing he saw without accounting for size. That was probably more likely.

Satoru raised an eyebrow to where Sarah's panties were visibly soaked, which Sarah pointedly ignored. Instead she hooked her thumbs in the tiny thong and started to tug them off. "Well let's take a look at this cow, hmm?" Sarah purred when they were gone. All that was left in front of her were miles of Satoru's big toned body, still pale even with the cute splotches of pink.

“Yeah,” Satoru hummed, pushing up her t-shirt, “I definitely have a lot of milk for you little farmer... Better make sure to get it all out, yeah?” 

Sarah’s shirt hit the ground before she tilted her head, "Oh don't worry. You'll be bone dry when I'm done with you, big guy."

“Get in here,” Satoru said impatiently, pulling Sarah up with his hand on the back of her neck. And suddenly Sarah couldn't believe she hadn't kissed him properly yet; that definitely had to have violated some law somewhere, taking so long to do that!

“Yeah,” breathed Sarah, between the presses of Satoru’s hot wet mouth into hers, "Satoru..."

Satoru let out one of his long lusty sighs, his voice low and breathy in that way that always made her body ache for him. Sarah pulled back to look at him, meeting that hot blue stare, his pretty mouth parted and wet and soft. She reached up, tracing his lower lip with her thumb and grinning lazily when Satoru whimpered. 

She couldn't wait any longer, her thumb resting on his lower lip. She leaned in to kiss him, her tongue snaking against his and his meeting hers with his usual ferocity.

The leather of the strap bit into his skin and hers as she plastered herself to his body, but neither of them happened to give a shit. Satoru gasped, the sweetest sound in the fucking world, when their hips pressed together. Sarah could feel his cock pressed up close along through her panties. It throbbed desperately, and because he was panting and flushed and desperate as always, she rocked nice and slow until he broke the seal on their kiss to moan loudly into her mouth.

"Ooh, that's it," Sarah mumbled, "Let me hear you, pretty cow."

Satoru laughed, but the sound quickly melted into a sweet little gasp and low groans while she rolled her hips into his. She ducked her head down, sucking just behind his ear. His damp snowy hair dripped onto her nose. 

Into her ear, Satoru breathed, "You're so sweet, baby -- I just want to touch you all over. I'll make you feel so good."

Sarah's breathing hitched, "Who's in charge here? The cow or the farmer?"

Satoru grabbed her, hooking his arms around her and suddenly she was beneath him. The cowbell around his neck clanged. He spread her legs, draping them around his waist and leaned down to scratch his teeth along the underside of her jaw, gripping hard at her thighs. His slid his hands up and over her soft skin, pressing into the muscle beneath. He cupped her breasts in two hands, brushing his thumbs over her nipples. The second they started to peak and harden under his touch, he groaned. 

She whimpered a little, still caught off guard by the sudden switch. Her mouth had fallen open as he teased her and he couldn't help himself. He kissed her again, his tongue taking up the space in her mouth that no other man would dare to invade.

"Let me fuck you, Miss Farmer, please," Satoru rasped. He grazed his teeth along the outer shell of her ear, rubbing his nose into the smell of her. "C'mon, sweetheart. I'll make you feel so fucking good. I'll make it last all afternoon. I'll fuck you until the sun goes down. Empty all this milk in you... On you... wherever you want. C'mon..."

Sarah moaned, biting her lip. "I'm supposed to milk you, not the other way around."

"Ohh, fuck, you're gonna milk me alright," Satoru said, grinning into her neck. He stopped rubbing his cock on her heat and she stubbornly twisted her hips against him, trying to get that sweet friction back. 

His chest rumbled as he continued, "Do you even understand how excited I was for this? I've been thinking about this since I ordered this cow thing." He grinded his cock hard against her, breathing in her ear, "All you gotta do is ask and I'll fuck you just how you want it. I'll make you feel so damn good, just how you know I can. All I wanna do is make you come, baby doll. It's all I can think about, sweetheart… Fuck, please, don’t leave me hangin’. I just wanna see you make a mess. I gotta see it, gotta feel how hot you are inside. C’mon, Sarah, oh fuck, baby! Let me get you off, please!” 

“Holy shit, Satoru,” Sarah hissed, clenching her fingers into his hair. 

He laughed, then started kissing her. Softly. Making her chase after it. "Mm, that a yes? It is right? Yeah? You gonna let me, right?"

“Yes!” Sarah whimpered, breathing hard. “Satoru! Yeah. C'mon!” 

When Satoru pulled back there were hectic splotches of color high on Sarah's cheeks, a deep blush heating up the skin on her chest and abs. He sat back on his heels, admiring the view for a moment, and raised an eyebrow, his own cheeks flushed red.

Satoru finally tore himself away, backing up to the edge of the bed with a few more soft clangs from the bell on his neck. Reaching up, he shucked down her panties in half a second and threw them across the room. Crawling back up the bed and hovering over her on his hands and knees, he licked his lips. She was spread out so pretty underneath him that he thought he might have a heart attack.

"Goddamn I love you," he mumbled, cupping her breasts again and rubbing his thumbs over her nipples. He dipped his head down and scraped his teeth gently over the hard point of one. She slid her hand over the back of his head and into his fuzzy undercut. He could feel the breath in her chest hitching under his mouth.

He squeezed once again, feeling her muscles flex beneath her breast and swapped to the other side. This time he had a different plan of attack. With his tongue pointed, he flicked a few times then finally gave in and sucked. Sarah squirmed, and Satoru groaned against her skin.

“Satoru, I thought you were desperate to get in me,” she complained, but clearly loved it anyway. 

Satoru kissed up the long pretty pale line of her neck. “Not my fault that you’ve got the prettiest tits, baby.” 

“Shut up,” Sarah huffed, looking away as soon as their eyes met.

"What? You do," Satoru defended with a low chuckle. "You've always been beautiful, Sarah, so fucking pretty, don't you dare think otherwise. And now... Look at these curves, baby, how am I supposed to resist, huh?" 

With his hand, he rolled one of her sensitive nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Her back arched up and she whined. "Look at that... Shit, baby, you want it bad," Satoru mumbled. 

He lapped at the sweat in the hollow of her throat, shamelessly groping her tits with a sucking hiss. "I should have made you be the cow, and I mean that in the most sexy way possible. Someday I'm gonna make you wear it, and then I'll get you off just like this. You'd like that, yeah? I'll suck on these pretty little tits until I make you come."

"Mmn-- Aah!" She gasped, biting down on her lip, "Satoru that's just --"

"It's hot right?" He rasped, his voice husky as his tongue twirled around a nipple again, "You'd be such a mess. Maybe if I do it enough I'd really get some milk." His eyes glazed over for a moment and his lips curled into a smile, "Well... I guess there is an easier way to get that... But we'll save that for later. Maybe when we try the bunny suit, yeah?"

"Who's gonna be the bunny?" Sarah whined, and Satoru chuckled, his finger working it's way inside her. She gasped at the intrusion, and he might as well have too. She was so warm inside -- flushed all the way through. Her voice hitched, "Satoru, just -- please, you can just --"

"Hmm? You were so ready to tease me earlier, what changed?" he murmured, his middle finger slipping out to the tip before he plunged it back inside.

"You're a bastard," Sarah groaned, "A real grade-A -- asshole, Satoru Gojo."

"Mmhmm, how many times do you think I need it today?" Satoru asked casually, because she is absolutely right. Because he can be a grade-A asshole, but she loves it. "Two? Three? Or should I really make sure I'm wrung out, hmm? We got all night. No one is gonna bother us."

For some reason, she lurched up and kissed him deeply. She pulled him down on top of her and trapped him with her legs. As Satoru sat up again she smirked at him, "Whatever we gotta do to make sure we got everything, right?"

He laughed, low and husky. Damn, what he wouldn't do for this woman, looking at him with her bright happy eyes. He kissed her again and it was everything, the heat of her soft mouth and the heat inside her where his finger was stroking in lazy and slow curls.

Satoru mimicked the rhythm with his tongue and Sarah whimpered, her legs spreading just a bit further. He pressed his mouth to her neck -- she was so sensitive, everywhere, and it's only getting better the more he played -- and fit another finger inside where she was so tight and hot. The pads of his middle and ring fingers targeted her sweet spot and her head tipped back. She moaned so loudly, her jaw falling open and her eyes nearly crossing.

"Mmmn... That's right..." Satoru rumbled.

Her eyes were barely focused, trailing down his body to his cock. It was so red and huge. Fuck, he wanted to be inside her already, but it was so fun to see her like that.

“How many times do YOU need it today?" Satoru asked this time, twirling his fingers harder into her spot and chuckling as her eyes squeezed shut. 

"I-- I don't... Haaah Sa-Satoru I don't know..."

Satoru considered touching her clit, honestly it was difficult to hold back, and instead curled his fingers just right again, rubbing slowly and surely where it counted. "That's not an answer, sweetheart," he breathed, tugging her earlobe between his teeth.

"Sa-Satoru! Aaah," she gasped, "Fuck I dunno... Three? C'mon please..."

When Satoru pulled away Sarah honest to God whimpered. "You asked for it," Satoru reminded her, dragging his slick fingers into his mouth. It's difficult not to dive in for more, especially when she's on her back with her legs spread for him. 

Sarah's eyes were on his cock, marveling at just how hard he was. The pink straps around his middle were already stretched, the cheap leather rubbing through and wearing thin. His little crop top was still pushed up, his chest bruising from her earlier assault. That devilish lustful look in his beautiful eyes made a fresh flush rise on her face.

