Eren Yeagar // Fic Recommendations

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slow burn fr, Flirting, jealousy, playful banter, lots of staring at hot men, Minor language (light swearing), Light possessiveness/territorial behavior, Small-town charm and shenanigans Art by: @/-3aem on X

Your first day at the farmer’s market brings more than just fresh air and sunshine—you were just supposed to help sell eggs. Instead, you caught yourself eyeing every fine man in town, accidentally flirting with a bakery owner, and maybe (definitely) making someone jealous. Small-town life might be a lot more complicated (and a lot more fun) than you thought.

Chapter Three: A Harvest of Firsts

You never thought you’d get used to it—the early mornings, the dirt under your fingernails, the way the sun could bake the back of your neck until it felt raw.

You never thought you'd want to get used to it.

But somewhere between scrubbing out water troughs and learning which stalls creaked the loudest at night, you stopped counting down the days until you could leave. Somewhere along the way, Ashford stopped feeling like a punishment after a few weeks of living there. 

It started feeling a little like... home.

There were the slow mornings with Grandma, who always set a second mug of coffee out for you without asking, even when you shuffled into the kitchen half-dead from exhaustion, bags incredibly prominent under your eyes.

The afternoons spent hauling feed buckets, boots slipping in the mud, Gojo laughing himself stupid every time you nearly wiped out.

The quiet evenings on the porch with Grandpa, who taught you how to whittle wood and told you stories about the ranch like it was a living, breathing thing that needed loving just like a person would.

And somewhere in there, somehow, Gojo went from being a thorn in your side to... something else entirely.

There’d be the dumb contests he always started—who could stack hay bales faster, who could catch a loose chicken first. (Spoiler: he cheated.)

There were the long, lazy rides out into the fields, where he'd tip his hat low and glance at you like he was thinking something he wasn’t brave enough to say.

There was the way he'd toss you an apple from the barrel by the barn, a crooked grin on his face, daring you to catch it one-handed. (You missed. Every time.)

You were still clumsy, still slower than the others, still the occasional butt of a joke—but it didn’t sting the way it used to. It just made you try harder.

And some mornings, when the sun rose soft and gold over the fields, you even thought—you could maybe be happy here.

If you let yourself.

You woke up to the crow of the rooster you still hadn't forgiven for existing, the scent of fresh coffee from grandma sneaking through the cracks in your door.

Another day. Another chance to embarrass yourself on the ranch.

You dragged yourself out of bed with a stretch, going through the motions of your new morning routine: Brush your teeth, rub the exhaustion from your eyes, stand at the front of your closet for way too long trying to decide what cute outfit to wear (even though your nice clothes from home were slowly getting ruined every time you worked). You always just ended up in the same thing—some denim shorts and that old green flannel you never used to touch.

By the time you stumbled outside, sneakers half-laced and hair barely wrangled into a ponytail, Gojo was already there—leaning against the fence like he'd been posing for a Western catalog, one boot kicked up on the bottom rail, hat tipped low to shield his eyes from the morning sun.

You squinted at him, yawning a little under your breath, "Do you ever actually work or just stand around lookin’ pretty?"

"Princess," he drawled, grinning slow and wide, "some of us are blessed enough to do both."

You muttered something rude under your breath and made a beeline for the feed shed. You barely got the door open before you heard boots crunching behind you, followed by a suspiciously innocent, "Need a hand?"

You turned to glare at him—and immediately got whacked in the chest with a bag of grain. You staggered back a step, barely catching it before it hit the dirt.

"Oh, fuck!" you gasped, wrestling the bag into your arms.

"Training your reflexes," Gojo said, the picture of smugness as he loaded another bag onto his own shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. Smug bastard.

"Training to murder you, maybe."

He winked. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

Despite your grumbling, you followed him back out into the yard, the morning already warm against your skin. You worked side-by-side, him tossing bales of hay like they were toys, you dragging yours with a determined scowl. Every once in a while, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you caught yourself sneaking glances—at the way his sleeves stretched around his biceps tightly, the way he squinted into the sun, the way he laughed, low and warm, at his own bad jokes.

Unfortunately, Gojo always caught you looking.

"You're staring," he said, voice all singsong and smug.

"You're imagining things," you snapped, feeling your ears burn.

He only smirked and went back to work, whistling off-key as he moved.

You hated that you smiled.

By the time mid-morning rolled around, you were sweaty, sore, and a little sun-dazed—but you didn’t mind it as much as you used to. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of it—the work, the quiet hum of the ranch, and Gojo's constant, irritating presence. And at lunch, when you sat down with your grandparents on the porch, your grandpa shot you a look over his coffee mug. The kind of look that said he knew exactly what you were pretending not to feel for his certain ranchhand.

"Y'know," he said casually, "I always thought you two’d make a good team."

You nearly choked on your sweet tea. Gojo just grinned wider and kicked his boot against yours under the table.

"She's still got a lot to learn," he said, tone teasing but eyes warm, lingering on you a little too long.

"Yeah," your grandma said with a sly little smile, "but luckily she's got a good teacher."

You ducked your head, cheeks burning, pretending to be very interested in the pattern of the wood floor as you chewed on a piece of toast with homemade jam. Gojo just laughed under his breath, low and rough, like he'd won something you hadn't realized you were playing for.

And despite yourself—despite everything—you smiled too.

You were still smiling into your sweet tea when Grandma set her cup down with a soft clink.

"I was thinking," she said, smoothing her hand over the tablecloth like she was trying to play it casual. "About setting up a booth at the farmers market this afternoon. Sell some of the extra eggs and jam, and veggies we’ve got piled up."

You looked up, brushing a crumb off your shorts. "The farmers market?"

"Mm-hm." She smiled at you, a little sly. "Thought you might like to come with me. Help out. Meet some folks."

You hesitated—only for a second—but surprisingly, the idea didn't make your stomach twist the way it might have a few weeks ago. You could picture it already: sunlight filtering through the old oaks in the town square, tables full of fresh produce and baked goods, people milling around with shopping bags and mason jars of lemonade.

"Yeah, I’d like that," you said, surprising yourself with how much you actually meant it.

Grandpa gave a grunt that sounded suspiciously like approval. Gojo just leaned back in his chair with a lazy stretch, grinning at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

"I suppose I can hold down the fort here, princess," he drawled. "Try not to miss me too much."

You rolled your eyes, tossing a crumpled napkin at him that made your grandparents share knowing glances with each other, but the truth was—you kind of already did.

Later that afternoon, after a quick rinse and a change of clothes, you found yourself wedged into the bench seat of Grandpa’s old pickup, rumbling down the road toward town with baskets and crates rattling in the truck bed.

Grandpa whistled low under his breath, hands steady on the wheel, a battered Stetson tipped low on his brow. "You girls got everything?" he asked, glancing over at the two of you.

Grandma patted the tote at her feet, crammed full of jars and bundles of herbs. "Eggs, jam, preserves, and all the cucumbers we grew too many of," she said, shooting him a teasing look.

"You’ll thank me come pickle season," Grandpa grumbled good-naturedly, making you smile.

Ashford’s downtown unfolded in front of you, all red brick and white-painted storefronts, an old barbershop pole spinning lazily in the breeze—a few blocks of brick buildings with faded awnings, an old courthouse with a clock that hadn't worked in years, a diner that smelled like fried bacon even from the sidewalk. But it had a kind of charm that stuck to your ribs, all sweet and stubborn, like the town itself refused to grow up.

The farmers market stretched across the town square, a handful of colorful tents and tables sprouting like wildflowers between the oaks. Bunting fluttered from the lampposts, and the air buzzed with the hum of conversation, the strum of a banjo from somewhere near the fountain, the air thick with the scent of kettle corn and cut grass.

Grandpa found a spot to park right along the curb, then hopped down with a grunt. He helped you unload the heavy crates, stacking them neatly beneath the folding table that already had a wooden sign swinging proudly from it: Sundown Ranch Goods. Hand-painted in faded blue letters, with a little horse silhouette carved into the corner.

"Looks good, don’t it?" Grandpa said, stepping back to admire your little setup, hands braced on his hips.

"It’s perfect," you replied, brushing a smudge of dirt off the corner of the sign.

Grandma beamed, arranging jars of jam and shiny bell peppers with practiced hands while you filled small baskets with cucumbers and tomatoes and snapped peas. Grandpa stayed long enough to fuss over the egg cartons—making sure they were packed safe—before tipping his hat at you both.

"I’ll come fetch ya when you’re ready," he said. "Don’t let your grandma sell you for a jar of pickled green beans now. And holler if y'all need anythin’.”

Grandma laughed and swatted his arm, though the gesture was filled with love. “Go on, get now. Them horses need tending to.”

You laughed as he ambled back to the truck, engine sputtering to life as he pulled away with a wave out the window.

Left alone, you and Grandma fell into an easy rhythm, arranging your goods just so, the late afternoon sun slanting warm across the table. The market bustled around you, alive with the low murmur of conversation and the distant twang of a banjo from near the courthouse steps.

Ashford’s town square had a charm to it—the kind that couldn’t be built, only grown. Little boutiques lined the street alongside a diner with a neon sign that buzzed faintly, a hardware store with creaky floors, and a bakery that made the whole block smell like cinnamon and fresh bread. Kids darted between booths with paper snow cones dripping down their fingers, dogs strained at leashes to sniff everything in sight.

People wandered past your booth in slow, easy currents. Some just nodded politely, but a few stopped—a woman with silver hair and a woven basket, who bought a jar of blackberry jam and complimented Grandma's canning; a wiry old man in suspenders who teased you about city girls not knowing a tomato from an apple (you rolled your eyes but still smiled); a young mom chasing two toddlers, who asked if you'd have more eggs next week.

It wasn’t perfect—you still caught the occasional curious glance, a few whispered comments—but it wasn’t mean, either.

It was... cautious.

Interested.

Like maybe the town wasn’t sure what to make of you just yet. But maybe, just maybe, they were willing to find out.

You let yourself breathe, finally, under the easy buzz of it all, feeling the slow and steady beat of something you hadn’t realized you’d missed—belonging.

By late afternoon, the market had settled into a lazy hum, the early rush tapering off into a comfortable trickle. The sun hung low over the rooftops, painting everything gold, and the jars of jam on your table gleamed like little jewels in the light.

You were just brushing crumbs off the tablecloth when Grandma leaned over and patted your hand. "You're doing good, honey," she said warmly. "Why don't you take a little walk, stretch your legs? I can hold down the fort for a while."

You hesitated, but when she smiled at you—soft, encouraging—you relented, slipping a few dollars into your pocket just in case something caught your eye.

