elly

i was in a sheer dress the day that we met

you smile faintly as you remember the way he looked at you that night, the undeniable electricity of it. the way you both wanted to take it further but let the anticipation marinate for an entire week instead.

it's almost embarrassing how easily the words come. but then you think about him—the smirk, the way he said your name—and you know you're not changing a thing.

+++

it's not even 1am before satoru's making up an excuse to leave the premiere. something about an early call time, a meeting, jet lag—whatever gets him out the door fastest.

the second he's free, he's already texting you.

satoru [12:48AM]: meet me in the hallway?

and before you know it, he's pulling you into the dimly lit corridor, grinning like he's just pulled off a heist.

"god, i missed you," he murmurs against your jaw, leading you toward the elevator. his hand settles low on your back, fingers pressing into silk.

your eyes flick up to him, unimpressed. "it's been, what, four days?"

"seventy-eight hours." his lips curve. "not that i'm counting."

he's on you the second the hotel room door clicks shut. fabric slides away like an afterthought, and then you're breathless against the door.

he takes his time with you, indulgent, like he wants to memorize every reaction, every sound. you don't say it, but he feels the way your body melts into his, the way you let him hold you like this once you're done.

how you pick me up, pull 'em down, turn me 'round, oh, it just makes sense

you hum softly against his shoulder, half-awake, half-lost in thought.

+++

your phone buzzes next to your pillow, and you know it's him before you even check. you fumble to answer, voice thick with sleep when you mumble, "hello?"

there's a pause, and then—"shit, did i wake you?"

you smile. he sounds awake. you exhale a sigh, curling deeper into your blankets. "what time is it?"

"a little late for me," he says, "a lot late for you,"

you roll onto your back, blinking at the ceiling. "then why are you calling?"

"’cause i'm not in your timezone," he says, a little too smooth, a little too fond, "but i wanna be."

you roll your eyes with a force only he can bring out of you. "you wanna be in my timezone?" you repeat. "that's the line you're going with?"

"mm, i think you liked it."

said you're not in my timezone, but you wanna be

there's an easy silence as you make that mental note. the kind of quiet that settles warm in your chest, like an arm slung around your waist.

"go back to sleep," he murmurs eventually.

you hum, eyelids heavy. "stay on the phone."

and he does, until you fall asleep to the sound of his breathing.

+++

it's late. the kind of late where the whole world is asleep except for the two of you. the tv hums low in the background, playing some show neither of you is really watching.

satoru shifts, pressing in closer, breath warm against your shoulder. his fingers trace small, tentative circles against your hip. you can feel the cheesy pickup line about to leave his lips. but he surprises you.

"can i be your boyfriend?"

he's watching you, half-lidded, loose, but not joking.

you study him, waiting to see if he'll crack a smile, try to make you laugh. but he doesn't. he just looks at you softly, a little hopeful.

how you're lookin' at me, yeah, i know what that means, and i'm obsessed

it's an easy answer. obvious, even. "yeah. okay."

he exhales, like he was holding his breath, and tugs you closer, nuzzling into you. you let him, let yourself sink into his warmth.

"yeah?" his voice is softer now, like he can't quite believe it.

"yeah," you murmur, playing absentmindedly with his hair.

he stays quiet for a moment, then breathes out something small, something you almost don't catch—"thank you," like you handed him something fragile.

it tugs at your chest, makes you tilt your chin and press a kiss to the top of his head. "you're cute."

he only hums, his hold on you tightening, his breath evening out, like he could fall asleep just like this.

Because Satoru Gojo had been your best friend for nearly your entire life, and until recently, you had never questioned a single thing about it.

You had grown up together. There was no dramatic first meeting, no cute story, no significant moment where your lives collided and changed forever. It simply felt as though Satoru had always existed. He was there in your earliest memories, sitting beside you in classrooms, walking beside you after school, showing up at your house uninvited and immediately making himself comfortable. Somewhere along the way, your lives became so deeply intertwined that neither of you bothered separating them anymore. If somebody needed you, there was a good chance Satoru was nearby. If somebody needed Satoru, they usually called you first. It had been that way for years.

People questioned it all the time. Your friends questioned it. Your parents questioned it. Complete strangers questioned it.

The number of times somebody had mistaken the two of you for a couple had long since become impossible to count. Even now, whenever your friend group went out together, somebody inevitably made a joke about the two of you acting like an old married couple. Nanami was particularly ruthless about it. Shoko was worse because she looked genuinely convinced. Suguru simply enjoyed watching both of you get annoyed.

But you and Satoru always laughed it off. Because they didn’t get it.

They didn’t understand that once you knew somebody for that long, romance almost stopped being an option. Satoru wasn’t some mysterious attractive guy who sat across from you in class. He wasn’t somebody you could fantasize about because there was nothing left to fantasize about. You knew everything. You knew how grumpy he became when he was hungry. You knew he secretly cried at animal documentaries. You knew exactly how many cups of coffee it took before he became unbearably hyperactive. You knew every embarrassing story from his childhood and he knew every embarrassing story from yours.

He was just Satoru.

Your Satoru.

Your best friend.

And for the longest time, that explanation had been enough.

Maybe that was why you never felt particularly interested in dating. It wasn’t that you couldn’t. Men approached you often enough, and there had been a handful of relationships throughout the years. A few dates. A few kisses. A few brief situationships that inevitably fizzled out when you realized you would rather spend your Friday night watching movies with Satoru than entertaining somebody else’s attempts at flirting. Looking back, perhaps that should have told you something. The fact that every person you met eventually felt disappointing. The fact that they all seemed exhausting compared to the ease you felt around him. But you never thought too deeply about it because there was no reason to. Your friendship worked exactly as it was.

Until university. Until suddenly everybody else started noticing him too.

Not that Satoru had changed much. That was the irritating part. He was still the same awkward astrophysics nerd who spent twenty minutes explaining black holes whenever somebody made the mistake of asking a simple question. He still forgot where he left things. Still rambled when he got excited. Still looked genuinely confused whenever somebody flirted with him. Yet somewhere between eighteen and twenty, the rest of the world collectively realized that Satoru Gojo was devastatingly attractive.

You noticed it everywhere.

Girls found reasons to sit beside him during lectures. They stopped him after class. They interrupted your conversations. They laughed too hard at his jokes. They touched his arm when they spoke.

They found increasingly ridiculous excuses to spend time around him.

At first, it was funny. Then it became annoying. Then, somewhere along the way, it became something far uglier. Because every time another girl approached him, something unpleasant twisted inside your chest.

Not jealousy.

You refused to call it jealousy.

It couldn’t be jealousy.

Jealousy implied you wanted something. Jealousy implied you had feelings. And you didn’t. You were simply… irritated.

That was all.

Irritated because people constantly interrupted your time together. Irritated because they treated him like some prize to be won. Irritated because none of them actually knew him.

That explanation worked perfectly. At least until the afternoon Satoru casually informed you that he had a date.

The conversation started innocently enough. You were sitting beneath your usual tree after class, discussing weekend plans the way you always did. You had been talking about the new Marvel movie and suggesting that the two of you book tickets before they sold out when Satoru suddenly looked almost guilty. It was such an unusual expression on him that it immediately caught your attention.

“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

“Satoru.”

A sheepish grin appeared.

And somehow, before he even spoke, dread settled into your stomach. “Oh,” he said. “I’m actually busy tonight.”

The words shouldn’t have mattered. People got busy. People had plans. Satoru was allowed to have a life outside of you. So why did your chest feel strangely hollow?

“Oh?” you replied lightly. “Doing what?”

His grin widened. And then he said it.

“I have a date.”

For one horrifying second, your mind went completely blank.

The words themselves were harmless. Ordinary. The kind of thing people said every day. People went on dates all the time. Your friends went on dates. Strangers went on dates. Satoru, being a twenty-year-old university student who happened to look like he had been sculpted by a particularly generous deity, should have been going on dates far more often than he actually did. There was nothing strange about it.

And yet somehow, the moment the words left his mouth, it felt as though the entire conversation shifted beneath your feet.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Still smiling.

Still completely unaware that something inside you had just cracked. “Oh,” you said finally.

It sounded wrong. Even to your own ears. Satoru’s smile faltered slightly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s… good.”

The silence that followed felt awkward. Nothing had changed. Nothing should have changed. You had known this would happen eventually. Satoru wasn’t going to stay single forever.

