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valentinevirgo · 2 days ago

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loverboy

summary: carmen makes a move on you while you think he's still got a girlfriend. could've gone smoother but you end up inviting him

pairing: carmy berzatto x afab!reader

word count: 4,2k

warnings: insecurities, self-doubt, small lies (carm makes you believe he lives closer to you than he does), vulgar language, mention of "setting boundaries" of a not-yet-existing-fwb-relationship, 18+ MDNI; smut, unprotected sex, semi-public grinding, oral (f&m receiving) soft!carm, idiots in love, friends to lovers!!

"You know, I don't think I've said this." He hadn't. "But I'm-I'm really—we're all really glad to have you here."

He was nodding to himself as he said it, and he hoped you didn't notice the hesitation. Carmy wasn't for a second doubtful that they were happy—he was certainly happy that you had joined the crew during the hectic weeks prior to The Bear's opening.

It was just that now, here, sitting alone with you in the back alley of the restaurant, sharing one of the bottles of expensive-as-shit Coup Beaujolais, he was getting unsure of himself. On whether he had completely misread your banter. He wasn't very good with that, flirting—never knew when someone was hitting on him and always double-checking whether he himself was, in fact, hitting on someone. Richie had said the chemistry between you guys was more dangerous than Fak recalibrating. Fucking stupid, he thought, but it made him think.

And then Carmy realized he had been flirting with you, in his own stupid fucking way which he worried you hadn't picked up on. Shit, he hadn't noticed it before Richie told him. Now that he sat there, with you, alone, he wondered if Richie had been fucking with him again.

Carmy wanted to know how you felt about him, but he didn't want to fuck up as was his specialty lately—didn't wanna make you uncomfortable, didn't wanna make anything weird.

"Yeah, uh. Thanks, chef," said you, chewing at your bottom lip to ease the tension. Carmy had a real habit of making situations awkward. "I'm glad you'll have me."

Phrasing.

Carm nodded, the persistent way he does whenever he's turning words in his head. You could almost hear the gears scraping.

"You always seem so cool—about everything. Like, even though we're jumpin' off the fuckin' walls, screaming n'shit, you'll just—you're collected. S'a real good quality, you know?"

You grinned, thinking of those exact memories, some just a couple of hours old. "Yeah, well—I'm sure it's more hectic n'the kitchen, right? Like there's, open fire, sharp knives and shit. Gotta be jumpin', like, all the time, yeah? To avoid the obstacles n'stuff."

"Yeah," he chuckled. "Peter Parker-type shit."

"Yeah."

You held the plastic cup out and he poured you another one.

"Anyway, keeps me sane, you know? I think—I think at some point you made me realize that—that, you know, it's not normal to fuckin' scream all day. Like I didn't even realize I got fuckin' migraines 'til it was quiet, you feel me?"

It made you bubbly, to hear that Carmen did in fact appreciate having you be a part of the team.

You just sat there, quietly watching him. His bicep popped when he poured a slob into his own cup. You watched as his tongue darted out to wet his lips before taking a sip.

You sat like that, speaking mindlessly for a while, sharing experiences and goofing around. You loved this, getting to know him better, but when you suddenly found that he had sought closer to you, you felt your heart leap.

His body was so close you could feel the heat of his body radiate. It was intoxicating, more than the wine and though your subconscious reminded you it was wrong to lean into his welcoming touch, you couldn't help but forget what was right and wrong.

His crystal blue eyes caught the light from the street lamp, and you were mesmerized as he looked into your soul. You felt vulnerable but safe in his company.

Though there had been much lead-up, it seemed to come out of the blue. Carmy leaned in, and his eyes were fixated on your lips. Before your lips touched, your senses returned and you moved back against the fence.

"Yo, what the fuck are you doing?"

Fuck.

"Wait—I'm sorry! I'm sorry."

"You have a girlfriend!"

Oh.

"Wha—no, no—shit, that's not—" he stumbled back, running a hand over his dazed face, dragging the expression down with it.

Fuck—fuck! Carmen thought he must look like a fucking jagoff.

He stood with his back to you, but you could see the way his broad shoulders heaved with every.

You pushed, not appreciating the silence. "Yeah, no—her name is Claire. You've been dating her a couple months now and known her, for like, forever. That ring any bells?"

When Carmen turned around to face you, he looked defeated. He then crouched down beside you again.

"We broke up."

What?

Carmen told you how he had had an existential crisis during opening night, how he had thought he vented to Tina while stuck in the walk-in, and Claire had heard everything he had said. You could sense the sadness in his voice, but there was no regret. It spread a warm feeling in your chest, and you immediately felt a pang of guilt. When you had first met Carm, he had been with Claire and so the immediate attraction you had felt—well, you had obviously tried to suppress that.

"—I guess I just... I realized I can't both manage a—a restaurant and a relationship. I—I don't know, it don't come natural to me."

Your brows were furrowed, mixed feeling prickling at your skin. "So... why'd you try to kiss me just now?"

Again, he looked despondent.

"I—fuck, I don't know, I've—I guess I've just been feeling this for a while now, with—with you and I dunno. Richie's been getting in my head and I had a stupid thought and figured fuck it, you know?"

It wasn't a question but he was looking for an answer on your expression. Carmen feared you had stopped him from kissing you, not because you thought he had a girlfriend, but because you didn't want to kiss him.

Carmy watched as you looked thoughtfully at the ground, his hands fidgeting as you did the same.

Fuck.

It's over, he thought to himself.

Battling the voices in your head telling you not to, you said: "You know, it's not that the thought of kissing you, like, disgusts me."

His head tilted upward, hope in his sorry eyes.

"No?" he quizzed sheepishly.

"No," you chuckled. "I mean, I've thought about it before."

Carm lit up. "Ye—yeah?"

"Yeah," nodded you, wetting your lips as you recalled your fantasies. "It'd probably be stupid though, right?"

"So stupid," he agreed, nodding vigorously as if trying to shake the thought. It would be fucking stupid. He knew it. But it didn't deter him. Carm wanted to take the chance. He shouldn't, after all, he broke it off with Claire because he "wasn't ready". Why would he be ready now? "Still want to, though."

So badly. It felt more like an urge; a need rather than a want.

"So do it," you finally tested.

If you didn't, you were sure you'd back out, run into the kitchen with your tail between your legs. But you would regret that, you knew it. You tried to convince yourself you shouldn't back away. You wanted this—had for a while. Carm was the one who should second-guess himself, not you. He had ended a relationship because he couldn't dedicate himself and now he wanted to give it another shot. With you. It made you desperate, knowing he wanted you like you wanted him. Still, you worried he would kiss you and regret it immediately, confirmed in his suspicions—he didn't have time for romance. Keep your eye on the price.

"Fuck it," breathed he, putting aside an internal battle and leaned closer, knocking aside the bottle of wine as he pressed his hungry lips to you.

Your lips felt plump against his, chewed with anticipation and soft with spit. You tasted like a perfect dessert.

Lost in the growing heat, you cradled his face, swiping your warm tongue over his needy lips and Carmen did not hesitate to grant you entrance. A desperate although soft whine escaped him and you swallowed it down, living for the way he desired you.

Without interrupting the dance your tongues twirled, Carmen's large palm grasped your hip and pulled you into his lap. Automatically you ground down on him and moaned at the sensation of what you did to him.

You'd thought about how he would feel against you. From behind the bar, you always had a perfect view of his station and often got distracted by the way he moved—the way his mouth curled when he would scream commands, the way his arms would flex as he worked. It was a surprise nobody had filed a complaint against you. On more than one occasion you had mixed the wrong drink or spilled liquor because you just couldn't keep your eyes off of him. It was unprofessional, but he was mesmerizing like a starry sky; the longer you looked, the deeper you fell into the abyss.

Carmen mumbled a curse under his breath as he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he ground up into your clothes sex.

"Do—doesn't feel so stupid, huh?"

You grinned and shook your head lightly, pressing your forehead against his.

"If we're gonna fuck we should probably talk about it," you said blatantly. "Set some ground rules."

Carmen was caught off guard for a second. He knew what he wanted but when you said it so casually it made something twitch in him.

His eyes were attached to your lips. They looked so delicious, kissed rough and he pulled at your bottom lip with his thumb before he even registered it.

"Probably," he breathed even though he wasn't quite sure what your words actually meant. He was quite literally thinking with his cock.

Carmen clashed his insatiable lips to yours again, but the second he did so, the back door to The Bear clicked open and Marcus appeared, garbage bags in hand. By the time you looked up at him, you had clumsily shuffled off of Carmen, sitting awkwardly with your legs to your chest. You weren't sure what he'd seen nor what he made of it.

"Hey," he hummed, moving to sling the plastic bags into the container.

"Sup, bro," acknowledged Carm, putting his hands on his hips, suddenly standing up, playing it cool.

"Imma call it a night," Marcus said. "See y'all tomorrow."

"Yeah, uh—good job t'day."

Marcus disappeared and Carmen looked back down at you, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. The interruption had broken the spell.

"Can I walk you home?" he offered. It made more sense to him, taking you home. He wasn't about to violate health code on the kitchen floor of his own restaurant.

"You live close to Maygrey?"

No.

"Yeah."

The walk might do him some good, he figured. Perhaps the chivalrous gesture would help him get lucky tonight, and even if you decided you were not about to fool around with him, he could at least say he had done a good deed today.

Carm hadn't realized you made a twenty-minute walk every night, and although he often did the same, it bothered him a great deal. He hadn't had any uncomfortable encounters himself, but he knew Sugar had. One time when she had been late to dinner at his place because of some creep bothering her on the street, and he had asked her why she hadn't called him (he would have picked her up), she told him it was not a first nor was it a last. It angered him, knowing it was not unusual for a woman to feel afraid when walking alone.

Carmen recalled your mention of ground rules, but you didn't once embark on the topic. Instead of talking about sex, you joked as if you were friends and nothing more. It made him wonder if you regretted kissing him.

Of course you invited him up. How could you not?

Carm looked dubious suddenly and you raised a brow, giving him a soft smile.

"I won't be mad if you turn me down now. No hard feelings."

He realized you were just a pair of self-doubting idiots—none of you wanting to pressure the other into something you might regret. And Carmen knew he might just do that—not because he was unsure whether he wanted this with you (he hadn't wanted something this much in a long time), no—he feared he would find himself in the same emotional clusterfuck he had with Claire.

Something about you made him want to throw caution to the wind and become the loverboy he so pathetically wanted to be for you.

How could he ever turn you down? A simple kiss in a back alley had dragged him in too deep.

You stood atop the staircase and watched curiously as Carmen closed the space. His hand cradled your face and he planted a soft kiss on your lips, not as vigorous a kiss as earlier that night, but just as hungry, just as passionate.

He then gave you a reassuring look and you knew you had it bad cause you could've sworn you fell in love with him just then.

Grabbing his hand you dragged him along with you, eagerly pulling him up the steps to your apartment, not wasting a goddamn second in connecting your lips again.

Carm chuckled against your lips as you pushed him into the door, closing it with him as if locking you away from the outside world. It was just the two of you.

Carmen was too far away to realize you had undone his belt until the familiar clinking sounded. He was so fucking hard by now, aroused by your eagerness. It was almost mortifying.

He composed himself. "Where's the bedroom?"

You gave him a look. "It's a one-room apartment, Carm."

For the first time, he looked around and got the message. The kitchen was awkwardly lodged into a small corner of the living room and the living room was also the bedroom. There was a door three feet ahead but he was unsure whether it was a closet or a bathroom.

"So when I fuck you on the couch I'll also be fucking you in the dining room?"

You looped your arms around his front from behind, pointing to the corner of the room. "Yeah, n'the trashcan over there's the bathroom."

He spun around, placing his large hands on your hips to keep you close. "Cozy."

There was a glimmering to his eyes, and his contagious charm infected you with an enticing smirk. You leaned in, cradling your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent.

"So you gonna fuck me Carmy? Or are ya just all talk?" teased you, planting wet kisses against his throat, sucking the place below his ear. That's the spot.

In a flash, he hooked your legs around his waist and you would've been embarrassed by the stupid fucking giggle escaping you if a low moan hadn't interrupted you. His restrained cock felt even bigger now, pressing up into your clothed crotch.

You could hardly wait to see his weeping head.

Carmen straddled you on the couch, breaking your lips apart to shift his focus. Peppering kisses down your neck, your chest heaved with a shaky breath, whining for him. You wondered if he would flip you over and fuck you roughly if you asked nicely.

Another time you told yourself. Tonight, you were too ecstatic as he worshipped your body like the prettiest fucking tenderloin he'd ever seen. The thought made you smile into your arm, gasping as his hot breath swept over your belly.

"So fuckin' beautiful," he murmured against your skin, tongue poking out to taste the flesh.

Writhing beneath him, you tugged at his curls, and he swore he was about to bust right there, with your glossy and dazed eyes blinking down at him. Fuck, Carm wanted to hear you beg for him.

"What is it, baby girl?" he taunted, looking curiously at you while he peppered kisses across the skin he exposed by lifting up your shirt.

When you ground up your hips to show him where you wanted him, he kept you pressed against the cushion. You cried out.

"Carmy!" you mewled, helplessly thrashing.

After removing your shirt, he praised your patience: "you're so good for me," he said and unbuttoned your jeans. "Tell me what you want, sweet girl."

You threw your head back into a pillow with a thud, wanting to both strangle and fuck him (which you had wanted many times already since you started bartending at The Bear) as he pressed teasing, open-mouthed kisses by the seams of your panty line.

"Just—mpff! Fuck me already, Carm," you whined.

His face tilted up and you wanted to slap the smirk right off of his sly face. "In a minute, baby."

As he moved back a little, you thought he was finally going to give you what you wanted, but when you arched your back with need he used your movements to flip you onto your stomach. He roughly placed you as he pleased, propping you on your knees, and slid in under you.

"Just a quick taste, baby," he drawled.

Realizing he was gonna eat you out, you melted completely, seated perfectly on his face as was his wish. You barely managed to get comfortable before he hooked a finger through the leg of your underwear, the cold of his ring making you shiver and he dug in like a man starved.

A sound bordering on a thirsty moan and a dry cry escaped you. Carmen looped his arms around your thighs. His tongue explored the nooks of your lips, lapping slick from your folds and into your pussy.

A string of curses left your lips as he relished your juices, groaning into your cunt. He couldn't help but relieve some of the pressure on his impossibly hard cock by palming himself through his jeans.

He had lost himself for a moment there and when he looked up, he became doe-eyed with adoration. You had removed your bra.

His hand left his cock and slid up your curves, palming your breast instead and the other went to deftly work your clit. He elicited a muffled shriek from you, obviously surprised by the sudden added sensation to the delicate bud.

"Carmy," you panted, grinding your hips against his mouth, all of it seeming both too much and not enough. He was going to ruin you and you would let him. "Fu—fuck! M'gonna come, Carm."

Your confession merely made him more eager, more hungry and he concentrated on bringing you closer, encouraging each wave of your hips with a low moan. Carmen let you fuck his face, rolling and grinding on him to persuade your release closer. You grabbed at his curls to steady yourself as it came in euphoric waves, moaning, crying, whimpering, and grinning as he lapped your cum, savoring every last drop. It quickly became too much though, and as his nose tickled your sensitive clit, you fell apart, tilting over and crashing above him.

