.𖥔 COGNITIVE DISSONANCE ⭑.ᐟ⸻ Nerdjo

told the nerd to film it and he exported inside me instead!

pairing — tech nerd!gojo x fem reader

synopsis : you crushed on him for months, watched him dodge every advance like you were malware. so you dressed up a little, played a little dumber—and now he’s got you spread out in pixels and moaning in surround sound. worst part? you kinda want him to do it again.

tags/cw — masturbation, degradation, praise kink, dacryphilia, marking, overstimulation, explicit language, filming, voyeurism, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, obsession, lingerie, virgin weeb satoru, questionable but effective way of seducing ur crush. 13k wc, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : plz don't nitpick about how a fashion vlog shouldn't be like that bc that's the point. toru doesn't know the difference because all he watches is 2d girls

the compressor’s peaking again.

satoru squints at the waveform, drags the threshold down two decibels, then listens back to the same three-second clip of voiceover for the tenth time. it’s a podcast intro, some wannabe influencer droning about mindfulness. he doesn’t care. he’s just here to make it sound less like it was recorded in a bathroom.

“sounds like shit,” he mutters, even though it’s clean. crisp. perfectly balanced.

it doesn’t feel right. nothing ever does. he tweaks the bitrate, checks the export codec, wonders if he should build a custom ffmpeg preset. maybe write a quick script to batch clean all future files—something to shave off a few milliseconds of his life. his fingers hover over the keyboard, itching for efficiency, for control.

ping.

discord overlay glows in the corner of his ultrawide monitor, a neon-green intrusion on his meticulously organized desktop. he freezes. the notification pulses like a heartbeat.

you.

he stares at it, lets it sit there like it’s radioactive. doesn’t even remember keeping you added. your username—something stupid with a heart emoji—feels like a splinter under his skin. he should’ve purged his contacts months ago, but here you are, slipping through the cracks of his digital fortress.

hey. remember when u edited our project? can u help me trim some vids pls…

his jaw tightens. of course you’d ask now, at 2 a.m., when he’s neck-deep in audio plugins and caffeine. his fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to dismiss you.

“no,” he types, then erases it.

“what kind of vids,” he tries, but deletes that too. too eager. too curious.

after a solid twenty-five seconds of overthinking, he finally sends:

i guess. send what you have.

he leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. his room is a cave of glowing screens and scattered energy drink cans, the hum of his overclocked pc the only sound besides his own shallow breathing. he shouldn’t care. you’re just another art student, another distraction. but his pulse betrays him, thudding a little too hard in his throat.

flashback.exe

he hated group projects. despised them. a bunch of useless art students in overpriced streetwear, trying to make films with no understanding of pacing or continuity.

they’d fumble with premiere pro like it was rocket science, leaving him to clean up their shaky cuts and mismatched audio tracks. he always ended up doing 90% of the work, and he preferred it that way. control was his god, and he worshipped it.

but you were different.

not better. just... a different kind of stupid.

you showed up late to the editing suite, glitter pens spilling out of your bag, heart stickers plastered on your water bottle like a middle schooler’s diary. you called the lav mic a “weird nipple thing” and giggled when he glared at you. once, you spilled your lip gloss on the soundboard, leaving a sticky pink smear he had to scrub off with isopropyl alcohol. another time, you asked if uploading to drive made your data heavier, and he almost threw you out.

but.

you let him do whatever he wanted.

you didn’t hover or micromanage. you just sat there, cross-legged on a swivel chair, watching him cut scenes like it was magic. you leaned over his shoulder, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath, your wide eyes reflecting the glow of the timeline.

“whoa... you made it feel like a real movie,” you whispered, like he’d just parted the red sea.

you smelled like something artificial. strawberries, maybe, or some overpriced body mist from a mall kiosk. your hair was always tied with a ribbon—pink, blue, sometimes yellow, always obnoxiously bright.

he didn’t care.

he told himself he didn’t.

but he remembered. every fucking detail.

the zip file lands in his downloads with an obnoxious ka-chunk, snapping him out of the memory. he doesn’t rush. just opens it like it’s any other favor, like his heart isn’t clawing at his ribcage. the folder name stares back at him: “pls help <3”

typical.

he clicks it open, expecting shaky iphone clips of cafes and shopping hauls. maybe some cringe tiktok dance you think is cute. he’s ready to hate it, to scoff at your lack of framing or shitty lighting.

but then—

you appear on screen.

not just appear. you perform.

you’re biting your lip, laughing into the lens like it’s your lover. wearing something stupidly short—a skirt that barely qualifies as fabric, hugging your thighs like it’s painted on. you spin around in front of your mirror, the camera catching every angle, every curve, like you’re being filmed for someone else. someone who’d appreciate it.

you pose. cock your head. giggle. the sound is loud, breathy, smiling when you speak. “do you think this is too short?” you ask, tugging the hem of your skirt, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

he blinks.

backs the video up three seconds.

watches again.

your laugh echoes through his headphones, a little distorted, a little too close. he pretends he’s checking the audio, tells himself it’s for sync, that he’s just doing his job. but his eyes are glued to the screen, to the way your skirt rides up as you twirl, to the flash of skin that makes his breath catch.

he watches again.

his mouth is dry, his tongue heavy against his teeth. your skirt flips up higher this time, and you gasp—like you’re surprised, like you didn’t mean to show that much. but you don’t stop filming. don’t cover up. just... laugh, a sound that curls around his spine and sinks into his gut.

he doesn’t even realize his hand is moving until it’s there, slipping under the waistband of his sweatpants. his fingers brush against himself, and he hisses, the contact sharp and sudden. he’s already half-hard, his body betraying him before his brain can catch up. the room feels too warm, the hum of his pc too loud, but he doesn’t care. he can’t care.

he rewinds the clip again, pauses on the frame where you’re mid-spin, your skirt flared just enough to show the curve of your ass. his hand wraps around his cock, slow at first, tentative, like he’s testing how far he’ll let himself go. the texture of his own skin is rough, familiar, but it’s not enough. not when it’s you on the screen, laughing like you know he’s watching, like you’re daring him to lose control.

he strokes himself, a tight, deliberate rhythm, his thumb brushing over the tip where he’s already leaking. the sensation jolts him, makes his hips twitch in the chair.

he imagines it’s your hand, your fingers—small, soft, probably clumsy, but eager. he pictures you kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those wide eyes, your lips parted like they are in the video, glossy and pink and begging to be kissed. or more.

the video plays on. you’re bending over now, adjusting your hair in the mirror, your skirt riding up to expose the thin strip of your underwear. he groans, low and guttural, his hand moving faster.

the sound of your voice—teasing, playful—fills his headphones, and he closes his eyes for a moment, letting it wash over him. “do you think this is too short?” you say again, and he wants to answer, wants to growl that it’s perfect, that you’re perfect, that he’d rip it off you if he could.

his grip tightens, his strokes growing erratic. he’s not gentle with himself—never is. it’s all pressure and friction, chasing the edge as fast as he can.

his free hand fumbles with the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back to the moment you gasp, to the split-second flash of your thighs. he loops it, the clip stuttering in time with his breathing, with the slick sound of his hand working himself over. his cock throbs, hot and heavy, and he imagines it’s you—your warmth, your wetness, the way you’d probably whimper if he touched you like this.

he’s close. too close.

his vision blurs at the edges, his pulse hammering in his ears. he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be jerking off to your stupid video like some desperate creep, but the shame only makes it worse, makes it sharper.

he pictures you catching him, walking in right now, seeing him with his pants down and his hand on his dick. would you laugh? would you blush? would you get on your knees and—

he comes with a choked gasp, his hips bucking up into his hand. it’s messy, spilling over his fingers, onto the hem of his shirt. his chest heaves, his head tilting back against the chair as the aftershocks ripple through him. your laugh loops in his headphones, oblivious to the wreck he’s become.

it’s filthy. it’s desperate.

ten minutes later, he’s cleaned himself up, his hands steady again as he trims the file like a good little editor. he cuts out the shaky parts, stabilizes the footage, adjusts the audio so your voice doesn’t clip. it’s clinical now, professional, like he didn’t just fall apart to the sight of you. he names it something sterile: “vlog_cut_1.mov.”

he exports it twice. once normally, for you. once... not. the second version is raw, unedited, every twirl and giggle preserved in crisp 4k. it gets copied to a different folder, buried in a directory labeled “shader_study_2022.” he tells himself it’s in case you need a re-edit. a backup. that’s all.

when you text back:

thank u!! lol i owe uuu :3

he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. his heart’s still racing, a faint tremor in his fingers.

he types “anytime :)” and erases it. sends:

np.

what he doesn’t say: he rewatched the part where you bend over six times. he had his dick in his hand by the second loop. he renamed the close-up to “test_render_asscloseup.mov” and hid it behind three layers of subfolders.

he doesn’t even like tiktok girls.

he’s into 2d, girls with big swords and bigger tits, drawn in sharp lines and impossible proportions. he once bought a dakimakura because the shipping came with a free pin, and it’s still shoved in his closet, one corner stained from a late-night mistake. real girls are messy, unpredictable, too much work. but now?

he’s thinking about the way your laugh dipped when you turned around, the way it caught in your throat like you were nervous. the way you looked into the lens like you knew someone was watching.

someone like him.

next day, you walk in like a fucking weapon.

pink fuzzy shrug, low-rise jeans that sit dangerously low on your hips, a sliver of stomach peeking out like it’s 2004. your hair’s up in a ribbon—pink, of course, swaying as you move. you’re all glitter and confidence, a walking distraction in a lecture hall full of tired students and flickering projectors.

he scoffs under his breath. “tacky.”

but his heart’s pounding, a traitor in his chest. his fingers twitch against the edge of his laptop, betraying the calm he’s trying to project. you slide into the seat two rows ahead and twist around, grinning like a cat, like you know something he doesn’t.

your eyes catch his for a split second, bright and teasing, and he forces himself to look away.

he opens his laptop, types random garbage into a terminal window—some half-baked python script he doesn’t even care about. he runs a fake compile just to feel busy, to drown out the way his blood is rushing too fast.

you lean over to whisper to the girl next to you, your laugh spilling out, loud and careless. your hair tosses, and he swears he catches the scent of your perfume drifting past in invisible waves. saccharine, overwhelming, like strawberries dipped in sugar syrup.

his brain short-circuits. he snaps his headphones on, the cord tangling in his haste. not to listen to music. not to block you out.

to replay your giggle.

he’d isolated the audio last night, cleaned it up with a high-pass filter, boosted the mids to make it crystal clear. exported it as a high-quality .wav, tucked it into a folder labeled “audio_ref.” he tells himself it’s for study, just good reference for future projects. but he loops it now, the sound of your laugh layered over faint lo-fi static he added for texture. it’s you, distilled into a three-second clip, filling his skull.

he closes his eyes and pretends you’re saying his name. satoru, you giggle, breathy and soft, like you’re leaning over his shoulder again, watching him work. satoru, you made it feel so real.

the lecture drones on, but he’s not listening. he’s lost in the rhythm of your voice, the way it dips and rises, the way it makes his skin feel too tight. he shifts in his seat, adjusts his hoodie, tries to ignore the heat pooling in his gut. he’s not supposed to want this. not supposed to want you.

but he does.

the thing about addiction is that it never announces itself.

no dramatic thunderclap. no internal monologue screaming, ah yes, now i am a pervert. it’s quiet. insidious. it sinks in like static, crackling at the edges of satoru’s brain until he’s not sure where his old self ends and this new, wretched version begins.

it’s not like he’s not already a pervert who gets off from pixels. this simply wasn’t his brand of perversion.

that night, he stayed up longer than he should’ve. stared at code for so long his ide crashed, the screen flickering to black as if it knew he was wasting his time. not that he got anything done. 

he just kept switching tabs—your final cut in vlc, some useless bash script in vscode he pretended to care about, then back to your video, the timeline frozen on that twirl, that gasp. his fingers shook when he closed the laptop, but sleep never came.

and now it’s the next day. mid-afternoon. the sun is doing that thing where it turns his apartment into a blinding box of heat and regret. his ac hums like an old man, wheezing against the sticky air. he’s sprawled in his chair, one leg slung over the armrest, staring at the ceiling fan like it might tell him how to stop.

ping.

another discord notification. he doesn’t even flinch this time. your username glows, and the filename attached makes his stomach do a weird little roll: “try-on2_raw.mov”. his eyes linger on the heart emoji you’ve tacked onto the message, like it’s a personal invitation.

hiii! ty for the last edit, ur a lifesaver <3 can u check and trim this one too? i’m trying smth new but idk if it works… lmk what u think pls!!

he clicks download. no hesitation. doesn’t even pretend to care anymore.

the file loads into his editing software like second nature, the premiere pro interface blooming across his screen. muscle memory. routine.

he’s done this a hundred times—except never like this, never with his pulse hammering in his throat and his mouth already dry.

the video starts the same way as the last—handheld, messy lighting, your voice trailing in from offscreen as you fiddle with the camera angle. no mic, of course not. just raw cam audio, unpolished, real, every breath and rustle amplified. he leans closer, like proximity to the screen will make it less dangerous.

“okay—wait, hold on,” you mutter, slightly out of breath. there’s a plastic rustle, fabric scraping skin, the light jingle of a zipper. he catches the sound of your nails tapping the digicam accidentally, a faint clack-clack that makes him picture your fingers, probably painted some ridiculous color, fumbling in that endearing way you do. 

“ugh… come on…” your voice drops, a frustrated huff, low and throaty. “mm—sorry! this one’s hard to pull up.”

then—zipper slides. metal on fabric, slow and deliberate, like it’s teasing him on purpose. you let out a sigh, long, slow, just a little too satisfied, like you’re savoring the release of pressure. the sound coils in his gut, tight and hot.

he freezes.

his mouse stays hovering over the playhead, the cursor trembling slightly. blood is already rushing south, his sweatpants tightening in a way he can’t ignore. his breath catches, shallow and sharp, and the worst part?

you giggle.

“probably got the wrong size,” you say, tugging the dress up higher. the hem catches on your thighs, rising indecently, the fabric clinging to your skin like it’s reluctant to let go. “don’t tell anyone i didn’t try it on in-store first.”

he swallows nothing. jaw tight. the room suddenly feels suffocating, the ac’s hum drowned out by the thud of his own pulse. your lip catches between your teeth, a flash of white against pink gloss, and the camera catches that too, lingers on it like it knows what it’s doing.

you glance at the lens, eyes half-lidded, like you’re waiting for approval, like you’re asking him directly—do you like this?

satoru’s fingers twitch.

one hand stays on the mouse, scrubbing the timeline back three seconds to hear that sigh again. the other hand moves before he can stop it, slipping under his waistband, brushing against the heat of his skin. he’s already hard, achingly so, the kind of hard that makes his head swim.

he wraps his fingers around himself, slow at first, testing, like he’s not sure he’s really doing this again. but the sound of your voice—breathy, teasing—loops in his headphones, and he’s gone.

he strokes himself, deliberate and tight, his grip almost punishing. the video plays on, and you’re stepping into frame now, the dress half-zipped, hugging your curves in a way that makes his throat burn. your thighs shift as you adjust the hem, and he imagines them under his hands, soft and warm, parting just for him.

his thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he groans, low and broken, the sound swallowed by the hum of his pc. he pictures your fingers instead, clumsy but eager, your nails grazing his skin as you try to keep up with his rhythm.

he’d guide you, show you how he likes it—fast, rough, no mercy.

you sigh again, and he speeds up, his hand moving in time with the rise and fall of your voice. “this one’s kinda tight,” you murmur, tugging at the neckline, and the fabric stretches, exposing the swell of your chest.

he wants to rip it off, wants to hear you gasp for real, not for the camera but for him. his strokes grow erratic, desperate, the slick sound of his hand filling the room, obscene and unstoppable.

he scrubs the timeline back again, pauses on the frame where your dress slips, where your underwear peeks out—a thin, lacy thing that makes his vision blur. he imagines pulling it aside, imagines the heat of you, the way you’d whimper if he pressed himself inside.

he’s close, too close, his hips twitching up into his hand. the video loops your giggle, that satisfied sigh, and he’s drowning in it, in you.

he pictures you catching him like this, walking into his apartment right now, seeing him with his pants down and his cock in his hand, flushed and leaking. would you laugh? would you blush? would you drop to your knees and let him finish on your lips, glossy and perfect and—

he comes with a muted groan, his head tipping back, eyes screwed shut as his release spills over his fingers, hot and messy. his breath shakes, a ragged exhale that leaves him hollow. the aftershocks pulse through him, and he slumps in his chair, the video still playing, your voice oblivious to the wreckage you’ve caused.

he pauses the frame. your mouth is mid-word, forming the shape of “oops,” lips parted just enough to make his chest ache. he wipes his hand on a paper towel from his desk, crumpled and stained from earlier sins. doesn’t look at himself. doesn’t think.

exports the file without touching a thing. names it “final_edit.mov.” then saves another copy, the raw footage, every sigh and rustle preserved. he names it “jesusfuckingchrist.mp4” and buries it in a folder labeled “misc_ref.”

he tries to normalize it.

“it’s just grading,” he mutters the next time he opens the project, the lie sour on his tongue. “just adjusting white balance.” but the playback bar hasn’t moved from your thighs. he doesn’t touch the colors. not really.

he zooms in under the excuse of checking “grain smoothing,” but it’s just your lip, caught between your teeth, your breath clipped at the edges like you’re holding back.

he tells himself he’s just learning.

every artist has their muse, right? except now he edits to your audio. he used to play podcasts, background noise to keep his brain from spiraling.

now? your breathing is layered into the timeline, a track he’s labeled “vox_ref.” he loops your laugh in reverse, lets it pan from left to right like it’s some surround sound experience.