He wasn’t going to spend every weekend with you forever. People grew up. People fell in love. People got married and all that shit.

Life goes on.

So why did it suddenly feel like somebody was trying to pull something away from you? “Who is she?” you asked.

The question came out too quickly. Too eagerly. Satoru blinked.

“Huh?”

“The girl.”

“Oh.”

He laughed.

“I met her a little while ago.”

“A little while ago?”

“Yeah.”

Your felt sick. “A little while ago” could mean anything.

A week.

A month.

Long enough for conversations. Long enough for feelings. Long enough for him to decide she was worth taking on a date. And apparently long enough for him not to tell you. The realization struck harder than it should have.

Because that was stupid. Satoru wasn’t required to report every detail of his life to you. You weren’t entitled to that.

Still.

A strange bitterness settled at the back of your throat. “You didn’t tell me.” Satoru looked confused. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Not a big deal.

The words lodged themselves somewhere painfully deep. Not a big deal. For years, you had been the first person he told everything to.

Every stupid achievement. Every embarrassing failure. Every ridiculous story. Every insignificant detail.

There had been days where he texted you simply because he saw a cat that looked funny.

And now there was somebody important enough to go on a date with, and somehow you hadn’t known. You hated how much that hurt.

“So now you’re keeping secrets?” you joked. Or at least you tried to make it sound like a joke. Something flickered across his expression. Was it concern?

“Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

Satoru stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he leaned back against the tree. The concern remained. And somehow that only irritated you more. Because what exactly were you supposed to tell him?

Sorry, Satoru. I’m irrationally upset about a completely normal event and I have absolutely no idea why.

No.

So instead you smiled. The fake kind. The exhausting kind. The kind that made your cheeks hurt and flood bile up your throat. “Seriously,” you said. “Good for you.”

His expression softened. And suddenly guilt punched straight through your chest. Because he looked happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of happy you should have been celebrating as a best friend. The kind of happy that should have made you happy too.

Instead, all you could think about was the image of him sitting across from another girl tonight.

Laughing, smiling, looking at her the way he looked at people he liked. Maybe walking her home afterward. Maybe texting her before bed. Maybe kissing her or having sex…ughh you don’t wanna think about that.

Maybe waking up tomorrow with somebody else occupying the space in his life that had always belonged to you. The thought arrived so suddenly that it stole the air from your lungs. And immediately you hated yourself for it. Because what was wrong with you?

Seriously?

What was wrong with you?

He was your best friend.

Your best friend.

As though some ugly hidden part of you had believed otherwise. You spent the rest of the conversation pretending.

Pretending to listen. Pretending to smile. Pretending that every mention of tonight didn’t feel like a knife being slowly twisted deeper and deeper into your chest.

By the time Satoru finally left, promising he’d tell you how everything went tomorrow, your head was pounding. You watched him walk away. Watched him disappear around the corner. And for the first time in years, the thought of seeing him tomorrow filled you with dread instead of comfort.

Because what if it went well? The question followed you all the way home. What if it went really well? What if she was funny? What if she understood his stupid astrophysics rambles? What if she made him laugh? What if she liked all the little things about him that most people found annoying? What if she became important?

You hope his date goes miserable.

You know better than to respond; it's been beaten into you like the very aspect of respect, lingering like the jewels from your ears, just enough to weigh you down. So, you shiver, knees pressed together under the keyboard, hardly any strength left in your socked feet to push the sustaining pedal to the floor. Still, he leans against the action frame, breathing slowly, dress shirt unbuttoned just enough for his plaid tie to hang, forgotten about and loose after a long morning of tea and cigarettes.

The windows are open, letting in the whisper of mid-August in racing breezes and the overwhelmingly sticky humidity that clings to the lace curtains, weighing them down, then blowing them clean. You swallow against the whistle as it flows through the room, fingers pressing the keys into the instrument with the delicacy you know you can give — for some reason, your mind just isn't connecting to the music today. You're distracted, painfully so.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry," you whisper, unsure where you stand, slowing down on the keys as you start the exercise over, breath piquing a bit hotter this time around. Your heart sinks when he shifts, soft leather shoes rubbing together as he stands up straight.

"Start over." He demands, and it's simple enough — not friendly or as gracious as he's been all week. In fact, Mr. Higuruma is quite tense. You can see it in the hard veins in his forearm, shifting as he clutches the baton in his grip. He's standing over the keys now, looking down over your shoulder, dark hair falling from its gelled back grip. You can hear him swallow behind you, and how his lips part when he slides his dark-framed glasses over the bridge of his nose.

You don't want to start over; the shake in your fingers is growing unbearable now that he's staring you down like prey. Your core is trembling, panties as humid as the August summer outside of those windows, as you press the beginning notes. At first, he nods you through it, letting you set your own time, though you're shaking like a leaf. His fingers flex and itch at the baton, squinting under his dark-framed glasses when you finally hit that first sour note halfway through the scale.

"That's the fifth one." He corrects — fast and sharp, he whips the hard wood baton over your trembling fingers, withdrawing as you yelp. Snatching your knuckles away from the keys, you can feel the humiliation of the tears as they start to burn. You swallow them back with a whimper, "The fifth time you have gotten this scale wrong. Will you continue to waste my time, or will you have some respect?"

"I jus— I didn't s-sleep well last night." Lie. A fucking lie. You couldn't sleep at all. Still, you would never tell him that it's because of the obvious — you stayed up, a shaking hand between your thighs as you massaged your clit to images of his huge hands scaling the keys just hours prior. He does something to you, and it's unsaid and so primal that you can't focus on anything else… ever. Not while you're with him alone like this, watching as he slumps into his study at night with his nose in a book, totally ignoring your existence until you're at his stool, back as straight as a pin.

You only have a week before your audition for the post-grad art program of your dreams — a shiny little headway to get your foot in the industry, so you can play to thousands and have a comfortable life in a city you can't afford yet. Your parents need this for you; it's why they're paying for this excursion—an academic bootcamp, Mr. Higuruma coined it as. It's only the two of you in this secluded beachside manor, soaked by Summer and the caw of seagulls, and you were starting to feel it.

You wonder if he notices — when you circle your hips against the authentic leather, desperate for the pressure your underwear gives when you move just right. It feeds on the singing pain in your reddened knuckles, bruised over just slightly from the two slaps you earned yesterday. Since he started this new avenue of punishment, you've been falling deeper and deeper, and you're not sure you want to know why.

As you ponder it, gulping softly as you start over, the lapse of attention makes you hit the wrong key. Mr. Higuruma tenses as soon as it hits. "Six." He deadpans, moving the baton to his right hand. He smacks it over your knuckles, again — harder this time. So hard that the burning in your eyes turns into welling tears. Your hands shake with nerves and pain — skin bloomed red.

"I-I-I—

"Don't speak, just start over."

"Ye-yes, sir…"

So, one more time — you roll through the first six notes in cascading ease, swallowing down thickness every few seconds, now that you're thinking too hard about it. You know that if he didn't hover, you'd be able to nail out this scale and the four others he had you memorize with your eyes closed. But, the second he shifts — crossing his socked ankles against his corduroy trousers, you tense, and your finger slips over a flat. Your heart drops.

Before he can scar your knuckles again, you turn to look up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, heart racing as his dark gaze flickers down to you like he's a robot. You go to stand up, to run for cover, and blame it on your time of the month, if not the severe lack of sleep, but something stops you. It's his dark glare, burning like embers, and stunning you still and silent.

A few moments tick by — he stares at you, and you stare right back up at him, heart in your ass, core buzzing, and touch-starved. You swallow… again.

"Seven." He recites like it's the date of your reckoning. You wish it truly was, maybe then, you'd be free of the silent, easy wrath he hands out in avoidance and disapproving glares. You know that when he doesn't hit you, he's serious. It's the final nail in your coffin.

You don't speak — don't even attempt to apologize, because it wouldn't work. The crook in his brow tells you enough, but you're blind to it. You can't even blink.

"Stand up for me," He purrs, voice so low and calculated that it feels like he's actually okay with you and with this nonsense that he's ridding his afternoon to.

