Rori's Writing

You’ve been back at work for a week when it happens. 

“He’s staring at you again.” 

You startle, momentarily distracted from the check you were printing off for one of your tables to frown at your coworker, Monica. 

“Hmm?” 

“Table ten,” she said, jerking her head towards the table in question. 

Immediately, you know who she’s referring to. The man who has been sitting at your table, nursing the same coffee for the past three hours. Even without looking you can see him in your mind’s eye. Average looks—brown hair, brown eyes, about your age. A little socially awkward. He’s a regular who likes to come in at least twice a week to sit around and monopolize your attention even during the busy lunch and dinner rushes. But because he tips well you’ve learned to indulge his neediness. 

All in all, he’s relatively harmless as far as regulars go. 

And yet…you can’t help but feel a certain discomfort every time you’re forced to attend to him. A discomfort that Monica has clearly picked up on even though you’ve never voiced your concern aloud. 

(After all, withstanding the interest, and even vitriol, of strangers was just a part of the job description when it came to the service industry.)

“Is he?” You muse aloud with forced disinterest. “Probably just wondering when he can get the check.” 

“That man ain’t looking for a check.” She states firmly. You look at her, taking in the intense look in her eyes as she stares back at the man openly. 

It was a little weird to see her like this. Monica was usually such a hard-ass. The sort of woman who had survived three decades of single motherhood and bitter disappointment in the world around her and finally arrived at that most holy, most vaunted place that all women secretly looked forward to…not giving a fuck. It was exactly why most male diners hated her but most of the female waitstaff grudgingly respected the hell out of her. If she had a problem with you, you’d know it. 

And, clearly, today she had a problem with Mr. One-Cup-of-Coffee. 

“You want me to take him?” She asked, an unusually soft note to her voice. 

“Oh,” you say, glancing back at the man quickly. She was right. He was still looking at you. “Umm, that’s okay. I need the money.” 

Technically you didn’t. For possibly the first time in your life your bank account was still in the quadruple digits even after paying all of your bills, thanks to your stubborn soulmate and his overly generous check—that he had, in fact, gone with you to the bank to watch you deposit into your account. Then again, admitting all of this to your fiercely independent and judgmental middle-aged coworker would just inspire a whole slew of questions you didn’t really feel like answering right now. 

“You sure? I can shoo him off for you,” Monica offered. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay. I appreciate it though.” 

At the back of your mind you hear a little part of you whisper to take her up on her offer. Hadn’t you learned from your time being babied by Michael to just let others help you every now and then? But another part of you, the bigger and louder part, rankled at the idea of you relying on anyone for anything. Especially something this small. What were you, a toddler who couldn’t be expected to talk to strangers? You would be fine. This was your job. 

It would be fine. You were fine. 

Squaring your shoulders like someone bracing for battle you make your way over to table ten and paste your best customer service smile on your face. 

“Need a refill?” You ask with false cheer, eyeing up the man’s cup which was still half-full. “Or maybe something to eat? The check?” You say that last part as off-handedly as you can. 

He stares at you for a little too long, the silence stretching into uncomfortable territory, before finally responding. 

“No thank you,” he says, perfectly polite. “Sooo…how much longer are you stuck here? You’ve been here a while right?” 

It’s an innocuous comment. The sort of small talk anyone would indulge in to fill the quiet. But there’s something about it that sets you on edge. Why does he wants to know your schedule? Immediately, alarm bells start ringing in your head. 

“Long enough!” You chuckle uncomfortably, not actually answering his question. “Well, just holler if you need something!” 

You catch the annoyance flash in his eyes before you turn and flee to check on another of your tables. 

Perhaps letting Monica take over his table for the rest of his stay wouldn’t be the worst idea after all…

“You heading home?”

You startle. It’s him again. Hadn’t he left an hour ago? Why was he still here? Reflexively, you clutch the keys in your hand so hard you can feel the bite of the metal against your palm. You lean back against the driver’s door of your car, instinctively trying to put as much distance between you and the man who had now stepped several paces too far into your personal space bubble. 

“Uh, yeah,” you smile weakly even as you feel your stomach twist with anxiety. 

