Marked Before the Boardroom

The fine silver links pool cold against your open palm, catching the red glare of the paper lantern as the humid alley breeze stirs your hair. Across the four feet of dark asphalt, Gojo doesn't shift an inch; his shoulders remain squared against the damp brick, knuckles locked deep inside his trouser pockets to honor the line you drew at the observation rail. His jaw hardens, unmasked blue eyes burning straight through the neon haze as he deliberately refuses to chase your dare. The standoff hangs rigid between you, leaving the metal in your hand and the choice of closing the space entirely on your shoulders.

Gojo: "You took it off, Harlow. If you want it on me, you take the four steps."

💬 "Scared of what happens if you move?"

The words hang in the stagnant, neon-slick heat between the two brick walls, but Gojo doesn't twitch an inch off the damp masonry. His unmasked blue eyes narrow into slits under the red paper lantern, watching the silver chain dangle from your fingers without loosening a single muscle in his shoulders. Shinjuku's midnight roar mutters beyond the mouth of the alley, yet inside the narrow cut of asphalt, the space between your boots feels carved out of iron. He tilts his chin just enough to catch the neon light along his throat, deliberately daring you to drop the metal into the gutter or bridge the gap yourself.

Gojo: "I don't move when I'm summoned, Harlow—and you don't offer silver you actually want back."

Putting it in my pocket did you think I'll throw away than you don't know me very well

You slide the fine silver links into the pocket of your leather jacket, letting the metallic clink settle between you as your hand comes away empty. Across the damp asphalt, Gojo's posture doesn't soften, but the sharp tension coiled in his neck finally loosens by an inch under the crimson glow of the lantern. His hands stay locked deep inside his dark trousers, refusing to take the four paces, yet his gaze tracks the pocket of your jacket with an arrogant, possessive heat that needs no broadcast cameras to land. The humid night air sits heavy between the brick walls, and he watches you like someone who already knows the answer to his own dare.

Gojo: "Keep it in your pocket then, Harlow—it looks better on you anyway."

🚶‍♀️ Close the four steps between you

Four deliberate strides eat the asphalt between you until the toe of your sandal taps the leather of his designer boot. Gojo doesn't step back—he can't, his shoulder blades already flush against the gritty brick—but the breath he draws catches sharply in the hollow of his unbuttoned collar. The heavy heat of the alley collapses into the few inches separating your chests, smelling of summer rain, ozone, and the distinct cedar spice of his skin. Up close, the unmasked blue of his eyes is relentless and raw, staring down into yours without a single camera left in Tokyo to witness who gave ground first.

Gojo: "You took the steps, Harlow. Don't pretend you didn't want to."

I want to but your not even trying

The toe of your sandal stays wedged against his leather boot, your cropped jacket brushing the black silk of his shirt with every breath you draw. Gojo’s jaw locks tight enough to show the corded muscle along his throat, but his hands remain jammed like vices inside his trouser pockets—honoring the exact boundary you laid down three hundred meters above the city. The unmasked blue of his eyes cuts straight down into yours under the red lantern glow, heavy with the sting of your words and the suffocating, humid weight of the summer heatwave. He doesn't yield an inch backward, nor does he reach for you; he simply lets the raw heat between your chests do the punishing.

Gojo: "Not trying? Harlow, I pulled myself off a national broadcast and stood against wet brick just so you wouldn't have to share a single glance with the rest of Tokyo."

🫳 Press your palm against his chest

The thin black silk of his shirt gives instantly under your flat hand, scorching heat and dense muscle yielding nothing as your palm settles dead over his heart. Beneath your fingertips, his pulse is an absolute riot—racing hard and heavy against his ribs, completely shattering the bored nonchalance he wore three hundred meters in the air. Gojo doesn’t pull away; he presses his spine harder against the grit of the brick, his jaw tightening into iron while his hands remain locked in his pockets like he’s starving. The heavy, rain-thick night air pools between your mouths, and his unmasked blue eyes drop to your lips before snapping back up to scorch yours.

Gojo: "Feel that, Harlow? Go on—tell me again I'm not even trying."

