Lazarus - constantblathering - E, 34 chapters, Words: 162,049 - NOW COMPLETE: Slow burn enemies to lovers road trip across Australia with banter, romance and political intrigue. Draco Malfoy is on a quest to save his son. Hermione Granger is on a quest to steal his quest. What could go wrong? Terrified that his son Scorpius may one day succumb to a centuries-old blood curse, Draco embarks on a desperate search for a mythical fountain rumoured to hold the power to heal. Tracking ancient magic across Australia would be hard enough on its own, but with Hermione Granger (freshly divorced, endlessly clever, and irritatingly determined) insisting on joining him, the task becomes even more infuriating. Equal parts adventure, romance, and self-discovery, this is a story about redemption and the healing magic of second chances.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
Synopsis. (!) Two assignments overdue: your law professor and your history professor.
Objective: After teasing them all semester, Professor Higuruma Hiromi and Professor Nanami Kento…snap.
Time: At the same time.
Pairing. Nanami Kento x Reader x Higuruma Hiromi
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, history professor!Nanami, law professor!Higuruma, college AU, you’re such a TEASE, driving them wiId, they’re overworked, they’re older, tutoring, STERN Nanami, fíngering, rings, p sIapping, p talking, chokíng, rídin’ Higuruma’s nose, oraI (m + f), pússydrunk Higuruma, manhandIing, dragging, running from it, bíting, BOTH, fuII neIsons, bIindfolds, guessing, DP, SAME TIME, spítting, DÚMBlFICATlON, cervíx smoochin’, big stretches, they’re FÉRAL, creampíes, cúmpIay, slight cúmfIation, surprise at the end, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 13.2k
A/N. You babygirls said you wanted more law professor!Higuruma so…I said why not have BOTH?!
He had you next hour.
Professor Nanami Kento - head of the History Department, PhD with Distinction - had you in his next class.
And he wasn’t even half as prepared as he should be: the coffee-maker in the staff room had broken down.
Goodness knows how many times the blond-haired man has haunted that very station. Slouched over, sighing, sipping on his seventh coffee of the day.
And although he could blame it all on the higher-ups and their stingy funding, or perhaps the frat boys of Delta Jujutsu Pi that’ve made it a challenge to sneak inside—he blames you. He wouldn’t even have latched onto such a respite had it not been for the way you made his blood pressure rise…in all sorts of ways.
Nanami’s eyes glaze over, and his hand absent-mindedly drifts between his legs. Perhaps if he got his pent-up energy out first…
“Kento.” A knock at his cubicle. And Nanami jolts his hand away as though it burned-
It was Professor Higuruma Hiromi.
The head of the Law Department. Also PhD with Distinction. The man with dark circles and even darker suits, all prim and poised as he waded through the hallways with his stacks of documents—of course, Nanami was one for suits, as well.
They really brought out his broad shoulders- at least, that’s what you told him.
Another reason why he needs the coffee.
Fuck.
Nanami attempts to even out his breathing as he looks up. “Hiromi.”
If Higuruma thought anything of Nanami’s startled reaction, he makes no indication. Instead he holds up a slim file in his hand, “Are you free? Could you help me with looking over this essay?”
“Of course.”
They were the only two in the staff room right now, besides- anything to take his mind off of you.
Nanami adjusts the gold-rimmed glasses on his face before he takes the file from him. Flipping it open to find a jumble of justice and law jargon that his history-inclined brain balks at—“I never thought you’d want a history professor’s opinion on an essay about…” He squints at the title, “-the scope of judicial power and judicial review. Does this have any names of 14th century shoguns that you need me to check?”
“No- no.” Higuruma runs a hand down his face, though Nanami gets the impression that it wasn’t for him. Rather it was for whatever ravaged at the man inside- making him look up at the ceiling with a hollow sigh—“Man, I need some coffee today.”
“Understandable.” Nanami pushes his glasses up.
“The machine’s broken, right?”
“Right.”
Higuruma only lets out another sigh that Nanami relates to well.
“If it helps, Dean Yaga said it’d be fixed by tomorrow.” Nanami attempts- he never was the type of sociable guy some of the other professors were. But he gets the feeling that Higuruma was the same.
He runs a hand down his face one last time- “That’s too late, I have tutoring this evening with…” And how Nanami Kento related to that, as well. Before he seems to shake himself out of it- somewhat. “It’s alright, could you just check the grammatical and citation stuff for me?”
“Of course.” As Higuruma leans against the partition and waits, the other professor skims through the writing. It wasn’t half bad, to be quite honest, and had it been for his own class then he would’ve given it an A—none too many mistakes except for the odd careless error. At least it was human-made.
After a while of silence, Nanami’s partway through the conclusion when he asks. “Did you happen to get tired of looking through so many essays?”
“No, it’s just…” The dark-haired man sighs once more- for about the twelfth time since he came in. “-this student, you know?”
Nanami nods—he did know. “Trouble student?”
“Not quite.” He almost gulps.
Nanami narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t attend?”
“No, she attends every class.”
“Then what?” He leans back in his chair, essay forgotten now. “The legacy kid? The credit-chaser? The class clown that isn’t actually funny?”
Higuruma cuts through them all with a fierce shake of his head. “No, no, and no—” Almost gulping. “It’s just that this student is a little…distracting.”
The tips of his ears were red.
Instantly, Higuruma looks like he regrets it.
“F-forget I said anything-”
He does.
But Nanami looks squarely at the other man.
“I have a student like that, too.”
The law professor looks at him in wary interest. “Oh?”
“My star student, actually.” Pushing his glasses up, he opens up one of his cabinets and pulls out a thick, paper-stuffed file. And though Nanami Kento does collect his students’ work for the semester to review, he never does keep them quite so close - none other than yours.
Higuruma looks through them with slightly widened eyes. “All hers?”
Nanami nods, “So diligent that it’s almost distracting.”
Higuruma pulls out an empty chair beside Nanami and sits. Legs spread. Dark eyes thoughtful. “Mine, too.” He starts—“Never have I had a student ask for so many hours of extra tutoring.”
“Mine’s basically set up a tent in my office.” Nanami chuckles- though he can’t deny the slight pang it sends down to his cock. “Always taking on more assignments for extra credit, always answering questions first-”
“Always first in class and last to leave?”
“Exactly.” Nanami agrees. And he leans a hand on his desk as he watches the other man go through those papers - they were some of his most prized possessions, he feared to admit. Words from your heart. Swooping slashes of ink from your hands.
It was a part of you in those papers that Nanami Kento held dear to him- fuck, it was a part of you that sometimes he’d bring up to his greedy nose and sniff. Almost as if he could feel your skin through these very parchments.
It made him so fuckin’ hard.
But Higuruma didn’t need to know that.
Though the careful manner in which he handled those papers - how he leaned in just a little to drown in the ink - made him wonder…
“Always wearing the skimpiest skirt to class?”
And the other man looks up in shock- as though conveying something in his silence. Oh.
He flips the file over to look at the name typed-out on the cover, and it reads—yours. Ultimately, he continues—“A-always sittin’ in the front row with her legs spread just a bit?”
Nanami nods. “Always leaning over the desk when she has to speak in private.”
There’s a slight hardening within Higuruma’s eyes - though not of any unpleasant kind - it’s almost as if something deep and carnal was stirring awake right now. “Always wearing the prettiest black lace underneath?”
“She wears baby pink for me.” Nanami can’t help but smile.
“Fuck.” Higuruma runs a hand down his face again- and if Nanami didn’t know any better then he would’ve sworn that the other professor looked even more weary than when he first came in here. “And her panties-”
“Matching set.” Nanami responds without missing a beat - and he knows he’s some ol’ pervert for this.
He knows he is.
But he also knows about the smile that’d spread across your face the moment you’d realized he’d seen. “Bent over too low when picking her pen up one class.”
“Fucking—fuck.” Higuruma sounds agonized.
Nanami leans back in his chair, making it bounce a little bit. With a slightly breathless sigh leaving him, and his cock hardening even more in his pants–he’s forced to manspread under the table a little more. “She’s a needy lil’ thing, isn’t she?”
“That’s putting it lightly.” Higuruma’s lips quirk up into a sensual smile - as if he was reminiscing on the memories. “Wanting to fuck her professors? Seriously?”
“Believe she’s thought of both of us at the same time?”
“Don’t even say that-” The law professor looks around, even though there was no one else here. Looking back at the man with somewhat pleading eyes, “I have tutoring with her this evening. If I can’t even fucking grade her essay without getting a hard-on then what d’you think will happen if I’m thinking of that—?”
“Oh…” Nanami hums to himself, hands lacing in front of him. The coffee-machine really was broken. “-maybe that won’t be an issue.”
Higuruma glances at him with furrowed brows, “How so?”
“What time is your tutoring with her?”
“You mean…”
The blond man shrugs coyly- “I’m not implying anything…but which one of us two do you think is her favorite?”
“And people think you’re the gentleman of us two.” Higuruma grumbles but ultimately spits out the time. It seems you’d opted for tuition classes with your law professor in the after-hours—when the offices were snug, and the department was empty. And he feels his cock perk up at the fact- how many times has he raced back home to plunge into a cold bath after your tuition classes? How many times has his shower heard your name whispered? “I’m most definitely the favorite, by the way-”
So lost in his thought, Nanami nearly doesn’t catch the sentence. He looks over at Higuruma. “Does she call you ‘sir’, too?”
“She does.”
“Well, then we’ll find out, won’t we?”
.
.
.
The two hottest professors on campus.
Higuruma Hiromi (38) with his sleek-cut suits, his polished shoes, and those sleepy eyes that seemed to stare into the depths of your soul. The depths of your body - exposed underneath him. He was a stern teacher, not afraid to make you do an assignment over and over and over again…(and you gladly would). Higuruma’s justice classes made you…wet you had to admit, hearing him bark out simulations of court cases. Orders. Commands.
You could practically hear a sigh echo out across the room every time he acted out his attorney days.
Every time he banged his gavel down made your knees weak.
It was no wonder that students in the law department tittered n’ scattered any time the ruggedly handsome professor walked past.
On the other hand was your history professor.
Nanami Kento (31) with his beefier build, his strong arms, his gentle eyes—twinkling down kindly upon you every time he corrected a mistake. Which - you have to confess - you’ve made a few more times than you really had to, just to feel his molten gaze upon you again and again. He often caused your heart (and something else entirely) to flutter at the deep musicality of his voice, managing to make even the most boring of history passages something interesting. Something that swept the class up easily.
Nanami was reputed around campus for being a complete gentleman - never looking down upon someone, never letting them walk in after him, never letting them pay him a compliment without receiving a sweet one back.
The dream husband.
The stern and the nice.
Both of them- frat guys hated them.
It hadn’t been intentional to join both their classes- honest!
But after seeing them on your first day, how could you not commit to maintaining a spotless attendance? You had a sneaking suspicion that the rest of the class behaved in the same manner for much the same reason - though none took it quite as far as you.
The skirts. The extra credit. The bending.
Speaking honestly, you were a teacher’s pet. Through and through.
And the tightness in their pants whenever you left a class told you- they were the best professors. To you, that is.
Which is why you’d been a little less than happy when Professor Higuruma had told you that someone might be joining your weekly tutoring.
Invigilated tutoring?
What the hell was invigilated tutoring?!
You admit that you’d been forced to hold back a groan of disappointment. Picking such late hours had been a conscious decision—right up there with those tight pencil skirts that you knew your law professor loved but would never admit to.
Professor Nanami was more the type to like free, flirty pleats that barely reached your thigh - and you loved the way his eyes would follow them behind those glasses of his. Even though he pretended they didn’t.
And right now you were wearing a mix of both.
Tight on top, flared at the bottom
Seated opposite his desk - thighs shut, skirt pulled down as low as it would go - more concentrated than you’d ever been during one of these tutoring sessions. It’s been about half an hour since the start of today’s tuition. Higuruma’s office was a cosy space, decked out in the most expensive-looking mahogany banisters, and shelves, and a witness box in the far corner.
It gleamed at the light—down knowingly at you, almost as if waiting for you to make a move.
But how could you? If there was a potential visitor, then you didn’t want to risk Higuruma’s job- as much as you loved teasing your two hot professors, it wouldn’t do to get them fired!
So you kept your hands and your skirts to yourself.
And even Higuruma himself had his eyes raised, possibly wondering why you hadn’t leaned over his desk or lingered a touch at his shoulder for help.
But oh, how you wanted to…
The professor looks down at his watch, “He’s late.”
You’re glancing at the closed door, “Maybe the invigilator isn’t coming?”
“Oh, he will.” Higuruma crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “Trust me, he won’t miss this.”
A shiver runs down your spine.
You wondered what made him so sure.
And yet, you edge closer over the desk to him anyways.
It’s about forty-five minutes into your tutoring session when the door you’ve been sneaking glimpses of this entire time- clicks! And a looming figure walks into the room, his figure nearly taking up the whole frame.
Your jaw drops as you realize—
It’s Professor Nanami.
“Ah- Kento.” Higuruma beckons him over warmly- and you’re nearly suffering from whiplash from watching the two interact. These two are close?! Professor Nanami had been completely normal during your last class, if just a little more distracted than usual - and what was this? “We’ve been waiting.”
He looks at you as he says this.
“I had to penalize a student for missing a few assignments.” Nanami says smoothly, before bringing up a chair beside you and taking his seat. His movements were fluid and precise - as if he wasn’t questioning for a single moment why you were here so late, why you were dressed like that for him, and why you were so damn close.
You’d been staring into his handsome face for so long that he clears his throat. “Continue.”
“S-sir?” You’re chirping- and in your peripheral vision, Higuruma shuffles in his chair.
“Continue.” Nanami repeats in a stern tone. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him sound like that—“Just as you are. I would like to take notes for teaching my own classes.”
“You heard what he said.” Higuruma nods- and now you’re looking his way to see the most knowing smile on his face. “Continue, angel.”
Your thighs squeeze at the pet name.
Nanami quirks a blond brow and notes something down.
And so you’re ducking back into your work—
“Your blouse button is undone.”
Slightly gasping, you’re reaching down to fix it-
“No, don’t button it.” He interrupts you with his low tone, gravelly with something you can’t pinpoint. You’re looking up at Nanami to find his gaze unwavering from you already- “I was merely noting it. Nothing to fix.”
“But-”
“You unbutton it for my class, too, don’t you?” He asks, and you’re unsure what to say-
“Answer when your teacher speaks to you.” Higuruma’s humming tone echoes—and from the sound of it, he was thoroughly enjoying this. He cocks his head down at you, “Or haven’t they taught you that yet?”
“Th-they have.” You’re squirming in your seat, a slight heat simmering in your stomach. You turn to Nanami, “And I do.”
“Hm.” With nothing more said- he writes something else down in his notes.
And you think you’re in the clear.
For now.
It’s barely a few sentences later on your work that Nanami speaks up again-
“Your feet are touching his.”
You pull away-
“You’ve been writing the same sentence over and over.”
Your hand pauses-
“Your thighs are parted more so than before.”
Immediately, you’re smacking them back shut again- you hadn’t even realized. And how the hell had Nanami even seen?
And you could practically hear the smug smile in his voice - so unlike everything you know of him - as he continues. “And your bra is peeking out.”
“Never seen one before?” You mutter underneath your breath, just about to fix your collar (that you’d very purposefully left open)—
Before Nanami’s voice cuts through again. “Never seen one of yours in black before, is what.” Even as you’re looking at him in slight sensual shock- he doesn’t look up from his papers. “What happened to the baby pink you show-off in my class?”
And Higuruma merely leans back and smiles. “Black is my favorite color, remember?”
“How could I forget?” The history professor answers.
“Though I myself am curious about this baby pink of yours…”
And you have nothing else to do but gape- they knew.
Oh, how they both knew by now.
And by the looks in their eyes, they’d been dying for this very moment.
To confront how you’d been toying n’ teasing them all semester through now- enough so that they’ve apparently begun trading secrets about their unruly star student. You knew that Higuruma tended to have his ears grow hot and red any time he bumped into you in the hallway, and that Nanami would loosen his tie as if undressing whenever you wore a particularly scandalous thing to class - but you hadn’t known they’d been pushed…to this extent.
And you were glad for it.
So you sigh—slouching back in your chair. “So you both know. What now then? Do I get written up or something?”
But Nanami only looks at you through his glasses. “Sit up straight.”
He’s never uttered a command like that in his entire life during your usual lectures. And when you don’t move - merely looking at the blond man with raised brows - Higuruma pipes up. “You best listen to him now, angel.”
“Oh please.” Fluttering your lashes at them both. “And what’re you gonna do about it?”
Higuruma looks at Nanami.
Nanami calmly puts his notes down on the other’s table, and looks at you.
“Why-” He pushes his glasses up his handsome nosebridge. “-teach you a lesson, of course.”
“Both of you?” You could feel the elated giggles bubbling up in your throat- and you could feel the space between your legs start to grow wetter already. Looking between both of them—“Do it then.”
And then it’s a blur - you don’t know where Higuruma’s lips end and yours begin. He’s reached over the surface of his desk to kiss you like a starved man- and he groooans into that very kiss like you were the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Hand on your cheek.
The tips of his canines start nibblin’ on your lower lip- and you’re kissing him back even deeper. “Shit-” Higuruma’s husky tone scorches across your face, “Shit, I’ve been wanting to do this for so fucking long.”
“Mmm, you kiss like husband material.” You’re giggling into the kiss. Both of your hands end up on his shoulders, and you could feel the shifting of his muscles through his slim suit.
“Shit- and you talk like trouble.” He echoes out in an almost pained tone- like every second that his lips were away from yours ached.
And those plump, pursed lips press against yours once more—so much sweeter than you would have expected this booming lawyer to kiss. He’s using the hand on your cheek to tilt down your chin- “May I?” Before the short nod you give lets him slither his tongue in wetly, lappin’ at your sweetest taste. “Shit, you’re really like sugar on my tongue.”
And you’re whining into the fervent kiss, letting it go on for a few more minutes before you’re breaking away with the most lecherous plop! And a thoroughly flushed professor chasing after your lips drunkenly-
“And what about you…” You’re kissing down Higuruma’s sharp jawline, looking at the other man who’d been sitting quietly this entire time. “-sir? Haven’t you wanted to kiss me even once this semester?”
Nanami shivers but he hides it well. Uncrossing his legs and revealing the most rock-hard, aching bulge between his legs—“Kiss? Perhaps.”
And you’re gulping at the sight.
Higuruma scoffs out a slight burst of laughter. “Perhaps.”
“But I’m a gentleman, my love.” Nanami continues, leaning back in that luxurious armchair. He takes off his coat to reveal a pale blue button-up, and beneath that was revealed the most chiselled body you’ve ever seen. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows and beckons towards you. Manspread. Lap so welcoming. “Which means I’ve thought of far, far worse.”
Higuruma - with a final sloppy kiss plastered across your mouth - lets you walk over to Nanami.
Which you do on wobbly legs- plopping down unceremoniously on his lap. More than enough space there for you. He wastes no time bending you into shape in his strong arms, flipping you around to face the other man, and spreading your legs wiiiiiiide open-
Riiiiiip—!
“Whoops.” Nanami’s thoroughly unapologetic tone gruffs against the shell of your ear. Two of his vein-covered forearms were hooked underneath your elbows, and Nanami looks on boredly at the clean split down your skirt—“I always thought you’d look better without these anyway.”
Before he’s spreading your legs even further across his lap. Tearing it even more.
Exposing you for nothing but your tremblin’ legs and those drenched panties. Pretty black in color.
So lacy that it was practically nothing.
Higuruma’s eyes widen, “Dirty girl.”
Nanami breathes, “No, that’s called being a slut.” And shock runs through your body at his words- at Nanami ‘Gentleman’ Kento’s words. Before it’s suddenly overtaken by the sudden feeling of him smearin’ aside your panties and stuffin’ his fingers inside.
Those thick crowns dooooown to the golden ring on his middle finger.
They were long and thick. Swirling and swirling the tip of his digit right ‘round your clit- and when you’re shuddering and unable to take it any longer—he pulls away and licks off that excess slick with a slurp!
Humming to himself as though it was the greatest delicacy in the world. “One thing you should know about me, darling, is that just because I’m gentleman-” And you’d been so caught up in his ragged tone, you didn’t even realize that he’d snaked his hand back down between your legs. “-doesn’t mean that I’m not depraved.”
And he’s ending off the sentence not with a full stop- no, but with a sudden shove of his fingertips between your folds. So swollen n’ sweet with slick.
You buck and he lurches his hand out to slap you on top of your pussylips.
“Down, darling.”
“Please…” You don’t even know what you’re begging for.
But Nanami’s mouth waters already at the sound of it, and he’s keeping it at bay by pushing n’ pulling on the first ring of muscle at your cunt. “I said down.”
Head throwing back against his collarbone. “Oh.”
Fucking you with just the first inches of his fingers- “It doesn’t mean that m’not desperate.” Continuing as though your eyes weren’t bulging, as though your legs weren’t shaking, as though you weren’t arching off of his muscular chest. “It doesn’t mean that m’not ready to debase this pussy like she deserves.”
“Y-you mean—” You’re hiccuping, eyes starting to water at the sheer raw stretch. It was the type that left your pussy burning in the most delicious way - the feeling of having Nanami Kento’s scourin’ fingertips eager to enter your cunt. “-that whole gentleman thing was just a lie?”
“It’s not.” He responds. Final. His blond strands fall over his forehead as he keeps his eyes locked on your glistening hole, scissoring his fingers at that entrance n’ spreading you even wider. “I’m nice…”
Adding in a third finger before you’re even registering his second.
“-to everyone but this slutty pussy, that is.”
“Sh-shit—” Mewling at the top of your lungs, you’re clawing down Nanami’s strong forearms. They were the perfect thing to hold onto- just about the only thing you could hold onto as he utterly ruined your pussy with short, jerking thrusts.
Bulging the sides of your velvety walls open with his globular tips.
Cold metal ring shocking you.
So thick that he manages to probe into a few of your sensitive spots without even trying. Dragging his flexible fingers across every inch of you.
Scissoring and opening up and scissoring—deep.
Tears track down your cheeks at the sheer stimulation.
“Go easy on her, Kento.” Higuruma can’t help but groan at the sight of your pretty crying face. And soon enough, you’re hearing the metallic clinking of a belt buckle- “Don’t want to break our star student, now, do we?”
Nanami purrs against your temple. “Mmm, I don’t mind.”
“Just remember that she’s tutoring with me.”
The sound of Higuruma’s belt hitting the polished wooden floorboards is enough to make your eyes startle open- and oh, how you’re so glad it did.
Because then you’re greeted with the sight before you: of Higuruma Hiromi in utter ecstasy. All because of you.
He’d taken your seat from prior, chair angled perfectly to face the show taking place in front of him.
Where Nanami had your legs spread aaaaaall the way as far as they would go - until Nanami could hear your joints threatening to pop - and facing the dark-haired man. His dark eyes glinted as they stared down at your glistening hole, swallowing Nanami’s rams easily.
Slurps n’ squelches emanating like music.
Cunt dripping everywhere over the history teacher’s tight trousers. And the larger that puddle you were forming seemed to grow, the harder Nanami’s hammerin’ pace seemed to become.
You could barely keep your eyes open long enough to see Higuruma tug down his black pants- that throbbing erection of his making an appearance. He wraps his hands around his thickened base and starts tugging, soft grunts leaving his mouth at the rapid pull-pull-pull of his cock. “Shit, she’s so fucking wet- be a little nicer with that pussy o’ hers, would you?”
“Hmmm…I don’t think she deserves it.” And with that said, Nanami plants yet another sodden spank on top of your cunt. Ring grazing your front- “She hasn’t learned her lesson yet, has she?”
That stinging sensation zaps throughout your entire body and makes you buck. “I-I have—”
Before yet another thwack! of Nanami’s calloused fingertips follow.
Harder, this time.
“I was talking to this pussy, actually.”
And he doesn’t even wait for the primal sting to pass by before openin’ your cunt up and thrusting his fingers inside again. In and out.
Push after push into your gooey depths.
You’re so sensitive n’ wet by this point that even the slightest movements have you emanating out the loudest sounds. Squelches upon squelches—every time he’s hitting a spot deep inside your hole. “Mhmm…mmmhm.” You could feel Nanami’s head slightly nodding above your own, as if locked deeply in a conversation with your pussy’s sounds. Just one whine of yours and he’s spankin’ on you once more- “Wait your turn, my love. She’s talking t’me.”
And Higuruma- ah, Higuruma has the audacity to snicker at the action. “Now that’s just bullying, Kento.”
“Is it?” He’s slappin’ down on your pussylips once more. Listening for the sound, “She says it isn’t so.”
You’re sending a narrowed glare his way that makes the law professor roll his eyes fondly.
“Oh, alright alright-” And he half-heartedly waves off at his colleague. “Be a little nicer to my dear student, won’t you?”
“Spoiled brat.” Yet another spank. Nanami sinks his canines into the shell of your ear, and he’s tuggin’ and teasing—he’s spreading his legs even further and settling you down. With your back against his rippling chest, he pushes and pushes his greedy fingers inside your pussy. “And why do you think you- hah, deserve that, huh? Haven’t you been fucking torturing us all semester long now?”
Higuruma groans. “Can’t deny that, angel.” His hands fly even faster up and down his cock- ravaged and reddened with need.
“Mhmmmm.” The blond-haired man agrees, “Haven’t you been wearing those slutty skirts expecting to get fucked in them? Haven’t you- fuck, haven’t you been wearing that damn lingerie hoping we’d take a peak? Aren’t I right?”
He waits for your pussy to answer first- and then you’re answering. “I-I mean-” Attempting to.
“Haven’t you been bendin’ over and shit just because you wanted to show up in our wildest dreams? To consume our thoughts and make our cocks twitch?”
“Well-”
“And we did.” Higuruma pipes up next. He was so needy that he was practically bucking off of his chair, making it creak with movement. Short, jerky thrusts.
“Oh, yes we did.” Nanami continues. He leans down to your ear, as if exposing a secret- “I’d look forward to our classes everyday, my love. I’d have to fuck my fist raw before class- just so I wouldn’t fuck you senseless in front of everyone like how you were begging me to.”
Higuruma moans as he thumbs down the line of his flared tip - that pinkish, slippery line. He twitches as though he’s near to cumming already. “Me- me, too…”
“And you still expect me to be a gentleman?”
You’re restless, opening your mouth to defend yourself and—
Nanami only leans down and spits a glittery wad of spit between your pursed lips. “Don’t talk when the teacher’s talking, darling.”
And your ears pop with pressure-
He’s hittin’ the plushness of his palm against your pussy with a loud smack! Smearing the curves n’ divots of his fingers dooooooown and up your walls, down and up.
His crown fingertips reach for your deepest innards- and you swear you can feel him stroking your very cervix. Runnin’ his frigid ring across your walls.
Drawing a few lines and marking his placement right back there, before he tunnels his digits at a frenzied pace - fingers almost nothing but a pale blur between your legs. His speed is so feverish that it leaves your sheen tricklin’ all down your thighs.
Trickling and trickling and—
And then you feel Nanami hook his fingers against your g-spot.
The pleasure shoots up your body like a lightning strike, “O-oh my god—right there, Kento.”
“Kento? Who’s Kento?” Nanami doesn’t even falter his fingering to answer, cooing in that tone that you’d almost mistake for something sweet. “I think you meant sir-”
“S—fuck.”
“Say it.” He huffs against the side of your face. Teeth almost out for blood- “Say it. Call me ‘sir’ or you don’t get to cum.”
“I—”
“Say it.” Higuruma, to your surprise, echoes from his seat. Where he had his gaze burning into your spread-open pussy n’ his mouth drooling at the vision of you—“Say it, angel. I need to see that pretty pussy cum.” Hands rubbing faster and faster-
“She deserves to cum, mhm.” Nanami nods. “But do you, huh?”
“I-I do.” You’re nodding up at your desperate professors. One just barely in your line of vision- but his fingers were working up such a storm. His slightly-tanned arms pinning you down, working your pussy open, hitting that target of your g-spot like a cute button. Again and again—
Blond hair ruffled. Glasses slipping down his sweaty nosebridge.
And then the other one that was just creamin’ his precum down his hands. With his hands on his swollen erection - one of them creating a tunnel for him to fuck his fist, the other flattening over his dribblin’ divot to stop from cumming already.
Sleepy eyes half-lidded. His pale thighs shivering as they bucked n’ rutted.
And the vision itself is enough to make you cum- but then again it just felt so good on Nanami’s hands, and underneath Higuruma’s gaze. So you can’t help but let your lips wobble open—“P-please let me cum-” Stars bursting behind your vision once Nanami presses down on your clit as well. “-sirs.”
The two older men look at each other.
“Sirs?” Higuruma asks, voice breathless with ecstasy.
“She just begged for both of us.” Nanami grumbles out - though not quite unhappily. It made his cock twitch deep in his pants to have you whimperin’ like this, and he continues. “Alright then, you slutty pussy.”
And it takes only a few more strokes - a few more direct thrashes along your g-spot - for you to hurtle straight into your high.
It’s so strong that you’re seeing white behind your eyelids—and your mouth blabbers out an unintelligible combination of both professors’ names. Toes curling. Sweat beading down your temple.
Nanami holds you down as you’re thrown through wave upon wave of your orgasm, your hips bucking up and down desperately. Riding throughout your bliss- and if that wasn’t already enough, he counts underneath his breath to measure how long it takes between your peaks of euphoria. Before hittin’ away at your g-spot just in time with each one.
The sensations that take you over are just incredible.
And your head falls back limply against Nanami’s shoulder.
Shivering. Almost as if you were in heat- and your pretty pussy gushes out honeyed slick as though to give credit to that statement.
Lavishing Nanami’s open thighs with all your sap—Higuruma eyes the mess and gulps. “Kento, give me a taste of that.”
Nanami scoffs. “In due time.”
“Kento, I need her pussy on my face now.”
Slowly but surely, you’re fluttering your eyes open at the feeling of being shuffled around - only seeing the beautiful, brown eyes of Higuruma Hiromi staring down at you. When did he get so close?
“Hiromi?” You’re blubbering out stupidly, still suffering from the aftershocks of your previous high. Those zapping bursts of electricity made your thighs twitch sensitively- “I mean- sir?”
Higuruma shivers, “You trained her well, Kento.”
“Mhmmm—” Nanami noses down the column of your throat proudly.
“Maybe now it’s time for a reward then, huh?”
You’re perking up. “Yes, please.”
Nanami snickers. “You spoil her.”
And in almost no time, you’re finding yourself handed off to the law professor - Nanami stands up and gets off of the armchair. While Higuruma takes his place-
At least, that’s what you think is going to happen.
But what ends up happening instead is that Higuruma seats you down on the chair, letting your barely-clothed pussy rub up against the cushion. Something in his eyes gleams at the way you’re squirming, and he speaks to you in a gentle tone. “Can you turn around and hold the headrest f’me, angel? Be a good girl f’me?”
“A-alright?” Confused, you’re just doing what he says. He meant that you had to turn and climb your knees onto the seat, ass turned towards the professors, back slightly arched.
“Mmm, good.” Higuruma admires the view. “Arch that back just a little more f’me now, alright?”
“Like this?”
And still not sure what he was about to do, you can only follow his commands. It almost feels like a doggy position- and you hold onto the wooden headrest for dear life.
“Mhmmm.”
And Nanami’s the first to mutter to himself, “Don’t tell me you’re…” He takes in the sight of you - with your front resting against the backrest of the chair. You have your spine bent, your ass cheeks displayed for them, your cunt not quite on the seat—“Hiromi, you dirty dog.”
“Couldn’t help myself.” Steadily, Higuruma’s kneeling on the floor.
There’s no warning before he then shoves his face nose-deep into your cunt- straight from behind.
Higuruma grabs onto either side of your ass cheeks, his prominent nose curvin’ up the slit of your pussy. He’s using his grip on you to draaaag you further down onto his face—“Mhmmm—spread those legs.”
He’s muttering.
He’s spitting- stern lips pursing and letting out a rivulet of saliva.
It strikes vertically down your cunt before Higuruma’s running his fat tongue over it. Smearing around the mess he’s made- but most importantly, smearing around the mess that you’ve made.
You’re whining as Higuruma’s textured tastebuds seem to take over your pussy. All the way from the plumpness of your folds, and then dipping between them to tease your hole- you’re still so sensitive from the massage that Nanami’s fingers had simmered into you. And you’re trembling your thighs further open, “P-please- fuck-”
“I’m a lawyer so I’m really good with my tongue, y’know?” Higuruma pants out, scorching hot against your needy pussy. “But that means my fees are high, too-”
“A-and what are your fees?” You’re sobbing out.
“Mmmm…” He takes the time to think—and by that, you mean that he rovers his mouth over where your clit was throb-throb-throbbing. The law professor takes his sweet time spreadin’ open your pussylips with his tongue, before letting his tongue flop out n’ draaaaaag down your clit-
And his next words are so lecherously muffled. “Ride my nose raw, sugar.”
You gasp.
In the background, you can hear a gruff bout of laughter that notably doesn’t belong to Higuruma.
You grip onto the headrest of the chair harder than ever- because in a split-second, Higuruma’s thumbin’ your folds open and stuffing your hole all full of his tongue.
So loooong and slick- curving right against the roof of your pussy. It makes you jolt to feel his honed, flexible tip zig-zagging its way down your channel—mazing and mazing inside that it’s as though his wet muscle was never-ending.
Higuruma Hiromi was damn ravenous.
He feels your knees start to slip away from him- and he claws his fingers deep into the globes of your ass cheeks to pull you back. Uncaring if you’re whining for mercy- “A-aren’t you supposed to be the nice one, sir?”
“Spoiled.” Nanami’s voice echoes from the distance.
“Mmm- keep calling me that, yeah?” Groans wrenching from the back of his throat at the mere sound of that title being said in your pretty voice. How nice it was to make you beg. “And no—”
“No?”
“I am being nice by letting you ride my nose, aren’t I?” His head jerks just a little upwards to look at you- and Higuruma can just barely make out the shock on your face. “I know how much you’ve wanted to ride it-”
“Hiromi-”
“Ever since ya fuckin’ met me, huh?” His rough tone vibrates through every vessel of your body- pushed even further by the constant swabbin’ he was doing inside. Swab after swab. “Ever since ya first saw me- don’t think I didn’t see how you stared at me.”
You’re clawing further up the headrest. “B-but how did you know-”
“Oh, angel…” Higuruma almost chuckles. Something dark and depraved- “If I was wrong then you wouldn’t be so fucking wet- I can barely breathe.”
Both of his roughened palms plaster around your thighs. Draaaagging you bodily - as though you were nothing against him - to glue your pussylips to his own lips.
He makes out with your pussy like a man parched.
“And I don’t need to.”
Your vision blurs with pleasure as Higuruma spreads your folds perfectly apart- and starts rammin’ his tongue into you wildly. Thick and thirsty for the taste of your sweet, sweet juices—any time that even a mere droplet of your sap starts to drip down your thighs- you can best believe that Higuruma was whipping his head down to slurp it up. “Harder.”
“I-I am-”
“Faster.”
“Fuck-”
“Raw, I said raw.”
Practically addicted to it.
He’s pussydrunk in with just a few sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. And you yourself can feel your pupils start to circle inside the whites of your eyes.
Spreading yourself even further on the chair to meet his utterly ravenous mouth-
“Didn’t forget about me now, did you?”
Nanami Kento sounds the closest he’s been since he had you on his fingers- which could feel like minutes, hours, days ago by now. It takes you significant effort to blink away the clingy film of tears on your eyes, and you’re opening them to find that he was actually…standing right in front of you.
Nanami had rounded the side of the armchair - and if you looked up, there his handsome face was. So now you have your law professor at your behind, and your history professor’s crotch in front of your face. His pants much too tight.
His cock thick and throbbing underneath there.
Clasping onto the headrest of the chair, if you raised your head juuuuust a little then you’d be able to mouth over the twitching erection he hid underneath there. “K-Kento?”
Nanami looks down at you through his gold-rimmed glasses. Grinning at your teary expression, “Only a few minutes with your nice teacher n’ you’ve already forgotten your manners, my love?” His hand falls to his formal pants, “Guess we have to go back to lesson one.”
“O-oh…”
Nanami had already unbuckled his belt and lets it drop to the floor—clink! Followed right along with the popping of his buttons, it doesn’t take too long before you’re face-to-face with his rock-hard bulge. Achingly hard. Almost painfully hard.
Barely held together by his boxers, he seeps out such volumes of precum that it creates a dark patch on the silken fabric. It glistens just a bit under the dim lighting of the office- something that makes you gulp.
And something that makes Higuruma nudge his tongue even deeper inside of you- shit, you could feel yourself growing more aroused. And he could taste it.
“Did you know she gets sweeter n’ sweeter the wetter she gets?” Higuruma slurs from in-between your legs, latching onto your clit with a loud squelch! “And you won’t believe it…but right now she tastes like the tastiest strawberry candy- heh.”
“Is that so?” Nanami’s nose crinkles as he looks down at you. He’s admiring that drunken expression on your face for a little bit, before reaching his right hand down and clasping at the back of your head. “Filthy girl.”
You shiver. “C-can’t help it-”
“Ah ah—not another word out of you.” The blond-haired man continues. His grip tightens- “I expect you not to speak when your professor is speaking-”
Cocking his head just a little, Nanami takes a glance at the famished way that Higuruma was kissin’ between your legs. Gasping. Gulping.
He had his mouth gaped wide open and was dragging it across every inch of your pussy that he could reach- sticking that long tongue of his between your pussylips. You’re almost sandwiching his tastebuds for a bit before he manages to flicker his tastebuds inside again—then in and out, in and out, in and out.
Faster than before.
Reeling back out to slap! your pussy with the flat surface of his tongue.
Then probin’ back in again.
Higuruma’s just being so loud-
“-and when this pussy is speaking.” The rest of the history professor’s sentence makes you gasp - brain so muddled that you’d almost forgotten what he was saying. Almost forgotten that he has a firm grip on your sweaty scalp—one that he’d now turned into two hands upon your sweaty scalp.
Tugging your head forwards as if you were nothing but a ragdoll to smush your face against his boiling hot erection.
Your jaw falls open and soon enough, you’re salivating all over his clothed cock.
Tongue lavishing across the cotton of his boxers- feeling every ridge n’ vein along his shaft.
He groans at the feeling of your heated mouth, and his fingers dig into your scalp even deeper. Tugging. Needing. One set of your fingers reach upwards to fumble its hem, and you take Nanami’s round, reddened tip into his mouth.
Moaning at the large size of him.
Moaning at the salty taste that floods your mouth-
“Hey now…” Higuruma’s choked-up tone echoes from behind. You’re feeling his tender fingers start to pull your hips back onto his face, “-don’t steal my star student away.”
“Have you forgotten that she’s my star student, too?”
“Her pussy’s on my mouth right now- so who’s in charge?”
“Well, let’s ask how she feels about it…” Nanami’s voice trails off—and only too late are you realizing that he isn’t talking about your pussy this time. He’s talking about you- waiting for your answer.
And you’re attempting to muffle out something, letting the globular edge of his cock swirl around your mouth a few times. Around and around. Just the crown of his mushroom tip prods into your every orifice inside- you’re opening your mouth to answer when Nanami jerks his hips forwards.
Fucking his cock deeeeep into your maw.
And with it, whatever words were in your throat, too.
“I dunno about that-” Nanami hums down at the chokes n’ strangled gasps you’re letting out, just the barest noises of whatever was able to filter past his swollen shaft. “-but it sounded like a ‘you, sir’ to me.”
“Didn’t know you were that depraved.” Higuruma spits out. Dark eyes narrowed as he’s grinding you back to him n’ lapping away at your oversensitive pussylips.
“I’m a gentleman, what can I say?” The other professor responds.
As the slurps n’ sucking continues, Nanami looks at you through half-lidded eyes. He admires the way your mouth leaves a glittering glaze of spit from the tip of his cock and doooown to about halfway down his shaft—so cute how you couldn’t fit it all. “And as Head of your pussy-” Fuck, when did he even assign himself that? Is he pussydrunk already? “-I say you can’t cum until you’re fitting my cock aaaaaall the way…”
The history professor’s left hand lifts off of your scalp. Then dragging down the front of your throat - down, down, down.
“-here.”
He points to a spot way past the back of your throat.
He fucks your mouth like he’s agonized every second he isn’t reaching for it.
Higuruma growls.
And thereafter it’s almost like a tug-of-war - on one end you’re being hauled forwards by Nanami’s grip on the back of your head. His hands strong and unwavering, no matter much you’re gasping for air- fuck, the ever-gentlemanly Nanami Kento was gone for the feeling of your mouth tightening around his hot cock.
Rutting those toned hips up into your velvety cavern like an animal-
“Just a little more.” That left hand of his wraps around your throat now, his thumb markin’ at the spots where he can feel his rounded tip probing inside. “Just a liiiiittle more now- about four inches? Heh.”
“Mmm—” Your eyes go wide in surprise.
And Nanami responds by pushing his hips even further, nearing the tip of your nose to those curls of blond at his base. “C’mon, c’mon.”
And on the other end, Higuruma had his nails digging into the flesh of your thighs. Into the flesh of your ass. His tongue fishing around your insides before he pulls out and starts nibblin’ on your damn clit—
He’s thirsty. Depraved.
“Noooo, angel.” He’s gluing his chin to the front of your pussylips. Head moving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth as the law professor lashes his tongue across. “Come back to me-”
“Mmm—” You’re being pulled off of Nanami Kento’s reddened, dribblin’ cock with a plop! Just from the sheer pressure of Higuruma manhandling your body from the other side - dragging you all down his handsome face. “Fuh-fuck-!”
“Where’d you think you’re going?” Only for Nanami to barely let you breathe for a split-second before he’s pulling your mouth down his shaft again.
Shovelling a gooooood few inches of his vein-covered cock inside- he marks that spot out on your throat. Even deeper than the last time you had him- “Mmm, not bad. Just a few inches- mmm, more.”
“Ride my nose.” Higuruma begs from the other end. Breath breezing down your gooey core, it makes your thighs shiver- “Ride my nose, I don’t care. Ride my nose, ride my nose—”
And you’re just so overstimulated from all ends.
From the draaagging of Nanami’s thumb down the front of your neck, from the sensual touch of Higuruma’s nose being sandwiched between your pussylips, from the pleasure of them both playing with your body. It’s as if you’re their favorite toy to taste, to fuck - to worship because of the way they were being driven to absolute madness by those carnal sensations.
You can only jolt your body back and forth.
Down Nanami’s cock. Up Higuruma’s ready face.
Riding his nose just like you wanted- “S-so—” Somehow barely managing to gurgle out past the pulsating tip of his cock, “So close-”
“Close?” Higuruma perks up. “Fuh-fuck- I have you, angel.”
“Remember- no cumming until you take it here.” Nanami presses his thumb somewhere near where your voicebox was bulging with the intrusion of his inches. “You’re not there yet, darling…”
“But-”
“Please let her cum.” But to your surprise, it’s your law professor who is pleading your face.
Nanami raises a blond brow, “Oh?”
“Let her-” He slurps away on your swollen nub- sensitive and throbbing. He’s hollowing his cheeks out to get that suctioning sensation, already making your knees feel weak with pleasure. “Need her to- fuck, want her to cum on my tongue. Let her cum already.”
Nanami thrusts even deeper, “Hmm…I dunno.”
“I’m the one asking you.” Higuruma grumbles. “Let her cum-”
“Mmmpf- please.” And your brows furrow as the pit of bliss in your stomach grows stronger.
“Let her-” The law professor continues, “I’m begging you- fuck, she’s becoming so sweet. Let her cum-”
Pale brows furrowing. Sweat lines down his temple- “I don’t…just fit-” And he’s scrapin’ his bulbous tip down the roof of your cunt—all the way along to the back of your throat and targeting even further. “If she takes it until-”
Higuruma’s nose helping your grinds and bounces. “Just let her cum-”
“If she takes it-”
“Fucking let her-”
“G-gonna—” It’s the last thing you’re managing to get out before a sudden slam! of Nanami’s hips shut you up- and before you know it, you’re feeling the carnal scratch of his pubic hair. The feeling of his tawny curls at your skin, the intrusion of his throbbing shaft all the way down your throat.
And his thumb tapping where he’d marked a treasure spot - a spot he was supposed to meet. Nanami doesn’t have to say a single thing for Higuruma to bite his sharp canines down on your clit.
And before you know it, you’re bursting into your nth high of the night.
Not just your second, but your third, perhaps even your fourth.
Stars burst behind your eyelids, and your moans are nothing but soft crackles at the back of your throat. Higuruma draaaaags you all throughout those waves of bliss, elongating them with the thorough lavishing of his tongue.
Probin’ into every sweet spot.
Inside and out.
He digs his fingers into your thighs, now accomplishing his dream of having you ride his nose. Because you’re being made to arch your back n’ bounce your hips lecherously up and across.
Hittin’ those best angles- the peaks of your high absolutely burst through you.
And Nanami? Your history professor was enjoying the view - cocking his head to the side and smiling as you shatter on Higuruma’s face. He watches about half your orgasm bate, before starting to fuck his swollen cock back in and out of you. Thrusting.
“Now now—” Nanami murmurs. “You should be thankful my rubric’s so generous this time.”
You can only look up at him with your teary eyes.
That sight is enough for him to bite down on his lower lip n’ stop himself from cumming. No, he had something more important in his mind…
“Thirty seconds to finish up.” He says meanly. “Before I either drag your pussy off of his face or you have to drag yourself off, m’kay?”
“Tch- stingy.” Higuruma keeps lappin’ at you even after your high has passed.
And once that thirty seconds of more bliss have passed - just like Nanami said - he grips both hands ‘round the back of your scalp and wrenches you off of his cock. Off of Higuruma’s mouth. He’s bending down to spit straight between your lips—
“Now, I’m gonna be nice this one time because you took all of me. Understood?” The history professor states, so firm. “Nod if you understand, my love.”
You nod.
“Good.” He then kisses your lips- tasting you, tasting himself. “Now…do you want it from the back or face-to-face? Because m’fucking you filthy either way.”
“From- from the back.” You pant out.
And Nanami gives a single, stern nod before he lets you go. “Brace yourself.”
You’re collapsing back into the chair—sitting your ass down on it this time. Before the law professor suddenly has you in his arms - he supports you in getting off of the armchair and standing up. Now in the middle of his office, you’re stumbling onto your wobbly feet.
Your arms loop around Higuruma’s neck. “Hiromi…”
“Mmm, I love it when you call me that.” Higuruma kisses you.
“How unruly.” Both of you snap your heads at the sound of buttons popping- only to find that Nanami was taking off his button-up. And you were right- fuck, you were so right. He was so thoroughly chiselled underneath, almost Herculean in nature.
With the most naturally defined ridges n’ curves of his muscles—his firm pectorals, his washboard abs, his meaty thighs that make an appearance.
Nanami sheds of all his clothes before he stares down the two of you- “Addressing your professor by name? Clearly going against objectives to get ready? Making me jealous? What an undisciplined class, no need to be standing around.” He looks at you, “I’ll be fucking you until you can’t stand, anyway.”
A shiver runs down your spine—“Oh.”
“Now, darling.”
Higuruma lets you waddle away to Nanami- who merely swivels you around and bends you over the edge of his colleague’s desk. Papers and ink flying everywhere across the office as he does.
Folding you forwards until your head hits the table. Kneeing your legs apart.
It’s hitting you like a truck - your history professor is about to fuck you against your law professor’s desk.
“Stay still.” He gravels in your ear.
Nanami’s barely letting you take a breath before rubbin’ his bulbous tip down your dripping wet slit from behind. Hand gripping his thick hilt—up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Getting his inches coated in a glaze of your sap, Nanami hums at the feeling of you attempting to contract around him.
“This naughty girl’s reeeeal needy for me, huh?” Scorching breath heating up your skin, he kisses down your arched spine. “She says she can take all of me- can you?”
“Y-yes—” You’re sobbing into the polished mahogany. Bucking your hips up, “I want it, sir.”
You’re jolting as his puckered, pinkish tip smooches at your wet entrance- he’s just so thick that he can plug your hole up easily. Nanami’s tip throbs against your hole, and he reaches a right hand down to feel your pretty stomach - to feel where he’s going to be hittin’ with his hungry cock.
He breathes out airily—“You want it?”
“Yes-”
“Say please.”
“Please-”
“Hmmm?”
“Please, sir.”
Nanami lurches his hips back, back, backwards- “As you wish then, teacher’s pet.”
And then you’re being stuffed with an inch or two of him.
And by stuffed—you were seriously stuffed.
Thick and thorough. Almost too big to even fit in - Nanami fills out the orifice of your cunt without even trying. His ruby-red tip just manages to squeeze between your pussylips, before the first ring of muscle at your entrance makes him falter.
And he’s gritting his teeth at the sheer tightness, voice coming out as nothing but a hiss. “Fuck- didn’t you say that you can take it?” He’s pressing his left hand down at the base of your spine, leaning his weight in to keep you still. “Come back, my love- class isn’t over yet.”
You hadn’t even realized you’d been clawing at the desk until now. “S-sir—”
Just that is enough to make Nanami’s ravaged tip twitch inside of you- spurting out a few more dollops of pre. “Yes, darling?”
“I d-don’t—” Fuck- you swear you could feel him grow even harder inside of you at the sight of your teary expression. Staring at your history professor over your shoulder, “I don’t know if it even can fit.”
“Awww, my poor baby.” And you should know better than to let Nanami Kento hush your cries, you should know better than to let him lull you.
But you can’t help but get pulled into his big, strong arms anyway.
“My poor, poor baby.” And from one corner of the room, you could hear Higuruma’s distant laugh. Although you don’t have the time to wonder what it means, because Nanami’s continuing- “None of those boys ever taught you how to take a real cock, hm?”
And you can only nod.
“None of those boys have ever fucked you right, hm?”
Nodding once more.
“Don’t you worry, darling. If you can’t take this one…”
He presses a chaste peck against your hairline. Letting his soft breath waft over the crown of your head, and his chest ripple with his words, soft.
“-m’gonna make it fit.”
And that’s the last thing you’re hearing before Nanami’s rammin’ his swollen, aching cock into you like an animal- his furious cockhead burrowing in deep.
He manages to shovel just a few more inches inside, before the snugness of your channel acts up once more. Leaving him barely even able to reel his hips backwards—just that much of a tight fit that’s making his eyes roll to the back of his skull.
He shakes.
His groan cracks at the back of his throat. “O-oh.” Both of Nanami’s hands fly to the sides of your hips, and his fingers fucking shake where he holds you. “Oh, yeah.”
“Shit-” You’re flinching at the scalding sensation of his breath. Gusting.
And even that mere shiver- Nanami catches onto it. And it’s only making him clasp your body even tighter, pulling you into him—“You’re really not getting away until we make it fit, my love. Good luck.”
No matter how much his ravenous hips are rutting n’ bucking and trying oh-so-desperately to hammer even more of his inches inside- he can only fuck you in short, needy half-thrusts. The rest of him left to throb wildly behind you, he keeps on stretching and stretching your insides just to fit inside.
Each one of his bucks so desperate. So greedy.
The pointed tip of Nanami’s cockhead prods away at your innards as though he’s trying to claim every single ounce of space inside you-
“Have you forgotten that this is a joint class, Kento?”
Higuruma’s voice is enough to send pulses of adrenaline flowing through your body - and you’re just managing to look around Nanami’s toned frame. The law professor stands behind the two of you with his arms crossed, clothes mostly on except for his trousers being tugged down.
He held his blushin’ cock in one hand, pumping furiously at the sight of his star student.
Nanami himself sighs—though he doesn’t stop his sloppy scouring of your innards for a single second. He looks straight at the other man as he asks- “Oh yes…would you like her now or after me, Hiromi?”
“Now.” Higuruma narrows his heady eyes at the two of you. And the blond-haired man slightly growls at his answer, seemingly grappling with the thought of leaving your pretty pussy right about now- “But don’t pull out.”
You feel like you’re experiencing whiplash. “What?”
Nanami only raises a sharp brow.
And Higuruma himself can’t help but crack a sleazy smirk-
Before you know it, he’s rounding the two of you. Coat off. White button-up flapping open.
He tugs on the smooth, black tie that was hanging haphazardly from his neck- and gestures something indiscernible at the other man.
Though, clearly both professors understood.
Because one second you’re slouched on top of Higuruma’s desk, droolin’ stupidly over some important documents as Nanami Kento pounds you into oblivion - and in the next second, he’s lifting you off of it.
Cleanly off the desk.
One hand wrapped around your waist, the other putting you in a headlock.
He pulls you up as though you’re nothing- and you’re ogling the way his biceps bulge around your throat. Feeling the cushy firmness of his strength—“W-what are you-”
“D’you know what a standing full nelson is?” Higuruma asks. And for a second you think he’s asking you - maybe this was some strange sort of quiz - but then Nanami nods.
“Thought that only happens in fiction? Don’t tell me you’re a secret freak, Hiromi?” He scoffs, though he pulls out either way.
“And look who’s talking…” Then Higuruma looks at you and taps his shoulders. “Hold on, angel, he’s going to lift you.”
“Shit…”
As expected, you’re holding onto Higuruma’s broad shoulders for leverage- whilst Nanami bends and loops his hands around your legs. His strong forearms where your knees were.
Scooping you up into his arms.
Holding them up.
Holding you up.
Hoverin’ well over six feet in the air.
Yelping, you’re digging your nails into the law professor’s shoulders - but if it hurt, then he doesn’t’ react to the pain. Honestly, you don’t even think he could feel it right now—because Higuruma was holding out his tie.
Measuring it against your face-
Tying it around your face like a blindfold.
He knots it at the back of your head, and suddenly the room is curtained in nothing but pure black. You could only hear the gruffness of both men’s chuckles, and Higuruma asking. “Everything alright, angel?”
“Of course, it is.” Nanami mutters- almost to himself. Though he does stretch your legs a little wider, presumably to show to the other man—“Look how fucking drenched she is.”
“Good girl.”
“Naughty, you mean.”
“I must beg to differ.”
And you’re arching against Nanami’s toned front, the plushness of his abs digging against your back. It was the most sensual massage you’ve felt in your entire life- “Please- ngh, what’s with the blindfold?”
“Oh, that…” Higuruma starts. “Guess.”
“What?”
“Guess.”
Brains wracking- “You aren’t going to leave me hanging, are you?”
“No.”
“Is this a roleplay?”
“No.”
“A kink thing?”
“Well…”
“A BDSM thing?”
“Guess.”
You’re feeling helplessness wash over you—“B-but, I already did-”
“No, my love.” Nanami’s the one to speak up this time. He leans down so that he’s pressing an innocent kiss to the edge of your hairline, “We’re going to make this slutty pussy guess which one of us she’s being fucked by.”
Your jaw drops.
And your cunt grows even wetter.
An occasion that the two professors are watching with awe-
Higuruma in particular finds himself breathing out—“And your time starts…now.”
And then you’re hearing the shuffling of his trousers- right before a sudden proddin’ intrusion starts up at your entrance. It was hot and throbbing—so needy that your teeth are set on edge by the sheer volume of precum that he was emptying out.
You’re feeling his thick tip start to eeeease in- squeezing in past the tightness of your channel for a bit before pulling back and fucking you ruthlessly in semi-thrusts.
“H-Hiromi?” You guess. Surely, with him being the one that was removing his trousers it must be…
“Wrong.” Nanami grins.
And then you’re feeling his cock give you a few vicious pumps before he’s pulling away - leaving you all empty and yearning for more. Your glistening hole clenches a few times around nothing, before a sudden globular tip starts kissin’ your entrance once more.
You’re bucking back in Nanami’s arms in an attempt to figure out just who it might be- but the history professor holds onto you firmly. Not a single inch.
Not a single inch less.
Whoever was fucking you takes no more time before swabbin’ his swollen erection inside once more- biting back a groooan at the feeling of your tightening walls.
