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Chapter Text

The buzzing of her phone woke her up before the light did.

At first Naoko thought her alarm was glitching-vibrating endlessly on the nightstand, screen flashing in sharp bursts. She reached for it blindly, groaning, planning to bury it and bury herself under her covers.

But then her sleepy eyes caught the words on the screen.

Trending:

#GojoSexTape

#OharaNaoko

#LimitBreak Exposed

#DiorGirl

Her chest seized. 

She sat up too quickly, hair falling in her face, heart thudding as she unlocked her phone. Notifications exploded across the display, hundreds stacking o top of each other, faster than she could read them. 

She clicked into twitter. The first headline was enough. 

@BandUpdatesHQ · 15 min
BREAKING: Alleged sex tapes of Gojo Satoru, lead singer of Limit//Break, leak online. #GojoSatoru #Scandal
💬 149 🔁 774 ❤️ 6.1K

@glamwatch · 25m
Naoko Ohara is literally the FACE of Dior rn... this could end her career. wtf.
💬 98 🔁 312 ❤️ 4.7K

@foryoubae · 1h
Naoko didn't deserve this. leaking private tapes is disgusting.
💬 721 🔁 1,463 ❤️ 19.3K

@itsjustkai · 58m
ngl Gojo is WILD. who knew he had that in him 👀 #GojoSexTape
💬 237 🔁 298 ❤️ 5,424

Her thumb froze.

It wasn't just him. It was her. Her name, her face, her body—circulating in blurred screenshots. It was still recognizable, still enough for the whole world to know.

The phone slipped from her hands and landed on the sheets. She pressed her palms against her temples, breath shaking.

God. Everyone has seen it.

Another vibration. A new notification, this one a message. Then more.

Group Chat — "Ride or Die 💋"
Mei: girl...are you seeing this??
Yuki: don't open twitter. seriously.
Utahime: we're here for you okay?
Naoko: ...
Yuki: babe, answer us. please.
Utahime: do you want me to come over?

Her vision blurred. She couldn't type back, couldn't even breathe.

All she could see were the headlines flashing by across her screen, every news outlet picking her apart.

Velour Online — Fashion Features
Model Naoko Ohara Caught in Viral Scandal After Intimate Tapes With Rockstar Ex Leak

"Rising model Naoko Ohara, known for campaigns with Dior and Off-White, found herself at the center of a global scandal today when intimate videos of her and musician Satoru Gojo leaked online.

While fashion insiders speculate the scandal could jeopardize her ongoing contracts, fans across social media are rallying behind her, condemning the leak as a violation of privacy.

One anonymous brand rep told Velour: "We love Naoko. This wasn't her choice, and we stand by her professionalism. But public image is everything in fashion—we'll have to see how this plays out."

Her stomach twisted. Dior. Off-White. Vogue. Everything she's worked for, everything she's sacrificed, her years of saying no to a normal life so she could build this career—and now it is slipping through her fingers because of him.

Satoru.

Of course it had to be him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, head pounding, imagining the smirk on his lips. He'd probably laugh it off, lean into the chaos, make it his brand like he always does. But Naoko doesn't have that luxury. She isn't a rockstar. She's a model. She's supposed to be poised. Untouchable. Perfect.

And now the entire world has seen her in her most private moments.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with a new headline from Daily Buzz.

Daily Buzz Tabloid Cover
🔥 ROCKSTAR EXPOSED! 🔥

Satoru Gojo's PRIVATE tapes with ex-girlfriend Naoko Ohara leak online—how the scandal is rocking the music world.

She slammed the phone face down into the mattress, her hands trembling. Her chest hurt.

The worst part is, she hasn't even watched any of the clips yet. She couldn't. She didn't need to. Naoko remembered exactly what they were, when they'd filmed them—back when they were still stupid enough to think that it was private, safe. Back when she thought she could trust him.

Now the world had them.

Naoko's life—her career, her reputation, her everything—was officially over.

Chapter Text

Gojo appeared in the kitchen with the camera balanced in one hand, grin already curling across his face as the red light blinked.

"Say hi, princess."

Naoko looked up from the counter where she was perched, one of his oversized shirts slipping off her shoulder, a bowl of fruit balanced in her lap. She popped a grape into her mouth and groaned. "Satoru, shut it off."

