ft. art instructor!nanami & rich donor!gojo
℘ } ⫶ taking a student job as a live muse for nanami at the university's isolated art basement was meant to be a means to pay for textbooks. but, keeping your posture becomes a nightmare when caught between kento nanami's disclipline & satoru gojo's possessiveness. who's boundaries expire first ? ⋮ tags : mdni, f!reader, college au, “love triangle”, explicit smut ⫶ 4.7k wc , art creds
the sculpting studio was tucked away in the basement of the arts department, far removed from the polished hallways upstairs. down here, the walls were concrete, pipes exposed, and everything smelled faintly of clay. it was a miserable place to spend a tuesday evening.
you sat on a rusted, three legged stool thats balancing dangerously on a wooden riser, one wrong stumble away from collapsing. according to the syllabus, the pose was meant to be an “expressive and dynamic posture.” in reality, it felt like a slow moving orthopedic emergency. your left shoulder had gone numb twenty minutes ago. something unpleasant was happening to your lower back. you'd given up trying to figure out exactly what.
“the line of the clavicle is the anchor point,” nanami said.
his voice cut through the dead silence of the basement studio. he didn’t look up from the massive, seventy-pound block of oil based clay resting on the heavy iron turntable between his knees.
nanami was a twenty four year old graduate assistant who approached art the way some people approached tax audits: with relentless focus and absolutely no sense of fun. while the department wore paint splattered overalls and left charcoal thumbprints, nanami somehow arrived in a neat, cream colored button down shirt with the sleeves folded back exactly twice, revealing thick, pale forearms that looked less like those of an artist and more like someone who spent his free time lifting concrete blocks.
“if you drop your chin by even half an inch,” nanami continued, his long, blunt fingers carving a precise groove into the shoulder of the clay, “the entire composition of the upper torso becomes unrenderable. keep focused on the fire extinguisher by the exit, please.”
“the fire extinguisher is losing its novelty, nanami,” you murmured. you kept your head perfectly straight at the faded red cylinder mounted against the damp brick wall. “i’ve been staring at it since seven o’clock. i’ve memorized the inspection tag. it expires in october.”
“then read the warning label.”
“you’re a joy to work with.” you muttered sarcastically.
“i am here as required,” nanami said, resuming his work with a sharp scrape of the wire loop. “my personal inclination is entirely irrelevant to the composition of this piece.”
the studio fell back into its suffocating, metrical quiet. the only sound was the occasional hiss of the radiator in the corner and the heavy, wet thwack of nanami throwing excess clay back into the storage bin. the air between you felt dense, the stifling heat of the overhead modeling lamps that beat down on your bare neck like an artificial sun.
you watched his reflection in the dusty glass cabinet behind him. he was incredibly particular. every stroke of his thumb, every sweep of tools was calculated. he didn’t drift into an artistic trance. he checked proportions with glances that lasted no longer than two seconds.
but those two seconds were becoming difficult to ignore.
whenever nanami shifted from the clay to your face, it didn’t feel like an evaluation. it was too heavy. behind a pair of small, gold-rimmed, reading glasses that sat low on his nose bridge, he had a way of tracking the flutter in your throat with a silence that made your skin prickle under your thin cotton shirt.
“your breathing is inconsistent,” nanami noted, his insult breaking the silence so suddenly you nearly jumped. “your chest is rising too rapidly. it’s ruining the shadows along the sternum.”
“maybe i’m just tired,” you said, your teeth gritting as you maintained the pose. “some of us have mid-terms at eight tomorrow.”
“then you should have managed your schedule by taking the future into consideration,” nanami said, his tool carving a deep, shadow catching hollow beneath the clay’s collarbone. “exams are predictable. however, this studio reservation is a non-negotiable deadline for my portfolio.”
“good to know my physical torment is giving you a higher academic purpose,” you said.
nanami didn’t answer immediately. he set the tool down with a definitive clack that signaled the end of the first forty five minutes. he checked his stainless steel wristwatch, his face still stoic.