So, you don't make him wait. Your knees tremble as you stand, the bench creaking against the wooden floor as you keep balance with two hands pressed to the base of the keyboard. Your small skirt rides up, sticking to the perspiration on the back of your thighs. Unbeknownst to you, and much to your dismay, as you stand, a wet spot right where your core sat shines in the natural light, staining his chair and staining any sort of pride you once thought you had.

You don't notice, but Mr. Higuruma does.

Oh, he notices right away.

He doesn't speak… No, he lets the tension marinate and twist into the air, carried by the wind like the old dust particles that you have to blink from your eyes. Mr. Higuruma flickers to your shaking hands, still lounging easily on the side of the baby grand, shaking his head softly.

"Looks like you made a mess." He finally whispers, lips rolling under his teeth as he stands up straight. Like you're being interrogated, you keep your hands where he can see them, holding your breath as your stomach falls through your ass, lips parted as you start to hyperventilate at the ghost of him.

You go to turn around — to try and see if you were wrong, praying your body betrayed you with blood instead of arousal, but as you go to investigate the scene, Mr. Higuruma stops you.

"Did you… have an accident?"

"N-No—

"Hm," He mutters, head cocked to the side as he lowers the baton to your dark skirt, teasing the end of it against the flowing fabric. You gasp as soon as you feel it, knees rocking together as another flood of warmth kisses your thighs — bleeding through your panties. "Then, are you… aroused?"

The word hits like a gut-punch. You can't believe such obscenities could slip from his lips so easily, like he's reciting a prayer to you. "What?"

Mr. Higuruma chuckles, the corners of his lips quirking up before completely fading by the wayside like he was never amused. "Don't sound so shocked… Look at the mess you've made."

As you go to dip your head and rake over the damning evidence to your mind-numbing desire, he stops you… again. This time, it's the delicate trace of his baton sneaking under your skirt, just enough to get leverage to show you off. He smiles, bending his neck so he can watch your tight, lace panties peek into view.

You're naked for him — on fire, and too nervous to beg for the touch you know you need to get your head back in the game. Something comes over you. It's a need, not just a want. "Please…"

Mr. Higuruma hums again, pursing his lips as he crosses behind you. His footfalls are calculated and precise, clicking against hard flooring and stopping right at the bench, keeping you two apart. You swallow again, then let your head hang between your shoulders, as you've finally been overcome.

"Is this why you have been so distracted today?" He offers, using the polished tip of his shoe to drag the bench away. It scrapes against the floor with a vengeance, filling your head with hot air, and Mr. Higuruma's with restlessness.

You want to lie and blame it on the weather — it's fucking hot, but not hot enough to leave a pool of slick on his leather. Your tutor is not stupid and has certainly faced a few aching women in his days. You think it's the glasses, or maybe the hunched demeanor that carries so much wisdom that you could spend hours farming and chipping away at it, yet still not crack the surface of his overwhelming ease.

"Poor baby…" He scrunches his face in a little sniff, cheeks hollowing as his dark gaze plots on your taut ass, showing itself just under the crumpled fabric. He knows you're bound to attest, so he beats you to it — with a smack of the baton against your upper thighs. You jump, a hand flying up to cover the whining moan that dares tumble from your lips.

You know how wrong this is, and how your relationship with him will never be the same, but you're willing to risk it all. Your eyes slip shut, heart pounding as the sharp pain on your thighs mellows out into something… satisfying. It's impossible to bite down a smile, but you have to.

"Hm?" He tries again, pushing his glasses further over his crooked nose, lips twitching and pursing around his inner thoughts as the baton reaches further up your skirt. He catches the fabric on the very end, teasing it and himself as the baton lifts it up slowly — so slow, he's starting to drive himself crazy. "If I help you with your little… problem, surely we can get today's lesson plan finished within the hour, right?" He's not asking, hardly giving you a choice. You can either nod and feel him in a way so intimate that you'd be damned for the rest of your life, or you can shyly turn away and pretend like this never happened.

You chose the former.

"I'll d-do my best."

"Good girl," he offers as a testament to his quickly dwindling patience. Like you're welcoming him into open arms, he closes the space between the two of you, getting a better angle to push his baton up your skirt. It pokes between your thighs, forcing you to bend at the hips, hands fumbling over the keys. A sour note punches from the piano, and you jump, making him chase that sweet heat between your thighs.

"Ah, ah…" He clicks, breath hot against your ear as his back presses into you. He's tall and so brooding, making you feel tiny, yet so powerful to have garnered his attention like this. You can't help but let a smile grace your features, especially when he gets so close that you can feel the hardened bulge against his brown pants, digging against his belt, and pressing into the back of your thigh. "Hands off the keys. Put them over the fall board, now."

"Yes, sir." You whisper, nerves fizzled out by the excitement pooling in your veins. The feeling of being wanted is like a drug, and being wanted by him is the high. Always someone so casually domineering — someone you're terrified of disappointing, wants you.

Scratch that — he needs you.

Mr. Higuruma makes it no stranger, but he's quick to keep himself in line, even as sweat begins to bead at his dark brows. His gaze flickers up as your shaking hands plant in the spot he ordered you to place them, nodding with a satisfied hum. He takes a handful of steps back, then it feels like you're exposed to the entire world, even though you're fully clothed.

"The way you reacted when I hit you…" He starts like you're the lesson he's invested in. Mr. Higuruma likes the idea of studying you — he has let himself ponder on it before. He likes the way you hold yourself, and he's endlessly respectful of your talent and hard work. He just doesn't know what has gotten into you, but he thinks he knows, now. "Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

"It hurt."

"Oh, yes, I know." You can hear his lips form the words, sticky and wet in his mouth, before offering them to you. "But that is not what I asked… Did you enjoy the way it felt?"

You're on fire, sizzling like a sinner in front of a congregation as you squeeze your eyes shut. You know you can't hide it anymore — he has the proof painted on leather, and a prize just inches away. It feels like a crime when you nod, slowly at first, letting your own body come to terms with this anxious new feeling that kinda reminds you of soul-sucking arousal.

"Please do it again." You whisper, trying on your own need for size. It sits in the air for a second, twisting and turning like invisible notes when you fondle your keyboard.

"Where?"

"M-my… m-m, m—m-my—

"Your…" He starts like he always has the tendency to, the baton snaking back between your thighs, catching your skirt as he traces the seam of your panties against the gathered flesh. He steps back, and it's sudden, but not enough to make you want. Just as you go to turn around, the baton withdraws, then a painfully piercing slap falls across your ass, making you jump with a surprised yelp. "Ass? Or… what about," he pauses again, his tongue running over his top lip as the baton trails down your thighs, swatting at your thighs until you peel them apart. "That messy snatch between your thighs? D'you think she wants it?"

Mr. Higuruma's words kill. They're lewd and unfamiliar in his professional tone of voice, but fuck, you're dripping down your thighs. It's like you're being electrocuted as the poking end of his stick presses against your sticky folds. It's a deep, overwhelming feeling that you can't think about, or else you'd be digging a grave.

"Hm? Yes or no?"

"Y-yes, that." You squeak, face so tight and tense from holding your breath like you're drowning.

"Say it."

"M-my—

He slaps you, raining that stick over the sensitive meat on your thighs. You jump and startle, rising to your tiptoes, running away from his hold, only for him to step closer, forcing a knee between your thighs to pry them open. He's so close, so hot with his head tucked against your shoulder, glasses fogged with how wet you are. "That clammy little thing?" He moans, placing that first kiss right at the base of your jaw, grinding haphazardly into your leg. "Tell me… that it's mine."

"It's yours! I'm all yours," You whine, hips bucking back into him. Mr. Higuruma tosses his baton over the keyboard, finding more use in his hands when he reaches for his belt and pulls it off with a fervor usually so lost on him.

Wet bodies, sticking together with perspiration — it's uncomfortable. The air reeks of sex and heat against weathered wood, ripe with seawater. Your tutor doesn't give you grace, let alone any form of mercy or understanding, as he grunts in your ear. "That pussy is mine. Say it."

"My pussy is yours. M—Mr. Higu—guruma."

"Oh…" He pushes you deeper into the keys, guiding your knee up and over the board. The pressure gives weight to scattered, jumbled piano notes, startling you further as they pierce the air. "Oh, yes, she is. Always has been, just didn't know it yet." He grunts, loosening his tie just enough to pop those next few buttons on his shirt free. His chest, soft with tufts of dark hair, comes into view, and your mouth goes dry as you regard him with a hurried peek over your shoulder.