You wandered through the booths, taking your time, soaking it all in: the clatter of horseshoes over pavement, the faint buzz of cicadas in the trees, the buttery smell of something baking from the other side of the market. A trio of kids dashed past you with sticks of cotton candy, and someone strummed a guitar lazily from the corner near the old general store.

It was… nice. Quaint. Warm in a way the city never had been.

You were smiling to yourself when you saw him.

Gojo.

Leaning against a lamppost like he owned the damn thing, with all the casual arrogance of someone who knew he looked good doing it, laughing at something a guy beside him said. And not just any guy—tall, with long black hair pulled back in a low, messy tie, a sleepy, wicked sort of smile stretching across his face like he knew secrets you didn’t.

You slowed instinctively, ducking behind a nearby booth, peeking without meaning to.

First of all, rude that Gojo looked even hotter off the ranch. His white t-shirt clung in all the right places, sleeves stretched over the kind of arms you didn’t want to admit you stared at sometimes (all the time). His jeans rode low on his hips, accentuating that sweet ass of his that never quit, and your gaze treacherously dipped lower before you yanked it back up.

The guy next to him was no slouch either—just another unfairly attractive man standing in your direct line of sight.

Your stomach flipped once, awkward and unwanted.

Was there some kind of water around here that just grew fine men like crops?

Because it wasn’t normal how every single one of them looked like they could grace the cover of some country-living magazine and ruin your life at the same time.

You might’ve been able to ignore it—could’ve told yourself you didn’t care—until you spotted them.

Two girls, standing a little too close, batting their lashes, twirling their hair. They were pretty in that easy, sun-kissed way that only girls who grew up in towns like this seemed to manage. One of them playfully smacked Gojo’s arm; the other leaned into the dark-haired guy, laughing.

You tore your eyes away, busying yourself by pretending to admire a booth near your own selling beeswax candles. Grandma must have wandered off because she was no longer standing there in her cute little sunhat. You could hear Gojo’s stupid laugh floating through the air behind you, low and bright. It made your blood heat in a way you didn’t want to think about.

You scowled and huffed, determinedly turning away—and nearly collided with someone standing at your booth.

"Excuse me," a voice said politely, low and even.

You blinked up—and into another gorgeous face.

Different from Gojo’s bright, arrogant handsomeness.

Different from the other guy’s lazy danger.

This man was... solid. Golden-skinned and serious, with messy blond hair pushed back from his forehead, warm brown eyes, and a steady kind of strength that wrapped around him like armor. His shirt sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing flour-dusted forearms that made your brain short-circuit for a half-second.

Marrying this man within a month would honestly not be the craziest decision you could ever make.

He offered a small smile, polite but not unfriendly.

"Are you the one selling eggs?" he asked.

You scrambled to pull yourself together. "Uh—yeah! Yes. We sell eggs. Or my grandma does, anyway. We’ve still got a few dozen left."

He nodded, pulling a canvas tote higher on his shoulder. "I’ll take two, please. I run the bakery down the street."

Right. That explained the flour. (And possibly the unfairly attractive, husband-material energy.)

You busied yourself packing up the eggs, slipping them carefully into a cardboard flat. The man watched you with patient interest, like you were something worth paying attention to, which only made your hands fumble more.

"I’m Nanami," he said as you handed the carton over. "Kento Nanami."

You gave him your name, cheeks warming under the weight of his calm, unreadable gaze. His fingers brushed yours as he passed you the money, and you were so thrown off by it you barely managed to stammer out a "thank you."

Nanami dipped his head in a small nod, tucking the eggs into his bag like he actually cared not to crush them.

And maybe it was petty—maybe—but when you flicked a glance over to where Gojo was still laughing it up with his pretty little groupies, you felt a very particular kind of satisfaction bloom in your chest.

Because when you caught Gojo's eye—because of course you did—you saw it.

The sharp little glance at Nanami.

The narrowing of those stupidly bright blue eyes.

The faint tilt of his head, as if to say, Oh?

You turned your back, smiling sweetly as Nanami asked, "Would you happen to know if the strawberries here are fresh?"

God help you—you were about to flirt back.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, feeling braver than you had in weeks. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the golden glow of the market. Maybe it was just the way Nanami looked at you—steady, warm, intent.

"They're fresh," you said, smiling up at him, "Picked just a couple days ago."

Nanami gave a small, appreciative nod. "Good. I'd hate to disappoint my customers."

"So, you run the bakery down the street?" you asked, leaning your elbows onto the booth a little, casual but undeniably flirty. "My grandma absolutely raves about your pastries."

A faint smile curved his mouth, something almost shy in the way he glanced down before meeting your eyes again. "I'm glad. I do most of the baking myself. Fresh ingredients make all the difference."

You hummed thoughtfully, "I might have to come by sometime. You know, for... quality assurance."

Nanami chuckled lowly, a rich sound that made something flip in your stomach.

"I'd welcome the feedback," he said, voice smooth as honey.

You were so caught up in the moment—basking in the way Nanami seemed genuinely interested, feeling that rare rush of being seen—that you didn’t even notice the approaching footsteps.

Not until a familiar voice, way too loud and way too casual, cut through the air.

"There you are, princess," Gojo drawled, leaning against the booth casually, one hand braced on the table, the other resting at the small of your back, way too familiar, like he had every right to touch you.

Your skin prickled under the heat of it.

Possessive little shit.

Nanami simply regarded him with polite curiosity, like a customer inspecting a product before buying. "Gojo," Nanami said, polite but clipped. "It's been a while."

Gojo grinned, all teeth, knowing exactly what he was doing. "Yeah, been a minute. Bakery keepin’ you busy, Nanamin?"

"It does," he replied simply, glancing at you before back to Gojo.

Gojo noticed. Oh, he noticed. And he leaned in just slightly, like he couldn't help but crowd your space, tipping his hat back with one hand so he could squint down at you with that slow, lazy smirk you hated for how much it made your heart stutter.

"Princess here’s new in town," he said easily, though his thumb brushed once, deliberately, against the fabric of your shirt. "Gotta make sure she don’t get led astray by all these smooth-talking country boys."

Nanami only arched a brow. "I think she can handle herself."

You bit your cheek, hiding a smile.

God, this was better than a soap opera.

Nanami, unbothered, glanced between the two of you, clearly filing something away in that sharp mind of his.

"Well," he said eventually, offering you a final, faintly amused smile, "It was a pleasure meeting you. I'll see you at the bakery sometime?"

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the way he phrased it like a promise.

You nodded—maybe a little too quickly—and Nanami dipped his head politely before strolling off into the crowd, the late afternoon sun catching in his hair like a halo.

You watched him go for a second too long.

Gojo leaned closer, voice dropping into something lower, rougher.

"Didn't know you were into the whole 'nice guy' thing," he teased, nudging your arm with his elbow. "Kinda boring, don’t you think?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt.

"He wasn’t boring, he was incredibly nice," you shot back. "Better than arrogant and annoying."

Gojo smirked—slow, lazy, dangerous.

"And smooth-talking country boys?" you echoed, eyebrow arching high. "You grew up here, too, stupid."

Gojo just grinned wider, like your irritation was his favorite thing.

You huffed, trying—failing—not to stare at the line of his throat, the stupid stretch of his biceps under his rolled sleeves that looked so, so, strong.

"You’re unbelievable," you muttered, half under your breath.

Gojo leaned even closer, voice dropping to something rough and velvet-soft, meant for you alone.

“And how was your first farmer’s market experience?”

You barely had a chance to recover from the way he said it, all low and teasing, before Gojo reached across the table and plucked a strawberry right out of one of the cartons.

"Hey!" you protested, smacking at his hand half-heartedly.

He just popped the berry into his mouth with a wicked grin, biting into it like he had all the right in the world, juice slipping down the corner of his mouth before he licked it away. Slowly. Purposefully.

Your brain fizzed like soda in the heat.

Before you could summon a single coherent thought, Grandma reappeared, bustling up behind the booth, arms full of fresh flyers she’d gathered from a nearby stall.

She took one look at the two of you—at Gojo standing way too close, at you practically vibrating with frustration (or something suspiciously close to it)—and just laughed, rich and knowing.

"Go on now, Satoru," she said, swatting at him lightly with the flyers. "Quit harassin' Y/N before she up and decks you good."

Gojo grinned, completely unbothered. "Wouldn't be the first time," he said, winking at you as he backed away, slow and lazy.

You huffed, crossing your arms, pretending your heart wasn’t trying to climb up your throat.

As he sauntered off into the crowd, whistling some tune you didn’t recognize, Grandma set her flyers down and leaned in close, conspiratorial.

"You be careful with that one, honey," she said, voice low and fond. "He’s always been trouble. Cute trouble, but still trouble."

Your face burned hot enough to fry an egg.

"I’m not—" you started, but she just patted your hand, eyes twinkling.

"I was young once, too, you know," she said, before turning to straighten the tablecloth like the conversation hadn’t even happened.

You stood there, flustered beyond all measure, watching Gojo’s stupid broad shoulders disappear into the crowd—and wondering how on earth you were supposed to survive a whole summer of this.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to realize this town had a whole lot more to offer than you thought.

Author's Note: Am I pumping these chapters out too fast?? If you wanna be added to the taglist, let me know in the notes below! Also, I think I mention Gojo's juicy ass too much. Bet let a girl have hobbies and interests.

Taglist: @indiewritesxoxo @vina21 @sweetwonieee @billiondollarworth @fati27ma 

LET'S KEEP IT PROFESSIONAL — GOJO SATORU

synopsis: the end of your contract with GS Holding Corp. is coming to an end. well, your contract working for the company's founder and CEO, gojo satoru, as his personal assistant is ending since you no longer would work directly under him. but gojo will be damned if he lets that happen without trying to change your mind.

content warning(s): fem! + afab reader, plot-ish → eventual smut so 18+ mdni, risky workplace relationship, oral (m→f), unprotected, semi-public sėx, pining gojo satoru bc that's my fave to write

word count: 6.6K+ holay molay...

a/n: wanted to post this bc 1) its been a millineum since i last posted & a fulfilled req which comes from @doinqhemmings and 2) mentally rejecting that manga leak/ending -_-

“I’ll miss you.”

You stand in front of the photocopy machine unmoving. The soft buzz of ink etching itself onto paper is the only sound that floats through the air beside the voice of the persistent CEO you work under. 

Had you known that he would be following you around the building, bugging you as you tried to complete the tasks that he assigned you to complete on his behalf, you would’ve straight up told him to do it himself. 

You contribute much of your time and effort to this company, and you’re highly recognized for your work. …But you absolutely didn’t need the recognition to come in the form of being under constant surveillance from your boss.

Assuming you might’ve not heard him the first time when you don’t respond right away, he leans in closer and rests a comfortable arm on your tense shoulders. “I said, I’m gonna miss you—”

“I heard you the first time, Gojo.”