“five minute break,” he announced, turning his back to you as he walked toward the sink. “you may step down.”
the concrete floor felt ice cold against your socks as your feet met the floor, your joints popping and cracking in sounds too loud to call normal. you leaned your lower back against the platform, rubbing your hands against your thighs to encourage blood circulation back.
across the room, nanami was washing his hands. he did it with the same rigorous routine he applied to sculpting. scrubbing the grey clay from his nails with a brush, the water loud from the faucet. the sleeves of his cream shirt were damp near the cuffs, turning translucent against his skin.
“do you ever actually enjoy this?” you asked, leaning your head back. “or do you just look at a block of clay and see a checklist that needs to be done before graduation?”
nanami turned off the tap with a twist. he grabbed paper towels from the dispenser before turning to face you. without the easel between you, his height was much more evident. chest puffed, face flushed from the work.
“art is just labor,” nanami said, walking back toward the center of the room. he stopped three feet from your platform. “enjoyment is a luxury for undergraduates who think inspiration pays bills. labor is reliable. inspiration is not.”
“that sounds incredibly depressing,” you said, a small, tired smile twinging at the corners of your lips.
“it is practical,” nanami corrected. he glanced at your pose, then to the slouch of your hips against the platform. “your posture right now is horrible."
“then come fix it,” you said.
the moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them.
the studio went entirely still.
nanami didn’t move. he stood perfectly upright, hands at his sides. the boundary he maintained so carefully seemed to flicker, just for a fraction of a second, replaced by something entirely different.
“that’s outside my responsibilities,” nanami said, speaking in a lower, rougher tone that didn’t sound like a graduate assistant at all. “the guidelines regarding model-instructor behavior are clear. physical contact is limited to adjustments of form, under professional watch.”
“the professor left two hours ago, nanami,” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs as you stayed leaning against the platform, looking up at him. “there is no professional watch.”
nanami took a single step forward. his leather dress shoes and the edge of where you’re sitting coming next to each other.
“do not mistake my compliance with lack of awareness,” nanami murmured, glancing to your lips before lifting back to you. “i am fully aware of how thin your shirt is under these lamps.”
the smile slipped from your face. you suddenly weren't sure you wanted to keep teasing him, your fingers curling tightly behind you. nanami reached out. his hand was large, his fingers long and dusted with residue of clay. he didn’t touch your skin yet, but his palm hovered over your left shoulder, the heat radiating from his body warming your cold one.
“turn,” he commanded softly.
you turned your torso back toward the fire extinguisher, your movements slow. nanami’s fingers finally closed around the curve of your shoulder.
his grip was firm as he adjusted your posture, thumb sliding up the side of your neck to press firmly against the base of your skull, forcing your chin up into the exact angle he required. his fingers lingered on the back of your neck after your posture was fixed. his thumb gave a single, slow, and entirely unprofessional stroke against the sensitive skin just behind your ear, a gesture that made a shiver run down your spine.
“stay there,” nanami whispered, his breath warm against your temple as he leaned in close. “if you move again, i will be forced to extend the session past midnight. and neither of us wants to calculate the overtime rates for that.”
“he actually said that?” satoru gojo laughed, the sound loud and obnoxious, bouncing off the sixty foot glass ceiling of his penthouse. “nanami is losing his mind in that basement. im gonna have that printed on a t-shirt for his birthday.”
you sat buried in the cushions of his white leather sofa that probably cost more than your tuition. a heavy, crystal bottle of expensive sparkling water cooling your palm. outside the floor to ceiling windows, the city looked like a circuit of gold and neon, the campus nothing more than a dark square in the background.
“don’t mock him,” you said, though you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you took a sip of the water. “he’s the only reason i can afford to buy groceries this month. the art department pays better than the library.”