It’s the same short, jerky thrusts from before just to fit in.
“Sir?” You’re gasping out. But surely, it can’t be twice in a row…“No wait- is it Hiromi this time?”
The cadence of his hips stops abruptly. “Can’t get enough of the law, can you?”
Nanami.
And you don’t know whether it’s the fact that you’re just feeling your brain melt at the sheer stimulation between your legs, you don’t know whether it’s the fact that both handsome men had you sandwiched between their muscular bodies—it was just driving you wild. Making you stupid.
A line of drool slicks down the side of your mouth, and Nanami doesn’t hesitate before leaning in and lickin’ it off. “I should punish you for this.”
“I-I—oh, fuck.” Whatever words were on the tip of your tongue get swallowed up by the feeling of yet another round, ruddied cockhead pushing inwards. Pulsing. Prying apart your walls. And you’re noticing that this one is slightly slimmer than the last, more pointed, more honed, more of its curvaceous tip that tilts to the left.
It makes you shiver at the feeling of his bawling divot dragging across your walls so perfectly. “Is this- sir-”
“Try again, angel.”
It was a struggle to piece your thoughts together, and Higuruma’s voice is the only thing that makes you realize-
“Hiromi.”
“Mhmmm—” Before you know it, the other man has one hand dipping between your jittery legs. His fingers easily locate your clit to tug n’ pry like the cutest gummy - how sweet. And he’s timing it to the constant probes of his looooong, smooth cock. “Good girl. A++ for that.”
“You’re quite the generous grader.” Nanami scoffs. “I would have given that a B.”
“What can I say? I do have a soft spot for her…” Higuruma’s cock was slightly lengthier than Nanami’s, you’re noticing - though not quite as thick. And with less veins that didn’t massage your inner orifices as much, but made it soooo much easier for him to slip even deeper.
Especially with this position, he manages to probe his cockhead further past where Nanami’s thicker one was able to fit.
Reaching almost for your throat with his blushing, frenzied tip- Higuruma gives a final roll over your clit before he’s pulling out. Letting a few ribbons of sap gush down your legs after him-
Ones that are being fucked right back up with a second length.
Thicker. Harder.
Throbbing so much that you swear you can count them all the way at the top of your head- Nanami’s shaft was next. And he’s lavishing your entrance with so much attention—draaaaagging his vein-decorated shaft in and out. In and out. In and out.
“S-so?” He rasps out from behind. Higuruma’s cockhead had mazed open your insides just a bit more, and Nanami struggles not to let his voice tremble. “Which one of us, darling?”
“Y-you—”
That earns you a bite on the shell of your ear. “No.”
Before he’s pulling back out.
And your breath catches- “Wait- I meant sir. It’s you, sir—”
“Too late for that now.”
“Awww, come now.” Higuruma coos as well. “How are we supposed to make an example out of our star student if she just keeps makin’ mistakes?”
“I think she’s gettin’ lazy now, huh?” The other man responds. And now both of their ruddied cockheads were droolin’ all over your entrance- mixing with the sweetened syrup that was already dripping out of you and creating such a mess. “Maybe she doesn’t deserve our cocks at all?”
“Don’t say that—” You could feel your law professor’s eyes turn to you. “You deserve it- hah, don’t you, angel?”
Shivering at the feeling of both cocks sandwiching between your pussylips. Now that they’d both pulled out- it’s as if they were fighting over who can be next. Rubbin’ and teasing. “I do—” Your voice cracks on that last note, “P-please, I do-”
“I’m still not convinced.”
Higuruma continues, “Promise us you’ll be a good girl? That you’ll listen to what your professors have to say?”
“I will I will-”
“Promise us that no more of that teasin’ stuff in class?” His prominent nose slides down the column of your throat, breathing in your essence. “None of that bending over?”
“Yes—” But you could already hear the question in your throat - and it seems that they could, too.
And it makes Nanami gruffs out. “Because - forgive us - but you do realize that it’s not just us seeing your little…display, darling?” He spreads open your legs even wider, and Higuruma’s ministrations grow even more frenzied on your clit. Squeezing. Pinching. Flicking.
And you’re restless- “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean to say that there are others more…undeserving that see those legs of yours, those panties, those tits.” There’s a sharp edge to his words—“Those boys in class can’t take their eyes off of you.”
“We can’t either, of course.” Higuruma responds. Squeezing his cock inside- “But at least that little performance of yours is meant for us, right?”
“Don’t like the way they look at you.” Nanami’s also squeezing his cock inside now - both of them bullying your hole at once. Creating a stretch that makes your vision go white- so much carnal stimulation that your entire body wracks with shakes. “Don’t like the way they turn to look. Don’t like the way they have to mysteriously…disappear into the bathrooms any time you do your little show.”
“Given…we do the same.” The law professor continues—“Because fuck- how fuckin’ pretty you look all dressed up in silk. Makes it hard not to cream my pants everytime I see you- but none of those boys have the balls to back that admiration up.”
Giving you a thorough slam—both of them.
Higuruma’s the one to continue, “But we do.”
“Because I rub my cock raw to you, my love.” Nanami ends off, holding you close to him. “N’ none of those boys could ever fuck you like we do.”
“Yes, p-please—” And you’re pushed between both of their sculptured fronts. Unable to see them- but you could feel the ridges and curves of their muscles, the way they were both leaning in as though they couldn’t get enough of you. “I only want…ngh.”
One of your arms wrap around Higuruma’s neck, and the other reaches behind you to attempt to clasp onto Nanami’s.
“Just want the two of you…”
“Hmmm…” Nanami’s cock twitches at your gooey entrance- “A+”
And then they’re alternating between fucking you—
“Hiromi.” You’re gasping at the intrusion of his smoothened tip, the velvety texture of him reaching for so many spots inside you but most importantly- that g-spot.
And then he’s pulling back out.
“Sir- fuck, Professor Kento.” Nanami swabs his thickened tip inside and hits that precise spot. Although he decides to take it a few steps further this time and dig his rounded tip into the very back of your pussy, bottoming-out. “Shit shit shit—”
Thrust after thrust.
Pulling out. Shovelling back in.
Making you guess just which one of your two older professors were takin’ over your pussy right now- it made your head dizzy just trying to keep track. Bounced up and down in their arms.
“Hiromi.”
“Professor Kento.”
“Hiromi.”
“Hiromi.”
“Professor Kento.”
“Hiromi.”
“Professor Kento.”
“Professor Kento.”
“Hiromi—” Before your voice shatters at the feeling of…two thickened lengths attempting to fit inside. Fighting against the resistance for a few sloppy strokes before they’re siiiiiiiiiiiinking in- “And Professor K-Kento, sir…” The feeling of their large, slick-glazed cocks were just incredible - rubbin’ against your walls and one another. Like nothing earlier.
It was a stretch like you’ve never felt before, hittin’ spots that you didn’t even know you had.
And both professors held onto your shaking body tight- they shovelled their lengths in and out of you. Two blushin’ cockheads heading for your g-spot, before their slide-slide-sliiiiiding all the way down to end up at your cervix.
Stretching apart your walls.
Making your channel bulge.
Letting the curves of their mushroomy tips drag apart your walls, n’ press into the sweetest spots of your nerves. Both of their heavy ballsacks smack-smack the front of your cunt right on time with their thrusts. Thrust after thrust.
Again and again.
Nanami grunts at the sensation of Higuruma deep inside you, “F-fuck…”
“You can say that again.” Higuruma himself replies.
By now, the jostlin’ about had meant that your blindfold was falling off- and you could see the two men upon either side of you. Shovelling their hot cocks deep inside your pussy, positively ravaging you.
The law professor’s fingers weren’t letting up on your clit just yet, either.
He quirks his digits just a bit to draw a little heart upon it—and soon enough you find yourself throwing your head back with a moan. “G-gonna-”
“Shhhh—” Nanami grins. His ears keenly listen to the noises from between your legs - they were just so much louder now that you had two thickened shafts ramming into you. “This pussy says she’s gonna cum soon, darling.”
“Y-you little-”
A harsh hammerin’ on your spongy cervix. “Pardon, my love?”
“Nothing—oh.” Even their thrusting styles were different - Nanami Kento with his thorough, solid slashes as though he was trying to reach your womb every single time. And Higuruma Hiromi with slightly slower, smoother glides of his cock - soothing through the nooks n’ crannies that Nanami had activated first.
It was the perfect combination.
Naughty and nice.
Though not exactly in the way you’d initially thought.
And perhaps this manner was what was making you so desperate to cum again- “Please-” Gasping. “Let me cum—”
You’re looking between a grinning Nanami and Higuruma. Dazedly.
“Please may I-” Choking out in-between the moans and droplets of saliva that were gushing out of you- falling onto Higuruma’s puffed-out chest. “-cum, sirs?”
Both of their rock-hard cocks twitch deep inside of you.
And you’re briefly seeing a silent conversation pass between them-
“Go ahead, angel.”
“Cum all over my cock, darling.”
And it might have been minutes, it might have been seconds, it might have been split-seconds later once you’re crashing into your high. The waves of white-hot pleasure taking over you until it felt like your body was burning up.
Feverish.
You’re crying out as you attempt to bounce your lewd hips back into both their shovelling shafts- but they’ve already got you. They’re holding onto your perspired body - so limp now with pleasure - and lettin’ their pointed cockheads hit each and every nerve bundle inside.
Pinpointing your g-spot with their lengths.
Targeting it especially through peak after peak.
After peak.
Your cunt trickles with honeyed slick- and it slips between your three bodies to drench Higuruma and Nanami’s cocks. Their thighs. Their bodies.
Making it even louder to thrust into your cunt—you’re forced to raise your voice just a little just so that they can hear. “Sh-shit…” Until eventually you’re feeling so raw on their relentless cocks that you’re unsure whether you want them to elongate those waves of bliss or whether you want to fucking run away—“It feels so- oh, it feels…”
“And what do we say?” Nanami’s deep baritone croons out. He doesn’t slow down for a single second as he speaks- even though he himself was feeling a little sensitive by this point.
He hits his full ballsack against the front of your cunt and hisses- “Can I have it all inside…” You’re looking between them with wide, heart-shaped pupils. “-sirs?”
And you should’ve known what that would do.
You should’ve known how much that would break them.
Because with only a few final thrusts, both Higuruma and Nanami cum inside you with loud slurps! of your greedy cunt. Gobblin’ up all those white ropes of seed that they were emptying out - sheer volumes that they’d been holding onto for hours, days, this entire semester.
Nanami furrows his golden brows and presses his face into the crook of your neck. Groaning as he fucks you through his orgasm, “A-and here I was just expecting a thank you…”
“Our girl always was the sweetest.” Higuruma coos.
Your history professor rides through his high with his teeth grit, jaw working overtime to keep his noises to a minimum - he wanted to hear your soft gasps and groans even more. Though his body shakes as it keeps on thrummin’ with pleasure.
Visceral.
Meanwhile, your law professor let out such husky grunts after each splat! of cum that he emptied out against your womb. He couldn’t even handle fucking you properly anymore and his hips kept on stutterin’ through his waves.
Cheeks flushed. Gaze locked on you.
He didn’t want to tear it away.
Both of them are cumming so much that you nearly can’t tell who’s who - with their dollops of heated, syrupy sap. Each divot bawling them out messily—you can feel them stick against the end of your pussy, right where your cervix was, before being stirred about by the motions of their cylindrical shafts.
Their prominent veins massagin’ your sweetest spots. Their globular cockheads pumping every single droplet inside you.
Every single droplet.
Not a single bead of that ivory cum escapes—but they’re both still looking at each other with the same idea.
And you’re seeing yet another silent conversation pass between them that you miss. “Oh?”
In almost no time, Higuruma and Nanami have you splayed out on the polished desk - back against its flat surface, legs held high in the air. This time, however, both their faces were between your pussylips and attempting to beat the other—
They were lappin’ their dual tongues over your leaking cunt like they were starved.
Nanami’s hand pressing down on your stomach to make a few more droplets spray out of your hole- Higuruma’s hand flicking over your clit still.
You lean back on your elbows and watch them.
And what a sight it was: both their handsome faces between your legs.
They nudge their noses against the creamy layers on top of your cunt, and swivel the mess around like mad. You could see through your tears the exact moment - the exact moment - that their pinkish tongues meet in the middle.
Where Higuruma’s tastebuds overlap with Nanami’s as they’re suckling on your clit- and they both flinch at the sensation before moaning—
And that’s before the door clicks.
“Oi, why are the lights still on? Don’t you know that campus has closed a long time ag-”
You pause.
Nanami pauses.
Higuruma pauses.
And so does Professor Shiu Kong - Head of the Mathematics Department, also PhD with Distinction.
His jaw drops as his eyes drift over from the mess of clothes on the floor, to the mess that’d been made of you. Bite marks all over your throat. The blindfold still around your neck. And even more - you could see the way his hands tighten on his files as his gaze probes deeper, taking in your leaking, lecherous cunt.
No one moves.
Except for Shiu, who steps inside.
Your heart was in your throat.
Getting ready for a berating of some kind- or potentially even worse. Perhaps a suspension, perhaps Nanami and Higuruma would be fired at once-
“So…” Shiu’s husky voice interrupts your thoughts. “-got room for mathematics?”
A/N. Heheheheh ofc we got room for youuuuuuuuu Shiu <33
Zero Distance. / roommate/bsf!Gojo x reader / 18+ mdni / wc: 8.7k
It started as shared moments in the quiet corners of a Tokyo apartment, with late-night snacks, half-finished movies, and the comfortable weight of a best friend who just happened to be the strongest sorcerer in existence. For years, you and Satoru Gojo existed as friends, but a few months ago he made the offer for you to move into his apartment without worrying about the bills. Wanting to pay back the favor, you offered to cook meals for him, soon came a shift from best friends to something just a little more that you tried to ignore, each chance encounter and comfortable closeness getting more and more dangerous. TAGS ARE UNDER THE CUT!!
MINORS AND ANGELESS BLOGS PLEASE DNI / ao3 link <3
TAGS: best friends to lovers, roommate Gojo, established relationship dynamics, reader insert, no use of y/n, pet names: Princess, sweetheart & baby, Gojo gives you mean backshots, vaginal fingering & pen, He's also a bit of a perv tbh
It had been Gojo’s idea to have you move in with him. Of course it was. He’d insisted he would be a bad best friend if he didn't offer. Considering your less-than-stellar finances, the fact that he was already one of the wealthiest people in Japan based on his clan’s money alone, on top of his pay grade as a special-grade sorcerer, the decision was natural. He could support both of you easily, hell he’d probably buy you a house if you let him, but you refused to take advantage of that just yet.
In truth, you had been resistant to the idea at first. You liked living alone and being able to independently manage your personal space. Even if your apartment was small, cramped, and far from any kind of public transportation, it was yours. Life hadn’t made it easy to keep that lifestyle up though. Pay for teaching was not great, even compromising with a farther away apartment, and it barely covered your rent and the other monthly responsibilities.
So, after insisting time and time again that he could provide for you as a friend, you agreed on the caveat that it wouldn’t JUST be your space. This led to him offering the apartment that he’d rented not far from where you both worked. He would be your roommate and this would be a place that he could come back to that wasn’t just empty. One bounding field to keep you and the place safe later, and you were able to move in.
Sure, the reason you gave for giving was the finances, and it was definitely true, but the bigger reason came when you were tidying up your old apartment one day and it suddenly hit you just how quiet it was there. With you working so often, you hadn’t had time to decorate more than a corner or two. Sure, your things were there, but it didn’t feel like you.
It just felt awfully lonely. You realized then that Satoru probably felt the same, likely to a bigger extent with how relied upon he was.
Living with him was nice at least. He never invaded your space without asking and generally knocked the door before sauntering into the apartment - despite living there himself - or your room. He was...good to live with, aside from his abysmal cooking skills; he usually ordered take out to supplement this one of possibly two or three things you knew about that he was terrible at.
You’d insisted it wasn’t healthy to live off of the greasy delivery and convenience store meals, so he’d agreed to let you cook for him. Even that took convincing as he seemed to just hate letting anyone just do something for him. Despite that though, after a few months, he’d almost sheepishly asked if you could start making him bentos to take to work.
Naturally, you agreed. You didn’t pay rent, he paid for everything around the house as you built up savings and learned to relax properly again, so this was the least you could do.
Mornings had their own sort of rhythm now.
You usually woke up first - a fact which felt odd at first before you remembered he could be ready to leave and be where he needed to be in seconds - padding into the kitchen to start coffee or tea while the apartment was still quiet. Satoru would emerge twenty or thirty minutes later, his hair a disaster, eyes half-closed, drawn to you like a magnet before he was even fully conscious.
He liked your company and you enjoyed his. The place felt like home because of the presence of another, and it was heart-warming in a way you didn’t expect to have him feel that way too.
“Morning,” he’d mumble, then he’d be on you. His arms would wrap around your waist from behind, his chin hooked over your shoulder, his body putting way too much weight against your back while you tried to pour coffee without spilling, getting ready to do the little amateur latte art he liked.
“You’re like a cat,” you’d told him once, and he’d just hummed and nuzzled into your neck with a sleepy smile, enjoying how warm you were.
It was innocent. Mostly, it had to be. He wouldn’t do that in a way that wasn’t just the clingy fondness he had when he felt safe with someone. Yet sometimes…you would feel his hands drift lower than your waist, settling on your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin just above your waistband. Blush and goosebumps would dance across your skin and you’d hear almost incoherently mumbled words against your shoulder as he spoke, feeling them more than actually hearing them.
Something in those moments, you’d catch yourself leaning back into him before realizing what you were doing and reminding yourself to stop.
One morning, a few weeks before the mission he was on now, you’d been standing at the stove making eggs for him for now and some for a lunch box for later, when he’d appeared behind you. It was the same routine as always: arms around you, chin on your shoulder, your body warm compared to him feeling cold as he got out of his blanket, his sleep-heaviness on you.
That morning though, he’d been wearing shorts. Thin ones. When he’d clung to you, still half-asleep and unguarded, you’d felt…something.
The sensation made you go very still.
Satoru noticed how your demeanor changed, then froze as well, suddenly much more awake. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
Then he’d pulled back, laughed softly, and said, “I’m gonna go shower. Save me some eggs, yeah?”
He’d been careful to keep the distance between you for the rest of the day, understanding that a line was unexpectedly crossed. That night though, while watching a movie, he’d pulled you closer than normal, his hands restless on your waist, and you could swear he was watching you more than the screen.
Neither of you talked about it after, but it was hard to forget just how it felt, the shape.
There were other rituals besides the morning routine. Lunch on the roof between classes was one of your favorites, sitting cross-legged and yapping about everything from Digimon to whatever crappy soap opera you’d started watching ironically but ended up getting genuinely invested in. Friday movie nights were another tradition, one where Satoru added way too much sugar to his popcorn and sprawled across the couch with you, your limbs tangled together with his, with his head eventually finding its way to your chest or lap as he snored softly.
You always let him sleep on you. You knew from having this strange closeness to the strongest that he’d hardly sleep, but with you, he could at least manage some rest.
You tried not to think about how natural it felt to have him there against you. How you’d started to crave that weight of him against your chest when relaxing. How your heart would do something complicated whenever he called you sweetheart or princess or baby, even though you knew he didn't mean it the way you wanted him to.
Or did you? You couldn’t admit it one way or another and knew the complications and tried not to think about it however you could. Thankfully, your new financial freedom allowed you to purchase a weighted plush to help alleviate it for now.
About two weeks ago, you'd made a mistake.
You'd fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home from a late exorcism. When you woke, it was past midnight and someone had draped a blanket over you. You stumbled to your room half-conscious, stripped off your jeans, and grabbed the first shirt you could find to sleep in.
It wasn't until morning that you realized it was his. It just so happened with how big he was, it was oversized like one of your oversized shirts you slept in.
You'd meant to wash it and return it before he noticed. But when you came out for coffee still wearing it, hem falling to mid-thigh, Satoru had looked at you and gone completely still.
"That's mine," he said. Not accusatory. Just...observational, his bright blue eyes scanning you for, you could only assume, exactly what you were thinking and feeling from the embarrassment you had for the moment. When he got like that, watching you with such intensity, it always caused an involuntary shiver - the six-eyes just did that.
This time though in particular though, as his eyes traveled down the length of you slowly, lingering on your bare legs, the way the fabric draped over your body.
"Sorry." Your face felt hot. "I grabbed it by accident. I'll wash it and-"
"Keep it."
You blinked. "What?"
He'd already turned back to his coffee, but you could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his knuckles had gone white around the mug.
"It looks better on you anyway," he said, too casual, and then he'd left for work without meeting your eyes.
You'd kept the shirt, started sleeping in it. He never mentioned it again, but sometimes you'd catch him looking at you wearing it, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. He looked so satisfied seeing you in it, like he was proud and sizing you up.
Either way, tonight was supposed to be one of the regular movie nights.
Yaga had mentioned that Satoru was on an overseas mission. He’d been gone for just over four days when you realized you were coming into an odd feeling of restlessness along with older uncomfortable feelings that came with living alone. Thankfully, Satoru being gone meant you’d need to cover some of his teaching duties as usual. You didn't mind the extra workload, especially since it kept your mind busy. If it meant shouldering some of the burden he carried from being the strongest, you'd do it gladly.
The last thing you'd heard from him was a text: "I'll be back in a few days for movie night! See you then sweetheart!" followed by a long string of emojis, mostly crying faces and hearts.
You'd stared at that text longer than you should have. Sweetheart. He called everyone that. It didn't mean anything.
The apartment had felt too quiet without him. Too empty. You'd slept in his shirt every night he was gone and told yourself it was just because it was comfortable, not because it smelled like him and made you feel less alone.
You'd caught yourself checking your phone constantly, waiting for updates, even though you knew he was probably fine. He was always fine. He was the strongest.
That didn't stop you from worrying.
You stared at the front door and sighed. Usually you made the sugary popcorn together, even if it was an abomination in your eyes. Satoru would dump in absurd amounts of sugar while you tried to moderate him, his fingers brushing yours over the bowl, standing too close in the small kitchen. He'd crowd you against the counter sometimes, reaching past you for ingredients, his chest warm against your back for just a moment longer than necessary.
Last time, which you realized was a few weeks back with how often he’d been in and out of the city recently, he'd leaned over your shoulder to taste-test the butter. To reach, he’d bent over above you and his lips ended up close to your ear as he’d murmured, "Perfect, as always." You'd shivered, and he'd definitely noticed, because his hand had found your hip and squeezed once before he'd pulled away, chuckling to himself.
Now though, he still wasn’t here. With a sigh, you figured you’d best make it before he got back, give him the chance to relax immediately instead of messing around in the kitchen with you. Maybe he’d find a nice nap against you again.
You slid the bag of popcorn into the microwave and closed the door, the light snapping on as it began to hum. You counted the seconds between pops, the sound building to a rapid, frantic rattle. When it slowed, you stopped it just in time and pulled out the bag, heat seeping through the paper into your palms.
The popcorn tumbled into a large bowl, steam rising in a warm, salty cloud. Sugar followed, more than you'd use for yourself, the way he liked it. Then a drizzle of melted butter. You tossed it all together, kernels clicking as the sugar clung. Another quick spin in the microwave melted everything into a sticky, shining glaze.
You were pulling the bowl out when you heard the lock click.
His cursed energy filled the house before you even saw him. Warm and immense, settling over your skin like sunlight. You'd never admit how attuned you'd become to it, how you could feel him coming from rooms away.
It shouldn’t feel like a long time. What was it…not even five days? Four-and-a-half? Regardless, your body seemed to not know that and everything in you pivoted to face the door, toward him, like a compass finding North.
“Heeeeey, smells great in here!”
Satoru chirped as he stepped into the kitchen, already stripped of his shoes and jacket at the front, his blindfold pushed up over his forehead and shoving back that eternally messy white hair. He looked more tired than usual, the circles under his eyes darker than they should have been, but he gave you that wide grin anyway.
Your chest tightened at the sight of him. He was thinner than he'd been a few days ago. Whatever the mission was, it had taken something out of him.You’d learn about it soon enough, either from him or some of the students, but not being a sorcerer who dealt with spirits made that take too long of a wait to feel fair.
He wouldn’t explain it properly. A fading bruise on his jaw, a small cut near his hair line. Sure, they were already healing, small things that ultimately didn’t matter much, but you knew he would just say something like “Please, this? It’s nothing, the guy was a push over.” as if that helped the gnawing feeling you had over his safety.
Maybe it was silly to worry about it, but it was easy to get concerned when you lived with someone. He seemed to read the worry in your eyes, his hand immediately patting your head, then your cheek with a gentle touch before looking over you.
“Woaaah, already made the popcorn, huh~?” He spoke in that excited, laid back voice he always had and was reaching over you with his annoyingly long arms, grabbing a handful.
“Toru, no-” You shoved him back, making him sputter and laugh, his brows crinkling together as he raised his hands in defeat. “Your job is to go pick out a movie. I’m finishing up here and will get the drinks, got it?”
He nodded, but didn’t leave. Instead, Satoru stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you.
It wasn’t unusual, this was just part of the routine. Even after sleeping he’d be clingy, so after not seeing you for a while, or anyone for that matter, he’d slap a hand on their shoulder or give a hug and spin them around. Tonight though, he held on tighter, pulling you flush against him, and something in your stomach flipped. He was warm and solid and smelled the way he always did, familiar, clean, a little sweat, all in this despite whatever he was doing right before coming home.
It was like comfort given form.
He stayed there for a moment, sighing into you, long and slow, and you could actually feel some of the tension in his shoulders and back drain away. It was in the way he was holding you - even if your hands were only on his back - like he was afraid you’d up and vanish suddenly.
So you didn’t make him let go, even if it meant the popcorn wouldn’t be very hot for long. You returned the gesture properly, bringing your hands up and stoking his back gently, right between his shoulder blades the way you knew he enjoyed - another very cat-like trait. You felt the question in your mind, wanted to ask, but thought again that it was best to let it die on your throat and let him enjoy whatever small comfort you could give him too.
His hands slid down your back, settled low on your hips. It seemed lower than friendly, lower than you should allow.
You didn’t move away though.
He was a bit…perverted in some ways, usually something you’d laugh at and you or him would push the other off, make a joke about him being clingy. That’s what you always did.
Right now though he was just so warm, and his breath was fanning across your neck, his fingers were pressing into the curve of you like he was memorizing the very shape of you.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was muffled against your hair, “Missed you. Thought about you while I was gone. You ruined me, you know?”
Enveloped in the warmth of intense chest muscles that were somehow also pillowy and you were glad for it because whatever he could possibly mean by that made you blush. You looked up with your eyes, speaking against his shirt, “Now what does that mean.”
“Your stupid food,” Satoru spoke with a sigh, slowly separating the hug before patting your shoulder. His eyes looked so soft then, not in the hard to comprehend depths of blue that were fraction of the infinity he knew so well, but in a very warm way. A vulnerable kind of way. It made your breath catch for a second despite the peculiarity of what he said, before that exposed look suddenly vanished, “Your bentos! I craved them sooo bad, and sure, the snacks and restaurants are fine, but now I’m craving something homemade!”
He laughed loudly after that, his hands finding a place on his own hips now as he now beamed. The transition was more jarring than usual, making your usual laugh at the situation delayed and awkward.
“Yeah I uhh…” You cleared your throat, finally able to stabilize yourself and get rid of some of the red you knew was covering your face. After a sharp breath, you smiled, “It’s not even that good, just some things I learned after a cooking show phase.”
“Well whatever it is, it’s working.” He gave a thumbs up, then seemed to notice something new to comment on, “Heeey, wait a minute,” With a snap, he pointed at you, which made you realize what he was about to say immediately.
You were in his clothes, his shirt. Your shirt now, really, but it was the one you’d accidentally stolen.
“You’re wearing it,” he said the words quietly, but with a smug expression.
Well it was a good shirt. That fact didn’t stop you from feeling embarrassed at how it made you feel more comfortable while he was gone.
You swallowed. “Well, you said I could keep it.”
“I know, I know.” He stroked his chin with his forefinger and thumb, looking up and down then nodding and smiling smirking. “I like seeing you in my clothes.”
He didn’t say the words in any particular way, but still they hung over you with a weight far greater than they should have.
You decided the best thing to do was to just roll your eyes and shake your head, pointing to the living room, “Pick something good, got it?” You said, voice only slightly unsteady. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
With a little two-fingered salute, Satoru Gojo turned and walked away.
You took your time getting the drinks. Maybe it looked like you were deciding carefully over what you had available, but really you were just letting the open fridge’s cold air wash over your heated face.
Get it together, you told yourself. It doesn’t mean anything. He’s just tired, got lonely while he was away, now he’s being affectionate. You’re reading into things too much.
Yet, despite this, your skin still tingled where he’d touched you. The way he’d looked at you too, those eyes and that expression…
You grabbed two colas and closed the fridge, tucking the popcorn under your arm. Deep breath. You reminded yourself that Satoru was your best friend, your roommate, and a coworker at that. Whenever you or other colleagues tried to set him up before, he’d even dodged questions or suggestions, saying that he had commitment issues, that he was the biggest target there was not only among cursed spirits, but among the jujutsu world’s higher ups who hated him.
You two were roommates.
That was all he could ever be.
Finally you made it to the living room. There, Satoru was already sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over the back, leaving a space that was clearly meant for you.
Except when you moved to sit beside him, his hand caught your wrist.
"C'mere." He tugged, gentle but insistent, pulling you down between his legs instead. Your back pressed against his chest before you could protest, his arms looping loosely around your waist. "Missed you," he said again, quieter this time, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "Let me hold you for a bit."
You told yourself this was normal. You'd sat like this before.
“Yeah, missed you too, you clingy dork.”
Have you sat like this before? This close?
You had to move the drinks and popcorn to the table from the space between his knees, reaching out to set them down, all the while, ignoring the heat of the man seeping through the thin fabric of the shirt you wore. His shirt, that he happened to like you wearing.
You’d noticed him looking at you in some ways before today, watching you when you had it on. Well, you’d also caught him looking at you when you were wearing other things, you could even swear you had seen him watching you as you bent over to pick something up or get a large pot from a lower kitchen cabinet.
It was a similar look he had to now.
He was just pent up after a while, that was it. You couldn’t imagine how tough it was to find a date as the strongest, especially with all of the ways he overcomplicated things trying to look out for people.
Regardless of the excuse you gave, you swallowed the spit building in your throat.
His fingers had found the hem of the shirt, rubbing the fabric between his forefinger and thumb.
“You really do look good in this, you know. Suits you,” he said it quietly, almost to himself like you weren’t meant to hear it.
“Toru…”
“Shh. Movie’s starting.”
It wasn't, actually. The menu screen was still up, looping the same fifteen seconds of music, while a few of the best scenes. But his hand had flattened against your stomach, warm through the cotton, and you forgot what you were going to say.
After two, or was it three, more loops of the song, you managed to ask, “You gonna hit play or what?” hoping your voice came out steadier than it felt.
He huffed a laugh against your ear and reached for the remote, and the movie started.
You didn't process a single frame of it.
His hands didn't stay still. At first it was almost innocent: fingers tracing slow circles on your stomach through the fabric of the shirt, absent and easy, the way he always touched you. You could almost convince yourself it didn't mean anything.
Almost.
His pinky brushed the waistband of your shorts and you tensed. He paused, waited, and when you didn't say anything he kept going. Still over the shirt. Still technically fine.
"Relax," he murmured against your hair. "You're all tense."
"I'm fine."
“Liar.” His hands spread wider, palms pressing flat against your stomach as he pulled you more firmly against him. You could actually feel his heartbeat against your back through his chest. It seemed to beat faster than it should have been, “You’re taking care of everyone else, not just me. Let me take care of you for once.”
“You’re one to talk.” Your response was faster than it maybe should have been, trying to focus just on the comment he made about you working too hard for others. You could feel your jaw trembling before you bit your lip at the sensation. A shaking breath left you, “Always overextending, taking on too much. I mean that’s why I’m here at all.”
“Maybe…” Satoru spoke the words as if he hadn’t heard what you said at all. He didn’t stop at all, and after that you couldn’t find any words to say, only being able to savor the satisfied sound he made afterward as he returned to his slow, wandering touch.
Then his fingers found the hem.
He didn't push underneath right away. Just played with the edge of it, tugging lightly, knuckles brushing the sliver of bare skin above your shorts. Testing.
You didn't stop him.
“This alright?” he asked, so quiet you almost missed it.
You nodded before you could think better of it.
You felt him smile against your temple.
His hand slipped under your shirt.
His palm was warm against your back, broad and steady, and he just...rested it there for a moment. Like he was waiting to see what you'd do. When you didn't pull away, didn't say anything, he started to move. Slow, gentle strokes up and down your spine. His fingers traced the knobs of your vertebrae, the curve of your waist, the dip at the small of your back.
It felt good. Too good. Your eyes fluttered half-closed and you melted back against him without meaning to.
"There you go, that’s it" he murmured, so low you almost didn't catch it. His lips brushed the shell of your ear. "Just relax."
You shouldn't be doing this. Friends didn't touch each other like this. Roommates didn't sit tangled together in the dark while one of them stroked the other's bare skin with aching tenderness. Coworkers didn’t feel the other’s heartbeat rushing as they were given permission to draw as they wished with their touch along the other’s body.
But it felt so good. His hands were big and warm and impossibly gentle, and every pass of his fingers sent little sparks skittering down your spine. You couldn't remember the last time anyone had touched you like this. Like you were something precious.
It's just Satoru, you told yourself. He's tactile. This is just how he is.
But his breathing had gone shallow against your neck, and his hands were trembling slightly, and that last thread of resistance you had towards the idea was quickly snapping.
You should have said something. He’d warned you so many times just what this kind of danger would open up to anyone who he was close with. The risk it held for him to have another palpable loss to weigh his soul down after it was already so strained. You should have asked him what he was doing. Reminded him that friends didn't touch each other like this, that this wasn't normal, that-
His hand drifted lower.
Your breath caught as his fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts. He paused there, just beneath the fabric, giving you a chance to stop him.
You didn't.
He exhaled slowly against your neck, relieved almost, and then his hand slid further. His palm curved over your ass, settling there with a possessiveness that made your head spin. Not grabbing, not squeezing. Just resting. Heavy and warm and claiming.
"Toru," you whispered. You didn't know if it was a warning or a plea.
“Shh,” His other hand came up to brush your hair aside, his nose skimming along the column of your throat, sending a wave of goosebumps through you. “S’okay. Just let me-”
He shifted behind you.
And that’s when you felt it.
Hard and unmistakable against your thigh. It was the evidence of exactly what this was doing to him. Fuck, what you did to him. He didn't try to hide it, didn't pull away or apologize. He just...let you feel it. Let you sit with the reality of what was happening.
Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. Every nerve in your body had gone electric, focused on the points where you were touching: his hand on your ass, his chest against your back, his arousal pressing insistently against your damn thigh in the exact shape you guiltily fantasized about for weeks.
When you turned your head to look at him, his expression made your stomach flip.
He was watching you with half-lidded eyes, lazy and intent all at once, a slow smile curling at the corner of his mouth. Like he'd been waiting for this. Like he'd known exactly where tonight was going before you'd even sat down.
"You don't mind, do you?" His voice was low, honey-sweet and teasing, but there was something raw underneath it. "Princess~?"
Heat flooded your face. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Just a soft, strangled sound that made his smile widen.
"Cute," he breathed. His hand squeezed gently where it rested on your ass, and you shivered. That made him laugh in a soft voice with a tone you always knew could have been arousal, but now you were certain. "So cute when you're flustered." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw. "What are you gonna do about it, hm?"
You stared at him.
The movie played on, forgotten. Some distant part of your brain registered music swelling, dialogue you couldn't parse, colors flickering across the screen. None of it mattered.
"Fuck," you whispered, the word punched out of you. "This is actually happening?"
His grin softened into something more tender.
"Yeah, sweetheart." He brought his free hand up to cup your face, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. "It's actually happening." His eyes searched yours, and for a moment the teasing faded, replaced by something honest and wanting. "If you want it to."
"I want it to," you said. "God, Satoru, I've wanted—"
That’s when you realized, even more than you expected, that the shift from best friend to lover wasn’t a gentle slide; it was a freefall.
As Satoru’s long fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, the air in the living room seemed to shift, everything else vanishing. The roughened pad of his index finger quickly found the slick head of your folds with an accuracy that made your toes curl into the couch cushions. He didn’t just touch you; he explored you, learned you, his low laugh vibrating through his chest and against the sensitive skin of your neck.
“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” he hummed, the vibration of his voice against your jugular somehow making the friction of his thumb circling your clit feel more intense.
“S-shit, Toru…” The curse was a breathless whimper. It wasn’t just the physical sensation - his technique was, as anyone would expect, god-tier - it was the realization that the man who usually teased you over burnt popcorn was currently dismantling any semblance of composure you’d built up with a single hand.
Somehow, in his lap with his hands working on your, any other pleasure you’d given yourself seemed so insignificant. Compared to this, compared to him, it was nothing.
He didn’t let you catch your breath. With a deft tug, he discarded your shorts and panties, pulling them down your leg while the daze of true euphoria addled your senses. It was only as the clothing fell to your ankles and he spread your legs apart with a strong hand against your thigh, exposing it to the air which felt so cold by comparison, that you realized they were off.
You blinked, your thoughts slowly catching up as you tried to look back at him, but before you could the heat of his hand replaced the empty sensation made your face burn up with color. He was a creature of constant warmth, that much you knew from how clingy he was, but feeling it now, his kisses against your shoulder, his free hand beginning its slow, agonizingly perfect descent, was something else entirely.
“I imagined you a lot, y’know?” His voice was a velvety rasp, “When I got alone after a long mission…in the shower when you’d call my name askin’ me somethin from the other room. I used to wonder if your girls felt as soft as they looked, or if you’d be as tight as I imagined you were.”
As his fingers slid inside you, the stretch of your walls to fit his large digits wasn’t a simple flood of relief for the ache that you’d had for him for months, it was the revelation that you wouldn’t be able to go back. You wouldn’t, couldn’t be satisfied without this sensation to anchor your lust ever again.
Every toy you’d used, every ghost of a fantasy you’d conjured in the dark paled into insignificance against the reality of him. It was a terrifying, beautiful sort of ruin; the realization that he had effectively spoiled you for anyone else in a matter of seconds, even yourself.
And you’d only just begun.
His left hand moved around your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw to keep you tilted back against him, forcing you to endure the sight of his own pleasure as he watched you. He had such a smug satisfaction on his face, a twinkle in his eye as he started to understand how to make you weak, and a hunger that seemed so deep in every move.
To Satoru Gojo, the “Strongest”, control was everything. Whether it was fighting against the control others had or controlling as much as he could around him to make others happier, safer. Somehow though, seeing you give control to him and seeing how quickly he made you unravel seemed like the most power he’d enjoyed in years.
He began to search out that pleasure in you. It was like a calculated hunt of a spirit, his fingers swirling around to feel every inch of your internal walls, trailing patiently along every ridge. He knew the theory of it, of course - Satoru Gojo couldn’t do anything without being the best at it - but practicing those ideas seemed intoxicating to him.
“I wonder…are your weak spots where I imagined~?” He cooed, his voice dropping an octave as he explored, then suddenly hooked his fingers upward, “Like riiiight…here~”
When his fingers pushed up, your world seemed to fracture. In an instant, the most sensitive patch of nerves you’d spent years trying to learn to hit just right was found and exploited. You squealed, your back arching off the couch as a jolt of pure electricity shot from his fingertips and straight to your brain, leaving a feeling like numbness dancing across your skin. He leaned to the side and then in, catching the sound into a hungry kiss, muffling your moans with his mouth as he began a rhythmic, grinding pace against your g-spot.
A moment later, he was breathing heavily, but he kept his face right against yours, “One time I thought about this. You playin’ with yourself in my lap, me guiding you on how to hit all the spots that drive you crazy,” he whispered against your lips, his pace quickening. The friction of calloused finger tips against the internal heat was too much, catching against the gummy, sensitive walls perfectly. You were chasing it now, your hips bucking into his hand, your eyes wide and growing glassy.
“S-Satoruuu….” You swallowed, trying to find the words that kept vanishing amidst the flashes of pleasure, “The…the shower,” you gasped, the words spilling out as you felt any filter you’d had at all disintegrating, “I thought about you…pinnning me against the walls. The…the hot springs, thereI I…fuck! W-waking up to you….ah! Toru, Toru please!”
The desperation in your voice was the final trigger. The sensation of it had been lost amidst the overwhelming sensation he gave you, but now as he adjusted, you could feel his erection as a solid, pulsing weight against your thigh. Satoru’s breathing had turned into a series of jagged hitches, his voice having a growling quality to it that made you melt, “Come on princess, cum for me, yeah? I’ve been dreaming about it. Come on, come ooon~”
It would have been easy if he’d just kept fucking you with his fingers, but the way his voice left him - the want, the desperation that he had for you - made your body twitch as if permission was all you needed. When the orgasm hit, it wasn’t a spark; it was a flood. You clenched around his fingers, your walls pulsing in frantic, rhythmic waves that pulled a satisfied guttural groan from his throat. You were dripping, slicking his palm and the couch, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t give you a break as you felt one more tremor after another, until finally it was done.
You were catching your breath when you saw it, the sight of him bringing those slick fingers to his lips, his eyes locked on yours as he sucked them clean. It was more pornographic than anything you’d seen.
You knew that that was a claim. His claim on you.
Before you could find your voice to thank him, finding that your throat felt raw from your moans, he was moving. He grabbed your hips and lifted you, a thing he did with impossible ease, sitting you back down but now hovering over you. The “best friend” image you’d had of the man was gone, now replaced with a man who was done with imagining and now was ready to take what he wanted.
“My turn, sweetheart,” he whispered, his tongue wetting his lips and his gaze broaching on predatory, “And I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, his large hands pulled you up and your feet hit the floor. Your legs were quivering, barely able to hold your weight, but Satoru didn’t give you a choice, though he did support you with a hand on your back. Thankfully, you weren’t going far. He turned you, guiding you to the side of the couch.
“Lean down, sweetheart,” he commanded, his voice a low and satisfied tone, a sort where you could hear the smile on his face and the absolute want that laid within.
In a way that felt annoyingly natural, you obeyed, bending over so that your hips were pressed firmly against the edge of the couch’s armrest, the sturdy structure propping you up to what you realized was the perfect height given how freakishly tall he was. Despite the fact that he’d just fingered you until you were practically seeing stars, the idea of you being so open, so exposed to him made your stomach turn in embarrassment and - an unexpected surprise - excitement in equal measure.
Would that feeling ever go away if this became a regular occurrence? You realized you were thrilled to find out.
You started in the position by keeping yourself up, supporting yourself with your hands in the cushions, then you felt a weight pushing you down. You looked back and saw Gojo smirking as he shook his head, pointing down with his chin. That look alone made the want in you stir with an intensity you’d rarely, possibly even never, known.
The blush on your face renewed, you nodded, feeling like you must look like a deer - albeit a very aroused one - finally seeing the tiger that’s been hunting it for so long. You buried your face and chest down into the soft throw pillow on the seat, your top half completely supported by the cushions. Your rear tilted up to, utterly exposed and vulnerable to him, it felt cold again, the air hitting your damp entrance causing you to shiver.
Behind you, you heard the sharp slide of a zipper and the rustle of fabric. Satoru stepped in close, his towering frame casting a shadow over you that made your heart hammer in your rbs. After feeling just how damned hard it was against you, after getting glimpses of him in his trips to air dry in nothing but a towel around his waist far too many times, you wanted so badly to see it, to see him in full glory.
Even now though without seeing him, he was a presence you could feel in your very soul, and as he pressed his front against your back, the sheer heat of him was enough to make you whimper.
“Look at how you’re waiting for me,” he rasped, one hand coming down to grip the back of your thigh, his fingers digging into the soft skin. “Perfect, I knew you’d look like this. All flushed and pretty, with your body begging for me.”
He didn’t just shove inside in the way you expected him to with how much he’d built up being tempted by you and needing his turn. No, instead, he teased your opening, circling the sensitive, pulsing labia with the broad, hot head of his length. The friction caught on the slick he’d worked out of you with such ease before, and even this, with how your body still twitched from your orgasm moments ago, managed to get you to groan like you were sobbing into the pillow.
Then, with a slow, relentless push, he began to sink into you.
The scale of him was terrifying. As the first few inches breached you, your breath hitched and caught in your throat, your fingers clawing at a pillow. You knew he was big, but the reality of his girth was staggering. Your internal walls, already tender and weeping with arousal from his fingers, were forced to stretch to a point that felt impossible, a tight, burning fullness that made your vision flicker.
It should have been painful - every instinct in your body screamed that you simply weren’t built to house something of this magnitude - but as you reached that limit, the pain transformed. It melted into a different kind of agony, a white-hot ecstasy as your cunt molded around him. Each millimeter he pushed in felt like a slow, heavy conquest of your very being, a staggering stretch that anchored you to him in a way you couldn’t understand until this moment.
By the time he was buried to the hilt, your eyes were already rolling in their sockets, your body quivering with the sheer effort it was taking, yet doing its best by drenching his cock with a syrupy wetness that only barely made it any easier. Your insides were aching with a pleasure so deep that simply accommodating him felt like you’d bruise or break.
Yet you didn’t, and he loved it.
“God, you’re so tight,” he groaned, the sound breaking as he leaned over you, his breath against the nape of your neck, “I’m gonna ruin you, princess. You’re never gonna want anyone else to touch you like this.”
You couldn’t even vocalize a moan to agree before he started to move, a heavy, deep rhythm that sent your body jarring forward against the armrest with every thrust. Because he was standing, he had all the leverage, his long leg allowing him to drive into you with a force that made the couch creak. The sound of skin on skin quickly began to echo in the room and your ass quickly felt raw from the force of his hips crashing into you.
The fact that this was just a fraction of what he was capable of did cross your mind, only for a moment though as thought disappeared with each thrust. Every time he pulled back, he went nearly all the way out with perfect control, letting the air tease you for a fraction of a second before plunging back in with a force that made your vision white out.
“Satoru-!” you cried out, your voice muffled by the pillow as he hit that same sensitive spot he’d found earlier, but this time with the full, blunt force of his cock backed by his full body’s motion. “That’s it, just like that.” He urged you on, his pace quickening in a way that scrambled your senses further with its brutal, efficient push and pull. “Say my name~ Say it, tell me how good I feel inside you. Come on, come on, tell me you’re all mine~”
The world seemed to narrow down to the point of impact. You gasped his name into the fabric of the pillow, the word lost in a muffled whine as he seemed to be losing himself too. It was hard to tell anything amidst the intense pleasure that enveloped your body, but you could feel the rhythm wasn’t calculated anymore; it was a desperate, frantic, high-friction drive that had your head snapping back with every impact.
He reached forward then, trying and failing to quite reach at your breast to knead it while it was pushed against the sofa, so instead he perched his hand against your scalp and clenched tight. The new grip established, he anchored himself with a second hand locked on your hip, and held you in place so he could bury himself as deeply as possible.
The sheer length of him reached places you didn’t know could be reached inside of you, a relentless, heavy stretching of your body following that had you bordering on utter sensory overload. You were far beyond the point of coherent thought, your body simply reacting to the “Strongest” as he laid claim to every inch of your interior.
You only barely managed to work out the words, “Tuh…Toru, please…I’m-” You couldn’t finish the sentence, your body already beginning to coil tight in your core.
“I know, fuck I know,” Gojo half-growled, half-groaned out, his voice hovering just a few inches above your hear as he delivered a series of rapid-fire, shallow thrusts that he managed to somehow get to focus just on that sensitive, swollen patch of nerves that made you see stars, “I’ve got you, princess. Just break for me. Let me see it, please~? Let me see it, baby.”
Your face pushed into the pillow with how his hand gripped at your hair, you could only barely nod, your tongue lulling out as you felt the dampness of saliva and sweat against your cheek. His pace turned frantic then, his breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts. He was rapidly pushing you toward a second cliff, one that made the first seem like a distant dream, and this time he was jumping right after you. The friction was a white-hot burn, the sound of heavy breathing, the slapping of his hips, the slick, wet thrusts, and the scent of sweat and your cum being the only thing in the universe until finally, the building tension in your core snapped.
You shrieked into the pillow as the second orgasm tore through you, even more violent in its intensity than the first. Your walls clamped down on him like a vise, and that was enough to send the man over the edge of the cliff with you. With a guttural moan that shook you to your bones and you knew would be embedded into your mind forever, Satoru buried himself to the hilt one last time and emptied himself into you. The intensity of his push made the couch slide, his hips jerking then snapping forward as he released pulse after pulse of thick seed into you that warmed you utterly.
The way he moved and held you tight against the couch, you knew that he wanted you to feel every pulse along his veiny, perfect cock as he filled you more and more.
Finally, the tremors began to fade, leaving you both panting in the heavy silence of the living room. Satoru didn’t pull out immediately; he stayed buried deep within you, his forehead coming down to rest on the small of your back as he heaved air in and out. The weight of him felt comforting now, like an anchor in the aftermath of the storm, reminding you of the softer moments of him sleeping against you after a movie.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word a ragged exhale. His hands, which had been gripping you with their bruising strength, softened, a slight laugh leaving him as he slowly shifted up. At that moment, he sucked in a breath through his teeth, as if realizing something was wrong, and his thumbs began to stroke slow, soothing circles against your hips.
“Heh…sorry, may have left a mark,” He whispered with a gentle joy to his voice as he straightened up to standing. He pulled back slowly, the sound of his slick exit making your face heat up all over again. You felt the heavy, warm drag of his cum beginning to spill out of you and onto the floor, a messy reminder of how thoroughly he’d made you his. Before you could even think about moving, Satoru was lifting you again, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you back up.
To your credit, you tried to stand. As your feet attempted to hold your weight though, you felt your legs give out, but he caught you, tucking your head into the crook of his neck.
“I’ve got you, heh, I got you,” he whispered, his voice returning to the happy, honey-sweet tone, though he probably didn’t realize how thick the arousal was in it. Of course he was, the greatest sorcerer of the era just had to have stamina to immediately go again. He wasn’t already so frustratingly amazing at everything.
He carried you back to the center of the couch, sitting down and settling you firmly in his lap again. You were a mess - flushed, practically trembling, and covered in the evidence of what you two had done - but Satoru looked at you like you were the most precious thing he’d seen. Somehow that felt as embarrassing as when you’d been totally spread before him…well, almost as bad.
He reached for the throw pillow you’d been biting and tossed it aside, settling into place and bringing a hand to cup your cheek, “Hey, look at me now, yeah sweetheart?”
It did take some courage to work up to it, but when you finally met his gaze, his eyes were clearer than normal. It took a moment for you to realize what was happening, then you blinked in surprise; the infinity was completely down in that moment. Sure, it made sense that it was and he let you and him touch, but now his supernatural defenses were completely down.
He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. It wasn’t hungry or demanding, or any third intense emotion like before; this was simply a delicate, sweet promise.
“Stay right there,” he murmured so gently, his fingers tangling in your messy hair, saying it as if you had a choice in going anywhere right now. He didn’t move to clean up, and he didn’t let you go. Instead, he just held you, his heartbeat steady and strong against your chest, letting the reality of what just happened sink in. You weren’t just some kind of bizarre best friends together anymore, and judging by the way he was tracing the line of your hip with a proprietary air, he seemed to have no intention of letting you ever forget that.
Not that you minded at all. The reality was seeming far more intense than any fantasy you’d dreamed up.
AN: I am sorry this took me so much longer than expected to write, a lot of irl stuff came up on top of me being a painfully slow writer. In my inbox right now is a request for mermaid gojo, WHICH I will be writing and working on after the next chapter of monster files!
if you liked this let me know! comments and reblogs are very appreciated!
❝ I HEARD FROM A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, THAT DICK WAS A TEN OUT OF TEN !! ❞
✧ pairing: jjk au sorcerer! suguru geto x sorcerer! reader
✧ summary: geto's routine after a mission -- ingest the curses that he collects before his shower. but after he does, his body begins to burn and ache with lust to the point of pain -- and he can't get rid of the feeling alone. so what else can he do when you show up at his doorstep offering to help but accept it (aka a sex pollen / aphrodisiac curse fic).
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, so much smut, jjk compliant au, geto stayed a sorcerer and didn't defect, reader is one year younger than geto, (set during jjk s1), aphrodisiac curse (sex pollen), multiple orgasms, multiple positions (missionary, doggy, riding, other positions mentioned: standing, against the wall, spooning from behind, against the wall), masturbation (m), soft dom! geto, oral (m +f), handjob (m! receiving), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, cervix fucking, panty stealing, squirting, mutual pining, a little angst (discussion of star vessel / premature death arc), but a lot of comfort, cuddling, gojo hijinks
✧ wc: 8,180
Suguru was only sure of one thing, as he stared at himself in the mirror — cheeks flushed red, sweat nearly soaking through his black t-shirt, and a painful and glaring problem in his boxers—
This was a curse — literally.
Curses were made up of different negative human emotions — from loneliness to grief to anger, these negative feelings would pool and create a curse. Sorcerers were made to exorcise these curses, and Suguru did so — but in a different way than the others. He had to consume them as part of his technique. And even with the hundreds of curses he’s swallowed over the years, he would never get used to the taste — a shit soaked rag used to clean up vomit was how he could best describe it, but even then, that didn’t come close to the indescribable act of swallowing the manifestation of the worst negative human emotions — at least for most of them.
The one he had swallowed today was different — he was sent to exorcise a grade 1 curse in the heart of Tokyo that dwelled in an abandoned building — from the inside, he could tell that it was used as a strip club and possibly a bathhouse-turned-brothel, from the seedy mattresses left behind with dirty sheets and mussed covers, with rusting incense burners placed around the room, and the gaudy, fake jewelry that laid strewn about the place — assumedly any real jewelry picked clean. He swore he could have even smelt the ever lingering scent of cheap perfume in the walls and vents.
But the greater concern was the curse he had found himself with — a grotesque creature that stared back at him — its body a deep maroon, many eyes dotting its back with a large pair of black lips that Suguru didn’t care to draw any closer to. It was more humanoid than most — its form showing a more sophistication than many curses did, muscles of its many arms contracted as it finally spotted Suguru, its many eyes settled their gaze on him.
It was far too easy for him to take down the curse in hindsight — far too easy — and it seemed to watch him summon curses — and he swore it almost had seen a glimmer of recognition in its eyes and then it allowed him to deal the final blow.
He had kept the curse on hand — he could swallow it later, when he was near a toilet and perhaps some mouthwash — though that barely did much to remove the taste from his mouth. He had returned to Jujutsu Tech to do his reports, and hopefully head back early — Satoru was out on another overseas mission and Shoko was busy tending to patients and bodies as always, but you—
He wasn’t sure what you were doing, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to text you. Not after what Satoru said.
“When are you guys gonna fuck already?” the strongest sorcerer asked, making Suguru choke on his Sprite — strong in ability, but not in tact, “you and her have been eye fucking for weeks and you had such a thing for her before she decided to move to Kyoto—”
“That was years ago—”
“She has a key to your apartment—“
“So do you!” he glares.
“Then what about last night at the bar?” Satoru leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the ground, as he pulled his sunglasses down, “you could have murdered the guy that was hitting on her with your look alone — and I think you did when you stuck yourself to her side with your arm around her waist, until he ran with his tail between his legs,”
If looks could kill, Suguru would have surely murdered his best friend — infinity be damned, “She looked uncomfortable, what was I going to do—”
“Well, she certainly didn’t look uncomfortable with you hanging all over her, now did she?” He raises an eyebrow, as he leans forward again, the front legs of his chair landing with a thunk, “what are you gonna do if a guy comes along that she falls for? You’re telling me you’re not gonna regret it, Suguru?” Suguru says nothing, unable to meet Satoru’s gaze, as Satoru crushes his own can into a ball, before tossing at Suguru, “You guys just got to hurry up and fuck,”
Suguru swats the crushed can away, “You’re disgusting,”
He grins, as his words seemingly only confirm what he assumes, “Disgusting, but correct, and if I’m right, you’re taking some of my missions off my hands,” he grins.
