Yakult

And he wonders if that was the death he would've been satisfied with. If he would've gladly passed away, knowing there would not even have been a grave with his name on it. But then again, death does not knock at your door with options in its hands. You do not get to choose how, where, or when you were born, and neither do you get a say about these things in death. Even if you lose all your hope and will to live, death is supposedly always predetermined. Even if you are Gojo Satoru, no, maybe especially if you are Gojo Satoru, these things are simply out of his hands.

Maybe it is precisely why Gojo Satoru has not let his guard down many times in his life. Because whenever he did, he met his eventual demise.

Time and time again, he was proven right that he could not let himself be treated like any other human. Or even get treated humanely enough to begin with—that it is not possible for him to exist if it is not to aid others' peaceful existence. Even if he does not understand the better part of humanity, the majority that occupies this earth, the people for whom he relentlessly serves quietly and loses his friends. His existence signified something bigger than the deities in heaven, the ‘Gojo’ name attached to him meant more than his given name, and his powers required more acknowledgement than his identity.

He is a deeply flawed person for someone meant for greatness and divinity. 

Sometimes he thinks maybe that he wasn’t meant to be the bearer of the burden. He came to believe more in strength above virtues and all. He became someone who cannot accept his emotions, as they always turned out to be his most fatal weaknesses. The past that haunted him and the future that terrified him—how they crippled him and obstructed the path he wanted to carve out for the generations after him.

Though what truly prevented him from understanding what he stood against was himself.

No one is Gojo Satoru’s biggest enemy other than himself. No one truly cared about Gojo Satoru's failures more than himself. And no one wished more than Gojo Satoru that the world one day would finally get fed up with him enough to finally leave him alone.

And that is probably the biggest tragedy of Gojo Satoru's entire existence. The things he never understood and the things he refused to understand—those are the true reasons behind his demise. And the reasons why he never became anything more than a cautionary tale. The god who failed to gauge his opponent’s strength and met his eventual death. Truly the fate of a tragic hero is to crumble and die during the most crucial of times. Shining under the spotlight during the climax, lying lifelessly on the ground in a pool of his own blood, with a smile on his face.

So what if he could feel the ground soaking in his blood, pooling underneath him, cooling down as his consciousness slowly drifted away into some abyss he did not think he'd return from? If it meant that his loved ones got to have another shot at survival at the cost of his life depleting from his cold corpse, he would not mind that choice, again and again. 

Maybe finally, then, the world had enough of Gojo Satoru. Maybe his life was enough of a bargain, perhaps not the first time, but the second time around, it was the prize for restraint. 

But dead or alive, he will always remain the enigma, the unmatched, the strongest, and the honored one. In life or death, the biggest weapon of jujutsu society, and in the entire existence of this world, is nothing more than a myth. That only manifested once in a few centuries and eons.

When the cold winter air becomes warm, and spring starts to quickly flee, the cherry blossoms all fall off the tree. 

It is disheartening to see once full and pink trees lacking those hues. But when the ground gets covered by those fallen petals, and the air smells sweet, those trees start to sprout little leaves. The shiny little light shade of greens that pop up signifies that summer was just around the corner. Time for new beginnings to turn into age-old stories.

And yet, for one couple suffering from the great effects of misunderstandings created by their unfortunate circumstances and their poor understanding of emotions, it was misery.

To be completely honest, you have often wondered how things would have been if you had married an unkind man instead. If instead of averting his gaze from you, he looked you in the eye and told you that he could not stand you. Maybe things would have been easier that way. Maybe it would have been easier to hate him like that. It would have been predictable at least, the same age-old stories you have been watching unfold with your grandparents, your parents, and almost every lady who was unfortunate enough to have been born at the same status as you. And maybe you would have become one of them, ignored, neglected, bitter, and forgotten. It would be way easier then to keep to yourself in the boundaries that you have established for yourself in this estate, and there would not be any presence of this nagging feeling to cross them constantly. 

It’d have been easier that way to understand why Gojo Satoru looked like he was suffering through deep pains when you were anywhere near him. 

Instead, now you are left with your incomprehensible personal thoughts and actions. Why, despite all the kindness he showed you—more than what most husbands of arranged alliances have probably shown to their spouses—could you not bring yourself to be satisfied with just that? Could you not be glad that he was not at least similar to the men you have grown up around? Could you not accept that bare minimum? Have you been foolishly expecting some whirlwind romance to sweep you off your feet? 

You should not bite the hands that are feeding you. Just because for once someone has given you some respect in this society that holds you a prisoner does not mean you get to act like a fool. It is crucial you understand your place in this equation. You are a normal and weak human being, somehow tied to the strongest— Gojo Satoru, the once-in-a-lifetime myth of this jujutsu society. 

Though you must say, you never really understood the myth of Gojo Satoru. So self-sacrificial and benevolent, all for what? 

But it does not take understanding to worship a myth. You were aware of that when you gave up all your hope in the heavens above, when you saw others closing their eyes and praying for everything their hearts desired, while you stood there blinking and wondering what the point of all of this was. What was the point of asking God to pardon you from the inevitable? Things like birth, sacrifices, hatred, and death. And like these many inevitabilities, it just happened to be that you married a man who is as mythical as the gods in heaven; perhaps that is why you don't really get him. But perhaps he was a god you could finally believe in or a myth you could worship? 

But what was the point of worshiping your husband when you cannot truly love him?

And you cannot make any sense out of this bizarre relationship you have come to form with him. Not truly a husband, neither a lover, but more than an acquaintance, less than a friend. It is not that you enjoy being around him, but you get anxious when you do not see him for prolonged periods of time. You do not seek his approval, but you wish to appease him. Inevitabilities cannot be avoided, but things like love and affection can be carved out of a stone. And perhaps you have started to fool yourself into thinking that you are deserving of such a thing when you are stuck in a relationship lacking those feelings.

It is exceptionally greedy to want so much from a god, to want more and more from him when he has given up his literal life for others. So how could you ask your human husband, on par with the gods, to become the truly idealized husband you secretly always hoped for? 

Hasn't he given you enough?

“Ma’am? MA’AM!” Mia, one of the girls given the responsibility to look after your immediate needs, called you out of your daydreaming. 

“Are you alright, Gojo-san? You have been looking lost for the past couple of days.” Suki leaned down to fix your makeup while Mia continued to work on your hair. Mornings have never had such a routine for you. 

“Yes, yes, I am. Do not mind me. Also, you two should stop addressing me as Gojo-san.” Your voice dimmed out of shyness.

“But we cannot, ma’am, orders from Gojo-sama.” Mia smiled at you in the mirror and went back to fixing your hair. 

Their concern was justified. Since what happened with your husband at the lake, things have been awkward between the two of you. You have been anxiously hiding away from him, directly calling Ichiji to ask about the dinner preparations, and trying to delay your breakfast until he goes to his home office in the left wing or gets called out for meetings or work, even going as far as to have dinner earlier or later than usual by yourself with some lazy excuse. Because it was embarrassing. 

Why did you even say those things to him at the lake? Did it even matter? Even if he hated you, did that matter? Or was it the fact that he didn't deny it even once?

Instead, you've started getting bouquets of flowers from him every day. He never shows up to deliver them or hand them to you himself; it is either one of the staff or Ichiji who gets them to you. Sometimes the staff will decorate them in a pretty vase on the dining table or on the little coffee table in front of the windows by the armchair in your bedroom, and other times they’d be wrapped up neatly in some sort of decorative paper in an intricately arranged bouquet. And every time you look at those gorgeous flowers, they make you think about just how shallow this relationship is.

“Good morning, Gojo-san. Late again, huh?” The chef said, as you sat yourself at the little dining table in the corner of the kitchen, mostly used by the kitchen staff, and now you.

“Good morning, Suzuki-san, just been tired lately.” You flashed him one of your practiced fake smiles. But unfortunately, in the brief period of time he has come to know you, he got a hold on how you actually look when you smile. When you eat the dessert at the end of the meal, the way your face lights up can be easily distinguished from when you force yourself to eat cucumbers and put on this smile after swallowing them down with what looks like ease. 

“No cucumbers in the salad today.” He gave you a smile before setting it down with the rest of your breakfast. 

“Thank you very much.” You sheepishly thanked him before digging into your meal, hungry from making yourself wait to have the first meal of your day. All just to avoid running into your husband.

“So, what flower is it today?” The chef asked with his back turned towards you; he only chimed in once you were about halfway through eating your food. Even though he was busy tidying up the kitchen and putting away dishes, the nonchalance with which he asked the question had mirth in it.

His question made you think back to the lilies sitting in your room, tall, beautiful, and fragrant, in hues of pink and white. You only looked at them once in passing when Suki mentioned where she should place them. And you offhandedly told her, ‘anywhere.’ As gorgeous as they were, they meant nothing. Just a sad apology for a sad situation. Where it feels as if you both are at fault, but also not quite really. 

“Lilies.” 

“Oh, my granddaughter loves them!” 

“Would you like to take them back with you?” 

You offered him the flowers more enthusiastically after you finished the rest of your coffee, but the chef stiffened up. 

“Oh, ma’am, that is so kind of you, but I cannot do that.” Mr. Suzuki rubbed his hand dry once he was done cleaning up, and he fully turned towards you to deny your offer.

“Why not? I am sure they will stay fresh for a few days. If you are concerned that the flowers will wilt." With your dirty plates and mug, dodging Mr. Suzuki’s attempt to take them off your hands, you walked towards the sink.

“It is not that-just—” 

“You know you can speak freely with me, Suzuki-san.” You continued to wash the dirty plates as Mr. Suzuki kept fretting beside you. 

“Gojo-sama got them for you. How could I—” The chef nervously tried to explain to you. 

“Technically he gave them away to me, so now they are mine, and I can do as I please with them.” Mr. Suzuki kept staring at you, blinking away, with nothing to refute your analogy.

“I would rather they wither with someone who actually wants them.” You finally looked at him after drying your hands, with a pleading voice.

“Oh, now you are making me feel bad.” Mr. Suzuki smiled at you sympathetically. He was stuck in a dilemma. On one hand was his employer, the head of the clan, the kid he saw growing up into a fine young man, for whom he couldn't help but root. And on the other hand was you, the new madame of the estate, the timid little girl whom he has come to think of like his own granddaughter.

“If it makes you accept them, then sure.”

“I insist, please.” The way you looked at Mr. Suzuki, with your face scrunched in a little sad frown, the old man could not help but concede.

“All right.” The old man said with a long sigh. But your smile and incessant thank yous made him smile to himself when you skipped out of the kitchen, happy to have successfully negotiated something in your life for once.