“this is practice,” he whispers, dragging eq curves around nonsense, boosting the highs until your voice is sharp and intimate. “i’m experimenting with filters.”

right. filters. filters until your voice sounds like it’s right by his ear, like you’re whispering in bed, your breath warm against his skin. he plays a clip of you saying “do you like this one?” over and over, the words detached from context.

he doesn’t even care what you’re referring to anymore. he’s got that part memorized, the way your voice dips, soft and unsure, like you’re asking him to love you.

the next class is worse.

you walk past him in that fuzzy pink shrug thing, one sleeve slipping off your shoulder, and it’s like a bomb goes off in his chest. the fabric clings to you, soft and teasing, and he wants to grab it, pull it down, see how much skin you’ll let him have.

you lean down to plug your charger in, your jeans riding low—too low, the kind of low that makes him wonder how they’re even allowed on campus. he catches a glimpse of your underwear, a flash of lace, and his brain whites out.

he glares at his laptop, scoffs under his breath. “that outfit’s… desperate.” the word feels like a blade, sharp and mean, but it’s all he’s got to keep you at a distance.

your head tilts, innocent, eyes wide like you’re genuinely curious. “you think so?” you say it like you mean it, like you don’t already know the answer, like you haven’t watched your own footage and seen what he’s seen.

he shrugs, keeps scowling, doesn’t look at you. his fingers grip the edge of his laptop too hard, knuckles white. behind the screen, he’s got a paused frame of you licking lip gloss off your thumb, minimized in the corner. it’s been open since he got here.

his file structure is disintegrating. he used to name things with logic—timestamps, project codes, version numbers. now his desktop looks like a manifesto, a digital shrine to his unraveling. “vlog_tryon_final.mov.” “edit_3alt.mp4.” “fuckmeagain_laughcut.mov.” there’s a folder called “NOT work (unless)” that he doesn’t even open anymore, too afraid of what he’ll find.

he tries to draw a line, but it’s blurry. always blurry. he doesn’t know where the edit ends and obsession begins. when he dreams, he dreams about zippers—except they’re not zipzers. they’re your legs, parting slow and deliberate, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer.

a new text lights up his screen:

 hey! idk if the last one looks good… should i redo it? it felt kinda awkward lol sorry T_T

you sound insecure, unsure, your words dripping with that self-conscious charm that makes his chest hurt. he stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the keyboard, his mind spiraling.

you don’t know, do you? you don’t know what you’re doing to him, how your voice alone is enough to make him hard again.

he types:

looks clean. don’t worry about it.

satoru watches the word clean sit there like a fucking lie. his dick twitches, traitor that it is.

he hates himself.

but he opens the raw file again. scrubs through, frame by frame, until he finds that timestamp—where you moan, soft and accidental, like you didn’t mean to let it slip. he watches it, his headphones sealing him in with the sound of you. he exports that single second, names it “moan_finalgodhelpme.mp4,” and tucks it away like a secret he’ll never confess.

the timeline sits open, your frozen frame staring back at him. he doesn’t close it. doesn’t want to.

it starts with static in his skull.

not the loud, electric kind that chokes you up or begs to be noticed. it’s quiet. a whir, like an old fan that never shuts off, humming behind his thoughts. when satoru drags his mouse across the screen and sees your name still on the folder, it buzzes—faint, familiar, a sickness with your scent.

he changes the name from “NOT work (unless)” to “ARCHIVE_21,” moves it to a different directory, pretends it’s work, or dead, or both. but the static doesn’t stop. it clings, sticky and warm, like your laugh looping in his headphones.

it doesn’t help.

not when he dreams in highlighter gloss and those half-bitten whines you make when stretching, your body arching just so. not when he wakes up rutting into damp sheets, mouthing your name like a damn prayer, his hips jerking against nothing. the shame burns, but it’s not enough to make him stop.

satoru’s trying.

really.

he takes up freelance gigs, edits wedding footage for some guy he hasn’t spoken to since second year. overlays cheesy filters, mutes the groom’s ugly laugh, syncs the vows to some overused acoustic track. it’s clean. respectable. sterile enough to make him itch, like he’s wearing someone else’s skin. but the folder’s still there, buried in his drive like it knows he’ll come back.

2:03 a.m.

his inbox pings, a sharp sound that cuts through the drone of his pc fans. your name lights up the screen, and his chest tightens before he even reads the message.

hiii satoru!! sorry for the late send, been sooo busy <3 can u take a look at this haul vid? i tried smth spicy but idk if it’s too much… lmk what u think pretty pls!!

march haul (raw).mp4

he knows he shouldn’t. there’s no logical reason, no business context, just the weight of your words—spicy, pretty pls—sinking into his gut. but his hands move on their own, clicking download, the progress bar filling like a fuse burning down.

click.

of course he does.

the video starts soft, your bedroom light diffused to a golden haze, casting shadows that dance across rumpled sheets. it looks like you’ve been tossing in them all day, the fabric creased and inviting.

you’re in lace—barely. something soft pink and flimsy, a slip of fabric that clings to your curves like it’s begging to be torn off.

your thigh’s out, one leg bent just enough to draw his eye, and the camera’s angled low, too low, like you meant to frame it this way.

“god, i hope this one fits…” your voice is breathy, a little strained, like you’re fighting the fabric. you adjust a strap, your fingers lingering on the lace, and your lip catches between your teeth, glossy and pink, a casual gesture that’s anything but. his breath stutters, a sharp inhale that burns his throat.

“oops, sorry—too much cleavage?” you laugh, not to yourself but at him.

he knows it.

his cock knows it, twitching against the seam of his sweatpants. the screen shakes as you set the camera on something unsteady—a stack of books, maybe—and it rocks just as you turn around, hips swaying, your ass hugged by that tiny thong, the lace cutting into your skin like a claim. you glance back over your shoulder, smirk poised like a dagger, eyes glinting in the soft light.

“i bet you’d pause right here, wouldn’t you?”

he does.

the video cuts mid-breath, and he doesn’t hear the silence. he’s frozen, hand halfway down, brain wiped clean. the frame lingers on your ass, the curve of it framed by lace, and his mouth is dry, his pulse hammering so loud it drowns out the static.

ping.

march haul (real).mp4

oops. wrong send lol. this is the real one!

his screen is still painted with the freeze-frame of your ass. his dick’s straining so hard it aches, a dull throb that makes him shift in his chair. he doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a full minute, just stares at the message, the word oops taunting him. then—

he saves both files. drags them into “ARCHIVE_21” with a trembling cursor, his fingers clumsy on the trackpad. he opens the raw one again, slower this time, one hand on his lap, the other fisting his sheets until the fabric creaks.

you’re back on screen, adjusting the strap again, your laugh curling through his headphones like smoke. his hand slips under his waistband, and he’s already leaking, the tip slick and sensitive as he grips himself.

he strokes slow, deliberate, savoring the friction, but his mind’s elsewhere—on the hentai he’s spent years jerking off to, the doujins with dog-eared pages and cum-stained corners.

he pictures you like those girls, bent over and begging, your lace thong pushed to the side as he fucks you from behind, your moans louder, needier, than anything you’ve let slip on camera.

he imagines pinning you to those rumpled sheets, your thighs trembling under his hands, your ass bouncing with every thrust. no teasing giggles, no coy glances—just you, fucked out and whimpering, his name on your lips as he buries himself deep, so deep you can’t think.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound obscene in the quiet of his room. he scrubs the timeline back, pauses on the moment you turn, your smirk sharp and knowing.

he wants to wipe it off, wants to fuck you until you’re too wrecked to smile, until you’re clawing at the sheets and sobbing his name. he imagines your cunt, tight and wet, gripping him as he pounds into you, the lace of your thong rubbing raw against his skin.

it’s not enough to watch you anymore, not enough to stroke himself to your voice—he wants to ruin you, wants to feel you break under him, wants to make you his in a way those 2d girls never could.

he cums with a low, breathy whisper of your name, his hips jerking up into his hand. it’s intense, almost painful, spilling over his fingers and onto the hem of his shirt.

his chest heaves, his vision blurring as he slumps back, the video still playing, your laugh oblivious to the mess he’s become. he opens it again, doesn’t touch himself this time—just watches, memorizes, eyes glassy and mouth parted.

at one point, he swears he moans with you, a soft sound that slips out unbidden, his body betraying him even when he’s spent. when he edits the “real” file, he’s a machine. no stutters, no slips, just sharp keystrokes and surgical cuts, trimming shaky frames and boosting your voice until it’s crisp.

the guilt claws at him, a dull ache in his chest, but it only makes the next orgasm worse—and better. he exports it, names it “haul_march_final.mov,” and saves the raw file to a new subfolder: “stills_ref.” he doesn’t name the second copy. doesn’t need to. it’s just for him.

he plays it cool in class. “wow. another fit straight outta your grandma’s closet,” he scoffs as you pass, voice dripping with mockery, lips curling into something lazy and mean.

but his gaze flickers—just once, low and quick, like he’s checking for danger. and there it is. a flash of soft pink lace against the curve of your thigh as you shift your bag higher up your shoulder. just a sliver. deliberate.

he knows that lace. knows it from the raw footage, from the way it hugged your skin under golden light. his smirk falters for half a second, a crack in his armor.

you turn your head, slow as syrup, and smile at him over your shoulder. it’s airy, innocent, ditzy enough to play dumb, poisonous enough to feel like a threat. “mm? that bad, huh?” your voice is light, but your eyes linger a moment too long, sharp and knowing, like you’re peeling him open.

you take your seat two rows away, crossing one leg over the other with careful grace. your skirt rides up, just enough to show the edge of that lace again, and your fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem, brushing the fabric like it’s a game.

he doesn’t blink.

he knows what’s under that skirt, knows the way that lace bites into your skin when you move just like that. he’s seen it in soft lighting, tangled with shadows and sighs. he knows, and you know, and neither of you say a word.

he can’t breathe.

his hand trembles as he grips his pen, scrawling nonsense on the corner of his notes—random numbers, jagged lines, anything to keep his fingers busy.

someone’s asking a question about identity and performance, something about how we present ourselves versus how we wish to be perceived, and satoru’s already halfway to standing.

“sorry. washroom.” his voice cracks halfway through the lie, too sharp, too rushed.

satoru stumbles into the men’s room like he’s escaping a crime scene, the door clicking shut behind him. palm flat against cold tile, forehead pressed to the inside of his wrist, he tries to breathe, tries to think of anything else—code, deadlines, the wedding edit he’s behind on.

but it’s you.

always you. your smile, your laugh, the lace peeking out like a taunt.

he’s already hard, already leaking, the front of his jeans tight and unforgiving. he fumbles with the button, shoves them down just enough, and grips himself, his hand shaking as he strokes.

he closes his eyes and sees you—not the you in class, not the you playing dumb, but the you from his fantasies, the you he’s built from hentai panels and late-night desperation. he imagines you on your knees, lace thong pulled down, your cunt glistening as he fucks you against the bathroom sink.

no giggles, no teasing—just raw, desperate need, your moans echoing off the tiles as he slams into you, his hands bruising your hips, your body arching to take him deeper.

he wants you messy, wants you marked, wants to fill you until you’re dripping, until you’re his in a way that’s permanent.

he strokes faster, his breath hitching, his teeth sinking into his knuckles to muffle the groan clawing up his throat. he cums hard, too fast, his knees buckling as it spills over his hand, hot and shameful. he shakes, gasping, his forehead slick against the tile, and thinks of lace. thinks of lip gloss. thinks of your voice saying “oops” like it’s a sin.

it doesn’t take long for his desktop to become an altar.

the background’s still you, a freeze-frame from the first video, your lip gloss shimmering and fingers caught mid-twist in your hair. he tells himself it’s temporary, just a visual reference.

it’s been three weeks.

folders on folders: “hauls > favs > zoom_ins > stills > pantyshots.” “audio_samples > moan_loop > breath_only.wav.” “color tests > gloss_ref > lips.png.”

some nights, he replays a single frame just to watch your mouth form the word “fuck,” slows it down, isolates the syllables, pretends you’re saying his name instead.

the worst part?

you’re still pretending nothing’s changed. still calling them “favors,” still sending content like it’s work, like it’s nothing.

but your outfits are shorter, your giggles stick to the air longer, your eyes linger like you’re testing something. and when you purr, “you’re sooo good at this, satoru,” with that saccharine lilt, your voice curling around his name like a caress, he bites the inside of his cheek just to keep quiet. fists the sheets at night and prays.

he moans your name in the dark, face hot with shame, and hates how much he wants you to hear it.

satoru’s become sleep-deprived, dark smudges nesting beneath his eyes like fingerprints left behind by guilt or obsession or both. he wears his glasses more lately, less out of need and more as a buffer between him and the world—between him and you.

the lenses catch the glow of his new triple-monitor setup, a sleek beast he told himself was for coding, for editing, for multitasking. not for keeping your videos looping on the side monitor while he pretends to work on the main one. not for that at all.

your folder’s pinned in quick access, a permanent fixture in his file explorer. he keeps it open in the background at all times, a digital pulse that hums alongside his pc fans. second nature now, like breathing or wanting. not unlike a shrine.

in class, he pretends to take notes, his stylus scratching nonsense on his tablet. he’s not. he’s watching a gif on his phone, hidden under the desk—a loop of your tongue dragging slow across lip gloss, eyes soft with focus like you’re painting yourself pretty just for him. the gif’s only three seconds, but he’s memorized every frame, every flicker of your lashes. his thumb swipes to replay it, again, again, until his vision blurs.

ctrl+shift+eject brain.exe.

three days pass, and you haven’t messaged. he checks your chat thread more than he breathes—opens, closes, re-opens, scrolling through your old texts like they’ll reveal something new. every flicker of hope is a false start, a phantom ping that makes his chest lurch. he’s pathetic, he knows it, but knowing doesn’t stop the itch.

then:

ping.

april haul (suits).mov

hii satoru!! new haul vid for u to check <3 tried some swimsuits this time, hope it’s not too boring to trim hehe. lmk what u think!!”

he nearly drops his phone, his thumb smudging the screen as he fumbles to download. his new setup hums to life, the main monitor flashing with code he hasn’t touched in hours, the side monitor already open to your folder.

he drags the file into premiere, the timeline blooming across the screen, but his eyes are on the raw video, already playing on the right monitor, your voice spilling through his headphones like honey.

the video’s different this time. the camera’s lower, like it’s been left on a desk or shelf, pointing slightly upward to frame you from your knees to just above your head. your bed makes a cozy blur in the background, sheets tangled like an invitation.

you’re in a bikini top that isn’t trying very hard to stay on, thin strings knotted loosely at your neck and back, the fabric barely containing you. “mmm. does this scream summer, or slut?” you giggle, feigned innocence like frosting over heat, your voice curling around the words like you know exactly what they’ll do to him.

you play with the strings at your chest, tugging, adjusting, your fingers brushing the swell of your breasts. then, softer, breathier, to the lens: “baby, help me pick…”

baby.

it breaks him all over again, a crack that runs straight through his chest. his cock twitches, already hard, straining against his boxers.

everything after that gets softer, lazier, dangerous in how intimate it feels. there’s no performative energy now—just casual, candid seduction, your movements slow, like you’re not hurrying for anyone. like you know exactly who’s watching and how long he’ll linger.

when you shrug a dress off your shoulders, you sigh, the sound catching in your throat. when you twist to adjust a strap, you hum, low and absentminded. and when you struggle with a clasp at your back, your fingers fumbling, you moan—soft, unintentional, a sound that slips out like it surprised even you.

satoru’s thumb slams the spacebar, pausing the video, rewinding three seconds to hear it again. he watches the way your lips part, the way your brows twitch, the way your body shifts like you’re chasing the sensation.

he’s already leaking, his boxers damp as he shoves them down, his hand wrapping around himself. the side monitor loops the raw footage, your moan playing over and over, while the main monitor holds the paused frame of your parted lips. he strokes slow at first, his grip tight, his thumb swiping over the tip where he’s slick and sensitive.

his mind slips to the doujins he’s hoarded, the hentai he’s spent years chasing—the girls with flushed cheeks and desperate eyes, fucked raw and begging for more. but now it’s you, not some inked fantasy, and it’s so much filthier.

he imagines you sprawled across your bed, that bikini top ripped off, your thighs spread wide as he fucks you deep, relentless, your cunt clenching around him as you sob his name. no teasing, no giggles—just you, wrecked and dripping, your nails clawing his back as he takes you again and again, each thrust harder, messier, until you’re nothing but his.

his hand speeds up, the slick sound loud in his room, mixing with your looped moan. he wants you pinned beneath him, wants to feel you squirm, wants to fuck you until the bed creaks and your voice breaks, until you’re begging like those hentai girls, your glossed lips trembling as you say his name—satoru, please, more.

he imagines filling you, his cum leaking down your thighs, your body marked by him in ways he can’t unsee. it’s not enough to watch, not enough to stroke—he wants to own you, wants to make you his in every way those 2d fantasies taught him to crave.

he cums hard, forehead pressed to his desk, a low groan tearing from his throat as it spills over his hand, his keyboard, the edge of his new setup. his breath is ragged, like he’s run a marathon, his glasses fogging slightly as he gasps.

the side monitor still plays, your voice oblivious, your moan looping like a hymn. he doesn’t stop the video, just slumps back, spent and shaking, and watches again, his hand twitching like it’s not done.

it doesn’t take long for his room to reek of sweat and sin.

he edits shirtless now, sometimes in boxers, always hard, always leaking. every file’s renamed with trembling hands: “wifey_take7.mov.” “wifey_raw.mp4.”

he syncs your sighs to his lo-fi playlist, turns it into a lullaby, falls asleep to the sound of your breath. sometimes he slows your voice just to hear “baby” dragged out into velvet, makes gifs of your hands skimming your hips, kisses the screen when he’s drunk enough to forget shame.

you, on the other hand, don’t break character.

in class, you chew your pen and lean forward, the arch of your spine exact, your cleavage subtle—barely a tease, just enough to make his throat tighten. he looks away with a clenched jaw, adjusts himself under the desk, twice, his jeans unforgiving.

you whisper to a friend and giggle, and he lipreads, thinks he sees the words “can’t wait,” but maybe he’s hallucinating, maybe not. it doesn’t matter.

he starts responding to the clips aloud.

“fuck yes, that one.” “spin again, baby.” sometimes he mumbles your name like a prayer, sometimes he chokes it into his pillow. every orgasm has your name carved into it, a brand he can’t erase.

one night, he opens a file to edit, drags it into premiere, but he doesn’t touch it. just watches, headphones in, barely breathing. not a content creator now, not a student, not even a man—just a creature of need, and you his ritual, his muse, his goddess.

the screen shows you adjusting the straps of a silky babydoll, the lighting warm, your thighs bare, half-tucked under you as you sit prettily at the edge of your bed.

“okay, so this one’s… like, totally giving ‘come to bed’ energy, right?” you giggle, voice light, teeth sinking into your glossed lip as you bounce once, soft and natural, the fabric barely covering your chest.

satoru groans low in his throat, not even trying to hide it. “it’s giving bend over,” he mutters, lips twitching, his side monitor looping the raw footage, his main screen frozen on your smile. “fuck, look at you…”

you reach behind you, struggle with the clasp, wiggle your shoulders like you’re teasing whoever’s behind the camera. “oof. that’s tight… should i size up?” a breathy laugh follows, your sigh melting into it.

he licks his lips, your audio crystal-clear in his headphones. you’re right there, talking to him. “nah, baby,” he croons, eyes fixed on the curve of your spine as you turn. “tight’s perfect. keeps the goods in place.”

you blow a kiss at the lens. “hope you’re not bored yet,” you say with a wink. “i saved the cutest for last…”

you bend off-frame, your ass peeking just above the edge of the bed, round and inviting in cotton panties with lace trim, and when you rise again, your hands hold something sheer and tiny. “tadaaa,” you whisper, eyes glinting with mischief. “this one’s for my favorite viewer.”

00:05:46—satoru slams the shortcut, timestamp saved. a second later, he screenshots, then again, then again, frame by frame, until he finds the exact one where your lip’s caught between your teeth and your ass is still halfway in the air.