He grinned, leaning in closer. Sarah's skin was so soft, inside her thighs, right where he was about to take up all the space. His space. He held his breath, pushing the head of his cock through her slick folds and into her soft hairs just above her clit. She squirmed and gripped his forearms. Her head fell back, exposing the line of her throat as she swallowed hard. Satoru repositioned, bracing his left hand beside Sarah's head, and started to push inside.

"Ah," She gasped, chewing at her lip. His cock reached her depths and he didn't even bother to wait. He built a nice steady rock right away, moving perfectly in time. The cow bell clanged with each thrust and it would have been hilarious if it they hadn't been so fucking invested.

"You feel so good," Satoru choked out. It's so hot, scorching inside her, "So fucking sweet, Sarah, shit!" Satoru’s eyebrows were knitted together, his eyes closed, and his mouth dropped open. 

"Ohhh fuck, Satoru... You're so good, baby," Sarah gasped out. Praise gets him the way nothing else does, and Satoru's hips staggered. The bell clanged louder for a moment and his breath came hard through his nose as he calmed himself down.

Sarah's hair was hanging in front of her eyes, damp with sweat. Satoru's abs and chest were slick too, the shitty leather digging into his thigh and the top soaking it up. Sweat trickled down to the curve of her collarbone and he considered biting all over her. Instead he settled for pressing both his thumbs hard into her hips, still moving steadily inside her.

Sarah arched in the hottest way, trying to take him deeper, just the lower dip of her spine pushing away from the bed, her ass and shoulders still down. Satoru gripped there, just at the top of the curve of that ass, all that tight plush skin.

"Damn," Satoru panted, "I wanna bite all over you. I want to show everyone you're mine. No fuckin' mistake."

Sarah's stomach was clenching, her legs tensing and shivering. Satoru recognized that moan, knew those clenched teeth and glazed eyes trained on nothing -- he's known it since he first got her into his bed and would never ever forget.

“That’s right,” Satoru rasped. With his left hand he twirled her clit. Damn, she was beautiful, her shivery needy moans. The bell rang out in time, bouncing hard off his chest as he sped up. “Baby, yeah, that’s right, I wanna see you, I wanna see it, baby doll; Sarah, you’re so fucking good to me —“ 

Easy as anything, she came. Overwhelmed by it, tightening up around Satoru inside, nails raking down his biceps and forearms. He watched those abs clench, the way her hips stutter and her pussy throb. And her face. Fuck! And the sounds she made for him. Blushing everywhere, moaning out loud, high and shocked. 

And Satoru, God help him, he had to do it. It made him crazy to watch her come like that. He pressed Sarah’s hips hard into the bed and pounded into her, jarring her lax exhausted body. He leaned down to bury his face in her neck, to bite, to breathe in. The cow bell muffled finally, pressing between their chests.

"Haaah! Sarah! Oh -- fuck, baby," he gritted out. It hit him hard, his hips jerking hard. He stayed deep inside Sarah as he finished, powerless not to. The last aftershocks rushed through him. Her hands pawed at him like she might drown if her hands weren't on him. Even though he had pure satisfaction settling into his bones, it was so fucking warm and sweet in her arms that he never wanted to move. He could just keep his dick tucked into her until the world ended. That sounded like a good plan, if he was being honest.

"Holy shit, sweetheart," he mumbled, pressing his face up into her hands and kissing her palm. "My baby, my pretty girl. I don't know how I take you anywhere without bending you over anything I can find."

"Pervert," she huffed in a laugh, tugging on his little cow headband with her fingers, "Don't say that dressed like this."

"You should praise me more," Satoru pouted playfully, pulling back, "I deserve an award or something. I don't know how I get anything done with you asking me to do shit like this."

"I definitely didn't ask for this specifically," she laughed, mindlessly massaging his thighs with both hands. 

"This bell is loud as fuck," he commented, flicking it with a loud Ting!

His come was hot and sticky between them, and when he slowly pulled out and got an eyeful of her freshly fucked pussy his dick twitched pitifully. He groaned, swiping his tongue over his lips and unsticking his death grip on her hips. She bruised so quickly and easily like a peach, the marks so dark on her skin. She always liked to wear shorts too so no one would miss his clear hand prints around her thighs. 

Good, he thought to himself with a smug snort.

Satoru kissed her sweetly, lulling her into a false sense of security. He dragged a pillow down the bed, plopping it down beside her and rolling her bodily over onto it. Face down, belly to the mattress and pillow under her hips. 

Sarah groaned, partially because she likes being manhandled, but mostly because, "Satoru, you dick, we're gonna stain the pillow."

"I'll buy you fifty more pillows," he huffed. He smoothed both of his hands up the expanse of her back, watching the muscles shift under her skin. "Besides, I've still got more to give you, little farm girl."

Sarah sighed in agreement and finally Satoru reached down to her ass and took in two perfect handfuls. Sarah had her arms folded under her head, her eyes closed and her cheek resting on her hands. She breathed deeply, unsurprised when Satoru's fingers glided through her folds again. She pushed her ass back and yelped with a laugh when he swatted it and thumbed her lips apart.

His come drooled out of her and Satoru thought he might die. But, his hand was forced. There was nothing left to do. There was only one option to take in this particular situation -- 

He laid down, his shins on the floor off the bed and torso draped over the comforter, and licked all around her pink opening. Kneading her ass with both of his big hands. He couldn't take her like his, all wet and messy and exhausted. The only thing he could think about was holding her down and fucking her again and again.

"You're filthy," she moaned, like she could read his mind -- which honestly he wouldn't be surprised if she could at this point. 

"You're wet," he mumbled through her labia, because really that should explain all his compulsions.

Satoru made no effort whatsoever to lick her clean. He liked her dirty with his mess and saliva. Instead he made it his mission to eat her out until she cried. He was so pushy about it, bullying his tongue into her and shaking his head and slurping. She was wriggling with over stimulation, but once he got her past that and into space she'd go limp and panting she'd give in to it. Just lay there on her belly and claw at the comforter, shifting her hips with her muscles tensing and releasing. Singing a song for only him to hear.

So, he did just that. Building her up slow with just his tongue. Just enough that she wouldn't call for him to stop. But then he buried his face in her. 

It's when he slid down enough to scrape his teeth on her sensitive lips and she really lost it, whining high in her throat. Her breath was turning into gasping sobs, because she wanted to get off but he just wouldn't let her. Instead he got his tongue inside, teasing it around the rim, and even using his teeth and fingers. He slipped in his thumb, licking around it, and when he pulled it out his own come was on it. 

"Mmmnn god you taste good," he moaned into her.

Satoru had patience when it came to this. Real, endless patience. Everything else in the world slipped right away because nothing was as important as her continued, quiet, hitching sounds when he nibbled real light and careful right at her lips. Just making a complete mess of her until she didn't know anything but his name.

Time turned into nothing, stretching on without anything but the sounds of her moans and his breathy grunts and sighs. Finally he pulled back, sinking his teeth into the meat of her ass and easily stuck two fingers inside her. Her muscles clenched immediately and he groaned a long low sound that melted into a laugh.

"You're drooling," he whispered, leaning up on his knees to kiss at her shoulders. They shivered like she was cold, but it was clear that she was so close to coming she was just lost in the sauce. "You like it, baby? Hmm? You like it when your man gets you all messed up?"

Sarah made some kind of pathetic mewl. She was far too gone, but Satoru still wanted to hear words. He dug his fingers into her scalp, tugging on her hair and her whole body shuddered hard.

“Say it to me,” Satoru murmured, “Say it to me sweetheart, I wanna hear it. Are you gonna come?” 

She made another sound, a muffled, elongated "ah," and Satoru pressed his knuckles down into her sweet spot. He turned her head to look at her face, sucking through his teeth when he saw how wet her eyelashes were and how red her face was. He wanted that sight burned into his retinas.

“You’re s-so good,” Sarah praised him suddenly, “Satoru... I-- I can’t take it... Aaahnn! you’re so good.” 

Well, that's enough fucking around then.

His fingers pinched her clit and he drove his knuckles hard into her spot, fucking her hard with his fingers. She came immediately, wailing, tearing at the comforter, her body shaking and seizing up hard around Satoru's fingers. Her breaths came like huge heaving sobs and hiccups when she finally started to fall back to Earth.

Satoru hadn't seen anything so beautiful in his life. Which is of course what the thinks every time he makes this happen. Somehow he forgot how hard it gets him and how hot he'd suddenly feel under his skin watching her fall apart. Her forehead rolled against the sheets, catching her breath and smiling lazily.

“You did so good,” Sarah praised, “Baby, that was amazing, I can’t believe —“ 

“Two down,” Satoru said, “One to go.” 

She gasped, then smirked at him. She shifted her hips, a little wiggle and purrs, "Well, c'mon then cow boy."

The grin on his face would probably be permanent after this mess.

He grabbed her, thrusting inside in one quick and sure stroke with a heavy clang of the cow bell. There was absolutely no time to wait. Absolutely not. He held her sturdy hips in both hands and really gave it to her. Really, really fucked her hard and breathless. The cow bell clanged and clanged, almost covering up his loud groaning swears and gasps.

She clawed the bed sheets up under her hands, moaning low in her throat. Satoru reached down, yanking her head up by the hair and she slipped a hand beneath her body to twirl her clit. 

Something snapped. That was it, game over. He pressed her face down hard into the mattress, the other hand gripping her ass hard and fucking her as hard and fast as he wanted. She got off first with a choked-off moan, her hips jarring out of rhythm with his. He saw no other option than to hold her down even harder. That fucking bell was ringing so loud he was sure it was changing his brain chemistry.

It only took a few more strokes while her cunt desperately milked him and he was coming too. Moaning shamelessly loudly and panting. She was twisting and writhing, her feet pressed up into his ass from behind. He was losing his mind in that white-hot goodness.