Mr. Suzuki was glad to have made you happy and could already imagine how happy his granddaughter would be as well when she sees those flowers tonight when he gets back home. 

Yet he couldn't help but feel pity and a tinge of pang in his chest for your husband.

Gojo Satoru often wonders what kind of flowers there would have been at his funeral if he had remained dead.

Recently, he has been thinking about flowers more often than he used to. But for a completely different reason.

Since that night at the lake, he has been trying to come up with different ways to express how apologetic he is. Which is hard for Gojo Satoru. There haven't been many instances where he had to genuinely apologize for hurting someone's feelings. And no, it is not because he is some compassionate, empathetic soul; he just has the power, strength, and wealth to get away with anything. 

It is true that privilege makes you blind. Gojo Satoru realized that the hard way after he married you. He has unfortunately hurt you one too many times in the brief time he's known you, even before he married you. He remembers when, after you two got engaged, he asked your father to have dinner at your house. He wanted to see the place where you grew up; maybe after dinner he'd have asked you for a tour of the estate and a walk in the gardens with you after dinner—to get to know you better. 

And yet his duties didn't let him do that.

Professionally, in the context of the reformed jujutsu society, things have been better overall. Even for him, his messed-up schedule has become somewhat adequate. Now instead of three hours of sleep, he gets five whole hours! Not the hallmark of a healthy sleep routine, but that's an improvement nonetheless.

Unfortunately, on the day of the dinner, he was called away for an emergency meeting. If you asked him now, his opinion would be that it was not important enough to skip dinner with you (and your family). But sadly, even just a few months ago, Satoru wasn't the married, mature man he is currently! Still, the next day when he heard from your father that you didn't eat anything at the table, it stung. 

He told himself he'll make it up to you somehow. And yet, since he married you, he's stepped on all the wrong stones around you. 

This time around, he felt worse. It might have been because he's come to acknowledge his feelings for you. The fact that he has developed slight feelings of affection for you is astonishing. But he does need this to work out between you two, because he can't get married again. It’s all just so tedious! Yeah! That's the reason why. These are feelings similar to when you wish to permanently keep a kitten found on the side of the road, even though you planned on just fostering it.

Or maybe it was the fact that despite all his pretenses, you still managed to see through the facade he has perfected over the years. It scared him, but it made him more and more upset with himself. Not because he failed to fool you, but because everything has been so confusing for him—these feelings he has never truly felt before to this degree, and the lack of understanding he has for them, and the fact that you are getting caught up in this mess of sentiments and getting hurt by him. Unintentionally or not, he made you feel bad about yourself.

He couldn't just live with that. He couldn't just stand there and act like everything was fine. Not when you were ignoring him, avoiding being in his presence, and moving to sleep on the cramped loveseat in your bedroom when you felt like he was deep asleep—as much as your presence pained him, your absence pained him more.

But why was he even feeling all these intense feelings? He would rather not know the answer.

He just wanted to make amends with you as soon as possible. He genuinely does not fancy Ichiji showing up at his door to ask what he'd have for dinner, to relay the answer back to you—he means, the kitchen. 

Satoru wants you to ask him, personally, what he wants for dinner. To have meals with you at the dining table as usual and wake up to your sleeping face, to stare at it for forty-five minutes before getting off the bed. And if he wants things to go back to how they used to be, he needs to say his sorrys. Which he sucks at. So here he was, doing what he was best at—buying things!

And since he doesn't know you well enough, actually, he knows basically nothing about you—he does plan on changing that—except for the fact that you like staring at the trees and the flowers at the lake. Which is why he went with the flowers.

After what happened at the lake, he tried to follow you to your bedroom, but when he got there, you had already locked yourself in the bathroom. In the morning when he woke up, you were not there beside him; the bed on your side looked neat, like it wasn't slept in. He later noticed the blanket and pillows on the loveseat in his bedroom and added two and two together. So he waited at the dining table for you to join him for breakfast with a bouquet of tulips. And when you didn't show up even then, well past breakfast, he had no other choice but to leave the bouquet with someone to hand it over to you. 

Later that night, when he found those tulips arranged in a pretty glass vase on the dining table, his entire face lit up. He sat down in his chair, expecting you to join him, and when you didn't, he went to the kitchen and got to know you ate earlier before he arrived. Then when he went to your room to look for you, he found the little card, saying sorry in his handwriting—that he slipped into the bouquet—in the trashcan in his bathroom. And he understood that you, in fact, hadn't accepted either the bouquet or the apology. 

But Gojo Satoru is nothing if not persistent! Since then, he kept getting you different varieties of flowers. Telling himself that, at least one of these days, your heart will melt looking at the pretty blooms. He got sunflowers, more tulips, roses in different colors, lilies, and some varieties of hydrangeas—whatever flowers were in season or he could get with his bottomless wallet.

He’d place the flowers on your nightstand every morning, and when he'd come back home, he'd ask either Mia or Suki if there was any noticeable reaction from you. Often you’d just hand over the flowers after instructing them to place them in a sunny spot. Sometimes they'd tell him that you took some time longer to smell certain flowers, like hydrangeas and lilies, before handing them over—and he'd make a mental note to repeat those flowers on his roaster. 

But the cards with his handwritten sorrys would always end up in the trashcan of your shared bathroom.

Today, he got you an assortment of lilies, pinks and whites, some in full bloom, some still unopened buds. And he hoped that you liked them; maybe you finally smiled a little and kept the card this time. He really hoped that was the case as Ichiji pulled up in the driveway of the Gojo estate.

He kept staring at the mansion from his window. As it got closer and closer, he saw your silhouette at the main entrance. Standing there smiling, bidding goodbye to some staff as they retired for the night, including Chef Suzuki, who was the last one to bid you goodbye with a smile on his face. As he was walking away, Satoru saw a bouquet of flowers in his hands, lilies to be exact. And when he rolled down his window, he saw the same pink and white lilies in the chef's arms. Some of the buds were now partially open, and the flowers he saw blooming in the morning were upright and bigger than before. 

“ICHIJI! STEP ON IT!” Satoru leaned forward and shouted at Ichiji with urgency, making the poor man stiffen up in his seat.

“Y-yes sir!” Ichiji nervously looked back and forth between the glass in front of him and his boss in the rearview mirror as he did what he was instructed to do. 

In that instance, Satoru wished he lived somewhere smaller. An apartment, maybe. One bedroom, one living room, one bathroom, barely a kitchen, a nightmare to live in, but that's all he wished for right now. Somewhere small enough that it wouldn't take thirty minutes for his stupid car to go from the main gate to the main entrance. 

“Oh, fuck it.” 

With those last words, Gojo Satoru teleported away. 

It was almost a routine for you to bid the staff goodbye at the door; after all, they always took such great care of you. Sure, it got lonely at night when most of the people in this massive mansion were gone, but nonetheless you were glad they had loving homes to get back to after a long day of work. It made you somewhat jealous that you never had that, a home to look forward to going back to. You had at least hoped that maybe someday you'd be that home for someone to come back to. But how things are going with your husband seems like it'll stay a wishful dream.

“WAIT!” 

You couldn't help but pick up your pace, hearing Satoru’s voice suddenly speak out from behind you. Even though his legs were longer than yours, you speed-walked as fast as you could and made sure to not turn around even once. Once you took a turn down the hallway that led you into the main part of the estate from the entrance, you couldn't hear his footsteps. 

But you were forgetting there is no point in running from the lion in the lion's den. Especially if the lion can teleport.

From there on, you kept turning around to check if he was following you. Fortunately, you didn't notice his shadow or his voice. Soon enough you were in the hallway that sat between the main part and the right wing of the mansion. 

Calling this place a mansion was honestly not appropriate; the way the structures were built and how every route to one part of the mansion connected to another, the gorgeous lighting down to the lit marble floors—it was nothing less than a castle to you. Including how beautifully this hallway was built. Each hallway that separated the main part of the mansion from the left wing and the right wing was designed to look alike. There were gorgeous pillars that lined up from one end of the hallway to the other end, standing tall on each side of the marble floor that led to the right wing. On each side, between the pillars, there was just enough space to fit an intricately carved statue, or a big vase, or two people. You've only heard how the one leading to the left wing looked exactly the same. 

Whenever you're here, it makes you want to peek into the spaces between the walls and the pillars, but you never got around to doing it. That is until now.

“Got you.” 

Satoru pulled you by your wrist and dragged you with him behind the pillars. He pressed you back to one of the pillars; with both his hands on the pillar behind you, he had you caged between him and the long structure.

“Were you trying to run from me?” He raised one of his eyebrows in question, and something in his voice sounded like a challenge.

“I-I wasn't...” You tried to look away from him and turned your head to the side.

“You really want to do this right now?” He also turned his head and once again looked straight into your eyes. The blue pupils that wavered a few weeks ago to even look in your direction now looked straight into your own irises with no hesitation.

“Just how did you even get here?” Everything about this situation was frustrating. From where you were exactly standing, how close to him you were standing, how his eyes looked at you, and how they didn't even blink for at least a minute straight. 

What a strange man.

“I can teleport if you're forgetting.” His eyes followed your pupils in every direction they moved.

“Right…” You dryly swallowed, nervous about where this conversation was going.

“You're not going to ask me why I asked you to wait? Also, how rude of you to instantly start running when I asked you to wait for me?”

“It just—I just—it happened automatically.”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at you incredulously. Like you've gone and personally offended him. Which you've probably done more than one time since he sat down in front of you the very first day you two met. 

“Gojo-san?” Before Satoru could continue with reprimanding you, Mia’s voice came into both of your ears.

It was already well past 12:00 AM. Usually by now you're already in bed or at least in one of the sitting rooms reading something. It was expected that Mia would come looking for you since you asked her to draw you a bath before you could head to bed. 

“I wonder if she got lost again.” Mia mumbled to herself as she looked around the area for you. 

Each individual pillar was thick enough to hide one or two people behind it easily. So when you tried to get Mia’s attention, it came in handy for Satoru. He pressed his right hand’s palm to your mouth, and his left hand flew to your waist as he leaned in to keep sandwiched between the pillar and him.

“MMHMF!” Your voice was completely muffled by his huge hand.

“What?” He whispered close to your face; you could feel the warmth of his breath mixing in with yours. You could even feel the coolness of his hands on your mouth and through the silk of your robe. 

“Mmmf mf mmff mm!” You muffled some more in his hand, trying to get your words across to him, and hoping some of the stupid noises you were making would get to Mia's ears before anything worse than what was happening happened.