Too close! Your mind screeched. Abort! You turn back to your car but then feel a sudden heat at your back as a hand grips your shoulder. 

“Hey, you wanna come hang out with me?”

No! You scream on the inside. Absolutely not!

Instead you turn around, back to your driver door, and give him another smile over your shoulder in a desperate attempt to set him at ease. “Sorry. I can’t. I’m really tired and just want to go to bed now.” And get the hell away from you. 

“You could take a nap at my place. I don’t mind.”

Danger! Your brain says. Escape! 

“Oh,” You say, feeling the rabbit quick beat of your heart against your ribs. “That’s very nice of you but I think I’d rather sleep in my own bed.”

His eyes go flinty. “Why are you in such a hurry? You got a boyfriend or something?”

Yes! You want to scream. A soulmate! And he’d be really upset if he could see how close you’re getting right now! You knew this without a shadow of a doubt. The same way you knew the sky was blue and the grass was green you also knew in your heart of hearts that Michael would be absolutely furious if he saw you cornered like a frightened animal. 

“Yeah, kinda,” you say instead, shrinking down further against the side of your car. 

He makes a face. “You don’t sound sure. Do you even like him?”

I like him a hell of a lot more than you!

“Listen,” you mumble, fumbling for the door handle behind you. “Maybe we can talk about this some other time but I really need to get home now…”

A hand curls around your other wrist. Hard. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Please let me go,” you whisper, trying not to panic. 

“You were so nice in there, what happened? Why are you trying to leave?” The man said, somehow having the audacity to sound hurt. “I thought you liked me.”

Yeah, it’s called doing my job!

“Please let me go.” You repeat. 

He scowled. “Hey, you’re making me sound like the bad guy here! I just want your phone number!”

His grip tightened painfully and you can’t help letting out a gasp. Somehow, the sound only made him angrier. 

“Stop it! You’re just trying to make me feel bad! You girls are always the same!”

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out across the parking lot. 

“Hey, what’re you doing?” Monica called out. In surprise, the man’s grip loosened and that was all it took for you to wrench yourself free and bolt across the pavement. 

“Hey!”

You ignore his cry and keep running. Across the parking lot, down the sidewalk, past several honking cars as you rudely bolted through traffic to the other side of the street. You run and run and run until your lungs protest and your abdomen cramps and still you keep running. 

It isn’t until you finally stop to lean against the brick wall of an old building that you realized you had made it several blocks into the heart of downtown. You glance back, terrified that you’ll see your stalker—because that’s what he is, you realize, your stalker—running up in hot pursuit but all you find is a few bewildered looking bystanders giving you looks that range anywhere from concerned to annoyed that you were ruining their peaceful afternoon walk. 

Now what?

Just because he wasn’t in your field of vision didn’t mean he wasn’t still coming for you. And going back to your car didn’t really seem like a feasible option at the moment either. What if he was still waiting there for you? What then? The thought alone made your whole body break out into a cold sweat. 

Okay. Yeah. No car then. 

As you quietly ponder your options you rub absentmindedly at your belly. There’s a burning sensation in your abdomen that you try to ignore. You wonder if you’ve pulled something. Not that it matters right now. Whatever it is, it can wait. Shelter and safety first. Investigate mysterious stomach pain later. 

Across the street you spy a sign. One with a bright blue ‘H’ on it. 

Hospital. 

Oh. Right. Michael’s hospital was around here. 

Soulmate. Your lizard brain whispers to you. Safety. You feel a tugging in your chest then, as if your heart is turning in your ribcage to point the way towards its mate. 

You don’t even really think about the decision before you’re already making to cross the street. 

Yes, you think. Michael will know what to do. 

He always knows what to do. 

He feels it long before he sees you. 

A spike of terror that nearly has Robby dropping his scalpel in shock. 

“Dr. Robby?” One of the nurses asks, a note of concern in her voice. 

His hands are shaking he notes with detachment. Why are his hands shaking? 