"Not a chance." His voice was smug, the kind of lazy confidence that made the camera feel like an extension of him. He zoomed in playfully, focusing on her mouth as she chewed. "Look at you. Dior should be jealous."

She rolled her eyes and tossed a strawberry at him. It bounced harmlessly off his chest, earning a dramatic gasp. "Assault! Caught on tape!"

Naoko's laughter rang out, warm and unguarded. Gojo's grin only deepened. He walked closer, bringing the lens in so it framed her face, every detail caught in the soft morning light. She ducked her head, cheeks flushed, trying to hide her smile.

"You're literally the worst." She murmured, shaking her head as though she wanted to be annoyed, but the curve of her lips betrayed her.

"And yet you let me love you anyway," he shot back, camera tilting slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers for just a second. The sound of Naoko's soft laugh caught on the mic, filling the space between them.

When he pulled back, he angled the camera deliberately, capturing the way she looked at him—exasperated but glowing. "See this?" He said to the lens, to some invisible audience. "She's mine. All mine."

Naoko groaned, burying her face into her hands, but the smile never left her lips. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," Gojo said, lowering the camera just enough to steal a kiss. "But you love me for it."

"You're also delusional."

"Hm, maybe." He said, panning the lens slowly down her body, lingering at the hem of his shirt draped over her thighs. "But at least I'm the kind of delusional that gets to keep this view."

Her cheeks flushed, and she reached out, trying to push the camera away. "Satoru—Stop."

He only laughed, dodging her hand easily, keeping the frame trained on her face. "What? Afraid the world's going to see how much you adore me?"

"I don't adore you."

"Lies." He angled the camera closer, his grin infuriating. "You're sitting here, in my shirt, eating my strawberries, and pretending you don't."

"You're impossible."

"I'm a lot of things, baby." Gojo leaned in, his breath brushing her ear as the red light blinked steadily. "And yet you can't get enough of me."

Her laugh cracked, caught between protest and something softer.

He kissed her, slow at first, then deeper, stealing the air from her lungs. She gasped into him, and the sound cracked sharp through the mic. He set the camera on the counter, tilting it so it framed them perfectly, and with both hands free he stepped between her knees.

"Look at you." He murmured, brushing his thumb across her thigh as he kissed down her jaw. "Trying to act annoyed when you're already shaking."

Her fingers curled into his hair when his hand slid higher, brushing the cotton of her panties. She made a sound low in her throat, unguarded, and his grin widened against her neck.

"Say it." Gojo whispered, teasing her with slow strokes that made her thighs part. "Say you love me, princess."

Naoko bit back a moan, but it slipped free anyway, caught raw and unfiltered on the recording. "I love you." She gasped, head tipping back.

"Louder." He slid his fingers beneath the fabric, pressing into her with a deliberate curl. "Let the camera hear it."

Her cries broke out, helpless now, her body arching into his hand as pleasure rippled through her, every sound caught by the blinking red light.

"Good girl." He rasped, kissing her hard as she came undone against his fingers.

The fruit bowl hit the floor, strawberries rolling everywhere.

Gojo didn't stop when she collapsed against him, breathless and trembling. Instead, he dropped to his knees, dragging her closer to the edge of the counter.

"Sit pretty for me." He hooked his thumbs under the band of her panties. She gasped as he pulled them down, tossing them aside without breaking his sly grin.

The camera caught everything—the way her thighs trembled as he spread them wider, the way her hand darted down to cover her face, only to grab his hair instead when his mouth closed over her.

Her moan tore out, sharp and broken, the mic peaking with the sound.

He chuckled against her, low and smug. "That's right. Sing for me."

She pulled at his hair helplessly, torn between pushing him away and keeping him there, but he only worked her harder, tongue relentless until she came again, voice shattering on his name.

When he rose, his mouth glistened, he kissed her just how she liked it, letting her taste herself on his lips.

When she moaned into his mouth, sucking lightly against his tongue, Gojo lost his mind.

He tugged her to the very edge of the counter. His belt clattering as he shoved it loose, pushing his pants down far enough in one fluid motion, and then he pushed inside of her in one slow, deliberate thrust.

Naoko's scream cracked against his shoulder at the sudden invasion. He never failed to stretch her.