“Want me to take my hand off?” You nodded vigorously while gripping onto the wrist of his right hand, futilely trying to tear it away from you. While he just smirked at your struggle.

“So, what are you offering if I do take it off?” Satoru’s eyes were taking their time to move between your left and right eyes. The more intently he gazed into your eyes, the playful smirk on his face fell. He could feel your lips on his palm; he felt a little discomposed to be touching them, and now that he is cognizant of that, it was making his heart beat unusually fast. And he was afraid you could hear it too. But he could not just take his hand off your lips. 

“Mmhf.” You tapped his hand, trying to signal him to take it off so you could answer him. But not really; you were planning on escaping as soon as he'd take it off.

“Yeah, I could take it off, but I know very well you'd just run.” You shook your head aggressively and looked up at him with your best puppy-dog innocent eyes. And it did partially work; you best believe he was tempted to do as you asked.

“Hmm. How about you nod yes or no to my questions? When I'm done, I'll take it off.” Though you were a little nervous about what he was exactly about to ask you, still you nodded yes. He smiled for a second before furrowing his eyebrows. He looked serious, and he never really looked serious. Especially without his blindfold on, it was jarring to be this close to him and see him make such a face. 

It almost made you wish he continued to wear his blindfolds again. Which he has completely stopped wearing around you since what happened at the lake. 

“The lilies in Suzuki-san’s arms— were they the ones I gave you?” 

You stared at him dumbfounded for about two minutes or so. There was nothing wrong with what you did; you just gave them to someone who will appreciate them better instead of watching them wither away in front of your eyes. You shouldn't feel guilty about that, yet with each passing second you could see his eyes getting somber, and they looked like you had somehow hurt him again. 

With a guilty gulp, you slowly nodded yes.

“Why—I mean, I got you lilies before; did you not like them? Or just, it's this whole thing; do you want me to stop with the flowers?” Usually when your husband speaks, he speaks in precise hits and points. You don't remember him being a blabbering mess in a way that felt, for once, like he didn't intend on this. 

You nodded yes again. 

“Alright… But—just know that—I, I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know how to explain myself. I want to, but—can I ask what I can do to properly say sorry to you?” With a sigh, he looked at you expectantly as he removed his hand off your mouth.

You stared at each other in the shadows behind the pillars. You were free to run away, but you could not. You could not leave him like this; you just couldn't do that.

“Instead of flowers, I'd—uh—much rather you got me a plant. And explained things to me. And I'm sorry too. I was being too harsh.” 

“You were not, trust me.” 

“I really want to.” 

There was no lie to what you just said. You did feel sorry about how things went down and how things have been going. You want to be nicer to him because he has been so kind to you. But he seems so unfathomable and like someone in another realm above you. And you are just you. Not worthy to stand beside him, much less eat with him at the same table or someone he could share his surname with. But what's done is done, and if you must coexist, there should at least be some mutual trust. 

“Gojo-san!?” When you heard Mia’s voice echoing at the end of the hall again, you moved out from the back of the pillars, leaving him behind in that little alley of shadow. With one last look at him, you walked away. 

A plant. Of all things, a plant. 

Since he got engaged to you, then married you, to now, you've never asked him for anything. And now you asked him for a plant. No jewelry, a no to flowers as well apparently, not even books or something more expensive. But a plant. And what plant exactly? 

“Ichiji.” Satoru sighed and rolled around in his office chair again. 

“Y-yes, sir?” There has never been one day when Ichiji didn't feel like throwing up if his boss asked him some stupid question.

“What plants are good as a gift?” And Ichiji's streak remains intact, because right now he feels like throwing up. 

“I—I don't know, sir, maybe a cactus?” What kind of stupid question even is that, and how do you even answer that?

“No, absolutely not. Too prickly, no. Maybe a flowering plant?” Satoru turned in his chair to stare out of the window behind his desk.

“Maybe a rose plant?” Ichiji suggested as he looked at the stack of papers on Satoru’s desk while piling up more papers on top of them.

“NO! Why are you just suggesting plants with thorns? Just go, leave!” And this is why Ichiji feels like throwing up everything Satoru asks him some stupid question. 

If Gojo Satoru wants to get his wife a gift she will actually like this time, he needs a second opinion. Which is not from him, assistant. So he left for home early that day, early enough to catch the gardener, who mainly looks after his estate gardens. 

“Watanabe!” 

The gardener stopped shearing the bushes and turned around to look at the source of the voice. Every time Satoru screams his name and runs to him, he remembers when he was barely three, running behind him, asking about plants. And he feels a smile stretching on his lips, looking at the snowy fluff of hair rushing to get to him. 

“How are you doing today, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe smiled at him and moved slowly to put his shears down; his age is finally catching up to him.

“Later, Watanabe! Can you tell me what's a good plant to gift someone?” Satoru asked him in a hurry, like time was ticking away too fast.

“Oh, well, succulents are everyone's favorite to gift.” The gardener was perplexed at his question; that was the last thing he was expecting.

“No, no, something pretty! Flower-bearing plant. Not roses; they are thorny, and everyone keeps recommending roses.” Mr. Watanabe laughed at his whiny tone. 

“Alright, if you don't want roses… But how about something similar? Without the  thorns, of course— how about camellias?” Satoru blinked at him, hearing about the flower for the first time.

“I don't know that one; do we have one here?” 

“No, unfortunately, we do not. But you might remember them from your grandfather’s funeral. They were his favorites.” 

Satoru does remember those flowers almost vividly. The white flowers were used to decorate for his grandfather’s funeral. Ever so stoic was the old Gojo, so hearing he liked such a bright and beautiful flower made him see his dead grandfather in a new light. But it did make sense for him to like those flowers. As beautiful as those flowers are, they were just as bold and elegant, words anyone would use to describe the old Gojo clan head. Satoru always thought those were just some very full roses, but apparently not. 

“Some reason why we don't have one in our garden?” Seeing all the varieties of roses in the west part of the estate’s garden, it didn't make sense to him why something so rose-adjacent wasn't here already.

“Well, your mother didn't like them. Unlike flowers like roses, camellias drop their entire flower instead of letting go of it petal by petal.” Satoru tilted his head and thought to himself about the eccentric plant.

“Your mother didn't like that; she said it was dreadful.” Mr. Watanabe sighed as he went to clear up some of the cuttings.

“Ok, so can I ask you… Uh, could you get me one of those plants?” Suddenly Satoru felt shy in front of the gardener. The same one to whom he'd run up as a child and demand whatever flower that would catch his eye that day.

“Oh, do you want us to plant one in the garden? Surely it could be arran—”

“No.” Satoru interrupted his train of words, “I mean—as a gift. Could you get me a small one?” The gardener stopped doing whatever he was doing to look at Satoru. For a moment he forgot why Satoru came up to him asking about plants. He thought the gift must have been some sort of formality. But if he is putting this much thought into this, it could only mean one thing. 

“What color do you think the camellias should be, Gojo-sama?” Mr. Watanabe’s smile widened. 

“Does it matter?” Gojo Satoru didn't know much about flowers or plants, which is why for the last few weeks Ichiji was responsible for sourcing out the most suitable and best flowers so he could give them to you.

“It sure does! Flowers have a language of their own!” Satoru blinked cluelessly at the old man.

“Well, what is the purpose of this gift?” Even though Mr. Watanabe had an idea who this gift could be for. He may be old, but he still keeps up with the gossip that goes around the estate.

“I want to—to apologize.” Satoru meekly said everything about this situation was a new experience for everyone. 

“And who are you apologizing to?” When Satoru’s ears became redder at his question and his eyes wavered a little in nervousness, Mr. Watanabe felt it was best to not tease the man any further.

“Alright then! How about a pink Camellia plant? It'd be perfect!” With many pats on Satoru’s back, the gardener picked up his shears and walked away smiling to himself, excited to make arrangements for Satoru's request. 

Satoru didn't know flowers could mean something other than, ‘Oh pretty!’ So he was curious why Mr. Watanabe thought particularly pink Camellia flowers would be perfect to get his feelings across.

Things have been somewhat better since your husband cornered you in the hallways the other day. You two have been eating together again; you're not sleeping on the couch, but you're still not really speaking to him. So the regular calls inquiring about dinner are still going to Ichiji, and other than eating at the same table and sleeping in the same bed, nothing is really back to normal.

Like how usually on Sundays your husband is locked up in his office or hiding away from you or you're hiding away from him. But today, on this particular Sunday, Satoru is dragging you somewhere by your hand.

“Will you just tell me where we are going?” You were right behind him, and being this close to him, holding his hands, was not something you were used to. You could feel the rough calluses on his hand and the sheer size difference between yours and his hand. And it irritated you to even think that this feeling of his skin on your skin is not fading away anytime soon.

“How about I show you instead?” Even though all you could see was his back, you could hear the excitement in his voice.

“I really don't like surprises.” You mumbled to yourself as you looked around, realizing you two had already crossed the main part of the building and were well into the left wing. 

The colors of the walls, the marbles and stones on the floor, the painting on the wall, and the decorations scattered everywhere were cohesive with the rest of the mansion. It broke away the little illusion you had in your mind about the boundaries you created for yourself.

“Here we are.” 

Satoru walked through another hallway, which had large glass windows for walls. It felt like you were already outside, given how the pathway was lit with natural sunlight and overlooked everything in its surroundings. At the end of the hallway was an opaque glass door, which, when he opened, led into a room with plants. 

It was a greenhouse, with light blue tinted glass and humid, dewy air inside. There were not many plants inside, just some little seedlings and small plants that you were sure the gardeners were growing to plant in the gardens for the next season. 

“What is this…?” You could not help but be in awe of the place as you walked between the little plants on each side and a raised platform in the middle with a table on it; everything felt like it was meant to be exactly where it was. Sure, it was not the most gorgeous feature of the Gojo estate, but to you, it was just as awe-inspiring as the lake or the huge, soft couches all over the mansion. 

“Your gift!” He excitedly pulled you to one of the corners, where in a pot was a little plant, and there was a little card hanging over the edge of the pot. You looked at Satoru for approval to reach out for the card, and when his smile stretched bigger on his face, you reached out for the card. 

On the card, it was written in a somewhat messy but familiar handwriting you've been seeing for the last couple of days—‘I am still very sorry; I hope everything I'll say next will get that across to you.’

“I am sorry. I know nothing makes sense, but just know you don't cause me any pain.” Satoru said from behind you. You didn't have it in you to turn around and look at what kind of face he was making, so you kept staring at the plant in front of you.

