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Kiara didn’t know who moved first.
One moment, Gojo’s hands were fisted in the back of her tank top, his breath hot and uneven against her throat. The next, her fingers were tangled in his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers.
The kiss wasn’t gentle.
It was a clash of teeth and tongue, a decade of grief and fury poured into the press of lips. Gojo groaned into her mouth, his grip tightening, Infinity flickering off so completely she could feel the shudder of his ribs against hers.
“Kiara—” His voice was wrecked.
She bit his lower lip, hard enough to sting. “Don’t talk.”
He obeyed.
His hands slid under her tank top, palms skimming the bruises along her ribs—not healing them, just feeling them, as if reminding himself she was real. The touch burned. She arched into it, gasping when his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts.
Gojo didn’t tease. He never did, not with her.
He stripped her top off in one swift motion, his breath catching at the sight of her bare skin, mottled with phantom wounds and the faint silver scars of battles past. His mouth followed his hands, lips dragging down her collarbone, her sternum, the swell of her breast—
“Fuck,” she hissed when he took her nipple into his mouth, tongue circling the peak before sucking hard. Her knees buckled; he caught her effortlessly, lifting her against him as he walked them backward toward the bed.
She landed on the mattress with Gojo between her thighs, his hips caging hers, his cock already hard against her stomach. His blindfold was gone, his eyes glowing in the dim light, pupils blown wide.
“You’re alive,” he murmured, like a prayer, before kissing her again.
Kiara reached for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency. Gojo let her fumble for half a second before covering her hands with his, guiding the buckle open, the zipper down. His pants slid off, hers followed—cotton shorts shoved past her hips, his palm pressing between her thighs before she could even gasp.
“Wet,” he breathed, fingers sliding through her folds, circling her clit just once—just enough to make her jerk against him. “All for me?”
She dug her nails into his shoulders. “Don’t—”
He smirked, that familiar, infuriating Gojo smirk, and pushed two fingers inside her.
Kiara choked.
His fingers curled, scissored, stroked that spot inside her that made her vision whiten. She thrashed, her back arching off the bed, but Gojo pinned her with his free arm, his mouth on her throat.
“Look at you,” he murmured, fingers working her ruthlessly. “Taking it so good—”
She came with a sob, her thighs clamping around his wrist, her nails raking down his back. Gojo drank in every twitch, every gasp, before slowly withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to his lips.
“Satoru,” she warned, voice ragged.
He licked her taste off his fingers, eyes locked on hers. “Mine.”
Then he was pushing her thighs apart, lining himself up, and finally—
He sank into her in one smooth thrust.
Kiara screamed.
Gojo groaned, his forehead dropping to hers, his hips flush against her. “Fuck, you’re tight—”
She clenched around him, relishing the way his composure shattered. “Move.”
He did.
Slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that had her gasping, her legs hooking around his waist to pull him closer. Then faster, harder, until the bedframe rattled and her moans pitched higher.
Gojo’s hands found hers, fingers intertwining, pinning them above her head. His mouth trailed kisses along her jaw, her pulse point, her lips—
“Stay,” he begged between thrusts. “Stay, Kiara—”
She kissed him instead of answering, her body tightening around him, her second orgasm building like a storm.
Gojo felt it—of course he did. His pace turned erratic, his breath ragged against her mouth. “Come on,” he urged, nipping at her lip. “Let me feel you—”
She shattered.
Her back arched, her thighs trembled, her cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure ripped through her. Gojo followed with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her, his grip on her hands tightening like he was afraid she’d vanish.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the sweat cooling on their skin.
Then Gojo shifted, rolling them onto their sides without pulling out, his arms locking around her like a vow.
Kiara closed her eyes, her cheek pressed to his chest, his heartbeat loud in her ear.
(She didn’t promise to stay.
But for tonight, she was here.)
Gojo’s grip tightened, fingers digging into the small of her back like he could fuse their bodies together through sheer will.
Kiara gasped as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, her back meeting the wall beside her bed with a soft thud. His forehead pressed against hers, breath ragged, lips hovering just shy of contact.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, voice rough with something deeper than want. “Tell me you don’t—”
She cut him off with a kiss.
She had barely pulled a clean tank top over her still-damp skin—the hem clinging faintly to the curve of her hips, the fabric catching for just a breath on a healing bruise—when the door opened without so much as a knock.
Only one person ever walked in like that.
Like the space still belonged to him.
Like she still did.
“Gojo—” she started, instinctively reaching for humour, for the safety of their old rhythm. But the words never made it past her lips.
Because the man in the doorway wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t wearing that endless, cocky mask of invincibility.
He looked wrecked.
His blindfold was shoved up and forgotten in his hair, white strands tousled by the wind. His eyes—god, his eyes—were blown wide, raw with something desperate. Something that had nothing to do with ego and everything to do with fear. With loss. With love that had been forced to wait too long.
She opened her mouth again, but before she could say a word, he was there.
Two long strides. Then his arms were around her—tight, bruising, shaking.
No quips. No cleverness. Just a man clinging to what he thought he’d almost lost.