“the art department pays you pocket change,” gojo scoffed.
he was pacing along the edge of the glass floor, kicking his shoes off mid-walk. he had already abandoned his usual dark blazer, his white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up to his elbows to reveal the muscle of his forearms decorated with bulging veins. his signature dark sunglasses were balanced on the tip of his nose, allowing those electric blue eyes to lock onto you with the corners crinkled.
“if you needed groceries, you should’ve just told me,” gojo said, stopping at the edge of the sofa and looking down at you. he reached into his pocket, pulling out a sleek, matte-black amex card and tossing it casually onto the glass table, landing with a heavy clank. “there. go buy a supermarket. stop letting nanami use your collarbones for his experiments.”
“i can’t just take your card, toru.” you said. staring at the black plastic with a mixture of need and pride. “i have some pride left. i’m trying to be an independent adult.”
“pride is expensive,” gojo murmured, a dimpled grin breaking across his face. he leaned forward, resting his hands on the back of the sofa either side of your head, trapping you against the sofa. “and independence is boring. being spoiled by me is much better.”
“you’re ridiculous,” you said, leaning your head back against the cushion, looking up at him through your lashes. “you can’t just buy out my life because you’re bored.”
“watch me,” gojo whispered, leaning down to your face.
he didn’t wait for a response. he slid over the back of the sofa with a jump, settling himself right next to you dipping the leather with his weight. he hauled you sideways into his lap. your knees dragged over his legs, and his arms locked around your waist, pulling you hard against him.
“toru,” you gasped, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders. his sweater that you’re wearing, made of cashmere so soft it felt like a cloud. your hand slipped beneath his unbuttoned shirt, brushing against his bare skin.
“shh,” gojo whispered, burying his face into the side of your neck. his silver-white hair was incredibly soft as it brushed against your jawline, his breath hot and rapid against your skin. “no independent adult talk in the penthouse. i just spent three hours sitting in a donation board meeting just so i could get away and see you. you owe me at least two hours.”
“is that how donations work?” you teased, your fingers loosening, idly tangling into the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck. “you give them five million dollars and they let you kidnap a junior?”
“ten million,” gojo corrected into your skin, lips brushing against your pulse with a slow pressure that made your core tighten. “and i didn’t kidnap you. i sent you a private car with heated seats and pastries. that’s called luxury relocation.”
he pulled back slightly, his sunglasses sliding off his face, forgotten on the cushions beside him. without them, his irises were bright blue beneath pale lashes that looked at you with none of his usual jokes left in it.
his hands slid down from your waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your pants, his grip tightening until your hips were forced flat against his.
“nanami was right about one thing though,” gojo whispered, his teasing sending goosebumps across your arms. he reached up, his large hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb rubbing over your lower lip. “your collarbones look much better under my lights than his.”
“you’re so annoying,” you breathed.
he closed the distance before you could make another snarky comment, his mouth covering yours in a deep, passionate kiss that was completely different from nanami’s discipline. gojo kissed you like he owned you, the room, the building, and every breath in your lungs. his tongue sliding past your lips smoothly, leaving you breathless. your fingers clutching his collar holding him steady against you, equally holding you against him. the city lights blurring into an insignificant smear behind him.
“yes toru! f-fuck!” you moaned, moving up and down gojo’s dick. he’s leaned back against his massive headboard, hands locked behind his tilted head as he watches your tits bounce in his face with breathy moans. “yes baby, just like that. riding me so good” a gruff praise as he thrusts his hips up to meet you halfway. you arched over him as he hit deep, your fingernails digging into his stomach to keep your balance, trying not to lose balance. “come on, you can do it. keep going, fuck, don’t stop” his encouragement sending energy straight through you. your hips motioning from bounces and grinding, clit meeting the white fuzz at the base of his pelvis, tickling your nub just barely.
your thighs feeling the sharp burn of gravity, intertwined with the fullness of gojo inside you. every sharp friction a reminder of the weight inside you. his face askew, hands coming up to guide your hips as he feels you tire.