When the machine stops whirring indicating that it has finished the job, you don’t hesitate to snatch the sheets of paper from the printer and slap them onto Gojo Satoru’s chest, decked out in a baby blue button-up. All too soon, you’re sidestepping around him and heading out the door toward your office right down the hall.

“Hey!” he exclaims at your sudden early departure.

Hot on your tail, Gojo trails after you clutching the papers close to his chest. “Where are you going?” Gojo asks when you take an unexpected sharp left turn from the usual route to his secluded workroom. 

Despite your best efforts to leave him behind, his tall stature annoyingly reminds you that he can keep up with you just fine.

“Y’know,” your boss starts, catching your attention as you practically speed-stomp your way down the halls of his corporation, “Ijichi would never treat me like this!” 

You could practically hear the way he pouts from behind you. When you briefly glance back behind you to confirm your suspicions about what expression he could be wearing, you’re not surprised to see he’s throwing a wistful glance above your head. His soft, pink lips are downturned and tacked with his snow-white brows all bunched together, probably wishing you’d be more graceful with him.

Or take pity on him at the very least, you know?

You turn back around and continue your path toward your own office space. “Well, it’s a good thing he’s coming back next month then, huh?”

Pity denied.

Gojo swore he heard the wry smile in your voice as soon as you finished your sentence. You’re willfully teasing him and playing with his emotions. But that’s why he’ll miss you— none of his employees would dare talk to him or give him the same flack as you do.

When you step into your office, so does he. And Gojo, either painfully oblivious or simply choosing to ignore the blatant act of you purposefully and almost slamming the door shut in his face, swings it wide open and ambles toward your workstation, a smile creeping onto his lips.

“Extend your contract with me,” he starts, carelessly tossing the sheaf of paperwork onto your tidy desk once he’s within arms reach of it. He peeks at you over his shades and returns your unimpressed stare with an innocent smile. “I’ll raise your salary a reasonable amount once you do.”

While that did sound nice on paper, realistically speaking, dealing with Gojo’s antics for the foreseeable future was less than ideal for you. God forbid you start getting grey hairs at such an early age. Or a raised blood pressure. And besides…

“I still work under and for Utahime’s department though,” you say matter-of-factly, once you’ve crossed the space of your room to sit behind your desk. Your lips twist into a soft pout as you shuffle the scattered sheets together and place them into a neat pile.

Ah, right.

After Ijichi had filed for a paid sick leave after an unrelated work injury several months ago, you graciously covered your colleague’s position as the personal assistant to the founder and CEO of GS Holdings Corp., for the time being.

Pushing away the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head at the namedrop of his top leading director, Gojo deflates onto your desk.

Utahime has been on his case for the past few weeks to hurry up and file the paperwork so that you’d be back in her good graces as soon as your term with him expires. He’s been procrastinating on filing out mostly because he hates doing tedious work, the other half of him flat-out does not want to see you go so soon.

To say Gojo has thoroughly enjoyed you operating as his aide would be a huge understatement. 

Wherever Gojo was in his grand office building, it wouldn’t be unusual for your co-workers to spot you too far off. Outside of work is the same story, especially considering you’d be the one driving him home from work since Ijichi acted as both his assistant and driver. 

“Just switch to mine!” Gojo whines. He joins you at your desk and sits his ass right on the documents you had printed and stretches his limbs against the surface, nearly eating up all the space on your desk. He ignores your strained quips at him to get the hell off. 

“Utahime’ll be fine, let her find someone else. The job market’s already bad as is, so let another person take it and come be with me.” 

There’s a double meaning if you dig deep, and Gojo prays and hopes you’d take the time to digest what he really means. 

However, it seems like you’re not in the mood to be an excavator today.

Pushing his antics and sweet-talking to the side, you arch a questioning brow at him and lean back into your chair. There was nothing explicitly charged behind that reaction of yours but it shook Gojo to the core realization that his attraction to you was unnerving— though not unnerving enough to have him stay away from you.

“What about Ijichi? Where’s he gonna go if I stay?” Gojo visibly perks up at your usage of the word ‘if’, because in his mind he’s already imagined the situation to be quite likely. You see the way he sits a little taller, a little higher on your desk at the proposed question.

But alas, you dash his hopes by adding, “Which I won’t. But if I did, what then?”

“Then you guys can make it a two-person job!” he proclaims as if it were the most easy and obvious answer in the world. Gojo rests his feet on either side of your hips and the heels of his dress shoes press into the leather material of your rolling chair, prompting you to squeeze your thighs together due to the lack of room. “You know I need all the help I can get around here.”

Now it’s your turn to roll your eyes. “You’re being ridiculous, Gojo.”

With the wheels on your chair, your boss uses it as leverage to roll you impossibly closer to him than you already were, angling your face centimetres away from his lower torso. You will your eyes not drift down his body and toward his lap.

Lord knows the field trip the man would have with that if he were to catch you blatantly checking him out right before him. 

“Why’s it so hard to convince you to stay, huh?” he asks, knocking a soft knuckle against that stubborn head of yours. “Why? You don’t like me or something?”

Your heart stutters in your chest at his question. 

Insufferable as he can be sometimes, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel some magnetic pull towards him. 

Losing control of the situation a bit, you grab the reins again. Clearing your throat you ask, “Do you talk to all your employees like that?”

He shakes his head. “Nah.” Gojo props an elbow onto his knee and presses his cheek into the palm of his hand. His smile grows warm and gooey when his blue eyes clash with yours from where you sit a few inches below him. “Just you.” 

You’ll die. You swear you can die right now from the way he’s looking at you— which is no way a boss would ever look at their employee. Let alone assistant. 

Keep it professional.

“Wow! I’m flattered,” you reply, your tone laced heavily with dry sarcasm. You brush his legs away, successfully bringing his feet to rest on the floor and scoot back from your desk. The heated tension that once lingered in the air clears out a bit as you rise to your feet.

Soft cerulean eyes watch as you stand before him, a bit more guarded as you cross your arms across your chest. Whatever you say next is completely lost on him because unlike you, as subtle as he may be, Gojo allows his eyes to wander.

He swallows thickly. You shouldn’t do that. His gaze inconspicuously slides down to the low neck of your blouse and zeroes in on how your arms press against your chest, deliciously squeezing your breasts together and—

“Satoru!” you hiss.

Shit.

Maybe he wasn’t as discreet as he thought.

Quickly flitting his attention back to your face, Satoru offers you a half-assed apology but it’s too late for that. Your face is screwed tight with abashment and bafflement after having caught him in the act. It’s an emotion he hasn’t seen you wear lately. He wants to see more of that. More of you.

Before you could get a word out, ready to rip him a new one about how your eyes weren’t ‘down there’, he hurriedly rushes out a proposition— changing the subject and bringing you both back to the original reason as to why he’d been following you around this past hour. “If I get you to like me, will you work past your term?”

You rest your arms at your sides, completely forfeiting your motion to scold him. Now that’s new. “I never said I don’t like you.”

Satisfaction settles in his chest, warm and heavy at your statement. Gojo liked the sound of that. 

“Then how about this,” the tall CEO moves from his seat on your desk toward you. With each step you take back, he matches you in stride until he’s got your back up against a wall. Quite literally. 

“If I get you to like me more than you do now, you stay. With me. Deal?”

The gentle scent of fabric softener and sandalwood cologne wafts around you. This proximity made you squirm with anticipation. “Do what you want,” you say, craning your neck up to stare at him resolutely. “It won’t change the fact that I’ll be in a whole new department next month.”

The smirk on Gojo’s lips stretches wide as he meets you stare for stare. His voice drips heavy with confidence and a brazen spirit as he says, “Yeah?”

You only manage a stiff nod, not trusting yourself to speak lest it comes out as a fucking moan from the sexual tension alone.

Content with your compliant state, Gojo finally backs off from you and makes his way toward your door. “Don’t forget that meeting we have with the executives this Friday.”

“I know,” you tumble out, sinking back onto your office chair, miffed that he's got you in such a tizzy. It's a miracle that you don’t melt into it right away under his gaze.

You pick up a new batch of paperwork and begin filing them into their respective folders. When you finish with the first set, Gojo’s still lingering by the doorway, watching you.

“…Yes?”

“Nice top, by the way.” His hand rests on the wooden frame, eyes half-lidded with intent. “It really does bring out your eyes.”

As expected, you did not forget about that special executive meeting on Friday. Nor did you forget about the many others you’d have to host and coordinate after that, too.

Essentially, you didn’t let what had transpired the week before deter you from your respective duties as Gojo’s personal assistant. As his right-hand… woman.

But you didn’t entirely forget about what went down either. 

Whether you adhered to his “deal” or not was completely up to you. However, after that day, every personal meeting or time alone together seemed to bristle with tension, heavy with a delicious sort of pressure of the unknown. 

When Gojo would catch your eye or you’d catch his during prolonged meetings that stretched over the initial run time with the higher-ups, there would be a brief moment of shared glances. One recent instance stuck with you to the last few weeks of your contract.

You remember how he would roll his eyes sarcastically as if he were being forced against his own will to attend these kinds of things— which technically he was, but that’s the reality of being a successful founder and CEO of your own company— and his actions would rouse a stifled giggle from you, which in turn prompted an easy smile of his own.

But it was through these shared glances, these brief moments of humour that it would slip into something a little slower, a little more sweet the more you two held eye contact like dripping honey until you broke it off, hurriedly directing your attention back toward the front of the room.

It’s only a matter of time until this bundled ball of emotions displayed through knowing glances and brief moments of heated exchanges finally snaps.

You both wonder when that’ll be.

“This is crazy.”

You slide your gaze away from swirling your cup of iced cappuccino to Shoko who sits beside you. She leans her head back against the cushions of your office sofa— a complimentary gift from Gojo two weeks ago(you suspect it was his last-ditch effort to get you to stay).

“What is?” you ask.

Sitting up, Shoko crosses her leg over the other and fixes you with an exhausted look. “This!” she exclaims, gesturing her hands around the vicinity of your room. There are moving boxes scattered everywhere, which is a bit absurd considering you’re only moving one level downstairs to your old space. 

“I can’t believe you’ve only got a week left until you switch departments,” she says. “Suguru’s gonna lose his head the moment you’re gone and Satoru’s already started with the theatrics.”

Trust and believe that you already know. It’s hard not to when you’ve got the Chief Operating Officer, Geto Suguru, knocking on your door for an offer you ‘don’t wanna turn down’. But once you’d told Geto that you were still going ahead with filling out the documents to head back to Utahime and her team, it led to a hefty chunk of your lunch being taken up by him asking (begging) you to reconsider when your contract end date drew closer. 

