So it was easy to miss the change of staff, your usual doctor's retirement or transfer or whatever happened to her position at this office.
You sat in the waiting room, filled out the forms and handed paperwork in to the receptionist.
Followed a nurse to the exam room, made absentminded smalltalk while your eyes wandered over the changes of decor.
No more grandmotherly florals scattered about the place. Walls were painted several shades darker, with a ceiling to match.
After height, weight and vitals, she left you alone to change. The soft robe slung on and your clothes folded neatly enough to shove in the top of your bag.
You kicked your feet as they dangled from the exam table, wasting time when a knock on the door sounded familiar in a way that sunk through your stomach.
Not much time was given to wonder, as the door opened and your new OBGYN stepped through.
You stared for a second too long. Never thought you'd see him again.
What was your ex doing in gynecology? Of all places?
“So, how are we feeling today?” He pulled out the rolling stool, clicked his pen too many times.
Maybe you didn't miss him after all.
“Any concerns?”
It certainly didn't seem like he missed you.
Introduced himself as if this was a first encounter, sterile and professional and… you wondered if maybe he was putting on a bit. Or had a doppelgänger… a normal twin, you decided, seeing that his badge read Gojo.
White paper crinkled as you laid back for the breast exam, the robe without a rope exposing your chest as your hands hooked behind your head.
Part of you wondered if he'd remember the feeling of your breasts under his fingers. Or maybe they'd changed too much since the last time he touched you.
“You do any self-exams?”
“You don't remember?” You searched for how he could forget. The nights and showers spent together, when you had a ritual of always checking for lumps while standing in the bath and lying in bed. Couldn't sleep without having done it.
But you were just an experiment. Just a plaything to use until he decided that… well, maybe it was your fault to assume it was anything more than just hooking up to blow off steam.
But the way his gaze had cut through you, like he'd seen the depths of your soul and let you dominate him anyway... It certainly felt more intimate, personal and long-term. Felt so promising that you hadn't even craved the words to tell you so.
“Be careful how you speak to me.”
You cocked your head to the side. “Oh, yeah? Doctor?” challenging him to a duel.
“Patient,” he shot back in a still monotone voice. Reminding you of your position or demanding patience, you weren't sure exactly.
So you let out a sharp sigh, stared at the ceiling while his piercing eyes scanned for nipple discharge or discoloration.
“Any pain?”
“Not physically,” you muttered while he stepped behind your head to do the other side.
But emotionally? The feeling of the pads of his fingers— Even beneath the thin gloves, your skin remembered the touch of them. Your soul becoming freshly engraved with it… you could only hope that wouldn't happen.
But your body betrayed you, so wasn't that a sign that it was already too late? Just following the course of a crashing heart?
You were going to have dreams about this moment for weeks, weren't you? The subconscious yearning already beginning to spread and you weren't halfway through the appointment. It wasn't over. But how the hell were you supposed to make the most of this, when he was acting so distant?
And how the hell were you supposed to create distance when your thighs were—
“Okay, no abnormalities there, you can cover them back up,” Gojo said, though he pulled the fabric over for you. Hard nipples undoubtedly pushing dents through it.
For better or worse, the pelvic exam was next.
Not like he hadn't seen it all before. Or felt it. Or—
“I need you to move to the edge of the table,” he spoke.
So you shuffled forward, somehow more nervous now than you had been the first time.
“There's good,” he settled, rolling over the metal tray with a speculum and swabs and whatever else.
Before he could instruct you to move your knees to the side, or use whatever other sterile language that felt uncanny coming from a past lover, you fed your feet into the stirrups.
Grinded your teeth at the air cold between your wet thighs, grateful that at least you couldn't see it glistening in the light.
He started on the outside first, lightly pressing along the vulva. Really, you were impressed with his dexterity, that those lanky gloved fingers didn't slip.
“Do you have any trouble with the speculum?”
“Why don't you find out, pussy-boy?”
A hand clamped over your mouth then, eyes wide. Not sure where that retort came from, besides the immature desperate need for something— anything to penetrate you, especially if it was coming from him.
Your body shook with nervous laughter, trying to contain yourself.
But finally, it sounded like he was holding back a little too, trying to retain composure. Still a goofy freak overflowing with unpredictable antics, beginning to crack through the motions of a monotonous routine.
Wet fart sounds broke the quiet, a bottle of lube squeezing onto the instrument.
It might not have been necessary at this point.
You wondered if he was teasing you, but a glance at his face and it was set in stone.
If only you could ever fucking read this guy.
“Here comes the airplane.”
You looked between your thighs, wondering if you heard that right, but his facial expression was out of sight and something slightly cold and solid was making its way in your vagina, spreading the walls open to provide a full view of the cervix.
He was definitely fucking with you, right? Was this some weird social experiment? Or he's just… always this weird with everyone, ever?
Probably the latter, you told yourself not to think so deeply.
But your mind just wandered to whether he gets hungry looking at them, the resemblance of cervix to donuts. Which might be worse.
Maybe making yourself hungry was the solution. You could go buy yourself some pastries as a consolidation prize.
Or maybe bribe him into seeing you again, if you happen to accidentally order 2 dozen instead of 2 and need someone to share them with… the office would just make sense, wouldn't it?
“Do you want a warning for the pap smear?”
“...Just do whatever,” your eyes rolled, mostly at your own indecision.
Your anatomy was certainly not respecting the boundaries of doctor/patient conduct. Did part of you want his stupid voice to talk you through it? Curious to hear what he'd say?
Yes, or course. But really, you needed to leave this man alone. Maybe download a few dating apps while you stand in line at some bakery.
If he did talk you through it, your own racing thoughts spoke over him. The swab to move lubricant and mucous out of the way and the brushes to collect cervical cells passed by all too quickly.
He broke off the long sticks, closed the vials of liquid the samples were placed into.
“I'll call you with the results in a couple days,” he said like it was still their policy to do that. Maybe he only updated the decor and everything else stayed the same.
At least he still had to feel around your organs. Slip two six-inch fingers in your vagina, press down on your lower abdomen.
“Did you miss it?” The words just fell out again, but this time you pretended not to regret it. Looked to him for some answers that might swim beneath the surface.
Your eyes were so pleading and pathetic.
“What, this?” His fingers crooked cruelly into your sweet spot, weight of his other hand resting on top of your uterus as you did your best to stifle a sound.
“yeah, that,” you caught your breath, while he hummed and slid those fingers in and out. “fuck… I wanted you to fuck me again,” you whispered. “please…” begging him to just make it count, if this had to be the last time. “do you want me?”
Gojo turned to look at the clock, then down at his own crotch. a few little dark spots were showing, a nice outline leading up to them.
“You'd better stay quiet,” he murmured, conviction filling those ungodly blue eyes for once.
You nodded, hair collecting static from the table.
Gojo sighed as he stood, taking the wet hand back and slipping his pants down just enough for his erection to spring free.
Latex dimpled fingerprints into your thighs as he inched himself in to your heat.
A whimpered mix of satisfaction, anticipation escaped your throat. It was quiet enough, you thought.
But one hand wrapped around your throat, and his other tightly covered your mouth. Your ex-whatever and current doctor's body leaned over yours, close almost the way it was before.
Your hands balled into tight fists, hair pulled in the process.
His head pounded deeper in, and you were lucky not to have a painfully sensitive cervix.
But he refused to touch your clit, so swollen and screaming for attention.
He certainly knew how to work it from the inside, but that wasn't tipping your high into a climax…
Gojo sighed, “Still not enough, huh?”
you shook your head under his tight grip.
He leaned closer, breath warm in your ear. “Have you heard the news?” His hand left your throat, slid in to the other cavity. “they hit the second tower.”
His other hand pressed even harder against your lips.
It was for the best. How the hell were you supposed to respond to that?
Not like you could think of one as the pressure built and swirled. You were so close, and he was too occupied to swat your fingers away.
It was easy to reach your own clit, stroking around the head until it all came crashing in, your walls contracting against his length and fingers.
Warmth flooded against your womb, coming down from the moment.
He let go, peeling off the gloves and tossing them on a tray while his dick stilled where it was, plugging you.
“I'm afraid that's all the time we have,” his voice was somehow back to professional. “If you'd like further testing, contraception, or family planning, then we'll see you for a follow-up.” He pulled out then, wiping himself down and putting his equipment away.
“Um, thanks,” you breathed, and the door clicked shut.
A minute or two passed before you forced stiff legs down from the stirrups, stripped off the damp robe for your own clothing.
Only now, your underwear was missing.
He would certainly be hearing from you. but neither of you were getting donuts today.
You squirmed in the driver's seat, wondering if it was already marked.
If he'd had a vasectomy.
If maybe you should see him for IUD insertion next.
No matter how you bent or squat, your fingers just couldn't reach.
“You look paler and clammier than usual,” Sukuna remarked, doing little to lift your mood.
“It's stuck,” the words fell dead in the air. Tears threatened to brim your lashes.
It was late. You lived an hour out from the nearest hospital, its emergency room sure to push you to the back burner. Smaller clinics would be closed for the night.
Just how long had it been in there? Was it making you feel sick, or was that just anxiety?
“Let me see your hand,” you grumbled as he took off the oven mitt, set a timer on his phone.
You held your palm up to his, like a cheap trick attempt at flirting. Your heart skipped a beat because, sure, his fingers were longer, but they were thicker, too… the price to pay for range was pain, you supposed.
And being stripped of all dignity. Embarrassing yourself in front of him.
“Why?” His fingers laced into yours, steadied the shaking hand into your shoulder.
He made you feel small. Maybe this little problem could shrink, too.
You sighed, pressed your forehead into his arm just to hide your face.
“...Can't reach the fucking tampon.”
He laughed. “Fine, I'll help you.”
Stripped down to nothing but a big black t-shirt— his shirt, that he didn't want anymore. Lying on a towel in your own bed.
Maybe you had visions of this happening before, knees pressed to your chest with him in between them— but never like this. It was never meant to be like this.
Just an acquaintance / roommate you lived with for convenience. Friend might be accurate, but he kept to himself a lot. Except for taking up 90% of the kitchen… which was fine. It hid the fact that your cooking couldn't measure up to his.
“You're so tense,” he ran a hand across your forehead. “stop that.”
Sukuna noticed the way you'd always been attracted to him. but you had the decency to try to hide it. Which made living with you easy.
Even if you were stupid and nervous, you'd never thrown yourself at him.
And you really were dry with anxiety.
You closed your eyes, tried to calm down with slow deep breaths.
He pushed one finger in, swept it to the side. And just… stayed there.
“Pressure on these muscles tells them to relax,” he explained before switching to the other side and doing the same. At least he spared you a vaginismus allegation.
“Doing okay?”
“Yeah.” You threw an arm over your eyes, though his expression had looked down-to-earth, focused and not judgemental, you couldn't help the burn on your cheeks at being seen like this.
You almost told him to keep going.
Worried about how long this was going to take, getting your body to open up for him. That some tearing was worth it, if it got you out of toxic shock syndrome…
But you couldn't. Not when just keeping your mouth shut was savoring the feeling of one calloused hand gripping your thigh and the other inside… even if this was the least sensual context imaginable.
So you waited for him to finally explore further.
and it's such a tease when you want to feel him deep, but in reality? Pushing cotton further into your cervix wasn't it.
You wondered if this would be the last time, if he'd ever touch you again while his fingers swirled around in search of your #1 enemy.
“There's nothing in here,” Sukuna pulled out and cleaned his hand on the towel.
“What?”
“Why did you think there was? …Does it feel that way?”
You finally met his eyes, searching for the shadow of a prank. There was none.
“I guess not… but there hasn't been blood all day.”
A relieved laugh, “That happens sometimes.”
“On the third day?”
Sukuna hummed in affirmation, all too amused at your anxiety.
“Not to me,” you scoffed, turning your head to the side.
Would it be cruel to ask for a second opinion? From someone who at least had a speculum?
But if it was there, at least one of you should have felt it. Were there other symptoms? Your forehead certainly wasn't burning.
You sat up, trying to make sense of it.
There was hardly a smudge of red on the towel.
“If I get sepsis, you're paying for my funeral,” you grumbled while standing up to put some clothes back on.
They weren't on your dresser, though.
“Over here,” Sukuna held them out at arm's length.
“Thanks,” you blushed like him seeing your underwear was the most scandalous thing to happen. As if you didn't share a laundry room already.
You were too late.
Lifting a leg to step into them, catching yourself on the dresser just to see red drip down your ankle.
You froze, wondering why there was even carpet in this room. Some previous owner thought it was a good idea. You disagreed.
“Kuna??”
You didn't know what to expect.
For him to laugh at you, say that he was right. Maybe throw the towel so you could clean yourself up, a little too hard.
Not to appear at your feet and lick a stripe up your leg, sucking clots up from the plush of your thigh.
“Shit, what are you doing?” You breathed, realizing your hand was in his hair. A bruise would bloom purple.
His phone alarm rang out from the kitchen counter.
“Someone has to do the cooking and cleaning around here,” he teased, finally passing you the towel on his way out.
The timer shut off, as well as the oven. You heard the sound of a pan being dragged out of it.
Finally clothed, you slunk out to see what he made this time, refusing to go to bed bleeding and hungry.
He was already in the living room, food set on the coffee table and some foreign movie on the TV. Nodded at you to join him.
“Freak,” you muttered, sinking into the old couch and wincing at the squish of blood.
“Idiot,” he grinned.
But soon, his arm was around your shoulder and you leaned into his chest. A throw blanket over your legs and eyelids getting heavy.
a/n: the draft originally had sukuna let reader come around his fingers, but the slow burn energy felt so much better sorry. if anyone rly wants it, then mayyybe I'll post a second version (if you wondered why a stuck tampon fic would have 2 endings, this is it lmfao). if it's on ao3 then it'd just be posted as the second chapter. ok bye <3
Gynecologist Gojo x Ex reader if you want something similar (and actual smut I promise)
features: our OBGYN / live-in fwb Satoru Gojo, best friend (with benefits) ICU nurse Suguru Geto, L&D nurse Utahime Iori, and her OBGYN bestie Shoko <3
contains: mdni! piv, dildo, pregnancy, childbirth, Satoru is kind of a menace, idk if this needs a baby fever warning for readers but damn it got me, if you need more specific warnings on this kind of thing pls ask! vanishing twin syndrome, medical stuff but it's chill,
It helped that you knew twins and the parent who raised them. But Suguru couldn’t have the answer to everything.