You tremble and twitch, fingers bearing claws into the polished wood of the piano, leg squivering and hips aching at the uncomfortable stretch — leaving it all on the line for him to take, focusing air in and out of your lungs manually. When he touches you with thick fingertips, he starts at the soft fabric of your underwear, not giving you space to react as he tugs them off in a few, steady tugs. You gasp, peeking behind you again, just to turn around and whine when you see his reflection.

Bloodshot eyes — low and heavy under his glasses. It looks like he's slept a combined two hours in the last twenty days, but something about it feels so right. The blush that's spanning across his freckled chest, rising and falling angrily as your sopping cunt leaves a trail from your soaked panties, all the way to his nose.

Bringing the fabric to his face, Mr. Higuruma doesn't falter for a second. He takes a lungful of your essence, groaning deep in his chest as the sinful smell of your arousal seeps down his sinuses and onto his tongue. He's swallowing down traces of you, mouth watering as he breathes you in like he's trying to suffocate in it.

You press your forehead to the cool piano, trying to steady your breath so you don't faint from nerves and want. It's hard enough to stand as-is when you have a hold on your mind, but now it's so much worse. You feel like you're losing your mind.

"Come on, please, I can take it."

"You've been holding back on me." He grunts in response, biting down on your panties so he can keep one hand pressed into your hips, and the other back to his trousers, shoving his buckle out of the way, yanking the gold-plated zipper to its ruin. "Is it distraction? Am I not challenging you thoroughly?" He grunts against closed teeth, the cotton muffling his words.

He picks the worst times to try and make conversation, because you're losing your mind — foaming at the mouth and writhing in your spot as he yanks his pants down. You want so badly to turn around and watch as he pulls his cock from the tight confines he's kept it in for what feels like hours, but you hold back.

Mr. Higuruma tenses and hisses when the scratching friction of his underwear rubs just right, head tossing back as he fishes in the luxe, sweat-wicking fabric. He needs it for these long, summer days, and certainly needs it when a single look at your pleated skirts and dark stockings makes him dribble just softly — like he's a teenager, staining his briefs.

Now, he's staring at his outlet, sucking spit back into his mouth when his parted lips linger open too long. Your cunt is his for the taking, pulsating, wet, and so fucking warm it feels like you're on fire. He's deaf to your pitchy whines and moans, but not blind to the way you wiggle your ass back into him, demanding the situation like you weren't the one who threw him into this head-first. If only you weren't so… distracting.

"N-no, I just… I just — Mm…"

"You just, what?" He pushes, breath rolling into tiny little hicks as his heavy length, standing straight and tall for you, falls into his palm. His whimpering makes you whimper, then roll your neck, desperate to get a fleeting gaze at his flushed cheeks — the way your body has made such a mess of his careful mind.

When your eyes fall on his, glasses foggy and slipping from his nose, you bite your lip to stifle back a heady moan. Instead, you push your ass back into him, telling Mr. Higuruma with as few words as possible to just do it. You're waiting so patiently, and all you need is him.

Wordlessly, Mr. Higuruma nods as he pulls your panties from between his teeth, giving them another passing sniff before letting them fall at his feet. Your fate feels like it's being sealed in heated touches and cruel slaps, but you'd rather die than withdraw now.

"I just want you…"

"There you go, girl…" He eases into you like he's treading in high water — desperate, yet unyieldingly slow. It takes all his strength and every ounce of willpower he has not to give you all of him in one go, but your cunt sucks up the tip like it's starving. Little did he know, you've just been waiting for this.

Your heart sinks, knees slipping against the keys, making them erupt in a sour chord all over the situation. Little broken, determined grunts of air fall from your lips, silently begging him for more — more touch, more attention, and more of him. He makes you wait for it, his hand kneading circles into your soft ass as if it's any comfort.

Where he lacks in length, he surely fills out in girth — splittingly so. Mind-numbingly slow. You can't believe your body can take it, still fluttering and open for more as his hips push slowly. "O-oh, it's big,"

Mr. Higuruma can hear you sucking him in — your slick creating a sort of vacuum around the shaft of his cock as he feeds it to you. He's mystified, so taken that when his glasses fall again, he doesn't push them up in time, and they fall right from his face and onto your back, bouncing and toppling somewhere under the baby grand. You gasp in surprise at the sudden coolness, whining when the jump in your demeanor makes his thick cock hit just a bit harder — too deep for comfort, and surely not what you're used to.

"If you focus on one thing today," He groans, head tossing back as his world falls into a blur. He brings a hand up to his face, rubbing his palm over his bloodshot eyes to try to bring himself down. "At least focus on making all of it fit inside of you."

"It's so—

"This was our deal, hm?" His top lip twitches, bearing his shining, coffee-stained teeth. He bucks his hips just an inch, reveling in the biting, uncomfortable moan that falls from your throat. As soon as you steady yourself, peeking back to nod at him, Mr. Higuruma gives it to you.

One slick, punishing thrust renders you into a dumb pile of your past self, thighs screaming and cunt pulsating against his thick length. You whine and cry, tears dripping down in the innards of the piano, marking this existence forever, even when you step away from him and the instrument for bigger, better things.

"So tight…" He adds, sucking in a breath before grabbing and slapping at your left cheek, watching as his pale cock disappears and pulses inside of you. Your gummy walls clamp over him, and he's absolutely fucking taken — halfway in love, and so enamored with your affection that he doesn't know what to say, or how to even think.

Mr. Higuruma just knows one single thing — he has to ruin you.

He's drunk off of it — manic and unsteady as he shuffles handfuls of your ass, tongue peeking from his lips as he concentrates on the early-set ejaculation that's made its home in his stomach.

He's gotta push it back… for you, he pushes it back, and lets his free hand wander up your back, then around your neck, reminding you that you're here, and so is he. This isn't a dream, and he needs to hear your pleading moans — your broken, needy whispers, right in his ear like it's a gospel. Still, he really takes his time rolling his hips, getting you into it, before wrapping his big hand around your neck, forcing you to bow upwards.

"P-ple—

"No," He beats you clean, thumb digging hard into your jugular. You wince and seeth against the touch, your own hand flying up to aid his direction, trying to peel him away. The leverage he gets from your uncomfortable, revealing position is just enough to send him forward. He rolls his neck like he's ready to play a concerto, not to fuck you into submission.

Mr. Higuruma fucks you like he's mad. He rolls his hips, snapping them into you with a strength you didn't know he had. It's supernatural and hard, blurring with motion like his fast fingers over the keyboard your toes are digging into. Every time you shift, after every one of his merciless thrusts, you play a note — a jumbled mess of noise and sound, stacked atop your cries and his well-timed grunts.

You lead, he carries. You cry, he smirks.

He shoves your head back into the frame, smushing your cheek against the streaking spit on the enamel. It takes your makeup off in filthy smudges — making a mess of the face he's seen under the brightest lights and darkest circumstances. After this, here and now, it's safe to say that Mr. Huguruma knows you as no man does.

"More…" You manage to crack, breath knocked from your throat every time his hips snap forward. His heavy cock pushes right at that half-angle, deep enough for you to really fucking feel it. It's driving you crazy, and all you want to do is see his face. You want to see if you're killing him the way he's killing you, right now. "W-wanna seeeeee,"

"Needy thing." He bites, clamping both hands on your hips as he screws you into the piano. With every deep thrust, he's feeding you his entire length, then leaving you dry. Your cunt isn't used to it, and it certainly isn't used to his tone, because you swear that's what does it. You wish you were more alert, but when you cum, it's with a strength you didn't even know you had.

For the first time, ever, you cry his name. Not his professional surname dripped with respect and knowing, but his motherly name stripped down to the bone. "Ah— fuck, Hiromi!"

"Who?" He clamps, one eye open in a craze as he grabs and flips you around. The hard piano digs into your soft flesh — the feeling of his cock bending and twisting inside of you, making you see white. Hiromi blinks at you again, your shirt hanging off your limbs, and your body weak and gelatinous as you whine and arch your back against the keyboard.

It's the only name that comes to mind in your post-orgasmic haze, but it's choppy and unsure. You whisper, trying to control your fuzzy fingers to get lost in his dark, greying hair gathered so close that you can taste it. "M-Mr. Higuruma…"

"That's right," He nods, leaning down for just a second, resting his clammy forehead against your clothed collarbone. In that fleeting moment, he bites at the collar of your button-up, nudging his nose under the fabric, smelling the sweet ghost of your perfume against the soft skin of your collarbone.