“I just worry for Ijichi is all,” you say, shrugging as if the situation were already out of your hands. “Gojo’s been very temperamental and… well, bratty these past few days.” 

Shoko’s brown and neatly trimmed brows shoot up with interest at the disclosure.

You think back to a few days ago when you told Satoru to take it easy on Ijichi. You told your white-haired superior that he’d have to patiently reintroduce him to the new tech and procedures that Ijichi would work with as it would be his first week back. You couldn’t believe your ears when he straight-up told you, “I don’t care about a man’s hardships. He can work them out by himself!”

“Satoru’s always tormented the poor guy,” Shoko says, shaking her head at her friend’s show of obnoxious behaviour, “but he does mean well. I think.”

And speak of the devil… 

Over the curve of Shoko’s shoulder through the open blinds of your clear, glass window you spot Gojo. Noticing that he’s caught your attention, he waves incessantly at you through the glass before you hear him twist the knob of your door open.

“Which reminds me,” your friend continues, drawing your sights back on her, “the rest of the team and I were thinking of heading out for drinks later to celebrate with you one last time. Wanna come?”

“Oooh,” Gojo drawls once he’s within earshot. 

He’s looking extraordinarily handsome today, wearing black slacks and a buttoned, linen navy blue top. He’s smiling boyishly from ear to ear when he catches you twisting your lips in a tight purse as if you were trying to stifle a smile of your own. “A celebration, hm? Can I come?”

Shoko scrunches her face at the sudden question and self-invitation. She throws a bewildered look in Gojo’s direction when he settles himself onto his signature spot in your office. Your desk. “Why?”

Huh?

What kind of question was that? Why else would he want to spend an evening out with everyone? With you especially.

White brows bunch together, tight with confusion. “To celebrate with you guys?” he responds as if Shoko had just asked a one-dimensional question. 

“You’ve been a moping mess this past month after you’ve learned that she—” Shoko points her finger into the flesh of your cheek, “—wasn’t going to extend her work contract with you. So, if anyone’s gonna be celebrating, it sure as hell isn’t you.”

Yeesh! Tell him what you really think.

Knowing Shoko didn’t mean any harm by her words, you still felt inclined to soften the blow of her statement just a tad. “Plus, you don’t drink alcohol, Gojo.”

“And you don’t drink,” Shoko adds, raising her arms in exclamation as if to thank you for bringing that point up.

“Well,” pushing himself off the edge of your mahogany desk, Gojo stops a bit before the sofa you and Shoko both occupied. “I don’t need to drink to have a good time with my team!” he defends, directing a pout-induced glower at his colleague.

You’d think he’s done, but with the touch of Gojo’s large hand grabbing your wrist and pulling you off the couch that you realize he’s far from over at stating his point. “And neither do you,” he says, he pulls you behind him, steering you both toward the door. “We’ve got plans.”

Puzzlement crosses over not only yours but Shoko’s features as well.

“We do?”

“Since when?”

Gojo nods at you and Shoko’s questions spoken in tandem. “Emergency meeting. She and I’ve got important matters to discuss.” You feel the faint brush of his hand find the small of your lower back and maneuver you out the door and away from Shoko’s view. “You wouldn’t get it.” Is the last thing he says before he pokes his tongue out at the woman and ducks out of sight.

“Oh, really?” She says, rising to her feet but making no moves to follow you both out the door.

“You don’t even put your own two cents during our regular team meetings! There’s literally nothing for you to discuss, Satoru.” You hear her call after him as he guides you down the hall, past the elevators and toward his big office.

If only she knew how true that statement would be.

Gojo hates meetings. They always happen at inconvenient moments and eat up way too much of his precious time. It’s time that he could be spending doing something else… or someone. 

Which is why this “emergency meeting” was different.

If someone had told Gojo Satoru several months ago that his favourite employee, his darling assistant would be seated pliant for him on his expensive Birch Lane executive desk he would have laughed in their face with a furious blossoming blush nipping at his neck.

But right now, there’s nothing to laugh about.

Gojo’s watching you closely in the shaded dark of his room, tracking every subtle shift in your body language for any indication that you may be uncomfortable and change your mind at the last minute. But when you wrap an arm around his neck, slotting him closer in between your legs, he realizes he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Something in the air felt different. It was thicker. Electric. 

Gojo knew in an instant he wouldn’t last when your lips ghost the words, “This doesn’t mean I’m changing my mind,” on his mouth, before tipping his head to the side, giving you the space to slot your lips with his.

Game fucking over.

Sure, maybe he wasn’t able to completely get you to change your mind about working with him and his department.

But this?

You whimper into his mouth when his hands skim down back and cheekily resting right above your ass. Your body warms underneath the palm of his hands with every touch and how he kneads your hips tucked away beneath your business casual attire.

Gojo Satoru had won in his own right.

Your breaths come quicker as he steals them from you, his left-hand squeezes your side while the other slides across your lower belly and traces the hem of your blouse.

“Take this off,” he commands, his voice wrecked with reckless abandon. His forefinger hooks on the band of your pants, in a pathetic attempt to pull them down despite not having undone your button and zipper. His air of frustration is not lost on you when you see the slight furrow in his brows, the more he pulls but to no avail of getting you in a state of undress.

Not wanting to lose the momentum you both have, you unhook your arm from his shoulders to give him a helping hand.

“Relax,” you say, softly nudging his hands away from your clothing. He hungrily eyes how you pop the button of your dress pants and shuck them onto the floor. 

Once that was off though, everything came into sharp focus, and Gojo’s breath caught in his throat. 

There’s almost a crazed look in his eye the more he stares at your clothed cunt unblinking, unmoving. His breathing’s gone a bit ragged, and every so often you feel the twitch of his fingers dig into the skin of your thigh.

It was a bad idea, considering how the sight of your panties alone had him this rigid, this excited. But he still grits out a rough, “Lemme see.”

Slowly, you pull your laced underwear to the side and Gojo's teeth dig into his inner cheek at the sight. His hands mark a slow path from your thighs down to your knees, pushing them wide apart so that he could see more of you. 

The delicate spread of your folds had your boss entranced. Gojo has seen and salivated over the various outfits you wore to the workplace, always wondering what was underneath before he deemed such thoughts as inappropriate and immediately started thinking about something else. But now that he sees it for himself, it was all too tantalizing. He wanted to see all of you, taste all of you.

The tuft of snow-white hair that once obscured your vision is now gone, sinking lower to your lap.

“Oh!” you exclaim loudly at his sudden movement. Shocked by how quickly he came down to eye level with your pussy.  “You don’t—” you stammer, swallowing hard as all the blood rushed to your head. Instinctively, you snap your legs shut in a weak attempt to shield yourself from his intense, unwavering gaze. “You don’t have to do that!” 

Having one of Japan’s richest, self-made men drop down to his knees staring fervently at your cunt through you in for a loop. You’re sure by now the expression face was no less than gobsmacked right now.

Gojo’s hand grasps one of your calves, his thumb rubbing smooth circles over your warm skin before he hooks it over his shoulder leaning closer to you. “What do you mean?” 

Pulling you closer to his face, you’re forced to plant your other foot onto the ground for stability. “This!” you hiss out, tone laced with embarrassment and arousal as your finger points between his face and your body. “It’s unbecoming, you don’t have to do that to get me off. Really!”

“Why not?”

You don’t have to say what you’re thinking out loud. You were his assistant for fuck’s sake! 

You’re sure what you two are doing would be an issue with some legal policy with the company. But then again… Gojo Satoru is the founder and CEO of said company so he can technically get away with one or two things. But—

Sensing your hesitancy, Gojo’s eyes soften when he looks up at you. “Just… forget the formalities for a sec, will you?” he implores, strong hands grazing up to your knees again hoping you wouldn’t be stubborn with him this one time. “Please? I want to do this for you.”

You look searchingly into his eyes before you finally mellow out. Feeling you relax in his hold and your thighs lose that tension, that was enough of a green light for Satoru before his mouth skims along the mound of pussy. Each kiss he pressed lovingly against your skin, left you shivering in their wake. 

It wasn’t long before his tongue, firm and slick, pokes out and licks a long, slow stripe up your slit which has you keening. You feel his lips twist into a smug smile when he hears the broken sound of his first name from above him.

“Hm?” he hums, still mouthing at your pussy which encourages another ragged moan from you. “Am I doing good so far?”

You don’t know why he even bothered asking, considering the sheen shine of your arousal coating his mouth and chin. Nonetheless, you give him the answer he patiently waits for.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moaning again when the tip of his tongue circles your sensitive clit. 

And it all becomes too much when his hand abandons supporting your leg on his shoulder, to skate its way up your thigh and toward your pussy. The combination of his forefinger rubbing tight, intricate shapes on your clit and his mouth working you open have you yelping from overstimulation. 

You press your palm against Gojo’s forehead when the heat in your lower belly runs hotter, successfully pushing his face away.

“Not like this,” you protested weakly, your hand smooths down from his face to grip his shoulders. There’s a light flush that peaks beneath the collar of his shirt. He looks absolutely debauched right now. “I want you.”

With the cuff of his sleeve, Gojo wipes your arousal off the bottom half of his face. Unhooking your legs from him, you're left to shakily stand on your own, with nothing but the support of his desk to keep you upright.

“Alright,” he breathes, smiling at how your eyes follow the way his hands undo the expensive black Ferragamo belt on his waist. “How do you want me then?” 

“Um…” You look around the place for feasible places for you to get fucked on. Crude, but true. 

Behind Gojo is his office chair rolled back, looking vacant and lonely. “We could do it on the chair?” you suggest, eyes twinkling at your proposal. “If you want?”

“You want to ride me?” he asks, a proud smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

Your air of confidence softens into something more breathless and vulnerable which has his heart surging with reckless affection. “Don’t make it weird!” you yelp, giving his shoulder a light shove.

Dragging the chair closer, Gojo chuckles at how quick you are to change moods. “Come,” he says once he has sat down, patting his lap with one hand while the other pulls himself free from his boxers and slacks. “Ride me. Make yourself feel good.”

You don’t know what turns you on more: A) the way he’s speaking so dirty, so obscene with you right now or B) the sight of Satoru’s cock smacking against the pale, creamy space of his exposed lower abdomen. You stare at it for too long, the build-up of saliva gathering in your mouth the more you stare at his thick and hard shaft, occasionally bobbing on its own under your intense glare.

You could die and go to heaven right now.

Gojo’s hands grab your waist and pull you closer to him. Running your tongue along the inside of your cheek, you twist around so that you’re back is now facing him as you prepare to take him all in.