“You're the only reason why I look forward to meals, especially dinners. I look forward to sleeping in our bed, and I don't just sleep in my office chair.” He didn't explain any further. Because he could not. He could not say why he looked like he was always in a dilemma when you were a little too close to him or why he has been so unfairly kind to you. But it was enough for now. He didn't really owe you any more than what he has given, and you could not help but feel like you've just been ungrateful to him. 

So with a knot in your throat, you put on your best smile and turned towards him to nod in acceptance of his apology. And he didn't push you to say anything more; he didn't ask why you looked like you were in so much pain, or why you couldn't look him in the eyes, or why you looked like you were on the verge of tears.

“Can I ask you something?” Satoru asked you after a few minutes of silence.

“Sure.” He noted that you didn't sound like you were about to break down into tears anymore.

“Why a plant though?” He stood beside you, staring at the side of your face while you stroked one of the leaves on the plant.

“I used to have many plants at my father's estate; I used to spend a lot of time in the gardens. I just liked taking care of them.” Your eyes lowered again. And you didn't look like you were about to cry again, but you looked somber.

“You could still do that here! I mean, we have so many plants in the gardens.” He looked genuinely excited to gesture to your surroundings with both his hands.

“Yes, but they're not mine.”

“Everything with my name on it is naturally more yours than mine.” 

You didn't know how to respond to that. But then again, that's just how things always are with your husband. He unknowingly says something too kind, too misleading, that has your tongue heavy as a stone in your mouth and your chest contorting in foreign shapes and feelings.

“Can I ask you something now?” You were clearly trying to divert the conversation, and Satoru knew that, but he didn't stop you.

“Mmhmm?”

“What kind of plant is this?” You looked at him for the answer.

“Huh? I thought you were a plant expert?” The signature Gojo Satoru smirk was back on his face, and you were surprised at yourself to feel relieved to see it.

“Oh, come onnn.” You whined and playfully pushed his side while he looked down at you with a smile. 

“I don't know.” Satoru playfully shrugged his shoulders.

“You don't know?” He shook his head from side to side, with no intention of answering you.

“Find out for yourself when it flowers.” And he walked ahead to get out of the humid glass house, with you whining from behind.

Satoru didn't know why he didn't just answer your question. Maybe because you didn't acknowledge when he said everything of his now also belongs to you. Or maybe teasing is just a natural part of his personality; that is why. Either way, it worked in his favor. In the last few days you have been talking more and more to him, trying to figure out what exactly the plant he gifted you was. You tried to compare it with the plants in the gardens, now free to roam around everywhere, with at least one of the staff trailing behind you with Satoru's orders.

“Is it Peony?” You handed him his blindfold as he put on his watch.

“Thank you. But nope.” He took it from you with a smile and walked out of the walk-in closet.

“Just tell me!” You shouted behind him while he giggled and walked away.

Satoru already told the gardeners who look after the estate gardens, specifically Mr. Watanabe, so he does not give you any answers. But you still somehow figured out it was a camellia plant. And he remembers how ecstatic you were when he finally agreed with you that it was a camellia plant. But now your concern was what color?

“S-sir, it's ma'am. Should I ask her to call back in a bit?” Ichiji held Satoru’s phone in his hand; it flashed ‘wife’ on his screen.

“No, give it to me.” Satoru took his phone from Ichiji while everyone in the room looked at him with eyes that said, ‘sigh, newlyweds.’ Suguru smirked at him from his left with a raised eyebrow. He is getting teased later.

“I’ll be back.” But that doesn't mean he's hanging up on you. You're finally calling him, actually him, and not Ichiji to ask about your regular dinner inquiries; there is no way he is hanging up on you. 

“Good afternoon to you, Gojo-san.” He said in a sing-song voice as he walked out in the hallway to pick up your call.

“You too, I was calling to ask ab—”

“Dinner, right?” 

“...Right.” He couldn't see you, but he could tell from your voice you were feeling a little nervous again.

“The usual is ok.” You hummed from the other side. He never really asked for anything particular; it always went like this, and you just chose whatever you thought he'd like the best. 

“Also can I ask again—”

“No, I am not telling you the color of the flowers. You'll see when they bloom.” You whined from the other side of the call, and he couldn't help but giggle at your response. You were really resilient, huh? 

“Asking me constantly won't give you the answer, sweets.” His voice sounded so fond; if anyone nearby heard that, there'd be gossip going around that Gojo Satoru has become a hopeless romantic since he married his wife.

“Ok, then bye.” Satoru didn't mind your tantrums; in fact, he welcomed them. He wanted you to be able to eventually talk back to him and converse with him freely, and this was a step in the right direction. With one last glance at his phone, he walked inside the room full of people staring him down. In partial disdain and partial awe from most people and teasing glances from friends, still confused that this was the same Gojo Satoru they've always known.

The rest of the day, Satoru spent half anticipating when he'd get to leave work. And half thinking about pink camellias.

Sure, Mr. Watanabe didn't tell him what they meant, but he understood why they were the perfect gift Satoru was supposed to get for you. And Satoru understood that after doing a quick research after talking to Mr. Watanabe. Anything could be given to apologize, but there should be something meaningful behind the gift other than just feeling sorry.

To say broadly, pink camellias are given to someone you admire. And at certain times, they can mean longing for someone. Someone out of your reach, someone you know, has been trying their best. It's a sign of affection, admiration, and yearning. And Satoru believes that's precisely what he felt for you.

So, Gojo Satoru often thinks of flowers when he thinks about his own death. But now he believes whenever he surely thinks about flowers, he'll be thinking of you.

NEXT CHAPTER>>

TO FIND MORE OF MY WORKS CLICK HERE.

divider by @/omi-resources. header is from watashitachi wa douka shiteiru drama. art in the header by @/RUEheree on twt.

yeah so april and may were not it.

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.”

+

satoru looked utterly feral. white hair a mess around his face, those bright blue eyes blown wide and gleaming in the dark, canines glistening in a sick twisted smile with sweat dripping down his temple.

he's got you in a mean mating press, cock buried inside your dripping pussy, wet 'thwaps' bouncing off the walls. your legs wrapped around his torso, his beefy arms hugging you as he buried his face into the crook of your sweat slicked neck, trapping you under all his weight, heavy cock sliding in and out of your sloppy cunt.

"t-toru— s'too much!" you sobbed helplessly, pussy fluttering around his length as you clawed at his back, leaving faint red scratches and crescent shaped marks that made him hiss with pleasure.

and he laughed.

he fucking laughed.

"you can take it angel, i know this pussy. so wet and all mine." he hummed before placing sloppy open mouth kisses to your neck, dragging his tongue all the way from your bottom lip to your chin, collecting every single fluid that lingered, sucking in a way that was sure to leave bruises the next day.

you swear you could hear the feet of the couch scraping against the wooden floors, your tits bouncing up with each thrust, perky nipples poking through the thin cotton of his worn out digimon shirt that you stole from him a while ago.

satoru gojo was a fucking monster.

it was even worse that he had a monster cock to match.

everything about him was far from human. his stamina and speed. you could't even run from him even if you wanted to, every single of beefy muscle held you there, trapped by the arm of the couch. every whine, squeal and plea falling on deaf ears.

"s-slow down! you psycho—" you began, only to let out an embarrassingly loud moan that revealed your true desires.

his lips crashed into yours, tongue delving into the wet cavern of your mouth, pressing and prodding against your tongue. his hips continuing to slap into you, pussy creaming around his cock. a white frothy ring connecting the two of you and dripping down his sack, onto the couch cushions.

he pulled off your lips with a wet pop, a string of saliva clinging between you. "so beautiful baby." he hummed, soft huffs escaping him as his cock twitched violently inside of you, just aching to spill out inside of you.

"will you—fuck—lemme fill you up? would you like that? y'gonna lemme send you out there, walking around so full of me, jus' letting everyone know exactly who knocked this pretty pussy up.." he cooed into your ear, almost condescendingly.

"hm angel? what're ya gonna say when they ask you?"

"you! you toru— you knocked me up—" a broken moan escaped you as you clenched around him, cunt gushing all around his cock, only proving his point further.

"perfect." his breath shutters, jaw clenched. "so fucking perfect. heh, i think your pussy wants to make me into a daddy," he choked out, his voice breaking off into a whiney moan. "should we listen to her? turn you into a hah—mommy. gonna pump this pretty pussy full til' you're leaking for days.."

"mmnh wanna—m'gonna cum, toru, please", you hiccuped, fat globs of pleasure prickling in your waterline and rolling onto his sweaty skin. his cock so deep inside you that you were certain he was stirring up your guts, sack slapping against the curve of your ass, his fat head kissing the spot that made you see white.

"go ahead baby, make a mess all over me, yeah? think if we cum at the same time you'll get pregnant faster?" he hummed, pressing quick sloppy circles over your clit, sending you over the edge.

your vision blurred and your brain went fuzzy as you cried out his name, your walls clamping down violently around him, massaging his cock, milking him for all he had.

with a deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, stuffing your cunt full of him. thick hot rivulets of cum spilling out inside you. his pelvic bone crushing down on your clit as his hips rolled against you, slow and heavy. ensuring he bred you just how he said he would.

with one final groan he chuckled lowly, his breath tickling your ear as he collapsed over you, all his weight pressing you further into the couch.

he pressed a soft loving kiss to your forehead. "alright baby, are you okay?" he began, about to pull his cock out of you. " if you want i can—"

with a sudden spark of energy, you locked your legs around him, pressing down on his back harder. pushing him back into your stuffed cunt, making him cry out as his sensitive dick bottomed out inside you once more.

"again." you hummed breathless, unsure if it was you or your pussy talking.

he looked down at you with a mischievous grin, plastered all over his face. his cock twitching, slowly hardening all over again at the mere thought.

it was clear satoru spending too much time around his students had clearly done irreversible damage to him and you.

but you weren't complaining. how could you?

more baby fever toru because yes + this was supposed to be on the sweeter side but ended up being freaked out so..

You're gonna die.

"Want me to grab the cold gel?" He teases, plump lips curling up, you almost ask him to spit on it, but you manage some sense.

"No, it's okay, I trust you," you shouldn't, not when he leans down and spits right on his fingers and watches his own spit move on puffy lips.

He can't do that he's a fucking doctor. How many pussies has he seen!? But the thrill of knowing it's on you had his cock throbbing underneath those purple scrubs, he covers it with his labcoat, watching the bubbles dissolve on your glistening cunt.

"How do you usually loosen up? Don't want to hurt you." You shut your eyes, spreading your thighs more for him.

"Like how do I..."

"You can feel comfortable with me, we need to find out what's making you cramp up too."