"It's Mr. Higuruma to you,"

@/satorumess: not to be crazy but i mapped out their locations based on timestamps and—

@/fulltimeshipper: this is worse than when the CIA redacted half that UFO document

@/ynupdates: y/n posting a cryptic story the same night satoru is spotted downtown… oh we are in the trenches forreal

then, satoru likes a tiktok.

a slow-motion edit of you in your red carpet and afterparty looks, set to some dramatic song, captioned this woman is dangerous, your honor.

he doesn't comment, doesn't follow the account. just leaves one single like. and the internet implodes.

@/fandomedits: nah this isn't pr this is a man down BAD

@/popcultupdates: GOJO SATORU LIKING THIRST EDITS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT WE HAVE LOST HIM COMPLETELY

@/ynstan: this man saw a slo-mo thirst edit and said "yeah let me cosign that"

but it gets worse.

an old clip resurfaces. a red carpet from last year. you and satoru, near each other but not interacting. a moment that meant nothing—until now.

fans slow it down, zoom in, analyze in detail:

satoru steps onto the carpet and your eyes flick toward him, barely noticeable.

he glances in your direction.

there's a beat where he exhales and seems to collect himself—something no one caught before.

and suddenly, it's evidence.

@/fathergojo: why do their interactions feel like deleted scenes from a romcom

@/yninvestigator: guys. GUYS. what do you MEAN she looked at him FIRST. what do you MEAN HE TOOK A BREATH AND LOOKED AWAY.

@/stanwars: suddenly i believe in fate. suddenly i understand greek tragedies.

apparently, none of this is new.

you and satoru are just catching up.

+++

satoru isn't good at waiting.

patience isn't his strong suit, but when the reward is this good? he doesn't mind.

you walk in like the last week never happened. like the chaos never even registered.

the rooftop lighting catches the silk of your dress, the shine of your jewelry, the sheen of your lips. heads turn, backs straighten. someone says something, you smile charmingly, distantly. you're impossible not to watch.

and satoru watches.

he's acquainted with the effect you have on people, but it hits harder tonight than it did a week ago.

because now he knows how you taste.

the glass in his hand is cool, condensation falling between his fingers. he takes a sip, tracking you, cataloging details no one else would catch.

the way your shoulders shift, subtle, as you get closer.

the flick of your gaze toward him before you fully reach him.

you stop beside him, close enough for the scent of your perfume to settle between you.

a pause before you meet his eyes.

"so… how's your week been?" you ask, tone light, a smile gracing your features.

satoru exhales a laugh, tipping his glass like a toast. "surprisingly quiet. you?"

as you talk, your fingers trace the rim of your glass. he watches. you let him.

he leans in when he speaks. you don't move away.

he notices the way the waiter lingers, the way you dismiss it with a polite smile.

you notice the way his expression shifts at that, just slightly. neither of you acknowledge it.

"you're kind of a nightmare," you tease.

he grins at that. "funny. some people call me a dream."

you laugh and roll your eyes. he takes his time with his next sip, letting the tension settle. you watch him watch you.

it would be easy to let you play this game, to see how long you can act like you're not as impatient as he is. but he leans in, voice quiet, just for you.

"you gonna make me wait?" low, taunting.

you could, but you don't. instead, you lean in too, meeting him halfway. you set your glass down carefully. he mirrors you.

someone—a bartender, another guest—tries to pull you into conversation, but you don't reply.

you lean into him, your voice calm but sure.

"let's go."

+++

streetlights skim over sleek black paint as the car pulls up, satoru swinging the door open. you barely take a step before his hand finds the small of your back, fingers pressing just enough to guide you.

he grins lazily. "last chance."

you roll your eyes as you step in. "so dramatic."

he closes the door after you and circles the car, the driver pulling off.

the backseat feels too small.

you cross your legs. his knee brushes against yours, and he doesn't move away. his hand rests on his thigh, relaxed, too close to yours. deliberate.

you pretend not to notice, but he knows better.

the silence is louder than words. the city blurs past the tinted windows, neon bleeding into the dark. the hum of the engine, the distant murmur of traffic, the faint pulse of something unsaid.

satoru exhales slowly, gliding his tongue over his teeth, thinking. he pushes a button, the partition rising.

you're both quiet, but it's a silent signal: stop pretending.

the second it clicks into place, he moves. or maybe you do. it doesn't matter. he's closer now, facing you, and you're already leaning in.

a beat. a sharp inhale.

his fingers skim your thigh, higher this time.

"i was trying to be good," you say quietly.

his voice drops, tight with restraint, and your breath catches. "don't."

the second the word leaves his lips, you're on him. a hand finds the back of his neck, drawing him in.

the first kiss is slow, but not reluctant. he drags it out because he can. he tilts his head, deepening it. he hums against your lips when you press closer, pleased.

his fingers tease higher. yours twist into his hair, nails scraping just enough to make him sigh into your mouth.

the car rolls to a stop.

neither of you move. not right away.

satoru's grip tightens, like he's considering pulling you onto his lap. like he could keep you here a little longer, let the city blur beyond the tinted glass while he takes his time.

instead, he drags his lips down your jaw, then lower. he breathes you in before murmuring, "upstairs."

+++

the door clicks shut, sealing you in. no music, no distant hum of the city, just quiet, dense and charged.

neither of you break the silence.

satoru steps in first. the air seems to crackle around him here the same way it does everywhere else.

you hold his stare, challenging. he waits.

a test. a game.

then, finally, you reach for him. his grin is lazy, knowing. like he was waiting for you to break first.

this kiss is purposeful. his lips brush yours—once, then again. a silent question, just the slow press of his mouth, the barely-there slide of his hands down your waist.

your fingers slip under his shirt, nails grazing skin, just enough to pull a slow, amused breath from him.

his hands find your hips, insistent, pulling you in until there's no space left. the shift makes you gasp into his mouth, and he drinks it in, looking smug, like he expected it.

like he's been waiting for this all week.

his grip tenses, like he's about to pull you closer—but then he's gone. his heat vanishes, his lips just a ghost of pressure before they disappear completely.

he barely moves when you chase him a bit, just tilts his chin, smiling. like he knew you wouldn't let him go. like he was counting on it.

you inhale, frustration sparking low in your chest, and you move before you think. your hands find his shirt, tugging him back in—but before you can, his fingers close around your wrists, catching you with ease.

his grin is knowing, his grip firm but teasing. he tilts his head, amusement spreading across his face.

"easy, princess," he murmurs, voice low, eyes flicking to your lips. "what's the rush?"

you arch a brow, fingers flexing in his grasp. "you did haul me out of the car."

his grin widens. "not like you put up a fight."

you push.

you press into him, backing him towards the wall. he lets you. lets you kiss him deeper, hands still wrapped around your wrists but relaxing, giving you room to move.

for a second, you think you've won.

then the world tilts and your back meets the wall with a gentle thud, your head tipping back slightly as he crowds you.

he smiles at you, eyes sparkling, enjoying himself too much. his hands settle at your waist, keeping you where he wants you.

you should be annoyed. instead, you match him and smirk right back.

you like the way he handles you.

his touch is maddening.

his fingertips skate over your ribs, your stomach, but never where you need them. it's intentional and exploratory, like he has all the time in the world.

and he does. his apartment is a sanctuary from the mess of the last week. no prying eyes or a disgruntled kento to interrupt here.

you shift, trying to lead him downward, but he only chuckles, barely making a sound.

"you can be patient for me, can't you?" his voice dips lower, "or are you already too far gone?"

he's mocking you, and reflex kicks in—your thighs squeeze together, and you feel the heat creep up your neck when he notices.

his fingers ghost up your inner thighs, teasing warmth into your skin before retreating. every near-touch is calculated, just enough to remind you of how easily he could give you what you want.

he watches as impatience builds in your expression, as your breath stutters when his hands graze your waist again.

your nails press into his shoulders, a silent dare. before he can smirk, before he can gloat, you roll your hips against him, slow, deliberate. the response is immediate.

his breath falters, a groan through gritted teeth. his jaw tightens like he wasn't expecting you to test him. for a split second, he stills entirely.

you smile at him. message received.