Like, what if you can’t tell them apart? Your own children might have the same face, the same hair. And he’d never taken care of babies or toddlers, except for maybe some time spent in the NICU or…
Questions spinning in your mind fell apart when you saw spotting.
Satoru was eating a blue popsicle when you found him, his eyes latched onto you immediately. Was it that obvious something was off?
“I think it’s a miscarriage,” you mumbled, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen counter.
You picked up an orange to keep your hands busy peeling it.
“Why do you think that?” He sat down across from you.
It was weird, reciting symptoms to your obstetrician who listened intently while trying not to let breakfast melt into sticky blue puddle. It was too late, and he licked the mess off his wrist as you confessed to bleeding.
“Spotting happens sometimes,” he said easily, like you had nothing to worry about. But with the uterine cramps, the back pain, it was too much like a full period. Wasn’t it? That meant miscarriage.
It was still early. No one even knew you were pregnant, only Suguru had seen the ultrasound.
I don’t think I’m having twins anymore.
Not this time, at least.
You broke the news over text. Even if it was over nothing, you had to confide in someone. He deserved to know before Nanako and Mimiko figured out you were expecting.
The next ultrasound showed you were half right.
Only one figure showed on the screen, an empty space where the other had been.
Gojo’s arm was long enough to point at the screen while you held onto his free hand, while the sonographer’s wand kept prodding in your vagina.
“What happened to it?”
Getting spirited away was freaky enough. Worse when it happened in your own body. Like a ghost just ate the embryo.
“It’s absorbed. That happens a lot, at least a third of the time. Most people don’t get ultrasounds so early, so they wouldn’t know.”
He should ramble more often.
You bit your lip. Why didn’t he say that earlier?
“You’re still in the first trimester. So it won’t cause complications.” He grabbed a rough tissue and cleaned the gel off of your abdomen. It had been a lost cause, since you didn’t have the self control to keep a full bladder for the exam. Intravaginal images were supposed to be clearer anyway, right?
“Can you fuck me stupid?”
He just woke up a few minutes ago. And you were starting to have contractions. Or something.
You were trying not to freak out over every little change, and there had been a lot of them. This was just one more thing to be expected. The early ones that droned on for days before anything significant happened.
But you were still nervous. And betting on him to extinguish the nerves.
“Hmm? Yeah,” Satoru stood up and stretched for a minute while you watched, already topless and soft baggy pants slung low on his hips.
Then he grabbed your thighs to drag you down to the foot of the bed, shoved pillow underneath your hips.
He placed a forearm across your shoulders, pinned to the mattress while he kissed your mouth and stretched you out.
You parted your lips for him, let his drool run down the back of your throat as he worked up to three fingers swirling inside your cunt, pushing in deep while you pulled at his waistband.
He took a note from Suguru and asked you to be patient while he undid the drawstrings and stepped out of his pj pants.
Squeezed around your neck, sucked on your lip while he slid inside.
Clawed at your swollen breasts, occasionally sucking from your nipples, stroking just where you needed him, until the fact that this might be his last taste of pregnant pussy became an afterthought. Fuck whatever came next, all that existed was this moment.
Even when he looked down on you and said “You’re doing so good for me. Can you keep this up?” The only thing on your mind was more sex. Not getting a good grade on labor and delivery.
He pulled out to fuck you with a strap instead, something bigger than himself.
You moaned at the stretch, left scratches down his back, pulled him in further.
He chuckled low when you came around it, as if he wasn’t running a hand meaningfully over your erection, quickly unbuckling the strap to feel you around his own dick again. Soaked and tented around him, hardly registering the words he spoke against your lips, only the slap of his thighs and the sweetness of his breath as your walls clenched back down around him.
The second wave built and crashed hard, fluttering around him while Satoru kept fucking you through it, dragged his thumb across your bottom lip, the other one tight around your wrist.
You almost writhed with overstimulation when he pulled out, warmth coating your abdomen.
“Why…?”
“Guess I’m shy about that,” he pulled a corner of the fitted sheet up and wiped his cum from your skin with it.
Satoru kissed your temple, pushed his hand back in your gaping hole. You wanted to believe he was solely feeling around for how stretched out you were because it was hot or amusing. But you were pretty sure he was also checking your cervix. After all, it could change positions…
“I need a shower.”
Satoru helped you get there. Your legs felt like jello, but at least you could sit down.
He changed the sheets, cleaned the dildo.
You let the hot water melt your shoulders, convince the part of you that was so ready to not be pregnant anymore come out on top.
Sometime this week, it would be over.
“Have you been timing them?”
Satoru stepped into the shower, turned on the second head.
“The contractions.”
“Um… No,” you rested your arms on the back of the shower chair.
Watched the way that water clung to and fell off his body.
Breathed in his sugar cookie scented soaps.
Groaned when he shut off all of the water.
“Does it hurt?” He started to dry your back with a towel.
“I prefer to be lazy after sex.” And to believe it was still only Braxton-Hicks contractions, nothing worth measuring.
Satoru let you lay around at home, though every position was recommended for impending childbirth.
His lips pressed to your forehead, a reminder that you can’t plan for it. All you could do was take life as it comes, and let everyone who knew what to do concerning every variable be the ones to worry about it.
You spent another fifteen minutes stretching, thinking that your water hasn’t even broken yet. You would feel it, right?
Satoru thought I was worth leaving before that happened. You pulled on something disposable that would contain it, hopefully.
The sky was overcast, blue hour’s glow illuminating it anyway. His car hardly slowed over the railroad tracks.
Satoru squinted at you for a second, then turned back to the road.
“What?”
He sniffled, “I think your water broke.”
“Huh?”
He reached one arm over, pulled the waistband away.
“I was right."
“How do you know?”
He wasn’t even looking.
“I can smell these things,” he smiled, looked to you with his wild hair fluttering from cracked windows.
You thought he was joking. Put a finger down to test it yourself.
It was only a trickle, but the liquid on your finger didn’t smell familiar.
“Fuck, that’s weird,” you smothered it with hand sanitizer while he laughed at you.
Suguru was already in the parking lot, leaning against his car.
Maybe it was insane and wrong to have done any of this at all.
You were siphoning Satoru’s support system because you didn’t have your own. Afraid of getting close to anyone because they could be lost.
They had a way of sucking you in, though.
You took Satoru’s hand getting out of his car, the packed bag slung over his shoulder.
“Can you walk?” Suguru had a wheelchair waiting.
The contractions weren’t that bad, you were just out of your depth. A million possibilities that you couldn’t plan for. That it was best to stay oblivious of.
“Thanks,” you grabbed the handles and walked behind it. Knowing that you wouldn’t be leaving on your own two feet.
Grippy socks were always humbling.
Satoru first set up fake candles, complained that they couldn’t be real, and turned off the overhead fluorescents.
He was looking forward to that for months, pressing about trivial things like sound and lighting, which Lila gown you wanted.
At least you had a gown that made more sense than the hospital’s. It was easy to close or open for breastfeeding and your ass wasn’t hanging out. Easy to open the back for an epidural or part below the chest, too. But you felt less like a patient and more like being dragged into a social event with their coworkers.
Suguru took it upon himself to braid your hair back. Something you’d overlooked, not a glance thrown to a mirror before you left.
It was too late to worry that you should have entertained his suggestions of getting a birth doula or a midwife.
Having more people in the room just sounded overstimulating and stressful.
You still felt that way.
And besides, you’d taken him up on the pelvic floor therapy, you’d gone to classes on birth and breathing and breastfeeding, so… you were ready for this. Right?
A nurse draped your hand over the bedside, warmed and tapped the veins. You knew better than to watch, turned your head to the other side where Suguru sat down.
“Are you scared?” His voice was calm, transparent. Not teasing this time, resting his hand on top of your free one.
“I’m always scared.”
“You need a doctor, baby? You scared?” Satoru whispered, leaning over you, his forearm on the hospital bed.
“Shit, need to change my gloves.” he got up and slipped back into professional mode like that never happened.
“Do you get that reference?” Suguru asked quietly, and you couldn’t help but laugh.
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Do I even need to be here if you’re going to do everything, Gojo?” Utahime asked.
She pushed the IV through at the same time, while you were distracted.
“You’re doing great. I’m only yelling at him,” she spoke to you sweetly, checking for blood return and pressing down the dressing when it was all hooked up, the initial pinch fading away.
“Well, it’s your job. But I don’t mind taking over,” Satoru slapped on a fresh glove. “Can I check your cervix?”
You opened your legs for him, still sensitive from before, even if it was only one or two fingers this time.
A couple of belts were set up across your abdomen, wired to a screen of waveforms. The baby’s heart rate and your contractions. Maybe other things that Utahime was reading, but went over your head.
You looked to Suguru, wondered how he was taking all of this. If he’d been through a delivery before, or really even wanted to be.
If Satoru, and you, dragged him out to lots of things.
His eyes were resting, dark circles under them. Must have interrupted his time off.
“Oh, you’re gonna hate me,” Satoru smiled with his hand inside you.
“What? Why?”
You looked to Suguru, who was giving him a scolding look that went unnoticed.
“Sukuna held my hand first. Also… he doesn’t want to let go.”
“I’m holding both of you, idiot,” you rolled your eyes.
Satoru pouted like that wasn’t fair, but you didn’t kick him out.
Waited for the baby to let go, for your cervix to get an actual measurement, and get back to your next laboring position.
“Oh. Hold on, I gotta take a dump,” you grabbed the bedside rail to lift yourself up.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Satoru held you back.
“You want me to shit on the floor? The bed?”
“If that’s what feels right. Yeah.”
You scoffed.
“It’s probably not just poop,” Utahime reasoned. “It feels like that when the baby’s coming.”
“That’s what you’re worried about? Everyone in this room has been in our butts.”
“But that’s not—”
“Those two clean poo every day. Show me what that hole can do.”
Utahime rolled her eyes at him, but explained why bowel movements were a good sign. That most mothers get lied to by nurses who pretend that poop didn’t happen, when it’s supposed to.
Everything you learned felt like it had slipped under the ocean. Being reminded would drag them back to the surface. How to breathe, when to push, it was running on muscle memory and doing what you were told.
It became like a trance, rocking on hands and knees, your eyes closed and the world submerged, voices passing through but their words unprocessed. Until they told you to stop pushing.
You felt Utahime and Suguru’s hands reposition your body, legs into a deeper stretch, further down the bed.
You tried not to lose focus, to stay in that sort of flow state, keep breathing well and let the voices pass through, the SHOULDER and SHOKO and footsteps on the tile, following their lead until a small cry cut through.
“Just one more push to get the placenta out,” Utahime encouraged.
A groan of relief slipped and then that was out, too. Stray hairs were plastered to your face, dewy with sweat and maybe tears.
You tried to collect yourself, to come back into the moment. The flickering candlelight, the fading music, the voice of the baby who’d knit together in your womb.
Your elbows felt stapled to the hospital bed, only able to roll onto your back with Suguru’s help. He opened the gown away from your chest before taking his seat again.
Satoru appeared showed you the child, how his eyes were already open with that fleeting black-eyed-kid stare, and gently placed him on your skin. He announced that shoulder dystocia was navigated without episiotomy or injury. Like he’d gotten a good grade on your birth plan for not cutting into your vagina with a scalpel.
“Awwh, your head feels weird,” you hardly recognized your own voice, or the shape of that tiny skull. Soft plates not fused yet to navigate the birth canal.
“Give him some time to finish baking,” Satoru sat on Suguru’s lap in the chair next to you.
You felt for Sukuna’s little palm, one tightly curling around your finger. Why are babies so strong? His nails were sharp, too.
“Did he pierce your glove?”
Satoru laughed, “His nails are impressive, aren’t they?”
“We should get a picture before they’re cut.”
His phone was already out, with too many pictures, most of them too blurry to see.
“Ow, fuck” you cursed yourself when Sukuna bit onto your areola. He didn’t even have teeth, but opened his mouth wide like a dinosaur when you weren’t paying attention.
“The latch looks good. How’re you feeling?” Utahime adjusted your arm slightly to support him better.
“Like there’s still contractions.”
“That’s good. It’s the uterus returning to its usual state.”
It seemed like nine months’ worth of periods all in one night.
“So? What do you want to eat?” Satoru asked, ready to order anything.
“It’s past midnight,” Suguru pointed out.
You had hopes and dreams for less than three seconds. “Food, I guess.”
“We’ll figure something out.” Satoru pulled some stuff out of the duffel bag, said he’d check the break room.
He always took cravings seriously. Heard you out on every single one, threw it together, tried it himself, ranked them on a spreadsheet probably.
He even ordered a metal speculum to heat up and fill foods with other foods. It was… actually, it was really nice. Unconventional combinations seemed like five-star meals. Or crackship hot pockets.
You asked for a shower when they took Sukuna for measurements.
“Not by yourself, you’re not.” Utahime clamped off the IV and helped you bathe.
Birth was so messy. All the blood, the fluid, the smells, apparently normal. You were supposed to get up for a piss every 2-3 hours, so the peri bottle would make it easier to wash off whatever else inevitably came out.
“Did that idiot even buy you a ring first?” She asked while you got dried off and got dressed.
You shook your head, “Weddings are bad luck.”
“Oh. I see.” She rolled in a wheelchair, ready to move into the room you were going to sleep in.
If you could.
Satoru kept pressing on your abdomen. You thought he would get over it, that it couldn’t still be this interesting.
“Could you stop?” you swatted his hand away, wishing someone had left a fidget spinner on the windowsill or something.
No such luck. His fingers dug into you again, your hand on his wrist no match for his strength.
“Satoru.” You glared at him, refusing to let go.
“Fuck. Oh, you’re going to hate me. Like, for real this time.” He finally kept his hands to himself. “Hey!Utahime!”