"I tense really bad before sex too, it doesn't feel the best."

"Oh..." Satoru eases a finger inside again, curving it up and watching you jerk. "When is the last time you had sex?"

"Like a year or two, I just use my rose - Oh my god!" You cover your face again, eyes rolling back when he crooks those fingers. "Mmh!"

"Don't be shy, masturbation is normal and healthy even. Orgasms are good for you," Dr. Gojo pulls his finger out to watch you drop down onto the thin paper you're laying on, exhaling against the sight. "Clitoral stimulation helps you?"

You nod, gasping when he slips a finger and finds it, the sounds of your wet cunt echoing in the room. "Yes, it does."

"Is it all right if I stimulate it to loosen you up? If not tell me."

You arch your hips, lashes fluttering, it takes a lot for Gojo not to yank off his gloves and fuck into you. "Yes um if you think it'll help?"

"It might," he runs a circle and watches that clit twitch against his thumb, more slick pouring from you. "You do respond well to it. Did your partners do this?"

"No they sucked," Satoru chuckles a bit, and the mood lightens, he acts perfectly professional while he's pressing on your clit, pleasure rushing through you. "That is relaxing."

"I want my patient comfortable," he murmurs, he shouldn't be allowed to look like that and sound like that. Your cunt is spasming when he slips his finger back in, the messy sounds so loud you bury your face. "It's a good thing, when your natural lubricant flows. It means your hormones are doing a good job."

"Oh," Satoru crooks his finger up, eyeing you under snowy lashes then, your breasts rising and falling, thighs trembling. "I do feel um... more... relaxed."

"That's good. You're doing such a good job for me," you're done for, his finger hitting that spot in slick walls, thumb still massaging your jumping clit. "Orgasms can help cramps too, even during your period."

"I can't um touch it during that," You're arching for more, thighs spread so wide, hands damn near ripping the paper underneath you, it tears just a bit and echoes in his impeccably clean office.

"That's understandable but your partner could," you laugh a little.

"None of them would have fucked me on my period - I mean!? Um, stimulated me."

"Some people are squeamish," he starts to ease two inside, you're trembling at the stretch. "It's natural, periods. And it's normal to get cramps, we just have to find a good way to help them."

"I see, ngh!" He pauses at your little moan, juices flowing down his fingers, tall body hunched just a bit over you. "Oh my god I'm so sorry."

"It’s too much for you, sweetheart? Two?"

You nod just a bit, and he sighs, pulling back his hand then.

"You're too tight, that could be why you don't find sex so enjoyable if you're not getting off first - I mean, having orgasms before intercourse."

"That could be um, I'll loosen up so you can do the exam," you hear his glove smack then.

"It may help if I don't wear a glove, are you okay with that? It may help your nerves."

Satoru needs to feel your gummy walls without a dumb fucking barrier. You're blinking at him, seeing him take one off, then the other.

"My hands are sterile," he tries to hide his feral grin, knowing he's fucking depraved for this, but his cock is just leaking too much. "I'll try and you tell me what you prefer."

"Yes, of course," Satoru's fingers brush down your slit into your hole, sinking in - slippery from you, buried to the knuckle suddenly. It feels so good you can't hold back your little whimper, hips bucking up. You feel every line and callous of his thick fingers, cunt gripping him like she's scared he'll leave. "Oh!"

Satoru's cock leaks at the sight of your pussy sucking his fingers in like that, the sight of it so greedy, stretched around his bare hand is too much. His fingers pull back and then insert again, and again, a messy squelch echoing in the room, gossamer swirls of your arousal coating his fingers.

Fuck he's going against every oath he took and looking for more to break.

Is eating out patients not a good method of exam? Surely your taste -

He can't do all that! He shouldn't even be fingering your messy cunt like this, pads of them curving up in that spot that makes you twitch and gush. Your cheeks are flush, eyes rolling back, hips just rolling when he runs a thumb over your clit once more.

"Eyes on me, sweetheart," you barely focus, stretched so full and stuffed more from him than you had been any man. Your lashes flutter at his command, he leans down just a bit as he works you. "There you go, you're loosening up for me. Does it feel good like this?"

Are you having a filthy daydream of the pretty blue eyed doctor, or is he talking you through an orgasm?

"I... um... y-yes," your whisper escapes your lips with a sigh, Doctor Gojo's expert fingers curling up with precision, feeling you spasm and tighten, slick and hot around his digits. You're pulsing already, making him have to palm himself to adjust, before darting his thumb back to your clit. "Mnh... Doctor Gojo, I..."

"Your muscles are responding so well," fuck is everything sexy from his mouth? You're trying not to cum, but failing spectacularly, a dripping wet mess soaking his bare hand, the sounds of his fingers and your needy cunt loud. "Your pussy- I mean, um!? Vagina/vulva ah it's very um... pretty - healthy!?"

Satoru Gojo's glasses fog up just a bit, sweat beading on his brow, he doesn't know what's come over him - but he knows he needs you to cum for him, and he's not stopping until you do. Do you squirt, do you drip, do you get creamy?

Fuck he must know - for scientific purposes, that's why he's a doctor, right? Love of science and medicine?

How many oaths would it break if he were to breed his patient?

"I'm... your fingers ngh they're thick and - I mean!? Thorough! They're so thorough," you're rolling your hips up for every filthy thrust, Satoru leans low and practically inhales you, you feel something wet slap your clit, his eyes feral and black then behind lenses. "F-fuck... I mean!?"

"S'okay, we're - hah - helping the cramps, r-right?" He's scissoring his long fucking fingers in and out of your now sloppy little cunt, your nails press into his forearms, just making him moan softly.

"Yes, helping them, mhm," your eyes roll back in your skull, nails digging in his pale skin and leaving cresenct marks, the sweet scent of your arousal filling his senses, overtaking the sterile alcohol in the room. God if he could bottle your pussy juice he would. "You're s-such an amazing um... d-doctor!"

"Thank you, I t-take my... career... so seriously," he's about to bust in his pants, damn near acting as if he's never seen a pussy before yours, but he's not ever been affected. You're pulsing and tightening down then, clamping his fingers and sucking them inside, teeth clenched. "Remember, eyes on me, sweetheart. For... medical reasons."

Your eyes focus on his, he crooks those fingers up one more time, a mess pouring as he does, and he watches his pretty patient cum on his fingers. You're so loud he has to pull up, slamming a big palm on your cute lips, muffling your desperate cries as he shoves them in fully, heel of his hand massaging your needy clit.

"Mmph!" You're blacking out nearly, hardly able to keep that eye contact, with the doctor whose glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose, his lips spit slicked. You're gushing down his fingers, louder and louder as he eases them in and out slower, pushing you over the edge again.

"Fuck," he murmurs, cursing at his lack of professionality, leaning back to see just how you cum. "Creamy, fuck."

"H-huh?" Your voice is still muffled, he moans, looking and the milky ring formed at the bottom of his fingers, he almost sinks to his knees with you still in that fucking hospital gown, instead gently easing them out, watching your hole twitch as he spreads your lips.

"Your response to stimulation, it's scientific you see - creaming or squirting."

"Oh, it is?" He feels himself pressing hard against his boxers, leaking through and leaving a wet spot in his scrubs, blush furiously smattered on his cheeks. "Which is better?"

Anything you do.

"They're both healthy responses," he wants to suck his goddamn fingers so badly, but he has already crossed every fucking line known to man, so instead he hovers a moment, wanting to ask about you. who are you, are you single - it says yes on your chart sure, but still. What do you like? Do you play video games?

He's imagining a date right now - him, Doctor Gojo, a man who's all about his business can't stop getting flustered from your pretty little pussy that's leaking your cum still. He turns then, unsure of what to say, as your thighs tremble, your breath quickening.

You feel so embarrased! You're thinking he wanted you to cum, what if he was just... like helping? Examining? You've never even really been to a gyno before! You hastily put a sheet on, looking down nervously as he stands there, fingers still in your slick.

"I'm so sorry!"

"What!? Why? Did you um... enjoy the exam?" He asks, you nod shyly, he is so close to busting he has to do something. "I'll be right back with your uh... results, just hold on, okay?"

He rushes to the bathroom, leaning back and shutting the heavy door, sucking your juices off his fingers and moaning, using his other hand to free his aching cock. God it's hard, sticking to his boxers, he has to tug it free and slowly stroke it, moaning softly.

"Go ask her out," he whispers to himself, with every stroke of his hand, every glide around the thickness he almost stuffed inside you on that patient bed. He can't with himself, what is going on, he's never like this!?

God your taste.

"Maybe we could hah go to a movie?" He practices in the mirror, seeing his disheveled appearance, cock loud with every fwap as he jerks it quickly, trying to finish before he looks more suspicious. He whimpers your name and flutters his eyes shut, picturing your cunt grippin' his cock like a vice, moaning as he cums.

White spurts everywhere, all over his hands, all over the sink, he curses with a shaky breath, cleaning it frantically when he rushes back out, and you're all dressed, holding your purse. He falters, suddenly shy as you tuck your hair behind your ear, the taste of your cunt still coating his tongue.

"I ah... think your cramps could be a lot of tension," he manages to say softly. "And elevated hormones, just a bit too much estrogen, but not enough for concern."

"Thank you so much, um, what should I do for them?"

"Warm compress, a hot bath, ibuprofen," his dick, his mouth, his fingers, god use him. "All of that should help a long with..."

"Orgasms?"

"Y-yes, they can help," you rush off suddenly then, and Gojo curses, pacing back and forth in his office.

God why couldn't he ask you out!? After he sucked your cum off his fingers no less?

Suddenly, Satoru has quite an idea - his fucked out brain thinks so, at least. He sits at his little desk and pulls up his laptop, starting to type notes into your patient portal, smirking as he does. He's sure you're the type to check them, so he wonders if you'll get the code here.

***Patient comes in with an exceptionally tight set of muscles, and was having some trouble with cramping, as well as pain during sex. She was a good girl for me beautiful example of a patient, her responses were so good, she listened to all instructions from the doctor. Her cunt vagina was a pretty shape, color, and had a lovely taste consistency.***

Satoru grins, inserting his phone number throughout the message in little places, heart racing.

God he wonders if you like Digimon or Pokemon? He could handle either, if it meant being with you.

***The patient should come back for more visits to work on relaxing her stupidly tight vagina, she took well to treatment, she should cum come more often to make sure she's comfortable and resolves any cramps in the future. Patient should contact me with any questions are you free on friday? or concerns.***

He's sure you never saw the damn notes when a week goes by, when he gets a call, answering it in the middle of lunch. "Gojo speaking."

