Vogue — 「 Boss/fashion Designer!geto Suguru X Reader 」
vogue — 「 boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader 」
synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink?
content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, use of they/them pronouns, mild language, traditional japanese basis of (l/n) (f/n) used, reader wears glasses, makeup, and heeled boots, some mild manga and jjk 0 spoilers (three minor characters from each are introduced), uhhh suguru being a dick lawl, some parts not edited/not beta read
contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned ****!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, mild angst, some crack if you squint
word count ; 10.2k
notes ; heavily inspired by "the devil wears prada" and "paradise kiss", so there'll be some references i've dropped within this—see if you can spot them! also the censored is spoilers so until then, hehe.
now playing ; seven days in sunny june - jamiroquai
It’d be foolish not to know the household name of Geto Suguru, the ultimate male muse of Jun Takahashi whose title has yet to be reigned by another. He was the ultimate breathing mannequin of the iconic Yohji Yamamoto piece he had worn on the Milan runway back when he was just a teenager. It was one of the most staple pieces of the new century that helped open the gates of the mixing of world culture and avant garde fashion—an England-Japanese punk fusion of an ashen and tattered kasaya layered under the contrasting statement piece: the earth-toned gojōu-gesa splattered with weaves of gold—and it was that very piece that rose him to the top of the fashion world as one of the most powerful names in global fashion.
And how could he not? At seventeen, he was scouted as a model for Gaulthier and became his muse at the ripe age of twenty before several other worldwide designers began to fight for his eyes. It was only a few shrewd years later that he’d open up his own successful fashion line, RIIKO, named in honor of his late sister, resulting in it becoming one of the fashion line pillars in the modern century.
It didn’t take long after that, due to his fame and distinct education from Jujutsu University, rising to the top for Kaizen fashion magazine and ruling it with an iron fist and several cups of coffee with almost all his designs on display for all to see in the office. It was due to his work that Kaizen became the powerhouse of powerhouses of fashion editorials and magazines and it was solely his work that made fashion what it was in present times.
Whether it was direct or indirect, Geto had impacted the industry in all sorts of ways. Be it blossoming an upcoming supermodel’s name or setting new fashion trends, everything could essentially be traced to Geto Suguru.
So it’s understandable that many had called you a fool—a dimwit, even—for not understanding how big of a deal it was to become his junior assistant after lazily submitting your resume. Originally, you had just wanted to become a simple lifestyle journalist for papers like Sankei Shimbun or The Japan Times, but seeing how it was between a seemingly mysterious fashion magazine that mentioned, received gasps, or the measly and homely newspaper of The Hokkaido Tribune, a magazine you knew would only give new journalists the scraps of what they earned, the choice was obvious.
Whatever gave you more money, you’d take. Survival of the fittest, was this world not?
“Do not tell me you’re going to your interview at Kaizen wearing that?” Ino barks out a laugh as he finishes his morning cereal for breakfast, scanning your outfit. “You’re going to work in a fashion magazine, not some dingy corporate office.”
You sneer at him as you shove on your loafers (don’t mind that the leather is peeling slightly on the side). You think that there’s nothing remotely wrong with your overused gauntlet gray matching set of trousers and blazer with a slightly wrinkled button-up underneath it.
“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at your roommate and parttime brother figure. “What on earth do you know about fashion?”
“Enough of it to know that outfit is atrocious for that type of environment,” he states simply as he shoves a donut in his mouth. He kicks his feet up on the table, making you cringe at their nakedness. “Trust me, change if you can. Make a statement for ‘em.”
Ino Takuma sighs and glances at your thick spectacles that you’ve worn since early college. “And at least change your glasses for your contacts. Heard they don’t like those sorta things over there. At least not the prescription kind.”
“Can’t find them,” you grunt when you feel the weight of your shoulder bag heave down your body. “I’m already late, anyway,” you sigh, “Listen, if I don’t come back alive, which I will by the way, then you can dance on my grave all you want.”
“I’m holding you to that,” he chants before he lets out a haughty snicker that gets muffled instantly when you slam the door on him.
You throw insults at Ino in your mind, grumbling about how a mere job hopper like him wouldn’t even know the speck of fashion, how you refuse to take advice from someone who wears the same thing every day. There’s nothing wrong with the gray, you think. It’s safe and presentable, ordinary and professional, and you’d much rather blend in than stand out as you believe standing out and making yourself known is just a recipe for trouble.
Stretching out a hand on the street, you call for a taxi and humbly enter as you smooth out your trousers. The taxi driver eyes you in the rearview mirror with a questioning glint in your eye. “Job interview?” he asks.
“Oh, um,” you nod your head. “Yep! I'm a little nervous, haha.”
“Really?” he says as he gratefully steps on the accelerator a little faster. “Better get you there quick, then. Would hate to have you late. Where are you planning on working?”
“Kaizen Magazine,” you declare confidently, an affirmative look on your face.
“Kaizen?” questions the driver slowly as his eyes go to scan your outfit in the mirror again, his brows raised. “As in the… the fashion magazine?”
You nod with visible apprehensiveness. You think that maybe you truly were the only person in the world that didn’t know the impact of Kaizen, seeing as how a mere taxi driver even knew about the name and you didn’t up until a few weeks ago.
“I see…” he mutters. The drive there is a mix of silence and everyday morning conversations, before he pulls up to the building that held the key to your dreams. “Well then, here’s your stop.”
You let out a little gasp of excitement. “Thank you so much,” you reply as you shove some cash into the slot.
“Hm, well,” the taxi driver counts the money carefully, barely looking just before you close the door as he mutters, “Good luck, Plain Jane.”
You turn back to the taxi, your hearing a little awry. “Sorry, what was that?”
But when you turn back to the yellow cab, all that’s left is a billow of smoke and cinders. Dazed and confused, you quickly shake those feelings off before you head inside to the building that was now your shining beacon of hope with a determined smile still plastered on your lips. White is the first thing that greets you when you enter the building as it was essentially aired out onto every corner. White marble counters, white tile flooring with white grout, white frames of fashion icons—the white screams pristine and perfection to you and its message went very much noticed. You haven’t even met Geto Suguru yet, but you understood already that he expected nothing but excellence.
You ride up the elevator quietly and alone, trying not to focus on how your anxiety increased with each ding of the passing floors. The elevator screen seems to almost taunt you as it closes in on your doom, the numbers getting closer to the designated floor until it slowly pauses and shone brightly the number 21 in stippled red.
The doors slowly open and the light seeps itself back to your vision, white flooding your senses again. You carry yourself carefully down the hallway whilst taking your time to admire the many framed pictures of past magazines, multiple runway models, and scraps of newspaper articles. One specific piece catches your attention, however; it was large, almost half your body size and framed in a gilded black frame. It was a picture of a mannequin wearing a tawdry gray-black robe with the kanji characters of “summer” painted with purple messily atop. Layered was a loose, but well-fitted piece of thick green and gold cloth that looked much more refined to the messiness of the other materials.
You stare at it for what seemed to be forever whilst admiring the contrast and beauty of the work before your name is called out.
“(Y/N) (L/N)?”
Your trance breaks from the voice approaching you. You turn to see a short and young woman with dark blue eyes staring at you with a raised brow. “That’s you I presume?” she asks.
“Oh! Uh,” you nod furiously and smooth out your trousers again. “Yes… yes, that’s me. I assume you’re Manami Suda? The one I spoke with on the phone?”
She nods slowly, her eyes going to study your outfit which was a rather stark contrast to her own attire that highlighted an emphasis on shades of opal and navy. Her eyes have a similar glint in the way that Ino’s and the taxi driver’s had, further enunciating the message that your attire was rather… something.
“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” she murmurs. Sarcasm going undetected by you, you grin as a response and think that a compliment from her was a sign you did something right. Her eyes go to rise back and meet yours again before she turns and redirects you to the end of the hallway where some rooms belonging to subordinal editors sat in, clacking away at the computers. There was one singular room that held the only door on the floor and it doesn’t take you long to assume who it belongs to considering the large letters of GS frosted onto the glass.
Two desks stood on each side of the door, one completely devoid of life and decorations. Manami guides you to the empty one and patted the top of it. “This will be yours if you manage to miraculously pass.”
Manami taps on her clipboard a couple of times, listing off a couple of requirements that you were most likely going to need in the future: efficient time management, ability to fight for what Geto wants, sharp memory, quick feet…
“And uh…” Manami flickers her eyes to you and the details (or lack of, in this case). She mutters under her breath quietly, “... a good wardrobe.”
You turn to her, internally wondering if you were going deaf today. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”
“A good, warm…” she squints, obviously finding the right word to keep that ignorant smile on your face. “... welcome to start off his day.”
She succeeds in her task as you merely nod with the same blatant grin attached. “Got it!”
Manami tours you around the floor of the office, letting you say hello to your future coworkers that work in the cubicles that send you worried looks behind your back. They obviously seem too pitying of you, knowing that your fate would be sealed as Geto’s potential right hand man the moment you signed that employee contract.
“This is Human Resources,” Manami gestures over to a room filled with chattering employees who seemed to be getting their gossip out before their day started. “You’ll contact them if you have any—” her phone dings suddenly. Casually, she pulls it out, only for all of her resolve to disappear in an instant. Manami then abruptly blows a whistle with her teeth, alerting everybody in the radius.
“Everybody! His morning facial was canceled!” Manami hollers. “Geto is coming in…” her phone pings again with another notification, and you can tell Manami’s heart instantly drops. “Oh God… he’s in the lobby! Everybody, places! You,” she snags the sleeve of your blazer and drags you along with her, your clunky loafers nearly tripping you. “Come with me.”
Manami takes back to where you first started and orders you to stand in the front of the blank desk with a look that screams both fright and anxiousness all in one. She lists off too many tasks that you need to do before he comes, but you’re so frazzled with trying to remember how to act in front of your future boss that you can’t even remember the first thing she told you.
“Help me arrange the drafts of the magazines from most recent to least recent before he—”
The elevator dings and all goes quiet; Manami tosses the magazines over her shoulders and positions herself firmly in her place, gesturing for you to do the same. The doors open and unveiled from two bodyguards is a man—a tall man, around six feet or perhaps even taller—dressed in noir fitted pants and a matching button-up closed only halfway to reveal a silk navy turtleneck. Caped behind him is a black velvet trenchcoat that you’re sure is worth half your rent and a watch plated on his wrist that is well over your life savings. He’s slightly sunkissed, with blue-black tresses of hair with a soft bang sneaking through and large plated earrings to match. His eyes, however, show a tint of color—a sharp dark amethyst that you think could cut through you like crystals.
But he’s almost hauntingly attracting—like a spirit. Something about him was an enigma and his aura was nothing less than powerful.
“Good morning, Geto,” Manami chants with an artificial happiness to her tone.
Geto doesn’t reply, just merely giving a silent blink before he sheds his coat off and tosses it aimlessly towards Manami. It proves to be heavier than anticipated, giving how she fights to groan from the weight of it. He’s handed his briefcase from one of the bodyguards and begins to open the door to his office until he pauses and turns and glances at you, the stranger.
“Hello,” you state with a slight bow. “I-I’m one of the interviewees for your junior assistant. My name is—”
“(Y/N),” Geto murmurs; his voice is soft and low. It’s all knowing, with indigo eyes boring into your own. “(L/N) (Y/N), I know. The one that graduated from Jujutsu University recently, yes?”
Adjusting your glasses to wave away the blurriness, you nod with anticipation. “Yes, that’s me.”
Geto turns back and opens the door, to which he only replies back, “In my office.”
You glance at Manami for confirmation, only given back with a jut of her head towards the door. All the unease you felt in the elevator comes hurdling back to you in an instinct and you feel as if you were no more than a peasant to someone that was essentially royalty in the fashion world.
Geto turns his chair to face away from you, shuffling a few papers over each other that appears to be your resume, before he spins it slowly towards you. He kicks his feet up lazily on his desk.
“It’s nice to have another Jujutsu alum to join us,” he says. His voice is still the same—a little baritone with a wisping edge of a whisper to it, but it almost sounds… bored. Unamused even. “A bachelors in print journalism… same as mine, hm. Tell me, is Professor Tengen still as loose as ever with their practices?”
You fight to fiddle with your glasses as you watch as Geto tangibly toys with his own, with his focus angled on the papers in front of him rather than you. “Um, I assume so. Though I believe they’re actually retiring this year.”
“Good,” he sighs in what seems to be relief. “Shame that the university had wasted time and money by hiring them. Truly, I hope they can find someone much better suited for their position.”
“Really?” you quietly question. You had only taken their class a few semesters ago and thought despite their rather… all too lenient disposition… you did learn quite a lot in their class. “I thought they were a rather alright teacher…”
Regret pools in your mouth from the moment you have finished your sentence. Geto finally goes to look at you from the edge of his glasses with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly.
“Tengen was merely a sorry excuse for a professor. They were rather nothing but a nanny who gave their students too much leeway,” Geto declares. “Though, I’ll admit, I am pleasantly surprised that you managed to take something out of that class.”
A laugh that’s just dripping with nothing but nervousness leaks out of your lips. “I suppose I had learned just a few things…”
“Mmh,” Geto nod nonchalantly, eyes drawing back to the papers. “Well. Let’s start with the basics. Why exactly do you want to work here?”
Geto already feels the cliche comments erupting. Had the person in front of him say at least one of them, he was ready to insert the papers he was holding into the nearby shredder. Or maybe out the window this time, he wonders—something nice for a change.
“I was inspired by your work.”
“It’s been my dream to work at Kaizen.”
“Fashion is my absolute passion.”
“I want to—”
“I’m just in need of a job, really,” you say lifelessly.
He goes to raise his head slowly from the packet and turns to you slowly. Geto doesn’t say anything, but his facial expressions indicate a blend of confusion and intrigue. A slithering tongue darts out to slick his lips, indicating you’ve piqued his interest. “Well, obviously. But why this job specifically? What about it stood out to you?”
You clear your throat. “I had learned recently that Kaizen is a rather prestigious mag—”
“‘Recently’?” Geto repeats quietly. “You hadn’t heard of us before?”
Lips thinning, you shake your head slightly. His eyes go narrow again to your dread, serpent-like. “My specialty is more in newspapers rather than magazines, I-I’m not too knowledgeable in that area.”
Geto goes quiet and the silence makes the air go thick. It’s then that familiar glint sparkles in his sullen eyes when they go to examine your choice of clothing—it confirms Ino was truly right in the end, as he lets out a smile-less chuckle that doesn’t do much to ease your brain.
“Continue,” Geto gestures and takes off his glasses to look at you, or you suppose your outfit, more properly. He folds his hands and places his chin on top of them. “You said you only learned about us not too long ago?”
“Yes, and I realized that perhaps working here for a while would, at least I hope, grant me access to other media houses,” you explain. It’s only then you realize that your declaration sounds absolutely ludicrous and almost disrespectful to the editor-in-chief of the most iconic fashion magazine in the nation. “Connections are quite powerful in this day and age, haha…”
“I suppose,” Geto mumbles with not much interest in your poor humor. “What about me? I do hate bragging but surely, you know about my name or at least my fashion line?”
Your hesitant countenance and silence tells Geto all he needs to know. He thinks that it’s almost some sort of marvel that no one has heard of him or his works before.
He sighs. “Do you have any experience working in any fashion-related activities at least?”
“Well, I once worked in a department store for a few months back in high school,” you say thoughtfully (and ignorantly).
Geto gives you a blank look. His blinks are apathetically slow.
“Um,” you clear your throat again and shake your head, timid. “N-no…”
“Then tell me,” he continues smoothly. “Why exactly should I hire you? You obviously have no taste in fashion and you hadn’t even heard of my name, let alone my magazine, until recently. What is there within that makes you want to work here other than you just… what was it that you said?” He air-quotes mockingly, “‘needing a job?’”
Your throat runs dry and limbs go stiff. A heat rockets to your face when you seemingly can’t get any words out to excuse yourself, much too caught up in the same of your ignorance towards Geto’s profession. And that’s all the response he needs to make his decision.
