DRILL ME, DOCTOR — SATORU GOJO
dentist! gojo x yandere! reader
summary: listen, you're not saying you're obsessed with your dentist. you're just saying you know his schedule, favorite coffee, shoe size, birth chart, and the exact pattern his eyebrows make when he tells you to "open wide" for him. so what if you booked three appointments this month? it's not your fault they let a man like that put his fingers in your mouth and activate your fuck-or-flight response. 『wc: 11k 』 content/warning: mdni/18+ only, obsession, power imbalance, stalking, you knock your own tooth out to get an appointment, explicit language, eventual smut, fem body reader, fingering, oral m receiving, gojo's dick is too big, choking, spit/saliva play, use of dental instruments, unprotected piv, restraint, mild pain kink, biting, overstimulation, manipulation, plot twist a/n: psa remember to get your regular check up and cleaning done! i got a lil too carried away heh. hope you enjoy ♡
You want to fuck your dentist. There’s no poetic way to phrase that.
But for now, you sit in the waiting room like everyone else. You’re patient. You have to be. He’s worth every second of waiting. You can practically feel the desperation sweating off them.
They’re craning their necks. They’re checking the hallway. They’re fixing their hair in the reflection of the aquarium glass.
Pathetic. They’re all waiting for a glimpse of him.
Dr. Satoru Gojo. Your sweet, oblivious, perfect Dr. Satoru Gojo.
You want to tell them to stop breathing so loudly — it feels disrespectful. Their existence is unnecessary noise. Their bodies clog the space that should be reserved for him and you alone.
None of them know him like you do.
You know the rhythm of his foot tapping against the tile when he’s impatient. You know the little crease between his brows when he concentrates. You know the exact cadence of his voice when he says, “open wider for me.”
So what if this is the third cleaning you booked within the same month?
You told the receptionist your gums were “a little tender”. Your gums are perfectly fine. It’s your sanity that isn’t.
You keep his business card in your pocket, warm with your body heat. The ink is wearing off where your thumb rubs over his name again and again.
He gave it to everyone, sure. But no one keeps it like you do. They don’t whisper to it, don’t fall asleep holding it, don’t kiss it goodnight.
The receptionist calls your name. “Dr. Gojo will see you now.”
Finally.
God, his face — it’s the kind of beautiful that leaves you shaking. There’s no flaw, no wrong angle. Every part of him is exactly where it should be. You hate the idea that anyone else gets to see this. Gets to see him.
He smiles, says your name in that buttery register. He adjusts your chair and guides you back with soft and tender hands. He leans over you and being beneath him like this feels like destiny.
He has no idea what he does to you. No idea how devastating it is to have him this close. It takes everything in you to not reach up and touch his jaw and pull him closer and press your forehead to his and tell him that he belongs to you and no one else and—
“You’ve been taking good care of yourself,” he says.
The snap of latex against his gloved hands is foreplay, and his praise is seduction. Your thighs tense. It’s embarrassing how fast your thoughts collapse.
You love it when he asks you to open up, when he touches you, angles your head exactly how he wants and explore every inch of your obedience. You’ve memorized the exact spot his thumb rests, the amount of pressure on his fingers.
You’re so close to him that you can hear his breathing. You want to ask him what he’s thinking about. You want the answer to be you.
He finishes too soon. You’re not ready. You’re never ready.
He pulls away and gives you a satisfied nod he gives to good patients.
“See you next time,” he says. Next time. Next time. Next time.
And you will. Soon. You’ll make sure of it.
Three months ago
You weren’t supposed to meet him that day.
It was a throwaway appointment — a last-minute cancellation the receptionist squeezed you into because you happened to be nearby. You barely had time to sit before the assistant pushed open the door and called your name.
You didn’t expect anything out of the ordinary from all your previous routine checkups. But when he turned toward you, it was nothing short of extraordinary.
His bright hair caught the light like it was intentionally showing off.
His eyes were so vivid it felt illegal to look into them for more than a second.
Your organ systems forgot they had a job — your lungs, your brain, your heart.
You’d never been disarmed by a person before. You didn’t even think people had the power to do that.
“Let’s get you seated,” he said.
That voice. God.
He adjusted the chair and lowered you gently, explaining the procedure with an intimacy that caught you off guard. The way he leaned close to show you where to rest your head, how his hand ghosted near your jaw without touching yet.
Frankly, it felt inappropriate.
Your body reacted like he’d whispered something filthy. And when you felt him place two fingers under your chin, tipping it up to the perfect angle, your pulse shot upward so fast your vision went blurry.
And while he was rambling on about brushing technique or gum health or something, you couldn't process any of it. Your brain was stuck on one thing, and one thing only: he touched you.
You didn’t leave that room the same person who entered it.
You stood up, nodded politely and thanked him like a functioning adult. You walked out trying to act normal while on the inside, a dangerous thought began to form, one that would only continue to spiral:
He was perfect.
Not just “attractive”, not just “easy on the eyes”.
Perfect.
Perfect in a way that felt targeted. Perfect in a way that felt designed. Perfect in a way that made your body mourn the seconds you weren’t with him.
You replayed his voice all the way home. You replayed his touch. You replayed the way he smiled.
You needed more. You needed him.
Sleep didn’t reach you that night.
The memory of his fingertips brushing your lips resurfaced with humiliating clarity everytime your eyes fluttered shut.
You employed every method possible to forget — you’d roll over, shove your face into your pillow, and try to force yourself to forget the feeling, but your skin remembered.
You had to see him again. Soon. Now. Immediately.
But you couldn’t just show up. You weren’t unhinged — not outwardly. You needed a plan, a reason; a way back into that chair.
You sat down on your desk with renewed purpose, opened your laptop, and before you could question what you were doing, the clinic’s name was already being typed into your browser.
Your motive wasn’t to make an appointment. You were looking for their scheduling structure, their staff rotation, their hours. Any scrap of information you could twist into something useful. But their website was useless. Too clean and too vague.
So you did what any sane, functioning person would do. You called the clinic.
“Hi! Just checking if Dr. Gojo is in today?”
You wrote down the answer. You hung up. Waited a respectable amount of time—you weren’t an animal—then called again. You used a different tone. Different phrasing. Different fake reason.
Another time slot. Written down. Compared. Cross-referenced. It wasn’t enough. You needed data. A pattern. A system.
The spreadsheet grew fast into a color-coded grid;
Green: confirmed work days Orange: probable presence Violet: ambiguous Red: unacceptable absence
Blocks of time were highlighted, circled and analyzed:
He arrived earlier on Mondays. Left later on Thursdays. Took a longer break on Fridays.
Why rely on chance when you could rely on predictions?
Today, your alarm goes off an hour earlier than usual. The spreadsheet predicted an early arrival.
Thursday — Projected Arrival: 7:42 AM.
Last week it was 7:50. The week before, 7:46.
And if your deduction about his caffeine habits (large mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice) is correct, then today should fall neatly in the middle.