"Um... hi... it's..."

"Oh my god!? Hi!" He almost knocks his coffee over, so fucking excited he's grinning, he can't see your nervous blush on the other line, chewing your thumb and taking shaky breaths. "How are you?'

"I'm good, I am uh... maybe insane but, would you like to go out-"

"Yes."

You blink then. "Um, I didn't say where?"

"Anywhere." You giggle, and he throbs from that, sighing and shutting his eyes. "I'll take you anywhere."

"All right, Doctor Gojo I'll send you where to pick me up," you hang up shakily, and Gojo makes quite a loud shout that the entire office hears.

"Back to work, ahem." He says, stepping out, but he cannot keep the smile off his face.

satoru grew taller, broader, more dangerously handsome with that lazy grin that made girls at school blush. but you stayed the little sister in everyone’s eyes, the one who tagged along behind her brother and his best friend, the one who fell asleep on the couch between them during horror movies, the one satoru would tuck a blanket over with gentle hands while your brother snored on the other side.

everyone else thought like that but satoru. satoru noticed the changes. he noticed the way your legs got longer, the way your laugh got softer and feminine, the way your body filled out in ways that made his throat tight and his thoughts guilty. he told himself it was nothing. you were his best friend’s little sister, which meant you’re off-limits. and by off-limits, you’re a forbidden fruit he wasn’t allowed to even look at for too long or he would rot you with his dirty thoughts.

nobody sensed how he started pulling away in small ways when you turned eighteen. longer gaps between visits, fewer sleepovers, more excuses about being busy with college and then with work. but he never stayed away completely. satoru couldn’t.

every time he saw you he felt that familiar pull, the way his chest tightened when you smiled at him like he hung the moon for you. the way his cock would twitch traitorously when you wore those tiny shorts around the house in the summer every time he came over and god, he hated himself for it because right after he’s done, he would go home after and jerk off in the shower with his jaw clenched, whispering your name like a curse while hot water beat down on his back, telling himself it was the last time.

it was never the last time.

now you’re twenty-two and he’s twenty-eight. your brother still treats you like the kid who used to beg for piggyback rides. satoru still calls you “boogers” sometimes, but the word tastes bitter on his tongue now.

the three of you still hang out, still have movie nights from time to time since satoru could never say no to your asking, he joins your family and still act like nothing has changed. but everything has. satoru can barely look at you without feeling the weight of all those years of wanting. he watches the way you move around the kitchen in your sleep shorts when you’re getting snacks ready for the movies, the way your t-shirt rides up when you reach for something on the top shelf, the way you laugh at his stupid jokes and rest your head on his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

every innocent touch feels like torture. every time your thigh brushes his on the couch he has to fight the urge to pull you into his lap and show you exactly what you do to him.

this time your brother is out of town this weekend for a work trip he couldn’t get out of.

he left satoru with the spare key and the casual instruction to “keep an eye on her.” satoru laughed it off on the phone, responding with a choked ‘yeah, ‘course, i got you man.’ but the second he hung up his mind was already spinning. he told himself he’d just check in once, maybe bring some takeout, make sure you weren’t lonely and nothing more.

but fuck was he wrong, cause satoru only lasted exactly four hours before your text came through:

“movie night? the new horror one just dropped. brother’s gone so no one to complain about the jump scares :)”

he stared at the message for ten full minutes. then that’s when he grabbed his keys, all thoughts starting to get pumped to his dick.

when he knocks on your door it’s a little after ten. you open it wearing your usual oversized, small ribbons printed t-shirt and those damn cotton shorts that have haunted his dreams for years. your skin is soft under the radiating light from the porch, face bare, and you smile at him like he’s the best part of your night.

shit. satoru feels his stomach drop.

“hey, you came,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. your voice is casual, warm, the kind of voice that used to make him feel safe and now makes his cock stir in his sweatpants.

“couldn’t let you watch horror alone,” he replies, forcing that tired, loose grin. he holds up the bag of snacks like a peace offering. “brought the good stuff.”

you laugh and it hits him straight in the chest. he follows you to the living room, trying not to stare at the way the hem of your shorts teases him in front of him. the fabric riding up with every step. the tv is already on, lights dimmed, blankets piled on the couch. you settle in your usual spot, patting the cushion beside you. satoru sits, puts the snacks down onto the coffee table, leaving what he hopes is a respectful distance, but you immediately scoot closer, tucking your legs under you and leaning your head against his shoulder like always.

maybe your nickname was not supposed to be boogers but dumbass cause you don’t seem to take sign on how you’re making it hard for him to stay normal and sane. or so he thought.

the movie starts. the opening credits roll. satoru tries to focus on the screen. he really does. but all he can feel is the warmth of your body against his side, the soft press of your bare thigh against his, the faint vanilla scent of your shampoo. his hand rests on the back of the couch, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder when he shifts.

every innocent touch feels loaded tonight. the house is too quiet without your brother’s loud commentary. it’s just you and him and years of unspoken tension hanging heavy in the dark.

halfway through the first act you stretch, arms lifting above your head, shirt riding up to show a strip of soft stomach. satoru’s eyes flick down before he can stop them, fingers twitching not to touch you and when you settle again your leg presses fully against his. he doesn’t move away. instead his fingers brush your shoulder again, slower this time, thumb stroking once along your skin.

“cold?” he asks, voice quieter than he means.

you shake your head, tilting your face up to look at him. your eyes are soft in the glow of the tv. “no. just getting comfortable.”

he swallows hard. his hand drops from the couch to rest lightly on your upper arm, thumb still stroking slow circles. the touch is supposed to be casual but it isn’t. at least that’s what satoru knows.

the movie keeps playing but the man sitting next to you is not really watching anymore. the air between you feels thicker, warmer, charged with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist for years.

satoru’s jaw clenches. he can feel his cock starting to thicken in his sweatpants, the traitorous heat building low in his gut. he tells himself to stop. he tells himself you’re his best friend’s little sister. he tells himself a lot of things.

you shift again, turning slightly so your knee brushes his thigh. and lord knows how he’s struggling not to make a sound, especially when your voice is barely above a whisper when you speak.

“satoru?”

he looks down at you, blue eyes dark in the low light. “yeah?”

you bite your lip, just for a second, and the small movement sends another rush of blood straight to his cock.

“you’ve been really quiet tonight.”

fuck.

he forces a laugh, but it comes out strained. “am i?” he asks. “just focused on the movie.” his reply doesn’t satisfy you and you don’t look convinced so your hand rests lightly on his chest, right over his heart. “liar.” you call him out.

liar…

the sting of the word is heavy because satoru is not the only one suffering alone here, you’re a liar as well. and you’re pretending none of this is eating you alive when that’s exactly how it’s been for you since satoru came to your house.

you’ve been stiff as a board since the moment you sat down, even though you’re trying so hard to act normal. you can feel it in the way his shoulder has gone tight under your cheek, the way his breathing isn’t quite as steady as usual, the way his long fingers keep flexing against the couch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

the tv flickers soft blue light across both of you, painting shadows over his sharp jaw and the faint flush creeping up his neck, but you’re not watching the movie anymore. you’re watching him, noticing every detail.

your hand stays light on his chest, right over his heart, and you can feel how fast it’s beating under your palm. thump-thump-thump, way too quick for someone who’s supposedly just chilling on the couch. you shift a little closer, letting your bare thigh press more firmly against his — testing water — and that’s when you notice it full.

the soft, heavy bulge under the dark blue-black sweatpants he’s wearing. it’s not fully hard yet, but it’s definitely there, thickening slowly against the loose fabric, the outline just visible every time the tv screen flashes brighter. your stomach flips, heat pooling low between your legs because you did that. you’re doing that to him right now, just by sitting here in your tiny shorts with your head on his shoulder like you always have.

the tension sits thick and heavy between you, wrapping around every small movement. every time you breathe, your chest brushes his arm.

every time he shifts, his thigh presses harder against yours. the air feels warmer than it should, like the room itself is holding its breath along with both of you. you can smell his cologne mixed with the faint mint from his gum, and underneath it all something warmer, something that makes your mouth water.

satoru’s hand on your upper arm hasn’t stopped moving. his thumb keeps stroking those slow, careful circles, but now each pass feels heavier, more deliberate, like he’s fighting the urge to slide his whole palm down your skin.

you tilt your head up a little more, letting your breath fan across the side of his neck. his jaw clenches. you watch the muscle jump, watch the way his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. the bulge in his sweatpants twitches again, growing thicker, the fabric starting to tent just enough that you can see the clear shape of him.

your own body reacts instantly, a warm rush between your thighs, your nipples tightening under the thin t-shirt. you’re suddenly aware of how little you’re wearing, how your shorts exposed so much skin the bottom curve of your ass is almost showing, how your shirt keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times you fix it.

satoru’s fingers tighten on your arm for half a second before he forces them to relax. his breathing has gone shallow. you can feel the heat pouring off him, the way his thigh muscles are locked tight under your leg. the movie keeps playing, some girl screaming on screen, but none of you flinch and the only sound that matters is the quiet hitch in his breath when your knee accidentally nudges higher up his leg, brushing right against the side of that growing bulge.

he doesn’t pull away. he stays perfectly still, like moving even an inch might break whatever fragile control he has left.

you bite your lip, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. the flush on your neck is spreading, warm and prickly, and a tiny bead of sweat is already forming at the small of your back. you feel sticky and hot and aching, and all you’ve done is sit here with your head on his shoulder.

the years of quiet ‘wanting’ press in harder tonight, sharper because your brother isn’t here to act as a buffer. it’s just you and satoru and the heavy, suffocating knowledge that you’re both thinking about the same thing.

satoru clears his throat suddenly, the sound rough and forced. he shifts, moving his arm from around you, and stands up in one quick motion. his sweatpants do nothing to hide how hard he is now, the thick outline pressing obviously against the front, the fabric stretched tight. he keeps his back half-turned to you like that will somehow fix it.

“uh… i need some water,” he mutters, voice low and strained. “or a coke. something cold.”

you sit up slowly, fixing your shirt so it covers your shoulder again, but it doesn’t help much. your skin feels too warm, a light sheen of sweat already making the back of your neck sticky. your cheeks are flushed, you can feel the heat in them, and between your legs you’re starting to get embarrassingly wet, the thin cotton of your panties clinging to you. you swallow, trying to sound normal even though your voice comes out a little breathy.