“I…” He starts, and then realizes with a jolt that everyone is waiting for an explanation. And he doesn’t have one. All he knows is that his heart is racing a mile a minute and fear is clawing at his nerves like a cat with a scratching post. “Dr. Mohan could you take this one over for me? I need to go check on something.”

He stays long enough to hear her bewildered, “Yeah, of course,” before he’s stumbling out into the hall and making a b-line for the stairwell. He just needs a moment. Just a second to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him so he can get a fucking grip. 

Is it a panic attack? He wonders. It doesn’t feel like a panic attack. Not really. It just feels like…fear. Terror. Like he was currently facing down an angry bear with nothing but his hopes and dreams. 

He feels like an idiot just standing there in the empty stairwell, clearly shaken up over…something…but he decides to wait it out. He waits there far longer than he should—two minutes, five, ten—letting his heart rate return to something less concerning before he takes a breath and goes back inside. 

(He has work to do after all.)

It takes only a half an hour for him to find out exactly where those feelings had come from. Or, more importantly, who. 

“She’s here?!” 

Whitaker nods. “Yeah, she seemed kinda freaked out. I put her in—”

Robby doesn’t wait for him to finish, just glances up at the board to see which room you’re in, and then he’s moving. His stomach roils with anxiety as he remembers the reason why you’d ended up here last time. Your bloodless lips. The gushing wound in your side as he frantically tried to drag you back from the jaws of death. 

Why were you here? Had something happened? Why hadn’t you texted or called him? Dozens of scenarios flew through his head, each more catastrophic than the last. Were you sick? Were you injured? Oh fuck, were you dying?! That’s okay, he thought with an ever-growing sense of panic and delirium. He was a doctor. A damn good doctor. He could fix you. He would fix you. He’d already done it once. He could do it again. He just needed to—

He turns a corner into your room…and there you are. Hair windswept and eyes wide as they swung toward him in surprise. 

Something in his chest loosens at the sight of you. Safe and whole and so perfect he could weep right there. 

“You’re here,” you croak. And then, before he can process anything, you’re up and moving and rushing into his arms like you belong there. 

(Because you do. You always have, even if he didn’t know it then. He certainly knows it now.)

“Hey,” he murmurs, lips pressing into the crown of your head and arms pulling you in close until you’re pressed up against his chest. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He’s not sure if he’s saying that to you or to himself. Probably both. 

“I’m sorry I’m bothering you at work,” you mumble into his neck, your heated breath against his skin making him shiver. “I just…I can’t go back there.”

Robby frowns. “Can’t go back where? Did something happen?” 

He feels you nod against his chest. 

“There was a…a man…” you whisper. “He grabbed me.” 

It clicks for him then. The fear he had felt earlier. The sudden wave of panic that had overtaken him and forced him out of the operating room. It was you. Someone—this man—had scared you enough that your fear had leaked across the bond and become his own. 

He’d heard of such things before. Stories of soulmates being able to sense when the other was in pain or distress. A woman knowing her twin had taken her final breaths hours before she got the fateful call. A man who spoke of feeling a pain in his shoulder at work only to discover later that his wife had dislocated her arm that same morning. There had been a few studies here and there that he’d read about out of curiosity. Scientists were always eager to learn more about the inner workings of the soulmate phenomenon—this strange and mysterious anomaly that had plagued humanity since time immemorial—but so far it had found very little to explain it. It remained wonderfully—and frustratingly—as close to magic as humans could imagine. 

“Are you hurt?” It’s his first, most pressing thought. Robby wasn’t a violent man but if this strange man had done anything to you…he clenched his hands more tightly in the back of your shirt. 

You shake your head. “I’m okay. I ran away before…” you go quiet again and the silence makes his skin itch. 

“You’re okay,” Robby repeats. 

“Can I…stay here?” 

The soft timidity in your voice breaks his heart. As if he would ever turn you away for any reason.

“Of course,” he says immediately. “Of course you can.” 

He’s gentle with you. 

No, that’s not right, he’s always been gentle with you. But this time there’s no sternness in his voice nagging you about your terrible decisions. No exasperation at your stubborn need to do everything yourself. Just soft words—low and sweet—as he settles you back down onto the bed and checks you over. 