You stand across the street from the clinic with a coffee cup you don’t even plan to drink, pretending to scroll your phone.
The time is 7:45 AM. Any second now.
7:46 People pass. Irrelevant. Noise. Filler. Not him.
7:47:50 You lift the coffee cup to your lips to fake a sip. Your eyes are locked onto the reflection in the glass window across the street — your perfect surveillance method.
7:48:12 There. He’s punctual. Of course he is. He cares about you so much. He’d never leave you hanging.
Dr. Satoru Gojo strolls up to the clinic with his hands in his coat pockets. His hair is obnoxiously bright in the morning light. It taunts every other shade of white in existence.
He’s wearing his spare blue scrub set, the one with the bleach stain on the hem from three weeks and two days ago when he knocked over a bottle on accident. He really should be more careful. Your clumsy boy.
He unlocks the door and disappears down the hall.
7:48:36 — Confirmed.
You mark down the time your notes app. A near-perfect match with your prediction. You understand him better every day.
You should go home and relax now, but then you see her walking straight into his clinic — female, short bob, beige coat, smug little bag.
That’s not right.
He doesn’t have any scheduled appointments now. You know there’s nothing booked in this slot. You checked.
Who is she? What does she want? Why is she here?
This doesn’t make sense. Unscheduled walk-ins are rare. Unscheduled female walk-ins are suspicious.
Does she know him? Is she new? Is she early? Did she call yesterday? Did she call after you checked? Did she lie? Did she flirt?
The receptionist nods and leads the woman toward the hallway. Toward him.
This is fine. It’s totally fine. He’s a dentist, after all. He sees patients. He helps people. It’s his job.
You stare at the clinic door long enough to memorize the exact angle it swings shut after she disappears inside.
You don’t leave.
You tell yourself you’re just passing by, just stretching your legs. You walk as if you’re checking window displays — never mind that the only window worth checking is the one that gives you a perfect side-angle view of his room.
And then you see them.
The woman with the bob is on the chair, chatting with Satoru. You expect her to be annoying, maybe loud—Satoru hated the loud ones—but she’s pleasant.
She’s laughing softly, one hand tucked behind her ear. She looks foolish. Like she’s audtioning for a toothpaste commercial. You think she must’ve had veneers done. No one was born with teeth like that. No one, save for Satoru.
A friend? No — too cheerful. A former coworker? No — not in those shoes. A vendor? No — she didn’t bring any products. A stalk— No. That’s your role.
You watch the bob girl shift her posture, trying to look cuter. Your teeth grind. Then the woman leans in, says something to him, something you can’t make out.
And he laughs.
Your Satoru — your perfectly punctual, perfectly bright, perfectly oblivious reason for existing, is laughing.
It’s not a polite chuckle. Not the forced, professional smile. It was a real, shoulders loosening, eyes crinkling smile. The kind that should only ever be directed at you.
Your mind goes very, very still.
You can’t hear what she said, but you know it wasn’t funny. She shouldn’t be making him laugh. Shouldn’t be making him anything. That expression is yours and yours alone. Your reward. Your discovery.
You’re not jealous. You’re vigilant. You’re careful. She’s one disruption. An anomaly. You’ll handle it.
This is your time slot. This is your schedule.
Your doctor.
Fine. Good. You needed this. People like her will always flutter around him. Let her — temporary little distraction. She won’t matter long. Not when you’re the one coming back soon. Very soon.
You can’t get the image out of your head. Her laugh. His laugh. No. Absolutely not. Everything about that scene was wrong.
You pace down the sidewalk, the morning sun too blinding, the traffic too loud, the world too irritating.
All the while, your brain keeps looping one thought: you need to get inside that clinic. Right now. Before she steals more seconds that aren’t hers.
But you can’t just walk in, or say you forgot something. What would you even pretend to forget? Your dignity? It’s long gone anyway.
And even if you did fabricate some imaginary object, the receptionist would retrieve it in seconds and that bob-headed parasite would go right back to stealing his minutes.
You need something better. A believable reason. A legitimate one. Something that’d make the receptionist pale and scramble, and say the magic words: “We’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”
Emergency. That’s it. You need an emergency. This is logical. It’s reasonable. This is exactly what any rational person would do if they saw a strange woman hovering around their dentist.
Okay. Think. How does one create a dental emergency?
You could claim a crown fell out; You don’t have one, but they don’t know that.
You could say you felt a crack; Nobody can disprove a sensation over the phone.
You could say you woke up with swelling; “I swear it’s huge,” is such a flexible phrase.
You could even lose a tooth.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes.
You’ll lose a tooth.
It's perfectly convincing. Perfectly harmless — at least, if you plan it right. You read once that if you put it immediately in a glass of milk, the chances of replanting the tooth skyrockets. And whose hands would you trust more than Satoru’s?
Safe hands. Careful hands. Big, warm, gorgeous hands that would cradle your face and say, “Don’t worry, I’m here.”
Your voice will tremble; you can do that on command. Your eyes will water; you’re already halfway there.
They won’t make you wait, they won’t question it. He would never turn away a patient in pain.
And that bob-haired waste of space? She’ll watch him run to you first.
You’ll be exactly where you’re supposed to be. Back in his chair. Back under his hands. Back inside his attention.
You buzz with anticipation and sprint to the nearest grocery store. You check out a bottle of milk and head straight to the restroom, adrenaline singing in your veins, determination settling into your bones. You lock yourself in and grip the edge of the sink.
You ball a wad of paper towels and bite down on them. You’ll need something to stifle the scream. You’re not dumb — you’re not about to sabotage your own plan by having someone rush in and interrupt you.
Okay. Okay, okay. You breathe once, twice, three times.
This is it. This is devotion. This is fate. You whisper, “For Satoru.”
Then you slam into the sink.
Crack.
A sunburst of pain sucks all the oxygen out of you. Your knees knock the side of the stall. You choke on your own muffled cry — a broken, animalistic whimper. Your vision blurs so hard you think you’ve passed out, but you’re still there. The taste of rust crosses your tongue. Then you spit into your palm.
It worked. It fucking worked.
Jagged, red at the root, shining with triumph — your tooth.
You stagger back, dabbing at your mouth. The tissues are still clenched between your teeth now.
It hurts. Oh, it hurts so bad. But it’s sacred.
People only deserve his attention if they’re willing to bleed for it.
You give yourself one minute to practice your act — sixty seconds of dizzy euphoria, staring into the mirror with a mouthful of tissues and blood smeared across your chin.
You look pathetic. It was perfect.
You stumble into the clinic, towards the counter, hands cupping your jaw to really sell it. Your eyes are glossy with unshed pain, voice shaking so sweetly when you plead:
“I—I think something broke. Please… I need to see a dentist right now.”
And just like you dream, she scrambles to pick up the phone, and says the magic words:
“I’ll get Dr. Gojo right away.”
You’re being ushered down the hallway, trembling, clutching your jaw like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. You don’t have to fake the adrenaline; your body is already shaking so hard your teeth (your remaining ones) chatter.