Finally, she nudged at him to get off and she rolled over onto her back with her legs splayed wide. She was covered in sweat and filled with his come, and he spread out beside her on his stomach, throwing the bell off onto the floor to lay without it digging into him. 

“I think I’m dead,” Satoru mumbled into the sheets, "That was fuckin' amazing."

Sarah sighed, looking over his way and tugging at one of the cute little ears on his head band, "This is pretty cute... I think we'll have to keep it."

He snorted and grinned, "Oh, we're definitely keeping it."

"I liked your little cow panties," she grinned and he laughed, hiding his face in his arms. If he was being honest, it was a little embarrassing, but he wouldn't chicken out for a request for her even if he'd apparently gotten it wrong.

She stretched out her legs, rolling onto her side. “I feel like I got mauled by a bear,” she complained, but when she looked over at him she had a grin on her face.

“More like a bull," Satoru laughed and buried his face as she swatted playfully at his head, just as he expected. 

“I KNEW you were gonna say that!" She laughed, and he rolled over and yanked her into his arms.

“Let’s take a shower,” he suggested, nuzzling his head into her hair.

"I just took one before you defiled me," she teased.

“Yeah, ‘cause you asked for it," he teased, sneering at her.

“Quit talking shit,” Sarah laughed, sitting up to kiss his forehead.

Satoru tilted his head and grinned. “You like it.” 

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes, looking up at the little cow ears. He watched her hand as it reached up, her fingers feeling around for a moment. There was a soft click.

"Moo! 💕"

They looked at each other as the ears let out a robotic, tinny cow sound. There was a full five seconds of silence between them before they cracked up, laughing so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

If you liked that I also do custom commissions for smut! Check it out if you want your own OC to meet the cow boys or literally anything dudes I'm pretty flexible!

PART 2 ON THE WAY!!

Suguru is next hehehehhee

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru

TW: dubcon-ish due to suggestiveness and alcohol, yandere, breakup, depression, schemes, manipulation, office au for some reason

part two in Gojo's pov

fem reader

It’s been two weeks since your breakup—since you got dumped on your sorry ass.

You wished you could say you were fine, wish you could say fuck that guy, anyway, good fucking riddance—that you’d make him regret it, that he didn’t know what he lost, that he’d come crawling back begging your forgiveness soon enough. You really wish you were that girl—the one who gets up and dusts off and gets back out there with her head still held high. You really do.

But no, you’re one of those girls who feel silly getting dressed—worried that you’re trying too hard. Fuck, it’s hopeless. You feel like shit, and you look like shit, and you don’t even want to go out anyway—it’s just some shitty office party at some shitty little bar where everyone’s going to make your breakup their business. It would be best not to go—leave them to talk shit about it behind your back. 

Sure, you could slap on your best tough act and tell them all to go fuck themselves, but why bother? You’re just going to drink too much and end up doing something you regret.

And oh, how right you were.

It’s not even been a good few hours before you’ve got the office slut’s tongue down your throat—all but clinging to him as you press your body up against his. Manicured hands tussled in his pretty white locks, pulling on him while sucking each other’s faces, leeching off the feeling of his hands grabbing your waist—oh god, it feels good to be wanted again.

Yes—yes, this is what you need. Fuck your ex-boyfriend, he’s probably out fucking some skank himself. Well, two can play that game. He’ll see. You’ll make him see. That fucking asshole—

Oh no.

“Wait—stop,” you break off the desperate kissing. 

Hanging your head while steadying your breath, you push both hands flat on his hard chest, keeping him distanced even as he leans after your lips. 

You swallow thickly, then wipe your mouth, taking a step back. “The fuck am I doing…”

You don’t dare look back up at him. Beyond embarrassed, you just want to get out of there as quickly as your feet can carry you—catch the first cab home and forget all about it. Pretend it never happened. 

“Sorry, ‘m gonna go,” you mumble as you start walking away, leaving your confused colleague behind, alone outside the bathroom stalls, still recovering.

You make your way down the hallway with dim neon lights flickering overhead, feeling swallowed up by the graffiti-littered walls.

What a sorry place for mistakes.

“Ugh, I can’t believe I was about to be one of those girls.” You shudder as you wrap yourself in your own hug, feeling silly for wearing a cropped jacket—and why the fuck is your dress so short? You’re not a fucking teenager anymore. “Fucking hell… I’m such a mess.”

“No, wait.” A tug of your jacket holds you in place. Oh, but you really don’t want to look at him. It’s humiliating enough already that you’d sought him out for validation—you don’t need his pity as well. It’s Gojo, for fuck’s sake. A different girl brings him lunch about every day—the whole office knows.

You might just die from the toll of it.

“Com’on. I’m perfect for this, aren’t I?” he asks under his breath while maneuvering you up against the wall again, his dewy breath brushing your scalp as he peers down at you in wait for your answer.

“What are you on about?” You veer away. You should be in a cab already. Better yet, you should have never gone out in the first place. What was your goal here anyway? To not wallow in your own worthlessness? And you really thought seeking Gojo’s seal of approval would make you feel any better about yourself? The office hottie and the century’s ultimate fuckboy?

Fuck, it’s so wrong on so many levels, you feel disgusted with yourself.

“We’re both drunk,” he states, but you don’t really want to hear it—head too filled with your own bullshit to heed any of his. You swear, if he tries any one of his sleazy pick-up lines on you, you’re gonna knee him right in the balls. It would be nice to get fired now anyway—you’d take it as a blessing.

What he says instead is unexpected—brutally and grossly honest, “You need a rebound, right? And I wanna fuck.”

Your thoughts stop shaming you as you look back at him, returning his gaze with an awaiting silence, allowing him to go on.

“So let’s use each other and blame it on the drink.”

It sounds like the lyrics of an angsty heartache song they might have played back inside the bar—the muted thuds seeping in through the walls makes it all but true. And still, there’s something oddly enticing about it, even as it makes you cringe.

“No hard feelings. No strings,” he continues, a small grin playing in the corner of his lips. “Just a good ol’ tit for tat.”

He almost sells it. But you’re just one too many bad nights too tired to buy.

“Don’t be dumb—” you dismiss and try nudging him away again—only, he doesn’t let up.

“C’mon—you’re angry, aren’t you?” he poses with a quirked brow. “What better way to stick it to him than fucking the hottest guy around?”

It stunts you. Suppose that had been exactly your objectives tonight, unknowingly and much to your shame. At least you can find some mediocre solace in your next confession, for as it turns out, “I’m not that kinda girl.”

It’s a depressing outcome. Made even shittier by how you sort of wish you were—that kind of girl. The type who doesn’t let anything get to her, who moves on and doesn’t think twice about it—who fucks the hot guy in front of her and wakes up feeling empowered the next morning. If only you weren’t such a tragic fucking loser…

“Be her for a night?” he suggests, still not having given up. He cups your chin and brushes a thumb over your lips. It’s really intimate, makes you feel pinned beneath that look in his eyes—as if the sky was coming down upon you. His words are low, brushing your face with heat as he says them, “I promise, I’ll make you feel so good you’ll forget all about him.”

Goddamn it—there it is, the fucking pick-up line. Now, it doesn’t really make your knees weak or anything, but you’re sorry to say you can’t deny it’s tempting, either. 

Besides, you really didn’t want to go home and spend the night crying yourself to sleep—again, now paired with regrets about this night on top of it all.

You look at him through the thicket of your mascara, into those big blue puppy-dog eyes looking at you in something so strange such as earnest. Oh God, he really wants to do this for you, doesn’t he? He could go find himself any other girl—everyone had been eyeing him earlier—it’s not too late for him to simply go pick any one of them up. 

Is this his way of being considerate—being a good colleague by offering you a fuck? Ugh… that makes you feel so fucking pathetic. But then again… why does it really matter? You couldn’t really stoop any lower at this point—might as well have some fun while at it, right?

You were out of ice cream anyway…

“C’mon,” he drawls, eyes growing heavier as he leans further in—once again, only a tiny inch separating you. So close you taste his breath and feel his voice on your lips. “Don’t make me beg.” 

You don’t. No, you end up saying not another word. Too busy drowning your sorrows, getting drunk while kissing him breathless.

And oh, you and your bittersweet heartbreak taste so good on his tongue—coercing your boyfriend into dumping you was the greatest ploy for your heart he could ever do.

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[snail-day]

Happy Friday! Today feels very sleepy so here's:

Yan!JJK Men x Sleepy Nonchalant!Reader

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami

Tw: yandere behaviors, kidnapping, slight noncon/dubcon, somno, mentions of murder. MDNI.

At first, Gojo genuinely didn’t get it. He’s talking, and people love when he talks, he’s charismatic, funny, the strongest, so why are your eyes fluttering shut mid-sentence? Watching you with growing irritation, white brows furrowing, as your head tilts back into the plush pillow, your breathing going soft, right in the middle of his story about a fight the first years had.

A huff of a breath, that teasing lilt shifting to annoyance, “Are you seriously sleeping right now?”

But the longer he watches you, the harder it is to stay annoyed. You're not tense. You're not trying to escape. You're just... soft. Relaxed. Wrapped in his blankets, lying in the bed he picked out for you. The first time he returns from a mission to find you exactly where he left you, tangled up in his hoodie and the mountain of plush pillows he bought for you, it hits him, you must trust him. Or maybe you're just too sleepy to care, but that makes his chest ache in a whole new way, rather would assume you're actually just in love with him too.

You always greet him the same way. Barely awake. Raspy little voice coming out from under the blankets. “Welcome home…”

He climbs in next to you without any sort of hesitation. Wraps his lanky arms around you, face pressed into your neck. Clinging onto your warmth, pressing a few kisses here and there. He doesn’t care if you can’t stay awake through his stories anymore. He just wants to feel you melt into him. You try, sometimes, asking sleepy questions about his day, but your eyes always start drooping again.