His hand takes the packet again and to your horror that you fight to keep in, inserts it into the paper shredder. The groan of it rumbles through the room agonizingly and you realize that Ino is going to have the time of your life planning your doomsday.
Geto gives you the mercy of breaking the thick silence first. “You may go.”
With a swift flick of his wrist, Geto dismisses you with a slight edge to his murmuring as he puts back on his glasses to examine the morning newspaper to not waste any more incessant time in the day.
You don’t even attempt to fight back with any poor excuses. Tears prick the corner of your eyes, the sting of them frustrating you to your wits end. Instead, you gather the last of your resolve and bid him through a strained throat good day and make your leave, humiliation and disappointment trailing not too far behind.
You hope that Ino will give a nice eulogy, at least.
Out of all the miracles that await you in life, you do not expect the one that comes in the form of an early morning phone call that wakes you at the ass-crack of dawn. When you pick it up with sleep still very much embedded in your eyes, it dissipates in the instant you hear Manami’s voice. It’s only then that it hits you why on earth she was calling so early and why she was demanding to know your whereabouts, claiming you were going to be late on your first day of work.
You think it’s some sort of cruel joke maneuvered by Ino, especially with how his comforts from last night were mixed with taunts. But when Manami’s voice finally registers in your brain, by some sort of miracle or stroke of luck, you have gotten the job as Geto Suguru’s junior assistant.
You don’t know how, but you don’t waste any time questioning how on earth you landed in such a position because you leap out of bed at 7:23 a.m. and manage to do your morning routine in the matter of what you think is a record-breaking fifteen minutes. Your ruckus manages to wake up deep-sleeping Ino, who, when you excitedly tell him to postpone your funeral, gives a groggy thumbs up before drooling back into his pillow. It’s 7:38 a.m. when you shove on your shabby coat and you realize you only have a mere twenty-two minutes left until you have to officially clock in for work.
At 7:40, you’re out the door and sprinting to the located coffee shop that thankfully wasn’t too far from where you lived.
At 7:47, you’re at the designated cafe whilst attempting to swim through the crowds of morning bustlers to pick up Geto’s coffee.
7:50, you’re sticking your hand out waving desperately for a taxi and tip extra to make the driver speed through as you attempt to make sure the coffees don’t spill out of their containers.
7:58, you arrive at the building and just barely make it into the narrow gap of a tight-fitting elevator, earning stares from the others from your rather… frazzled appearance.
At 8:02 a.m., you dash out the elevator and officially clock in for your first day at work at Kaizen Magazine amidst a birdnest of hair, clothes that were plucked out of your hamper, and what you pray to the heavens above are hefty layers of deodorant and perfume since you were given no time to shower.
When Geto comes in that day, all suave and composed, he takes one good look at you before sighing and focusing his attention to the more refined Manami and lets her take the gears for the day. The only attention he gives you that morning is the rough toss of his heavy coat—a cashmere pearl peacoat today—flung at your arms that nearly makes you tumble from its weight.
You quickly learn that working for Geto requires high demand and maintenance, as he is not one to skip over any details in his day. Not even three hours in your first day, you already have to plan out his future meetings, reschedule one with a rather feisty and insistent client, edit a forest of emails, finishing by dashing out five blocks on foot to the two michelin star restaurant to retrieve Geto’s weekly steak for lunch. Had this been your old corporate job, you only would’ve gotten half the tasks you had completed by the end of the usual eight hours, but you realized early on that you had barely scratched the surface of your future in Kaizen.
You think that after plating his steak with the shakiest of hands, you finally have time to relax during lunch time when you see the small hand of the clock finally hit 12:00 p.m. , especially since you and him were left alone in his part of the office together. But the moment that Geto saunters into the office again, he tends to you once again with a final task by himself.
“(Y/N),” he calls from the office, the scrape of his fork against ceramic cluttering your ears agonizingly.
You fight the urge to cringe from the sound as you scurry to the doorframe, hands stiffly intertwined together. “Yes, Mr. Geto?”
“No need for such formalities,” he remarks with the dab of a napkin to his lips. “They make me feel old, and I’m surely not much older than you are…” you think that’s the longest he’s spoken to you since the day had started. “Did Leibovitz confirm?”
Blinking, you tilt your head ignorantly. “D-did who confirm?”
He pauses and does that taunting slow rise of his eyes from his steak to you. “Leibovitz. Did she confirm?”
Silence fills the office, much like the silence that drowned you back at the interview. He clicks his tongue and dismisses you with a disappointed shake of his head. “Just go on your lunch,” he mutters, sighing.
Manami, the savior that she is, is called into the office after her break and is asked the same task and you watch with humiliation whilst packing your things to go on your lunch as she picks up the telephone and speaks to someone over the line before confirming to Geto that, “I’ve got Annie!”
“He hates me, Taku!” you cry out whilst flopping onto the dinner table. It’s ten in the evening and you’ve just come home after what was supposed to be an 8-5 shift. You suppose you should be used to this already after two months of working for the Lucifer donned ritually in white in the building, but you don’t know how much your sanity (and body) can take.
Normally, Geto is usually cold to those who he wasn’t familiar with, but you think that his distaste for you sours everyday. You notice that he’s beginning to pile you with the more urgent and busier duties and that he often stares you down more menacingly in the morning with those piercing purple eyes of his, like you were gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. You thought it was just him being normal Geto Suguru, the man with the expectations higher than the clouds, and that you just were still adjusting to such a high-intensity environment, but it was today that your world came crumbling down when you overheard him muttering to his associates about you, tone icier than ever.
You were on the other side of the door, a fist going to rap on the glass with the other holding his afternoon coffee pick-me-up when you heard it.
“... can’t even do the most miniscule things right,” Geto had groaned. “I ask if Lanvin’s models are all good to go for next Thursday’s shoot and somehow, they have the nerve to ask ‘How do you spell Lanvin’? For fuck’s sake, I can feel my goddamn conscious just wither away by the second.”
You hadn’t heard Geto swear since you had started working there, but something about his venomous tone enunciating such words had made your blood run cold from the other side of the door. Not having the courage to face him after that, you left his coffee on Manami’s desk for her to tend to with a post-it note saying a sorry excuse for yourself before letting your eyes sob frustratingly in the bathroom, isolated from others.
The last time you had cried that hard was way back in childhood, where you had broken your arm from falling down a tree branch. But you think that Geto’s words had twisted through your skin and bone much harsher than that pain ever will.
“It’s a miracle how I haven’t been fired yet… I don’t even know why he hired me!” you wail.
Ino sighs from across the dinner table and you can’t tell if it’s a sigh of pity or a sigh of criticism. You learn that it’s both when he rolls his eyes at you whilst simultaneously pushing a plate of much needed food towards you.
“First off, you need to eat,” he presses, staring at your gaunt features. “The way your face is swallowing is making me feel like I’m living’ with a ghost. You’ve lost some weight, I’ve noticed.”
Awareingly, you touch your cheekbones and realize he’s right, for you feel the small disc of sharpness from them prick your fingertips. They’ve never been so cavern before. You suppose it’s because of the lack of proper meal time between your days and how you often eat small and very late dinners back at home, truly not enough needed fuel for you.
“Secondly,” Ino chews his tongue, wondering if he should really say what he’s about to say because of your current disposition but goes through with it anyway. He might as well rip the bandaid off now to let more time for the wound to heal. “You won’t like what I’m ‘bout to say, but you need to up your game. Severely.”
An aching body rises up from the table. You go to stare at Ino through glazed eyes and a pouty lip, asking him what he meant.
“Ah nope! Don’t give me that face and don’t play coy with me,” he hisses, looking away to not give in to your helpless puppy eyes. He can’t—he shouldn’t give you the easy way out and just say to quit—not when you’ve been earning so much bank that rent isn’t a problem for either of you anymore. He wonders, though, for a moment if so much money is worth your rationality.
He drags a hand down his face before placing his chin on it, examining your haggard appearance. “What I mean is that you need to see through Geto’s eyes. See what he sees when he looks at you. Tell me, if you had an assistant that showed up wearing things that looked like they were plucked from the clearance bin at a thrift store and didn’t show any respect for your brand, which just so happens to be a fashion magazine out of all things…” Ino eyes you with a raised brow. “You startin’ to follow me?”
Your fingers fiddle with each other. “... sorta.”
“Now listen,” he raises his hands up lazily in surrender. “I already know what you’re ‘bout to say about me not knowing’ how to dress in shit other than black and more black, but even I know that you should put in more effort into your appearance. That’s the first step.”
“But I have—!” you exclaim helplessly, “I-I swear, I’ve been trying to… but it’s not my fault that it isn’t up to his standards.”
Your roommate groans and rubs his forehead, not really knowing what else to do for your situation until an idea pops in his head. “Free up your weekend,” he demands with a sly grin that makes you a little uneasy. “I’m no fashion connoisseur, but you know who is?”
“And remember, we never touch anything with chevron on it, especially in today’s fashion world,” Yuki chimes as she slaps on a navy blue pageboy cap on your head and she prances about your bedroom that’s been littered with spare clothes from her very own closet she graciously gifted to you for the past weekend. “I’m so utterly relieved that the trend has dug its own grave.”
The past weekend had been filled with endless shopping trips and you shuffling in and out of clothes every minute, practicing how to pair items and colors together by Yuki’s teachings. Of course you should’ve known that Ino was going to contact the one person that he was within reach that was essentially a walking encyclopedia when it came to fashion. You’ve met Tsukumo Yuki before, found her to be quite delightful even, but you never anticipated she would be this giddy, especially about clothes of all things.
And she used her brain to good use for not only clothes, but the entirety of yourself. You never knew how much just a simple haircut could do your face along with small hints of makeup to emphasize the best parts of it. Dared not your hands go to a lash curler, but here you are now, making sure your powder compact and lipstick for the day was in your bag before you went out.
“Uh, I don’t think I ever mentioned this before yet, but thank you for helping my wardrobe out, it really means a lot,” you say just before she slides on a pair of gold bangles on your wrist. “Are you sure you wanna give these clothes to me? I’m okay with just borrowing them.”
“Nonsense, babe,” she wavers off before shuffling through your now-hearty closet, a closet that’s now bursting with many clothes given by her. “I needed space in my closet anyway, so take as much as you need.”
So (Y/N)’s closet is basically her trash can, a particular shaggy brunette thinks with a roll of his eyes. Ino fiddles with the piece of toast in his mouth as he leans on the doorway, watching as Yuki essentially treats you like her very own Barbie doll at such an odd morning hour.
“(Y/N)’s not a doll, Yuki,” Ino lazily calls aloud through a tired yawn. “You better get ‘em out the door soon or else they’ll get late for work. Especially need that money since the landlord’s been on our ass about increasing our rent…” he mutters, sniffing. “Damn bastard.”
She snaps at Ino to be quiet and let her work before she shuffles on a regal blue overcoat over your shoulders that completes your look. When you look at yourself finally in the mirror, you almost think there’s a stranger in your house from the way you look so dignified compared to the you just three days ago. It’s a simple outfit with not much layering, but it’s still enough to ooze charisma and elegance to wandering eyes. You’re adorned in a white weaved sweater with flared, light-wash jeans and white boots to match. Over the outfit lies the coat that drapes almost like a king’s mantle behind you and the pageboy cap as your crown.
Yuki creeps up behind you, her manicured hands on your shoulders affirmingly. “How’re you feeling, hun?” she asks quietly as she shares the same sight with you in the mirror. “Don’t you look wonderful?”
You know that it was all her work, it was all her creativity that made you into the artwork that you are now, so breathlessly laugh with a smile on your painted lips and thank her quietly once more before whispering, “Yeah… yeah, I do.”
Her eyes study you for another minute, going to stare at the glasses still atop your face. Yes, they were new and much more modern considering she quite literally called your old pair atrocious, snapped them in half, and tossed them over her shoulder, but she was still quite dissatisfied when you told her about your hesitance about using contacts. “Are you sure you don’t want to give contacts another chance?” she sighs.
You shake your head with a small smile, “I’ll feel completely naked without them,” you murmur, “Besides, I think they actually compliment this look, if I’m being honest.”
Her lips stretch out into a grin, too absorbed in her fashion education finally being used.
“Well then!” she begins to drag you by the sleeve out your room. “We wouldn’t want you to be late then for your first day as the new you, right? Let’s get you a cab!”
Somehow, you think you really are at your first day at work again from the way you feel that same fluttering in your stomach and from how the people you’ve once grown accustomed to seeing in the early mornings are not merely passing you with mundane nods of their heads but instead, greeting you with wide-eyed gawks and open-mouthed smiles. Some of them, a few who you knew but never spoke a word to, even do a double take and compliment you aloud on the new look. Even the cute barista in the lobby that never bothered to spell your name right at last did after finally taking a good look at the holder of the card.
When you exit out of the elevator, Manami nearly drops the pile of magazines she’s holding when she spots a refined and refreshed you. You offer a bright smile to her and you watch as her gasp slowly forms into an affirmative grin when you round your desk.
She laughs softly. “And who might you be?” she asks with a tease in her voice. “‘Cause last time I checked, that’s my coworker (Y/N)’s desk.”
“I murdered them,” you shrug nonchalantly, earning another chuckle from her. You take it as a good sign, great even, considering up until now, Manami had been rather stoic and a little indifferent towards you because of your amateurism; but now, you suppose that ditching that Plain Jane from just two days ago is finally beginning to do you good by finally grounding a proper relationship with her. “Shame, isn’t it? Poor thing.”
“Truly,” she nods. Her eyes trail further down until they spot something that makes her gasp. “Don’t tell me those are—”
“—the new calfskin gold studded Louboutin boots?” you finish for her. You flex your ankle and show off the ravishing red bottoms of your shoes. “Oh yeah.”
Manami squeals in excitement and rushes over to your desk, begging to take a look at them. “How on earth did you manage to get your hands on these?! I’ve been looking for them fo—”
The elevator dings again but with a tone that makes you and Manami flinch. Both of you stiffen and straighten out your posture, falling into a thick silence when out comes Geto traipsing out like he usually did—his aura being nothing less than dominating. You and Manami chime out in sync a good morning to him as he saunters towards his office as he begins to shuffle off his coat as usual to toss to you until he looks up and catches you in his field of vision.
He stops all of a sudden with his eyes dancing about your figure, a stark contrast to the rest of his paralyzed body. Geto’s lips thin all of a sudden, and so do his eyes when they scan your outfit. He takes in a sharp breath and opens his mouth to say something to you, yet nothing comes out, even as your eyes glisten with anticipation.
It merely instead zips itself close and he finally whisks himself into his office, coat still on and briefcase still in hand, and slams the door shut.
But not without glancing at you one last time.
Much has changed in the past month for the better.
Yuki was a godsend—she had been your guardian angel, your fairy godmother of sorts—because you swore your career life had taken a complete 180° the moment your closet was revamped. Ever since that makeover, you had felt so much more confident in your actions, so much lighter on your feet. The price of your efforts was beginning to pay off as well, as Geto began to slowly thaw his icier sense of self when you began to actually put effort into your appearance. His thrusts of his coat towards you began to become less aggressive, was significantly more lenient when it came to more of the impossible tasks, and had at one time actually muttered a ‘good morning’ to you and Manami after months of greeting with silence and judgemental glances.
She’d occasionally check up on you every once in a while, usually to offer new clothes that she didn’t want anymore. And by offer, it actually just meant packing them in a box from her place to yours with a post-it that’d usually read “With love, YT ❤” in neat cursive. Along with forming a close bond with Yuki, your relationship with Manami improved significantly, especially when you gave her those white Louboutins she was eyeing. She often invited you to lunch with her other friends, Larue and Remi.
The iconic John Galliano once said that, “The joy of dressing is an art.” A month ago, you would’ve never believed what you would think is a rather tacky statement, but now, you can truly see it to believe it. It never occurred to you to actually look at your surroundings closely, but you often would sometimes take a few seconds out of your day to admire the many colors and materials that would adorn your coworkers. Whether it be admiration for their sense of style or mild jealousy over luxurious pieces, you were finally understanding what makes fashion, fashion.