(Ever the doctor this one.)

Unfortunately, the sternness makes a rude comeback when he touches your abdomen. 

Pain, cold and sharp. 

Immediately you jerk with discomfort and your face twists into a grimace. He frowns as he lifts your shirt and reveals a bruise blooming along your side. 

“I thought you said you weren’t hurt?” His voice is calm, but his eyes are stormy. You shrink down further against your pillow. 

“I wasn’t,” you mumble. “At least…I thought I was...” 

His lips twist with displeasure. “How could you not notice this?”

“I just thought I had a hitch in my side!” You try to explain. “You know, from all the running. I’m not exactly in the best of shape these days…”

“You ran here?” 

“I…yeah?” 

Oh yeah, he definitely looked pissed. 

He blew out a frustrated breath and stood. “I’m going to order you a CT scan.” 

You blinked. “What? Why?”

He stared down at you with that look that you could only describe as ‘disappointed father’. 

“Because I’m pretty sure all that running just tore open your stitches.” 

You shrink down even more. “Oh.”

He sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “And now we need to make sure you won’t need surgery. Again.” 

“…Right.”

You see him soften—just a smidge—and lean down to press a kiss to your forehead. You blink up at him, eyes wide and skin still tingling when he pulls away. 

“Hang tight. I’ll go call in that CT and then if everything is okay we can go home in a couple hours when my shift ends.” 

You nod, still a little tongue-tied, and then he slips back out into the chaos beyond your room. 

Home. Home sounded nice. In fact, home sounded amazing. All you wanted at this point was to go home and wrap yourself up like a burrito and convince your soulmate to snuggle with you. You probably wouldn’t even need to try very hard what with the forehead kisses he was suddenly handing out so easily. 

A buzzing at your thigh jostles you out of your thoughts of blankets and snuggles and you pull out your phone to see your boss’s name displayed on the screen. 

Huh? Why was he calling you at 4:30 in the afternoon? Your shift had already ended nearly an hour ago. Was he trying to get you to come back in to cover for someone? God, you hoped not. The last thing you needed right now was to go anywhere near that place. 

“Hello?” You answer suspiciously. 

“Where the hell are you?” 

Oh…kay. Not quite the greeting you were expecting but you’d certainly heard worse from this man. 

“The hospital. Why?”

“Why the fuck are you at the hospital? Wait, you know what? It doesn’t matter. I need you to come pick up your car and get it out of my lot.” 

“Huh?” You say, taken aback by the hostility in his tone. Sure, he’d bitched at you before but never quite like…this. 

“I said I want your car out of my fucking lot. Also, you’re fired.” 

Time slows. You feel the blood pounding away in your ears as you stare blankly at the white wall in front of you. 

“Wait…what?”

“You heard me,” he spits through the receiver. “I heard all about how you treated one of our customers. You’re lucky he didn’t file charges.” 

Wait…lucky he didn’t file charges??? 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

He ignores you. “I’ll send your last paycheck in the mail. If you don’t pick up your car in the next twenty-four hours I’m having it towed.”

The line goes dead and you let your phone fall to your lap as you continue to stare at the wall. 

Fired. 

You’d been fired. 

After you had been the one harassed and borderline assaulted at work. 

What the fuck. 

What the fuck. 

Michael bustles back into your room, oblivious to your inner turmoil as he happily announces, “Good news. Looks like we can get you in for that CT in the next fifteen minutes so I need you to…” He trails off as he finally notices the shell-shocked look on your face. “What’s wrong?” 

You don’t even bother looking up as you reply. 

“…I think I just got fired.”

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He feels it long before he sees you. 

A spike of terror that nearly has Robby dropping his scalpel in shock. 

“Dr. Robby?” One of the nurses asks, a note of concern in her voice. 

His hands are shaking he notes with detachment. Why are his hands shaking? 

“I…” He starts, and then realizes with a jolt that everyone is waiting for an explanation. And he doesn’t have one. All he knows is that his heart is racing a mile a minute and fear is clawing at his nerves like a cat with a scratching post. “Dr. Mohan could you take this one over for me? I need to go check on something.”