“No, no, no, no,” he rushes out when you’re about to sit down on his lap facing away from him. Within seconds, Gojo has you facing him. He grasps the back of your knee and tugs it to his side, pushing the armrest out of the way and does the same with the other. 

Oh! You didn’t know it could do that. 

“I wanna see you,” he murmurs, once you’re now straddling his lap and hovering mere inches away from his erection. His free hand moves between your bodies and grabs the base of his cock and angles it toward your slit.

“Oh.” You feel giddy. The noticeable brush of his tip stroking along your slick folds only adds to that dizzying sensation. “Yeah, I’m—”

When the head of Gojo’s cock slowly starts to push inside of you, your sentence is cut off by a broken moan emitted from the back of your throat.

With his eyes closed, there’s a lazy smile that spreads across Gojo’s mouth as he breathes out a heavy groan once he’s all the way inside you. “Yeeeah,” he whispers, the pads of his fingertips pushing tight against your bare skin.

You bite your lip and experiment with this position. Lifting your hips slightly before you sink back down, Gojo buries his face into your neck and breathes, ragged and heavy.

So much for wanting to see you.

“Shit,” you hear him hiss, as he blindly gropes at your ass, working your body to continue to slide up and down his hard cock. The heat of you had him seeing stars as searing pleasure tore through him.

Whimpering, you clench onto firm biceps, enjoying the shallow strokes he pushes into you.

It’s incoherent at first. However, when you tumble out a dazed huh? so that you could hear him repeat whatever he had said, Satoru's lips parted in ecstasy. “I forgot,” he choked out, voice raw and unhinged.

Gently tugging him away from your neck, your core tightened at the fucked out expression on his face. Curious eyes trail down to his stomach and how with each pump inside you, his muscles involuntarily spasm.

“The condom,” he states, slowing down his fevered pace. “I forgot…”

If it were anyone else, you would’ve hopped right the fuck off their lap with panic, body tense over the fact of how careless you were being.

But surprisingly there were no alarm bells and no flashing red lights in your mind. If anything your blood ran a little hotter, the need and tightness in your core taking over.

You don’t know you have it in you to completely stop everything in a search for a condom you don’t even know he might have.

“Pull out then,” is all you say before you begin to ride him again.

Gojo can definitely get behind that. He’s not complaining if it meant he got to have you completely raw.

Your pussy swallows his cock, and Satoru gathers up the bottom of his shirt— wrinkling it in the process— so that he could see the way he disappears inside you over and over.

When he shifts his gaze back up again so he can take in the expression you might be wearing, Gojo’s surprised to see you already looking at him.

There’s an adorable tinge to your lips that has Gojo flitting his gaze back to them every damn time he tries to make eye contact with you as he fucks himself sweetly into your pussy.

He’s overcome with the strong urge to kiss you. To cross the small width of space between your mouths.

So, he does.

His brow bumping yours, Gojo’s hands return to your ass and he stands up with you in his embrace. The cold press of his desk accosts you as he uses his weight to push you slowly onto your back. 

“Satoru,” you sigh your boss’s name blissfully once his lips leave yours to press them along the curve of your jaw before pulling away.

“I wanted this to be nicer,” he says, brilliant blue eyes glittering down at you through the sex-soaked shadows. His hips don’t stop pistoning in and out of you, and he exhales a particularly harsh hiss when he feels you squeeze around him. “Nicer than here.”

You drag in a breath at his sentence, its implications not lost on you. He’s thought about this before. “It's okay, there's always another time.” 

Satoru hums appreciatively, seemingly pleased with your answer. After leaning in for one last kiss, he brushed his mouth from yours and announced in a voice you barely recognize, “I’m gonna come.”

Propping yourself onto your elbows, you nod at him. “Pull out then.”

“Are you sure?” 

 Stuck between the incredulous look painted across your features and how your nails press a little tighter into his skin, Gojo listens. Not without hissing out a disgruntled, “Fine.”

Pulling out from your wet pussy, Gojo’s hand wraps around his dick and he strokes it fast and hot. He growls with sharp relief when you reach a hand down to massage his sac. He thinks he may come all over you if you continue doing that.

“Fuck,” he snarls when your fingers graze the base of his cock. 

Cracking his eyes open, he messily knocks your hand away from him before intertwining his fingers with yours and grabbing himself with his free hand, stroking hard and fast. Every so often his tip would intentionally rub up and press against your nub, successfully stimulating the sensitive bundle of nerves with the main goal to climax.

With every pent-up thought he’s had about you, Gojo finally comes with you in tow. His cum dribbles out from his slit and lands on your skin— mostly between your inner thighs and folds.

“So,” Gojo starts, his hands wandering up to the middle of your back after a few moments of comfortable shared silence between you two. As much as he wanted to relax in your post-sex session and bask in its warm glow, he had to address the elephant in the room.

You hum in response as you work the buttons of your blouse, waiting for him to continue. “When you said ‘next time’, did you seriously mean t—” 

The two of you abruptly jump apart at the telltale sound of heels clicking down the hall drawing closer and closer to Gojo’s office door. In a panic, you leap off his desk, sending a flurry of sheets flying down to the floor into a sorry pile. 

“Nice going,” Gojo remarks with a sly grin, as you hurriedly shimmy your pants up your legs. The sheen layer of sweat— among other things— makes it a bit difficult for you to easily slip them on.

Once they’re settled at your hips and you tend to the zip, you cast a withering glare his way, you’re relieved to see that he’s already tucked himself away into his pants, already looking presentable by the time the door opens.

With the click of the lock giving way, you hear a woman starkly ask, “Why are all the lights off?”

You could pinpoint that voice from a kilometre away. 

Turning on your heel, you see the shadowy figure of one of your closest colleagues in the dark of the room. “Utahime!”

When the head director steps into the room and flicks on the lights, the sudden brightness has you squinting your eyes a bit. Upon catching your gaze she offers you a sincere smile, visibly lighting up at the sight of you.  

But it doesn’t last long because seconds after her smile morphs it into a displeased scowl when she spots Gojo lounging boneless in his office chair a few feet away.

“And why’s it so…” Utahime fans a delicate hand in front of her face, casting a weary gaze at you two from across the room. “Warm in here?” she questions no one in particular.

Her eyes take in the setting before her, and she pauses in her tracks. You could only imagine what thoughts were racing through her mind.

“What hap—”

“—It’s warm?! I couldn’t even tell!” you respond, a bit too chipper as you cut her line of questioning off. A bit too fast. 

From behind you, you hear Gojo’s stifled laughter that’s covered by poorly by a ridiculous attempt at a coughing fit.

“Well,” you wring your hands together subconsciously, “what brings you here?”

Noticing your off demeanour, Utahime fixes you with a puzzled look that reads as if she were asking you "are you okay?" as your plastered smile only grows more strained by the second.

“I came here to grab your reports and documentation from Gojo’s outbox, but somebody,” cue Satoru slipping on his signature shades to deflect the icy stare Utahime was housing, “forgot to put them there. Hence why I’m here.”

“Oh, right!” Gojo hums, rolling back from his desk as he reaches down to gather the scattered sheets that had fallen to the floor. “They’re all here.”

You both watch in shared silence as he flips through each page, meticulously setting each one aside that wasn’t labeled with your name on the header. 

Thrown off by how long he’s deliberately taking in smoothing out the crinkles on each page, the older woman stomps up to Gojo and unceremoniously slaps her hand on the wooden table. “Give me that, will you?!” she exclaims, snatching and wrestling the papers out from his hands.

“Ah! Wait—”

Scanning the pages your department leader seems content that everything’s in order.

Until it's not?

The woman’s once sunny and bright disposition suddenly flips on his head, as there seems to be something written on that page midway that makes her freeze.

“Go ahead and hand me a new copy,” Utahime says, practically tossing the sheets of paper back onto his desk without a second glance. She smooths her hands down the silky expanse of her long skirt, once, twice, then three times for good measure. “I want it in my inbox by next Monday.”

She nods curtly at you before she turns and practically books it to his door. You don’t know why but you swear you saw the faintest hue of pink tickling the apples of her cheeks. There was also an expression that couldn’t quite put your finger on that highlighted her features. 

If you were to say though, her emotion looked between the mix of detachment, embarrassment… wait, no. It was mortification.

But what was there to be mortified over?  

“What’s wrong with the copy you gave her?”

Gojo presses his lips together in a sad attempt to keep his smile at bay as he hands it over to you to see for yourself.

Eyebrows furrowed, you skim each sheet. You don’t get it. What’s the problem with—

That’s until you notice that some of the pages were sticking together. It’s on the third page you see it and understand why Utahime was in such a rush to leave. Why she kept wiping her hands onto her clothing.

Right there among the printed hiragana and kanji was a few small white streaks of fluid covering bolded characters and numbers. 

Oh no.

“Y’know…” The sleeve of his dress shirt rests along your neck as his hand squeezes at your shoulder. Delicate fingers slide against your bare skin and pull at the strap of your bra, successfully tucking it underneath your blouse again. Had that been poking out the entire time?!  “I knew it would’ve been a good idea to finish inside.”

Horrified that you’d have to deal with the information of going back to Utahime next week knowing that she knows what you guys did, has you burrying your face into Gojo’s chest and letting out a muffled scream.

“Just saying!”

FIN

i don't know how to stay within the maximum word count for the life of me... i'm not sorry!

also there's probably errors in this as i wrote it very hurriedly YOINKIES... ILL FIX EM TMRW IN THE MEANTIME THANKS FOR READINGGG

Hand study with Sukuna

BILLION DOLLAR MAN | a series.

PAIRING: president!Sukuna x journalist!Reader

SYNOPSIS: you get in trouble with the law for hate speech (totally bogus; like, hellooo, Freedom of the Press, anyone?), and, in a way to get you out of further repercussions, the president, himself—whom you went to college with—proposes a deal: be his fake wife. totally preposterous, but, then again . . . your news column could use a little more publicity, and you were in need of a [pseudo] sugar daddy.

ⓘ MDNI; enemies-lovers; smut (every chapter); fake marriage trope; each headline will be additionally tagged on their respective posts.

A/N: the table of contents below is subject to change at any time.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈 : MAN of the HOUR ▷ preview. you've slandered his name all across your blog's public column since you got your master's degree, but tonight's gala is the first time you're seeing him face-to-face since your college days—ladies and gentlemen: Sukuna Ryomen, or, better yet, Mr. President.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐈 : MIMOSA MONDAYS ▷ preview. would ignoring your work and avoiding paying taxes still be as bad if it meant joining the Mile High Club . . . ? when Sukuna drags you along on a business trip, there's only one way to find out.

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐈𝐈 : RED LIPS & RED BOTTOMS ▷ preview. to prevent any rumors, you two arrange going on a date—in public, where anyone could see. but, it's also so you two can finally get to know each other better, if that was even possible . . .