And your epiphany was awarded today with the task that you thought would never come into the light of your days working for Geto—being tasked with dropping off The Book.
The Book was a collection of pieces that were needed for the upcoming edition of the magazine, regarding it as being the most important item in the entire company. It was a duty that usually Manami tended to, but she hypothesized that you managed to finally get on Geto’s good side after a while and congratulated you. Manami spoke to you briefly about how trivial The Book was to both Geto and Kaizen. She told you about how you must guard it and Geto’s key to his penthouse with your life, and that you were to remain absolutely invisible to him if he was in the apartment. Manami told you because it was usually the hour he needed most concentration—it was during the later hours of the day that he usually mended last minute edits to the edition or he was working on his latest fashion collection since he was only able to work on it during the weekends as Kaizen took too much of his time.
Manami told you he would most likely be found on the second floor of his penthouse, and you were to remain on the first floor at all costs.
“The editors will finish The Book around 10:30 or 11:00 at night, wait in the office until then. Then, drop the book off at his penthouse at no later than 11:30 with his dry cleaning, too.”
Her words echo in your mind as you tiptoe out of the cab and look up to see a gleaming, glamorous building sitting in the heart of the city. It’s one you’ve passed a plenty of times—hell, you pass it on your way to work—but it never occurred to you that it’d be this antique white, Parisian-styled building that would be the abode of your boss.
“Take the elevator to the top floor and enter his apartment. Do not call out his name, don’t wander around, don’t even make a single sound. You are nothing more than a ghost when you step foot into his house.”
The only doors that are on the very top floor of the apartment complex are two large metal doors that sit before you. You enter the key into the keyhole and push them open with controlled force, closing them as quietly as possible with Manami’s whispers still floating about your head. You knew that Geto was certainly a man of luxury, but to see that wealth exempt in a form other than fashion was a sight that you weren’t sure if your eyes deserved to feast on. Sculptures and paintings decorated the foyer and hallway, adding occasional splashes of color to the ivory-adorned apartment. After hanging the dry cleaning in the designated coat closet, the first room you enter - and perhaps the only one you’ll ever be in - is the said living room with the glass coffee table sitting in the center of it.
“Place The Book on the coffee table in the living room. That’s it. Do not toddle any longer in his house and get out immediately. Don’t let curiosity get the better of you and just simply go afterwards. It’s for your own good.”
But oh, how curiosity is just a little devil of temptation that sits far too easily on your shoulder. A house holds the most of a person, and Geto is just an all too mysterious enigma for you not to at least dip your toe in. The doors at the end of the hallway are waiting for you, but so are the picture frames that sit atop the TV stand. You suppose… maybe another minute wouldn’t hurt.
Your feet carry you slowly to the stand and you crouch, adjusting your glasses to get a better look at the pictures. There’s only two of them—six by fours, both in oak brown frames. The first one is a picture of a smiling young girl with short chestnut hair sporting a smile with a cigarette between her teeth. Beside her are two boys taller than her, both making similar faces at the camera. One of them, the one that’s a little taller with silvery snow hair and opaque black sunglasses, throwing a forced, all-too wide grin that almost looks maniacal. It doesn’t require much brain power to know the other figure in the photo is a younger Geto Suguru, his hair shorter in a tight bun with a rare, but soft grin on his face, his gaze affectionate to the others.
The other picture is of the same two boys arm in arm with each other. Both of them are grinning now, with the white haired boy still smiling a little more largely than the other. It doesn’t take long for you to assume who the other boy was considering that the shade of purple sheathing his twinkling eyes is unique to only one individual in your life.
Best friends, you suggest in your mind as you study the pictures a little longer than needed. A minute, you thought, wouldn’t do much harm, but how utterly wrong your thoughts prove when you suddenly hear the slam of a door from the floor above. The crash of it makes you yelp and breaks you out of your trance from the pictures and your gaze suddenly snaps to the open stairs above you, as well as two voices echoing aloud.
“Y-you can’t—” an unknown voice wheezes. “I’ve been your muse for years. You possibly can’t just abandon me out of nowhere…”
“You say that as if I’m not doing that right now,” a familiar one replies back boredly. It’s Geto, and his voice makes your nerves electrify in fear because it’s in that moment that you remember that you can’t get caught inside of his house. “This is the last time I’m telling you, Shigemo. Get out.”
The man that you assume is Shigemo heaves heavy breaths. “You need me,” he declares.
“Needed. Past tense,” Geto corrects as he almost forces Shigemo down the stairs with an invisible force surrounding him. You can see their figures above you, Shigemo slowly stepping backwards with each step Geto takes forward. “You’ve done me well these few years, I admit, and I do thank you for that. But I suppose your expiration date has finally come.”
“I’m not a food,” Shigemo snivels. “I’m a person. Most importantly. I’m the reason your fashion line flourished, I was the inspiration for almost all your works. We’re essentially a team.”
They’re towards the end of the staircase, towards where you are still present in plain sight. Your eyes scatter about a place to hide in the meantime, but there are seemingly no places to hide that would hide you well without the notice of Geto’s eyes.
“A team?” Geto barks out a sarcastic laugh, one that makes shivers run down your spine from both the rarity of the sound and how utterly intimidating it is. “I work alone and I always have. There is no point on relying on anyone of any kind when my independence obviously pays off.”
“Who will you have then?” Shigemo retaliates with a whimper in his voice. “You know that I’m the only one that will tolerate you. It’s not like you can go crawling to Goj—“
“Finish that sentence and see what happens,” Geto hisses, causing the other man to fall into a forced silence.
Your eyes finally land on the small space between the fireplace and a pillar. It’s a space large enough for you to fill and efficient enough to hide you from sight. Unsticking your feet from the ground, you make a run for the small space, only for you to forget about the obstacle that was the ottoman sitting spitefully on the floor.
The thud that comes from your body almost rivals the volume of the door slamming open moments earlier and just like the door, it attracts unneeded attention. Geto and Shigemo stop their bickering for a moment to search for the cause of the sound, only to see you humiliatingly face first on the floor. Geto narrows his eyes at the sight of you, an unwanted visitor in his home.
A pained groan slips from your lips accidentally. You silently curse yourself for not taking the time to properly break into the tantalizing loafers Yuki bought you the day prior and wince at the pain blooming from your knees and chest. When you finally get up, you can’t help but notice that everything around you seems rather… hazy.
“Who is that…” Shigemo mutters.
Geto bites back a sigh and instead, pinches the bridge of his nose. He supposes that despite your improved mannerisms, your clumsiness still has yet to dissipate. Annoyed, he grunts out, “One of my new assistants.”
Shaking his head, Geto decides to deal with you later. His home is already suffocated with one individual, he doesn’t need another clogging the atmosphere up. He returns his attention back to Shigemo. “I thought I told you to leave,” he states, shoving his bag towards him.
Shigemo’s face paints a horrified expression once again. “Geto, please rethink this,” Shigemo pleads.
He lets out a chain of pleads and excuses for himself as Geto essentially escorts him out with just walking towards him, his face still icy. Shigemo ends up on the other side of the door to his penthouse and it’s there where his patheticness exudes the most—he falls on his hands and knees like a beggar, claiming he’d do anything and everything just to be by his side.
But his voice is suddenly cut short when Geto finally slams the door in his face, the thickness of them guarding him from Shigemo’s whines. He lets out another sigh and locks up the door securely before dealing with the other parasite in his house.
“I don’t think dropping off a book should take longer than thirty seconds,” Geto drawls as he saunters towards the living room, where you’re still on all fours on the floor, your hands tapping around. “So tell me, why are you still here?”
At the sound of his sharp tone, you freeze. You’re sure you looked utterly stupid and a mess right now, considering that you had just lost a fight to an ottoman out of all things, but you couldn’t let Geto see you in such a state. It didn’t take you long to realize that the reason why everything around you looked so blurry was because of your now-missing glasses that you attempted to look around for. But you pulled a Velma, and just like her, you can’t see without your glasses.
Everyone thinks it’s an exaggeration when you state that you felt utterly naked without them, but you truly did. You’ve been wearing glasses ever since childhood and you really didn’t appreciate the looks you had gotten when you were younger when at times you’d take them off. Some complained that your eyes were too small, too big—others mentioned you looked “off” and “weird” without them. Either way, comments from the other children stuck with you like scars, and ever since then, you refused to be seen without them.
“I a-apologize,” you stutter, shuffling your body to hide behind the recliner so Geto wouldn’t see how much of a clutter you are. You’ve humiliated yourself too much already in the office and the last thing you truly need is for you to get fired merely because your curiosity got the better of you. “I was about to head out and th-then I heard your voice from upstairs and—”
Your words fall deaf on Geto’s ears. He lets out another groan while stretching the aching muscles in his neck as he closes in on your disorderedness. A hand goes to shield your face—you don’t want him to see the bareness of your face, especially since you didn’t bother wearing makeup today. You can’t even bear the thought of him looking at it. In a rushed state, you wander around for your glasses with your head tucked in, using the remnants of your hair to curtain your face.
A jumble of excuses tumble out of your quivering lip, but Geto is too preoccupied with the gleam of something catching his eye. Laying flat on the floor are a pair of glasses that doesn’t take Geto long to presume who they belong to. He plucks them from the ground and examines them for a brief moment before holding them above you.
“I assume these are yours,” he asserts with a cocked brow.
Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice directly right above you and through your foggy field of vision is the seraphic figure of Geto holding what seems to be your glasses. Lips escaping a relieved gasp, you hurriedly scramble to your feet. Your eyes are too poor to see it properly, but Geto also shares surprise, but for an entirely different reason.
He doesn’t give you the sanity that is your glasses right away, because he’s much too preoccupied studying your face. It’s so… fresh. Your glasses were hiding such a view, like curtains to a window that unveiled the utmost rare and breathtaking sights. The way your eyes are wide open, pupils blown with a touch of singularity makes him even more intrigued because of how they’re uniquely placed onto your face along with the rest of your features. Your lips, plump with a natural sheen to them—your cheekbones, perfectly rounded. The slope of your nose fell just right. Geto studies it like an artist to a blank canvas, devoid of anything yet holding just the perfect amount of space—wanting, waiting to be filled with anything and everything.
When his eyes stare at you in what seems to be bewilderment, you swallow thickly and look away. But you can only glance at your surroundings for less than a second before Geto takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning your face toward him again. It’s then that you realize that Geto isn’t staring at you, but your face as a whole. His eyes flick with small movements, dancing about as they go from eyebrow to lips, freckle to lash, examining each and every single particle that your face has to offer.
You feel a heat creep onto your cheeks. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the closeness you and him share or the fact that you can’t detect his opinions on the one thing you’ve been disclosed about for years, but either way, you feel weak in the knees; it only worsens when Geto’s thumb brushes over the entirety of your bottom lip, feeling the plushness of it on his the pad of his finger.
“Has your face always been this open…?” he murmurs softly as he studies the various angles of your face.
You aren’t sure whether it’s a compliment or insult, either or neither. Geto’s tone always had a sort of bleakness to it, but in this very moment, you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“My glasses…” is all you manage to squeak out, fighting the urge to squirm in his grasp. Another gulp goes down your dry throat when Geto’s face contorts to an irritated confusion before he realizes his other hand holds the one thing dear to your heart.
“Oh,” he mutters and hands them back to you. His opposing hand finally goes to release your face. “Right.”
Shaking hands go to put them back onto your face again. Sighing internally of relief of your now crystal-clear surroundings, you dust yourself off with your head once more, tucked into your chest.
“I’m so sorry for this,” you whisper. The heat on your face has now spread to the entirety of your body, your nerves alight with the rush of adrenaline. “I-I’ll make sure this never happens again… good night.”
With that, you scurry yourself out before Geto has the chance to falter. All words to urge you to stay to either scold you or excuse you evaporate on his tongue. He can only watch in a strange silence as your figure rushes down the hall and out the doors, the click of them ringing out in his penthouse.
After moments of self-paralysis, an unknown feeling boils inside the pit of Geto’s stomach. He thinks he’s seen your face before with the familiarity of it unsettling him. The ghost of your face prances about in his mind as he slowly climbs the stairs to his sewing room, ignoring the shattered wine glass on the floor thrown by Shigemo. He instead, refills his own glass again with the nearby bottle of merlot wine and savoring the thickness of it running down his dry throat, embellishing in its warmth.
A single, large window faces the busy nighttime street and Geto walks and stills near it, watching carefully as the speck of your figure on the street below calls for a cab. He eyes how you turn towards the building one more time, doing your usual adjustment of your glasses (it’s a habit you often do in times of nervousness, he’s picked up) before you shuffle yourself into a cab that speeds off into the night.
Geto lets out an annoyed click of his tongue. Something about your face seems haunting and he doesn’t enjoy it. The last thing that he needed for today was even more plaguing thoughts in his head after the loss of his muse not even just ten minutes ago, but now with your face staining the back of his head, his jaw grits in irritation. In a poor attempt to take his mind off the excursion of today and the future, he shuffles about his many sketchbooks to look for any designs he could pluck out for his latest collection.
It’s an hour in, two glasses of wine later, and somehow, he still hasn’t found a single piece to begin working on that fits into his theme. Miraculously, through the vast array of what is thought to be thousands of sketches, Geto hasn’t found one that stood out to him until he gets to the last sketchbook. It’s an early one—he thinks it dates back to his late high school days, when he was just beginning to peek into the world of fashion. A pang of nostalgia hits him all of a sudden when he flips to a specific page that was the start of his history.
It’s the very design that had the attention of many designers. The sketch featured a gold and red embellished outfit, a sheen of glittering flickers adorning it. The shirt features a mosaic of gold and small flecks of color here and there, imitating the many church mosaics he’d often admired as a child. The skirt and collar of the shirt were the same shade of blood red, crimson gems bespeckling them.
It’s not the outfit, however, that makes his eyes harden. Why would it? He’s seen it many times before. It’s been brought up over and over again—in interviews, in magazines. It’s one of the staples that made Geto the pillar that he is. He knows every detail of it, much like his other designs, so it isn’t the design of the outfit that made him appalled. It’s instead, the person that’s wearing it.
Because somehow, the eerie sketch of the model’s face that he had drawn years ago…
… somehow replicates your own face perfectly.
a/n: first jjk fic in forever! wowie it's been much too long... also if u need a refresher on who shigemo is, he's the guy with the ponytail that nanami pulled kekeke
10.2k is hefty i know but i couldn't help myself my bad lolol T_T currently just a test run of what i hope to be is a series that some may be interested in because clearly this barely scratches the surface of what i want to embed haha so please let me know how you like it so far :))
continuing, i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my craft, whether it be your first time or your hundredth! once more, likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!
More Posts from Ethereally-lyann and Others
🥵🥵🥵
⠀ 𝝑𝑒 ⠀⠀ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. your bestfriend, satoru, sends your cheating boyfriend a rather explicit video of the two of you as revenge.
tags. best friend!gojo satoru x female reader. smut, pwp. dōggy style. dirty talk. crēampie. reader gets called ‘pretty, angel, baby’. cheating. consensual fīlming. anon req.
“mmshiit, should’ve fucked you long time ago,” satoru hisses, his hips stuttering against the plump flesh of your ass. he’s unable to stop himself now that he’s got his pretty best friend underneath him—in a sinful position he has only had wet dreams of.
one moment you’re crying because of your cheating boyfriend and the next you’re getting your guts rearranged by your bestfriend who comforted you through it all.
your mascara stains satoru’s pillow, your drool doing the exact same. you’re acting like a total slut for his cock, mewling for him to give you more, to give it to you faster and harder. all of which is caught on tape.
“yeah? want more, baby?” satoru coos as he holds up your phone with one hand. his other one is gripping the side of your hip—keeping your ass perked up so he can continue hitting that right spot inside of your greedy cunt. the white-haired man snickers behind the camera, “c’mon—tell your boyfriend just how much y’ need your best friend’s cock.”
you know satoru’s filming himself hitting it from the back. it’s nasty, but it only serves to excite you. you know your ‘boyfriend’ will be enraged once he receives the erotic video from you. he’s never liked satoru neither, always preventing you two from meeting each other. which was a red flag by itself.
you’ll show that hypocritical bastard.
