Work Text:
The kind of town people forgot about after the interstate got built.
You could blink twice on the drive-through and miss the whole thing—just a diner, a mechanic, a hot spring shrine, and The Waterhole, your little corner of survival.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept your tuition paid and your lights on.
The door creaked open around 8 p.m.—same sound, different fool. You didn’t even look up until the scent of something expensive hit the air. Cologne. City money.
The man who walked in didn’t fit. Too clean. Too tall. Too put together for a place where people drank to forget.
White button-down, black uniform pants, and sunglasses he refused to take off even in the dim light.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Kitchen’s closed. Bars open. Pick your poison.”
He smiled like the offer was flirting, not customer service.
“Whiskey. Neat. And maybe your name, if you’re feeling generous.”
You slid the drink across the counter, eyes cutting over his gloves, the faint smudge of dirt on his sleeve.
Tourist. Maybe headed to the hot springs up the road. Maybe lost.
But there was something off about him—too calm, too alert. Like he was looking for something more than a drink.
“You a cop or a cult member?” you asked dryly.
He chuckled, low and amused. “Neither. Just passing through.”
“Mm. You and everybody else.”
You turned to grab another glass, ignoring the weight of his gaze like it was just another tip jar full of bad decisions.
Gojo had been called a lot of things—arrogant, genius, menace—but “ignored”? That was new.
And he hated how much he noticed it.
He leaned an elbow on the counter, the picture of confidence—like rejection was some kind of myth he’d only read about.
But you didn’t even give him the dignity of a glance. You were busy lining up the shot glasses, restocking lime wedges, moving on like he was just another seat-filler in a night full of them.
He cleared his throat, still half-smiling. “You always this cold, or am I just lucky?”
“Depends,” you said, eyes flicking up briefly. “You one of those types who think women are impressed by a pair of shades and good bone structure?”
That got him. Just a flicker—like you’d smacked the smirk off him, soft and clean.
Then he laughed again, quieter this time. “You wound me, sweetheart.”
“You’ll live.”
Gojo swirled his drink, letting the ice clink against the glass. The sound filled the small silence between you, stretching thin over the jukebox hum and the shuffle of cards from the back table.
He should’ve been bored by now. He always was when the game didn’t go his way.
But there was something about you—something in the way your eyes didn’t linger, your tone stayed level. No effort to please, no performance. You didn’t care who he was, and that made him pay attention in a way he didn’t expect.
“Name’s Satoru,” he said finally, reaching out a hand.
You didn’t take it. Just leaned on the bar and said, “Didn’t ask.”
He blinked. Then that grin came back, sharper now. “You got jokes.”
“I got work,” you corrected. “And you’re in the way of my rag.”
He moved aside with mock drama, raising both hands. “Ouch. She’s hostile.”
“Efficient,” you muttered, wiping the space clean.
He watched you a little too long, the blue of his eyes flickering faintly behind those glasses like light catching on water. He didn’t mean to let his cursed energy stir—but even that tiny spark made the bottles on the shelf hum just barely, like the glass itself recognized him.
You noticed. Not enough to call it supernatural, but enough for a frown to pinch your brow.
“Whatever you do for work,” you said slowly, “maybe don’t bring it in here next time.”
Gojo smiled into his glass. “You felt that, huh?”
“I felt your ego,” you shot back. “But I’ve cleaned up worse spills.”
Gojo’s laugh came out too loud, a little forced, the sound bouncing off the liquor bottles behind you. He tried to swallow it down with another sip, but that whiskey hit weaker than his pride just did.
He’d been brushed off before — sure. But not like that.
Not with that cool, steady stare that said, You’re not special here.
So he looked. Really looked.
The way the neon light crawled up your curves wasn’t fair.
Black jeans hugging thick thighs, that cropped tank peeking under a sheer top that caught the glow when you moved. The glint of your septum ring flashed when you turned, all attitude and soft edges. A tattoo curved just beneath your collarbone — a line of words he couldn’t quite read but wanted to.
Your hair — short, finger waves tight and glossy — framed your face like you were made to ruin men who stared too long.
And Gojo? He stared too long.
“Something wrong?” you asked without looking up, eyes on the register as you counted bills.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice dipping low enough that it almost didn’t sound like a joke. “Didn’t think heaven had a zip code this small.”
You snorted. “You practiced that one in the mirror?”
He grinned — it was second nature — but she didn’t even glance. Just turned to grab a fresh bottle off the shelf, her hips shifting with that unconscious confidence that made his brain go fuzzy for a second.
Damn, she was real. Not the city girls with soft hands and false lashes he flirted with between missions.
You looked like the kind of woman who could cut a man down with a stare, then still hand him a drink out of pity.
When you finally caught him looking — really looking — you tilted your head.
“Eyes up here, sugar,” you said, voice all molasses and warning.
He raised his hands again in mock surrender, smile widening, though his pulse didn’t match the joke.
“Just admiring the atmosphere.”
“You mean the tip jar,” you said, nodding to it.
He laughed, softer this time. “You’re good at this.”
“Yeah,” you said, turning away, “and you’re not my type.”
Gojo’s smile froze — not hurt, but curious. Like he was trying to figure out how someone could say that with a straight face.
“Not your type, huh? What is your type then?”
You smirked, finally meeting his gaze head-on.
“The kind that doesn’t need to ask.”
Gojo blinked.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t have a damn thing clever to say.
----
Gojo stayed where he was, one hand draped lazily over his glass, sunglasses still on even though the bar lights barely qualified as lighting at all. His reflection shimmered faintly in the mirror behind the bottles, eyes hidden but thoughts running wild.
For the first time all night, he wasn’t the center of gravity in the room.
You were.
You moved between customers with that smooth, practiced rhythm — wiping the counter, laughing at some old guy’s half-funny story, leaning just enough to be polite but never inviting. He caught himself watching how easily you slipped back into the flow of your world, the way you seemed to fit here while he—well, didn’t.
Then the door opened.
Cold air and swagger walked in together.
“Yo, sweetheart,” came that gravelly drawl that rolled like smoke and trouble.
Toji.
He didn’t look like much at first glance — black sweats, gray hoodie, scar catching the bar light just right. Hair messy, jaw shadowed, the kind of man who looked like he hadn’t shaved ‘cause he didn’t have to.
You, though? Your whole demeanor shifted.
“’Bout time you showed up,” you said, voice lighter, a grin breaking across your face like the jukebox switched songs just for you.
Gojo glanced sideways, the glass pausing at his lips. Oh, so she smiles for him.
Toji slid into a stool at the far end of the bar, all relaxed confidence, slouching like he owned the place.
“Traffic was hell. You still serving my usual, doll?”
“Long as you pay cash this time,” you teased, grabbing a bottle off the top shelf.
He chuckled. “You wound me.”
Gojo swirled his drink, listening to the exchange with a blank look that was one curse word away from cracking.
He watched you laugh — really laugh — the sound rich and unguarded. He hadn’t realized how quiet the room felt until you filled it.
When you leaned in to slide Toji his drink, Gojo noticed the glint of your septum ring again, the tattoo peeking as your top shifted. The sight burned a little more this time, though he’d never admit it.
Toji glanced down the bar finally, eyes locking with Gojo’s for just a second. Recognition flickered.
Then that lazy grin curved his lips. “Didn’t know this dump took in tourists.”
Gojo tilted his head, smirk returning like armor. “Didn’t know this dump had regulars who dressed like retired assassins.”