And Satoru’s words had been running around in Suguru’s head — just like any annoying song on the radio — but he couldn’t let Satoru’s words stop from hanging out with you. He had just gotten you back in his life again — he couldn’t lose you, not again.
Geto: Are you free to watch a movie and have takeout?
You: sounds good - did you get back from your mission alright? No injuries I need to yell at you about?
He snorts, as he types his reply: no, not this time.
You: Let’s keep it that way! :)
He bites back his smile as the two of you decide to have you head over in an hour to his place — you preferred it that way since you were still settling into your place, boxes still unwittingly everywhere there should be actual furniture. Last time he came by to pick a report up, he found you eating your meal on a packed box, instead of a table.
And he catches himself smiling, before his face sours at the thought of Satoru again.
Satoru was right — and he hated to admit it, his knuckles pressed to his lips. A year under him, you had spent days with him, along with everyone else — you always waited for him with his favorite snacks when he would return from a mission. You sat with him sometimes when he would get sick from swallowing curses, helping him swallow some water and saltines after he turned his stomach inside out. You were the one that pushed him when he hid his disillusionment from everyone else — even from Satoru. You wouldn’t leave him alone, you wouldn’t stop dogging his every step with snacks and comfort and company, hounding him to sleep, to eat, to say something, anything.
Until he did — one late night you spent up together — he didn’t sleep much those days anyway. And he told you everything — the poison seeping from his body, and leeching onto yours, your frown and hurt was the whole reason he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone to begin with. But the frown wasn’t yourself — it was for him, as your arms only curled around him, and he let you hold him the entire night.
“You don’t always have to pretend to be strong, Suguru. You’re allowed to be upset, you’re allowed to be angry, you’re allowed to grieve — but don’t bottle it up,” your fingers raked through his wet hair, undoing the tangles gently before running the comb through it, “don’t let it kill you from the inside out,”
“I feel like I did die — along with Amanai,” and you pause, your arms curled around his shoulders, chin resting on his head before you pinched his cheek and he flinched.
“There, you’re definitely not dead,” you say, “so don’t act like you are. And don’t act like you’re alone — because you’re not. You have me, you have Satoru and Shoko — even Nanami and—“ you voice cuts off at the thought of Haibara — “Haibara wouldn’t want you to hide from us, he looked up to you — more than anyone else, even Satoru,”
“I don’t know why,” he mutters with a sigh.
“I do,” your fingers guide his face to meet your gaze, your face an inch or two from his, “because you’re kind, you’re intelligent, and you’re strong,”
He scoffs, “Satoru is the strongest,”
“And you think Satoru thinks any differently of you? That any of us feel differently? You’re the only person who can understand him — and he’s the only one who understands you,”
He gives a small chuckle, “not the only one,” and he tears his eyes away, hoping you don’t see the way his cheeks burned.
And when he found those two sorcerer girls locked up — you were the one who called. The rage and anger had built into murderous intent, but he could hear your words ringing in his ears and before he knew it, he had called you to come to him.
You saved them together — Nanako and Mimiko had fallen asleep in your respective laps after all was said and done on the ride back — without much bloodshed (not that the blood that was shed was worth much, in his opinion) — and with Gojo and you smoothing things over with the higher ups (mostly with veiled threats and petty remarks), you managed to allow the twins to grow up safe, under Geto’s care, and your own.
At least for a time. After you graduated, Nanami left — and you were the only one of your class left — and the absence of your best friends weighed on you, even if you didn’t show it.
“I’m leaving for Kyoto,” you told him one afternoon the two of you spent lazing around his dorm, you sat against the bottom of his bed, as he lounged on the mattress, his gaze snapping to you, only able to see the back of your head, “this place holds too many memories — i need perspective, I need space from all of this,”
He wants to ask if you have to, ask you if he could convince you to stay, if he could do something, anything to make you stay — ask if he wasn’t enough to make you stay. But he doesn’t, because it’s the best decision for you. So he instead slips off the bed, sitting beside you, his hand ruffling your hair, “You’ll come to visit right?”
He knows you’re blinking back tears, but he pretends not to notice, your lip quivering, and god, he knows he wants nothing more than to tilt your gaze toward him by your chin and brush his lips against yours, until every sad thought has evaporated under his touch.
But he knows that would only be one more thought that would make things far more difficult — for the both of you. It was better this way. And it was. Years had passed, the two of you had become teachers at the Tokyo and Kyoto schools respectively — but as the years had passed, your relationship grew more distant, as it always seemed to with time and distance.
But then you decided to come back to Tokyo, transferred over — Yaga explaining it was due to all the happenings in Tokyo with the special grades and emergence of Yuji as Sukuna’s vessel — and he found himself in your presence again. And it was as if no time had passed — your days off spent in his apartment — as yours had become a haven of unpacked boxes. And he couldn’t help but wonder — when he’d glance at you in the dark of his living room, the only illumination was the TV that played some shitty horror movie (your words not his) you had put on — if the special grades were the only reason you’d come back. Your fingers were so close to each other’s on the couch, but an inch felt like a ravine.
One he couldn’t dare to cross.
But It was fine, just as he told Satoru — you were just friends, until both of you decided otherwise. Not that it would ever happen — no, he thought that ship had sailed, even if his heart had stubbornly said that it hadn’t.
Until he decided to consume the curse — and his heart was no longer the problem.
Or at least, not his main problem.
He sat in his bathroom, towel in the shower rack, ready to shower after he dealt with this. He had discarded his uniform jacket and pants — only in a black t-shirt and boxers. He stood by the toilet — as he learned his lesson the first few months swallowing curses — he never knows when one will turn his stomach inside out.
He holds the balled curse in his palm — he could feel it squirm just underneath of his cursed energy — the thing keeping it contained at all, itching to be freed from his grasp — though it never would. He pressed the ball to his lips, bracing himself as he opened his mouth, nearly having to unhinge his jaw for how large this curse was and pressing it past his lips and into his mouth. His palms pressed against his mouth, as he swallowed, eyes squeezed shut.
It…wasn’t as bad as he thought. He frowned, brow knit as he stared at his empty palm — it was still appalling to consume, but it was….sweet? But it burned as it went down, heat remaining in the pit of his stomach, even as it should have faded.
That should have been his first clue.
Either way, he turned on the shower before he shed the rest of his clothes, and stepped in. The water felt warmer than usual, as he washed his body first, letting his hair grow wet under the shower head. His fingers reached for the shower handle, turning it even colder, but his body barely reacted to the water — was it even cold?
Even under the water, he felt like his body was burning — a slow fire that lingered under the surface of his skin, burning and aching, the frigid water barely doing enough to soothe it. Running his hands over his body seemingly helped, a shiver running down his spine as he washed himself, but he knew it would have felt even better if it was you.
….what? He tried to shake that thought from his head — it wasn’t the first time he had thought of you like this. There were many times where his mind would drift to you at night, the warmth of your touch from a few hours ago still lingered, as his hard-on pleaded for his touch. Guilty gnawed at his conscious when he indulged, the first time being after a particularly vivid dream of you pinning him down while training — your mouth kissing down his body, eager fingers tugging at his shorts until that smirk met—
This wasn’t helping.
The burning had traveled southward, as his blood did, and he glanced down at his raging hard-on.
Fuck.
No, he couldn’t.
But his fingers were possessed, already reaching for his aching cock, large beads of pre-cum leaving his slit just as hand closed around it. He hisses when he does, a gasp ripped from his throat, as he braces himself against the shower wall with his other hand.
He palms his erection, swallowing thickly, as he grunts, as he begins to pump his cock from base to tip, smearing his pre along his length. But his mind wanders to you, how pretty you’d look pressed against the wall of his shower, his hard cock dragging between your ass. Lovely moans parting your lips as his fingers would reach around to rub at your puffy clit.
“Suguru, please—“
“Tell me what you want baby, gotta use your words,” he’d murmur, teasing your slick entrance with the tip of his cock.
“Need your cock — need you to fuck me,” you would whine, words nearly enough to make him bust there and then. And he would sink into you just as he does his fist, but your sweet cunt would feel so much better than his hand does.
Fucking wet and tight and just for him, as he works his dick deeper and deeper, until his tip is nudging your cervix. And he’d fuck you hard, just like he’s fucking his fist now, skin slapping each time his hips met your ass.
You’d cum before he would, he would make sure of it — one hand rubbing harshly at your clit, the other toying with one of your nipples between his thumb and forefinger. And your walls would squeeze and wring him dry, just as he squeezed his own dick now.
He spilled all over the wall of his shower, white spurts kept coming, as he grunted, imagining he was painting your walls instead. He panted, but as the afterglow ebbed away, the heat only came back tenfold.
He panted, as his fingers left his cock, only to find it still hard — the tip red and angry, twitching as he stared back at it.
What the fuck is going on?
He finally left the shower, pulling on his shirt and boxers delicately — every inch of his body felt feverish and sensitive, even the rubbing of his clothes against his skin was almost too much for him.
He stood in front of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain as he tried to will his erection away, but each thought was only chased away with thoughts of you — of the dress you loved to wear riding up, of your legs spreading for him, of the wet patch on your panties—
He was so fucked. Sweat dripped into the sink, as he glanced at himself in the mirror — skin a ruddy red flush, lips impossibly dry, pupils blown out with need — he was so fucked.
He called Shoko — the embarrassment of this situation far gone at this point fading into plain need of wanting this situation to be over. One ring, two rings — finally five rings and she picks up.
“It’s not like you to call—“
“I need your help,” he cuts her off, biting back the groan from his cock rubbing against his boxers the wrong way — “I don’t know what’s happening to me,”
Her voice shifts from curiosity to concern, “Slow down, Suguru, tell me what’s going on,” and he tells her his symptoms — and she’s silent on the other line for a moment, “you have been a teenage boy before right? You’re not really calling me because you’re horny and you don’t know what to do—“
“It’s not that—“ he hisses, running a slow hand down his face, “I already tried…solving the problem myself but it didn’t work. And I feel weird — it only made it worse. I can’t stop sweating or thinking about—“ he cuts off — he couldn’t stop lewd thoughts of you from springing before his eyes, the thoughts of your moans, how soft your flesh would be under his fingers, how you’d look when he— “what is this, Shoko?”
She pauses on the line for a moment, “When did it start?”
“Right before my shower I think,” his mind foggy with need, he could barely even comprehend a coherent thought.
“And what did you do before your shower? Anything different?” he’s swallowing the lump in his throat, as he resists the urge to brush his hand over his hard-on.
He’s barely hearing Shoko at this point — “I took off my clothes, I got my towel, and then I—“ and the realization struck him — the curse, “I consumed the curse I collected today from my mission,” he mutters, “fuck—“
And then there’s a knock at the door, “Suguru?” He heard you call through the door. His dick throbs at the sound of your voice.
Shoko’s voice cuts through the white noise, “Suguru, the curse you ate — was there something different about it?”
“It was a grade one — it seemed a little too easy to defeat — it formed in—“ he swallows thickly, “in a brothel,”
“I’ve heard of curses being lustful, but not of them becoming a stimulant,” she murmurs, and he can hear her sigh, “you could try extracting the curse from your body — I doubt that would be effective at this point. I assume the effects will linger until the symptoms pass — just as it does when you become nauseous or sick from swallowing other curses,”
His phone buzzed with texts from you:
You: I’m outside, I grabbed takeout for us this time since you always treat me!
You: are you home?
His mind swam, it wasn’t the takeout he was craving — it was you. But no, no — he couldn’t. Not like this, but he was fighting a losing battle and he just about lost the war along with it.
“I don’t know, how do I get it to pass?” he was desperate, the sounds of your knocks and messages ringing in his ear, along with your sweet voice — why do you sound so good with his name on your lips? So sweet — his boxers grow even tighter — bet you even taste even sweeter.
“If dealing with it yourself didn’t work, then,” she sighs, “you’re going to need a partner,”
Another knock.
“Shoko, I have to go,” and he hangs up before she can get another word — a thought to thank her and apologize shoved to the back of his mind, as he stumbles to his door, a thunk as he nearly tumbled into it, wood and hinges groaning under the force and weight.
“Suguru?” you’re so worried yet his name on your tongue was nearly enough to have him cumming in his boxers then, the wet patch of his boxers nearly making the fabric translucent, “are you okay?”
He says your name, “You should go home, I’m not feeling well—“
“What’s wrong? Do you need help?” And he’s biting his lip, teeth digging into his bottom lip, nearly drawing blood, “let me in,”
“I can’t—I can’t let you help with this,” he’s shaking his head, “please, sweetheart, you have to go—“ And he hears the clink of your key going into the door — fuck, that goddamn key he gave you, and the door pulls open, just as he braces himself against the doorframe.
Your brow furrowed in concern, takeout bag in hand, as your eyes examined him, until they found their way to his boxers.
“Suguru—“
“You should leave — I can’t explain, there’s a curse inside me—“
Your eyebrows knit together, “Suguru, a curse did this to you? What happened?” And he’s shaking his head, mind far too gone, as he forces himself away, “let me help—“
“You can’t help. I have to get out of my system but the only way is—“ he cuts off, as he groans again, body and mind railing against each other, as his body just seemingly burns from even being near you.
“There must be something—“ and you step closer, and he can barely hold back from grabbing you, fingers twitching to wrap around your waist, the other holding your neck, lips finding yours, as he fucking rips his own clothes off— “I want to help—“
He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt incessantly, as you step closer, closing the gap between your bodies, and he can only focus on the way your pretty lips part, the way your chest curves under your shirt, and the far too short shorts you choose to wear — fuck.
He was so fucked.
He can’t hold back, as he’s drawing close to you in a moment, his mind clouded with lust, the hitch of your breath only making him want you more — but he forced every muscle in his body to stop. He couldn’t. Not until you agreed.
“If you don’t want me to fuck you right now,” he says lowly, his lips nearly brushing your ear, “I want you — regardless of this, I’ve wanted you for so long,” the confession tumbles from his lips because he needs you to know, needs you know so you can either leave him to his fate or help him get through this, “but if you don’t feel the same—“
But to his surprise, you lean closer, breath warming his skin until it was left scalding, “who said I didn’t?”
And he can’t hold back.
His lips crash to yours, his hands holding your cheeks, as he grasps desperately to you, takeout boxes spilling from the plastic bag and your purse spilling your things when you drop it, your fingers grasping at his damp t-shirt.
And your touch alone even through the fabric is nearly enough to make him bust a nut there and then — and his mind hadn’t even felt so clear until he felt your touch. He could notice every little detail about you — the way your breath caught when his fingers ghosted down your sides, the way your lips parted for his tongue without hesitation, and the way your knees shook when he squeezed your hips.
“So pliant for me,” he murmurs, eager to touch more, to taste more, “such a good fucking girl, aren’t you?”
And you’re nodding wordlessly — lips kiss ruined and red, saliva clinging to your lips when he parted from your lips — and he wonders which one of you swallowed a glorified sex curse.
“Know how long I wanted to do this?” words said pressed with heated kisses down your neck — he was right, you tasted so sweet, he bet another part of you tasted even sweeter — “how many times I thought about this?” He nibbled at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, rewarded with a pretty gasp, “wanted to mark you up so many times — when that fucker tried to hit on you — I wanted to do more than just wrap my arm around you. Wanted to show him how he could never please you,” and he’s sucking a mark there, teeth grazing and pinching your skin before he soothes it with his tongue. He smiles against your skin, as he admires his handiwork.
You whine when he drags a thumb down your puffy lips, “Sugu, please, more,” and his lips find yours again, swallowing your complaints and moans eagerly, as his large palms slide down your back to rest on your ass, squeezing as he presses you flush to his body, hard on pressed against your body.
“Need my touch that much, Princess? Should’ve just fucked you in that club, huh? Let them see that you’re mine,” And he’s walking you backwards towards his room, as he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor of his living room. Your fingers running over his exposed flesh, thumbs teasing his sensitive nipples, pretty little lips pressing teasing kisses to both sides.
Fuck, the need to bury his cock in you grew by the second. But he wanted to feel good first — been waiting too long. He had all night to fuck you — but he only had one time to do it right the first time.
He’s walking you into the edge of his bed, as you both tumble onto the bed, his hands sliding under your shirt, tugging at the hem, and you help him take it off — and he hissed at the sight of nothing underneath.
“Were you always coming to my place with no bra on?” his lips curl, as your eyes look away, embarrassment painted on your expression, “wanted this as long as I did, Princess? Don’t get so shy now — you’re the one who insisted on helping me, so aren’t you going to fulfill your promise?” His lips brush against your earlobe, lips wrapping around it and sucking lightly.
You shiver, biting your lip, before you’re tugging him fully onto the bed, before slinking off of it and onto your knees for him, “Then let me help you,”
When your fingers toy with the elastic of his boxers, he’s ready to cum right there — he’s so sensitive still, he’s sure he won’t last long, but fuck, he doesn’t care with how pretty you look between his legs.
“Don’t be a tease, Princess, or I’ll pay you back later,” but your lips only curl, as you lean forward and press a kiss through the drenched fabric, tip of your tongue teasing his slit through his boxers.
“Oh I expect you to,” and you’re pulling his boxers down painfully slowly, letting the fabric of his boxers rub against his hard-on teasingly, a low hiss leaving the thin line of his lips, his balls aching with his release as his cock slaps against his stomach, “fuck, Sugu,” you murmur in almost reverence — he was thick, the tip flushed red with lovely beads of pre-cum already dripping down his length, your fingers already eager to trace those pretty veins, and feel the slight curve of his cock in your aching cunt, “how am I gonna fit you all in me?”
And his cock twitches at your words, as you pity him with a chaste kiss to the top, “Please,” he swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, fingers knuckles white as they fisted the now creased sheets, “fuck—“ as you blow air along his length, “I’ll cum all over your face at this rate,”
“Oh I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sugu?” your point finger lightly follows the trail of his vein, as your lips continue to press butterfly kisses along his length, “paint my face with your cum,”
And his fingers thread themselves in your hair, pressing his length to your lips, and you smirk, looking up at him with half lidded gaze, as your lips part and his length slides in — that’s all it takes.
The coil in his stomach snaps, as he cums down your throat, hot seed spilling into your mouth, as his hips jerk against your mouth, his groans of your name sending a hot stripe of heat down to your cunt.
Despite that, his cock only seems to grow larger, twitching against your tongue, as you part for a moment, a trail of saliva and cum dripping from your lips, “Taste so good, Sugu — gotta have you one more time—“ you envelop him with your lips again — and he’s a mess of moans, head thrown back, thick haze of lust as his eyes finally meet yours. You swallow around him, tongue wrapped around his length, as your sinful fingers touch whatever can’t fit in your mouth.
“S’good baby, should’ve fucked this mouth a long time ago,” and he’s gone, as his hips begin to slowly roll against you, watching as you don’t resist, the tip of his cock brushing against your throat, “good fucking girl, never gonna go a day without these lips around my cock,” and god, he’s so close — twitching in your mouth, but what sends him over the edge is when he feels you moan, and spots your hand down your shorts.
Fuck, he’s pulling out, “can I—“ and you pump him in response, a grunt of your name as you let him cum all over your face and chest, the sight enough to make him hard all over again — his thick release slipping down your lips, as your tongue darts out to taste it again.
And he’s pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting his own cum on your lips, before grabbing his discarded shirt to clean you off. His hand grabs your wrist and eases it from inside your cunt, tongue darting out to lick the release from your fingers, cleaning each of them.
In an instant, he’s got you spread on his bed, legs parted for him, “where’s that attitude now, pretty?” And his lithe fingers sneak under the elastic of your panties and snaps it against your skin, making you squirm, “seems like all those words fell out of your head just from sucking my cock,”
He’s slowly dragging your underwear down, before pulling at his bedside drawer to stuff your panties in, “for later use,” and you can’t managed a reply before his lips are pressing butterfly kisses up your thighs, before his teeth graze the soft flesh of your inner thigh, drawing a gasp from your lips, before sucking and soothing it with his tongue, “mine, all mine,” he’s already hard again — the feel of your soft skin under his lips was enough to have him cumming again like a virgin — the burning in the pit of his stomach only burned brighter for you — god, would he ever work his way out of this state? But as his gaze was met with your lovely dripping cunt with your puffy clit begging him for attention, he couldn’t seem to care.
You hiss when his fingers slowly spread your folds, “So fucking tight, baby, how am I gonna fit in you?” he clicks his tongue, inhaling, as his nose brushes against your clit, making your hips jump, “patience, gotta take my time with this princess cunt, gotta make sure you’re ready for me,” his dick twitching at his next sentence, “because I sink my cock in here, we’re not stopping at one round,”
Your cunt squeezes around nothing at his words, his breath warming your sensitive pussy, until he finally drags a stripe up your needy folds.
“Sugu, fuck,” his arms brace your thighs and hips down, as the tip of his tongue drags teasing circles around your clit, your slick gathering on his tongue, as he tastes it with a groan.
“Fucking, the best thing I’ve tasted,” and as much as he wants to bury his dick in you, he could live with his face between your thighs, “so perfect f’me,” and his tongue trails in tight circles around your clit, while his finger toys with your entrance, gathering your pre on his finger, teasing your entrance and delighting in the way your breath hitches.
He looks up at your face between half lidded eyes, you’re too fucking pretty — your hair a mess from, a sheen of sweat on your body, the lovely way your nipples were erect, and your eyes — pupils lost to lust and need. And all for him.
Fuck, he knows he won’t last long at this rate, he can already feel the urge to palm his raging cock, but he wants you to cum first, and he’s sinking a finger into your sweet cunt. He can almost imagine how your walls would feel fluttering around his cock — but he doubts his engorged tip would be even fit right now.
No, he needed to make this good for you — he slowly starts to finger fuck you as his tongue circles your clit in tighter circles, even sucking on it, and by the way your fingers grasped at the sheets, crumpling under your touch — you liked it.
Pretty moans left your lips, as your fingers found their way to his dark locks, still slightly damp from his shower — as he added a second finger inside. His name said between pants, as his fingers drag against your molten insides — the wet squelch rang in his ears as he fucked your cunt open. Knuckle deep in your sweet pussy, he knows he’s addicted — to the feeling of your molasses insides — warm and soft for him, his digits curling against your walls, looking for that one place that would make you fall apart.
“Sugu, please, please ‘m close—,” and he knows you need a little more, and he’s obliging with a chuckle, a third finger joining the other two, and he’s fucking you in earnest now — lips closing around your clit and sucking mercilessly, as his fingers find that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. Your back arches, as your nails dig into his scalp, as you cum around his fingers — walls fluttering as he eats you out through your high, his name leaving your lips again and again, as you slowly come down from your high, thighs twitching and chest heaving as you do.
As he finally pulls away, his chin and mouth glossy and drenched in a mixture of your cum and his spit — that he licks clean from where his tongue can reach, fingers collecting the rest, as he looks at your sticky cum gathered on his fingers.
Fuck, he could live in your cunt. Your sweet taste was the only thing he’d crave now after consuming curses — he wondered if you’d let him eat you out for hours after the curses he ate — he was sure your taste was the only thing that would erase that disgusting like nothing else ever would.
He’s giving you soft kisses after, dotting them up your body, murmuring praises, but you’re pulling him into a kiss, your fingers resting against the back of his neck, as your other hand finds his aching erection, swallowing his gasp with pleasure.
“Want you, Sugu, please,” and your words are enough to make him cum right there, as he tugs your hand away, “Sugu—”
“Won’t last long if you keep touching me and whining like that, Princess,” the heat only seems to lick at his skin like flames, engulfing him with every touch, and his cock was the epicenter of the wildfire, while you were the fuel that only made it consume you both to ash, “but I know it won’t be long until I’m fucking you again anyway,” Your cunt throbs at his words, as he draws close, dragging his weeping tip against your folds, watching his pre-cum smear against your slick with a grunt, “feels like you’re already trying to swallow me up, princess — you want this cock that bad?” fuck, he can’t hold back anymore, as he’s lining up himself up, and he’s sliding right into you with a groan, “know how long been waiting to do that?” his skin meeting yours as he bottoms out deliciously, stretching your walls out with his girth, pleasure ripping up your spine, “wanted to do this since the moment you walked through the door, but needed to do this right — when nothing about this was right,” he had so many things to say, while your mind had left you with not even a syllable, his cock twitched and pulsed inside your walls, dragging against it deliciously, “wish our first time wasn’t like this — but I’m so glad it’s finally happened, sweetheart,”
And you can’t help but smile up at him, lips parted with a small moan, as tears burned at your eyes from his size, “Me too, Sugu, wanted you for so long, needed you—” and he’s kissing your tears and words away with his lips,
Then he begins to fuck you — hard, the slapping of your skin and the wet squelch of your sex filling up most of the silence of the room, while both of your moans and grunts took up the rest. Your cunt was heaven to him — warm, wet walls wrapped around his aching cock — the slightest bit of relief was overcome with waves and waves of need — he needed to fuck you, needed to make you cum, needed to cum inside — he just needed you.
“S’big, Sugu, too big,” you whine, he was almost too much for you, the way his dick fucked places you only could imagine reaching, as his mouth leaned down to take a pert nipple between his lips — sucking and licking, as he couldn’t have enough of you, while his hand toyed with the other, “feels too good,”
“I know baby, gonna fuck your princess cunt so good — make sure its made just for me,” he’s murmuring, as his teeth graze your tit, as he pistons into you again and again, the tip of his cock brushing your cervix with each thrust, “all mine, baby, fuck — such a good girl for me,” and the praise has you keening against him, the knowing flutter of your cunt that tells him you’re all too close to the edge, as his hand reaches between your bodies to rub at your clit, “cum for me, pretty, need to feel your pretty little cunt squeeze me,”
And you do, falling apart as he fucks you through your orgasm, again and again — fuck, you felt so good, as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, a white ring of your release forming around his base. He’s fucking close too — can feel his balls tense, eager to blow his load, “where—”
You’re still moaning, eyes blown out in pleasure, as you watch him fuck you again and again, “Inside, Sugu, fill me up,” and that’s it, he’s gone — spurting his hot release, painting your walls, as he does, fucking it inside you — deeper, deeper, until he stills for a moment. And you’re twitching, eyes fluttering shut, when he pulls out, a groan parting his lips as he watches his seed spill from your cunt.
But then silence for several moments, the soft pants of your breathing only, before you hear him swearing and grunting, as your eyes open, and your pussy twitches at the sight before you. Suguru’s hand slid up and down his still erect cock, his eyes squeezed shut, as he groaned, “Suguru—”
“Wasn’t enough, need more,” he’s shaking his head, as his fingers squeeze around the base of his cock, “thought it would be enough to cum with you, but I can still feel it—” and he’s groaning, as you sit up, watching your mixed releases drip from you, “baby—”
And your lips kiss the tip of his weeping cock, “I told I’d help you,” and you ease his hand away, as you lick up his length, your eyes fixed on his, “just because we fucked, doesn’t mean we’re done,”
And in a moment, he’s got you flipped onto your hands and knees, as his cock slaps against your ass, his fingers squeezing the flesh, as he leans over to kiss your back, “Then I guess we’re gonna be up all night, sweetheart, because if you’re okay with this — I don’t think I’ll be satisfied with just a blowjob,” his tip drags against your messy cunt, “gonna need something a little tighter than your mouth,” and he’s sinking his thick cock into you again, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to fuck you, “better cancel any plans you have, pretty — because we’re not leaving this bed for a while.”
“Don’t fall asleep on me, baby,” his fingers grab your chin, and force you to meet his gaze, as he fucks into you, as you sit on his lap, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders, “almost gonna cum, and don’t want you to be asleep for it,”
How many times had you fucked? You had lost count — but you knew you had done it in far too many positions — on your hands and knees, standing up, against the wall, from behind with his hand gripping your leg up, and far too many others — and now you were spread in his lap, cock deep in your pulsing pussy, his lips kissing your neck, as he fucked into you, his dick reaching a deeper angle from this position, easily able to hit the furthest parts of you.
He had cum in you more than you thought was humanly possible — and you supposed it wasn’t — it was only the curse that enabled this — it was animalistic even, the way he rutted into you desperately. He grabbed a water bottle only to take a swig, and find your lips again, forcing you to swallow the water.
“Good girl,” he’s grunting, his hips beginning to stutter, “I’m close baby, are you?” You hadn’t thought it was still possible to feel pleasure at this point, but it was — his cock dragged against your walls, his dark gaze finding yours, “tell me you wanna cum,” and your pussy twitches at his order, “use your words, pretty, or have I fucked them all out?”
“Please, Suguru, I wanna cum on your cock,” and you’re so fucking close again — the all too familiar knot in your stomach ready to snap any moment.
“Fuck, greedy pussy hasn’t enough of me? We’ve been fucking until the daylight now,” as his hand grabs your chin to make you see the first rays of light peaking over the horizon, and he’s making you bounce on him with each thrust of his dick — your orgasm building and building with every brush of his tip against your g-spot, “fuck, s’good for me, baby — been so good — just need one more and we can stop,” and tears stream down your cheek that only make him groan, his lips finding yours in a messy, sloppy kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth right as his cock hits at the deepest part of you—
And you squirt all over him, drenching his cock and lap as you cum, your lips parting from him, as your head is thrown back, boneless, as he fucks into you, your spasming walls pulling him over the edge as he paints your insides with his release, fucking it into you, until he finally slows, your body draped on his, head resting on his shoulder. Bodies sticky with sweat and cum, his cock finally softens inside you, the heat finally beginning to dull, as he presses soft kisses and gentle caresses to every inch of your skin, as he lays you down carefully, pulling himself from you.
“Thank you, princess, thank you,” and you’re burying your face in the crook of his neck, soft breaths cooling the sheen of sweat on his skin, “did so good for me,” and he slowly rises, grabbing his shirt and running it under water to clean you off, if only a little.
You’re already half asleep, eyes only fluttering half open to watch him, and he can’t help but bite his lip, “Sugu?”
“Yes, princess?” And you nod, fingers twitching for him, and his lips curl as he obliges, wrapping you up in his body, “know it was rough on you baby, I’ll make it up to you — don’t worry, just rest,” he grabs a water bottle, and lifts your head ever so slightly and helps you drink some water.
“I know you want to ask me something,” and he pauses, as he pulls the bottle away, “I can see the gears grinding in your head — you can ask me anything, y’know,” you had quite the way of embarrassing him, didn’t you?
“I know, I just,” he swallowed, “was there any other reason you came back to Tokyo, aside from the threats, did you come back for anything else?”
And your lips curl, raising an eyebrow knowingly, “Anything or anyone you mean?” and you chuckle when his eyes can’t meet yours, your fingers finding his again, “baby,” and your hand brushes against his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw, making his breath catch, “I did come back for someone — a very particular someone,” and he smiles, as your lips lean up to press a chaste kiss to your lips, “and my friends, of course,” you add, “I love Utahime, but I missed Shoko and Satoru, and you,”
“You did?” he murmurs, and you giggle, kissing him again, melting into his touch again, as your foreheads brushed against the other’s, “Sugu?” and it’s your turn to ask something now, chewing on your bottom lip, “can we do this again?” you murmur, before adding, “not like this but—“
And he laughs, pulling you impossibly closer, lips finding your leaping pulse, “Yes, we can, if you want to — because I know I do, because,” his thumb brushing the length of your cheek, “but I want all of you — want your body, your thoughts, your time, your heart and soul—“ and his lips quirk at the sight of your eyes widening ever so slightly, “is that okay?”
And your lips find his own as an answer, sweet kisses turn languid, heat stealing any doubts from either of your minds, “As long I have yours as well,” and the two of you share only a few more kisses, before you both finally drift off.
“If he’s fine, and I’m checking on him, I’m kicking his ass,” Satoru grumbled, as he held his phone between his cheek and his shoulder, Shoko sighing as he rooted through his pockets for his keys.
Shoko chewed her lip, she hadn’t heard from him in hours, “He was in bad shape, I can't find the time to go check and you were on your way home anyway,” Shoko says, wiping her brow, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers.
“Yeah, on my way home back from a mission,” he finally finds his keys, sticking Suguru’s spare key into the lock and turning it, “If I have jet lag, and all I find is him jerked off and sleeping, you owe me,”
He twists the knob, and looks — he doesn’t see Suguru in the living room or kitchen — but he does see takeout containers spilled on the floor, along with a very familiar bag, and he blinks, before his lips curl. He asks if she’s heard from you, to which she says no,
He walks silently to Suguru’s bedroom, opening the door a crack to see you and Suguru curled up against each other, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, the comforter strewn about and covering the rest of your bodies.
Satoru only grins, before he pulls his phone from his ear and switches to the camera.
“Never mind, Shoko, I owe you one,” and he snaps a picture of the two of you, wondering how many missions he could pawn off to Suguru now, “I’ll treat you to lunch.”
✧ a/n: so this turned out way longer than i thought (story of my life). i had so much fun writing this - i've been writing this in conjunction with prof geto part 3 and its been funny darting back and forth between these two -- although the scenes i've been writing
❝ SATORU GOJO IS THE HONORED ONE - AND HE'S MORE THAN HONORED TO BREED YOU ! ❞
✧ pairing: gojo satoru x sorcerer!reader
✧ summary: it's your duty as the wife of the clan head to help your husband get dressed -- even for battle. but that didn't mean he couldn't spend some time undressing you. aka fucking gojo in his shinjuku showdown outfit
The word slips from your lips without a second thought as you slip the haori over his shoulders, snow locks against the coal colored silk, slick as steel and light as a feather, yet carrying the heft of expense.
Just as your husband did.
Little words could describe Satoru Gojo — the most common being the strongest — unmatched strength that matched his flawless appearance and even more unsullied skill set. Curses would sooner exorcise themselves rather than face him, and those who didn’t, well, they did not have long to linger on their mistake.
But you didn’t think of him as the strongest. No, your husband was so much more than that. A teacher. A mentor. A friend. An idiot (but he would insist that he was your idiot, and he very much was). And he was perfect.
A remark you knew many would balk at, and even now — as you dressed your husband, at his insistence, fingers helping him pull the fabric over his body, before smoothing it over his muscle and the word fell from you without a second thought — you caught glimpse of a grimace on Ijichi’s face in the mirror.
“Ijichi, you should go before I slap the shit out of you for your expression,” Ijichi squeaks in horror before slipping from the room, quiet click of the door welcoming silence, only for a moment, “what was that again, sweetheart?”
You roll your eyes, “should I really indulge you in making your ego any bigger? You may defeat Sukuna with just the sheer size and weight of it,” you tease, fingers smoothing and adjusting his haori.
“Think that would be a victory either way, sweetheart,” his fingers find yours, weaving with your own — miraculously soft even with bearing the weight of the world in his hands alone, “but I don’t want to win in such a boring way, especially to Sukuna,”
“And why’s that?” His lips curl.
“Because I have to look cool in front of my precious students, don’t I?” you see a hint of sadness linger in his gaze — and you hear the unspoken words, especially Megumi, but the smile slides back on as usual, “I can’t have myself embarrassing myself can I? You’d never let me live it down,”
“Oh, no I wouldn’t,” your fingers slide up to cup his cheek, “but you’d expect nothing less from your wife, now would you?”
And he grins, just as he did the day he had proposed to you, at the classroom at Jujutsu Tech where you first met, deep reds and oranges flooding the wood paneled room, painting it as it only could in the evenings, but even the sun paled in comparison to Satoru on his knee, lips curled in your favorite smile — the very one he gave you every day.
“My wife,” he hums, and you have to stop yourself from biting your lip and tense your muscles so you didn’t jump him then and there.
“What about it?” he runs the back of his fingers over your cheek.
“Just glad I convinced you to let us get married early,” not that it took much convincing at all — only a single look after he was unsealed and several minutes of making out later, and he had gotten Ijichi to get the registration and paperwork for him — the very papers Satoru had prepared before Shibuya, “because now you’re stuck with me, wifey,”
You chuckle, your fingers finding his as they brushed your cheek, turning your head to kiss his fingers, “I’ve been stuck with you from the moment we met,”
And you had been — you hadn’t known peace since he had thrown that Jujutsu Tech classroom door open all those years ago, with a welcome party prepared for you and the other first years, microphone in hand as he introduced each of you. And it wasn’t his strength or his skill or even his stupidity that charmed you — but the goddamn smile on his lips.
Funny, how everyone was so preoccupied with his eyes, when every inch of his was just as captivating—
“Think you’re going to lose me now, Toru?” You rub your thumb across the length of his cheek, “don’t know if I could ever live without you,”
“Oh yeah?” he wraps his arms around your waist, his warm form enveloping you, “no regrets?”
“Only one,” and he tilts his head, blues gleaming with the low light of the room, catching like sunlight against waves, as your fingers traced down to the smooth silk of his clothes, “that we never got married in a formal ceremony,”
“If I recall, you were in just as much of a rush as me,” his lips graze your jaw, threads of heat slipping up and down every inch of your body, a kiss pressed to the soft skin behind your ear, “you barely wanted to even have the small ceremony we did,”
“That’s because someone kept touching me while I got ready,” and he did, as you changed into a dress you selected for the small ceremony — or rather you tried, as his warm palms slid up your body, his mouth covering your soft gasps and protests, “or do you forget that you nearly fucked me against the wall right outside the room we were going to marry?”
“It’s not my fault my wife is so tempting, they say my technique is deadly, but you yourself are far more dangerous,” he hummed, another kiss against your cheek, as his thumb and forefinger cups your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror, “why the want a formal ceremony anyway? If I remember, you said formal ceremonies were only for the attendees rather than the couple,”
“Well, maybe I saw something that changed my mind,” or someone in something—
“Oh? And what could change my incredibly stubborn wife’s mind?”
You hate him — hate the teasing glint in his gaze because he knows exactly why, as he noses the hollow of your neck, lips grazing your flushed skin, “You know why,” and he does, he sees it in the way your gaze lingers across his body, the way you shiver when his palm slips down your hip only to squeeze, and in the soft sound that leaves your lips when his fingers trace down your chin to the valley of your chest.
“I’d like to hear you say it, sweetheart,” he presses himself flush to your back, heat seeping through the fabric, just as his breath warmed your skin, “don’t tell me you forgot how to use your words,”
“You’re the worst,” and his chuckle reverberates against you, sending a shiver up your body, his hands sliding down the front of your shirt until he reaches the hem, fingers toying with the fabric.
“And what does that make you since you married me?”
“A fool,” your lips curl, his eyes meeting yours, “but a very smart one,” and he clicks his tongue.
“So smart and yet she can’t answer a simple question,” you sigh, and his fingers, finally, slide underneath against your bare stomach.
“You just want me to stroke your ego,” and he grins at you in the mirror, robes nearly engulfing your form now.
“Oh, that’s not all I want you to stroke,” your snort is cut off by a gasp as his palms slide under your bra, “I’ll just keep teasing you until you break,” and his fingers tease your pert nipples, a wave of heat headed straight for your cunt, “and y’know I can, wifey.”
~~~
“Hngh, Toru, please—”
Satoru doesn’t know what he loves more — the sound of his name on your lips, desperation on your tongue, the same tongue that he had tasted again and again or the sight of you below him, spread out on his desk, papers and books long crumpled and pushed onto the floor — but he doesn’t need to choose a favorite thing when it comes to you.
Because every single thing is his favorite.
“If you want me to stop, you can try, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing the soft flesh, another mark blooming among the rest, a field of reds and purples he could spend hours exploring, “don’t know how far you’d get,”
His fingers press your thighs further apart, with the barest hint of strength, and you’re still utterly restrained under his touch — a lovely butterfly pinned for his viewing — and what a view it was.
“Fucker,” you pout at him half-heartedly, your kiss ruined lips and fucked out gaze doing nothing to help your case, “we were supposed to be getting you dressed for—“
“Then there’s no problem,” his fingers tug your blouse over your head, your bra askew from his eager fingers, and his hand reaches around to undo the clasp. But he doesn’t pull it away with his fingers, but instead bends down to away the intruding garment, “because you’re the only one getting undressed, sweets,”
There was something about the thought — and the sight — of you completely bare for him, at his mercy naked and vulnerable, while he stood clad in the clothes meant for battle. His cock twitched, he supposed this was a battle of kind — as he pushed his sleeves up — a battle of how many times he could cum inside you.
“Satoru—“ you squeal as he nearly rips away your panties, leaving you bare for him, your thighs closing on reflex, only for him to press them back apart, “fuck—“
“That’s what I’m trying to do, sweetheart,” he clicks his tongue, bringing your soaked panties to his nose to smell, before pocketing them, a grin on his lips, “a good luck charm,”
You gape at him, half horrified and half amused at the thought of the Gojo elders somehow finding out that the Gojo clan head’s clothes had been defiled by your underwear — though you were sure they expected nothing less from Satoru Gojo.
But even so, you can’t bring yourself to complain, “You don’t need luck to win,” and he scoffs lightly, his warm palm sliding up your thigh, lips pressing hot kisses up your shin, right to your knee, “you just need to know I’ll kick your ass if you don’t make it back in one piece to me,” your fingers run through his soft locks, before tracing over his cheek.
“I know, and the thought of you waiting for me is all I need,” he turns to your hand, lips pressing a kiss against the cool metal of your wedding ring, “and it wasn’t for that,” and he’s shifting, settling fully between your thighs, lips inches from your sopping pussy, “it’s for making sure I can breed you right,”
His fingers brush against your fluttering walls, index finger tracing the outer walls with the very tip, pulling and tugging until you were spread out completely, messy pussy on display just for him. You couldn’t squirm under his the wet squelch making your cheeks burn, “S-stop teasing, just—“
You moan as he sinks a thick finger into you, knuckle deep and fast, “So needy for someone who was whining a second ago about stopping,” it doesn’t take long for a second finger to join, stretching out your perfect pussy, warm walls pulling him deeper each time he pulled out, his wrist and palm drenched in your juices, “but y’know I can’t stop, wifey, it’s our duty, right? Duty to produce an heir, but more importantly,” And a third finger sinks inside, as he peers up at you, lips parted in a sweet moan that makes his cock throb, ready to bust without a single touch, because he doesn’t need touch — not when it’s you under him, “my duty to fuck and yours to be fucked,”
And your cunt squeezes his fingers at his vulgar words, a coil growing tighter in the pit of your stomach, heat building, as you can’t help moan his name, “and how will we fulfill our duty if I don’t prepare you, huh? Gotta make sure you’re ready, hm?”
His thumb rubs over your aching clit, the lewd noises of your slick nearly white noise to your ears as pleasure builds, every muscle taut underneath his touch. He’s pumping faster and harder, nails dragging over your walls, until his fingers find that spot you love — the one he knows how to hit again and again, and he does.
Your head lolls back against the desk, pleasure ripping up your spine, “I’m—“
And that’s the only warning you give before you cum, name on your lips as your back arches, as he fingerfucks you through your orgasm, working you down from your high. You're panting, chest heaving as he slowly eases his fingers from you, the emptiness making you whine.
Your eyes flutter open to the sight of him licking his fingers clean of your cum, tongue darting across his lips, a glint in his eyes.
“You’re so sweet I can never get enough of you,” and he lifts a finger to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his digit, obediently closing your mouth around it, until he’s dragging it out, pulling at your bottom lip, “you’re dripping from both lips aren’t you?”
“That’s your fault,” god, you’re too fucking cute, thighs twitching as he leaned down to your soaked cunt, a pretty flushed pink, “you made a mess,” and his tongue licks a stripe up your leaking walls, sparks blooming from the hot muscle flicking against your hard clit.
“Then I guess it’s my responsibility to clean you up,”
Satoru Gojo is always too much — it’s too much the way his tongue drags over the seam of your cunt, it’s too much when his nose bumps against your clit when he buries his face in your pussy, your fingers curling in his white locks, and it’s too much when you feel his grunts and moans resonate against your drenched folds.
It was too much.
“How are you so soft?” He mumbles, words whispered against your puffy clit before he kisses it, “you say I don’t play fair but you were unfair from the moment I met you,” he reaches down, palming at his erection, “and I knew you’d be mine,” Your eyes find his lips less than an inch from your pussy, chin and lips shiny with your cum and his spit, “you and this sweet pussy,”
And he’s slurping every ounce of your essence you give him, greedily lapping at you as if he’d rather drown in your juices than breath real air, “fuck, Toru, slow down—“ toes curling as you
He clicks his tongue, your head rolling back as your nails dig into his scalp, “You shouldn’t lie, sweets, not when this pretty girl is so honest,” the only sound being the wet squelch of your
“Satoru Gojo!” A familiar voice rings out followed by several knocks, “how long do you expect to keep us waiting?”
Fuck. And there was the reason you two were getting sresssd to begin with — a showing before Gakuganji and the Gojo clan before the battle with Sukuna. A showing Satoru agreed to undoubtedly to fuck with them — and you, now, for that matter, as he sucks at your clit again, your hand flying to cover your mouth.
“Didn’t know you were waiting. Thought keeping you waiting would have sent you the right message,” Satoru replies, words said nearly against your wet cunt, breath warming your folds, a shiver working it’s way up your spine, “do you all need to see me in my clothes for battle that badly? I’ll have to start to suspect other motives — and while I’m flattered, with how flattered I can be from a bunch old geezers, I am a married man—“
“You insolent brat—“ his tirade falls on deaf ears as you try to urge Satoru off, but he doesn’t, only pinning your hips in place, hands locked under your knee, as he tugs you closer.
And he only grins, “Don’t tell me you’ll let this old coot distract us, sweetheart? Gonna make me insecure, does my wife not like this as much as her pussy does?” He groans his fingers, spreading your walls apart, parting them to see your cum and pre leak, only for him to lap it up, “because you’ve gotten wetter, haven’t you?”
“T-Toru, I swear to god, I’ll—“ you half whisper, half hiss, and he sinks two fingers inside your needy walls, his tongue and fingers doing nothing to keep quiet as the squelch of your folds only grows louder as he drags his fingers inside every inch of you, while his tongue busies itself with your clit.
“You’ll what, wifey?” he hums, making you whimper, “leave? You know you don’t want that. We could make a show of it, should I open these doors and let everyone see how needy you are for me,” and you can’t help the gasp that parts your lips, walls clenching around his fingers, “maybe then those geezers will see why I chose you,”
“Satoru! Are you even listening?”
“You can say whatever you want to me here,” Satoru sinks a third finger inside, teasing your clit with chaste kisses, “I’m not leaving this room for the rest of the night,”
Gakuganji pounds at the door, but you barely hear it, heart pounding in your ears, as you barely muffle your moans behind your clenched fist, “Disgraceful, do you think this is anyway to behave—“ you’re so close, too close, ready to cum as he pumps his fingers once, twice, three times — hitting your sweet spot again and again—you feel yourself reach that peak—
Only for him to stop. The whine that leaves your lips is a little too loud, just as his smirk is a little too wide.
Fucking asshole.
Satoru chuckles, teasing you open with his fingertips, just carding your folds barely open at all, pulling small gasps and moans muffled against clenched fingers, “Aw, c’mon, you don’t think being sealed up in that box taught me anything? You should know it only made me take what I want,” Satoru pulls his fingers from inside you, licking up the side of his digits, “and what I want is right here,” he leans back down, “so tell me and leave,”
“Even so, I need to speak to you alone,”
“It’s only me and my wife. You can tell her anything you tell me, she’s the more responsible one after all,” he punctuates it by his teeth grazing your clit, making your hips jerk underneath him, his hand covering your mouth, your fingers curling over his. He grins down at you as he kisses your thigh, “My wife is indisposed at the moment,”
You don’t hear what Gakuganji says as his fingers sink back inside all at once, fingers rough as they fucked you open in earnest, but you hear Satoru scoff nonetheless.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, you old geezer — she’s just lying down,” and he adds with a whisper, curling his fingers just right, “and getting her brains fingerfucked out,” and your pretty eyes are full of tears, cries muffled against his fingers, spit soaked, as he feels your walls clamp around his fingers, “what do you think? Should I let him in, sweetheart? Let him see how you well you get fucked by me, hear you scream my name when you cum for me?”
Nerves on fire from his touch, he’s just adding fuel to the fire, and you’re bucking into his fingers, wanting his fingers deeper even a little—
“No, I don’t think so,” his lips curl as he leans down, cerulean glinting in the low light, as your walls give that tell tale flutter, “because this pretty cunt is just for me,” and he sucks hard at your clit, just as he pulls his hand away, “cum.”
And you do, pleasure ripping through every inch of you as your back arches upwards into his touch, as he holds you against his face, cumming against his fingers and lips.
It’s heaven, buried in your sweet cunt as you cum, hot release against his tongue that he laps up greedily, the wet squelch of your pussy along with your lips crying out his name again and again. doing nothing to ease the throbbing between his thighs.
And when he finally does pull away, licking his lips and chin clean of your release, he watches you coming down from your high — eyes fluttering open slowly as your chest heaves, pussy split open just for him, your cum staining parts of his pants shirt and haori.
Fuck, he’ll have to see everyone off like this — your cum on his clothes — and his dick twitches, as he leans down to press kisses along your body, with you shivering as he does. And he wants nothing more than this moment to last, with you beneath him, the taste of you on his lips, and the sounds of your soft pants filling his ears.
That is until, you flipped him, back hitting the plush of the mattress, “sweets—“
“Did you forget? It’s a wife’s duty to serve her husband,” and your fingers are as deft as they are possessed — grazing over the bulge in his pants, a hiss before pulling the drawstrings apart, “isn’t that right, husband?”
Fuck, he bites his lip as he watches you tug his trousers down, his erection slaps his stomach, hard and leaking through the fabric of his boxers, a large dark stain of precum from his weeping tip.
Fuck, your cunt ached at the sight of him — no matter how many times you saw his cock, you couldn’t get over just how long he was — it was a miracle you were able to take him without breaking your cunt, though he’d gotten far too close.
“And I thought you said we couldn’t undress me,” his cock twitches as your fingers trace over the dripping slit through the drenched material.
Your eyes don’t meet his, still fixed on his hard on, “if the clothes are on you, does it even count as undressing?”
And your fingers dip into the elastic of his boxers before snapping it against his skin, making him jolt, “should I stop then, oh honored one?” You rub your thumb over his slit harshly, a gasp falling from his lips as his head lolls back, “maybe I should go get Gakuganji, let you have your meeting,”
“Playing dirty doesn’t suit you, sweetheart—“ and you pull his boxers down, pooling around his knees just as his pants did, cold air hitting his cock making him hiss.
“Like I said,” your palms slide up his body, from his waist, and under his shirt, to his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs, “should I stop?”
He looks up at you, lungs filled with heat instead of air, lips hovering an inch from his leaking erection.
“Fuck no.”
~~~
You’d be the death of him.
There was no mistake about it.
Satoru Gojo only had one weakness—and you were sitting on top of him. Your hair disheveled with your fingers running through them, lips kiss bitten and ruined even as your teeth grazed your bottom lip, and your gaze molten and only for him — just for him.
And you called him perfect.
A groan leaves his chest as your tongue flicks against his slit, salty precum swallowed by eager lips. He’s hypnotized by you, fingers reaching for you, as his thumb drags down your puffy bottom lip, parting your mouth for him, tongue darting out to lick the pad of his finger. Fuck, your mouth is so sweet, but how is it so wicked all the same?
“Fuck, sweets, how do you look so good on your knees f’me? S’not fair,” and your forefinger traces his pretty veins from base to tip, running over every curve and inch that would be buried in your tight cunt soon enough, his hips jumping against your touch, “g’nna make me cum before you even touch me,”
“If you’re gonna cum anywhere, it better be on me,” your lips curl at the shiver that runs down his body, your fingers sliding up his thigh as your fingers slide the pre down his length, fingers slowly pumping him.
“Fuuuuck, just like that, can’t wait to bury myself in your sweet pussy, wifey—“ your lips kiss his slit, sucking as your fingers toyed with his balls, feeling far too tight from your touch, a moan cutting off his words.
“G’tta find a way to shut you up somehow, Toru,” you spit on his cock, pressing teasing kisses up and down his begging length, “or maybe we can find a gag,”
You’ll kill him before he even gets a chance to fight Sukuna, and he’d die a happy man.
His precum drips down your chin, painting your lips, tongue darting out to lick it off your skin, “s’fucking good for me,” the praise sending a wave of heat right to your cunt, hot cum slipping down your thighs — and you finally let his cock slip past your lips.
A whine leaves his throat, his head lolls back, your pretty mouth wrapped around his dick, soaking his length, hips jerking against your mouth. Half muttered apologies, he couldn’t look away from the sight of you on your knees for him — mouth stuffed full of his cock with glassy eyes from the soreness of your jaw as you bobbed your head up and down his length. Just watching his dick go and in out of your pretty fucking lips, drenched in your spit and his pre, was enough to make him want to cum then and there.
But he wasn’t the only one.
Small whimpers and moans reverberate against his cock, tongue flicking against his veins, when his eyes flicker down, nails nearly digging into your scalp as he sees you two fingers deep in your cunt, the wet sounds of your pussy mixing with the squelches of his cock in your mouth.
“Fuck, such a nasty girl I married, huh?” He runs his fingers through his hair, entranced by the sight of you fucking yourself open with your fingers, your mouth growing sloppily as you do, “does fucking my dick turn you on this much? You’ve soaked the sheets,” he chides, wide smirk undercutting any iota of scolding, while you meet his gaze with a glare, “Aw, what? Can’t take it—“
His words are cut off as you take him deep, too bumping against your throat, and his fingers curl in his locks.
“Shit—“ Your fingers graze his balls again before squeezing, hard, he nearly busts them and there, but he can’t, not yet — his fingers weave into your locks to slowly pull you off, strings of spit and pre connecting your — not when he hasn’t fucked your pretty cunt yet.
Your eyes are dilated, dark with pleasure as his gaze meets your own, a mix of his pre and your spit slipping from the corner of your mouth, “You haven't cum yet—“ and his fingers wrap around your wrist and pull your fingers from inside yourself.
You yelp as he flips you over in an instant, hitting the mattress with a bounce, large palms sliding up your thighs, as he presses your knees to your chest.
“The only place I’m cumming, sweetheart,” as he drags the swollen head of his cock against your needy folds, watching his precum smear against your twitching folds, before lifting your soaked fingers to his lips, “is inside your sweet cunt.”
“Toru—please—“ and you’re so needy, just for him, your fingers finding the front of his scarf before tugging him close, a gasp chased away by a grin as he sees the pure desperation in your eyes, “I need you,”
“I’m right here, sweets,” and he’s leaning down to dot sweet kisses down your body — against your neck, the bridge of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. “You’re going to have to be more specific,”
“Fucker,” he laughs.
“Now you’re getting closer,” and he does too, bumping the head of his weeping erection against your puffy clit, as your folds feel as if they’ll part for him in an instant, “this pretty girl is more honest than you are,” he’s parting your folds with his tip only to pull out.
A whine turns to a scowl, as you tug him even closer by his scarf, “I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me, I’ll strangle you with this—“ and he sinks into you.
Fuck, you swear you feel every goddamn inch, vein, and curve as he works himself into your tight cunt, walls fluttering as if beckoning him deeper—and he was only too happy to oblige.
“Toru, s’too big,” your whining only makes his cock throb inside you as he bottoms out inside, “s’too much,”
“Too much? No, sweets, this dick was made to fuck you,” he grunts, taking every iota of his self control not to thrust into you and bury his cum deep in your womb — no, he wanted this to last, “and this pussy was made for my cum,” he rolls his hips against you swallowly, his tip brushing against your cervix, as both of your heads roll back.
“How are you so tight? Pleasure rips up your spine as he begins a steady pace of fucking you, sounds of skin smacking together ringing in your ears, “you’re fucking wet and yet you have me in a vice grip,” his clothes rub against you, your slick soaking through the fabric, “should I go meet with the elders like this? Let them see the Gojo clan’s haori soaked by your juices,” fingers pressing your legs apart wider and higher, divots in your flesh from his touch.