He stays long enough to hear her bewildered, “Yeah, of course,” before he’s stumbling out into the hall and making a b-line for the stairwell. He just needs a moment. Just a second to figure out what the fuck is wrong with him so he can get a fucking grip. 

Is it a panic attack? He wonders. It doesn’t feel like a panic attack. Not really. It just feels like…fear. Terror. Like he was currently facing down an angry bear with nothing but his hopes and dreams. 

He feels like an idiot just standing there in the empty stairwell, clearly shaken up over…something…but he decides to wait it out. He waits there far longer than he should—two minutes, five, ten—letting his heart rate return to something less concerning before he takes a breath and goes back inside. 

(He has work to do after all.)

It takes only a half an hour for him to find out exactly where those feelings had come from. Or, more importantly, who. 

“She’s here?!” 

Whitaker nods. “Yeah, she seemed kinda freaked out. I put her in—”

Robby doesn’t wait for him to finish, just glances up at the board to see which room you’re in, and then he’s moving. His stomach roils with anxiety as he remembers the reason why you’d ended up here last time. Your bloodless lips. The gushing wound in your side as he frantically tried to drag you back from the jaws of death. 

Why were you here? Had something happened? Why hadn’t you texted or called him? Dozens of scenarios flew through his head, each more catastrophic than the last. Were you sick? Were you injured? Oh fuck, were you dying?! That’s okay, he thought with an ever-growing sense of panic and delirium. He was a doctor. A damn good doctor. He could fix you. He would fix you. He’d already done it once. He could do it again. He just needed to—

He turns a corner into your room…and there you are. Hair windswept and eyes wide as they swung toward him in surprise. 

Something in his chest loosens at the sight of you. Safe and whole and so perfect he could weep right there. 

“You’re here,” you croak. And then, before he can process anything, you’re up and moving and rushing into his arms like you belong there. 

(Because you do. You always have, even if he didn’t know it then. He certainly knows it now.)

It begins almost entirely by accident. 

Truth be told you hadn’t actually had much luck after agreeing to this whole open marriage thing. Your husband, of course, had revealed shortly afterwards that he had a date which left you wondering suspiciously if he had had that woman ready and waiting in the wings long before he had ever discussed opening your marriage. 

(You had no proof of this, of course, but your gut was telling you it was a big fat ‘yes’.)

Shortly after that conversation you re-open your Tinder account for the first time in what feels like an eternity—you don’t bother with the Pairs app, which was more geared towards actual serious relationships. You weren’t here to string along some poor man looking for love. That was obviously more your husband’s M.O.—before quickly growing despondent. What the fuck had happened to the dating market since you left?

The longer you swipe the more unsettled you become. Just profile after profile of unappealing man after unappealing man. They don’t even bother to attempt to dress up their profiles or make themselves even the slightest bit desirable to you—let alone any woman. 

Looking to fuck, one profile reads with a picture of a middle-aged salaryman who looked about a week away from throwing himself in front of a train. 

No thank you, you thought, swiping left. 

Looking for a little girl who knows how to have fun, reads another even less enticing profile which had the man’s face blurred out in all his photos. Someone obviously didn’t want to be caught by someone he knew. Suspicious, you zoomed into one of the photos and quickly spotted a wedding ring.

Nope. Definitely not. You swiped left. 

The next profile showcased a dreaded bathroom selfie with terrible fluorescent lighting and an even more cliche header: I know what you want. 

“Really?” You mumble ruefully, swiping left once more. “Because even I’m not so sure about that one buddy.” 

On and on it went, hour after hour, swiping through a veritable sea of off-putting male specimen after off-putting male specimen until you eventually closed the app in defeat. 

Maybe you just weren’t cut out for casual dating? Maybe you should just resign yourself now to quietly enduring the agony of watching your husband learn nothing from this entire endeavor as he fucked other women and got everything he ever wanted? 

It was a thought that circled its ways through your mind for the next several weeks…until you ran into him. 