“don’t give up on me now. keep going baby” you place both hands on his abdomen, hoping for a little balance. you plant both feet either side of his hips and move all the way up, almost releasing his tip, and slam back down on his length completely. the heavy thwack has gojo bending his knees, trying to get ahold of you so he doesn’t fill you up right there. his deep, guttural moan as you continue to ride him like a mechanical bull. “oh f-fuck. i’m gonna cum” he breathes.
you keep at it in perfect motion. until, he wraps around your torso, digging his fingers in and turns you over back-first. “you’re gonna cum for me first.” he demands.
your hands gripping at sheets, nails leaving red lines down his back simultaneously. he has your thighs pried open for him, watching your puffy lips swallow his cock deliciously. he rubs idle circles on the back of your knees that are folded in half over your shoulders. every thrust yanked you back onto his dick, hammering you with his speed.
you try to slow him down as your vision becomes hazy, and he pins your hand next to your head at the measly attempt. “take it like the good girl you are” gojo whispers into you. his thrusts grow erratic by the second, both of you covered in all shapes of red and blue. the tight knot in your stomach growing as his pink tip meets your g-spot continuously. “toruuu-” you whined. hands moving sporadically from his muscled back to his snowy hair. “c’mon. cum for me. give it to me.” he groaned above, dick throbbing.
“yesyesyes toru- fuck!” you babble as white clouds your vision. the walls were spinning, and your heart with it. as you reach your high, gojo stills, releasing thick spurts up your walls. you both moan loudly at the clench, cream spilling out of your quivering hole.
sweaty bodies clinging to each other, a mix of drool, tears, slick, and cum. heavy panting as your breaths get shorter, harmonizing with the sounds of city night life visible through the reflection of you both in the windows.
by friday afternoon, the humidity in the art basement had reached an unbearable point. you stood in the center of the studio, looking at the clay bust nanami had spent the last four nights making. it was terrifyingly accurate.
the clay was cold to the touch, but nanami had captured the exact, slight asymmetry of your shoulders, sharp jawline, and the hollow base of your throat where his fingers lingered the night before. he was sitting at his workbench, cleaning his knives, the sharp scritch-scratch of the metal cringing your ears.
“the department requested the piece be moved to the gallery for exhibition,” nanami said, his voice flat. he didn’t look up from his knife. “the transport will be handled at four o’clock. your invoice has been submitted. you will receive your compensation via direct deposit in three days.”
“so that’s it?” you asked, leaning your hip against the edge of his workbench. “the semester’s over, the bust is done, and we go back to being graduate and student who isn’t supposed to move her shoulder?”
nanami stopped scrubbing. he set the palette knife down, his movements slow. he took off his glasses, folding them with a precise clink before placing them in his pocket. when he finally looked up at you, exhaustion lingered around his eyes.
“i am currently drafting my thesis,” nanami said quietly. he stood up, massive frame blotting out the light from the window behind him. “once that document is signed on monday morning, my contract as a graduate assistant is terminated. i will no longer be an employee of the university.”
you blinked, your breath catching as he stepped around the workbench, meeting you until he was inches from your face.
“on monday at twelve o’clock,” he continued. “i am no longer bound by the guidelines of model-student interaction. it all becomes obsolete.”
he reached out, his hand closed around your wrist. he didn’t pull you closer, but he didn't let go either.
“if you are still interested in financial negotiations over something that doesn’t include cafeteria food,” he asked. “you can leave your phone number on this desk before four. if not, i will consider the matter done.”
before you could answer, the heavy wooden door of the studio swung open with a dramatic crash that rattled the jars on the shelves.
“nanami!” gojo announced, strolling into the room as if he were walking onto a runway, an oversized box from the city’s most expensive bakery carelessly balanced on his fingertips. “you look absolutely miserable! did the clay department run out of grey paint, or are you just realizing your thesis is thirty pages too long?”
nanami didn’t let go of your wrist after gojo entered. he slowly let his fingers slide down your arm, his thumb giving one last squeeze before he turned his head to glare at the intruder with a cold hatred.