“You could at least try sounding like a doctor.”
“Doctor Gojo orders a Fundal massage.”
“So do it yourself,” she scoffed.
“Nah… I’d rather not bear the grudge for it.”
She sighed, felt around while you searched her eyes.
“Do you know what this is?”
You didn’t know anything. Just that it hurt.
“Okay. Fundus is the top of your uterus. We want the uterus to shrink, or else it bleeds.
Massage is misleading. It will feel like I want to hurt you. But this is better than hemorrhaging, I promise.”
You should have done your research. Should have read more books. Shouldn’t have assumed that he was only using your vacant womb for a stim toy.
“Sorry to expose you again, but we need to see what comes out. It might be a good time to put some music on.”
“I know you’re scared,” Suguru took your hand. The one you broke before, the one that didn’t have the IV in it now. “Keep breathing.”
Sukuna was bundled in his other arm. He pushed play on your phone, while Satoru moved the blanket and locked into whatever was happening between your legs.
“I’ll try not to hate you for it,” you grimaced before her cold hand touched you again.
You felt like a fool for thinking that labor pains were over.
You focused on your breath, on the music, on not breaking Suguru’s hand or rebreaking your own. On trying to be calm and not make Sukuna cry.
“Okay. It’s done, but we’ll have to keep checking on it.”
The door was closing behind her as you wiped the tears from your eyes.
“Do you want to see the blood? It has some chunks of placenta,” Gojo asked before throwing it away.
You weren’t good enough at keeping the pain inside. Crying was contagious.
“I’m sorry, baby.” You reached out while Suguru handed him over, the bed sitting up from Satoru’s control.
He gravitated to your nipple. At least you could offer some comfort food.
Giving birth was exhausting. But at least Sukuna seemed to be recovering, his skull shape already becoming less alien.
“I thought his hair was just covered in placenta stuff, but… Is it pink?”
“It might get darker as he grows up. But white hair is kind of hard to achieve.”
There was a dark edge to Satoru’s voice, like he didn’t want to remember something. You wouldn’t press.
But knowing the family history of your child felt important.
You supposed anything medically relevant was already documented.
Utahime came bearing snacks the next time she entered the room.
“Thanks,” you smiled weakly.
“Did he teach you how to find it?”
She did. Said it could hurt less if you gently prodded the fundus in between their checks.
“Don’t ever let that guy be a teacher,” she said as he came back in the room. She put a finger to her lips and walked past him.
“Satoru.”
“Hmm?”
“Anything else I need go know?”
He hummed, rubbed his chin. Then pointed that finger at you, “Sex ban for six weeks!”
“That’s it?”
“At least! And nothing else goes in there either. Infection risk, even for tampons and menstrual cups,” He sat up on the chair like a frog.
Yeah, you were grateful for Utahime.
“You are way too energetic right now,” you muttered. “Don’t wake him up.” You nodded to the couch Suguru was laying on.
Satoru cocked his head, like he would know better than you what Suguru could sleep through.
“Go find something to do.”
“Fine, fine.” He groaned like an old man standing up, stretched his arms, and walked out of the room.
You guessed he was fitting some dad stereotypes already. And while it felt shameful to admit, you were fucking relieved that he wouldn’t be the only father figure.
You didn’t want to push a burden on Suguru.
Asked him what he really felt while you laid in his bed, body swelling with the pregnancy, Satoru too busy with work to be worth living in his apartment.
“It takes a village to raise a child,” he answered easily, drawing the blankets up over your shoulder. “And if it doesn’t, that village burns down.”
Most of the people he considered family lived overseas. Oceans of distance seemed to protect his daughters from whatever they’d escaped from, until it was safe to settle down here.
They were excited for the baby, but any change could feel that way until realizing it wasn’t what you wanted, not forever.
You wanted the child to be wanted.
But if anyone said “I love you” just to make him say it back, you would throw hands.
“I’ll bring in Shoko,” Utahime rubbed her temples. “She is technically your doctor, but since Gojo is… He can do whatever he wants.”
“What is he?”
“The best at what he does,” she rolled her eyes. “Do not tell him I ever admit that. Pinky promise me.”
You locked fourth fingers with her, then she went to find your assigned doctor.
“So, how are you feeling?” Shoko kicked a rolling stool over to the bedside, looking up from the clipboard after she sat down.
“Tired. I don’t know.”
“I heard Utahime tortured you.”
You tried to readjust, made a do you want to hold him gesture.
“Gojo sucks at explaining stuff in layman’s terms,” she took Sukuna, “So do I. But she’s great. You’re doing fine. Fundal massage is the worst part, anyway… Is that Geto?”
“Yeah.”
You didn’t know he was still awake.
“Haven’t seen you in a while. Still ICU?"
Suguru hummed.
“Stronger than me,” Shoko remarked. “Get some sleep if you can. I gave him something to do.”
tags: don't have to know canon or omegaverse lore, but starting w ch. 1 will explain everything, identity crisis, depressive episode, talk of oviposition/pregnancy/loss, Sylus has little bedside manner
Ao3 if you prefer
“What this? You’re nesting? Going into heat soon?”
He poked your side with a staff when you still wouldn’t answer.
Your soul felt like dead weight when he last carried you home from work.
And after that, you hadn’t left your bed. Not even for a different one.
Kept a blanket over your face, unable to look at the flowers he’d brought for you. Probably in attempt to stamp out the sting he felt from the bond.
He saved your life just to be tortured by it. So long as your heart kept beating.
“I don’t need my soul anymore.”
“I don’t want it either. Its taste would be pathetic.”
“Do I smell bad, too?”
“Hmm? What is this about?”
You broke down, the pressure of tears building in your skull. Tried to suppress it with a sniffle, rubbed the cartilidge of your nose that healed in its melted shape.
Every goddamn thing you smelled since getting burned was just a phantom in your head. Psychosomatic ghosts.
They nearly misled you into incorrectly treating a patient.
Maybe you did, some earlier time when no one was there to catch the mistake.
How the fuck could you be a good omega without scent awareness? A doctor? A parent?
Stuck in eternal sensory deprivation without even knowing it. Maybe hurting innocent people as a result. Betas who trained for years and enhanced their sense of smell might fill in your absence. It was better than nothing, better than the fractal you’d become.
Resigned to leave a letter on the desk in apology and… left. Wandered the familiar brick-lain streets under dull lamplight— you knew, objectively, that the light was dull. That it hadn’t changed, the flames were the same as ever, but each post felt like a spotlight on your face until he showed up.
You climbed on without a word, numbed yourself to the heat of his chest, afraid to shatter and sob into it. He didn’t say anything either, but you could feel the vibration of grumbles under his breath. Perhaps lucky that the bond only went one way. Whatever Sylus felt was not your business.
Maybe it would be, if you bit him back someday, left a mark on his scent patch. One that you’d never be able to sense, not in the future not in the past. Every judgment you made on his character came from… What? Your heart? The brain? Just gambling with your life, because it was almost over when you met. Twice, within the first… Hours, at most. Or maybe you were wrong about that.
It had ended there. Before you even arrived to the abyss. It ended beneath white spires, with a white candle beneath your nose, wrists bound to a white pillar. All symbols of the blank slate of nothing it had made you there.
They shamed you for your scent glands. Removed the patch with no ointment, no ritual, just a harsh and sudden tear.
The last scent you would ever know was that of your own pain.
No wonder the mark hurt so bad and flared up so awful that he couldn’t sleep. The membrane was already raw, given no time to heal, no medicine or bandage or anything.
At least that healed by now. But you couldn’t even judge your own health by it, couldn’t tell whether a scent patch stopped working. He poked you again.
“Your omega identity sounds fragile. What’s the point of it?”
“Go away.”
You buried yourself further under the covers, away from whatever dragon logic or existential crisis he was spewing.
You had enough of that on your own.
Had nothing to fucking plan ahead for. Nothing to worry about anymore. You weren’t even a functional omega, could never measure up to a dragon mother. The egg would falter and eject itself in pieces. Or it absorbed into nothing already.
It didn’t matter whether Sylus wanted to ever hatch a child.
You heard his groan, but the sound was foggy and distant.
Days passed with no sign of your dragon. You didn’t count them.
He might have other homes, far enough to find asylum from the bond.
Maybe the instinct to stay close disappeared as his egg disintegrated.
Maybe he gave up on you, a soul forever bitter, unaware of its own taste.
The least you could do was leave this place presentable for when he did eventually return to it. Clear away the evidence of your depression, washing the sheets, clothes you had been wearing for maybe weeks on end, and yourself.
But, really… There was no safe way down, not that you could find. The options were to jump — with your luck that meant surviving with more injuries, or to stay and inevitably rot in the area. Eventually become one more skeleton to display in a pit of gold.
So you went back to bed, feeling utterly abandoned. By yourself, by every dream and desire you once had.
Surrounded by his things, you still couldn’t smell the person who saved you. It was infuriating, nerves numbed to even pass the time yearning.
“A gift.”
You thought you were hearing things, like the way you’d been smelling phantoms. But turning your head from where palms pressed into your eyes proved otherwise.
“May I sit there?”
He waited to join you on the mattress, to place something bigger than his head into your hands.
“This might have some answers for you.”
Smooth and round, patterns engraved into the old shell, texture almost like volcanic rock. No… It reminded you of bone. And the moon.
“This is…”
“A mummy. Petrified egg, abandoned before it was ready to hatch. I was able to locate more of them, so don’t worry about splicing for your tests.”
“Oh…” It no longer felt relevant to you. But learning from this without endangering anyone could give your life purpose… or not. The taste of grief was dense.
“Why do you sound uncertain?”
“Can I take these down to research with others?”
“Be my guest. But if what you really need is a microscope and a nose, I can get them for you.”
Did you really have the ambition? This unheard of opportunity might be wasted on you.
“If they won’t believe the truth, then just say you’re a distant scholar or something.”
Sylus scoffed. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was boring.
probably the smut-heaviest one, I love them so much
contains: hand injury (no graphic details), soaking, threesome, improper use of speculum, breeding kink, Satoru Gojo x reader, satosugu x reader, possessive Gojo, premature ejaculation, piv sex (protected and unprotected), pulling out, fingering, oral,
Ao3 if you prefer
“What do you mean it's broken?”
You squinted at the x-ray like it was swapped with someone else's. Because how was your hand fractured in several places? It didn't seem that bad.
You were going to walk it off and continue life as usual, but Suguru cut your session with him short.
Insisted on going to the hospital.
So you rolled your eyes in the ER’s waiting room, complained about him being so dramatic. Asked if that's what had Satoru so obsessed with him. Sure, your hand was swelling up and discolored, but it was like… bruised.
He looked between you and the X-ray with a petty smirk that said I was right.
“Fuck off,” you huffed, realizing you weren't getting out of there without a cast. A mark of your hubris for all to see for weeks on end, at least. It could be a few months.
“Don't tell him,” you stared Suguru down while the elevator doors opened.
You didn't realize someone was already in there.
“Give me your jacket,” you whispered at him, tugging on the fabric.
He played your game just for his own amusement. But it was better than being a snitch.
The cast showed a little through his sleeve, bulkier than the other arm, so you tucked it into your side.
“Planning a surprise?” Gojo asked, glancing over from a game on his phone.
“Um, yeah,” you improvised. “Can't show you. It's bad luck.”
But Suguru was your ride to the hospital, and it made more sense for Gojo to drive you home. So you bundled his jacket in the parking lot, shoved it into his chest.
You couldn't actually be mad at him. But the way he knew that made you wish it wasn't true.
You sank into Gojo's passenger seat, where closing the car door felt like putting yourself in a fish tank, and asked nonchalantly how his day was.
“Fine, just surgeries that—” he turned his phone off and looked at your cast.
“Go on,” you poked his cheek like that would unpause this android.
“...How bad is it?”
You sighed, looked out the window.
Flocks of birds were taking off from the parking lot, eating stray fries, landing on the lampposts that were beginning to light.
“It doesn't hurt.” Actually, it was still numb from a local anesthetic given before realigning the bones.
“Come over?"
You accepted the invitation. Thought you could impress him with your cooking to distract him from asking what happened.
But he was already having takeout delivered to his house, so instead you got lucky enough to find out that even feeding yourself was disorienting. Why did you have to crush your dominant hand?
It felt like playing with fire. You were going to be engulfed in the flames eventually. But it was less embarrassing than fumbling for coordination to just let him fill in the gaps and take care of you.
The roles felt reversed. It wasn't… a bad taste. Just weird. It felt fleeting, a little blip that would soon be forgotten or haunt you for decades. Time would tell. Or maybe you'd slip and die the next time.
“Do you need to be somewhere tomorrow?” He asked when you were already dressed in his pj's, dipping your fingers into his expensive skincare products. “I'll drive you.”
He didn't ask where do you want to sleep, or offer up his bed. Just expected hoped you'd share it.
As if you ever slept separately.
“Which side?”
“Any,” he set up a couple of extra pillows for your hand.
Came back with an ice pack and thin towel to keep the cast dry. You were supposed to keep it above your heart to reduce swelling.
The cast was bulky, noisy and clumsy against your chest. You wished you could just tear it off. Still half-convinced this was a prank set up by Suguru to get you back in—
“Is the pain keeping you up?”
“No, it's this fucking cast—”
“Oh,” he realized. “Do you… want me to do it?”
“Yeah,” you relented.
Skipping the showerly breast exam and the one you did lying in bed every night left racing thoughts to spiral. They were illogical, you knew that, but couldn't convince your own brain it was so. That something really, really bad wasn't definitely going to happen if you skipped the ritual.
“Shit, your hands are cold,” you gasped when they pulled up your his shirt and his knuckles brushed your side.
“Sorry, I fit the stereotype.”
Still, your tension released under his icy touch.
When he laid back down you rolled over to kiss his face, then fell asleep on his chest. His arms wrapped around you like they belonged there.
Why did it feel so easy? So routine like you'd lived together all this time?
Why did it take overestimating your athleticism and underestimating the injury to get here?