“fucking perfect,” he mutters, breath uneven. he pulls the image up on his main screen, zooms in, sharpens it, runs it through noise reduction. the side monitor loops the raw video, your voice sweet and teasing, while the right monitor plays a gif of your earlier moan, your lips parted in that soft, accidental sound.

his hand’s already moving, shoving his boxers down, his cock springing free, hard and leaking like it’s been waiting for this. 

he grips himself, rough and urgent, no pretense of patience. the new setup’s perfect—your video on the side, his code on the main screen like he’s working, but it’s all you, every pixel, every sound.

he strokes in time with your giggle, his eyes flicking between the gif of your moan and the screenshot of your ass, his mind spiraling into the filthiest corners of his hentai-soaked brain.

he imagines you on that bed, face down, ass up, the babydoll hiked to your waist as he fucks you so hard the headboard cracks. he wants you screaming, wants your cunt pulsing around him, wants to pull your hair and make you look at him as he fills you, over and over, until you’re a mess, until you’re his completely.

his strokes are frantic, his breath hitching, his hips bucking into his hand. he pictures you tied to the bed, like that one doujin he read last month, your wrists bound with those same bikini strings, your thighs trembling as he fucks you through one orgasm into the next.

he wants to cum inside you, wants to watch it drip out, wants to push it back in with his fingers and make you lick them clean. it’s not enough to jerk off anymore, not enough to dream—he wants to break you, wants to make you real, wants to fuck you until you’re as addicted to him as he is to you.

he cums with a choked growl, his head tipping back, glasses slipping down his nose as it spills over his hand, his desk, the sticky mess splattering his keyboard.

he’s shaking, gasping, his chest heaving as the side monitor loops your voice, your “baby” purring like a mantra. his wrist’s sticky, his room a haze of sweat and shame, but he doesn’t care. he’s not even really here.

you’re everywhere now—three monitors, three altars, your image burned into his retinas. he’d worship on his knees if you asked.

the next day, another file:

april haul (closeups).mp4

sorry! idk if this one’s helpful but i liked the shots hehe

he doesn’t unzip his pants. doesn’t need to. he’s already throbbing from the inside out, his body reacting to your name alone. he clicks, watches, kneels, and whispers your name like a benediction, the static in his skull louder than ever.

it starts with a ping.

innocuous. a single pixel shift on the main monitor mid-code, just as satoru’s debugging a script for a deadline he already missed. his side monitor hums with your last video, paused on that frame where your lip’s caught between your teeth, and the third monitor’s open to a half-finished render he hasn’t touched in days. he glances lazily at the notification, expecting another reminder from suguru to shower or eat—

but no. it’s you.

hey… do u do filming too?

his fingers freeze. heart jams, a dull thud in his chest. the cursor blinks, waiting, mocking. he doesn’t think. doesn’t breathe. his glasses slip down his nose, and he doesn’t fix them. the words burn into his retinas, and his cock twitches before he can process why.

yeah. totally. what kind of shoot?

he sends it, his thumb trembling over the enter key. no reply. not for five whole minutes. the wait is a crucifixion, each second stretching into eternity. he keeps opening and closing the chat, rereading your words like they might shift into something dirtier, something more.

his triple-monitor setup glows, your frozen frame on the side monitor staring at him, lips parted, eyes glinting. he’s already leaking in his pants, a damp spot spreading against his thigh.

then:

just a casual thing. home setup. come over?

he reads it twice. three times. his breath catches, sharp and shallow, like he’s been punched. come over. your dorm. your space.h e’s hard, achingly so, his boxers tight and unforgiving. he doesn’t reply, just slams his laptop shut, grabs his camera bag, and stumbles out the door.

he shows up twenty minutes later, barely remembered to wear deodorant, definitely forgot his dignity. his high-end sony alpha mirrorless—loaded with a lens that costs more than most people’s rent—bounces against his chest as he knocks. his palms are slick, his glasses fogging slightly from the heat of his own nerves.

you open the door with a giggle, wrapped in a pastel pink robe that might as well be air. it clings to the curve of your waist, parts at the thigh, revealing soft skin that makes his throat burn. your hair’s still damp, sticking to your collarbones, and the scent of vanilla lotion hits him like a drug. “thanks for coming! i’m kinda nervous…”

he wants to bark out same, but his jaw locks. he swallows instead, the motion too loud in his ears. “no problem.” his voice is gravel, like he’s choking on his own want. he steps inside, and your dorm swallows him whole—warm, cutesy, a pastel fever dream of plush throw pillows, fairy lights, and a pink velvet couch that looks too soft, too inviting.

he’s already imagining you bent over it, your robe hiked up, your moans echoing off the walls. it smells like you sprayed your strawberry perfume over every surface, dizzying, suffocating. his glasses fog again.

he sets up the tripod with shaking hands, the sony’s weight grounding him just enough to keep from falling apart. you bounce around the living room, humming, fluffing pillows on the couch, fixing your gloss in a heart-shaped mirror propped against a shelf.

“does this lighting make me look washed out?” you ask, stepping back, tilting your head. then you bend to adjust a lamp, and your robe parts just enough to reveal the gentle curve of your ass, bare except for a sliver of lace.

he sees. pretends he didn’t. fumbles the lens cap, twice, the plastic clattering to the floor. his face burns, but he keeps his eyes on the camera, adjusting settings he doesn’t need to touch.

you brush past him again and again, your bare arm glancing his, silk whispering across his knuckles when you pass. he smells shampoo in the air, thick and sweet, and it’s you, all you, sinking into his lungs. “you nervous?” you tease, voice light, a giggle curling at the edges.

he scoffs, wiping his palm against his jeans, the denim rough against his slick skin. “pfft. nah. i’ve filmed worse.” a lie, bold and brittle, his voice too tight to sell it.

“worse than me?” you pout, stepping closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath. “ouch.”

“i didn’t say that.” his voice cracks, a hairline fracture. he’s too aware of you, of the way your robe slips an inch, of the way your eyes glint like you’re playing with him.

you tilt your head, wide-eyed, all fake innocence. “sooo… you have filmed pretty girls before?”

he falters, breath stuttering in his chest. he’s a virgin, hasn’t touched a girl in years, hasn’t wanted to—not when hentai’s been enough, when doujins have been his only lovers. but you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re breaking him.

“no one like you,” he says, unfiltered, raw, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

your lips curl, slow and sweet, a smile that says i know. “hm. figured.”

you disappear into your bedroom for a few minutes, the door clicking shut. he pretends to adjust the white balance, tweaking settings on the sony that are already perfect, but really he’s staring at the door like it owes him salvation.

his cock’s throbbing, a dull ache that won’t quit, and he shifts, trying to ease the pressure. the living room feels too small, the pink couch too soft, the fairy lights too intimate. he’s imagining you sprawled across that couch, your robe gone, your thighs spread, his camera capturing every gasp.

the door opens. you emerge. lingerie set, pale and sheer, a mini skirt that barely qualifies, lip gloss freshly reapplied. you look like a doll, saccharine and sinful, every curve a taunt. “can you help me zip this?” you turn, bare back exposed, the zipper halfway up, your spine a perfect line that begs to be touched.

he steps forward, too close, his exhale brushing your shoulder. his fingers graze your skin—soft, warm, real—and you shiver, a small, deliberate tremor. he pulls the zipper up with trembling hands, the metal catching once, his breathing uneven. the distance between you shatters into nothing, the air thick with static.

“you’re doing this on purpose,” he rasps, low in your ear, his voice rough with want.

“doing what?” you whisper, fake innocence thick as honey, your head tilting just enough to catch his eye.

you look back at him, lashes fluttering, lips parted, glossy and pink. he breaks.

“fuck.”

he grabs you, his hands rough on your hips, your mouths crashing together—teeth, tongue, gasps. your lip gloss smears against his cheek, sweet and sticky, and he groans into the kiss, devouring you.

you moan into his mouth, legs wrapping around his hips as he lifts you onto the counter, the edge biting into your thighs. you’re silk and heat and sin beneath his hands, and he’s forgotten everything else—his camera, his code, his shame. only you exist now.

you feel his hard-on through his jeans, pressed against your thighs, and he’s panting, his breath stuttering against your skin as he kisses down your jaw, your neck, the ridge of your spine. his mouth is everywhere, like he’s starved, like he’s trying to memorize you with his tongue.

his glasses slip down, and he grins against your collarbone. “need to get a better look,” he mutters, a flimsy excuse to lean closer, until the fog of his breath warms your skin. he bites your collarbone, hard, groaning when he leaves a mark. “wanna see that in playback.”

he drops to his knees without hesitation, a virgin’s worship, reverence born from years of hentai and nothing else. his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wide, and he groans like he’s just found salvation. he runs his tongue along the inner part first, slow and teasing, so close to the lace of your panties but not touching what you want.

you try to close your legs, but he forces them open, his grip bruising, his mouth finding the wet spot through the fabric. “fuck, you’re soaked,” he growls, voice muffled, his tongue dragging heavy and slow, the lace rough against your clit. “been wet for me this whole time, huh? fuckin’ tease.”

you whimper, hips bucking, and he moans into you, the vibration making you gasp. he licks through the panties, relentless, his glasses slipping halfway down his nose but he doesn’t care.

“you taste better than i dreamed,” he says, his voice hoarse, hentai dialogue spilling out like it’s natural. he sucks at the fabric, tongue pressing harder, and you’re trembling, your hands fisting his hair as you grind against his face. he’s messy, desperate, his moans louder than yours, like he’s the one about to cum. you do, hard, a cry tearing from your throat as you shudder against his mouth, and he doesn’t stop, lapping at the soaked lace like it’s his last meal.

he presses his cheek to your thigh, sticky and glistening, looking up at you with glassy eyes. “first one’s mine,” he says, grinding his hips into the floor, his jeans tight with his own need. you don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. he spreads you open with his fingers, peeling the panties aside, watching your hole twitch with a hunger that makes his mouth water.

“look at that,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice dripping with awe. “fuckin’ perfect.” he slides two fingers in, slow at first, then deeper, curling them just right, like he’s memorized every doujin panel that showed him how. “shit—i’ve seen this in hentai but it’s better. fuck, it’s real.”

his fingers pump, slick and steady, and you’re moaning, head thrown back, the counter digging into your hips. he adds a third, stretching you, his free hand jerking himself through his jeans, matching the pace of his fingers inside you. “so tight, baby. you’re gonna feel so good around my cock.”

he spits on your pussy, a quick, filthy gesture, his eyes locked on yours as it drips down. “they never show that part right in hentai. had to test it myself.” you moan, loud and broken, and he moans louder, his fingers slipping out with a wet squelch. he licks them clean, slow, eyes fluttering shut like he’s savoring you. “fuck—want it all.”

he stands, trembling, his jeans tented painfully. “can i?” his voice is small, almost pleading, a crack in his bravado. you nod, and he fumbles with his belt, shoving his jeans down just enough. he lines himself up, his cock thick and leaking, the tip brushing your entrance. “you’re so warm—holy shit—you’re squeezing me—fuck—”

he slides in, slow at first, gasping as you take him, your cunt tight and slick around him. he’s a virgin, but he knows this, knows the rhythm from years of jerking off to scenes just like this. he freezes, trying not to cum, his glasses fogging as he pants. you clench down, deliberate, and he slaps your thigh, a quick, sharp sting that earns him a whine.

“don’t—fuck, don’t do that yet.”

he pulls out, just to slam back in, harder, the counter creaking under you. his rhythm’s sloppy, desperate, but he finds it, each thrust deeper, rougher. “look at you,” he growls, his voice pure filth, hentai dialogue spilling free. “taking my cock like a good little slut. you love this, don’t you? fuckin’ made for me.” he licks the tears running down your cheek, his tongue hot and greedy. “crying already? baby, i’m not even close to done.”

you moan his name, and he loses it, his thrusts turning frantic, messy, like he’s trying to ruin you. “film it. show me what you see,” you gasp, and he fumbles for his phone, almost dropping it with how hard he’s shaking.

the camera app opens in a blur of fingers, then steadies, the lens catching you spread wide beneath him, thighs trembling, pussy stuffed full of his cock. he holds it there, watching the way you flutter around him, his breath ragged. “watch this later and see how ruined you look, baby,” he pants, voice hoarse, wild.

he leans in, still recording, whispering filth against your ear. “that’s right. take it. cry for me. i want you loud.” his other hand drags the mic closer, the sony’s external recorder capturing every slick thrust, every broken sob, every wet squelch, loud and obscene.

he fucks you harder, the counter shaking, your tits bouncing with each thrust. “gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in here,” he growls, his voice low, unhinged. “that couch? gonna bend you over it. that table? gonna spread you wide. your bed? gonna fill you till you’re screaming.”

you clench around him, and he groans, his hips stuttering. “fuck, you like that? you want me to wreck you everywhere, don’t you?” you nod, gasping, and he slaps your thigh again, harder, leaving a red mark. “say it, baby. tell me you want it.”

“i want it,” you whimper, voice breaking, and he grins, feral, his thrusts turning punishing. you cum again, a shuddering mess, your cry echoing in the mic as your cunt pulses around him, slick dripping down your thighs. he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, his cock throbbing as he fucks you through it.

“gonna fill you up,” he pants, his voice cracking, hentai fantasies spilling out. “gonna cum so deep you’ll feel me for days. you want that, don’t you? want my cum dripping out of you?”

you nod, moaning, and he loses it, slamming into you one last time as he cums, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. it’s hot, messy, spilling inside you, and he keeps thrusting, shallow and desperate, like he’s trying to push it deeper.

satoru doesn’t stop.

in fact, he lifts you, his arms wrapping under your thighs like you’re weightless, his cock still buried inside you, slick and pulsing. your head lolls against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, and he groans, low and guttural, as he carries you toward your bedroom.

the air shifts as he crosses the threshold, your perfume hitting him harder here—floral and sugary, the same scent that clings to your pillow, your wrist, your everything. it’s thicker in this room, curling around him like a trap, and he kicks the door shut behind him, the click loud in the quiet.

he pushes you toward the vanity, your back meeting the cool glass of the mirror with a soft thud. he bends you over it, slow and deliberate, his hands guiding your hips until your cheek presses against the surface, your breath fogging the reflection.

“look at you,” he groans, angling his phone to capture the scene—your flushed face, your glossed lips parted, your eyes half-lidded in the mirror as you whine in embarassment.

“pretty little thing, still trying to act innocent.” his voice is rough, edged with hunger, and he shifts his hips, thrusting shallowly, keeping you pinned, reaching for your lip gloss.

you mumble something, a weak protest or plea, but he shuts it up with a swipe of your lip gloss across your mouth, his hand trembling as he paints your lips pink, the applicator slick and messy.

“perfect,” he says, pulling back just enough to admire the shine, the way it catches the light. then he pushes in again, deeper, and you both moan, the sound mingling in the air, caught by the sony’s mic still recording from the tripod in the corner.

he kisses you messily—gloss smearing, lips hungry, teeth clashing as he grinds his hips, slow and torturous, never breaking the rhythm. the camera stays on, the phone propped against a perfume bottle, capturing every gasp, every shudder.

“taste so fuckin’ good,” he mutters against your mouth, his tongue chasing the sticky sweetness. “gonna kiss you till you’re dripping everywhere.”

satoru lays you on the bed next, gentle but urgent, his hands shaking as he props his phone against a stack of books on your nightstand, the camera app open, framing you perfectly—your body sprawled across the pastel sheets, thighs parted, lingerie barely clinging to your skin, the sheer fabric of your top stretched tight over your chest, the mini skirt hiked up to expose the lace of your panties.

he climbs over you, his glasses slipping down his nose, and pushes your legs up, hooking them over his shoulders, the angle forcing you open, vulnerable.

“fuck, you feel like heaven,” he says, voice cracking, almost reverent, as he slides back inside you, slow and deep, the heat of you pulling a groan from his throat. “i’m never gonna stop, baby.”

each thrust is deliberate, his hips rolling to hit that spot that makes you arch, your nails raking down his arms, leaving red trails he’ll stare at later.

he kisses you through it, his mouth sloppy and desperate, swallowing your moans like they’re his lifeline. the bed creaks under you, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over your tear-streaked face, and he’s lost in it, in the way you clench around him, so tight it’s like you’re made for him.

“so fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “taking my cock like you were born for it.”

he tugs at the straps of your lingerie top, pulling it down until your tits spill free, the sheer fabric catching under them, and he groans, his mouth latching onto a nipple, sucking hard until you whimper, your hips bucking against him.

but it doesn’t last—he needs more, needs to see you break in ways he’s only imagined in the dark of his room, his hand on his cock and your videos on loop.

he pulls out, his dick slick and throbbing, and grabs your hips, flipping you with a low grunt. he drags you up by the waist, positioning you on your knees, your ass high, your face pressed into the sheets, the skirt still bunched around your hips. his hand slides up your spine, pushing your chest down, arching you just right, and he yanks the lace panties to the side, not bothering to take them off.

“this is what you get for teasing me all these days,” he growls, his voice unhinged, as he lines himself up and thrusts in, hard and deep, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room.

you whimper, muffled against the pillow, and he fucks harder, each thrust rocking you forward, the bedframe rattling, your moans spilling free despite the fabric. his phone’s still recording, propped precariously, catching every angle—your arched back, your trembling thighs, the way his cock disappears into you with every brutal snap of his hips.

“look at that pussy,” he says, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you open for the camera. “so greedy, swallowing me whole. you love this, don’t you?” he tugs your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your cries to echo. “louder, baby. let the whole fuckin’ dorm hear you.”

he slows, just to torment you, his hips grinding deep, making you squirm, your overstimulated body shaking under him. you’re teary, sobs catching in your throat, but he doesn’t care—he wants you loud, wants you broken. he leans down, his chest pressed to your back, and bites your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.

“cry for me,” he whispers, his voice rough, his hand slipping around to pinch your nipple, twisting until you gasp. “wanna hear you fall apart.” he pulls out, leaving you empty, and you whine, a desperate, keening sound that makes him smirk.

“patience, princess,” he mocks, slapping your ass lightly, the sting making you clench around nothing.

satoru guides you up, turning you to face him, and pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you. “wanna see you ride me,” he says, lying back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hips as you straddle him. he tugs the skirt off completely, tossing it aside, leaving you in just the stretched-out lingerie top and soaked panties.

“bounce,” he growls, his eyes locked on where you sink down onto him, slow and deliberate, your cunt stretching around him as you take him inch by inch. “show the camera how you fuck me.”

his phone’s angled to catch it all—your tits bouncing, still half-caught in the sheer fabric, your thighs trembling, the way you gasp every time you drop down, taking him to the hilt.

you move, your hips rolling, your hands braced on his chest, and he’s sweating, his glasses slipping, his breath ragged. he doesn’t let you slow, his hands lifting you, slamming you back down, making you take him deeper. “that’s it,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers digging into your ass, leaving bruises. “fuck yourself on my cock. show me how bad you need it.”

you’re sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you keep going, your moans loud and broken, your body shaking from the overstimulation. he reaches up, ripping the lingerie top off completely, the fabric tearing with a sharp sound, and gropes your tits, squeezing hard, his thumbs brushing your nipples until you shudder.