"Ho—holy fuck," you panted and he stood up from the couch, ridding himself of his clothes until there was nothing but a gold chain gleaming at his chest.

Still recovering from your orgasm, you gaped at his size. The head was red and strained, pre-cum beading the slit making it look like it was crying. The shaft was long with protruding veins drawing purple along the length and he was thick, too thick to fit in the circle created when you connect the tip of your index with that of your thumb.

He was perfect.

Carmen looked a bit flustered from your shameless gawking but you couldn't help it. "You're beautiful, Carm."

He grinned sheepishly down at you, grasping your legs, pulling you to the edge of the couch, resting your calves on his shoulders.

"You are," he insisted, pressing his lips to yours in a feverishly soft kiss as he aligned his head with your folds.

Gasping, you took a second to relax around his head, knowing it would sting painfully if you didn't. You wouldn't let anything ruin this moment. Not with his eyes gazing so intensely down at you; not with saliva connecting your mouths with a string, not with him before you like this, looking like he was carved by fucking Donatello, nothing hiding an inch of his tantalizingly soft skin bar the gold chain dangling from his neck.

You instinctively edged closer, putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him into you. He eased into you as he kissed you hungrily—insatiable, always needing more of your taste.

Carm held his breath as he bottomed out, finally exhaling a shaky breath. He couldn't believe how good you felt around him, hugging—no squeezing the life out of his cock as you desperately clawed on his back, feeling every cleft and hill, moaning into his mouth. He hoped your nails would leave marks on his skin.

With your forehead pressed against his, you looked down with hooded eyes and watch as he slid in, devastatingly slow, inch by inch. Carm followed your gaze.

"God, look how good you're takin' me, baby. Doin' so well f'me—doin' so good," he groaned, head digging into your neck, licking, sucking, biting.

He commenced a thrusting-grinding pace, reaching every crevice inside you, tickling all the right places. You cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure so delicious as he poked and prodded places untouched. He felt unreal.

Soon Carmen drilled into you like a madman, steadying himself against your hips, rutting into you at a bruising pace. You'd feel him long after he was gone.

You held him close by his neck, securing him by threading your fingers through that damn sexy gold chain and the locks of his hair. His brows were furrowed, concentration and bliss evident in his expression.

You begged him to go faster, harder—before you knew it he granted your wish and his hand had returned to your poor clit, and you grasped whatever you could, the armrest, cushions, him.

You chanted his name, exchanging your vocabulary for his name so that he was all you knew. Carm fucked you through your orgasm, chasing his own as you cried his name. The combination of your moans, your begging, and the vulgar sounds of your skin slapping—it made him fucking delirious.

His bicep flexed delectably as he put all his weight on his right arm, making a considerate pause for a sweet but overwhelmingly intense kiss, only to thrust impossibly deeper.

Feeling his consistent pace become erratic, you begged him. "Please, please, Carm—fill me up."

You could feel your frantic pleas going straight to his cock as he twitched inside you, groaning—but fuck it sounded like a frail whimper.

The furrow between his brows deepened, a red blush painting his face and chest.

"You're fuckin' unreal," he manages, shaking his head.

Carmy's pace became sloppier and more desperate, cursing into your mouth as he stuttered, a strangled moan signaling his high.

He filled you up, squirting white ropes of velvety cum into you. You felt his seed trickle out as if there was not enough room for his generous load. Then he collapsed beside you.

You lay still for a minute or so, chests heaving in unison as you came back down to Earth.

"Fuck," he said after some time, pronouncing the cuss as if he had just learned the word.

You chuckled, agreeing. "Yeah."

"Shit, lemme get ya somethin' for the—"

"No, no—don't worry," you stopped him, already getting up before he could do much. He watched you go, admiring your naked body. You reached between your legs, feeling his cum trickle down your thighs. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Carmy laughed when he realized what was going on, a sort of childish grin he couldn't hold back from rumbling in his chest. He hadn't felt this comfortable in a long time.

You disappeared out of sight. He heard water running splash and he figured you were cleaning yourself. Carmen wondered if he would get to fill you up again—preferably sometime soon.

You returned with a damp washcloth, your feet padding softly against the floor as you approached him. Carm couldn't help but smile endearingly as he went to move to free up space for you, but you placed a soft hand on his thigh as if telling him to lie still instead.

"Oh—" he began when he noticed the washcloth, but to his surprise you wrapped your lips around his cock, earning a strangled moan from him. Your warm tongue licked him clean and you hollowed your cheeks around him as if vacuuming his mess.

The pleasure turned into a ticklish feeling and he felt like grinning and kicking his feet suddenly. You looked up through your lashes, and he felt as if his eyes had remolded into heart shapes.

He brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at you with such tooth-rotting affection it made him wonder if he loved you. In this situation, it felt natural to say to you—it felt easy and welcome, right on the tip of his tongue.

You offered him an enchanting smile and took his large hand to your mouth, kissing his knuckles, then began cleaning his cock with the washcloth.

Carmen's head dropped back at your touch and he exhaled deeply.

A smile danced across his face and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand; the one you had kissed.

What am I going to do with you?

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valentinevirgo · 2 days ago

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୨୧ kento trying to be gentle with his horny pregnant wife.

body worship. gentle sex. praise kink. reassurance.

you’re six months pregnant, glowing but aching, your body screaming for him, his touch, his closeness, him.

but kento’s been so careful lately, too careful, always pulling back when things get heated, his fear of hurting you or the baby written all over his face.

you’re frustrated, needy, and a little insecure, and it all comes spilling out in a moment that changes everything.

“kento,” you murmur, voice soft edged with a pout, shifting to prop yourself on your elbows, your loose sundress riding up to expose more of your belly.

his hand freezes eyes snapping to yours, and you feel the heat creeping up your neck, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

“do you not wanna fuck me anymore because i look like this?” his jaw tightens, a flicker of something, guilt, desire, love, crossing his face, and he’s on you in an instant, moving so fast it steals your breath.

“don’t,” he says, voice low, as he leans over you, caging you with his broad frame, his lips hovering over yours. “don’t ever think that, you’re perfect.” his hands are gentle but firm, sliding your dress up and off, leaving you bare except for your panties, your belly round and beautiful between you.

“i want you so much it hurts,” he admits voice rough, kissing your forehead, your cheek, your lips, soft but hungry.

“i’m just—trying not to hurt you, love.”

“then don’t,” you whisper voice trembling with need, your hands tugging at his shirt, fumbling with buttons until his chest is bare, warm under your fingers.

“i need you, kento. i’m fine—we’re fine. please.” your plea breaks him, his restraint crumbling, and he kisses you deeper, tongue brushing yours, a soft groan escaping him as he shifts to settle between your legs, careful not to press on your belly.

“okay, love,” he murmurs voice softening, his hands sliding your panties down, tossing them aside.

“but we’re doing this my way—slow, gentle.” his fingers find your pussy, already slick, and he groans, low and reverent, circling your clit with a tenderness that makes you shiver.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice hushed, like it’s a secret just for you. “so perfect, always so perfect.”

“kento—ngh—please,” you gasp hips twitching up, desperate for more, and he nods, easing a finger inside you, then two, stretching you with a care that’s almost maddening.

his other hand rests on your belly, protective, adoring, and he leans down, kissing the curve of it, his lips soft against your skin.

“you’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, his fingers curling inside you, slow but deep, making you moan.

“carrying our baby, so strong, so gorgeous.” you’re trembling, his words sinking into you, soothing the insecurity, and you tug at his belt, fumbling until he helps, shucking his pants and boxers, his cock hard and thick, leaking as he positions himself.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice firm but gentle, guiding himself to your entrance, pushing in slowly, so slowly, the stretch delicious and overwhelming.

“ngh—fuck, you feel so good,” he groans voice breaking, his hands gripping your thighs, keeping you spread, careful not to jostle your belly.

“it’s—mmph—perfect,” you moan voice shaky, hands clutching his shoulders, feeling the muscle flex under your nails.

he thrusts gently, each movement slow, deep but soft, his cock dragging against your walls, hitting that spot that makes you whimper.

“kento—fuck—more, please,” you beg, and he shakes his head, a small, strained smile on his lips, his forehead pressed to yours.

“easy, love,” he murmurs voice a soothing balm, kissing your neck, your jaw. “you’re doing so well—fuck, you’re so beautiful, taking me like this.” his thrusts stay steady, gentle, but the praise, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world—pushes you closer, your pussy fluttering around him, slick and needy.

“my perfect wife,” he whispers voice thick, his hand stroking your belly again, grounding you both.

“kento—oh god—” you gasp, voice breaking as the pleasure builds, his words wrapping around you, his cock filling you just right, and you’re close, so close.

“i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—” you moan, and he nods, kissing you deep, his thrusts picking up just a fraction, still careful but enough to tip you over.

“come for me, love,” he whispers voice soft, and then a shuddering, blissful orgasm has you crying out, pussy clamping around his cock, thighs trembling as you grip him tight.

he groans, low and fervent, following you, spilling deep inside with a broken, “fuck—my love—” his thrusts slowing, gentle, riding out the aftershocks.

you’re both panting, sweat slick and spent, and he stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, his hands soft as he strokes your belly, your face, kissing you slow and tender.

“you’re incredible,” he murmurs voice all warmth, pulling out carefully, grabbing a warm cloth to clean you up, his touch gentle, reverent.

“i didn’t hurt you, did i?” he asks eyes searching yours, and you shake your head, smiling, pulling him down for another kiss.

“you’re too careful.” you tease, voice hoarse, and he chuckles, low and fond, wrapping you in his arms, his hand resting on your belly, protective as always.

“i love you,” he says, simple and true, and you melt into him, knowing he’d never stop wanting you.

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valentinevirgo · 3 days ago

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𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗂𝗌𝗒

𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 summary; 𝖸𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆. 𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝖱𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝖾𝗍. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾.

pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

rating: 𝖤𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍

chapter no/𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍: 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍

wc; 6.3𝗄

tags/warnings; 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 (18+, 𝗆𝖽𝗇𝗂), 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗃𝗈𝖻, 𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝗏, 𝖾𝖽𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝖾, 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗂 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖻𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄?

Author; @lucis-dove

a/n: 𝗌𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 @robbyology 𝖿𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻, 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗈 𝗀𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈'𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝖻𝗍𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝖼 𝗂 𝗀𝗈𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗅𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝖾, 𝗆𝗒𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗎𝗒𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖾𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾

***

The medical field doesn't allow long nails. Nothing that's even remotely close to accidentally poking a hole through the glove.

Short, clinical, and patient-safe. That's the policy.

Robby considers it lucky that you never got into medicine because those nails you do every month would never pass the guidelines. Not always long, but certainly exceeding 'no longer than the pad of the finger'. And with the rotation of colours and designs —which are never too out there, but the women in the Pitt always fawn over anyway— they would certainly stand out amongst everyone else's.

Yeah, it's good that you don't work in the same field as Robby. And he is goddamn blessed you don't.

He's never cared much about makeup or beauty products. But it changed once he started dating you.

Upon realising you found such joy in pampering yourself, no matter how small or big, he slowly grew curious.

Robby never could've assumed that you'd light up each time he would ask about something related to makeup. Like the first time he'd been interested in your makeup routine and you'd given him a walkthrough worthy of rivalling the ones he did for new medical students or residents.

He'd been equally surprised the first time you asked for his opinion on a specific treatment the beauty industry had revolutionised, and which had piqued your interest. Although he'd grown accustomed to engaging in those conversations now, he'd never thoroughly considered —bothered would be a better way to put it— the overlap between medicine and skincare even in non-invasive procedures.

But nothing made you quite as giddy as when you got your nails done.

The near skip in your step as you arrived before Robby once he came home. The fleeting, but customary, kiss pecked on his lips before your hands were stretched forth.

You were always eager to show off the newest creation from your nail tech, which you always kept a secret until those moments. It bordered on childish glee, the way your eyes glimmered and you waited for his reaction. Yet he always found a smile forming as he took your hands in his and inspected your nails, your excitement contagious.

And Robby knew that was what would meet him once he stepped through the door this evening.

He could already hear the soft sound of your bare feet despite not calling out that he was home. Neither did he bother as your figure soon emerged from the vaulted doorway leading to the kitchen.

Maybe it was the combination of the smile on your face —telling him how ecstatic you were— and that Robby's curiosity had plagued him throughout the day, that accidentally made him turn his head to look at your hands just as you leaned up to kiss him.

"Hello to you too," you laughed, purposely hiding your hands behind your back when you realised where Robby's focus had strayed.

Pulling away so his bearded cheek didn't tickle your lips, you looked up at him with an amused tilt of your head.

With his point of interest hidden, Robby's attention returned to your face and gave you a small smile as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. "Better?"

"Mhm," you hummed with a satisfied nod.

He shook his head as he slid the backpack off his shoulder. Apparently, he'd already pocketed his headphones.

"Holding out on me today, are you?" His eyes flickered down to the hands that you still kept out of his sight and then back.

"I want you to take them in properly."

His brows raised, but so did the edge of his mouth. "That happy with them?"

You bit your lower lip, nodding eagerly as you rolled on the soles of your feet. It made Robby chuckle as he stepped out of his shoes and put them on the shoe rack.

Once he stood up straight again, he motioned with his hand into the apartment. You only shook your head, which made his head cock questioningly.

"You go ahead, I don't want to risk you taking a peek"

"You really like these ones, huh?" You only flashed Robby a smile as he passed you and took the lead to the couch.

As he sat down with a groan by the armrest, you folded one foot beneath you and seated yourself in the middle. When Robby rolled his head to look at you expectantly, you finally stretched your hands forth.

Your smile was already widening before his eyes even dropped to your nails. Once he did, his brows were quick to reach his hairline.

He took your hands in his, so soft and incredibly fucking pretty with the daintily painted daisies in varying numbers on the tip of your nails.

You'd let it slip this morning that you'd try something slightly different. It's summer, after all. Though he'd tried to bribe you to give him a hint, you showed remarkable restraint compared to how easily you usually folded to his low whispers between kisses. And concerning his knowledge, which was linked to the previous sets you'd gotten, his guesses were as good as any.

At first, Robby didn't say anything, his eyes fixed on the design in wonder. Precision is detrimental in any line of medical work. But he knows damn well that even his steady hands couldn't recreate the summery staple the white and yellow flowers were if he tried.

When he looks back up at your face, he sees you grinning. Understandably so.

"How long were you stuck in that chair for?"

You giggled, momentarily glancing at your nails before your gaze returned to meet his. "It wasn't that bad, barely longer than one and a half hours."

Robby scoffed gently. Not that bad, you said. "And how much did they cost?"

"It doesn't matter," you shrugged happily.

The state he'd left you in the morning —practically pouting at how your nails were too grown out and, in your own words, gross and needed to be remade— wiped away like you've won the lottery and not spent money.

Robby runs his thumb over your fingers, watching himself do it. As he glances at you, he does so through his brows. "Seriously, baby, it can't have been cheap."

Your brow raised, humming an affirming sound. Then your eyes teasingly narrowed as you leaned a little closer. "The puppy eyes won't work. Nice try, though."

Robby sighs heavily, dropping his and your hands into his lap.

You've had this conversation before. He wants to pay for your nails. You won't let him.

Early on in your relationship, before you moved in with him, Robby would always ask what he should send over to cover the expense of your appointment. Yet you would always scrunch up your nose, kiss him on the cheek, and refer to the poor pay of medical workers, never failing to end the sentence with a wink. He would retaliate that you were thinking about nurses.