You looked between them, brow raised. “Oh no,” you muttered. “Not another pissing contest. I just mopped.”
Toji barked out a laugh. Gojo grinned wider, but something about it didn’t reach his eyes.
He wasn’t used to being the one ignored twice in one night.
And for reasons he didn’t understand yet, he hated how much that bothered him.
Toji’s grin spread lazy and wide, like a man who’d never rushed a day in his life.
He turned on his stool, elbows resting on the counter, eyes flicking to the man in the sunglasses.
“So, what brings you here, sunshine?” he asked, nodding toward Gojo’s side of the bar. “Don’t look like you from around here.”
Gojo gave a small, cool smile. “Just passing through.”
“Mm.” Toji hummed, low and teasing. “One of those types. Passing through… lingerin’ long enough to bother my bartender.”
You snorted, sliding a fresh napkin under Toji’s glass. “Don’t call me your anything.”
“Fine, fine,” he said with a smirk, hand raising in mock surrender. “Our bartender then. She keeps the peace, don’t she?”
Gojo’s jaw flexed. “You two rehearsed this act?”
Toji chuckled, leaning closer to you, that cologne of leather and heat sliding across the air. “You believe this guy? Acts like he’s in a movie.”
You laughed — real and soft this time, head tilting back, hand brushing Toji’s arm as you reached for another bottle. The touch was quick, but it landed heavy in Gojo’s chest.
The sorcerer’s smirk faltered.
You were so close to Toji now, leaning over the bar to refill his drink. His voice dropped low enough that Gojo had to strain to catch it. “Appreciate you, sweetheart. Been a long day.”
“Always is,” you said, smiling without missing a beat.
The sound of your laugh mixed with the low blues on the jukebox, filling the air like something warm and private.
Gojo’s fingers tightened around his glass.
He tossed back the rest of his whiskey, throat burning. The ice clinked against the empty glass, sharp and final.
Then he stood.
Toji barely looked up, but the corner of his mouth curved like he’d been waiting for that move.
“You leavin’ already?” he drawled. “Bar just got interesting.”
Gojo slid a bill across the counter, movements precise. “Keep the change.”
You took it with a polite nod, already turning back toward Toji.
Didn’t even say goodbye.
Gojo felt that more than he should have.
As he pushed through the bar door, the bell above it chimed soft, the sound swallowed by your laugh behind him.
Outside, the night air bit cold against his skin, but not enough to cool what simmered beneath it — pride singed, interest caught, ego bruised.
Satoru Gojo didn’t get ignored.
But tonight… he had been.
And damn if that didn’t light something dangerous in him.
END OF SHIFT [2 AM]
The jukebox had gone silent an hour ago.
Only the low buzz of the neon sign outside kept the place alive, painting the counter in pink and blue.
You stacked glasses in lazy rhythm, the scent of whiskey and pine cleaner hanging thick in the air. The night had settled into that strange hush — too quiet for comfort, too heavy for peace.
Toji had already left, grinning as he pocketed his card-game winnings and promised to “drop by when the stakes get higher.” You rolled your eyes, pretending you didn’t enjoy the banter.
Now it was just you, the bar, and that faint feeling that something was watching.
It wasn’t new. You’d felt it before — the way the air pressed in when the lights dimmed, that instinctive shiver under your skin. You told yourself it was exhaustion, nerves, maybe too many late nights and horror podcasts.
But tonight, it felt different.
Closer.
You moved to wipe the far end of the counter when the mirror above the liquor shelf rippled. Not like a reflection — like the glass itself breathed. The bottles rattled softly.
Your hand froze.
“...What the hell?” you whispered.
Behind you, the floorboards creaked.
The smell hit first — sour, metallic, the faint trace of something rotting under the sweet sting of spilled alcohol. Then a sound: low, guttural, like a growl dragged through wet gravel.
You turned, slow.
The thing crouched near the doorway — half-shadow, half-shape. Its grin stretched too wide, eyes like coals sunk in bruised flesh. The curse spirit licked its lips, the motion wet and loud in the stillness.
“Another one,” it hissed, voice trembling through the room. “Smells better than the rest.”
Your pulse jumped. “Yeah, no,” you muttered, backing toward the bar’s side exit. “Not tonight, Satan.”
The creature slinked closer, its limbs bending wrong, its head tilting at an angle that made your stomach turn.
Outside, the gravel crunched under a steady step.
A shadow leaned against a white rental car, the faint jingle of keys breaking the quiet. The man pushed off the door, his uniform catching the moonlight — navy jacket, the Tokyo crest glinting faintly.
Gojo’s blindfold rested around his neck now, white hair ruffled by the night wind. His hands slid into his pockets as he watched the cursed aura spill from the bar’s cracks like smoke.
“Shuten-dōji,” he murmured. “You really couldn’t resist the nightlife, huh?”
Inside, you grabbed the closest thing to a weapon — a metal bar spoon. Not exactly a katana, but it made you feel less helpless.
The curse laughed, voice shaking the air. “She can feel me,” it purred. “But can’t see me.”
Before it lunged, a flash of blue light cut through the bar door — silent, clean, and beautiful. The creature froze mid-snarl, then crumpled like paper, dissolving into ash that shimmered before vanishing completely.
You blinked, heart pounding, the metallic smell fading as fast as it came.
When you turned, the door was cracked open, soft breeze brushing against your face.
A figure stood there — tall, silver hair tousled, uniform neat in that effortless kind of way.
“Bar’s closed,” you said automatically, voice shaking just a little.
He smiled, stepping inside. “Yeah, I noticed. Thought I’d help with last call.”
You frowned. “Who are you?”
“Just someone who’s been watching over the place.” His tone softened. “You’re lucky. That curse’s been hanging around here for weeks.”
“Curse?” you repeated, disbelief sharp in your voice. “Like a… what, ghost?”
He chuckled — low, warm, and maddeningly calm. “Something like that. Bad energy with teeth.”
You blinked, looking past him at the empty doorway. “And you just—what? Magically made it disappear?”
“Pretty much.” He smiled wider, eyes glinting. “Perks of the job.”
You crossed your arms. “And what job is that, exactly?”
He tilted his head, voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “The kind where I save beautiful bartenders who don’t believe in me.”
You stared at him, torn between laughing and swinging the spoon again.
“...You that same fool from earlier?”
“The very one,” he said, grin spreading, a little softer now. “Told you I was just passing through.”
“Mm-hm.” You glanced at the faint scorch mark on the floor where the curse had vanished, then back at him. “You planning to pass through again tomorrow?”
Gojo’s smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat. “Depends,” he said quietly. “You planning to smile for me this time?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small curl of your lips. “We’ll see. Long as you don’t bring any more monsters with you.”
“Promise,” he said, stepping back into the night, the door closing behind him with a soft chime.
The bar fell quiet again.
But this time, the air didn’t feel heavy — it felt watched, and maybe, just a little protected.
The air outside still crackled, faint traces of cursed energy fading into the night. The gravel lot was quiet now, save for the hum of crickets and the tired flicker of the bar’s neon sign sputtering its last glow.
You stood near the doorway, keys clutched in one hand, the other still wrapped tight around that bent metal spoon. Your pulse hadn’t quite caught up to calm yet, though you masked it with a long, steady breath.
“—You sure it’s gone?” you asked, not turning to face him.
Gojo glanced around, the night breeze tugging at his hair. “Yeah. That one won’t be bothering anyone again.”
You exhaled through your nose, slow. “That one.”