“these are mine now,” he says, his voice pure filth. “gonna mark ‘em up so you can’t hide.”

he’s close, too close, but he’s not done.

he pushes you off, gentle but firm, and stands, pulling you with him toward the full-length mirror by your closet. he spins you, pressing your chest to the glass, your hands splaying against it, your tear-streaked reflection staring back.

he kicks your legs apart, his cock nudging your entrance, and slides in, slow and deep, his breath hot against your ear. “look at you,” he says, his lips brushing your neck, his hands caging you against the mirror. “look at my cock ruining your pussy.”

he thrusts, slow at first, watching your reflection—your tears, your drool, your gloss-smeared lips, the way your body shakes with every snap of his hips. “you wanted a nerd? this nerd’s gonna fuckin’ break you.”

he fucks you harder, the mirror rattling, your moans bouncing off the walls, loud enough to wake the neighbors. “so fuckin’ pretty,” he pants, one hand slipping to your clit, rubbing messy, relentless circles. “gonna cum all over my cock, aren’t you? gonna make a mess for me?”

you nod, sobbing, your body trembling, and he slaps your ass, the sting sharp, making you clench around him. “say it, baby. tell me you’re mine.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, voice breaking, tears streaming, and he cums with a raw groan, spilling inside you, hot and thick, his hips stuttering as he rides it out.

he doesn’t pull out, doesn’t stop, his cock still hard, still twitching as he fucks his cum deeper, the slick sound obscene. “not done,” he mutters, his glasses fogged, his voice wrecked. “gonna make you cum again.”

he keeps going, relentless, his thrusts slower but deeper, each one pushing his cum back inside, making you shake. his fingers on your clit are merciless, circling fast, and you’re oversensitive, your body convulsing, your moans turning to desperate cries. “satoru—fuck—too much—” you sob.

he only slaps your thigh, sharp and stinging, and leans in, his lips grazing your ear. “too much? nah, princess, you can take it. wanna feel you squirt for me.”

he angles his hips, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re gone, your body locking up as you cum, a gush of wet heat soaking his cock, dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. he groans, loud and broken, his hips jerking as he cums again, another hot rush filling you, spilling out around him.

“fuck—look at that mess,” he pants, his hand smearing the slick between your legs, rubbing it into your skin. “all for me.”

but he’s not done. he pulls you back to the bed, laying you on your side, one leg hooked over his arm as he slides back in, his cock still hard, slick with your cum and his. “one more,” he begs, his voice cracking, his glasses crooked. “gimme one more, baby. need to feel you again.”

he thrusts slow, deep, his hand slipping between your legs to tease your oversensitive clit, and you’re crying, tears streaming, your body shaking from the intensity. he bites your neck, leaving marks, and whispers, “love it when you cry for me. so fuckin’ loud, just how i like it.”

he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach, keeping you pinned as he fucks you into the mattress, his hand pressing your face into the sheets. “gonna cum all over you,” he growls, his thrusts turning sloppy, desperate. “gonna fill you up till you’re leaking me for days.”

you cum again, a shuddering, broken mess, your sobs muffled against the pillow, your body convulsing as you squirt again, weaker but still enough to soak the sheets. he cums with you, a third time, his groan hoarse, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you, the mess dripping out, pooling under you.

“fuck—baby—” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his body shaking as he collapses against you, his glasses falling off completely, clattering to the floor.

“mine now,” he whispers, hoarse and ruined, his forehead pressed to your back, his breath hot and uneven. “you’re mine now.”

you nod, too spent to speak, your body limp, your reflection in the mirror a blur of tears and gloss and him, the phone still recording every ragged breath, every whispered “fuck” as he pulls you closer, not letting go.

but then silence swells, heavy and slow, filling the room like a fog. the air’s thick with the aftermath—sweat, cum, and the lingering sweetness of your perfume, still clinging to the sheets, to him.

satoru’s hands tremble where they hold you, one slipping down to fumble with his phone, stopping the recording with a clumsy tap, the other pressing flat against your stomach, grounding him, grounding you. your breaths are too loud, ragged and uneven, syncing in the quiet like a metronome.

he leans away slightly, just enough to grab a towel from the edge of your bed, awkward in the afterglow like he just realized he desecrated a temple. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the mess of sheets, and his hair’s a disaster, sticking to his forehead, damp with sweat.

“shit,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper, too quiet for the boy who was growling filth ten minutes ago. “did i—i mean. that wasn’t too much, right?” there’s a crack in his tone, a flicker of panic, like he’s replaying every thrust, every slap, every sobbed moan he pulled from you.

you don’t answer at first, too dazed, too wrung out, your body still humming from the overstimulation, your thighs sticky and trembling.

your silence makes him spiral.

“fuck, i knew it. i pushed too hard. i got carried away—i was recording—fuck—i didn’t even ask—” his words tumble out, frantic, his hand raking through his hair as he sits up, eyes wide, searching your face for any sign of regret.

you turn to face him, slow and sore, your cheek pillowed against your arm, the motion making your body ache in the best way. your eyes are still wet, lashes clumped with tears, lips kiss-bruised and sticky with half-worn gloss, swollen from his teeth. you stare at him—this boy, this dork, with his mussed-up hair and the panicked look of someone who just lived out a lifelong fantasy and now doesn’t know what to do with it.

“i’m okay,” you say, your voice shredded, raw from screaming his name. “jesus, i’m so okay.”

he exhales, a shaky rush of air, like he’s been holding it in for hours. he collapses back against you, burying his face in your neck, his lips brushing the bite mark he left earlier. “fuck, you scared me,” he mumbles, his voice muffled, warm against your skin. then, quieter, almost unhinged: “we just speedran my entire hentai folder.”

you laugh, a weak, breathy sound that bubbles up despite the ache in your ribs. “i know.”

“i didn’t even know i could,” he says, his voice small, like he’s confessing a sin. “i haven’t even done that in vr.”

you snort, the sound catching in your throat. “nerd.”

he groans, but it’s not annoyed—it’s mortified, the kind of sound that comes from knowing he’s exposed himself completely. “i’m never gonna recover from this. i glossed you like a fuckin’ bratz doll. i glossed you.” his hand gestures vaguely at your lips, still shiny and smeared, and you laugh again, the sound softer now, your body too tired for anything more.

you roll over fully, tugging him down into the blankets with you, the pastel sheets tangling around your legs. he follows like a kicked puppy, his head resting on your chest, his breath warm against your skin. you can feel his heart still racing, his body still trembling from the high.

“i just,” you mumble, your voice barely audible, “wanted you to notice me. back during the group project, you never looked at me. just your laptop. even when i wore that stupid short skirt.”

he goes silent, his fingers pausing where they’re tracing lazy circles on your hip. then, in a voice so small it barely carries: “…you wore that for me?”

you nod, your cheek brushing his hair.

he lets out the tiniest, most violated gasp, like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. “i thought you were just one of those girls who always looked hot. like, default setting.” his voice cracks on the last word, and you can’t help the teasing smile that tugs at your lips.

“no,” you say, your tone playful despite the exhaustion. “i was trying to seduce the dumbass with the mecha desktop background.”

he muffles a sob into your chest, half-laugh, half-groan, his arms tightening around you. “i love mecha…” he says, like it’s the most tragic thing in the world, and you hum, stroking his hair, your fingers catching in the sweaty strands.

“i know.”

a long pause settles over you, the kind that feels like it could stretch forever. the fairy lights twinkle softly, casting shadows across the room, and your perfume lingers, mixing with the musk of sex. his breathing slows, but he doesn’t let go, his body still pressed to yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

then he lifts his head, his eyes serious, stripped of the wild edge they had before. “can i… hold you properly? not like—y’know—breeding press. like, real holding.” his cheeks flush, like he’s embarrassed to admit he wants something soft after all that.

“you already folded me in half like a love letter,” you whisper, but you shift into his arms anyway, letting him pull you close. he wraps around you, tight, needy, his hands trembling like he’s still processing you’re real, not just pixels on a screen. his hold is desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, every curve, every soft inch, in case this never happens again.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, his voice muffled against your shoulder. “i think my crush on you just speedran into obsession.” there’s a rawness to it, a confession that feels too big for the quiet, but it lands soft, like he’s finally letting it out.

“you’re the one who begged for one more while crying into my shoulder,” you tease, your voice barely above a whisper, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

“stop,” he groans, burying his face deeper, his arms tightening like he could squeeze the embarrassment out of himself. “i’m gonna die.”

you press a kiss to his forehead, slow and deliberate, your lips lingering on his sweaty skin. “you’re not gonna die,” you say, your tone soft but firm. “you’re gonna eat me out on friday and wear your glasses while you do it.”

he whimpers, a pathetic, needy sound, his hips twitching involuntarily against your thigh. “say less,” he mumbles, his voice wrecked, but there’s a spark in it, like you’ve just lit something in him again. you giggle, wrapping your leg around his waist, pulling him closer, your skin sticking to his in the humid air.

and in the quiet, as you’re both drifting off—sore, sticky, still catching your breath—he says it again. not ruined this time, not even possessive. just low. certain. like he’s already planning his next sin.

“mine.”

you don’t answer. just smile into the pillow, heart pounding. because maybe you are. and maybe you’ll let him prove it again.

especially once he finds out what cosplay you ordered last week.

friday’s going to be filthy.

literally me.

i'll take a quiet life

navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! the mha EP!

── .✦ "STUBBORN HEART" ─ Bakugo Katsuki

for some reason i was beefing with mha (dont ask me even i dk why) but we made up sooo here is a lil bakugo content (i missed u boom boom boy) content : one shot. fluff. bakugo being in denial. 658 words

Katsuki Bakugo prided himself on his unshakeable concentration and determination. Feelings were a distraction, a disturbance that had no place in his life while he strived to be the best hero. Yet lately, he was thinking about you for no reason at all.

It began innocently enough—a little joint training here, a mission there. But soon enough, he grew aware of the faint catch in his breath when you laughed, the involuntary tightening of his fists when others stood too close. He brushed these aside as minor irritations, attributing them to anything but the feelings growing that he would not admit.

"Dammit," he growled under his breath, closing his locker perhaps a bit harder than strictly necessary. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

His internal struggle did not go unnoticed. Kirishima, ever the perceptive friend, lifted an eyebrow as he approached. "Yo, Bakugo. You alright? You've been kinda tense lately."

"Mind your own business, Shitty Hair," Bakugo responded, the ends of his ears tinting a light pink. "I'm fine."

But our poor boy wasn't okay. Each encounter with you made him increasingly flustered, increasingly disturbed. He caught himself analyzing each word you'd say, each look you'd give him. Were you being nice? Or was something else going on? Not knowing ate at him, feeding his annoyance.

One evening, after a particularly intense training session, he spotted you giggling with Kaminari. A sharp, unwelcome pang of jealousy stabbed him in the chest. His vision narrowed, and the next thing he knew, he was stalking over, his usual scowl darker than normal.

"Hey, Dunce Face," he bellowed, causing you and Kaminari to step back. "Can't you just leave people alone?"

Kaminari blinked, looking confused. "Uh, we were just talking, man."

"Go talk somewhere else," Bakugo growled, his eyes darting towards you briefly before he looked away. "Some of us need to focus."

You observed him, your eyes a blend of amusement and interest. "Alright, Bakugo?"

"I'm fine," he snarled, the lie evident to everyone but him. "Just. get out of my way."

As he stalked away, his mind reeled. Why should he care who you talked to? Why should it infuriate him so? The questions circled and circled, offering no solace.

He couldn't sleep that night. Whenever he tried to close his eyes, your face would pop up, and with it, that infuriating warm sensation in his chest. He snarled, pressing his face into his pillow. "This is stupid," he muttered. "I'm not some love-struck dumbass."

Yet denial could take him only so far. The more he struggled against it, the more powerful the feelings became, until finally he could no longer hold it in.

Backing you into the hallway after class, he took a deep breath, his normal confidence trembling. "Listen," he started, his voice rough. "I don't know how to say this without making myself sound like a damn idiot. I like you. Not in a friendly way. And it's driving me insane."

You blinked, taking in his words. "Bakugo."

"I'm no good at this kind of thing," he went on, staring immutably at the floor. "But I had to tell you. Do what you like with that information."

There was a pause between you, then you edged closer, reaching up to tip his chin up so his eyes met yours. "You're an idiot," you whispered, a smile pulling on your lips. "But I like you too." Relief flooded him, though he would never acknowledge it. "Good," he muttered, a small, real smile cracking his habitual scowl. "About time."

 In that instant, Bakugo Katsuki realized that maybe, just maybe, letting someone into his stubborn heart wasn't as terrifying as he thought.

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN) @cherrysurf

Nerd gojo x nerd reader! Headcanons

Nerd!Gojo x Nerd!You Headcanons

Part 2 ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ Gojo Satoru, the prodigy. The guy who solves complex math problems in his head like it’s a simple 2+2. If someone ask him how, he’ll just smirk and say, “Just run your mind faster.” As if that makes sense.

♡ Gojo, the last-minute genius. He does his assignments at the last possible second but still gets a perfect score. People have accused him of using black magic. He doesn’t deny it.

♡ Gojo, the overanalyzer. Someone calls him a know it all as a joke, and next thing they know, they’re stuck listening to a 30-minute breakdown of why intelligence is subjective and how human perception affects knowledge.

♡ Gojo, the human stopwatch. He calculates the exact time people take to do the most random things:

Shoko takes exactly 3.2 seconds to process a joke before laughing.

Suguru sniffs his food for 2.6 seconds before deciding if it’s poisoned.

His teacher blinks an average of 18 times per minute when lecturing.

♡ Gojo, the walking encyclopedia. He acts like he knows everything psychology, physics, chemistry, math. Whether he actually does or not is debatable, but he’ll never admit he’s wrong.

♡ Gojo, the fact machine. He drops random trivia constantly, just to flex. “Did you know honey never spoils?” “Gojo, no one cares.”

♡ Gojo, the exam escape artist. He drags Suguru out to do something totally unproductive before exams, but somehow still tops the class while Suguru barely passes. Suguru has stopped questioning it.

♡ Gojo, the romance skeptic. Laughs in the face of love at first sight, listing the exact probability of it happening.

♡ Gojo, the worst date ever. He once explained The Art of War on a date. The girl left before dessert. He still doesn’t know why.

♡ Gojo, the secret romance reader. He totally didn’t get caught reading a romance novel in the library. And he totally didn’t like it.

Then, there’s you.

♡ You, the transfer student. No expression. No reaction. The class went dead silent when you walked in, as if even breathing would be too loud. The teacher praised you, and you just nodded like it didn’t matter.

♡ You, Gojo’s accidental rival. Sitting next to him was a nightmare. He asked the most stupid questions, and you ignored all of them. He assumed you were just an edgy wannabe. That made him laugh.

♡ You, the real threat. When exam results came out, Gojo was shook. For the first time, he wasn’t the top scorer. You were. And your reaction? A shrug. No smile, no satisfaction. That’s when you became interesting.

♡ Gojo, the forced study partner. He forced the teacher to make you his partner. You weren’t amused.

“Why do I need to do practicals if I already know the answer?” you questioned

“To see if it’s true or not, dummy.” He grinned, waiting for your response.

“If it’s in the book, it’s already true.” He had never wanted to strangle someone and marry them at the same time before.

♡ Gojo, the doomed fool. No one ever entertained his nerdy ramblings, but you? You matched his energy. When you started debating him on his own topics, he knew he was done for.

♡ Gojo, the AI skeptic. He swears you talk like a robot.

“That’s not an effective method.”

“This is scientifically incorrect.”

“Are you a government experiment?”

♡ Gojo, the challenge seeker. He constantly challenged you to competitions. You refused every time. “Not interested in unnecessary drama.” That hurt his soul.

♡ Gojo, the frustrated observer. He needed to see a crack in your facade. Anything. He studied your every move, trying to prove you weren’t an AI.

♡ Gojo, the mimic. He caught you muttering the pi table to regain focus. He immediately adopted the technique.

♡ Gojo, the sore winner. If he scored higher than you, he wasn’t happy he was annoyed. What’s the point if you don’t even care?

♡ Gojo, the reluctant believer. He told you about his hobbies with way too much excitement. You told him about yours, but your blank expression made him question if you were lying.

♡ Gojo, the paranoid calculator. He tried analyzing your movements, but everything about you was too precise. It freaked him out.

♡ Gojo, the not-so-subtle spy. Since you lived next to Suguru, he used that as an excuse to observe you. Every time he saw you, you were either studying or staring out the window like a lifeless statue. You caught him multiple times. Instead of yelling, you just stared at him. It was terrifying.

♡ Gojo, the insecure nerd. He nervously brought up Dungeons & Dragons, expecting you to be clueless. Instead, you knew everything. He had never felt average before.

♡ Gojo, the desk menace. He constantly poked you during class, hoping for any reaction. You just stared at him, unblinking, until he became flustered and left.

♡ Gojo, the insane conversationalist. He told you the wildest theories, and you listened like it was just another casual conversation. It drove him insane.

It took me 4 days to think of a gojo nerd scenerio 😭

And you GUYS HAVE TO REQUEST DO IT

Part 2 will be here

@naomigojo

SATORU AS LEON AND SUGURU AS ADAAA??????

💳💥💳💥💳💥💥💥 take my money

art credit to: @ruu_sugu —-> twitter

Five years old, and she already has the sass of a teenager. RIP Loid, you are going to go through HELL in another five years or so.

HOTLINE BL☆NG!

summ. wine nights and free will? a recipe for disaster— such as matching your ex on a corny dating app and having him in your bed within that same hour. . .

cw. eventual smut. 18+. fem!reader. alcohol/substance consumption. ex boyfriend!gojo. mild toxicity. breakup & makeup. girlhood ft jjk girlies. unreliable narrator sorta. sukuna slander. mild impact play. mild asphyxiation. oral (f). fíngering. backshōts. reader is a little questionable. self sabotaging my beloved. lowkey angsty. @/3aem on tumblr for art creds. most of these stories are real shit i’ve heard/experienced LOL. can you tell i’ve never used tinder a day in my life? 16.4k words. . oops.

rena’s note. @yung-notorious and her filthy mind. . .

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah you do.”

god, you do.

you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that had you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

friday nights were meant to decompose after a long week. a cute tradition you followed— sipping on moscato wine and munching on takeout with your homegirls while the lamest horror movie played as background noise. the skincare bit happened every third friday of the month, which fell on this particular night, thin layers of korean products lathering at your skins while fluffy headbands sat atop your hairlines, keeping stray hairs away.

it was an easy way of recapping all of your week’s worth of bullshit and listing each girl’s new lineup of men of the season.

girlhood.

“i’m cool off men for a whileee,” you sigh, placing your third wine glass on the coffee table. you tuck your legs back onto the couch, propping your head into your palm. you watch as shoko, who’s seated on the floor, grabs your glass and fills it with another unsolicited round. you narrow your eyes at her, “after the shit kuna pulled— girl, slow down!”

“don’t watch me,” shoko chews at her unlit blunt tucked in her teeth, lifting an arm above her head to pass you your refill. despite the slight spin of the room, you accept the cup against better judgment, “keep talking. what the fuck did he do now?”

“you mean what didn’t he do,” seated in the pink bean bag rested on the floor, utahime quips. in between her teeth sits a wooden stick, drizzled in the honey-like wax residue she smeared over her shin. “i woulda left his ass the second i found out he— FUCK— lived with his mama at his big age.”

as utahime soothes her smoothened skin, yuki leans over the coffee table to grab at the blunt passed over to her. “y/n baby, you know i love you,” she starts off, taking a deep inhale before ghosting the smoke. you can tell she’s about the cook the shit out of you, “but come on— he lives in his parents’ basement. was that not a red flag in itself? is that seriously the kind of man you see yourself marrying.”

“nevermind the fact he’s pushing thirty and still unemployed,” shoko throws in her two cents, takeout back in her lap as she breaks open a new set of chopsticks, “he’s one more ‘tap in’ away from getting caught by the feds.”