'I'm a doctor,' he would say with a brow arched at you. 'Sure,' you would return as you sent him an amused look.

It didn't matter that you knew Robby earned more than enough that paying for your nail appointment wouldn't cripple his economy. It was, after all, his apartment that you lived in together. He closed the tab if you went out together. He covered the bills.

You were in charge of groceries only because you could cook better than his decent meals, and you'd negotiated the deal once you grew serious enough to talk economy and moving in.

Robby had bitten his tongue when you scoffed about what else you could spend your money on if you couldn't at least contribute to the food for the two of you. 'You. Spend your money on yourself' had been damn near close to tumble from his mouth. He knew that a very deadpan look would've passed over your features if he had voiced his thoughts, followed by a remark about 'We don't need more than our age difference for people to think I'm your sugar-baby'.

Robby would never mention that a part of him swelled with pride over the fact that you never had to opt out of making your nails, or always keep your products stocked, because he covered so many of your shared necessities. But fuck. He really wanted to pay for your monthly manicures as well.

Not only because some deep, possessive part of him —which he'll never voice and continues to believe he overcame during his thirties— wants to provide for something that makes you so excited. He just likes your nails looking pretty, the colours you pick are always flattering and the designs are lovely.

But so far, he'd been fighting a losing battle.

You were adamant about paying for them yourself, to the point that you started keeping the price of each new set from him. Robby didn't want to push you too much, not after you explained that it was more of a hobby than simply about feeling more attractive. But he would lie if he said he wouldn't agree to literally anything to pay for them once.

"Don't pout." You knew you had brought Robby out of his thoughts when the faraway look in his eyes —the one he could get when he stared at your nails— vanished once he looked at you. "Don't you think they look good?"

You received a look, his brows set low and mouth flattening into a bitter purse. 'The dumbest question I've heard', it represented.

"You know I love them," he declared, raising your hands to his mouth and pressing a kiss to them.

You hummed, having to bite your lower lip to hold off your smile as you slipped your hands from his as he lowered them once more. You shifted your hands, spinning them in different poses before you dropped one of them to his thigh and the other straight against his crotch.

"I think she overdid herself this time," you hummed, drowning the low hitch of his breath.

This was the second reason Robby loved it when you did your nails.

For some unknown reason, you became braver, as if your nail appointments included a shot of confidence straight to the vein. You wanted to touch him, run your fingers over him in one way or another.

When he'd pointed it out after he noticed the pattern, you explained it, or at least tried to.

'There's just something... about it.' 'Something?' 'I dunno, I feel girly, I guess? Nothing deep, it's just the contrast.'

Robby had laughed at you, which earned him an exaggerated downturn of your lips, a smack to his chest, and you trying to push off from where you'd lain on top of him. But he'd been quick to cage you with his arms, keeping you in bed.

It wasn't that he didn't understand. He got it. It was just entertaining to hear your perspective on something he also enjoyed very much. And after your conversation, he realised contrast was truly the right word.

Whether you wanted to call it feminine and masculine, or just the overall care you put into your appearance compared to his. Not that Robby didn't take care of himself. Even if you certainly would like to argue against it, as he still hadn't contacted the therapist Jack suggested, or any therapist. It was just that you always were so goddamn pretty and put together while he was more rough around the edges.

Robby reckons it's because he knows you like this just as much as he does —and that it always ends the same way— he'd let himself be goddamned Pavloved into anticipating your touch. Because there was no other reason his cock would harden so quickly beneath your hand knowingly massaging it through his pants as you pretended to admire your feshly made nails. Not at his age.

And fucking Christ, if it didn't get Robby going, watching you appear so innocent as you peered up at him expectantly, waiting for the praise you knew would leave him with a groan.

"Yeah-shit, she did."

"But something is missing, don't you think?" You weren't even looking at your hands anymore, gaze locked with Robby's.

"What?" He gritted out, letting you pet his growing bulge, letting you play this little game.

A smile tugged in the corner of your mouth as you cupped him the best you could through his cargo pants. He groaned at the pressure and the lewd image, you holding his thick outline through his pants.

"That's what's missing?"

"Mhm." You caressed him with even pressure, faux strokes up and down.

You watched Robby's eyes flutter, his neck relaxing against the backrest, never letting his gaze fall from you or your hand, his eyes jumping between the two. That was until you unbuttoned his pants and pulled him out of his boxers.

As your warm hand closed around his shaft, you collected a glob of spit in your mouth, leaning down to easier hit the tip of his cock when you let it drip from your mouth. You caught Robby's drawn-out groan, finding him with his eyes shut once you sat straight.

When your saliva spread across his cock, making your hand glide easier, Robby's head cranes backwards on the soft back of the couch, face turned to the roof. 'Shit,' he let out, the sound gruff and deep.

You take the opportunity he presents when baring his neck, shuffling closer, enough for your thigh to press against his. His Adam's apple bobs when you lean in to kiss along his throat. Groaning when you flatten your tongue to lick a wide stripe to the line of his beard.

"Fuck, sweetheart, I haven't showered," he grunted, hand falling to your thigh, squeezing.

"I don't care," you whispered against his ear, feeling him twitch in your hand.

You smile, coily humming against the sensitive skin of his throat. Another moan fills the air, his hips jumping, when you smear the precum beading his tip beneath Robby's sensitive cockhead.

You continue worshipping his neck as you jerk him off. Never lingering too much on any spot, as no marks you leave will be hidden by his scrubs. Which he's still in.

There really wasn't such a thing as good days when you worked in the ER, you knew that. The scale went from as normal as anyone could imagine to an absolute shitsshow. And while you didn't know how Robby's shift was, today didn't seem to be the latter, as your soft, methodical touch was enough to melt away any tension in his broad shoulders. On bad days, that certainly wasn't the case.

Robby's body seemed heavy, fully relaxing into he soft cushions that kept him upright. You loved to see him like this, slack-jawed and enjoying the pleasure you gave him. But you knew something that he would enjoy even more, or at least be able to contend with the steady up-and-down tug of your hand.

"I've thought about something," you nearly purred as you finally leaned away from Robby's neck. You never stop moving your hand as you watch him. "I'll let you pay for my nails, but on one condition."

His eyes open, heavy-lidded but still finding yours. He doesn't verbalise the question present in his gaze, not more than a breathy sound ascending from the vibrating depths of his chest.

You know it's an indirect way of asking about your requirements. But you only continue to jerk him off, smiling sweetly at him.

"Fuck," he curses, but you know he understood he'll have to ask if you would tell him. "What?"

Teeth catch your lower lip, smile curling until the flesh is pulled free. Oh, this will be enjoyable.

"You can pay for my nails if, and only if-" you lean a little loser, enough for his lips to part, anticipating a kiss. "-I can get them in your colour."

"Brown?" Of course, your dear Robby would think you meant his eyes, those pretty brown ones you always compliment him about until he averts his gaze with a pink hue on his cheeks.

"M'no," you hum amusedly. His brows knit together. "I'm talking about this pretty colour."

The colour rises up his throat instantly as his eyes flicker to follow how you pointedly swipe your thumb over the tip of his cock. Knowing Robby is watching, you line up some of your nails against it, letting him imagine the nail polish that would match.

"Holy fucking shit," he hisses.

"You asked me." While you succeed with the smug tone, Robby fails horrendously to send you a glare through pleasured-lidded eyes and a red face. "And why wouldn't I want it? It's such a pretty, deep, rosy colour-"

"Shut up," he groans, eyes pressed shut as he forces his head into the back of the couch, as if it would swallow him head first.

You giggle at the exasperation in his tone, "If that's a no, then I'll just-" You ease your grip until you let go of him entirely, leaning away.

A throaty, frustrated sound fills the air.

Robby opens his eyes, and you're already there to meet his gaze when his head rolls to face you. Sitting there with a broad smile, you don't help his blush in the slightest.

"You're unbelievable." The gruff words make your stomach flutter.

"What? Just because I want my boyfriend's hmph-"

A big hand clamps over your mouth, another one cupping the back of your head, as the creases beside his eyes grow noticeably deeper as he shuts them tightly. Robby smiles that tight-lipped smile, which makes his nose and brows scrunch, as he shakes his head.

"Please don't repeat it." His head tilts sideways as his eyes open, watching you closely. "One near-case of cardiac arrest is enough for a lifetime, no less one evening."

You pout, exaggerating the expression so he sees it despite the palm covering half your face. But you remain silent, which prompts him to drop his hands, one landing on your hip, the other rubbing the side of his face.

Brown eyes observe you, and you arch your brows in return. Robby jerks his head sideways, looking the same way as his hand alls to his thigh.

Once his gaze settled on you again, he shook his head with a sigh. "What should I do with you?"

You cock your head, lips pulling upwards iin the corner as if to silently say 'Do with me?'

"For one, if you hate my suggestion so much, just shut me up," you say while raising your foot that previously rested on the ground to swing your leg across his lap. As you plopped down on his thighs, you continued. "Two? If you don't want to pay that badly, just say no."

"For one-" Robby is interrupted by a squeal from you as he pushes his leg into your ass, forcing you to rise onto your knees. "-we both know you'll only become louder."

He proves it correct seconds after he said it, a soft moan bubbling deep in your throat as Robby runs his fingers over your panty covered pussy, easily reached due to only being clad in on of his oversized t-shirts.

"Fuck," it's breathy, making him chuckle.

Robby watches your eyes flutter as he teases you through your underwear, already acting as little to no use besides a thin, wet shield for feeling you bare against him.

"And two-" He bumps your clit and then circless it. The whimper you release as your fingers card through the short hair on his neck makes his head drop and rumble the rest of the words against your throat, "-if that's what it takes to let me pay."

A gentle tug at his roots makes his head rise again, and he finds your beautiful eyes gazing at him widely, as if you didn't expect him to agree. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

An excited, high-pitched sound escaped you right before you surged forward and kissed Robby.

A taken-aback grunt vibrated into your mouth before he finally slips his hand from between your legs and to the backside of your thigh.

"You're excited about that," he chuckles against your lips once you part.

"Yeah, saw it was some trend and never thought you'd agree." Your hand, which had found purchase on his chest that was still covered by his zip-up hoodie —and with his scrub top and undershirt peeking out from beneath—played with the metal zipper.

"Didn't see it coming, but I don't mind."

"Don't like it too much, or I'll ask for weirder stuff."

"Like what?" Robby quickly realises his mistake when your brows jump up and you break into a wicked grin. Swiftly, he leans in to kiss you when your mouth opens, already feeling his ears heat up again.

"No, no, don't ruin it, just keep kissing," he mumbles against you between hurried presses of his mouth to stop your train of thought.

He succeeds because he never lets you escape, trapping you against his chest by circling his other arm around your waist and chasing after your mouth with his until you start giggling at his endless kisses.

But it's once you melt into the kiss with a content sigh you become aware of his hot length trapped between your bodies. And from there, the air changes, from light and playful to something hot and craving.

Robby slants his mouth over yours, his warm, wet tongue making you shudder, much like the hands venturing to your hips, urging you to grind against him.

It does nothing to stifle the throbbing between your legs, your panties resting cold against your core. But Robby groans at the return of pleasure as your abdomen rubs aganst his cock.

"Don't make me fucking come on my clothes," he breathes, but doesn't stop guiding the rock of you body.

"They're due a wash anyway," you mumble against his lips.

"Could just come inside you instead." Your mouth drops open in surprise, but Robby is quick to swallow the gasp that follows.

While his mouth occupied yours, Robby slides his hand over your ass and between your legs, hooking his thumb in the material covering your crotch to pull it to the side. With a signal to stop by his hand gripping your hip and a shuffle of him beneath you so his lihgly more slouched on he couch, he notches his weeping tip against your entrance.

Your breath catches, making Robby pause and lean away to hold your gaze. "Wan't me to-"

"No, I need you now." Even though you were already wet, that wasn't usually enough to take Robby smoothly. But fuck, you couldn't wait.

You took over the grip he had on himself, running his tip through your folds to collect your wetness. It forced his hands to settle on your sides, where thigh met hip.

"Shit- take it slow," he murmured right as you slowly pressed down on him, feeling his head enter you.

Slowly, you work yourslf lower on his cock, feeling Robby slide deeper for every other roll of your hips. Your gasps and moans filled the air, accompanied by groans and curses from him.

When you finally settled in his lap, your ass flush against his thighs, Robby's head relaxes. "Fuck," he breathes, feeling your weight on him, how you ocasionally clench as you adjust to his thickness.

Each time you tighten around him on an inhale, Robby's grip tightens momentarily, fingers digging into the soft parts of your body. However, he doesn't hurry you. Instead, he lets you set the pace, simply taking whatever you give him, moaning equally when you start a gentle rock as when you progress to bouncing up and down on his cock.

"That's it, sweetheart-" his voice is cut off with a deep groan upon your new pace that has the sound of skin slapping fill the living room.

You're almost thrown off your rhythm upon hearing Robby's unabashed moan. But he keeps you steady, all while holding your panties aside so the slick material doesn't get in the way.

As the pressure slowly builds in your lower stomach, your hands settle on his chest for stability, curling into his clothes. As if you've put two resurrection pads on Robby and you're in one of those bad medical movies, his neck suddenly snaps up to face you.

His brown eyes are heavy-lidded and lips partly open, a kind of lazy, drunken smile tugging at the corner of his lips. You gravitate towards his mouth before you know how to keep on bouncing while leaning down and forward, ending up in some half-bounce-arch-of-your-back situation.

But it is so worth it.

The kiss is not coordinated in the slightest but erotically sloppy in the best way. Pants and moans exhaled into each other's mouths. Tongues leaving wet trails across lips when they slip from their curling embrace with one another.

What finally breaks you apart is the deep moan that rips from your throat when your clit catches delicously on his hair-dusted abdomen.

Your mind had abandoned doing two things at once while you kissed Robby, settling you into simply grinding back and forth with his entire girth inside you. Now, you deliberately chase those pleasurable spikes you earned from rocking back and forth and dragging your bundle of nerves across his skin.

The added stimulation, hot and electric, collects into a vibrating ball in your abdomen. It leaves you unable to do anything but watch as Robby decides to take your hand, still curled into his scrub top, and raise it to his mouth to leave soft, fluttering kisses over it. But that's not what makes your breath catch. No. It's when he suddenly slips your index finger into his mouth.

All while holding your wide-eyed gaze, he licks around your nail, his tongue dragging against the rounded edge, its textured surface catching on the pointed tip.

"O-oh my god," you panted, insides quivering, nails digging into his shoulder.

Robby moaned at the sting he could feel through his clothes, the bite of your nails having him bucking into you as he let his teeth dig gently into the skin below your PIP joint.

You don't know what about him sucking on your finger was so erotic —maybe the feeling or seeing how much Robby enjoyed it— but you suddenly tipped over the edge. "I-fuck!"

You hadn't been far from coming, the prickling of your skin and curl of your toes signs you were close. But without more than the rhythmic but ocasionall bump of your clit against Robby's pubic bone you'd thought it would take a while longer. Apparently not this time, as you stutter to a stop and fall again against his chest, thighs tightly bracketing his hips as you flutter around him.

Faintly, you feel Robby drop your finger from his mouth, hands gripping your hips as he takes leverage on the floor and thrusts upwards.