He thinks it’s adorable. His sweet little darling can’t even stay up, but still tries to care.

Though, in bed, it’s a different story.

“Come on,” he groans, pouting against your throat, nipping the soft skin, leaving bites and wine red hues. “I'm making you feel good, aren't I? The least you can do is stay awake and moan for me, c’mon, baby, pleeease.”

All whiny and desperate, his hips snap harder, just to pull more sounds from your sleepy little self. Watching how your brows furrow, the way your mouth parts with soft, high whimpers before you start drifting again, lashes fluttering, body going loose as he presses your knees to your chest. Honestly it's a game for him at this point, how deep can he push you until you actually wake up.

But even when you go all quiet again, eyes slipping shut, he doesn’t stop. Not when you’re warm and pretty and pliant underneath him. Not when he’s this close, so deep inside you, clinging to every twitch of your body.

A free hand of his trembles just slightly as the warm palm settles on your waist. Leaning down with the other, giving your cheek a few lazy, gentle pats, ensuring you're still coherent enough.

Your lips part to protest, barely more than a sleepy murmur and he’s already kissing you. Shoving his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your tired little whine as he thrusts deep, grinding into you as his third load spills inside. A soft groan against your lips, voice cracked and breathless. “Shhh… it’s fine, sleepyhead. You can sleep through the next few rounds.”

Geto was just so used to obedience, submission, fear. So when he caught you nodding off mid-sermon, he nearly lost his composure.

He almost thought he needed to kill you. To make an example of your disobedience and lack of etiquette in a temple. Your head tilted forward, body slouched, breathing slow while he preached about cleansing the world of filthy non-sorcerers. You looked like a child dozing in a classroom. Disrespectful. Pitiful.

And yet… intriguing enough. He couldn’t remember you. Couldn’t place your face. Maybe you were just a leftover, someone he spared when he exorcised the curse that used to cling to you. When he asked how you got here, how you found the temple, all you did was mumble, “It felt cozy…”

Cozy huh.

Something about your sleepy little pout, the way your lashes fluttered while you fought to stay awake. Making him feel a certain way as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and flashed him that sweet smile and a mumbled apology. He should’ve cast you out. Sacrificed you. But instead, he let you stay.

You became a quiet little fixture in his world. Always near him, even if you were barely conscious. He started carrying you during temple work, your body slumped against the silk of his robes or curled up in his lap as he held meetings and sermons. His followers knew better than to speak on it. You were an oddity, a stray he took in. And for all his cruelty, Geto had a possessive streak a mile wide.

When you slipped to your knees in front of him, dozing even as you lazily licked at the salty cum on the tip of his pretty cock, his breath caught. You were messy and tired, little bubbles of spit forming along his shaft, as you whined that your jaw ached. Suguru wasn't sure if he should praise you for being so cute, blowing bubbles on his cock with your sleepy drool or punish you for being a tease.

Instead he cradled your head, not out of kindness, but control, lacing his fingers in your hair. “You can take it,” he cooed, slowly pushing himself deeper down your throat. Ignoring any gags and whines. “Be a good girl. Just a little longer.”

The sight of you, eyes glassy, tear tracks glistening, mouth stretched wide with drool pooling at the corners. God, it made him feel divine. He needed to ruin you. Needed to remind you who your savior was.

So he started bringing you to his bloodiest sermons. Sat you right on his lap while he exorcised curses, while he slaughtered your kind. Kept you tucked against his chest, your soft little body pressed close while the screams echoed through the temple. He'd expect you to cry, not to cling onto him while you slept, nuzzling into his robes as he was your shelter. Ignoring the screams, the deaths of your kind. Perhaps a sleepy little pet won't be so bad.

Nanami didn’t want to do this. Kidnapping wasn’t exactly in his moral playbook. But you weren’t answering your phone, weren’t responding to texts, and every time he showed up at your apartment, you brushed him off with a sleepy smile and went right back to bed.

You were overworked. Exhausted. Probably depressed. And he couldn’t just leave you like that.

So, he took you.

Gently, packed up your things, moved you into his home. Carried you to bed and tucked you in. When you stirred, confused, he sat beside you and said, “You need rest. I’ll take care of everything else.”

You were drowsy, but not frightened. That… worried him more. We're you just so done with life that it was easier to be kidnapped? Poor thing.

He started waking you just to feed you, his voice low and careful. “Open your mouth,” he’d say, spoon in hand. “You need to eat something.”

He hovered. Quietly fussed. Took your temperature, read articles about chronic fatigue, bought vitamins and supplements and all your favorite snacks. At first, he asked constantly if you were depressed. If something was wrong.

You always said no. Just sleepy. Just tired.

Eventually, it was just easier to believe you.

So, his whole routine revolves around you. He works his shifts, knowing you’ll be there when he returns. Curled up under his weighted blanket, breathing steady (he has to check sometimes), hair tousled and cheek pressed into his pillow. He gets undressed, slides in behind you, and you instinctively scoot back into his chest.

“Nnnh… Kento,” you murmur.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

He should feel guilty. He knows this isn’t normal. But you let him do this. You make soft noises when he holds you. Ignoring how his hands slip your sweet panties to the side. You cling to his bicep in your sleep, shifting against him as his fingers rub little circles on your sensitive nub. And when he wakes you with slow, careful fingers between your legs, dipping into your heat, your only response is a sleepy sigh and a tilt of your hips, letting him know he's doing a good job.

You never fight him. Never run. So he should just indulge himself, right?

[xianji]

have you noticed yet? | gojo x reader

it was supposed to be a normal day at the university. you were in the courtyard, trying to get through some reading before your next class when, as usual, gojo satoru showed up. you could feel his presence before you even saw him, the undeniable aura of chaos he brought with him.

“hey, you’re looking extra focused today,” gojo’s voice cut through the air as he approached, plopping himself down beside you without asking.

you didn’t even look up. “what do you want, gojo?”

he kicked his feet up onto the table, knocking a couple of your papers to the ground. “just thought i’d check in on my favorite person.”

“favorite person, huh?” you finally glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “since when am i your favorite?”

“since forever,” he grinned, eyes glinting with mischief. “you’ve just been too busy pretending you don’t like me to notice.”

you rolled your eyes, going back to your book. “don’t start with me today. i’m trying to study.”

“oh, i know,” he said, leaning in closer with that playful, irritating smirk of his. “but i can tell you’re not really studying. something’s distracting you, isn’t it?”

you bit back a sigh. he always had a way of getting under your skin. “it’s none of your business.”

“it is when i’m the distraction.” gojo’s grin widened, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. “you’re always so serious, y/n. it’s cute.”

you looked at him, eyes narrowing. “seriously, gojo, what do you want?”

his grin faded slightly, and for a second, he actually looked serious. almost too serious. “i want you to stop pretending like you don’t notice me.”

“i notice you,” you said flatly, “but that doesn’t mean i like you.”

“no, but it does mean you’re lying to yourself,” he shot back, his voice suddenly quiet. “you notice me more than anyone else does. you pay attention to every little thing i do. i see it.”

you froze for a moment, caught off guard. “what are you talking about?

“i’m talking about the fact that you’re not as immune to me as you like to think you are,” gojo continued, his usual cocky smile back in place. “you act like you’re annoyed, but deep down, i know you’re always waiting for me to show up.”

you stood up abruptly, your heart pounding in your chest. “you’re crazy.”

“am i?” gojo’s voice softened, more genuine than you expected. “maybe i am. but i’m not wrong.”

you wanted to snap at him, tell him to stop messing with you, but something in his eyes made you hesitate. he wasn’t joking anymore. the usual teasing tone was gone. he was… serious.

“you’re definitely crazy,” you muttered, taking a step back.

gojo chuckled softly, standing up too. “maybe. but i’m not joking about this.”

you frowned at him. “what are you trying to say?”

he smirked again, leaning closer as if the world around him didn’t matter. “i’m saying that i like you. yeah, i like you. and you can pretend you don’t care, but we both know you do.”

you stood there, caught between disbelief and confusion. “wait, are you—”

“yeah, i’m saying it,” gojo interrupted, shrugging like it was no big deal. “i like you. and i’m done pretending i don’t.”

you opened your mouth to say something, but the words got stuck in your throat. gojo was looking at you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like he wasn’t even fazed by his own confession.

he flashed that trademark grin of his, turning to leave. “so, what are you gonna do about it, huh?”

you stared after him, still processing what just happened. gojo satoru had just told you he liked you. not in some roundabout way, not with any games. he’d just said it.

and you didn’t know what to do with that.

but maybe you also like him back.

[bjlipss]

synopsis: you have a huge crush on suguru, right? so why is that your heart starts beating faster only when satoru appears. and why does he act like he knows it.

miyan’s notes: yay!! i like this. enjoy!!

part 1

you don’t even realize when it happens.

one day, you’re still sighing over suguru, watching the way he ties his hair back before training, admiring how effortlessly cool he is, and then—somewhere along the way—your focus starts shifting. not all at once, not in any dramatic way, but in little, subtle moments.

like when you enter a room, and instead of searching for suguru first, your eyes automatically flicker to messy white hair, scanning for that familiar, towering frame. or when something funny happens, and you catch yourself turning to tell satoru first, laughing before you even realize he’s already looking at you, grinning like he was waiting for your reaction.

you don’t think much of it at first. gojo has always been there, always loud, always impossible to ignore. he’s just—gojo. annoying, arrogant, a constant presence in your life whether you want him there or not.

but then, you stop talking about suguru as much. you don’t even notice at first, but shoko does.