You see the bob-haired bitch scurry out of his room. Good riddance.
The door clicks open. And he’s there.
Your reason, your ruin, your everything: Dr. Satoru Gojo.
His eyes widen with concern the second he sees you curled in on yourself, breath hitching.
“Hey… hey, easy,” he says, unbearably soft, stepping closer, gentler than you’ve ever seen him. “You must be scared. Let me take a look, okay?”
You lift your gaze slowly, letting your lashes tremble, letting your breath wobble. You look small on purpose; crafted yourself into the perfect picture of vulnerability.
You whisper, “It… it hurts.”
His brows knit together instantly. “Aw, sweetheart—”
(Your heart combusts.)
“—I’ve got you. We’ll fix it. I’ll numb the area first, get rid of that pain.”
He dons his surgical gloves with slow, careful movements, retrieving the syringe like he’s trying not to startle a frightened animal.
It does unspeakable things to you.
And when he steps closer and reaches for your chin, you flinch back — deliberately, strategically.
He goes soft all over. “Hey. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
You let your voice shake even more. It isn’t hard. You’re already breathless.
“B-but this is my first time doing something like this,” you say, tiny, terrified. “Please… promise me you’ll be gentle?”
His eyes snap to yours — startled, confused, embarrassed?
He swallows, the tiniest bob of his throat, before he speaks.
“I promise.”
Oh, Satoru. Your darling Satoru. Your beautiful, clueless, perfect idiot.
He leans closer, fingertips tilting your chin, ever so tender and loving.
“Just open wide and relax for me,” he says.
You nearly dissolve into a puddle on the chair. This is your best idea yet. You’ve never seen him care so much about you before, and you want to push the boundaries even more.
He begins to angle the numbing syringe, but you tense up again — intentionally, the picture of sweet, irresistible innocence.
“Hey… look at me.” His voice drops, low and coaxing, “I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”
You know what he means. You know exactly what he means.
The clinical intention. The rational intention.
But your brain, faithful and deranged, hears something else entirely.
The needle slips into your gum, and the anesthetic floods in, numbing all sensation until the only thing you can truly feel is him, towering above you, looking only at you.
Let her make him laugh. That’s all she’ll ever be — a clown. Let her think that’s enough.
He only speaks like this to you. He said he’ll take care of you. He promised he’d be gentle with you. He’ll make you all better. Only you.
You go home with blood-soaked gauze between your teeth and victory under your skin.
Your tooth hurts, your gums throb, your jaw is stiff; none of that matters.
The compassion he showed and the way he looked at you isn’t something you can un-feel.
You lock the door behind you and head straight to your bedroom. You don’t even bother turning on the lights — the glowing screen of your laptop is all you need.
You sit on the floor, cross-legged, pulse fast as you open your browser.
Dr. Satoru Gojo, you type.
The first results are boring.
Clinic listings, dental certifications, a generic staff bio.
No flavor. No soul.
You already know all this surface-level nonsense. These pages aren’t for people like you — they’re for strangers.
You’re not a stranger.
His personal social media accounts are locked. All of them. Of course they are.
He's private. Someone that beautiful had to be. But privacy doesn’t erase information.
You have to find a way in.
So you discover the cracks:
coworkers with public profiles
relatives who overshare
a cousin who tags him in old photos
family friends who post albums from reunions
a retired teacher who still uploads grainy class pictures from ten years ago
You sit back for a moment, staring at his aunt’s page. Her feed is full of blurry lunches and knitted scarves.
Perfect. You’d be a distant aunt.
You open a new tab. A new account. A new identity. You give yourself a delicate old-lady name, a grandmotherly profile picture, a blurry banner, captions filled with emojis and misspellings, posts about your silly grandkids.
You follow his entire family tree. Then, finally, you follow him.
Your eye twitches with anticipation.
If he declines, you’ll simply try again from a different angle. If he blocks you, you’ll build a new family member.
But if he accepts… if he accepts…
The notification comes instantly.
Satoru Gojo accepted your follow request.
You’re in his world now.
Now that your fake-old-lady-profile has infiltrated his circle, doorways start opening: tagged photos from when he was a teen, comments under his university posts, friends teasing him, coworkers tagging him at events, relatives posting birthday pictures, people mentioning his preferences, old likes he forgot about.
You absorb it all.
You pause at a photo he liked. A woman’s face — the actress, Waka Inoue.
So that’s what he likes. That’s what draws his eye. That’s the shape of his fantasy.
You turn your gaze toward your own reflection in the dark screen. Your clothing is wrong. Your hair is wrong. Your makeup is wrong.
Wrong things can be changed.
You create a single folder — a dossier.
He’ll recognize you the next time you meet him. You’ll become his dream. One perfect piece at a time.
It’s 9:42 on a Sunday morning.
You’re sitting by the window, waiting.
You chose this seat intentionally.
It had the perfect lighting, perfect angle, perfect radius of visibility from the doorway.
A book is open in front of you, pages untouched. You don’t need to read; you only need to look like someone he would want to read beside.
Your reflection in the glass pane matches the blueprint you carved from ten years of digital breadcrumbs: soft waves grazing your shoulders, a delicate blouse draping just right, a muted skirt stopping shyly above your ankles and small earrings that dangled gracefully.
You look like someone meant to be photographed holding his arm.
Two drinks sit on your table — the props in your carefully constructed tableau. An iced mocha (your decoy) and a sparkling water (your actual drink).
And after weeks of monitoring his off-day patterns, you know that on Sundays, around mid-morning, he gets coffee. Always the same shop, always the same route. He doesn’t think twice about routine, so you place yourself in it like a missing puzzle piece.
He walks in wearing casual clothes, glasses slipping down his nose. He looks so disarmingly human like this. Less “doctor” and more “man you’d want to wake up beside.” He’s too adorable, all too unaware of how attractive he is.
He sees you instantly. You knew he would. There’s nothing accidental about this.
“Oh—hey!” he called out. “This is unexpected.”
You lift your head with the sweetest, softest, perfectly engineered surprise.
“Oh! Dr. Gojo! I… didn’t think I’d see you here!”
He walks over, adjusting his glasses, a little flustered.
“Just Satoru is fine,” he says. “You can drop the formalities. We’re not in the clinic.”
A shy blush escapes you, just as you practiced in the mirror. “Okay… Satoru.”
The name sits beautifully on your tongue. He hears it. His shoulders slacken.
“So, uh… what brings you here?” he asks, gesturing around awkwardly. “It’s just that, I’m a regular, but I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“I just came by for a little weekend treat. This here—” you lift your drink and laugh gently, “—is my guilty pleasure. An iced mocha, double shot espresso, two pumps of sugar, extra foam, less ice.”
His jaw drops. He’s bewildered. Absolutely stunned.
“No way. That’s my exact order.”
Hook.
It’s almost too easy. You nearly grin. Nearly. Instead, you pause, blink, tilt your head.
“Really? A dentist with a sweet tooth?”
“Guilty as charged.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s so funny, we’re already matching coffee orders.”