He caught the tone — the suspicion, the emphasis. His grin softened, something serious flickering behind it.
“There’s more,” he admitted. “Three or four, maybe. Shuten Dōji types don’t usually work solo.”
“Figures,” you muttered. “Every creep got a crew.”
He laughed quietly at that, then gestured toward the parking lot. “You shouldn’t walk home alone tonight.”
You turned finally, giving him a look. “You offering a ride, or another lecture?”
Gojo pressed his hand to his chest. “A ride, obviously. My lectures come with a two-drink minimum.”
You stared for a beat, weighing him — the easy smile, the uniform that finally made sense, the faint blue light still fading off his hands. You didn’t like depending on anyone, but tonight felt different.
“…Fine. But no talking.”
He bit back a grin. “I’ll try my best.”
APARTMENT DROP OFF
The ride was quiet.
Gojo’s rental hummed low as the headlights cut through the dark backroads. You leaned your head against the window, the reflection of your short curls catching faint light every now and then.
“Nice place,” he said finally, when you pointed out the turn toward your apartment complex.
“It’s small,” you said simply.
“Small’s fine,” he replied. “Means there’s less to destroy if something goes wrong.”
You shot him a side-eye. “You really know how to comfort a woman.”
He chuckled under his breath. “You’re hard to read, you know that?”
“Good,” you said, unbuckling as the car rolled to a stop. “Keeps men like you from getting ideas.”
Gojo blinked. “Men like—? You mean heroes who save you from literal monsters?”
You opened the door, stepping out. “I said thank you, didn’t I?”
He leaned across the console, eyes glinting faintly. “Once. Barely.”
“Then it counts.”
You shut the door before he could answer. He watched you walk up the steps, the sheer black top catching the streetlight, your jeans hugging the curve of your hips like gravity itself was showing off.
Gojo exhaled slow, dragging a hand down his face.
“Not fair,” he muttered.
You paused at the door, sensing he was still watching. “You can go now,” you called over your shoulder.
He smirked, leaning out the window. “Can’t. Big bad curse gang, remember? Gotta make sure my favorite bartender doesn’t get snatched.”
You rolled your eyes, turning the key. “You got a funny way of flirting, city boy.”
“Flirting?” he repeated, half grin, half challenge. “Oh, I haven’t even started yet.”
“Don’t,” you warned, pointing at him with your keys.
“Too late,” he said, that lazy smile threatening to drop into something else. Something real.
The tension hung there — charged, stubborn, and warm enough to make the air shift between you.
Gojo cleared his throat, shifting in his stance before he said something he’d regret. “Right. Well. Uh. Lock your doors. Stay inside. Don’t… get eaten or anything.”
You smirked. “Goodnight, Satoru.”
And with that, you disappeared inside, the deadbolt clicking home.
Heading back to the car with thoughts swarming in his head.
Gojo sat there for another minute, head tipped back against the seat, a hand pressed to the back of his neck like he could cool himself down.
He was used to saving people. Used to being admired.
He wasn’t used to being ignored after.
A slow grin crept back across his face as he started the car. “She really told me to go home.”
But he didn’t.
Because he could still feel it — faint, crawling energy not too far away.
And something told him tonight wasn’t over yet.
NEXT NIGHT
The next night came fast.
By sunset, the sleepy little town had woken up for once. Laughter spilled out onto the sidewalks; cars lined both sides of the street; and The Waterhole—that tired bar that barely saw more than a handful of drunks on weekdays—was now packed.
Apparently, a college lacrosse team had decided to make your town their pit stop before heading to the tournament in the next city. Coaches, players, cheerleaders, and a few rowdy alumni had turned your quiet Friday shift into chaos with cleats, noise, and tipsy confidence.
You’d tied your finger waves up in a silk scarf to keep ‘em in place, sliding behind the bar in black biker shorts and an off-the-shoulder shirt that hung just enough to tease the tattoo curving along your collarbone. Your gold septum glinted under the neon, matching the shimmer of sweat from all the movement.
You moved like muscle memory — taking orders, cracking jokes, checking IDs, spinning bottles one-handed just to keep your rhythm.
It was busy, but it felt good.
Alive.
You barely noticed when the door creaked open behind you.
But he noticed you immediately.
Gojo leaned against the doorframe, head tilted slightly as he took it all in. His usual spotless uniform was gone tonight.
He looked… comfortable. Too comfortable, in that light gray sweat set — a simple crew-neck sweatshirt and matching joggers that fit a little too perfectly, soft fabric stretching just enough across his shoulders when he moved. Casual, but calculated. Of course, the circle shades stayed on; man couldn’t risk looking mortal for more than five minutes.
He looked like trouble on vacation.
A few college girls near the jukebox turned their heads, whispering behind their drinks. Gojo offered them his usual easy smile, but his gaze didn’t linger.
It found you instantly.
You hadn’t seen him yet, too caught up in mixing a round of tequila sunrises. When you finally looked up — catching sight of that tall frame strolling through your bar like he owned it — your eyebrows twitched, but that was it. No gasp, no grin.
You just said, “Oh. You again.”
Gojo smirked. “You sound thrilled.”
“Didn’t expect tourists to stick around.”
“Didn’t expect to find a curse nest either.” He slid into his same seat from last night. “Figured I’d keep an eye on things.”
You poured the next drink, voice dry. “Sure. On the town. Not me.”
“Can’t it be both?” he teased, pulling the shades down just enough for you to catch that flash of blue.
You stared for a heartbeat, unimpressed. “What’ll it be?”
“Surprise me.”
You rolled your eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement this time. You didn’t want it there — it just slipped through. “That’s dangerous talk in a small-town bar.”
“I live dangerously.”
“Clearly,” you muttered, turning away.
He watched you work.
Watched the way your hips swayed with each step, how your shirt kept slipping from one shoulder, revealing a smooth line of skin and that tattoo he still hadn’t figured out the words to. You moved with ease in the noise and chaos, weaving through hands waving for drinks and the clatter of bottles.
And maybe he was imagining it — but every now and then, when you leaned across the counter, your perfume cut through the beer and sweat and fried food.
Warm. Sweet.
Distracting as hell.
Gojo caught himself adjusting his collar, tugging the hoodie’s zipper up like that would somehow keep him from staring.
When you returned with his drink — whiskey again, this time with a wedge of lime — you slid it across without ceremony. “Here. On the house. Since you saved me from… whatever that thing was.”
“Wow,” he said, hand brushing the glass. “That almost sounds like gratitude.”
“Don’t push it.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You really don’t like saying thank you, huh?”
“I don’t like repeating myself.”
He leaned forward a bit, grin lazy. “Good thing I like persistence.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Good thing I have pepper spray.”
Gojo’s laugh broke out loud enough to make a few heads turn. You ignored it, reaching for another order slip.
Half an hour passed, the room buzzing with conversation and bass-heavy music. Gojo sat quietly now, observing. His fingers tapped against the rim of his glass while his cursed energy stayed tuned to the edges of the building — the faint pulse of something wrong brushing in and out of range.
He could sense them — the others. The rest of the Shuten Dōji brood. Hiding. Waiting.
But for now, they were still.
“Hey, city boy.”
Your voice pulled him back. You were standing at his end of the counter again, holding a towel and an empty glass. “You plan to nurse that one drink all night, or you actually paying rent for that stool?”
He grinned. “You could sit on my lap if you want me to move.”
You blinked once. “Try that line again and I’ll pour that whiskey in your lap instead.”
The smile faltered — then curved into something smaller, quieter. “Fair enough.”