A whiny sound rings from the back of the throat, the suddenness of your orgasm barely having ebbed before Robby fucks up into you, prolonging the intense pleasure. But it seemed neither he needed much today, as he soon also stuttered to a stop with a gritty groan, spilling inside you.

Robby's warm cum fills you as his head drops to rest on your shoulder, arms enveloping your body and hugging you close as he pushed you down into his lap, as if stopping you from moving and keep himself as deep inside a possible. But you had no intention to, even if your breathing evened out quicker than his. Instead, you press your face against the side of his throat as your arm loops around his neck, hugging him back.

Despite being fully clothed and the Pittsburgh heat seeping through the smallest cracks to battle the AC, you can't get enough of Robby's warmth. You snuggle closer to him, sighing happily as you kiss the skin below his beard, to the hairline on his neck.

You know Robby has collected himself when he releases a deep sigh, returning your affection by pressing his lips to the place where his forehead previously rested.

Once you sit back, you're met by soft brown eyes gazing up at you.

When Robby doesn't say anything, you gently push at his chest, trying to get him to look at something else. "Stop, you're going to make me blush."

"Only fair after your stunt." One side of your mouth quirks up as a gentle tap on your behind signals you to lift up. You do as he says and push onto your knees.

With Robby having grown soft, he slips from inside you. His spend slowly follows, some droplets definitely hitting his trousers before he manages to pull your panties in place and slip himself into his boxers.

"Don't think you minded," you hum as Robby's hands curve over your hips, urging you to sit again. "Definitely not concerning our deal."

The corner of his mouth curls upwards. "No, you're right."

Just as you're about to say something —a jibe about whether he remembers what he actually had said yes to— Robby suddenly heaves himself from the couch, hands beneath your thighs, bringing you with him.

"Robby!" Your arms shot around his neck and your feet urgently locked behind his back.

"I'm overdue a shower, and you'll join me since you also ned one now."

You twist your head and stare at his profile. "You don't have to carry me, you must be tired after your shift."

"As if you thought about that earlier," he looks at you once he reaches the bathroom door, leaning his upper body against it all while using his elbow to push down the handle.

"It's tradition", you defend yourself as the door swings open and he enters the bathroom.

"Yeah, it is," he chuckled, letting you down to the floor by sliding your body along his.

***

After your and Robby's deal, not only are you more excited than usual to get your nails done, but you also don't let them grow as long as you would to keep your visits to once a month.

Shy of three weeks later, you mention to Robby you've booked a new appointment as he lounges on the couch. The look on his face when you told him how much it would cost and he transferred the money to your account was indeed a sight to see. His satisfied, prideful expression made him sit straighter, an easy grin on his face as you kissed him in thanks.

What was even better was to witness how quickly his mouth dropped open and brows rose when you'd sunk to your knees between his sprawled legs.

The Penguins' game on the TV quickly became background noise as Robby's unwavering stare followed you as you rubbed his thighs, nuzzling and kissing his soft cock through his joggers. But he wasn't soft for long, blood rapidly redirecting south upon your impromptu actions.

You'd hummed all amusedly that you'd needed a reference for the colour you would get. Robby's cheeks were already dusted red, but had grown a few shades deeper than his flushed tip the second you hooked the elastic band of his pants beneath his cock and took a photo of your hand wrapped around his lenght.

When you showed him the picture, the colour spread down his neck. And bless your handsome, brilliant man, but when he asked, dumbfounded in embarrassment when remembering the other part of your deal, 'You won't show that picture, will you?' you couldn't stop your snort and oncoming laugh as your face fell against his thigh.

Only then did he seem to snap out of his stupor and grumble a complaint about your teasing. As an apology, you ended what you started by milking him dry with your mouth, his heavy hand on the back of your head, attention all on you despite the Penguins scoring.

When the actual day of the appointment comes around, it's in the middle of July. The weather is typical for this time of year, hot and sunny, feeling warmer as soon as you get away from the water and further into the city.

Like many others dressed in breathable materials and light colours, you choose a flowery dress. It's nothing special, just an everyday piece that falls to your shins and is flowy from the waist down. Still, you're happy you chose it rather than pants and a top, not knowing how Robby could leave this morning dressed in three layers even though the hospital was chilly all year round.

You reckon you would eat your words the second you reached the Pitt.

While you'd only planned to go to your nail salon, Robby had messaged you a few hours ago, asking if you could drop by with his lunch he'd forgotten in his hurry this morning. Not the coffee, of course, just his food.

It didn't happen often. However, when it did, Robby would usually ask if you had time to stop by. And as if it were any other day, he asked if you could do it today as well.

You're positive your nail appointment had slipped Robby's mind. But you made no effort to remind him.

That's precisely why you enter the ER with a near skip in your step, waving to the ladies at reception who know you well enough to wave you through the doors without requiring identification.

Like the handful of times you'd been here previously — always on errand to deliver Robby's lunch— there was a steady hum of moving people and equipment.

You gravitated towards the central hub of desks, where you spotted a familiar blonde.

"Hey Dana!" The charge nurse lifted her head from the iPad, looking around before her eyes found you.

A smile broke her serious expression into something softer as she put down the tablet, moving to meet you by the counter you stepped up to. "What brings you here, kid?"

You put the lunchbag on the counter between you, making Dana chuckle as she realised your visit followed the usual pattern.

"Just wait for him here, he's never stationary for long." You offer her a smile, glancing around the organised chaos of the Pitt.

As you lean your weight on your elbows, nails tapping against the counter, you don't notice how Dana's eyes drop.

"Classy."

Your eyes return to her, following her pointed finger to your hands. When you realise her attention is on your nails, your tongue pushes against the back of your teeth to hinder a smile from spreading.

"Thank you, made them today."

"You know how to pick your colours."

Your eyes flickered to meet hers again, a smile slowly growing. "Robby helped me pick this time."

"Talking about the devil," Dana hummed, just as you felt a presence stop close behind you. "You look peachy."

Your brows furrowed, turning to look over your shoulder upon the charge nurse's comment. Just as you did, you caught Robby shaking his head, a lowly stated 'They didn't make it' accompanying it.

His face was flushed, colour dusting his cheeks. With the information you just got, you guessed it was due to trying to resuscitate someone with chest compressions. It was a viable reason. But when Robby's eyes dropped to you, you instantly bit the inside of your cheek.

You knew that look.

"A word?" Robby watched you with a smile, not genuine as it didn't flash teeth, but polite with his brows raised high as if it would make up for it.

You gave Dana a look, who playfully drew a cross across her chest for your sake, knowing Robby well enough to catch his serious tone behind the friendly expression. If she only knew the whole story.

"Have a good one and wish me luck," you waved goodbye to her as she chuckled and gave you a half-wave in return.

Once you grabbed the lunch bag from the counter, you felt a hand slip around your upper arm, gently steering you along.

"What's up with you?" You asked when Robby came to a halt and faced you in a corridor with close to no people.

His eyes shut tightly. "I know you didn't just come here after getting those done," he gestured blindly towards you.

"You asked me to stop by," you said, jangling the lunchbag you'd brought in front of him. His eyes opened to send you a look, even though he took it from you. "Not my fault that Dana complimented my-"

"No, I heard enough of that conversation, and we're not doing this here."

You only giggled, not fighting him on it, never actually desiring to do anything that could embarrass him at work. But that didn't mean you couldn't tease him a little.

"See you at home tonight." You leaned up to kiss him on the cheek, lowering your voice as you lingered there. "You and that erection of yours."

Robby's head dropped immediately, only to be met by nothing of the sort.

He exhaled heavily, burrowing his hands in the hoodie's pockets, the lunchbag partly shielding his crotch.

Just your general effect on him was definitely enough to give him a boner, but with those goddamn nails that matched his- yeah, the possibility skyrocketed.

"You-" Robby shifted to look at you as he jerked his head sideways. "-go."

"Good luck today." You patted his stomach, smiling up at him as his eyes travelled to your hand, which lingered just a second longer than necessary on his lower abdomen. You could see his imagination run rampant, his jaw working.

"I got eight hours left," he muttered, looking to the roof. By the sounds of it, more to himself than you.

"You'll make it, big guy." The look you receive brushes on exasperated, yet you only smiled sweetly up at him.

Though Robby rolls his eyes, he nevertheless bends to press a brief kiss to your cheek. "Thank you for the lunch and the inconvenience you caused."

"My pleasure."

"Bet it fucking was." You chuckled and he only sent you an amused glance as you headed in separate directions.

907 notes · View notes

valentinevirgo · 4 days ago

Text

SODA POP! - G.S.

Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.8k

A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-

“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-”

It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.

For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.” Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”

“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”

“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.

It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”

“...”

“A…a joke?”

In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.”

“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”

The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”

You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”

“I do.”

Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word-

satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??

“Blocked.”

P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)

“Blocked.”

Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.

“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”

As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.

At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.

Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.

“I thought I blocked you.”

“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”

“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom.

He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”

sugu-rizzed: Are you single?

“How dare you-”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”

“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”

What a sight it was.

Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.

Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-

ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?

“Well-”

“Blocked.”

KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?

stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?

Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x.

“I-”

“You- blocked.”

haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?

You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”

One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”

“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”

realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-

“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is.

And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”

He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”

Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs.

sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…

CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game

sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!

Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x.

torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^

It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks.

Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”

“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”

“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her

Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).

sugu-rizzed: F in the chat

CandyKento: f

sunflowerboy: F

Fushidaddy10: F

ge.akuge: F

“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there.

Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”

Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.

“Blocked-”

Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.

Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.

It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”

Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.

Fuck.

In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes.

As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?

Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone.

Headphone-less. On full volume.

All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client.

And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”

Subtle cues- subtle cues!

But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes.

But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you.

Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”

“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”

“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”

Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes?

Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates.

Who could mistake them?

Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”

Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”

Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”

“Mm.”

“Satoru.”

“…”

“You little-”

It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.

“Satoru…”

“…Suguru.”

Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”

The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”

“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”

Gojo blanches, “No-”

“Oh? What is it–?”

Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”

Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”

Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”

Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”

“He’s not.”

“I am?”

“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone.

Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”

Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”

The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated.

Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?

About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you.

He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.

Then back at Gojo.

And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”

If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better.

The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through.

“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot.

Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.

But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”

Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?”

His dignity was scarred!

“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”

“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.

His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!

“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”

He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!

In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.

Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend.

And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—

“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”

The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards.

It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV

torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK

ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow

zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]

getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…

torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^

sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…

mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers

zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-

Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.

“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”

Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year.

All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits.

And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-

“MY STAAAAR–!”

Geto takes that back very quickly.

Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”

Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”

On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line.

You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”

“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”

“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”

It goes off without a hitch.

Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance.

Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”

Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.

With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”

Before he swung.

And…

…missed.

But that was all water under the bridge.

It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor.

It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events.

Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing.

And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn.

“Ready…”

Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right?

“Set…”

Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.

“Go!”

It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can.

Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’

Fuck.

Why did it have to be this one?

The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”

“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-”

“Gojo-san, you got this–!”

In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.

Well.

“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”

Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting.

“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”

“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”

“Are you two dating?”

It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-

“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”

“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.

This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line.

Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly.

But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile.

They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.

And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race.

A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.

@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-

@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-

@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~

@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??

@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu.

@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.

@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!!

@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…

@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY

@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…

Gojo reports that last account.

“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”

“Me.”

“And who do you think is the best dancer?”

“Me.”

“The most romantic?”

“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.

Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.

Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.

And damn Geto for goading him into going first.

The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”

Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.

“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”

Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”

Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”

Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”

And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”

“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.

“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-

“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.

As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”

Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.

“And she is very beautiful- correct?”

“Very true.” Truth.

“And smart?”

“Very true-” Truth.

“And you’re in love with her?”

“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”

To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”

“N…no.”

Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”

“Suguru!”

The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”

Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”

“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”

“-I would rather die.”

It’s silence.

Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.

Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back.

Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”

It wasn’t even a question.

And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.

Literally.

There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—

Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”

“Gojo-san, are you okay-”

“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”

As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”

Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-”

The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you.

“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”

“Eh?”

“Gojo-san, eh?”

Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”

That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season.

Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!

torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-

eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.

100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?

fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse

jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-

ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.

CandyKento: kento is so real ngl

getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru

fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-

Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram.

Very colorfully-worded ones.

“What’s your name?”

“Gojo da strongest.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A star.”

For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.

He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school.

So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-

“It’s kinda ugly.”

“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”

You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.”

And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”

“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”

Stomping, “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star. He looks at you and-

“Fine…”

“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger.

But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars.

Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”

“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”

Only to have it thrown back in his.

In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.

“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him.

You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”

It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.

But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted.

And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.

In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.

And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”

“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”

Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”

“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”

“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”

But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.

“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”

It’s all.

And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.

That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right.

Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him.

And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”

That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends.

“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds.

His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.

Not when his mouth was already so occupied.

All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.

Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.

Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”

“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”

“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy.

There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together.

“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough.

“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”

He didn’t know what to say.

Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-

“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”

Ripping.

And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.

It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.”

And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”

Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in.

Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips.

“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”

The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”

Another smack!

Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”

“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.

“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”

You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy.

So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”

His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa-

“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy.

So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”

And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips.

Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”

“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”

“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend.

But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”

Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”

“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards.

And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-

“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”

“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides.

Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”

The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.

Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”

“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”

“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”

“Satoru.”

“Louder?”

“Satoru.”

With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”

Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth.

But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.

Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy.

Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.

Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”

“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”

Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-

“Sa-sa-”

“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”

With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-”

You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.

You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”

With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out.

Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too.

And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high.

To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.

From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”

And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy.

Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!

“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa.

Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”

Your mouth drops open at his words.

Oh.

You weren’t making it out of this alive.

Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-

Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!

With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.

And fuck- did it make your mouth water.

Oh, fuck.

Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.

From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you.

A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation.

You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”

Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”

“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.

Making such a mess.

And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap.

Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-

“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”

Dragging it out.

Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”

Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?”

“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”

But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside.

To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-

“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing.

“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”

And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”

He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip.

Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw.

“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?”

And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”

You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”

“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”

Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut.

You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper.

Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully.

“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”

Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”

“It has to fit-”

“Will it?”

“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”

And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless.

Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.

Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-

And then it all happens at once.

In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.

And again.

And again and again and again-

You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”

“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue.

That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”

Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”

“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.

Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”

He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier.

Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit.

“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”

“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”

“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”

With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”

You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”

A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”

Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.

But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots.

All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”

“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief.

With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”

You don’t even know what to say - what to do.

The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”

“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”

And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.

Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.

Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”

Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”

“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”

Strike after strike.

His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”

Push after push.

“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”

You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”

Toes curled, mouth unfastened.

Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too.

Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled.

With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size.

Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”

And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.

Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”

More to himself.

Although those next words were entirely for you.

“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”

Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”

Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.

Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.

And for once it’s silence.

Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp!

You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”

“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.

You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”

Oh, fuck.

Neither of you are making it out of this alive.

“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway.

Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.

And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?

Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-

“Eh?”

“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?

Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”

And then Gojo sees it - that.

The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.

Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-

One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”

And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.”

Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”

Gojo looks at Geto.

“…”

At Haibara.

“…”

At Nanami.

“…Fucking idiot.”

And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”

Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.

Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River.

And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”

No resignation letter would ever be enough.

@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)

@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS

@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??

@mahitoe: tch whatever

@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp

@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??

@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^

@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.

@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!

@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs

@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married

@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.

@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.

A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!

Plagiarism not authorized.