"Look at me," he growled, one hand gripping her jaw, forcing her gaze back to his. "Say it again."

"I love you," she gasped, her nails digging into his back.

He thrust harder.

Her cries filled the kitchen, echoing off the walls, mixing with the sound of their bodies colliding.

The fruit bowl was long forgotten, the world reduced to the red blink of the camera, her broken moans, his breathless curses.

When she shattered around him, trembling and crying his name, he bit down on her shoulder and followed, groaning low against her skin.

The camera kept rolling.

And when she slumped against him, whispering hoarsely, "Delete it," Gojo only laughed, pressing a kiss to her hair.

"Never."

Chapter Text

Naoko sat rigid in the leather chair, every muscle wound tight, staring at the conference table like it might crack beneath her.

The agency's office was sleek and cold—marble floors, framed covers from other successful models they represent, the faint smell of espresso lingering in the air. Normally, she found comfort in it. This was the world she clawed her way into: professionalism, order, control. It was everything she wanted. But today, it felt suffocating, like she was trapped inside a glass box with no air.

She hadn't slept. Her phone was still buzzing in her bag. Even muted, the steady vibration was a cruel reminder that the world outside hadn't forgotten for a second.

Across the table, Akari Nitta flipped through her iPad, expression pinched. She was dressed sharply, as always, but her tone was sharper. "The timing couldn't be worse. Dior's spring campaign launches next week. Off-White is already calling. Half your contracts have morality clauses, Naoko."

Naoko's fists clench in her lap. She kept her voice steady, even though her chest ached. "I didn't ask for this."

Akari looked up, softer for just a flicker. "I know. But public image isn't about fairness—it's about optics."

Her tone snapped back into steel as quickly as it softened, her eyes cutting across the table like a knife. The faint tap of her fingers against the iPad carried more judgement than words, a reminder that in her world hesitation meant death.

Before Naoko could reply, the door opened.

Satoru Gojo—or just Gojo as known widely by his fans and the music industry—strolled in like he owned the place; silver hair gleaming, sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose despite being indoors. He looked maddeningly unbothered, like the world hadn't just set fire to Naoko's life overnight.

"Sorry I'm late." He drawled, collapsing into the chair across from her. "Traffic was insane. Or maybe it was just me trending worldwide. Hard to tell."

Naoko's pulse roared in her ears. She stared at him, disbelief and fury boiling together.

Behind him, his manager slipped in, looking like he'd already run three marathons. Kiyotaka Ijichi adjusted his tie, dark circles etched beneath his eyes, a leather folder clutched tight under one arm. He muttered something about Gojo being "impossible to wrangle" before taking a seat beside him, placing the folder down on the table with a heavy sigh.

Akari exhaled sharply. "This isn't funny, Satoru. The two of you are at the center of the biggest media scandal of the year. If you want careers left when this smoke clears, we need to move carefully."

"Careful," Gojo repeated with a grin, leaning back lazily in his chair. "That's never really been my brand."

Naoko snapped before she could stop herself. "Not all of us can afford to be reckless."

That made him look at her, properly, his grin flickering into something quieter, sharper. But then the arrogance slipped back into place like armor. "Relax, princess. If anything, this is good for us. My band's ticket sales are through the roof. Your name is everywhere. You're welcome."

Her nails dug crescents into her palms. "You ruined me. And you're smiling about it!"

"Ruined?" His head titled, amusement sparking in his eyes. She's always been dramatic. "Princess, you're front-page news. People would kill for that kind of exposure."

Ijichi cleared his throat before Akari could snap. "Enough. Please." He slid the folder across the table into the center, opening it to reveal a neatly clipped stack of printed emails. His voice was low, measured, but strained. "There are...offers. Multiple adult platforms have reached out since last night. Competing, actually. One is offering seven figures for exclusive rights to the tapes. Another has proposed—"

"Absolutely not," Naoko cut in, the words sharp and immediate.

Akari nodded, almost relieved to have her say it aloud. "I agree."

Gojo leaned forward, his eyes now glinted with interest. "Seven figures?" His grin widened, dangerous. "That's more than a good offer."

Ijichi pinched the bridge of his nose. "Satoru—"

Naoko turned on him, fury sparking hot in her chest. "You think this is an opportunity?"