“need more, ‘toru, please—” you babble, your voice muffled by the pillow. your body jerks with each hard thrust. every move is made with precision, with the intention of pleasuring you until your insides remember the shape of his dick only, “fuckk, ‘tis too big.”
satoru grins smugly. you’re basically admitting that he’s way bigger than that excuse of a man you’re dating. his ego gets a huge boost and it shows when he drives his throbbing cock deeper into your tight cunt.
“awwh, i know, but i bet my sweet girl can take it,” your best friend encourages you through a raspy voice. the fact that he called you his ‘sweet girl’ drives you insane. your pussy squeezes around his cock in response.
satoru’s eyes nearly roll back from the way you’re gripping him. he moves his other hand around your hips until his fingertips find your clitoris. he over stimulates you until you’re crying of pleasure.
you end up clenching around his fat dick even more. it feels like you’re trying to snap his cock in half with how much you’re sucking him in. there’s not a chance of it slipping out of you.
satoru moans loudly without any shame, letting both you and your boyfriend - who’d watch the video later - know how much he enjoys pounding your cunt like it’s actually his; “y’re so fucking tight. you sure your boyfriend’s been fucking you?”
you feel embarrassed by how much you’re enjoying his dirty talk. satoru’s drilling his cock into you so well to the point that you’ve forgotten all about the intimacy you shared with your cheating boyfriend. it was nothing compared to how satoru is treating you right this moment.
the white-haired man continues, still not believing that he’s finally living out his dreams. your body is heaven to him. satoru can’t help but whimper at the feeling your pussy sucking him in so desperately, “feels like your pussy hasn’t had any dick in a good while.”
the way you’re basically screaming into the pillow is enough evidence to confirm that your boyfriend has never fucked you properly at all. that delicious arch of your back, that ass of yours bouncing back on his pelvis in circles. . . satoru just knows it.
you hiccup and try to speak. you know your boyfriend is going to see the video and that only drives you to be more vocal than you already are. you’re going to get revenge and you’re going to make it as painful as possible.
“y-yeah,” you agree with satoru’s words. your words are basically slurred—too cockdrunk to properly talk. you lift your head up for a second to breathe and continue your whiny babbling between moans, “he’s n-never fucked me as well as you—ngh!”
your voice is perfect. everything about you is. satoru isn’t sure if he’ll even last long like this. he wants to claim you as his girl already. he wants to thrust his cum as deep as he can inside of you so you’ll only think of him.
“poor, poor baby,” satoru pouts and rubs your ass gently as he watches it bounce back at him with every thrust. the view is hypnotising. he cannot grasp the fact that your boyfriend fumbled such an amazing girl like you, “it’s okay. i’ll make it up to ya, mhm? i’ll treat you like a real man would.”
you nod and whimper in agreement, which gives satoru the green light. you’re going to be his at the end of this session. he’s going to claim you as his—finally—after all those years.
you feel yourself start to tremble. you feel tingly all over and your moans are getting louder. the curve in satoru’s dick is making your mind go blank. it makes his tip hit the deepest spots inside you, the right spots. you’re desperately searching for that sweet release.
“aht, aht, angel,” satoru clicks his tongue whilst deepening the arch of your back. his fingers trace the shape of your spine, feeling you shiver from the touch as he pounds you silly. “hold it in, yeah? need you to cum for me when i do. wanna fill this cunt to the brim.”
you try to hold on the best you can. after a couple more thrusts, satoru’s breath turns shaky and his noises turn into whimpers—a sign that he’s on the edge, “fuck fuck fuck fuck! baby- ‘m gnna cum!”
you gasp and your body spasms and squirms as you reach your climax at the exact same time. you feel your cunt being flood with spurts of semen. it’s so much—as if satoru’s been storing all of it just for you.
“there there. such a good girl,” satoru sighs and pulls out of you after making sure that you’ve settled down. he takes his dick out as slowly as possible, pointing the camera right at the lewd sight. his entire length is coated with a mixture of your slick and his white cum.
you shiver at the feeling of being left empty. satoru soothes you by pushing his cum back into your pussy with two long fingers. he films the entire process, focusing on your stuffed hole for a few seconds before putting the phone up.
satoru points the back camera at the both of you, getting the entire view of the messy bed. he grins and puts a peace sign up—ending the video with a mocking yet cold smile that’s directed to the man who’s going to be watching this video soon, “should’ve treated her better.”
oh, your boyfriend is going to be fuming. deserved..
them eyelashes 😍
(-｡-;
guess who can’t draw hair 😻
I spent my one n only braincell to draw this :P
this is so beautiful 🥹
im very late for valentines day but heres a comic about confessing
if this isn’t the tru-est thing ive seen today then idk what is 🤧
Gege using his schlong whenever he draws sukuna
─ ✰ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒.
— synopsis: 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔, the popular guy in your class, chooses to sit next to you, of all people. you've fallen head over heels, what happens next?
— warnings: highschool au! angst, fluff in the beginning, will not be writing a part 2, swearing, gaslighting, betrayal, just a bet troupe, gojo being a dick or everybody generally, 3.4k words!
— a/n: not my proudest work to be honest :( also tried another formatting lmk if u liked it! comments and reblogs r very much appreciated i will love u forever
"yo. can i sit here?" gojo satoru grins, effortlessly sliding into the empty seat next to you and making himself at home.
...huh? isn't that the popular guy who's usually surrounded by his friends? he's constantly the subject of admiration among the girls in your class, eliciting swoons and whispers of infatuation wherever he goes. confusion creeps in as you wonder why he didn't choose the empty seat next to suguru. there's no conceivable reason for someone like gojo, popular and charismatic, to opt for the seat beside you. you feel a sense of self-consciousness settling in.
nevertheless, you nod softly, though you're well aware the question was more of a rhetorical one. he's fashionably late, by twenty minutes, to be precise, unabashedly ignoring the scolding glares from your teacher about punctuality. instead, he buries himself in the deep blue plastic seat, sticking his tongue out when the teacher turns his back, letting out a huffy pout from the lecture.
nervously, you glance up from your notebook, cautiously stealing a peek at your new desk buddy. he's pretty─ real pretty, snowy white lashes adorning his pretty cerulean spheres, dainty fingers idly spinning a pencil out of sheer boredom. and as if kissed by the blush of a gentle sunrise, his lips possess a natural rosy hue, smooth and plump, belong to him like a delicate work of art. you wonder just how many kisses they've stolen. caught in a moment of admiration, you find yourself staring a tad longer than socially acceptable.
his eyes flicker, locking onto yours, and the realization hits you—oh, he caught you staring. shit. immediately, you break eye contact as you cough awkwardly. you swiftly attempt to play it off, pretending as if you were engrossed in examining the intricate texture of your silver-grey desk instead. your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you hope he hasn't interpreted your lingering gaze as anything more than idle curiosity.
...should you say something? try to deny you were very clearly eye fucking him? he probably thinks you're a freak now. perhaps he sat next to you out of pity, and now he regrets it. out of sheer embarrassment, the words die in your mouth before they could ever leave, keeping your gaze glued to the floor as you refuse to acknowledge that his presence ever existed.
however, it appears that gojo won't let you suffer the embarrassment in peace. when your stern teacher turns away, he subtly slides a ripped edge of his blue-lined paper towards you, bearing a simple 'hi :)'. he's attempting a conversation, a surprising but welcome distraction from the awkwardness of being caught staring. an opportunity to salvage a bit of your dignity. now, the challenge lies in crafting a response that strikes the right balance.
would 'hey' sound too dry? but 'heyyyy' makes it seem like you're a little too interested. you opt for a casual 'heyy' with your black pen, scribbling the reply with extra caution to avoid prying eyes. as soon as the teacher is out of view, you subtly slip the note back to gojo. his lips curl into a slight smile upon reading your response.
two minutes pass by before you get a response. 'do you get this lesson? i'm soo lost..' accompanied by a small doodle of a crying suguru. you can't help but stifle a giggle; the drawing is poorly done, yet undeniably cute. the teacher swiftly turns around at the sound, prompting both of you to scramble and make it look like you're diligently focused on the lesson. the suspicious gaze lingers for a moment before the teacher returns to the whiteboard.
'maybe it's cause you missed like, half of the lesson.' you write back. he rolls his eyes playfully upon reading your retort, swiftly countering with a pout. "it's not my fault this class is so boring.'
'who said philosophy was supposed to be fun?' you reply. in response, gojo eagerly accepts the note, maintaining the subtle exchange of eye contact. 'hey, be nice to mr. aristotle, he's a great guy :(' he sends back. and thirty minutes seem to pass in the blink of an eye.
the bell chimes, signaling the end of the philosophy session and the need to transition to your next course. reluctantly, you stow your textbook in your bag, feeling a twinge of sadness at the realization that this amusing interaction might have been a one-time occurrence.
it's been a while since you've genuinely laughed. so when his ocean blue eyes latch onto yours with a genuine sense of hope, you quickly fold when he asks you if you're interested in sitting with him again tomorrow.
in those thirty short minutes, you learn three things about gojo satoru. firstly, you realize you've sorely misjudged him. he's not just another nepo-baby cheating his way through school; he's actually quite smart, smarter than he lets on. he's especially good in biochemistry, and he promises to help you study next time.
secondly, you discover that he loves sweets, just as you do. you both agree that kikufuku mochi is better than strawberry dango, and he even tells you about his favorite shop. maybe you can go together sometime.
and thirdly, he doesn't tell you this outright, but you learn that gojo is insecure. what strikes you the most is the glimpse of uncertainty you catch beneath his confident exterior. it's not about his looks or intelligence, but it's actually about his relationship with suguru. he's afraid to lose him, a fear that seems to drive him more than anything else. he overcompensates for his self-doubt. but you find that his flaws make him all the more pretty.
it's peculiar, the speed at which gojo somehow effortlessly integrates into your daily life. how he's feeling is how you're feeling, which is usually reflected on his friendship with suguru. if they had a fight, he'd be sad, and if everything was alright, he was too. but either way was okay with you, you just want to be there for him. what was once a dreaded fourth period now stands as the radiant highlight of your entire day.
despite the limited instances of verbal communication —perhaps a mere once or twice— the inexplicable truth remains: you've fallen head over heels for him. the simple act of passing notes with satoru becomes more than a routine; it evolves into the sole force that awakens you in the morning, the singular thought that propels you forward and keeps you going throughout the day.
and just maybe, the hopeless romantic within you fervently clings to the belief that his sentiments go beyond mere friendship. his actions seem to carry an extra layer of care, an attentiveness that extends beyond your platonic friendship. he notices the little things that escape the notice of others. it wasn't lost on him when you shed tears the other night due to the weight of stress; he went out of his way to procure your favorite candy bar, a sweet gesture aimed at brightening your spirits.
he took notice of your new haircut, expressing in a note that it frames your face nicely. he had comforted you when a classmate aimed a subtle insult your way, he wrote that the words of someone whose foundation didn't match their face shouldn't hold much weight. he even made an effort to be punctual for class, all to engage in the shared exchange of silly notes with you. and honestly, even if he didn't like you back, you'd be fine.
because your heart swells with gratefulness at the fact that he chose to sit with you. he wanted to be your friend even when nobody else did. you trusted and loved him with your whole heart, because that's what you believed he deserved.
so imagine your surprise when you overhear his conversation with suguru that day.
"just a day more, then you win the bet." geto groans, tossing his head back in exasperation. the two of them linger in the now-empty classroom, the echoes of other students long gone.
"yep, twenty four hours, then you owe me three hundred dollars." satoru sings, playfully nudging his best friend's shoulder. he's all sunshine and smiles, swinging his feet from the desk he's currently sitting on.
"and it wasn't even that hard. i just had to get 'em to fall for me." suguru rolls his eyes. "dude, if i was you, i would've tapped out the first week. how'd you manage to do it?" he huffs, clearly annoyed at the impending financial loss.
satoru mischievously grins. "just used my charm." he fluffs his hair with a smug expression on his face. "can't believe it worked so fast, though. they must be real desperate for someone's attention. all it took was for you to fuckin' pretend like you cared." suguru grouches, being a sore loser. you don't hear the rest, the notebook you had lost long forgotten.
a lump forms in your throat, a sensation of dread creeping up on you. you desperately want to believe he's not talking about you, but you can't shake the realization that to him, you were nothing more than a pawn in a bet— a tool used for his amusement. you're overwhelmed by a sense of stupidity, a painful realization sinking in, drowning every rational thought.
he never cared. you could fall dead at this moment and he wouldn't even spare you a glance. you should've known. why would he? you feel stupid for allowing him entry into your life, stupid for naively believing in his sincerity, and stupid for daring to love a heartless jerk who played with the fragile strings of your heart.
they're right. you are pathetic. you just blindly fell for the first person who gave, or rather, pretended to give a shit. a relentless ache throbs in your chest as you stubbornly refuse to succumb to tears over a boy— a resolution crumbling like fragile glass. despite your stubborn determination, an uncontrollable torrent of hot tears streams down your face, distorting the world into a watery blur.
the desperate yearning for someone to choose you, to envelop you in unconditional and pure love, had fueled your hopes. and for a fleeting moment, you believed you'd found it, only to witness your heart being ruthlessly trampled blue. clutching onto the tattered shreds of your dignity, half-broken and bleeding, you muster the strength to leave swiftly before they catch a glimpse of you.
the bitter taste of betrayal lingers in the air, each teardrop is a testament to the shattering of dreams, the dead hope that once soared. the yearning for a love that stands unwavering proves to be a mirage, leaving you grappling with the shards of a love that was never truly yours.
that day, you learn one more thing about gojo satoru. he's just like everybody else.
cerulean eyes, like pools of shimmering azure, flicker with concern as they scan the empty seat beside him. minutes stretch into eternity on the clock, each tick of the second hand amplifying the weight of his worry. nine twenty morphs into nine fifty pretty quickly, and he can't help but be a little annoyed. at this rate, you'll only get in twenty minutes of 'talking.'
you're always punctual—eight fifty-five on the dot. but today, the clock ticks on, and there's no sign of you anywhere. his brows furrow with concern, a nervous flutter dancing in his stomach. did something happen to you? the mere possibility sends a pang of anxiety through him, and he fidgets restlessly in his seat, unable to focus on the lesson before him.
yet, when his gaze shifts to meet suguru's, he swiftly masks his apprehension with an air of nonchalance, as if feigning indifference to your absence. but inwardly, his heart races as he anxiously awaits your arrival. when you finally walk in, he's already scribbling furiously on a piece of paper, filled with questions about what could have delayed you today. yet, as he extends his hand to pass you the note, his eager smile fades into confusion and disappointment.
you walk right past seat thirteen, your usual spot, without so much as a glance in his direction. instead, you approach a random girl and ask if you could sit with her. his heart sinks, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as a torrent of thoughts flood his mind. is something wrong? are you upset with him? he replays every interaction in his mind, searching for any misstep. but he can't find one. he's been careful to maintain the perfect facade when you're around. perhaps you simply forgot, he reasons with himself, attempting to quell the rising tide of hurt and confusion.
yes, that must be it.
...just a simple oversight.
"hey, hey, hey, hey, hey!! just wait a moment!!" gojo's voice cuts through the chatter of students eager to leave as soon as the bell rings. he grabs your wrist, his touch gentle yet firm, halting your attempt to blend into the rush. his heart races in his chest, the sudden surge of adrenaline making his palms clammy.
"um... you didn't sit with me today." he mumbles, the words coming out in a rush, his voice tinged with uncertainty. his fingers toy with the ring around his finger, his gaze fixed on the ground as he struggles to find the right words to continue the conversation. he doesn't like the way you're looking at him. there's a flicker of irritation in your gaze, a departure from the usual warmth and affection that he's grown accustomed to. normally, when his eyes meet yours, your cheeks tint pink, your pupils dilate, and you give him the cutest starry-eyed look. but not today.
"yeah," you mutter casually, your eyebrow raising ever so slightly. there's a certain coldness in your eyes that sends a shiver down his spine. you're about to leave again, but he moves to block the door, a frown creasing his forehead.