You turned to walk away, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You really not even a little curious?”
“About what?”
“About me.”
You glanced over your shoulder, smirk tugging at your lip. “I got two midterms, a leaking sink, and rent due Monday. A man with sunglasses at night ain’t even making the top five.”
He let out a soft laugh, one hand sliding over his jaw as he leaned back, eyes trailing you again. The truth was — he didn’t know if it was admiration or irritation fueling the warmth creeping up his neck.
He just knew it was new.
And when you walked past him again, that same faint brush of perfume hitting his senses, his pulse betrayed him.
Gojo shifted, clearing his throat and readjusting in his seat before taking another slow sip.
Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.
The noise in the bar had risen to a low, chaotic roar. Someone had fed a dollar into the jukebox again—old-school hip-hop thumping through tired speakers while laughter rolled off the lacrosse team packed near the dartboard.
Gojo sat where he always did, lazy grin in place, one hand draped over his drink. He looked … comfortable. Too comfortable in that soft gray crew-neck and matching joggers that made his broad frame look even more effortless. The fabric caught the neon in faint silver tones, and his circle shades gleamed under the light, hiding whatever storm brewed behind them.
He was supposed to be watching for cursed energy.
Instead, he was watching you.
You moved with a rhythm that made chaos look choreographed—towel over your shoulder, lips pursed just enough to show you were focused. Your shirt kept slipping off one shoulder, the tattoo beneath flashing with every reach. He told himself not to stare. Failed instantly.
Then came the giggling.
A cluster of cheerleaders near the pool table whispered behind their drinks. One of them—a blonde in a cropped letterman jacket—finally broke away, all glitter gloss and confidence.
She brushed against his arm with an oops smile.
“Oh! Sorry.”
Gojo’s mouth curved. “You’re fine.”
“You sure?” she asked, stepping closer—close enough that her hip should have nudged his knee. Instead, she bumped into something that wasn’t there and blinked, confused, like the air had turned thick.
He hid a smirk behind his glass. “Crowded night.”
She tried again, leaning in so her palm could rest on his forearm. Her hand hovered a breath away, skin prickling like static. The distance looked microscopic, but it felt like pressing against a warm cushion of air.
Her friends snorted behind her. One stage-whispered, “Girl, he’s fine, get his number!”
You didn’t comment. But your hand tightened around the bottle you were holding.
Gojo noticed.
Your easy smile flattened, replaced with that professional calm you wore like armor. You poured, served, moved—sharp, controlled, unbothered. Except your jaw kept ticking.
The girl leaned farther, practically in his lap. Her fingers hovered over his thigh and stopped—caught on that invisible edge, nails clicking softly against nothing. She laughed it off, a little breathless. “Uh—must be, like… static?”
“Mmh.” Gojo tipped his head, amused. “I’m a little… hard to get.”
“Can I get a shot?” she pivoted, cheeks pink but undeterred.
You turned, eyes sweeping from her hovering hand to him. Gojo met your gaze for half a second. The air between you hummed—recognition, annoyance, something else—then you looked away, fast.
He exhaled a quiet laugh. So she does care.
The cheerleader giggled, oblivious. “You should have one with me. Loosen up a little.”
He opened his mouth to deflect, but you were already there—towel tossed aside, bottle in hand, lining up three shot glasses.
“I’ll make it fun for you,” you said, voice calm but sharp at the edges.
“If she can outdrink me,” you continued, pouring steady, “you both drink free.”
A ripple of laughter rolled through the bar. The lacrosse boys slammed fists on tables—“Ayyy! Bar challenge!”
Gojo leaned back, folding his arms, grin widening as the girl tried one last time to brush his sleeve in victory and hit the same invisible cushion. The tiniest frown tugged her brow. You clocked it, eyes narrowing just a shade.
The cheerleader lifted her chin anyway. “You’re on.”
You tapped glasses. “Ladies first.”
She tossed the shot, coughing immediately. You downed yours smooth, no blink, no flinch.
Cheers erupted. Someone shouted, “Round two!”
You poured again, deliberate, eyes locked on hers. Gojo’s gaze bounced between you both, but lingered longer on you—the slow drag of your throat as you swallowed, the curve of your smile when the crowd screamed your name. The girl tried to steady herself by catching his shoulder; her palm hovered, defeated by that whisper-thin distance again. She spilled half her second pour.
You set your glass down with surgical precision. “Guess that’s game, sweetheart.”
Her friends swooped in, laughing her back toward the tables, one muttering, “Why he feel… force-fieldy?”
Gojo clapped once, slow. “You know, that was borderline cruel.”
You shrugged, wiping the counter. “Don’t flirt with drunk college girls in my bar and I won’t have to remind ’em who runs it.”
He leaned in, elbows on the wood, voice low. “You jealous, sweetheart?”
You looked him dead in the eye. “If I wanted your attention, I wouldn’t have to compete for it.”
The grin faltered. Then returned, slower, softer. “Noted,” he murmured.
You turned away, but the warmth in your chest wasn’t from tequila.
The crowd picked back up, music filling the space again, but between you and him the air stayed taut—thick with the kind of heat that doesn’t break, only simmers.
Gojo lifted his glass, smirk curling back into place.
You kept working, pretending not to see.
But you both knew better.
Fifteen minutes and two whiskies later, Gojo was laughing again — quietly this time, because watching you work had become his new favorite show.
Every time a cheerleader tried to brave the battlefield, she barely made it two steps toward him before you slid out from behind the bar like a storm in heels. Two shot glasses. Same bottle. Same calm voice.
“House challenge,” you’d say. “If you can out-drink me, he’s all yours.”
At first, they thought it was a joke.
By the third round, they knew better.
Gojo watched the pattern unfold like a drinking-game exorcism.
Round one: a brunette with braids who thought she could hang because she “grew up in Georgia.” She made it halfway through the second pour before her eyes glazed over.
Round two: the coach’s assistant — claimed she’d been in a sorority and could “hold her liquor.” She was humming “Sweet Caroline” and calling you “sis” by the end.
Round three: two teammates tag-teamed the challenge together. You didn’t even blink. They lost at once, collapsing into giggles as you set the glasses aside, cool as ice.
Gojo nearly choked on his drink from laughter. “You realize you’re personally responsible for half this bar passing out?”
You didn’t even glance his way. “I’m multitasking. Keeping the peace and your ego intact.”
He grinned, swirling the amber in his glass. “Could’ve fooled me. Looks like you’re protecting your territory.”
“Territory?” you repeated, leaning on the bar. “Boy, please. You’re just expensive to replace if somebody pukes on you.”
That earned a real laugh — low, unguarded. He raised his glass in mock salute. “I’ll drink to that.”
You refilled it before he could ask, pouring smooth and even. “On the house,” you said.
“That’s number two,” he noted. “You always this generous with your… least favorite customers?”
“Only the ones I feel sorry for.”
Gojo chuckled into his whiskey, savoring the burn. Then he squinted at the lineup of defeated challengers, most of them slumped happily at tables or begging water from their teammates. “What the hell are you giving them? Tequila doesn’t hit that hard.”
You tilted the half-empty bottle in your hand, label worn off and glass thick from age. “Ain’t tequila.”
He leaned forward, curious. “Then what is it?”
You tapped the rim with your finger, eyes glinting. “Authentic moonshine. Straight from my uncle’s still back in North Carolina. One shot, you feel brave. Two, you start seeing ancestors.”