His face pressed into the crook of her neck, breath ragged. “You don’t…” His voice cracked. “You don’t get to leave me too.”
Kiara stood frozen for half a heartbeat.
Then the walls around her cracked.
Her arms rose—shaky, aching, but sure—and folded around his broad back. She curled her fingers into his jacket and pressed her face against the warm skin just above his collar.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, Satoru.”
He trembled at the sound of her voice. Breathed her in like she was the first air he'd had in days. His hands splayed wide against her back, sliding down to grip her hips. Not possessively. But like he needed to prove to himself that she was real.
That she was warm. Breathing. Alive.
His mouth found hers before she could speak again.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was heat and hunger and years of unsaid words crashing all at once. Her fingers tangled in his snowy hair, yanking him closer. His tongue slid against hers, greedy and hot and demanding, drawing a soft, broken sound from her throat.
He groaned into her mouth, and she felt it deep in her belly.
His hands slid lower—under the curve of her ass—and lifted her with ease. She wrapped her legs around him on instinct, the motion pressing her cotton-clad core flush against the hard, undeniable ridge of him beneath his trousers.
“Satoru,” she breathed against his mouth, head tipping back as he kissed down her throat. Her tank top still clung damply to her skin, and his teeth grazed along the seam where fabric met flesh.
“Say it again,” he rasped.
She did. Again. And again. Between kisses. Between gasps. Between the hot slide of his hands under her shirt, fingers skimming the slope of her ribs with reverent care.
He carried her to the bed, his touch gentling as he laid her down like something sacred. And in a way—she was. To him. Always had been.
His fingers caught in the waistband of her shorts and slid them down her thighs. No underwear. He groaned at the sight of her—bare and flushed, skin still littered with the ghosts of bruises she’d taken for someone else.
“You’re alive,” he whispered, kneeling between her legs. His thumbs brushed the sensitive hollows of her inner thighs. “You’re here. And I—” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I never stopped loving you.”
Her chest stuttered.
The ache in his voice was unbearable. So she reached for him, curling her hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss that burned.
When he kissed lower, she let him. When his breath ghosted over the slick, aching centre of her, she gasped.
And when he licked her—slow and firm and filthy—her whole body arched.
He groaned into her cunt like a man starved, tongue parting her folds to taste the heat of her. His mouth was relentless, his tongue sliding in thick, slow strokes up and over her clit, then down again to fuck into her with maddening control. Every whimper, every moan, every hitch in her breath only made him go deeper.
“Satoru—oh—fuck—” Her thighs trembled around his shoulders.
He didn’t stop. One hand slid up to press flat against her belly, holding her in place as she bucked under his mouth, hips rising, chasing the edge. His other hand crept lower, thumb rubbing tight circles on her swollen clit as he tongue-fucked her through the first pulse of orgasm.
She came with a gasp, back arching hard, thighs clenched around his head. But he didn’t pull away. Not until she was shaking.
And even then—only to kiss his way up her body.
Her tank top was still on. He pushed it up and off, and her nipples pebbled in the cool air. He ran his hands over her bare chest, calloused palms ghosting over sensitive peaks.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I’ve imagined this so many fucking times.”
“Then stop imagining,” she said, voice low and trembling. “And fuck me.”
His trousers hit the floor. Then his briefs.
Her breath caught at the sight of him—long, thick, flushed dark with arousal. A bead of precum glistened at the tip.
He climbed back over her, bare skin pressing to bare skin. He kissed her again, slow now. Worshipful.
And when he finally slid into her, they both froze.
His cock filled her completely—inch by inch, the stretch hot and dizzying. Her nails scraped down his back as she moaned.
Gojo dropped his forehead to hers, breath caught on a sharp exhale. “Holy fuck—you feel…”
“Move,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please.”
He did.
Slow at first. Deep and deliberate, his hips rolling into hers like he needed to memorise every sensation. Every drag of her slick heat around him. Every twitch of her muscles. Every soft gasp.
Then faster. Harder. Her legs locked around his waist. Her hands clawed down his back, then fisted in his hair as he pounded into her, deep and steady.
“Satoru—harder—”
He obeyed.
The rhythm turned punishing, their bodies crashing together with every thrust. Her back arched off the bed, her breasts brushing his chest, her cries muffled against his shoulder as he fucked her into the mattress.
“You’re mine,” he growled into her ear, hips slamming forward. “Always were. Always will be.”
“Yours,” she sobbed, clinging to him. “Always.”
He shifted, angling deeper. She keened when he hit that spot—again and again, driving her toward the edge.
And when she came this time, it ripped through her like lightning.
Her walls clamped down around him, spasming in waves. She cried out, and Gojo’s pace faltered.
Then he groaned, long and guttural, and spilled inside her—his hips jerking, his breath ragged, her name the only thing on his lips.
They collapsed in a tangle of limbs, chests heaving.
He stayed inside her. Stayed close.
For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing.
Then, soft and hoarse:
“Stay,” he whispered.
She turned her head, kissed his temple, and whispered back:
“I’m not going anywhere.”