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valentinevirgo · 4 days ago

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MDNI 18+

gojo satoru almost never removes his blindfold.

not during missions, not to sleep. not even when you’re beneath him like this, panting into his mouth. he usually keeps it on—spares him the headache. you've never minded, though. his presence alone compensates for what he keeps hidden.

but tonight, something makes him pause mid-thrust.

he stills, breath shallow. two fingers hook beneath the edge of the fabric. with one slow pull, he slides it down. it hangs around his neck now. what’s revealed steals away your breath.

his eyes are otherworldly.

not just electric—opalescent, almost volatile in their beauty. platinum bled to cobalt, cold fire beneath a lattice of lashes so pale and translucent they catch light like spun sugar, long enough to kiss his cheekbones when he blinks.

too beautiful to be real. too unreal not to be divine.

you reach up, brushing a lock of silver hair from his damp forehead, fingers grazing the corner of one crystalline eye. his lashes flutter—languid, indulgent, unbearably fond.

"you like?" his grin tilts crooked; boyish and smug. words simply fail you, so you nod instead. the motion causes you to tighten around him and he exhales sharply, nearly choking on a groan.

"careful," he murmurs, sinking deeper into you.

"keep lookin' at me like that, i might embarrass myself."

your legs cinch around his waist, and the next breath he lets out is shaky. there's colour high on his cheeks now—pink cresting beneath damp silver hair, reaching the delicate points of his ears. his gaze lingers on your face, then dips to the bounce of your breasts as he thrusts again.

"told you i was pretty."

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

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mdni

sometimes, when you’re on top- which satoru loves, because he gets to be lazy- he’ll do finger guns at you. full on pew pew, while you’re riding him like you have some dignity left.

"look at you go, yeehaw! my little cowgirl-"

“stop talking.”

but he does not stop. he starts to make horse noises instead. he neighs. you vow to break up with him on the spot- but he flips you under him halfway through and makes you forget.

and god help you if you make an embarrassing noise. he will repeat it back to you- but so exaggerated. high pitched and mocking, giggling through it all.

“did you just go ‘mngh- ahh!’? do it again, do it again- c��mon-"

you tell him you hate him. he kisses the tip or your nose in response.

“you love me. my little dolphin, ee-ee-ee!”

and the worst part? he refuses to stop. he'll keep the bit going way after. you'll be in the shower trying to scrub the shame off, and he’ll lean on the doorframe, towel around his hips, "ahhh~ toru, so big~!" then cackle like a gremlin while you throw the shampoo bottle at him.

he'll do it in front of nanami, too. just to watch his soul leave his body. you'll call him on speaker to ask if he wants anything from the store- “yeah, get more milk, we used it all. you know, when you were all- ‘ah, ah, ahhh!" and nanami just… sighs. loudly. contemplates calling hr even though there is no hr.

sometimes he doesn’t even do the voice. he’ll just look at you across a restaurant table and mouth your moans back at you. the smirk is unbearable, annoying- but so him. he knows you know exactly what he’s referencing, and he lives for that split second of horror on your face before you kick him hard under the table.

you swear he’s the only man alive who could ruin the mood and make it ten times better.

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

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gojo satoru fucking your thighs as ‘practice’ because he’s too big… MDNI 18+

"fuck," gojo hisses, hips stuttering. "so warm... can't believe this isn't even-fuck, baby, it's not even inside."

it never is. not yet. it's why he started this in the first place— "practice," he'd called it, with that lilting cadence, teasing but half-serious, wrapping your thighs around him and murmuring that you needed to get used to how he felt first. he's too big for you. the first time he'd ground against you bare, the head of it barely kissing your entrance, you flinched. now he doesn't even try to hide his anticipation.

it starts the same every single time. you on your back, thighs drawn together, pressed tight around him while his cock—thick and leaking and absurd in scale-glides between them. the apex of your thighs is smeared with your arousal and his precum, making each shallow thrust sound obscene. you also can feel how badly he wants it—veins bulging along his length, tip flushed a rosy pink, leaving streaks of precum across your inner thighs each time he drags forward. he grinds up, excruciatingly slow, the engorged head catching against your folds with every stroke. you whimper when it brushes your clit. he shudders. your legs tense around his waist. he drinks in your face, the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter when the head of his cock catches at your clit, a slippery near-miss. you whimper-soft and high-pitched. "toru!"

"don't—fuck—don't say it like that." gojo croaks, almost angry with restraint. "gonna lose it." in contradiction to his words, his hips roll forward, nudging again against the tight ring of your entrance. he wants in. he's wanted in for weeks.

"baby," he nuzzles your jaw. there's a sweetness to it that is inherently deceptive, "lemme-just the tip. c'mon, jus' a little." you shake your head before you can stop yourself. he groans, wounded, forehead falling against your collarbone. stays there for a beat. then you feel it: a nudge. insistent, clumsy, the swollen head of his cock pressing into your entrance, starting to stretch you past what you thought possible. no thrust, not yet— just the threat of his size.

"please," you can't tell if he's begging you or himself. "wanna feel you. wanna be good, but you're killing me." and you believe him. the strongest sorcerer's voice is breaking, and you can feel how his whole body is rembling with restraint.

"fine.... just a bit," you concede. he doesn't wait for more than a nod. hands braced under your thighs, he pushes in.

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valentinevirgo · 5 days ago

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18+ running out of condoms with boyfriend!gojo (╥﹏╥)

satoru had always been an overachiever. you should’ve guessed that the title of ‘the strongest’ would also apply to his… baby juice.

you two always made sure to have condoms. you’d tried the pill, but it always made you terribly nauseous, and both you and satoru had an insatiable appetite when it came to one another.

just as your boyfriend had gotten you all hot and bothered, his hands all over your body, panties so wet they were clinging to your cunt, lips swollen from the kisses you’d swapped… his hand started going through the nightstand drawer, the white-haired man alarmed when he couldn’t find the foil. satoru pulled away from your neck, letting out a dramatic gasp, “oh no.”

“what is it, ‘toruuu…” you whined, sticking out your plump bottom lip in a pout, “there are no condoms.” “what?” “we used the last one last night.”

satoru pulled back, looking at you with a glimmer of hope in his eyes, “we could just… go raw?” “satoru, you’re not funny.” “come onnn~ i can just pull out.”

you wish you could say he had to convince you, but only a few little circles his thick thumb drew on your clit were enough, and it wasn’t long until the tip of his fat cock was kissing your cervix while his lips were kissing down your neck.

and now? well. what your boyfriend had promised to be a pull out was now a pair of white-haired six-month-old babies with eyes the color of the brightest, shiniest blue.

“omnomnomnom!” your boyfriend fiancé had your son’s hand at his mouth, pretending to eat the little boy’s hand, bright giggles leaving daisuke’s lips, while his younger twin sister was in your arms, suckling on a baby bottle.

after you’d put the babies down in the nursery, you made your way to your shared bedroom, satoru’s lips ghosting over the side of your neck as soon as the door closed behind you two, his strong arms snaking around your waist. “finally we’re having some mommy-daddy time…” he mumbled into your skin, hands dipping the hem of your shirt, his words making you let out a soft chuckle.

“i mean, we’d have constant mommy-daddy time if you hadn’t lied.”

satoru’s lips pulled away from you with a pop! his brows furrowing, your fiancé’s hands stopping their wandering “what… what do you mean?”

you turned your head so you were facing him, a coy smile on your lips, “all the times we conveniently were out of condoms?” you chuckled softly, “maybe you shouldn’t have thrown out the unused condoms we’d just bought in our own trash can, silly.”

“oh.”

you saw satoru’s cheeks starting to redden, making you chuckle, “you could’ve just said you wanted to put a baby in me, y’know, ‘toru.” you grinned up at him.

“yeah?” satoru raised his brows with a grin, “what if i wanted to put another one in you?”

you laughed softly.

“well, maybe i could be persuaded.

9K notes · View notes

valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Text

goldilocks | jack abbot

jack abbot x attorney!reader | 5k words | ao3

synopsis: jack has trouble sleeping. you don't make it any easier.

content: 18+ mdni, age gap, swearing, super soft sex (not like super graphic bc I'm weak), reader is annoying as USUAL and jack is just so in love

a/n: teehee. LOL? tbh can I be honest. I'm not sure what this is fr

sorry for using an andrew cody gif. as if u could blame me LOL up top ladies! shoutout @doctcrrobby dani for putting this in my mind. also my dad was in the army and dude literally sleeps on the couch every night and I'm always like dad let's go get you a new mattress and he's like I'd rather fucking die. I don't know why I told you guys that I think I just had to cite my sources on that single line.

Jack’s back ached. It has for years—a legacy of abuse stemming from unforgiving cots, and the punishing weight of rucksacks weighing as much as he did, and strain from bodies thrown over his shoulder en route to safety. It ached from responsibility, and it ached from the perpetual guilt that he’ll probably never rid himself of.

It also meant no bed was ever right. One was as hard as the unyielding ground while gunfire split the air overhead. Another bed he tried sagged beneath him with every twitch, threatening to pull him under. They were too warm, too short, too something.

He felt like Goldilocks, if Goldilocks only had one foot and lumbar pain.

After his wife died, it got worse. Beds were suddenly too cold—cold in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. A vast expanse of isolation that chilled him to the bone. More often than not, Jack found himself wedged diagonally on his too-small sofa, sweat gluing his skin to the overheated pleather, or lying stiff on the ground with nothing but a pillow under his head to protect him against the hardwood floor.

Rest was always just out of reach, as elusive as the peace he naively once thought he could help secure.

Then he met you.

Your bed was great, sure. Amazing, even. Your comforter’s woven out of straight springtime sunbeams, and your mattress stuffed from clouds that angels slept on, probably. Best sleep of his life in that bed.

Beyond the composition, though, what he felt the most is what it meant. It was the one place where Jack could rest. Really rest. Where his body didn’t have to stay coiled beneath the surface, waiting for the next sound, the next shadow, the next inevitable loss. It was the only place no longer had to sleep like a soldier.

Under those covers, he finally understood why kids hide from monsters under their blankets—like a piece of cloth would save them from the horrors. Not because it was logical, but because that softness, that warmth, meant safety. The comforter was flimsy armor, but it was armor nonetheless. A quiet prayer stitched into fabric, whispering you’re okay.

Not every night was easy. Not every nightmare stayed away.

But the difference now was that he had somewhere to come back to.

And with you wrapped in his arms, face buried in his neck, he knows that he could die contentedly in this refuge beneath the covers. That he would kill to have this feeling etched into his very soul.

Most nights, that’s how it was.

Tonight, something’s off.

He doesn’t know what. Can’t quite name it. Just something needling at him.

Poking and prodding him at the edges of consciousness.

Teasingly dangling REM cycles behind closed eyes, only to yank them back, leaving him tangled in restless sharp awareness.

“Psst.”

Not metaphorically.

It comes again, hushed and more incessant. “Pssssst. Jack.”

Jack’s eyes groggily flutter open, eyes rolling as they adjust to the complete and utter darkness that welcomes him back to the land of the living.

A jab in the skin directly above his heart.

He looks down.

It’s your stupid-ass finger nudging his chest. Robbing him of peace.

His muscles unconsciously tighten, instinctively drawing you nearer to shield you from whatever shadow you woke him for.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Jack asks, fatigue pulling his tongue off tempo and lagging behind a brain already whirring to attention. Really, the words come out more of a was wrong? Reyoukay?

Slowly, the rest of his body starts to power on, returning his senses to their rightful place. Distantly, he can hear sirens shooting down far-away streets. The gentle patter of rain on the window. The warm vanilla of your shampoo washes over him.

“You never answered me,” your soft voice drifts up to him. “About the penguins.”

Jack’s eyebrows come together, forming a small crease between his slowly closing eyes.

A deep inhale inflates his lungs.

“When I called you the other day,” you unhelpfully remind him. Like his silence was from lack of memory, not from trying desperately to keep his composure upon understanding he’s been yanked from his beautiful, glorious sleep for something like this.

“When I had my entire arm in someone’s chest?” Jack’s tired voice cuts out like a spotty Bluetooth connection. He clears his throat.

Stronger now, “Is that what you’re referring to?”

You snuggle closer to his chest, attempting to completely ignore the laws of physics prohibiting fusion of bodies, and nod, hair tickling his skin with every pass.

His arms reflexively tighten around you, rough fingers slipping under your shirt to trace the ridges of your spine. A pleased hum rumbles in his chest at the small shiver that runs down your body in response. His head dips down, burrowing against yours so gently tucked into his neck.

“Honey, why do you only want to have this conversation at—” his wrist tilts up and he peels open a single eye, immediately sliding it shut again, “—three in the morning?”

Your shoulders rise in a small shrug as much as they can snuggled safely in your cocoon of Jack and comforter.

“Could have a different one. Just missed you when I was sleeping,” you sleepily whisper, words so tooth-achingly sweet that Jack absently thinks that you should be a poster child for the American Dental Association.

His heart clenches in his chest—slow and nearly unbearable—because of course you woke him up to tell him that. Of course that’s the reason. And you say it like it’s something so obvious, like missing him when you sleep is something you’re well acquainted with and just wanted to keep him updated on what’s going on.

How do you manage to inadvertently weaponize the most innocuous things?

Jack exhales slowly and shifts down, lips gently placing a kiss on the tangled hair near your temple.

He doesn’t even know if you understand the effect you have on him.

“Never gotta miss me, kid,” Jack mumbles against your skin, lips brushing your temple. “Always’ll be here.”

He feels you shift against his chest—a quiet rustle under the blankets—trying to make space for your hand to wiggle free.

With a groggy blink, Jack’s eyes open, vision sluggishly pulling into focus.

Hovering in the corner of his periphery, he sees it.

Your hand wedged between the both of you. Pinkie looking back at him. Patiently extended. Waiting.

“Promise?” you ask, and your voice is so soft—so small. It’s not a question, really, but the thought that there could be a drop of doubt in your mind pains him. Not after the way he looks at you like you hung the moon, not after the way he builds a home out of every room you’re in.

It twists in him, slow and aching.

Jack’s throat tightens marginally. His curls his own pinkie around yours.

“Promise.”

You shift, nudging your nose up along his chest until your lips are just shy of his neck like the thought of any distance between the two of you is a federal offense, breath a quiet puff against his skin. The blankets shift with you, rustling like trees in the wind. Your voice comes out half-asleep, muffled by the blankets and your lungs smushed against his chest.

“Break that promise,” you murmur, “and I get to take your pinkie.”

Jack blinks down at you, eyes drowsy and soft. There’s a moment he doesn’t say anything. Just looks—memorizing the way the streetlights bleed through the window and highlight the soft curves of your profile, illuminate the way your hair sticks straight into the air. The way your lashes fan against your cheek, and the way your hand—so much smaller than his—rests gently over his ribs, like you’re making sure he stays put.

You’ve never looked more beautiful.

He leans down and captures your lips—quiet and careful, sealing an unspoken vow. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, his voice low and steady.

“Kid,” he whispers, “you have my whole life.”

The words drift into the space between you.

They’re unmet with any response.

In fact, you’re silent for so long, Jack figures you’ve fallen back asleep.

He lets his body begin to sink, tension softening, breath evening out with yours.

Almost gone.

The holy choir of REM harmonizes in the distance, beckoning him with open arms, ready to anoint him with a divine blessing he’s worked so devotedly to earn.

Your voice slices through the quiet like a celestial record scratch, violently yanking his soul straight back into the prison of his body.

“See, you say I can have your life,” you mumble exasperated. “But won’t answer my question.”