“oh yeah, okay. it’s in the fridge. you know your way around.”

satoru nods once, still not fully facing you, and heads toward the kitchen. his shoulders are stiff, steps a little too deliberate, like he’s forcing himself to put distance between you. you stay on the couch, legs pressed together, heart still racing and satoru disappears into the kitchen.

you stay on the couch, legs pressed tight together, trying to calm the flutter between your thighs. the movie is still playing but the sound feels distant, like it’s happening in another room. you can hear him open the fridge, the soft clink of a can, the quiet hiss when he cracks it open. a few seconds later he walks back in, coke in one hand, the other rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something off.

he’s too distracted to consider bringing you one.

he looks at you for a long moment before he sits down again, this time leaving a little more space between your bodies but it doesn’t help.

the air still feels charged, heavy with everything neither of you has said out loud. you notice the way his sweatpants still sit a little awkwardly, the thick line of his cock not fully softened, pressing against the fabric every time he shifts, manspread awkwardly.

your own skin is warm and sticky, a faint sheen of sweat on your neck and between your breasts, your nipples tight and sensitive under the thin t-shirt.

satoru takes a long sip of the coke, throat working, then sets the can on the coffee table. when he leans back against the couch his arm brushes yours again, and this time he doesn’t pull away. his fingers find your shoulder once more, but instead of the casual thumb strokes from before, his whole palm settles there, warm and heavy.

it seems he’s calmed a bit.. which means you’re the one who’s suffering hundred percent.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

you nod, but it feels like a lie. “yeah… just warm in here.”

his eyes flick down to the flushed skin of your neck, then lower to where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder again. he doesn’t say anything, but his thumb starts brushing the bare skin near your collarbone. the touch is slow, almost absent, but it sends heat straight down your spine. you shift like you’re under a spell without thinking, your bare thigh sliding against his again, and this time your knee nudges right against the side of his cock through the sweatpants.

satoru inhales sharply. his hand slides from your shoulder down your arm, stopping at your wrist. his thumb presses lightly against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing.

“you’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“so are you,” you whisper back.

the only light flickering on both of you is the glow from the tv, casting soft blue and white across both of you. satoru turns his head to look at you fully, blue eyes dark and conflicted, pupils blown wide as if he’s high. his free hand comes up, hesitating for half a second before he cups the side of your face, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“this is a bad idea,” he says, eyes dancing over your lips but he doesn’t sound convinced. his voice is thick, breath warm against your mouth.

“then why does it feel so good?” you have no idea how words are forming in your mouth when your brain disconnected from your tongue a long time ago, and the only option you have is leaning into his touch.

he lets out a quiet, broken sound, half groan, half sigh. his thumb presses a little harder against your lip, parting it slightly. you part your lips more, letting the tip of his thumb slip just inside, brushing against your tongue. satoru’s eyes flutter for a second, jaw tight.

“fuck… you’re killing me.”

you suck gently on his thumb, just enough to make his breath hitch. his other hand slides down to your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt like he’s anchoring himself. the tension snaps slowly, like a rubber band stretching thinner and thinner until it finally gives.

satoru pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet sound and replaces it with his lips. the kiss starts soft, almost careful, lips sliding together warm and slow. but the second you make a small needy sound in the back of your throat he deepens it, tongue licking into your mouth, hot and hungry. years of holding back pour into that kiss, all the stolen glances, all the guilty nights in the shower, all the times he told himself no.

his hands slide down to your hips, gripping firmly as he pulls you sideways until you’re straddling one of his thick thighs. the moment your core settles over the hard muscle you both moan quietly into the kiss. your soaked panties press right against his leg, the thin cotton already clinging to your folds from how wet you are. satoru’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, guiding you into a slow, rolling grind.

you start moving. slow, deliberate rocks of your hips that drag your swollen clit along the firm muscle of his thigh. every pass makes the fabric of your shorts and panties rub against you, the friction hot and slick and perfect. each roll pushes more wetness out of you, soaking the cotton until it clings transparently to your pussy. satoru groans low in his chest when he feels the damp heat spreading across his thigh, his cock twitching hard in his sweatpants, the thick head nudging against your inner thigh with every grind.

he breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips shiny, breathing ragged. his mouth trails down your neck, sucking softly at the sensitive skin, then lower, until his lips brush over your collarbone. when he reaches your chest he doesn’t push your shirt up. instead he closes his mouth around one of your pebbled nipples right through the thin fabric.

the sensation is immediate and filthy. his tongue swirls slow and heavy over the stiff peak, soaking the cotton instantly. warm spit seeps through the material, making it cling to your breast, turning the white fabric translucent.

he sucks gently at first, then harder, pulling your nipple deeper into his mouth while his tongue flicks fast and wet. the wet patch grows, dark and shiny, the outline of your hard nipple completely visible through the soaked shirt. every pull of his mouth sends sharp sparks straight to your clit, making your hips roll faster against his thigh.

“mmh… fuck,” he groans against your chest, the vibration traveling through the damp fabric. “look at you. letting me cover you with my spit. your body’s so fucking readyfor me already, yeah?”

he switches to the other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth with a wet, obscene sound. more drool collects from the corners of his lips, smearing down the front of your shirt in shiny trails, soaking the fabric until both your tits are glistening and see-through. the cool air hits the wet patches and makes your nipples ache even more, stiff and sensitive under his relentless mouth. he keeps sucking noisily, alternating between slow, deep pulls and quick flicks of his tongue, you could swear his spit is probably dripping down your stomach now, making the front of your shirt stick to your skin.

you’re grinding harder, hips rolling in needy little circles, clit dragging over his thigh with every movement. the friction is slick and constant, your soaked panties sliding against the hard muscle, the wet sounds of fabric rubbing together mixing with the filthy noises his mouth makes on your chest. your hands are in his white hair, tugging gently, soft whimpers and gasps spilling from your lips every time he sucks particularly hard.

satoru’s cock is throbbing visibly in his sweatpants, the thick ridge pressing insistently against your inner thigh, leaking enough that a small dark spot has formed at the front. every time you grind forward the head of his cock nudges closer to your core, teasing you both with how close he is to where you both desperately want him to be.

he pulls back just enough to look at the mess he’s made. your shirt is completely ruined, plastered transparently to your tits, nipples dark and shiny with his spit, little droplets still sliding down your stomach. his eyes are heavy-lidded, breathing ragged, lips swollen and wet.

“so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “y’know how i’ve been dreaming about marking you up like this for years? look how filthy i got you… your brother will fuck me up.”

he leans in again, mouth latching back onto your nipple through the drenched fabric, sucking harder while his hands grip your ass tighter, helping you grind faster against him. the wet, messy sounds fill the room — his mouth sucking noisily, your slick panties sliding over his thigh, both of you breathing hard and shaky.

the tension is thick and suffocating, every slow grind and every wet kiss pushing you both closer to the edge without either of you saying it out loud yet.

after what feels like euphorically forever, satoru pulls back from your chest with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, eyes heavy as he looks at the absolute mess he’s made of your shirt.

his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling fast under his hoodie, and for a second he just stares at you like he can’t believe this is real. then his hand slips down, fingers dipping into the pocket of his sweatpants, and he pulls out a small foil packet. the condom glints under the dim light, and you raise a brow, lips parting in quiet surprise.

he catches the look and just shrugs, a lazy, almost sheepish tilt of his shoulders, causing your cheeks flushing darker. “had to,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. “couldn’t risk it. not with you.”

you let out a soft, cheeky laugh, the sound breathy and teasing even though your heart is hammering. “you’ve always wanted to fuck me, huh?”

satoru’s brows knit together instantly, that familiar stern little frown pulling at his face, but his eyes stay dark and hungry. “that’s a vulgar word, boogers,” he says, the nickname slipping out like habit, but there’s no real bite to it. he leans in and presses a soft, almost tender kiss to the tip of your nose, lips brushing there gently before he pulls back just enough to look at you again. “i want to make you feel good. that’s all.”

you groan, half playful, half frustrated, and swat your hand lightly against his chest. “stop calling me boogers, toru. seriously!”

he just hums, low and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hands slide to your hips. he helps lift you a little higher on your knees, giving himself room, and shoves his sweatpants and briefs down in one smooth motion. they pool around his calves, leaving his thick cock springing free, heavy and flushed, the head already glistening.

he tears the foil packet open with his teeth, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room, and the sweet strawberry scent of the condom fills the small space between your bodies, fruity and almost too innocent for how filthy this feels.

satoru rolls it down his girthy tip first, jaw tightening as the latex stretches over him. a soft, broken whimper slips out of him when the cool material slides along his sensitive head, his hips twitching once before he rolls it all the way to the base with steady fingers. the condom sits snug, shiny and strawberry-sweet, the faint pink tint of it catching the tv light. he looks up at you then, eyes dark and solemn, waiting.

his hands move to your shorts and panties next, hooking into the waistband and sliding them down your thighs together in one slow tug.

you lift your hips to help, and the soaked fabric peels away from your pussy with a wet sound, leaving you completely bare from the waist down. he doesn’t stop there. his fingers catch the hem of your spit-drenched shirt and peel it up and off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. now you’re completely naked in his lap, skin flushed and glowing under the flickering light, tits still shiny with his dirty work, pussy glistening and swollen from all the grinding.

satoru is still mostly dressed, only his hoodie on, sweatpants and briefs shoved down to his calves, the contrast making everything feel even unholy. he licks a bold stripe across his palm, tongue dragging slow and wet, then reaches between you and swipes the slick hand over your folds. the touch is warm and deliberate, fingers spreading your wetness, thumb brushing your clit once before he grips the base of his cock and guides the thick, condom-covered head to your entrance.

he presses in slow, so slow, the blunt tip stretching you open inch by careful inch. his brows knit tight with concentration, eyes locked on your face, watching for any flicker of pain or discomfort. you feel every thick ridge as he sinks deeper, the stretch burning sweet and full, your walls fluttering around him.

your eyes start to haze, lashes fluttering, jaw going slack as the overwhelming sensation of being filled by him hits you. your breathing stutters, lips parted on a silent gasp, completely detached for a moment while your body adjusts to the heavy, girthy length pushing inside.

satoru knew you were small compared to him but never did he think you’d be struggling to fit his fat cock in your tight cunt this much.

satoru stays perfectly still once he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, breathing hard through his nose. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs stroking soothing circles on your skin as he waits, watching the way your eyes glaze over and your jaw hangs open. the strawberry scent mixes with the sharp smell of your arousal, the room quiet except for the low hum of the credit scene of the horror movie and the sound of both of you trying to breathe through the intensity.