Why did it feel right for you to lay on his chest, to let him wash your hair, to act so domestic and taken care of?
It was built on sand and wouldn't last. Cracks would fall through the pavement by the time your cast was off.
But you still wanted to see where this would go. To not preemptively cut yourself out of his portrait this time. So you kind of moved in, temporarily.
More like, Suguru was visiting his family overseas and invited you to cat-sit. Satoru knew everything they needed, but you had more free time to spend with them.
His schedule was a wreck. It would flip, or he'd work 24 hour shifts, or get called in.
Your day off was spent reading Suguru's books on plants, enough to know the ones behind a glass case were doing well. And cleaning the house, finding out just how much two cats can shed in a week.
But even after that, you hardly spent time in your own apartment.
Moved your appointments to fit his schedule.
Had quiet, sleepy sex when the nerves kept you both up at night. Clung to each other with more skin on skin than before. Wore less and less clothes to bed, or at home in general as time went on.
Left marks that would last for weeks, that would hide under work clothes. Matching bite marks on bruised thighs. Fading purple that tried to say forget me not.
Or maybe you were just having fun. Liked the way his fingers dug into your scalp and his breath changed while you marked him. It wasn't that deep.
“Check your pockets before returning my clothes next time,” Suguru glanced between you and Satoru while his keys clattered onto the counter.
You hadn't even heard the door open.
Maybe through the grace of a throw blanket, it would look like you were just laying on him and his dick wasn't nestled deep in your cunt.
“Oops,” Satoru scratched his head, hardly trying to keep a pokerface despite the way you were throbbing around him.
The clothes that were thrown carelessly on the floor.
The way his other hand was stretched gently across the bottom of your neck, trying to get you to lose patience first so he could win the game.
“Invite him to stay,” you whispered into Satoru's ear, preying on his weakness.
“Suguru… you should stay,” he choked out.
“You want me to jump on the couch?”
Neither of you had the guts to turn it down. Soaking wasn't something you'd tried before.
“This has got to be a myth,” you muttered with Satoru's arm tight across your chest and his ankles holding yours down.
“No, it's real,” he insisted.
“Well, it sucks.” Or maybe needed to be done on a spring mattress?
Suguru kept his arms crossed, gazing down at the two of you with that mildly amused smile on his face, one you had to squint to see in dim light flickered from the TV screen.
The sofa was big and sturdy enough to handle his weight, but it didn't have a great bounce to it. Which only left you teary-eyed and more frustrated, burning from the chest down.
You were ready to break first. Gojo was the one who liked edging. It felt like anger and despair to you.
Suguru had evil plans.
“Let me tell him what happened,” a glance to your bad hand, “And I'll go down on you.”
You nodded, and he pulled the disheveled blanket away, leaned down to the connection between you and Satoru. The heat of his breath on your clit, the warmth of his mouth finally on it… If you could manage not to move your hips, you could still win this competition.
Lucky for you, he pushed your thighs back, knees against Satoru's chest, held so securely in place that it was a guaranteed victory.
Unless your rival was also able to keep himself still.
Gojo had you in a chokehold, but you put your own hand over your mouth before he could.
“Can I come in you?” His voice was hoarse in your ear.
“What?” You turned your head, too late to answer.
He pulled out abruptly, Suguru's tongue moving down to taste where he'd been.
Maybe the soft locks tickling his thighs had sent him over, or the tongue flicking down to where he stalled in you.
“Guess that means it's my turn?” Suguru asked before feeling the gap with his fingers. Already stretched out, soaked, sensitive and desperate.
You pulled his hair, not sure where you wanted to drag him to. Was a kiss too intimate? Was his mouth on your clit again too needy?
He leaned in close, “I have condoms. If you want that.”
“Spit in my mou— uh, yeah,” you asked for it.
“I guess that's your prize for winning.”
You swallowed his spit as he sank into your heat. You clawed at his hips for more, while Satoru would be leaving handprints on your skin.
“Can I have it back?” Suguru asked, his hair falling around your face like a curtain.
He initiated the kiss, hands running across your body until they groped your beasts. His tongue traced around your mouth, getting to know it and you until you broke out for air. There could be a Satoru-shaped impression on the couch from the way he kept fucking you into it.
“Fuck, I'm—”
“I know,” he pressed a kiss on your lips as the orgasm finally crashed, like one giant boulder after watching a rockslide.
He finished in the condom, pressed one last kiss to your forehead as he pulled out and checked that it hadn't broken.
Coming down, you were covered in sweat. Your own, theirs, and Satoru's cum mixed in on your back too.
“You okay?” Your hand found his face.
“Mm-hm,” he squeezed you tighter.
You forgot about what Suguru was getting out of this.
Why he wanted to tell the story, you couldn't comprehend.
It was just that you'd gone to him for martial arts training to find some way to impress Gojo. You hadn't pinned him down for a long time, and wanted it to be something new.
When he asked your skill level, you said that you didn't know. But you could always take him.
What you didn't realize was how much better he'd become.
Guessed it made sense, though, with the way they'd spent so much time together after reuniting… It was as long as you'd been gone.
Suguru wasn't the type to go easy on students, but you didn't expect the lesson to be so intense. To have a warmup include climbing over walls, which it turned out, was not a skill you possessed.
You wouldn't let him drive you to see a doctor. Said you'd just walk back home and put ice on it if he was so worried.
Only agreed to entertain his concerns after he taught you a new takedown.
Which was soon forgotten.
Part of you hoped that Suguru would come up with a better story. But you could not be around to listen to that conversation.
You had to ask eventually, or it would eat you alive.
Was he disappointed when the test came back negative?
“I'd do it,” Gojo shrugged, “If you want that.”
Despite offering options on whether to plan for a baby or terminate the pregnancy… he wasn't going to deny it.
“Do you want kids?” His head tilted slightly, waiting for your answer.
It wasn't like you didn't want them. It just hadn't been a dream that you carried around lately.
Being a single parent wasn't within your means, and there weren't any partners who had you imagining more.
If you did have kids, then… he was perfect, wasn't he? Somehow held onto generational wealth despite managing to cut ties with his family. You didn't know the history there, had never spotted a single clue about his childhood.
For all you could tell, he didn't remember anything before high school. Worked hard to enough to keep the bulk of those funds locked away, or maybe invested. Either way, he kept it out of sight and out of mind.
His kids would have financial security without the toxic relatives using it against them.
You'd definitely have to read parenting and childhood development books, but he was better than a walking encyclopedia on obstetrics.
Staying home with the kids would be an option. Working part-time with hired help, or with Suguru and his family… shit. That could work.
It would also tie the two of you together inseparably. Even if you were thousands of miles away, or even beyond the grave, there would still be someone out there, a blend of your DNA with his.
“So what if I do?”
“Let me put a baby in you first,” Satoru slapped his palm on your vulva, “And then… Suguru can have this too.”
You twitched beneath him and nodded. He could do it.
You didn’t doubt that.
Through the grainy filter of a makeshift blindfold, his smile looked feral, teeth glinting in the candlelight.
He felt like an incubus, a demon who’d slowly infiltrated your dreams years ago. Gradually you’d yearn for him until it overcame conscious thoughts as well, and no pleasure could sway your eyes from the prize of him breeding you.
You’d been on top of him more, but when the roles were reversed? He knew how to put you in your place.
You’d come out of this fingerprint-stained, purple hands marking your sides, your arms, your thighs. He’d eat you alive, bite down and pull fistfuls of hair while you whimpered for more. A sleeper agent pillow princess, on a mission to get you pregnant.
But you didn't expect him to be evil.
“Why do you have that?”
“I thought you were into it.” His voice felt animalistic, and the speculum was cold.
You twitched around it, sensitive and yearning while his load shot through.
“Satoru, I swear to god,” you could barely watch as he finished stroking his dick and rubbed your clit into a climax around the sterile tool.
“Something you wanted to say?”
“Come in me yourself, asshole,” you grumbled after catching your breath.
“A second round already?” He pulled the instrument out of you.
The fabric tying your good hand to the bedpost shredded with intent on dragging him back into bed.
“I didn't think you were so traditional,” his breath was hot on your face.
“You're insane,” you muttered, about to get on top when he straddled your waist.
“Not like that. Haven't you learned anything?” He pinned the injured arm above your head on the mattress. You would have fallen over trying to lean on it.
You didn't want the fact that you came around a speculum to be spinning in your mind. You needed to feel him come properly this time.
“Stop giving me weird kinks,” you accused. But only had yourself to blame for starting this.
His teeth sunk into your shoulder.
You grabbed a fistful of Satoru's hair, pulled tight to hear him moan in your ear.
“You're such a freak,” you breathed, raking one hand down his back.
“Harder,” he whispered, adjusting to leave a symmetrical bruise on your other shoulder.
In the end, you were so totally pregnant. Could practically feel the cells multiply together.
“I guess you want to plan the baby's room?” You felt like a fish out of water, searching for air in his arms.
Satoru laughed and stroked your face. “Think about it some more. There's no baby this time.”
You were going to buy a test anyway, convinced that the sperm would take.
Damp fingers brushed his white hair back, still clammy from the latex glove.
Definitely not from the antics that might cost his medical license.
He listened to your footsteps fade down the hallway before slipping back into the exam room.
He opened the windows and filtered the air on a higher setting. It smelled a little too much of sex. But perfume could be a scapegoat, especially since this wasn't technically his job. But the nurse was on her break, and scents were unprofessional, and who would bother to question him anyway?
You'd left the robe folded, sort of rolled up to leave the outside dry after cleaning the paper on it.
That was thoughtful.
He tried to push you out from his mind, but the fact that you had be be doing the same pushed back even harder.
It was impossible to part as though nothing had happened. Your panties were tucked away with him, dry and spotless when they should be covered in cum, catching it from dripping down your thigh.
Seeing your name on the schedule had really caught him off-guard. Why choose him? Someone you'd ghosted without a trace years ago?
He never got an explanation. Why didn't you at least leave him with a goddamn reason?
With thick uncertainty, he pushed through the motions. Acted like you were any other patient on your first visit with him. Braced for the way it felt like you had forgotten.
So accusing him of the same? That was just cruel.
You gnawed through your nails, still waiting on his call.
Or maybe it would be sent directly to voicemail. Maybe he'd get someone else to relay the message.
But your phone didn't ring, so you gave up on him for the second time. Asking yourself why this would be any different.
Insurance might not cover it twice, but you could get another pap smear somewhere else.
Or just wait until next year. Right?
You tried to distract yourself with an impulsive date, with some random guy from the random dating app you'd downloaded while stuck in traffic on the way home from that mindfucking appointment, failing to process whatever had just occurred between you and Gojo.
Unfortunately, the low effort meant this date was even less interesting than the comfort show you'd been watching for the 12th time.
He looked spontaneous and fun, judging by the bleached bangs and piercings and sharp teeth. Not looking for anything serious, just meeting for drinks. So even if he stood you up, you could drink alone. Maybe flirt with a different stranger. If you were lucky, it would mean getting over Gojo by getting under someone else.
Unfortunately your date was there, but he felt like a catfish. Shallow and entitled didn't begin to describe it. The music was loud but it sucked, the air reeked and the food didn't look promising either. The kind of meal you'd only order after too many drinks.
But even if this guy did everything right… would you still have the guts to fuck someone else? When yours were so intimately handled just three days ago?
Maybe he did have the slightest point, because you weren't listening. Mind wandering back to how Gojo seemed like a different person.
His academic passion was physics, for fuck's sake. Even you knew that spinning the bottle would bring its contents to the top. Or maybe he wanted the lube to make fart noises…
Your forehead was in your palm, about to fake a migraine when you realized it wasn't fake. Auras were blotting out the center of your vision, an omen that you did need to drive home before it set in. That was fine, you'd barely even touched your drink, the ice fully melted and probably spiked.
You exhaled, about to break the news and get the fuck out of dodge, delete the app and maybe try a new one, when buzzing rattled your purse.
His face screwed up, “Don't you know that's rude?”
“It's on do not disturb,” you muttered. “Only emergency calls get through.” You looked him up and down one last time, or maybe for the first. “You aren't my emergency.”
You accepted the call before it was lost, weaving out from the crowd and the smell of sugary alcohol and sweat to find a quiet space under moonlight.
There was rustling through the line, noises that he couldn't really make out.
“Hi, sorry,” your voice cut through finally, catching your breath and slamming a car door.
“Hi.” His throat ran dry. “Your— your tests came back, they're negative.”
“Oh.” Your heart dropped for a second before you remembered that negative was good. Negative meant no HPV. “That's good, right?”
“Ah, of course.”
There was a beat of awkward silence. Or maybe it was just silent, and he was awkward.
There was no protocol on what to do after your long-lost lover and current patient begs for reunion sex mid-exam. Especially not after indulging them.
“Uh, is everything alright?” It was a flimsy excuse, knowing the real reason why you'd hurried out the door was on him. “I heard there was a family emergency.”
“Oh, that,” it sounded like a nervous laugh. But he couldn't quite be sure.
Gojo was always socially incompetent. Half the cues and rules that he did understand, didn't deserve to be respected. But he wished he could read you better.
“It's just that you left without scheduling,” he hummed, tapping a pen so aggressively on his tablet that it probably pounded over the sound of his voice. It rattled on the desk when he dropped it, brushed the clammy hand down his thigh instead. “So you can call in some other time, or we can check our calendars now,” he offered, hoping it didn't sound desperate. Like harassing you to agree on a date.
“I can't. Not… Actually,” every false start only gave him arrhythmia. “I think I lost something there.” The sound of your blinker came through, traffic crossing ahead of the red light.
He knew that sound. Knew the intersection.
But he didn't know you.
“Maybe you could check the lost and found,” he offered, playing innocent.
“Yeah, I think I'd better,” you sighed. “I'll stop by and work something out then.”
Your heart beat faster, though the call had ended. It went well, really.
Or maybe your standards had died with the date he'd saved you from.
Or maybe your thoughts were getting jumbled from the migraine.
There wasn't much to do about it, but take a hot shower and curl up under the covers. Try to sleep it off.