Jack groans.

Loud. From that ancient, grizzled part of his soul that pre-dates the Geneva Conventions. One that can only mean holy shit, I’m going to kill you.

“Alright,” he relents, releasing you from your pinkie promise and rolling off of you with all the enthusiasm of a man summoned to war. “We’re doing this.”

“Nooo,” you whine. Your hands smooth around his middle and pull him back in place. He grumbles in your arms, melting back into you.

You reconnect your pinkies.

“What’s the fucking question?”

You snuggle into his chest, mumbling, “Stop being so bitchy.”

His eye twitches and he makes a half-hearted attempt to push you away, which you halt with the force of a barnacle, clinging to his chest and pulling him on top of you.

Up at three in the morning. Demanding a metaphysical inquiry into the emotional state of flightless Antarctic avians. Jack shoving you away.

And all you want is to do is be close to him.

He curls himself around you once more.

You sigh, loud and dramatic, like you cannot believe he had the audacity to wake you up to talk about this.

“Something about penguins?” Jack prompts.

“Do you think penguins get sad because they can’t fly?” you morosely recount, voice muffled by his bare chest.

A beat passes, Jack’s shoulder lifting in time with your inhale.

“They probably don’t even know they’re missing out,” you continue, somehow completely articulate despite waking up not ten minutes ago. “But they are. Like, they don’t know that they’re taxonomically classified as birds. So, like, they don’t know they’re a bird that can’t fly. And they’re the only ones that can’t fly. In the entire southern hemisphere.”

Every sentence is acknowledged by a gentle press of his lips.

Against your neck, God, you’re insufferable.

The freckle right behind your jaw, God, I’m obsessed with you.

The soft curve of your ear, God, never stop talking.

Jesus Christ, it’s true, you are insufferable. But he would lay here and listen to you read a Wikipedia article about regional variations of the protected left turn signal if it meant you stayed this close, tucked in his arms, forever.

“I’m sure there are other birds in the southern hemisphere, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear, eyes drifting closed as your warmth consecrates his. On his next breath, his arm tightens around your waist.

“Albatross,” you agree.

Jack nods, already half-asleep again. “Sure.”

“Skua.”

He opens one eye. “Suka?”

Genuinely, Jack has never heard of that one before.

“What the fu—?” You twist in his arms, head coming up to glare. “Did you just call me a bitch?”

His eyebrows retreat to their exasperated place high on his head before his eyes have even finished opening fully. “How could you have possibly gotten there?”

You narrow your eyes, singular eyebrow ticking up in response, scrutinizing the sincerity of his confusion. Content with whatever the fuck he guesses you see, you slowly slide back under him.

Jack blinks into the dim, blue-tinted air of the room, the glow of the streetlights outside barely brushing the edges of your faces, his mouth coming together in half-formed, extremely confused words.

Your lips, warm and close, graze against his neck with every syllable, and he tenses, fighting back a shiver. “Crazy metathesis there, Abbot. Skua. S-k-u-a. A seabird.”

“There’s no way that’s real. You’re making that up.”

A laugh ripples out of you, soft and sharp, shaking your small frame. Your laughter seems to fill the quiet, swirling with the distant patter of rain. “You think I’d go through the trouble of inventing fake polar-adjacent birds just to gaslight you about penguins?”

“Sounds exactly like the kind of thing you’d do,” he replies, fingers tracing absent, looping patterns along your side. Blankets slide off his arm with a soft rustle as you squirm under his touch.

You’re silent for a second.

He knows he got you.

And he knows you know he got you.

Checkmate, your voice echoes in his head, tugging the corners of his mouth into a fond smile.

A small, displeased sniff twitches your nose.

“Yeah, well, shut up, so…” you sulk.

The rain hitting the window grows louder, the once soft patter growing to a sharp tapping on the glass. It’s like the storm wakes up as you do, deafening all the earlier sirens and yelling people. Wrapped in the warmth, and the darkness, and the percussive sound of water dripping down the windowpane in winding rivulets, it feels like the world has been narrowed to just this room.

And he guesses that he’s rubbing off on you, because you keep talking through it all.

“What, so, do you think that even if they don’t know they’re penguins, they probably see other things with wings and are like, must be nice?” you ask. “Was that your point?”

Jack didn’t even have a point with his follow-up question. It was just something to keep you occupied, in the same way he gives his nieces an anatomically correct model heart to play with when they come over.

He just wants to keep hearing your voice. So, he hums, faux contemplative. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, or whatever.

“Could also be an innate longing to fly,” he says.

You squint over at him like he’s a very confusing legal document. “What?”

“Like how humans want to live in the forest and hunt and gather.”

You blink. “Do they?”

He nods against your neck, self-assured, and rumbles, “Deep evolutionary memory.”

“Uh-huh,” you mutter, skeptical.

Then, after a moment, he says, “There’s definitely something innate, alright.”

He doesn’t specify what.

You don’t press.

Mostly because you know Jack Abbot well enough to know he probably means something like the innate desire to go back to sleep.

“So you do you think they’re sad?”

“I think,” he shifts, settling more of his weight on you, which you receive with a happy sigh, “they go so long without something, they forget what the weight of that loss even feels like.”

He pauses, almost lets it stop there. But then Jack says, “Penguins also mate for life. I think. I saw it on a documentary.”

“Oh!” you whisper, soft and full of sleepy delight. “That could be us, Jack.”

Your voice curls around those four letters identifying him as him, dripping with sleep and affection and something bordering reverence. You always say it like that, like it means something, but tonight, with his watch blinking 3:07AM and a storm crawling outside the window and you curled up in his arms, it hits different. Hits deep. Like gospel. Like divine direction spoken through the mouth of the world’s most annoying, sleepy prophet.

Four simple letters, his truth and his life.

Jack’s hand finds the nape of your neck again, thumb rubbing slow circles into your hairline. He breathes in—long and deep and steady.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “that’s us.”

A beat passes.

“Could’ve been puffins, though,” he mutters as an afterthought.

The quiet stretches.

Jack tightens his grip, just a little. Doesn’t know how else to say what’s caught in his chest.

“If they are sad,” he concludes, “Maybe it gets lighter when they’re with the one they love.”

Jack doesn’t expand, but he’s pretty sure this time he isn’t talking about the penguins. Not even a little. He’s talking about the way he said that’s us instead of that could be us. He’s talking about how you slot against him like a divinely ordained puzzle piece. About how, with you, loss doesn’t press so hard against his ribs.

Maybe penguins can’t fly.

But Jack knows—a bone-deep truth—that if you were a penguin, he’d learn. Even if his body wasn’t anatomically built for such an action, he’d learn. Just to show you the sky.

Your arms tighten around him, your hand sliding up to scratch lightly at his scalp. The touch undoes something in him.

“I love you, know that?” you whisper.

His palm splays wide across your hip and he swallows.

“I know, kid.”

Then, more softly, “You love me too?”

And even though he’s half asleep and mulling over your avian philosophy, there’s zero hesitation.

“I love you more than I ever thought I’d get to,” he confesses softly.

The comforter slips a little as you shift, tangling your legs with his and nestling yourself closer beneath him.

It hits him sometimes, how much he loves you—hard and sudden, like a blow. The kind he’s trained to roll with. But there’s no training for this, no drill that teaches you what to do when someone curls up in your arms in the middle of the night and trusts you so absolutely, so unconsciously, that it feels like a genuine extension of the self.

You're ridiculous.

And he would do this for the rest of his life.

He would let you poke him awake at 3:00AM for every stupid, nonsensical question in your brain. He would spend every hour learning the rhythm of your thoughts, memorizing the way your voice gets sleepy and small when you ask if he still loves you like you’re not already written into his genetic code.

“I love you,” he whispers again.

God, he does. He loves you so much it’s physically stupid.

“I know.” You trail the tip of your nose across his chest and gently press a kiss right over where his heart beats. “Just like hearing you say it.”

“I’ll say it as many times as you need,” he murmurs. “I’ll write it on every fucking thing you bring Robby to sign if that’s what it takes.”

“Those go to insurance,” you mumble against his skin. “You can’t just write in love declarations.”

“Says who?”

“Canon law.”

“Sounds made up.”

“You’re made up.”

Jack laughs, full this time, chest vibrating under your ear.

He presses a kiss into your hair again. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

“I’m tryiiiiiiiing,” you whine petulantly. “You keep talking, Abbot.”

He shifts just slightly, hand smoothing down your back. You sigh in response, one of those unconscious sleepy noises that makes him bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from absolutely melting into the mattress.

Soft lips brush the hollow of his throat as you murmur something half-asleep, unintelligible, and Jack exhales sharply, jaw flexing once. It’s not fair—the way even your unconscious affection feels deliberate. The way you can press your mouth to his skin like that, so casual, and not realize you’re rewiring every nerve in his body.

He shifts on top of you, just enough to turn his head, to press a slow kiss to your crown.

“Jesus,” he mutters into your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re a doctor,” you murmur. “Just resuscitate yourself.”

Jack huffs a laugh, low and warm. “That’s not how that works.”

“Sure it is,” you insist. “They let you keep the paddles in your car, right?”

His brows pinch together. “No—”

“Then what’s the point of medical school?”

He huffs a laugh. Beneath him, you wiggle, trying to escape the air tickling the sensitive skin of your neck, and he groans.

“Honey, please,” Jack mutters, mouth still pressed against your skin. “Stop moving.”

You go still for half a second, just long enough to make him think he’s won, before you shift again—less of a sleepy squirm and a little more intentional—and his hips respond before the rest of him catches up.

“God, you’re so annoying,” Jack groans, the sound muffled where his mouth is pressed against your neck.

His hips shift against you again. Your breath hitches, hands scrambling for purchase at his shoulder, fingers clutching fabric and muscle like your body’s trying to ground yourself in him.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, barely audible. “But I’m yours.”

Something flickers across Jack’s face, and his hand slides lower, under your shirt and over the curve of your waist—broad palm settling flat against your skin like he could hold you together with touch alone. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles, brushing tenderly just beneath your ribs.

“I’m yours,” you say again, quieter this time.

And Jack stills for half a second—just enough for you to feel the tremble that runs through him, the sharp exhale that catches on something jagged in his chest.

His breath stutters, raw.

“Goddamn right you are,” he murmurs, his voice thick and hoarse and impossibly soft.

He raises on his elbow just enough to see you, drinking you in like he needs to memorize every inch before he dares move another step forward. Then, slowly, deliberately, his mouth drops to your collarbone—gentle and unhurried, lips warm and reverent.

Not so much kissing your skin, as reading it like a sacred text.

Every gasp and mumbled word you say is repeated in kind. His quiet prayer, said as a devout disciple.

Every sound from your lips something new to learn and to replicate—answering each quiet whimper with the same patience and care you might use when translating something holy.

Every press of his mouth, devout exegesis.

His nose nudges your shirt higher, one kiss at a time, until his mouth is moving over your sternum, your ribs, following the rhythm of your heart.

You breathe his name, barely a sound.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers into your skin. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

You nod before your brain even catches up. Of course. You’d fucking let him do anything.

He eases your shirt up, slow and careful, ceremonial in the way he lifts it from your body. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tug or fumble. Every movement is tender, reverent, every inch uncovers a secret you’ve chosen to share with him, and he refuses to take it for granted.

And when he looks back up at you, his expression unravels. All the smartass quips and dry commentary gone. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth believing in.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice cracking under the weight of sacrament. “You don’t even know.”

Fingertips dragging across your waist, featherlight, hesitant. His thumbs brush over the dip just beneath your ribs and his mouth follows, open and warm. He kisses your stomach like it means something. Like it’s sacred.

Your body arches under him, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he cradles your hips with both hands, trying to steady you—trying to steady himself.

You’re already trembling. You don’t even realize it until he whispers against your skin, “You’re shaking.”

You laugh soft, breathy, half-lost in the haze blooming behind your eyes.

“Because you’re being so nice to me,” you murmur.

Jack lets out a shaky breath, chest tight. He presses his forehead to your bare stomach, arms tightening around your waist.

“God, you have no idea,” he says, muffled, “what I want to do to you.”

Then he’s slowly kissing up your chest, lips dragging languidly, following the dip between your ribs, the rise of your sternum, the hollow at the base of your throat—pausing, breathing, letting himself feel the shape of you with his mouth like you’re a language he’s only just starting to learn.

One hand drifts up to your face, fingers brushing tenderly through your hair, tucking it back with a care so gentle it makes your breath hitch. He tilts your chin slightly, and his mouth finds just below your jaw, warm and soft and deliberate. He lingers there, just for a moment, committing the cadence of your pulse to memory. Then your jaw. The corner of your mouth. The faintest brush of his lips, hesitant and full of awe—unsure whether kissing you is a right or a privilege.

And then he is kissing you. Fully. Deeply.

Like it’s the first time all over again.

Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, and even less that you’re his.

“I swear to God, I could die like this,” he breathes. “I could live like this. Please let me live like this.”

And you feel it, all of it. In his hands, in his voice, in the way his body fits against yours like it was made to be there.

You pull him in closer. There’s no space left between you, but it’s still not fucking enough. Not until his body is pressed to yours, bare and burning, skin to skin, and the sound he makes when he slides home is a choked-off groan that you feel in your ribs.

Your name slips from his lips like a prayer.

His movements are slow—agonizingly slow—like he’s not trying to fuck you, he’s just trying to stay inside this moment as long as he can.

His mouth finds yours again, and he kisses—soft and shaking and so full of love it leaves you breathless. He murmurs against your lips, praise and want and desperation all tangled together.

“So good,” he breathes. “So perfect for me. You’re mine. Say it again.”

Your eyes are damp, lips parted, breath catching with every push of his hips.

You cup his face, grounding him to you, and whisper, “I’m yours,” more certain this time.

Not a confession. A confirmation.

Jack groans softly, forehead dropping to press against yours like he’s trying to soak in the words, let them burn themselves into his bones. His hand cups your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, eyes flicking down to your lips as if he's still trying to process that you said it. That you mean it. That he gets to have this. Have you.

He kisses you again, slower this time. Deeper, with a quiet desperation. The kind of kiss that makes your chest ache. Like he’s trying to tell you all the things he doesn’t know how to say. Like he’s memorizing you molecule by molecule.

And still, he doesn’t rush.

He shifts, just enough to press further into you, his body cradling yours like he was built for it. Like there’s nowhere else on Earth he could possibly belong. His hands move over you with care—palms dragging down your sides, fingers tracing every dip and rise of your body as though mapping something sacred.

“You feel like home,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. His voice sounds broken around the edges, like it’s unraveling under the weight of how much he means it.

You tilt your chin up to kiss him again, gentler now, your fingertips skimming through his hair, down the strong line of his back.

The roll of his hips is unhurried, worshipping rather than commanding, and your breath catches on a soft gasp that he kisses off your lips. Each motion drags sparks across your nerves, and every one of them is lit by the way he looks at you.

Like you’re something miraculous.

“I’ve never—” he breathes against your cheek, like the words are betraying him by coming out at all. “—never wanted anything like I want you.”

He’s trembling a little now too. Not from nerves. Overwhelmed in the way only someone completely, irrevocably in love can be.

“I’m right here,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his, bringing one hand to rest against your chest. Right over your heartbeat. And then you echo his words from earlier back to him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you feel him break open just a little more.