Matching.
You can already hear church bells ringing.
You lower your eyes, feigning hesitation. A pause that suggests you’re a litty shy and a little nervous.
“Actually… I’ve been meaning to thank you. For helping me last time. I’m really grateful, so, if you’re free… would you maybe like to join me?”
Line.
He shouldn’t say yes. You know that, he knows that.
But his eyes do a once-over at you: your pure persona, your demure posture, all sculpted just for him. He sits across from you without another thought.
“Sure. I’ve got time.”
Sink.
Satoru settles into the chair across from you, fingers curling around his iced mocha.
He looks relaxed, surprisingly. As if sitting with you is the most natural thing in the world, even though this is the only time he’s spoken to you off a dental chair.
“So,” he begins, leaning forward a little, “how’s your tooth? Any pain since then?”
You shake your head, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, offering him a shy smile.
“It’s fine, thanks to you.”
A barely-there pink rises on his cheeks. You note the way he tries to hide it by taking a too-quick sip of his drink, only to wince when the cold hits his teeth.
Cute.
“So, uh… what are you reading?” he asks, hoping to recover, nodding toward the book you haven’t touched once.
You allow your eyes to widen like you didn’t expect him to ask.
“Oh, just some light reading.” You run your finger along the spine. “The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu — Heian period court intricacies, relationships… It’s dense. I won’t bore you.” (it didn't matter that you couldn’t name a single character if he asked.)
He perks up, intrigued. “No, no — that’s really cool. I’ll admit, I’m a simple man.” He laughs. “I read whatever I can squeeze between work. Only seem to have time for manga these days though.”
“That makes sense,” you say. “I imagine it gets overwhelming. Everyone in the city seems desperate to get in with you.”
He groans dramatically. “Don’t remind me. Yesterday someone even tried flirting with the receptionist to steal a canceled slot.”
What a weak attempt.
“Did it work?”
He snorts. “Not a chance. The waiting list is already a month long.”
You laugh politely at your own downplay, hiding a smile behind your cup. You lower your gaze the way all his favorite actresses do in candids. “Well, you’re really good at what you do — I would know.”
He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, you’re a good patient.”
“How so?”
He shrugs. “You’re easy to talk to, I guess. Most people are either afraid of me or asking me out.”
Don’t let the rage get to you. Just keep smiling.
“Oh? Do they really ask you out?”
He admits with a grimace. “More often than I’d like.”
“I can see why,” you tease.
How daring of you.
He looks down at his drink, embarrassed. He looks stunned, shy even, but he shouldn’t be — not with a face like that.
“I mean,” you add softly, swirling your straw, “you’re kind, smart, good at what you do.” You offer a tiny, modest shrug. “It’s not hard to imagine people falling for that.”
“That’s—wow, uh—thanks.” He laughs nervously and darts his eyes away for a second. “You’re… not too bad yourself,” he adds. “Though I’m sure you’re used to compliments by now.”
Oh... Pull yourself together. Your fingers toy with the edge of your sleeve.
“You think so?”
He nods without hesitation. “Yeah. I’m glad I ran into you today.”
You can practically feel the universe tightening the noose around his destiny. Poor Satoru is a puppet who hasn’t realized he’s on strings. He’s open, comfortable—and dare you say—starting to like you.
Which means it’s time.
You need to leave. Now. Before he gets too comfortable. Before he stops thinking about you.
Because the secret isn’t making a man like you. It’s making him want more.
You wait— Time it, feel it. Sense the exact moment he leans in, a question perched on his tongue—
Then you stand.
The scrape of your chair might as well be a gunshot the way he flinches.
He stammers, blinking up at you, “Ah—do you, uh, need to go already?”
Your heart flutters at the crack in his voice. That small, wounded surprise. You are that good.
“I should, I don’t want to take up your whole morning.”
He sights up straighter, like the chair suddenly isn’t comfortable without you in front of him. His next words come out in pieces, scrambled, “Oh—no, it’s not—I mean, you’re not, um, I honestly don’t have anything to do, so if you wanted to stay, I wouldn’t—”
He’s unraveling. You did that.
It takes everything in you not to let out a victory cry. Instead, you force out a small and meek, “It was really nice talking to you, Satoru.”
You said his name again.
You can see what it does to him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.”
You gather your things slowly, giving enough time for him to watch you and to process the loss of your presence. You shoulder your bag, one last polite nod before turning to leave.
One step. Two. Three—
“Wait.”
You could kiss yourself.
You turn, looking over your shoulder, eyes wide with perfect surprise. He’s standing now, hand in his pocket, awkward, nervous.
“Um…” His fingers fumble with a folded bit of reciept paper, edges crushed from how tightly he’s been holding it. He steps closer and clears his throat. “This is probably a bad idea.”
You give him your most virtuous look. “What is that?”
He glances aside in embarrassment, “I’m not supposed to do this with my patients.” He hands you the slip of his paper. “My personal number,” he says.
Oh. my. fucking. god.
You wanted to scream, laugh, grab his shirt, kiss him, shake him, sink your nails into the flesh of his heart and carve your initials in it.
“I-I… don’t want to get you in trouble,” you whisper.
He shakes his head immediately. “No, it’s fine. I trust you. Text me if anything happens. Or even if anything doesn’t.”
You close your fingers around the paper, cradling it. You have him wrapped around your finger. “Okay,” you say. “I will.”
Everything worked.
Every detail and carefully chosen word.
Executed to perfection, a masterpiece in manipulation.
Everything is falling into place exactly as you planned.
You can’t text him immediately — that’s what clingy, overeager, sloppy little creatures do.
You aren’t an amateur.
So you set the paper on your nightstand, smooth it flat, and let it sit.
You wake up. You make tea. You replay his laugh while brushing your teeth.
It was nothing short of torture, but you had to be patient. For you are his favorite patient.
Three days is the magic number — an acceptable timeframe.
Three days is when he starts to think of you unprompted.
Three days is enough time for him to be haunted by thoughts of “why hasn’t she texted?”
So you start drafting.
Thank you again for keeping me company.
Too plain. Too empty. Delete.
I really enjoyed seeing you. Hope you got home safe!
You gag. Actually gag. Delete.
Thanks again for helping me last time. You really made me feel better.
Ugh. Terrible. You sound like a Yelp review. Delete.
Hope I wasn’t too much of a bother again.
What the fuck? You want pity? Absolutely not. Delete.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, the light from your phone glowing against your palm like a holy artifact. His number waits in your contacts, untouched: Toru <3
Come on.
You didn’t reengineer your entire personality and reconstruct your wardrobe just to send some lukewarm, baseline-human nonsense.
You want to sound warm yet bold. Funny and a little flirty. You want him to blink at his screen, smile without meaning to, then reread it ten times over.
Is it normal to want to see your dentist again this soon?
Yes. Yes, yes. This is the one.
Harmless on the surface. Playful underneath. Disarming in its simplicity. Suggestive if he wants it to be. Teasing if he reads it twice. A confession if he looks closely.