You'd have to check office hours later, if you wanted to see those panties again. If you wanted to see him again so soon.
You woke up to a phone on 12% battery and a triple digit number of dating app notifications. It got uninstalled without reading a single one. At least until your unsettled emotions have untangled.
“So… Did you find it yet?” Gojo leaned over the back of the couch you were sitting on, his fingers gripping it like he might flip forward without the support.
“No,” you rolled your eyes, wondering if this was like an Easter egg hunt. If maybe what he really needed was kids to play with, instead of— or as a package deal with your heart.
“Hmm, that's odd,” he frowned, really selling the bit.
“Yeah,” you stared off through a window, where the garden was beginning to creep up along the glass.
“Well, you wanna check between the cracks of my furniture too?”
You squinted, “um… Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
You bit your lip and followed him, walked under his arm as he held the door open.
Were you supposed to actually look there?
Was there a chance that they had slipped off your pile of clothes when you shoved them in the top of your purse?
“I guess you don't have a lot of time, so—”
“Nah. I mean, no more appointments for the day. Just phone calls to wait for.”
“Oh,” your shoulders slumped, not sure where to go from there. Your reason for him to give up the game and return your shit (if he had it) fallen apart.
Whatever. You lifted the armchair's cushions, of course finding nothing. Just a thin layer of lint.
You huffed, “Are you getting off on this?” Turning to stare him down. But your gaze was too tired to be demanding.
“Hmm… on what?” he asked. Playing innocent again.
He didn't want to make you pull your hair out. But he wasn't sure what exactly you were asking— if he was getting off on your lingerie, or on the way you searched for them. Or something else he might
“Just… Forget it.” You'd thrown yourself down, curled up on his furniture. It was kind of cute.
His phone rang, jaw clenched, and he left you alone again.
What were you doing here?
Just wasting time, really.
Was he really on the phone for that long?
He shouldn't have left you there. But fielding phone calls while pacing around would have been a HIPAA violation, and could he really take another risk?
The sun was beginning to dip, a fiery orange streaming in the window.
You hadn't moved.
“You're still here?” He whispered, quietly closing the heavy door behind him.
“Hmm?” you stirred, blinking eyes taking in fuzzy surroundings.
“Are you feeling okay?” He crouched to eye level in a wide squat.
It was lucky that you stopped by after his last appointment.
It was unfortunate that you could feel the grain of his chair carved into your face, probably bright red too.
You hadn't been sleeping that much. Mind racing to make sense of what happened, dreading and wishing for the phone to ring.
And after? It was, again, anxious dread and yearning about stepping foot in this building.
The deepest rest you'd gotten was from blacking out during a migraine. Thanks to that insufferable date and his obnoxious choice in venue.
So of course, when it finally happened, you just crashed. Somehow able to relax just to wake up in the middle of it, dazed and confused.
There was a knock at the door— the front door.
“Oh, right! Be right back.”
You rolled your eyes, but thanked the universe for an opportunity to clean yourself up.
The place felt empty. No one in the hall, no clicking of keyboards or rustle of papers or footsteps or voices.
Only him, with several large paper bags hanging from each hand. Rambling about how he forgot to skip his scheduled delivery.
“Yeah, I get it,” you sighed.
“So… would you like some?”
Sitting in the garden of your OBGYN after-hours, sharing a meal with your ex was… Several weeks ago it would have sounded like a fever dream.
Still did.
It was awkward, stilted, the conversation leaning back to food or insects and the flowers they'd land on.
You wanted to ask for his personal phone number, while you had the chance, because at worst you could ignore it later.
But something else was missing.
Your brows furrowed harder, scanning both sides of the street, the near-empty lot.
“Thought I parked here…”
Your eyes landed on the culprit. A goddamn meter.
You thought it had enough time. Or neglected to give it a single coin without checking? Probably. But what were the odds that it would be taken by the time you came out?
More than zero, apparently.
“Would they really tow…”
He hissed an inhale, “Yeah… The city's been kind of strict lately.”
You scoffed, rubbed your temple. It wasn't like you got out there so often. Just once a year, usually… Not enough to know a trivial traffic violation might ruin your week.
“Could you… drive me home?”
You managed not to let your voice crack, so close to breaking.
He forgot to blink. “Yeah— yeah.”
Gojo handed you the aux, and since his phone was unlocked you put your contact info in it. Avoided the urge to text your own number something stupid like sup, babygirl? I got a penis :3
He was quiet on the ride. Just took in the music that you currently listened to.
You didn't know what to say, breathing in the scent of his car, recently detailed but littered with random stuff in the backseat. Decorated with little trinkets, stuck onto the air vents and dashboard.
“Thanks, um… I put my number in your phone,” you confessed before shutting his passenger door and heading inside.
Left alone with your thoughts again.
You'd have to call the company— how do you even find out where your car is?
Oh, well… It could be a problem for the next day.
You cursed yourself for not being able to sleep without the ritual of another redundant breast exam, then for the way your brain kept flashing back to him.
You were his first. Did he still think of that, too?
The second night you spent in his bed, when he asked if you were itchy.
When you guided his hands and explained what to feel for. When you gave one to him.
“So? What do you see?”
“You'll live,” you plopped down next to him, pulling up the covers while his bare chest nestled against your back.
“I guess that's a good fortune,” he breathed onto your shoulder.
It was easy then. Even if balancing school and work was hard, being with him wasn't.
So how did things end up like this?
“I… You ghosted me,” Gojo crossed his arms and slouched in the booth. For a while, he thought you were just busy. Schedules couldn't always align, and especially with the stress of finals, he would have been a distraction.
But you never reached out again. Just disappeared.
By the time he got worried and found the time to call, your number was disconnected. His mouth ran dry.
“Just find her on social media,” Suguru said easily.
The only accounts Gojo ran back then were brainrot meme pages. There were no mutual friends to find you through.
“You had your head between another woman's legs,” you crossed your arms and leaned further away.
“I…” his face scrunched up, as if you were mistaken.
“In the locker room.”
“Hmm… Oh! yeah, I was pulled in to remove a stuck tampon… You saw that?”
You saw the way her face flushed whenever she looked at you. Felt the tension thick amid that team sport. Assumed she was getting tongue from your man, and trying to keep it his secret.
You frowned, “I heard something about… getting tied up by other people,” you muttered, keeping your voice low when it came to bondage in a brunch conversation.
“Those allegations… I cannot deny,” he laughed nervously. “Um… I could… Show you?” He scratched his head, eyes shining, waiting for an answer.
“Okay,” you agreed, without a clue as to what.
Stacks of pancakes with sweet toppings were finally placed on the table, so you just smiled and thanked the waiter, stabbing the top one from your plate and pushing it onto Gojo's.
You stole a strawberry from his, though.
“I thought you were in engineering, physics—”
“I was.”
“What changed?”
“If you think about it, bodies are machines. There's a lot of mechanics that—”
You cut him off with a doubtful look.
“...I didn't get along with the people,” he relented. “But you see how the transfer makes sense. Don't you think it's better than being a tool for weapons of mass destruction?”
You mulled it over, chewing your lip and wondering if he ever was on track to be the next Oppenheimer. Too consumed with his own fascination to see the forest from the trees, an apocalypse overlooked until it was already there.
He was so annoying when you first saw him, like a kid who was raised on YouTube and sugar that never left his system.
He didn't pay attention to anything outside of his own interests.
So you were seething at the professor or the randomized computer program that assigned him as your partner. But you couldn't take it out on them, so you bullied Gojo into pulling his weight.
The fact that you were both childish nerds on the inside made it work. Just making up analogies to old cartoons or movies redirected his attention back to the assignment. Maybe got him interested in you, too.
Which had never crossed your mind as a possibility. He was the hopeless kind of guy who'd flirt at a wall, and never meant a single word. Romance was only a bit to him.
So how he scratched the surface and infected your emotions was… It caught you by surprise.
The project was over, but you kept studying together. Finishing papers early and falling asleep to movies. It was an easy, casual friendship. Or something.
He'd lay on your chest and you'd stroke his hair, that sort of thing. Normal friend behavior.
One time it was unusually quiet when you entered his dorm, setting up an old VHS tape you'd found. Whether it worked was still to be seen, but couldn't hurt. Worst case scenario, a home movie had been dubbed over it.
“‘Sup,” you greeted him with a pile of vending machine snacks on the table.
“Thought I heard something,” fists rubbed his eyes. They were red, damp.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.” His voice was dead, tired. Like it didn't belong to him.
“Yeah, sure. Come here,” you threw an arm around his shoulder and settled in on the couch.
He wasn't watching it. Neither were you, when he tried to pretend to sleep but was only crying quietly into your neck.
You tried to reassure him that nothing he could say was worse than whatever that was, gesturing to the screen.
You thought it was a joke when he asked if he'd always be a hopeless virgin. You laughed.
He stole the blanket and threw it around himself.
“Oh, shit. You… what?”
He wouldn't look at you.
“Who even thinks like that?” you muttered before offering to find him a date, running through the guys who might get along well enough to see where it goes.
“Huh? I'm not g— Well, actually…” he pondered for a minute, “Do I even like women?”
“I don't know,” you took his hand.
That was the mistake. Somehow the dull heat of your palms against each other lit an eternal flame.
Why you suddenly needed him in that moment made no goddamn sense, but it was mutual.
He was so desperate, so nervous and starving.
You took the lead, and he only wanted more.
By the time the tape clicked, his tears of pleasure were finally drying, cum stains were splattered on the wall, the ceiling fan, and you were afraid to find out what else.
“We can just pay someone to clean it,” he drawled, as if they wouldn't know it was cum and thought college students can't cook, so an attempt must have devolved into a frosting battle.
“You're tall enough to reach it. I have faith in those six-inch fingers,” you kissed his face.
He was a wreck, clumsy and awkward and all teeth. But he was observant and learned fast.
It felt like you were two strong magnets who wouldn't be pulled apart so easily. So why did you leave?
You stayed with him that night. Took a bath together after he'd cleaned the ceiling.
Somehow sleeping in his bed felt like a milestone you couldn't reach, the space too big and the sheets freshly changed.
He was quite the pillow princess. You should have been exhausted enough to just pass out.
But your mind kept running, and sleep that wasn't accidental in a strange place could only be reached through the ritual.
“Do they hurt?” His voice was rough with sleep, eyes barely open.
“No. It's… that isn't it.”
“Oh. Okay,” he dozed off and didn't question further.
But you stopped hiding it from him.
Gojo didn't even text you first.
He somehow got your car back by morning, slipped a note with his own number through the window.
You hadn't noticed it was in the parking lot of your apartment complex. Thought it was a good omen when the Uber driver showed up 5 minutes early.
He didn't even have the guts to let you know it was there.
But he found the courage to invite you to a sexy costume party over breakfast.
You didn't know what to wear. And despite his thousand-dollar t-shirts, that man was not exactly a pinnacle of fashion. Scrubs and lab coats were made for him.
Don't worry about it. Everyone is there to have fun.
You wanted to shake him by the shoulders, like outfit sets would spill out of his stupid mouth.
But when you settled on a new set of lingerie, everything felt like it was coming together. You'd slip a little black dress on top, pin a couple of ears into your hair. Glue a couple of fangs in with fake nails, and you were a partial werewolf or something.
It might have been the easy way out, but you would fit in and not draw attention to yourself, even if you ditched early.
It would be easy to turn around and just go home. But the curiosity ached and you couldn't leave unsatisfied.
So when Gojo opened his passenger door and held out a hand, you took it. Surprised at the way your fingers automatically interlaced with his, your grip tighter than you meant it to be as he led the way through dim lights into the basement of some old building.
Phones were taken upon entry, ticket numbers inscribed on your arms one digit apart from each other.
“Won't this rub off?”
He grabbed your wrist, “Not if you let it dry.”
His low voice churned something in your gut. Something that would blossom in your heart as jealousy.
Were you mature enough to see what he was up to? Or just an emotional masochist?
“We had paper tickets,” a host rolled their eyes, “but they were easy to lose or trade.”
“Oh.” It showed that this was your first time. The dildo strapped to your thigh felt like contraband.
But they were warm about it, told you how to identify the staff if you need anything or have questions.
Through the second door, it was already easy to spot them. Carrying trays with small bottled drinks, arrays of protection, and full body paint that made you feel utterly underdressed.
“I feel exposed,” you muttered, somehow heard past the music and chatter.
He lit up, “You want your face painted?”
One nod, and he was dragging you along to stand in line by a curtain.
You asked why he was so excited, and the energy dipped for a second.
“Suguru would never do it…”
Oh. It wasn't because of the artist, wasn't about seeing you all made up… but you'd already agreed to match with him.
Which was still for the best, you told yourself. It would be easier to find the only person you knew here.
It already looked like you were in a couples’ costume, with his ripped sleeveless cropped top over a leather harness that matched his booty shorts. He looked good, and the fake blood the artist added to his face, ripped shoulder and exposed midsection made him look like your victim.
Fake blood spilled from your lips, a more exaggerated cat eye, and your nails felt like natural claws.
There was a dark room, pitch-black with anonymous bodies. He led you past it, to one better for voyeurism. Bondage contraptions set up across the wide room, crosses and tables and poles, chains and ropes hung from the ceiling.
Whatever he'd moved onto, it was more extreme than what you'd given him. Cheap metal handcuffs with a lock easy to pick, lightweight and breakable even by accident. Their life ended when one of you stepped on them and hadn't even noticed.
“Do you want to watch?” Gojo tilted his head a bit, searched your face, not sure what he was seeing.
“Okay,” you went along with whatever.
The next room over had carpet unrolled with Legos glued on, where naked subs walked toward their doms.
You would not be able to keep a straight face if he asked you to do that. Staying in this room for as long as possible was your best option. And once that was exhausted, you could distract him with cake.
He waved someone over, and a dark shadow flashed across your face.
Of course, he was here.
Just as beautiful as you tried to forget.
You tried to delete Suguru from your memory. Thought Gojo talked about him so much because he was awkward and only had one close friend in high school, one who entertained his impulsive antics, and it made for good stories.