"Of course it is." Gojo said easily, chin resting on his hand as though this were a casual business pitch. "The whole world's already watching. We could either run from it...or own it."

She couldn't believe the words leaving his mouth—well, maybe she could. This was Gojo, after all. But some part of her had still hoped he'd be above it. Those tapes weren't content; they were fragments of the most intimate moments of their relationship. And yet he spoke about them like they were nothing, as if the care she'd once given him had been disposable all along.

"You can call it owning it. I call it humiliation."

Akari slammed the folder shut, the sound like a gavel striking wood. "No one is filming anything. Do you understand me? No one." Her tone was razor-sharp, leaving no room for argument. She leaned forward, eyes fixed on Gojo. "If you even think about entertaining this circus, I will burn every bridge you're standing on before Dior has the chance."

Gojo only smirked wider, tipping his sunglasses down just enough for his blue eyes to glint across the table. "Easy, Akari. I was only saying the world seemed interested. Isn't that what you live for? Eyes on the product?"

Her jaw tightened, but she didn't blink. "You're not a product. You're a liability."

He wasn't rattled. Not by Akari's threat or her words. Not by her glare. Not even by the collapse of everything Naoko's worked for.

Satoru Gojo looked at disaster the way most people looked at opportunity.

And that terrified Naoko more than the scandal itself.

Chapter Text

Gojo's laugh rumbled low, warming and teasing as the camera blinked red.

"Caught you." His voice was still rough with sleep, smug as ever.

Naoko groaned, burying her face deeper into the pillow. The sheets tangled at her waist, her hair spilling in messy waves across the white linen. "Turn it off."

"Not happening, princess." The lens zoomed closer, catching the edge of her bare shoulder peeking from beneath the blanket. His grin widened. "You're prettier like this than you are on any runway."

"Shut up." Her voice was muffled by cotton.

"Mm, no." He teased. "The world needs to know my muse snores when she's tired."

"I do not—" She lifted her head just enough to glare, but sleep still clung to her eyes, softening the bite.

He laughed again, softer this time, before setting the camera on the nightstand so it framed them both. It caught the way he leaned down to kiss her cheek, her temple, the corner of her mouth—before slipping under the sheets and pulling her close.

The kiss started slow—soft, hazy, thick with sleep—until he deepened it, coaxing her mouth open until her breath hitched in her throat. The mic caught the wet sound of it, then the sharp little moan she couldn't hold back.

His hand skimmed down her side, slipping between the band of her pajama shorts, fingers warm against her ass. She gasped into his mouth when he bunched the fabric in his fist and gave it a firm squeeze. Calloused from years of guitar strings yet careful on her skin, his hands always made her shiver when they touched her like this.

Naoko buried her face into the pillow when his hand pulled away. "Satoru..."

He kissed her shoulder, the sheets shifting as he nudged her to roll onto her stomach, tugging the blanket down until it bared the curve of her back.

He settled behind her, spreading her thighs with his knees until she made a small, startled sound. His hand slid down her spine and over the swell of her ass, kneading once more before tugging her shorts down just far enough to expose her.

Naoko turned her head, shooting a half-hearted glare that softened by the flush creeping up her cheek.

"Don't look at me like that, princess. I can practically hear you blushing."

Before she could protest, his fingers slipped between her thighs, parting her folds. Slick heat coated his fingertips immediately, the wet sound carrying loud in the quiet room.

"God, listen to you." Gojo groaned, dragging his fingertips through her with deliberate laziness. "Already dripping. You really want me this bad first thing in the morning?"

"Don't flatter yourself—maybe I was dreaming about someone else and they got me like this."

His laugh was a rough bark, low in her ear. "That's cute. Say that again when I've got you screaming my name into the pillow."

Naoko snorted, though the sound broke on a whimper when his fingers pressed deeper, curling just right. "Tch—you wish."

Gojo grinned, his free hand sliding up her back to press her down into the mattress, hips pinned by his weight. "Oh, I don't have to wish, princess. I can feel how much you want me." He twisted his wrist, thumb brushing her clit, and the sharp moan that tore out of her made his smile widen.

"Mm, there it is," he praised, voice rough. "Keep pretending it's someone else. Your body knows better."