Your walls squeeze at his words, mouth falling open wordlessly as he grunts, “F-fuck,” you can only manage to say, chest heaving as you grasp at the front of his haori, pulling him needlessly closer, “f-faster—“ and he grins.
He was more than happy to oblige.
He rails into you at a pace impossible for anyone but Satoru Gojo. And your gasp fades into a drawn out moan that makes him only want to fuck you harder and faster — he needed to bury himself in your cunt until all you remembered was how to moan his name.
“You take me so well, so deep,” his hand laces with yours and guides it to the bulge in your stomach, “see how deep you take me? Good girl,” the praise makes you keen, sending another wave of pre to soak his dick, and he chuckles, “gonna fit my baby so well too,”
Your mouth falls open as his dick ruts against you, bullying your pussy open, “W-what?”
“Y’think we’re gonna leave this bed before I’ve filled you up?” And he punctuates his words with each roll of his hip, “nah, this cunt is all mine tonight,” his thumb drags down your lips, pressing against your tongue, spit leaking out as you groaned, “and so are you,”
And you’re sucking at his thumb, teeth grazing it before brushing it away to lean up to meet his lips in a bruising, messy kiss — all spit and teeth and tongue, as your hips meet his thrusts, tip finally finding that sweet spot that has your back arching and your eyes rolling back.
“Toru, fuck, I’m g’nna—“ and you’re cumming, hard, orgasm hitting every inch of your body at once, nerve endings shot with pleasure as he fucks you through it — fucking relentless (or should you say limitless?). Satoru grunts as your walls clamp down on him, the wet squelch of your pussy only growing louder among your pants and moans. He watches the white ring of cum wrap around the base of his cock as it split you open, and all he wanted to do was cum inside you.
He needed to.
But he’s pulling out suddenly, a gasp ripped from your lips at the emptiness, before he’s pulling you into his lap, your back pressed to his chest, an arm around you to keep you from squirming.
“What are you—“ your sentence cuts off as he teases your far too sensitive entrance with the head of his cock, “T-toru,”
And his other hand snakes around to cup your chin, forcing you to meet your own gaze in the mirror.
You’re a mess — sweat slicked and naked, your skin littered with blooming red marks dotting up and down your body, your nipples pebbled and hard under his touch, and your cunt on full display, his fingers slipping down to spread them, as if to show you where he just was.
And he was — hulking behind you, his whole form enveloping you as his cock pushed against your needy entrance. His haori disheveled and his hair askew from your fingers running through it, skin shiny with sweat, skin beautifully flushed, and his eyes filled with lust and his smile far too pleased with himself as he watched you squirm.
Your eyes squeeze shut, “Don’t wanna be the only one to watch me cum inside you, you should enjoy the view too,” he’s finally sinking to you again, body falling back against him as he sheathed himself in you fully again, “look at how well you take me,”
And his fingers are cupping your chin, spit slipping from your mouth, as he forced you to look again, see the bulge in your stomach as he slowly began to fuck you, his grunts and moans hot against your ear, “y’know, I’m beginning to really believe you were made for me, sweets, the only one for me,” and he’s emphasizing it with a thrust, “you’re the only one I can even imagine wanting, even just thinking of you is enough for me,” his words do nothing but make you grow tighter as he fucks upwards into you, as he spots your eyes shut again, “c’mon baby, watch me fuck you,”
So you do, watch as his cock slides in and out of your cunt, the wet noises and squelch almost too much for you to bear, the all too familiar knot in your stomach growing ready to snap. His fingers slide up your body to pinch and tease your sensitive nipples, already flushed from his attention. He’s murmuring sweet words, but you don’t hear any of them — you’re gone, lost in the pleasure, in the sweet stretch of your pussy around his cock, unable to look away as he fucks into you.
“S’good for me, sweets, I’m close,” and he’s pulling you down flush against him, cock buried to the base as his tip brushes against your g-spot with every thrust, his lips pressing needy kisses to the side of your neck, “fuck, g’nna cum—”
“Cum inside me, fill me up, Toru,” and he groans your name, turning your head to find your lips in a sloppy kiss, tongue wrapped around yours just as his cock hits the deepest part of your tight cunt and his fingers rub against your clit.
And you’re squirting, gushing over his lap and cock, pulling your lips from him as you moan his name, as he rails into you through your orgasm, until he notches himself as deep as he can before he’s cumming too, hot release painting your walls as he fills you up. He’s fucking his cum into you.
You both grow slack as he slows his movements, relaxing against his body, murmuring soft praises as he slowly pulls himself from inside, clicking his tongue, as he watches his cum slip out of you.
“Sweetheart, how will you fulfill your duty if you let my cum slip out like that?” he kisses your cheek, before he’s gathering the cum on his fingers to stuff it back inside, drawing a gasp from your lips, “maybe I’ll just fill you up again, hm?”
His softening cock twitches at the thought, as you lean into him, shifting as you feel just how wet you’ve gotten him…and his clothes.
Fuck.
“Toru, how are you going to fight in these clothes tomorrow?” you cover your burning cheeks, “it’s drenched,”
“It’ll dry,” you snap your head to him to glare at him, and he pouts, “what? It’ll be like you’re fighting with me—”
“I swear if I have to live with the knowledge you fought the king of curses with my cum all over you, I’ll kill you—”
“And if I’m not alive—”
“I will bring you back to life, just to kill you,” and your palm slides against the slant of his cheek, “and you’re not going to die, I forbid it,”
He chuckles, his lips leaning down to meet yours in a sweet kiss, “Then I better not now, huh?”
~~~
“You’ll come home to me, won’t you?”
It hadn’t been a question, not until now, now when you’re faced with the reality of the day pressed against you as day breaks over December 24th. Daylight seeped into the bedroom, his thumb tracing a lazy circle against the divot of your hip, a soft smile on his lips, with his arms wrapped around you.
Atlas long having shifted the sky to your husband’s shoulders, from the second he existed in his world — but for a moment, you feel it too. Not like him — never like him, even when you tried to bear it with him. But you never could understand, no matter how you tried to.
But you tried — his fingers lacing with yours, engulfing yours with his warmth, as he lifted your intertwined fingers to his lips.
“Where else would I go, sweets?” And you didn’t want to think of the other possibilities, to say the words out loud and manifest them as some cruel jujutsu god’s intention. Because when were these gods ever kind? “I only belong in one place — two if you count the mochi place in Sendai,”
But he doesn’t earn a smile out of you, frown still firmly fixed to your lips, “ouch, not even a pity half smile?” he tilts his head, “sweetheart—“
“You said it yourself that the ten shadows is the ultimate counter to infinity,” you hate the words that leave your lips, filling in your mouth like bile, unable to do anything but spit them out like acid, “that and Sukuna’s technique, I’m worried—“
“Worrying won’t change the outcome, baby, and I’m not planning on losing,”
“If you aren’t, then why did you agree to give Yuta your body?” your words were quiet, his movements still, muscles tense as if he had already given up his autonomy to another, “and you didn’t tell me,”
He’s careful with his words, tiptoeing between buried mines— “I didn’t want you to worry about something that wouldn’t happen—“ but still managing to step on one all the same.
“Bullshit. You thought it would be better for me to find out if push comes to shove?” you laugh, a bitter noise, but all the anger leaves your body, and only fear is left, “I can’t lose you, Toru,”
“Baby—“
“I can’t. I won’t,” you’re being petulant, you know are, but he’s the one person you’re allowed to be childish about, just as he is with you.
“You won’t, huh?” He wasn’t used to be treated like this — as fragile, as something that’s fleeting, that could slip from fingers as easily as everyone else did. Even as you touched his, fingers tracing the curve of his jaw with the most delicate of touches, as if he’d shatter under your touch, “I don’t think we get a say in that, sweets, unless you had secret meetings with a god I don’t know about,”
“Satoru—“
“Don’t worry I won’t get too jealous—“ and you cover his mouth, yanking him close by his scarf, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.
“I love you, you absolute idiot, you know that right?” And you feel his lips curl ever so slightly against your fingers, before he presses a soft kiss to your palm, easing it from his mouth, “I love you, I love you so much,”
“I love you too,” he presses his forehead to yours, “I’ll come back to you, but even if I don’t…I’ll always be with you, you can’t get rid of me, even in death,”
“Promise?” And he kisses you, soft and languid, thumb rubbing back and forth against your speak.
“Promise.”
And Satoru Gojo was never one to break his promises.
~~~~
Except now.
The slice cut through the silence of the battlefield with the wet squelch of flesh and blood, followed by two thumps, one soon after the other.
No, no. This wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t.
It couldn’t be.
He promised he would come back. He promised he’d live. He promised.
He can’t leave like this. No, he can heal himself, he can save himself, couldn’t he? RCT like he did before with Toji. And for your eyes flickered around the room, no one could meet your gaze, none except Shoko, who saw the question in your eyes and only frowned before shaking her head, lit cigarette snapping in half as he held it too tight.
“No, no—“ you didn’t even realize you said the words out loud before you felt everyone’s eyes on you suddenly, before you felt something, a flicker of his cursed energy and you snapped.
“Ui ui, take me with you,” Kashimo was already on his way to the battlefield, a lightning flash to death’s door, with no fear.
Yuta says your name softly, “I don’t know if that’s a good—“ your eyes snap to his hard.
“You have your plans, Yuta, and I have my own, this isn’t a matter of discussion,” you step over to Ui Ui, seeing Yuta’s hands curl into fists, vision averted, “I’m not ready to give up on him,”
And in a second, you’re in the middle of the battlefield, dust clearing as the distant noises of fighting rings in your ears, but you barely register it, no, not when wind rolls and you see him.
“Satoru,”
You’re at his side in an instant, your fingers running over his cheek, the heat leaving his body, cold creeping in, but as your fingers graze his, a quiet murmur of his name, and you see his eyes flutter.
And it’s immediate. You look to Ui Ui, as your hands are placed on either side of his split body, palms spread against his body, “Take us to Shoko, he’s alive.”
~~~~
Satoru Gojo was never one to lose.
But he supposed if he had to lose to anyone, it might as well be the king of curses. But he knows he didn’t really loose, as he watches the snow fall above him, wondering if the cold against his skin was the snow or if it was something else entirely.
Was this what it was like for Suguru? Is this what he saw? The winter sky, or was it him knelt beside him as his life left his body.
Maybe he’ll ask him when he goes back, when he sees everyone again.
And then he hears it — your voice, the quiet murmur of his name, and the brush of your hand against his.
No, no, he can’t leave. Not if he can help it. Not when you’re here.
He feels your cursed energy flood his body, the flow of cursed energy through every inch of him, as it keeps his heart beating and his brain alive — a gasp caught in his throat.
If you want to start anew, head north. If you want to return to your old self, head south.
There’s only one option.
He had to head north — even if it meant — he closed his eyes — losing everything, but himself.
But he’d have you — and that would be more than enough.
~~~
“Are you enjoying the view?”
Your lips curl as you stand in the doorway of your bedroom, leaning back against the doorframe, watching your husband dress himself.
“Always do,” the floorboards creak lowly as you cross the bedroom to your husband’s side, “why do you think I married you?”
He chuckles, “and here I thought it was because of my incredible personality,” and you snort, as your arms wrap around his middle, your fingers adjusting the obi belt around his waist, “feels like you laughed at that a little too hard, sweetheart,”
“I just imagined how your students would react at that,” you laugh softly, as you finish adjusting his belt, only to grab his haori, a deep sky blue, as pretty as he is, “pretty sure they’d disagree, especially after the stunt you pulled—“
And of course, the stunt you were referring to was him coercing you push a box out to his students, only for him to pop out.
“How many chances would I have to do that? Plus, it was hilarious — did you see their faces?” And you scoff, shaking your head, “Plus, I figured it would be less shocking this way. Surprising them this way changes the focus from what happened to right now,”
You helped him pull the haori on, guiding his arms in one sleeve and then another, “I think you just being alive was enough of a shock,” you kiss his palm, pressing it against your face.
And his lips curl, “Well I made a promise didn’t I?” His other hand reaches for you, finding your waist and tugging you close, “and I never break a promise, especially when it comes to my beautiful wife,”
“Can you call me that yet? We still haven’t had the ceremony yet,” he shakes his head.
“This is only a formality, something to appease the elders and keep the idea of a clan war at bay,” he scoffs, shaking his head, before shrugging, “but it isn’t so bad,”
“Why’s that?” And he smiles.
“Because now we can have no regrets,” and your fingers trace upwards over his face, the scars from his battle bumpy as your fingers run over his soft skin, fingers reaching the blindfold over his left eye, before pushing it up — his cerulean blue eye now a milky white, “except maybe being able to marry you with both eyes,”
“Like you said, we were already married,” your thumb runs over his shut eye gently, “this is just a formality,”
He leans into your touch, nuzzling your hand, before his arms pull you flush against him, “Then can we be late?” And his lips lean down to press a heated kiss to your neck, voice reverberating against your skin, “because I’d like to enjoy my wife before I have to share her with everyone else,”
“Toru—“ a soft gasp cuts you off, as his hands slide down your sides to cup your ass, fingers squeezing, “we can’t—“
“Oh what will they do? Start without us?” And your resistance is waning as his lips start trailing kisses down your neck, tugging at your kimono if only to pull the fabric down your shoulders, “I promise I’ll be fast,”
“Last time you promised that, we didn’t even make it out the door—“ and his fingers are already undoing your obi, before sliding up and underneath the silk material, thighs parting under his touch, “god—“
“You don’t have to call me ‘god,’ sweetheart,” and his fingers toy with your panties, “look at my wife,” and he’s tilting your gaze to make you look at yourself in the mirror again, “perfect,”
“Just like my husband,” and his lips curl.
“Even now?” And your fingers cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze — no longer the look of the strongest or the gaze of the six eyes — just the eyes of your husband, Satoru Gojo. The very gaze he’ll use to look to the future.
“Especially now.”
✧ a/n: welcome to the first kinktober fic!! sorry it took a bit T_T. i've been super busy with work and i keep getting sick in weird ways. last week i got hives and this week, my stomach is being a jerk. but i hope you guys enjoyed :) i think the next fic may be 'a cult classic' or 'scream (only for me)' so look forward to that!! thank you to @coffee-and-geto and @gaylatteart for betaing!
❝ WHAT HAPPENS WHEN TWO YAKUZA HEIRS ARE FIGHTING OVER WHO GETS TO MARRY YOU ?? ❞
✧ pairing: yakuza!satoru gojo x f!reader x yakuza!suguru geto
✧ summary: you had no patience for the yakuza lifestyle your grandfather had -- you wanted to live a normal life, but when it leaks that your grandfather is in talks to have you engaged to one of two yakuza heirs -- you realize you're in deeper than you thought -- especially when they both fall in love with you.
✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, fluff, inspired / dialogue / scene concepts taken from the manga “yakuza fiance,” (which the fic is named after), reader's age is ambiguous, but all are 20s+, violence (as expected from mafia / yakuza stories), blood, stsg have tattoos, implied satosugu (just a passing mention of dating briefly), stsg have sadomasochistic tendencies, a little ooc, switch! gojo (very sub gojo), switch! geto, oral (f + m), deepthroating, handjob (m), fingering (f! receiving), double penetration, sex (p in v), creampie, poly relationship implied ending,
✧ wc: 18,476
“I don’t want to marry either of you,”
And your statement is met with confused stares — and normally stares like this wouldn’t be terrifying to the average person, but these were not average men you were dealing with.
Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto were anything but average — in many ways.
Both were incredibly handsome — Satoru was blessed with a piercing blue gaze of the heavens and snow white locks that could stun any person into silence, and Suguru was no slouch either — with long inky black locks tied into a neat bun and his sharp features and his almost all too alluring smile — the two of them looked like they belonged to a modeling agency. Both were also brilliant, attending one of the best high schools in Tokyo, before going to the best university, leading in their respective specialities (Satoru studying physics, while Suguru chose literature).
And, the two were both the heirs to two of the most dangerous Yakuza families in all of Japan.
But right now, they are your biggest problems, personified.
Their families were both vying for your hand in marriage — thanks to your meddling grandfather who shipped you off to Tokyo to get a would-be Yakuza husband — your yakuza family hoping to broker peace after decades upon decades of fighting with one of the other two biggest yakuza families around — the Gojo and Geto families respectively.
“Excuse me?” Suguru speaks first, a single eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his crisp white button up.
“I’m not here for this yakuza bullshit. I’m trying to live my own life — and I’m not in the mood to get swept along in my grandfather’s wishes for me to get married,” your hand is in your bag, fingers curled around your collapsible metal pole, “and I don’t care to know either of you, I don’t really care to stick around you — especially because all its earned me is the disdain of all the other students who have crushes on you — so how about we simply tolerate each other for this year?”
Satoru whistles, “how disappointing,” his eyes raking over you from head to toe, “you’re worse than your reputation — we heard you were a stuck-up, spoiled rich girl that would do anything to get her way, but turns out you’re just normal,” he sticks out his tongue and makes a gagging noise, “how boring,”
“Truly tiresome,” Suguru hums, his bangs falling in his dark gaze, “I was looking forward to a woman who could match up to us — maybe fuck me up, punish me, and strip away my dignity — type of girl who’d ruin my life, do you understand?”
You stare at him, lips parted, brow furrowed, “What?”
“In other words, we were hoping you were much more interesting than you were — as you are now, you’re just useless,” Satoru sighs dramatically, his pink lips curled in a smile, “bor-inggggg,”
“You might as well go back to Osaka, or wherever it was you came from,” Suguru shrugs, hands in his pockets, as he pulls a cigarette and a lighter, “you could stay, but as it stands, you would be better off back home — maybe it would even start a war — that could be fun, Satoru,” he remarks, his grin growing more sinister by the minute, as he places the cigarette between his lips, and lighting it.
“Let’s actually not be so hasty, Suguru. She could have some use,” he holds out his fingers to frame you between them, “could be worth something if we have her work at one of our families clubs — selling her body. She could make some use for us,” he says cruelly, “Otherwise, go back home, and let them know we’re the ones not interested in you,” he says, brushing past you along with Suguru.
And you couldn’t decide which one of their smiles were the most bone chilling — and why you couldn’t quite find your voice in that moment. And you didn’t — not until you finally reached home, your phone ringing.
“How’s it going, dear granddaughter?” you could hear the grin of the old coot even over the phone — and how could you tell him you wanted to go home now? You had hoped to go there to give two rejections — not earn two of your own. You hoped to stick out the year before leaving this place behind, if only to appease your grandfather.
“I’m fine, but I think…I think I’m homesick,” you sit on the edge of your bed, hunched over, hand holding your head up, propped against your knee.
“Why’s that? Did something happen?”
“Nothing, I just—”
“You’re not coming back home,” and your hopes fall, “one year, you have to stay one year no matter what. Don’t care if you have to fight with every bone in your body and fiber of your being — last a year,”
“But why—”
“Make those boys fall for you, and then break their hearts, heh — your grandfather is a heartbreaker and I know you can do the same,” and you know his lips are curled in a smile not too dissimilar to the two men you met today, “don’t forget where you come from — and what you’re worth,” and he cuts the line, as you stare at your phone, before tossing it away and lying back.
Well, you know what you had to do.
~~~
“Morning,” you know where’d they be — the only free period they had together that they spent in the dining hall with their entourage — including some girls who had been harassing you about how you knew the pair — ones you had suspected in fucking with your locker, smearing mud all over your shoes. A small retaliation for capturing their precious crushes’ attention.
The two heirs only stare for a moment — it had been two weeks since they had seen you, “thought I had gone home?”
“Surprised you didn’t,” Suguru remarks, utterly disinterested from the look in his eyes, despite the smile plastered on his lips, “guess I lost the bet, Satoru,”
You raise an eyebrow at Satoru, “you thought I’d stay?”
“Thought you'd stay to take me up on my offer to sell your body,” he holds out his hand as Suguru slaps a stack of bills in his palm, “did you?”
“I did actually,” your lips curl, as their gazes slide to one another, before you drop a bag on their table, “one kidney, 5,000,000 yen,” and you take delight in the smiles that slide off their expressions, as they stare at you, Satoru looking over the lip of the bag before you knocked it over and let the stacks of money spill over the table, “it took two weeks since it took a while to arrange and recover, but it was well worth it,”
The pair only can stare — expression unreadable and words seemingly stolen from their mouths, as you only smiled down at them, your gaze digging into their faces like daggers.
Suguru’s eyebrows knit together, “How did you—“
“Friend of a friend,” you shrug, “I’ll have to be on a low sodium diet and probably do blood work a little more frequently but you were right about one thing — I was being weak,” you lift up your shirt to show the bandage on your side, their eyes wide, as they can only stare, “I won’t be making that mistake again,”
And you place your foot up on their table, leaning in, as the mask slips from your face, and your anger surges forth, “listen here, you masochistic fuckers, I’m not scared of either one of you. I don’t care if I have to crawl home choking on my own blood, I’ll be sure you’re choking on each other’s as I drag you both to hell. I’m staying here, whether either of you like it or not,”
“You can’t talk to them like that—“ one of the girls pipes up, her lips twisted in a frown.
“I can talk to them however I want - do you know who I am? I come from a family just like there’s but we actually know how to cover up our crimes,” you chuckle, head tilting, “do you know how easy it’d be to get rid of you two?” Your gaze slides to the other girl, “it’d be all too simple — and trust me, I’d get my hands dirty if it’s the two of you,” your lips curl into a wide grin as you add, “after all, you guys did me the favor of dirtying my shoes already,”
And the two blanch white, all indignance replaced with genuine fear — and you had never known someone could look at you as someone to be feared.
And you didn’t know you would like it so much.
You staple the smile on your face again, as the two heirs still sit speechless in their seats, eyes glued to you, “Well that’s all,” you slide back, “I have to head to class—”
But then your wrists are caught — pulling you back, as you find yourself pinned on either side by the two heirs, your body tense, before your gaze slides between them, “What?”
“Marry me,” they both say simultaneously — and you gape at them.
You are pushing them back, palms pressed against their chests, but find yourself met with two immovable objects, instead trying to squirm out of their grips. “What?” And their grips loosen enough for you to take a step back, but their hands remain around your wrists.
“I have to have you,” Suguru presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand, dark gaze lidded as he looks up at you, and a shiver climbs up your spine, “I’ve never been so terrified or turned on in my life — it must be love,”
Satoru is the same, mesmerized with eager words, “I want you to do what you promised, Princess — ruin my life,” Satoru’s lips curled in a wide grin, “want you to completely fuck me up, dominate my entire life — and there’s only one way to do that, marry me,”
Suguru only scowls at Satoru, “You know Satoru, it’s very rude to propose after your best friend does,” Suguru’s gaze slides to him, “she’s mine,” and his other hand finds your shoulder, pulling you against his chest, even as you struggle against their grips, “her family reached out to mine first,”
“Fuckers, I swear to god, let me go—“ but they act as if they can’t hear you, a current of possessiveness sweeping their thoughts away.
“So what? Her family decided to ask for my hand — looks like yours wasn’t good enough,” Satoru only grins, pulling you against him instead, his breath warming your flushed skin, as you grimace, “and I’d make her happier than you ever would.”
“Want to take this outside, Satoru?” Suguru’s glare sent chills down your spine, but Satoru’s lips split into a smile so wide, you were afraid his head would crack in two.
“Why? Feeling lonely? Go by yourself,”
And finally you stomp on Satoru’s foot before elbowing Suguru in the stomach, drawing groans from both boys, as you stumble away from them, whirling to face them, “Don’t treat me like your goddamn property or that I’m a prize to be won,” your words slip like venom from your lips, “don’t ever fucking touch me without asking,”
“Of course, we’re sorry,” Suguru only grins after, holding his stomach, but he still looks all too delighted, “you should reprimand us like the scum we are, isn’t that right Satoru?”
Satoru nods, pouting, “Yeah we deserve more of a punishment,” and your skin crawls at their eagerness.
“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you two, but I don’t want anything to do with it,” you walk away, hiding your dumbstruck expression, but the two only followed you.
“You can’t just walk away from us, you have to decide who you want,” Suguru calls after you, their long strides meant they caught up all too fast, and you’re armed with your collapsible pole now, pointing it at both of them.
“Two minutes ago, both of you thought I was normal and boring,” your eyes narrow — was this another plot to just sell you to some club?
“And I’m sorry about that sweetheart,” Satoru’s arm is around your waist again, while Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, “we were clearly wrong — and you have to take responsibility,”
You stare at them, “for what?”
And he’s leaning to whisper in your ear, “I’m so hard for you right now,” And you’re whirling on them with the pole, but they both expertly dodge your assault, before you’re hurrying away. But they let you go, watching after you with a grin.
“This is going to be fun,” Suguru remarks, looking at his best friend, “I can’t guarantee I won’t kill you for her hand,”
Satoru only smirks in reply, “You stole the words out of my mouth, Suguru.”
~~~
It had been a week — a week of you trying skillfully to evade the two yakuza heirs.
And you had failed. No matter how fast you left your classes, where you hid, where you sat — the two always found you. And now you have resorted to sitting outside to eat your lunch, being careful to avoid any stray glance of your presence. You sat, back against the building, as you held your head, bento box in your lap — how long until they would get the message? How long until they figured out you wanted nothing to do with them?
Your grandpa had told you to make them fall for you, but you didn’t think you had too much more to do with how the two were following you around, dogging your every step.
How would you last another year?
You opened your bento — at least for once, you could enjoy your lunch without one of them—
“There you are,” and your lunch nearly goes tumbling out of your lap, but you grasp it, keeping your food from spilling out of your bento, and you turn to meet the gaze of Suguru, leaning against the windowsill, “you’re a fast one, sweetheart,” his head tilted and lips curled in his signature smile.
“How the fuck did you find me so fast?” you stare at him, brow furrowed, “it’s barely been five minutes, and this campus is huge,”
“It’s the power of love, of course,” you cringe, and he laughs, bringing his knuckles to his lips, “oh rather, it’s the power of the tracking device I slipped in your bag,”
And you blink, “You what?”
He shrugs, “Well how else would I have found you so quickly? I’ll slip it in your shoe next time,” and he sighs, as you dig through your bag, before turning it upside down and letting your things spill out on the grass, “besides, there’s a good reason I’m tracking you,” and you find the tracker before stomping on it, digging your heel into it, crushing it into the dirt, “there’s been a kidnapping of another Yakuza heiress,”
And your eyes flit to him, and he’s still smiling at you, “Who?” you continue to collect your things, shaking out textbooks and examining your things for any other hidden trackers.
“You’ll learn tonight — come to the compound tonight — you’ve been formally invited by both my father and Satoru’s father,” and he’s hopping out of the window, fingers brushing yours as he hands you your pencil case, and he’s all too close now, his warm breath warming your lips.
“And if I refuse?” and his lips curl in a smirk.
“You’d be offending not only my family, but Satoru’s as well—” and he’s rising to his feet, offering you a hand, “and it might end in an all out war, but that would be just fine for us — would it for you?”
You glare at him, taking his hand reluctantly, as he helps you to your feet, and you brush the dirt from your skirt and legs, “Fine, what time?”
“After school, Satoru will be waiting by the gates for you,” he smiles, as he settles next to you, pulling out his own lunch, and you tilt your head, “oh are you curious about me? I have my own business to attend to,”
“Is that what the other bastard is up to?” and he chuckles at that, taking a bite of his food.
“Something like that.”
~~~~
“Took you long enough, pretty,” the Gojo heir’s eyes drag over you like spotlights as he leans against the gate outside, the other students staring as you two speak, whispering as they walk by, slowing down to either catch a longer glance at Satoru or hear a bit of your conversation, “with being so quick to leave for lunch, I thought you’d be just as quick leaving the building,” and he’s offering you a drink from the vending machine that you reluctantly take.
“Well, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being a spectacle,” you grumble, as you power walk away from the burgeoning traffic jam that Satoru was causing, and he follows behind, “why do they all stare anyway? They know you're a yakuza, don’t they?”
“Part of the draw,” he shrugs, the hiss of his own soda filling the air as he pops it open, “everyone wants what they can’t have, but don’t worry, I only have eyes for you, sweetheart,” you grimace as he sips at his soda, raising an eyebrow, “so what can’t you have?”
You both finally reach the heart of the city, bustling with people left and right — the one thing you couldn’t get used to from the quieter life you led, “Some peace and quiet, apparently,” you adjust your bag on your shoulder in a tighter grip, if only you could lose him in this crowd and be done with all this shit, but it wasn’t that simple, and then it occurs to you, “did you put a tracker on me as well?”
“Nah, I just used Suguru’s,” he smiles, as he downs the rest of his drink with his head thrown back, before crushing the can in his hand and tossing it away in the recycling bin nearby, “plus, I didn’t have time, been busy with other things, unfortunately,”
“What things have you—”
And you’re suddenly tugged into an alleyway, an arm around your neck and a hand clamped over your mouth, “Don’t struggle, it will only make it more difficult for you,” the man whispers in your ear, as another two men draw closer to your sides, “we’ll kill you if you do,”
You can’t scream, but you don’t need to — because the man who grabbed you screams first.
“Who the fuck are—” and he screams, his hands slipping from your side, the thump of his body against the pavement making you flinch, as you slowly turn to find Gojo, as he only glares at the other men, before his gaze slides to you, softening with a smile.
“Sweetheart, it’s okay, come here,” and you swallow, before taking shaky steps to his side, and he’s pulling you behind him, “wait here,”
It happens far too quickly.
Or maybe it’s just a blur now. Because now he’s beaten the three men into submission, their scarlet blood splattering against his uniform, the wet squelch of their flesh as he punches and kicks them, his shoe digging into their sides. He winds his fist back again.
“That’s enough,” you say hoarsely, swallowing thickly, “they’re barely alive,”
“More than they deserve,” he mutters, before sighing and grabbing one by his shirt, fabric straining against the dead weight of the man, and pulls him close, his hand connecting with his face as he slaps him awake, “You hear me? Listen,” he shakes him, until the man’s eyes blink open, bleary, “You see me? Don’t forget my face. You touch her again — and it’s the last thing you’ll see before the afterlife, got that?”
“Yes,” the man slurs.
“That’s my girl,” he jerks his head at you, “she’s mine and if you or any of your stupid friends or family see her, don’t talk or touch her, much less even look at her,” and his lips curl again, “or I promise my family and the Geto family will slaughter you — until there’s nothing left.” and he drops the man onto the ground, “let’s go,” he mutters, shaking the blood off his knuckles, before using the inside of his uniform jacket to wipe the rest off.
“Your uniform, it's—” and he glances at the blood seeping into the fabric of his jacket and crisp shirt, and you’re digging through your bag, “I have my hand towel and some—” and he’s shaking his head.
“I have a sweatshirt I can wear in my bag,” and he’s tugging off his uniform jacket and unbuttoning his shirt, and you can’t look away fast enough — not before seeing the tattoo littering his back.
A large lion against his back, seemingly roaring, against a backdrop of bamboo, stared back at you, as your breath catches in your throat — he wasn’t just a spoiled heir, he was a real yakuza. And what he did to those men — his eyes met yours again, as he tugged the sweatshirt on, lips still in that ridiculous smile — it was likely the least of what he could really do to them.
“Oh, sorry, guess I never told ya,” he pulls the orange sweatshirt down, pulling a pair of sunglasses on, and your horrified expression in the circular black rims stare back at you, “sorry for scaring you, sweetheart,”
“You’re really—” you cut off, heart caught in your throat. Yeah, you had spent too much of your life surrounded by men covered in tattoos, but these two — their auras — were on another level that was simply — terrifying.
“A yakuza?” he finishes, peering at you over the rim of his sunglasses, “Surprised it took you this long to figure out — thought you had that pieced together a while ago — what? I assume your family shielded you from that kind of violence — probably had guards on you 24/7 so no one would mess with you. Well you aren’t in Osaka anymore,” his fingers intertwined with yours, his larger hand engulfing yours as he tugs you along away from the alley, the faint groans of the men disappearing into the ambient noise of the city, “Stay close, princess.”
And you flushed, biting your lip. There was a lot you didn’t know, but you knew you better learn — you spare one glance back at the alley — and quick.
~~~
You both arrive back to the compound, as you’re funneled into a room, you get a glimpse of Suguru in an adjacent hallway, his clothes as bloodied as Satoru’s was, if not more. His dark eyes catch yours and his lips curl, as he holds his hand up as a greeting, mouthing, “Yo,”
You’re shepherded away to sit, and soon enough, Satoru and Suguru join you, as you fidget in the middle of the room, the three of you sit on cushions, while another cushion directly in front of you. Your fingers can't help but toy with the ribbon on the front of your uniform — what if this was just a ruse to sell you off? Maybe they even found out about you selling your kidney? Anxiety swirled in your mind, dragging down your body to even the tips of your toes, your body buzzing and stinging with thoughts.
“This really is just a talk to discuss the missing Yakuza heiress,” Suguru cuts through your thoughts, as you stare at him, slack jawed, and he only shrugs, leaning back against his hands flat on the floor, “you’re not hard to read, sweetheart,”
“Besides, if we wanted to kill you, why not let you die in that alleyway?” Satoru chimes in, ever so helpful, as you glare at him, before his gaze slides to Suguru, “did you take care of that like I asked, Suguru?” and he nods, and before you can ask a question, the door slides open.
Instead of the heads of the household, a yakuza comes in, sunglasses stare back at you, his dark brown hair slicked back, shaved on the sides of his head, as he stared down at the three of you, “The heads won’t be able to make it to this meeting — something has come up,”
“Yaga, good to see you,” Suguru chirps, while Satoru only sighs, hands behind his head.
“Glad to see you haven’t gotten yourself killed since you’ve been away, old man—“ and Satoru earns a fist to his head, “ow!”
“Keep it up and you’ll get something worse than a whack to the head,” Yaga grumbles, taking his seat, “you must be the girl,” he eyes you up and down, “I’ll get straight to the point — the Akazawa heiress is missing. She’s assumed to be kidnapped,” he hands you a photo of her — shoulder length black hair, her eyes look past the camera, her head tilted downwards, but her hazel eyes pierce through the picture.
“How long has she been gone?” Suguru asks, “any chance that she just ran off?”
“There’s a chance she’s been sold off for a couple hundred thou,” Satoru remarks, crossing his arms, “people would pay a premium for a yakuza heiress,” and his eyes slide to you, and you glare back.
“We don’t know — maybe she ran off, maybe she’s been sold, maybe there’ll be a ransom coming in at one point or another, or maybe she’s dead—” and you bite your lip, “but we can’t take the risk, especially since we have a similar heiress under our care now,” Yaga says, crossing his arms with a hefty sigh, “that being said, you’ll be staying at the compound until further notice— your things have already been brought here,“ you gape at him, mouth nearly hanging open, “and you’ll have Satoru or Suguru with you at all times — their schedules have been rearranged to have class with you,”
“But—“ and Yaga shoots a look at you that silences your protests.
“These orders came from the three heads, including your grandfather, would you like to defy them?” And your mouth clamps shut, your head falling.
“No, sir,” Yaga rises, leaving, but not before ordering the two heirs to show you where you’ll be staying, “and any real threats to you appear, and your classes will be made online and you will remain under guard in the compound,” Yaga adds before disappearing behind another door.
“It won’t be that bad, Princess,” Suguru grins, as they walk you to your room, “now we can really get to know each other before we’re married,”
“Don’t you mean before we’re married?” Satoru says, as Suguru only smiles back at him.
“I would rather not marry you, Satoru, dating you for a week was enough—“ and Satoru opens his mouth to reply.
“I’m not marrying either of you,” you rub your head, feeling the beginnings of a headache creeping on your temples — you barely could make it through the day with enduring the amount of insanity these two already inflicted, you were sure you’d murder one or both of them if you had to spend 24/7 with them, “we should be keeping a low profile from now on, not going out—”
“Except for the dates we have planned,” Satoru says, offering you the key to your room, and you unlock the door, stepping inside.
“Especially not for those.” And you slam the door shut and lock it.
Your eyes take in the boxes that surround you, full of the things from your apartment, and sigh.
Fuck, this really was your life now, wasn’t it?
~~~
“Why are you staring at me?” you can’t ignore Suguru’s stare in the subway, even when you refuse to meet it. The light from the windows flooded into the subway, flickering as the carts sped by, as the two of you hung onto the grab handles. Your usual peaceful ride to university was now impeded by Suguru who stood by your side, his eyes seemingly glued to you.
“I see that your left side is slower to respond than your right,” and you shift under his gaze, “that’s why your bag is always on your left side, so you can spot a threat easier and have a stronger grip, smart,”
You raise an eyebrow, “How did you figure that out?”
He shrugs, “From observation — I also move a little slower on my left — I even blink slower,” and you face him, staring into his eyes, trying to notice any difference between the two eyes. The only thing you could see is how pretty they really were — dark and lidded, not as bright or striking as Satoru’s, but just as mysterious.
“I can’t tell,” you tilt your head, and he only smiles.
“There isn’t a difference, but I got you to stare into my eyes, didn’t I?” and you glower at him, your remark cut off by the influx of people flooding into the cart. Fuck, you never had seen it this full before. You forced yourself not to cringe under the tight quarters — you could handle this, it wasn’t a big deal, even as the people sandwiched themselves all around you, anxiety biting at your nerves. And then you’re knocked around by the crowd as the cart jerks, but then, Suguru is pulling you lightly so your back is pressed against a wall and he’s caging you in, his body protecting you.
Your breath catches — he’s so close, “You don’t have to—” and your gazes meet again, your breath catching, your bag caught between your bodies. He’s nearly pressed against you, the heat from his form seeps into your own. And he smells good, despite the sticky heat of the summer lingering — something musky but sharp at the same time — what was that scent?
“You seemed uncomfortable,” he says, his hand holding onto the grab handle above, “this seemed like the easiest solution, especially so I can protect you — it would be much easier to shield you with my body this way,”
“Shut up,” you grumble, as he chuckles, before you’re sighing, “I’m not used to taking the subway — I used to have a car that took me back and forth,” you chew your lip, “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t take care of myself,”
“Makes sense to have you driven — as a yakuza heiress, they wanted precautions,” Suguru nods, his eyes sliding around the cart, “you never know,”
“Is that why your eyes keep scanning the subway cart?” you raise an eyebrow.
And his lips curl, “I did say I’d protect you with my life, didn’t I?”
“Did you mean that?”
A chuckle escaped his lips, a noise that makes your breath catch, as the cart jerks again, pressing you both even closer, “I never say anything that I don’t mean, princess.”
~~~
“Is following me around really necessary even after classes?” you hadn’t bothered to pull your usual disappearing act — it was counterproductive in multiple ways (the first being that either of them would find you and the second being you had to be glued to one of their sides at all times), “it’s not like someone is going jump from the shadows and kidnap me on campus.”
“You don’t know that for sure, do you, princess?” Satoru drawls lazily, as he twirls his dinner knife around his fingers with a skill that said he’d done it a million times before — probably instead of doing the thing he was supposed to be doing, “a man comes up behind you while you’re studying or shopping, presses a weapon or gun to your side, just out of view, and he’s got the perfect hostage,”
You raise an eyebrow, “You sound like you’ve done it before,” and the knife stops between his middle finger and pointer, the tip pointed at you, as he looks at you over the rim of his sunglasses.
“Don’t get jealous, sweetheart, you’re the only girl I’d want to kidnap,” he leans forward and swipes a mochi from your plate — even though he had already ate his own — and you scoff, as you turn your attention back to your neglected dessert, choosing to use your brain cells to focus on your food instead of this psycho.
“How lucky,” you mutter, as you stab your remaining mochi instead of your escort, “do the two of you have to take shifts like this? I’m surprised the two of you aren’t glued to my sides 24/7 together,”
“We thought it was only fair the two of us split our time — and as much as I’d like to spend each and every hour with you, we both unfortunately have other responsibilities to tend to,” and he takes a bite of the mochi, “plus, this way, we get to spend time with you alone without the other interfering, and trust me, if I saw you with Suguru,” his lips curl, “I’d interfere,”
“Well you don’t have to be worried about that, because I don’t plan on being with either one of you,” you reply, “I’m here to finish school and go home as soon as I can,”
“You won’t be saying that once I make you fall for me,”
You get to your feet, as you pull out your wallet — but Satoru waves you off, already pulling out his card for the waiter, “You’d have a better chance making me fall for you if you tripped me,” you roll your eyes, as you round the booth, and quick as a light, you trip right into his arms, your body bumping against his chest as his arms steady you. A hand tilts your face up to meet cerulean eyes filled with mirth, “did you trip—”
And then you spot the chair leg you had tripped over oh-so-gratefully, “I don’t need to resort to those measures to make you fall for me, princess,” his finger traces your jaw with a featherlight touch, “I have plenty of other ways to do that,”
You get to your feet properly and shove him away, as he chuckled, as you rolled your eyes, “Maybe in your twisted dreams, but—” And Satoru is tugging you away from the booth — a tight arm around you waist, as you stammer, “what the fuck are you—”
“Guy’s been following you — just spotted him from a distance,” he murmurs, and your shoulders tense, resisting the urge to look back, “just keep walking with me, don’t worry,” his arm gently squeezed you, “won’t let anything happen to you, princess,”
“Don’t call me that,” you murmur, as he leads you back inside the closest building, “where are we—” and he’s pulling out his phone, texting several people.
“Getting us a ride in case I need to get you to safety, and letting Suguru know of the situation,” he offers you a small grin, “I could send you back, but that would be that and you will be on lockdown. Things might be getting a little more interesting from here — so it’s your choice, will you stay or go?”
You considered your choices — you could run away from this, go back to the compound, but going back was a guarantee that you would be stuck 24/7 in the compound and stuck there for the remainder of your time here. And these two would take full advantage of that. Plus, your mind wandered to the girl who had been taken — you wanted to know more about what happened to her and why you were being targeted next.
“Let’s go,” and his lips curl. The two of you round several street corners, Satoru’s arm remains tight around your waist, as he leads to a more and more secluded corner of the city, “is this the right move?” your hand wanders into your pocket, fingers around your collapsible pole.
He sighs dramatically, “Do you have such little faith in me, sweetheart?”
“Considering the two of you are insane, yes, I do,” and he clicks his tongue at you, “where—”
And someone punches you, fist connecting with your left cheek as you stumble sideways into the wall of a nearby building. You hear the cock of a gun, your eyes catch sight of the weapon pointed at Satoru. You caught a glimpse as your eyes flicker open, several men stand behind him, all bearing weapons of some sort.
Your ears ring, as you clutch at your head, as you struggle to get your balance, your vision in your left eye blurry from the impact, “Come with me, and your girlfriend won’t have to watch you die,” you feel something warm run down your nose, and you touch it — scarlet stains your fingers.
Fuck.
Your eyes flicker back to where Satoru stands, eyes flickering to you, a shiver running down your spine at his hard gaze — not a hint of euphoria left — his lips a thin line, and his fists clenched, “I’ll fucking kill you,” his words leave in a whispered hiss, and quick as lightning, the gun is knocked from his fingers, and Satoru’s got him pinned down, fist winding back to punch his head in. The other men don’t hesitate to join the fray, just as Satoru doesn’t hesitate to take them down, blood spilling from their bodies as they fall one by one.
You said you would be stronger — that you wouldn’t let this happen again. You weren’t some person who needed to be sheltered away. Your fingers clutched at the pole in your pocket, pulling it out, as you slowly uncollapsed it — you were a yakuza heir, just as much as these two were.
One of them got up to shaky feet, lifting up his knife to stab Satoru from behind, “DIE!” and you slam into his side, hitting over the head with the pole — a grisly crack as the pole nearly snaps against his skull.
“Fuck off and die!” the words leave your lips as you taste your own blood dripping from your nose. And you can feel Satoru turn to see you, eyes wide as he stares — your words burn as much as your head hurts, as you wipe the blood from your nose.
And the men are all down now, as Satoru walks over to you, and his fingers reach gently for your face, as he examines the blood dripping, “it’s just a nosebleed,” you say, and his gaze softens ever so slightly, before darkening, as a groan comes from the man that punched you.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” your heart flutters at his gentle touch, the calluses of his fingers against your cheek, as he pulls tissues from his pocket to wipe the blood from your nose.
And his eyes linger on your face for a moment, before he turns to the culprit, fingers clenched tightly around the napkin soaked in your blood.
He drags the man up by the collar, shaking him, a gurgled groan leaving his bloody lips, “You might want to go, sweetheart — I have to make sure I let this one die for ever laying a hand on my woman—“ and you clasp your hand on his shoulder, shaking your head.
“He’s half dead already — you don’t need to finish the job,” and he pouts, shaking the man again for good measure.
“You said he should die—“
You shrug, “People like this aren’t worth the trouble of killing. And you don’t need more problems on your hands — so if you’re doing this for me, don’t bother. Let’s just go,”
And you see his lips slowly curl into a grin, as he pulls you into a hug, arms around you waist, as he runs his fingers through your hair gingerly, “I didn’t realize you cared, sweetheart,” and you frown, “don’t want me getting in more trouble, huh? If it’s for you, I’ll oblige, but you owe me one,” and his fingers slide under your chin.
“Oi, is the party over without me?” A familiar voice calls, Suguru walks over, several other Yakuza in tow, his sleeves rolled up, as he takes a once over of the situation, seemingly uninterested in the scum, his eyes falling on you and Satoru, lingering on the blood that still was trickling from your nose. His eyes narrowed, “which one—”
“It’s already taken care of, Suguru,” Satoru rubs the back of his head, “but for your information,” he kicks the one who had punched you in his side, forcing him to roll over, a slight groan escaping his lips, “that’s the one who hurt her,”
Suguru nodded, stepping over the bodies as if it was nothing more than a spill that had been yet to be cleaned up, as his hand brushes over your chin softly, drawing close, a sharp gasp leaving your lips when his fingers decide to travel to your nose, “It’s not broken, just bleeding, but I should still get her checked out at the compound,”
“You?” Satoru furrows his brow, “you’re going to leave me—”
“To clean up your own mess? Yes, I am,” Suguru smiles, “because it’s my turn to keep watch,” as he shows his watch, already well past midnight, “and I should be getting her back to the compound,” the two glare at each other, a tension settling over the scene that you were far too done with.
You sigh, stepping past both of them, walking over the bodies splayed out on the floor, “Let me know when you both decide,” you yawn, hands in your pockets now, “I need sleep,” and Suguru follows behind, and you don’t see him turn to smirk at Satoru.
~~~~
You swore someone was watching you.
A presence loomed over you, hovering slightly, as you shifted in your sleep, a sigh parting your lips as you turned, still caught between in realms of deep sleep as you drifted in and out, eyes fluttering open a moment, and caught sight of a shadow.
No, it was nothing. It was nothing. And then you’d wake to sunlight filtering through your windows, eyes fluttering open, but you would still wake with the lingering touch of someone else against your face.
But each morning you’d check the locks, and it would be locked, with no signs of tampering — and you’d be left wondering if it was a dream or not.
It had been like this for the last week — you’d sense a presence, for a split second of what you thought was consciousness, and then it would be morning again.
And finally, you decided to stay awake, a knife you had pilfered away from the kitchen under your pillow. You let your eyes drift shut, drifting in and out of a half sleep, until you hear it.
The slow slide of the door opening, and the soft close of the door behind. The person takes nearly soundless steps towards you, before leaning above you and you feel the faint brush of hair against your skin, before leaning back with a quiet sigh.
Suguru?
And his fingers slide through your hair softly. He watches over you, quietly, until you turn to face him, eyes open.
“You know it’s really creepy to break into a woman’s room in the middle of the night,” and Suguru blinks, before his lips curl in a small smirk, “and it’s even weirder when you just sit there to watch her sleep,”
“Just trying to make sure you’re safe, sweetheart,”
“In a locked room?” And he shrugs.
“I broke in easily,” and you scoff, as he rakes his own fingers through his hair, “who else would keep an eye on you?”
You sit up, crossing your arms, “Surprised you and Satoru aren’t in here,”
“We take turns,” and you stare at him, as he leans back against the wall, “all we do is keep watch princess — would you have let us in otherwise?”
You open and shut your mouth, before you find words again amidst the haze of frustration, “I’m not so fucking helpless that you both need to sit here and watch me sleep,”
“We have been doing this since the threats began nearly and you only noticed recently,” he points out, his eyes catching the faint light of the moon, as cautious and patient as Suguru was — his expression as indiscernible as a new moon was, “and it’s only because Satoru had gotten sloppy,” he shrugs.
You rub at your temples, “you’re not the only one who is a yakuza—“
Suguru tilts his head, “Princess, you don’t know what it means to be one — not even your fingers have never been bloodied, and it should stay that way—“
Your fingers close around the handle of the knife as you lunge at him — you snapped. You were tired — tired of the men in your life running your life — your grandfather, these yakuza heads, and these two idiots — all of them treating you as if you were spineless.
And you weren’t.
His hand darts out — and it happens quickly. The knife clatters against the hardwood, and he’s pinned you underneath him.
You glare, embarrassment licks at your cheeks like flames — you had placed your fingers on the stovetop and what were you expecting other than to get burned? You can’t meet his gaze, and you’re expecting another lecture or sanctimonious attitude, but instead, his fingers skim your cheek, “You should pick your battles wisely, sweetheart — because not all of them will let you off the hook,” and he leans close, breath warming your lips, as your eyes can’t help but squeeze shut.
Only to wince after a sharp flick to your forehead.
And his weight leaves you at once, your head turning to find him examining the knife you had stolen, “You should also choose a better weapon than a kitchen knife — especially one as dull as this one,”
You scowl at him, “Well, how else will I defend myself?”
And he smiles, shrugging, “Isn’t it simple? Use the weapons already at your disposal,”
Your brow knots together, “What weapons?” And his hand is sliding the door open, as he casts one more glance over his shoulder, lips curled in that insufferable smile.
“The ones sworn to you.”
~~~~
“You’re staying home tomorrow from class,” the thermometer is plucked from between your lips, the white haired yakuza scrutinizing your room, cerulean eyes catching the pile of tissues you had failed to stuff properly in your trash bin, “how long have you had this, Princess?”
You lay bedridden and pouting as you draw the covers over your face — you had not been feeling well this whole weekend, but you developed a fever last night. You thought it would be gone by the morning, “Just since this morning,” and he’s tugging the covers away, his brow wrinkled, and then you see it, bandages on his forehead, “when did you get hit on the head?”
And he blink, fingers running through his hair, “This? It’s nothing,” and you raise an eyebrow, “if you must know, it’s just my punishment for taking you into the thick of things the other day,”
Your brow wrinkles, “Who—“
He waves you off, “It’s not important — the important thing is that you get better — can’t have my future wife succumbing to the flu, now can I?” And you scoff.
“I’m not your future wife,” you mumble, and you hear a small chuckle from him. And then your muscles begin to grow heavy, eyelids fluttering shut under the weight of exhaustion, and your skin feeling far too cold for your burning insides, “Gojo, I’m not—“
And you slip into darkness.
You can feel the world around you move, the sounds of wind brushing against your skin, and the flicker of lights in your eyes. Your lips part, a desert inside your mouth with no oasis in sight, “where—“
A voice quietly shushes you, fingers raking through your hair gently, lulling you back to sleep. Was it your grandfather? No, he never coddled you like this. Not even he had his yakuza to look after. You were expected to care for yourself —- you couldn’t show weakness.
Not as an heir — even if you were just a kid.
And when you do wake for a moment, it’s with some prodding, a voice whispering for you to open your mouth at the press of a medicine cap to your lips, and your eyes flutter open to catch a glimpse of blue eyes — so you do, swallowing it with water.
You fall into the arms of sleep again, only waking to your head slightly aching, and a distinct void in your stomach. You reach around blindly for your phone, and find that it’s still Sunday, nearly the evening. Your eyes adjust as your gaze spots the last glimmers of the sunset in the window.
How long have you slept? Like four hours? You sighed, slumping back into bed, as you stretched. Your fingers pressed to your forehead, still a slight fever, but it was definitely lower. Maybe you could sleep for a bit longer, and you turn on your side only to find a familiar, not-so familiar sight. Your lips can’t help but curl a little. Again there is someone in your room, but instead as your eyes flutter open you see that Satoru has dozed off.
You hold back a chuckle, as you slowly get up, drawing a little closer. His head was against the wall, slightly tilted, soft breaths leaving his lips, arms crossed. He had a prescription medicine next to him along with a water bottle. Your fingers reach for the medicine, and you glance it over — seeing that it was prescribed earlier today for you.
Your brows knit together, when did you—and then it comes back to you slowly — the lights, the sound of wind and cars — he drove you to a hospital. And his shoulder starts to slip
And then you reach for him, trying to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.
That’s when he grabs you — his eyes fly open, as he grabs you by the wrist, pulling you close, his hard topaz gaze cuts through you, until it slowly fills with recognition. His fingers digging into your wrist loosen ever so slightly, as he blinks.
“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” but his fingers don’t leave your wrist, “are you feeling better?”
“I am,” you admit, as his other hand reaches up to brush against your forehead and then neck, sending hest crawling up your skin for a different reason.
“Looks like the medicine worked,” he sighs, leaning back, “guess I can scratch beating up that doctor off my list,” and you furrow your brow, “it was a joke, Princess,”
“Why did you take me?” You asked and he tilted his head, “I mean you could have had me looked at here, so why did you—“
“As much as my father pays for these services, they don’t work weekends, usually — we do have an on-call physician, but,” he shrugs, as his thumb brushed back and forth against your wrist, right where your pulse was, “I didn’t want to wait,”
And your eyes slide to the bandages around his head, “but you couldn’t get that checked out?”
“Worried about me? I’m touched, Princess,” and your fingers reach for the bandages and brush against his locks, “hey, you—“
“It’s coming loose,” you lean over and slide your hands until you find where it’s coming undone and tie it tighter, fingers brushing against his soft locks — noting the undercut you hadn’t noticed before, “there,”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, as your eyes meet his and your breath catches, your face an inch or two from his. And he looks different in the dark of the room, illuminated by the last vestiges of sun that were quickly fading into the night — softer.
“Why did you take care of me?” And he blinks a moment, taken aback and he tilts his head, “someone else could have—“
“I wanted to,” he cuts you off gently, “why would I let someone else do it when I could? It was the least I could do,” and it was your turn to tilt your head, as he adds in a whisper, “I let you get hurt. I should have sent you home,”
“If you had tried, I would have stayed anyway,” and he chuckles.
“I know,” he murmurs, “and I know what it’s like to tough through things as if you’re invincible — as if nothing can touch you — and it’s only a matter of time until it does,” and your fingers brush against the bandages on his head, as you dare closer, less than a breath away.
“Maybe I should make you take your own advice,” you whisper, and his lips quirk upwards in a smirk.
“I’d love to see you try, Princess,” he adds with a grin, “you know I’d love to submit to you anyti—“
And you swallow the rest of his sentence with your lips, a chaste brush that leaves your entire body burning for more — a spark to kindling that you told yourself you wouldn’t start. But, your lips part his to see his soft gaze meeting your own, before finding your lips again, how could you not?
“I’m going to get you sick,” you manage between kisses, lips meeting and parting, as he chuckles against you, a vibration sending a shiver that definitely wasn’t from your fever.
“You’re worth it, Princess,” but he kisses you one last time, noses brushing, before your stomach rumbles loudly in the relative silence of both of your soft pants. You flush, and he can’t hold back his laugh, as you smack his shoulder.
“Shut up, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, thanks to someone,” and he’s still laughing as you try to smack him again, but he catches you by the wrist.
“Don’t forget, I really like it when you punish me,” his lips press to your wrist, your breath catching for a moment before you hit him again on the chest regardless. And he laughs, leaning on his hand, “oh what will I do with you, sweetheart?”
You scowl at him, rolling your eyes, “You can start by getting me dinner,” you grumble, and he repents, getting to his feet, “Satoru?” And he pauses, eyes flickering back, “thank you,” you manage, biting your lip all the whole, unable to meet his eyes or see the smile on his lips.
“Anytime, Princess.”
~~~~
You hadn’t seen Suguru or Satoru all week.