"if you wanna ruin me, do it right, satoru." a taunt disguised as a whisper, just enough to chip at his restraint.

his hold turns bruising, like he wants to leave something behind. the teasing tone vanishes, his smirk dissolving into something darker. your breath catches—not in surprise, but excitement as something kindles in your stomach.

because suddenly, it's not a game anymore.

the realization barely registers before he has you pinned, wrists above your head, mouth at your ear.

"hope you know what you're asking for," he murmurs, hips flush against yours. his voice is different now—rough, heat twisting through every syllable. you shudder at the sound, your body responding. he makes good on his words immediately.

his hands find the backs of your thighs—then, suddenly, you're weightless, gasping, clutching at his shoulders. your legs draw around his hips, heat pooling fast.

a startled breath leaves you, but he's already moving, carrying you across the room like you weigh nothing at all.

he drops you onto his bed, grinning at the glare you send him when you bounce.

you don't even get the chance to scold—his hands are already on you, pulling your panties down.

his teeth graze your inner thigh before he bites down, sharp enough to make you whine, hips squirming. he exhales with a smile. "thought so." his tongue follows—slow, indulgent, a promise to ruin you.

you've barely found your breath when he shifts, broad hands pressing into your thighs, spreading you open. his gaze lifts, dark and teasing.

"comfortable?" he asks, lips skimming the inside of your knee.

you roll your eyes, about to retort—but your fingers curl into the sheets instead when his mouth finds your core, hot and devastating.

your hips shift, back arching, and he hums against you, content.

you move the moment he adjusts—quick, decisive, hands pushing into his shoulders. he lets you shift the balance, rolling onto his back, breath catching when he opens his eyes to find you above him.

your fingers work fast, tugging at his belt, yanking it free with a sharp pull. you work on the button, the zipper, pulling the fabric down just enough to free him.

he was so fucking cocky a second ago. now, he's not even breathing right, body taut under your hands. so you stroke once, then twice, then take him into your mouth.

no warning, no reluctance.

his grip tightens on your thigh, breath punching out like you knocked it loose. his head tilts back, jaw tensing, a soft "fuck—just like that, baby" escaping him.

you hum around him, pleased, tongue teasing, and he swears again under his breath. his hands fist into the sheets, trying to ground himself.

but satoru doesn't like being outmatched.

his fingers skate up your thigh, squeezing. and then his mouth is on you, tongue dragging through your folds, slow and deep.

you gasp against him, body tensing, and he grins.

"that's better," he mutters against you, lips brushing sensitive skin before his tongue circles once, twice.

the sound you make is muffled around him, and he groans in response, the vibration rolling through you both.

you try to keep a rhythm, fingers curling at the base as you sink down, but every time his tongue moves just right, every time he sucks at your clit, you falter.

he notices, and he loves it.

his hands tighten on your hips, keeping you still as he buries his face deeper, determined, fucking into you with his tongue, sending you to the edge without mercy.

you try to keep going, try to keep your lips wrapped around him, but every nerve in your body is on fire, pressure winding as you moan around him.

he grins against you. "that's it, princess. lemme hear it."

his fingers dig into your skin, tightening as he licks into you with purpose, drawing desperate sounds from your throat.

it's too much. you pull your mouth off of him, panting, lips slick and hips twitching against his face as the bliss hits all at once, unraveling you from the inside out.

"satoru, fuck," you gasp, the words nearly unintelligible through your moans. you can't do anything but let it consume you, your body seizing before the release finally drives through you.

you gasp, sharp and unsteady, his name tumbling past your lips again, voice cracking into a whine.

satoru doesn't stop until you're shaking, your legs weak, pleasure rolling over you in dizzying, tormenting waves.

only when your thighs twitch, too sensitive, does he finally pull away. his face is wet, and he's breathless. he presses one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before looking up at you, eyes dark and lazy.

"you're fucking perfect," he murmurs, voice hoarse, before flipping you onto your stomach, pressing you into the mattress.

you're still coming down when he lifts your hips, tucking a pillow underneath them.

his breath is warm against your shoulder, steady and grounding. his lips trail down your spine, flirting, savoring the way you squirm. a hand settles on your hip possessively, making sure you don't slip away.

his other hand trails lower, sliding between your legs, fingers pressing in—gradually, unhurried, teasing the mess he left behind.

"fuck, baby—you're dripping for me." his voice is all rough edges and satisfaction, murmured against your ear. you shiver. his fingers slide through your folds, spreading your slick, teasing the spot he knows will make you gasp.

"been thinking about this all week," he mumbles, kissing the curve of your neck. his fingers dip lower, pushing inside, slow and deep. "bet you have, too."

you whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

"should've had you like this that night. should've fucked you right up against that wall."

his fingers move at an unbearable pace, curling, pressing into the spot that makes your knees weak. your hips jerk, but he holds you still.

"needy, huh?" his breath is burning against your ear, teasing, smug. "tell me how bad you want it, baby."

your fingers clutch the sheets, patience fraying. you should fight him— push back, make him work for it—but you're too far gone for games.

"satoru—"

his fingers stall. "mm, not good enough."

"want you," you gasp, growing desperate. "need you inside me."

he groans like you just hit him where it hurts. he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty for barely a second before the thick of him replaces them.

he slips the tip through your folds, slick and teasing, but doesn't push in. "this what you wanted?" he asks, rougher now.

"yes."

"say it again."

your breath stutters, but you give him what he wants. "yes. please," you gasp.

his hands flex against your hips, keeping you still as he pushes forward, stretching you open with an unrelenting drag that knocks the air from your lungs. it's almost too much—almost—but you want all of it. you take all of him.

he moves in slowly, and a shaky gasp escapes as he bottoms out, deep inside you, holding himself there, letting you feel it.

his breath is ragged now, his exhale hot against your skin. "fuck."

his hands slide up your sides, guiding you, holding you where he needs you.

"you feel so fucking good," he breathes, voice dipping into something ruined.

his hips roll, deep and slow, like he wants to feel everything. like he wants to make this last.

you think for a second that you won't survive at this pace.

satoru brings his body lower, pressing his chest flush against your back, all heat and tension, breath ghosting over your shoulder as he sinks in.

his arms slip under yours, palms spreading over your shoulders, drawing you into him. not just pulling you back, but owning the space between you.

hi thrusts are indulgent, stretching, coating himself in you. his breath is uneven, satisfaction humming in your ear.

you push your hips back into him, matching his rhythm.

satoru exhales a sharp breath, fingers digging in. "you trying to make me lose it?"

you don't answer, just push back harder on instinct.

his response is immediate—a sharp, precise thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, ripping a moan from your throat before you can swallow it down.

"thought so," he murmurs, lips grazing your shoulder.

his pace turns deep and steady—controlled, measured. he brings his face close to yours, wanting to watch you react, to feel you tighten around him with every movement.

but you're impatient. you shift, pressing up onto your elbows, angling your hips just enough to take him deeper.

his pace stutters. he swears under his breath, voice raw, and one arm locks around your waist. he holds you in place as he fucks into you now, hard enough to leave you trembling, helpless against the bed.

his name leaves your lips, breathless and desperate.

"fuck—it's so good," he groans, half-choked, messy. his face buries into your neck, hands gripping like he's holding on for dear life. "let me hear you, baby."

you can barely think, barely breathe. his hand slides between your legs, fingers finding that spot, pressing slow, teasing circles.

"satoru—"

he chuckles, low and smug, but there's an edge to it now, a tension in the way his hips stutter, his movements losing their precision.

and then you tighten around him, body seizing, pleasure cresting all at once—

"fuck," he bites out, breathless, grip tightening like he's trying to hold on.

and then—he pulls out.

a sharp inhale, the loss making you gasp, but before you can even form a thought—

he flips you over.

"not done with you yet," he mutters, voice rough, gaze dark as he hovers over you.

and just like that, everything shifts.

his hands find you the second he pulls out—a sharp, dizzying shift as he flips you over, settling beneath you. his hands slide up your ribs, brush over your breasts, then slide back down.

his fingers splay wide on your hips, steadying you, but it's his gaze that pins you in place. "wanna see you like this," he murmurs, voice low, still rough from before.

your lips part, but the way he looks at you makes it hard to tease. instead, your nails drag down his chest, unhurried, feeling his abs tense beneath your touch.