“you used to bring him up every five seconds,” she says one day, exhaling smoke as she watches you from the corner of her eye. “now it’s just satoru this, satoru that. what happened to your lovesick little crush?”

you blink, caught off guard. what happened? you don’t know. but as you think about it, you realize suguru’s name doesn’t come up in your thoughts as often anymore. you stop trying so hard to be near suguru, but you do find yourself lingering when gojo’s around. you don’t hold your breath when suguru walks past you anymore, but you do when gojo leans in too close, his familiar, teasing grin a little softer than before.

you stop staring at suguru with admiration, but you do watch gojo when he’s not paying attention, when his guard is down and he’s just a boy with the world on his shoulders. when you walk into a room, your first instinct isn’t to find him. when you want to share something, it’s not his reaction you’re looking forward to.

instead, your days are filled with satoru—his dumb jokes, his stupid antics, the way he somehow always manages to drag you into whatever nonsense he’s up to. he annoys you, gets in your space, pokes at you until you snap, and then grins like it’s all part of some big, amusing game.

except—except when did it stop annoying you?

when did you start rolling your eyes but laughing instead of groaning? when did you start letting him pull you closer without shoving him away? when did your stomach start flipping when he leans in too close, when his fingers brush against yours absentmindedly, when he grins at you with something just a little softer in his expression? something you rejected even though you noticed

and then it happens. the realization slams into you out of nowhere—like walking straight into a glass door you didn’t see coming.

you’re sitting outside after training, stretched out on the grass, listening to satoru ramble about something or other. you’re not even really paying attention to what he’s saying, just watching him, the way his hands move animatedly when he talks, the way his lips quirk up at the edges, the way his sunglasses are slipping down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of bright blue beneath.

and then he turns to you, catching your stare, and grins. “what? do i have something on my face?”

your heart stumbles. and it hits you all at once.

oh.

oh no.

you panic. this wasn’t supposed to happen. you were supposed to like suguru. you were supposed to get flustered around him, supposed to daydream about him, supposed to be thinking about ways to impress him. but here you are, sitting next to satoru, feeling your heart pound over a simple smile.

you try to deny it at first. try to brush it off, tell yourself it’s just because you spend too much time together, because he’s always around, always teasing, always pulling you into his orbit whether you like it or not. that’s just how satoru is, no? a magnetic force, a pull no one can resist— except, they can and you don’t even try.

but then he tugs on your sleeve, pulling you closer as he whines, “you’re ignoring me again,” like he’s entitled to your attention, like it’s only natural that you look at him, and you don’t pull away. you let him hold onto you, let his fingers linger against the fabric of your uniform. let him mess up your collar and your hair and give him a halfhearted glare instead of cursing his bloodline.

and when he grins at you, pinkish lips glistening with your lip balm he likes to use, something warm curls in your chest.

you’re doomed.

the worst part? satoru notices.

he notices the way you don’t stumble over your words around suguru anymore. how you greet him with a smile that is more casual than anything else before your gaze moves to satoru and you beam because he is already looking at you. the way your gaze lingers on him now, worry seeping into you whenever he looks out of it. the way you get quiet whenever he gets a little too close, whenever his hand brushes yours, whenever his knee bumps into yours. whenever he tilts his head and watches you with that smirk like he knows exactly what’s going on in your head.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just keeps teasing you, keeps nudging into your space, keeps tugging on your sleeve whenever you start looking at anything that isn’t him. hopes that you’re smart enough to realise what is happening on your own, with a little help from him.

and then, on a sunny afternoon, when you’re watching him a little too closely, lips parted like you were about to say something and forgot—he leans in, way too close, and smirks.

“huh. looks like someone finally came to their senses.”

your breath catches in your throat.

you don’t move, don’t blink—don’t even breathe—because satoru is inches from your face, smirking like he’s just won a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

your brain short-circuits. your heart is hammering, and you can’t tell if it’s from the sheer audacity of him getting this close, or from the slow, sinking realization that he might be right.

you have come to your senses. and it’s terrifying.

“wh-what are you talking about?” you stammer, trying—and failing—to lean away without looking like you’re running. but satoru follows, resting his chin in his palm, his elbow propped on his knee, his whole body angling toward you like he has all the time in the world to sit here and watch you squirm.

his smirk deepens. “oh, don’t play dumb now. it was kinda cute when you were still pretending, but—” he reaches out, flicking your forehead, grinning when you scowl and swat at his hand. “—i know you like me.”

your entire body jolts with panic. does he? you were barely figuring it out yourself, barely coming to terms with the idea that maybe—just maybe—your crush on suguru had been a distraction, something safe, something comfortable. that maybe—just maybe—what you actually felt, what had been sneaking up on you all this time, was something much more dangerous.

because he always felt so unreachable despite how close he always was. so it was much easier to ignore that there might just be something for him.

and if satoru knows that? if he sees it? then what the hell are you supposed to do?

“y-you’re delusional,” you mutter, turning away, hoping—praying—that if you don’t look at him, he’ll drop it.

he doesn’t. of course, he doesn’t.

“am i?” he hums, tilting his head like he’s considering it, like this is just some casual conversation and not your entire world tilting on its axis.

you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, crossing your arms over your chest, refusing to meet his eyes. but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

satoru clicks his tongue. “see, if you really didn’t like me, you’d be yelling at me by now. pushing me away. threatening to beat me up even though we both know that’s impossible.”

you glare at him. “i could try.”

his grin is blinding. “ooh, feisty. you do like me.”

“do not.”

“do too.”

“i don’t—”

and then his hand is on your wrist. gentle, loose—barely a touch at all, really—but it’s enough to stop you mid-sentence, to make your heart stutter so violently in your chest you’re sure he can hear it.

his fingers brush over the inside of your wrist, tracing slow, lazy circles, and you swear your entire body is on fire.

“you do.” he says again, but this time his voice is softer, lacking its usual teasing lilt.

you swallow. hard.

you should pull away. you should.

but you don’t.

because the truth is, the second he touched you, something inside you melted, something warm and terrifying curling low in your stomach. and the worst part is—you like it. you can’t even deny it.

you like the way he touches you without hesitation, like he belongs there, like you belong there. in his arms that feel endless and in his hold that feels the closest. you like the way he looks at you, sky blue eyes sharp and knowing, like he’s peeling back every excuse, every ounce of denial, and seeing you.

you like him.

oh, you’re so screwed.

“…so what if i do?” the words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than you’d like, but satoru hears them anyway.

his smirk fades. for a moment, just a second, something flashes in his expression—something that makes your stomach flip, something real.

“then,” he murmurs, thumb pressing against your pulse, feeling it race under his touch, “i win.”

your breath shudders.

he’s too close. too warm, too confident, too much. you can smell his shampoo, feel the slight weight of his hand, the steady rhythm of his breathing. your body is screaming at you to do something, to move, to say something, to react.

so you do the only thing you can think of.

you flick his forehead back. hard.

“ow—!” satoru reels back, dramatically clutching his forehead like you’ve just dealt a fatal blow. “betrayal! and after i was so nice to you!”

“you deserved it.” your face is still burning, your heart still racing, but at least he’s not touching you anymore.

he pouts, rubbing the spot between his brows. “you’re just mad because i’m right.”

you are, but you’ll never admit it.

instead, you roll your eyes, shoving yourself to your feet, brushing imaginary dust off your uniform. “i’m leaving.”

“aww, don’t go, i was just starting to enjoy this.”

you ignore him, willing your legs to move, but then—

“wait.”

his voice is different this time. not playful, not teasing—something else, something more serious.

you freeze.

he pushes himself up, stretching his arms above his head before shaking them out, like he’s psyching himself up for something.

then he grins at you, tilting his head. “come on a date with me.”

your heart stops.

you turn to him slowly, carefully, because surely you misheard him. surely he didn’t just say what you think he said.

“…what?”

he raises an eyebrow. “a date. y’know, where two people hang out because they like each other? ring any bells?”

your mouth opens, then closes. then opens again. no words come out.

he waits, watching your expression with a smug little smirk, like he knew he was going to break you.

finally, you manage to find your voice. “you’re asking me out?”

“mhm.”

“because…?”

he sighs, dramatic as ever, running a hand through his hair. “because, my dear oblivious kouhai, i like you.”

your stomach twists.

“you… you do?”

“duh.” his tone is light, but there’s something underneath it, something steadier.

your head spins. “but—but you never—”

he shrugs. “figured i’d let you figure it out first. wouldn’t be fair if i did all the work, y’know?”

you stare at him.

gojo satoru likes you.

gojo satoru, the most annoying person alive, the strongest sorcerer of your generation, the boy who has been pulling you into his orbit from the second you met him—he likes you.

your hands are clammy. your face is on fire. your heart is a mess.

but then he reaches for your wrist again, tugging gently, looking down at you with that same insufferable, familiar grin.

“so? what do you say?”

and, somehow, impossibly, your lips curve into a smile.

“…okay.”

your lips barely part before satoru grins like he’s already won. like he knew what your answer was going to be, like he was just waiting for you to finally catch up.

“okay?” he echoes, stepping closer, still holding your wrist in his hand, his thumb brushing over your pulse.

you swallow hard, willing your heart to calm down—but it’s impossible when he’s standing so close, his entire presence swallowing up the space around you, making it impossible to focus on anything but him.

“okay,” you repeat, firmer this time.

his grin softens—just a little, just enough that it makes your stomach flip in a completely different way. and then his grip on your wrist shifts, fingers lacing through yours instead, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and maybe, you think, maybe it is.

“good,” he murmurs, voice dropping just slightly, eyes flickering over your face. his gaze is heavy, unreadable, and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until he tilts his head and smirks. “so… do i get a kiss now, or do i have to wait until the actual date?”

your face burns. “excuse me?”

“what? i think i deserve one, after everything. y’know, for my patience.”