Gojo stared at you, then burst out laughing so hard a few people turned to look. “You’ve been taking these girls out with moonshine?!”
“Cheaper than pest control.”
He wiped a tear from beneath his shades, voice shaking with amusement. “You’re evil.”
You shrugged, sliding the bottle back under the bar. “Efficient.”
Gojo sipped his drink again, the smirk never leaving. “I don’t know what’s stronger — that stuff or you.”
You met his gaze over the rim of your glass. “You’re welcome to find out, sugar.”
For a split second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the bar faded into background hum — the jukebox, the laughter, the clatter of darts — all swallowed by that thin string of tension stretching tight between you.
Gojo set his glass down slowly, smile softening into something dangerous. “Careful, bartender. That almost sounded like an invitation.”
You gave him a look. “Almost.”
He laughed again, shaking his head, surrendering with both palms raised. “Alright, alright. You win.”
You smirked. “I usually do.”
The last of the lacrosse crowd stumbled out with cheers and off-key singing, the neon buzz filling in for their laughter. The air smelled like spilled liquor and lime wedges, sticky sweetness clinging to the floorboards.
You leaned against the bar, exhaling slow. The adrenaline was gone now, replaced by the loose warmth of the shots you’d taken once Gojo left — not drunk, just unbothered. The kind of tipsy that softened the edges of a long shift.
He hadn’t wanted to go. You’d seen it in his posture, the way he lingered at the door, looking over his shoulder one last time like there was something unsaid sitting heavy on his tongue.
“Don’t burn the place down,” he’d teased, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Only if you stop acting like my security detail,” you’d shot back.
He’d smiled — that small, knowing one this time — before disappearing into the night.
You’d told yourself you didn’t care.
But the silence that followed felt… strange. Too still.
Now the jukebox was off, the lights dimmed, and the faint clink of glass was the only thing keeping the quiet company. You hummed to yourself as you wiped down the counter, another lazy sip of moonshine sliding down your throat. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
Then the lights flickered.
You frowned, glancing at the single hanging bulb near the bar’s entrance. “Not tonight, please,” you muttered, tapping the switch.
It flickered again — once, twice — before a low vibration rolled through the room, rattling the bottles on the shelf.
The smell came next. Sour, metallic. The same stench from two nights ago.
Your pulse jumped.
“...No,” you whispered. “Not again.”
The air thickened, dark shapes seeping from the cracks in the floorboards like spilled ink. Five of them this time — smaller, crooked things with twisted limbs and gnashing teeth. Behind them, something bigger dragged itself forward, its form barely fitting beneath the low ceiling.
“Shuten Dōji…” you breathed, the name echoing like it wasn’t yours to say.
The leader grinned — a grotesque spread of fangs under skin that rippled like melted wax. Horns curved from its skull, pulsing faintly with cursed energy.
The smaller ones hissed, circling.
“You smell different tonight,” the leader crooned, voice slithering through the air. “Warm. Soft. Sweet.”
You grabbed the nearest thing you could — the bottle of moonshine, heavy and half-full. Your hands trembled, but your voice didn’t. “Back up,” you warned. “You don’t want this smoke.”
The thing laughed — deep, rumbling, like thunder in a coffin.
“Pretty human thinks she can scare us with glass and spirits?”
You uncorked the bottle with your thumb, flicking the liquid onto the counter and lighting a match. “You’d be surprised.”
The flame caught. Fast. A line of fire roared across the wood, pushing the smaller curses back. But the leader only smiled, stepping through the heat like it was mist.
You stumbled, heart slamming in your chest. The alcohol haze was wearing thin now, replaced by cold fear.
Then, from outside, a sharp crack split the air — like the night itself had broken.
The door burst open, the wind slamming through hard enough to snuff the fire in one breath.
And there he was.
Gojo Satoru, circle shades gone, eyes glowing blue like the inside of lightning. His gray sweatshirt was torn at the collar, the Tokyo crest barely visible underneath. He looked taller somehow, the kind of tall that made the room shrink.
“Told you not to burn the place down,” he said softly, stepping inside.
The leader turned, hissing. “Sorcerer.”
Gojo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Winner gets to keep their head.”
The curses lunged.
Gojo’s hand lifted once — precise, elegant — and space itself bent. The smaller curses disintegrated before they reached him, ash scattering like dust through the blue glow.
The leader roared, swinging an arm the size of a tree trunk. Gojo sidestepped casually, boots scraping against wood, the motion so fluid it looked rehearsed.
“Ah,” he sighed, cracking his neck. “You’re the noisy one.”
The creature swung again — and Gojo vanished.
You blinked, the room flashing with blue light as the air warped. When your eyes caught up, Gojo was behind the curse, fingers pressed lightly to its spine.
“Cursed Technique: Reversal Red.”
The world exploded.
The bar shuddered as the blast tore through the back wall, leaving a perfect circle of nothing where the Shuten Dōji had stood. Dust and splinters rained from the ceiling.
When the silence returned, Gojo stood in the haze, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other adjusting his sleeve like he’d just finished stretching.
You stared, breath shallow, moonshine bottle still clutched like a weapon.
He turned, grin lazy again. “Told you I’d keep an eye on things.”
You swallowed hard, pulse still sprinting. “You blew up my wall.”
He glanced at the gaping hole behind him. “Minor renovation. You’re welcome.”
You blinked, shaking your head with a disbelieving laugh. “You’re insane.”
He shrugged. “You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”
You leaned against the counter, the last remnants of adrenaline finally catching up with you. “Next time you come here,” you muttered, “you’re paying for the repairs.”
Gojo’s grin widened. “Guess I’ll have to come back, then.”
And for once, you didn’t roll your eyes. You just sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Because deep down, you knew — he wasn’t leaving this town anytime soon.
Smoke still hung low in the ruins of the bar, glass crunching beneath your boots. The wall was half gone, a perfect circle of night where the street should be.
Gojo brushed dust off his sleeves like it was lint. “I’ll talk to the owner,” he said, perfectly calm. “Tell him it was an… unforeseen pest problem.”
You stared at the hole, then at him. “You mean you are the pest problem.”
He grinned. “True. But I’m a well-funded one.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
He tilted his head, that lazy smile flickering. “You want to stand here arguing, or you want a ride before more of those things decide they’re thirsty?”
The look he gave you wasn’t a question. His hand settled lightly at the small of your back, steering you through the broken door. You wanted to snap at him—but the adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet, and your knees weren’t entirely convinced you were fine.
“Bossy,” you muttered, letting him guide you toward the car.
“Efficient,” he corrected, opening the passenger door.
The engine hummed, warm against the cool night. You sank into the seat, arms crossed, watching the streetlights slide past as he drove.
“I can’t believe you blew up my job.”
He chuckled. “Could’ve been worse. You could’ve been on the menu.”
“That’s comforting.”
“You’re welcome.”
The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself.
When he pulled up in front of your apartment, you unbuckled and pushed the door open, pausing halfway out. “You coming in?”
His brows lifted behind the shades. “That an invitation or a test?”
You smirked. “After tonight, seeing actual demons isn’t on my to-do list. Figured human company might be safer.”
Gojo shut off the car, following you up the steps. “That’s debatable.”
Inside, you tossed your keys on the counter and headed for the kitchen. He lingered by the doorway, hands in pockets, looking like he didn’t know whether to sit or keep pacing.
“You always this calm after almost dying?” he asked.
You poured two fingers of something brown into a glass. “You always this proud after destroying property?”
He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did save your life.”
“Uh-huh. You also owe me a week’s paycheck and about twelve bottles.”