Naoko bit the pillow hard, trying to smother her cries, her hips rocking shamelessly into his hand as he fucked her with his fingers. She was close—he felt it in the way she clenched, thighs trembling.

But just as she was about to tip over the edge, Gojo pulled his hand away.

Her head shot up, eyes wide, breath ragged. "Satoru!"

"Not yet, princess." He sucked his fingers clean in exaggerated slow motion.

"That's cruel." She gasped, half a cry, half a plea.

"Cruel?" he teased, sliding the head of his cock against her folds, slick and heavy. "No, this is mercy. Because when I finally let you cum..." He pressed the blunt head against her entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing. "...it'll be on me, where you belong."

Naoko's hips shifted back instinctively to chase him. The blunt head slid just barely inside, stretching her a fraction before he drew back again.

Her nails clawed the sheets. "Baby—please..."

"There it is. That's what I wanted. Beg for me, princess."

Another desperate whine broke from her, but she gave him the words, her voice cracking. "I need you—please, I need it."

"Good girl." His tone softened for only a moment before he gripped her hips and thrust in one hard stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

Naoko cried out, muffled against the pillow, the sudden fullness overwhelming after being edged so cruelly. Her walls clamped around him, sucking him in deep, and Gojo cursed, low and guttural. "Fuck—you're perfect. So tight I could lose myself in you."

He set a relentless rhythm, driving into her from behind with wet, obscene sounds the mic caught along with her ragged moans. Each thrust ground her deeper into the mattress, until her protests were gone and only broken pleas spilled out.

"That's it," he rasped, fucking her harder. "Take it. Take all of me."

And she did—every inch of him swallowed down as her body clung greedily to his cock, her moans proof of just how much she needed him.

Gojo bent over her, chest pressed to her back, his mouth hot against her ear. "Listen to you, princess... every sound, every gasp. The mic's catching it all. You want the world to know who ruins you like this?"

She shook her head frantically, but the denial melted into a ragged moan when he ground in deep, hips rolling just right against her.

"Mm, thought so." His teeth grazed her shoulder, his grip tightening until she'd feel the bruises later. "So why don't you say it anyway? Who's fucking you this good?"

Her voice cracked, muffled against the pillow. "You, Satoru—fuck—it's you."

"That's my girl," he groaned, pulling back only to slam into her again. "Say it louder."

Her nails ripped at the sheets, her voice breaking open, raw and desperate. "You, baby—just you!"

Gojo laughed, low and feral, thrusts quickening until each one snapped her forward against the mattress. Her cries climbed higher with each obscene sound the mic greedily swallowed. 

Her body trembled, thighs quaking, the coil inside her winding tight again. He felt the way she clenched, knew she was close, and he slowed—rolling his hips in grinding circles that made her sob.

"Not yet," he rasped, dragging it out, letting her squirm against him. "I want to feel you break. Don't you dare hold back."

Her pleas spilled out in broken fragments. "Please—please, I can't—Satoru, I can't—"

"Then give it to me." His hand snaked under her belly, finding her clit, rubbing merciless circles as he drove into her harder. "Cum on me. Right now, Naoko. Let me feel it."

She shattered with a strangled scream, her whole body seizing as her orgasm ripped through her. Her walls clamped down around him, squeezing him in hard, milking him for everything. The sound of it—her sobbed moan, the slick squeeze of her release—spiked the mic.

"Fuck, Naoko—" Gojo's rhythm faltered, his own control breaking. With a deep groan he slammed deep one last time, spilling inside her. His cock pulsed as he pressed her down into the sheets, grinding into her like he wanted to fuse them together.

They stayed there, trembling in the aftermath, sweat-slicked skin sticking as their breathing filled the room.

Finally, Gojo eased out, tugging her shorts up half-heartedly before collapsing beside her. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her close, kissing her temple softly.

Naoko nuzzled into his chest. "If you ever show anyone that video, I'll kill you."

"Relax, princess. It's just for me."

Chapter Text

The lobby was a war zone. 

Camera flashes strobed against the glass doors, relentless, searing white spots that burst like fireworks in Naoko's Vision. Reporters pressed in tight, the air hot with too many bodies, their voices colliding in the frenzy of  shouted questions. The noise wasn't just loud—it was violent, a wall of sound that battered her from all sides. 