“how much y’all wanna bet he’s at the club right now as we speak?” it’s a rhetorical question, but utahime pauses her waxing to check. with sticky fingers, she taps away at her phone, and with a knowing smile she yelps, tilting her screen towards you three, “aha!— and there goes the infamous money spread.”

“cornballllll.” shoko cringes.

you’re filled with dread and shame at the sight presented. god— every single chance you gave this man, he spun around and somehow does worse. it’s not like the two of you were together— never officially, but the sole fact that you’ve let this man treat you as if you were his girl haunts you. you’ve let countless of bullshit slide all because his stroke game came second within all the men you’ve dealt with.

the only thing you’ll give him besides a being a good lay is that you’ve never had issues concerning other women. he’s a very transparent guy— you’ve yet to receive a “hey girlie. . .” text from anybody. though, it isn’t like either of you have ever dropped any hard launches. it was mostly content that only close friends could catch onto— the interior design of his car, your latest set of nails, subtle shots of his tattoos, your purses and jewelry. nothing evident but pretty obvious to those who know.

if sukuna was still cool with him, however. . . yeah, he’d definitely know, considering the fact he purchased most of the purses you own. that’s excluding the fact your favorite necklace, the one with your name engraved, the one you always wear, was also bought by him.

“move,” you push utahime’s hand away from your peripheral, slumping further into the couch. embarrassment floods you yet again, and you drown it away with more wine. much to your chagrin, they spare no mercy as they giggle at your pout, “not too much on me— shoko, you’re literally the one who put me on!”

“don’t do that,” she rolls her eyes, picking at the orange chicken on her platter. you have half a mind at chucking your drink at her. “all i told you was to fuck him. nobody said anything about keeping him around.”

“instructions: unclear,” utahime giggles, smearing another coat of wax mixture onto her calves. “she’s now a year deep into a situationship with a man who files for disability checks to blow on parlays.”

you spring up in your seat, your wine nearly spilling on shoko in your excitement, “shit, i never told you guys!”

“told us what?” yuki kills the blunt in the ash tray, and stretches an arm to grab at her food. she knocks over a few emptied bottles as they roll on the carpet, and winces when one of them knock at shoko’s knee, “my fault girl.”

shoko clicks her tongue, but you loop your arms around her neck as you proceed, “before you bitches attacked me for literally just being a girl,” you decide ignore the way they all groan, “i was trying to tell you all why i finally ended shit with him.”

“well don’t hold back now!” utahime eggs on.

“guess what i found out,” you set the empty wine glass back onto the table. you’re most likely gonna need your hands in this specific conversation, “he bet thirty thousand dollars on the super bowl game— and lost.”

the room falls quiet. utahime pauses in her ripping, yuki drops her noodles from her chopsticks and shoko nearly chokes on her wine. amidst it all, three pairs of eyes slowly crawl to meet your gaze, in complete disbelief at what you’d told them.

“are you deadass?” shoko speaks first, her facial expression almost incredulous. her eyes are teary from her food slipping through the wrong tube. “you’re playing, right? right?”

“she has to be. . . this is a new level of low even for him.” yuki shakes her head, most likely in attempts to give him the benefit of the doubt. you don’t blame her— no sane person would drop thirty grand on a fucking betting app of all things— and on top of that, lose.

“i wish i was?!” you groan, still upset, “the worst part is that he told me that money was supposed to be deposit money for a condo he’d been,” you raise your fingers in air quotes, “looking into.”

“you know what though? this doesn’t actually surprise me,” utahime laughs, as if she hadn’t been in a daze for a solid minute. she rips at the strip, and winces, “didn’t i just say he was getting checks to place on parlays? frank gallagher looking ass.”

“but thirty thousand?” yuki emphasizes, blinking rapidly in her disbelief, “what the fuck would possess somebody to bet thirty grand on anything?”

“grown ass man, by the way.” shoko mumbles mindlessly, before chowing down some more food. you can’t find it in yourself to disagree.

utahime nods, blowing a puff of air, “on god, bro. don’t he got mortgages to pay off or some shit?”

yuki shoots her a deadpanned look, “girl, with what house.”

and that had been your final straw with him. not the fact he lived in his mother’s basement despite clearly having money to rent out a place, or the fact he was still flexing bands he allegedly has on the gram— but blowing all your money on a fucking football game. and losing. you do respect yourself, as much as these girls believe you don’t. a man with no ambitions and no money? you need to run and far.

“i’ll miss his dick though.” you pout, the alcohol already coursing through your body. being wine drunk always made you horny, that was a known fact, and letting go of one of your greatest eaters was not on your bingo card. naturally, the girls roll their eyes at your antics, “boo me all you want— he horsed me the fuck around in bed.”

“you used to say the same shit about gojo,” utahime points out, rising to her feet as she grabs the used strips in her hold, before circling around the couch, “and look how that ended up.”

technically. . . she wasn’t exactly wrong but that still stung a bit. “hime, seriously?” shoko rolls her eyes, and you feel her hand rubbing at your foot soothingly. her motions are a little stiff but you appreciate the sentiment, “we get you don’t fuck with him but he was still her man. and basically my friend, kinda.”

you hear her wince in the kitchen, followed by footsteps, “right. . . sorry girlie.” she runs back to you after throwing the waste away, and kisses at your temple. she doesn’t comment on the pout on your lips. “i didn’t mean it. . . okay maybe i did, but i’m still sorry!”

your history with gojo was complicated. you’d met him through shoko in your third year of college, at a kickback party hosted by his people. it’d been an invite only thing, but shoko had brought you along as a plus one, and you both instantly connected. as far as you were concerned, it was technically supposed to be a sneaky link vibe, but you soon learned gojo was anything but sneaky. in fact, he was so vocal in him wanting you, that he actually did end up getting you a couple months later.

he’s a year older than you, therefore he’d graduated a year ahead. the separation in itself was something you hadn’t looked forward to at all, but he had found himself a condo downtown, not too far from your residency, therefore seeing each other hadn’t been an issue. he always made it clear he wanted to see you— even after gruelling nine to five shifts in the office. his words matched his actions, driving you up to his place since yours had a stupid curfew policy for visitors.

(you’ve kept him in your dorm numerous times.) (your closet has suffered enough with his lanky ass.)

the first year worked out for the better. he was still welcomed to the parties you invited him to, he made time in his schedule help you with your studies, planned consist dates and even took you out on trips. he was physically, mentally and emotionally present— and you genuinely believed he would be your forever man when you’d introduced him to your parents at your graduation ceremony and he seemed thrilled. they adored him— and that says a lot considering they hated all your other exes. with good reason, but still.

it’d been the honeymoon phase until it wasn’t.

you expected arguments. those are inevitable in relationships, but with every argument he grew distant. you were now both graduated students juggling between jobs, rent and a relationship. it was a lot— your schedules never seemed to align which jumbled into multiple failed dates, which further escalated into more arguments. it hadn’t always been him, you could agree you were at fault too. that post graduation depression spiralled worst than you’d anticipated— the fear of falling behind when your boyfriend had already been successful so early into his career entirely consuming.

he reassured you plenty, but you could see it in his face as he spoke to you— he was exhausted. of work. of life. of you. he had bigger fish to fry than dealing with a workaholic girlfriend with low self esteem. the bigger the promotion, the less your value. you’d seen this play out before— it was less i love you’s and more hours in the office. less dinner dates and more project plannings.

the more time you spent by yourself, the more your mind began overthinking. you had no place in his life anymore. you didn’t resent him for it— you wish nothing but the best for him. he deserves to be successful in life, and he’s already so close to it. your slacking behind is nothing more than dead weight in his rise to the top.

the breakup had been anticipated. you’d broken up with him first. he never asked you to explain why. he nodded, never uttering a word. it’d been the first time you’d seen him in weeks. you kept it simple, “we should break up.” and he kept it even simpler, a curt bounce of the head in agreement. as quick as he’d entered your apartment, he left.

and that’d honestly been it. you’d been together for four years, and broken up for a year and a half. after all this time, you still don’t resent him for it. he made the rational choice in prioritizing himself and his future, and you simply didn’t fit in it. it took you quite some time to work on yourself as well, and you’re honestly satisfied with where you are in life. the breakup clearly worked in favour for you both.

it sucks that he was genuinely the only man you ever cared about. the only man you can confidently say you loved.

“look— now you got her thinking about him!” shoko complains, chucking the nearest thing— a throw pillow, at utahime. it hits her square in the face, to which she lets out a muffled oof! “way to fucking go.”

you blink out of your thoughts. well that’s embarrassing, you got caught up in the past again. you lift yourself from the slumping position you’d unintentionally fallen into the midst of daydreaming, “shit, my bad. got flashbacks to that time he ate me off the bone after his first promotion.”

“yo, what?!” yuki hollers, falling into a fit of laughter. shoko rolls her eyes so much you’re thinking it’ll get stuck at the back of her skull and utahime physically cringed from head to toe. “so fucking unserious— here we are, worried about your ass and here you go, upset you lost your best eater.”

not exactly, though there was some truth to her words. gojo was your best eater, and nobody’s topped him since. he really did tongue fuck you that night like you were the boss who raised his pay. but it wasn’t just the sex you missed— you wholeheartedly missed him. the closest thing to a soul bond you’ve experienced, now gone.

they don’t need to know all that though.

“oh come on,” utahime groans, picking at her nails. trust her to find any reason to slander your ex. for what reason? she’s never told you other than him annoying the fuck out of her, “he could not have been that great. it can’t be anything you can’t find elsewhere— plenty of men eat pussy.”

“okay but do they enjoy eating it or is it more of a duty thing?” yuki points out, rolling her thumb on her lighter mindlessly. she watches the flame arise, casting a soft glow on the sheet stuck to her face, “because you can definitely tell the difference. one eats for foreplay, the other eats for his own pleasure.”

shoko hums in agreement, still poking at her plate, “a man versus a munch,” and with a beat of silence, she takes a deep sigh, throwing her head back, “i should call him.”

“no! no you should not,” utahime laughs, before shooting you a glance. your smile quickly falters and is switched with a look of confusion as she points a nail filer in your direction, “and you,” you cock a brow, “stop thinking about him. we’re supposed to be independent women, y’all need to stand the fuck up.”

“hime, please, you were literally just complaining to your close friends about your latest dry spell.”

“irrelevant!” she dismisses yuki, waving a hand absentmindedly. you don’t see how it’s irrelevant exactly, but you let her proceed. “we are sexy, successful and strong women. stop relying on the past and focus on the future. there are bitches that fought for their lives for the freedom we have! you could literally get dick anywhere— they actually have apps for it, if you didn’t know—”

“so tell us, o’mighty one,” shoko cuts her off, “are you suggesting we download tinder to relieve our stress?”

she remains quiet, and you can see the gears churning in her head. you’re about ninety nine percent positive shoko was fucking around, but the scrunch in your friend’s eyebrows tells you she’s seriously contemplating the idea, “. . yes actually.” she finally decides.

“hime. . .” shoko groans, but is effectively cut off when she springs up to her knees to grab at her phone.

“no, seriously, think about it!” she scrolls through her phone like a maniac, searching through the app store and typing the name in. you all watch her incredulously, her enthusiasm in the matter as if she hadn’t been preaching about feminism half a minute ago, “i’ve met some of my best lays in college through tinder. i haven’t been on this app in years though.”

you don’t see why not. you were pretty tipsy and would never have agreed to this under typical conditions, however it could be regarded as a bonding activity. you also haven’t been on tinder since before your last relationship, and the shit sukuna put you through this past year was enough to make you want to deal with literally anything else.

“i’m down.” you pull out your phone, and shoko may have gotten whiplash with how quick she snaps her head back to eye you. you shrug your shoulders, “we don’t have to take this shit seriously— god knows i’m not entertaining anybody on this app for real.”

“exactly!” utahime nods, walking up to scoot herself beside you. she nudges at shoko with her foot, who flicks at her toes to keep her away, “it’s just for shits and giggles.”

“i’m definitely not doing this shit,” yuki crawls to sit at the couch’s feet, right at shoko’s side, and grabs at the remote sitting uselessly on the table, “but i will be watching you both embarrass yourselves.”

“the only other bitch with common sense here.” shoko sprawls her legs onto yuki’s lap. she receives a slap at the back of her head by utahime, and naturally she slaps the hand right back. “can’t stand that little fucker sometimes.”

“aweee, love you too!” she blows a kiss at her to which she receives a middle finger. you snort, eyes glued on your screen as you redownload that forsaken app back into your phone.

you’d probably regret it in the morning, but that was something saturday you would have to deal with. as of right now, with white wine in your system, logic was not an option. you were learning to live more in the moment, and apparently that starts with the corniest dating app in the world.

it’s not like you’d magically stumble upon your ex on the platform. now wouldn’t that be something? ha!

there’s no fucking way.

this had to be one big, fat cosmic joke. a cruel prank, even. and if it was, then the universe had a twisted sense of humour. you still don’t believe it— were the girls in on this? this kind of shit didn’t just happen to anybody.

it took about a total of twenty minutes between logging back into your old account, updating your password and bio, and swiping left on passing profiles until you landed on it. on. . . him.

you blink slowly. your phone is shaky beneath your unstable hands, and you’re pretty sure you’ve been holding your breath in far longer than recommended for the average human. it’s quiet as fuck in the room— despite the three girls huddled over your shoulders, sticking their noses in all directions to get a clearer view of your illuminating screen— almost as if to confirm if what they were seeing was truly was they were seeing, as if this was all too fucking ironic to be true.

there’s a knot of anxiousness that simmers in the pits of your stomach. you’re pretentiously aware that even the slightest movement— one wrong click or swipe, would ultimately change everything. there was too much at risk here. “oh there’s no fucking way. . .” shoko speaks up first.

utahime leans in impossibly closer, a few centimetres away from fully emerging with your iphone as her nose scrunches, “way too sexy? fuck around and find out? god, he’s still so corny, i swear.”

your eyes trail over his biography, curiously. that “way2sexy” had been an inside joke you both shared years ago— back when drake had dropped one of gojo’s favourite albums, certified loverboy. he overplayed the shit out of that song when it came out, so much that you received multiple complaints from your RA for “public disturbance”, but he swore it worked as daily affirmations for him in the same sense crystals and tarot cards worked for spiritual girlies. you called him corny for it, but before you knew it, it’d shown up in your spotify wrapped the following year.

rapid memories of morning rays of light peeking through blinds, a groggy yet mysteriously clear “alexa, play way 2 sexy” as you fixed your sheets and lit your candles, fighting over who gets to spit toothpaste residue first, hearty laughter to fumbled lyrics, shared minty kisses paired with one “gimme one more” too many.

the ache clenching at your heart is hard to ignore.

“i would give him the benefit of the doubt in believing he hasn’t updated his account,” yuki draws out, eyes narrowing as a finger sticks out to point, “but his age matches. emoticons as a grown man. . . no shade though.”

his age did match. inside joke aside, none of it was adding up. if he already had his account set up years ago, had he willingly changed his bio to one of your most infamous gags after the breakup? if you were to swipe right right now, would it instantly match? you don’t think you want to figure it out— both possible outcomes scaring you shitless.

“should i swipe left?” you speak uncharacteristically softly, torn between the idea of tucking your tail inwards and running away from the opportunity or your typical it is what it is mentality.

“yes! obviously— mmmph?!”

“do you want to?” shoko, with a pillow stuffing an agitated utahime in the face, counters. between all the girls, she seemed to understand you the most, granted her own relationship with the man. you’re sure he had given her his own version of their breakup, how you’d opened the doors to endless opportunities for him, had given him the easy way out. you never bothered asking her, afraid of the illusion you’d created to shield yourself shattering, “only you have the answer to that.”

“i honestly don’t know,” you sigh, joints in your thumb aching from hovering over your screen for too long. swiping left meant completely abandoning any the possibility of the two of you as one. you don’t want that responsibility weighted on your shoulders again, “what if he’s moved on? the shit that’ll do to my ego if i swipe right and he passes on me?”

shoko finally grants her friend the permission of speech, freeing her off the couch decoration, though the look she gives her serves as a warning to tread lightly. with a heavy breath, utahime releases a puff, “i’d crashout, just sayin’.”

“but what if he hasn’t moved on?” yuki poses, and apparently that was all the confirmation you needed to swipe. fuck pride— pride wasn’t going to get your back blown out. pride wasn’t going to help you get the love of your life back. pride can go fuck itself.

“wait—”

utahime is cut off again, however, not by shoko but tinder itself. the notification pings loudly, resonating in depths of your ear cavity and shoots straight to your chest. you can feel your heart pounding wildly against your rib cage. it’s so silent you can hear a pin drop, and the way your gut churns gives away the end result to your spontaneity.

it’s a match.

“well. . . shit.” shoko slumps back into the couch nonchalantly, and you don’t need to see her to know she’s sporting a smirk. you do feel her knee knock into yours. fake ass idgafer.

you’re no better, biting down your bottom in order to suppress the smile itching to spread. a year later and the sole idea that he’d already came across the same mindset as you, willing to give whatever it was that needed a second shot, had you beyond delusional. god, you need help.

“look at youuu, cheesin’ and shit!” yuki pokes at your cheek and you swat her hand away, ultimately caving into the smile. fuck yeah you were geeked— it’s hard carrying a nonchalant attitude when you were an honest to god, soft hearted lovergirl. if you played your cards right, with a few lash bats and glossy lips, you’d be getting dicked down in no time.

“i’m gonna be sick.” utahime deadpans.

“and i’m getting dickkk,” you sing, jumping to your feet as you stood on the couch. you turn around, hands clutching onto the headrest, giving your ass a cute shake as it rotates in circular motions. you feel shoko’s hand tapping it encouragingly, her phone illuminating as it records while she rests her head on your moving thighs. you hear yuki cackle, pulling out her phone to film as well. you giggle, “rip that pussy!”

“ayeeee!” they complete the lyrics, and the vibes are restored yet again, girly giggles filling the room. when your legs begin to feel wobbly, you stop your twerking to plop yourself right back down, leaning your head onto shoko’s shoulder.

you hear her click her tongue as the recording of your ass graces her screen, and she groans, “gojo is one lucky bastard— he can’t handle all that.”

he most definitely can, and has. you’ll opt with shrugging in the meantime.

“with that being said,” utahime jumps in, crossing her legs, “what’s the next move here? you reaching out first?”

your lips straighten as your mind reflects. if you still know him as well as you think you do, he’s definitely going to text you first as soon as he sees the green light. sure, you were anxious for a reply, desperate to check what his temperature was— but you’d already sacrificed a grand amount of dignity just swiping right. he could do take on the role of texting first.

“nah, i’m almost a hundred percent sure he’ll—”

ping!

you all whip your heads to the source of the sound. your phone. the screen shines as it undergoes facial recognition, and exposes the messenger. from tinder. gojo. sending you a message. just as you’d expected.

you can’t help the cocky smile, eyes trailing at their perplexed faces, “—text me first.”

naturally, the girls are impressed. even you are— that timing? would it be insane to genuinely be considering gojo might honest to god be your soulmate? yuki blows a puff of air, followed by a laugh, “your pussy has to be magical cause what the fuck?”