"did i do something wrong? i don't understand why you're suddenly acting so bitchy," he huffs, irritation lacing his voice. the words tumble out before he can stop them, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "no," you reply simply, your tone devoid of any emotion, as if you genuinely don't care. it stings his ego, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
"you can 'use your charm' to make a new friend. since it's so easy for you, right?" you mutter, your voice trembling with suppressed anger. you promised yourself you'd hold it together, but the wound is still raw, etched deep into your mind as a flush of resentment rises within his eyes widen in shock, a pang of guilt stabbing at his heart. you heard that? no, no, no... he hadn't meant for you to be there. he had been so careful, or so he thought.
"i didn't mean it, i just-" he stutters, desperately searching for an excuse, but he knows it's futile. there's no chance you'd believe him now, would you? his heart sinks. he doesn't want you to hate him. "i was easy, right?" you laugh bitterly, each word dripping with sarcasm and pain.
"i hope that three hundred dollars was worth it. not that you even needed it, though. you think toying with people is fun? you're a dick, satoru, go to fucking hell." you hiss, your words laced with venom, cutting through the air like a sharp blade. "let me explain-" he protests, desperation evident in his voice as he tries to reason with you. but you're too angry to even consider it.
"explain? explain what?'" you explode, your voice rising with each syllable, oblivious to the judgmental glances of passersby. you scoff, tears threatening to spill over.
"i didn't mean it," he cuts you off, his own voice strained with emotion. "you're my friend, i just—" his voice cracks. "friends don't manipulate other people's feelings." you interrupt, your voice laced with venom as you spit out each word. you're aware you look like a mess, mascara staining your cheeks. "friends don't trick and hurt you on purpose!" you yell, tongue dripping with malice. "and here's the thing. you may be the greatest, satoru, but you will never, be enough. not for suguru, not for anybody."
you almost regret saying it. targetting his biggest insecurity. but then again, he deserves it. "how could you say that?" his voice is broken, quiet, as he mumbles it out as a whisper. the eyes that you once found so stunning suddenly look just like everybody else's. they well with tears, but are quickly blinked away. "you don't get to cry, satoru," you scoff, unzipping your bag and opening the front pouch.
you toss all the letters you've written in class, all the sticky notes, every single ripped paper, every little doodle, flipping your bag over and emptying it on the floor. every single heart fluttering moment you experienced seems so dead now. "you don't get to act like you cared. it's only fair, after all." you manage to muster, fighting to keep your voice stable. tears drip down your chin as your bottom lip trembles.
every step feels like a battle, a relentless tug-of-war between what your heart wants and what your mind knows is right. leaving him behind is like tearing off a piece of your own soul, but you convince yourself it's for the better— for your own sanity, for your own self-respect. each stride forward is heavy with the weight of goodbye, each breath drawn in a struggle against the ache in your chest. and as you finally turn away, a part of you dies inside, a piece of your spirit crumbling in the wake of shattered trust and broken dreams. you can feel his eyes on your retreating figure, the silent witness to your silent agony.
this time he doesn't try to stop you. and when you leave, gojo finally allows himself to cry.
today, gojo finds himself seated next to suguru, reclaiming his former spot from before the bet. yet, everything feels different now. the idiotic jokes his friends make just aren't as funny anymore. their presence is irritating to him. he laughs, but the sound lacks the same genuine joy it once held with you. he smiles, but it's a mere shadow of the radiant expression he wore in your presence. his heart may feel a fleeting sense of happiness, but there will always be a hole where you once were.
his so-called 'buddies' don't even notice that he's at his lowest point, and he can't help but think about the way you would've noticed immediately.
how you would've sent him a cute note with his favourite candy attached, because you kept them in your bag just for him, for these kinds of days. he feels so numb. he's always been so confident, yet he can't even muster up the courage to pass by your desk.
and he can't help but wonder what might have been if he had chosen differently that day, if his intentions had been pure from the start. would you two have gotten somewhere? he supposes that now, he'll never know the answer. his eyes cloud over at that thought, slouching back down into his seat.
he never had the chance to tell you how sorry he was, how he would take it all back in an instant if he could. he didn't mean to hurt you. he was stupid and careless. and yet, he tries to convince himself that he'll be okay. that he'll be able to get over you one day. one day, when he's married and has two kids, he'll look back at this and laugh. so then why does his heart feel so heavy? you're not suguru, it's true. but suguru never made him feel this way. and he's confused with his own feelings.
he doesn't know what love is.
he's only sixteen.
perhaps he'll never know. but for him, love was sneaking kikifuku mochi into class for you to share. it was sending you cat memes at three am in the morning, only for you to groggily respond with your own. it was doodling you in his notebook in his spare time. it was how what you were feeling was how he was feeling too.
you were right, it seems.
gojo satoru, the greatest, yet not enough to make you stay.
© KAEFFEINEE 2024. do not copy, repost, or translate any of my works on any platform.
This hotd hyperfixation I have is going out of hand 🫠
Knight Aemond x Princess Reader mood board
Masterlist: The Hunt ; Night Off ; Neglectful Jealousy ; Devious Forgiveness
Your knight, Aemond, who was always by your side, no matter how much you tried to bribe him, he will not fall for it. He was always trailing you, refusing you to be out of sight, not because of duty but because he simply needed to be around you.
You knight, Aemond, who will always savor your scent whenever you are near him. Who would always find an excuse to touch your skin, may it be him offering his hand as you walked down the stairs or him wrapping his arms around your frame whenever the measliest of threats arose, disguising his passion as protection.
Your knight, Aemond, who would always stare down and intimidate any suitor of yours. Trailing closely behind as you tried to get to know them, always quick to go in between and meddle when he felt you were warming up with any lord or prince. Unable to stomach seeing you grow agreeable with your courtships.
Your knight, Aemond, who was always there the second you called for him. It does not matter if he has barely rested or eaten; the moment you send for him, he will be rushing down the castle halls, tending to your needs, no matter how insignificant or even frivolous they are.
Your knight, Aemond, who would always listen intently to your babbling. Nodding along as you tell him your encounters for the day though he already knew because he was always by your side. Occasionally indulging you with his silver-tongued quips as he would sometimes be the one to share with you the latest gossip in court.
Your knight, Aemond, who had been growing quite obvious with his affection for you. Sending you small tokens and flowers. He would often utilize the lie that the gifts were sent by an unnamed lord when, in reality, they all came from him.
Your knight Aemond, who knew fully well that yearning for you would make no difference because whatever love you two would have for each other would be a love that would be denied and could not be, for how could a knight ever deserve a princess?
Your knight, Aemond, who would settle to just being your sworn protector just as long as he had you near. Because as dreadful it was to see you be bound to another, nothing would compare to not having you near him; at those moments when he stood by your side, he indulged himself with a fantasy and pretended that you were his.
Sukuna is the type of husband who NEEDS to hold you when he sleeps.
Before he started being in a relationship with you Sukuna had trouble finding sleep in most nights, probably due to his bad working routine and messy habits that got fixed after you came into his life. And now he can't sleep unless his wife is safely wrapped in his arms.
You could be watching TV after a day at work and Sukuna will come home next probably tired as hell and in need of a nap. He is quick to wrap his arms around your hips and gently take you into his arms as he carries you to the shared bedroom, Despite your endless protests asking him to take a shower first,
"Kuna you stink, go take a shower first"
"Calling your husband stinky? You wound me darling"
"Sukuna please.."
"Fine then, but we shower together"
"But I just showered-
"Too bad brat"
When it's time for sleep, he patiently waits till you're done with your skincare routine. And if you take way too much time for some reason, like your friend calling you at the last minute to spill the hot gossips of the day Sukuna is there to remind you he's ready and set for his bedtime by scoffing loudly enough for you to hear. Petty man.
Taking a pee at night? Grabbing a late night snack because you're hungry? Those are impossible to do without waking Sukuna up. The moment you sit up in the bed, he's already awake, grumbling in his sleep and asking what the hell are you doing before pulling you back to his arms.
That one time you managed to sneak out of the bed without waking Sukuna up. You mentally praised yourself for the victory as you snuck in to the kitchen to eat the last piece of the chocolate cake. Before you can even take 3 bites you hear footsteps behind and when you turned to look, it's half awake and half asleep Sukuna with the blanket hanging by his hips like a toddler who ran out of their bedroom searching for their mom. He's scrutinizing his eyes at you, trying to figure out what the hell are you doing. Then he sees the chocolate cake and the icing around your lips and his face instantly takes a betrayed expression.
"Kuna-"
"So you left your husband, all alone, in this fucking cold weather just for chocolate cake?"
"We have a heater-"
"That's not the point, the point is how a chocolate cake worth more than your husband"
"okay now you're being dramatic"
"This is straight up gluttony"
"Sukuna!!"
It's gotten bad to the point where you can't even sleep one night away without feeling guilty because you know this man is wide awake and restless without you in the bed. Yet you wouldn't change a single thing. The way Sukuna's strong arms wrap around you, keeping you warm and safe while soft hum of his snores disappearing into the crook of your neck, it's everything you will ever need.
And you hope it never changes.
HE LOOKS LIKE A BUG NAD THATS SO CUTE
HE’S SUCH A CUTIE PATOOTIE HERE 🤧🥰
I love him sm :3
STUCK WITH YOU - GOJO SATORU
summary. Gojo Satoru—strongest, cockiest, and, according to him, the hottest man alive—bows to no one. Until you came along and suddenly, he’s on his knees.
word count. 10.6k (i..dont know)
content. mdni fem! reader, zombie apocalypse au, violence, blood, pet names, satoru is a certified tease, cute banter because we love that here, they're so down bad for each other, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), breeding, creampie, soft satoru <3
author's note. i miss my man
The sky had been burning when the world ended.
You were fifteen—just a kid with scraped knees and a heart too big for the horrors it was about to witness.
Sirens wailed through the streets, helicopters thundered above, and the sharp stench of smoke and decay clung to the air like death itself. One moment, your parents were urging you to run, voices trembling with fear. The next, everything shattered. A scream. Blood. The gurgled breath of something that wasn’t quite human anymore.
You had survived. Somehow. Alone.
But the cost of survival was everything.
-
The woods are silent, save for the crunch of your boots over frostbitten leaves. The moon hangs high above, pale and cold, casting everything in an unforgiving glow. You keep your knife gripped tight in one hand, the other cradling your growling stomach. It’s been three days since you last found anything remotely edible.
Every snap of a branch, every whisper of wind feels like a threat. Years alone have trained you to expect the worst.
Then you pause.
Smoke. Just a wisp of it in the air. You sniff again, slower this time. It's faint, but definitely there.
You move like a shadow, quiet and cautious, weaving through trees toward the scent. And then you see it:
A flickering campfire nestled in a hollow clearing, throwing gold and orange light onto the figures beside it. Two men. Asleep—at least, you hope they are. One is lying flat on the ground, the other propped against a log, limbs long and sprawled, a blindfold covering his eyes.
There’s food by the fire. Real food. Bread. Cans. Water.
You inch closer, heart hammering. It’s been years since you’ve seen other people. You don’t know if that makes this moment safer… or far more dangerous.
You creep into the circle of warmth, fingers itching toward the supplies. Just one thing. That’s all you need.
You barely breathe as you crouch beside the campfire, the heat brushing against your frozen skin like a long-forgotten comfort. Your fingers tremble as you reach for a loaf of bread—real bread—but just as your hand closes around it, your boot nudges something metallic.
CLANG.
The tin can hits the ground, and for a moment, silence swallows everything.
Then—movement.
You whip your head toward the two figures by the fire. One shoots upright in an instant, long-limbed and alarmingly fast. The other groans awake, slower, disoriented. You don’t even have time to run.
"Don't move," the taller one says—voice low, commanding. You meet his gaze and—holy hell.
Snow-white hair, cerulean eyes. He stands like someone who’s fought the world and won. His blindfold hangs around his neck, exposing everything. It's him—the one with the voice that makes your skin prickle and a face that doesn’t belong in this nightmare world.
"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step forward. "And here I thought we were the only pretty faces left."
You swallow, frozen. His companion grabs a weapon, steps forward too, more cautious.
"Who are you?" the second man demands.
The white-haired man’s eyes never leave yours. He smirks.
"She’s hungry. Look at her. Poor thing."
You clench your fists. You’ve survived too long to be pitied.
"Touch me and I swear to god—"
The man raises his hands, mockingly innocent.
"Easy, sweetheart. No one’s touching you… unless you want us to."
You scrunch up your face, disgusted and his grin widens just a little.
You lift your knife. “I don’t want trouble. I just need food.”
“I’d say knocking over our supplies in the middle of the night is kinda trouble,” the dark-haired one says. His hair is tied back, strands falling loose around his face, his grip on his weapon steady. “Who are you?”
You swallow thickly. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked you that. Your voice is hoarse. “Just someone trying to survive.”
The white-haired one takes a lazy step forward, hands raised in mock surrender.
“Chill, Suguru. She’s not here to kill us,” he says, and then turns back to you. “You got a name, mystery girl?”
You eye him warily. “…Why do you care?”
He grins. “Because mine’s Gojo Satoru. And this grumpy one is Suguru.”
Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell her our names, dumbass.”
But Gojo—Satoru, apparently—just shrugs, looking far too amused for someone who just woke up to a stranger trying to rob him.
Your fingers tighten on your knife. But something about him… those eyes… that voice…
“You really gonna stab the guy who might be your best chance at staying alive?” he asks, cocking his head. “Come sit. Eat. Or run. Up to you.”
Your stomach growls loudly.
Satoru grins wider. “That’s what I thought.”
You slowly lower your knife, but don’t put it away—not yet. Your eyes stay locked on them as you inch closer to the fire. The warmth should be a comfort, but your muscles are still taut, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.
Satoru sprawls back onto a log like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s still smiling—lazy, smug, like he’s enjoying this little show. Suguru doesn’t relax. He stays seated, but his eyes follow your every move, knife still held tight in his hand.
You kneel beside the fire, close enough to reach the food, far enough to lunge away if you need to. There’s a dented pot with some kind of stew, still warm, and a few pieces of bread wrapped in cloth.
“Help yourself,” Satoru says, waving a hand like he’s offering a royal feast. “We even warmed it up for you.”
You shoot him a glare but reach out cautiously, taking just a little. You sniff the stew first. Watch them.
“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Suguru says dryly.
“That’s what someone who poisoned it would say,” you mutter, tearing off a bite of bread.
Satoru snorts. “She’s got a mouth on her. I like her.”
You ignore that. Instead, you eat slowly, eyes flicking between them. They don’t move. Suguru keeps watch. Satoru lounges like this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.
“How long have you two been out here?” you ask finally.
“Long enough,” Suguru says, tone clipped.
"Too long," Satoru says, tossing a pebble into the fire like this is just another lazy night for him. "We move around, but we've got a base. Old prison, about twenty miles from here. You?"
You don’t answer right away.
“Alone,” you say after a beat. “I’ve been alone.”
The fire crackles between you.
Suguru’s gaze softens—just for a second. But Satoru’s smile stays.
“Well,” he says, stretching out his long legs, “you’re not alone anymore.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’m not staying.”
“Didn’t say you had to.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But something tells me you might not leave either.”
He’s not threatening. He’s just… certain.
You’re crouched by the fire, still tense, still not entirely trusting, when Satoru leans back on his hands, head tilted.
“You should come with us,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ll be safer.”
Your eyes flick to Suguru—he doesn’t hide the way his jaw clenches.
“She could be a liability,” Suguru mutters. “You don’t know her.”
“No,” Satoru agrees, grinning at you. “But I like her.”
Suguru sighs, deep and disapproving, but you see it—that soft flicker in his eyes that means he’s already given in.
Satoru turns back to you. “We’re heading out at first light. If you’re in, pack whatever you’ve got.”
You nod, hesitant. But, maybe… maybe this is the start of something.
-
A gentle nudge to your shoulder. Then a voice, light and annoyingly cheerful.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Big day today.”
You blink awake to Satoru crouching beside you, white hair a wild halo against the rising sun. He grins.