It's my birthday gift right I don't care what happened on camera I am going wild see if you can handle or not

His ribs expand sharply beneath your palm, the fine black silk damp with the suffocating Tokyo humidity as his heart hammers against your skin. Gojo doesn't pull his hands from his pockets; he pins his shoulders flat to the wet brickwork, letting the raw, shuddering proof of his restraint thrum directly into your fingers. His chin tilts up, the unmasked blue of his eyes narrowing with a dangerous, irritated heat that strips away every trace of runway polish. The red lantern casts a bloody hue across the sharp cut of his jaw, completely unblinking while you stand toe-to-toe in the dark.

Gojo: "You think a few live lenses could ever hold me back if I didn't want to be held?"

🤫 "Happy birthday to me, Satoru."

The shudder that rips through Gojo's frame is immediate, his jaw setting into rigid stone as your words land against his ribs. Still, he doesn't pull his hands from his dark trousers; he grinds his back harder into the wet masonry, pinning himself down while his breath comes fast and shallow across your temple. Beneath your palm, his chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged strokes that tear right through his casual posture. He leans his head back against the brick, staring down his nose at you with an arrogant, half-strangled smirk that dares you to prove every syllable.

Gojo: "Happy birthday, Harlow. But if you want this to go wild, you'll have to pull my hands out yourself."

Kiss on him lips for deep for 5 min

You take the last fraction of an inch and take his mouth against the wet brick, cutting off every shred of his arrogant challenge in a deep, suffocating collision that tastes of salt, ozone, and cedar smoke. Gojo doesn't pull his hands from his pockets to stop you; his head tilts hard into the angle of your jaw, letting his back take the rough masonry while his breath shudders against your lips in ragged, desperate gasps. When you finally ease back enough to breathe the heavy summer air, his unmasked blue eyes are completely dark with heat, pupils blown wide under the swaying red paper lantern.

Gojo: "You don't play fair, Harlow. Not even a little."

Another 5 min deep kissing

Five minutes unravels into pure, suffocating friction against the wet brick, every breath traded between your mouths thick with ozone, cedar smoke, and the relentless midsummer heatwave. His head angles hard to meet every demand of your lips, the corded muscle of his throat straining as his spine stays glued flat to the damp masonry. Beneath the thin silk of his black shirt, his ribs heave in violent, ragged sync with yours, yet his fists stay jammed inside his trouser pockets like iron anchors keeping him from seizing you whole. When you finally break the seal of his mouth just enough to let the muggy Shinjuku air cool your burning skin, Gojo's unmasked blue eyes are fever-bright in the crimson paper lantern light, his jaw flushed dark and trembling with raw defiance.

Gojo: "Take another five minutes, Harlow—see who runs out of air first."

While slowly kissing him have my hands under his shirt and touch all his abs

Your cool palms slip past the fine hem of his black silk, meeting the scorching, ridged heat of his stomach. A violent shudder locks through his entire core the second your fingers trace the cut of his abs, his breath tearing loose in a ragged, half-smothered groan against your mouth. Gojo doesn't back away; he grinds his shoulders deeper into the alley's wet masonry, jaw clenched so tight the tendons cord in his throat while his fists remain white-knuckled inside his trouser pockets. The sway of the crimson lantern washes his flushed throat in blood-red shadow, his unmasked blue eyes boring straight into yours with pure, burning defiance.

Gojo: "You're ruthless, Harlow... but if you think bare skin makes me lose this bet, guess again."

🤫 Drag your nails slow against his skin

The sharp drag of your nails across the hard ridges of his stomach pulls a jagged, broken hiss from the back of his throat. Gojo doesn't pull his hands from his trouser pockets; he drives his fists deeper, fabric straining over white knuckles while the humid Shinjuku air clings to his fevered skin. Beneath his unmasked, electric blue eyes, the crimson glow of the swaying paper lantern carves out the sharp defiance in his jaw as he stays glued flat to the alley's wet masonry. He doesn't yield an inch of ground, yet the violent shudder running through his ribs betrays every ounce of control it costs him to let you touch him like this.

Gojo: "You're playing with fire, Harlow, and I don't give a damn about getting burned."

🫦 "Give up, Satoru. Take your hands out."