Once a sought after rarity l, but now a foreboding concern. Satoru had been away on business — you didn’t care to know what, but you knew he’d come back only more clingy than ever. You chewed on your lip — especially after the kiss.
Fuck. You kissed Satoru, you buried your face in your hands, what the fuck were you doing? Could you use the excuse that your fever had rendered you momentarily insane? No, Satoru would only crack a joke saying that he’s crazy for you too.
What was your plan? You were only trying to bide your time for a year — not become further entangled
You lay back on your bed, as you scroll through your phone — but Suguru was a different story. You heard from Satoru that he had returned. Yet now there was some random yakuza checking in each hour — and even worse, keeping you confined to the compound.
And a small part of you did worry for them as you tossed your phone aside — those fools may have death wishes but that didn’t mean you wished the same.
You leave your room, sighing as you explore the compound. You had done your fair share of exploring, but you had never wandered into Suguru or Satoru’s quarters. You had been told by each of them where their rooms were, only for you to glare at them for providing you the implication. But now…maybe it was useful.
You walked through the halls — seemed like most people were away at the moment. When Satoru had captured those people who had attacked you both, there was information learned about who was targeting you and of where that girl who was taken could possibly be. But it’s not like you were able to find that information out — unless you went looking yourself.
Satoru and Suguru’s rooms were close to each other’s — but Satoru’s room was locked, as you tugged at the door to no avail. You glared at the handle as if it was the white haired idiot itself, before turning to Suguru’s door.
You pressed your ear to the door, it was silent, not a single noise inside. You pull at the door and it opens. You step inside — the room is neat, a desk in the corner, along with a bed on the opposite side, but not much else. There were a few other things — a dresser with a few containers tucked beside it and a small bookcase against the wall near the desk lined with books on each shelf.
It wasn’t what you expected — though you didn’t know what to expect. You stepped into the room, glancing around, as you approached the desk first. You rifle through the papers, finding nothing relevant — only papers from class and a few scattered notes that had nothing but addresses and initials scribbled.
And then the door opens, you freeze, before you slowly turn to see Suguru, his clothes tattered, blood dripping from his arms and soaked through his white button up. His gaze is dark and heavy, until he finds your eyes, his brow wrinkled.
“What are you doing?” no ‘sweetheart’ or ‘Princess’ — just a question.
“I was looking—“ but you bite your lips, as you watch his shoulders slump, “what happened—“
And he draws closer, as you slowly take steps back, until he’s looming over you, his arm pressed above you, “Princess, you shouldn’t get involved in these things, unless you want to end up like this,” and the smell of death rolls off of him, the heaviness of his gaze could drag you down to the depths of hell — but you didn’t care.
“Sit down,” and he blinks, before you’re pressing him onto the bed, “I’m going to get a first aid kit and some bandages,”
“Sweetheart—“ but you’re already out of the room, returning with a first aid kit and bandages, “where did you—“
“Well after that first time Satoru and I got jumped by those people, I figured it would be good to stock up on things,” you pull out scissors and tape, and you dampen a washcloth you had stored in the kit with a water bottle you had grabbed. “Take off your shirt,” he hesitates, “getting shy?”
Suguru’s lips curl, before he sighs, unbuttoning his shirt, “You know I rather you hurt me than take care of me,” and you scoff, as you busy yourself with preparing the materials to tend to him.
“Well it looks like someone else already did that for you,” and your eyes meet with his bare chest, the red and black ink of his tattoos encroached onto his shoulders, but more than that — bruises bloomed on different parts of his body, scars from old wounds of various ages littered his skin, and dried and fresh scarlet clung to his skin from fresh cuts.
You take the washcloth, slowly starting to run it over his body, the white cloth marred with his blood, he doesn’t flinch even as it cleans his cuts or wounds.
“Why are you doing this?” And your eyes meet his, his amethyst eyes cut through you.
“Because you’re hurt,”
“Just because I’m hurt doesn’t mean you have to help,” you sigh, as you urge him to turn so you can clean his back next, the sight of his tattoo on his back unsurprising now as you continue to clean it.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t have to either,” he gives a soft chuckle, “what’s your goal here sweetheart?” You urge him to turn again, as you begin to clean the blood from his arms.
“Do I need to have a goal?” And he turns to face you, leaning even closer, as his black locks fall in his eyes.
“Everyone has one — didn’t you have one for coming in here?” And your hesitation is all the answers he needs, “curious about what’s going on with those people after you, huh?”
There wasn’t any use lying now, “Wouldn’t you be?”
“I would be, but I wouldn’t get caught, now would I?” and you scoff, as his lips curl, “we have been tracking the group that we suspect has the heiress, and we have been interrogating the people that you and Satoru secured,” ‘secured’ — more like nearly murdered by the way Satoru acted.
“And where were you?”
He sighed, “Dealing with some loose ends — and some other business that my father had me deal with,” and he adds, “I had to make sure a message got out — so no one would ever attack you like that again,”
And why does your heart squeeze at the thought, “Why are you so willing to tell me?” And your hands begin to clean and wipe his palms. And you set the washcloth down, beginning to bandage some of the larger cuts and wounds, and his fingers intertwined with yours, as you glance up.
“Because you deserve the truth,” he shrugs, “and even if I lie, you’ll figure it out, so why not tell you to begin with?” And he leans even closer, fingers skimming your cheek, “plus I don’t keep secrets from my future wife,”
“I’m not marrying you,” but you don’t pull away, as he’s even closer now.
“Well, you said never before — and I’ve worn you down to a ‘not’ — it’s only a matter of time,” and his words make you want you to pull away, to scoff at his words and leave, but you don’t.
Why can’t you?
“And I thought Satoru was the one full of himself—“ and his lips find yours, his kiss was more insistent, his fingers find your jaw, featherlight before it finds purchase on the back of your neck. You could taste the faint taste of blood, lingering on his lips,
“And you also thought Satoru was a good kisser,” he smirks, as his lips ghost down your jaw, nose brushing against your cheek, as you pause — how did he— “well now you know what a good kisser is actually like,”
Your eyebrows knit together, “Geto—”
“Suguru,” he corrects you, he tilts his head, his thumb cupping your chin, and your lips find the other’s, his forehead pressed to yours. Then his phone rings, and the moment’s broken. He pulls away just as fast, as he turns to answer his phone, “Hello?” he listens, a man’s voice on the other end, “I understand, okay.” and the call ends, as he offers a smile to you, “I have to deal with some business, but I’ll be back later. And then it looks like I’ll be your escort while Satoru is away.”
“What business—” but he’s brushing past you, going to his wardrobe to grab a fresh shirt, buttoning it swiftly, before pulling on another jacket, as he turns to glance at you over his shoulder.
“You know better than to ask me that,”
“But you said you would be honest,” and he shrugs his shoulders, a smirk on his lips, as he heads out of the room.
“I didn’t say when.”
~~~~
“We have to tell her,” Satoru stood, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall of the compound. Suguru clicks his lighter again, flicking it on and off — he had quit a few months ago when you had told him that you hated the smell. And he didn’t miss it, but he still carried the lighter — old habits die hard, “the pictures we got — they are getting better at tracking her without us noticing. And these other fires we’re being sent out to deal with — it’s leaving us with less time to protect her,”
“Do you have to?” Suguru asked, flicking his lighter closer, the silver outside glinting in the low light of the moon, “isn’t it safer for her to stay in the dark for now?”
“Staying in the dark doesn’t mean she won’t put herself in danger one way or another without us knowing,” Satoru shrugs, “she said even if I had sent her home that day that those men were after her, she would have came after me,”
Suguru gives a terse chuckle, “I don’t doubt that she would,” he sighs, gaze towards the inky darkness of the sky, dotted with faint stars that he couldn’t see but knew were there — just as these threats were, “if she found out that her grandfather was threatened too? There’s no way she would wait,”
“So what do we do?” Satoru scratched the back of his head, “we could send her back home — she might be safer there than here,”
“Her grandfather told us—“
“I know, but what choice do we have, Suguru?” he sighs, and Suguru can’t help but quirk his lips.
“You know if we do this, we may have to fight her grandfather to stay engaged with her,” And Satoru smiles, shrugging.
“I know, but we can handle it, can’t we?” Satoru leans back, “we’ll just have to fight him on it. Why? Are you afraid?”
Suguru gives a short chuckle, “Since when have you known me to be afraid of anything?” And he turns his gaze towards the door, “so when should we tell her?”
But they don’t notice that you’re pressed against the door, your fists clenched. And they were right about one thing — you wouldn’t wait.
~~~~
CRACK!
Fuck, your eyes burned as you tried to open them, the sharp pain in the back of your head radiating all over, as your eyelids refused to open. What happened? You tried to hold your head, only to have your wrists strain against something rough — rope? The fibers dig into your wrists as you try to stand, only to find them bound to something else.
“Finally awake?” it was a woman’s voice — and your eyes still can’t quite open — fuck, this wasn’t part of your plan, “take your time, they said they wanted you in pristine condition so I can’t have you falling apart on me later on,” she scoffs, her footsteps receding away, and you could hear the quiet murmurs of other voices — men, by the baritone.
Your eyes burned as you adjusted to opening them, still fighting the urge to flutter them shut under the pain. The dim light swung overhead, a warehouse from the bare floors and even barer walls and ceilings overhead, barely illuminated in the flickering exposed lightbulbs hanging over the middle of the room.
“Where am I?” You choked out, voice wavering in a way that made you want to grit your teeth and chide yourself for the fear that seeped into your words.
The quiet click of heels came closer, “Don’t recognize me? Well I suppose you never did see my face in person,” and you knit your brows together as she stepped closer, leaning in far too near for your comfort, “I should thank you for your efforts in trying to find out what happened to me. It made it far easier to kidnap you,”
Her hazel eyes were even more startling in person.
“The Akawaza heiress,” you stare at her — her hair had grown a little past her shoulders now, ends slightly curling at them, “I thought—“
“I was missing? I was,” her lips curled, running her sharp lacquered nails through her black locks, “but it was my choice,” the screech of chair legs scraping against the floor makes you flinch ever so slightly, as she sits in front of you, her legs crossed, “I’m being rude — how is your grandfather?”
“Fuck off,” you spit, and she clicks her tongue.
“And here I thought you had manners, but I suppose the city’s changed you, little princess?” she hums, leaning back, wood of the chair creaking as she did, “or maybe your boyfriends did,” you say nothing, scoffing, as she sighs, “or knowing your grandfather, you probably didn’t have any to begin with,”
Rage fills your veins, lava bursting from them as the venom leaves your lips, “Don’t talk about my grandfather like that—”
“Why shouldn’t I? You never cared for the yakuza before, right? Is your grandfather not included in that equation? Or maybe it was because he kept what he did behind closed doors, and never bothered to tell you the truth,” and you’re not fast enough to stop your brow from furrowing, and she latches onto it, “Oh he didn’t tell you, did he?”
“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?” you murmur, and she laughs at your remark, her nails clicking against the forearm of the chair — lacquer on wood that began to grate on your nerves, “can you get to the point of all this shit? Why the fuck am I here?”
“Because your grandfather is picking and choosing who he favors — and so I decided to take his heart, and I’ll only give her back if he gives me what I want — ” and then you see the way her lips curl and her jaw is cut, and it occurs to you.
Your grandfather had said he was a heartbreaker.
“You’re his granddaughter,” and she smirks, her nails falling still.
“Do you see the family resemblance?” she leans against her hand, elbow against the arm of her chair, “it would be nice to meet you — if I didn’t have to possibly kill you,”
“So you want to be the heiress? I never wanted to be one in the first place—”
“Do you think that matters?” she scoffs, “what matters is the choice your grandfather makes — and he’s chosen you — with no regard for the other children he has had,” her gaze falls downward, “do you know what it is like to watch your mother vye for the approval of someone who never truly cared for her in the first place?”
Your gaze falls downward, “I don’t know,” you admit, “but is all this worth this? What do you think he will even do for me?”
“He’ll meet my demands, and each hour he doesn’t, he’ll get another finger of yours,” she pulls a knife out, the blade glinting in the dim light, as she rises to her feet, your body straining back as she draws close to you, running the flat of the blade down your cheek, “should I start with your left hand or right?” she pulls the blade back, and you smile, “what—”
And you lean your head back and smash your head against her own. The crack of your skulls colliding rung in your ears, along with the knife clattering to the ground, as you felt warm droplets ran down your face, and she stumbles back, clutching at her forehead, scarlet staining her face and fingers, “It’s funny you think that I came to you without a plan — how do you think I found you?”
“It wasn’t on her own,” and a hand on her shoulder, before she’s pinned to the floor. Satoru’s eyes slide to you, a smile on his lips, as she’s struggling, trying to look for her men, “looking for your goons? Suguru has taken care of them by now, unless he needs my help,”
“Akari isn’t the only one who likes to hear herself talk,” Suguru runs his fingers through his hair, “Satoru, you haven’t even untied her,” his footsteps echoing as he approaches you, bending down to pick up Akari’s knife.
“A little busy at the moment, Suguru,” Gojo has Akari pinned with one hand, “unless you’d like her to get away,” and Suguru shrugs, as he slips the knife under your restraints and cuts them off, “are you doing alright, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine, just my head’s aching,” and Suguru pulls a cloth from his pocket, wiping the blood from your face, your eyes closing and nose wrinkling as he does, “did you call my grandfather?”
“Yeah, I don’t have a death wish,” Satoru replies as he hauls Akari up and hands her off to his associate to take her.
You get to shaky feet, “Hold on,” you walk over, grabbing Akari by the front of her blouse, silk wrinkling under your grasp, “fuck with me or my family again, and I won’t be so lenient,” you shove her off, and then you add, “but I’ll talk to my grandfather about some sort of possible arrangement for your mother,”
And then you wave the yakuza off and they take her away — assuredly to Kyoto to be dealt with by her grandfather.
“Are you really going to talk to your grandfather about her?” Suguru asks, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s the least he could do since he caused me to be targeted,” you grumble, rubbing your wrists, as Satoru takes his suit coat off and places it around your shoulders, before a smirk pulls at your lips.
Suguru tilts his head, smiling, “Well, how would he feel if he knew you got kidnapped on purpose?” And you shrug.
“He doesn’t need to know that.”
~~~
“I’m surprised you guys agreed to my plan,” you hiss as Satoru takes a damp cloth to clean the dried blood from your face, while Suguru is knelt, bandaging your ankles — their rough and bruised hands somehow still gentle, “I thought you would never let me wander into danger,”
“Well, we knew we had to do something when we realized you were listening to us, didn’t we, Princess?” Satoru snorted, and you could hear the smile gracing his features — even with your eyes shut — “and this was the best way to ensure you weren’t hurt,”
“Relatively,” Suguru adds, as he finishes bandaging one ankle, “did she do anything else to you?”
And Satoru’s hand pauses as they both wait for your answer, and you shake your head, “No,” and Satoru pulls the washcloth away, your eyes fluttering open to meet two skeptical gazes, “really, I’m fine,” your lips curl after the two of them look away, Satoru turning to grab a bag of ice for your forehead, while Suguru busied himself with bandaging your other ankle, “is this threat the reason my grandfather sent me to Tokyo?”
The timing had lined up — Akari had started the threats not a few months before — after she had reached legal age, the perfect age to contend for the position of successor to her grandfather. And by sending you here, your grandfather thought he was putting you out of immediate danger — but he didn’t know Akari would make her way to Tokyo.
“More or less,” Satoru sighed, as you flinched when he pressed the ice pack to your head, the condensation from the bag already clinging and dripping down your face, “the geezer wanted to find the source of the threats against you—and by sending you here, to your potential fiancés—“
“I would be safe protected twofold by two of the biggest families—“ and you blink, pulling the ice pack away from your face, “the engagements — that’s why they were leaked — it was to protect me,” you mumble, “so that means—“
“You can go home if you want, Princess,” Suguru says, looking up at you, expression as inscrutable as it always was, “the engagements were only pretense,”
“You both knew?” And Satoru sighs, scratching the back of his head, and why does it feel as if his nails are carving out a piece of your heart.
“The old coot swore us to secrecy, we didn’t have—“
“But, everything, the two of you…the engagement—it’s over,” you say slowly, gaze falling downward. You should be happy, relieved, thrilled — you could go home, what you wanted to do from the start. You could get your own apartment or transfer to a different university—and leave this behind, a bad dream washed away by the events of a new day. So why?
Why did it hurt?
“Don’t tell me you’ll actually miss us, sweetheart?” Satoru teased, a force more than anything — bittersweet worded coated in a sugary sarcasm, “because I very well may propose here and now,”
You almost scoff, but Suguru beats you to it.
“A proposal now? Seems like finishing early isn’t what you just do in bed, Satoru,” Suguru scoffs, as Satoru shoots a glare over his sunglasses, “she’s only eager to get home now isn’t she? "If she isn’t so eager,” he adds, “then she would stop the one she wants from leaving her room, wouldn’t she?”
And Suguru is slowly getting to his feet, while Satoru also turns to leave — and you don’t think—but you were sure that you truly hadn’t thought a single sane thought since you had arrived in Tokyo—
You grab at the fabric of both their shirts, fingers clutching at it, as your lips curled when they glanced back at you.
“Who said either of you could leave?”
~~~
“You’re going to have to use your words,” you murmured, fingers ghosting Satoru’s jaw, a delightful shiver parting his lips as you smiled at him, sat spread at the edge of your bed, “what do you want?” You stepped closer, between his legs, daring even closer.
“Sweetheart, you know what I—“ and a low groan leaves his throat as your fingers slide to the nape of his neck to tug at his snowy locks, “please—“
“I know you love this,” you murmur, leaning to press a kiss to his throat, smiling against his skin, “you said you wanted me to hurt you, so it looks like you’re getting your wish,” your eyes slide to the other, sat in a chair, “I know you like to watch, Suguru, so you must be enjoying yourself,” and you’re further unbuttoning Satoru’s shirt all the same — crisp white button up definitely creased and wrinkled as it fell open, tugged out from his slacks.
Suguru’s fingers flexed against the grain of the wood of the armrests, his muscles taut, his lips a tight line that only matched the fabric of his slacks straining against his erection. The corner of his mouth twitches, and you smirk.
“I didn’t hear an answer, Suguru,” and you’re placing another kiss on Satoru’s neck, a whine leaving his throat, while your eyes find Suguru’s amethyst gaze darkened to nearly black, his knuckles white against the wood, as you lean down to lick a stripe up Satoru’s neck, who bites his bottom lip.
“I’d enjoy it even more if I could touch you, or me,” Suguru adds through gritted teeth, “Princess—“
And you click your tongue, “You had such patience when you were watching me sleep — so where’s that patience now?” Your fingers graze Satoru’s erection through his slacks, and his head is falling back, as Suguru shifts in his seat, not so subtly adjusting himself.
You undo Satoru’s belt, unbuckling it with ease, as his cock slaps against his stomach, and you didn’t know it was possible for a dick to be pretty, but Satoru’s was — a deep flush settled over it, pearly beads of precum dripping from the ruby tip. And a distinct heat begins to throb between your thighs.
“You can touch yourself,” you tell Suguru, his legs twitching to get up, “but you can’t cum until I tell you can,” you run a finger up Satoru’s cock, teasing the weeping tip, a groan leaving the snowy haired man’s lips, “strip, Suguru,”
And he does, you hear the click of his belt, the sound of fabric rustling, as your fingers tease the slit of Satoru’s cock, gathering precum on your fingers, drawing a grunt from his lips. You can hear the distinct sound of Suguru spitting in his palm, his hand beginning to work at his own cock.
“Both s’good for me,” you murmur, as you stroke Satoru’s cock in earnest, the quiet moans from both their mouths sending a ribbon of need to your already dripping cunt, “can’t wait to fuck you both, make you my toys,” and you’re pressing a kiss to Satoru’s tip, his pretty, pink lips parting, as his head rolls back again, “but you’d both like that wouldn’t you? Maybe I shouldn’t let either of you cum, make you beg me all night,” as your tongue traces his lovely vein up the side of his cock, “what do you think, Toru?” And your mouth finally closes around his dick, sucking hard that draws a hiss from his lips, fingers fisted in the sheets.
And Suguru isn’t doing much better, the sounds of his hand squelching and the moans leaving his lips growing louder and louder.
“Please, Princess, I’m close, I can’t—“ and you click your tongue, a pout on your lips, as you pull away your touch, “baby, I—“
“Can’t let either of you cum so fast,” your eyes slide to Suguru, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink that reaches even his ears, as his hand slows, his cock twitching in his fingers, “gotta make you earn it. It’s only right after all the shit you put me through right?”
It’s a cycle, a cycle of you bringing them both to the edge of orgasm, only to tell them to stop. Their sweat slicked brows wrinkled, as you worked them up once again and again and again — you had lost track of how many times.
“Please, please, sweetheart,” and you knew you could get Satoru to beg, but you didn’t think it would be this easy, and you let his dick brush against your throat, as you let him fuck your throat, hips jerking, “fuuuuck, I need to—”
And you’re pulling your lips from his cock with a pop, glancing at Suguru whose black locks are beginning to come loose from their neat bun, more of a mess now than he had been fighting yakuza earlier, and all because of you.
“Suguru? Wanna cum?” you ask, smirking as his gaze raises to meet yours, a desperate look that tells you everything you need to know, “be a good boy and tell me,”
He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, as pre drips down his knuckles, “fuck, Princess,” he’s shaking his head, “ I want to cum, please — I need—”
And your lips curl, “cum for me,” you murmur before you’re wrapping your lips around Satoru again, his tip brushing against your throat, sucking hard, his fingers finding purchase in your hair. And he’s cumming hard, his hot release slides down your throat, nails digging into your scalp, nearly never ending — even as you pull away, his cum paints your face and lips, and drips onto your clothes. His cerulean eyes glazed as he looked down at you between his legs, a string of spit and cum connecting you to his cock.
And Suguru was no better. He had cum hard all over his hand and the floor, his cock still somehow half hard, his body slumped back in the chair, as his chest heaved. His hair tie had long fallen away, his long black locks brushing against his shoulders.
You lick your lips clean of Satoru’s cum, wiping the rest away with the back of your hand, “Made such a mess,” you tsk, as you get to your feet, slipping off your shorts and shirt, before leaning down to kiss Satoru, and he’s still sensitive by the way he jolts against your touch, before melting into it, his tongue parted your lips with ease. And fuck, you hoped he couldn’t see how wet you were — nearly dripping down your thighs at this point.
And you’re pulling away, your thumb dragging down his lips, as his teeth try to catch the finger between them, but you’re too quick. You turn, a smile on your lips, you make your way over to Suguru.
You’re wiping up the mess on the floor with your shirt before kneeling, “made such a mess, Sugu,” and he’s staring at you through half lidded eyes, his fingers brushing your cheek, “did I say you could touch me?”
“You never said I couldn’t,” he murmurs, and god, his voice is far gone, raw and nearly guttural, as his fingers found purchase in your hair, “and I think I earned it after your little performance—“ and he hisses when you lean in, tip of your tongue teasing his slit and licking the dripping cum off his half hard cock, “fuck—“
“Not yet,” you smiled, as you started to lick his cock clean of his cum, “but maybe if you’re good,” he grunts as you sink is cock into your mouth, tongue swirling around his length, licking and sucking — and fuck, he was already twitching in your mouth.
And then he’s easing you off his dick with a tug of your hair, and you’re glancing up at him, a question on the tip of your tongue, but he’s swallowing it with a kiss, as his hands slip down your body to haul you nearly into his lap. Calloused palms find their way to your hips, squeezing lightly, as he pulls away, cupping your chin with his thumb.
“Suguru—” and you yelp as he picks you up with ease, placing you in Satoru’s lap whose hands wind their way around your waist, his fingers already beginning to tease your hardened buds through your bra, a gasp leaving your lips, as Suguru placed his on your neck with a smirk as he murmurs:
“Let me show you how good we can be, sweetheart.”
~~~~
“Tell us what you want, princess,” Satoru murmured in your ear, his warm breath doing nothing to help the needy heat between your thighs, the one that Suguru was knelt between, his large palms spreading you before him, “is she as wet as I think, Suguru?”
And Suguru catches your gaze, a wicked smile on his lips as he replies, “Wetter, she’s a mess, aren’t you?” you bite your lip to stop a whimper from leaving your lips as his fingers graze the growing wet patch on your panties. And your squirming only makes Satoru grunt, his erection pressed against you, the friction doing little to help either of you.
“Fuckers,” and Satoru clicks his tongue, a smile on his lips as he turns your head.
“Think I have a better use for that mouth of yours, sweetheart,” and his lips find yours, right as Suguru toys with the elastic of your panties, snapping it against your skin, Satoru swallows the small noise that escapes your lips, his tongue slipping into your mouth as it does.
And god, you already can’t even think straight.
Satoru’s fingers are pushing up your bra, teasing your nipples, as Suguru pressing a kiss to your dripping cunt through your soaked underwear.
“So pretty,” Suguru murmurs, and Satoru’s lips part from yours, gaze darkening as he drags his thumb down your kiss ruined lips, and he tugs your drenched panties down, “and your cunt is even prettier, isn’t it princess?”
And you were — your gorgeous pussy was glossy with your pre, dripping all over his fingers when he parts your messy folds, “Bet she’s even tighter, isn’t she?” Satoru murmurs, as his dick twitches against your ass, “
You whine as his words warm your aching pussy, your eyes flickering downwards, as Suguru’s lips graze your inner thigh, and you already know Satoru’s pouting.
“You’re taking your goddamn time, Suguru, when do I get my chance?” He grumbles, nose brushing against your neck, as you can’t help but chuckle.
“You got your turn, and now it’s time for you to watch,” and your giggle turns to a soft gasp when his lips press a kiss to your clit, “and sweetheart, can’t wait to see how you’ll punish me for this later — because I’m not stopping until you beg me to,”
Your lips part with a reply, but he pulls a moan from your lips instead as his tongue drags up the length of your weeping entrance. God, fuck, how did you taste this good? His tongue flicked against your puffy clit, drawing lazy circles, your slick already drenching his chin and lips.
“So fucking good, baby, s’good f’me,” and your fingers are threading their way into his dark locks, pulling him even closer, his lips closing around your clit to suck, “could live in this pretty cunt,” he grunts, the tip of his tongue teasing your entrance.
Your head falls against Satoru’s shoulders, a groan fell from his lips as his cock dragged against your ass, your slick drenching his thighs and cock alike, “can’t wait to sink my cock into you, fuck,” Satoru murmurs, the wet squelch of your cunt rang in his ears, and he could imagine how wet and warm you’d be once he sunk into you, inch by inch.
And he couldn’t wait — he needed to do something.
Satoru’s fingers found their way down your body, tweaking your nipple before one large palm dragged slowly down your front, until he found your clit right above Suguru’s face.
“Toru,” you gasp, as his fingers pinch your clit and Suguru glares, pulling his lips away for a moment, only to sink a finger back in insteas, drawing a moan from your lips, “Sugu—fuck—“
And it’s too much, one more touch and you’re cumming, body falling back into Satoru, as Suguru fucks you through your orgasm. Your release runs down their fingers, as Satoru lifts his hand a moment to lick his fingers clean.
God, you’re too pretty for your own good, Satoru’s eyes drag over you — your kiss ruined lips, skin shiny from your sweat, and the way your eyes were lost in an endless pool of lust.
“Suguru was right, you’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” Satoru grin, gently turning your head, and you’re panting, nose wrinkling ever so slightly at his words, and he tuts, “don’t believe me? Well I can fix that,” and his lips find yours again, letting you taste yourself, swallowing your moans, as Suguru continued to finger fuck you.
Suguru’s finger stretches you open, fluttering, knuckle deep, as your precum drips down his fingers.
“Remember who’s fucking this cunt, sweetheart,” and Suguru is, another finger parting your needy folds, and between Satoru rubbing your clit and Suguru’s fingers curling to find that one spot, drags against your insides, “fuck, how are we going to fit, Satoru? She’s still so tight,” Suguru grunts.
You pull your lips from Satoru’s, a whine leaving your lips, “More, please, I need—“ and a third finger joins the other two — but it’s not Suguru’s.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking soft,” Satoru groans, pressing soft kisses to your skin, only serving to make you keen at their touch, and your walls flutter around their fingers.
“Fuck, we’re trying to fuck her open and she just keeps getting tighter,” Suguru grunts, while Satoru’s lips find your earlobe, sucking, just as he adds another finger, a moan escaping your lips again.
Suguru’s fingers fuck at a steady pace, fucking deeper and deeper, while Satoru’s are faster, pistoning in and out while dragging against your walls — and it’s not long until they are working you up to a second orgasm, it’s too fucking good — and they both find that spot in you that has you seeing stars.
“I’m g’nna—” and Satoru finds your lips in a sloppy kiss, saliva slipping from the corner of your mouth. And you cum, even harder, your swollen folds clamping down on their fingers as they continue to fuck you unendingly through your orgasm. Your lips pull away, only to moan their names, again and again, until they finally slow down.
“Good girl,” Suguru murmurs, pressing sweet kisses to your thighs, while you come down from your high, walls flutter around nothing at the praise, while Satoru nips at your neck right above your racing pulse. And your eyes find Suguru lazily palming his weeping erection, as you lift your bare foot to rub against it, making him hiss, while you rub against Satoru teasingly.
“Don’t forget who’s in control,” you kiss Satoru again, before biting his bottom lip, and he’s melting into your touch, “and, you were good,” your foot rubs against Suguru’s cock again, drawing another pretty groan from his lips, “but now it’s time to be obedient.”
And they are — as you have Satoru sit back against the pillow lined headboard, because if it was anything you knew now — Satoru loved to be controlled, while Suguru liked the illusion of control, even if he didn’t have even a bit of it. So you have Suguru kneeling behind you, as you climb into Satoru’s lap, a small groan leaving his lips as your cunt grazes his hard cock.
“Such a good boy, aren’t you, Toru?” your fingers run through his hair — and god, his undercut was so fucking hot, as your fingers found his cock, letting the tip tease your soaked folds, as you line yourself up, “tell me what you want,”
“Fuck, princess, y’know what I want,” and a whine leaves his throat when you let his tip sink into you, only to pull out.
“Come on, nothing else to say? You always love running that mouth, don’t you? You wanted this, wanted me to ruin you, didn’t you? Well here we are,” you hum, as you press a teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, “beg me,”
And his dick twitches, painfully hard, and the words spill from his lips, “Please, please, sweetheart, use me, use my cock as a toy, want you to fuck me so bad, make me yours—” and you’re sinking onto his cock, his length parting your folds, as moans fall from both of your lips. And he bottoms out, your hips meeting his as you do, and you can feel every vein, every ridge, every inch notched inside your walls.
“Toru, fuck, s’good, s’big,” it feels too fucking good, and he’s so long — god, he was brushing against places you never even dreamed of reaching. And your pussy clenched at the thought of how deep he would go when he would start thrusting.
“Sure you have space for me, Princess?” Suguru leans back over to press kisses all over your face, before finding your lips in a heated kiss, “might be too tight of a fit,” his nose brushing against your cheek.
“I’ll make you fit,” you murmur against his lips, your hands against Satoru’s chest, as you shift to cup his chin, “get behind me, Sugu,”
Suguru smirks, slipping behind you, pressing himself against your back, dragging his cock teasingly against you, “So needy — you’re worse than Satoru,” and Satoru makes a noise of protest, but your walls flutter, making his back arch, “want me inside you, sweetheart?” And his tip teases at your entrance, brushing against Satoru’s cock, causing all three of you to moan, “tell me how much you want us to fuck you, how much you want both of us inside you,”
“Fucker, I swear to god,” you turn your head, your glare undercut by the desperation on your face, “just fuck me—
And Suguru sinks into you, your head falling back against him, as both of their cocks stretch your cunt out. You were so fucking full. And the way your walls clenched around them was nearly enough to make them cum. Their groans come in unison.
“Fuck, Princess, you don’t have to break our dicks off — we’ll fuck you again,” Suguru grunts, his rough palms sliding to your hips to squeeze them.
“S’good, sweetheart, so fucking right for us,” and you can’t think straight with the two of them inside of you, and you’re moaning.
“Please, move—“ and they oblige, beginning to fuck you. You moved against Satoru, riding him as best you can, while Suguru fucked you from behind, his balls slapping against your ass.
Suguru drives into you at a steady pace, causing you to rock against Satoru, your hips pressed against his, as they both drive deeper and deeper into your wet cunt.
“S’good, so pretty,” Suguru presses sweet kisses to your neck, while Satoru’s eyes flutter open to meet yours, “I’m close, Satoru—“
“Me too,” Satoru manages, and his hips begin to meet your thrusts, “you gonna cum for us princess?” And he finds your gaze, the fucked out expression enough to nearly make him cum right there.
A whine leaves your lips, as they continue to fuck you, and you know you’re so close. And then they find that spot in you again, and you’re falling apart, lips parted in a moan, both their names on your lips. You clamp down on them, toes curling as you cum, and neither of them can last. Their hips stutter as they give sloppy thrusts, until they both cum,
They groan your name as they spurt their thick cum inside, notching themselves as deep as they could, continuing to fuck their cum inside you with messy thrusts.
A whimper escapes your lips between pants, as your arms and legs shake from your position, utterly fucked out. You three stay like that for a moment, both of their sweet nothings they murmur to you falling on deaf ears.
And then finally they are shifting you onto the bed, pressing soft kisses to your face and neck, as your eyes flutter shut. There’s shifting on the bed, as one of them leaves for a moment, and you make a noise, only to be reassured that he’ll be right back.
Your eyes finally flutter open to find Satoru and Suguru cleaning you up with a wet washcloth, and your gaze finds both of their own. Your lips curl at the sight of them, their gentle gaze enough to make your heart ache.
“Come back,” you whine, and they both chuckle, as they begin to finish drying you off, before tossing the washcloth into the wastebasket, and crawling back beside you. They help you pull a shirt on, before settling in.
“So needy,” Satoru murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, even as he buries his face in your chest, his warm breath tickling you as you run your fingers softly through his white locks. And Suguru presses himself to your back, pressing a soft kiss to your neck, his arm around your waist, and yours resting on top of his.
“What will we do with her?” Suguru mutters, and you can hear the smirk in his tone.
“Shut up,” you mumble, your eyes beginning to feel heavy, as you give into the warmth that enveloped you from their bodies, as it lulled you to sleep. And your lips curled into a smile, a smile that had you wondering right before you slipped into sleep—
When was it that you fell for them?
~~~~
You couldn’t do this. Not to them.
That’s what you had decided come morning — waking up between entangled limbs and soft breaths against your skin — how could you? You felt Satoru shift closer to you, as you leaned into his touch, running your fingers through Suguru’s black locks. You were addicted to their touch only after one night, and now you had to spend the rest of your life without it.
It was the only way.
This whole thing was ridiculous to begin with — you never cared to be involved in the yakuza to begin with. You wanted a normal life — or at least as normal of a life you could have with who your grandfather was. You had never expected to end up wrapped up in all of this — and in both of them.
But you didn’t know if you could choose between them — and you knew, you had to. It wasn’t fair to either of them — not when they had asked you to choose last night and they had indulged you in both of them. And now, you didn’t want to let either of them go.
So you had to let both of them go.
You shifted slowly to sit up, Your fingers traced Satoru’s cheek lightly, as you toyed with a strand of Suguru’s hair. They both still stayed fast asleep, quiet snores filling the silence of the early morning, deep in the embrace of sleep after the events of last night and the last few weeks. You didn’t want to be someone like your grandfather — you didn’t know what you wanted and that was enough of an answer wasn’t it?
The two shift in their sleep, and your body grows heavy, your back still aching from last night, as you lie back down beside them, running your fingers over both of their arms.
Even if you had your answer, you didn’t have to face it for another few hours. And their bodies shifted, Satoru burying his face in the nape of your neck, while you rested against Suguru’s chest. This was enough — enough to last you a lifetime, wasn’t it? Your eyes fluttered shut, sinking slowly back to sleep. You had told your grandfather you’d break their hearts —
—but you didn’t know you would be breaking yours as well.
~~~
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Satoru narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms, as Suguru stepped aside to show the empty room you had left behind — a bare husk with nothing left behind, not even a note.
It had been a day.
When Satoru had woken up beside you, he could have sworn he was still dreaming, even as he grazed your skin gently with the back of his knuckles, he still couldn’t quite believe it. And when he spotted Suguru pressing kisses to your cheek, he knew it was real.
“How long have you been awake?” Satoru raised an eyebrow, “it’s not fair to have your fun while we were asleep,”
And Suguru rolled his eyes, as he rubbed the back of his knuckles gently against her cheek, “I just woke up, and all I did was kiss her, you idiot,”
“Not fair, that means I have to kiss her too,” Satoru murmurs, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead and cheek, and one even to your nose. Your nose wrinkles in your sleep, and Satoru’s lips quirk upwards, “she’s so exhausted from last night still,”
“She is,” Suguru hums, as he tilts his head, “what are we going to do about last night?”
Satoru pauses a moment to consider, “Well, what is there to discuss? She chose us both, didn’t she?” Satoru leaned close to you, to press a kiss to your head.
“She did,” Suguru props himself up with his elbow on his side, “I thought you weren’t one to share,”
And Satoru shrugged — he wasn’t one to share, he wanted what was his to be his alone, but with you — the more people to protect you, the better, “If it’s what makes her happy, I don’t mind,” and he adds, “and I don’t mind if it’s you that I’m sharing with,”
Suguru raises an eyebrow, a chuckle on his lips, “Is that so? Well, good,” as he runs a finger through your hair, “because I feel the same.”
But Satoru supposed you didn’t.
“When did she—“
“My father told me she contacted her grandfather this morning, and let them know she was leaving — and her single request was to send us away on business so we wouldn’t be able to stop her,” and Satoru gives a bitter chuckle.
“So that’s it?” Satoru crosses his arms, “why did she—“ and he cuts himself off, “have you tried to call—“
“I’m blocked, I assume you are too,” Suguru shook his head, a silence settling over the two of them that Satoru chose to break.
“Do we go after her?” And Suguru pauses, his brow wrinkling a moment, before he sighs, shaking his head.
“If she comes back, it has to be her choice,” Suguru slid his hands into his pockets, “otherwise, we’re back to square one,” and he adds, “and I don’t think I can go back after last night.”
Suguru steps away, heading back down the hallway, and Satoru follows.
No, Satoru thinks, sparing one glance at the empty room, before pulling the door shut, neither could he.
~~~
“Why did you come back?” You set another box down, wiping the sweat from your brow, your grandfather simply watching as you brought your things back into your room.
“What a warm welcome,” you scoff, as you head back out to pick up another — the other staff had offered to help, but you had waved them off, lifting another box, your back still aching — and now you were starting to regret it. But you knew if you didn’t do something to distract yourself — your phone taunting you on the top of your desk — you’d do something you’d regret.
And you’d already filled your quota for the next six months at least.
“Don’t get me wrong, kid,” the geezer sighed, as he watched you bring the last of the boxes in, “I’m glad you’re back and the matters are all settled — but,” he tilts his head, “you seem more miserable than before,”
“I’m just tired,” you reply, but his furrowed brow says he’s unconvinced, as you grab a box cutter and begin to open up the boxes, beginning to sort through your things, “and still trying to wrap my head around the fact you lied to me,”
And he sighs, “this isn’t about me right now — it’s about you—“
“How convenient,” you mutter under your breath.
“You’re in love, aren’t you?” And you can’t help but freeze for a moment, until you force yourself to continue unpacking, pulling out some of your clothes from the box, “which one is it?”
The question stabs between your ribs like a well thrust sword between the ribs, finding the center of the problem — along with your heart.
“Gramps—”
“So it’s both of them?” and you whirl on him, your eyes narrowing, and he chuckles, holding up his hand, “I didn’t spy — I just took a guess,” he sighed, as he pulled out your desk chair and took a seat in it, “and it looks like I was right,”
You swallow, your eyes falling to the floor, “I didn’t cheat, if that’s what—”
He laughs, “I know you aren’t like me, little one,” he leans back in the chair, hands folded in his lap, “you aren’t one to lie — because I know there’s more you hate than liars,” and his gaze grows a little sadder, “And I’m sorry I had to become one of them,”
You grit your teeth, “I’m not mad at you — I’m just—” you choose your words carefully — because you’re angry, you were upset — upset that he felt as if he couldn’t trust you, “wondering why you didn’t tell me the truth,”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “My past isn’t something I’m proud of, and I wanted to deal with it without involving you,” he sighed, “after everything with our family — I didn’t want to give you another reason to distance yourself from me,”
“Lying to me isn’t a better option than that,” he rubs the back of his head, “you have to make it right for Akari and her mother — as well as if you have any other kids—I don’t need to know,” you add, when he opens his mouth, “it isn’t fair to them,” and it would be no fairer to not choose between Satoru and Suguru.
“You’re right,” he raises a brow, “is that the problem? You can’t choose between the two of them, eh?” and your gaze refuses to meet his, “have you talked to them about it?” and your silence serves as an answer, “then I think you should take your own advice and talk to them about it,”
“What will that do?” you murmur, “they still will want me to choose—”
“Do you know that for a fact?” he crosses his arms, “I think you owe it to them and to yourself to talk to them, and to your grandfather who can’t stand to see you this miserable at home,”
“Do you think it will change anything?” and he shrugs.
“Maybe it will or maybe it won’t,” he tilts his head, as he pulls out his phone to call you a car, “but if it’s a chance for you to be happy, isn’t it worth taking?”
~~~~
“I want to marry you both,”
And again, your statement is met with confused stares, as you had all but pulled up to their compound and entered to find them seated together discussing business in a side room — and their stares were still anything but average — but to you now, they meant so much more.
“Not marry you right now, but maybe eventually,” adrenaline was surely pumping through your system, right? That’s probably why your hands were shaking and your mouth was dry, but even so you knew you needed to say it before they spoke, “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. I told myself after we first met I wouldn’t be a coward, but I was when I ran away, and I don’t have any excuse,” you swallowed, “but I know what I want — and I want both of you, as selfish as that feels,” guilt crawled up your throat at the statement of that sentence, as if begging you to swallow the words that spilled from your lips back up, “and I don’t know how either of you feel — but if we were to do this, I would want us to be honest and—”
And the screech of their chairs takes you aback, and you felt your cheeks burn, was this it?
But instead of brushing past you, they stand in front of you, one of them tilting your head upwards to meet their gazes.
“Took you long enough, sweetheart,” Satoru’s lips curled, his hand cupping your cheek, “I know we said we wanted you to hurt us, but not like that,”
“Sent us away just to ghost us,” Suguru clicked his tongue, his fingers still under your chin, “I’ll have to plant a tracker on you again,”
You shake your head, “Wait, what? Are you both okay—”
“We did say we’d kill the other for your hand, but,” Suguru presses a kiss to your forehead, “But now we realize the more eyes watching you, the better, and,” he shrugs, “we don’t mind sharing if it’s just with the other,”
“And I know you’ll prefer me sooner or later,” Satoru adds, earning a glare from Suguru, as you only chuckle, “Suguru is always so grumpy—ow!” Suguru smacks on the back of the head, as the black haired yakuza wraps his arms around you, pressing your back to his front.
“And you are always too busy running your mouth,” Suguru replies, pressing a kiss to your cheek, “sure you can handle both of us in your life?” and you pull Satoru close too, letting his lips brush yours, before turning and pressing a kiss to Suguru.
“Shouldn’t you be asking yourselves that?” you say, as the two of them wrap an arm around you, “I am supposed to ruin your lives after all.”
✧ a/n: so this has been a longtime coming. i was supposed to be working on prof geto (5) + my nanami celebration fic but this took over my life and wouldn't let go until i finished. so i hope you guys enjoy!! and this is my reminder why i don't write multi partner scenes like this often because its....difficult. thank you to @gaylatteart for reading and putting up with me <333
THE ETHICS OF RELATIONSHIPS - 'THE PROF GETO SERIES'
INSTRUCTOR INFORMATION
Professor Suguru Geto
Level: Advanced (18+)
Total Points: 91,264 / 91,264 (100% Complete)
Extra Credit Earned: 3,603
Recommended Study Playlist
COURSE DESCRIPTION
Professor Suguru Geto is a renown ethics professor, and you're a 4.0, straight A student whose GPA he's trying to ruin (or that's what you think). Instead of dropping the class, you're more intent on making him see your brilliance -- but you get more than you bargained for, when the two of you learn more about the other -- and what you owe to each other.
COURSE REQUIREMENTS
I. I NEED SOMEONE OLDER....................................10,376 POINTS
II. ILLICIT AFFAIRS......................................................16,821 POINTS
III. THE WRONG PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME......12,010 POINTS
IV. YOU DREW STARS AROUND MY SCARS.........14,288 POINTS
V. WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE..........................................12,464 POINTS
VI. TEACH YOU HOW FOREVER FEELS…………….25,305 POINTS
EXTRA CREDIT
I. SUDDENLY, I HAVE A VALENTINE.......................1,208 POINTS
II. SAY YOU CAN'T SLEEP (BABY I KNOW).............2,395 POINTS
summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.
word count — 16.4 k
genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.
author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3
masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem
Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.
Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.
Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast.
By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.
You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714.
You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer.
Surprised. Delighted.
“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.
You had simply nodded.
The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.
Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.
As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.
Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:
Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.
Great. Just what you needed.
Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep.
Panic started to bubble.
“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”
Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes?
Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up.
Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.
Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.
Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them.
But then you saw him.
He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.
He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.
His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.
Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.
You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class.
After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.
You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.
What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—
The train began to slow. Now or never.
You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.
“Excuse me,” you said.
He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.
“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.
For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.
Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile.
“A drawing? Of me?”
His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.
“You’re very talented.”
...Huh?
You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.
You. Are. Very. Talented.
The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.
Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.
“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”
“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.
“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.
It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.
It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.
You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again.
Or so you think.
Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.
And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.
Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.
Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said.
Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.
A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.
“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”
But then it hit you.
You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?
There was only one person it could be.
The stranger from Line 4.
After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.
The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.
There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:
LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST
Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.
Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?
You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?
You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow.
On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you.
What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.
You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.
This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?
You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.
Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.
The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST
Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.
Hanami Restaurant, Central District
You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god.
He was a stalker.
Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know?
But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.
“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”
You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.
“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”
You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest.
This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.
You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking?
The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened.
But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?
You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.
My God.
What had you started?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.
You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.
You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock.
7:30.
7:45.
8:00.
He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.
8:15.
8:30.
Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.
9:00.
Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.
You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.
Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you.
And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.
Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.
On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.
By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.
Another poster. But this one looked different.
As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers?
You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.
You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.
And below, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER
I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.
Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.
Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.
Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.
“Is that about you?”
You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.
“What? No, I—”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”
Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”
“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.
“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.
“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”
A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.
“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours.
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.
Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries.
Either way, you had a decision to make.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there.
You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.
By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision.
The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.
It rang once. Then—
“Hello?”
That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.
“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”
“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”
“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”
“I thought they were romantic?”
“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”
“Are you?”
You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.
“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.
He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.
But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.
“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”
“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”
You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”
The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.
It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.
Totally normal.
Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.
“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”
“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”
You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.
And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.
He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.
When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”
“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”
And then you saw the flowers.
Correction: you saw the flowers.
He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.
Every head in the lobby turned toward you.
Great. Just fucking great.
You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.
“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.
People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.
Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—
Wait.
Holding hands?
Why were you even thinking about holding hands?
He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—
You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.
Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.
A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.
You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently.
Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”
“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”
“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”
“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”
“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”
He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”
“Oh really?”
His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”
“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”
He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”
“And? Verdict so far?”
“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”
Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.
“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.
“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”
“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”
“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.
You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.
“Okay. What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”
Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”
You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”
“I come here a lot.”
“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”
He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.
“Fair point.”
The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.
“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”
“I suppose because I am someone important”
“What does that mean?”
“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”
You stared at him. Blankly.
“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.
Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”
“So this building—?”
“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”
“Which is why they know your usual.”
He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”
“So when you were on that train…”
“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”
“A practical billionaire. How novel.”
“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”
“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.
“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”
“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”
You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.
“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”
“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”
You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation.
“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”
“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”
“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”
“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.
“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”
“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”
“Is that a yes?”
You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”
“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”
You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”
He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”
Stupid, handsome man. “I hate you.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you?
You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that.
You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.
Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.
Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”
You nodded, reluctantly.
“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”
“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.
She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”
Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.
That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more.
The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.
Days passed. Then weeks.
You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.
The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.
And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.
It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.
That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.
Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”
The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.
Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.
“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.
“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”
“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”
“I’m not most clients.”
“Clearly.”
He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun.
You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.
“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”
His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.
“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”
Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”
“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”
“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”
“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”
“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”
Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.
“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”
You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”
“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”
“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”
His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”
“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.
“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
You approached the window where he stood.
“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”
You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”
“May I?”
Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.
“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”
Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”
“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”
“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”
His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re so weird.”
“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”
“You’re the stalker here.”
“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”
“Let’s talk numbers first.”
“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.
You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.
“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.
His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”
“I’m quite an artist.”
“That’s already well above—”
You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”
You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”
Satoru blinked. “Wait—”
You took another step.
“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”
“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”
“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”
Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”
“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”
“We can go over those in an email.”
“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”
You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”
“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.
“I don’t.”
“Then it’s not.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”
“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”
“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”
“Not for everyone.”
“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”
“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”
“McDonald’s exists.”
“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”
“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”
“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”
You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”
“What would give you that impression?”
“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”
“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Am I wrong?”
You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”
“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”
“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”
“It is at my company.”
“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”
“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”
You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”
He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.
“If you say so,” he said.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk.
The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.
What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.
Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.
Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.
“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)
He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time?
Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.
And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.
“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.
“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.
And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.
Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.
Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.
You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.
The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You
His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:
I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG
You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.
The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You
Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG
The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.
Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:
Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG
You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:
I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You
His response came almost immediately:
Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG
You scoffed.
I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You
Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.
“Hello?”
“I don’t accept a no.”
“That sounds problematic.”
He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”
“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”
“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”
“Flattery won’t work.”
“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”
Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”
“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”
“I could send photos of the work.”
“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”
“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”
“No.”
You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”
“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I can take the train.”
“Humor me.”
You could practically hear the smile in his voice.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”
“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”
“We don’t have a thing.”
“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”
After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.
Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.
You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.
It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.
Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.
Even you didn’t believe it anymore.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.
You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.
Downstairs. Take your time. — SG
You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.
Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you.
No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.
It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.
You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.
He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.
When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.
“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”
Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.
Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.
Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.
But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”
You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”
“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”
He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.
For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.
At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.
“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.
“Anything.”
“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”
“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why.”
Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.
“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”
“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”
He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”
“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”
“Maybe I’m just picky.”
“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”
“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”
Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”
“So, casual things?”
“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”
You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.
For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.
You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”
Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.
“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”
“Among other reasons.”
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.
“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”
He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.
“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.
The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side.
“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.
“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”
It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.
You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.
You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips.
“Dance with me,” Satoru said.
You turned to him. “What? No.”
“Why not?” He held out a hand.
You hesitated and looked around for a second.
“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”
He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”
“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”
“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”
“Not yet.”
“I like when you try to mess with me.”
“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”
He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.
A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.
“You’re good at this,” you said softly.
“I only dance with people who make it easy.”
“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”
He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”
You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.
“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.
Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”
“But?”
You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.
His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.
“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you.
Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.
“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.
“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.
“My pleasure.”
The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either.
You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.
When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.
“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”
He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”
“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”
“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”
You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—
“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.
Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.
The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.
“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.
You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?
You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.
It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.
More than you cared to admit.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.
You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.
And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.
“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”
“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.
“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”
“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”
“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”
“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”
You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.
“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”
“He didn’t kiss me.”
“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”
But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.
You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.
Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.
For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.
Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.
You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.
You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved.
He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.
You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed.
Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”
You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.
Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.”
And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.
When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.
You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.
Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh.
“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”
“It’s okay.”
He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.
“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”
“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”
“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.
“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”
“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”
Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?
“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”
“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”
You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.
“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”
He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”
You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.
You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.
It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.
“Wait, let me.”
Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.
“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.
“Does this make you uncomfortable?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.
“You have a strange way of doing that.”
“I had a feeling.”
“About what?”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I don’t.”
He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.
“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.
“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”
You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.
“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.
“It’s hot.”
“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.
He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.
“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”
Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.
“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.
“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”
“Was I mistaken?”
“About what?”
“Our date.”
“What about it?”
His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”
You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”
“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”
“But you didn’t kiss me.”
His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”
“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”
“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”
“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.
He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.
“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.
“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”
“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words.
No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.
You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.
“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.
“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.
This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.
“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.
“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”
His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”
Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.
“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.
“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
“I do like a challenge.”
Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.
“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.
His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist.
“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.
“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”
“How convenient.”
“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”
You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”
“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”
The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.
“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.
“Oh, I have a feeling.”
His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.
“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.
“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”
Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.
“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”
You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”
“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”
“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”
“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”
“The art commission?”
“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”
“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”
“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”
“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”
“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.
In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.
You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.
“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.
You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.
Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position
“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”
“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”
“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”
You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger.
The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.
Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”
Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.
But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.
“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”
You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.
Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.
“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.
“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”
The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.
“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.
“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”
“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.
Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.
Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.
“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”
“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”
The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot.
He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.
Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.
The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.
“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”
Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures.
A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.
And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.
“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.
“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”
“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)
here's the link.
it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.
other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))
wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
suguru is the type of boyfriend that when you’re at the pool (or beach) he’s making sure your safe. and i’m not just talking about sunscreen.
i’m talking about how he’s watching other people, making sure no other man is creeping up on you. and he’s also making sure that youre not staying out in the sun for too long.
i’d like to imagine that Suguru is also the type of bf who packs snacks, water bottles, extra towels, even has an extra pair of sunglasses! (because satoru def lost his in the ocean once)
bf!suguru who takes the best pictures of you to post on your instagram, but sends all of the pics to him first so he can either post it on his story, or set it as his new wallpaper
bf!suguru who after you’re all done with the day, carries you to the car , because he’s know you’re tired after all that playing and being out in the heat
bf!suguru who says it’s better to shower together, so you two can save water. but we all know what’s the actual reasoning
(it’s cause you looked too damn good and now his self-control is absolutely gone.)
THE ETHICS OF RELATIONSHIPS - 'THE PROF GETO SERIES'
INSTRUCTOR INFORMATION
Professor Suguru Geto
Level: Advanced (18+)
Total Points: 91,264 / 91,264 (100% Complete)
Extra Credit Earned: 3,603
Recommended Study Playlist
COURSE DESCRIPTION
Professor Suguru Geto is a renown ethics professor, and you're a 4.0, straight A student whose GPA he's trying to ruin (or that's what you think). Instead of dropping the class, you're more intent on making him see your brilliance -- but you get more than you bargained for, when the two of you learn more about the other -- and what you owe to each other.
COURSE REQUIREMENTS
I. I NEED SOMEONE OLDER....................................10,376 POINTS
II. ILLICIT AFFAIRS......................................................16,821 POINTS
III. THE WRONG PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME......12,010 POINTS
IV. YOU DREW STARS AROUND MY SCARS.........14,288 POINTS
V. WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE..........................................12,464 POINTS
VI. TEACH YOU HOW FOREVER FEELS…………….25,305 POINTS
EXTRA CREDIT
I. SUDDENLY, I HAVE A VALENTINE.......................1,208 POINTS
II. SAY YOU CAN'T SLEEP (BABY I KNOW).............2,395 POINTS
Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?
Warnings- Toxic attraction, jealousy, arguments, very emotional, fighting and break ups, reader being depressed and emotional, Jenna being protective, Nanami giving no fucks, Satoru being contemplative and slightly less stupid, fingering, sexual tension, light choking, public play, squirting, reader is better at feelings finally, and A LOT more angst WC this chap- 11k
A/N- Taglist closed- this chap is ANGSTY you've been warned, please comment/rb if you enjoy <3
<<<Chapter Four - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Six>>> (coming soon)
Chapter Five
“Nanami, you didn’t have to…” Nanami Kento is at your front door with two coffees in hand, smiling that handsome smile, eyes behind his dark green glasses.
“No worries, love. I was passing by and remembered bringing you home, I realized it’s right here.”