“satoru.” nanami said not so pleased. “this is a studio. undergraduates are prohibited.”
“i’m not an undergraduate, i’m a donor,” gojo flaunted, tilting his head to look between the two of you from over his sunglasses, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face. he walked over to the clay bust, tapping the likeness with a single finger. “wow nanami. you really captured her attitude. almost as stubborn as the real thing.”
gojo turned back to you, his smirk shifting into that familiar, handsome grin that always meant trouble. he slid his sunglasses down his nose, staring at you with possessive heat.
“the car is waiting outside,” gojo said, his tone casual, though his eyes delivering a different message. “the driver has the penthouse keys. i think we need to have a conversation about…” he fake thinks, “your schedule for next semester.” he so blatantly lies.
you looked between the two of them—nanami standing rigid and solid, holding a promise that was only three days away from being legal; and gojo, leaning against the doorframe with ten million dollars in his pocket and a look of complete dominance that suggested he would buy the entire arts complex before he let anyone else adjust your posture.
“i have an economics test to study for,” you said, voice shaking slightly as you backed towards the door.
“economics is a predictable variable,” nanami said, tracking your movement.
“and i’m a very expensive distraction,” gojo added, his grin widening as he straightened up.
the basement room felt tinier, more suffocating. the tension of two men who had absolutely no intention of letting you go.
“you’re quiet tonight,” gojo said.
he was standing by the long island in the kitchen, a glass of amber sitting untouched on the counter. the playful, theatrical tone he used to terrorize nanami was gone. his hair fell in loose, silver strands over his forehead, catching the shadows of his sharp brows.
“i’m trying to figure out if you actually enjoy making my life impossible,” you said, leaning against the glass window. it was cold against your temple, opposite to the lingering burn on your wrist where nanami’s fingers had clamped down earlier.
gojo picked up his glass, the ice clinking as he walked toward you. he didn’t stop until his body was brushing the fabric of your hoodie, his shadow falling over you.
“i don’t make things impossible,” he murmured, his eyes dropping to track the unevenness in your chest. he reached out, his warm fingers catching your chin and tilting your face up until you had no choice but to look straight at him. “i make things exclusive. there’s a difference.”
“nanami is my instructor, satoru,” you whispered, your hands flattening against his abdomen to keep some range. “he’s grading my final portfolio.”
“not after monday,” gojo replied, his thumb putting pressed lightly against your lower lip, mirroring the spot that he had claimed last night. “i read his contract before i walked down those stairs, he’s just another guy trying to negotiate for your time.”
his grip tightened just enough to anchor you.
“and i don’t share,” gojo whispered against your mouth. “not with graduate assistants. not with anyone.” you trail back onto the city skyline. he turns your head again with a sharp twinge of his wrist, “and it’s toru to you.” he scoffs.
monday morning, the courtyard outside the office was packed with students rushing between lectures. the sun was baking the concrete, thick aroma of cut grass and diesel exhaust. you stood under the shadow of the archway, your fingers turning white around the strap of your backpack. the clock on the old library tower chimed once. twelve o’clock.
the doors of the building clicked open, and nanami stepped out into the bright afternoon light. he wasn’t wearing his studio clothes. he was dressed in a perfectly tailored, charcoal three piece suit. he came down the stairs with his usual steady steps. he carried a single leather briefcase. he didn’t look left or right until his feet met the common walkway. then, he spotted you immediately.
nanami didn’t hesitate. his long strides cut through the crowd until he stopped in front of you.
“the dean signed off at eleven thirty,” nanami said. he spoke free of the formal detachment he used all semester. “my final paperwork is processed. as of five minutes ago, i don’t work here anymore.”
he set his briefcase down on the ledge beside you, unbuttoning the center button of his suit jacket as he takes a slow, deep breath. “you didn’t leave your number on the desk,” he noted, searching your face for an answer.