You cross-reference your spreadsheet and confirm his schedule today: No appointments. Lunch break window. Phone likely in pocket. Brain likely idle.
It's the ideal time for emotional interference — you position yourself like a sniper, and hit send. The message floats away, a little digital bullet aimed straight for his heart.
Then you wait, the way a lion sinks into tall grass. And sure enough—
Your phone buzzes, not a minute later. Not even forty seconds. Thirty-one. He read it immediately.
A laughable little thrill curls through you as you stare at the notification lighting up your lock screen:
Only if your dentist has good bedside manners 😉
Your entire bloodstream vaporizes and reconstitutes itself in the span of a heartbeat. Your stomach swoops so violently you nearly drop the phone. You read it thirty-one times and then another four, just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating or misinterpreting the innuendo.
The wink. The fucking wink.
He could have just said “lol” or “haha”. But he didn’t.
Satoru Gojo winked at you.
Digitally, yes. But it counts.
And not a friendly wink either. Not a “grandma made a pie” wink.
A bedside. Manners. Wink.
You’re dizzy with implications. There are so many. What does “good” mean to him? Gentle? Dominant? Hands-on? Does he think you’re picturing him hovering over a bed with gloves off and voice low? Because you are, now. You are so vividly doing that.
You could still dial this down — send a safe, soft-pedaled emoji or a polite “haha, you’re so silly”. All it takes is your next reply to tip the scales toward cordial or carnal.
But your brain isn’t interested in balance aymore.
No, your brain has already slithered off the rails and is now joyriding straight into his lap. It’s licking the thought of his voice bending low, whispering for you to “open wide” with something other than dental instruments in hand. It’s already imagining his so-called bedside manners without latex gloves — no latex at all, for that matter.
You have all the power now. The invitation is sitting wide open, legs parted, saying: come inside.
Is that so, doctor? Next time, I’ll be better prepared to assess your technique
And when he responds, he bites back, hard:
Bring a notepad. I’ll give you plenty to write about
You nearly let out a sound.
You clamp your thighs together without thinking just to contain the full-body voltage that line delivers straight to your pelvis.
You lie back against the pillows, grinning like a lunatic, fingers hovering over the keyboard, thumbs twitching with indecision.
He wants this. He started this.
But still — you want to measure the next stroke just right.
Fair warning: I have strict standards
You can picture him mentally debating, wondering how inappropriate this is while simultaneously wanting to dive in anyway.
Delivered. Read. Typing…
Fair warning: I never disappoint
God. You sit up. Sit forward. He’s still typing. Another text pings in right after:
You free Friday night?
You swear you stop breathing. You let your head fall back, body sizzling, mouth dry. Then you answer, calm and confident like you’ve practiced before.
It’s a date.
You lock your phone and stare at the ceiling with a slow, consuming smile. The room feels too small to hold the satisfaction inside of you.
He has no idea what he’s just set in motion, but you know exactly what comes next.
Satoru Gojo pulls up in his car and steps out like a wet dream.
White dress shirt, perfectly fitted, rolled just once at the sleeves like he doesn’t even know how pornographic his forearms are. A slim black tie, undone (you’d undo it further).
He leans against his car, wearing a devil-may-care elegance, holding the sexiest bouquet you’ve ever seen.
Red roses were far too generic. He held an assortment of deep wine-colored calla lilies, indigo hyacinth, black dahlia, a single spray of bleeding heart, tied in dark silk. You want to crawl into his lap and purr for it.
You’ve been getting ready since 11:00 for a 7:30 dinner.
It started with a three-step exfoliation.
Then a cooling mask. Then a hydrating mask. Then another to seal the glow.
You tweezed precisely — eyebrows, bikini line, the back of your neck. You moisturzied every inch of your body. Twice. Then oiled it.
You sprayed perfume in strategic places: back of the knees, between the breasts, behind each ear and under your hairline so it would bloom when you played with your hair.
You matched the color of your lipstick to the color of his favorite whiskey. You lined your underwear drawer in the off chance he opened it. You painted your nails a color he once liked on a girl’s post from six months ago.
You wore the dress that made your waist look strangled. You wore the shoes that gave you the posture of a prayer.
And by the time you were done curling your hair, steam emerged from the bathroom like smoke after arson.
But it’s all worth it. He’s worth it.
You had rehearsed the steps you’d take down the stairs earlier so that you’d look like a starlet.
You know how you look. You’ve seen it in the mirror a hundred times already, practiced every expression — wide eyes, coy smile, neck bared just a little more than necessary.
You walk toward him slowly, pretending not to notice how his eyes track every inch of you, from the straps over your shoulders, to the dip of your waist, to the swell of your legs straining beautifully against heels he’ll definitely make you regret later.
“Hey,” he says, offering you the bouquet.
The words taste too good in his mouth. And the way his fingers curve around the stems? You almost moan on instinct.
You take them with trembling control. “They’re stunning.”
“So are you,” he says, eyes dragging down your body and back up. “Do I get to keep looking at you all night?”
It should be illegal the way he says it. So lethal you want to die.
“You better,” you say, curling your grasp tighter around the bouquet. “I got all dolled up just for you.”
You don’t tell him about the playlist you listened to while shaving. Or the way you rewaxed your legs even though they were fine.
You don’t tell him you read six articles on body language to keep your posture effortlessly receptive and just barely challenging.
You don’t tell him you spent twenty minutes making sure your purse contents were both practical and inviting.
You don’t tell him about the notes you made on his favorite wines, his casual turns of phrase, the photo from his stories where you could just barely see the title of the book on his nightstand.
He smiles and opens the door for you. “Shall we?”
His fingers brush your lower back as he guides you into your seat. You’re already soaking, and the night’s only just begun.
The interior of the car smells like him, and the radio hums with ambient jazz, the kind of music people undress to in good movies.
His one hand grips the steering wheel, forearm flexing with each turn. You can’t stop picturing it above your head, fingers gripping the headboard, pinning you down as he sinks inside. You imagine leaving crescent-moon marks in that same arm, clutching him through every thrust.
He glances over. “How was your week?”
“Better now.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound curling around your neck. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
The drive feels like the prelude just before climax — surreal, floaty, skin too sensitive, body tuned too high.
Every passing streetlight reflects against his cheekbones, his lashes, carving his features in gold and shadow. And when his thumb grazes the gearshift, all you can think about is whether he fucks like he talks.
When he parks, you barely register it.
The restaurant is tucked between two blank storefronts: wooden façade, softly glowing paper lanterns flanking the entrance, barely visible signage in elegant brushstroke kanji.
He kills the engine and turns to you.
“Ready for the best meal of your life?”
You let your smile drag out slowly, lip catching on your teeth. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
The maître d’ greets him by name and leads the way to the sushi bar. You glide onto the dark leather stool by his side, close and together, no barriers. You sit, crossed legged, spine perfectly postured, dress kissing your thighs with every shift.
The chef bows low and welcomes you in soft Japanese. He works in silence before you, each slice of fish a performance. The entire meal is a private show, course by course, a slow unveiling.