Her stomach flipped, sweat prickled at the back of her neck. She felt the heat of it—of being prey in the open, surrounded. 

At her side, Akari leaned in, whispering with clinical calm, her tone as sharp and steady as a scalpel: "Deep breaths. Smile if you can. Neutral if you can't." 

Neutral. Sure. 

Naoko tried, lips twitching toward a practiced blankness. But the effort pulled at her jaw, stiff and aching. Her skin buzzed with nerves, every muscle tied up in knots. She was seconds from bolting when the elevator chimed from behind her. 

The doors slid open. 

Gojo strolled out like the chaos had been waiting for him. Silver hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, sunglasses perched low despite the storm of flashes. He looked untouchable, his movements shiftless but deliberate. Every step was a performance. He carried himself like the cameras had been set up just for his entrance, like he choreographed this entire ambush. 

Her pulse spiked. Of course he was enjoying this. 

They stepped forward together, side by side, into the crush of the mob. Microphones shoved close the foam tips nearly brushed her lips. Camera shutters clicked rapid-fire, an unending staccato beat that made the whole lobby sound like a battlefield. 

"Gojo! Did you leak the tapes yourself?" 

"Naoko, how long were you together when they were filmed?" 

"Were you underage at the time?" 

That one landed like a bullet. Her blood froze, breath catching in her throat. The heat of panic crawled up her spine. She opened up her mouth—ready to deny, ready to fight—

But Gojo got there first. 

"Naoko's fine," he said lazily, voice carrying above the din. One arm slid across her shoulders, pulling her close. The movement was smooth, practiced, his smirk carved for the cameras. "Don't believe everything you read." 

The reporters roared louder, feeding on his words. 

And then, with a grin sharp enough to slice chaos, he added, "besides, if you want answers, you'll have to buy the album." 

The mob went wild. 

Flashbulbs erupted like lightning, the heat of them searing. Reporters shouted over each other, desperate for more, the lobby swelling with manic energy. It was as if Gojo had poured gasoline on fire and then smiled at the flames. 

Naoko’s body stood rigid under his arm, her own smile brittle, carved out of survival. Every muscle screamed to shove him off, to get away, but she kept it together for the cameras. She leaned in, voice a venomous whisper, teeth clenched tight enough to ache.

"Touch me again," she hissed, "and I'll make sure the next headline is your funeral."

Gojo just laughed—the sound infuriatingly easy, rich with amusement, like she'd told him the funniest joke in the world.

──────────────────

Naoko couldn't sit still. 

The lights in her house were dim, but every room felt too bright, too open, like the walls were made of glass and the world outside was watching. She paced the length of the living room for the fifth time, arms wrapped tight around herself, each of her steps splintering the quiet. 

Her phone buzzed on the counter for what felt like the hundredth time. She didn't check it. She physically couldn't. Each notification was another headline, another's strangers voice tearing at the raw edges of her name. 

She pressed her palms against her temples, breathing shallow and uneven. The quiet wasn't comforting—it was suffocating, filled with ghost of flashbulbs and shouted questions that replayed every time she closed her eyes. 

So when a knock rattled the front door suddenly, she nearly jumped out of her skin. 

Her first thought: paparazzi. 

Her second thought: Gojo. 

But then Utahime's voice cut through the door, warm and steady: "It's us."

Relief flooded her. She hurried to unlock the door. 

On her porch stood all three of her best friends, arms full like they'd been preparing for battle. Utahime balanced a steaming covered dish that fogged the cool night air, her expression softening at the moment she saw Naoko's face. Yuki had bags of takeout dangling from each wrist, her grin way too wide for the hour. Mei Mei, of course, carried only a bottle of wine—already uncorked—and wore the kind of silk blouse that didn't belong outside after dark, unless you owned the night. 

"You didn't answer your phone." Utahime said, her voice equal parts worry and reprimand. 

"I couldn't." Naoko admitted, her throat tight. 

"Then it's a good thing we're here." The slender woman brushed past her gently, heading straight for the kitchen. 

"Obviously," Yuki added, side stepping into the hall like she lived there. "You didn't think we were going to leave you alone tonight, did you?" 

Mei Mei strolled in last, swirling the wine glass she'd somehow conjured as though by magic. "Consider this an intervention. Emotional, nutritional, and possibly spiritual." 