But when he came to visit, you heard— or maybe saw it yourself. Maybe it was just a mental image conjured by the gossip. Either way, you tried not to see Gojo's tongue down this man's throat.
That you'd given him the confidence to fuck his best friend, the one he'd been yearning for this whole time.
Too stupid to think it could have ever been you.
It hurt, and it was your own fault.
He didn't owe you an explanation. You didn't need to torture him with an awkward goodbye.
The major you were going for became obsolete with the changing job market. Scholarship money was running out, and community college was the safer option anyway.
So you moved back home, feeling more homesick than before.
And now you'd set yourself up to watch Suguru fill your role again. His large hands threaded silky rope around Gojo's form like a spider, quiet and meticulous and what were you doing here?
He looked good like that. Not just the way those lines complimented his body, but the way he melted and yearned into it was kind of hot.
Even if you were turned off by someone else tightening his restraints.
It definitely wasn't stage fright, just watching him with your arms crossed because there was nowhere else to put them.
But you wanted to. Tease his lips, maybe let him suck your fingers. Shoot his high school sweetheart a condescending smile.
“You next?” Suguru's gaze fell on you with an inviting turn of his head.
You said yes, let him take the role that used to be yours once again.
It was easier to let someone strap you down than to wonder where to stand, how to act natural when Gojo wasn't able to move a single limb.
His partner, you supposed, held up a few options to decide between.
Maybe out of spite, you nodded to the longest rope.
It was different from the simple knots of scrapped fabric you'd tied Gojo's wrists to the bedpost with.
It took so much more time. You were too aware of your own breath, like being at the dentist and not sure how to act natural when there was nothing to do.
Suguru guided your body into different poses, and you'd settle on one to be tied into.
There was so much attention on his craft, like a flow state of focus. Like he didn't mind that you looked at his eyes deep enough to notice the glints of purple through brown irises, wondering how that worked. Contact lenses? Lighting?
There was a blade strapped on his belt, one you knew better than to imagine was for knifeplay. It was a safety measure present on every rigger. But still… His fingers checked for circulation before moving onto the next stage, methodical about the order of everything.
You hated it. Hated him. The way your skin began to crave his touch, to pulse beneath it hoping for more. The pressure of the ropes was only a phantom.
The toy on your thigh was confiscated, placed next to the knife in his belt, making way for the rope to fit.
You chewed your lip, tried to keep the frustration inside, mentally screaming.
You were going to scream into your pillow and feel very confused about your life.
Maybe you'd make Gojo watch you fuck a stranger for this.
He tightened the last rope, tied it off, and you forced down a whimper.
Your eyelids were heavy when he forced your chin up to look at him.
“How are you feeling?”
Blurry. Stupid. Horny. His voice was like honey. You wanted to eat it.
All that came out was a pout.
“Hmm, need something?”
Your mouth fell open at the toy in his hand, barely nodding in a trance.
His laugh was velvet, holding the thing to your neck for a few seconds before turning it on.
You wanted to glare, but felt the plea in your eyes, the exhale when he adjusted your dress to hold the vibrator between your open legs.
It was on a dreadfully low setting, but it was still stimulation, slowly warming up along your clothed entrance.
Gojo's eyes were locked on you. Hazy on his own sub space and yours, watching as you squirmed for more pressure until Suguru finally slipped your soaked panties to the side and let you suck the toy in.
Your lips barely pressed together, not a single care about the sound that spilled from your throat.
His free hand rested on your neck, thumb stroking along the artery.
You could kiss him.
The setting changed to a more intense pulse, your body jolting for a second until he pushed it in and out with meaningful strokes.
His eyes were beautiful, deep pools of mystery. Intense and forbidden and your eyes fluttered shut, hands clasped around the ropes that crossed your palms.
You were getting close, and he knew it.
Shaky breaths, trembling hips that couldn't hide anything.
If he didn't make you come, you were going to kill him.
But he crooked the toy in just right, held your neck in place where you could smell his conditioner, coming undone and probably making a mess of his one black glove.
He turned the voltage up, let you convulse into over stimulation, bright spots flashing across your vision.
But you weren't going to back down.
“How many you got?” you breathed, challenging him to stack orgasm after orgasm.
Someone had to be counting, right?
It certainly wasn't you.
All you knew was the point where your brain gave up on signaling another climax, body limp and numb and buzzing.
You didn't feel sober, weren't sure if you felt alive.
Just a ghost in a dimly-lit room, messy with rituals and sacrifice, its body being cleaned and released by the gentle hands of a steady stranger.
“You get it now?”
“Hmm? Yeah.”
Gojo laughed, “Good, you're awake,” though it was a dreamlike haze being carried away.
It smelled like coffee, this quiet corner with an armchair he took and sat you across his lap. Tremors turned to shivering.
“It's cold,” you tried to steal his body heat. There wasn't much to find, only his boner that your hand landed on accident. It was a miracle his tiny shorts contained that thing.
“You're dropping.”
It wasn't the room that was cold.
Suguru at least had a spare jacket, helped you put it on before taking the next seat.
It was warm. It smelled like him.
You were fine. Just needed a few drinks and a candy bar, and to change out of those uncomfortably soaked panties.
Lucky there was an extra pair in your dress pocket. Or perhaps unlucky, after a week of carrying period panties just for it to still be late.
You put the ruined pair in Suguru's coat pocket by accident, heard the crinkle of paper inside.
It was a note with his phone number.
It took washing your hands to notice half the press-on nails were missing.
Back in the lounge area you picked the remaining ones off, rolled them into a napkin. Then realized you hadn't been listening to any of the conversation.
“Do you want to spend the night?”
You lifted your head, curious what Suguru's place was like.
Gojo's arms tightened around you, and he seemed to dodge the invitation.
You couldn't be sure what he said when you were spilling a drink.
Maybe baiting someone into finding your climax limit wasn't great for coordination. Your mouth could hardly find the muscle memory to curse.
They said it was okay. Gojo kissed the side of your face like it was cute.
“I feel stupid,” you muttered, falling to the undertow of crashed endorphins.
“You're not stupid,” Suguru promised. “Do you want to go home?”
They exchanged a knowing look, and you waved goodbye to him.
“I can walk,” you argued, only to find that your legs weren't working, that Gojo was already holding you up before you went down.
Your ticket numbers were still legible. It only took a second to get your bag from the counter and be placed on his passenger seat.
It wasn't even that cold out, but you were shivering, tightened the hood's drawstrings.
“Do you want your home, or mine? Or a hotel?” Gojo slipped his right hand into yours.
“Whatever's closer.”
You wondered how smudged your makeup was. Squeezed his hand like a stim toy.
It didn't take long for him to suggest room service.
“Whatever you want. I'm taking a shower.”
You were sitting on the bathroom counter, rubbing at tear-streaked makeup with a wet towel.
Why you were doing that when his fancy skincare travel set was there…
He acted like you didn't know how to use it. Stood between your thighs and did it all himself, then recited the order he was planning while you processed half of it.
“That's fine.”
This whole thing was like some weird dream. Even without the shower steam or fuzzy ears or plastic fangs.
Or the way he stayed by the bathroom counter, slowly removing his own makeup while you bathed, then finished his shower in five minutes when you realized you had no clothes, then saw the ones from his gym bag laid out on the foot of the bed.
You pulled on a plain white t-shirt, curled up on his thigh, and ate comfort food at 2am.
“I was afraid of this,” he sighed with a hand in your hair.
“What?”
“That after, you know, I might have left you alone in sub drop.”
You laughed, but it rang hollow. “Takes more than that to drop me.”
“Yeah, okay.”
You fell asleep fast. He fished the last bite out of your mouth and repositioned your unconscious body under the covers.
You couldn't even have a normal dream.
Gojo's eyes were on you, pupils blown.
You supposed it was better than making him wear a blindfold… being the only person who knew you, but there was something magnetic about Suguru.
Dangerously easy to trust.
“Look at me, pretty.” His hand on the hip bone held you still.
You couldn't even fault Gojo, not when Suguru—
The vibrator turned up, some small noise slipped from your throat.
He smirked while you came undone for the last time.
Then you blacked out.
Or, woke up.
You really fried your fucking brain. Or, or more like your ex-friend-with-benefit's lover fried your pussy into a factory reset.
Shit. Why were you crying?
Why did you keep insisting on more every time Suguru checked in, caught up in the moment of your own hubris.
Your blood ran dry at the realization you'd also done all this in front of your gynecologist. If it did cause some concerning soreness or something, he'd be the one looking at it.
Urgent care was always an option.
But that was one more person looking up your vagina, one who probably wasn't so kink-positive or understanding.
You wouldn't have to explain anything to Gojo.
And that was weird.
He was your friend, your idiot, your friend with benefits who knew way too much about random things that had nothing to do with you. He was your ghost. Your gynecologist that got cucked, tied to a pole while his best friend sucked you into his web.
He ordered breakfast, or brunch technically, and you agreed to a movie marathon.
“How are you feeling?” He asked with an extra blanket draped over the both of you.
“Still stupid. Fuck, the chemicals.” It was becoming an excuse. Because even without the crash, what the fuck were you supposed to say?
You didn't even know which movie was playing. Kept nodding off and he'd hold your forehead up from falling, until you gave up on it and laid back down.
“Do you think… I could be pregnant? I don't know, I mean— are you cut?”
God, you were tired. Not even thinking of the right words now. You already knew whether he was circumcised. You didn't know if he had a vasectomy.
“The chances might be low, but never zero, so… best to take a test,” he hummed into the pillow. “It wasn't in your fertile window.”
“Yeah, okay,” you murmured into his chest.
You hadn't taken a Plan B. Didn't know if you had to, or if it was too late in your cycle, already ovulating.
And yeah, you could have found out by your own research or calling in. But it was easier to push that all out of your mind.
“Do you want to go somewhere?” You poked Gojo in the face, half the day already wasted.
“Where? I think there's an arcade… Oh, Suguru's up.”
Getting dressed felt like a walk of shame, Gojo's set of grey sweats only didn't trip you thanks to the ankles’ elastic.
You bit your nails on the drive, wondering when it rained. The sky was dark and grey, but the puddles were still, only the sway of power lines and occasional flight of birds.
Gojo walked in and gave a tour like he owned the place.
Somehow you felt small. The world too big to face your own actions.
But, shit, his place smelled good. Wide candles burned, while Gojo looked like he smelled of antiseptic. An extra pair of scrubs on his body, hair sticking out all over, a slight pair of dark circles under his bright eyes. He got a caffeinated drink for both of you.
“Are you sore?”
“Mostly from working out.” It wasn't a lie, you had been exercising more than usual, trying to exhaust nervous energy.
Maybe some part of you was clawing to keep up with them.
You started to take off his jacket, but Suguru put a hand on your shoulder.
“Do you want to borrow it?”
“Okay.” The weight wasn't something you were ready to part with.
“What kind of stretches do you do?”
“Kind of just whatever,” you shrugged. “Forgot today.”
“Show me.”
You got down on the floor. It was harder to be anxious when he was telling you what to do, redirecting your body into better positions. But you felt something hard in the inner chest pocket. The fucking vibrator. You took the coat off, easier to stretch without it.
“Hey, Suguru… That new restaurant is open, right?”
“Does he always eat this much?” You glanced at Gojo, who was also following along with near gymnast flexibility.
“Yeah, he does. Order something if you want, but you might have to pick it up.”
He laughed like a kid in a candy shop. Maybe it was one.
“Is this like, your job?” you asked while Suguru's hands worked out the tension in your back.
“No. I teach martial arts.”
“Oh.” You were melting, feeling his heat and callouses on your skin again.
College student you would be glitching out at this.
“And?”
“I'm only a part-time nurse, Satoru.”
“ICU, ‘cause he hates it when they talk.”
“You know why.”
“Yeah,” Gojo left to pick up food.
You weren't going to ask. Of all the things you'd heard from Gojo, they were all trivial little stories.
“Satoru might have told you I left high school early.”
He did. But he didn't know what happened back then. You were the second ghost in his life, it seemed.
Suguru had to finish his classes online, dropping his life to raise twins.
“I wanted to give them a better life, so I had to go to school for something… It just made sense.”
He didn't have to tell you they were sick. You could feel it in the air.
Suguru couldn't live with being another adult who'd hurt them.
“Are you disappointed in me?”
“For what?”
“Nothing. I think I blacked out. Satoru was tied to a pole, but then…”
“I signaled someone else to untie him.”
“Oh.”
“You did lose consciousness briefly,” he continued. “That's when I cut you down.”
Damn. He used the knife and you didn't get to feel it. And his ropes.
“Sorry about your…”
“It's fine. Your nails didn't survive either.”
The plastic manicure was cheap, but you started to believe him. Until a loud crash made you jump.
“Shh, it's okay. Just the cats.” You wondered if he felt your heart racing in his palms.
“You have cats?”
“Just babysitting my daughters’ while they study abroad. ”
They were still babies, technically, because Maine Coons take forever to grow up, even if they're already giants.
Gojo was yelling at them, saying it's not their food, while their voices got louder.
He placed the takeout orders on the table and fed the kittens first.
By the time you finished eating, they were done growling at each other and running around.
Chaotic furry demons who walked all over you while Gojo played video games, and you tried not to get too attached. Even when one of them made their bed in your lap and fell asleep.
It was hard not to notice the scratching posts, the walkways up the walls that looked like shelves, and might have blended in before.
Gojo kept meowing with them, getting distracted until a creeper killed him from behind.
“Shit. That was your fault, you know,” he picked up the giant and laid on his back. “Air jail for Minecraft crimes.”
Meow
“Mrow! You evil baby. You got me killed,” Gojo lowered the cat onto his chest and pet their head.
“Thanks for not giving up on me,” you murmured into Suguru's shoulder.
Gojo fell asleep first and woke up last, when you nearly fell out of bed trying not to bleed on the sheets.
There was a sigh of relief at the sight of blood.
He'd nestled into a corner of your life again, without occupying your body.
Or so you thought.
“Cryptic pregnancies are rare, but they can still happen,” he slung the words out so casually. As if this wouldn't make your heart race out of the chest cavity.
“Don't say that.”