“ladies and gentlemen,” utahime stands to her feet, fisting her hand into an imaginary microphone, and addresses her fake crowd. in the hostiest voice she can muster, she curtsies as she continues in comedic fashion, “miss pussy fairy in thee flesh.”

“put a stamp on it.” shoko shakes her head in acknowledgment, laying her own phone in her lap as she claps. yuki places two fingers in her mouth and whistles at you, to which you rise to your own feet and dramatically place a hand over your chest in faux humility.

“oh please!” you flatter yourself, tucking your hair behind your ear. you smile behind your palm, your improv classes in high school coming in clutch, “this is too much— thank you! thank you deeply.”

“girl, byeee,” utahime breaks character first, giggling as she sits back onto the abandoned bean bag. you mimic her motions, as she pops open a stray water bottle and swallows a big gulp, “open his text! i wanna see what he said!”

you’re in the same boat, thumbing at your phone to unlock it and open the app. naturally the girls hover over you yet again, just as eager to see how he finally broke the no contact phase. it took him less than three minutes to slide in your messages, as the option had finally been granted.

right as your thumb hovers the message, a hum draws out your throat, “how much y’all wanna bet it’s something corny?” you tease, something close to a hunch giving it away. seeing as your assumptions were deemed accurate just a few minutes ago, the only way he’d think of clearing the ice would be with something plausibly lame.

“open itttt!” utahime ushers you, hands clamping at your shoulders. you roll your eyes, letting her dramatics sway your body back and forth before she lets up. you let out a sigh, and open the unanswered message.

and just as you’d predicted. . .

@gsatoru: they say shooters shoot 👀

“oh brotherrrr,” the girls groan in sync, and even you can’t stop the cringe that stiffens your face. if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s the fact he still doesn’t act his age. he needs to let those college days go.

“now, what’d i tell y’all.” you tut, leaving out the part of nostalgia simmering deep and warmly in your bones at his predictability. ever the goofy he was, gojo satoru. jeez.

“i was really found myself rooting for him too,” shoko sighs, rising to her feet. she dusts at her lap then stretches her limbs lazily, “i’m gonna go pee— hime, i swear to god, don’t take my seat.” she doesn’t look back to flip her off when she hears utahime blow raspberries her way. to which, against shoko’s wishes, leaps over to snatch her seat.

both you and yuki give her a deadpanned look, but yuki voices out your thoughts, “she’s gonna get on your ass and i’m not helping you out.”

“girl, boo.” utahime rolls her eyes, “more importantly, what the fuck do you answer to that?” her nail taps at your phone screen, peering at you expectantly through lashes.

you consider your options. do you reciprocate the same energy or do you call him out on his corniness? matching his vibe would be like starting off a blank slate— a new start, new conversations, something almost superficial. like a fling you meet at the bars for one night of fuckery that you regret the next morning. but calling him out would induce in falling into familiar patterns— calling him a cornball while he attempts to sweet talk you, old conversations brought up, risking broken boundaries for the sake of reminiscing.

decisions, decisions, decisions.

“i’m thinking taking the easy way out.” you nod your head, readying your fingers as you type your response out.

you miss the exchanged glances between utahime and yuki, too busy trying to format how to come off playful but not forgetful. flirty but not desperate. come pull up on me but demurely. well you’ll be damned— in what world had you ever expected second guessing yourself for gojo?

“what’s the easy way out?” yuki asks, and you hit send. where this confidence comes from is beyond you, but any error you make you can blame on the wine (you’re hardly fazed but it’s nice to have something to pin the blame on instead of yourself) (old habits die hard).

you tilt your phone, holding it out as you watch the girls’ brows furrow, eyes scanning over the screen. when their faces contort into a look of amusement mixed with horror, a girly giggle escapes your throat.

@yourstrulyname: sukuna ryomen wsp with you?? 🙈

“you didn’t!” utahime hollers, her laughter so intense she doubled over to clutch at her stomach. yuki sways her body back and forth as she finds herself in a hysterical fit as well. “goddd, i would kill to see the look on his face right now.”

“yooo, that’s evil.” the blonde swipes at a tear. “woulda had me deactivating the whole account.”

“who’s deactivating?” shoko pops back in, not without slapping utahime upside the head. she ignores the way utahime complains in favour to swipe a nearly emptied bottle to pour.

“it’s not even that bad,” you defend yourself, flashing her your screen as she installs herself in the bean bag utahime once occupied. her eyes squint as she reads the conversation, nearly bulging out their sockets when she catches your message, “nahhh, don’t give me that!”

“if he gives you the time of day after that,” shoko swirls the wine in her glass, snorting, “he must really still be in love with you.”

“he should know i’m playing. . .” you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince the girls, him or yourself. you really were just joking around— albeit a terrible joke, but one regardless! sukuna was officially removed from the roster, a financially irresponsible man never standing a chance against you, “right?”

“don’t ask us?” utahime chimes in, uselessly, to which you roll your eyes. well shit, maybe you should double text? let him know you were just fooling around, trying to check temperatures and establish the mood. your phone pings again, and all unnecessary thoughts are thrown out the window.

@gsatoru: oh so you got jokes now?

as you’re about to let him know you’ve been had jokes, but never the goofy type, you see the bubbles pop up, a telltale that he’s got more to tell you. you let him have it, already having possibly fumbled the mission before even starting. it feels like an eternity and a half waiting on his text, the girls having huddled over you yet again, just as curious to see what he had to counter with.

@gsatoru: can’t be a joke if the guy had you outside on valentine’s day tho. stk steakhouse? really girl?

your jaw falls slack. you watch with burning eyes at your screen as your built up suspicions were ultimately confirmed. okay, so those two were still somehow connected. you didn’t like to question male friendships, the lack of loyalty not one you’d ever understand. god forbid you ever started fucking with utahime’s ex of many years.

“wait. .” said girl speaks up, drawing the word out as she processes his answer. her tongue rolls around in her mouth, face cringing as the next words follow, “i can’t lie, he kinda ate you up.”

“just sassy as fuck,” shoko laughs, and it’s one of those giggles reserved to shit she honestly finds hilarious, “really girl is crazy. all comfortably like he’s one of your homegirls.”

“now what’s wrong with stk’s?” yuki grumbles, picking at her nails with a childish pout on her lips, “everybody isn’t born with a silver spoon plugged up our asses. god, i can’t stand rich people.”

you don’t bother answering the girls, already aware he chewed with his response, that he’s as sassy as he was years ago and that he had found that particular steakhouse shabby despite it being a fucking steakhouse. these were things you already knew. your thumbs proceed before your mind can register,

@yourstrulyname: been keeping tabs on me?

“you don’t look too happy,” shoko pokes at your cheek. there’s an ache creasing in your forehead, and you relax the furrow of your brows. you’re not exactly upset, just a bit on edge with his approach— you can’t tell whether he’s on tens or not. whether he’s genuinely joking around or not.

“i’m fine.” you poke back, and she nods. she ushers the other girls to pick a new movie to play, and you clock this is her way of allowing you some privacy between exes. you shoot her a grateful look, and she offers a sly wink. you’ll make sure to update her on whatever happens as soon as it’s over.

you switch your ringer off, and open his new message.

@gsatoru: hard not to when he posts you like he has smth to prove

@yourstrulyname: who said it was me?

you knew it was you. you knew he knew it was you. but still, you wanted to hear it from him yourself, wanted to know if he really was keeping tabs on you ever since the breakup. it’d help ease your mind with unanswered questions.

@gsatoru: you mean besides the bags and jewelry i got you?

@gsatoru: your build was a dead giveaway. could recognize you blindfolded in a room full of women

you bit your lip. you could work with this text, play around with it and see if shit flips. would he fall for the bait? you’ll start off slow, create an opening and see if he decides to indulge.

@yourstrulyname: like what you saw?

he answers instantly and your heart sinks a bit.

@gsatoru: of course

@gsatoru: you’re as a beautiful as the day you left me

is that how he saw it? you assume you did leave him in a practical sense, but there was no way he hadn’t seen it coming miles away. you had both been caught up in your lives, the additional stress of romance an unwanted factor in the rise of your careers. so yeah, you’d given him the opportunity to leave. it’s not as if he fought it anyway, so did you really leave him if he’d closed the door on his merry way out?

this was starting to get personal. toeing between the line of uncharted territory and familiarity. everything you didn’t want— debriefing the logic behind the underwhelming breakup on tinder of all places was out of the fucking question.

@yourstrulyname: you still cool with sukuna?

@gsatoru: something like that

@gsatoru: he’s slimey as fuck for sliding on you tho

you figured as much. you couldn’t imagine a world where gojo wouldn’t feel some type of way at his friend going after his ex girlfriend a couple months fresh off a breakup. he probably felt the same way towards you, the difference being one owes him more loyalty than the other.

@yourstrulyname: and what does that make me?

@gsatoru: did he mean something to you?

he didn’t. you think of the importance of somebody meaning something to you— the fear of losing that person larger than life itself. the joy of waking up in that person’s arms on a rainy morning. the vulnerability in bonding souls with that person. the relief your body undergoes as it melts in that person’s embrace.

he didn’t mean shit to you.

@yourstrulyname: no

@gsatoru: then that makes you someone who made a choice

neutral and impassive. you wondered if he truly meant that. in a sense, you assume he really did mature.

@yourstrulyname: so he’s in the wrong but i’m not?

@gsatoru: who am i to assign right from wrong? you’re both adults at the end of the day

you don’t know what to answer to that. there was a lot of truth to his words— you were both consenting adults with choices made. jeez, just what had gojo gone through all these months that made him none the wiser? you’re considering leaving him on opened for a while, at least until you come up with an answer to that philosophical ass message, when he double texts you.

@gsatoru: this is so backwards lmaoo. what’s good with you? how’ve you been?

so he realized it too. thank fuck— skipping small talk and diving into the nitty gritty this late at night was not how you expected your night to go. the girls had completely forgotten your predicament, invested in the latest reality tv show flashing on your flat screen.

@yourstrulyname: been good. you?

@gsatoru: wow you’re as dry as ever

@gsatoru: life’s been blessed, could be better tho. too much to explain over text

oh? was this what you were thinking it was?

@yourstrulyname: what are you getting at, gojo?

@gsatoru: gojo? so it’s fuck me then

@gsatoru: not getting at anything. ball’s in your court, yn

so it was. you contemplate it for a second— should you invite him over tonight? the girls won’t be upset about kicking them out, and if anything they’d encourage you to call them as soon as it’s over. you suppose your doubts lie within the idea of having your ex boyfriend back into your territory. in the comfort of your home, a home he’d once already graced.

as scary as it sounded, you also desperately craved seeing him. it’d been a solid eighteen months since you’ve broken up, and thirteen since you’ve last seen him entirely. ironically, around the time you started getting involved with sukuna. you weren’t sure if it was your heart or pussy talking, but laying up in bed with this man was not something you were against.

fuck it.

@yourstrulyname: you know where i stay at

and his response comes instantly.

@gsatoru: be there in half an hour.

oh fuck.

“yo. . .” you speak up, for the first time in a few minutes. the girls turn their heads, acknowledging you, as you shut your phone close and chuck it across the sofa. “i love y’all but y’all gotta go, like now.”

shoko shakes her head, but there’s a smirk on her lips. utahime, as lost as ever, gives you a frown. yuki has most likely caught on, rising to her feet, dusting her lap, “say no more.”

the girls do you an immense favour as they excuse themselves. they pick at empty bottles and containers, throw dirty dishes in the dishwasher, rearrange the throw pillows and even light up your candles. you feel bad for kicking them out so late, so you pitch in some money for gas as well as the inconvenience.

as they cleaned out your living room and kitchen, you’d rushed to your shower for a mini cleanse. pulling out your bests, you wash over intimate parts thoroughly, lathering your limbs in scented soap, before rinsing, brushing your teeth and stepping out. you stare at your reflection through the haze of steam, the foggy mirror reminding you of the missing messages he used to leave on mornings you had to get to work.

no point in dwelling on the past when he was on his way over this moment. you swap your silk robe for the skimpiest loungewear you own— matching camisole and shorts, and let your hair cascade back down. you’re about your fifth spritz of body spray when the doorbell rings, and your stomach flutters.

you halt in your step when you notice how fast you’re going. yikes! the last thing he needs is his ego inflating, knowing you were rushing to get him inside, nevermind the fact you washed, pulled out your sexiest pyjamas and even wore a brand new pair of panties. you know. . . just for preparations. better safe than sorry.

after the third mindless lap around your kitchen, you make your way towards the door. you inhale sharply, clenching at your shaky fingers, easing your nerves. you quickly snap out of your daze, pulling the door open.

his eyes, momentarily distracted by the number engraved in the wall next to your door, glaze over your figure curiously. his hands are tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants. he lets out a breath, a sound borderlining a chuckle as it shoots straight to both heartbeats, shoulders drop from its hunch,

“hey.”

he’s thick.

no perverted shit. you’ve noticed he’s put on weight in the right places— not to say he’d been anything less than nicely built in the past, but his biceps are significantly fuller and the material of his compression tee stretched over bulging muscles in a telltale pattern.

somebody’s been at the gym one too many.

“you good with this?” he mumbles, hand running across the smooth skin of your calf. with every stroke of his palm are fleeting memories of the past, burning deep into your limb. you hate the way your stomach sinks st the thought, “me being here and shit.”

“wouldn’t have let you in if i wasn’t.” you answer honestly, back pressed into the arm of the couch. you don’t understand how fast he’d gotten comfortable with being in your personal space just like that— you don’t understand how you’d allowed him in your personal space just like that.

he nods, and the air is eerily quiet. you watch with furrowed brows as he traces shapes into your skin with his fingertip, a frenzy of emotions resembling those of turbulence all in cerulean eyes. he’s torn— you can see it in the way his nose scrunches, as if he’s debating on whether he should voice out his thoughts or not. whether it’s worth debriefing— if this is his last shot or not.

with all this time passed, he’s still so easy to read.

“what is it?” you sigh, albeit irritated. the last thing you’d planned when you got rid of your friends in favour of having your ex over was this weird ass tension roaming. crazy sentence to speak— you know, but you were really hoping it’d be less talking involved and more sexing. it wasn’t that you were against conversing with him, but the way he was choosing to go about it was just so. . . awkward .

he senses the irritation laced in your question and immediately chuckles. his laugh sounds breathless, almost dry, but he shakes his head. his free hand swipes at his nose, a tic of his you noticed years ago whenever he’s feeling bashful or caught, and clears his throat.

“how’d you and sukuna happen?” he rips off the bandaid, and asks you the last question you wanted to hear. the tracing on your leg slows down, and your arms tighten a bit around your torso.

you let out a puff of air. if gojo notices your discomfort, he doesn’t mention it. in fact, he doesn’t pull the question back at all— he stares at you intensely, as if baring into your soul, as if the answer to his question will determine whether the boulder weighted on his shoulders will free him of restraint or not.

as if he still stood a chance or not.

“not much to say,” you shrug, as dismissive as possible. he doesn’t budge, the same intensity in his gaze and you roll your eyes, “honest to god. we broke up, he was there at the right time and shit happened.”

the words simmer into the stillness of the night, and he swipes his tongue over his lips pensively, “were y’all ever official?” he pushes, and you click your tongue against your teeth, offering him a deadpanned look. seriously, as if he didn’t know his own friend— in what world was sukuna anything worthy of official?

“god, no.” you shudder, and he nods again. “you know your friend.”

“i don’t,” gojo counters, momentarily wrapping his hand around your ankle. it fits as perfectly as it did all those years ago, where thumbs at your anklet— another prized possession he’d gotten you. your face heats in embarrassment, and he flicks his eyes to glance at you, a fleeting smirk on his lips, before staring back at the jewelry, “going after my ex girlfriend is not something i expected. i don’t know him at all.”

fair enough, you think to yourself. there has to be some lingering resentment towards you for the same reason. had the tables been turned and he’d gone after one of your closest friends, you would’ve cut him off from your life completely. you were being truthful— it wasn’t anything remotely serious with sukuna, not even close to how it’d been with gojo, but you could see it as a matter of principle. you’d already taken the initiative to break up with him first, and going after his homeboy?

god, you had questionable morals.

“it’s different with you,” he feeds in, as if he could read your thoughts. it was probably written all over your face, the scrunch in your brows never letting up. his index finger slides beneath the band of your anklet, the contrast of the silver shade lining perfectly against his complexion, “‘s hard to explain, but you broke up with me so you technically owe me no loyalty— besides, i get why you ended things. never blamed you.”

now that peaks your interest. he gets why you ended things with him? he never blamed you? you clear your throat, forcing the question out, “you do?”

“of course,” he shrugs naturally, as if it hadn’t taken you eons to conclude. as if it hadn’t broke you apart when you’d realized how unneeded you were, “i honestly expected it. you deserved better than what i was giving. you must’ve been lonely— work had always taken a big part of my time, and that left you behind in the dust.”

you’re waiting for the punchline. he continues, “i can’t lie to you— i was wishing you’d resort to cheating over breaking up. that way you’d still be mine, even if it was temporarily,” he chuckles, a soft shade of pink dusting over his cheekbones, as he sniffs, “corny, i know. but you didn’t deserve putting up with my bullshit, so you left. time is of the essence, and that was the one thing i never seemed to give you. you fell out of it— out of love, so. . . i’m sorry.”

words cannot seem to leave you. you’re left utterly speechless— that had been so far from the reason, the realization sitting bitterly at the pit of your stomach. anything, literally anything, would’ve been better than hearing him lie to you again.

“that. . .” you inhale a sharp breath, steadying yourself, “is nowhere near the reason why we broke up.”

he stops in his caress. you think he got whiplash from how fast his neck snaps, eyeing you incredulously. he genuinely seems so confused, and you hate it. to think he’d show up with some lame ass excuse, so far stretched from the truth of the matter, and expected you to believe that. to believe him.

he blinks slowly, “i don’t understand.”

you try to pull your leg away from his lap, feeling like he was stripping you bare of the last bit of dignity you had left, wanting to rip you open. he presses the weight of his hand lightly, urging you to stay near while simultaneously giving you the option to pull away. the ball was in your court yet again.

“wait— help me understand,” the pad of his thumb rolls over your ankle bone gently— far too intimately. your feet curl away, protectively, and his fingers stroke at the ball of your heel, “please. what drove you away? what was it i did?”

there’s a pang in your chest. does he really plan on keeping this up? right in your face? it was one thing wishing him well despite the obvious, but dragging it out even a year later was a bit much. inviting him over was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

“i fell out of love?” you parrot, unbelieving. “gojo— i’m not the one who fell out of anything. i gave you a way out, and you happily took it,” his face contorts into a deeper state of confusion. you huff, “i’m not blaming you for it or anything, but shit, don’t get up in here with lies to cover your ass.”

“lies?” he whispers, to himself, running his free fingers through tousled white locks. he stares at your anklet hardly, like the gift has all the answers he’s looking for. you don’t think he’s avoiding eye contact, but he seems so distraught, so out of the loop, that broadway ought to sign him to a new movie deal. what an actor.