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐕 : FIRST LADY ▷ preview. years have now passed since that fateful encounter at the gala, and Sukuna's first term as president has come to an end; could the same be said about your fake marriage, though?

Ok after this I’m done drawing Deku for the week…I think?

mechanic toji

cowboy GETO?!

ac: thatsallitchief

17+ content, blank blogs dnf

rough sex, prone bone, doggy style, choking, hair pulling, light belly bulge mention, pussy eating (as always), he’s a meanie i fear, ak!jason on the brain

mmm jason 'don't run from this dick' todd... he's got you drooling in the sheets and weakly clawing at them to tug away, just for him to shift his angle and get even deeper inside you when he pulls you back. each flinch away from him prompts a deeper thrust, constantly leaning his built upper body over you and forcing your hips to fall. the grip he has is bruising and he’s using his weight to hold you down, cooing into your ear with condescension as he informs you- I can only hold this ass up for so long, princess. all while jason’s fucking your whole body into the mattress after your pathetic attempts to pull away falter, a rough palm bigger than your fucking head squishing your face into the sheets as spit dribbles from the corner of your mouth in ecstasy. useless slurs of words prompt him to pull your head back, fingers tangled in your hair and wrenching your neck to make you look at him with teary eyes as he tells you to try again.

or maybe you're reaching your hand back to rest on his pelvis while you're whining for him to be gentle, just to get a reminder of his overwhelming strength when he folds your arms against your back and forces you into a deeper arch. you’ve gotten all brave, actively trying to push him off of you- stupidly, even. the fuck do you think you’re doing-? he laughs cruelly at you, and it takes nothing for jason to snake his hand around your neck, fingers straining your throat as he pulls you flush against his broad chest and abs. the sudden breath that’s taken away has you all lightheaded and limited to short pants, leaving you to weakly cling to the same hand on your throat. your gaze falls upon your lower tummy and not only do you feel him, you can fucking see him splitting you open- how deep inside your belly he gets with each thrust.

and just throwing this in there; he's got you trying to get away from his mouth too. legs shaking as he rudely sucks on your clit and you've got the nerve to pull on his hair and urge him away. it takes little to no time for him to pin your hands against your lower tummy while his free hand is forcing your thighs to wrap around his head. he’s softer with you when he’s not pounding you until your weeping cunt is all puffy and sore, though; fat tongue lapping at your hole and groaning as more slick settles on his lips, hooked nose nudging the sensitive bundle of nerves and making you see stars. still creamin’ all over my face, jason grumbles against your core, ‘m not fuckin’ you hard enough, huh? and at this point, you can’t recall if your desperate squirming turns him on more or pisses him off- even when considering the harsh slaps against your thigh and ravenous groans into your cunt. ❧

Two Souls and Hillsides

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𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader 𖤓 Synopsis: After getting expelled from college for one reckless mistake too many, you're shipped off to spend the summer with your estranged grandparents on their remote horse ranch—a place you haven’t set foot on since you were a kid. You expected boredom, chores, and a long, hot summer of shame. What you didn’t expect? The tall, cocky ranch-hand who remembers you all too well… and isn't about to let you forget your roots. 𖤓 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI, Childhood-friends-to-lovers, light enemies-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, slow burn fr (mentions of) virginity loss, alcohol use and partying, family drama, miscommunication, themes of self-worth and identity (loosely based off of the Hannah Montana movie lol) Art by: @/-3aem on X

Chapter Two: Still Waters, Beneath the Surface

You were back downstairs about an hour later, after settling into your childhood bedroom and unpacking your overstuffed luggage—clothes, makeup, shoes, all the remnants of your old life shoved into a few heavy bags.

You felt…nervous.

It didn’t make sense, not really. These were your grandparents. People who helped raise you, who used to sneak you cookies before dinner, and let you fall asleep in front of the TV as old westerns played. But everything felt different now. Like the ranch and people had stayed the same, but you hadn’t. Even if they acted like you’d never left at all.

You took a seat at the small kitchen table, its wood a little more worn than you remembered. The lights above glowed soft and yellow, casting warmth over the room. The windows were propped open with little wooden wedges, letting in a light breeze and the faint, steady hum of cicadas from the fields outside.

Your grandma moved around the stove with practiced ease, transferring food into serving bowls and laying down pots onto what looked like handmade, crocheted hot pads. The air smelled like fried chicken and buttered corn and something sweet baking in the oven.

And—surprisingly—Gojo was still there.

He was setting the table like he belonged there, like he lived there. No cowboy hat tonight, just a mess of snowy white hair catching the kitchen light in soft, wild angles.

Your eyes met.

The corners of his mouth tugged up into a half-smile—barely there, just a flicker—and then he looked back down, focused on the napkins and silverware in his hands like they were suddenly the most important thing in the world.

You were quick to sit down, across the table from him, flanked by your grandparents. You avoided his piercing gaze like it carried the plague, focusing instead on scooping mashed potatoes onto your plate. Why was he so damn nosy?

Grandma finally set down the bowl of green beans and lowered herself into the seat across from Grandpa. “There we go. Y’all dig in before it gets cold.”

Grandpa passed the plate of fried chicken to Gojo on his left, glancing at you as he spoke. “Bet the city doesn’t cook like this, huh?”

You forced a smile. “No, not really. Not unless you count overpriced takeout. But the chef Mom hired is pretty good.”

Satoru snickered under his breath—subtle, but you caught it. A jab, like always.

Grandma interrupted before you could react, scooping a healthy serving of food onto her plate. “That chef making enough food? You look awfully skinny, honey. We’ll have you fattened up in no time.”

Gojo grinned with that same smug expression you remembered, stuffing a heaping forkful of potatoes into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days. Real charming. “Guess we’re back to raisin’ strays again.”

Your grandpa chuckled and lightly swatted his elbow in a disapproving tone. “Satoru.”

You rolled your eyes, dragging your fork slowly through your food. “Funny.”

“Just sayin’. First day back and you already looked like you were gonna melt in the sun.”

“It was ninety-five degrees.” You deadpanned.

“And yet, I didn’t hear the horses complainin’.”

Your grandma cut in gently, clearly trying her best to ease the growing tension between the two of you, “She’ll adjust. Takes time, is all.”

You knew what was coming next. Of course, they’d be curious. Who wouldn’t be? Stuck up girl with a trust fund and everything handed to her on a silver platter suddenly finds her way back to the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Grandpa leaned in a little, lowering his voice like it was some big family secret. “So… what really happened? Your mama didn’t say much over the phone. Just that you’d be stayin’ with us a while.”

You stared down at your plate, feeling that familiar sense of shame that plagued your thoughts on the daily. “I… I messed up. Got kicked out of school… Mom didn’t want me home. Well, David didn’t want me home.”

There was a beat of silence. The only sound was the quiet scrape of Gojo’s fork before he had to chime in again.

“Damn. Didn’t peg you as the rebellious type. What’d you do, set the library on fire?”

You shot him a look, sharp enough to cut glass. “No. I wasn’t flunking either, if that’s what you're implying.”

“Now, we don’t have to get into all that tonight,” your grandma cut in quickly, voice thin and tight.

“No shame in fallin’ down, sugar,” Grandpa said gently, resting a hand over your forearm. “Just matters what you do after.”

And Gojo? It’s like he didn’t know how to shut up. He propped his chin in his palm, grinning that same idiotic grin. “So what’s the plan now? Stick around, milk cows till your city instincts come back?”

“There aren’t even cows here.”

“Yet.” He shrugged, still smiling.

You could feel the heat rising to your face, your voice climbing with it. “Can you just not tonight? I already feel like a failure. I don’t need you making it worse.”

The table fell silent. Again.

Even your grandma didn’t know what to say.

Gojo blinked, caught off guard. “Hey. I was just messin’. Didn’t mean it like that.”

Maybe it was dramatic. You didn’t care. You shoved your chair back with a loud scrape, standing in a rush.

“Whatever. I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t gotta run, sweetheart,” Grandpa said gently, his voice steady but soft. “You can sit. Be mad if you want. But stay.”

But you were already scraping your food into the trash and setting your plate down into the empty sink. “I just need some air.”

The screen door creaked as you swung it open and stepped out into the humid dusk, letting it thump closed behind you.

Inside, the kitchen was quiet. The clink of silverware had stopped. The cicadas outside suddenly seemed louder than they had before.

Gojo let out a sigh, pushing his plate away.

Grandpa shot him a look. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, huh?”

Gojo winced. “No, sir. Just got a mouth on me…”

The porch creaked under your weight as you sank onto the top step.

It was quiet out here—the kind of quiet that wraps around you, thick and soft, until all you can hear is your own thoughts echoing louder than they should. The cicadas buzzed somewhere far off, a low hum under the night. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them loosely, chin resting on the denim of your dirt-smudged jeans.

Out past the porch railing, the fields stretched wide and dark, the grass swaying in the warm breeze like it didn’t know the world had changed. The moon hung low, casting a silvery sheen over the barn roof, the tops of the trees, the wooden fence that hadn’t changed since you were ten. Fireflies blinked at the edge of the pasture—lazy little lights, flickering like stars too tired to shine properly.

A horse whinnied in the distance, followed by the soft rustle of hooves against hay and dirt. The sound was comforting and lonely at the same time.

You hated how fast your heart was still beating.

You shouldn’t have snapped like that. Not in front of your grandparents. Not in front of him. But something about the way he said it—like you didn’t belong here either—just hit the wrong nerve. Again.

Everything you’ve done lately feels like a mistake. Getting kicked out. Getting cut off. Ending up back here like some dead-end case with nothing to show for yourself but half a degree and a suitcase full of regrets.

You thought this would feel like coming home.

Instead, it feels like walking into a version of your life that just kept going without you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hard. Metallic warmth bloomed across your tongue. You welcomed the sting—it was the only thing that felt real.

What would your friends back in the city say if they saw you now? They’d probably laugh. Or worse, pity you. You could already hear the way they’d say your name like it was some sort of tragedy. But you couldn’t even blame them.

And you couldn’t really blame your parents, either.

You were the problem. You were always the problem.

Just a lazy, spoiled, good-for-nothing excuse of a daughter.

Your fingers fidgeted with a loose thread on your jeans, nails bitten short and raw at the edges. You pressed your face into your folded arms, hiding from the moonlight, hiding from yourself. The burn behind your eyes stung deep, but you blinked it away, stubborn and silent.

You don’t get to cry over this anymore.