His fucking blindfold was still on.
“We can… We can talk through your options,” he placed a hand over yours. “It's still early enough to take a pill, have a home abortion— miscarriage, really. You don't need surgery,” he offered, like it didn't come with a clock counting down.
“Satoru…” you grumbled, trying to tell yourself that there was no chance of this happening. But you knew he was right. It was never zero.
And if you weren't prepared to make a decision and follow through, then it would become a surgical abortion—
“Or, if you want to keep it,” he exhaled, “then we can start designing the nursery.”
“Go back to sleep,” you muttered, slipping your hand out from under his and heading to the bathroom where he'd left a pregnancy test on the counter.
He talked too much for someone that just woke up. You couldn't tell how much of that was… God, what was he saying?
You watched the clock count down, with silence on the other side of the door. Maybe he did go back to sleep.
Your heart was pounding, but the result was ready.
It was negative.
Maybe you'd smother him with a pillow for that scare.
tags: cunnilingus, piv sex, fuck or die, bondage, bite marking, Sylus has 2 dicks, oviposition, omegaverse, sensory deprivation
wc: 2k
Ao3 if you prefer
You should have known better than to wander into that city.
Curiosity killed the omega, words rang in your ears louder than the metal chain dragging across the ground when you tried to see what else was down there. It was heavy on your raw ankles, but sitting still in a cage was worse.
The Abyss, they called it, if you could remember correctly.
But they also called you a magician for wearing a scent patch. Tore the wax off your neck in front of everyone, as if glands were a mark from the devil.
You heard stories about this place — the stories were fascinating. So what if you wanted to see a demon, even as a statue or a painting? Was it really worthy of a death sentence?
You kicked a small rock, heavier than it looked. Your busted toes ached.
Instead of a shortcut through the city, you were stuck in its waiting room to the afterlife, without so much as a book to read.
You stopped in your tracks. You weren't the only one.
“No way. You're—”
“A dragon?”
“Extinct,” you finished, locking eyes with the stranger.
His were an intense red, and his dark wings pinned against the wall, the black growth to claws and tail that really did look like armor. You'd assumed the books said that because reptiles have scales, kind of like chainmail, but this was… another mammal?
Which made sense, considering how they were human ancestors. Some traits passed down to alphas and omegas, while betas sometimes denied their history and science and flocked to their own city. This one.
You wondered how much of their population met the same end in this abyss, a steep valley between cliff faces.
“Sorry, um, there might be more, but nowhere on this continent… Probably…” You looked away, noticing the lack of chains around him. There was only an ivory sword through his chest… You might have just enough time left to watch the last dragon die, pinned to the wall like an insect.
“Apologizing to a fiend? Really?” he drawled.
You just shrugged, “Why not?” as you sat down, testing rocks for their ability to leave marks.
“Tell me. What is it you desire?”
You hummed, “A story would be nice.”
“A story?” he laughed, “Sure. I can tell a bedtime story.”
His voice was like a bonfire, burning and ancient and ageless. Just like the eternal flame in that cave, it never burned out and most were unaware of its existence. But you somehow managed to find them.
The rocks worked fine as writing tools, but you didn't know a lot of the words he spoke… Lost to time, you guessed, giving up on drawing the story and instead just laying down to listen. You didn't have the heart to interrupt.
You couldn't even take mental note of his scent, since your persecutor had forced you to stand in front of some crowd with a white candle beneath your nose.
That must have been hours ago, but all you could smell was still burnt hair.
Trying to brush out the ashes only made the nasal walls more sore, and you weren't trying to replace it with iron.
You couldn't even smell your own scent, or if this valley was saturated with fear of alphas and omegas.
Maybe the burning was a small act of mercy, sparing you from that stench and the way that fear would have burrowed beneath the skin, into your own bloodstream, only adding to the lot of ghosts.
When silence fell, you were barely half-awake, forcing yourself up enough to reciprocate.
“And your desire?”
He didn't need time to think.
You frowned, “I don't think that's… won't you bleed out?”
“Just try your best,” he growled.
You rose to your feet, nervous to hold the glinting hilt. “Slow or fast?”
Honestly, you were afraid it might not budge at all.
The center of his chest bloomed with red, the ivory blade somehow extracted by your hand.
Once it was out, the weapon disintegrated.
“Has no one tried before?” you whispered, remembering the scapegoat story that was still being told, over a thousand years since their last sighting.
Your vision was beginning to blur, like that one act stole your strength.
“What's wrong with you?” The dragon's hand cupped your skull, breaking the fall.
“Shit. I don't even know your name.”
He sighed, “Let's get out of here.”
You clung on, hands over his shoulders and legs around his waist, or at least tried to. It was his hold that kept you alive.
Or at least, from falling to death.
Wings beat against a dark sky, clouds heavy beneath the hidden sun. There was so much air up here. Yet it didn't reach your lungs.
You felt the grass beneath your bodies, landing softly on living earth.
“What's wrong with you?” he asked again, disappointed at the weakness.
Your forehead was burning up, but you didn't feel sick. No runny nose or cough, just aching…
Oh, shit.
“What do I smell like?” you asked frantically, rubbing at the exposed gland on your neck and smelling those fingers. “Is it like, sweet? Sickening?”
“It began to change after you laid down.”
Shit.
“I'm going to die soon,” you said matter-of-factly. Unless—”
“Can I have your soul, then?”
“What? I don't care, sure. I won't need it. I'll be dead,” you dismissed, looking down from the hill he'd landed on. There was nothing but fields of wildflowers so far as you could see. No brothel where you could pick out an alpha to fuck you into staying alive.
“What were you going to say?” He asks calmly, maybe leisurely playing with his food before eating it. The least you could do was offer entertainment as well.
“Unless I get knotted.”
A lot had changed over the last… two thousand? or so? years. Words like alpha and beta and omega were new, respectively. You tried to fight through the brain fog and language barrier until it made sense.
“Oh, so that's a knot— I can do that,” he realized, armored fingers under his chin.
“A life for a life, then? You can collect my soul later. Or now. I think… the heat would take me by tomorrow,” you couldn't recall how the prognosis worked. Or whether you'd be able to guess without any tools.
“You,” he leaned closer, “You spoil me.”
One clawed hand on your head tilted it away as his mouth descended upon your neck.
You whimpered and clawed his bare shoulder, unprepared for the sinking of his teeth, the way it burned even after his mark was punctured into your skin.
Maybe that's why it's typically done during a knot, when the pain tolerance is already heightened.
“You can be rougher than that,” he grumbled.
“Just take me already,” you pleaded, too aware of the pool gathering in your underwear, the throbbing need for him to knot you overpowering the need to extend your lifespan.
“You can't handle it yet,” he chided, running the back of his finger down your cheek.
You pouted, leaned further back into the grass.
“Hold this for me,” he pulled up the chain that was still between your ankles, now locked behind your head, giving him full display.
One sharp claw slid carefully under your panties, slicing them apart in one deliberate motion. Two more, and they were just a few additional scraps of fabric lost to the mountainside.
You guessed there was more than one way to be devoured. Or maybe he was stripping your soul this way, too. Mouth open against your vulva, tongue flicking around like he was starved and needed a taste of everything.
Your hands were free, fingers splayed around the horns in his scalp, roughly pulling on his hair, begging to go faster like your life depended on it.
The vibration of his hum rocked in deeper as his tongue unfurled, and you wondered just how long it was. Mapping out parts of your body you only knew existed from studying medical diagrams.
You had nothing for this fiend but praise, even whined when his tongue pulled out, horns and silver hair slipped through your fingers.
“Don't you want to live?” he teased, leaning over you to clean up the blood and plasma leaking from your neck. It was really sensitive, to pain and desire equally.
“That's on your terms,” you breathed, pupils blown and just eager to find out what he was going to do with you.
There were two belts, at least, holding the leather pants to his hips. You pulled on them to drag him closer, knowing your clumsy fingers would only fail to pry the clasp apart.
“Shh,” he grabbed your wrists, “Let me do it.”
He slipped them under the chain as well, weighed down by heavy metal. You could free them if you wanted to. But he'd make you wait even longer, then.
The dark clouds were finally parting, the sun dipping away and shining gold light in your eyes.
He was pulling something over your head. His clothes. Like a blindfold and a jester hat, wrapped until it hugged your neck like a straight jacket. Even with a burnt nasal passage, you could feel the musk and pheromones elicit something primal.
“Sylus…” You murmured while he finally dragged his tip across where you wanted it.
“Not my name,” he chuckled, “but close enough.”
Claws dug into your hips while he finally inched in, a slow motion that had your toes curling and a stream of curses spilling from your lips.
“I can handle it,” you promised.
“Good,” he growled, “I thought you were jealous of this body, wanted it for your own. But this,” he thrust into you, “This was what that look of desire was for.”
He finally fucked you like he owned you.
But there was no knot.
You guessed that was to be expected— you had a chance at life, but thousands of years could atrophy one's knotting ability.
“Can we go again?” you asked, throbbing for more, even if it would end the same.
“What do you think? That was only the first part,” he answered like you had skipped sex ed.
Rituals must have changed over time, you guessed.
Sylus lifted the chain briefly, a signal that you were free to move your hands again, if you wanted to.
You did.
There was no visibility from beneath his worn leather, your hands feeling across his chest, a large gem—
“Does it hurt?” You whispered, feeling away to his shoulders.
“No,” he thrust in you again.
“Oh god,” you clung to him tighter.
“That's another death sentence,” he warned, voice heavy as his head dropped next to yours, his breath across that open wound.
This time it was different. The effort, the gyration of his hips, the shape of his dick… Or your brain really was melting away.
He sped up, and your head was going to fall off. A rough hand against your throat, his mouth sucking on the bite mark again.
Maybe vampires were a cautionary tale not to drink all the blood that it could leak. But it felt too good to suggest moderation.
The stirring of his hips slowed, deliberate motions pushing further and further, until you lost all senses or it really was penetrating all the way through your cervix, into the womb.
Your nails scraped across his skin, remembering their permission to be rough.
Your feet clamped around his back, a needy sound from your throat, until he slipped into your womb.
That was crazy. You were crazy. Walls spasming so hard around his length, you were seeing white instead of pitch black, convinced for a minute that you did pass away.
But your heart was still racing, and there was a second pulse through a wide chest lying on top of yours. His body was warm, both sticky with sweat.
Sylus took a breath, unwrapped his clothing and pulled it away from your head.
“Fever's gone,” he hummed with a palm on your forehead. “How long do I stay in for?”
“After the knot goes away,” you caught your breath.
The shackles around your ankles fell apart, no match for a dragon's hands.
Shit. He could have broken you.
Sylus got up, got dressed while you stretched your legs and caught a glimpse of—
“You have two?”
“Obviously,” he drawled, tightening the belts back on. “One for sperm and one for the egg— knot, in this era, I suppose.”
The blood drained from your face.
“Egg… We don't have eggs anymore— well, not like that…”
“What do you mean you don't—”
“I'll take you to the medical library,” you sighed, though technically he'd be flying you, his mere navigator.
“Fine. I'll… get you some clothes,” Sylus fixed your hair for a second. Then a rush of air filled his wings and he was gone. Just a silhouette against the fading starlit blue hour.
takes place in the week or so after part 3 (masterlist is pinned)
tags: broken condom, plan b, OCD, threesome, eiffel tower, dick sucking, piv, buttstuff, accidental confession, Gojo who can't be fully honest with a woman 🤝 reader who can't be fully honest with anyone 🤝 Suguru who's fucking both of them, my beloved
sorry if this shit is ass but if I had to read it 1 more time I would delete it along with parts 5-7 lmfao uhh fuck it
poll at the end btw!
“...I don't know if he meant any of it.”
The air knocked out of you just admitting that.
You didn't make eye contact, kept fidgeting with the cast on your broken hand as it lay on the coffeeshop’s table.
Were you getting your hopes up? Did he put dreams of raising kids together in your head on accident, on a whim? A breeding kink with no intention of impregnating you?
Was he only claiming your pussy for himself out of possession, jealousy over Suguru?
And was he actually cunt-banned, or just until Satoru came inside without protection?
Endless questions brought you here. He knew Satoru before you, and after you, and now.
All you had with him was a fleeting year or two in college.
And whatever the past few months had been.
Stop picking at it, Suguru seemed to say, pulling your good hand away.
You kicked your feet under the table, noticed the plants were fake. Forever green and plastic. Traced your over scratches in the polished wood.
“I think he's afraid of upsetting your OCD. Pregnancy isn't something to rush into,” he stirred his drink neatly.
Your face scrunched. Since when was Satoru the voice of reason? You felt out of place, when he might know you better than you knew yourself.
You thought you'd put up a front, thought you didn't take anything too seriously. But he saw through that, didn't he?
Enough for it to be fucking labeled as a diagnosis that his best friend would say to your face.
You never explained why the ritual existed.
How did he know?
You didn't realize your jaw was clenched until teeth hurt.
“What does he want?” you tried a more direct approach.
It seemed like Satoru wanted to know you wanted him. That you'd fold under any conditions.
But you were always adventurous and weird in bed, or… other places.
“Just take your time, okay?”
You frowned. Suguru was making sense, but you couldn't fucking read Satoru.
“Maybe kiss him first,” he leaned across the table, his soft locks brushing your shoulder.
Your mouth fell open as he walked away.
Did it matter?
You were probably just as hard for him to read.
Even if the sex ban wasn't real, Suguru kept coming in through the backdoor. You were pretty sure at least ten years of anal experience were under his belt. Not many thoughts were going through your head besides how good he felt, not an ounce of shame or insecurity to be found as his gloved and lubed fingers prepared your ass for a stretch.
He fitted you with a neat little plug this time, an indigo gem on the end of it like a piece of jewelry asking to be cracked.
“We still have some time,” Suguru sat on the edge of the bed.
You got on your knees, clawed at his thighs with a tilt of your head.
There was arson behind his eyes, his palm under your jaw, fingers caressing your face like it was porcelain.
“Something you want, doll?”
“Take off your clothes,” you complained.