He took the glass when you offered it, fingers brushing yours just long enough to make you aware of how close he was standing. “You could say thank you properly, you know,” he said, tone light but eyes sharp.
“I said it last night.”
“I meant the kind with enthusiasm,” he teased. “The kind that involves worship.”
You snorted, leaning back against the counter. “You really think anyone’s gonna worship you after that mess?”
He sipped, the smile curling slow. “Maybe not anyone. Maybe just you.”
You rolled your eyes, but the air shifted; too quiet, too warm. He stepped closer, the easy grin softening into something else.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you warned.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re planning something stupid.”
He set the glass down beside you, close enough that his sleeve brushed your arm. “I’m not beneath begging,” he murmured, voice low and amused, “if it’s worth it.”
You met his gaze, unblinking. “Then maybe you better think about what you’re begging for.”
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room felt smaller, the distance between breath and touch measured in heartbeats.
Gojo smiled then—soft, surrendering, the kind that said he already knew you’d won without having to lift a finger.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Your apartment settled around you like a held breath. The hum of the fridge, the soft tick of cooling pipes — ordinary sounds felt louder after the chaos. You set your glass down on the counter, watching the condensation bloom into a ring.
Gojo didn’t sit. He hovered a step away, all long lines and restless hands, like a storm that hadn’t decided where to land. The gray crew-neck fit soft over his shoulders, dust still clinging to the sleeve. He’d kept the circle shades on inside, because of course he had.
“You always wear those at night?” you asked, chin tipping toward the glasses.
He smirked, default layer snapping into place. “They look cool.”
“They look like you’re hiding,” you said, easy. Not mean — just true.
Something in his jaw clicked. He started to joke, then didn’t.
You reached across the small distance and hooked a finger under the bridge of his shades.
Infinity hummed — that faint, warm-cushion feeling you’d noticed in the bar — and then disappeared so fast you almost stumbled forward with it. He’d let it fall without thinking. Your finger touched plastic. Then skin.
He didn’t move.
You slid the glasses off slowly, and the room shifted. His face sharpened without the glossy shield; he seemed younger and older all at once. And those eyes — blue like struck steel, like lightning flash caught in water — watched you take him in with a stillness that felt… unfamiliar on him.
“Hmm,” you murmured, casual as a doctor at a checkup. “There you are.”
He tried to recover with a grin, but it was softer now, not all bravado. “Be gentle,” he said, voice light but edged with a laugh that didn’t fully land. “Kinda new to being inspected.”
“You’re dramatic,” you said, stepping closer anyway. “Hold still.”
You braced one palm lightly on his chest to steady yourself. He went rigid — not from Infinity, from something human. The rise of his breath pressed against your hand once, twice. His eyes flicked to your mouth, back to your eyes, like he’d forgotten his script.
“Contacts?” you asked.
“Nope.”
“Natural?” You squinted like you didn’t believe him.
He huffed a laugh. “Natural as I get.”
You tilted his chin with two fingers, turning his face toward the kitchen light. He let you. That, more than anything, seemed to surprise him — that he didn’t stop you, didn’t dodge or turn it into a joke. The blue glowed brighter when he looked up; tiny constellations of power lived in there, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
“You’re—” you paused, searching for the word that wasn’t corny. “—bright.”
“That a compliment?” he asked, but there wasn’t the usual tease in it. Just a careful curiosity.
“It’s an observation,” you said. “And maybe a threat. People who shine like that attract trouble.”
His throat bobbed. “Tell me about it.”
“Mm.” Your thumb brushed just under his eye, chasing a smudge of soot you hadn’t noticed until now. The touch was nothing — a clean-up swipe — but his breath hitched like you’d pulled a wire inside him. You didn’t miss it. You didn’t call it out either.
“You get this way every time someone looks at you for real?” you asked lightly.
He blinked. “What way?”
“A little… human,” you said, half-smile tugging. “Like you’re not used to being seen. Just chased.”
He exhaled, a low laugh that admitted more than words. “You got a mean read on people.”
“I pour drinks for a living. I listen.”
“And what do you hear now?”
“That you’re better when you shut up,” you said, but your voice had gone softer with it.
Silence knitted the space between you. Not awkward — tuned. Like the room had decided to turn the volume down on everything that wasn’t this moment.
He swallowed, eyes dropping to where your hand still rested on his chest. “Earlier I said I’m not beneath begging.”
“Mhm. I remember.” You didn’t move your hand.
His mouth curved, held there. “Hate how true it sounded when I said it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d make me mean it,” he said simply, almost helpless. “And I… think I’d like that too much.”
The honesty landed like heat under your ribs. You didn’t flinch from it; you let it sit.
“Look at me,” you said.
He was already looking, but somehow he listened anyway. You lifted his chin again, slow, making him meet the full of your gaze. No jokes. No shades. No shield.
“That’s better,” you murmured. “Now I know who I’m talking to.”
He breathed out, a shiver of a laugh. “And who’s that?”
“The man who acts untouchable but drops his little force field without thinking when I reach for him,” you said. “The one who wants to be special and handled.”
He closed his eyes for a second, like the words hit somewhere deep and embarrassing. When he opened them, the blue looked warmer.
“You’re dangerous,” he said, quiet.
“You blew a hole in my job,” you deadpanned. “You don’t get to call me dangerous.”
He smiled, sheepish in a way that looked brand new on him. “I’ll fix it.”
“You will,” you agreed.
Your fingers slid from his chin to the curve of his jaw, a featherlight skim that could’ve been accidental if not for the way you didn’t hurry. He leaned into it, just enough for you to feel the choice.
“Say thank you,” you said.
“For what?”
“For coming when I needed you,” you said, and watched surprise flash across his face again. “For not making me say I was scared.”
His voice dropped. “Thank you.”
You let the words hang, satisfied. Then you placed his glasses on the counter beside his hand, tapping the frame once.
“Keep those off,” you said. “I like your eyes.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered before he could stop himself, and immediately looked like he wanted to bite the word back. You arched a brow. He laughed, tipped forward, forehead almost against yours — not touching, hovering in that half-inch where Infinity used to be.
“Careful,” you murmured. “You sound like you mean it.”
“I do,” he admitted.
You didn’t move away.
“Good,” you said. “Then listen.”
And the room went quieter still, like even the fridge knew to mind its business while you told him exactly how this was going to go.
NSFW------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------NSFW
The city lights bled through your apartment blinds, painting stripes across the worn linoleum. You traced the condensation ring left by your glass, the silence thick enough to taste.
Gojo's fingers twitched at his sides, restless birds trapped in his sleeves.
He watched you—really watched—as you leaned back against the counter, the faint kitchen light catching the curve of your neck.
His hand lifted, tentative, hovering near your hip before curling into a loose fist. He dropped it like burned, gaze snapping to your face as if caught stealing.
You didn't flinch, just held his stare—steady, patient—letting the silence stretch taut between you. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"Can I..." He swallowed, the words scraping raw. His thumb brushed air where your waist dipped. "Touch you?"
You tilted your head, considering. "Depends." Your voice stayed low, deliberate. "If you behave.”
Gojo's breath hitched, a ragged sound in the quiet.
He leaned in slowly, deliberately, closing the scant inches between you. His hand found your waist, fingers pressing firm against the fabric of your shirt, anchoring you both. His lips met yours—not tentative, but firm and claiming, yet achingly slow.