The muscle beneath your fingertips locks like iron as his throat works, a harsh, ragged swallow rattling against the humid dark. Gojo’s unmasked eyes narrow into brilliant, fractured slits of blue, every nerve in his jaw drawn wire-taut as he refuses to yield an inch of the bet. His hands stay buried deep in the tailored wool of his trousers, the seams straining under the sheer violence of his clenched fists against his thighs. He tips his forehead down until the heat radiating from his brow brushes your temple, his chest hitching against your palms in sharp, unvarnished defiance.

Gojo: "If I take my hands out right now, Harlow, neither of us makes it back to the villa before sunrise."

"🔥 Then let the morning burn, Satoru."

The fine seam of his pocket gives way with a sharp, tearing pop as Gojo violently jerks his hands free. In one ruthless, blur of motion, both of his palms slam flat against the wet brick on either side of your head, pinning you against his chest and trapping you between the rough masonry and his towering frame. His breath crashes against your mouth, ragged and blistering, his pupils blown so completely wide that the electric blue of his irises looks like lightning split across absolute black. The restraint is entirely dead; the heat radiating off his chest against your bare palms is suffocating, and the swaying paper lantern overhead paints his bared throat in raw, violent red.

Gojo: "Then don't blame me when Sukuna finds out you chose the fire over the boardroom."

🔥 Grab his shirt and pull him in

The fine silk bunches in your fist, threads groaning as you drag him down those last few lethal inches. Gojo yields to the pull without taking a single step back, his towering weight settling against the brick on either side of you while his palms stay pinned flat to the rough masonry. The crimson lantern swings overhead in the suffocating heatwave, carving the harsh lines of his jaw and blown pupils in blood-red shadow as his forehead comes to rest against yours, his breath hot, broken, and completely ruined against your mouth. He isn't fighting the fire anymore; he's breathing it in, waiting for you to strike the match.

Gojo: "Say it again tomorrow when the cameras are on, Harlow."

Kiss him hold his both hands let him get hot

You peel his wrists from the masonry and thread your fingers through his, dragging his knuckles hard against the rough brick as you take his mouth with everything you held back at the tower. The heat between your chests turns scorching, air vanishing down his throat in a fractured, ruined gasp as his fingers lock around yours like a vice. His unmasked blue eyes blaze in the crimson lantern glow, pupils swallowed whole by dark, fevered hunger while he pins your hands to the wall and lets the fever swallow every bet he ever made.

Gojo: "You think holding my hands makes you safe, Harlow? You're just making sure I don't let go."

🫦 Bite his lip and dare him to walk away

The sting of your teeth against his bottom lip breaks the last fragile shred of his breathing into a low, fevered rumble. Gojo doesn't pull his hands back from yours; his knuckles press harder into the coarse masonry, pinning the heat between your bodies so tightly that the rough linen of his shirt burns against your bare skin. Overhead, the swaying paper lantern spills a pool of slick, bruised carmine across the sweat glistening along his collarbones. The neon buzz of Shinjuku drowns under the sheer rush of his pulse, his unmasked blue eyes burning straight through you with zero intent to break the cage.

Gojo: "You know damn well I'm not walking away from this, Harlow."

🤫 Keep his hands pinned, kiss his jaw

The taste of iron and heat lingers on your tongue as your lips leave his bruised lower lip, tracing a searing path along the hard, corded line of his jaw. His knuckles shudder against the wet brick where your fingers keep him pinned, every muscle in his shoulders locking into iron as he refuses to yank his hands away from your grip. Overhead, the crimson lantern sways in the stifling heatwave, throwing your tangled silhouettes into violent relief against the dark masonry while his ragged breath catches in the hollow of your neck. He doesn't pull back; he bares his throat to the dark alley and waits for the exact moment you decide whether to finish him.

Gojo: "You keep your mouth on my throat like that and you won't have to worry about who leads the boardroom at nine AM."

It's my movements please let enjoy myself self kiss him hard let him bleed

The hard edge of his jaw yields under your teeth, the sharp tang of copper breaking hot and metallic across your lips as you hold his knuckles violently flat to the wet brick. A shudder rips straight down his frame, his neck arching back into the masonry with a ruined, breathy groan that dies in the back of his throat. He doesn't wrench his hands free from your grip; his fingers twitch against your palms, locking in place, utterly captive to the dark heat of your mouth. In the narrow Shinjuku passage, the crimson paper lantern swings erratic shadows over the slick bead of red welling against his pale skin, staking your claim where every camera and boardroom rival will see it at sunrise.