“You snore, by the way.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It was cute.”
You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Remind me why I agreed to come with you again?”
“Because I’m charming,” he beams. “Now come on. We've got a long way to go—and Suguru’s already in a mood.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he wouldn’t be if you stopped talking.”
“Ohhh, savage!” he clutches his chest, stumbling back like you just stabbed him. “You wound me, stranger.”
You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder. “Not a stranger anymore, remember? You practically adopted me last night.”
Satoru grins, falling into step beside you. “True. You’re my problem now.”
“Joy,” you mutter, but your lips twitch despite yourself.
Suguru’s already waiting up ahead, arms crossed, brow arched like he’s already tired of this nonsense. “You two done flirting or should I keep walking?”
You open your mouth to protest, but Satoru gets there first.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Suguru.”
“I will leave you in the woods,” Suguru replies flatly.
“You’d miss me in an hour.”
“You wish.”
You stifle a laugh and glance between the two. “Are you always like this?”
Satoru flashes you a grin. “Buckle up, sweetheart. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
-
The trek through the forest had been relatively quiet—birds rustled above, trees whispering overhead, and Satoru talking your ear off. But midway through the journey, something shifts.
Suguru’s head tilts first, eyes narrowing at the faint crunch in the distance. Not a squirrel. Not a rabbit.
You hear it next.
Low. Guttural.
A hiss.
Then another.
They come from the trees. Slow at first—one stumbles into view, then two, then more. Rotting limbs. Glazed-over eyes. That sickening gurgle of hunger.
“Aw, shit,” Satoru grins like it’s a party. “Looks like we’ve got company.”
Suguru already has his blade drawn, calm as ever. “Don’t play around, Satoru.”
“No promises.” He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with a sharp tilt. “Time to impress the new girl.”
The first zombie lunges—and Satoru moves. A blur of motion, too fast to follow. The undead’s head twists unnaturally before it even hits the ground.
Suguru moves more fluidly—clean, precise slashes. No theatrics. Just deadly efficiency. His blade slices through two more, not even a drop of blood on him.
But they just keep coming.
Your heart pounds in your ears. Adrenaline surges. You’d been careful to avoid confrontation all these years, but this is different. You're not alone anymore. And you won’t be dead weight.
You draw your blade—sharpened scrap metal turned makeshift machete—and steady your breath.
One charges. You duck, spin, and drive the blade clean through its skull. Another reaches for you. You kick it back hard, burying your weapon in its chest before pulling it free with a grunt.
Satoru whistles low. “Well damn.”
“Focus,” Suguru mutters, cutting another down.
You move together now, three separate forces of destruction.
Satoru’s grinning like a madman, whirling and laughing with every kill. “You seeing this? She’s got bite!”
Suguru flicks blood off his blade. “You could take a lesson from her.”
Zombies litter the ground within minutes. The forest falls silent again—except for your panting breaths.
Satoru walks over, brushing blood off his cheek. “Well, that was fun. You good?”
You nod, chest still heaving. “Peachy.”
“Okay, badass,” he says with a grin, then nudges your shoulder playfully. “I take it back. You’re not just some lost little stray. You’ve got some claws.”
Suguru simply gives you a once-over, silent approval in his gaze.
You sheath your blade. “Told you I could handle myself.”
Satoru grins wider. “Yeah, and it was hot.”
-
The journey's been long, your legs aching from the endless trek, your guard never once lowered—not even with Satoru’s ridiculous jokes or Suguru’s unnervingly sharp eyes on you.
But when the trees begin to thin and the rusted silhouette of a massive abandoned prison looms ahead—walls towering, fences lined with jagged barbed wire, and lookout towers standing tall like watchful sentinels—you feel something you haven't in years:
Hope.
Gojo stretches lazily, like the walk didn’t faze him at all. "Home sweet hellhole," he grins. "Bet you weren’t expecting this kind of palace."
Suguru doesn’t say much, just gestures for you to follow. The guards on the watchtower whistle low when they see the trio approaching, and the gates creak open. Inside, the prison yard is alive—people bustling, fires burning in steel barrels, children laughing (actual children), and survivors moving with purpose.
You're stunned. You didn’t think this kind of order still existed.
A kid runs up to Gojo. “Satoru! You’re back!”
“Obviously,” he winks, tossing his jacket at the kid. “Miss me?”
You stare, wide-eyed.
“You’re like… respected here?”
“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Gojo deadpans. “Stick with me, newbie. I’ll show you the ropes. Maybe even let you survive.”
Suguru glances back, quiet for a moment. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s safe, but it’s not paradise.”
Gojo leans closer to you as you're led through the gates.
“Don’t worry. If anything tries to eat you—aside from me—I’ll kill it.”
Your face burns and he just smirks like he’s got you all figured out.
“Aww, don’t get all shy, now. Where’d all that bite from earlier go?” he teases, voice low and entirely too smug.
You shove him with a scowl, cheeks still flaming. “Shut up, lecher.”
He stumbles back with a dramatic gasp, hand clutching his chest. “Lecher? Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.”
Suguru sighs ahead of you. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he’s not punched often enough.”
Gojo just throws an arm around your shoulders, unbothered and still grinning. “Admit it, you missed human interaction.”
You glare up at him. “I missed silence.”
“Too bad,” he chirps, “you’re stuck with me now.”
You follow Gojo through the looming gates of the old prison turned fortress, the creak of rusted metal echoing off cold concrete walls. The place is… intimidating, but secure. High fences, makeshift watchtowers, guards with weapons patrolling like hawks. Survivors glance your way—curious, cautious—but no one approaches just yet.
“Well,” Gojo grins, throwing his arms out dramatically, “welcome to paradise, sweetheart.”
You shoot him a glare, but before you can answer, a voice calls out.
“Don’t call new recruits that, Gojo.”
A tall woman leans against the infirmary doorway, cigarette dangling between her fingers, lab coat stained with faded blood. She looks you up and down, then flicks ash to the ground with a sigh.
“Ieiri Shoko. I’m the doctor over here,” she says. “You look like hell.”
“…Thanks?”
“She means ‘you’ll fit right in,’” Gojo says brightly, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got a warm heart under all that… nicotine.”
Before you can respond, another figure approaches—sharp, calculating, blond hair swept neatly back and a stern face that reads no nonsense allowed.
“Nanami Kento,” he introduces himself. “I hope you know how to follow rules.”
You stiffen slightly. “Depends on the rules.”
Gojo chuckles. “Play nice, Nanamin. She’s new.”
“And she’ll stay alive longer if she learns structure.”
You barely have time to absorb that before someone barrels into the conversation like a human golden retriever.
“Gojo-sensei! You’re back!”
A pink-haired young man skids to a stop beside you, eyes wide with excitement. “Whoa—new person?! Hi! I’m Itadori Yuji!”
You blink, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of energy.
“Yuji,” Gojo sighs fondly. “Tone it down a little, yeah? She’s been through it.”
Yuji’s smile softens. “Right, sorry. Still—welcome. You hungry? We’ve got canned peaches! They’re not that bad if you hold your breath.”
A scoff cuts through the chaos.
“That’s how you welcome someone? ‘Peaches if you hold your breath’?”
You turn to see a girl with sharp eyes, short auburn hair, and a confident stance stroll up like she owns the place.
“Kugisaki Nobara,” she says, hand on her hip. “Don’t let the dumb smiles fool you—Yuji’s annoying, but he’s not dangerous. Usually.”
Yuji pouts. “Rude.”
And last, from the shadows near the barracks, a low voice.
“Don’t overwhelm her.”
A tall boy steps forward, dark hair, brooding expression. Cold eyes meet yours briefly before shifting away like he’s already bored of this interaction.
“Fushiguro Megumi.”
You blink. “Nice to meet you… all.”
“You’ll get used to the chaos,” Nobara says. “Eventually.”
Gojo’s grin widens, like a proud dad watching his weird little family.
“See? Told you you’d like it here.”
You’re not sure yet. But for the first time in years, you’re not alone.
-
The base is a repurposed prison, all concrete walls and rusted bars, but the way Gojo walks its halls, it might as well be a palace.
“Welcome to paradise,” he grins, pushing open a barred door that creaks like it’s complaining. “Don’t let the charming décor fool you. The rats love it here.”
You roll your eyes but follow him in. He gestures with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Your very own cell—er, suite.”
The room is small, but clean. A bed shoved into one corner, a patched-up mattress, and even a chipped mirror on the wall. You nod, impressed despite yourself.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I gave you the one with a window. You can thank me later.”
You smirk and step back out into the hallway. “Trying to impress me, Gojo?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m a peacock in the apocalypse, baby.”
You laugh under your breath and follow him down a narrow hall. There’s a dip in the concrete, a crack in the floor you don’t notice until your boot catches—your heart jumps as you pitch forward, but Gojo’s arms are immediately around you.
Strong. Steady. Warm.
“Careful now,” he murmurs, voice all silk and smugness. “You fell for me already?”
You’re pressed against his chest, your breath caught in your throat, face heating up. He doesn’t move right away—his hands settle on your waist, casual and intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip.
You shove him off with a flustered glare. “Shut up, lecher.”
He grins, wide and infuriating. “That’s more like it.”
The rest of the tour is quieter. You pass rooms where others sleep, the mess hall, the infirmary where Shoko’s set up shop. You even glimpse Yuji hauling supplies with Nobara snapping at him in the distance.
But then Gojo stops in front of a heavy iron door—no windows, no markings. His face changes. The joking fades.
“Whatever you do,” he says, voice low, “don’t go into the commissary. Not alone. Not ever.”
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness.
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His blue eyes sharpen beneath his snowy lashes.
“Because even monsters like us keep our secrets somewhere,” he says softly. “And some doors are locked for a reason.”
You stare at him, heart knocking against your ribs.
Gojo Satoru, unshakable, untouchable… looking haunted?
Your skin prickles.
But he flashes you that lazy grin again, like nothing happened. “Now come on. You haven’t seen the courtyard. Yuji likes to wrestle people out there—it’s horrible. You’ll love it.”
And just like that, the moment passes… but the warning stays.
-
The rooftop’s quiet late at night.
The chaos of the base fades into a hush, just the distant hum of wind brushing over cracked cement and rusted fences. You lie back against the cool surface, arms behind your head, eyes fixed on the sky above. For once, it’s clear. A spatter of stars gleam like glass shards across a velvet sky.
You let yourself breathe.
No infected. No screaming. No fear.
Just the stars.
Footsteps approach—light, familiar, cocky.
“I knew you were a stargazer,” Gojo says, easing himself down beside you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got that dreamy, melancholic look. So poetic.”
You don’t look at him. “You’ve got that annoying, uninvited energy. So parasitic.”
He barks out a laugh. “Ow. You wound me, sweetheart.”
A beat passes. Then another.
You can feel him watching you, but for once, he doesn’t speak.
And somehow, that’s more unsettling.
“…You alright?” you ask, finally glancing his way.
He’s leaning back on his elbows, white hair messy from the wind, blue eyes locked on the stars—but they’re distant. Quiet. A far cry from their usual teasing glint.
“I’m heading out tomorrow,” he says casually. “Scouting mission. Few days tops.”
You blink. “Oh.”
Something flickers in your chest. It shouldn’t. Not like this.
“Oh,” you repeat, softer. “Right.”
A part of you wants to ask why he’s going. Another part wants to pretend it doesn’t matter. You settle for neither, chewing your lip, trying to ignore the weight settling in your gut.
Satoru glances at you then, his smirk lazy but his voice just a touch softer.
“Try not to miss me, yeah?”
You scoff. “I’ll throw a party the second you leave.”
“That’s what they all say,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer. “Then they realize how boring life is without me.”
His smile is all mischief—but behind it, there’s something warmer. Something real.
And for once… you don’t fire back. You just look at him.
Maybe you’ll miss him a little. Just a little.
-
You don’t expect his absence to linger. But it does.
You feel it in the small silences—the way the mess hall feels quieter without his dumb jokes echoing through it, how sparring sessions feel colder without him barging in with some smug, offhanded comment about your form.
At night, you find yourself back on the rooftop. The stars are still there, but they don’t sparkle like they used to. It’s stupid, you tell yourself, because what kind of person starts depending on a man like that?
He’s loud. He’s infuriating. He teases you relentlessly.
But… he saw you. When you thought no one ever would again.
Shoko notices the way you’ve been spacing out more. She doesn’t say anything until the third night.
“You okay?”
You nod. Too quickly. “Fine.”
She squints at you. “You’re not fine. You’re moping.”
“I’m not moping.”
She clicks her tongue. “Acting like someone’s girlfriend.”
You nearly knock your cup over. “I’m not—!”
But you don’t finish that sentence. Because the words feel too close to something you’ve been avoiding.
You try to bury it—tell yourself it’s just concern. You’re just… grateful. It’s not like that. You don’t miss his stupid smirk or the way he always stands too close just to fluster you. You don’t care about how his hair always looks so damn soft, or how his voice drops a little when he’s serious with you.
You don’t.
You don’t.
Then the whispers start.
“No signal from the scouting team.”
“They were supposed to be back by now.”
A cold chill snakes down your spine.
You start going to the gate more. Just to check. You pretend it’s coincidence.
It’s not.
You catch yourself gripping the straps of your bag harder than usual. You’ve never hated waiting so much in your life.
Until one evening—
The gates finally creak open.
Your breath catches in your throat as the guards call out a name. Several figures walk through the archway, dust and blood clinging to their clothes.
And there he is.
White hair, blue eyes. One sleeve ripped off, a gash on his collarbone, dried blood staining his neck—but he’s alive.
“Satoru,” you whisper, already walking forward.
His eyes find yours instantly. That grin pulls at his lips like it never left.
“Aww, did you miss me?”
You don’t answer. You just hit his shoulder. “Idiot.”
But then your hands linger, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling him into a tight hug.
He stiffens, just for a second. Then his arms slide around you, strong and warm.
“Try not to cry too hard,” he mutters, voice light—but there’s something tight beneath it.
“I hate you,” you mumble into his shirt.
“Sure you do,” he chuckles, and when you pull back, his smile softens.
You don’t know what this feeling is. Or maybe you do. You just don’t want to name it yet.
But you know this: You’re glad he came back.
And for now, that’s enough.
-
You wander the halls of the prison alone, the hum of fluorescent lights above your head flickering inconsistently. Satoru had taken the kids out back for training, and with nothing to do and no one to bother you, you figured you’d finally explore the rest of the base.
The place was massive—too massive. Each cell block looked like the next, corridors looping endlessly into each other until your curiosity outweighs your sense of direction. One door, rusted and slightly ajar, catches your eye.
You should’ve turned around.
You push it open.
Inside is dark, dusty. Shelves line the walls, broken crates and old rations tossed everywhere. You wander deeper, hesitant but unaware. That is…until it hits.
The smell.
Rotting flesh, stagnant air, the thick, unmistakable stench of death.
And then—movement.
Shuffling. A low groan. Shadows twitch. A hand smacks against a shelf and knocks it over with a crash.
They're here.
Your eyes snap wide and panic sets in instantly. There are so many.
You run.
You shove a metal shelf in their path, throw an old stool, anything you can get your hands on to slow them down. Your breaths are shallow, desperate. But just as you near the exit—
Your ankle gives out.
A sick snap, searing pain, and you crash to the floor with a cry. You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the wall, using your good leg to kick anything that comes close.
This is it. This is it.
You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding.
Gunshots.
The sound like thunder crashing right next to your ear.
You blink up, barely processing the white blur tearing through the undead like paper.
“I told you not to go in here!” he shouts, voice slicing through the chaos.
“Satoru—!”
The zombies turn just in time for Satoru to drive his fist into the nearest one’s chest, cracking bone and sending it flying back into the others like bowling pins.
“Seriously?” he growls, stepping in front of you, his broad back shielding your crumpled form. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”
One lunges from the side. Gojo ducks effortlessly, grabs it by the throat, and slams it into the ground so hard its skull splits open on impact. Another claws at his shoulder, but he just grabs its wrist, twists, and kicks out its knee in one brutal motion. It collapses, and he doesn’t even look as he drives a sharp piece of wood through its head.