“can i move?” he asks, voice low and calculated, almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to break the moment. his brows are still knitted, waiting for any sign from you.

you can’t find words right away. instead you just tap his shoulder once, twice, a small, mute signal that you’re okay, that you want this. satoru exhales shakily, relief and hunger mixing in the sound, and he starts to move.

at first it’s slow, careful rolls of his hips that drag his thick cock along your walls, the stretch burning so good it makes your breath hitch. you start grinding down to meet him, hips rolling in small, needy circles, your slick coating the base of his cock and smearing messily over the soft, dark trail of hair that runs from his navel down to where he disappears inside you. every grind leaves a shiny trail of your wetness glistening on his skin, the wet sounds squelching in the quiet room.

you’re vocal in little bursts, whispers of his name slipping out between shaky breaths. “satoru… toru…” the words are breathy, almost reverent, filling the living room like a secret. your hands slide up his hoodie, fingers digging into his chest as you grind harder, chasing the friction, the fullness, the way he fills you so completely.

“too big.. you’re– toru, fuuuck,” you cry out.

satoru leans back against the couch, arms dropping to his sides for a moment, face going almost numb with pleasure. his blue eyes are half-lidded, lips parted, white hair messy and falling into his face as he watches you ride him. he looks completely under your spell, like the sight of you naked and grinding on his cock has short-circuited his brain. the curve of his cock jerks inside you when you desperately grab his hand and bring it to your tits, pressing his palm against the soft, post spit-slick flesh.

that seems to snap him back. his face shifts from dazed to focused in an instant, intention clear in the way his jaw tightens. he wants to make you feel good. that’s all he cares about right now.

“i got you, yeah? ‘m here.”

he braces himself, planting his heels firmly on the floor, one arm wrapping tight around your hips while the other hand stays on your breast, fingers tweaking and rolling your nipple between them. then he starts fucking up into you. the first thrust is deep and powerful, hips snapping up so his cock drives into you harder, the angle perfect, the thick head rubbing right against that spongy spot inside you that makes your vision spark.

“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice wrecked but steady, focused entirely on you. “feel good? tell me if it’s too much.”

he sets a rhythm, slow at first but building, each upward thrust meeting your downward grind, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. his arm around your hips keeps you steady, guiding you, while his fingers keep playing with your nipple, pinching and tugging just enough to send sparks straight to your clit. every time he bottoms out you whimper his name again, softer, breathier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock, making everything messy and shiny.

satoru’s eyes never leave your face. he watches every twitch of your expression, every time your lips part on a moan, every time your eyes flutter. his whole focus is on you, on making sure every thrust feels perfect, on drawing out those little whispers of his name until they turn into broken cries. he fucks up into you with controlled power, the condom sliding slickly inside your soaked pussy, sweat mixing with the sharp smell of sex.

he leans forward slightly, mouth finding your other nipple again, sucking it into his mouth through the remnants of dried spit still on your skin, tongue swirling while he keeps thrusting. the dual sensation — his cock dragging inside you and his mouth on your breast — makes your back arch, a louder moan spilling out this time.

“good girl,” he breathes against your wet skin, voice low and praising. “taking me so well. just let me make you feel good, yeah? that’s all i want.”

his hips keep snapping up, steady and deep, the arm around your waist holding you down so you take every inch while his fingers keep working your nipple and his mouth keeps sucking the other. the living room fills with the wet sounds of him fucking into you, your soft whispers of his name, and the heavy breathing of two people who have waited years for this exact moment.

satoru keeps that steady, deep rhythm, hips rolling up into you with controlled power while his mouth stays busy on your tits.

every upward thrust drags his thick, condom-covered cock along your walls, the head catching perfectly against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. his arm around your waist holds you down on his cock, the wet slap of skin meeting skin growing louder, messier, your slick continuing to smear over his happy trail and the base of his cock until the dark hair glistens with it.

he switches between sucking one nipple and tweaking the other with his fingers, tongue swirling slow and wet, spit dripping down your chest in shiny trails that catch the flickering tv light.

you’re riding him but barely, your hips grinding in small, desperate circles while he does most of the work, fucking up into you with deep, purposeful strokes that make your breath hitch every single time he bottoms out. your hands clutch at his hoodie, nails digging into the fabric as soft, broken whispers of his name keep slipping out — “toru… satoru…” — the fruity scent of the condom mixes with the sharp smell of sex, filling the dark living room until it’s all you can breathe.

your legs start to twitch first. the muscles in your thighs quiver against his sides, small, uncontrollable tremors that travel down to your calves.

satoru notices immediately. his eyes flick down, watching the way your knees shake beside his hips, the subtle way your body is starting to tighten and flutter around him. a low, knowing hum vibrates in his chest and he shifts beneath you, sliding one arm under the knee closest to him. with a smooth, effortless motion he hooks it up and presses it toward your chest, folding you open even wider while you’re still on top of him.

the new angle spreads you so much more, your pussy stretching tighter around his cock, the head dragging harder against that perfect spot with every thrust.

you gasp sharply, the sound cracking in the back of your throat as the deeper penetration hits you all at once. satoru’s other arm stays banded around your waist, holding you steady, and now he’s fully in control even though you’re on top. he fucks up into you with stronger, deeper strokes, hips snapping with purpose, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy taking him echoing louder in the quiet room.

“c’mon, you’re gonna bless me, baby?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough and focused. “come on my cock, there you go. you just gotta feel it.”

your riding turns sloppy, hips stuttering as the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. your legs tremble harder, the one he’s holding to your chest shaking visibly. your walls start to flutter and clench around him in tight, rhythmic pulses, your slick gushing out around the base of his cock with every thrust. satoru groans low when he feels it, but he doesn’t slow down. he keeps driving up into you, steady and relentless, the arm under your knee keeping you spread wide and open for him.

you come hard.

your whole body folds forward suddenly, chest pressing against his as a broken, whining cry tears from your throat, your mouth is open and breathing straight into his mouth. your pussy clamps down around his cock in strong, pulsing waves, gushing wet and hot around him even through the condom. tears slip down your flushed cheeks, eyes squeezing shut while you sob his name in soft, overwhelmed whimpers — “toru… fuck, toru…” — your hips jerking and twitching uncontrollably as the orgasm crashes through you.

satoru keeps fucking you through it, slower now but still deep, drawing out every pulse and every shaky sob. his hand on your waist rubs soothing circles while the other keeps your leg folded to your chest, holding you open so he can feel every flutter and gush. he presses soft kisses to your temple, your wet cheek, murmuring quiet praise against your skin as you tremble and cry in his lap, completely spent and folded against him.

tsatoru holds you close through the last trembling waves of your orgasm, his cock still buried deep inside your fluttering pussy. he presses gentle kisses to your damp temple then your flushed cheek, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back while you come down.

“i’m.. fuck, you’re so good to me.” the way he grunts those words out shows you he’s not done yet.

his grip tightens on your waist and under your knee, and he starts fucking up into you again — deeper than you thought was possible. each thrust is slow, powerful, and deliberate, driving his thick cock so far inside you that you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

the new angle has the head of his cock pressing right against that spot with every upward snap of his hips, stretching you open wider, filling you fuller than you’ve ever been filled. the wet, filthy sounds of him plunging deep into your soaked pussy echo in the quiet living room, your slick leaking out around the base of his cock and dripping down his balls with every thrust.

“shit… so deep,” he groans against your ear, voice wrecked and low. “can you feel me, baby? feel how deep i’m getting? that’s it… take every inch.”

he fucks you with long, grinding strokes, hips rolling up hard and steady, the arm under your knee keeping you folded and spread so he can bury himself to the hilt every single time. your body jolts with each thrust, tits bouncing against his chest, soft cries and whimpers spilling from your mouth as the overstimulation turns into another building wave of pleasure.

satoru’s breathing grows ragged, his thrusts turning sharper, more desperate, the slap of skin on skin getting louder as he chases his own release.

“gonna come,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes dark and hazy. “gonna fill you up… fuck, you feel too good.”

he drives in deep one last time, hips stuttering as he buries himself as far as he can go.

“fuuuck,” a low, broken groan tears from his throat as he comes hard, cock pulsing thick and hot inside the condom while he grinds against you, drawing out every last spurt. his whole body trembles under you, arms locked tight around your frame as he empties himself, the strawberry-scented latex stretching with every heavy pulse.

for a long moment the only sounds are your shaky breathing and his quiet groans. he stays buried deep inside you, holding you close, the leg he had hooked to your chest gently lowered back down so you can relax against him. slowly, carefully, he pulls out, tying off the condom and setting it aside before he gathers you fully into his arms.

satoru shifts so you’re both lying on the couch, your smaller body draped over his chest, his hoodie soft against your bare skin. he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch (you didn’t notice that was there from the beginning.) over both of you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. one hand strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

“you okay?” he murmurs, voice soft and rough at the same time. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips — gentle, lingering kisses that feel like apologies and promises all at once. “did i hurt you? was it too much?”

you shake your head against his chest, still catching your breath, and he hums in quiet relief. he keeps touching you. slow strokes along your spine, gentle kisses to your shoulder, his palm rubbing warm circles over your lower back where you’re still a little sore. every touch is careful, tender, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel in his arms now that the line has finally been crossed.

and now that his time with you is very limited. by limited:

“your brother told me to keep an eye on you,” the topic feels heavy already when he says it after a while, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at you. his fingers keep tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “if this is what it takes… so be it.”

so be the risk of making the person, his person whom he lov—

realization hits and splashes on satoru like a bucket filled with water and ice. satoru loves. satoru loves you. he is in love, satoru loves someone who is a very much forbidden person.

he pulls you closer, wrapping both arms around you fully, the thought of your brother finding what he did to you can be stressed over for later, what matters now is your naked body tucked safely against his mostly-clothed one. the tv is still playing a new trailer for next movie faintly in the background, completely ignored.

satoru holds you like that for a long time — warm, steady, protective — pressing soft kisses to wherever his lips can reach, murmuring quiet praises and gentle nonsense until your breathing evens out and your eyes start to drift shut.

“toru, do you think this is okay?” your voice is muffled with how you’re both tangled together. he doesn’t reply at first so you take it as a sign to continue. “what are we gonna do after this? what if my brot—”

“i’ve got you,” he cuts you off with a whisper against your hair, one last kiss pressed to the top of your head. “always have and nothing will happen, just take some rest and we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

he can feel your body relaxing the moment he says that and satoru smiles a little, his heart swelling of fonding.

the living room feels smaller and warmer now, the weight of years of tension finally settling into something softer, something real, as satoru keeps holding you close under the blanket, his hand never stopping its gentle strokes along your back before he himself is dozing off from reality.

feeling too tired from his post nut session his brain is blank.

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.