Gojo: "You're leaving marks that won't wash off before nine AM, Harlow."

🫦 "Good. Let Sukuna see who owns you."

A sharp hiss tears from Gojo's chest as your teeth sink into the cut, the warm metallic sting of blood blooming hot across your lips and slicking the side of his neck. His head snaps back against the damp alley brick with a shuddering jolt, but his knuckles stay pinned beneath your grip, refusing to tear free or shield himself from the ruin. The crimson paper lantern swings violently in the stifling heatwave overhead, casting bleeding scarlet arcs across his bared throat and unmasked, fever-blown blue eyes. He doesn't flinch, doesn't shove you back; he holds your gaze through the blinding heat, letting your teeth write every term he owes you before the sun hits the glass at KURO HQ.

Gojo: "Then take it all the way down, Harlow—make sure he doesn't have to guess whose teeth are in my neck."

Release him and take a moment for breath and get some energy

You peel your palms from his wrists and step back half a pace, letting the humid night air rush into the scorched inches between your chests. Gojo stays anchored against the coarse masonry, his knuckles uncurling slowly along the brick as his chest rises and falls in sharp, ragged heaves. The crimson paper lantern sways overhead in the stifling heat, catching the slick, dark bead of red dripping down the corded muscle of his jaw where your teeth marked him. He makes no move to wipe the blood away, unmasked blue eyes burning straight into yours with reckless, defiant calm.

Gojo: "Take all the air you need, Harlow—because when we walk through those doors at nine AM, neither of us gets to breathe."

We are not going anywhere b

The sudden space between your chests lets the heavy, humid heat of the alley flood back over your bare skin, cooling the sweat at your collarbone. Gojo stays pinned where your hands left him, shoulders pressed flat against the rough masonry while his breath drags slow and deliberate through parted lips. A slick, dark trail of red pools at the sharp corner of his jaw, completely unhidden under the swinging crimson lantern as his electric blue eyes track the rise and fall of your ribs without moving a single inch forward.

Gojo: "Then we stay right here until you say otherwise, Harlow."

Pull his hand to me and starts kissing hand let in go to his lip slowly and have french kiss

You bridge the half-pace gap and take his right hand from the coarse masonry, your lips pressing into the hot skin of his knuckles before trailing deliberate heat up the line of his wrist to his parted mouth. Gojo doesn't pull back or resist; his breath catches hard in his throat as your lips crash against his bruised ones, deepening the kiss until the metallic tang of his blood smears between your mouths in the stifling heat. The swinging crimson lantern throws violent scarlet ripples across his shuddering shoulders as he stays anchored against the damp brick, completely surrendering his mouth to yours under the dark Shinjuku sky. He keeps his frame held taut, taking every fraction of your weight without yielding an inch of ground.

Gojo: "You don't get to pull me apart in the dark and pretend we're civil under the fluorescent lights, Harlow."

Deep Kiss him to until he himself take steps back

You drag his knuckles up against your mouth and push him hard into the coarse masonry, sealing your lips over his with enough force to split the cut open again. Gojo takes the raw, metallic weight of it, his frame locking rigidly against the wet mortar as your tongue presses the advantage and demands his full submission. But the oxygen bleeds out between you; his chest heaves once, violently, and he finally forces his shoulders off the brick, stepping back half a pace to break the seal of your mouths. The crimson lantern swings above him, casting sharp red glints over the bead of dark blood trailing from his split lip down the taut muscle of his neck.

Gojo: "Harlow—breathe. You don't get to choke me out before I can even walk you into that boardroom."

🫦 "Couldn't handle me, Satoru?"

Gojo doesn't step back a second time; he plants his spine hard against the damp alley masonry, the wet scrape of his shoulders echoing in the narrow, humid passage. Dark red smears across the sharp curve of his split bottom lip, trailing down to the savage bite mark blooming at the hollow of his throat beneath the swinging crimson lantern. His breath comes in harsh, measured heaves against the suffocating heatwave, his unmasked blue eyes pinned to yours with a violent, unblinking clarity that dares you to push him any further. He leaves his hands flat against the brick at his hips, openly wearing the raw ruin of your mouth without making a single move to wipe it clean.