“you bullied me for months—”

“—lovingly—”

“—because you knew i liked suguru—”

“—past tense, nice—”

“—and now you want a kiss?”

“…yes?”

you gape at him, heat prickling the back of your neck. you should say no. you should shove him away, roll your eyes, something, because that’s how it always is with him.

but instead, you find yourself staring—at his lips, at the way they quirk up in amusement, at the way he’s still watching you so intently, like he wants you to kiss him just as badly as he wants to tease you about it.

you want to.

you really, really want to.

so before you can overthink it, before you can talk yourself out of it, you tug him forward, standing on your toes and pressing your lips against his.

satoru makes a small noise of surprise, but he recovers fast—his grip tightening around your hand, his free arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you in close as he kisses you back.

and it’s—

it’s dizzying.

his lips are warm, unfairly soft, and he kisses you like he knew this was going to happen, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’s making sure you know—that you feel—that this isn’t a joke to him. that he meant it.

he likes you.

his fingers curl against your back, pressing you against him, deepening the kiss just slightly, just enough that your knees go weak, just enough that you have to grab onto him to keep yourself steady, his uniform creasing between your fingers.

and when you finally pull away, breathless and dazed, he doesn’t let you go.

instead, he presses his forehead against yours, grinning so wide you can feel it, his fingers still tangled with yours.

“…yeah,” he breathes, voice warm and smug and so stupidly fond. “definitely worth the wait.”

you groan, shoving at his chest, but you don’t pull away—not really. you don’t want to.

temporary taglist: @booklova0-0 @sttm99 @linaaeatsfamilies @sylusonlylove @enyathedrakaina @paintedperidot @fawnfaer

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ KISSIN' AND HOPE THEY CAUGHT US ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: you and him kiss—a lot—while the stream's still going, but neither of you notice

contents: fem!reader. pda written by someone who doesn't particularly like pda. gets a little suggestive around the end. inumaki tells satoru 'kys' multiple times. not proofread.

author's note: kissin' and hope they caught us, whether they like or not, i wanna show you off, i wanna show you offff

"i swear you guys are really out to get me," satoru groans, addressing the flood of comments filling up his chatbox. he spins around in his chair, tilting his head back and exhaling when he stops. you watch him shake his hair out of his eyes and grin at the camera, just like he does every time he's getting ready to end the stream.

"okay, guys, that's enough, i gotta go," satoru says, right on cue. he partially turns around and shoots a rueful smile your way, taking a quick moment to admire the way you look all cozied up on his couch. and it's only an added bonus that you're even wearing his hoodie—the same one he wore on your first date.

turning back to the screen, satoru stretches his arms and waves. "see ya tomorrow, can't wait. except for you, toji, and inumaki too. fuck you guys," he adds, snorting when he sees their replies just a moment later.

inumaki: kys!!!

inumaki has been kicked from the stream by satoru-gojo.

"aw, and we were almost about to set a new streak of one day without me kicking inumaki," satoru sighs, shaking his head dramatically. "maybe one day we'll even make it to two streams, but i think that'll take a couple centuries." satoru laughs and waves offhandedly, clicking the 'x' in the corner of his stream to end it.

he switches tabs to go back to his previous game's stats and turns around again, spinning his chair to face you. satoru opens his arms and beckons you with both his hands, a puppy-like shine in his eyes. "c'mere, lemme hold you for a little," he says, smiling wider when you begrudgingly get up from your spot on his couch.

"i was so comfy," you mumble, wrapping your arms around yourself as you walk over to satoru. if his stream was still on, you'd probably be on camera now.

"i'll make you even comfier," satoru insists, grabbing your hand and tugging you into his lap. his arms snake around your waist and hold you snugly against his chest, hands slipping into the pockets of your hoodie. "you look so cute, wearin' my hoodie like that," he smiles, kissing your cheek affectionately.

"satoru, your lips are cold," you grumble, leaning away from his mouth—but you don't put that much distance between you two, considering his snug grip on your torso. satoru ignores your protests and kisses you again, peppering kisses all over the side of your face.

"you're so—fuckin'—cute," satoru murmurs, punctuating each word with a kiss. his lips are soft and you can feel them warm up a little more with each press to your cheek. his minty breath tickles your face as he whispers sweet nothings against your skin, decorating your face with his lips.

"what's the occasion?" you ask tentatively, looking at satoru's blushing face out of the corner of your eye. he tilts his head and shrugs, and you feel his chest rise and fall as he does so.

"do i need an excuse to kiss my girlfriend?" satoru replies cheekily, rubbing your tummy through the pockets of your hoodie. "my hands are cold, baby, wanna warm them up?"

"huh—"

satoru doesn't wait for an answer before he tugs your hands into your pockets with his, hiding a smile at the little indignant sound you make. "you're so cute, i just wanna eat you up," satoru mumbles, scrunching up his nose. his white hair falls into his eyes for the thousandth time, and he blows out a puff of air in an attempt to clear up his vision. it doesn't work—his hair just falls right back into his eyes.

so you extract your hands from where they're clasped in between satoru's and brush back his hair, fingertips lingering on the sides of his face. he turns his head and presses his lips to the palm of one of your hands, cold lips curling into a smile at the cat-like look on your face.

"how was the stream today?" you ask, leaning into his chest. satoru shrugs again, kissing the top of your head.

"fine, i won a couple rounds," satoru says indifferently. his attention is on you, only you—right now, his stream and his games are at the back of his mind. "don't change the subject, baby."

you huff in disbelief, nudging your elbow against his chest. "what even was the subject?"

"me wanting to eat you up," satoru replies instantly. he grins playfully, hugging you tighter and burying his face in your hair. "c'mon, you know you wanna—"

the flickering red dot in the top-right corner of his screen catches your eye, and you practically flinch out of his arms. satoru looks at you, confusion evident on every part of his face. "what is it, baby?"

you groan and lean away from him and closer to his table, dragging the mouse over to one of his tabs and clicking it open. and just like that, satoru realizes that this entire time you've been live. to thousands of people. for five whole minutes.

"oops," satoru says with a sheepish smile, scratching his head bashfully. you turn and shoot a venomous look at him, and he laughs nervously. "oh, uh, that's my bad, honey—"

"you're dead," you mutter, grinning when satoru shrinks back into his chair. satoru swallows and gives you a thumbs-up, gently nudging you out of the way to check the comments.

yuuji-itadori: aw they're so cute together :)

toji-fushiguro: she can do so much better

inumaki: how does this loser have more streams than me. kys kys kys!!!!!

inumaki has been banned from the stream by satoru-gojo.

[neptilius]

MUNCH!; satoru gojo

IT WASNT, uncommon for Satoru to get a little handsy when you were relaxing together, but tonight was different. His energy wasn't playful or teasing. He had a certain look in his eye, a spark of mischief and hunger that you hadn't seen in a while.

You were lying on the couch in one of his oversized shirts, scrolling through your phone when he crawled over you, completely ignoring your soft protest.

"Don't mind me," he murmured, voice low and smooth, as he kissed your exposed thigh. "Keep scrolling, baby."

"Uh-huh," you replied sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, feigning innocence as his hands skimmed up your legs, spreading them slightly. "You just look... too good not to touch."

You rolled your eyes but didn't stop him. "Satoru, I swear if this is another one of your games—"

"It's not a game," he interrupted, his lips pressing to your inner thigh now, dangerously close to your center. "Just relax."

Your breath hitched as his fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up slightly. His mouth followed, kissing and nipping at your skin with a focus that made your head spin.

"Satoru," you whispered, half in warning, half in anticipation.

He looked up at you then, his crystal-blue eyes darkened with desire. "I just want to taste you," he said simply, his voice a soft plea. "Let me take care of you, yeah?"

You couldn't say no to him, not when he looked at you like that.

With a small nod, you leaned back, your heart racing as his lips curled into a satisfied grin. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice dripping with praise.

And just like that, he was gone, buried between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs as if he couldn't get enough of you. He kissed you there like it was the only thing he'd ever wanted, like you were the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

Every flick of his tongue, every hum of satisfaction sent shivers down your spine. He was relentless, refusing to stop even when your hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly in an attempt to pull him away.

"Toru," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper.

"Mm?" he replied, the vibration of his voice against you making your toes curl.

"You're- you're such a munch," you managed to say, your words broken by a moan.

He chuckled, his eyes flicking up to meet yours briefly. "And I'll be your munch forever," he said with a smirk, diving back in like a man starved.

It wasn't long before he had you trembling, your back arching off the couch as he worked you over like it was his life's mission. And when you finally came undone, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, he didn't stop, he just held you tighter, savoring every moment like the insatiable man he was.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, and his grin was nothing short of triumphant.

"Yeah," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "I'm definitely a munch. But only for you."

You couldn't even argue, too dazed to do anything but pull him up for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips as he chuckled against your mouth.

"You're insufferable," you muttered.

"And you love it," he shot back, his voice full of smug affection.

[cho-aaacho]

Jealousy isn't really your style, is it?

Masterlist

Characters : Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi, and Choso.

Gojo Satoru

He becomes increasingly silent—too silent until you can't detect his emotion. His appetite vanished as waves of jealousy showered on his mind. You don't even notice that at first, thinking he might be tired from work.

However, as the sun goes down to the horizon and is replaced by the moonlight, his smile fades whenever your eyes meet his. He refrains from calling you endearing nicknames, skips the usual sensual morning kiss, and avoids his favorite cookies. When you suggest playing video games, Gojo simply groans and leaves you alone.

What's happening to him? Did you hurt your sweetheart? No. Until the sky falls, you don't have a heart to hurt your sweetheart.

You can't let the stillness linger; you can't leave everything unresolved. It's so hurtful, to be honest. Why would Gojo be so selfish like this? You need to find out what's going on with your little sweetheart.