And then—you're in his arms. Just like that.
Lifted effortlessly, pressed against his chest as he strides out of the hellhole.
You cling to him, trembling.
“I didn’t know it was the commissary,” you whisper between sobs. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I just—God, I’m so sorry, Gojo, I—”
His voice is low, firm, but gentle. “Hey. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
You look up at him, lip quivering. “I—I made you worry…”
“Yeah, you did,” he says with a wry little smirk, but his eyes are too soft, too relieved to match it. “Don’t ever do that again, got it?”
You nod.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Because if I lost you... I’d have to kill the rest of the world just for pissing me off.”
Your breath hitches.
You stare up at him, heart pounding, face flushed from more than just the sprint for your life.
“W-What kind of psycho logic is that?” you mutter, trying to deflect, your voice barely steady.
Satoru smirks down at you, still holding you effortlessly in his arms like you weigh nothing. “C’mon, don’t act so surprised. I’m dramatic, haven’t you noticed?”
“You’re insane,” you whisper, trying not to combust under his gaze.
“And you’re blushing,” he points out smugly, nose nearly brushing yours. “Kinda cute, actually.”
You twist in his hold, hiding your face against his shoulder. “Shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Can’t. Teasing you is the only thing keeping me sane these days.”
You can feel the tension slipping away, replaced by something heavier, warmer. He lowers you gently onto a nearby bench just outside the danger zone, kneeling before you like it’s second nature, hands skimming your calves as he examines your ankle again.
When he looks up this time, his expression is different. Less playful. More raw.
“I meant it, you know,” he says quietly. “You scared the hell out of me in there.”
You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” he cuts in, hand brushing yours. “But next time, brat, wait for me. No solo adventures.”
Your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a brat now?”
“Borrowing the title. Think I earned it after saving your ass.”
You huff a laugh, cheeks still warm. “…Thanks.”
His grin softens. “Anytime.”
And just like that, you both sit there—his fingers still wrapped gently around your hand, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your knuckles—as the adrenaline fades and something else takes its place. Something quieter. Heavier. Charged.
-
Satoru insists on carrying you the whole way to the infirmary, ignoring your every protest.
“This is unnecessary,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder to avoid every curious glance.
“You twisted your ankle and almost got mauled. Humor me,” he says, smug but gentle, like the two can coexist in him with ease.
He kicks open the infirmary door with his foot.
“Delivery for one idiot who wandered into a no-go zone,” he calls out casually.
Shoko looks up from her desk, raising a brow at the sight of you both. “Well, well. If it isn’t the base’s golden boy and his damsel in distress.”
“I wasn’t distressed,” you blurt out instantly, wiggling in Gojo’s hold.
“Oh?” she hums, amused. “You sure? Because I could’ve sworn I heard ‘Gojo! Help!’ from all the way down the hall.”
You splutter. “That’s not— I mean—”
“Loudly,” she adds with a pointed smirk.
Satoru just laughs and sets you down on one of the cots, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary on your back before stepping aside.
“She’s fine. Just the ankle,” he says. “But maybe check if she sprained anything else. She fell pretty hard.”
Shoko moves closer, completely ignoring the medical part for now, because she’s too focused on watching the both of you squirm.
“Ohhh,” she teases, eyes sparkling. “Look at the two of you. Cute. Almost like a couple.”
You and Satoru freeze at the exact same time.
“Nope!” “Not a couple!” “Definitely not!”
You shoot each other a panicked glance and then immediately look away, flustered messes in stereo.
Shoko snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
You glare. “Can we just focus on my ankle now?”
“Fine, fine,” she drawls, clearly enjoying herself. “Just sayin’. Wouldn’t be the worst match. You get saved, he gets to play hero. Very fairytale.”
“I hate all of this,” you mutter under your breath, while Satoru just smiles to himself, unbothered but definitely pleased.
When Shoko starts wrapping your ankle, he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching.
And you swear you see it—that tiny, knowing glint in his eyes.
Like he wants her to say it again.
Because maybe, just maybe… he doesn’t mind the idea.
-
It’s later that night when there’s a knock at your door. You’ve barely had time to settle in, still awkwardly hobbling around on one foot with your bandaged ankle.
“Who is it?” you call.
“It’s your favorite,” comes the unmistakable voice from the other side.
You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know Nanami suddenly got chatty.”
A muffled chuckle. “Ha. Hilarious. Open up.”
You limp to the door and unlock it. Satoru is standing there, a little disheveled, hands full.
“Brought you dinner,” he says casually, holding out a tray with two mismatched bowls, steam still curling from the soup. “Figured you might be tired of Shoko’s painkillers and snark.”
You blink, caught off guard. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says dramatically, stepping in without being invited. “That’s what makes me so noble.”
You laugh despite yourself, and he grins like that was the goal all along. He sets the tray down on your little desk, then gestures toward your bed.
“Come on, sit. Can’t have you falling over again. One near-death experience per day is my limit.”
You sit, trying not to look too charmed when he settles next to you—close, but not too close—just enough for your knees to brush.
“I still feel terrible about earlier,” you say after a moment, poking at the edge of your bowl. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“You didn’t worry me,” he says too quickly, too nonchalantly.
You glance up. “Liar.”
He sighs and leans back on his hands, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Fine. Maybe I panicked a little. Sue me.”
A silence lingers, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.
Then, softer: “Don’t do that again, okay?”
You look at him, really look at him—the shadows under his eyes, the slight dip in his brow, the way his voice softens when it’s just you and him.
And something in your chest stirs. Something that’s been creeping in, slow and steady, ever since he offered you food by a fire that first night.
You nod. “I won’t.”
He glances over, catches your gaze—and doesn’t look away this time.
There’s something unspoken passing between you. Familiar. Intense. Safe.
“You’re really something, y’know that?” he murmurs.
You raise a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
He smirks. “Depends. You gonna fall harder for me if it is?”
You flush instantly. “Satoru—”
He laughs and nudges your bowl toward you. “Eat before it gets cold, princess.”
You grumble under your breath but dig in.
And Satoru?
He watches you with that same lopsided grin, heart doing something stupid in his chest.
Because yeah—maybe you fell.
But maybe he’s been falling, too.
-
It’s past midnight when you stir.
The pain in your ankle has dulled to a throb, but it isn’t what wakes you. It’s… something else. A presence. Warm. Close.
You blink against the low glow of the hallway light seeping under your door, and when your eyes adjust—
You see him.
Satoru.
Slouched in the chair by your bed, long legs awkwardly folded, head tipped to the side, snowy hair falling across his face in soft, messy tufts. His mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and even. His arms are crossed, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there.
Like he was just keeping watch.
Just in case.
Your heart does a little flip.
You shift quietly, trying not to make a sound. But even with all your care, the mattress creaks—barely. His eyes snap open immediately, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. Pure instinct.
Then he sees you. And relaxes.
“Oh,” he breathes, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re awake.”
You sit up slowly. “Were you… here all night?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Not all night. Just since… y’know. Evening.”
You squint at him. “Satoru.”
He sighs. “Fine. Yeah. All night.”
You stare at him. “Why?”
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t wander off again and get yourself eaten.”
You frown. “You should’ve slept in your room.”
He smirks. “What, and miss out on babysitting you?”
You chuck a pillow at him.
He catches it easily and grins. But when he sees you holding his gaze, that grin softens.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admits, quieter now.
Something gentle settles in your chest. You pull your blanket up and scoot slightly to the side.
“…There’s space. If you’re tired.”
He blinks at you. “Are you asking me to cuddle, orrrr…”
You glare. “I’m offering you a more comfortable sleeping arrangement.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
He slides in beside you carefully, so carefully, like you’ll break if he jostles you too much. And then you feel the warmth of him next to you, his presence steady and solid and safe.
“…This okay?” he murmurs, his voice a whisper in the dark.
You nod.
And slowly, slowly, you feel his fingers brush yours under the blanket. He doesn't hold your hand—not yet. Just touches.
Testing the waters.
You don’t pull away.
And in the silence that follows, you hear his breathing even out again.
But yours?
Yours is all over the place.
-
Morning sunlight filters through the barred window, casting soft stripes across your face.
You're warm. So warm.
Your cheek is pressed against something solid. Something that rises and falls gently beneath you. And there’s a hand resting at the small of your back, pulling you closer, keeping you there.
Your heart skips.
Your eyes blink open—and there he is.
Gojo Satoru. Asleep. Face relaxed and serene, messy white hair haloed in gold light. His other arm is curled under your pillow, supporting your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And you're lying on top of him.
Your breath catches in your throat.
You should move. You need to move.
But just as you're about to untangle yourself—
Click.
The door creaks open.
You freeze.
“Oh my god,” comes Shoko’s voice, casual, amused, and way too smug. “Well, well—what do we have here?”
You nearly leap out of bed, scrambling to sit up—only for your body to protest painfully, and you wince with a hiss.
Satoru wakes with a start, blinking up at Shoko in confusion before slowly realizing the position you're in.
“Oh,” he says blankly. “Morning, doc.”
You swat his shoulder. “Say something useful?!”
Shoko just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like she’s discovered the world’s juiciest secret. “No no, don’t let me interrupt. I was just checking on the patient, but clearly, she’s in very good hands.”
You’re burning. “It’s not what it looks like!”
Shoko raises a brow. “Oh, so you weren’t cuddled up like two lovebirds all night? Should I tell Nanami you’ve finally found someone willing to put up with your nonsense, Satoru?”
He stretches lazily and pulls the blanket back over himself with a smirk. “Actually, yeah. Tell him. Maybe then he’ll finally stop lecturing me about responsibility.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”
Shoko chuckles, walking away. “Nope. I’m telling everyone.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
Silence.
You glare at Satoru through your fingers. “This is your fault.”
He grins. “You offered me a spot on the bed, your majesty.”
You shove a pillow at him. He catches it—again.
And then he smiles, soft and teasing, voice still a little raspy from sleep.
“...So. Want me to sleep over again tonight?”
“Get out.”
-
The first few days are rough.
You try to walk without limping. Try to reach for things on your own. Try not to feel like a burden.
But then there’s him.
You wake up to warm food at your bedside, Satoru leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. “Brought you breakfast in bed, sweetheart. Don’t get used to it—I’m not always this nice.”
He very much is.
He offers his arm without asking when you need support. Doesn’t mention it when you wince or grit your teeth. Just lets you lean on him, like you’ve always belonged there.
You try to carry something heavy across the hall—he appears out of nowhere, snatching it from your hands. “Tsk. You trying to die or what?”
You try to help in the kitchen. He catches you wobbling and swoops in with a hand around your waist. “Whoa there, Bambi. What happened to ‘taking it easy’?”
You try to sneak off to explore the base again. He corners you in the hallway with a look that says absolutely not. “You’re still healing, brat. Unless you want me to carry you everywhere again?”
Cue your entire face combusting.
He’s annoying. Cocky. Ridiculously persistent.
But…
He adjusts your blanket when you’re asleep on the couch. Tucks a water bottle by your side without saying anything. Teaches you how to balance properly on one foot so your ankle can recover without straining the other.
And at night, when you think everyone’s asleep, you catch him checking on you—quietly, carefully. Making sure you’re okay.
You pretend not to notice.
But your heart notices. It notices everything.
-
You stand in the middle of your room, shifting your weight onto your healed ankle, then back again. No pain. No tightness. Just a deep breath and the quiet realization:
You’re better. Finally.
The door creaks open without warning—because Satoru never knocks—and in he strolls with his usual swagger and two mugs in hand. “Morning, sweetheart. Brought you—"
He stops in his tracks.
You’re standing. Not limping. Not clutching the edge of the bed for balance.
Just… standing.
He squints, slowly lowering one mug. “...Why aren’t you in bed?”
You raise a brow. “Because I’m not dying?”
“Oh no. Absolutely not.” He sets the mugs down and points a very offended finger at you. “You don’t just get to get better without warning me. I was emotionally invested in this arc.”
You laugh. “Sorry to ruin your Florence Nightingale fantasy.”
“Ruin? Excuse you, I was thriving. Who’s gonna let me spoon-feed you now?”
You roll your eyes, limping toward him just to mess with him. “I could pretend, if it makes you feel better.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He walks over before you can say anything else—his hands hover, cautious at first, then one slides to your waist. “You really okay?”
You nod. “I’m good. Really.”
Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then he grins. “Alright. Guess that means I can stop being your personal nurse and go back to being your favorite nuisance.”
You’re smiling. He’s back to teasing. But there’s a softness in his eyes that lingers a little too long, a thumb that brushes your hip before falling away.
He missed taking care of you.
And maybe, just maybe, you kind of miss being taken care of.
-
You’re jogging laps around the edge of the prison yard, the early morning chill nipping at your cheeks. It’s peaceful—quiet enough that your footsteps and the rhythmic beat of your breath are the only sounds you hear.
Until a familiar voice breaks through the silence.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite brat, back in action.”
You slow down, a smirk tugging at your lips as you turn toward the voice—and promptly choke on air.
Satoru.
Stretching.
Shirtless.
His snowy hair tousled from whatever ungodly workout he’s been doing, sweat gleaming on the hard lines of his chest and abs like the universe conspired to craft a Renaissance painting just to spite you. His sweats hang low on his hips, revealing that infuriating V-line that should not be legal in a post-apocalyptic society.
You blink. Once. Twice.
He grins, catching the way your eyes are very not subtly stuck on him.
“Like what you see?”
You scowl, instantly turning your gaze to a very fascinating patch of dirt on the ground. “Please. I’ve seen better.”
“Mmhm.” He takes a deliberate step forward, arms crossing over his annoyingly perfect chest. “Name one.”
“...”
“That’s what I thought.”
You huff and start jogging again, forcing your eyes to stay forward. But then he jogs up beside you—shirtless and smug, of course—and easily matches your pace.
“You sure you’re fully healed? What if you, I dunno… trip and fall again?” he says, tone mockingly sweet. “Need me to catch you, princess?”
“I’d rather faceplant into a zombie.”
He laughs, low and lazy. “I dunno, that sounds painful. Better to land on something soft. Like me.”
You glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he nudges you playfully with his elbow, “you’re still jogging next to me. Who’s really winning here?”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. But deep down, you know.
He’s definitely winning.
-
After the jog, Satoru insists you “cool down” with some light sparring. You roll your eyes, but follow him to the training mats anyway. He’s already bouncing on his heels when you step in front of him, still shirtless, still smug.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to break you again.”
“I’m more worried about bruising your ego,” you shoot back, taking your stance.
He whistles low. “Feisty. I like it.”
The sparring begins—light jabs, easy dodges. You’re nimble, focused, but he is... effortless. Every time you swipe at him, he ducks with a grin. When you go in for a kick, he sidesteps and lets out an exaggerated yawn.
“You done yet, sweetheart?” he asks, still dancing around you. “At this rate, I could do this blindfolded.”
“Shut up and hold still!” you lunge at him again—this time faster, bolder—but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and spins you around so fast the world tilts. Before you know it—
You’re pinned.
Back hits the wall. His hand holds your wrists above your head, other arm braced beside you. His body is dangerously close, breath fanning your cheek. His tone shifts, deeper. Rougher.
“You keep mouthing off like that,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming, “I might start thinking you want me to put you in your place.”
Your breath catches. “I—”
“Hmm?” he leans in, lips ghosting your jaw. “No witty comeback now?”
You try to move, but his grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that this isn’t a game anymore.
“I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “and there’s nothing you could do about it.”
Your heart hammers in your chest. “You wouldn’t.”
He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Wanna bet?”
Your breathing is shallow, heat rising to your cheeks. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the way his chest brushes against yours with every breath, the sharp glint in his eye, the smirk that’s far too smug for your sanity.
And then—
His lips graze your neck. Barely there. A soft brush of heat against your skin. You flinch—not out of fear, but from the jolt that shoots down your spine. Goosebumps bloom instantly. His breath tickles your skin.
“Sensitive,” he hums, lips ghosting up toward your jaw, “...cute.”
“Satoru—” you whisper, voice barely audible.