“Thank you!” You lean forward and press a kiss on his cheek, the guilt eating at you slowly.
What if he knew you did a fucking porn shoot the other day?
He knows your situation, but what would he think of that, in fact what do you think of that? Of yourself, as Jenna said, changing for Satoru? He’s never pushed you into anything, and these things were all brought on by your own self interest - of wanting to be just everything for him so that he would not stray. It was selfish of you, knowing his career.
You knew he wasn’t interested in more, but let yourself live in the delusion, the thoughts that you could be enough to fill all of the voids there, when in fact he has made his own thoughts clear. He loves spending time with you, he loves fucking you, the two of you make excellent money - triple last time actually - so for Satoru, it’s clearly a convenient situation.
Nothing more.
Not having seen Satoru for a couple days, he texted you several times through- out the day, he called you before bed, it all felt too good, too natural, too perfect for his perceived friendship, the one that you were honestly ruining with how you are. You wish you could be normal about it all, that you could just enjoy whatever this was, but her words keep ringing in your mind.
Losing yourself.
Are you?
“This is my favorite,” you say as you take a sip, gesturing your head for him to come in then. “I just stress baked some muffins, want some?”
“Stress baked?” He asks, amused now, and you giggle a bit, sighing.
“Mmm, yes I do that.” He eyes the kitchen counter, with about thirty six muffins already on it, of different flavors. “Take some actually.”
“What do you do with all of these?” He grabs one and sets his coffee down on your counter then.
“I bring them to all of the neighbors, they love me.” He chuckles, the sound throaty and inviting, biting into one and moaning, shutting his eyes.
“They’re so good,” he’s licking a bit off his lower lip, and you smile, grabbing one and nibbling yourself. “You look like that, work hard and bake?”
“You’re giving me too much credit.” He bites again, raising a brow.
“Seems like quite a woman to me.”
“Nanami!” You playfully shove his chest a little, and he takes your hand, it feels so warm and good, swallowing your much smaller hand in his. You enjoy it, you just wish you felt something like you did with the elusive pornstar you’re hopeless for.
“Would you like to-” the doorbell rings, you smile as you drop your hand.
“Let me grab that,” he nods, sipping his coffee, when you open the door, and see Satoru leaning in the doorway, coffees in his hands. “Oh!”
“Got your favorite, sweets.” He steps in, leaning his tall self down to kiss your cheek, when he catches sight of Nanami in your kitchen.
Shit.
“You got company?” His tone is strained, and you wonder why - he clearly had been a little irritated about your date, but it’s not like he’s made a step for you all to go further. And you’re too fucking scared to bring it up and lose this.
“He stopped by to bring me coffee. Looks like I’ll be well caffeinated." You smile, but Satoru’s blue eyes are darting across your shoulder at the buff man leaning against your counter.
“Muffin?” Nanami’s words make Satoru unreasonably furious, how comfortable and at ease he looks in your kitchen.
“I’d love one.” He steps past you, you’re closing the door, the tension as Satoru steps in is far too palpable, it seems to amuse Nanami more.
Nanami hands Satoru one, and he yanks it from his hand, biting it and setting down his cup, moaning and shutting his eyes then. “Aren’t they yummy?”
“Fuck,” he moans again, looking at you now. “You bake this good?”
“Stress baking, that's all.” You smile a little, standing between the two men that just tower over you, Satoru is taller by a few inches, his head isn’t far from your ceiling actually, spiked up white hair precariously close to brushing against the textured white paint above you. “Nanami was in the neighborhood.”
“Was he?” He nibbles one again, smirking over at Nanami, who casually takes a bite.
“I thought I’d see her, ask her on another date.” Satoru’s jaw tenses, and you wonder if this is the moment he’ll finally say something.
“Oh, another date? Second date, huh?” His tone is feigning ease, but it’s so clearly not at ease at all.
“Mmhmm, maybe this weekend?” He brushes a lock of your hair back from your bare shoulder, and you smile. “Lunch?”
“I can have lunch.” It’s not like Satoru is gonna-
“I’m taking her to lunch tomorrow.”
“You are?” He glares at you.
“Yes, I was coming to ask you to come to lunch with me, actually.”
“Were you… well, what about Sunday?” Nanami asks, and you smile brightly up at him.
“Sunday works for me.”
“Perfect. I’ll leave you to hang with your friend,” his tone hints he knows exactly what type of friend Satoru is, but he’s clearly unbothered, kissing your cheek and leaning down. “Text you later?”
“Absolutely.” You walk him out then, feeling vivid blue eyes glaring fucking daggers in your back. You pause, locking the door, hearing the silence in your home, aside from the whirring of the old air conditioner cooling the home the best it can in the heat, and Satoru’s sigh.
“He’s awfully friendly.” He mumbles, and you turn to him now, hands behind your back as you walk slowly, feet padding along your tile.
“He’s very nice, yes. But it was also nice of you to bring me this. Thank you, Satoru.” You say softly, smiling up now, a hand on his arm, just for him to tug you against his chest. You gasp at it.
“He’s too comfortable here, don’t you think?” His whisper is low, as he leans down, an arm on either side pressing you into the counter now, as his hard thigh slips between your softer ones.
“You’ve only been here once, and you’re comfortable too,” his brows lower, you gasp as your heat presses on his hard thigh now, he senses how good it feels to you, clearly, one hand slipping up your spine. “Satoru…”
“God I want you so bad, don’t you know?” He murmurs, kissing you then, it’s a harsher kiss than you’re used to, the hand slipping under your thin silk top, making you shiver while you soak his thigh, your hands slipping up his chest. “Look so fucking beautiful.”
“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, pulling back now to look up at him, feeling how tense he is.
“I need a reason? Did he?”
“Of course you don’t need a reason, but what’s he got to do with anything? Who I go out with, what’s it matter?”
“What’s it matter!?” He can hardly believe your words, in no world did Satoru Gojo see anyone else, so fucking blinded by you. Was it not the same?
“We’re not together, are we?” You’re silently begging for him to say something, but instead he pulls back, heart racing under the palm that drops now.
“I don’t want to see anyone but you, to fuck anyone but you, isn’t this… isn’t this something you want? Just with me?” He’s cupping your face, kissing you again, hungry, desperate, making your lips swell with his kisses. “Me fucking your pretty pussy till you pass out?”
You whine out, how can you not do so when he’s slipping a hand down, over your breast, making your nipple taut against his warm, hard palm, that’s gripping and squishing your breast. “Mnh but…”
“Don’t you want me to bury my face against that perfect cunt?” He’s touching you there, you can hardly breathe, it’s all Satoru, making you dizzy.
“I didn’t say I… mnh!”
“So wet, for me? All me?” He’s making your panties soaking wet with his long fingers, pulling back with glossy lips to watch your pretty eyes roll back. “Is that all for me?”
“You’re acting…” he’s got you trembling, soaking the cotton panties now, pressing your thighs together. “Satoru stop.”
He does immediately, pulling back in confusion. “What’s wrong? Did I kiss too rough? I'm sorry I…”
“No, just,” you cross your arms, hugging yourself, looking away. “Does it always have to be sexual?”
Satoru stands there, his own vermillion lips swollen from kissing you, his breaths coming hectic as he stares down at you. “What do you mean, always sexual?”
“That's all we do. Did you come here to fuck me?”
He laughs harshly, a sound you haven’t heard from him then. “I came to see you, just like the last time, you’re the one who said ‘let’s fuck’.” His words smack you with reality.
You had.
To try to save your fucking feelings, but all you did was fall deeper, deeper into him, the abyss that’s Satoru Gojo, the man you want all the time, but not just sexually. You want him near you, next to you, waking up in the morning and making him breakfast, and not just for him to leave to his penthouse after.
You want way too much.
“I did say that, but then we did have sex. So was I wrong?” His jaw tenses, he slips two fingers under your chin then, forcing your gaze on him.
“Do you want to be with him?” You glare at his ridiculous words now.
“I never said that, but would it matter? We are just ‘friends’ hmm?” Your words are harsh, way too harsh for the sweet girl he knows, and he feels it, the anger rising inside of him, making him so furious at the thought of someone with you.
“So, you’re gonna what, go fuck him?”
“Is that who you think I am!?” He gives a nasty little smirk, it’s a cruel one, something you’ve never seen on his face.
“You had no problem sleeping with me, not knowing me.” You step back, and the moment it spills from his lips, he knows he’s wrong, but he’s so fucking furious, he’s blinded to any good fucking reason. The hurt written on your pretty face is enough to make him feel like getting swallowed whole.
“I trusted you, I felt comfortable with you, the connection I…” you trail off, not wanting to make a bigger fool of yourself. “It wasn’t just random. You really think that’s what it was? A random hot guy I said - huh, let me call him and fuck him?” He tilts his head now, brows lowering.
“Isn’t that what it was, you saw my stream and wanted me? Now you think I’m making it all sexual?” You gasp, teeth clenched, almost unable to breathe you’re so fucking furious.
“You’re trying to fuck me because you’re jealous, so yes, that is making it all sexual. Surprised your phone’s not filming.” You shove at his chest and he grips your wrists, leaning low.
“So what, you got all the expertise you needed? Gonna go apply it to someone now?” Satoru’s words are so hurtful you can’t take it, you feel your heart pounding in your ears as you look at blue eyes gone cold.
“Excuse me, you think I used you for experience!?” He raises a brow then, while your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you drag them from his grip.
“You asked me for experience, remember? Weren’t you the one who started all of this, made it sexual? Asked me to show you things?”
His words resonate through your head until it spins, you have to sit down you feel so fucking sick then. Was he never even interested in you? Was this all you who caused it, who pushed it, when he never wanted it? The thoughts swirl through your mind quicker and quicker, nauseating, you shake your head and blink back tears then, looking up at him.
“I should never have pushed myself on you,” he blinks snowy lashes then, lips parting. “No, I shouldn’t have, you’re right.”
“I didn’t mean it that-”
“I am sorry I did, I’m sorry I asked for that. I was so pathetic.” You barely hold back a cry, and Satoru’s frozen, you have it so wrong, don’t you know his dick literally doesn’t work for anyone!? Don’t you know you’re all he can fucking think of, constantly, every waking moment?
“You never pushed yourself, ever,” he leans down, arms on either side of your chair. “Look at me.”
You do just that, and your tears break him. “What?”
“I didn’t mean it like I didn’t want you, I did. I just meant you crossed the line to make it sexual, that’s not to say I didn’t want to, but you were a good girl.”
“Were. Being the key word. Now I’m what, some pornstar fucking booty call?” You’re shaking your head, swiping at your cheeks, thinking of Jenna’s words. “And it’s all my own doing.”
You’ve lost yourself.
“Baby you’re still a good girl, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You’re right, you never would have hit me up for it, would you have?” Satoru pauses then, hands gripping the arms of your chair so tightly his knuckles whiten.
“I never said that!”
“Why would you, it’s Hollywood, you can have anyone, I just inconvenienced you, I should have never tried to join your world.” You’re standing now, brushing past him, he grips your wrist, his own emotions rising - especially one - panic.
He can’t lose you.
“It’s not what I meant,” he brushes his hand across your cheek, sticky already with your tears, feeling your body tremble as he holds you closer. “I shouldn’t have said it that way, I was just upset.”
“It’s true, don’t take it back now.”
“You think I don’t want you!?” He’s gripping your upper arms, shaking you gently, you’re sniffling, shaking your head as he stares at you in disbelief. “How can you think I don’t?”
“Maybe you felt sorry for me.” Satoru laughs then, before fucking glaring down at you.
“That’s the last thing I fucking feel,” he leans down until his lips are just a breath away from yours. “I want you so badly, constantly, why do you think I just showed up to your work, asked you out, begged to come over?”
“To film things.” He blinks like he’s been slapped.
“You think that’s it?”
“Some fun maybe, I think I am the one who took this seriously, when I started it from the beginning.”
It all hits - you are the one who asked him for more, and now you’re upset it’s just sexual, when you knew. You always knew. You knew your feelings, you knew you couldn’t handle this, but it was all you could have of him, and you were selfish, so selfish. And so in love.
“I wanted you that moment I met you, did you forget our kiss?” He whispers softly, fingers brushing your hair back, making you tremble.
“It’s only sex?” You ask hoarsely, he falters then.
“I enjoy you much more than that.”
“As a friend?” Satoru can’t speak then, he just stands there, staring down at you, swiping more of those tears from your cheeks, your lip is trembling. “Satoru, I feel like I don’t know myself anymore.”
“What do you mean? You’re so uniquely yourself. Nerdy, cute, adorable,” he’s smiling with those plump lips, as if that would cheer you up, avoiding the blatant question you gave him. “You are like no one I know.”
“I’m trying so hard to please you, that I’m forgetting.” He blinks again, so clearly confused, not seeing the numerous ways you have been bending yourself, molding yourself to fit him. Maybe he doesn’t see the change, maybe he just doesn’t know, but Jenna was so right, she was absolutely correct.
You don’t remember who you are, trying to be everything for Satoru, and he can’t even tell you if it’s more than a friendship.
The hurt tears its way into your chest, it’s unfair of you to ask him, to demand anything more of him, it’s not fair. You did all this, caused all this, you can’t be mad at him for being him, a pornstar. You’ve let your fear of not being enough make you do things you never would, and it’s all starting to sink in, everything you’ve done with him, like it’s not even you anymore.
You let being so selfish for him change you.
You’re sobbing now, and Satoru’s unsure of what to do, he doesn’t know your inner turmoil, but he does know seeing you cry makes him deeply emotional, it breaks his heart to see you hurt. He hugs you closely, as you cry against his suit jacket, sniffling and shaking, while he rubs a hand up and down your back.
“What is it? Is it what I said? I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry… I just…” You shake your head, sniffling and leaning back, looking up at a face you’ve fallen so deeply in love with.
“I’m losing myself.” You’re breaking down again, this time leaning back. “What you said was right.”
“It wasn’t, it was mean and… I’m sorry, please.” He feels his own emotions choking him, throat closing up as he struggles to take a breath, feeling the suffocation of his own mistake.
“I’ve acted that way.” He shakes his head, blinking back his own tears as you cover your face, breaking down right in front of him. “The fuck have I been doing, I called you.”
“I’m glad you called me-”
“I asked you.”
“I wanted you too. I was so fucking-”
“I fell in love like a fucking idiot, when you were honest from the beginning who you are.” Satoru pauses then, heart hammering as you turn away, but not before he glimpses how puffy your cheeks have gotten from your tears.
“You what?” He whispers, and you shake your head, swiping at your tears, shoulders shaking with the wracking sobs.
“I shouldn’t have tried to join your world, and then I was so dumb I got jealous,” he touches your shoulder feeling you tense.
“Jealous, you?” You laugh through your tears, truly fucking losing it, as you nod, looking back at him, and he sees the reddened eyes, the sticky drying tears, you bit your lip so hard it’s tearing the skin.
“Yes, very. I’m selfish and so dumb. It’s your career. I promised never to judge it either, and for what, you to judge me.” The anger sets back in, throwing his hand off and turning now. “You need to go.”
“I need to go!?” You nod, sniffling as you bite down harder, the motion jerky when he pulls you against him. “No, I am not leaving you like this.”
“I won’t be your pornstar anymore,” your words strike their chord, they hit him right in the stomach, as he barely processes your earlier words in the haze you have him in. “That’s all you want.”
“It’s not! You wanted that!”
“No, I just wanted to be enough.” At your last broken word, you can hardly face him, he tugs you against him and you’re stiff, unmoving.
“You’re more than enough for anyone,” his soft words end you, the sweet Satoru you met that night is there, but he’s hurt you so badly now, the sinking realization that you confessed your love and he hasn’t even acknowledged it. He’s stroking your back gently, letting you cry against him. “We never have to shoot, I told you that.”
“But you’ll fuck other women?” Your words are harsher than he’s used to from your sweet lips, he buries his face in your neck, swallowing.
“I don’t want anyone else, haven’t I made it clear?” He’s hoarse, his own tears falling along your neck.
“But you’ll go back to it, you’ll have to.” You grip the shirt he’s wearing, crumbling the expensive material. He swallows, sighing then.
“I won’t want them.”
“But you’ll have to.”
“It’s my career,” he pulls back, sighing as he watches your broken face. “You seemed to enjoy it, what’s changed so much?”
“I didn’t enjoy it, I enjoyed you. Now I don’t know what I think of myself.” You’re blinking the rapid tears, shaking your head again, as if to make them stop.
He never loved you, did he?
“Maybe you should be an actor, you made me believe there was more,” Satoru scowls at you now, tugging you against his chest, cupping your face with his other hand tightly. “Stop.”
“I do care so much, god you’re all I want. I literally can’t even fuck anyone else.”
“So your dick cares for me?”
“That’s not what I said! You wanted all of this, how are you going to be mad at me for giving it to you!?” You laugh again, the sound so hollow, as Satoru feels his heart breaking.
“I can’t just fuck you. Clearly. And I knew it, I knew I needed feelings, I knew I’d fall - I’m a fucking idiot.”
“You’re not!”
“I am. Satoru, I can never do this again, it’s breaking me apart,” you hold your stomach, as his blue eyes drip with tears, and you want nothing more than to be in his arms. “I can’t just have sex with you.”
“I don’t want anyone else, how fucking clear can I make it!?” You smack the hands that try to brush your tears, earning his glare, blue eyes a storming blue, so vivid it’s painful to look at. “I want you, I didn’t mean what I said. You’re just done with this because of some words?”
“I’m done because I can’t take this pain anymore.”
“Pain?” You take several breaths, hands shaking as you try and fail to stop the onslaught of tears. “What pain? I’ve done nothing but make you cum, like no one ever fucking will.”
“It’s sexual, see? Is that all shit is to you!? I’m not just a body.”
“It’s not just your body-”
“It seems that way. No, I won’t fuck Nanami, okay? If that’s your very weird fucking concern, considering after I swallowed your spit you did a gang bang, and after we fucked you fingered a girl on cam.” Satoru scowls deeper at you, as you finally let it all out, everything you’ve acted fine with.
“That’s my job! You fucking knew that!”
“I thought I meant something.” He pulls you by your wrists again, you jerk them out of his hold, hyperventilating.
“Calm down, fuck I didn’t mean it.”
“Your smirk… the way you… no, you meant it. You think that’s who I am? Then you never fucking knew me!”
“I don’t know you!?”
“You know my body, that’s not enough.” He’s kissing you again, and for a moment you falter, as he’s overtaking your lips.
“I want more than your body,” his words fall flat, you can’t believe him anymore, not after what he accused you of. “I want more. I enjoy you, fuck why can’t I keep enjoying you? Why are you overthinking everything!”
“Mmm, no.” You pull back again, shoving at his chest, he’s crying right with you, and you want to stop this, let him do anything he wants, but it hurts too fucking much, nothing should hurt this much. “I can’t have pieces of you.”
“I’m right here, use me, all of me.” He’s trying again to kiss you, but you’re pulling back, making him glare. “Now you’re done with whatever experiment you were fucking doing?”
You gasp. “I should ask you that!” You smack at his hand, making him grip your wrist again, both of your chests heaving. “Turning the nerdy good girl into a pornstar? That some twisted 90s rom com!?”
“The fuck, I didn’t make you do shit, it’s been your choice!”
“I regret it.”
The words are enough to make him step back, his eyes going cold. “What?”
“I regret filming it.” You do, and you hate that you do. You see him swallow, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his own hands shaking. “I don’t regret you, I don’t regret the moments, aside from me pushing myself on you, for that I am sorry, but I do feel horrible about myself now.”
“I gave you the choice, you hit share.”
“To please you. To make you need me, want me, to keep you. Selfish, stupid,” you shake your head again, chest tight as you rub it, blood pressure through the fucking roof as it all comes out, everything you kept inside. “I don’t blame you, you always asked permission, consent, all of it. This is on me.”
“So we never do it again, I don’t need it to fuck you, I don’t care if you film it again-”
“It’s your career.”
“I want you.” The words should feel good, the way he cups your face and looks at you, it should mean more, but you’re far too deep in your feelings to be okay with him just wanting you.
You forgot who you were.
“This isn’t me,” you say softly, cupping his face then. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes dripping with tears. “I can’t be this anymore, it’s not me.”
“People change, why regret what you enjoy? Why regret doing something that made you-”
“I feel awful that I did it.”
“Shit…” He takes a breath, feeling responsible for your broken words, as you stroke his cheek, trembling in front of him.
“You didn’t do it, it’s not your fault. I’m disappointed in myself, I should have known I couldn’t handle it all. You with other women,” you look down, hand falling. “It was selfish.”
Satoru doesn’t know what to say, what to do besides kiss your forehead, holding you close to him. “I feel like you’re fucking ending things.”
“I am.” He freezes now.
“We don’t have to film!?”
“I can’t. I can’t do this. It’s not fair to either of us,” he says your name, quietly, earning you looking at him as you step back. “I will never regret what we did, I just regret trying to make myself something I wasn’t.”
“Don’t do this, don’t end a good thing? For what?” He’s shaking your shoulders, as if trying to drag some sense into you.
“I caused it all.”
“You didn’t, I’m sorry I-”
“I need to be alone.”
Your next words break him, he stares at you with wide eyes. “What?”
“I need to be alone. I’m sorry.” You walk to the door, he is behind you then, hand on yours over that knob, hard body behind you, his other arm wrapping around your waist now. “Satoru…”
“Don’t kick me out of your life,” he’s pleading, he feels so pathetic then, standing behind you and resting his head on the cool door over your head, taking a breath. “I don’t want this to stop, to end. I wanted you from the moment I saw you at that damn party.”
“But now I’m not that girl,” you’re shaking, as his hand tightens over yours. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re still her, what do you mean!?”
He doesn’t understand.
“I am glad I met you, Satoru Gojo. I have never met anyone like you, and I probably never will.”
“Don’t do this.”
“Thank you for being so thoughtful, so caring,” you’re choking on your sobs, looking behind your shoulder up at him as he cups your face. “Thank you for being so many of my firsts.”
“Don’t thank me,” his words are harsh, as he kisses you again, and you fall into them so sweetly, whining into his lips. “Don’t push me away.”
“I have to find myself again, and I can’t like this.”
“I just don’t understand.”
“I know.” It’s quiet, as he kisses you again, letting you go and shaking his head. “I’m sorry for all of this.”
He says nothing else, letting you turn the knob, rushing out without another word, as you turn and rest your back against the door, sliding down and collapsing on the fucking floor, devastated. It’s like your heart is ripped into pieces, sending the man you love away, when he fucking begged to stay.
You feel horrible, his crying eyes and the way he asked you not to, but how the fuck can you keep going like this!? Even then, he didn’t bring up being more, he didn’t say ‘I love you too’ as if wanting you physically was enough. But for him, that’s what this was, it was what you brought up, so enamored by your feelings, you thought you could have him sexually and it would be enough.
It would never be enough for you.
Curled into a ball on the floor, you don't move for hours, the sun setting through the blinds and casting its shadows across the floor as you hold your stomach and just sob. It's late when you finally pull yourself up, seeing the numerous calls from him, over and over, but you don't call him back, you can't anymore. Instead, you call your friend who's also called you a good five times.
“Jenna?”
“Baby what's wrong!?”
“Can you come over?”
*****
Jenna holds you that night as you keep apologizing, you were an awful fucking friend, damn near kicking her out in some hopes that she was so wrong, for Satoru to prove her right - only worse. Never once did Jenna herself think he would say what you sob to her then, she thought Satoru was a good person, just an industry standard, but never spiteful.
“Shit baby,” she murmurs, as you hiccup, hugging her tightly as you lay on your couch, take out and wine along your living room table. “I wish I wasn’t right.”
“He accused me of… wanting to use him!? I never… Jenna I never…”
“Shh.” She’s trying to calm you down, but you’re so fucking devastated, every time the phone rings and you want to answer it, she holds you tighter. “You can’t just give in and be treated like that.”
“I was slutty, going to him.”
“You were curious about your feelings.”
“I… yes…” You rub tissues on your sore nose, sipping your cheap wine and sighing, looking at your beautiful friend. “I loved him when I met him, Jenna.”
“I know,” she sips her own wine, frowning. “I wish I warned you more.”
“You didn’t know I would fall like this. It’s all my own doing.”
“Is it? He knew you were innocent.” You shake your head, sighing and leaning back against the couch, resting a hand on her thigh now.
“I was a bitch to you.”
“You were just hurt, fucked up on him. I forgive you.” She takes your hand, and tugs you into another hug. “He’s so good I almost fell fucking him.”
“Jenna!” You glare playfully, then laugh, for the first time since you had to send him away. She shrugs.
“It’s his pussy eating skills.”
“Jenna it’s so not that.”
“They gaslight you.” You playfully shove her then, laughing and standing up, grabbing both glasses.
“Will you stay tonight? Have more wine?”
“You know I will.” You smile and lean down, pecking a kiss on her cheek. “Don’t fall in love with another pornstar.”
“I’ve always loved one.” You tease, something feels relieving, despite the love in your fucking heart, to release all those feelings, to speak them out loud. “I’ll make us some popcorn on the stove.”
“I’ll find a movie!” As you walk out to the kitchen, your phone rings, Jenna fuck-you buttons it, glaring at the picture of Satoru.
She cannot stand that he hurt her best friend like that, and she’s not gonna be very fucking nice if she sees him again.
It keeps ringing, over and over, when she finally picks it up, walking out to your balcony. “Stop calling her,” Jenna’s voice is on the phone, Satoru laughs harshly, after being so excited to speak to you, it’s your protector. “I’m serious.”
“She’s a grown woman, not a little girl.” He says, and she scoffs.
“She sure is, but guess what? She was innocent, Satoru, innocent before you got her into this fucking world.”
“It was her decision!”
“Because she’s in love with you, fucking idiot!”
“She’s…” He trails off, he could swear at this point he imagined that confession in the middle of the argument, the ‘break up’. Where you broke his fucking heart in ways he didn’t know it could be.
“She did it to please you, she said she’d lose herself to be anything for you.” Jenna’s furious, quiet words break Satoru down. “You’re the experienced one, she was damn near a virgin.”
“She chose-”
“You shouldn’t have offered. You shouldn’t have changed her, she was perfect the way she was! Now she hates herself.”
“Jenna, I…”
She takes a breath, sighing. “I’m being too harsh, I’m sorry, okay? But as someone in this industry, why would you get a sweet, innocent girl into it? If you cared, you’d protect her, like I do.”
Satoru lets it all hit, slowly, her furious yet emotional words, a girl that clearly loves you, cares for you, and she was right. She was so right.
“Fuck…” Is all he can manage, as his mind whirls to a time when he was not too different from you.
He’d been a nerdy boy, even though his looks carried him far, he wasn’t very experienced, not until he fell in love with a girl in her early thirties, while he was in college. He’d pursued her, he’d begged for her, when he found she was a pornstar? He lost his virginity on set. It had been by far the most popular video there even had been at the time, it went viral.
That’s when they became the power couple.
But every time he saw her with anyone, it broke his fucking heart, he couldn’t stand seeing her on shoots, even when she’d coo at him that he was her favorite, even when he lived with her. He wondered if she liked other men better, he made sure to become perfect, the best there was, and soon she told him she didn’t recognize him any longer.
He says soon, but it was a four year relationship. One where they fought and fucked all the time, one where she was tired of the lifestyle and he was young and brand new. He let the fame get to his head, and she ultimately broke down and apologized for bringing him into this world, but he laughed, brushing it off.
He was happy she did, so happy.
His life was perfect, full of money and beautiful women.
Right?
“I told her you were a good person,” Jenna’s words over the phone bring his attention to the present, as he sinks into self loathing. “I feel I was wrong.”
“You’re not wrong, okay? I didn’t… I didn’t realize.” She sighs again, a long pause as he sits there, feeling the emotions catch in his throat.
“You’re not good for her, Gojo.”
Her words should make him fucking furious, but he’s not, he’s just so very sad now. She was right about it all, he was horrible for you, he made you not recognize yourself, regret your actions. Satoru never grew to regret his actions with his first, even though he was so enamored with the lifestyle at the time, perhaps he’s never fully digested it all.
He thought you’d love it, the attention, the money, that you’d feel so sexy and confident, that the two of you could be that couple. That he could have the best of both his worlds, keep his career and have the girl he desires more than anything right by his side through it all.
He was fucking selfish.
The girl that was in that damn party, nervous and giggling, fiddling with her long sleeves and blushing as he teased her? The girl who took a shotgun from him and got high from that, nervous as she kissed him? The girl who trusted him to show her things, who allowed him to do filthy fucking things without question, eager and open to anything he suggested.
The girl you were, who he changed unintentionally, would have never filmed any shoots of herself, wouldn’t have shown her body, no she just wasn’t that girl, and that was what drew him to you. His hands tighten on the phone as her words ring too fucking true, as they read him inside out.
“I didn’t mean to, Jenna. I really didn’t mean to.” His words seem to resonate with her.
“You saw it as some fun, I get it okay, but she’s not the girl you ‘have fun with’ she’s the one baking you cookies and taking care of you when you’re sick. She’s the shy one, who you have to drag to a damn party, the sweet one who makes sure you get home safe when you’re shitfaced. She’s a good girl, and now she’s devastated and stuck in her bed, feeling horrible.”
“Then let me talk to her-”
“She can’t get over this if you keep on.”
“Get over me?”
“She’s broken-hearted. I’ve never seen her in love like this, even with her ex it wasn’t even close, whatever you did, I need her to snap out of it, before she can’t get past this.”
“Jenna, I didn’t know she felt that way.”
“You don’t know a lot of things. Just stop calling her, I will help her.”
“Jenna-” She hangs up, and his next calls are sent immediately to voicemail, until he curses, throwing his fucking phone, then sobbing into his pillow that night, at the ultimate realization of what he’s done.
He changed you, the parts he fell for, so selfish he didn’t even notice a single sign that you did it all for him. And now he was supposed to just let you go?
How can he even move on without you?
*****
“Shut the blinds, ugh.” You cover your face with a comforter three weeks later, as Jenna is annoyingly there again, she comes over every day as you’ve taken two weeks off work as of the other day to rot in your bed.
“This is your vacation!? The fuck, get up.” She’s yanking the covers as you scowl at her, covered in sticky tears and hair all matted up. “You look like shit.”
“Who is there to look good for now? Let me wallow.” You yank the covers back until Jenna has dragged your ass off the bed, you hit the carpet and wince. “Jenna!”
“No, you’re taking a fucking shower. You are not letting him destroy you like this. Now.” She’s picking you up, you sigh then, just hugging her. “You stink.”
“Sorry,” you’re crying, it’s all you do. Cry and cry and cry over him. Over the man you love that you sent away, you could at least have him in your fucking bed, but no, this is all you have. “Why do you deal with me?”
“Because we’ve been through it all, you’ve dealt with how many of my manic fucking episodes?” You sigh, smiling through your tears.
“Don’t deserve you.”
“You do, and you deserve to move the fuck on. This shit happens, okay? We get up, get looking hot, and go out.”
“I can’t go out, I can’t have fun, I feel no joy without him.” The words are hard to get out of your throat, they’re the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to admit.
Without Satoru it was like there was no light in your life, sure Jenna was amazing, and sure you had people in your life you cared for, but Satoru haunts your every fucking though, dream, waking moment. If it was just sex, if it was just a fling, why are the dreams not just that? For every wet dream there were five of just holding his hand on a fucking beach somewhere.
You woke up with one of him holding you yesterday, only to be smacked with the realization that he will never again, touching the cold pillow and wrinkled sheets from your tossing and turning. You slept over and over, dreaming of him again, when he’s a phone call away, it was pure torture, a cruel fucking joke, that you fell in love with Satoru Gojo.
So close yet so impossibly far.
“What about the hottie from work? He keeps asking you out, and he’s fine as hell. Why not try?” You shake your head, sitting on your bed and sighing as she starts rummaging through your wardrobe. “Satoru isn’t the only man, baby.”
“He is the only one for me. Fuck was I too harsh to him-”
“No, he was a dick. You stood up for yourself like a good girl.”
“Don’t hit my praise kink, Jenna, I have a thing for pornstars,” she sticks out her tongue at you, grinning as you finally laugh a little, sniffling. “Nanami is sweet, and handsome, but I think he may want something serious. I don’t think I could give it to him.”
“You could if you tried to let this go. I know you fell, but he’s not going to change, so what good is any of it? Do you have anything slutty?”
“No, not really.” You stand up, going to the mirror and wincing. “I look like shit.”
“You really do.”
“Jenna!”
“Sorry,” she’s so not sorry, frowning as she digs up a lacy ass top, which is just lingerie. “Ooh this!”
“That’s not clothing, Jenna.”
“Sure is, bitch. I know you have some cute skirts…”
“Jenna I’m not gonna be any fucking fun. I’m too depressed.” You start brushing the rats' nest on your head, wincing as the memory hits.
Satoru brushing your hair, after the first time you’d come over, so sweet and caring as he ran it through, as he pulled you against him and smiled. The brush wavers in your hand, the ache in your chest growing again until you almost couldn’t breathe. You wonder if he feels anything close, if he ever did, or were you just something new for him to try?
His mean words melt with his sweet ones.
Done with your experiment?
Baby you are a star, already.
Gonna use it on someone else?
Best I’ve ever had.
You hate him for it, not for the accusations but for the fact that it showed he never knew you, and you thought Satoru truly just got you. But maybe the two of you never got to know each other, maybe it was something physical, some intense chemistry that you confused…
How can that be?
How can that be when what you miss most isn’t his body, isn’t the orgasms or pleasure, but the touches, the cuddles, the sweet smiles, the quiet moments in between where it felt perfect? No, you can’t explain it away, as easy as it would make it, this mix of love, longing, and hatred, is eating you alive, palpable and real as the physical manifestation of Satoru himself.
You’d always love him. But do you love you anymore?
“There’s a DJ I know at the EDM club… let’s go out and party babe, let’s let go and get free drinks and dance!” She’s yanking out a skirt that’s too tight on your waist and rides up your ass now. “This one!”
“An EDM club?” You sigh, shaking your head, but she’s got her mind set on it, shoving you to the bathroom now.
“Go shower, and scrub that hair twice, dear god.”
“Jenna…”
“No, you’re getting the fuck out tonight. Now.”
“Fine.”
You wish you weren’t just crying in the fucking shower, sitting there and hugging your knees, just missing him.
******
Satoru’s dancing in the middle of the EDM club that night, but it’s more physical, more going through the fucking motions, as the sounds reverberate, and women are giggling, dancing on him. He tries to have fun, to remember who he was before you, it’s been three weeks since your friend begged him not to call, and you’ve not reached out one time since.
He stalked your socials, not a single post, like you’ve ghosted everyone, not that you had much anyway, just a few pictures of your baking or cooking and those few blurry selfies. The selfies that make him ache, that make him miss you as he looks at them over and over.
Satoru took down both of your videos, he doesn’t feel right keeping them up after you said you regretted them, that made him feel so fucking horrible. You said it wasn’t his fault, but how can he not feel responsible for bringing it up in the first place? How can he not let your friend’s words sink in deep?
You were innocent, and instead of cherishing that, he saw the opportunity to make bank with you, to enjoy the only woman he wanted and keep his career, to just win and win and win. At the cost of you, of your self worth clearly, and your self esteem, all for what. For others to see you, what he wanted for himself, the thoughts made him fucking sick.
What is money, what are hollow comments, what is any of this when your eyes were full of tears, when he has to jerk it to the fucking memory of you, when he can’t make it to a shoot and just stares at your pictures. When he watches the videos of you two and instead of getting excited feels overwhelming guilt? You were a grown woman, but you were innocent, and he corrupted it, unintentional as it was.
He still was responsible.
He wants to fucking apologize, he wants to beg you to come back, he knows he’s horrible for you, he barely knows himself at twenty eight, and you younger than him seem to at least remember who you are. He missed all the signs of you changing to please him, but it all started falling together these past weeks of being alone, of avoiding his job, of avoiding everything.
He can’t avoid it forever, and he shouldn’t. You were gone.
He backs off the girl dancing on him now, tapping her shoulder. “I need a drink, sweets.”
“Sure Gojo!” She grins and dances with the other girl who was grinding on him, as he finds Suguru leaning against the bar, having a drink, along with a few other of the usual stars, including smirking Toji and Sukuna, who he can’t deal with right now.
“Make it a double,” Satoru murmurs to the bartender, who slips him her number with a little wink, he tips her well and smiles.
Did he really enjoy this?
He leans back, freezing then, when he thinks his fucking eyes are playing tricks on him - it can’t be.
You’re feeling the energy pulsing through every inch of your body, hands touching you everywhere, losing yourself in the strobing lights, the sweat dripping as you jump up and down, laughing again for the first time in so long. Jenna’s dancing with you, then other girls and guys, as the beat kicks up, and everyone throws their hands up in the air.
A girl kisses you, then Jenna, making you blush, covering your mouth as Jenna grins at you. “You’re so cute!”
“Hush!” You shove at her playfully as you both shout over the loud noise filling the intense room, internally feeling guilty for enjoying one night without him, without the man that has your whole fucking heart.
But it does feel good, to shut your eyes and feel blissful nothingness, the drinks simmering through your veins until you’re dizzy. You feel a man’s hands on you, gently pushing them off with a smile, thanking god you wore your contacts because you fear for your glasses with the amount of jumping people. You lift your arms up, back to Jenna again, as you two lose yourselves.
Satoru sees you, skin glistening with sweat in the middle of the dancefloor, jumping up and down with a grin on your face as Jenna jumps with you, bodies all surrounding you, making him glare as he sips his drink. He’s going through fucking torture without you, and you look so happy, so free.
Was he truly horrible for you?
Was he selfless enough to stay away?
“Satoru, maybe try to talk to her?” Suguru says in his ear, loudly over the blaring electronic music that has hundreds bouncing together, kissing on each other, touching each other.
Satoru used to eat this up, all the music and energy, kissing women and having them feel all over him, especially when he was a little younger and partook in the party drugs, as many of them were on. But even now, he should enjoy it, the looks women give him, the way they touch his body, how they all dance all over him, he should enjoy the feeling.
He enjoys nothing, now, nothing but the memory of you gives him, what it leaves him with, the feel of you in his arms, against his skin, god the night he danced with you and you were so nervous. Clearly still awkward, Jenna is guiding your moves, when Satoru watches several men touching you, trying to rub and dance on you - it was normal in an EDM club, it’s what you did.
But you back off them, with a little polite smile, back to Jenna in moments, when your eyes finally catch his, and you stop moving like you were, your body slows, your eyes get fucking sad, he can see it clear as day. You walk away, and he curses softly, following you around until he catches sight of you walking in the bathroom, and he follows you right in.
“It’s a girls bathroom, Satoru.” You say then, splashing water on your face, when he comes right behind you, turning you quickly, the water drips down your face as you breasts heave up and down in an outfit so slutty he’s sure it’s not yours. “What do you want?”
“What do I want!? What do I want?” He’s blinking back his emotions now, laughing and shaking his head, cupping your face with his huge hands as the DJ shifts to another song, the bass vibrating your bodies, while your breaths come quicker and quicker.
You can hardly stand it, seeing him again, it’s like nothing even exists but him, but your love for him, a love you know ruins you, changes you for the worst. You rotted away for weeks and for one moment had fun, one moment thought you could let some of the pain go, to realize what this was.
But the moment you see his desperate, hungry eyes, taste the liquor on his breath as he leans down, you’re hopelessly lost. You swallow nervously, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, trying to gather yourself, the shots running through your body along with the headiness from the dancing, all mixing with him. With Satoru Gojo, whose hands feel far too good on your skin.
“I want you back, god I’ll fucking do anything,” he whispers, desperate and needy when you open your eyes again, two tears slipping from their corners. “I’ll let you do anything to me.”
“Don’t say that, god…” You take a shaky breath, pulling back, when he presses you against the black and gold counter of the fancy bathroom, his thigh right between yours, feeling your heat. Your hips roll before you can stop yourself, moaning softly as he sighs, his hand slipping down your body slowly.
“Anything to feel you again, please. Fuck I miss you,” you bite your lower lip, shaking your head. “I do, god I do.”
“Satoru…”
“I need you. I need you.” He’s kissing you, messy and desperate, licking the gloss and sweat off your lips with his long tongue, while pressing that thigh up. “Look too good to be out there, dressing this slutty?”
“Fuck you,” he moans, never expecting those words from your sweet lips, but all they do is make him needier, when you yank him by his dress shirt, hand crumpling the material. “I hate you.”
“You hate me, huh?” His whisper infuriates you, you’re crying as you nod, arching your hips up again.
“For making me fall for you, yes. I hate you, Satoru.” You pull back, turning away, only for him to drag you against his chest, making you look at your own reflection, dilated eyes, messy hair, your tits nearly falling out of your bustier.
“I could never hate you, sweetheart,” he grips a breast, yanking it out of your top then, making you whine, as your head falls back. “Look at your pretty fucking face.”
“No.” He grips your chin, forcing you to stare at him towering over you, his arms wrapping your body, one hand trailing down your nipple, tweaking it and making you whine out, rolling your hips. “Hate it.”
“You hate this?” You nod, sniffling back those tears, but your body responds to him violently, your cunt drenched when he brushes you over your panties, moaning as he fingers the slick, sticky cum. “Pretty pussy soaked, isn’t she?”
“From… dancing…” He scowls now, and you smile.
Good.
He changed you, the old you would never fucking say you hate him when you’re in love, the old you wouldn’t smirk at his anger. No, you were so sweet, so needy and pathetic for him, and you can’t let yourself slip again, not when you’re still not sure you’ve found yourself. Because you changed, irrevocably the moment you met Satoru Gojo.
“I know you’re lying, you know I’m the only man to ever make you cum,” you glare, but it’s cut off when he bends low, burying his head against your neck as he bends at the waist, your heels giving just enough height for him to slip your panties to the side. “Hold them.”
“No.”
“Hold. Them. To. The. Side.” His whisper almost ends you, the commanding tone you want to submit to.
“No.”
“Now.” He orders, in the only way he can, and you feel him slipping his fingers up and down an already messy cunt, tit slid out of your top, the other threatening to right in this club fucking bathroom, as his blue eyes look at yours int he mirror. “Now.”
“Fuck it,” you scowl as he smirks, doing just that, as the music reverberates and you bend down, pulling your lacy panties to the side, screaming out unwillingly when two fingers bury themselves. “Fuck!”
“Nasty mouth, bratty attitude, where’s my sweet, submissive girl huh?” He smirks as he slips those fingers deeper, pressing your spot with wicked precision, pressing that spongy spot as his other hand grips your breast rough in his huge grip. “Wanna squirt for me again, just me?”
“No, no I - mnh! There, shit, there,” your eyes roll back as his other hand wraps your throat, his desperate whines loud in your ear mixing with the loud squelching of your hungry cunt as he fucks you with his fingers. “Hate you.”
“Yeah, I know baby,” he’s so ready to watch you again, watch you fall apart, as he curls that spot you need, over and over, feels your gummy walls gripping and pulsing his finger with the beat of the goddamn music, watching your glittery skin and lips and eyes in the fucking mirror. “I’ll never hate you.”
“Shh,” you can’t take it, his fingers, his glistening eyes, those pouty lips parted while he moves his hand up and down inside your cunt until you’re about to cum, so intense again. “Stop, too much I’m gonna-”
“I feel it, let go, make a mess f’me, just me huh?” You can’t stop it then, his fingers fucking you just so, you feel all that pressure deep in your tummy, about to explode, making you scream out into his lips as he captures them, hand squeezing your throat as all the pressure builds.
He moans against your lips, messy kisses, saliva just dripping as he hits that spot that makes all the pressure release, and you feel yourself squirting all down his fingers, down your thighs, down the bathroom fucking tile. You scream out at it, as he makes more come out, torturing you as he pulls back and moans, looking at your face with those fucking eyes of his.
“That’s it, squirt everywhere, slutty pussy only does it f’me, say it,” you shake your head, whining and shaking as the mess gushes all over him, and he’s rock hard and thick against the small of your back, whining. “God I miss you, I need you, wanna drink you.”
“No, you can’t…” You’re drunk off him, lost in him, as he slips his fingers away from the mess you made, shoving them in your mouth, and you eagerly suck them up and down, looking at his reflection in the mirror with dilated eyes.
You’ll always want him.
You’re ready to fuck him then and there, ready to forget anything, to feel his cock stretch you out sure, but also to kiss him, to feel his energy, to feel so beautiful under him, around him. You’re shaking, thighs trembling and sticky when he turns you, lifting you and slipping his hands up your messy, sticky thighs, glistening and drenched all the way to your ankles.
“Look at your mess, sweetheart,” he taunts, bending down and licking a thigh desperately, moaning as he looks up at you, he’s too much, fuck he’s too much. “Missed your taste, can’t get it outta my fucking mind.”
“Satoru, please…” You don’t know what you’re asking, hands in his silvery locks, the texture you missed, as he presses hungry licks of his pink tongue on your skin.
“Didn’t miss me, right? Don’t want me now? Hate me?” He’s glaring, stopping his kisses to cup your face, his chin glistening from the arousal that he got pouring from your cunt, eyes locked with yours. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” you’re crying, chest heaving now. “I love you, and that is enough fucking torture.” He pauses, faltering then, as he brushes tears from your cheeks.
“Did you ever think that I-” the door opens, and the two of you quickly celebrate, you adjust yourself, thanking god the drunk girls don’t notice your undress, when you realize what you’ve done.
Let him have you a literal mess, let everything you’ve tried to get over for weeks get destroyed with his lips, his fingers. You confessed again, so pathetic, you can’t even face him, not when he is waiting for you out of the bathroom, you dart off, gripping your clutch tightly and hearing your name ring in your ears, along with the music and the sounds of cheers filling them.
He wants you, sure, but would he ever love you?
You quickly grab Jenna, desperate to run away, to try to compose yourself, how can you stand strong when all it takes is a look from his eyes and you’re ready to give him anything he wants again? It’s toxic, and you fucking know it, what he does to your body, your brain, your heart.
Has he done shoots?
Will he do them?
Why do you care when you’re not his!?
Will he be inside someone else, and you could have kept him if you went along with it all? The thoughts race as you and Jenna run out of the club, and you feel those blue eyes on you from somewhere in the dark club through the strobe lights making you dizzy. You can fucking feel Satoru, the man responsible for your soaked, sticky panties and thighs.
You could never hate him, but who are you without him anymore? It’s like you can’t recognize yourself, so consumed from his touches, from his empty words - miss you - what did he miss? Was it you, or your body? What did he think of the love confessions you were dumb enough to spill twice now?
“Baby you okay?” Jenna asks, as you two climb in the back of the ride, and you shake your head, bursting into tears.
She holds you, so confused, because you don’t say what happened.
You’ll never be okay without him, will you?
*****
Satoru can still feel it, you squirting and gushing in that fucking room, clinging to the memory he tries a month later to get hard on set, how long could he put it off, it’s been almost two months since that fight now. He hasn’t heard your voice since that night, he finally stopped calling again, realizing you were done with him, realizing the amount of times he fucked this all up.
He never told you how he felt, how could you know?
He doesn’t even know how to describe it, the void in his chest as he thinks of you, as he misses you, knowing you live an hour away, he keeps thinking of just showing up, telling you. That he’s never felt this way, that he’s never felt the need, the hunger, the all consuming desire for you as a human being, your laugh, your kisses, your grin.
Your silly jokes, the innocent way you moved against him, so shy at first, to the wildness of that night out, how you arched against him, how you said you hated him, how you said you loved him. And he almost said it back, he just needed one more moment to fucking say it, the words he hasn’t said since his ex fucked his brain up, made him so cold.
But he feels more for you in a short time than he ever did her.
He fell for you, just like you did, but he was so fucking stupid, all he could do was explain it away, to keep his lifestyle, his career- and what did any of it matter without you? What was anything without you in his life now, a life he thought was beautiful, was just a hollow shell since he met you.
Parties, drugs, women all over him, fame and money, what the fuck was a yacht party with beautiful women, when the girl he loves hates him? What was a trip to some rich fucker’s island, when the girl he loves is back in LA? Were you moved on, did you find a guy to treat you right, better than he had?
One that doesn’t make you cry?
“Ready, Gojo?” His pretty costar smiles at him, and he clears his throat, nodding with a fake smile.
Were all his smiles fake before you?
Was everything just a stage, waiting for you to enter his life, to change everything?
You changed so much for him, but he never changed for you.
Satoru’s flexing for the cameras, it’s what he did. You two were done before you ever became anything, weren’t you? You have not once reached out, why should he feel bad, there’s nothing there. He has to move on, like you apparently have, he has to have his career back, and maybe now he could, if he could just ignore the stabbing, gnawing ache in his soul.
Satoru’s slipping his fingers down her spine, smacking her ass and watching handprints form, while she’s whining and arching up for more, her hair falling back behind her shoulder blades. Satoru tries to remember that he once enjoyed this career, that he enjoys pleasing women. He tries to remember you want nothing to do with him anymore, that you ‘hate him’.
But your hate is sweeter than anything.
He could almost do it.
Her hair is the same as yours, as he pulls it gently, her ass arched up for him so pretty. Satoru could almost pretend it’s you, with that condom on, maybe he could shut his eyes and remember you instead. Maybe he could go through it, you two are done, you’ve made it so clear you want nothing to do with him now, and he couldn’t blame you for it.
He could almost slip his cock into her, he thinks, while he fingers her, feels how wet she is. He could almost imagine you, squirting and gushing and whining as he felt your tight, perfect cunt. He shuts his eyes, snowy lashes casting shadows along his high cheekbones, as she moans, this moan that’s not even close to the sounds you make.
He could almost do this, he’s going to have to move on, right?
“I need a career change.” He says suddenly, fingers inside his costar stilling, the set goes quiet. “Shit… um, sorry.”
He’s walking off, wiping his hands off when his manager comes to him.
“Satoru… what the fuck?”
“I can’t do this anymore.” He murmurs, remembering you in that club bathroom, the way you felt in his arms, the anger you held, your pretty little face, the way your lashes fluttered shut. The way you kissed him, how he’d licked that arousal off your thighs, but moreso your words.
You loved him.
And it all finally sinks in - he has no clue if you’ll ever even fucking talk to him again, he has no clue if you really hate him, but he knows he can’t do this life like this any longer. He can’t be with someone else in a world where you fucking exist - no, It was only you.
“I need a change of career.”
This chapter hurt my fucking feelings, my god they're dumb esp Satoru - BUT promise next chap will be a little less angsty <3
summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.
word count — 11.9 k
warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.
previously — you knew going to naoya’s party was a bad idea. now he’s arrested, but it doesn’t feel over. the lawsuit, the stalled research, the exams—they still hang over you. and satoru’s been acting strange. like something’s unraveling, and the real problem never left.
author's note — hello lovelies !! so it's been quite a while. i want to keep this short and say, that i had a lot of problems with this chapter and still have, and i know some of you will hate it but i really cannot continue writing on this chapter for another five months omg, so here it is :')
& a quick heads up: this chapter is heavy on the angst. it touches on themes of deception, death, explicit injuries, and morally grey territory. please take care while reading. see you in the end notes <3
series masterlist + playlist + ao3
<- prev chapter | next chapter ->
How strange it is.
Not peace. Not rest. Not really. It’s something else entirely—something insidious that seeps into your skull and smothers the noise there, coating your nerves in a lie you swallow.
How strange to sit here, your body sinking inward. Your hands don’t tremble. Your chest doesn’t tear itself open with each breath. Everything’s muted, smoothed over like a grave, freshly filled, the dirt packed tight over the chaos beneath.
You should hate it. You do hate it.
But there’s something sickeningly sweet about the way it dulls the edges, the way it makes everything stop hurting for once.
You know how it works. It tells your overstimulated neurons to slow down. Enhances GABA at the GABA-A receptors. Dampens activity in the amygdala, in the prefrontal cortex, and in the hippocampus. It quiets these circuits like disturbed water finally going still. And all the panic, the anxiety, and the agonizing sense of dread that paralyzes the mind disappears. Like it was never there.
You’ve heard the warnings a thousand times in lectures, seen the statistics on tolerance, dependence, withdrawal. How the brain rewires itself around the crutch until you need more and more just to feel normal again. You know all this, but you ignored it anyway.
You wonder if this is how Satoru feels every day. How he sees the world. So smoothed out and faded, like a photograph left in the rain until nothing’s left but grey. You wonder how one breathes through this every day. But perhaps breathing’s always been harder for him.
You hid the alprazolam in the glove compartment of your car. Funny, isn’t it? Now you could understand him a little more.
“Hey. You still with us?” Maki’s voice pulled you back to the present.
It was cold. The breeze bit deeper these days, sinking its teeth into your bones. Soon, it would snow, and the season would change for good. It was raining again, as it always seemed to be these days. You pulled your coat tighter around you.
You sat outside the campus cafeteria in the courtyard. Students passed by every now and again, wrapped in scarves and hurrying towards shelter from the wind.
“Didn’t sleep well,” you lied, and Maki gave you one of her serious looks across the table. She always saw too much.
“No wonder,” Yuta said, poking at his curry that he barely ate. “How do you sleep knowing this was happening all while we’ve just been walking around and—” He trailed off, like finishing the sentence might make it too real.
“Glad he’s caught,” Toge said between sparse spoonfuls of yogurt.
“Yeah, but still…” Yuta dropped his spoon. “I don’t know how to feel about it all.”
“How should anyone feel about that, really.” Maki hadn’t touched her food either. “It’s not every day something like this comes out.”
“What do you think they’ll do with him?” Yuta asked, almost whispering.
“Whatever it is, it won’t be enough,” Maki said.
“Lifelong,” Toge added.
“God, I hope so.” Maki muttered, stabbing at her uneaten food. “You know what pisses me off? He’s in jail, and he’s still suing Dr. Handsome. Like, what the hell? How is that even allowed?”
“Apparently you can sue someone from jail,” Yuta said. “There’s no law against it.”
Maki leaned back on the bench and stared up at the darkening sky. “Feels like it’s going to rain soon.”
“Maybe even snow,” Yuta added, hollowly. “It’s been quite cold lately.” After a beat, he turned to you. “How’d Physiology go?”
You glanced up from your own curry, long gone cold by now. Earlier this morning, you’d retaken Professor Nanami’s exam—the one you’d failed before, the one Satoru had stayed up all night helping you study for until you got everything right.
“It went well,” you said. Half a lie.
You had known the answers. You could still see them, clear as anything. But when the paper hit the desk, your hands wouldn’t move. Fingers stiff like they’d turned to ice. And the words stayed locked in your head, refusing to find the page. Maybe your hands were shaking. Maybe it was something else. Hard to say what went wrong. Maybe everything.
You couldn’t focus. Not really. Not with your thoughts circling back to how strange Satoru had behaved this morning. How it had taken him ten tries to knot his tie before you finally stepped in, hands brushing his as you fixed it. His skin had been hot to the touch, the veins on his hands stood out, pale and tense, and there was blood under his fingernails. Like he’d been clawing at his skin again.
Looking back, the signs were there. Perhaps you just didn’t want to see them. Or maybe you did see them, but denial is a cruel thing. It coils around your heart like thorns and feeds you lies easier to swallow than the brutal truth standing right in front of you.
Something’s wrong. You knew it.
You felt it in the silence between his words, in the pause before he laughs. In the way his smile never quite reached his eyes these days. Could see it in the way he moved, like he was drowning just beneath the surface, trying not to make waves.
Last night, you pretended not to hear him in the bathroom. Pretended to be asleep when he finally came back to bed, his body trembling slightly as he pulled you close. You wanted to ask, wanted to speak the words that hovered on the tip of your tongue, but they caught in your throat before you could say them.
Because deep down, you knew he wouldn’t answer. Wouldn’t tell you the truth. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t ready to hear it anyway. Maybe that was his kindness. Maybe that’s how he was gentle with you.
But kindness turns ugly when it festers, and now the dread clings to you so tightly that it feels like a second skin you can’t peel off. Like something buried beneath your ribs, feeding off you, growing heavier the more it takes.