That night, Gojo stood in his favorite spot within the apartment, drowning in the beautiful goldfish in the aquarium. Golden and yellow, reflected in his eyes like sunflower petals.

He gently tapped his finger on the aquarium's glass, making the whole atmosphere feel so cold. Gojo seemed unusually relaxed, in contrast to the person he once was. 

"I know I might come off as a boring and annoying man. People often say that, and I usually don't care about it at all because I understand it's not important. But when it comes from you—please... I don't want to hear that."

You do not quite understand what he means, but Gojo appears deeply hurt. His azure eyes, his words, his breath, the cologne he uses this time, the way he gazes at you—something feels off and unplaced.

This is the first time you've seen him so blue and so pained that the warmth in his lovely presence is almost undetectable. Everything is gone.

"Hey, I'm not sure if you've noticed, but it hurts me when you smile at other guys. I want you to be mine, and only mine, and no one else. Please don't do that again, because you're irreplaceable. If I lose you, I can't find another like you."

Geto Suguru 

At first, he doesn't show his jealousy because Geto is the sweetest.

However, there comes a moment when he becomes more affectionate—increased physical touch, frequent kisses, hugs, showering you with praise, texting you almost every hour.

And when he does these things, he always leaves a sarcastic comment like, "I'm a better man, aren't I?" or "Can you see how much I care about you more than anyone else?"

and "I hope you're not blind enough to understand my affection."

also "I know you're not stupid enough to leave me alone. Because I hate being a loner."

It's somewhat annoying because Geto rarely behaves like this. It's simply... so strange, leaving you confused about whether it's a prank by the twins, if something horrible has hit him, or maybe he is too much into reading a weird romantic novel.

That morning, when you are sleeping on his lap, feeling his love, warmth, and kindness, he delicately traces his fingertips across your cheeks, down to your jawline, then meanders to your nose, pinching it gently, leaving a small chuckle before circling back to playfully tease the contour of your lips.

He leaned closer, sealing a gentle kiss on the nose tip and moving before grazing your lips with a small nibble. "Did Satoru ever kiss you like this? I doubt he has done this to you."

Your eyes fluttered open, confusion etching your expression. "What do you mean, Suguru-kun?"

He sighed. "Don't think I haven't noticed, cutie. I may not match Satoru's strength, but I'm not stupid. What were you up to with him last week? You seemed quite charmed with him, didn't you?"

He added. "Should I end both of you, so he can't have you and you can't have him? But I lack the heart to harm you, sweet love. Stop talking with that man. Because I hate sharing my love with someone else."

Nanami Kento

A tough man, he doesn't even realize if jealousy is starting to invade him; perhaps you might label it as denial. 

He puts on a facade that everything is fine, brushing off any concerns by assuming them to be mere imagination or work-induced stress.

No, you didn't cheat or talk with another man. You're always a nice woman to Nanami Kento, and of course, never in your wildest dreams will you hurt your man. 

However, a weird sensation starts to trouble him the next day when his coworkers engage in silly gossip about him and you. 

Whispers float behind him, dripping with a sarcastic tone like, "How could a good woman like her date someone like Nanami-san? He's so boring."

and someone chimes in. "Yeah, I heard she dumped Gojo-san and went with him; why does she think like that?"

From that moment onward, everything feels upside down.

Each day, each time, every time he sees your face, catches your gaze, and hears your voice echoing in his ears, all of these hurt him. 

He feels like he doesn't deserve you and thinks that perhaps you can find another guy, someone special, someplace that would make you safe and happy, someone who could make you feel at home whenever you run to them. 

And that man is not me.

"I realize I might not be as caring as other men, or perhaps I come off as too boring for someone like you. Honestly, I don't wish for your kindness to be shared with anyone else—even a fleeting smile from you stirs a deep ache within me. Maybe it's an obsession, but if you allow me to share my jealousy, I don't want you to meet that guy, Gojo Satoru. For heaven's sake, I fear losing all control and ending up hurting you. I love you." 

Fushiguro Megumi

Honestly, his anger management is the worst. There are scenes when he appears calm, collected, and cute, but, again, it's merely a facade he is creating, especially in your presence. 

When the flames of jealousy shower on Megumi, flirting with his life, everything transforms into a hellish field.

He loses his temper and becomes easily offended whenever Yuuji attempts to engage in conversation with him, roasting everyone in sight. The situation continues until Maki beats him and tells him how annoying he is.

He has a terrible urge to throw punches at everyone, driven by the need to tell them that you belong to him. He needs to make it clear that you're already committed to someone else and that your heart is sealed with Fushiguro Megumi. Only with that man and no one else.

His intention is not just to show his obsession but also to dissuade others from bothering both of you. He longs to compel them to kneel, satisfying his fleeting sense of pride.

It's pretty hilarious because whenever Gojo catches wind of it, he bursts into laughter and playfully teases Megumi all day. Well, it's natural for anyone to have jealousy within them, but... doesn't Megumi take it a bit too far?

You've observed this pattern and tried to convince your dear boyfriend that everything around him is just his imagination. He shouldn't be worrying, and he just hurts himself by treating people like that.

Yet, Megumi is Megumi.

"I don't think I'm overreacting to this. When I'm upset, I express it openly. It's frustrating when people assume I'm obsessed with you—I'm not. I just don't want you to get involved with someone who isn't worth it for you. I fear you'll end up hurt. You can choose me; I can prove not only to you but to everyone that I am the one who truly deserves you."

Choso

Choso isn't typically the jealous type, but when he notices a certain closeness between you and his brothers, everything changes. 

He genuinely cares for his brothers, going to great lengths to ensure their happiness and love. He values the bond you share with his brothers and cherishes the love and affection you have for each other.

However...

It's hard for him to put it into words. Everything is stuck in his throat and sealed inside his head. 

Every time he sees you with his brothers blossoming an indescribable feeling within him, it's a burning sensation that's hard to bear. The flame is starting to burn him alive.

The way you share meals with them or laugh at their jokes—all of these irritate him to the point that they make his heart beat so fast. Choso is aware that these emotions are too complicated; he can't hate his brothers, but the heart has a way of contradicting logic. 

How could God put love in his heart?

He fondly recalls the first snow you experienced together, the gentle embrace of summer against his skin, and the golden glow of spring's sun. 

But he still wonders when he falls in love with you. Maybe since the first time he met you? Or else?

"I find immense joy in sharing my time and days with you. My brothers seem to love you as well. Everything about you is beautiful, and I cherish the moments we share. I fear losing you and our precious time; that's why I act this way when you're with them. I want to be the one you choose."

[lexluvsmegs]

You’re a… what?!

[Choso Kamo x f!reader]

Synopsis ౨ৎ - you and Choso have been friends for quite a while, but after a tipsy game of truth or dare Choso reveals he is in fact a virgin… but you’re determined to change that.

Warnings ౨ৎ - NSFW ⭒ Choso is down bad!! ⭒ unprotected ⭒ riding ⭒ slight mommy and breeding kink ⭒ Choso is a whimpering pathetic mess (but what’s new)

Authors note ౨ৎ - this is a re upload! I realised I needed to fix too many things so I just decided to do another post entirely :))

Word count ౨ৎ - 2.8k

(Minors do not interact!!)

—————————————————————————

Choso was your best friend. And best friends tell each other everything… right?

“Hey, you know Gojo is hosting one of his silly frat parties tonight?” A mischievous glance in Choso’s direction tells him all he needs to know. He can only offer a sigh of acknowledgment as he attempts to return to the project he was previously working on, waiting for the nexts words to roll off your tongue. “Well… I was wondering if you maybe wanted to come this time, since, yknow you never leave your dorm unless it’s to study” you poke fun at the darker haired man sat by your side, thighs grazing one another. It’s not a lie per se, he really did need to let loose and at least try to have some fun… like seriously when was the last time this guy got laid?

Choso, however, doesn’t seem amused by your teasing and throws you an exasperated look as he huffs to himself. You take that as a sign to push further “oh c’mon now, you’ve never gone to a proper house party before.” Your argument falls on deaf ears as he actively ignores your every word. “At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone thought you were some virgin nerd” it was a joke, of course it was, but that didn’t stop Choso’s body from going rigid as his head shot up in an attempt to discern if you were kidding or not. His body only slightly relaxes once he realised you weren’t serious. Huh… weird. You decide to keep whatever questioning comments on what just happened to yourself, instead focusing on the task at hand.

You now fully turn your body to face his, sitting cross legged on your chair as you lean in close, close enough that your warm breath can be felt in the shell of his ear. You don’t seem to notice the shiver that racks through his body due to the close proximity. “Please, would you go for me” you all but whine in his ear. Choso has never really been able to say no to you and he definitely wasnt about to start now. His whole face flushes a shade of deep ruby while he attempts to scramble away, babbling something incoherent. “So?..” he turns to meet your gaze as he calms his breathing. “Uh.. f-fine” yes! This is what you’ve been waiting for. Took him long enough. “Perfect! It starts at 8PM, meet me there? Ugh you don’t know how happy you’ve made me Cho!” You squeal and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek leaving him at a loss for words. And with that you jump out your seat and depart, hips swaying side to side.

And god, did you leave Choso a mess…

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You look good, if you do say so yourself.

Maybe, just maybe, the thought that Choso was going to be there made you put in a little more effort when getting ready than you normally would have, but he doesn’t need to know that. You were already slightly tipsy when arriving due to the pres that your friend had hosted. Now you were as confident as ever crossing the threshold into Gojos home. Your eyes surveyed the area - thank god for Gojos open plan - it didn’t take long for your eyes to lock with the breathtakingly dark ones that belong to your best friend. Though as you attempted to make your way over, you were stopped by none other than the home owner himself. “And just as I thought you couldn’t get any sexier” ever the flirt Gojo was. “You’re one to talk, I can barely hold myself back from pouncing on you” you joke back with a wink. You and Gojos friendship was very much a playful one, joke flirting with one another was how you came to be as close as you are now. Obviously, the flirting was never anything serious as he was, well, gay. But not many knew that about him.