"yeah?" you breathe.

his fingers flex, tightening just slightly. "yeah, baby. show me how bad you want it."

you wrap your fingers around him, stroking once, slow and teasing, just to watch him squirm.

his jaw clenches, but he doesn't push. he lets you take your time, lets you set the pace, struggling to hold back.

you don't make him wait long.

you line him up and sink down, savoring the stretch—the way he exhales, sharp and shaky, fingers digging in.

"fuck," he breathes, watching you, eyes dark, half-lidded, all heat.

one of your hands finds his shoulders, nails scraping lightly as you start to move. the other moves down to where you're connected, feeling just how far he spreads you open.

at first, it's slow—like you're figuring each other out all over again. a careful roll of your hips, tension simmering, teasing at something deeper.

but it doesn't last.

his grip firms, guiding you down, matching your rhythm. he thrusts up to meet you with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs.

"you feel me, princess?" he asks, pulling you down harder, deeper.

you answer him with a desperate little whimper that makes him melt.

both of your movements are messy, desperate—like you both know exactly where this is going and you need to get there.

your fingers tangle in his hair, nails scraping, tugging just slightly, and he hisses, eyes squeezing shut for a second.

his hands slide up your spine, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing to yours, breathing hard.

"you feel so fucking good," he murmurs, almost a whine. "so wet for me, so fucking perfect."

you can't even speak. your thoughts blur, pleasure winding tight, breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

he shifts beneath you, angling deeper, hitting exactly where you need him. the sudden jolt of pleasure makes your whole body tighten, makes you let out a sound you didn't mean to make—

a loud, broken moan, breathy, helpless.

his head snaps up, eyes wild, something cracking behind them—like he just lost his last thread of control.

"oh," his breath shudders, grip tightening. "oh."

and then he's gone.

he snaps his hips into yours, his hands gripping, guiding, setting a pace that's relentless, that has you gasping, nails biting into his shoulders.

your vision goes hazy, body tightening, winding up unbearably fast. you try to tell him you're close, but all that comes out is a shaky, broken "satoru—"

"oh, fuck—there it is," he breathes, voice dropping, eyes dark and triumphant. "knew you'd sound so fucking sweet falling apart for me."

his hand finds your clit, pressing just right—teeth gritting as he holds on, watching you break first.

and you shatter.

it slams into you, sharp and consuming, a shockwave rolling through your body. your breath stutters, a broken gasp stumbling free as you tighten around him, locking him in.

he feels it—the way you pulse around him, the way you tremble, how your moans dissolve into something helpless. it undoes him. his arm slides your waist, his other hand finding the back of your neck, and he pulls you closer like he needs you.

he curses as you tremble against him, holding you close, burying himself deep in you as he falls apart.

your name leaves his lips like a prayer, breathless, reverent. he groans against your skin as he finally spills into you. pleasure crashes through him, and for a moment, all he can do is feel **the heat of you, the way you throb around him, the way your body takes him like you were made for this.

for a second, you both stay still; the only sound between you is the sharp, uneven puff of breath.

your hands shake against his chest. his fingers are still locked around your waist.

he exhales a wrecked laugh, warm and lazy against your temple.

"so fucking worth the wait," he murmurs, voice low, sated. he kisses all over your face, palm smoothing down your spine. "knew you'd be perfect for me."

+++

morning light spills through the curtains, golden and soft, warming tangled sheets and bare skin. everything is still. quiet, but not empty. satoru is warm against you, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. at some point in the night, your leg found its way between his, one of his arms draped lazily over your waist.

you shift, stretching slightly, and his fingers flex at your hip, like some part of him refuses to let you go.

he murmurs something unintelligible, voice low and drowsy. then, with a slow, easy smile against your skin, "stay."

you huff a quiet laugh. "clingy."

"mmm," he hums, voice is thick with sleep. "you're warm."

he still hasn't opened his eyes. he just shifts a little, nestling deeper into you. his fingers pressing idly into your hip, like he's memorizing the shape of you beneath them.

you stay like that for a while.

you steal a button-up from his closet when you finally get up, slipping it over your shoulders before following him into the bathroom. he doesn't comment, just flicks his gaze over you, lips twitching, before rummaging through a drawer. a moment later, he presses a spare toothbrush into your palm.

"definitely took you for the clingy type."

he grins, stretching lazily against the counter. "not my fault you're so soft."

you brush your teeth side by side, bleary-eyed in the mirror. he stands just a little too close, bumping into your arm like he can't help himself.

and when you head back to bed, he follows, catching your wrist just before you climb in, guiding you back under the covers with ease.

"wait." his lips brush your shoulder. "just stay there."

"i am staying," you point out, amused.

"good," he hums, pressing one last kiss to your head before disappearing into the kitchen.

satoru returns minutes later, two mugs in hand. he sets yours on the nightstand before wordlessly disappearing back to the kitchen.

you wait until you smell breakfast, then you get up and follow the scent out to his kitchen island.

he doesn't ask if you're hungry. he just plates your food and sets it in front of you without a second thought.

you steal sips from his juice between bites, and he lets you, just watching, amused, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.

soft touches happen naturally, thoughtlessly.

his palm finds the small of your back when he moves past you, warm and steady.

your fingers brush when you both reach for the same thing.

his knuckles graze your thigh when he leans back against the counter.

none of it feels unfamiliar.

you stay longer than you expected to. he doesn't call you out on it.

the goodbye is unserious, drawn out in a way that makes it obvious neither of you is in a rush.

"try not to miss me too much," you tease, pulling on your shoes with a grin.

he smiles, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. "oh, i will."

his tone is playful, but something about the way he says them makes you hesitate, just for a second.

and as you step out, just before it closes behind you, he calls after you.

"i'll be thinking about you, y'know."

draped in something sheer, delicate but dangerous, dripping in light. ethereal, yes, but untouchable, in the way that makes people want to reach for you anyway. you're working the cameras, holding their attention easily. every turn of your head, every flicker of your eyes is calculated. you know what you're doing and you do it well.

satoru doesn't realize he's staring until he gets elbowed.

"you've been looking at her for a full minute," suguru says, barely suppressing a grin. "are you gonna make a move or just keep writing poetry in your head?"

satoru huffs a laugh, rolling his shoulders back as if to shake off whatever spell he's under. "please. you think i need to make a move?"

suguru gives him a look that says yes, actually.

satoru hums, considering. he rarely hesitates when it comes to people, but he finds himself debating his approach.

does he bump into you? send suguru to get you? just stand here, watching, until you come to him?

then you glance his way.

he thinks it's an accident at first, a passing sweep of your gaze, but it lingers a second too long. a flicker of awareness, like you felt him looking. you must know exactly what you're doing when your eyes catch his and hold, your lips parting slightly.

for the first time in a long time, satoru gojo wonders if he's about to be outplayed.

+++

you own the carpet from the moment you step onto it.

you know how to work a camera, how to shift just enough for the perfect light, how to let the gown drape over your frame just so. the flashes go off like they can't get enough of you, and they can't. you smile just enough, turn a little, hold their attention before moving on.

you've done this a thousand times, but tonight, there’s a prickle at the back of your neck, a sensation you can't quite place until your gaze sweeps across the carpet and locks onto him.

satoru gojo.

white jacket, dark sunglasses, bright grin, standing there like he's been waiting for you to notice him. you meet his gaze head-on, unbothered, letting him know you see him.

you can handle attention. and you've admired him in passing, maybe entertained a fleeting what-if. but standing here now, with his eyes on you, the energy shifts. he's not just a name or a headline. he's here.

he stops in front of you, hands in his pockets.

"if we keep staring at each other like this," he says, head tilting, voice all amusement, "someone's gonna write an article about it."

you don't miss a beat. "then maybe you should stop staring."

his grin widens, shameless. "you overestimate my self-control."

it's immediate, the way you fall into it. a playful, effortless push and pull that neither of you really wants to stop.

you hold his gaze for just a second longer than necessary before turning away, moving down the carpet like you’re supposed to. but even as you walk, you can feel his eyes on you, can hear the barely-there chuckle he lets out, like he's already made a decision.

and you're sure that before the night is over, you'll make one too.

+++

the interviewers don't waste time. the moment they catch you separately, the questions start coming. you're used to answering on autopilot, smiling like you mean it, keeping things just interesting enough to be quotable. but you already know which soundbite is about to take off tonight.