His mouth dips lower again, dragging a trail of kisses down your neck, across your collarbone. He presses his lips to the space just above your heart like he’s trying to seal your promise inside of him. His hands, ever careful, move with intention—cradling your body, anchoring your breath to his, grounding you both in the kind of intimacy that’s so deep it feels like silence.

And when you come—quiet, breathless, your whole body curling toward him—Jack holds you like he’s cradling something holy. Like he’s never known anything more divine. He follows not long after, his body shaking with the force of it, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

Afterward, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t loosen his hold.

He just stays there. Wrapped around you. One hand pressed flat to your spine, the other curled protectively over your waist, lips brushing lazy kisses into your hair as your breaths slowly begin to sync again.

“Still mine?” he murmurs, voice warm and quiet and nearly drowsy.

You nuzzle into the curve of his neck. “Always.”

Jack hums, eyes fluttering closed. You feel the smile against your temple.

“Good,” he whispers. “That’s all I’ll ever need.”

You’ll fall asleep again soon, he knows. You always do. But Jack stays awake.

Just for a while.

Just to keep looking at you like this.

Because in another life, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten to have you. Maybe someone else would’ve held you like this. But he’s got you now. And no amount of battlefield trauma, or paperwork, or middle-of-the-night penguin debates is ever going to make him take that for granted.

He’s tired.

But he’s yours.

1K notes · View notes

valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

Text

JJK MEN X ASKING THEM TO GO RAW.ᐟ.ᐟ

a/n: starting new with this, hope you enjoy <33

KENTO NANAMI

You whisper it when he's rolling on the condom. Breathless. Back arched, hands gripping the sheets.

"Don’t use it. I want to feel you. Just fuck me raw, Kento."

He stops.

His jaw tightens. His gaze flickers to you — from your flushed cheeks to your slick thighs — and you see something shift behind his eyes. Something dark. That polite, restrained edge of his vanishes in a second. The condom slips from his fingers.

"You want it raw?"

His voice is deeper now, lower, almost raspy.

He leans over you, cock thick and twitching against your inner thigh. His palm slides up your belly, over your boobs, thumb brushing your nipple like it’s punctuation.

"You want to feel me stretch this tight little pussy with nothing between us? Let me feel you clench around me bare? Feel me cum inside you, like I fucking own you?"

He doesn’t wait for you to answer.

He pushes in, slow and devastating, and you both moan in unison — not from pain, but from how goddamn good it feels. Skin on skin. No barrier. His cock buried deep, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him. His breath catches in his throat. You swear his hands tremble.

"Fuck. You feel so perfect… so warm. I’m not pulling out."

He fucks you like he’s claiming you. Every deep thrust says mine, and when he cums — thick and hot and full — he groans your name like a prayer. You feel it coat your insides. And he stays there, cock still buried, cum leaking down your thighs, like he never plans to leave.

SATORU GOJO

You say it as a tease, not expecting what it’ll do to him.

You’re grinding on his lap, soaked and needy, kissing him messily, and you murmur into his ear:

"Fuck me raw, Satoru. I want all of it."

He freezes. Then laughs — not playful. Not teasing. It's dark. It rumbles low in his throat as he grips your waist like you’re about to be fucking devoured.

"You don’t know what the fuck you’re asking for."

His cock is already twitching between your folds. He grabs the base, lines it up, and says:

"You want this bare? You want to feel me split you open raw?"

And then he thrusts up hard, burying himself to the hilt. Your back arches, mouth falling open in a soundless cry, and he grins — fucking feral. His hands are on your ass, lifting, slamming you down again, again, again — each time harder than the last.

"That’s it. Take it. Feel every inch. You said you wanted it, now fucking take it."

He doesn’t stop. He breeds you. That’s what it feels like — like he’s trying to fuck his cum so deep it stays. And when he cums? It’s messy, wet. Then he keeps going until it’s dripping out of you onto his thighs, and he just… laughs.

"Hope you weren’t planning to walk tomorrow, baby."

SUGURU GETO

It slips out of you in a whisper. Soft. Breathless.

"Don’t use it. Just… I want you. Raw."

He goes silent.

Geto leans back, looks at you — really looks — and you watch the shift in his expression. That calm, charming smile disappears. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. And then?

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Grabs your thigh. Spreads you open.

"You trust me that much?"

His voice is low, but reverent. Hungry.

When he pushes in bare? It’s slow, patient. You both moan, heads thrown back, bodies pressed together, the heat unbearable. He fucks you deep, hips grinding down to make sure you feel every vein, every inch, every goddamn throb of his cock.

"You feel that? That’s what it’s like to be mine."

He doesn’t go fast. He makes it last. And when you cum? He doesn’t pull out. Not even when he’s right there, hips jerking, voice breaking —

"Gonna fill you up, baby… Let me give it to you, every last drop."

You feel every hot pulse flood your insides. And when it leaks out? He just rubs it back in with his fingers and fucks it deeper.

CHOSO KAMO

You barely get the words out.

"Choso—just… don’t use one. I want to feel you. Raw."

And he gasps. Not a sharp one — a soft, shaky inhale like his whole chest just collapsed. He blinks at you, stunned. You can almost see his pupils dilate.

"You… you want me to? A-Are you sure?"

He’s already leaking at the tip, cock pressed against your entrance, and when you nod — he moans. Like it’s too much. Like just knowing he’s going to fuck you bare is already making him cum.

"Okay—okay, I’ll be gentle. I-I’ll go slow, I promise, I—"

But he doesn't go slow.

He slides in and gasps. His whole body shudders. And then he’s fucking you desperately — hips stuttering, hands gripping your waist like you’re vanishing beneath him. It’s wet, loud, messy. You’re both crying out, and he’s whispering,

"So warm… you feel so good—fuck—I can’t stop—"

He cums inside you with a broken whimper and apologizes for how much he gave you. You’re leaking down your thighs. His fingers tremble when he tries to clean you up.

And then you feel his cock twitch again.

"I… I want to do it again. Please?"

TOJI FUSHIGURO

You say it right as he’s rolling it on. That’s the mistake.

"Just go raw, Toji. I want to feel you fill me up."

The condom? Gone. Thrown across the room.

He grabs your face in one rough hand, stares you down like you’ve lost your goddamn mind — but his cock twitches, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip. His voice drops to a growl.

"You sure about that, baby? You want this monster raw? Want me to stretch this pussy bare and stuff it so full you’ll still be leaking tomorrow?"

You barely nod before he’s slamming in. No warning. Just full, brutal penetration, the stretch so intense you scream. His hips don’t stop. His hands pin your thighs wide open, watching you twitch and claw and cum around him like he’s breaking your body.

"There we go. No going back now. Gonna ruin this cunt for anyone else."

He cums inside you with a snarl, biting your shoulder while your body convulses. And he doesn’t pull out — he fucks it in deeper. Says you look better with his cum drooling out of your swollen pussy.

"Let them see. Let them all fucking see who you belong to."

RYOMEN SUKUNA

You think he’ll mock you.

But the second you say it — soft, wrecked, eyes fluttering — “I want you raw” — he goes silent.

Then he grins. Slowly. Like a predator.

"You sure? No takebacks, little slut."

He grabs your thighs, spreads you open, spits on your cunt — and slams in bare. The stretch is unreal. Your scream punches the air out of your lungs. His cock splits you open, thick and pulsing, raw heat making your eyes roll back.

"Look at you. Already cockdrunk. And I’ve barely started."

He fucks you harder, meaner, like he’s punishing you for wanting it raw. Your legs go numb. His fingers are bruising your hips. Your cunt starts milking him, and he growls deep in his chest.

"You asked for this. You begged. So take it, little toy. Take every fucking inch."

He finishes with a feral groan, flooding you so hard it spills out the second he pulls out. And he doesn’t care. He just smears it across your pussy and pushes two fingers in, grinning.

"We’re not done. Not until it takes."

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

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i don’t care what he’s doing rn he should be eating me out until I cry and beg him to stop

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valentinevirgo · 6 days ago

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ASKING JJK MEN, "IS IT IN YET?"

a/n : y'all know what y'all signed up for ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ

KENTO doesn’t speak at first.

He just stills. Half of his thick cock stretching your cunt, your legs already trembling from how slow he’s been working you open. His jaw clenches. He closes his eyes.

Then—he exhales through his nose. A low, calm breath. The kind that says you’ve made a terrible mistake.

"Not in yet?" he repeats quietly, as if he's genuinely confirming.

And then he slams the rest of his cock in with a brutal snap of his hips.

You cry out, back arching, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto — but he doesn't give you a second. He sets a pace, deep and rhythmic, hips snapping into yours with punishing precision.

"Maybe I need to remind you what it feels like when it is."

His hand finds your throat, not squeezing — just there — anchoring you as he drives into you harder, his composure unraveling with every thrust.

"You’ll know next time. You’ll feel it tomorrow. You’ll be dripping my cum and still sore, and you’ll know it was in."

And he doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, shaking, ruined — and no longer so smug.

SATORU stares at you like you’ve just handed him the key to hell and told him to let loose.

"Is it in yet?"

He repeats it under his breath, a slow grin spreading across his face. It’s not playful. It’s dangerous. His cock throbs inside you, and you swear you can feel his hands tighten on your hips.

"Ohhh. You wanna play that game, huh?"

Then he pulls out — to the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make the entire bed jolt. You squeal. He laughs.

And then he starts fucking you.

Not making love. Not teasing. Just fucking — rough, fast, unforgiving. Your legs fly open wider, toes curling, eyes rolling back with every brutal thrust.

"Still can’t feel it? Want me to go deeper, baby?"

He flips you like nothing, presses you into the mattress, and drives into you from behind, one hand buried in your hair, the other squeezing your ass hard enough to bruise.

"Gonna fuck that dumb question right outta you."

And he does. You’re a mess in minutes — crying, moaning, your voice breaking — and he still keeps pounding you, grinning like a madman as you scream his name.

SUGURU goes very, very still.

His cock is halfway inside you, thick and pulsing. You’re already clenching, already moaning, but you look up with that little smirk and say it:

"Is it in yet?"

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you.

"Say that again."

You do. Barely. With a little nervous tremble in your throat.

And then he grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, and thrusts in deep — in one long, brutal motion that steals every breath from your lungs. Your cunt grips him instantly, tight and soaking, and he groans low, deep in his chest.

"Still think I’m not in? Hm?"

His hips move slow — so slow — but punishing. Deep enough to hit that sweet, devastating spot with every roll of his hips.

He watches your face twist with pleasure. Watches your confidence melt into gasping, ruined whimpers.

"You wanna be a brat? Then take it. Take all of me. Feel what happens when you mouth off to a man like me."

And you do. You take it. Crying his name by the time he cums deep inside you.

CHOSO gasps.

You say it half-jokingly, with that sparkle in your eye. He’s just started easing into you, careful, gentle, worried you’ll be too tight for him — and you tease,

"Is it in yet?"

His whole body goes rigid. His hands shake. His eyes go wide.

"You didn’t feel that? I’m in, I—"

And then something shifts. You see it.

He stops worrying.

And he thrusts in hard, deeper than he ever has, his cock slamming into your softest parts as a sharp cry rips from your throat.

"You feel it now?"

You don’t get a chance to respond — he’s already moving, his thrusts messy and frantic, fucking you with something close to desperation. His hair sticks to his cheeks. He’s panting, moaning, his voice cracking every time he pushes in.

"You feel every inch now, right? You know I’m in—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight, I can’t—"

He cums hard, burying his cock as deep as it’ll go, then presses his forehead to yours with a breathless little whimper.

"Don’t… don’t say that ever again. I’ll lose it."

TOJI laughs. But it’s not funny.

It’s the kind of laugh that means you just fucked up.

"Is it in yet?" you ask, cocky, smiling — and he’s already deep.

His expression drops. He leans down until his lips are at your ear.

"You wanna feel it? Fine."

Then he grabs your ankles, throws your legs over his shoulders, and starts slamming into you — hard. Brutal. Loud. Your headboard slams the wall. Your back arches clean off the mattress as your moans break into screams.

"Still don’t feel it? I’ll fuck you til it hurts."

And he does. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t give you room to speak. Just fucks you like he’s trying to brand you from the inside out, until you’re crying, shaking, body twitching with every thrust.

He cums deep, fills you to the brim, and watches your wrecked expression with a low, filthy groan.

"Bet you’ll never ask that again, huh?"

SUKUNA halts. Looks at you.

"What did you just say?"

His cock’s stretching you open, thick and heavy, and you’re already panting — but your eyes glitter with mischief, and you whisper it again:

"Is it in yet?"

You don’t even have time to blink before his hand is around your throat and he’s burying himself to the hilt in one merciless thrust.

You scream. He groans. And then he starts fucking you like he’s furious.

"Not in yet? How about now, woman?"

His cock pistons in and out, brutal and unforgiving, and your body gives under him — all twitching muscles and helpless moans. You try to grab him, to anchor yourself, but he shoves your wrists down and just keeps driving into you, laughing when your voice breaks into sobs.

"Still got jokes, huh? Still wanna be a brat?"

He doesn’t stop until he’s cumming inside, growling like an animal, watching it leak out of you with a dark, satisfied smirk.

"Next time you say that shit, I’ll fuck your mouth instead."