Heat bloomed where skin touched skin, the kiss deepening with a quiet intensity that stole the air from your lungs. You felt the tremor in his fingers, the slight hesitation beneath the certainty, as if he was mapping unfamiliar territory with each deliberate press.
His hands slid around your waist, fingers spreading wide against the curve of your hips as he pulled you flush against him. The heat of his palms seeped through your clothes, kneading softly into the soft swell of your lower back.
You arched into the touch, a low hum vibrating in your throat as his thumbs traced deliberate circles just above the waistband of your jeans. The kiss deepened, slower now—less claiming, more discovering—as his tongue brushed yours with deliberate, unhurried sweeps. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging lightly to bring him closer still until not even air existed between you. His breath hitched when your teeth grazed his lower lip.
His hands slid lower, gripping the generous curve of your hips with a reverence that made your breath catch. Thumbs pressed deep into the soft swell just above your waistband, kneading slow circles that loosened something tight in your spine.
You arched into his touch, a low hum vibrating against his mouth as he pulled you flush against him—no space, no hesitation, just the solid heat of his body against yours. His fingers traced the dip of your lower back, exploring the lush landscape with deliberate, worshipful strokes.
His hands slid from your hips to the backs of your thighs, fingers digging in with sudden, purposeful strength. In one fluid motion, he lifted you clear off the floor, the world tilting as he set you down firmly on the cool laminate countertop.
The edge bit into your thighs, grounding you in the sharp reality of the shift. Before you could catch your breath, he gripped the hem of his dusty gray crewneck and yanked it over his head in a single, impatient motion.
The fabric whispered against his skin, catching briefly on the wild silver of his hair before landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
You let out a low, appreciative whistle, eyes tracing the lean lines of his torso, the defined planes shifting under smooth skin.
"Damn," you drawled, head tilting as you took him in.
"So, does your usual type tend to be... y'know? Outspoken Black women?"
A smirk played on your lips, dark humor threading through the question like smoke. "Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?"
Gojo froze mid-reach for your hips, fingers hovering above denim. A startled laugh burst from him—sharp and genuine, cutting through the charged air.
He leaned back just enough to meet your eyes, that familiar smirk playing at his lips but softer now, less armor.
"Outspoken?" His thumb brushed your knee, rough calluses catching on fabric.
"Try terrifyingly perceptive."
His gaze dropped deliberately to your mouth, then back up. "And yeah. Definitely my type."
His hands slid up your thighs, rough palms catching on the denim of your black jean shorts. The worn fabric strained against his grip as he pulled you flush against the edge of the counter. You hooked your ankles behind his hips, locking him in place.
His mouth crashed into yours again—hotter this time, less control—as his fingers worked the top button open. The metal popped free with a sharp *snick*.
A low thrum pulsed in your belly, spreading downward like spilled ink. Your hips rolled instinctively, seeking friction against the coarse denim seam. The ache sharpened with every grind, heat pooling slick between your thighs.
You felt the answering tension in him—the rigid line pressing against his own pants, straining the fabric until it looked painful. His breath came ragged against your neck, fingers trembling where they skimmed your waistband.
Your fingers curled into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging him forward until his hips bumped the counter's edge.
"Hold still," you murmured against his mouth, your free hand sliding around to grip the firm swell of his ass through the soft fabric.
You squeezed hard—deliberate, possessive—feeling the muscle tense and yield under your palm. He groaned into the kiss, a ragged sound that vibrated against your lips as his hips jerked instinctively toward your touch.
"Easy," you breathed, pulling back just enough to watch his eyelids flutter open, pupils blown wide and hungry. "I said hold still."
The ridge of his cock pressed hard against her clothed crotch, unmistakable even through layers of denim and cotton. She rolled her hips instinctively, grinding down on that rigid line, seeking the friction that sparked low in her belly.
Gojo groaned—a raw, punched-out sound—his hands tightening convulsively on her thighs. His hips jerked up to meet her, pressing deeper, harder, until the counter's edge dug into the backs of her legs. Heat bloomed where they connected, electric and urgent. She did it again, slower this time, deliberate, watching his head fall back, throat working as he swallowed another groan.
He tried to tug her shorts down, fingers clumsy with haste, but she caught his wrist.
"No."
Her voice sliced through the humid air, sharp as broken glass. Before he could protest, she leaned forward and nipped at his lower lip—not gentle, not teasing—a sharp, claiming bite that made him freeze. His breath hitched, eyes flying open, wide and startled. She held his gaze, teeth still grazing the swollen flesh.
"Stay," she murmured against his mouth, the command velvet-wrapped steel. "Right there."
Gojo’s breath stuttered against your lips, a ragged plea trapped in his throat. His fingers trembled where they gripped the counter’s edge, knuckles white.
"Please," he whispered, the word raw and stripped bare.
His gaze locked onto yours; blue fire dimmed to desperate embers.
"Let me see you. Let me taste." The admission hung between you, humid and charged. He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a broken rasp.
"I’ll be good. Promise."
Your hand slid down the front of his sweatpants, fingers curling around the thick heat of him. He gasped—a sharp, punched-out sound—as you squeezed.
Hard.
Not teasing, not exploring, but claiming. Impressive length filled your palm, straining against your grip, thicker than you'd expected but longer still.
You squeezed again, deliberate pressure just shy of cruel, and felt him shudder violently against you. A low whimper escaped his throat, raw and utterly exposed.
"Look at you," you murmured, thumb tracing the swollen head where it peeked from your fist.
Precum slicked your skin, warm and insistent.
"All this... for me?" Your grip tightened fractionally, watching his eyes flutter shut, jaw clenching against another broken sound.
"You think this pretty cock's gonna make me come?" You leaned close, breath hot against his ear.
"Think you can fuck me so good I forget my name?"
He shuddered, hips jerking helplessly into your punishing hold.
"Y-yes," he gasped, the word ragged. "Want— want to see you—" His voice cracked. "—fall apart on me."
You released him abruptly, fingers uncurling like dropping something distasteful. He gasped, hips jerking forward into empty air, a shudder wracking his frame.
Leaning back, you crossed your arms tight beneath your breasts, gaze sweeping down his body with deliberate, icy appraisal. A slow, mocking smile curved your lips. "That?" You tipped your chin toward his flushed, straining cock.
"You think that pretty little twig is worthy of sinking into this?" Your palm slapped hard against your own denim-clad crotch, the impact echoing in the sudden stillness.
"Think it'll even find the entrance past these thighs?" You shifted your weight, letting the lush swell of your hips roll deliberately.
"Fat pussy walls eat boys like you for breakfast, Satoru. You'd get lost before the first whimper."
Gojo’s eyes snapped to yours, blue fire stripped bare—no shield, no smirk, just raw, trembling want. His breath hitched, ragged and shallow, as his knees hit the linoleum with a dull thud. Hands clamped around your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your knees, anchoring himself.
His forehead pressed against the denim seam of your shorts, hot breath ghosting over the damp fabric.
"Please," he rasped, the word scraping his throat raw.
"Let me taste you. Just—just let me worship it." His thumbs rubbed desperate circles against the inner curve of your thighs, pushing them wider apart.
"Need to drown in you."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping hard enough to make him gasp—not in pain, but anticipation.
"Earn it," you commanded, voice low and rough. With a sharp tug, you guided his face forward. Gojo didn't hesitate.
His hands slid under the waistband of your shorts, peeling them down your hips with trembling urgency. Cool air kissed your skin as the fabric pooled around your ankles, leaving you bare from the waist down.