“This one’s from Niigita,” Satoru says, pouring sake into your cup. “It’s supposed to open up as it breathes.”
“We have that in common.”
He smiles, and that little twist in his lips has your toes curling in your heels.
The first dish arrives. The tuna gleams beet red, accompanied by fresh wasabi and smoked soy.
You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you lift the first piece to your lips, fatty tuna so soft it collapses like butter. You moan (not by accident).
“Holy shit,” you say, hand over your mouth. “I think I just saw god.”
Satoru raises an eyebrow, pleased. “And here I was hoping you’d say that after dinner.”
You chew slowly. Swallow. “You know what they say — save the best for last.”
He watches your lips, then lifts his cup. “Amen to that.”
And so it goes. Bite after bite, poured drinks and conversation. You match him beat for beat — his tastes, humor, quirks.
When he references his favorite manga, you recall the exact line that comes after that. When he talks about enjoying late-night walks, you describe the exact route that just happens to mirror the one in his tagged photos.
He rests one elbow on the bar. “If I asked you what you really thought about me after our first appointment…”
“Which version do you want to hear? The censored or unfiltered version?”
He grins. “Both.”
“Mmm. I think I’d rather show you than tell you.” You pause, lowering your lashes. “But I will say this — I hated the girl who came in after me.”
It's a bold move, but you want him to know. And every time you speak, he looks at you longer.
Another dish arrives. Amberjack, kissed with yuzu zest. He lets you steal his when you eye it too long.
Between courses, you joke about food crimes, admit your secret obsession with absurdly niche documentaries and “coincidentally” drop the title he tweeted about last year as if you didn’t spend nights combing through his feed.
Then his hand brushes your knee, barely a graze, but to you, it’s a spark in a dry field. Your entire body stills under the table, tightly coiled. You want him all over.
“You’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
You feel heat. The final thread of restraint snaps. You place your chopsticks down carefully. You turn toward him, half-shifted on your stool, your leg brushing his.
“I don’t want dessert,” you say.
He raises a brow, smirks. “No?”
“No.”
He blinks once, registering, then leans in. “My place?”
It's so tempting — to feel the silk of his bed, his scent on the sheets and the way his furniture looks when he’s distracted and naked.
But not there, not yet.
You want him in the room where it started, where you first imagined what his hands would feel like if it weren’t covered with latex. You want to feel it raw.
You shake your head. “The clinic.”
Then a laugh, sharp and hot. “Seriously?”
Your eyes are unblinking, unapologetic.
And that’s it. No hesitation. He’s already reaching for his wallet, throwing down enough cash to cover every dish twice over. The chef bows and the staff whispers in polite reverence.
He doesn’t question it again, just takes your hand, leads you to the car, and starts the engine. Your mind is already in the chair, already naked under fluorescent lights.
You glance at him as he pulls out of the lot, hand on the wheel, other hand casually resting between you like it isn’t dying to move. You want to grab it. Put it where it belongs. On you. In you.
His shirt is tight enough across the shoulders that you imagine splitting it open. You want to ruin it, ruin him. You want to press your tongue to his wrist and claim his pulse.
You want his tie around your neck. His name in your mouth. The taste of his skin. You want to be so deep in his thoughts that even his dreams wake up blushing. You want to unzip his spine and live inside him.
You imagine what he’ll look like when he loses control. What his voice will sound like when it breaks. You’ll memorize it, bottle it up, stitch it into your brain, ingrain it in you forever.
He turns the corner, the sign for the clinic glows blue and white in the distance.
Tonight, you go back to where it all began.
Satoru unlocks the front door without a word.
You follow him in after him, traced in his shadow — a devout thing.
He flicks on the examination light and the dental lamp explodes in surgical clarity. It blooms overhead in a cold, perfect cone. A goddamn interrogation spotlight on you, the suspect.
You expect him to smile like before, warm, casual, amused. But he doesn’t.
He shuts the door with his foot. A sharp thunk. The lock clicks behind you like a cell door.
His eyes roam the room, then you. His jaw is set. The muscle in it ticks once.
He’s… different.
You noticed it in the car too — the way his fingers drummed the steering wheel like he was holding back. Now, you’re not sure he is.
He tosses his tie onto the counter, sending metal instruments clattering as the silk brushes them. The tray rattles, a staccato little foreshadowing.
“You want the chair,” he says.
Not a question. Not an offer.
You nod.
He gestures. “Go on.”
The vinyl is cool against the back of your thighs as you sink into the seat. Your dress hikes up slightly — a detail he absolutely notices. He reaches for the control panel, but doesn’t immediately press anything. His hand hovers, then he turns to you.
“You’re not who you say you are, are you?”
Your mouth goes dry. Your heart lurches.
How…
He presses a button.
Beep.
The chair reclines a few inches.
“You called the receptionist asking for my schedule, didn’t you?”
… does he know?
Beep.
Lower.
“You pretended to be someone else everytime.”
You should speak. You should deny it.
Laugh. Cry. Run.
Beep.
Back further, your hair spilling over the headrest, your body opening under the cone of clinical light. The angle is suggestive without even trying. Vulnerable in a way that makes heat curl deep inside you.
He pulls on a pair of gloves—one, then the other—snap, snap in punctuation marks.
“When you showed up at the coffee shop on my day off, I knew I didn’t just run into you.” He tugs the gloves down snug. “You don’t even drink coffee.”
He looks directly at you.
“You even knocked your own tooth out.”
The accusations echo all around you.
He knows — all of it.
The obsessive anlaysis of his calendar. The half-dozen “wrong number” calls. The morning stakeouts and the lies you spun, stacking one on top of the other until the only truth left was you wanted him.
In any way, at any cost.
Your hand finds the metal tray beside you by accident. Instruments tremble with a jarring, metallic trrrring. Satoru watches you react, watches every tremor.
He brushes along your jaw, trailing it. “Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?”
You nod. There’s nothing left to say.
“You should be arrested for the shit you pulled.”
His gaze drops to your hands, trembling on the edge of the armrests. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches to the tray beside you and plucks up a pair of sterile elastic tourniquets, the kind used to stabilize an arm for blood draws.
“I used to imagine you on your knees,” he says, “in my waiting room after hours, tongue out.”
He loops the first thick band around your right wrist and the armrest, cinching it tight with a practiced flick. You can’t breathe. You don’t try.
“Wondered if you thought about me, if you touched yourself after appointments.”
Your left wrist is next — another pull, another sharp snag, binding you helpless. The bands stretch enough to give the illusion of freedom, but no more; every movement meets resistance.
“Sorry darling, can’t have you flailing.”
Your chest heaves, your pulse thunders. He watches the panic spread beautifully across your features.
He adjusts the headrest—click—cradling your skull in his palms. His thumbs rest behind your ears. His face is close now, framed by the halo of the dental lamp, eyes bright and impossibly blue.