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valentinevirgo · 7 days ago

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something, somehow, someday

series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

main masterlist

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

prologue: aurora borealis

chapter 1: your takara

chapter 2: near miss

chapter 3: sun stall

chapter 4: close to you

chapter 5: tba!

~~~~~~~

let me know if you'd like to be tagged :3<3

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valentinevirgo · 7 days ago

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he always grumbles about how tight you are every time as if his massive dick isnt the real issue.

people often say you are lucky to have your husband, because of his impressive size.

his cock.

its as big as they say, thick and heavy stretching you to your limit as he pushes in, inch by agonizing inch.

you’re soaked, dripping but the tightness makes you both groan, your pussy clenching around him like a vice.

“goddamn, you’re too tight,” he mutters, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

“every fucking time, its like you’re trying to kill me.” you gasp, half laughing, half moaning your hands braced against his chest as he bottoms out, the stretch burning so good you can barely think.

“maybe you’re just too big, kento,” you tease voice breathy but sharp, knowing itll rile him up.

his eyes narrow and he thrusts hard, deep, making you cry out, your nails digging into his skin.

“too big?” he repeats, a smirk tugging at his lips as he pulls back, then slams into you again, the headboard rattling.

“you’re the one squeezing me like you want me to lose it.” his words are clipped, frustrated.

your pussy flutters, and he groans, his rhythm faltering for a second.

“fuck, do that again, and im not gonna last.”

“kento, cmon,” you whine your hips rocking to meet his thrusts, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet room.

“dont stop—fuck, you’re so big.” your praise slips out and he groans, deep and guttural, his hips stuttering as he fights to keep control.

“say that again,” he demands voice husky, one hand sliding to your clit, rubbing firm, quick circles that make you see stars. “tell me how big i am, love, you started this.”

“so big, kentooo...” you moan, voice high and desperate,

“can barely take you—fuck, you’re wrecking me.” the words spill out, and hes done for, his groans turning to curses as he thrusts once, twice, then comes, spilling hot and deep inside you, his body shuddering as he grips your hips like you’re his anchor.

you’re right behind him, your orgasm crashing through you, a sharp, shuddering wave that leaves you gasping, clenching around him as he rides it out, still murmuring, “too tight, too fucking tight.”

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valentinevirgo · 8 days ago

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We're married,no?—G.Satoru

synopsis: Principal Yaga assigns you and Gojo Satoru a mission: investigate a cursed inn—as a married couple.

He’s delighted. You’re horrified,but with couple-only train cabins, one bed, and a honeymoon suite with a private onsen, there’s no room to keep your distance literally. Gojo teases. You resist. The tension builds. Until you decide to play his game and he realizes he was never ready for you to make the first move. So what happens when he finally gets a taste of his own medicine?

Pairings: g.satoru!×f.reader!

Words: 2.9k

warnings: fake marriage,mutual pining, slow-burn, heavy sexual tension,suggestive content, lingering touches,emotionally charged intimacy, light flirtation-turned-serious,Gojo Satoru down bad, unresolved tension,undercover couple dynamic, one bed trope, private onsen scene, soft domestic vibes, “we’re married, no?” energy.

“Married?!”

The word jumps out of your mouth before you can stop it,sharper than intended, too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You blink once, then again, unsure if you misheard,or if reality has just decided to mess with you today.

Yaga doesn’t even flinch.

“You’ll be going undercover as a couple. A married one, yes.”

You whip your head toward him.

“Excuse me?!"

Across from you, Gojo Satoru shifts in his seat, casually slinging one long arm over the backrest of his chair. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.

He smiles.

Not his usual cocky grin. No,this one’s subtle. Crooked.

The kind that looks like he’s already imagined this exact scenario a dozen times and is thoroughly enjoying it.

Principal Yaga, unfazed, sets a folder on the desk and folds his hands.

“There’s been a steady spike in cursed energy around a private inn in the mountains,” Yaga says, completely unfazed. “It’s quiet, remote, and completely cut off from Jujutsu surveillance. We’ve confirmed multiple low-level disappearances tied to curse activity. Possibly something nesting. You’re to investigate.”

You open your mouth, close it again.

“But what does that have to do with--marriage?!”

Yaga flips a page in the mission file.

“The inn accepts couples and honeymoon only"

Silence.

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, your gaze shifts

To the man sitting across from you, entirely too relaxed.

Satoru Gojo looks like he’s just been handed the key to paradise.

One leg crossed, chin balanced in his hand, sunglasses lowered just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes.

“I mean…” he says, voice smooth as ever,

“It’s about time, don’t you think?”

You glare at him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely.” His grin grows. “This is the best day of my life.”

“It’s a cursed inn.”

“And a romantic getaway.Two birds, one bed.”

You ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Can’t I go with someone else? where's Nanami?”

“On a mission in Okinawa,” Yaga replies.

"Maki?"

"injured"

"Anyone else?!"

Yaga exhales, tone flat.

“You and Gojo are the only two available with the cursed energy capacity to manage long-range detection, combat, and concealment. Statistically, you have the highest compatibility. You’re the best choice.

He pauses for a bit then says,

"and frankly, “Out of everyone, you two have the most… natural chemistry. It won’t be hard to sell the illusion."

Gojo lets out a quiet, pleased hum like Yaga just announced your engagement.

You exhale sharply.

“So my only option is him?”

Gojo lifts one hand to his chest, mock-offended.

“Him has feelings, you know.”

“Stuff them into your infinity.”

He chuckles--low, and far too pleased with himself.

“So, honeymoon suite? Or do we request the one with the heart-shaped tub?”

Yaga cuts in before you can hurl the mission file at his head.

“You leave at sunrise tomorrow. Train tickets are booked. Report back within 72 hours or earlier.

You stare down at the folder in your hands.

Your cursed energy practically vibrates with frustration.

Gojo stands, stretching his arms with a hum, like he’s already picturing the trip.

“We should work on our backstory,” he muses, sidling up beside you. “Do we call each other babe,or,oh wait, sugarplum? Cupcake? Mrs. Gojo?”

You shove past him without a word.

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

The next morning comes too fast.

You barely sleep. You’re still scowling as you drag your bag down the platform, half hoping the train derails before he arrives.

No such luck.

“Oh good, they got us the window seat.”

Gojo’s voice is too chirpy for 6:42 AM.

He drops into the aisle seat beside you, stretching his long legs out with a pleased sigh, like he’s boarding a first-class honeymoon cruise.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter.

“Rude. Married less than a day and already ignoring me in public.”

You turn away, staring out the window with a deep inhale and deeper regret.

The train hums to life, soft vibrations shivering beneath the floor. People around you are already murmuring excitedly about mountain air, hot springs, romantic getaways.

Gojo leans in, just enough for you to feel his voice ghost against your ear.

“This is pretty realistic so far, don’t you think? The whole spouse vibe.”

You don’t even flinch. You just keep your eyes forward.

“I will divorce you mid-mission.”

He chuckles,quiet, amused.

Doesn’t press further.

The ride is long.

You scroll through the case file again just to keep yourself from staring at him.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, and the quiet murmur of other couples in the car seeps into the background-laughing softly, hands brushing, heads tucked together.

You refuse to play into it.

You fold your arms tightly and focus out the window.

But it’s impossible not to notice,

Gojo’s leg is stretched out beside yours, long and warm and stupidly close.

The side of his thigh bumps yours with every shift of the train, and he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even pretend to give you space.

Your knees knock once.

Then again.

Then… they just stay like that.

And his arm, draped casually across the back of the seat-

It’s just barely grazing your shoulders, the fabric of his sleeve brushing the back of your neck each time he breathes deeper, leans just a little closer.

You try not to lean into it.

But your body,traitorous and tired,starts relaxing anyway,like it’s used to his presence,like it knows his warmth,like this has happened before.

You shift away an inch.

He shifts closer without even thinking.

Not intentionally. Not obviously.But it’s there.

His scent clings to his hoodie there's warmth and something just distinctly him.

And no matter how many pages you flip in the file, you’re aware of every breath he takes beside you.

The heat at the edge of your ear.

The slow, subtle way your body drifts closer anyway.

You hate how natural it feels.You hate how you don’t hate it.

He’s quiet for a while. Eventually, you glance over and find him leaned back, head tilted, hair a soft mess and mouth slightly parted.

Asleep.

You scoff under your breath and go back to reading,until, somewhere between half a page and one blink too long…

Your head tilts.

And rests on his shoulder.

You don’t notice when it happens.

Only that it feels… warm.

Solid. Like your body gave up before your brain did.

And you certainly don’t notice the way he shifts slightly,barely there,so your cheek fits better against him.

Or the way his lips twitch.

The train gives a sudden jolt, you're awakened from the movement.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, confused, heavy with sleep,until you register warmth beneath your cheek.

Soft cotton. A steady rise and fall.

A shoulder.His shoulder.

You jerk upright a little too fast, heart lurching in your chest.

Your bag nearly tips off your lap.

Gojo turns to you, his voice still low and rough with sleep,

or maybe amusement.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You blink at him, dazed.

“Did I-?”

“You did.”

He stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual.

“Whole nap. Right here. So cute.”

You press your fingers to your temple, mortified.

“How long?”

“Thirty-five minutes.”

He taps his phone. “You even sighed in your sleep. Pretty sure you said my name.”

You gape.

“You're lying.”

He leans in, voice pitched just for you--

“Sure I am,sweets”

You grab your bag and storm off the second the train doors open, not looking back.

But you feel him behind you.

All smug.

Still warm.

And worse,you can still feel the shape of his shoulder against your cheek.

After a long walk through the quiet mountain path,cobblestone streets, warm golden light, and distant wind chimes,and ofcourse, gojo pestering you to let him carry you, you finally reach the inn.

It’s quaint, charming, and just barely not tacky.

The wooden sign above the door reads:

“Love’s Retreat — Couples Only.”

You exhale.

“Seriously?”

“Don’t be shy,” Gojo grins beside you, bumping your shoulder. “Our love deserves the best.”

“I will push you into the nearest koi pond.”

You’re just about to step inside when the paper screen slides open, and an elderly woman steps out onto the porch. Her silver hair is tied neatly, her yukata a soft blush, and her entire face lights up the second she sees you.

“Ahh! You must be the newlyweds!” she beams. “Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

Your brain short circuits.

Gojo, of course, doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s us,” he says, warm and easy, placing a steady hand on the small of your back.

But this time,it lingers.

Just a second too long.

His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of your top in a motion so natural, so practiced, it feels like he’s done it before.

You tense, but you don’t move.

Her eyes sparkle.

“What a stunning couple! So in sync. You just radiate love.”

Your face warms instantly.

You'd have corrected her if it wasn't for the mission, Gojo on the other hand doesn't miss a beat.

“We hear that a lot,” he says, glancing down at you. “She gets all flustered when people notice.”

His gaze lingers, like he’s watching your reaction too closely.

“She’s shy.”

Your jaw clenches.

“So shy,” you mutter, without meeting his eyes.

He smirks.

The old woman beckons you both toward the reception desk, where a delicate wooden charm dangles from a heart-shaped key.

“We’ve prepared the honeymoon suite especially for you,candles, rose petals, and the most breathtaking view of the mountain onsen.”

Gojo hums, pleased.

He leans in as you pass her, voice brushing low and soft against your ear.

“Mrs. Gojo has a really nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.But your steps falter.

Just slightly.

And his hand doesn’t leave your back.

You step on his foot a second later, just for balance.

Or that’s what you tell yourself.

He doesn’t flinch,just laughs softly behind you.

Like he knows something’s shifting.

Maybe,because it is.

The staff from the inn leads the way into your room,

The room is soft and warm when you step inside,golden light spilling through rice paper, the faint scent of hinoki and rose petals in the air.

Your eyes land on the futon first.

You freeze in the doorway.

One futon.

Laid out dead center. Covered in soft white sheets and a gentle scatter of pink petals like the universe is mocking you. One bed. Two people.

You sigh.

“There’s only one.”

“How romantic,” Gojo says, sauntering in behind you. “Should we use it now or after the onsen?”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I don’t see a couch.”

You gesture to a floor cushion in the corner.

“Improvise.”

He places a hand on his chest like you’ve broken his heart.

“You’re really gonna make your husband sleep on the floor? On our honeymoon?”

“You can line it with your ego. That should cushion the fall.”

He laughs, easy and bright, throwing himself back onto the futon like he belongs there. Limbs everywhere. Shirt riding up again. Stupidly perfect.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone. When you’re cold and lonely in that big empty bed.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll cave.”

e says it with that lilt,that confidence, like he knows you always eventually do.

But this time?

Something in you coils.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already decided you won’t make him sleep on the floor.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already caved.

And worst of all,he thinks he’s still winning.

You set your towel down, tight-lipped. You're about to walk away when he shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side. Head propped on his hand, bare forearm flexed, blindfold still slung loose around his neck.

“Unless…”

His voice dips, teasing,

“You just want me close tonight, huh? That’s why you’re making a fuss. You want me to beg.”

You look at him.

And in that moment-something snaps.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just… an internal click.

You’ve had enough.

Of his mouth. Of his touches. Of him looking at you like he owns the upper hand.

He wants to play? Oh you'll play.

He stretches back, smirking at the ceiling.

“I’ll be in the onsen. Don’t keep me waiting too long, wifey.”

He says it like a joke.

Like he doesn’t expect anything.

And that’s his mistake.

The onsen is dimly lit, steam curling around the rocks, moonlight pooling silver in the water.

Gojo’s already in.

He’s leaned back against the smooth stone wall, arms out along the edge, hair wet and slicked back, collarbones gleaming, eyes closed in total smug satisfaction.

Until the door slides open behind him.

He doesn’t look.

“Changed your mind?” he calls over his shoulder. “Couldn’t resist me, huh?”

“Care to join me, wifey?” he drawls lazily, not even opening his eyes.

He doesn’t think you will.

He never expects you to take it that far.

But you do.

Silently, you untie the towel around your body, letting it slip down with a soft thump against the wood.

You don’t answer.

The sound of it hitting the floor is quiet.

But not quiet enough to miss.

His head snaps toward the sound,and when he sees you, standing at the edge of the steam, bathed in warm light and nothing else-

And when he finally turns and sees you...

It knocks the breath from his lungs.

You’re stepping into the water slowly, bare skin glowing in the light, steam kissing every inch of you like it’s lucky to touch you. Your body is all soft curves and smooth lines, thighs glistening, collarbones gleaming, hair pinned messily up so the heat traces down the nape of your neck.

And your eyes. Calm. Eyes slightly lidded.

The moment he sees you, he stills.

Completely.

You don’t stop.

You wade toward him, bare and composed, eyes locked on his like you’ve been planning this. And maybe you have,maybe somewhere between his shoulder brushing yours on the train and his smug grin on the bed, you decided,

You’re going to break him.

You reach him with a soft splash of water, skin glowing in the golden light, lips barely parted.

His hands twitch against the ledge.

“Y-You…” His voice is low. Shaky. “You actually came in.”

You hum softly, like you hadn’t noticed the wreckage in his expression.

“You invited me, didn’t you?”

Your voice is honey.

“It’d be rude not to.”

You place your hands on his shoulders,hot skin against his, your fingers smoothing over damp muscles.

He tenses instantly beneath you.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You lower yourself gently onto his lap, slow enough to feel his breath hitch. Your thighs spread, your knees bracing against the stone ledge behind him, your bare skin sliding over his.

And then you settle.

Chest pressed to chest.

Your cheek brushing his.

Your lips a whisper from his own.

You feel his heartbeat hammer beneath you.

You feel every inch of him,tense, aching, desperate.

“You’ve been teasing me all day, Satoru,” you murmur, breath soft against his jaw. “You thought I’d stay quiet forever?”

His hands finally rise,hesitant at first, then desperate, grabbing at your hips, pulling you closer like he might die if there was even an inch of space between you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps. “You’re—fuck—you’re actually gonna kill me.”

You smile against his cheek.

And then,you move.

Not much. Just a roll of your hips.

A shift.

But it’s enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

His head falls back as your mouth brushes up the side of his neck, not kissing,just there, hovering, letting your breath tickle along his damp skin.

“You’ve had your fun, haven’t you?” you whisper.

“It’s my turn now.”

Your arms wrap slowly around his shoulders.

Your chest presses flush against his.

Water sloshes softly as you adjust,your thighs now firm around his waist, and your lips brushing his, just enough to taste the heat of him.

He’s breathing ragged now.

His hands are everywhere,your back, your waist, sliding over your thighs like he doesn’t know what to touch first.

“Fuck- baby just one—”

And then-

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK-

Sharp. Sudden.

“Room service! Fresh towels, Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

You go completely still.

Satoru? Flinches.

The tension snaps instantly, like a curse seal unraveling beneath his ribs.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

And he looks ruined.

Flushed. Panting. Needing.

You laugh,soft and sweet and far too pleased with yourself.

“Oops.”

He stares at you like you’ve just burned a hole through his soul.

You climb off him, slow and graceful, every brush of your skin against his a punishment.

You step out of the onsen, glancing over your shoulder, water dripping down the line of your back.

Satoru doesn’t move.

He Can’t.

“Also, Satoru,” you say, wrapping the towel back around your waist.

You turn fully to face him, water running down your neck, eyes soft but unreadable.

“We can share the bed tonight.”

You pause,let the silence hang.

Then you smile.

“We’re married, no?”

You say with a wink.

Yeah,His soul leaves his body.

note: this actually took me more than five hours and I've thought of this for so long, I actually really like this,let me know what you guys think and if this deserves a part two...yk🤭

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