"you and satoru gojo seemed to hit it off on the carpet," a journalist says, mic tilted towards you, eyes glinting with interest. "anything we should know?"

you let out a soft laugh. "he's charming, i'll give him that."

the interviewer's eyebrows raise like she's just struck gold. you don't offer anything else, just a tiny, knowing smile before moving on.

across the venue, satoru's doing what he does best: playing into it. the moment someone asks about you, he's flashing a grin.

"she might be my new favorite distraction," he teases. the reporter beams, watching the headlines write themselves.

and sure enough, the internet gets to work before the event is even over.

@/celebritea: "he's charming, i'll give him that" / "she's my new favorite distraction" PINERS WE ARE SO BACK

@/fathergojo: "my new favorite distraction" is INSANE work for someone you just met

@/ynglow: "charming" and "favorite distraction"… i'm seated

edits appear in record time. slow-motion close-ups of lingering eye contact, captions dissecting every micro-expression, fan cams set to inappropriate music. by the time the event is over, the internet has already decided: this is a developing situation.

you don't mind at all.

+++

the afterparty is a different world.

gone are the blinding flashes and choreography of the red carpet. here, the lighting is low, the music is loud, and the air is thick with the kind of energy that turns fleeting moments into industry urban legends.

it's kento nanami's party, expensive and exclusive. invitations are granted, not sent. and a lot of people are still waiting for theirs.

satoru walks in like he owns the place. he's in a sheer black shirt, sleeves casually rolled up, the collar undone just enough to hint at something. his usual ease is intact, but there's a sharpness to his presence, like he's playing a game no one else knows about.

you're already there when he spots you, haloed by light, draped in something different from before but just as devastating. the dress is shorter now, clings in ways that demand attention, and the way your jewelry catches the light makes it impossible to look away.

satoru doesn't bother pretending he's not watching. the space bends for him as he he makes his way over, weaving through industry elites and familiar faces, focus locked in place.

you feel him before you see him, the shift in the air unmistakable.

"you know they think we already fucked, right?" he says, voice smooth and teasing.

your lips curve. "sounds like a them problem."

his grin widens, flashing white in the dim light. "could be an us problem."

music pulses through the space, a slow, heady bass line that seems to move through your bones. there are people everywhere, but you can only focus on him.

his fingers brush yours, questioning, before curling around your hand fully. without a word, he leads you past the crowd and through the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, slipping into a quieter corner. low lighting, no people. out of sight, but not out of reach.

his hand settles at your waist, light at first, just the suggestion of touch.

you don't pull away. instead, you lean in, just enough to test the tension, to see how far it'll stretch before it snaps.

it doesn't take long.

one step, then another, until your back finds a wall and his body follows, heat pressed against you. the breath you take is steady, but the way he looks at you is all sharp edges wrapped in amusement. his thigh slots between yours, firm and deliberate, and your fingers fist into the thin fabric of his shirt.

his lips brush your ear when he speaks, teasing and effortless. "you should stop me," he murmurs, but you know he's hoping you won't.

you don't.

his mouth finds yours, testing. you match him easily, fingers sliding into his hair, teasing at the roots, nails grazing his scalp just enough to make him hum against your lips. you commit the sound to memory, make a note to pull it from him again.

your hips roll against his leg, slow and deliberate, and he mirrors you, savoring the friction. the tension builds, each movement a tease of more, but only if either of you decides to take it there. right now, the fun is in the waiting.

the bass thrums through the floor and threads through the moment. there are no cameras, no audience. just the two of you, caught in the moment you've made for yourselves.

your fingers skim along the buttons of his shirt, undoing one, then another, knuckles brushing against the heat of his skin. his lips brush against your neck, featherlight, and you let out a sigh.

his hands move like he has all the time in the world to figure you out. his mouth traces over your skin, a slow path from your neck to your jaw and down, pausing at the hollow of your throat and then back up.

it's slow, but there's a hunger to it, an energy that makes itself known as his hand slides down the curve of your ass, squeezing enough to pull a soft noise from you.

you arch into the touch, a silent encouragement that makes him smile against your skin.

the moment lingers, stretching between breaths, until a voice cuts through, cool and unimpressed.

"try not to cause headlines under my roof," kento says, barely sparing you both a glance.

satoru huffs a laugh, stepping back just enough to be appropriate. but the look you give each other promises this isn't over.

not even close.

+++

you wake up to the relentless buzz of your phone, notifications stacked so high they bleed past the preview limit. the first thing you process is the sheer volume of them: texts, missed calls, headlines. the second thing is the realization that they're all about last night.

you blink against the morning light, head foggy with sleep, before rolling over and unlocking your phone. big mistake.

the group chat is already on fire.

and then you start scrolling through headlines.

are we witnessing the start of hollywood’s next power couple?

satoru gojo and y/n: met gala’s most talked-about pair takes it to the afterparty!

y/n and satoru gojo: just friends or something more?

and the tweets.

@/gojo4president: not to be dramatic but these afterparty photos feel like something i shouldn’t be seeing with my own two eyes

@/ynuniverse: satoru gojo has spent YEARS as hollywood’s most eligible menace and now he’s looking at y/n like she personally invented desire. we are witnessing a collapse

@/trendwatcher: insiders say satoru gojo and y/n were ‘inseparable’ at the met gala afterparty before parting ways for the night. no comments from either camp.

you scroll through the notifications, eyes skimming over the headlines, the tweets, the texts. you exhale, then lock your phone.

people are going to talk. they always do. you may as well go about your day.

you’ve already brushed your teeth and made your coffee when your phone buzzes again, and this time, you’re not surprised.

You can feel the glimpse in his eye — the way it shines for you around the corners, widening when you open your mouth to fire back. It's like, nothing you do can scare him away. Something about it is oddly comforting, like staring death right in the eyes. So, you let him hold you.

Standing at his kitchen island with a spoon in his hand, prodding at the omurice leftovers from last night, Satoru hardly regards you as he eats. "What did you eat before you came to see me this morning?"

You don't respond, sitting behind his polished marble with your knees crossed. Bare legs, ankles jumping as you scroll through your phone with hunched shoulders, you don't answer him.

"Am I speaking to a brick wall?"

"No… you're speaking to me." You reply, still not offering eye-contact, chin in a fisted hand as you stare down longingly into your phone.

He chuckles, oddly endeared. "I'll make you something then."

"I don't want your forty year old man meal prep, actually."

"You think you're so funny today." It's an accusation, not a question — one spoken around his mouthful of sticky egg. Satoru's cheeks are full of it, glossy lips pursed as he glances up at you.

That comment makes you disregard your phone, brows furrowed as you stare your older situationship head-on. Satoru blinks like he's innocent, then offers you a shrug.

"A little bit." You shrug right back, sighing and defiantly making a show of averting your attention back to your dimmed screen. "Not as funny as you, though. I don't go to the mirror and give myself affirmations about how smooth of a jokester I am, like you do, every morning."

"You got that right, baby's got a lot of learning, and a lot of affirmations to repeat."

The banter is light, and never lost on you. He makes you smile, too caught up in his silver stare to even really care about what's happening on your phone. You sigh again, locking it and peering back up at him with a gaze so wide and expectant, that he can't help but stand up straight.

"You're looking at me like you want something." He murmurs against his bite, sharp jaw working against stewed meat and wilted greens. "And I know it's not this food."

You raise your brows, so does he. Entire conversations based on mutual lust are shared with just a look. Satoru grins around his stupid, stuffed cheeks — eyes bright like he knows something you don't.

"We haven't done it in the kitchen, yet." Satoru's voice is low and measured, just like his footsteps as he walks backward into the kitchen with a finger in your waistband. You follow along, rolling your eyes as you stumble right where he wants you to be — lower back pressed into the counter, right next to his half-finished meal.

"Want to bend me over the hot stove? Kinky,"

"I like this…" He chuckles, voice so fucking deep that it sends a lustful wave of wetness between your thighs. "You're not thinking as much when you're with me, now." He whispers, pulling you chest-to-chest, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear. He smiles, and it's slow. Everything is so slow…

You nod, unsure of what to say, or what even should be said, right now. All you know is that your heart feels like it's going to beat straight through your chest. Of course, he had to point out the obvious — how you think you love him, now.