He froze for a heartbeat, breath catching audibly. Your pussy glistened under the kitchen light—fat pink folds swollen with need, dark brown lips puffed and parted like an invitation.
A neat strip of trimmed hair led the way, glistening with slick arousal. The scent hit him first: musk and salt and pure heat. His knuckles whitened where they gripped your thighs.
Gojo’s breath hitched—a wet, ragged sound—as he stared at the glistening feast before him. Then he dove. No hesitation, no teasing.
His mouth sealed over your entire pussy, lips and tongue working in a hot, desperate rhythm that stole your breath. He licked broad, flat stripes from your tight hole all the way up to your throbbing clit, sucking the swollen bud hard between his lips before swirling his tongue around it with dizzying precision.
You arched off the counter with a choked cry, fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure—bright and electric—shot up your spine. He groaned against you, the vibration rippling through your core, making your thighs tremble around his ears.
Gojo's eyes rolled back, lids fluttering shut as thick sweetness flooded his mouth. Your nectar coated his tongue—hot, musky, impossibly rich—dripping down his chin as he sucked harder, deeper, burying his face between your thighs like a man starved. A low, guttural moan vibrated against your clit, the sound muffled by slick flesh.
His fingers, slick with your arousal, pressed urgently against your entrance—testing, circling—before two slid inside with a wet, yielding resistance.
Your walls clenched instantly, hot velvet gripping his knuckles, pulling him deeper. He curled his fingers, searching, rubbing that spongy spot inside you with rough, desperate circles.
Your hips jerked off the counter, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as pleasure detonated—white-hot and blinding. He felt it, the fierce flutter around his fingers, the gush of wetness soaking his palm, his wrist.
He drank it greedily, tongue lapping at your clenching hole, fucking you with his mouth while his fingers worked relentlessly inside.
Gojo lifted his chin, lips slick and shining, eyes blown black with need.
"Please," he rasped, voice wrecked, trembling fingers tracing your swollen lower lips. "Let me sink into this perfection."
His thumb pressed gently against your clit, circling as he watched your breath hitch.
"I'll worship every inch—every fold, every pulse." He leaned forward, pressing a reverent kiss just above your aching entrance.
"Let me claim this honor. Let me fill you.”
You gripped his hair tighter, grinding down against his mouth once more—a sharp, deliberate motion that drew a choked groan from him.
"Beg properly," you commanded, voice thick with arousal.
Gojo shuddered, pressing his forehead against your inner thigh.
"I need it," he whispered, ragged and raw. "Need to feel those fat walls milking my cock. Need to watch you take every inch—watch you *ruin* me."
His tongue darted out, tracing your slit slowly. "I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good for you."
He rose slightly, hands sliding up to grip your hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh.
"Look at me," he demanded, blue eyes blazing with desperation.
You met his gaze, your own heavy-lidded.
"I’m nothing without this pussy," he confessed, voice breaking. "Let me prove it. Let me bury myself in you until I forget my own name." His cock throbbed against your calf, thick and desperate, precum slicking your skin.
You spread your thighs wider, the movement deliberate, languid.
"Then earn it," you murmured, nodding toward the thick length straining against his sweatpants. "Show me what that pretty cock can do."
Gojo’s breath caught—sharp, hopeful—as he fumbled with his waistband, eyes never leaving yours.
He surged forward, trembling fingers guiding himself to your slick entrance. The swollen head pressed against your folds—hot, insistent—and he froze, a choked gasp escaping him.
*Why does it feel like this?*
The thought sliced through the haze—the tight resistance, the overwhelming heat, the way his hips shook like a virgin’s first thrust.
He pushed gently, and your body yielded slowly, enveloping the crown with a wet, velvet suction that made his knees buckle. A whimper tore from his throat.
*Am I…?*
The absurdity vanished as your walls clenched, pulling him deeper
He sank inch by agonizing inch, breath ragged. Every fraction of penetration was a revelation—the impossible tightness, the pulsing heat, the way your body gripped him like a vise designed to unravel his sanity.
Your pussy swallowed him whole, fat folds stretching obscenely around his girth, slickness easing the path but intensifying the sensation.
He bottomed out with a shuddering groan, hips flush against yours, buried to the hilt. For a heartbeat, he stayed there, trembling, overwhelmed.
*This… this is what heaven feels like.*
The thought was delirious, fractured.
Then you clenched—hard—and his vision whited out.
"Move," you commanded, nails scraping his scalp.
He obeyed, dragging himself almost free before thrusting back in, a broken cry echoing yours as your walls milked him, hot and greedy. Each stroke felt like surrender—the slick, sucking grip of your pussy, the way your thighs trembled against his ribs, the raw, primal sounds tearing from your throat.
He kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, every gasp as he angled deeper, grinding against that sweet spot inside you. Sweat slicked his brow, his thrusts growing frantic, erratic—a man drowning in sensation.
"So tight," he gasped, voice shredded. "Fuck—gonna—"
His hips stuttered, losing rhythm as pleasure coiled tight in his belly. He’d never felt anything like this—the overwhelming heat, the velvet vise squeezing every inch of him, the way his own muscles trembled like he’d never done this before.
*Am I shaking?* he thought wildly, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he fought to stay upright.
*Why does it feel like I’m coming apart?*
Each withdrawal was agony, each plunge back in ecstasy—your body sucking him deeper, wetter, tighter than anything he’d known. Precum leaked steadily now, mingling with your slickness, each thrust slicker, messier, more desperate.
You arched higher, meeting his frantic pace with a roll of your hips that stole his breath.
"Harder," you demanded, and he obeyed—driving into you with a force that slammed the counter against the wall.
The sound of skin slapping skin filled the kitchen, raw and obscene.
He watched, mesmerized, as your pussy stretched around him, fat lips clinging to his shaft with every withdrawal, glistening and swollen.
A guttural groan ripped from his chest when your inner muscles pulsed around him, fluttering like a heartbeat.
"Y-yes," he stammered, hips jerking erratically. "Take it—take all of me—"
His control shattered. Hips pistoning, he fucked into you with ragged, shallow thrusts, chasing the peak with a desperation that bordered on pain. Every nerve screamed—the scrape of your nails down his back, the bite of your teeth on his shoulder, the suffocating, exquisite pressure building where your bodies joined.
"Gonna fill you," he warned, voice cracking. "Gonna—"
The words died as his spine locked, pleasure detonating in a white-hot burst. He spilled deep inside you with a shattered cry, hips grinding hard against yours as he emptied himself, pulse after pulse, into your clenching heat.
You growled low in your throat, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair and yanking his head back.
"Is that what this was?" Your voice was rough gravel, eyes blazing into his dazed blue.
"Trying to breed me? Pump me full so deep I can't walk without feeling you?" His spent cock twitched violently inside you, still buried to the hilt.
A choked whimper escaped him as fresh heat surged through his veins, arousal flaring back to life with terrifying speed.
"Answer me."
"Yes," Gojo gasped, hips jerking weakly against yours, seeking friction even as he softened. His eyes were wide, wrecked, utterly transfixed.
"Want it—want you swollen with my child. Want to see your belly round—*mine*." His hands slid possessively over your hips, trembling.
"Please. Let me put a baby in you. Tonight. Again. As many times as it takes."
A slow, predatory smile curved your lips. You tightened around him, feeling him harden anew against your walls.
"Then get to work, Satoru."
Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold against the deepening night. The counter’s edge dug into your thighs.
His breath hitched, fingers gripping tighter. The night stretched long, hungry, and utterly consumed.