You made your bed. Now you had to lie in it—even if it was 500 miles from the life you were supposed to be living…

The screen door creaked open behind you, hinges groaning like they’d been holding their breath all day. You didn’t turn around. Just tucked your chin deeper into the cradle of your knees and stared out at the moonlit fields, trying not to think too hard. The air was thick with the scent of cut grass and the faint sweetness of honeysuckle creeping up the side of the porch. Somewhere out near the fence line, a horse snorted softly, the rustle of hay echoing under the low hum of cicadas.

Bootsteps followed—slow, steady, like whoever it was didn’t want to scare you off. The boards creaked under his weight. He stopped just behind you, where the porch met the steps, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I’m headin’ out,” Gojo said after a beat, voice softer than usual.

You nodded, still not turning to look at him. “‘Kay...”

There was a pause, but he didn’t move.

“Didn’t mean to get under your skin. Not like that, anyway...”

You let out a breath through your nose, the sound sharp in the quiet of the night. “You have a funny way of showing it.”

He chuckled—barely. “Yeah. S’pose I do.”

Another beat of silence passed between you, the air palpable with lingering tension from dinner. You could hear him shift, boots scraping against the wood as he sat down behind you on the next step, not quite beside you, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.

“I wasn’t lying, y’know,” he murmured. “You’re not a failure.”

Your eyes stayed on the fields. The wind stirred the grass, rippling like water under moonlight. Yeah, right…“Doesn’t really matter what I am. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You say that like it’s some kinda punishment.”

You stayed quiet, picking at the hem of your jeans until a thread snapped loose between your fingers. A cicada buzzed in the distance, shrill and stubborn. “Why are you even out here?” 

He shrugged, gaze following yours into the dark. “Supposed to be leavin’. Figured I’d say goodnight.” A pause. Then, lighter, “Maybe make sure you didn’t go throw yourself in the horse trough.”

That earned a tiny smirk, even if you didn’t mean to give it to him.

He leaned forward, forearms pressed against his knees. “We all mess up. Hell, I’ve done worse than get kicked outta school.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

“Not savin’ the last cinnamon roll for your grandpa at breakfast one time,” he replied solemnly. “Still haven’t been forgiven for that. That man sure knows how to hold a grudge, I’ll tell you that much.”

You huffed, but just barely. Was he really trying to make you feel better right now?

Gojo’s smile faded into something gentler. “Look…I know it don’t fix anything. And I ain’t tryin’ to tell you how to feel. But this place? It’s not gonna shut you out just ‘cause you’re hurting. Neither will your folks. And…neither will I.”

The knot in your throat pulled tight. You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowed down the sting behind your eyes. “I just feel like I’m screwing everything up...”

“You’re twenty,” he said. “You’re supposed to screw everything up.”

You finally turned to look at him. His silver hair caught the moonlight, a soft mess of curls above a face that, for once, wasn’t smug or teasing—just honest. He met your eyes, his voice even quieter now. “Ain’t no shame in falling, princess. Just matters what you do after.”

You stared at him for a moment, then looked away, brushing at your eyes with the heel of your hand before he could catch the glint there. How would he know? He didn’t screw up his entire life and every opportunity ever handed to him.

He stood a second later, brushing dust from his jeans.

“I’ll be back in the morning. We start early around here,” he said, already turning toward the steps. “Don’t go disappearing again, alright?” He dusted off the brim of his hat this time, tilting it towards you with that irritating, gentle expression, before finally turning to leave down the steps. You watched as he mounted his horse near the barn just yards away, graceful yet strong. Sturdy. And with a click of his heels, he rode off into the night.

A breeze swept through the porch, carrying the scent of dust and horse sweat. You closed your eyes and let it pass over you. And just like that, it was quiet again. But the silence didn’t feel so heavy this time.

You weren’t sure what woke you first—the rooster’s screech or the sheer betrayal of being conscious before the sun. Either way, it felt violent. You blinked up at the ceiling in stunned silence, a death glare already forming as that damn bird let out another war cry just beyond your window.

You didn’t even need to look to know where it was perched. Probably right there on the porch rail, puffed up like it owned the place, screaming just because it could. Roosters were honestly worse than car alarms.

If you went outside right now and smothered that fucking bird with your pillow, would anyone actually care?

Probably not. Maybe worth the risk.

You groaned and rolled onto your side, dragging the thin country quilt over your head. It was no silk duvet, that was for sure. The sheets felt stiff, the pillow was aggressively firm, and there was no hum of traffic or buzz of your phone to lull you back to sleep. Just the clatter of hooves in the distance, the soft creak of the house waking up, and that damn rooster again, yelling like its life depended on it.

This was not how mornings were supposed to start.

This was a violation of basic human rights.

Back home, you didn’t wake up until at least noon—wrapped in a fortress of fluffy blankets, cushioned by high-thread-count luxury, maybe scrolling through social media until your iced latte was delivered straight to your door. That was your kind of peace. That was comfort. That was normal.

This… wasn’t. This was farmhand purgatory.

Eventually, you accepted your fate and swung your legs out of bed, padding across the old wooden floor in your socks. The air was cool, crisp in a way that made your skin tighten, like the house still held onto the chill of the night. You tugged on a hoodie—your old college one, soft from a hundred washes and printed with a logo that felt a little heavier now—and made your way downstairs.

Voices floated up from the kitchen, low and warm. The smell hit you next—bacon, eggs, maybe biscuits in the oven. Something buttery and comforting. The kettle was starting to whistle on the stove, and you could hear grandma humming under her breath between gentle clinks of dishware, grandpa probably sitting at the table, flicking through the pages of this morning’s newspaper. Who the hell still reads the paper?

You padded into the kitchen, the warm scent of breakfast wrapping around you like a blanket. Sunlight was just beginning to spill through the windows, catching in little dust motes that danced above the table. Your grandma stood at the stove in her worn, quilted apron, gently flipping bacon in a skillet while humming something soft and familiar. Your grandpa sat at the table with his reading glasses low on his nose, newspaper rustling in his hands, a steaming mug of coffee close by.

“There she is,” Grandma said, not even turning as you entered. “Thought we’d have to send the rooster in to drag you out.”

You made a face, slumping into one of the old wooden chairs. “You mean that demon outside my window?”

Grandpa chuckled behind the paper. “That demon bird’s been waking us up for fifteen years.”

“Maybe it’s time for early retirement,” you muttered, rubbing your eyes.

Grandma just smiled and slid a plate in front of you, stacked with eggs, bacon, and a biscuit that was still warm to the touch. “Eat up. You’ve got a full day ahead of you.”

You blinked. “Wait—I do?”

Grandpa folded the paper and leaned back in his chair, giving you a look that was equal parts amused and serious. “You didn’t think you’d come back and just lounge around, did you?”

You opened your mouth to argue, then shut it again. Fair enough.

“Figured we’d start you off easy,” he continued, “maybe get you out by the barn. See if the coop needs cleaning, or lend a hand brushing the horses.”

You were halfway through chewing a bite of biscuit when you glanced out the window—and paused.

Out by the fence, backlit by the morning sun, was Gojo. He was already elbow-deep in work, hauling bales of hay like they weighed nothing, his shirt slightly damp with sweat despite the early hour. His hair was a little wild, catching the light like silver threads. He moved with a kind of ease, like all of this—the labor, the land—fit him in a way that made your stomach twist with something unfamiliar. For someone so irritating, he looked way too good covered in grime and sweat. That dick…

You looked away before either of your grandparents noticed you staring, but they had already clocked you on it. Luckily, they didn’t care to say anything about it.

“He’s been out there since before dawn,” Grandma said, following your gaze. “That boy works harder than anyone gives him credit for. Good thing we hired him.”

“Looks like he could use some breakfast,” Grandpa added, scratching his beard. “Why don’t you go fetch him in before we eat?”

You hesitated. “Me?”

“He won’t bite,” Grandma said with a knowing look. “Go on, take him a biscuit. Tell him there’s coffee, too.”

You groaned quietly but stood, snatching a warm biscuit from the stack and avoiding your grandma’s smug grin. She always did like playing matchmaker, even when you were little.

The screen door squeaked open behind you as you stepped out onto the porch. The air was brighter now, touched with the promise of heat later in the day. You crossed the yard slowly, heart doing something weird and uncalled-for when Gojo finally noticed you.

He straightened up, brushing his hands on his jeans. “Mornin’, princess.”

You rolled your eyes, holding out the biscuit. “Breakfast is ready. Thought I’d offer before you pass out from being too heroic.”

He grinned, all dimples and mischief, but there was something gentler behind it today. “Look at you, bringing me food. Thought you city girls didn’t do manual labor or acts of kindness.”

You made a face and turned to leave, but he fell into step beside you anyway.

“I’ll come eat,” he said, almost lightly. “Only ‘cause your grandma’s cooking is worth it.”

You didn't say anything, but you let him follow you back to the porch.

The screen door slammed shut behind the two of you, the familiar creak followed by the soft thud of boots on wood. Gojo wiped his hands on the hem of his shirt, still dusty from the barn, before dropping into the seat across from you with a lazy grin and a “Mornin’, folks.”

Grandma turned from the stove with a smile and a playful swat of her dish towel. “Bout time. You’re up with the sun but never remember to eat.”

“You always feed me too well,” Gojo said, already reaching for the plate she set down in front of him. “Wouldn’t get anything done if I started the day all bloated on your cookin’.”

Grandpa gave a huff of amusement. “Pretty sure you’re running on coffee and charm anyway.”

Gojo winked. “Don’t forget sheer willpower.”

You rolled your eyes and picked at your eggs.

It was warm in the kitchen—between the smell of food, the soft murmur of conversation, and the sound of silverware clinking against plates, it almost felt like a memory you’d forgotten you missed. Familiar and slow and good.

Grandma took her seat last, sliding into the spot beside Grandpa. “So,” she said, “we were just talkin’ about the day. Thought maybe you’d like to take our girl here out to the barn, Satoru. Show her the ropes again.”

You looked up sharply. “Wait, what?”

He didn’t even hesitate as he replied, “Sure. Long as she doesn’t faint from the smell of manure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I grew up here too, y’know.”

“You mean when you were ten and used to wear light-up sneakers and run away from the chickens.”

“I was a child.”

“You screamed.”

“Once.”

“Hmmm, always.” He looked at you, eyes already glinting with mischief.

You kicked him under the table. He didn’t even flinch.

Grandma smothered a laugh and stood up to refill her tea. “He’ll take you out after breakfast. Just a few chores, nothing heavy. Help you get your feet under you again.”

You didn’t say anything right away, just stared down at the last bite of biscuit on your plate. You didn’t want to admit it, but maybe a part of you wanted it—something to do. Something to fix. Something real for once in your life.

You finally nodded. “Alright, fine. Show me the ropes.”

Gojo leaned back in his chair like he’d just won a prize. “You’re gonna love shovelin’ horse crap.”