“time is of the essence and you failed to give it?” you continue regardless, throat restricting as it burns in an emotion you’re far too familiar with. suddenly, you feel like you’re twenty five again, left to your own devices and thoughts in the emptiness of his apartment, dressed in your prettiest outfit and another failed date night. “i never gave a shit about that, i knew how much of a hardworking man you were. i took it to the chest— anything to keep you from leaving. you stopped loving me, gojo.”

his jaw falls slack, mouth gaping and you blink your lashes furiously to prevent tears from appearing. god, this was so humiliating, bearing your heart raw in front of your ex boyfriend, “y/n, i never—”

“spare me,” you scoff, mortified by the rush of emotions coursing through you. you take a deep breath in, calming yourself to avoid further explosive feelings, “this isn’t me saying i was the perfect girlfriend. i know i wasn’t— you know i wasn’t, and piling a spiralling partner on top of all the shit you were dealing with wasn’t an option. that’s fine,” it was fine. it didn’t matter, “doesn’t matter anymore. i broke up with you, you didn’t fight to stay, and we both moved on. shit happens.”

it hurt a lot. the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by the crack splitting in your chest. the run towards your bathroom, emptying your contents from both your stomach and heart. you were undeniably a mess, that period of time it took for you to recover. you would never voice it out loud, but you’d been praying he’d tell you just how wrong you were. how he needed you in his life. how you weren’t a burden to him. how he loved you enough to fight through it all.

he hadn’t.

there’s a soft hum in the silence. the sound of your clock ticking near the entrance door. the pounding of your heart against your rib cage. seconds turn into minutes of quietness, and it does no good to your mind. you’re focusing your gaze on the inanimate objects in your apartment, anything to dismiss the reality of the situation. your leg feels cold as his hand pulls away suddenly.

he rolls his tongue against his cheek. another tic of his— he’s formulating his word choice, carefully. you’d seen a ton of this before, though it usually followed a deep sigh and a you’re good baby, trust me. the more you’d see it, the more anxious you became. and christ, if that anxiety wasn’t forming right back.

it takes a while for him to speak, and every passing breath had your chest tightening. he runs his hand across his face, tiredly. when he pulls it away, there’s a melancholic smile on his face, “i think there’s a lot that needs to be addressed. jesus, i always knew you sucked at communicating but this is something else.”

you glare at him. he doesn’t mind it, continuing, “no, you weren’t the perfect girlfriend. but you were my girlfriend, and that’s all that mattered to me. you wanna talk about spiralling? nothing i’m not familiar with— you’re the only reason i didn’t let myself fall into that rabbit hole. you kept me going after graduation. i worked as hard as i did to make sure you wouldn’t have to lift a finger around me. that was the end goal— you were end goal.”

gagged is what you felt. nothing else pure shock. he doesn’t stop there. he isn’t merciful anymore.

“i know i didn’t go about it the right way,” a regretful puff of air is released, “i canceled on you often. our phone calls were shorter, our texts were vaguer and at some point i’d forgotten what you tasted like. but i never loved you any less. not once, even after we argued. not to say i’ve converted into those spiritual people, but you’re the closest thing to a soulmate i’ve experienced.”

shit, you weren’t tripping. he felt it too. fuck. the weight of his words made it impossible to steer him away. you want to intercept, to call him a liar and turn a blind ear at his confession, to shield yourself but how could you when every word he spoke broke the bricks you’d built down?

“i’m not an asshole— i could feel you slipping away. i did try my damned hardest to reel you back in, as you’d done with me. clearly that hadn’t worked how i was hoping it would,” a bitter laugh, or maybe a resentful one. towards you or himself? you wouldn’t know, “it’s because i loved you so much, i let you go. i knew i was losing you, and when you finally came to me, the right thing to do was agree. why keep you from reaching your fullest potential? you weren’t happy with me, trying to fight the inevitable was cruel.”

the inevitable. letting you go was the right choice to make because fighting the inevitable was cruel. he loved you so much he had to let you go because you deserved more than what he had to offer. you call bullshit— in what right did he have to make that choice for you? what right did you have to make that choice for him?

it’s too much at once. your eyes burn with a remorseful feeling, your heart aches in agony and your mind is clouded with thoughts. there your ex boyfriend sat, wide eyes still as blue as when he’d once been yours, presenting you his heart raw in cupped hands— and you still couldn’t find it in you to believe him fully. everything yet nothing made sense. vulnerability was a scary thing, and you weren’t ready to face it.

so, you kiss him.

his breath is taken out of his chest as you lean forward, sealing his mouth shut. you can’t take any more of his merciless words, and the only way to get your mind off it is by getting on it. he feels stiff against you, pupils dilating as you mould lips with his own. your hand travels to the back of his neck, sitting on your knees as you hold him still.

and with a faint lip smack, he pulls away ever so slightly, hands hovering awkwardly over your waist, his breath warm and fanning your cupid’s bow, “wait—”

“don’t wanna talk,” you interrupt, placing another chaste kiss on his lips. he tastes as good as the day you left him. and with another soft smack, your voice lowers, reduced to a whisper, “you gonna fuck me or not?”

he blinks and you stare back at him, full of conviction. a simple yes or no question— and he could gladly see himself out if his answer didn’t satisfy you. his hands finally rest on your waist, and you take it as an invitation to straddle over his hips. he eases your movements by aiding, lifting you just barely to sit on him. his hands fit just as they did all those times ago. a sour, bittersweet feeling— fingertips caressing the nakedness of your torso beneath your camisole.

your back arches as he finds your sensitive spots with quickness. he’d always been great at that, leaving trails of goosebumps past his teasing touches.

“you’re doing it again,” he mumbles against your lips, ever the hypocrite, fingers gripping at your waist like a vice. he rolls your hips over his own, reeling in the softness of your palms cupping at his face. you ignore him when he continues, still nibbling on his bottom lip the way he loves, “you can’t— mmh, avoid this forever.”

maybe not, but you sure as hell could right now. the tip of your noses bump into one another as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss. you want to rid your mind of these plaguing thoughts, ones that made you doubt everything you thought you knew. losing control was out of the question, so naturally you needed it back into your grasp.

sex was an easy way to do that.

“yes or no, gojo.” you give him one last chance, grinding your hips down on his awakening dick. you feel his bulge through his pair of sweats, the print so evident you wondered why he was trying to fight it. the sight alone had your panties dampening in your arousal, uncomfortably sticky against your loungewear.

he hums in between kisses, a false pretend of debating his options. his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and past your panties, fondling at the flesh that sat beneath. he could fake it all he wants, but fuck chivalry— he was turning to mush the more you sucked at his tongue, licking at the crevice of the roof of his mouth.

it’s when you sink your teeth into the flesh of pink lips, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to draw a moan from him, he comes to a conclusion. he nods his head, snaking his arms to wrap at your waist tighter as finally kisses you back.

“it’s always a yes.” for you. he doesn’t say it, doesn’t need to, but you hear it and dismiss it. no more lovey doveyness and time to get to the nitty gritty of shit— getting your back blown out. the very thought alone is enough to put a smile on your lips.

bingo.

your bedroom door hardly shuts before he pins you against it. he’s annoyingly big— tall in height and wide in weight. he towers over you comically, hands roaming at every inch of your body as he drinks you up. his lips seek yours desperately, sliding over your glossy ones with practice that suggests hints of comfort.

your arms loop at his neck, and his at your waist. his mouth hardly lets up of yours, mumbling a little jump, as you comply with ease. thighs trapping him in your hold, you then find yourself face to face with him as he lifts you, large palms cupping at your ass. you fit just as perfectly in his hands as you did years ago, flesh so fat he gropes it tenderly.

the walk from the door to your bed passes in the blink of an eye, a timeframe you find pointless to recall as you indulge in the taste of him through his tongue. his presence is so overwhelmingly powerful— every touch and caress at your body reducing your limbs to mush. you cling to him, either out of safety reasons or desire, tilting your head from side to side to deepen the lip-to-lip action.

when he gets to the edge of your bed, he lowers you until your toes reach the floor. due to the difference in height, your lips part, a thin string of saliva connecting from both your mouths as proof of your unison. the blue shade of his orbs darken with desire, eyelids lowering as he drinks up the sight of you— lips plump and swollen, slick in saliva, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.

he raises a hand from your waist to cup at your face, and you detest the way your lean into his touch. your cheek fits in his large palm, and he swipes a thumb at your bottom lip, collecting your shared spit onto the pad of his digit. as he smears the fluid further across your mouth, he prods his thumb a little further— testing out the waters, wanting to see if you’d cave into old habits.

naturally, you allow it, his thumb swallowed by your puckered lips. you roll your tongue over his finger and your eyes never leave his— hoping to convey the rush of emotions you feel through your sultry gaze. your core throbs in want, your stomach erupting in butterflies and your heart pounding unnecessarily. unspoken words you’re positive he understood, if the way he groans when your teeth sink lightly into his digit said anything.

“you’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, popping his finger back out. it’s coated in saliva, and like the freak he is, pops it into his own mouth. once he’s had his fill, he removes his hand from his mouth, and lowers it to your fleshy waist, slipping past the waistband of your panties, “take these off— ‘m hungry, need a taste of that pussy.”

your cheeks nearly split from your excitement, and you comply to his order, gripping at the hem of your shorts to pull them down to your ankle. he assists you despite the previous demand, his own hands atop of yours, a warmth and sense of security so familiar. when your shorts reach past your mid thigh, you allow him to meet you halfway.

he pulls your shorts down to your ankles, lowering himself to a knee. his movements are agonizingly slow, basking in the sight of your thighs in contrast of the shade of your loungewear. he steadies a hand onto your calf, patting it lightly, and you lift your leg just barely, permitting him to slide the shorts off your ankle and tossing it aside.

when the item is discarded, he redirects his focus back to you. he pampers your skin in kisses— delicate but hungry, trails of moisture crawling back up at your inner thighs and shooting right to your core. he looked unexplainably sexy on his knees, littering your body in hushed praises, the tip of his nose nudging at your soft skin. you bit your lip in attempts to cease it from wobbling at the intimacy he was providing.

“god, you smell so good,” he speaks into you, hands snaking to the back of your thighs, pressing you forward into him. your panty covered cunt presents itself right before him, and he plants his nose right into your intimates, your body shuddering as his nose bumps into your clit deliciously. a shaky breath escapes you, and his hands travel upwards to play with your ass. “turn around, wanna eat it from the back.”

the words are taken from you when his hand slaps your ass encouragingly, releasing a mini squeal, “you’re still too freaked out.”

“mhm, something like that,” you don’t see it, as you’re occupied on spinning on your feet to plant your hands on your matters for stability, but you’re positive he’s smirking. your arch your back for him, wanting to properly present the meal he plans on devouring. your cunt oozes slick against your thong just thinking about how he’s going to do you in, “there’s that arch,” a hand slides in the curve of your lower back, before snapping the band of your thong. it recoils against your cheek and you jerk forward at the sting.

“oh? did that hurt?” he taunts, and as you’re about to protest, he does it yet again. the snap is intense but never painful, but the nerve he had to play around like your pussy wasn’t a few centimetres away from his face. you don’t acknowledge how your panties cling even tighter to your folds.

“fuck off,” you curse through gritted teeth, but your hips wiggle backwards in attempt to get him to hurry it up. as if now was any time to tease— you couldn’t stand it when he did it all those years ago, and your feelings haven’t changed since, “get on with it. . . the fuck?”

you hear him sigh, almost disappointedly, and it only aggravates you further. your brows furrow in annoyance and you think you feel a vein tick at your temple.

“still so disrespectful,” gojo tuts, rubbing at your booty tenderly. so he wasn’t exactly wrong, but how was he expecting you to react when he’d just said he was going to eat you out, and proceeds to do anything but that? of course there’s going to be a little pout on your lips, “we gotta work on that attitude of yours.”

your face twists into a look of further aggravation, and you tilt your head back, readying whatever other bratty objections you had— though you’re ultimately interrupted by a sharp sting that spreads across your ass.

the strike of his palm against your cheek sprawls into an intense heat, the pain oddly pleasurable, and the moan that rips out of your chest is impossible to suppress. your eyes nearly jump out of their sockets at the audacity, and right as you’re about to complain, he does it again. and again.

“o-okay, shit!” you attempt to voice out, but he’s relentless, delivering blow after blow onto the same ground. there’s a curve in his palm, and it amplified the sound across the room. despite your protests, you can’t deny every jolt of pain rushes to your clit. you’re positive he knows you’re enjoying this, “gojo— fuck, okayyy!”

to your pleasure, he eases the slaps, opting to smoothen his hand flat across the reddened flesh. he hums pensively, the heat of your skin radiating against his palm in a way that forces a smile on his lips, “ ‘okay?’ what do you mean by that, baby?”

you clench your teeth at his faux ignorance. you know exactly what he wants from you, and you’re not sure if you’re able to give it to him as you are. an apology— he wants you to apologize, that bastard. your left cheek stings like a bitch, even with his now gentle touches, and your core is begging you to cooperate with him, in order for that attention it was neglected of. he is such a dickhead— putting you in a predicament like this one.

you swallow the last bit of dignity you hold, a constant reminder in the back of your mind that this was for the greater good— for the sake of your pussy. with a pained sigh, you tilt your head backwards to meet his playful gaze that stares back at you, right below the plump of your ass, and you muster the cutest look you can give.

doe eyes paired with a little pout, “‘m sorry. . . for the attitude,” you’re not sorry at all, but you desperately want your cunt in his mouth, so you do what you have to do, “can you eat it now? please?”

he flashes you a million dollar smile, all thirty twos on full display, and it takes every ounce of willpower in you not to roll your eyes right then and there. he was so full of shit, his eyes might as well brown. but still, you knew he got off on this kind of thing, and when he presses a quick kiss at the print of your lips, he replies, “of course, sweet girl— only because you asked so nicely.”

there’s no further need to speak, as you feel your thong being pushed to the side, followed by a cold breeze hitting your bare cunt, meshed with warm breathe as he feasts .

gojo eats you out like he has something to prove, and you know what— maybe he does. to prevent you from straying from him, he grounds you with two firm hands gripping at your ass. he spreads the flesh apart, his tongue lapping at your slick greedily. you can’t tell who’s moans are louder— yours or his, the man so engaged in sucking at your clit, nibbling on the bundle of nerves with practiced ease. you hold onto the sheets on your bed with dear life, thighs trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.

“fuck, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing your hips further back, your mind overcame with utter greediness for more of that insatiable pleasure. you might as well have swallowed him whole into you, just as he’s swallowing you whole into him, his tongue diving deep past your hole and into your folds. he flicks his tongue expertly, licking at every crevice and nook of your cave, his jaw working overtime as his bottom lip never lets up at your clit.

your entire pussy is consumed by him, no area going neglected— drool slips past his mouth and spills onto your floor. a familiar heat licks at the pit of your stomach, a telltale that your dam is bound to burst anytime soon. he remedies your ache with another painful spank at your ass, groaning into your pussy when you clamp down on his tongue.

he was so fucking nasty— fucking into you with his tongue like he needed this more than you did. he makes out with your cunt, like he was a starving man on death row. at a particular cruel angle of his tongue fucking, your body would react with an all consuming tremble, fingers clawing at your duvets, your lungs releasing pathetic mewls. and the further you pushed back into his merciless mouth, the closer his nose nudged at your puckered forbidden hole.

he pulls away with a gasp, subbing his mouth out for his fingers, the pads of three fingers rubbing messily at your sloppy lips. the sound it creates is downright filthy, so painfully loud that it damn near drowns out your own moans.

“pretty fuckin’ pussy,” he spits a wad of saliva at your already soaked cunt, further amplifying the squelching sounds. he drags his fingers down to your clit, pinching at the bud with enough pressure to have your knees buckling, before sliding back upwards to your clenching hole. he slides into your entrance, index and middle fingers twisting in with ease, “bet she missed me, hm?”

“y-yes!” you nod mindlessly, your high creeping up on you as he works himself into you. taking six inches of fingers twice was a task in itself— the average length of a man’s dick serving purpose as fingering was just downright disrespectful. his knuckles poke at your silky walls, stretching you out to the best of his abilities, “shit— oh fuck, ‘m gonna cum!”

to your statement, he latches his lips back to your neglected clit, sucking on the bud as if he were intentionally trying to milk you dry. he hums at your taste, the vibrations shooting right up your alley and into the knot tightening in your guts— and when he curls his fingers upwards, at that spot that has stars dancing beneath your eyelids, the dam breaks. that knot stood no chance.

“oh goddd,” you cry out, spraying your release all over. it dribbles out your pussy and past the lower half of his face, to which his jaw widens as his mouth gapes— greedily aiming to slurp at your juices while simultaneously flicking your bean. the stimulation has your brain going dumb, as you fall flat onto your bed, drool collecting at the corner of your mouth and staining your sheets damp.

he lets you ride out the euphoric bliss, the movements of his fingers and the lapping of his tongue slowing down the more your body reacted to the overstimulation. when he deems you well spent, he lets up, slipping his fingers out and popping them back in his mouth, swirling your taste across his pallets, “as sweet as ever,” rising back to his full height.

you haven’t came that hard in a while, limbs reduced to nothing as you merge into one with your bed. your legs are still trembling, and your chest heaves as you exhale deep breaths. letting your eyelids close shut, you take the time to regroup yourself from that mind shattering orgasm. who the fuck had he been fucking that forced him to keep this skill? granted, you had no right to complain but holy shit, he was no fucking noob.

you feel the weight of his body press on top of you, a well-built chest meeting your moist back. it doesn’t take much to realize he’s hovering over you. his lips litter kisses at the column of your neck, moving up to the shell of your ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps after each embrace, “you tappin’ out already?” gojo snickers at your shell of a body, and you kiss your teeth at his typical mockery, “what happened to my champ while i was gone?”

“fuck off,” you pout, a little embarrassed by the fact that you really were retired from the game. sure, you were getting dicked down real good by your previous partner (question mark), but it never had you as exhausted as you currently were. there was absolutely nothing gojo satoru couldn’t do, and that ticked you off to no end, “nobody said shit about tappin’ out.”

“hm. . .” he hums, nuzzling his nose into your jugular, his hips grinding into the cleft of your ass. it’s impossible to ignore the bulge poking into you, and you doubt he was trying to hide it regardless, his hips rolling against the plushness of your behind, “guess sukuna didn’t do as good of job as he should’ve.”

that has your eyelids opening right back up. talk about an awkward situation— bringing up you and your ex’s (question mark) sex life while having sex with your other ex was a double edged predicament in itself. had you agreed, which lowkey wasn’t entirely wrong, you’d be stroking the fuck out of gojo’s ego and be disrespecting sukuna. but had you disagreed, you could end up on gojo’s wrong side and fumble an entire night worth of dicking.

so, once more, you take the easy way out, at the expense of inflating the white haired man’s ego, much to your dismay, “think you can do better?”

he stays silent for a while. in what you assume is him coming up with an answer to your question, his kisses travel to the dead centre of your shoulder blades, wet and open mouthed, as they crawl lower down your spine. with every kiss, your body caves into a state of relaxation, as if he was undoing every stress clouding at your hazed mind with his mouth alone.

he lands at the middle of your back, before he pulls away abruptly. and just as soon as he started, he was finished— removing himself off your body entirely. panic settles quickly in your stomach, as you turn your head around to see what he was up to. had you unintentionally hurt his feelings? damn, and here you were enjoying the body worship.