As you continued your mindless banter with the silver haired man, you felt someone’s harsh gaze on the two of you. You whipped your head round to find the source of the staring and found it to be none other than Choso. Though as you attempted to wave him over, you found his gaze to be solely focused on Gojo. And damn… if looks could kill. You took this as your sign to excuse yourself and made your way over the dark haired man who still had his eyes trained on poor Gojo.

“Damn, what did Gojo ever do to you” you laugh while sliding up beside him and leaning on the kitchen counter. This seems to break Choso out of his stupor. “I don’t like how he looks at you” you were slightly stunned as he spoke, Gojo? Never. Also since when is Choso so involved in who you associate with. “Uh what? Like a friend? I don’t think I have anything to be worried about” you attempt to lighten the tense air surrounding the both of you however Choso still seems to be in a mood. You definitely need to change the topic “why don’t we take shots? You seem pretty sober baby” the pet name was entirely a mistake, your hazy mind letting it slip, however that doesn’t stop the deep blush and stuttering breaths from Choso. “O-okay” he seems to have snapped out of whatever mood he was previously in. You search Gojos cupboards for two shot glasses and pour both with the alcohol you had brought along with you. “You ready?” You hand the shot glass to Choso and sense his apprehension. “Don’t worry about it if you don’t wanna, but we can do it at the same time if you do” the truth was he had never had any hard liquor before, sure he’d had a beer or two, but this? The promise of you doing it together eased his worries and he nodded as you both drank at the same time. This process repeated a few more times and Choso really started to feel its effects. He had already admired your beauty when you had arrived. But now? How could you look even more beautiful than you do on a daily basis? His heart was beating out his chest as he reached his thumb out to swipe the bead of liquor stuck on your lip.

“Truth or dare time guys! Get your asses in the living room right now” Gojos voice rang out, bringing Choso out of his daze and dropping his hand back down to his side where it lay limp. You hadn’t noticed his attempt and instead turned to him excited at the prospect of a game. “C’mon! We have to go play Cho” though he allowed you to drag him away, it wasn’t without comments calling Gojo ‘childish’ for wanting to play such games. You both sat next to each other as the rest of the guests organised themselves. “Rules are rules guys no pussying out or else” Gojo threatened as he was situating himself “you pick a random person and ask the question, once they’ve answered they ask someone else. Pretty simple right? Oh and if you don’t answer you have to take 10 shots or leave, meaning you basically have to answer” he giggles to himself like he was the smartest person on earth for coming up with such a rule. “Ok begin!” A few rounds go by with Geto being dared to kiss Gojo, Nanami being asked his most adventurous endeavours in bed and shoko being dared to sext the most recent contact in her phone. You were having a blast, unable to hold your laugh in as your friends were forced to answer or do whatever was asked of them. It was now Gojos turn to ask a random person, and to your surprise he chose none other than… “Choso, truth or dare?” The man sat next to you was surprised as he was asked the question, obviously not expecting to properly take part. “Uh, truth?” He spoke out unsure. Gojo, however, had a sly glint in his eye as he spoke out his next words “what’s your body count?” The room went silent in anticipation of Chosos reply, no one really knew anything about his sex life so they’d be lying if they said they weren’t the least bit interested. What came next was a blur, as due to his hazy mind, Choso didn’t think twice before blurting “zero” his face was immediately covered by his hands as he realised what he just confessed to. Choso was a… virgin… before anyone could say anything he stood up and bolted to the nearest bedroom as the rest of the room sat in shock.

As everything registered in your mind, you immediately stood up to follow after him, hearing a faint ‘damn’ from none other than Gojo. You paced down the hall and stood outside of the room Choso had disappeared into, unsure how to proceed. You decide the best course of action is to knock and that’s exactly what you do. “Choso?” Your voice quiet. “It’s me.. can I come in?” You hear sniffles behind the door. “Please Cho?” With that he cracks the door open allowing you to make your own way in, he’s already retreated from the door, now choosing to sit on the edge of the bed. “Baby, what’s wrong” his heart swells at the name however, the humiliation still lingers leaving him to turn his head away from your approaching figure. “I-I’m embarrassed” He’s obviously upset about what had transpired, however you allow him to continue. “Now everyone knows I’m a virgin! Now you know..” his voice quiets down as he says the last part. “Cho, that’s nothing to be ashamed of, I promise. You need to wait for the right person to come along.” You argue, your heart hurts for him as he seems so fragile in this state. “I-I know who I want it to be” your chest feels tight. He already… knows? How could you be so foolish to think maybe you had a chance. The next word tumbles out before you have the will to stop it. “…who?” His soft eyes never leave you as his breaths become laboured. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the fact you looked so hurt when he voiced his interest in somebody. Whatever it was caused a sudden surge of confidence as he whispered the one word you had been silently hoping for.

“You.” It felt like the world had stopped. You found yourself leaning in slowly, never once breaking eye contact as Choso did the same. Before your lips could lock, he whispered one last sentence that shot heat through your entire body “please… please take my v-virginity” that’s all the confirmation you needed as you pushed into him, snaking your hand into his tousled hair while pressing your lips to his own. His whimper sent shocks through you as you climbed into his lap. The once slow and passionate kiss turning desperate as you snuck your tongue inside. You could feel his hard length press up against you as your hips couldn’t hold back from a grinding movement. Soon you had to pull away for air, leaving you both breathless. “You’re so beautiful, been waiting so long for this” you could eat him up. His whimpers left you wanting, no, needing more. You pushed down harder on a particular drag of your hips causing him to hiss out, your mouth latched onto his jaw making your way down and leaving pretty purple marks to grace his skin in your wake. You snake your hand up his shirt feeling the hard indents of his abs. “Take this off baby” your sultry voice has him obeying your every word, as he scrambled to take his shirt off you pushed him back onto the bed up against the headboard. “So pretty f’me Cho” god he could cum on the spot, your praising words fuelled his arousal as he began to push up into you causing a gasp to escape. His needy hands knew no bounds as he ripped your top in pure desperation with the promise of buying you another one which left his mouth in huffs.

“You gonna let me ride you?” You could almost anticipate the response you would get but nothing compared to the real thing, his head nodded desperately as plea after plea was hurriedly rushed out. A giggle escaped you at his eagerness. “Take these off for me then baby” you slightly tug at his sweats and he rushes to pull them, as well as his boxers down in a one-er. Your eyes widen slightly, displaying your complete and utter awe at the length of him, his flushed tip such a pretty pink ready to sink deep inside you. The attention caused poor Choso to squirm. “Is it… bad?” Oh what a precious boy. “Quite the opposite Cho” you wink while removing the rest of your clothes leaving you completely bare before him. His cock twitches against his stomach at the new skin revealed to him, and oh you were much, much better than what he had imagined. You clambered back into his lap, now resting atop his flushed dick allowing your slick to coat his length. The new feeling left him speechless as he babbled to himself, utterly drunk off the feeling of your puffy pussy. “Wan’ more..” Choso could hardly find the words, lost in pleasure. “Good boys use the magic word” you lightly slap his blushing cheek prompting a string of pleas. “Mmm good baby”. You sit up on your knees and reach your hand down to stroke his now slick-coated cock, circling the head and tracing the mouthwatering veins. Slowly you lower yourself, deeming him ready for the real thing. You push the head of his blushing cock through your folds, the gasp that sounded from him when he caught in your hole was heavenly, however you felt you had teased enough and slowly lowered yourself down, swaying your hips in a figure eight as you did so. “F-fuck” he was filling you up so good, you knew in that moment he’d ruined you for anyone else. Choso was unable to keep quiet, tears of ecstasy streamed down his cheeks as he finally bottomed out.

“P-please move, can’t wait” his eyes screwed shut at the overwhelming feeling while your hips moved atop his, finally riding him like you promised, one of his big hands found your tit while his other rested on your hip keeping him grounded. “So pretty, so so pretty f’me” were the only words he could force out between the whines and moans, you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole house could hear these noises, not that you could care in the moment, too lost in pleasure. Choso surprised you by taking one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling and nipping as he bucked his hips up into you at an uneven tempo. “C-Choso so good” for a virgin he was doing pretty damn well. Your hands once again found purchase in his dark locks slightly pulling on it as the pleasure crashed over you. You could tell he was close and you couldn’t deny you weren’t far off either. You pull Choso away from your nipple and instead guide the hand that rested on one of your tits down to your clit where you instructed him to rub his thumb over. As he did so your walls squeezed him ever so tight. “Y-yeah just like that baby”. His noises were soon cut off by another searing, sloppy kiss fuelled by nothing but desire. Choso was nearing his finish, your gummy walls making it hard to hold out. “C-cum for mommy, Cho” and with that he was seeing stars. Choso had never came so hard, filling you up as you came along side him. “Filling me so good Choso” you whine out. His cum spurting inside you seemingly never ending. “Take it, take it all” he repeated as he kept you firmly on top of his pulsing dick, almost as if he was breeding you.

You soon collapse down onto his broad chest as you catch your breath, legs sore from keeping you up. “Fuck that was so good” Choso voices, clearly dazed and out of breath, he’s never looked so happy as you lean in for another kiss, this one softer and more heartfelt.

“Does that mean you’re my girlfriend now?” He questions with an owlish expression, you can’t help but giggle, still on a high after what just transpired.

“Yes”

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