By the time the plates were cleared and the sun was high enough to really start working the yard, you were already regretting every mistake you had made. 

Gojo led the way toward the barn with that lazy cowboy swagger that somehow managed to be both irritating and hypnotic, his ass shifting in those tight jeans…You were no better than a man. But couldn’t a girl have hobbies? You trudged behind him, the soles of your sneakers slipping slightly in the dewy grass, hoodie sleeves shoved up past your elbows, trying not to look like you were struggling to keep up. You were not dressed for the occasion, but you also refused to purchase a pair of cowboy boots. You weren’t a hick quite yet.

“You always walk this slow,” you grumbled, “or are you trying to make this take longer?”

He looked over his shoulder with a smirk. “Gotta make sure you don’t wander off and get lost, princess.”

“May I remind you once again that I grew up here, too?”

“Well, you sure don’t look the part.”

The barn door creaked open, and suddenly you were in it—thrown headfirst into a full-on crash course of ranch life, courtesy of one smug Satoru Gojo.

First up: the chicken coop.

“You want me to go in there?” you asked, eyeing the flapping birds with much hesitation. The coop smelled like warm hay and bird shit and regret.

“Don’t worry,” he purred, handing you a shovel with way too much glee. “They only peck when you cry.”

You squawked louder than the hens when one fluttered too close to your head, ducking to the ground in fear. Gojo laughed so hard he had to lean on the fence to keep from tipping over.

Next was water trough duty.

“Tip it out,” he said, gesturing at the massive metal basin. “Then hose it down and refill it. Easy.”

“You say that like it doesn’t weigh a thousand pounds.”

“It’s about leverage,” he shrugged. “And core strength. You got either of those?”

Your glare said no, but your pride said I’ll figure it out. So you did. Sort of. You soaked your shoes and half your jeans in the process, and Gojo took a mental photograph of it for future blackmail.

Then came the hay bales.

“Lift with your legs, not your back,” he instructed, tossing one over his shoulder like it was a bag of marshmallows.

You grunted and dragged yours two feet before dramatically collapsing on top of it, completely out of breath. You occasionally went to the gym back home, but a machine was way different than barrels of straw that weighed more than you did. “I think…I’m dying…how are you not exhausted yet?”

“Good genes,” he said, wiping sweat from his neck with the hem of his shirt—drawing your unwilling gaze for just a second too long. “And years of suffering.”

“You should put that on a t-shirt.”

Somewhere between brushing down a few of the horses and learning how to check tack for damage, you actually started to find a rhythm. Your hands got dirty. Your hair stuck to your forehead, even when you pulled it back into a ponytail. And your lungs filled with the kind of air you didn’t get in the city—clean, warm, and just a little sweet from the wildflowers blooming near the fence line.

And Gojo?

He didn’t let up with the teasing, but there were moments. Quiet ones. Like when he corrected your grip on a halter with an unexpected gentleness. Or when he offered you his water bottle without saying anything, just a flick of his wrist and a nod. Or when he paused to watch you work—not in a judging way, but like he was...actually admiring you.

By the time noon rolled around, you were sweaty, sore, and more exhausted than you cared to admit.

You leaned against the barn wall, wiping your forehead with your sleeve. “So… do I pass the test?”

Gojo looked over at you, lips tugged into something soft. “Barely. But I’ll allow it.”

You scoffed. “Generous.”

“I try.” He nudged your shoulder with his own. “You didn’t faint. That’s somethin’.”

You bumped him right back. “Give me a week, and I’ll be out-working you.”

He barked a laugh. “Princess, I’d love to see you try.”

You accepted the bottle of water he passed over, feeling the hairs on your arms stick up when his calloused hand brushed against your fingers. You chugged until it was completely empty, tossing it down into the dirt. “It’s so fucking hot out. I think I’ll just die of a heat stroke or something.”

Gojo leaned one forearm on the barn wall beside you, all sun-warmed denim and sweat-slicked forearms, smirking like the heat didn’t touch him. “That so? Want me to hose you down?”

You laughed and teased back, “And here I thought you’d just dunk my head into the trough.”

“Ouch. You think I’m that cruel? I’m offended, really.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved off the wall, brushing your damp bangs from your forehead. “Seriously, though. I’m two minutes away from passing out with the chickens.”

He watched you for a beat, like he was deciding something. Then he pushed off the wall, a lazy grin still in place. “Alright. Time for your reward.”

You squinted at him. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Relax, you big baby. I was gonna take you out to the pond.”

You blinked, unamused. “A pond? With like…fish and algae and stuff? Pass.” Maybe it was that spoiled, pampered side of you, but you had some standards. You preferred clean pools where you could see the bottom, maybe even a nice hot tub or a hot spring.

“Yes, princess, a pond. By all means stay here, unless you don’t wanna keep shovelin’ horse shit.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. “Pond it is.”

Jasper took to you like no time had passed. His ears flicked toward your voice, and he nuzzled your palm when you slipped into the saddle, a little shaky but holding your own. Gojo gave you a once-over from atop his own horse, a cocky gleam in his eye.

“Still remember how to steer?”

“Still remember how to steer?” You childishly mocked his words back, struggling to get a proper footing on the bulky saddle. 

He let out a bark of laughter and clicked his tongue, kicking off into an easy trot. You followed, heart thudding—not from the horse or the pace, but the fact that somehow, riding beside Gojo like this felt…almost fun. 

The path curved past wildflower-covered fields, the scent of honeysuckle hanging thick in the air. Grass brushed your boots. Birds chattered overhead. And every now and then, you caught Gojo glancing your way when he thought you weren’t looking, his brilliant blue eyes meeting your own before flicking away towards the path.

You tried not to think about how good he looked on a horse. Or how nice it felt to be back in the saddle. Or how you kinda didn’t mind this whole “farm girl” thing when the weather was nice and the view looked like that.

The pond came into view, still and glassy under the mid-afternoon sun. It was nestled in a natural bowl of earth, shaded by a ring of old cypress and cottonwood trees that filtered the light into shimmering gold. The breeze was just enough to send little ripples across the surface, like the water was sighing in its sleep.

You slid off Jasper and let your shoes sink into the grass with a soft thud, toeing them off, then peeling your damp socks off with a grimace. Your legs ached, your hands were sore, and your clothes clung in all the wrong places—but for the first time all day, it felt kind of worth it.

Gojo stretched, arms lifted high over his head with a groan. His shirt rode up just enough to flash a narrow strip of golden skin above the waistband of his jeans—sun-warmed and sweat-slick, every inch of him infuriatingly effortless.

And then, with absolutely no warning, he peeled the shirt off entirely and tossed it into the grass like he hadn’t just caused a minor existential crisis.

You didn’t mean to look.

But you did.

And then immediately turned away, eyes on a random patch of wildflowers. “You are so annoying.”

“What?” he asked, already heading for the water. “I’m hot.”

“Emotionally or thermally?”

“Both,” he said without missing a beat, wading in until the surface licked at his hips.

You followed behind, hesitating at the edge before stepping in. The pond was colder than expected, a welcome shock against your sunburned skin. You kept your tank top and shorts on, letting the water lap at your calves, then your knees, until it hit your thighs and made you suck in a breath. Gojo was already out where it was deepest, pushing wet hair back with both hands, the sunlight catching in his lashes.

“So,” he called over, “on a scale of one to you crying in the chicken coop, how bad was your first day?”

You shot him a look. “Honestly? It kinda sucked.”

“Even with my charming company?”

“You were the worst part.”

He grinned. “And yet, here you are. Swimmin’ with me.”

Instead of answering, you dove forward, arms slicing through the water in one clean stroke. It was colder beneath the surface, silent and blue and still. You resurfaced with a gasp, hair clinging to your cheeks, water dripping from your chin.

Gojo was watching you again.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just… looking.

You blinked water from your lashes. “What?”

He shrugged, voice a little rough. “Just didn’t expect you to come back lookin’ like this.”

Your breath caught. “...Like what?”

But he didn’t answer. Just swam a little closer, eyes searching. The water moved between you, shifting and cool. A dragonfly skimmed across the surface behind him. His leg brushed yours under the water—light, maybe even accidental, but you felt it like a spark.

And then: “Bet you still scream when ladybugs land on you.”

The spell snapped in two.

You launched a wave of water right into his face, and he went under with a howl of laughter.

“You little—” he came up sputtering, hair plastered to his forehead. “Oh, it’s on now.”

You shrieked and kicked backward, but he was on you in seconds, grabbing you around the waist and dunking you under. You surfaced coughing, laughing so hard it hurt.

“Asshole!” you managed, shoving hair out of your face. You splashed him again for good measure, grinning like an idiot.

“You started it.” He floated back lazily, water beading off his chest and shoulders, hair silver and wild. “Can’t dish it out if you can’t take it, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and swam for the edge, dragging yourself out and collapsing onto the bank with a groan. The sun wrapped around you like a blanket, drying your skin in slow, lazy waves. Grass tickled your arms. Your lungs felt clearer than they had in weeks.

Gojo flopped beside you with a satisfied grunt. “You know,” he said, voice low and warm, “you didn’t do half bad today.”

You turned your head toward him, eyes half-lidded. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me since I got back.”

He grinned, one arm folded behind his head. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

You laughed softly and looked up at the sky. It was bluer than you remembered.

Then he asked, almost casually, “Why’d you come back?”

The question landed in your chest like a stone.

You turned your head, watching his profile. He wasn’t looking at you—just squinting up at the sun like it had answers he didn’t want to say out loud.

You exhaled slowly. “You know why. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“College thing?”

“Yeah.” You picked at the hem of your shirt. “It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

You paused. “Let’s just say…I screwed some things up. And my mom and David thought it’d be better if I took a little space. Learn some responsibility or whatever.”

There was a pause. “…That’s rough.”

You nodded. “I’ll live. Honestly… this isn’t the worst punishment. Not like I thought it’d be. I mean, I miss the city, sure, but… I forgot what it’s like out here. Quiet. Serene. Real.”

You caught him watching you again. That look.

Like he was trying to line you up with a memory that didn’t quite fit anymore.

“You changed,” he murmured.

“So did you.”

The wind shifted, brushing your arm. A cicada buzzed somewhere nearby.

“You ever think about back then? About us as kids?”

You smiled faintly. “Not until recently. But… yeah. Sometimes…”

He nodded, quiet. “Me too.”

Your fingers grazed his as you reached down to brush a blade of grass from your stomach. He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Just kept looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he was starting to believe you really came back.

Authors Note: Hiii! I honestly didn't think that this would get any attention, but I'm so happy some of you are enjoying it so far! Sorry it's a bit long this chapter, if you prefer them shorter or longer, let me know in the notes below! I can also make a taglist if anyone is interested.