His glove grazes your lower lip; not a kiss but not even remotely professional. It was enough to set your entire body on fire, every nerve alight under the cold, white brilliance of the exam lamp.
“Tell me,” he says, “is this how you pictured it?”
“Not even close,” you manage.
He leans in, and your back arches under the light. You’re open. Caught. Laid bare on sterile vinyl beneath the weight of guilt. His mouth is so close now you feel his breath.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs, brushing his gloved thumb over your trembling bottom lip. “But so am I.”
You don’t dare to close your eyes. You want to see everything. Because he saw everything. Because he wanted it too.
“Open wide,” he commands.
You do. But not your mouth. Because he’s not your doctor tonight.
Your legs part and his gloves squeak as he drags a hand over your inner thigh. “You didn’t think I would find out? That you wouldn’t be caught?”
He doesn’t give you room to respond, reaching behind you—another click—the chair groans and tilts further back, until your legs slide open wider under gravity, posture collapsed and defenseless beneath him.
“Look at you,” he breathes, taking in the sight. “My lovely stalker in the flesh.”
The metal tray at your side clinks again as he pulls it closer. He reaches for the suction wand.
“Are you sure you can handle me?”
You’d crack your jaw for him. You’d dislocate your ribs to make more room for him. He’s your addiction and this chair is your confession booth.
You whimper—yes, yes, yes—but he’s already dragging the tube down your throat, past your lips. He doesn’t push far, just enough to press down your tongue. Satoru watches you as you gag around the suction, your throat fluttering under the pressure, eyes glossy.
“So eager,” he teases, and the sound of it, the sound of him, is too much. He slides it back out, obscenely slow, and it glistens with spit. “Messy little thing.”
He grabs the tray again, rips gauze from the sterile stack, and stuffs one square into your mouth, watching your lips stretch around it. He pushes two more in, then another wad, just to see how far you’ll let him go.
“Let’s keep the noise down, yeah?”
Your muffled whimper vibrates through the gauze, helpless and needy.
He traces with his gloved knuckle, trailing higher and higher up your thigh with maddening slowness, hovering near where you need him most.
His other hand wraps around your jaw, tilting your head up until your eyes lock with his, blue and burning.
“Don’t you dare look away.”
You couldn’t if you tried.
The dental lamp floods straight into your pupils, washing everything else to shadow. You blink against the brightness, tears gathering from the intensity, from the humiliation of being exposed in the most unholy posture. And he loves it.
He spreads you open with two fingers, exposing your wet, swollen folds to the light. The lamp overhead catches every glisten, every twitch. You try to lift yourself up into his hand, but the elastics bite into your wrists, forcing you to take every torturous second at his pace.
The first touch is barely a touch — the rubber pad of his index finger nudges directly over your clit. A soft push, a slow circle.
The gauze stuffed into your mouth squelches with spit as you sob around it, teeth sinking into the cotton until your jaw aches. He drags his other gloved thumb over the corner of your lip, smearing the saliva that leaks out.
“Mmm, such pretty sounds,” he hums, slipping deeper. “You’re dripping all over my chair. I could ruin you. Right here, right now.”
He waits there, buried to the knuckle, doing absolutely nothing. Your body clenches helplessly around the intrusion, trying to pull him deeper. You whimper into the gag, wrists twisting uselessly against the rubber restraints.
He laughs and lowers his face again until his lips brush your ear.
“You want more?”
A pause.
“Beg.”
You choke on your own breath, air, tears, spit, need, trying to form any sound that resembles a plea. His finger crooks suddenly, finding the spot instantly. Your ragged, gagged cry spills out of you in a confession.
“There’s your little problem area,” he murmurs, delighted.
He strokes it again. Harder, controlled, devastating. Your vision whites out at the edges and your hips thurst upward in broken, jerky movements, driven entirely by instinct.
Then his thumb joins in.
The rubber presses directly on your clit, pushing the wet folds apart around his hand. You damn near convulse — your legs spread wide for him and he thursts in deeper, spreading his fingers apart.
He fucks his fingers in harder, faster, pushing you right to the edge, and then — he withdraws; abruptly, completely, leaving you gasping and choking against the gag, body trembling, thighs slick and open in the cold air.
He steps back and pulls off his gloves with two sharp snaps, tossing them to the tray.
“You look pathetic,” he says.
You wanted to show him just how much.
Your wrists strain against the armrests; you want to touch him, claw him, hold him, anything. Your teeth clamp down around the gag, a muffled snarl erupts low in your throat. Your legs kick out, shaky and half-controlled, but enough to make him grab the armrest and pin you down. His expression flashes from amusement to delight.
“Well, well, look who’s come out to play,” he sings, climbing onto the chair, caging you beneath him.
You buck beneath him again in defiance, and the vinyl screeches under the violent movement. He grabs your throat, holding it with steady pressure, asserting that he can collapse your air at any second.
“You want to challenge me?” He rests his forehead against yours, so close to you that your tears spot his cheek. He pins your wrist with one hand while the other slams your hips down against the chair. “Then fucking challenge me.”
You can’t talk. So instead — you spit the gauze at his face. It hits his cheek, wet and dripping.
“Well now,” he murmurs, brushing your spit down the curve of his own jaw with two fingers. “If you’re going to act like a little monster… I suppose I’ll have to handle you like one.”
He fists his hand in your hair and drags your head back, baring your throat, forcing your mouth open. The restraints creak as your body curls up instinctively toward him, needy and feral.
He kneels on the chair, looming above your pinned body, and drags his cock out — flushed in deep red, heavy and thick enough that your lips part instinctively in disbelief.
“Oh,” he laughs, breath hitching. “You want a taste?”
He taps the head against your lower lip, smearing pre-cum all over, and presses forward to stretch your mouth around a shape substantially bigger than you were ready for.
You try to take him. You really, really try.
But your jaw strains. Your throat tightens. Your lips can’t stretch enough to get past the head before your throat spasms in a futile attempt to open wider.
“What’s wrong?” he taunts, grip tightening in your hair until your scalp burns. “You were so bold a moment ago.”
He nudges forward another inch, forcing your mouth wider, guiding it to the very edge of what it can handle until drool leaks down your chin.
Tears spill from the effort, your neck is strained against the headrest. He watches you struggle, eyes darkening as he watches your jaw quiver around the stretch. Your tongue presses helplessly against the underside of his cock, trying to coax him deeper.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groans, “if you can’t even take me in your mouth—”
His free hand curls around the base of his length, pressing harder against your lips, pushing a broken whimper from your chest.
“—how the hell,” he pants, “are you going to take me in that tight little cunt?”
You suck harder, jaw screaming, threatening to tear itself apart. You want to swallow him whole, bury him deep, prove that you’re built to take him everywhere.
Satoru smirks down at you, lust-drunk and wicked. “Want to try again?”
You nod frantically, mouth open in a trembling “O”. You think, clear and loud enough for your own mind to hear it:
Yes. Yes, please. Break me on your cock. I want everything you’re about to do.
His eyes gleam like he hears it.