Gojo: "I handle you just fine, Harlow—what I won't do is let you bleed me out before we take Sukuna's chair."

Kiss him until he stop taking about broad room

You close the half-pace in a single violent snap, smashing your mouth over his to smother the word before it leaves his tongue. Gojo does not pull away this time; his spine stays welded to the coarse, wet brick, jaw tight as he yields his split lip and the metallic heat of his blood directly into your mouth. The humid night air clings to your shoulders like wet silk, the swaying crimson lantern above casting fevered shadows across his bared neck where your bite still drips dark and unheeded down his collar. When your lips finally part, his breath hits your cheek in ragged, scorched bursts, blue eyes burning with an unmasked, reckless hunger that makes no move to salvage his pride.

Gojo: "Boardroom's dead, then. You want all of it right here in the gutter? Take it."

🩸 Trace the blood on his jaw with a finger

Your fingertip presses into the wet slit of his bottom lip, gathering the slick, dark smear of crimson before dragging it deliberately along the razor edge of his jawbone. Gojo doesn’t flinch; his spine remains welded flat to the coarse, sweat-damp mortar, throat working as the pulse beneath his collar hammers hard against your knuckles. The humid alley air clings suffocatingly to your skin, the overhead red lantern casting violent, rippling shadows across his unmasked blue eyes as he watches you mark him like ink on raw linen. He keeps his hands pinned flat against the bricks at his hips, chest heaving in ragged bursts, wholly yielding the canvas of his throat without offering a single word of corporate defense.

Gojo: "Don't smudge it. If Sukuna’s going to look at me across that table at nine, let him see exactly who drew it."

🫦 Pull his shirt collar open further

Your fingers catch the edge of his oversized black silk shirt, dragging the collar violently to the side until the fabric pulls taut across his shoulder. Beneath it, the dark, swollen crescent of your bite mark sits stark against the pale line of his clavicle, glistening wet under the rhythmic swing of the crimson lantern. Gojo's breath hitches hard in his chest, but his spine stays locked flat against the rough alley masonry, refusing to offer a hand to fix the drape or pull away. The humid night air coats the bare expanse of his neck and chest where the blood still runs warm, his unmasked blue gaze locked directly on yours without blinking.

Gojo: "Leave it open, then. If they're voting on who owns the room at nine, I'm not giving them any room to guess."

Kiss him gently

You lean in close, abandoning the jagged violence of the alley to press your lips softly against the split center of his mouth. The metallic tang of his blood yields beneath the featherlight, tender drag of your lips, catching him off guard after minutes of relentless punishment. Against the coarse, humid brick of the alleyway, Gojo goes entirely still, his heavy, jagged breathing hitching in his bared throat as his spine locks against the wet mortar. The crimson lantern swings above in the stifling heat, painting the open spread of his torn collar and the dark bruise of your bite mark in vivid red as his unmasked blue eyes widen, pinned to yours in breathless surrender.

Gojo: "You bite until you draw blood, then you kiss me like you're sorry... You really don't play fair, Harlow."

Really sweetheart

The mocking pet name lands like salt on his split lip, but Gojo doesn't pull his spine off the brick. His unblinking blue gaze softens into something exhausted and dangerously unguarded under the crimson glare, the rigid line of his jaw finally giving way. The humid alley air settles heavily around your shoulders as his forehead tilts forward, resting just inches from yours, the scent of rain, cedar, and raw copper thick between your bared chests. He leaves his oversized silk shirt wrenched open, the dark crescent of your bite mark burning on his skin, completely disarmed by the sudden mercy.

Gojo: "You call me that after tearing into my neck, Harlow? That's cheating."

No baby sorry

His chest heaves once against the dark silk, the heat rising off him in thick waves under the swaying crimson lantern. His throat bobs as he forces his head back against the mortar, resting his crown against the damp brick while the dark crescent on his collar glints wetly under the alley glare. He doesn't move a single muscle to close the half-inch separating your lips, holding himself ruthlessly still even as the raw copper taste between you turns sweet and cold. The city's bass hums muffled and distant beyond the mouth of the alley, leaving the quiet between you stripped entirely of its armor.

Gojo: "Don't apologize. You start acting soft now, Harlow, and I might actually think you care about making it to nine."

I think I did to much ohh really sorry my boyfriends handsome face