The house filled quickly with sound—bags rustling, pans clattering, Yuki's loud laugh bouncing off the walls. Utahime moved with easy purpose, heating her dish while muttering about proper meals. Yuki tried to sneak bites straight from the takeout containers, earning sharp smacks from the mother of the groups spoon. Mei Mei perched elegantly on a stool, sipping wine like she was supervising rather than helping. 

Naoko leaned against the counter, the feeling in her chest easing with every minute. The silence that had haunted her earlier was gone, replaced by warmth, by noise, by them. 

Utahime pressed a steaming plate into her hands. "Eat. No excuses."

Yuki raised her chopsticks like a toast. "To survival. And to Naoko who roasted Gojo so hard in that lobby she trended worldwide." 

Utahime groaned, swatting her arm. "Yuki." 

"What?!" The blonde grinned. "I'm just saying—it was iconic."

Naoko hid her face in her hands, groaning, but the sound came out as a laugh instead. 

"You didn't break." Mei Mei said, calmly, finally setting her glass down. "No tears, no stumbles. The world saw poise. That's what matters."

"It felt like I was breaking." Naoko whispered. 

"Almost isn't did." She countered smoothly. 

Utahime touched her arm, grounding her. "You don't have to be strong tonight. That's why we're here." 

And when the first tear slipped free, no one pointed it out. Utahime pulled her close, Yuki cracked another joke loud enough to make her laugh through it, and Mei Mei refilled her glass in silence.

Chapter Text

The TV flickered across the living room, muted dialogue filling the space as Naoko stretched out on the wide couch in one of Gojo's t-shirts. Her legs were tucked beneath her, remote in hand, a blanket sliding off her hip as she scrolled for something to half-watch. The quiet hum of the city outside the windows was the perfect counter to the chaos of her day. 

At least, until the door opened. 

She glanced up just in time to see Gojo saunter in, hair wind-tossed, grinning like he was up to something. Which, of course, he was. The red light of his camera blinked steadily, already recording as he aimed it at her. 

"Seriously? I'm watching something."

"Mm, yeah." He zoomed the lens closer until it framed her annoyed glare. "But my programmings way better. Look at you—couch goddess in my shirt. The world deserves this." 

"I'm so over you." She shook her head as he dropped onto the couch beside her. The cushions dipped under his weight, crowding her space until her back hit the armrest. He leaned in with the camera hovering between them, his grin wicked. "Smile for me, princess." 

She shoved at his chest with the blanket. "Get that out of my face." 

He caught her wrist easily, chuckling. "Hey, no violence on set." 

"On set?" 

Gojo's grin widened. "Mmhm. Tonight's episode: Naoko learns to keep her hands steady."

Before she could ask what he meant, he was kissing her—messy, deep, the kind that stole the breath from her lungs. The remote clattered to the rug as his hand slid up her thigh, tugging her closer. He pressed the camera into her hands, angling it down between them.

"Here. You hold it. Point it at me."

"What are you—"

"Shh." His mouth ghosted her jaw as he eased her back into the cushions, pulling her thighs apart. "Just hold it, princess. Don't drop it."

The red light blinked steady, framing the scene from above. Naoko's wrists trembled as she tried to hold the camera steady, the view tilted down toward the man sprawled between her thighs.

Gojo looked up once, grinning like a wolf.

"Careful," he murmured, voice low, vibrating against her skin as he kissed just inside her thigh. "Don't drop it."

Her breath caught, the camera wobbling in her grip. "Satoru—"

"Mm?" His tongue dragged higher, slow and deliberate, so close she jolted. "What's that? Already shaking?"

The camera shook harder when his mouth finally found her, fingers moving her panties to the side, his tongue flattening against her clit. A moan tore out of her throat, 

the lens tilting before she steadied it again with trembling hands.

"God—" she gasped,fingers gripping the camera harder.

He pulled back briefly, lips glistening, smirking straight up at the lens. "You're trembling, princess. Don't drop it."

Then he buried his face between her thighs again, relentless. His tongue moved in precise strokes, curling just right, his pace merciless. Her body bucked against him, the camera jerking wildly with every twitch of her hips.

"Satoru—" Her voice broke, desperate. "I can't—I can't hold it."