He smiled, pet your head, made you wait while he stood up and took off his belt, stripped down to nothing before slipping into a deep silk robe. The purple was deep, he looked like a luxury meal. Getting in bed to wait for its owner to find you fornicating there.
Suguru pat his thigh, his bulge visible against his abdomen under the thin fabric, beckoning you closer.
The texture of his thick shaft, the way it filled your palm, heavy and twitching while you drooled on it and slid your fingers up and down, all made it impossible to feel like you were really missing out.
You mixed your saliva with his precum, looked up to watch Satoru's eyes as he walked through the open bedroom door.
His pale hand ran over the gem, one hand on your ass while he leaned over to kiss Suguru on the mouth.
They were cute.
You were needy.
Lowered your head to finally taste him, teasing with your pliable, barely open lips running along his length before finally going down.
Suguru filled your mouth, twitched along the heat of your tongue.
Your thighs were soaked by the time Satoru touched you. He was less patient than Suguru, slipping in as soon as you could take him.
Or maybe it was you who was impatient, shifting your hips and trying to inch in faster.
You weren't sure what you wanted more.
To make Suguru come first, to do a good job and swallow and rest your head on his thigh while Satoru finished pounding into you. Maybe twist your head to watch the way Satoru grabbed fistfuls of Suguru's hair, practically tangling the soft locks to drag him closer as they made out. They were inseparable, even if one of Satoru's hands was clamped over the back of your neck or shoulder, forcing you back as he buried deeper, and Suguru had a fist in your hair, dragging your mouth up and down his length.
Or to be disappointed in yourself, too fucked-out and distracted to focus on giving good head. Let your eyes close or glaze over, become a practically inanimate toy that they both shared.
Because if Satoru finished first, then Suguru would take you next, slip out the plug and finish what you started there.
Pin you against a wall or flip you over on the bed, drag his hand along your neck.
Or maybe drag you to the edge of the mattress where your head could lean off, open your throat for him to fuck, make up for what you failed to do.
Your fingers dimpled into Suguru's thighs, thick and muscular, forcing your head up and down as your tongue ran along the frenulum, in a ring around the head.
You pulled off this time, let your head fall next to the dick in your hand, bit into his thigh.
You'd let them decide, maybe punish you a little more for leaving impressions of your teeth and a bruise to follow.
Decision-making never was your strength.
“Suguru… would I even be a good parent?” you whispered, on his couch a cat as big as two toddlers.
It wasn't like you had to become one. But shit, what if you were bad?
“I have some books you can borrow,” he offered as Satoru came back from a bathroom with their other cat.
“Mrow! Was that a good dump? Are you happy with me?” He bent down to pet them, paused to find a snack.
“...Yeah, I'll read them before deciding.”
Part of you wondered if Satoru was even fertile. If he'd gotten a vasectomy, would you know?
Was he being careful as some kind of roleplay? The illusion of risk made a breeding kink more exciting?
Did he think you'd ghost again if you knew it wasn't a possibility?
Satoru had the cat on his shoulder while raiding the kitchen. You took a small sip of your drink just to avoid eye contact when he re-entered the living room.
On the ride home, he poked your face while you stared out the window. There wasn't much to see, flashes of foliage in the dark, reflective signs or guardrails.
“You've been quiet.”
“They were sleeping.”
“They aren't here now.”
You huffed. If he really wanted to fill the silence so bad, then… “Do you want me to go on birth control?”
“Hmm? Nah.”
“So the—”
“Your migraines have aura, right? So it's a blood clot risk.”
“Oh.” The sound died in your throat. None of your questions answered.
Satoru didn't say anything either, but slowed to a stop in the middle of the road.
You looked out to see a possum in the headlights, walking across with babies clung to the fur.
Suguru had slipped a book into your coat pocket.
It wasn't about babies, specifically. Mostly focused on parenting kids who were already talking and going to school.
The weight of a whole person's life in your hands was… It was too heavy.
Every time you read a chapter on your breaks, it just made you more grateful that Satoru was taking things slow. At least in that regard.
You'd already decided not to renew the lease on your apartment. It wasn't like you'd get sick of each other living together with such disjointed schedules. Or offended if either of you chose to sleep on the couch. Or find separate apartments again.
Nothing was promised, certainly not a life together. It was simply more convenient to be roommates than find time to meet up on days off, which were all too often misleading. Your relationship style was always casual, lazy, and sexually intense.
You wouldn't have to worry about fires or floods or break-ins if you just let that apartment go. It was better to put that energy into Satoru's place, to clear the dust that built up on his shelves for too long because it was never worth getting around to.
He was still protective over your broken hand, and that wasn't even his field.
Actually making a baby might stress you both out horribly.
“Satoru. What's wrong?”
You'd never seen that look on his face before.
Suddenly felt afraid that your vagina had grown teeth and hurt him.
“Condom broke.”
You sat up to look, and the pieces were like stained glass thrown in the trash. No protection.
Shit. Maybe it's time…
You reached for the condom box to check dates on the packaging, on the wrapper too. Maybe it was expired.
But the numbers didn't register. Just a printed code that held no meaning, because what was already done couldn't be taken back.
Satoru was checking the dates on a different package.
“Here,” he put something in your hand, “If you want it.”
“What's…” Your mind was racing, still blurry from your own orgasm, fumbling to find words printed on the back.
“You're not ovulating yet, so… This can delay it. If you're not ready.”
You nodded, refused to look away from the shiny silver foil as you punched out the little pink tablet and chased it down with a bedside cup of water.
You couldn't look him in the eyes, couldn't bear to see his reaction or fail to decipher one.
The mattress dipped as he exhaled, took the trash out of your hand to replace it with his.
“Are you crying?”
You shook your head, afraid that a word spoken would make you a liar.
“Come here,” he dragged you back onto his lap. Still sticky with sweat and fluids. But at least you didn't have to face him this way, with your head on his shoulder.
It was normal to cry after sex. There was a release of… something. What was it again?
“Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me.”
“Nothing's wrong. You're fine.”
I love you.
Words that formed and died in your throat.
You hadn't even kissed him yet. Not since, what? A decade before?
“Are you okay?” Suguru glanced over to you when he stopped at the red light.
“I can't do it.”
“What do you think occupational therapy is for?”
“Oh, that's not…”
Your hand had been free for a moment, naked and uncoordinated at the hospital.
Somehow it failed to heal right, needed more intervention to realign the bones and another hard layer of protection. But it would be useful again. Someday.
“I can't kiss him. I can't even say the L word.”
You looked straight ahead as the light turned green, reflected in puddles on the pavement, in raindrops on the windshield.
“I took a Plan B like, a minute after the condom broke.”
“You say that like it's a bad thing?”
You took a deep breath.
Don't rush it was still advice you should be taking.
“Have you tried therapy? I mean for—”
“Not recently,” you rolled your eyes and looked out his passenger window. “I hate when you have a point.”
It would be easier to not explain yourself to a stranger.
The truth was that you were just fine on your own.
A few remaining rituals weren't hurting anyone. Though Satoru had spent the last month filling in where you fell short on that.
It was harder having him around. Because if you got too close, too attached, if there was any confession of feelings or declaration of love, then there would be loss.
It would hurt so much worse this time.
You broke your fucking hand just trying to impress him.
It was hard not to take little things as signs that the universe hated you, that you were on the bad side of some malevolent god you didn't even believe in.
It was so much easier to just hook up with a stranger than someone you had so much history with. Though the chemistry could never measure up to what you had with Satoru.
Losing him before and getting injured this time was only your own fault. But it still felt like something else was out there, a looming shadow getting ready to cast down over everything you loved.
So if you bury the love, refrain from admitting it even to yourself, then maybe it could be safe.
“Maybe the only deity that wants to see you fail is you.”
“Huh?”
“Loss is always a risk. But you can't have anything without it.”
Your lip was raw between your teeth.
He was right. Part of your brain was clawing to cut its losses early, before grief could become a part of you.
But you also knew that it was already too late. Denial of feelings didn't mean they weren't there.
“Can we go somewhere?”
“Like that?”
You looked at Satoru, in his full set of pajamas with matching slippers and an eye mask holding the hair out of his face, sitting cross-legged on the couch.
“I have to spend vacation days,” his head tilted to the side. “So…”
“Okay.”
He pouted at the open laptop, but you couldn't offer any ideas. It was hard to come up with any when the safer option was to go along with his impulse.
You wouldn't be punished for someone else's decision.
Gojo poked your shoulder, “Are you listening?”
“Hmm? Yeah.”
“You're not,” he frowned. “If you don't want to go, then—”
“You decide. Sorry,” you stood up and walked away.
You considered smoking. Something to take the edge off while looking busy.
Standing on his balcony while the night grew colder wasn't enough. It felt like you didn't belong there.
A blanket wrapped around you from behind. Hadn't even heard the door slide open over your shaky breath.
“What are you doing?” He asked softly, draping his arms over your shoulders.
“I'm not a good person. To be with.”
“What’s this about?”
“Did Suguru talk to you?”
“Do you want him to?”
You nodded once, rubbed the damp from your eye.
You needed someone to convince you this outlook was insane before it clamped down like a bear trap.
You took baby steps.
Listed Satoru as your emergency contact.
Drew out your fears with crayons in a sketchbook. It looked awful, practically illegible, but it made them feel stupid instead of all-consuming.
Though some “logical” part of your brain was screaming underwater at the act.
Perhaps the most helpful thing was finding the inciting incident. The tragedy your young mind had scrambled to make sense of, because if you could prevent it, then you could have some power over it from ever happening again.
Recognizing this couldn't erase that moment, but it gave you a reason for the rituals which didn't involve hiding from gods and monsters.
Fuck, it felt good to make sense of your own mind. Even if you felt like a child waking from a nightmare, convinced that broccoli was hiding in their closet.
You even tried to forego the nightly breast exams.
It felt like a deadly nocebo.
You tried to act normal, just resting that heavy hand on your chest.
It was hard.
Your breaths were uneven. How could anyone fall asleep on purpose without their ritual?
Everyone had one. It was just dressed up as a devotional prayer or self-care routine.
Satoru kissed your cheek in the dark, and probably tasted salt.
You turned your head to reciprocate. But lips connected.
You pulled him in with a hand on the back of the head, gentle kisses that grew hungrier, wondering how you'd gone so long without this. Until you broke it off to gasp for air.
“You okay?” He brushed the hair back from your forehead.
You kissed him again.
His lips were soft and glossy, they tasted sweet.
He bit your bottom one, sucked on it like candy.
You still couldn't sleep. Tried not to be restless and kick him in the balls on accident. Hugged a pillow to your chest, like that might smolder the need.
“Do you need me to do it?”
“Please?” you whispered.
He never made a joke about making an appointment. Never explained that it was pointless to check so often.
You had to wonder how long he'd known that it wasn't fully about that.
On some level it was fear of a health-related issue. But the other half of the threat was, by some butterfly effect or divine retribution, a seemingly unrelated tragedy would strike because of your neglect.
Appease the gods or die trying to convince yourself they weren't after you.
Even without OCD wrecking your life, wouldn't it be hard to sleep without something that you always had done?
It was kind of unfair to make you try, when everyone else got their playlist or blanket or book.
Do you want to invite them, too? Or it to be just us?
Ask them.
The trip was planned several months in advance. Your cast was finally off, the hand practically back to normal. Though after being sealed away for so long, it didn't seem dominant anymore.
You hung back under the shade with Suguru, flipping through a book you'd bought that day.
Everyone else was further down the beach, building something in the sand, taking breaks to run into the ocean when the sun beat down too hot.
“Satoru's been afraid to ask, but… Why did you leave before?”
Shit. Was he walking on eggshells, afraid your OCD could flare at any moment and take flight?
“Thought I was sparing him an awkward goodbye,” you started.
There were several reasons, none of which you were proud of.
Assumed he was moving on, you were only a stepping stone.
That your major became obsolete by the time you'd graduate was also a blow to your self-esteem.
It seemed best to disappear quietly.
“He doesn't have to worry about that. But I think… I don't even have pets because something might happen to them.”
“In that case, you take care of it.” Suguru spoke so easily, like all the fears just rolled off his back.
“I guess you're right,” you muttered, stroking the chin of one cat while the other slept on your lap.
“You have time.”
You scoffed, “Your kids already graduated.”
“We're only twelve years apart. Don't use us for a model.”
“Wouldn't it be weird though? For them to be grown ass adults by the time your best friend has a newborn?”
“Weird isn't a concern.”
You still worried what they'd think.
From this distance, all you could hear was muffled giggles.
It sounded like they didn't have a care in the world. You didn't want to complicate things.
“Hey! We're going for ice cream. Do you want anything?” Nanako called from a few meters away.
“Thanks for coming with us,” you turned to their father.
Not just because it stifled your superstitious mental illness, but you were glad to meet them. To be accepted as their cats’ godparent.
“They had fun planning it,” he smiled easily.
They had family friends to visit, which left you alone with Satoru. He kept pulling tiny crustaceans and mollusks out of the shoreline.
Fought a seagull over his baked potato.
Sometimes it felt like he'd never grow up. Like this was the same guy who didn't give a fuck about working on your group project until you made analogies to kids’ cartoons.
He'd wear fuzzy accessories that his white hair blended into, looking like a Sanrio character himself.
Then somehow, the scrubs and occasional lab coat turned him into someone else. Maybe it activated your submissive reflex.
The ocean was warm on your feet, his back to the sea and the evening sun.
Sand sucked out from around your feet, feeling dizzy every time the tide adjusted. If you spaced out too much, you might fall.
He grabbed you first, put a tiny crab in your hands.
“I love you.”
Gojo's mouth fell open, but you weren't looking. Closing one palm around the creature.
“Don't say it back,” you covered his lips with the free hand.
Glanced up to see his eyes staring out into infinity.
“That's not… really like an OCD thing, it's just… It comes off as manipulative or insincere. If it slips out on accident, that's fine. But as a habit, I don't want to say I love you. I really… Can't hear it because you think I want to.”
Satoru scratched your head and moved your hand from his mouth, next to the other. “I get it.”
You bent down, let the crab release itself in the next wave.