“satoru was right there, nanami,” you replied, your back pressing against the stone. “he isn’t exactly discreet.”
“satoru gojo isn’t my concern,” nanami said. he reached out, hand wrapping around your forearm—not with the guidance of an instructor, but with the certainty of a man who waited weeks to touch you without a classroom rule stopping him. “he can buy whatever he wants on this campus. doesn’t change the fact i’m done waiting.”
“i made a reservation at a quiet bistro outside the city,” his face inches from yours. “my afternoon is completely open. the choice is yours.”
before you could answer, you’re interrupted. again. a long, sleek black sports car pulled up to the curb, its engine letting out a roar that drew the attention of every student in a fifty mile radius. the tinted passenger seat window rolled down, revealing satoru gojo leaning across the interior.
“nanami!” gojo called out. “congratulations on finally quitting! now stop bothering my favorite model, we have an appointment at the high rise, and she hates being late.”
nanami didn’t let go of your arm. he slowly turned his head, dark eyes narrowing through his glasses as he looked down at the sports car, his grip tightening to keep you at his side. gojo’s car was still there, but the space between you and the passenger felt too much.
nanami didn’t look back at the car a second time. his focus returned to you making gojo’s shouting sound like background static. “my car is parked on the lower deck,” nanami said, “we can take the back stairs. if you want to leave, we leave now.”
you looked at the black titanium card still tucked into the pocket of your backpack, then up at nanami’s pleading glance. the weight of gojo’s luxury was exhausting; it was a constant, blinding glare that demanded you adapt to his schedule, his penthouse, his terms. but here nanami was, standing in a suit, offering something grounded.
“the lower deck. let’s go.”
with a triumphant smile, nanami nodded. his hand coming down from your forearm to catch your fingers, leading you back through the doors. behind you, the aggressive honk of gojo’s horn echoed, but the door slammed shut, cutting out the sound entirely.
nanami’s car was as expected: a spotless, dark grey sedan with polished seats. he opened the passenger door for you, a common courtesy yet rare to find, waiting until you were completely settled before closing it.
“the restaurant is a few miles outside the city,” nanami said as the campus skyline shrank in the rearview mirror. “it’s an older place. it doesn’t attract the student crowd, so we won’t be interrupted.”
“you really thought this through,” you said, leaning your head back against the headrest, the tension relaxing. “i don’t like wasting time,” nanami replied, “and i had no intention of letting satoru turn this afternoon into a show.”
“he was just being satoru,” you murmured.
“satoru thinks everything he looks at belongs to him,” his tone turning colder. he turned the car down a narrow road where trees blocked out light, casting leaf-patterned shadows. “he doesn’t understand that you can’t just buy someone’s attention because you feel like it.”
he pulled the car into a gravel parking lot behind a building. the engine cut out, leaving the inside suddenly silent. nanami didn’t get out immediately. he took off his glasses, before turning his torso towards you.
“they gave my sculpture a perfect score before i left,” he said. “but he asked me why the line work along the shoulder felt so different from my usual style. unusually passionate.”
you were taken aback. the unemotional, robotic instructor described as passionate? it was a little unbelievable. “what did you say?”
“i told him i had a model who was difficult to ignore.”
he reached across, his hand didn’t wait this time, fingers slid into your nape, tilting your head up until you were looking at him. “there are no classes left,” nanami whispered, “i’m not your instructor anymore. i’m just a man who spent the last month watching you under the light, waiting until i was allowed to do this.”
his lips met yours in a deep, slow, careful kiss. his fingers tangled deeper into your hair, holding you as his other hand came up against your ribs, tracing your skin through the fabric. when he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“let’s go inside before we lose our table,” nanami breathed against your lips, undeniably wanting more but also needing to be deserving of you. he wants to do it the right way, without the private drivers or the multi-million dollar quotas.
i lowkey have no idea what sculpting actually requires so i apologize if some of this is inaccurate… i tried
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