“what are you—” your words are cut off as his hands cup at your waist. he slides you back towards the edge of the bed, your feet planted on the floor once more. you feel some residue of your previous orgasm beneath your heels, eugh. you don’t have much time to spend thinking about how gross it feels when a hand holds your shoulders, and lifts you right back up.

your brows jump to your hairline in surprise at the sudden manhandling, though you can’t deny you found just a bit sexy. with his chest pressed into your back once more, you can feel his heartbeat thudding at the blade of your left shoulder, the organ withholding a steady rhythm— the tempo of a lullaby you’d once been accustomed to. and then big arms wrap around your frame, and holds you.

you hate the way your body folds so easily to his touch. it’s been an entire year, and despite your mind shouting at you for the intimacy you’re allowing to gallop right back into your life, your heart craves it. the sense of security his embrace offers you alone makes the least of sense, but you blindly lean into him, allowing yourself to be deluded for the time being. he won’t be yours as soon as this is over, so you might as well take the most advantage of the situation.

it takes a minute for either of you to speak. here you stood— half naked and legs sore, but still happily in his arms. his cologne is still as rich and dominating as it’d been all those times ago. he breaks the silence first, his chin resting above your shoulder, as he mumbles, “you really hurt my feelings, you know.”

to some degree, you know you did. about what exactly? you weren’t sure, but still, you offer him what you believe he wants, the realization leaving a bitter taste in your mouth, “i’m sorry.”

“‘s all good,” he kisses your cheek so tenderly that your neck cranes to the side to meet his gaze. gojo had always been so readable when it came to emotions, as he always wore his heart on his sleeve, but even with all the knowledge you knew about, you weren’t prepared for the look in his eyes. raw, unfiltered emotions. you only notice the close proximity between you both when your noses bump into one another. he shoots you a warm smile, “could never be upset with you. you hold that power over me.”

it’s you who kisses him first, and he returns the favour with more intensity. it’s an awkward positioning for your neck, but you don’t let up regardless of the ache in your joints. his mouth stays on yours as if you were his lifeline, tongues sloshing one over the other, brushing your lips together so gingerly.

in the midst of his tongue down your throat, he slips a hand in between your thighs, cupping at your abandoned pussy. the casual brush of his fingers at your core sent a breathy whine from your throat right into his mouth, and it only motivated him to work harder, rubbing slow patterns into your throbbing clit. your hips chase the feeling, riding the wave of his fingers.

he pulls away from your mouth, just barely, mumbling against your kiss bitten lips, “one of these days you’re gonna let me finish speaking,” followed by a knowing smile. sure, it could be seen as a flaw, but it was the only way you could protect yourself while keeping him within arm’s reach. never ready to have him but never prepared to let him go, “we can do that later— gotta blow your back out first.”

you couldn’t agree more.

it all happens so quickly— he retrieves his hand from between your thighs, having collected your juices at his fingertips, before lubricating his dick. he pumps at the length leisurely, his bottom lip tugged by his top row of teeth, and the groans he lets out are enough to have you squeezing your thighs eagerly, your cunt aching and ready to go. in the midst of your eagerness, you slip your hand behind you and catch his twitching cock, working your wrist right above his own, jerking him off.

a deep groan grumbles from his chest, and he instantly stops your hand from moving any further. you frown at his ceasing, but when you tilt your head to voice out your confusion, he offers a sheepish smile, “don’t wanna cum too soon,” ever the minute man, he was.

though, you soon find yourself regretting your own thoughts the very instant you feel the tip of his dick pushing past your entrance.

there’s a blended harmony of both your moans that bounces off the walls. his fingers dig deep into the flesh of your hips, holding onto you so tightly you’re positive you’ll bruise, and you clamp down on his intruding dick so tightly you’re positive you never want to let him go. the initial stretch is a feeling you’ll never get used to, but the sensation is all but unwanted.

“fuckkk, y/n,” he moans right into your ear, his voice so full of want, you can’t help but understand exactly where he’s coming from. he pulls his hips back, almost entirely, though his tip stays inside. it takes him a second to regroup, mumbling incoherent words under his breath, before he plunges back into your cunt.

and from that point on, it’s wraps. he fucks into you like a madman— as if he’d been punishing you for your crimes. punishing you for sleeping with another man. punishing you for leaving him a year and a half ago. punishing you for punishing him. his pace is ruthless— hips meeting your ass as fast as he’d pull out, pounding into your little hole to mould it into the shape of him.

he’s thick, this time on perverted shit.

you’re so painfully full of him, and despite your arms stretched outwards to grip at the sheets that had suffered more than enough of your abuse on them, your walls never let go of him. you don’t want him to pull out ever, utterly obsessed with the rough pace he set from the jump. it feels impossible keeping the curve of your back when the tip of his length repetitively attacks at your golden spots.

“ohmygoddd,” you words come out slurry, head lolling forward uselessly. if he kept fucking you like this, you weren’t going to let him leave again. stuck in an endless loop of bliss, with every thrust into your folds, his balls would slap at your clit and drive you insane, “y’re d-doing me s’gooddd,”

“yeah?” he eggs on, his voice as breathless as you’d been, though his pacing would never suggest so. there’s a hypnotic recoil of your ass bouncing back onto his pelvis that indulges him into disrupting it, delivering a new spank at your cheeks. you cry out at the feeling, and he strikes again, hips never letting up, “tell me more baby.”

you rise at your tip toes when you feel yourself sinking, legs giving out yet again. you hold yourself up at your elbows, a newfound confidence pushing your hips back to match his pace. when he heaves out a loud moan, you’re encouraged to keep going. the melody of your skins slapping against each other echoes into the stillness of the night, arching your back the further he plunges into your guts. you’re so turned on, the evidence creaming around the perimeter of his cock, easing the slides of his dick inside of you.

“toruuu,” you whine, too fucked out to notice your first mistake— calling him by his favorite nickname. at that given moment, you couldn’t care any less, the intense heat in your guts growing once more. the curve of his dick reaches spots you don’t think anybody could reach, almost as if he was made entirely for you, “you’re so big— can feel you, nghhh, everywhere!”

“that’s cause i am everywhere,” you think you can hear him smirking behind you. though, he has every right to feel entitled, with how much of a mess he’s reduced you to. he rolls his hips deep, a firm bulge forming into your tummy. as if he’s got a sixth sense or eye, he leans forward to rest his chest against your back— your eyes rolling back from the new angle. he slides a hand beneath your stomach and presses at the bulge hard. you can’t help the squeal you let out, “that’s me right there.”

you nod your head feverishly, the applied pressure on your stomach pushing his cock right at your cervix. oh god, he was going to kill you. what a wonderful way to go— all judgements clouded in favour of an eight inched dick penetrating your walls, “‘s all yours— mmh, always been.”

and that’d been your final mistake.

because the chuckle he lets out right into your ear is dark. the sounds shoot right up to your spine, shivers crawling up your back deliciously. he might as well be back stabbing you with how his cock plunged so sloppily out of your gaping cunt, “you always knew how to, fuck, pillowtalk,” he pants into your neck, his additional weight onto your shaking frame nothing short on welcoming. the hand pressing into your stomach lowers to your clit, and pinches meanly at the bud, “you know i’d, mmh, give you the world if you asked— my smart girl, shit.”

he’s so cruel, talking to you so lovingly despite it all. you tighten your eyes, in poor attempts to ignore the tenderness of the words fleeting his lips and focus instead on the stretch of your cunt down his dick. you feel yourself creaming on him, further proof of both your unison through his diabolical thrusts. he pinned you into place like this— unable to do anything but take what he gave you gratefully.

at a particular stroke at your abused golden spot, your body releases another tremor of shudders. it overtakes you from head to toe, a moan so ripe escaping your lips as you claw at ruined sheets. gojo works into aiming at that spot over and over again, each thrust more intense than the previous one. the change of his pace, slowing for a minute, draws you near the end of the line quicker than you’d anticipated.

“oh?” he grunts playfully, swaying his hips back and forth into your poor pussy. mercy is nowhere to be found, however, “you like it when i fuck you like this?” another agonizingly beautiful thrust at the same place, you can’t help but reward him with a cry. he’s fucking you into the damn mattress, and he has the balls to ask this question knowing the answer. still, you nod your head mutely, tears collecting at your lash line, and he nips at the skin on your jaw, “yeahhh you do.”

god, you do.

and suddenly, you can’t bring yourself to remember why you’d ever let go of dick this good. the kind that would have you taking the rubber off and considering finishing inside. the kind that had you babbling apologies for having done absolutely nothing wrong. the kind that made you begin to believe his careless whispers, empty promises to work things out.

in the midst of your delusions, he pulls you both back up from the bed, standing once again. at this new position, he reaches impossibly further into you, the difference in your heights making up for the inches he’s dug into you. his fingers dig in the column of your throat, the weight of his hand wrapped tightly at your neck. he’s everywhere at once, but simultaneously no where to be found. while you can feel his tip prodding at your most sensitive spot, you don’t feel the overwhelming force of love he once bore with open arms for you.

or was it you were feigning you don’t? because as he works himself back into you, at a pace so tender yet cruel, the line of boundaries you’d once set has been entirely deterred. a force so overwhelming, just like his entire being, bringing you right back to him as if you’d never left— nevermind the fact your thighs could barely support themselves, quaking pathetically. it was getting too much— everything was a lot.

“nahhh. . . don’t start running now.” you didn’t realize you were. the sheets are crumpled in your tight hold, while your other hand lightly pushes at his lower abdomen. you were a trooper, but there was only so much pleasurable torture you could handle. naturally, he pins your wrist at your spine to maintain his ruthless pace, and with another gentle yet cruelly empty promise, he coos, “not when i’ve just gotten you back.”

how the fuck did you get yourself in this mess?

oh right. . . tinder. you had a bone to pick with the ceo of that app right after you come back to your senses.

“i— i can’t,” you fumble at your words, the lack of oxygen catching up to you. you’re bound to his mercy— hands tied, breath nearly restricted, pussy obliterated, and yet, there’s nowhere else you’d want to be. the pressure on your throat lolls your head backwards, chin facing the ceiling as your eyes fall onto snowy lashes, “gonna cum again— oh fuckfuckfuck,”

and despite his brutality, he shoots you a sweet smile, the contrast in his words versus his actions grand, “right behind you, baby.”

you cum, and hard . much harder than you had before. you gush your fluids down his piercing cock, your folds squeezing him tight as you release. you think your mind blanks for a minute, an orgasm so powerful, you fear your eyes would stay stuck at the back of your skull. you shiver in his embrace, the insatiable desire racking your body from top to bottom.

when he pulls out, you fall flat yet again onto your stomach, face first. you assume you look like a puddle of nothingness, your limbs spent from the overexhaustion. but still, you find yourself in a similar position to prior, as gojo leans over your body, a hand holding him up as the other works on his jerking him cum out. smart move, not finishing inside, though a weird feeling of disappointment sits in your stomach, swapping the fiery heat from your orgasm.

he sinks his teeth into your shoulders as you wince, emptying himself right onto your lower back. it runs hot and smooth into the dimples of your back, that you can’t help but stretch your limp arm towards the mess to collect the residue on your fingers. you pop them into your mouth, his taste still so familiar as he plops right at your side, face up.

there’s a thick silence that fills the sex scented room. you wonder what is going through his brain now that the lust demon that was half his ego had been taken care of. was he on the same page as you were? had he realized just how messy this could turn out? he’s too quiet for a man of his nature— and that terrified you shitless. no matter the outcome, you’re ready to kick him out. post nut clarity was a scary thing— it revealed the violent truth of how tempting the flesh could be, even with consequences on the line.

you want to beat him to it. the last thing you need on your consciousness is your ex boyfriend who’d you invited into your home a year after you broke up with him, leaving you. he seemed petty enough to do the eye for an eye shtick— it wasn’t too out of character for him.

with a heavy heart and sigh, you turn your head to the side where he lays comfortably. the words want to die in your throat, but your urge them out, the sooner the better, “you should—”

“no.” he interrupts, followed by a yawn.

you frown at that, brows scrunching as you insist that yet again, “you need to—”

“nah.” gojo cuts you off yet again, rolling onto his side. his dick falls limp onto your bed, and you don’t think about the mess it’s making. to be fair, you’d done far worse. and it was proven difficult to care about that mess when he brought a finger to play with your loose hairs, cerulean eyes zeroing in on them, “i’m tired. let’s get you cleaned up and go to bed.”

“you’re not listening to me.” you click your tongue, a little desperate to have him hear you. you’re scared to keep him around longer, because you know you’ll grow attached again and that already ended terribly once, and took you forever and a half to get over. he has to leave and right now, “you have to go.”

gojo hums at that. he stops the twirling of your hair, rather reluctantly, and finally meets your sharp gaze. he still looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky, “why?”

you narrow your eyes, “you know why,” you shouldn’t have to explain why two exes cozying up after indulging into each other was a bad idea. common sense, you figured, but was it common sense to have him over in the first place? a flurry of various emotions coursing over you laced with exhaustion had you overthinking like a motherfucker, “this was a bad idea.”

he trails his finger along the slope of your clenched jaw, and you don’t think about the fact it immediately relaxed at his touch. the longer he traced your skin, the longer he kept looking at you like that, you were wavering in your own logic. you’d both gotten what you wanted in the first place, so why was it he was still here? the rational decision would be to pretend this never happened and part ways again, but why was the thought of him locking the door behind him once again at your expense making you feel sick to your stomach?

when his finger lands at your pouty lips, he taps his index finger twice against the flesh. naturally, your pout deepens. his eyes flick from your mouth to your shying gaze, and his index swaps for his thumb. he runs the pad of his finger across the reddened surface, and his voice falls a few octaves lower, hushed for nobody else but you to hear, “you don’t want me to leave.”

you don’t.

he takes your silence as acceptance, and plants a soft kiss to your lips. it’s enough to rid your mind of its plaguing doubts in the meanwhile. and when his hand slides to cup at the back of your neck, ultimately deepening it, you can’t find it in you to care about the consequences for the time being. not when he was swallowing you whole like he was the one terrified to feel you slip from his fingers. you melt into him far too easily.

well. . . that was something you’d deal with in the morning.

tinder: 1, you: 0.

now can y’all stop calling me a deadbeat 🙎‍♂️

teehee, shopping with bf! katsuki for the first time is a whole new experience.

you dragged him to the mall under the pretense of just browsing. katsuki grumbles, complains the whole car ride, mutters something about how he'd rather "eat glass" than spend a weekend in a fluorescent-lit hellscape.

but the second you tug on his wrist and smile up at him, he shuts up and follows. what you don’t expect?

how much of a problem he becomes the second you enter the fitting room.

you're barely five minutes into trying on outfits when it starts. you step out, smoothing down a dress, turning side to side in the mirror.

you barely manage a “what do you think?” before he drops the phone he wasn’t even looking at and sits up straighter.

“turn around.”

you blink. “huh?”

“lemme see the back.”

you do. he whistles low, then squints. “try that in the other color.”

you raise a brow. “oh, so now you care?”

“tch. i care when it looks like that on you.”

from then on, it’s over. every. single. outfit. he's like that.

“yeah, do a little spin.”

“too tight in the chest. not that i’m complaining.”

“damn, sweets. you tryna kill me or sumthin'?”

he lounges on the little bench like he owns the place—legs spread, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you’re center stage and he’s the only judge that matters. the store’s mirror might show you the front, but he’s giving full commentary on the back. and the sides. and the neckline.

he’s unreasonably hot while doing it too. hood half-up, jaw sharp, legs spread like he’s got thoughts about every skirt you shimmy into.

and the worst part? you start playing it up.

slipping out of the fitting room with a little strut. spinning slow just to watch his jaw tighten. running your hands down your sides, real innocent, then pretending not to notice the way he swears under his breath.

“you’re lucky we’re in public,” he grits when you try on a slinky little number that hugs way too close.

you blink. “so you like it?”

he growls. “i like it on the floor of our bedroom.”

you nearly explode.

one outfit later, you try something on that you already know is ridiculous—fluffy, sparkly, way too over-the-top—but you step out just to mess with him.

you expect him to laugh. maybe tease. instead?

he blinks once. then shrugs. “buy it.”

you pause. “wait… really?”

he smirks. “you look happy in it. that’s all i care about.”

by the time you're done, you're practically floating out of the store—arms light, mood lighter, cheeks a little sore from how much you've been grinning.

katsuki?

katsuki is not floating. katsuki is lugging six bags in one hand, two on the other, and somehow managing to balance the weirdly long one that holds the dress bag across his broad shoulders like a damn pack mule.

and the whole time? he looks pissed. jaw tight, bags slapping against his thighs as he stomps beside you.

you peek over at him, smiling sweetly. “you’re the one who said to buy everything, suki.”

“tch. only ‘cause you looked hot in it, dumbass.”

you giggle. “so it’s your fault?”

he stops walking. and glares. hard.

“i swear to god, if you say that again, i’m droppin’ all these bags and draggin’ you into the back of that h&m.”

you blink innocently. “so romantic.”

“try me, sweetheart.”

despite all his complaining, he doesn’t put a single bag down. not when you stop for a smoothie. not when you see a cute little accessory stand. not even when you wander over to look at shoes you’re not even planning on buying.

he just stands there, one foot tapping, arms full of pink and glitter and tissue paper, looking like a man who’s fought gods and monsters and still wasn’t prepared for the chaos that is dating you.

at one point, you lean up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek.

“thanks for carrying everything,” you murmur.

he huffs. “yeah, yeah.”

you kiss him again, this time slower, lingering by the edge of his jaw. “you’re the best boyfriend ever.”

and that does get a response. his ears go a little red. his mouth twitches like he wants to smile but is physically restraining it.

“hmph. i better be,” he mutters, looking away like a child, shifting all the bags in one hand just so he can wrap the other arm around your shoulders.

still grumbling.

still red.

still the best, grumpiest mall boyfriend in existence.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ bc i love procrastinating and dont write the shit i should write lmao💜 hope you guys enjoyed!!

katsuki bakugou // fic recommendations

note: remember to read the tags! + i do not own any of these works

if tides could speak (they'd call you home)

sleeping aid

cover shot (through the heart)

command me

pumpkin spice and everything nice

she's my wife

on my way (to you)

savvy

you wear them well

countdown

mamamatcher

you're the one that i haunt

backup

signal

you are the reason my heart is still beating

and you take me the way i am

organic chemistry

flower crown

safe haven

reinvention

a thousand petals for one unrequited love

what happens in vegas | series masterlist

satoru gojo x fem!reader

౨ৎ after a messy breakup, you go to vegas with your best friend, shoko, to forget about everything. a night of partying and drinking, you wake up in a hotel room with a stranger in your bed and a ring on your finger, with zero idea what happened. that stranger? satoru gojo—some guy you barely know. turns out, you two might’ve gotten married. now you’ve got to figure out what to do with this mess.

౨ৎ warning/tags: fluff, romance, jealousy, no smut (im sorry), sexual references, enemies to lovers, asshole gojo, some angst, use of alcohol, inspired by what happens in vegas.

note: i am so proud of this one can’t wait to start writing! tag list is also open <3

ch.1 | coming soon…

ch.2 | TBC

ch.3 | TBC