Something’s different. Something’s wrong.
And every time you try to name it, to give it shape, it slips through your fingers like water, and you’re left holding nothing but this fear in your chest and this awful certainty that something terrible is waiting just beyond what you’re allowed to see.
You tried to ask. Don’t demand answers. But the heavier the feeling becomes, the harder it is to find the words. It’s almost as if you’ve become more afraid of the truth than of not knowing. And somewhere along the way, you became complicit in your own blindness, so careful not to disturb this house of cards of willful ignorance that would collapse with the slightest breath.
So instead, you watch. You wait. You pretend everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t. You smile when he dodges your questions and laugh at his jokes that have lost their bite. And at night, when he thinks you’re asleep, you listen to his uneven breathing and wonder how much longer you can keep pretending not to notice the way he’s coming undone at the seams.
Something’s wrong. You know it. He know it. But neither of you speaks it aloud.
Because maybe if you don’t name it, it won’t exist. Maybe if you just make it through dinner with his parents, everything will go back to normal. Maybe if you love him hard enough, hold him close enough, want it badly enough…
Maybe.
Such a cruel word. But it’s all you have now. That, and the quiet terror that whispers:
You watched him struggle with his tie in the mirror this morning, fingers trembling as he undid it for the ninth time. Dog lay curled at your side, his head nuzzling against your leg, while Satoru’s frustration built with each failed attempt.
When his knuckles turned white around the silk and a curse slipped between gritted teeth, you couldn’t take it any longer. You nudged Dog gently aside and walked over to him.
“Let me,” you said.
He dropped his hands without a word, surrendering with a heavy exhale. You took the fabric between your fingers, your hands steady where his weren’t, careful not to brush against his skin that seemed too sensitive, too raw, and hot like he had a fever.
A single bead of sweat trickled down his temple. You watched it trace the curve of his cheekbone, and your stomach dropped. You knew the signs too well by now.
He was cutting his meds again.
You should be proud he’s trying, should be happy he’s fighting it. You should feel hope, or something that feels close to hope. But instead, a knot tightened in your chest. Why didn’t he tell you? Did Suguru know?
It wasn’t something he did lightly. It took everything in him to taper, to even consider going through the crash again. So if he’s doing it now, something must have happened. Something important enough to make him think the pain was worth it.
And he hadn’t told you. Probably didn’t want you to know. And that scared you the most.
Your fingertip caught the droplet of sweat before it could fall. He flinched slightly and closed his eyes, as if even that small touch was too much for his frayed nerves.
“You’re not gonna ask?” he said, eyes finding yours, feverish and dulled with pain.
“Are you going to tell me?”
His mouth twitched ever so slightly, and then he pressed you gently back against the wall, his hands trembling as they framed your face, and then his lips were on yours.
You let him. Let him silence the questions with his mouth. Let him bury his secrets in the space between your bodies. Because sometimes a kiss is easier than facing the fear clawing at both your throats. Easier than admitting that you’re both terrified of what comes next.
Your hands came to rest gently at the back of his neck, torn between pulling him closer and being afraid to hold him too tight, to hurt him more than he was already hurting.
He broke the kiss slowly, then rested his forehead against yours, his breath uneven. You placed your hand gently against his chest. His heartbeat stuttered beneath your palm—too fast, too fragile, like it couldn’t decide whether to keep going or give out.
“Maybe you should skip your lecture today,” you whispered. But he gave the smallest shake of his head. Deflecting. Always deflecting. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Good luck on your exam today,” he said. “I love you.”
And you let him walk away. Because stopping him felt like admitting the worst. And you weren’t ready for that.
Not yet.
“I’m so over this semester. I just want some damn free time again,” Maki said, pulling you back to the present once more. “We should go on a trip, like a weekend getaway or something.”
“Sounds good,” Yuta said. “God knows we need a break.”
“Agree,” Toge added.
“How about Hakone?” Maki offered. “Hot springs, mountain views, good food?”
“Too crowded,” Yuta replied. “What about Kyoto? Sell our souls at a shrine to survive the rest of our exams or something?”
Maki raised an eyebrow. “But Hakone’s too crowded?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Kyoto’s worse.”
“How about Okutama?” you suggested. “It’s only two hours by train and it’s quiet there.”
Maki let out a soft sigh, pulling her windbreaker tighter as a breeze swept through. “Sounds perfect.”
“Let’s go there,” Toge said.
“Agree,” Yuta echoed, finally giving up on his food and pushing his plate aside.
A small group of students walked past your table. One of them glanced at you, then leaned toward the others and whispered something. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. You’d seen that look before.
“They’re just jealous,” Maki said, her gaze following them. “Not a single one of them is even half as brilliant as you, and they know it.”
“It’s okay.” You gave a faint smile. “I don’t care.”
Maki didn’t look convinced. “What’s their problem, anyway? It’s been getting ridiculous this week—”
Soft drops of rain began to fall, light and cold, darkening the pale concrete beneath your shoes, one dot at a time. Maki lifted her hand to feel the drizzle, and nearby, a couple of students gathered already their laptops and headed inside the cafeteria.
“We should go in,” Yuta said, glancing at the wetening sky. “Not like any of us are finishing their food.” He looked around the table. “Want to head home? We’re done with classes anyway.”
“Can’t,” you said, eyes drifting to a nearby plant. Its leaves trembled as water collected on the edges. “I’ve still got something to do for the research project.”
“Today? After your exam?” Maki said. “They really don’t let you rest, huh?”
“It’s fine. It’s… fun, if you…” You trailed off, unable to find the words to describe how you felt about research lately. It used to be fun and fill you with pride. With purpose. Research had made the world feel orderly. Cells lived or died. Reactions triggered. Equations balanced. Things made sense.
Not like people. Not like Satoru.
You used to walk into the lab and feel certain. Certain of the process, certain of the outcome, certain that if you just followed the steps, the truth would reveal itself. There was always an answer—clean, final, explainable.
But no matter how many hours you spent in that lab, no matter how long you stared into that petri dish, it never gave you the answer you needed most.
“Anyway,” you said, brushing it off, “I just need to check on something. You guys go ahead. Don’t wait for me.”
“What are you testing?” Yuta asked.
“Oh, um… nothing big. Really.”
“Then do it next week,” Maki said, frowning. “Girl, get some rest. You’re scaring me.”
“She’s right,” Yuta added. “Take the day off.”
“It’s fine, really. It won’t take long. I just want to make sure—”
“Then we’ll come with you,” Yuta said.
“No, that’s not—”
“You know,” Maki cut in, “we are med students too. Maybe we can help, see something you and the other two big brains missed because your high-functioning minds are too advanced to see the obvious.”
“Ouch,” you said, giving her a long look. “But really—”
“You know we won’t take no for an answer,” she said, crossing her arms.
You looked between your friends. Yuta gave you a thin smile and a helpless shrug. They were painfully persistent. And, in their own way, kind.
─── ·✧· ───
“Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Why? What’s going on?” Yuta asked, brow creasing.
“This… isn’t an official key.” You glanced over your shoulder before sliding it into the lock of Geto’s lab and twisting it. The door gave with a quiet click. You stepped inside and flicked on the lights.
“You made yourself a spare?” Maki asked, following you in.
“Yeah.” You set down your bag and shrugged off your coat. “Geto temporarily took the lab key from me.”
“Is he still mad?” Yuta lingered by the door, glancing down the hallway like someone might catch you and call campus security or something. Eventually, Toge pushed him inside.
“He’s not mad.” But even as you said it, you weren’t sure. You’d hardly spoken since that night at Naoya’s party, and when you did cross paths, Suguru seemed to avoid you. It stung more than you wanted to admit.
“He’s just... concerned I’m overworking myself. He said it’d be best if we all took a step back from the project for a while,” you added. “That’s why he asked me to hand him back the key.”
Maki snorted. “So Professor Geto knows you well enough to confiscate your keys to stop you from continuing to work on the project, but apparently not well enough to realize you’d be crazy enough to make a copy?”
“Hence why we can’t tell anyone.”
Maki flopped into the swivel chair Satoru usually sat in, spinning lazily with her legs stretched out. “Still think he’s being an ass. What happened with the girl wasn’t your fault. So what’s his problem?”
“She’s his patient.” You walked to your usual workstation, hands moving on autopilot. “He was worried about her.”
“Still doesn’t give him permission to make you cry.”
“I didn’t cry.”
Maki’s chair stilled. She looked at you with that flat, unblinking stare she used when calling bullshit without needing to say the word.
“Save your lies for Satoru. He might actually believe them.”
“Maki,” Yuta said with a warning in his voice.
“Sorry. I’m coping with sarcasm.”
“Oh good,” you said. “I thought you were just being a bitch.”
Maki tilted her head, lips twitching. “Not your strongest comeback.”
“Lack of sleep.” A flimsy excuse for why you’d lost your edge.
“So,” Maki continued, leaning back in the chair and spinning half a turn, “what now? What are we doing?”
You didn’t answer her right away. You moved to the drawer, grabbed a pair of gloves, and pulled the culture plates from the incubator.
The results hadn’t changed. The tumor cells had reduced—that part had worked. But the neuron cultures were dying too, wiped out alongside the targets. Collateral damage, Satoru had called it. But what good was a brain tumor treatment if it turns the brain into mush?
“I think I know what’s wrong,” you said finally, setting the plates down. “It’s too aggressive. The T-cells aren’t getting enough time to distinguish what’s malignant from what’s just brain.”
“So they’re… too fast?” Yuta asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder.
“Not exactly fast,” you said. “More like blind.”
All three of them blinked, confused.
“I thought the CAR-Ts were specifically designed to recognize only tumor antigens?” Yuta continued, glancing toward the whiteboard, where the last notes you and Satoru had scribbled were still faintly visible.
“They are. But the neurons near the tumor are expressing similar markers that confuse the T-cells. I think it’s triggering some kind of overprimed immune response.” Your friends still looked lost. You tried again. “It’s like burning down the whole house because you saw one spider.”
That, at least, landed.
“Reasonable reaction, I’d say,” Maki said with a shrug.
“So… how do you fix that?” Yuta asked.
“We wait.”
“Wait?”
“I delay the activation,” you said. “Stagger the incubation—give the neurons time to fully express their markers. That creates a clearer contrast window. The CAR-Ts need to recognize what not to attack before we let them loose.”
“I thought the goal was to speed up trials,” Maki said, leaning forward. “Now you’re slowing things down?”
“Not the timeline,” you clarified. “Just the reaction. If I give the cells a few more minutes of exposure before introducing the CARs, it might enhance their specificity and make them more discerning.”
“…So you’re what, easing them into it?” Maki asked. “Like a pep talk before action?”
“Something like that.”
Yuta scratched the back of his neck. “Sounds like the kind of thing Professor Geto would lecture us not to try.”
“Good thing he’s not here,” you said, turning back to your samples.
You knew it wasn’t the kind of solution Suguru would approve of, and definitely not what Satoru had in mind. But you knew, you had to make progress. Principal Yaga was waiting. He wanted results—soon. You had a feeling. And if he didn’t get them, he’d start dangling your scholarship over your head again. Of that, you were certain. So when Suguru put the project on pause, you kept going anyway. You couldn’t afford to let the time go to waste.
Before you knew it, hours had passed. Yuta helped you load the pipettes, careful and steady, while Maki double-checked the media, muttering complaints under her breath but never missing a step. You repeated the incubation steps like a mantra—once for them, twice for yourself, and a third time to the cells, whispered softly like they might actually listen and behave for once.
Everything moved slower. Intentionally so. A waiting game.
It was the kind of approach Satoru hated—too still, too quiet. Waiting made him nervous. He always worried the cells would lose viability if they sat too long, convinced that every extra minute pushed them closer to failure. And failure wasn’t something he could easily stomach. So you’d never considered it before. But now, with the lab empty and neither Satoru nor Suguru around, you had space to try.
Still, you wished he was here. Cracking a bad joke. Reminding you to drink water when a migraine started creeping in. But you knew better than to stress him with research right now—not when he was barely holding it together.
But you weren’t alone, were you? Your friends were here. And for once, you didn’t feel like you were carrying it all by yourself.
The timer on the incubator ticked steadily while you waited.
Yuta disappeared for about ten minutes and came back from the cafeteria with a handful of KitKats and Mars bars. He tossed a few onto the table beside Maki, who now had her legs propped up on the desk, lazily scrolling through her phone. Toge had long since dozed off, cheek pressed to the tabletop, soft breaths fogging a patch of glass as rain painted slow streaks down the windows.
“How long will it take?” Yuta asked quietly, careful not to wake him.
“Hard to say.” You stretched your arms overhead. A sharp ache flared in your ribs, and you winced. “Could be anywhere from a few minutes to an hour.”
“You okay?” Yuta asked. “Do the burns still hurt?”
“Just a little. But I’m good.”
Yuta opened on of the Mars bars and took a bite. “How’s your flat, by the way?”
“Oh, um… good. They’re renovating it, and I can probably move back in by the end of the month.”
“But would you? Now that you’re living with Gojo?”
Before you could answer, Maki suddenly sat upright and swung her legs off the desk. “Oh—shit.”
Yuta turned to her. “What?”
“Look,” she said, turning her phone toward you both.
It was a video. A scene from the party. Satoru, kneeling in front of you. His tongue on your skin. Loud music, flashing lights, too many people laughing in the background. It was blurry and shaky, but it didn’t need to be good quality to make the damage clear.
“Fuck,” Yuta said.
“Yeah,” Maki echoed, her tone flat. “Fuck.”
“Who posted it?” Yuta asked. “We need to find them and ask them to delete it.”
“Too late.” Maki swiped to another app. “It’s already everywhere.”
You watched them talk, but your mind had gone somewhere else. You knew better. You’d known better then, even in the moment, but you’d let it happen. Let it go too far. Naive. And so fucking dumb. And now? It all felt pointless.
Games with Satoru never stayed games for long. Sooner or later, something always broke. And this time, it wasn’t just you who got bruised.
Yuta and Maki finally turned to you, their expressions caught somewhere between worry and waiting.
“What do you want to do?” Yuta asked quietly.
Your gaze drifted back to the experiment, to the blinking lights of the incubator and the careful arrangement of plates. Something solid. Something predictable.
“We can’t do anything,” you said at last. “Can we?”
“But if this keeps spreading—” Yuta started.
“It’s already out,” Maki cut in. Her tone wasn’t cruel, just rational. “It’s probably gone viral by now. There’s no way we can contain this anymore.”
Yuta looked like he wanted to argue, but the words deflated with a breath. “Maybe you’re right… but still.” He looked back at you. “You okay?”
Were you? Why should it matter that everyone had seen? They were already talking. Whispering behind your back and staring too long in the hallway. It all faded into background noise when your real fear lived elsewhere.
Before you could answer, Toge stirred. He blinked slowly and pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“But isn’t it weird?” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“What is?” Yuta asked.
“That no one’s done anything.” Toge looked between you all. “If it’s viral, then it must’ve reached the Principal by now. And, I don’t know—normally, someone would be expelled. Or suspended. At least called in.”
Maki blinked. “Damn, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at once.”
Toge gave a small shrug. “Still weird.”
Yuta frowned, nodding slowly. “He’s right. It’s been, what—four days? Everyone must have seen that video by now. That’s probably why people keep staring at us.”
“And not a word from Yaga,” Maki added, straightening. “Nothing.”
“It’s like they don’t care,” Yuta said.
“But why wouldn’t they?” Maki asked.
You sat back, the realization hitting you like the hush before a storm.
Normally, this would’ve been a scandal—academic misconduct, breach of ethics, inappropriate relationships. You should be in the middle of disciplinary meetings and sitting across from some stern official asking if you understood the consequences of your actions. But instead? Silence. And that silence was starting to feel less like mercy and more like a warning.
Toge was the one to say what no one else did. “It’s like they’re not taking action because someone doesn’t want them to.” And then, the monitor beside you blinked amber.
“Something’s happening,” Yuta said, pointing past your shoulder.
You turned, heart climbing into your throat. Maki and Yuta rushed to your side, leaning in as you clicked through the data. The tumor line on the graph had dipped—steeply. Fast. You opened the live cell readout.
Tumor fluorescence was fading. But the neurons—
96%.
94%.
94%.
Still holding.
Yuta leaned closer, squinting. “Wait… is that—?”
“Yes,” you said.
Success.
─── ·✧· ───
You nearly slipped on the wet asphalt in your haste.
You’d fled the lab without explanation, barely glancing back as you called over your shoulder for the others to lock up after themselves. No one asked why you suddenly had to leave. They already knew.
Strange how it had taken this long. Stranger still how everything fell into place now—like scales lifting from your eyes, sharp and painful in their sudden clarity. Why had it taken so long? And why now, of all moments, did you need to see him so urgently, ask him so urgently… while dreading the answer just as much?
By the time you reached the main building, rain had soaked through every layer of your clothing. You were dripping, breathless, your shoes squeaking with each step down the high, echoing halls.
You turned the corner just as students began to spill from the auditorium, their laughter and chatter too loud against the stone walls. Satoru’s lecture must’ve just ended. You paused, drawing one last breath, knowing the next one would surely hurt.
Inside the hall, students gathered their things and slipped past you one by one. They kept their distance, but their eyes didn’t. You felt their stares, heard the whispers—loud enough not to care if you heard. Hungry for drama.
You stood there, dripping water onto wooden floors, still catching your breath when you saw him.
Satoru looked up from a set of papers on the front desk, as if sensing you before seeing you. His bright blue eyes found yours across the room. He frowned. So subtly most people wouldn’t have noticed. But you did. You always noticed. You’d known him long enough.
He knew something was wrong. And he hated not knowing what it was. You saw that too. It was part of the game.
He didn’t speak until the last student had slipped out behind you.
“Lock the door.”
You turned and did as he asked.
“You want to say something,” he said cautiously, watching you. “But let me check first, yeah?”
He nodded toward the desk. You climbed up without protest.
You knew you had to give him this first—let him take care of you. Let him believe it would help, that this small act of tending could undo everything fraying between you. You gave him the illusion that it might make things better.
Because later, he wouldn’t have the chance. Later, there would be questions neither of you wanted to ask, and answers you feared even more. Later, there would be pain, and silences that stretched too long to ignore, and a distance you weren’t sure either of you would know how to cross.
But right now, you could give him this. A wound he could see. Something his hands could fix with antiseptic and gauze. Something not yet slipping beyond his reach.
And maybe, in some small way, it was the last thing either of you still knew how to do—
To patch what was broken, even if only on the surface. Even if everything underneath was already coming apart.
He moved closer until he was standing directly in front of you and reached for the hem of your sweater. As he pulled it over your head, the motion brought your faces briefly, breathlessly close—his exhale brushing your lips. Then, in silence, he undid the buttons of your blouse.
He pulled his chair closer and slipped on latex gloves, the snap of plastic loud in the hush between you. He wore a dark blue tie with his white dress shirt—the one you’d laid out for him that morning and helped him with. You’d always liked that one best. You weren’t sure why.
Carefully, he pushed aside the fabric of your blouse, revealing the small wound low on your ribcage. One of the burns from the fire had torn open again, somewhere in the chaos of Naoya’s party. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe the adrenaline. You hadn’t even noticed until the next morning.
You’d tried to hide it. Satoru had found it. He’d been angry. But he’d stitched it anyway. Quietly. Gently. Without a word.
Now, his fingers ghosted over your skin again as he removed the old patch and checked the stitches beneath. A droplet of water slid from your hair and landed on his wrist.
“You’re dripping,” he said, not looking up.
“It’s raining.” Your gaze drifted to the tall windows lining the west wall of the auditorium. Outside, the sky had turned a heavy gray, and rain streaked down the glass in endless sheets.
After a moment, he exhaled slowly, meaning that everything was okay. No infection. No complications. Just a scar now.
You buttoned your blouse again, then pulled your sweater over your head. He rolled his chair back slightly, peeled off the gloves, and tossed them into the wastebasket beside the desk.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He was asking about the phone call from last night. Your mother was taken into a hospital. A care treatment facility somewhere in the mountains. It was best for her, her therapist had said.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“Do you want to visit?” he asked gently, like he’d forgotten the doctors had told you she needed time to adjust. Or maybe you’d never told him. Maybe that was the lie you’d chosen. Because it was easier than admitting the truth. Easier than saying you were scared of looking into her eyes and not recognizing what looked back.
“Sometime,” you said.
He leaned back, studying you. “If you need time… I can talk to the faculty. We could push your exams—”
“Did you see the video?”
His expression didn’t change much, but there was a pause. He saw it.
“Did you tell your friends? About your mother?”
“You know what’s strange?” you said, ignoring his question. “That Yaga hasn’t come after your job yet.”
“You should talk about it.”
“I’m pretty sure he saw it. Everyone has. And I’m also pretty sure he’d love to fire you. But he hasn’t.”
“You can’t keep avoiding this.”
“There’s been nothing,” you went on. “No meetings. No questions. No lectures. It’s like they’ve all decided to pretend none of it happened.” You looked at him. “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“What are you getting at?”
“They don’t care, Satoru. They never did. Not about me. Not about rules. Not about ethics. They don’t care because it’s you. Because it’s you that’s fucking a student.”
Silence.
You watched his jaw tighten, but he didn’t speak.
“The ethics committee was ready to sweep it all under the rug. Until Sukuna stepped in, that is.” You watched him carefully. “He’s the problem. Not this. Not us. No one gives a shit about that. Because they can’t afford to lose their star surgeon.”
He stood without a word and turned away. You heard the faint click of a blister pack, then saw the slight tilt of his head as he swallowed whatever it was. You didn’t ask.
“Just ask me already, first-year,” he said finally, still facing away. “Whatever it is you came here to say. No need for pretenses.”
You hesitated, but only for a moment. “Why does Sukuna really hate you?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. For a second, it was like even the air had gone still. He turned, walked back to his chair, and sank into it. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, and rubbed his jaw. He knew you wouldn’t let it go.
“Sukuna was seeing someone back during our second year of residency,” he said eventually. His voice was low, quiet. “They had this fight and broke up. She came to me that night—upset, angry and hurt… and I was—” He paused. “I was high. On something new, and I’d been drinking too and—”
He leaned back, eyes not on you, but on the space near your feet, like he couldn’t bear to look at you and still keep talking.
“I didn’t stop her when she kissed me. Maybe I wanted it, I don’t know. I barely remember any of it.”
He rubbed a hand over his face.
“Sukuna found out. He’d gone looking for her to apologize and—fuck—Sukuna doesn’t apologize. I didn’t even think he was capable of it.” A beat. “She and Sukuna fought again. I had a stupid shift at the hospital, so I left. She… she was drunk, but got in the car anyway—or at least, that’s what the police report said.” His voice went flat. “Next thing I know, she’s on my operating table.”
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the desk. His words landed like cold water down your spine.
His eyes lifted then, met yours across the space. You wished he hadn’t. Wished he’d kept staring at the floor, or the wall, anything other than dragging you into this truth with him. Perhaps he wanted you to look. Perhaps he needed you to. Needed to watch you flinch, to watch you pull away. Maybe that was the final proof he’d been waiting for—that even you couldn’t stay.
“I called the head of neurosurgery. He was supposed to be on that night. But there was a storm and we were short-staffed. He couldn’t make it in time.” A breath. “So it fell on me.”
“She was losing blood fast, and I tried everything I knew. Did damage control, shunts, applied pressure, transfusions. But nothing held and every time I thought I’d stopped it, it started again.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “There was so much blood, I could barely see anymore.”
A pause so long it could have been silence forever.
“She died before the attending even made it to the hospital.”
Your chest seized, like something had reached inside and wrenched your heart out by the roots. A tear burned its way down before you could stop it, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. You slid off the desk without a word and turned your back to him.
After a moment, you said, “You slept with her.”
“I didn’t. We kissed, and—”
You turned your head slightly, not enough to face him. “But you would have.”
A long pause. “Probably.”
“And you were high.”
“I was.”
“She died.”
He didn’t answer.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
You turned to face him, a deep, trembling breath pulling through your lungs. How could the man standing in front of you wear the same face you love, and still feel like a stranger stitched together from someone else’s bones?
“Do you hate me?” he asked, so softly you almost missed it.
“Isn’t that obvious?”
Maybe you would’ve screamed if it weren’t for the chemical calm flooding your veins. Maybe you’d have fallen apart completely, if not for the weight of the medication holding your limbs hostage, pinning you to the floor of this unbearable moment. You would have cried. Run. Anything to escape this feeling.
How were you supposed to move forward from this? From knowing that the person you loved, the one person whose breath always lived inside your lungs, like you were never fully breathing on your own, had once stood in a room soaked in blood, unable to save the woman dying in front of him because he’d been using?
You couldn’t feel the full weight of it now, but you knew it was waiting. Lurking. It would come later, once the pills had worn off and you were alone.
“I took time off after that,” Satoru continued, his voice breaking the long silence. “Went to rehab.”
“But that wasn’t very successful, was it?”
“No. I left three weeks in. I couldn’t stand the silence in those rooms. And my hands—” he looked down at them, watched them tremble slightly, “they needed to do something. Anything. Other than itch for a pill.”
You closed your eyes, and the tiredness swallowed you whole. “Why do you always make this so hard for me?”
“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I’m sorry.”
But sorry didn’t bring back the dead. Didn’t patch torn arteries. Didn’t bleach out the stain of what he’d done. You wanted to scream that at him. But your body was too tired, too medicated, too full of ache.
“After that, I stopped experimenting,” he said. “I stuck to what I knew I could handle. Doses I could function with—”
“Stable? You think that’s what you are? You were cutting into people’s skulls, people who trusted you—and you were high. That’s not stable, Satoru. That’s criminal.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“But you still did it anyway.” You braced your hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly. “How many? How many times did you cut into someone’s fucking brain while you were high on God knows whatever the pharmacy could throw at you?”
His eyes narrowed. “You want the number?”
“Yeah.” The word came out like a dare.
“Seventy-eight.”
“Seventy-eight?”
“Yeah.”
“What—You kept track?” You scoffed and turned away, your breath catching in your throat. Silence spilled into the auditorium, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady rhythm of rain against the tall windows.
“I went back afterward,” he continued, “reviewed every fucking surgery I’d ever done. Replayed them in my head, over and over, looking for mistakes. For moments I might have—”
“Don’t.” Your hand lifted without thinking.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t try to defend yourself.”
He stood up, his voice low but sharp. “Don’t act like this now. You knew.”
“I knew?”
“Yeah. You did. You knew I was using,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “You stood next to me in the OR, knowing I was on drugs.”
“Don’t make me complicit in your story.”
“Oh, come on.” His voice sharpened. “You turned a blind eye, didn’t you? Because you finally got to scrub in again. Got to be inside an OR. You needed that fix just as bad as I did. You needed it more than your ethics, more than your high ground. That’s the part you don’t want to admit. So don’t cry about it now—not when you were so willing to look away.”
And there it was. Irrefutable and damning, the accusation lingered between you like a knife twisting deeper, and you couldn’t help but feel so small in this hall opposite him.
He sat in front of you, cutting you open, slow and painful, and maybe he wanted it, needed it in that moment, to see the hurt, the pain. Maybe that would finally be enough for you to step back and leave him to himself. Prove he is what he thinks he is.
And right now, sitting there with water falling down your hair, drenched and cold, you weren’t so sure about it either. If you could stay. If this was what love was supposed to be like.
You always thought there was some kind of invisible thread tying you to Satoru. Something that was meant to be, written in the stars and etched into the spine of fate itself—like a wish a child makes with their whole heart, believing the universe is kind enough to listen.
But that thread was poisoned now. It had rotted and curled slowly from within, until the thread was so fragile you weren’t even sure it was still there.
He stood there, waiting for you to refute it. To deny it. But the words didn’t come. Because deep down, you knew.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you said instead.
He didn’t argue. Didn’t even flinch. And somehow, that made it worse. Somehow that was the proof.
“You were using me for surgeries, and I let you. Because I fell for you. Because I had those stupid feelings—and still do. Because you made it easy to believe I could be better than I am.” His voice cracked slightly. “And believe me, if I could rewind time, I would. But I can’t. I have to live with this now. And there’s not a single fucking day where I don’t hate myself for what I’ve done.”
You turned away, thoughts spinning too fast to catch, too tangled to voice. There was too much—too much information, too much pain, too much weight pressing down on your chest until breathing became a conscious effort. But instead of panic, you felt strangely hollow. Carved out. Like someone had reached inside and scooped away everything that made you react.
You turned away. “It worked.”
“What?”
“I delayed the process, and now the neurons held. We were too aggressive. But it worked.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, like he didn’t trust his ears. And then—
“That’s… that’s—” He sank into the his chair again, the breath knocked out of him. “We could start trials. This could actually…” He looked up at you. “This could change everything. We could cure brain tumors.”
But you didn’t answer. Not with the excitement he expected. Not with anything, really.
After a pause, he asked, “Will you come home tonight?”
“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’ll stay with Maki.”
“…Okay.”
You didn’t move as he crossed the room. He stopped beside you—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
“I kept the files. All seventy-eight cases. Notes, scans, surgical reports. They’re in my office. If you want them, they’re yours.”
You looked up at him. His face was drawn in the pale light, the color drained from his skin, his eyes so painfully blue it hurt to look into them. You could tell he was feeling it too, all that exhaustion from the constant fighting.
“I know you’ll want to look,” he added, and you hated how he always knew that. How he knew you. And he must have guessed your thoughts. “You know me. But I know you too.” And it almost sounded like a threat.
Your throat tightened, but you said nothing.
He hesitated for just a second more, then added—so softly you almost missed it, “I’ve fucked up a lot in my life. And I know I’m not a good person. But you... you were the only thing I ever got right, and I hate that I dragged you into all of this. And for that, I am sorry.” His hand lifted, fingertips brushing your chin, tilting your face toward his. “If you ever want to use me for the rest of my life, I’d let you. You can have it all—every surgery, every opportunity. I’ll open you every door, and never speak to you again if that’s what you want. You have all of me.”
And with that, he stepped back and left the room.
─── ·✧· ───
It started when you said his name out loud for the first time in hours. Or maybe it started earlier—when Maki opened the door without asking questions and handed you a hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent and peppermint gum.
You hadn’t meant to talk about him. But the moment you sank into her bed, your head in her lap, everything you’d been swallowing started to claw its way back up.
It came out in pieces. Not in order. Not cleanly. You weren’t even sure it mattered anymore. And Maki didn’t try to stop it. She just sat there, running her fingers through your hair while you told her everything.
About the addiction. How you’d known from the first time you found pills in the glove compartment of his car and told yourself they were old prescriptions, leftover from some surgery, some legitimate pain. How you’d looked the other way because looking directly at it would have meant admitting that the person you were falling for was already in free fall. How you’d become an expert at seeing everything except what you couldn’t bear to see.
About the rehab attempts. About the withdrawal. How one time you found him on his bathroom floor, his pulse so weak you pressed your fingers to his throat again and again, and how you never knew what real terror was until that moment when you thought you were too late.
About Sukuna. About how he looked you in the eye and said you’re the problem—and how part of you still believes it.
About the accident. About the woman he couldn’t save. About the seventy-eight cases.
You told her about his parents. How he still sometimes flinches when you touch him unexpectedly. His scars.
And then about your parents. About your father. How much you miss him, how you always wanted to be as good a surgeon as he was. How Satoru stood with you at his grave. How your father would have liked him.
About your mother. How you watch her disappearing a little more each time you visit, how you’re terrified that one day you’ll look into her eyes and see nothing familiar anymore. How grief ate her from the inside out, and how you understand now why Satoru reaches for pills when the pain gets too much.
You told her about the pain. About the resentment. How unfair it feels sometimes, to love someone so much and watch them hurt themselves anyway. How you resent his addiction and your own powerlessness against it, how impossible it becomes to separate the man from the disease, how some days you catch yourself hating him for something that’s killing him too.
You told her how being with him started to feel like drowning—not because he was pulling you under, but because you were holding your breath, afraid that breathing too deeply might somehow make things worse. And how, somehow, being without him feels worse.
You kept going until your throat felt raw, like you’d been screaming with no sound, while Sabrina Carpenter and Billie Eilish played softly in the background. It might’ve been funny, if anything still was.
You told her everything except the part that made you sick to admit. You couldn’t say what Satoru already knew and never spoke about until now—that maybe, at the beginning, you’d wanted what he could give you more than you’d wanted him. You looked the other way because all you wanted was to be in the OR, to finally surface after being underwater for so long. After your father’s death, after watching your mother disappear into grief, after years of drowning in your own mediocrity.
You’d wanted the access Satoru could give you—the validation, the adrenaline rush of complicated surgeries, of holding someone’s life in your hands and knowing you were skilled enough not to drop it. Until—
Until you wanted him. To be seen by him, to be touched by him, to be kissed by him. And only him. Only ever him.
You’d gone from wanting what he could give you to wanting him, completely and irrevocably, addiction and all. And you hate that you still want that—even now, even after finding him unconscious on bathroom tiles, after all those ugly fight and watching him choose pills over you again and again, after realizing that loving him might be slowly killing you both.
You tell yourself you deserve better. But the truth is, you don’t want better. You just want him. But lying there in Maki’s bed, you can’t help but wonder how naive that makes you. How stupid.
And then you told her about the files—the ones that had been waiting on Satoru’s desk like he’d known you were coming for them. Like he’d been expecting you all along. He knew you too well, and sometimes that terrified you. Because there was no version of yourself you could keep hidden from him, even when you tried.
Maybe that’s what broke you more than anything—that he’d still handed you the match and dared you to strike it.
You hadn’t looked at Maki the whole time. Couldn’t. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt. She’d just listened until you were finished, your voice drained and raw. You braced yourself for what was coming—the lecture, the judgment, all of it. But Maki only said, “You have really horrible taste in men.” And then she leaned down to hug you.
It was deep into the night when you were reviewing file number forty-three. Maki helped where she could, but most of it didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t read imaging like you could or rattle off vascular anomalies without flipping to the glossary.
She sat opposite you, hair tied up messily, sleeves pushed past her elbows, laptop open beside her to Google terms she didn’t know and helped where she could.
Most of the files were routine—craniotomies with clean margins, clean closures. All of them ended with discharge summaries that sounded clinical and bored and safe. Standard procedures with standard outcomes.
He hadn’t made a single mistake. Not a misplaced incision, not an ignored bleed, not a skipped step in sterile protocol.
“He was using during all of these?” Maki asked once.
“Still is,” you said, and kept reading.
You worked through his second year, when he’d moved from assisting to leading his own surgeries. And the more complicated the cases became, the more obsessive his notes grew—like autopsies of his own mind, meticulous dissections of every decision he’d made.
Every file had several different typed reports, then handwritten annotations, then sticky notes and random scraps of paper stapled onto scans. He’d gone over each case multiple times, you could tell by the changes in ink tone, the way some pages were creased down the middle like he’d folded them, reopened them, stared at them long enough to leave fingerprints in the margins.
He’d marked timestamps, tracked OR durations to the minute, cross-referenced medications with motor responses and blood pressure trends. Little arrows connected patient outcomes to dosage half-lives, and he’d circled anomalies in red that weren’t really mistakes, just… variables. Human noise.
You’d never seen anything like it.
It was like he’d turned every file into a courtroom where every suture was evidence, every reading a defense or confession. And he’d judged himself every single time. And yet—
Nothing. No errors. No unexplained bleeds. No outliers. Even the messiest cases showed perfect protocol adherence. You knew how rare that was. Even the best surgeons left behind complications. But Satoru had none.
He’d been using God knows what. And he’d still been perfect. Somehow, that made it worse. Because he knew what he was risking. Because he knew better.
The next case had photos that made your stomach turn. It was blunt force trauma. Skull fracture. Massive intracranial bleeding. The damage was already irreversible by the time she arrived. You knew that before you even finished the first page. Her skull had split on impact, the parietal bone shattered in three directions.
You didn’t realize this was her case until you found Satoru’s handwritten note: should've tried harder—crossed out so violently that the pen had nearly torn through the page.
You stared at the words until the they blurred. Satoru had said she was bleeding fast. He hadn’t told you it was this severe. She went into cardiac arrest twice on the way to the hospital. No one could have saved her. Not him. Not anyone.
Maki shifted beside you and gently pulled the file from your hands. Her eyes scanned pages, eyebrows knitting as she tried to make sense of it. She tilted the CT scan toward the light.
You asked her what she saw. Or maybe you just looked at her in a way that meant the same thing.
“I don't know much about this stuff, but… that’s not something you can survive, right?”
“She was thrown through the windshield,” you said quietly.
“My god.” She frowned, holding the scan a little higher. “Look at that—the whole front of her skull is just... gone. No one could’ve fixed that.”
You nodded, even though you’d known the moment you read her arrival vitals. It wasn’t about saving anymore. It was about the story Satoru needed—that it wasn’t hopeless, he just hadn’t tried hard enough. His personal punishment for being human. And that was the most Satoru thing of all.
You asked Maki if it changed anything—that he couldn’t have saved her, that no one could have.
She leaned back on her palms and starred up at the ceiling. She asked if you want it to change anything. And that stopped you more than anything else.
You said you weren’t sure. Because it should. Logically, clinically, it should. Knowing he wasn’t responsible for her death should lift the weight in your chest. But it didn’t.
Because it wasn’t just about the surgery. It wasn’t even about her. It was about what he’d been willing to risk, how far he’d spiraled before the guilt caught up.
You folded the scan and slid it back into the file.
“You want to know what I think?” Maki began. “He’s not a monster or anything. But he played Russian roulette with people’s lives—and just happened to win.”
You were at loss for words.
“But you always knew that, right? So why is it hitting you now?”
“I don’t know. I knew. I just... didn’t think he’d actually perform sugery while he’s so unstable.”
“He’s an addict. Being unstable is part of the deal.” Maki softened. “Do you want to know what else I think? He told you everything—even the really fucked up stuff, that he didn’t tell anyone else. Only Geto and you know. And now me, I guess.” She paused. “He knows you could blow this up. Get him fired. Maybe even arrested. But he still told you. He trusts you with the worst parts of himself, and I don’t know... that means something, right?”
“Not saying he’s not an asshole,” She went on. “He totally is. And he really has to get clean. He’s been lucky so far, but luck runs out and what happens when it does?”
You didn't answer. Because it was true. And the fact that he’d succeeded didn’t make it any less horrifying. People were alive because he’d gambled with their lives and won—because he got lucky. But he was still the best surgeon in the hospital. And you couldn’t stop wondering, would those patients have died if anyone else had operated on them? High or not, maybe Satoru was their only chance, and that thought made you feel sick.
“Listen,” Maki said after a long silence. “I can’t tell you what to do. But I don’t want to see you crying over him again. You shouldn’t be so loyal that you forget yourself.”
“What would you do in my position?”
“You already know what you want to do.”
“No. I don’t.”
She tilted her head. “Would you forgive Geto if he pulled the same shit? Or anyone else?”
“I’m not sure.”
“No. You are.”
You watched as she reached toward her nightstand and picked up a spare coin. She held it between her fingers, turning it over. “One side means you forgive him.” She rolled the coin across her knuckles. “Other side means cut him out for good.”
Before you could respond, she flipped it. The coin spun high, catching the light, flashing gold as it turned. Your chest tightened with every rotation. Maki caught it midair and slapped it down on the back of her hand, not looking at it yet. She held it there a second longer, then pulled her hand back.
You didn’t look.
You already knew what you wanted. And that was the problem.
─── ·✧· ───
The fog hadn’t lifted all morning. It hung low and heavy over the city, blurring the edges of buildings and streetlights. Maki drove with the heat turned up too high, the windows slightly fogged at the corners. You watched the world pass by, your eyes unfocused, your heart beating faster than it should have.
You hadn’t worn anything dramatic. A simple black dress borrowed from her, with your coat pulled over it. Your fingers curled inside your sleeves the whole drive. You weren’t sure if it was from the cold or something else.
“We can still turn around, you know,” Maki said, glancing over at you.
“I know. But what would he do without me?”
She let out a soft breath. “God, you two are the worst.”
When you reached for the door, she stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Remember what I said? Don’t be so loyal you forget who you are, okay?”
You leaned in for a quick hug, then stepped out of the car.
Cold autumn air bit at your skin as you stood on the sidewalk outside Satoru’s apartment building. He appeared in a black suit that made him look like he was dressed for a funeral. Maybe he was.
He had one hand on the car door when he saw you. His whole body went still, like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, neither of you moved.
You walked toward him, your footsteps echoing on the empty street. You stopped just short and leaned your side against the car, arms crossed.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he began, cautiously.
“I promised I’d be by your side."
For a second, something in him seemed to give. His shoulders dropped a little. His fingers twitched against the edge of the car door, like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he still had the right.
You studied his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept.
“You look like shit.”
“You look beautiful.” And the way he said it—fragile and so softly—nearly undid you. But you forced yourself to hold the line, at least for a few more seconds.
“Do you think you could’ve saved her?”
He swallowed. “I don’t know. Maybe.” His hand clenched tighter on the car door. “Even if I couldn’t, I still feel like I should have.”
“Do you blame yourself?” you asked, though you already knew.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” You said it firmly, definitively, knowing how much he blamed himself for everything—how he always turned every failure into something bigger, into proof of his unworthiness.
His worst enemy wasn’t the pills or his parents or even Sukuna. It was his own mind, and nothing you could say would ever be as cruel as what it had already told him.
“Okay?”
“You don’t need me to make you feel worse. You’ve already done that enough,” you said. “You know me,” you echoed his words, then added, softer, “But I know you too.”
You pushed off the car and took a small step closer. Just one. Your heart ached with how much you still loved him. Hopelessly. Stupidly.
“Promise me something,” you said. “When this is over—when the lawsuit’s done, when we’ve dealt with Naoya—we leave.”
His brow furrowed. “Leave?”
“We don’t have to stay and fight Sukuna forever. We could walk away. There won’t be an ethics committee if we’re not here.”
“We can’t just leave. Everything’s here—your studies, my job—”
“You told me once that if you weren’t afraid, you’d leave it all behind. Find us a little house. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere we could be happy.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I can finish school somewhere else,” you added. “Go back to my old university. You could teach anywhere. Just… preferably not where I’m a student again.”
“Yeah, that part didn’t go great.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But Tokyo’s the best place for you. You know that. You won’t get the same chances anywhere else.”
“I don’t care about chances. I care about you.” You stepped a little closer. “So promise me that we’ll leave when this is over.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his hand still gripping the car door. And then he stepped forward, just enough to close the space between you.
“Okay,” he said at last. He looked like he wanted to say more—maybe touch you, maybe kiss you.
“But this is it, you know. This is our last chance. So, if there’s anything else you want to say to me say it now.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. You saw the fight in his eyes, the words he couldn’t say.
“There’s nothing,” he said, and you knew that was a lie.
“Okay. Then let’s finish this.”
─── ·✧· ───
The driveway to his parents’ house curved through dense forest, the trees crowding in on either side as the light slowly thinned beneath their canopy. It wasn’t until the last bend that the house came into view, rising from the lawn in concrete and glass. Its tall windows caught the overcast sky and the dark silhouettes of pines, reflecting the world back without letting any of it in. Behind it, a lake stretched wide and still.
Satoru guided the car along the circular drive. Gravel shifted under the tires as he eased the car to a halt at the foot of broad concrete steps.
“Home sweet fucking home.”
You looked up at the house, at all the glass and steel and the clean, brutal lines. It was striking, sure, but in the way a museum is striking—beautiful, polished, and built for silence.
“It’s beautiful,” you said.
“It’s cold.”
He shifted the car into park and sat still for a moment. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a pill, and set it on the center console. Then he placed his phone flat over it.
Without a word, he brought his fist down hard. The screen cracked with a sharp sound. You looked away.
A quick sniffle, a wipe of his nose, and then he stepped out of the car. Gravel shifted under his shoes as he rounded the hood. He reached your door and offered his hand.
There was always something heartbreakingly elegant about the way he did those things—how he held his hand out to you, like muscle memory from years of practiced politeness. And standing in front of this house built of steel and glass and cement, it made sense where he’d learned it. Or was forced to lean it.
He didn’t let go right away. Instead, he held you close, arm resting lightly behind you, your back to the car.
“Thank you,” he said. “For coming with me.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“No, I do.”
He leaned down and kissed you, slow and careful. Hesitant in that aching way he always was after a fight, like he wasn’t sure of his place anymore. His lips were soft against yours, still bitter from the opioids. Strange how you had gotten used to that taste. Then, you caught a flicker of movement—a figure in one of the tall windows above the front steps.
His mother. You recognized her.
She was watching. And the moment she realized she’d been seen, she turned and vanished into the house. Satoru must have noticed her too—you felt the faint shift in his posture.
“You ready?” Satoru asked.
“No.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
He guided you forward, his hand resting against the small of your back.
The front door opened before you could knock. Standing there was an older woman with silver hair, her expression softening the moment she saw Satoru. The years seemed to fall from her face, replaced by something almost maternal.
“Young master!”
Her weathered hands reached for his face, cupping his cheeks and pinching them lightly. Satoru let her fuss over him like a long lost boy coming home. His earlier detachment gave way to something more warm.
“Chiyo. Still putting up with this place?”
“Someone has to.” Her gaze fell on you then, her eyes softening as a smile creased the lines in her face. “And you must be—”
“She’s my girlfriend.” Satoru’s hand found yours. “The only good thing in this house besides you, Chiyo.”
“About time you brought someone around. And such a lovely one, too.”
“Yes, she is,” he said, tugging you a little closer.
“Dinner’s nearly ready,” Chiyo added, already turning back towards the hall. “Your parents are waiting in the dining room.”
You followed Satoru down a hallway lined with tall windows, the dark forest pressing in on both sides. The grey stone floors reflected soft shades of green from the trees outside, everything muted in steel and cement. The house was immaculate—too immaculate. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place.
There was no clutter. No photos. No warmth. No scuff marks from children running. No crooked frames capturing birthdays or holidays. No evidence anyone had truly lived here.
It all reminded you more of a hospital than a home. Walls adorned with expensive art pieces that felt more like investments than personal choices. Each vase, each object seems positioned with mathematical precision, as if the entire house is a museum display of wealth rather than a home.
You thought of your mother’s house—the worn spots on the carpet from years of footsteps, the slightly crooked family photos covering nearly every inch of wall space, the collection of colorful mugs in the kitchen cabinet, the magnets cluttering the fridge, the overall comfortable chaos of a place where life had happened. Before it stopped, that is.
Here, it felt like life had been sanitized away. Like someone had gone through with bleach and scrubbed away anything too human. No wonder Satoru hates hospitals so much. He grew up in one.
Satoru’s hand stayed wrapped around yours the whole time, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, like he was reminding himself you’re real. You’re here.
A long, dark brown table stretched the length of the dining room, its surface untouched except for the exact placement of black porcelain plates and silver utensils. Outside, the forest leaned against the glass, its reflection swallowing the glass as dusk settled over the lake.
“I thought we agreed you’d let me know before bringing guests.”
You turned. His mother stood by the sideboard, a glass of wine resting in one hand. She was striking in some strange intimidating way. Ash-blonde hair, and her charcoal dress fit like it had been tailored around her bones. A diamond flashed on her finger, the only jewelry she wore.
“Right,” Satoru said, not letting go of your hand. “In case the table gets too crowded.”
“Courtesy, not capacity.”
“I didn’t come for courtesy.”
“No. Clearly not.” Her eyes flicked over you. “Still, you don’t bring guests without notice. We’ve talked about this.”
“We’ve talked about a lot of things. I don’t remember you listening to any of them.”
His mother gave a tight smile. “Is this the same girl from the conference?”
You felt yourself go still. Satoru didn’t.
“She has a name.”
“Forgive me. Is this what you’re doing now? Students?”
“You could try being a little more polite to your future daughter-in-law.”
His mother’s wine glass paused halfway to her lips. “Future—?”
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. A tall man stepped into the room, and everything went still. He didn’t speak right away—he didn’t have to. His presence hit first. You saw the resemblance immediately. Same height, same cutting blue eyes. But where Satoru’s were kind and warm, his father’s were flat and and devoid of any warmth, like frosted glass.
“Mr. Gojo,” Satoru said. No warmth. Like this was a stranger he’d been forced to learn by name.
“You’re late.”
“That’s because I didn’t want to come.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Yeah. Life’s full of disappointments.”
His mother sighed behind her wine glass but said nothing. His father moved to the sideboard, steps quiet on the stone floor. He didn’t look at you once.
“The board's asking about succession,” he said, pouring himself something amber. “They expect a Gojo at the head of the table. It’s time.”
“Of course they do. Can't let the family curse die out.”
“This isn’t a joke. The hospital needs someone capable. Not a surgeon with a God complex and a scandal hanging off his arm.”
You stiffened, but Satoru didn’t even blink.
“Well, lucky for you. I’ve never been much for politics.”
“Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped you from embarrassing the family.”
Satoru smiled without humor. “You’d have to care about the family to be embarrassed by it.”
“Still so dramatic. When will you finally take responsibility?”
“Responsibility? You mean sitting in boring meetings, pretending I’m important alongside others who think they’re just as important—but really, they’re all quite irrelevant, and most of them can’t even tell a bipolar from a monopolar if their patient’s life depended on it. And we sit there discussing ways to cut costs and starve our personnel. Yeah, well. I’d rather cut my own throat. But then again, you’d probably enjoy watching that, wouldn’t you?”
His father turned then, and the look he gave Satoru could have frozen blood. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“And I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me any other way.”
The silence that followed felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. You could hear your own heartbeat, your own breath. And then you noticed how Satoru’s grip on your hand had tightened.
“Perhaps we should eat before the food gets cold,” Chiyo tried.
“Actually,” Satoru said, turning to you, “I think my wife would love to see the rest of the house first. Everyone loves this beautiful balcony overlooking the lake where I used to plan elaborate murder scenarios, after all.”
Without waiting for an answer, he led you out of the dining room. You caught a glimpse of his mother taking another long drink of wine and Chiyo hovering by the door, her hands clasped together as if in prayer, before she quietly slipped away toward the kitchen.
In the hallway, Satoru let out a breath. “Well, that was fun.”
“That was awful.”
“That was normal.”
<- prev chapter | next chapter ->
author's note — sooo i don’t even know where to start ? i know this update took forever, and i’m not super happy with it tbh. i’ve had the feeling that maybe the forgiveness came too soon, and it might’ve been better to let that emotional distance stretch a bit longer. but after five months of fighting with this chapter, i just couldn’t figure it out. so maybe this one’s a bit weaker.
i really struggled with how to deliver what happened between satoru and sukuna. and i know this chapter might divide people but i always stuggle a bit with "what do readers want" and "what i want to write." so believe me, i toned it down already, but in the end i have to stick with what i want to write, even if it means losing readers (but pls don't come at me, okay, this is just a hobby, thank u).
also… sorry for the pure angst. the next chapter’s gonna be heavy too. i do see that we need some fluff again to breathe a little, and i’ll try my best to sneak in some lighter moments between everything.
and yes, i know the story is kinda like: argument → getting back together → argument again, and at this point it’s just… yeah. that’s on me not planning things out more tightly, and then stumbling into all these big reveals that naturally lead into conflict ahhh. but i swear i crave the soft, fluffy times for them too omg.
overall, this chapter was really about choosing compassion over condemnation. i hope that came somehow through, even if it all feels a little rushed. thank you to everyone who’s been patient and still sticking with me, truly <3
ps: i wrote a little about suguru's and satoru's post from suguru's pov. it's called "suguru's memories" if you want to read that too <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !
Top 10 Most Favourited (Completed) Fics on FFNET of 2024:
Manhattan by KindaCrazy02 - T, 19 chapters, Words: 48,912 - What Draco absolutely does not account for in his schedule is crashing– literally– into Hermione Granger. Hermione Granger, who has been all but considered to be a missing person for the last eight months.
Footsteps in the Snow by cleotheo - T, 19 chapters, Words: 48,912 - When Hermione Granger finds herself with a stalker, she is worried about the safety of her young daughter. Things take a sinister turn when all the evidence suggests that her stalker is someone close to home. Is someone she trusts really her tormentor, and if so why are they doing it?
Last Christmas by cleotheo - T, 8 chapters, Words: 20,876 - When Ron, Lavender and Ginny get a chance to spend Christmas at the launch event of a fancy new hotel, there are festive surprises and shock reunions in store for the trio. Reunion style Christmas story.
Private Party by cleotheo - M, one-shot - At the end of year party she organised the Head Girl, Hermione Granger, is hurt to overhear her fellow students giving her fellow head all the praise for the party as they consider her dull and boring. With the help of the Head Boy, Draco Malfoy, Hermione decides to be spontaneous and prove to everyone, herself included, that she is not the dull bookworm they all thought. One Shot.
She Whom He Harbors by EllieEckert - M, 42 chapters, Words: 352,676 - Hermione, on a Ministry mission with Harry & Ginny, is attacked by a mysterious creature in a cave on lands of an unknown owner. The effects are immediate and profound - she is dissociated, her soul and body cleaved. Research indicates the cure requires pleasure - but the only person available to give it to her is a reluctant and ragey Draco Malfoy, who has been trapped too.
25,000 Out of 10 by Acantha Rayne Oak-Moon - M, 6 chapters, Words: 15,419 - If you're rating wizards with a friend, don't let Slytherins overhear you.
Hermione Granger and the House of Snakes by Eldyra - T, 6 chapters, Words: 15,949 - Hermione comes to Hogwarts and is sorted into Slytherin instead of Gryffindor. Part 1 of the "House of Snakes" series, which will eventually have seven parts. Later parts will be considerably longer and as of 4th year, there will be Dramione. Rating is for later parts of the series as I want to keep it consistent.
Snippets by KindaCrazy02 - M, 38 chapters, Words: 95,051 - It starts slowly, little snippets here and there– an image of a garden, her hands adorned with unfamiliar mittens while snow falls around her, the cupboard in her kitchen where she keeps her mugs but with a few new ones added.
Christmas Kisses by LittleSixx - M, 4 chapters, Words: 23,307 - MP Hermione Granger's friends are spending Christmas at Malfoy Manor because Blaise Zabini plans to propose to his boyfriend, Dean Thomas. Turns out everyone in attendance is conspiring to couple her up with the only other uncoupled guest ... Who happens to be the host.
Sit Beside Me by Emara88 - M, 15 chapters, Words: 91,663 - The war has ended, and Draco is forced to make a choice. Either return to Hogwarts and join the lost students completing their Eighth Year NEWTs or join the other Death Eaters in Azkaban. It's a no brainer, as long as he puts his head down and keeps to himself. So why can't he stop obsessing over a certain know-it-all witch whose mere presence keeps distracting him?
(Note: This will be the last time I make a Year Wrap-Up for FFNET. Over the years, more and more readers and authors have been leaving the site to go over to AO3 due to FFNET's policies about smut and other graphic content. As such there are just fewer and fewer fics being posted on the site. Have no fear though, I will still post fics from the site periodically, just no more wrap-ups.)
summary — he's arrogant, self-centered, and he's your professor. renowned for his brilliance in neurosurgery and infamous for his allure. too bad you have to work with him on this research team. now you're stuck with dr. satoru gojo, delving into the complexities of both the brain and the heart — and of how far you'd go for a love that could destroy not only him but you as well.
word count — 11.5 k
warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, substance and alcohol abuse, dark and themes, unhealthy relationships, codependency, trauma, medical content and mentions of death, illness, abuse, and blood. full trigger warnings available on the masterlist. reader discretion is advised.
previously — unable to watch satoru turn to his abusive family for help with naoya's massive lawsuit, you're heading to his party against satoru's wishes, hoping to find something, anything, that might help his situation. but what happens when satoru decides to crash the party? and what will you find in that locked room?
author's note — hello lovelies, welcome back !! this chapter picks up right where we left off, but through satoru's eyes this time. also important note: this chapter contains a brief mention of SA concerning a background event not related to any of our main characters. as always, please mind all trigger warnings. and now enjoy the chaos <3
series masterlist + playlist + ao3 + wattpad
<- prev chapter | next chapter ->
I saw her the moment I stepped into that goddamn party, and everything inside me went still.