He groaned against her, the sound reverberating through her, and spoke low, ragged, between licks: "Then drop it. Let them see how I ruin you."

Her hands gave out.

The camera slipped from her grip and tumbled sideways into the couch cushions, still recording, the frame tilted and blurred.

What the lens lost in clarity, the mic captured in brutal detail: the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue working between her thighs, her sobbing breaths breaking into moans, the squeak of leather as her body bucked helplessly against the cushions.

The frame shifted just enough to catch flashes: Naoko's hands clawing at the couch, nails dragging hard enough to leave faint scratches in the fabric. Her back arched high, t-shirt bunched around her ribs, stomach taut as she writhed under his mouth. Between her trembling thighs, the silver crown of his head moved in relentless rhythm, hair damp where it brushed her inner skin.

Gojo had her hips pinned down with his palms, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise, holding her still even as her body twisted to escape the overwhelming pressure of his tongue. Each time she tried to lift, he pressed her deeper into the cushions, forcing her to take every flick and twist of his tongue. 

Her thighs shook violently, knees knocking against his shoulders as his tongue curled just right over her clit, over and over, merciless in its precision. She sobbed his name again, voice raw, muffled when she bit down on her own wrist in a useless attempt to stay quiet.

"Sa—Satoru—please. I can't—"

He hummed, the vibration rattling through her core, answering her plea by doubling down. His grip tightened, dragging her apart as he buried his face deeper. He devoured her like he couldn't breathe without her, and the camera recorded every frantic gasp, every strangled whimper, every wet slurp.

The coil inside her snapped violently, white-hot, ripping through her in an uncontrollable wave. Naoko screamed his name, high and raw, the sound cracking in the small living room. Her whole body seized, thighs quaking around his head as he licked her through it, dragging her orgasm out until she sobbed from overstimulation.

Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the couch cushions, fingers slipping on the leather as she shook. 

The lens caught her belly trembling with every spasm, the arch of her spine, the twitch of her legs as he refused to let up. He stayed on her until she was wrecked and boneless, pinned and trembling, gasping through broken moans.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was slick, his mouth glistening. His grin was carved smug, teeth flashing as he licked her taste slow from his lips. He shifted onto the couch beside her, glancing at the fallen camera where the red light still blinked steady.

Blue eyes caught the lens, sharp and shining.

"Still recording," he murmured, voice low and rough, satisfaction dripping from every word. His tongue darted out to wet his lips again, savoring her. "Perfect."

Naoko collapsed into the cushions, chest heaving, every breath sharp and uneven. Her thighs were still trembling violently, slick dripping down the insides where his mouth had worked her raw. One arm draped limply over her face, trying to shield herself from his gaze, while the other hung uselessly at her side, fingers twitching against the couch leather.

"God..." she croaked, voice hoarse, cracked from screaming. "You're—insane."

Gojo dragged his mouth across the inside of his wrist, wiping the sheen of her release but leaving his chin wet, then leaned back against the cushions, smug grin carved deep. His hair was damp at the temples, sticking to his forehead, but his eyes glinted bright, wild, blue as cut glass.

He reached down and plucked the camera from where it had wedged into the couch, lifting it lazily until the tilted frame straightened. The red light blinked steady, blinking with her ruined body in the background.

"Insane?" he echoed, aiming the lens toward her as she lay sprawled, thighs still twitching. He zoomed in, humming low in satisfaction. "Nah. That—" he tipped his chin at her wrecked sprawl, "—that's art."

Her hand shot out weakly, trying to cover the lens, but he caught her wrist and pinned it back to the couch with ease. "Satoru—" she warned, cheeks burning, her body still betraying her with little aftershocks.

He kissed the inside of her wrist, smirking up at her. "Relax. No one's ever gonna see it but us. Episode Five: The Couch Confessional. Instant classic."

"Episode—" she broke off in disbelief, half laughing despite herself. "There is something wrong with you." 

"Maybe." He shrugged, tilting the camera down to catch her flushed skin. He then leaned in, lips brushing her temple. is voice softened, rough but reverent against her damp hair. "Look at you, baby. Fucking perfect."

"Stop it..." she buried her face into the cushions to hide. She couldn't handle all his praising without getting turned on. 

"Fine, fine. Curtain call." He shifted the camera to himself and gave it a wave before shutting it off.