Then he yanks your hair back and shoves himself against your tongue again, harder this time, enough to make your throat seize. You try again, desperate, shaking, gagging on air as you fight to fit around him. He watches you choke on the attempt and loses his goddamn mind.
“Fuck — you’re killing me.”
He leans back, cups your cheeks with both hands, and spits straight into your mouth. A vulgar, wet rope of saliva landing on your tongue and coating your throat.
“There,” he growls, grabbing his cock and smearing his spit across your lips, down your tongue. “Open wider.”
Your throat tries to open. But when he pushes in that inch too far, your gag reflex punches back and you choke hard enough to jolt your entire body, a broken, wet sound that shakes your chest.
“Agh—enough. Enough.”
His voice is ragged, crackling with need. He drags himself out of your mouth and grabs your waist, lifting your restrained body off the backrest with a snap of strength that steals your breath.
He shifts position so fast the chair squeals under him. One moment his cock is pressing at your tongue, the next it’s slapping wetly against your dress, dragged down the centerline of your body, leaving a slick trail of spit on the fabric.
“It’s going in somehow,” he hisses, “if not your mouth, then—”
But he doesn’t finish. Your body reacts before he does. You want to take over, to redeem yourself.
Your hips snap foward, dragging yourself along his cock as he slides it down. Your nails claw for leverage even with your wrists bound.
You tilt yourself, angling your soaked cunt toward him with intent so clear, your entire body trembles as the head nudges your swollen entrance. You strain for contact, cunt pulsing around nothing as you try to drag him into you without permission.
The sight of you trying to mount him while bound, gagged, ruined with tears and spit and slick — he falters, and he jerks forward like he can’t help it. He drops his weight onto you, cock pressed flush to your dripping entrance.
Your chest heaves against him, wrists twisting violently until the elastic bites deep into raw, flaming flesh. It hurts. It thrills. The pain is proof.
“You want it that bad?”
You nod, frantic and wild.
His hand flies to the tray, sending metal rattling. He picks up a scalpel and holds the blade between two fingers, angled toward the rubber binding you.
It slides under the tight band, then—snap—your raw wrist springs free, shaking violently with relief. Thin red marks carve around the skin, swollen and tender, baring evidence of how hard you fought for him.
Good.
Let them stay. Let them bruise and scar.
You earned them.
He drops the scalpel with a clatter, pressing his cock hard against your slit again, smearing slickness over both of you.
Your freed hands fly upward to grab him, nails sinking into his shoulder, dragging him down with a desperation so sharp it borders on violent. Your fingers make their way to thread into his hair and yank him down to your lips.
“Take it properly this time,” he rasps, voice shredded.
“Doctor’s orders,” you oblige, wrapping your legs around his waist to push him in, the head of his cock catching and sinking a fraction of an inch inside your dripping heat.
He slams forward and your body shatters open around him — a shock of pain, a flood of head, a gasp that turns into a moan that turns animalistic. You dig further into his back, dragging warpaths of red down his skin as he sinks further into you.
Finally. This is what you fought for. What you bled your wrists for.
Satoru groans, both of you shivering under the sheer violence. You meet his thrust with a force that makes the chair recline a full inch backward.
His eyes widen. “You’re—” Another thrust. “—trying to take control.”
You bare your teeth in a delicious grin. Then you flip him.
It’s messy, graceless—a snarl, a shove, a twist of your hips and wrists and weight—and suddenly he’s on his back in the chair, stunned, breath gone, cock still buried inside you as you straddle him, thighs clamped around his hips.
You slam yourself down. Hard. He chokes on his own moan.
“Oh—fuck—” His fingers stab into your waist, leaving craters.
You grind down, lifting and dropping your hips in brutal, punishing strokes, using his body like you’re built for it, like he was made to beneath you, inside you, ruined by you.
Your hands push his shoulders down, pinning him with a strength you didn’t know you had. You're taking your revenge.
The chair rattles violently. The light overhead swings in its arm. You collapse your weight onto him, breasts sliding against his chest as you slam down again, again, again, chasing the pleasure.
Satoru’s face contorts, eyes rolling back and mouth falling open, hands clutching you so hard you know you’ll bruise. “You’re going to—fuck—you’re going to break us both—”
You whisper against his ear, voice ruined: “Shut up.”
Then you bite him.
His body jerks so violently his cock slams deeper, hitting a place that makes your vision split into stars. He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat.
“Insane,” he moans. “You’re fucking insane—”
His hand between your shoulder blades pulls you tighter. Your nails rake his chest. Your hips pound down and his breath comes out in shuddering, broken gasps.
You slam down. He cries out. You do it again.
He arches up into you, bucking like he’s trying to escape and bury himself deeper at the same time. You grab his throat and angle him to look at you as you take everything he has.
Your mind is a cathedral of obsession. He’s yours now. You’ll ride him into the grave. You’ll drag both of you into ruin. You slam down so hard the tiles begin cracking under the chair.
“That’s it,” he chokes. “That’s—god—fuck—”
Then he snaps.
He sits up in a single violent moment, arms crushing you to him, mouth on your shoulder, your throat, biting, sucking, marking you with his brand.
You moan, throat raw, as he thrusts up into you from below. Your cries start to shake. Your legs go numb. Your mind falls apart. You claw at his hair, panting into his ear, “Don’t stop.”
He shakes, gripping you like a man drowning. He slams up into you at the same moment you slam down onto him, and the collision rips into a full-body convulsion that arches your spine off his chest and sends your nails carving across his back.
Your throat goes silent for a moment, too much pleasure to even make a sound, before the cry finally tears free, a raw, keening note of release. Your cunt clamps around him so hard he nearly folds with you.
He drags you down on his cock, burying himself so deep the air punches out of him. He stutters, then grinds in ragged and broken thrusts as he groans a low, wrecked sound into your throat, biting into it as he pours into you. You feel blood rising under his teeth — and you almost come again from that alone.
Your legs give out. Your arms tremble intensely. Your body collapses against him, twitching, spasming, clenching with aftershocks so intense it would break the Richter scale.
“Fuck… fuck… stay right there… don’t move… don’t—”
You don’t listen — you shift instead. And you feel it: the soft, hypersensitive throb of him still inside you, your slick leaking down over him. You feel him groan into your neck.
“No—no, sweetheart, don’t—”
Again. You want it again. You want to make sure he can’t walk anymore. To make him delirious.
So you roll your hips again and you kiss him. His lips part on instinct, and you swallow his breath, tongue pushing into his mouth, messy and wet, teeth clashing.
You grind down again and his moan breaks in half. “Fuck—don’t—god, I’m still—”
“I don’t care.”
You kiss him slow, sealing him. His hand slides up your back with a gentleness so at odds with the brutality of what came before that it steals your soul. His mouth lingers under yours, open, wanting more, wanting you.
Every risk you took to get you here worked.
Your obsession made him yours.
His chest rises against yours in one long, shuddering breath. And when you pull back, his voice cracks open against your lips in a low, hoarse murmur:
“… come here, I’m not done yet.”