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze drops to your lips, heavy and unblinking. And he leans in, slower this time, like he wants you to feel the anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat—
And then—
“AM I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING?”
You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.
Satoru spins around with a groan, still caging you against the wall. “Shoko. Seriously?”
She stands a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow cocked and a wicked smirk playing at her lips. “Wow. Could cut the tension with a scalpel. Should I come back later or just pass you a condom now?”
“Shoko,” you squeak, face on fire, squirming to escape Gojo’s hold.
He lets you go reluctantly, chuckling under his breath. “You wish you caught the good part.”
“I did catch the part where your face was buried in her neck like a starving vampire,” Shoko deadpans.
You bury your face in your hands.
Satoru just laughs. “You jealous?”
“Please. I'd rather not watch my coworkers dry hump in public,” she says, already turning on her heel. “Anyway. You two lovebirds done? I need one of you to help with supplies.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo waves her off. Then he glances back at you, still all flushed and flustered, and leans down one last time to whisper in your ear:
“To be continued, princess.”
And just like that, he strolls off like nothing happened.
You're left against the wall, heart pounding, neck tingling, completely and utterly undone.
-
It’s quiet for once.
Most of the clan is out on a supply run or patrolling the perimeter. You’d offered to stay behind, helping Shoko reorganize her medical supplies before wandering off with a basket of laundry—warm clothes folded under your arm as you pace the empty corridors of the prison, barefoot, relaxed.
You finally set the basket down in the communal quarters, humming under your breath while sorting through what belongs to who. It’s… peaceful. The late afternoon sun slants in through the high windows, bathing everything in warm light.
Until—
“Picking up where we left off?”
You jolt, nearly dropping the shirt in your hands.
Gojo.
Leaning against the doorframe, casual as ever, sleeves pushed up, hair a bit messy like he just woke from a nap. His eyes are glinting beneath the lazy droop of his lashes, and that smirk—that godforsaken smirk—is unmistakable.
He saunters in before you can get a word in.
“Geez, you sneak up on people like a damn ghost,” you mumble, cheeks already burning as you turn back to the laundry.
“Aw, don’t be shy now,” he teases, coming closer. “You weren’t so shy when I had you pinned against the wall.”
You stiffen. “You got interrupted. Big difference.”
“Oh? So you wanted me to kiss you?”
You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already behind you, arms slipping around your waist—loosely at first, giving you a chance to push him away.
You don’t.
“I was thinking about you,” he murmurs against your ear. “All damn day. Thought I’d come see how you were holding up without me.”
“I was fine,” you huff, but it’s so breathless it betrays you instantly.
He chuckles. “That right?”
His hands glide up your sides, slow and sure, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just admit it—you missed me.”
You turn in his arms, glaring—but it’s weak at best. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Maybe,” he leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping, “but I still remember how fast your heart was beating last time.”
You swallow.
And this time? There’s no Shoko to walk in. No patrols due back. No reason to stop.
You hesitate for a beat.
And then you pull him in by the collar.
The kiss is feral. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. Weeks—months—of tension snapping all at once. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing.
“Fuck—” he groans against your lips. “You’ve been killing me, y’know that?”
You wrap your legs around his waist and tug him closer. “Good.”
He pulls back, grinning. “Oh, you wanna play it like that?”
You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging that maddening tongue of his down your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, your thighs, sliding under your shirt like he owns you.
Which, at this point, maybe he does.
“Tell me to stop,” he pants, hovering over your lips again. “Tell me now, and I will.”
You look him dead in the eyes, tug his shirt over his head, and whisper:
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
Your back hits the nearest wall with a muffled gasp, Satoru’s mouth already on yours, hungry and hot. His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing it with touch alone, fingers tugging at fabric with a frustrated groan.
“Off,” he growls into the kiss, already pulling your shirt over your head like it's offended him. He sets you down to pull your pants down along with your panties. And the moment you’re bare before him, he stands back, breath catching in his throat. His eyes—icy blue and blown wide with lust—roam your figure, landing on your chest like he’s just been given the meaning of life.
“…Can I motorboat your tits?”
You blink.
You laugh, startled and breathless. “Are you—are you serious right now?”
His lips curve into a wolfish grin, and he’s already surging forward to kiss you again. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles between kisses. “I don’t think I can wait to taste you now.”
You arch a brow, teasing, breath catching when he trails his mouth down your jaw. “Next time?”
He chuckles, low and dark. “You think I’m letting you off the hook after this?” His hands slide down your waist, thumbs stroking your hips. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m gonna ruin you.”
Then he sinks to his knees.
The grin fades into something hungrier, more reverent as he kisses the inside of your thigh, dragging his teeth gently across soft skin. “Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice a whisper but firm. And when you do, he groans like he’s just tasted something forbidden.
You cry out the second his tongue touches you, hands flying to grip his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to. It’s slow, torturous—his pace deliberate as he works you open, devouring like a man starved. His moans vibrate against your skin, and when your legs tremble, he just pins them open wider, groaning, “That’s it… let me hear you, baby.”
Your back arches as Satoru licks another slow, devastating stripe up your core, tongue curling at your entrance before he moves to suck gently on your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but his arms loop under your knees, spreading you wider, holding you open like he owns you.
“You're not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes flicking up, glazed over with lust and something dangerous. “Told you. I’m gonna ruin you.”
Then he’s back at it—slower this time, tongue flattening against you, then circling, dragging soft groans out of you as the tension coils tight in your belly. He eats you out like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, savoring every movement, every moan he draws. He alternates between deep, dragging strokes and sharp, teasing flicks, lips closing around your clit to suck just hard enough to make your breath hitch.
You cry out, hips bucking up into his mouth, and he growls—low and throaty—as if turned on by how wrecked you already are.
"Fuck—so sweet," he groans, voice muffled against you. “Could stay down here all night.”
And he means it. He shifts slightly, tongue plunging into you now, slow and shallow, nose nudging your clit as he drinks in every sound you make like it fuels him. Every little tremble, every whimper—he devours it.
He doesn’t stop. Not when you start trembling, not when you whine his name in warning. He keeps going, lips slick and relentless, until—
Your vision whites out. Your body tightens, back bowing, mouth falling open on a silent scream as you fall over the edge, pleasure shattering through you like a storm.
Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening. He breathes hard, eyes dark and blown, grinning like he just won a war.
“That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He stands up again to pick you up, carrying you to the nearby table, settling you on it, completely bare under the low light, legs parted slightly, chest heaving. You’re flushed, trembling—not from fear, but anticipation. Nerves. Heat. It’s all crashing together in your head, and he sees it.
His hands move to his waistband, fingers curling beneath the fabric of his pants. He tugs them down with practiced ease, freeing himself—and your breath catches.
Your eyes drift down instinctively, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He’s big. Thick, flushed, already hard and aching.
Your pulse stutters, nerves flickering to the surface. “Oh…”
“Hey,” he says gently, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay?”
You hesitate, biting your lip. “It’s just… I’ve never done this before.”
Satoru freezes for a moment. His expression doesn’t shift much—but his eyes, bright and blue, soften in an instant.
“…You haven’t?” he asks quietly, tone a stark contrast to the sinful smirk he wore earlier. You shake your head.
He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, patient, loving.
“Well, fuck,” he murmurs against your lips. “Now I really have to behave.”
You blink up at him. “You? Behave?”
He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “Okay, maybe not completely. But I’ll go slow. Make it good for you. You trust me, right?”
You nod.
“Good.” His voice drops a little. “Then let me take care of you, yeah?”
He’s gentle—so gentle it almost breaks you. His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, to your chest. He pauses there, kissing over your breasts, fingers caressing your sides as though you might disappear if he’s not careful.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes. “Gonna remember this forever.”
When he finally lines himself up, he doesn’t rush. He keeps kissing you, whispering into your skin.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “Nice and easy, baby. Just relax.”
The stretch burns, but his voice never leaves you. His hands never stop moving—stroking your sides, brushing your hair from your face, thumbing away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So tight, fuck—squeezing me like you were made for me.”
Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut.
“Look at me,” he says softly, “I wanna see your face.”
You meet his eyes—blown wide with emotion, affection, reverence. And that’s when he starts to move. Slowly, so slowly you can feel everything. Every drag, every pull.
“Feels good?” he asks, and when you nod, he smiles like you’ve just handed him the universe.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, picking up pace just a little. “Takin’ me so well, sweetheart. My pretty girl, lettin’ me be her first.”
You moan—part embarrassment, part bliss—and he kisses the sound from your mouth.
“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this before,” he mutters against your skin. “But I’m glad. Glad it’s me. Glad I get to show you.”
He starts rolling his hips deeper, each thrust slow and purposeful, coaxing pleasure out of you bit by bit.
“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
You’re already gasping—your body burning, overstimulated from the build-up and the way he moves inside you. Every drag of him is a stretch, a delicious ache, and you’re trying so hard to keep up, to breathe, to hold yourself together—but it’s too much.
And then it hits.
Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave—louder, sharper, more intense than the last—and your body tightens instinctively, your walls fluttering around him like they don’t want to let him go.
“Fuck—” Satoru’s voice breaks, a guttural groan tumbling from his throat as he stills, trembling above you. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby…”
His grip tightens on your waist, jaw clenched as he tries to hold back—but you’re squeezing him so tight, so perfect, and his restraint shatters.
“You’re killin’ me,” he grits out, starting to move again—deeper, slower, more intentional—but there’s an edge of desperation now. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “Feels so good—fuck, I don’t wanna hurt you.”
You shake your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, barely able to form the words. “Please…”
He kisses you hard—like he can’t help himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. So, so good…”
“‘Toru-” you whimper.
That breaks him.
He groans, slamming into you harder, mouth finding your neck as he nips and kisses down to your collarbone. “Fuck. Say it again.”
You whimper again, brain hazy. “‘Toru…”
He kisses you slow then, deeper. Rough pace never faltering, but his hands gentler now—one wrapping around your waist, the other brushing the hair from your face.
“Mine,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re mine now, yeah?”
You nod desperately, legs locking around his hips. “Yours.”
“Damn right,” he grits, driving into you harder, chasing both your highs with everything he has.
The overstimulation has tears stinging your eyes, your legs trembling, voice catching on every moan. And when that next orgasm builds too fast, too hard—it snaps through you like a live wire. Your body arches off the table, clamping down around him again—
—and Satoru snaps.
“Shit—take it, baby. Let me fill you up, yeah? Gonna make you mine, fuck, you already are—look at you...” he chokes out, thrusting deep one last time before he comes, spilling into you with a long, breathless groan. His arms wrap around you as if to anchor himself, holding you so close, like he needs to feel every inch of you, inside and out.
“Look at you,” he murmurs between pants, pressing kisses across your face. “Takin’ me so well… You’re mine now, yeah? All mine.”
You nod, dazed and boneless, wrapped in his warmth.
And he stays like that, inside you, forehead resting against yours as he murmurs soft, reverent praises—like this wasn’t just your first time.
Like it was everything.
Your body’s still trembling—nerves fried, skin flushed, heart thudding against your chest as if it’s trying to burst free. You’re barely aware of anything except the warm, strong arms pulling you into a careful embrace, the kiss he presses to your temple like it’s the most sacred thing he could ever do.
“Hey…” Satoru murmurs, voice all honey and rasp, rough around the edges but impossibly gentle. “You okay?”
You nod, chest rising and falling against his, cheeks still hot, but there’s a smile on your lips.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just… wow.”
He laughs softly, the sound low and breathy as his fingers brush along your spine in lazy, soothing strokes. “You were incredible,” he says, and he means it. Every word. “So good for me. So perfect.”
Your face scrunches with a flustered noise, burying it into his shoulder. “Stop…”
“Never,” he grins, nosing into your hair. “You don’t get to be all pretty and sweet and make those sounds and expect me to stay quiet about it.”
You groan. “Satoru—”
“Shhh.”
His palm rests on your back as he holds you close, thumb drawing lazy circles. You can still feel the dull, pleasant ache of him inside you, the heat he left behind. His breath is warm against your cheek. Safe. Comforting.
“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. “First time and you still managed to rock my fucking world.”
Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t just the sex,” you say quietly.
He stills for half a second—and then he smiles, soft and genuine.
“I know,” he whispers.
You’re still breathless, body flushed and boneless in his arms when Satoru gathers you close, lips pressed gently to your temple. The air between you is warm, quiet save for the distant hum of life around the base. He shifts a little, glancing down at the table beneath you both, and you catch that flicker in his eyes—guilt, soft and creeping.
“I should’ve…” he starts, voice low, almost sheepish. “Shit, I should’ve taken you somewhere better. A bed, a blanket, something that wasn’t a hardass table. It was your first time and I just—” He pauses, brows pinching like the regret’s eating at him now. “I got selfish.”
You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” you whisper, leaning in until your lips ghost over his, shutting him up with a kiss so soft, so full of emotion it makes his heart stutter.
When you pull back, your smile is small but sure. “It was more than okay. Because it was with you.”
Satoru blinks, breath caught in his throat. And for once, the man with a mouth like a wildfire doesn’t have anything to say.
Until he pulls you tighter into his chest and mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
You just grin into his skin. “Guess we’ll go down together then.”
Then silence. Not awkward, not tense—just full of warmth. Full of everything. His arms around you. Your fingers laced with his.
You don’t say it. Not yet. But maybe one day soon.
For now, the way he holds you like you’re something to be cherished?
It’s more than enough.
author's note. finally have time to post consistently! last month or two were BUSY so couldn't do much </3 i'm proud of how this one turned out ^^ also, shoko is such a baddie i love her
i log off then come back to this??? this is amazing
was astral projecting for a week but now I’m fine (for the meantime)
I was today years old when I found out how it’s faster to work with colors ♥️
might fix his arms, might forget abt this altogether
might have early stages of dementia 🫶🏻☺️
-
szguruu reblogged this · 3 weeks ago -
szguruu liked this · 3 weeks ago
-
maboiisuga liked this · 1 month ago -
vixyyvix liked this · 3 months ago -
leonkennedysfavourite liked this · 4 months ago -
vibrate-higherr liked this · 4 months ago -
flwrsinwind liked this · 4 months ago -
l0stiny0ureyes liked this · 4 months ago -
ncitygreen liked this · 4 months ago -
yoomkm liked this · 4 months ago -
cheriepits liked this · 4 months ago -
ineednanami liked this · 4 months ago -
windsweptclover liked this · 4 months ago -
cheralith reblogged this · 4 months ago -
shynaia liked this · 4 months ago -
lukehemmigs36 liked this · 4 months ago -
thetwinkims reblogged this · 4 months ago -
thetwinkims liked this · 4 months ago
-
ziggy0stardust liked this · 4 months ago -
aemiliabruno liked this · 4 months ago -
lina2356 liked this · 4 months ago -
kill-your-darling274 liked this · 4 months ago -
moon-mumu-moon liked this · 4 months ago -
sage309 liked this · 4 months ago -
holy-08 liked this · 4 months ago -
fortunatelyfurrygiver liked this · 4 months ago -
darkened-writer liked this · 4 months ago -
tinselangel liked this · 4 months ago -
inu-usagi liked this · 4 months ago -
loserleo liked this · 4 months ago -
flwerie reblogged this · 4 months ago -
kabukikitty reblogged this · 4 months ago -
kabukikitty liked this · 4 months ago
-
rafitapr0 liked this · 4 months ago -
hibiscusandhoneytea liked this · 4 months ago -
storyteller-evvie liked this · 4 months ago -
moonz33 liked this · 4 months ago -
hereforthe-thrill liked this · 4 months ago -
tbhgriffin liked this · 4 months ago -
nino-98 liked this · 4 months ago -
naviaberries liked this · 4 months ago -
commanderchopper liked this · 4 months ago -
pwret liked this · 4 months ago -
stinkinstuffie liked this · 4 months ago -
jxnyi liked this · 4 months ago -
mzxiti liked this · 4 months ago -
kyungjunnies reblogged this · 4 months ago -
satoruwun liked this · 4 months ago -
rotteneyess liked this · 4 months ago -
tinyfancykitty liked this · 4 months ago