Like that moment right before you drown, when the water first fills your lungs and the world goes quiet. Terrifying and so still.
She stood there under those cheap neon lights, looking scared and yet so beautiful—beautiful in that terrible way that makes you want to destroy something, that makes you want to tear it apart just to prove it's real.
Every fiber of my being screamed to go to her, to grab her and get her the hell out of here. Away from this place, away from him, away from all of it.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't let the mask slip, not here, not with all these eyes on me. So I plastered on that easy smile and played the part of the mildly annoyed professor who just happened to crash a student party.
As if my skin wasn't crawling with the need to use again, veins begging for something—anything—to take the edge off. As if the mere sight of her didn't make me feel like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my fucking heart out, her next breath away from something I might regret.
She looked up at me with those pretty eyes of hers, and I saw the guilt there, swimming just beneath the surface. And for one horrible moment I thought, Good. Let it pull her under like it's pulling me. Let it fill her lungs the way fear is filling mine.
I almost hated her then — for lying to me again and again, for doing stupid things behind my back again and again, for making me feel this goddamn helpless again and again and again and fucking again.
But what lay beneath was worse. Because I knew why she was here. Always trying to save me, even if it meant throwing herself into the deep end, drowning right alongside me. And that's the worst kind of torture, isn't it?
Watching the person you love cut themselves open on all your broken pieces, bleeding themselves dry, yet still reaching for more. And that thought made me want to scream.
"We'll talk about this later," I said, forcing that easy smile back onto my face though everything inside me was screaming to get her out of this goddamn house before she got herself into more trouble. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need a drink."
I pushed past her, shoulder grazing hers, and I had to clench my fists to keep from turning back. Had to bite my tongue until I tasted blood to keep from saying something I couldn't take back. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did, and that was even worse.
Love and hate tangled together in my chest until I couldn't breathe. Because that's what she does to me — makes me feel everything at once, until I can't tell what's real anymore. Until I can't tell if I want to love her or ruin her. Until I can't remember which one would hurt more. Who I was before her. If I was anyone at all.
And it hit me then, as I left her standing there, all defiance and reckless stupidity and so unbearably precious it physically hurt—this must be what they mean when they say love and hate are two sides of the same coin. Because I loved her so much it felt like hatred. Hated her so deeply it could only be love.
Always on the razor's edge. One wrong step, and we'd both bleed out. Maybe we already were.
When was the last time I even went to a party like this anyway? Years ago, probably. Back when I could still pretend I had my shit together. Before I understood what it meant to love someone so consuming that self-destruction became a form of worship.
I needed a drink. Maybe ten. Maybe something stronger.
Bass thundered through the floorboards as I shouldered my way deeper into the house, some shitty pop track slamming in my skull. Or maybe that was just the rage still burning in my bloodstream.
Sweaty bodies pressed in on all sides, but I barely noticed, lost in the chaos raging in my head. Lost in the desperate need scratching at my throat to turn back, to find her, to make sure she hadn't slipped away like every other good thing in my life.
I ordered vodka. First sip burned, but not enough. Never enough to wash away the fear, to forget that she was here, in this house, with him. The same bastard who'd tried to—My grip tightened on the glass. Yeah. Definitely needed something stronger. Here's hoping these kids still remember how to party.
"Professor Gojo! No way!"
A group of my students appeared beside me at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. Aoi, of course—that kid was everywhere. And Miwa, looking starstruck as always. Just my fucking luck.
"Is this what you all do instead of studying for my exams?" I asked, letting that easy smile slide into place.
"Come on, Prof, we've been killing ourselves over your damned hard exams," Miwa chimed in, all bright eyes and alcohol courage. "We deserve a break."
I let myself slip into the familiar role. The cool professor. The guy everyone wants to hang with. It was easier than I expected, letting their drunken energy wash over me, cracking jokes, making them laugh. Almost enough to wash out the withdrawal that made it nearly impossible to think straight. Almost enough to forget why I was really here. Almost.
Aoi was rambling about something, but I wasn't listening. Instead, I turned slightly, catching her gaze across the room. She looked at me like she wanted to kill me. Funny, how we wanted the same thing sometimes.
My woman. My stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating woman. Even now, with me watching her from across the room, I could see that defiance bright in her eyes. Even now, even here, in defiance of everything I'd asked of her, she stood her ground.
It was admirable, really. And sometimes, that very defiance made me want to break her. Perhaps only to prove I could. To prove she wasn't in control. Perhaps because I was terrified that I wasn't. That I never was.
It's terrifying how thin that line is.
"See? Fucking legend!" Aoi raised his beer, at something I said, I think. I can't remember. Something clever, probably. Something that fits the role. "To the coolest professor on campus!"
I raised my glass, I think. I can't remember. And that's when I caught sight of them by the front entrance. Suguru walked up to her, still standing where I'd left her, and cradled her face in his hands, tilting it up to meet his gaze. My god, could he be any more obvious about it?
I knew that look in his eyes. Had seen it countless times before, during all those long hours in the lab when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The way he'd lean in close to check her work, his hand lingering on her shoulder a moment too long. The way his eyes would follow her every move.
My best friend, in love with the love of my life. What a sick fucking joke.
He was examining her face now, probably making sure she was alright, being the good, caring friend he always was. His thumb brushed across her cheek, and something violent stirred in my gut. Because she didn't pull away. Of course she didn't. She never did, not with him.
They looked good together, standing there in the dim light. The brilliant researcher and his gifted student. No addiction between them. No sharp edges that sliced you open if you got too close. And I hated that.
I watched as she placed her hand over his, the gesture unbearably tender. Watched as he smiled down at her, that gentle smile he reserved only for her.
And just for a moment — one single, agonizing moment — I let myself picture a world where I hadn't reached her first. Where she'd chosen him instead. The better man. The one who'd never drag her down into his own personal hell.
The thoughts spiraled darker, louder, until I could barely breathe through the noise. Glass creaked under my grip. I needed a fucking pill. Needed something, anything, to make this stop. To make everything just fucking stop.
"Professor?" Miwa’s voice. "You okay?"
More students crowded the bar, blocking my view of them. One of them—what was his name? Third-year, not a complete idiot—shoved another beer into my hand. I chugged it in one long pull, their chatter fading to background noise.
"Well." That voice. That fucking voice. "Look who decided to crash my party after all."
I turned, meeting Naoya's scarred face with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Zenin. Quite the gathering you've got here."
"Indeed." He signaled the bartender. "I gotta say though, I'm surprised to see you here, Professor. Don't tell me you're playing chaperone tonight?"
His words stripped away any pretense. He knew. Of course he fucking knew why I was really here. Not that I'd been particularly subtle about it.
"Just felt like reliving my youth," I said, taking the drink he offered. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep myself from finishing what I'd started with his face.
Zenin's smirk widened, the scars pulling his flesh into something even uglier. "Ah yes, the good old days. Back when teachers knew their place and didn't go around screwing their students."
The fake smile slid off my face, the glass creaking in my grip as I pictured how easily his windpipe would crumple under my hands. How satisfying it would be to watch that smirk disappear for good.
"Careful, Zenin. Your face is already fucked up enough as is. Would be a damn shame if something happened to what's left of it."
He laughed, the sound grating on my last nerve like nails on a chalkboard. "Always so protective. But tell me, Professor, does she know the real reason you're here? Does she know about the—"
"Enough," I bit out.
"Oh, did I hit a nerve?" His eyes flicked across the room, landing on her. The way he looked at her made my vision bleed red around the edges. "She really is something else, isn't she? Too bad I didn't get a chance to get her alone that night—"
My hand lashed out before I could think, fisting in his collar. The fabric bunched in my grip as I hauled him close enough to see my own fury reflected in his eyes. "You fucking—"
Then Suguru was there, his hand slamming down on the bar between us. Silent, steady—a wall between me and a one-way ticket to unemployment. He didn't say a word, just fixed me with that look. The one I'd explicitly asked for earlier. Stop me before I do something I'll regret.
Fuck, I was really starting to regret that request right about now.
Then I felt her—her touch impossibly gentle as she laid her hand on my bicep, the heat of her skin seeping through my shirt. She leaned in close, "Satoru, can we talk for a minute?"
Her soft plea sliced through the haze, and suddenly I became acutely aware of the deafening silence that had fallen over the room, of the countless eyes boring into us.
I uncurled my fingers from Naoya's collar one by one, even though everything in me screamed to finish what I'd started. To paint the walls with whatever was left of his face. But I couldn't. We both knew. So I stepped back and followed her.
─── ·✧· ───
She led me through the crowd, her fingers still wrapped so gently around my arm. We pushed our way past the prying eyes, down a hallway, until she found what looked like an empty office. Probably belonged to Naoya's father, judging by the dark wood and that rich people smell.
For a moment, we just stood there, neither of us willing to shatter the fragile silence. Moonlight sliced through the blinds, turning everything silver and strange, like we were underwater. Maybe we were. I wasn't sure anymore. Her hand slipped from my arm, and suddenly I felt cold.
I collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the leather groaning under my weight. She stood silhouetted at the window, arms wrapped tight around herself, and I had to look away. Had to focus on something else, because I knew one glance at those eyes and I'd break.
My fingers found the pill on their own. Out of habit, really. Without thinking, I snatched up the silver letter opener next to me and crushed the pill beneath it, watching the powder scatter across the polished wood like fresh snow. I bent down and let the burn fill my nose, sear through my brain, numbing everything in an instant.
When I looked up, she was staring. Always fucking staring, with eyes that flayed me to the bone. And she did it so effortlessly. Saw through everyone around her with that unnerving precision. Or maybe she saw through everything so clearly because she looked for the very things she wanted to hide from others.
"That's new," she said. Not an accusation. I was glad it wasn't.
"It's faster."
I averted my gaze and sank deeper into the chair, letting my head fall back against the headrest as warmth flooded my veins and the ceiling blurred and shifted above me. And then everything went soft around the edges, like looking through frosted glass.
A long exhale escaped my lips. Finally—fucking finally—the constant noise in my head, all that shit I can't shut up—the love, the hate, the fucking terror of it all—it faded to a whisper. The world got a little quieter, a little less sharp. A little more bearable.
For one perfect moment, I could actually breathe. Could almost convince myself I was in control. That this wasn't killing me. That I could walk away if I had to. That I wasn't fucking terrified of losing her. Of becoming him. Of everything.
I groaned, fingers raking through my hair, pulling, needing the pain. My hands were shaking again. Or maybe they never stopped. I couldn't tell anymore.
"You're angry," she said.
"No shit. What gave it away?" I scrubbed my hands over my face. "You showing up here after I specifically fucking told you not to? Or me nearly rearranging Zenin's face again?"
"Satoru—"
"Don't." I squeezed my eyes shut, fingers yanking at my hair again, trembling worse now. From the drugs, the rage, the fear, who the fuck knew. It all bled together these days. "You have no idea what he'd do. If something happened—" I stopped. Couldn’t continue.
"I'm not alone," she said, like that made a difference. "Maki, Yuta, Toge—they're all with me. We're being careful."
"Careful?" I sat upright, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "There's nothing fucking careful about this! It's reckless! You shouldn't even be—"
"I'm doing this for you—"
"Don't." I cut her off. "Don't make this about me."
"But it is!" She stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What, you expect me to just stand by and watch? While you fall apart?"
"This isn't your problem to fix—"
"Like hell it isn't!" Another step. Her eyes seared into mine. "I can't fucking take it anymore. You're in this mess because of me. Because you protected me that night. So don't you dare tell me this isn't my problem to fix."
I stared at her, something in my chest fracturing. "You think that's why I'm doing this? Because I feel obligated?"
"I think you're trying to protect me, like you always do."
"Then don't make me protect you all the goddamn time!" I shoved up from the chair and braced my hands on the desk. "I beat him within an inch of his life that night. I would've killed him if—" My throat closed around the words. "And I'd do it again. In a fucking heartbeat. That's what scares the shit out of me. What I become when it comes to you."
She went still.
"And if he hurt you again," the words scraped out of me, "I—I don't know what I'd do. So please. Just please don't make me find out."
I said the words I'd been turning over in my head for what felt like eternity. Don't make me find out, don't put yourself in danger, don't break my fucking heart. Which really meant break me all you want, just don't leave. I wouldn't survive it.
Her gaze dropped briefly to my hands, and she said, "You done?"
Her question threw me. Done? God, this infuriating woman. But then I followed her line of sight and saw my hands clenched into white-knuckled fists around the desk’s edge. I slowly released them, my knuckles cracking in the sudden stillness.
I slumped back into the chair, exhausted, defeated, throwing an arm over my eyes. "God, I fucking hate you." The way she stood there, unflinching, unafraid—it made me insane. "I hate that you make me feel like this—so fucking terrified all the time."
"You don't hate me," she said.
"Sometimes I'm not so sure anymore," I answered.
How does it never get easier, I wondered. Loving her. Needing her. It just cuts deeper, spreads further, until I'm drowning in the ache. Until I can't breathe without feeling it in my lungs. And yeah, I hate her for that sometimes.
I couldn't look at her. I knew she'd be there, unyielding, waiting, enduring everything I threw at her, as she always did. Never breaking. Maybe that's what I hated most.
"You're so fucking stupid," I breathed, but it came out wrong. Too soft. Too much like 'I love you'. Too much like 'Please don't leave.'
"I think that's mutual." She crossed the room then and leaned against the desk, arms folded over her chest. "I'm sorry I lied to you."
I lowered my arm and looked at her. "No, you're not."
"I am sorry for worrying you," she tried again, and I almost believed her, wishing desperately that she'd never have to worry about anything the way I worry about her. "Go ahead, say it. Tell me how stupid I was to come here. I know you're dying to."
"Why would you think that?"
She kept her eyes fixed on the floor. "Because it's true. I make the wrong choice every fucking time."
I watched her, this brilliant, stubborn woman that I love so much, beating herself up over choices that weren't really choices at all—just impossible situations with no right answers. Like there was ever a right answer. And sometimes she reminded me so much of myself. As if I hadn't spent years doing the same thing, and probably still do.
But seeing her do it—it was like staring into a mirror and seeing not just my reflection, but the reflection of everything I hated about myself.
"I think that's mutual," I echoed her words back to her.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed up from the chair, gripping the edge of the desk for a second. Then I reached for her, hands landing on her hips, tugging her close, needing her close. My lips ghosted over hers. Hesitant. Unsure. When she didn't pull away, I kissed her. My hand came up to cradle her face, thumb skimming her cheekbone as I deepened the kiss.
"Alright, what's the plan?" I murmured against her mouth.
She told me about the locked room upstairs and her plan to get it. So calm. She told it so calm. Like it was that simple. Like this wasn't the most insane thing I'd ever heard. But I knew she'd go through with it no matter what I said.
"You seriously think I'm gonna let you anywhere near him with alcohol involved?"
"No," she said. "I think you're going to help me."
"Times like this, I'm really feeling that age difference between us," I said, but we both heard the resignation in my voice. The moment I'd already lost this fight.
"So you'll help?" she asked, ignoring my comment.
Before she could celebrate her victory, I yanked her closer, fingers twisting in her hair. With a sharp tug, I forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet my gaze, her throat bared. Our eyes locked, and I saw the instant her breath hitched.
"On one condition."
"What's that?"
"When we get home, you're gonna make it up to me for all the stress you've caused. Got it?"
"Is that really how you want to play this?"
"Oh, love, I think we're way past propriety at this point."
A shiver ran through her — one that made me almost smile. I could feel her pulse racing beneath my fingertips, could feel the way she melted into me despite herself. It almost made this whole mess worth it.
"Now then." I pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye. "let's have some fun, shall we?"
─── ·✧· ───
So, here's the fun story about how I ended up playing beer pong with my arch-nemesis (besides Sukuna, that is) against my future lovely wife and some chemistry nerd who wouldn't shut up about covalent bonds. Not exactly the Saturday night I had in mind.
I mean, here I was, standing next to Naoya — yeah, the same guy whose face I'd rearranged a few months back — trying to aim at red plastic cups while you were absolutely wiping the floor with us. Turns out that whole '10 years of grief training in alcoholism over your dead father' wasn't just a cute phrase you threw around. Who would've thought?
But really, trying to out-drink an opioid addict? That's like challenging a fish to a swimming contest. Except the fish is in heavy withdrawal. So like, with no fin. Not my finest analogy. I blame the alcohol. What was my point again?
Anyway. Most annoying part? This chemistry department kid with these wide, bright eyes wouldn't stop talking to you about molecular structures. And you were actually entertaining him. At a party. About electron transfers. Of all the insufferable things.
"So if you consider the aromatic compounds—" he was saying, and I swear on my medical license, I didn't mean for the ball to hit him. And I definitely didn't mean for it to hit him that hard. Pure accident, really.
The ball bounced off his shoulder, effectively shutting him up. They both turned to look at me. "Molecular restructuring in organic compounds? Really?" I shrugged. "At a party?"
She shot me that look. You know the one. The classic 'I-can't-believe-I'm-sleeping-with-this-idiot' glare. It's become quite familiar these days.
"Trouble in paradise?" Naoya said beside me, and I briefly considered rearranging his face again. For symmetry's sake, of course.
But then she bent over to pick up the ball, and suddenly organic chemistry was the furthest thing from my mind. I definitely shouldn't have let her leave the house in that skirt. Though knowing her, she probably wore it just to torture me.
"Getting distracted, Professor?" she said, straightening up with that little smile that never fails to make me want to do wildly inappropriate things to her in very public places. She leaned across the table, deliberately tapping one of our cups with her finger, giving me her most innocent eyes. Because apparently, driving me insane was her new favorite pastime.
"Me?" I lifted the red cup she'd tapped to my lips, taking my sweet time with the drink, my eyes never leaving hers. "Never."
And somewhere in the haze of beer and the way she was looking at me, I tried to remember why the hell we were even here. Oh right—something about stealing keys. Real professional operation we've got going here. The medical board would be so proud. Their star surgeon, reduced to playing beer pong as a distraction tactic.
Naoya's keys were right there on the table, practically screaming to be grabbed. But between her legs in that skirt and the way she kept biting her lip every time she lined up a shot, I found myself giving fewer and fewer shits about saving my career and more about how quickly I could get her alone. Priorities. I clearly had them. Alcohol might have scrambled them a bit, I guess.
I caught a glimpse of Suguru standing off to the side of the beer pong table. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes darting back and forth between me and her like he was watching the world's most stressful tennis match. I really owed him one for putting up with this shit.
Near the chemistry kid, a girl approached who looked a bit like Higurama's intern—though I wasn't entirely sure. She looked different, wearing makeup and dressed up. But that couldn't be her. She'd avoid places with flashing lights because of her epilepsy. I must be seeing things.
Then Naoya, because clearly this shitshow wasn't enough of a disaster already, decided to "level up the process." He snapped his fingers at a passing bartender, and before I could process what the fuck was happening, there was a tray of perfectly lined up tequila shots on the table. Complete with cinnamon and orange slices, because apparently, we're keeping it classy while trying to get my future wife drunk.
"New rule," Naoya announced, his scarred face pulling into what I can only assume was meant to be a grin. "Next shot I sink, you drink both. Beer and tequila."
I glanced over at her, my gut churning. Not from the alcohol—it'd take a hell of a lot more than this to get me there—but from the way she met Naoya's challenge with a nod. That stubborn tilt of her chin that always meant trouble. My palms started to sweat.
Of course, Naoya's ball dropped perfectly into her cup. Because the universe really does have a sick sense of humor.
Watching her reach for both drinks, I found myself wondering what the medical board would be more pissed about — me playing drinking games with students, screwing one of my students, or the fact that I was seriously considering murder. Again.
Then, by some physics-defying miracle or sheer dumb luck, the chemistry kid actually landed a shot. He looked as shocked as the rest of us when the ball plopped into Naoya's cup. But it was her next shot that really got my attention — perfect arc, clean landing, like she'd been doing this her whole damn life.
"Drink up, Professor," she said, but there was something different in her voice.
She reached for the tequila, and then—fuck me—propped one leg up on a nearby beer crate, the motion making her skirt ride up just enough to flash a strip of skin above her tights. Wait. Those weren't tights. Those were fucking stockings.
My brain short-circuited as I realized she'd been walking around all night in stockings. Actual stockings, with what I knew had to be a garter belt hidden under that criminally short skirt. The same spot where she was now deliberately sprinkling cinnamon.
The sight of that exposed sliver of skin between stocking and skirt made my blood boil. When the hell had she even bought those? Had she worn them just for tonight, knowing they'd make me lose my goddamn mind? Was she trying to get herself killed?
Because right now, watching her purposely dust cinnamon on that band of exposed skin, I wasn't sure if I wanted to murder her or fuck her. Probably both. My mouth went dry, and it had fuck-all to do with the alcohol.
"Well?" She tilted her head, all innocence except for that knowing look in her eyes. "Coming to get your tequila?"
Like she had to ask twice. Yet I hesitated. With all these people watching? What was she playing at? It was reckless, careless, like she was deliberately trying to expose us. It was power play, a challenge. And I knew, that she knew, that I couldn't resist.
A slow smile spread across my face as I sank to one knee before her, the crowd fading into a blur of noise. All that mattered was her—the way her breath hitched as I gripped her calf, the way she tensed as she realized that I made a whole show for her (poor girl didn’t expect that now, did she?)—the feel of her skin on my tongue.
I took my sweet time with the cinnamon, letting my tongue glide over the exposed strip of flesh, feeling her shiver. My teeth grazed her skin, just enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips. If she wanted a show, I'd give her a show. And part of me wanted to shove that skirt higher, to chase that taste of salt and cinnamon further up her thigh until—
Focus. Fucking focus.
I straightened, stepping into her space. She held an orange slice in one hand, the shot glass in the other, and I couldn't help but notice how her pupils had blown wide, how her chest rose and fell just a little faster than normal.
I plucked the orange from her fingers with my teeth, my lips brushing her skin, then took the shot glass, using the movement to press closer, my mouth right by her ear, "What exactly is your plan here?"
"Create distraction," she breathed back.
God help me, but it was working. I was definitely distracted. Whole damn crowd was distracted. And watching her play this game—watching her play me—was probably the hottest and most infuriating thing I'd ever experienced. And I'm pretty sure everyone could see I was hard too.
"You're distracting the wrong audience," I whispered before knocking back the shot.
In the midst of trying to control my homicidal urges over those goddamn stockings, she caught my eye and subtly jerked her head. I turned, making it look like I was just checking something, and spotted them—Zenin, Okkotsu, and Inumaki hovering on the other side of the table behind Naoya, waiting for their chance.
Right. The keys. The whole reason we were here. I almost forgot.
The game continued, the tension building with each shot. We were down to the last round — winner takes all. That's when she decided to really test my patience.
"Let's make this more interesting," she announced, her voice carrying over the crowd. "Losers jump in the pool." A pause, then because apparently she was hell-bent on giving me a coronary. "No clothes."
"You wouldn’t dare," Naoya scoffed.
"Try me," she replied.
I shot her a warning look. She subtly chewed on her bottom lip, meeting my gaze with an unnerving calm, perhaps her way of saying everything's gonna be okay. It did little to ease the knot in my stomach.
One shot left. If she made this, Naoya and I would be stripping down for a midnight dip. If she missed—
I tried not to think about her in that pool. Tried not to think about those stockings getting soaked. Tried not to think about murdering every sorry bastard who might lay eyes on her. Either way, this woman was going to be the death of me. If I didn't kill her first.
Naoya landed his shot, fucking prick. I missed mine for obvious reasons. Chemistry kid missed too, leaving everything on her shoulders. The ball left her hand, arcing through the air in what felt like slow motion. It circled the rim, then rolled away.
The crowd went wild. Naoya's victory smirk made me want to punch his face in. I glanced over at her, wondering for a second if she'd missed on purpose. But there was no time for that.
"Well?" Naoya's voice. "I believe the losers owe us a show."
"The game wasn't exactly fair—" I started, but she cut me off.
"Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, Naoya?" She turned to him, her words sharp. "To see me undress without having to drug me first?"
The crowd went dead silent. Naoya's scarred face contorted into something ugly. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're not as untouchable as you think."
"And you're pathetic," she spat back, then turned away from him. "At least I get to choose when I undress, right?”
She started walking toward the pool, each step deliberate, commanding. I followed, caught between pride and sheer terror at what she was about to do. At the edge, she turned back to me.
"Don't," I pleaded, but she was already reaching for the hem of her skirt. It fell, revealing the dark lace of her stockings. Then her top followed, and I stepped closer, trying to shield her from the leering eyes.
"This is insane." But my protest died as she stood there in only black lace, and then I saw them—the bruises from the fire still painted across her waist and ribs. Dark purple and yellow marks that hadn't yet faded, cruel reminder of how close I'd come to losing her.
The sight sobered me instantly. Something twisted in my chest, sharp and painful. The bruises I'd carefully tended to, the ones that still made her wince when I changed her bandages—on full display for this crowd of drunk idiots, turned into a spectacle.
"Please," I begged, my voice barely audible. "Don't do this."
She met my gaze, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d reached her. But then that smile—the one that sealed my fate—touched her lips. "Sorry, Professor," she whispered, and then she was gone, falling backward into the pool, taking a piece of me with her.
The splash echoed in my ears like a gunshot, and I was already shrugging off my jacket, ready to either dive in after her or use it to cover her when she surfaced. A cold, hard fury settled in my gut. Naoya was going to pay for this.
The crowd roared as she surfaced, her hair plastered to her face, water tracing the curves of her body beneath the soaked lace. Our eyes met across the distance, me standing at the pool's edge, and I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. Something flickered across her face—regret maybe, or shame—before she looked away.
Hell broke loose. Bodies crashed into the water, sending waves across the pool. Even Naoya stripped off his shirt and dove in, reveling in the attention. The whole party seemed to shift to the pool in a matter of seconds — clothes flying, drinks splashing, the pristine water turning into a churning mess.
Perfect distraction.
But I barely registered any of it, my world had narrowed to her. I watched as she climbed out, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the concrete, practically sprinting past me, her gaze fixed on the floor, while water dripped from her hair, her skin, the dark lace clinging to her form.
Behind her, the pool had turned into chaos — exactly what she'd planned, I realized.
I gathered her clothes from where they'd fallen and followed her inside. I caught a glimpse of Okkotsu's quick movements near the discarded clothes by the pool.
Well played.
─── ·✧· ───
Her dripping form drew curious eyes as we moved through the foyer. Each step felt like a penance—hers for the recklessness, mine for letting it happen. Heads turned, conversations died, the sudden silence punctuated only by the soft drip, drip, drip of water from her hair.
Kento’s face flashed past, but I barely registered him. No doubt he'd give me shit about it at the university later, like he didn't already know something was up with me and her.
I wrapped my jacket around her shivering shoulders, fighting the desperate urge to reach for the opioids hidden in my pocket. Withdrawal, guilt, and fury burned together in my veins, making me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I stepped in front of her, partly to block all those eyes on her, partly to hide how bad my hands were shaking. None of it was worth it. Not the keys, not avoiding my parents, none of it. How did we end up here? How did I allow things to get to this point?
Upstairs, she dressed quickly, water still dripping from her hair, leaving damp patches on her clothes.
"Are you cold?"
"I'm okay," she said, avoiding my gaze.
She was shaking. I could see the goosebumps on her arms. "You're shivering," I said and reached for her, but she pulled away.
“I’m fine, really.”
Despite her words, I pulled her close. She didn't resist this time, tilting her face up to mine. Her eyes were bright, and for a second, I thought she might cry. The world could have been watching, for all I cared. If those tears fell, it would be my undoing.
And then I thought of everything she'd done, everything she'd had to do—for me. My twenty-four-year-old student, forced to protect me from my own damn parents, to beg for my own money. Because I’d hit a guy who tried to hurt her. Why was it all so fucked up?
The high was long gone, leaving this gaping hole. My limbs felt heavy, detached, like they belonged to a stranger, unable to reach out and fix what I’d broken. And we were so far from where we started.
"You're disappointed," she finally said. She wasn't asking.
"We should leave." Because I couldn't bear to watch her sacrifice one more piece of herself for me.
"You can leave."
Before I could say anything back, Zenin came bursting into our corner, Okkotsu and Inumaki right behind her, her eyes all lit up. "That was fucking insane!" she yelled, waving something around—Naoya's keys. "But it worked! I can't believe it actually—" She stopped short, finally noticing the tension between us.
The win felt empty. Yeah, we got what we came for. But what did it cost? Looking at her, still shivering a little in my jacket, I wasn't so sure it was worth it. I was supposed to protect her. Instead, I just kept watching her throw herself in the fire for me.
Some professor I was. Some man I was.
Strange how winning can feel so much like losing, especially when you realize you're not the one paying the price.
─── ·✧· ───
I stayed outside Naoya's room, playing lookout. At least that's what I told them. Truth was, I couldn't stand being in there, couldn't bear being near her, watching her fight my battles while I was barely holding myself together.
The itch under my skin had spread, making my whole body crawl with invisible insects while she did the dirty work. Even after everything, she was still trying to save me.
And I was still letting her.
I slid down the wall, my head hitting the floor. How did we end up here? What the fuck were we doing? What the fuck was I doing?
I'm thirty-five years old, for fuck's sake. Why was I acting like a goddamn teenager? I should've stopped her, shouldn't have let her leave the house to begin with, should've been the adult. But instead, I let it happen, standing by and watching where it led. Again.
This whole situation was insane. We were in too deep, and I knew it. But I couldn't seem to find my way out, couldn't seem to stop this trainwreck we were on. It was like I was watching it all happen from outside my own body, powerless to change course.
What kind of man was I? What kind of professor? I was supposed to be her mentor, her… something more. Instead, I was dragging her down with me.
I thought back to that night, the one that started it all. The night I found her in the lab, working late, hunched over her microscope. She looked up at me with those eyes, those damn eyes that seemed to see right through me. And I was lost. I knew it was wrong. I knew I should have walked away. But I didn't. I couldn't. Drawn in. Consumed.
And now, here we were. Trapped in this fucked-up situation of our own making. I wanted to blame her, to say it was all her fault for being so reckless, so damn stubborn. But I knew that wasn't true. I let this happen. I didn’t stop it. But why?
I could replay the events in my mind, frame by frame, but the crucial moment, the point where I should have intervened, remained a blur. It was as if some part of me had wanted to see where this ended.
Music still drifted up from downstairs, the bass thumping through the walls. It felt wrong, out of place. Like we were in a different world, a fucked-up one, while everyone else was living their normal, happy lives.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, trying to pretend, just for a moment, that this wasn't happening. That we weren't here. That everything was okay. But it was happening. And I was in it, and I knew I couldn't hold my breath much longer.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking. Kept seeing things in the corners of my vision. Shadows that shouldn't move but did, faces that weren't faces at all. The wallpaper breathed. In and out. In and out. Like a lung.
Stop it. Just stop all of it. Make it stop. But it won't stop, can't stop, because she's in there right now, digging through his things, trying to save me save me save me why won't she just stop trying to save me?
Everything felt wrong, sick, twisted. Too bright and too dark all at once. My skin didn't fit right anymore. Nothing fit right anymore. God, I needed a goddamn fix.
A cough. I pressed my hand against my mouth. When I pulled it away, my palm was red.
Huh. That's new.
I stared at the blood, watching it pool in the lines of my hand. It looked wrong somehow, too dark, too thick. The longer I stared, the more it seemed to move strangely, crawling along the creases of my palm.
Was blood supposed to move like that? Like it was alive? Like it was trying to tell me something? I couldn't remember anymore. I couldn't remember a lot of things lately. The blood kept moving, kept spreading.
Maybe this was it—maybe I was finally losing whatever scraps of sanity I had left, sitting here on a dirty floor watching my own blood drip down my palm.
A part of me wondered if he'd been right all along, that I was becoming him, the very thing I’d always feared. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be better, different. Not this—huddled on a filthy floor at a college party, watching my blood move as if in psychosis, while she risked everything for me. Again.
The door handle turned. Shit. I wiped my palm against the dark carpet, smearing the blood into the fibers where it vanished like it was never there. I scrambled to my feet just as they emerged. She moved quickly, shoving something beneath the waistband of her skirt. Before I could speak, she grabbed my arm.
"Let's leave." There was something like panic in her voice. "I'll tell you outside."
I gripped her hand, my own pulse quickening, and we went downstairs and pushed through the mass of drunk students. But then the music cut abruptly, plunging us into a moment of strange silence before panicked voices filled the void.
"What the hell—?" Okkotsu’s shout cut through the din from behind us.
Then I saw the flashing lights—red and blue strobing through the windows. Fuck.
"Cops!" Someone shouted, and the whole house erupted into chaos as people scrambled in every direction.
"Everyone freeze!" A voice boomed through the foyer. "Nobody moves!"
We reached the entrance as two officers shouldered their way through the front door. The bigger one looked like he benched trucks for fun, taking up almost the entire doorframe as he planted himself there.
"Listen up!" he bellowed, one meaty hand resting on his belt. "Party's over. Nobody leaves until we check IDs."
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
I felt her tense beside me, those things hidden in her waistband might as well have been burning her skin. I could practically feel her panic.
"Look, officers." I stepped forward, forcing my voice into something professional. "There seems to be some confusion—"
"No confusion here," Truck-Bencher cut me off, the scar on his lip twisting as he frowned. "Got noise complaints, reports of underage drinking. Everyone stays put."
"I'm faculty at the university. These are my students and they're all over twenty-one. You're wasting everyone's time—"
"Nobody leaves until we say so."
"You really want to process IDs for over two hundred students?"
"You telling me how to do my job?" He shifted closer, chest puffed out despite me having two inches on him.
Withdrawal crawled beneath my skin like insects, each bite feeding the rage that built vertebra by vertebra up my spine. "Depends. Are you actually doing it, or just power tripping?"
"Back the fuck up." His hand dropped to his belt. "Last chance."
I felt her fingers digging into my arm, trying to pull me back. But the rage was a living thing now, burning away anything resembling sense or restraint. "Or what?"
The punch came fast. I dropped, and heard the sickening crack of bone against flesh—not mine. Some poor student next to me. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Then chaos.
Bodies everywhere. Screaming. Shoving. Radio static cutting through the roar. Her hand in mine as we pushed through the surge. Her friends somewhere behind. Everything blurred. I can't remember when she let go of my hand.
I just remember the scream. Different from the others. Then her voice, "Get her on the ground!" I shoved through the mass of bodies. Saw the girl on the floor. Ice flooded my veins.
I knew that face. Higurama's intern. My patient. My responsibility.
I dropped beside her, my hands shaking so violently I could barely feel them. Her eyes rolled back. Withdrawal made everything too sharp, too bright. I couldn't think. Couldn't—
Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. Satoru. It was her voice. Fingers gripped my arm. "Satoru, look at me." I met her eyes. Steady. Unnerving. "Focus."
Everything snapped back into place. My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd moved. "This is Dr. Gojo from Jujutsu Medical. Twenty-six-year-old female, epileptic, pre-seizure presentation. We need immediate assistance."
My voice was mechanical, professional. Inside, my mind screamed. Why was she here? Had she been drinking? Were her meds interacting with something? I should know this. Should be better than this. Should be fucking better.
Nausea rose in my throat and I'd never felt more like a failure in my entire fucking life.
Behind us, the fight continued to rage. A man’s voice bellowed, trying to restore order. Then Suguru was there, kneeling beside her, his hands gentle as he cradled her head. He murmured something, soft and low. The tenderness in his movements caught me off guard.
"The ambulance is taking too long." His voice cut through everything. Before I could process it, he had her in his arms, head protected against his chest and moved.
─── ·✧· ───
I can't remember how we got to the hospital.
Everything blurred into fragments. Flashing lights, squealing tires, the weight of everything crushing my chest. Each breath scraped like broken glass. My hands wouldn't stop shaking until I swallowed three pills. Maybe four. I lost count.
The fluorescent lights overhead were too bright, too harsh, making my skull feel like it was splitting open. I wanted to crack my head against the wall.
Some part of me was still moving, still speaking in that detached doctor voice — rattling off medical history, medications, possible interactions. Years of training overriding the screaming in my head. But they never trained us for this.
Never trained us for how guilt tastes like acid in your throat while watching your mistakes breathe shallowly on starched white sheets.
They taught us to make clean incisions, to suture arteries, to restart hearts. But not how your own heart would seize when you recognize the face on the floor. Not how your girlfriend’s hands would be steadier than your own worthless trembling ones as you fumbled for your phone, your throat closing around the words "this is my fault", "please" and "I'm sorry."
Didn’t prepare us for withdrawal turning your hands into treacherous strangers while someone seized at your feet. For the shame that festers in your gut as you come down, struggling to remember basic fucking dosages through the need scorching through your veins.
They never warned us how love would carve you open worse than any scalpel, making you both butcher and victim, instrument and incision. Never warned us about loving someone while you’re falling apart. How it feels like drowning in open air, your chest cracked wide and your beating heart wrenched out into daylight, desperate and terrified and somehow still pumping, still fighting, still so fucking afraid.
Higurama's intern lay still now, the steady drip of the IV marking time like a metronome in the silence. I watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, my mind replaying the medications, the dosages, searching for the mistake I must have made. There had to be one. There was always one.
Perhaps he was right about me after all. Funny how even now, even here, I could still hear his voice so clearly.
"You okay?"
She sat across from me, swallowed by my spare clothes—an old t-shirt and sweatpants that draped loosely on her frame, a blanket draped over her legs. Anything was better than those clothes from before, those fucking stockings I'd personally thrown in the trash.
"Satoru?" she tried again. "You okay?"
I couldn't bring myself to answer.
"Talk me through her meds again," she said, resting her head in her palm. Her eyes, piercing and unwavering, never left my face as she waited.
I rubbed my temples, trying to focus through the exhaustion. "Standard anticonvulsants. Levetiracetam, 500mg twice daily. Added phenytoin after the first seizure." I fell back into my chair, scrubbing my hand over my face. "She couldn't tolerate the Levetiracetam, so I switched to Topiramate, 500mg thrice daily."
She was quiet for a moment. "Side effects?"
"Minor. Tremor in her extremities sometimes, but nothing she couldn't handle. It was working." I paused. "It was supposed to be working."
"EEG results?"
"Showed mild abnormalities. Nothing that would explain a seizure this severe." I scrubbed at my face again, harder this time. "I should have seen it. Should have caught something."
"Satoru." Her voice held that gentle firmness I knew so well. "You did everything right."
"Then why did she seize?" I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against linoleum. I turned away, unable to bear her gentle gaze. Outside, dawn was breaking in shades of grey. No color, no warmth, just an endless stretch of concrete and clouded sky bleeding into each other. "If I did everything right, why is she lying here?"
"Because sometimes that's just how it goes. You know this better than anyone," she said. "Medicine isn't perfect. Neither are we."
My reflection stared back at me, ghostly and distorted in the glass. Dark circles, stubble, hair a fucking mess. A doctor coming down from a high while his patient lay in a hospital bed.
"I should have increased the dosage earlier. Run more tests. I should have—"
"Seen the future?"
"I should have been better."
"You are already the best," she said, but it felt like a lie to me. "But even the best can't control everything."
Higurama's intern stirred slightly in her sleep, and we both fell silent, the moment stretching taut between us. I dragged myself back to the chair, sinking down with my face in my hands.
"You didn't do anything wrong," she whispered, leaning forward to brush a stray strand of hair from the girl's forehead. "Sometimes life just happens, and all we can do is be there to pick up the pieces."
I wanted to believe her. God, how I wanted to. But the truth sat like stones in my stomach.
"I hate this," I whispered.
"I know."
Silence.
"Do you blame yourself?" she asked quietly.
"How can I not?"
Because it's stupid, you know this. I could feel them in my bones, the words forming on her lips before she could speak them. "How did that ever change anything?" I said before she could start.
She leaned back, the chair creaking slightly. "Do you think we are terrible people?" she asked, her voice so soft I almost missed it.
I turned to look at her then, really look at her. Even exhausted and worried, wearing my old clothes, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Like a drug I couldn't quit, a high I'd chase until it killed me.
And what did that say about either of us? That I wanted to crack her open, crawl inside her skin and nestle myself in her marrow? Wanted to consume her, devour her, until there was nothing left but the two of us, fused together in the most depraved way possible?
It was as if we were always meant to find each other. But it was a penance, for both of us.
"I think I am what I am because of you," I finally said.
And it was the truth. She'd molded me, shaped me, just as I'd shaped her. We'd ruined each other for anyone else, stripped away the innocence and left only the filth and grit behind.
Her hand fell from her face, her eyes meeting mine. "And I am what I am because of you."
"Does that scare you?"
"I think one gets used to it."
"Yeah," I said finally, my voice rough. "I guess you do get used to it. Until you don't."
She frowned, but before she could voice something, Suguru stepped inside.
He said we should leave, and maybe that was for the better anyway, though I couldn't quite shake the feeling that there was an edge to his voice. Anger, perhaps. But I couldn't blame him. Not really.
I grabbed her things, my hand finding its familiar place at the small of her back as we headed for the door. Suguru's voice followed us down the corridor. "What did you find in Zenin's room anyway?" he asked, as if it were something to be discussed in the doorway.
I walked ahead.
I didn't need to hear again about the unconscious women on the Polaroids.
─── ·✧· ───
Too quiet.
He was never this quiet.
"How bad is it?" I asked, perched on the edge of the exam bed where the paper sheet betrayed every nervous shift of my weight with stupid crinkles. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the linoleum floor.
I'd coughed up blood again earlier this morning. More than last night. The metallic taste had filled my mouth before I even opened my eyes. I'd stumbled to the bathroom, careful not to wake her—she needed the rest after we spent the whole damn night at the police station.
I stared at the red running down the drain. Way more than there should be. I'd blamed it on stress and alcohol last time. But now? It meant my liver was probably failing faster than I'd thought. Coagulation system breaking down, blood vessels becoming fragile. Textbook end-stage.
I called him then. He was still at the hospital, had slept there while looking after Higurama's intern. His face had gone pale when he saw me walk in. Guess I looked as bad as I felt.
We ran tests. All of them. Blood work, chest X-rays, the works. And now here we are. I watched him reading what I assumed was my death sentence, waiting for him to finally look up, while the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds.
But he kept his eyes fixed on the test results, holding himself with the careful rigidity of someone handling explosives. Another bad sign.
"Suguru."
He exhaled slowly, finally meeting my gaze with eyes that said everything before his mouth could form the words. "You should have started treatment sooner. We talked about this months ago."
"Yeah, yeah, I know." I tried to wave off his concern. "What do the results say?"
His fingers tightened on the papers until the corners creased. "Your liver enzymes are through the roof. AST over 1000, ALT even higher. Bilirubin's climbing while albumin's dropping. Your PT/INR values—" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. Not just damaged anymore—failing."
I let the clinical terms wash over me. The doctor in me understood the implications perfectly. The addict in me wanted to laugh at the irony.
"Well," I said, forcing lightness into my tone, "guess I should have listened to you sooner, huh?"
Suguru's expression hardened. "This isn't a joke. Without immediate intervention—" He caught himself, but I could read the rest in his eyes as clearly as any lab report.
Without immediate intervention, I was dying. Fitting, really. That my body would choose to betray me just when I'd finally found something worth living for.
"How's the withdrawal going?" Suguru asked, setting down the test results.
"Managing." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to ignore how even that simple movement felt like too much effort. "Reduced the hydromorphone gradually. Down to about 5mg now."
"Satoru." His voice carried that familiar note of frustration, the one I'd heard a thousand times before. "You need to stop completely. Not reduce—stop. Your liver can't handle any more strain."
"I'm trying," I snapped, then immediately regretted the harshness. "Sorry. I know you're trying to help."
Suguru pulled up a chair, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "We need to start treatment immediately. The protocol won't be pleasant—high-dose corticosteroids, immunosuppressants, possibly plasmapheresis if things get worse."
"Sounds fun."
"It'll be brutal," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "The side effects alone—you'll need to be monitored constantly. Multiple blood draws daily, frequent imaging. And absolutely no narcotics—your liver won't survive it."
I absorbed this, the clinical reality of what lay ahead settling into my bones. "So basically, I get to feel like shit while you stick me with needles and watch me suffer."
"That's about right. But it's either that or start planning your funeral."
"At least you're honest." I attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow morning. I'll admit you tonight, get you set up in a private room," Suguru said, already reaching for admission forms.
"Monday morning."
He looked up sharply. "What?"
"I have a family dinner on Sunday," I shrugged. "Can't skip it."
"Are you insane?" Suguru's voice rose to fill the small room. "Your liver is failing, Satoru. This isn't something you can postpone for a damn dinner party."
"Monday morning," I repeated firmly. "I gave my word I'd be there."
"Your word won't mean much if you're dead."
"I can manage two more days."
"No, you can't." Suguru slammed the test results down with enough force to make me flinch. Since when is he always so fucking tense? "Your numbers are critical. Every hour we delay treatment increases the risk of complete liver failure."
"Monday."
"For fuck's sake, Satoru—"
"I said Monday. I need to do this, Suguru. Please."
He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. Finally, his shoulders slumped.
"Fine. Monday morning, first thing. But if you show any signs of deterioration—any at all—I'm admitting you immediately. And no alcohol at that dinner. Not a single drop."
"Deal."
"I mean it, Satoru."
"I know," I said, trying to inject some levity into the heavy atmosphere. "You can do all sorts of things to me on Monday. Not like I have much on my schedule anyway."
"So Yaga has exempted you?"
"Temporarily relieved of my teaching duties until further notice." I tried to keep my voice light, but the words still choked me. "Apparently, licking your student's leg in public view isn't considered acceptable behavior. Who knew?"
"Everyone would have known that."
"Most people were too drunk to remember anyway, or too busy dealing with the police raid afterwards to care." I shrugged. "Silver lining?"
"This isn't funny. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Your career—"
"My career?" I almost laughed. "In case you missed the memo, my liver's failing. I think my career concerns just got bumped down the priority list."
Suguru fell silent.
"Besides," I added, "maybe it's for the best. Can't exactly teach while going through treatment, can I?"
"Yaga doesn't know about your condition?"
"No, and he's not going to. As far as he's concerned, I'm just taking some time to... reassess my professional boundaries."
"And when he asks why you're not fighting this?"
I sighed. "Let him think what he wants. I've got bigger problems right now."
"Like a family dinner you're insisting on attending despite being on death's door?"
"Exactly." I flashed him a grin, this one a little more genuine despite everything. "See? You're getting it."
"You're impossible."
"That's why you love me."
"That's why I'm going to enjoy sticking you with needles on Monday."
"Kinky."
His expression sobered, eyes searching my face. "You should tell her."
The mere mention of her sent a knife twisting in my gut. "No."
"Satoru—"
"I said no. She has enough to deal with right now. This stays between us."
Suguru shook his head but didn't argue further. He knew me too well to waste his breath.
"I will," I added softly, more to convince myself than him. "When I'm a bit better."
"This will kill her."
"I know."
Silence.
"I'm sorry," I finally managed. "For being an asshole. For everything. And... thanks for coming to the party with me."
"You already apologized."
"I mean it." I met his gaze. "You've always been there, even when I didn't deserve it."
Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of the friendship we'd shared before everything got so complicated. Before I'd dragged us both into this mess.
"Just don't die on me," he said. "I've invested too much time in keeping your stupid ass alive."
I pushed off the bed, steadying myself against the sudden dizziness that threatened to knock me over. "See you Monday."
"You're a stubborn idiot," he called after me. I didn't disagree.
I stopped at the door, turning back. "Hey, what's going on between you and Higurama's intern anyway?"
Suguru stiffened slightly. "Nothing. Just concerned since she's my patient now too."
I studied him, noting the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze shifted slightly left—his tell when he wasn't being entirely truthful.
"Sure," I said, too exhausted to push it further. "See you Monday."
As I walked away, I wondered if he knew how obvious he was. Then again, who was I to judge? I was hardly an expert at handling matters of the heart.
─── ·✧· ───
I paused outside our apartment door, my hand trembling on the handle. Withdrawal clawed through me, a living thing twisting my gut. Each breath was a struggle, my lungs constricting as if they'd forgotten their purpose. Just breathe, idiot. In, out. You're almost there.
Relief flooded through me the moment I opened the door. Her shoes were there, neatly arranged next to my scattered ones. Her coat on the hook. She was home.
Strange how that simple fact could lift the weight crushing my chest, made breathing a fraction less painful. No matter how bad things were, coming home to her felt like breaking the surface after being underwater too long.
Dog bounded up to greet me, tail whipping back and forth, before darting off toward the bedroom. Smart boy knew exactly where to find her. I kicked off my shoes, let my jacket fall where it would, and followed.
She was there, sprawled across our bed in a sea of papers, bathed in the warm light of the bedside lamp. The sight of her stole what little breath I had left. Hair messily pulled back, drowning in one of my old t-shirts, completely lost in whatever she was reading. Beautiful. It was a beauty that made my heart ache.
Without a word, I crawled onto the bed, dragging myself up until I could rest my head on her stomach. I paused, remembering the bruises on her midsection. But before I could pull back, she gently tugged me closer and I surrendered, resting my head against her warmth.
I wrapped my arms around her waist and her fingers found my hair instantly, like they belonged there, gentle strokes that made my eyes flutter closed and I thought, this was home. This was peace. Even as my body screamed for relief, even as guilt gnawed at me, here with her, I could almost believe everything would be okay.
"What are you reading?" I mumbled against her shirt, already knowing the answer. Why did she still throw herself into this project? Did it even matter anymore? But I already knew that answer too. Distraction.
"Research papers. For our project." Her fingers never stopped their magic. "Everything okay at the hospital?" I wondered for a second how she knew where I went, but then she said, "Antiseptic smell."
Did I always smell like that? Like the harsh, sterile scent of the hospital? I hated it. Hated how it seemed to cling to my skin no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands raw. Hated the way it reminded me of sickness and death.
I hugged her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent as that was so unlike the clinical smell of the hospital as I crafted the lie. Yeah, everything's fine, I told her. Had to check on something with a patient. Normal stuff, nothing to worry about. Standard procedure.
But even as I spoke, the guilt in my stomach twisted. The truth was, I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep going like this. I could feel myself slipping, losing my grip on the things that mattered most and I couldn't help but wonder if I'd even make it to the end.
If I'd be there to witness the results of our research, to stand by her side as we perhaps do something great. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to drown out the intrusive thoughts, focusing on the feel of her beneath me, the steady rise and fall of her breath.
Her fingers paused momentarily in my hair, and I knew she sensed something off. She always could read me too well. But then she resumed the gentle stroking.
"You'd tell me if something's wrong, right?"
"Of course," I whispered, another lie to add to the growing pile.
I tightened my arms around her waist, as if by holding her close enough, I could somehow make up for my betrayal. As if loving her fiercely enough could somehow balance out the pain I was about to cause her. Monday felt both too far away and not nearly far enough.
Desperate for a distraction, I asked about how it went at the police station. She said it was fine, her friends were with her as they'd needed to clarify their statements, she explained, her fingers still weaving through my hair. Everything had been too hazy right after the party.
She mentioned they needed me to verify my own statement again too. I bit back the urge to say that they'd likely have to come to my hospital bed for that. Instead, I just hummed in response. Whatever it took to make that little shit pay for what he'd done.
"He won't hurt anyone else," she added. "We'll make sure of it."
Something about her struck me as odd. How could she be so unaffected by everything that had happened? Like we didn’t just discover that Zenin Naoya was—
"You're so calm about it."
"And what would you have me do?"
I didn’t know. Maybe I should be grateful that at least one of us could keep it together.
I turned my head, pressing a kiss to her palm. I wanted to tell her how proud I was of her, how sorry I was for dragging her into this mess, how I feared the rumors that would follow her through university halls. How fucking terrified I was. How much I loved her. But it all just crowded in my throat, tangled with all the other truths I couldn't voice.
Instead, I just held her tighter. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
"For what?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Or lie again. I clung to her, as if she were the only thing keeping me from falling apart, pressing my face into her stomach, trying to blur myself into her very being. "Satoru,” she winced, a small sound escaping her lips. "You're hurting me."
"Please," I pleaded, tears pricking at my eyes. “Just… bear it for a moment. Please.” But then, a sudden tickle rose in my throat, and I sat up abruptly, he movement sending the room spinning.
"You okay?" she asked, sitting up as well, her hand cradling her side.
"Yeah," I managed, before another cough clawed its way out. I stood, turning away from her, my hand coming up to cover my mouth. When I pulled it away, blood glistened on my palm.
"Satoru? You sure you're okay?"
"Everything's fine." I curled my fingers into a fist, watching red seep between my knuckles. "Just need some water."
I should call him again. Should probably head to the hospital right now. Every logical part of my brain screamed at me to seek help, to stop this madness before it was too late.
But Sunday's dinner loomed in my mind. One last chance to fix things with her, to make things right before everything inevitably crumbled around us. Just two more days. I just needed to hold on for two more days and then I could let the chips fall where they may.
Even as blood painted the back of my throat red, I clung to that desperate hope, that foolish notion that I could make this right. I knew I was being stupid. Reckless. Playing Russian roulette with a fully loaded gun.
But then again, what did it matter anyway?
<- prev chapter | next chapter ->
author's note — welcome back, i hope this wasn't too intense, even tho i went through all stages of grief writing this chapter, but i'm quite happy with how it turned out. hope you all survived seeing things through satoru's eyes once more. writing from his perspective is always both challenging and thrilling in some strange way.
quick note, as this is somehow not obvious to some people: i understand that this story deals with controversial topics and might not be everyone’s cup of tea but this is purely fictional work, and i'm just here to enjoy a stupid little hobby. i am not looking for criticism. if the story makes you uncomfortable, feel free to block me and move on.
for those following the spin-off: yes, this chapter runs parallel to remedies and reasons chapter 04 ! if you want to see how certain events played out from a different angle, definitely check out the suguru spin-off.
and i want to thank you all for your incredible support. your comments, messages, and theories continue to blow me away. seeing how deeply you connect with this story and catch all the little details i sprinkle throughout brings me so much joy. your thoughtful analyses and wild speculations make writing this stupid story so much fun !! :''))
also a massive thank you to @/nanamis-baker who beta reads all these chaotic chapters, listens to my rambling about plot points, and talks me down whenever i'm convinced everything i write is terrible <3
& second quick note about the alcohol consumption in this story: while it's serve the narrative of the story, please remember that alcohol is toxic to the body and brain, with no "safe" amount. please be mindful of your health and wellbeing.
next chapter we'll be back to our regular pov as we deal with the aftermath of... well, all of this. until then, take care of yourselves ! and as always, thank you for joining me on this chaotic journey and being patient with my slow updates <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here !
THE ETHICS OF RELATIONSHIPS - 'THE PROF GETO SERIES'
INSTRUCTOR INFORMATION
Professor Suguru Geto
Level: Advanced (18+)
Total Points: 91,264 / 91,264 (100% Complete)
Extra Credit Earned: 3,603
Recommended Study Playlist
COURSE DESCRIPTION
Professor Suguru Geto is a renown ethics professor, and you're a 4.0, straight A student whose GPA he's trying to ruin (or that's what you think). Instead of dropping the class, you're more intent on making him see your brilliance -- but you get more than you bargained for, when the two of you learn more about the other -- and what you owe to each other.
COURSE REQUIREMENTS
I. I NEED SOMEONE OLDER....................................10,376 POINTS
II. ILLICIT AFFAIRS......................................................16,821 POINTS
III. THE WRONG PLACE AT THE RIGHT TIME......12,010 POINTS
IV. YOU DREW STARS AROUND MY SCARS.........14,288 POINTS
V. WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE..........................................12,464 POINTS
VI. TEACH YOU HOW FOREVER FEELS…………….25,305 POINTS
EXTRA CREDIT
I. SUDDENLY, I HAVE A VALENTINE.......................1,208 POINTS
II. SAY YOU CAN'T SLEEP (BABY I KNOW).............2,395 POINTS
S I M M Y @symonehubertxoxo - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