It feels almost like fate intervening when you stumble into him at the local bakery one afternoon. He’s tall—so tall,your mind helpfully supplies as you crane your head up and up and up—and stupidly handsome. He has those ikemen good looks that almost seem too good to be true. Like he’s stepped right out of the pages of a magazine and into real life to wander amongst the average-looking peasants. 

(Like you.)

“I’m sorry sir,” you hear the baker at the counter say as you continue to ogle the stupidly pretty man he’s speaking to. “The lady before you just bought the last one.” 

Suddenly you see him turn to stare at you, tipping his sunglasses—who wears sunglasses indoors?—down to reveal a pair of startling blue eyes. 

“Damn,” he sighs, a little dramatically as he eyes up the pastry bag dangling from your fingers. “Just my luck. I was sooooo looking forward to that too.” 

You blink. He was…was he talking to you?

“Oh,” you manage to mumble a little lamely. “I’m sorry.” 

“I’ve had such a long day too,” he continues. “If only I’d gotten here sooner.” 

You nod, still dazed that a man this beautiful is even paying attention to you. 

“What about a trade?” He proposes, leaning closer until you can smell his cologne. 

“A…trade?” He smells expensive. Like sandalwood and citrus and something else you can’t quite identify. Like the quiet before a thunderstorm. 

“Mhm.” There are those eyes again, crystalline and shocking in their intensity. You don’t think you’ve ever seen a blue so beautiful. “You give me your pastry and I give you something you want. Everybody wins.” 

Suddenly you’re aware of your surroundings in a way you simply weren’t before. The line of hungry patrons behind you both. The impatient looking baker waiting for you to get out of the way so he can attend to the next customer. And this man, still staring encouragingly at you as if he has all the time in the world to acquire the pastry you had just purchased for lunch. 

Embarrassed, you quickly step back away from the counter to allow the next customer through with a mumbled “Sorry!” and wander out onto the street and, much to your surprise, he follows you. 

“So?” He says, a slow smile spreading over his face. Oh god. He was even hotter when he smiled. You were doomed. “What do you think?” 

“About?” You say, feeling your brain short-circuit as he leans even closer. 

“Something you want for your pastry. Surely there’s something you want more than that piece of cake…?” He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. There was no way he didn’t know the effect he had on others. 

But he was right. There was something that you wanted from him. Something he wouldn’t even have to pay for. He might even enjoy it. But you couldn’t ask it of him. It was a horrible idea. Possibly the most selfish, unhinged thing you’d ever thought. Sex with a stranger for a pastry? He’d never go for it. 

“I…” You mumble, glancing at the ground as you feel your face flush with embarrassment. “I don’t think…you’re a nice man I’m sure so I could never—”

“I’m not.”

You swing your head up to stare at him again, startled. “Huh?”

His smile twists into something almost self-deprecating. “I’m not a nice man.” 

You blink, a little bewildered now. “…You’re not?”

“Nope,” he says flippantly, making a popping sound with his lips. “So whatever reservations you clearly have about asking me what you want, feel free to drop them.” He lets his glasses fall down the bridge of his nose again to stare down at you with those unsettlingly pretty eyes of his. “Besides, I think I know what it is you want.”

“You…do?” You can’t breathe. You think, perhaps, you’ve completely forgotten how. 

“Don’t play coy,” he grins, his smile almost shark-like. “I’ve been watching you eye-fuck me for the last ten minutes. You’re not subtle.”

You feel your whole body go hot and then cold. A strange mix of embarrassment and lust ripping its way through you until you feel like you’re going to vibrate into a puddle. 

“Oh.” It’s all you can get out. 

You don’t even bother defending yourself. What would be the point? This man has only known you for a handful of minutes and he already can read you and your tells better than your husband ever could. 

“So?” The man sing-songs with a smile. “What do you say? I know a nice little love hotel not far from here. Nice and discreet. You get what you want. I get what I want. Everybody goes home a winner.” 

A winner, you think longingly. You haven’t felt like a winner in a very long time. 

For a moment you hesitate as you look him up and down. You shouldn’t. You don’t know who this man is. Logic dictated that fucking some random stranger without so much as a heads up to a friend as to where you would be wasn’t the best idea. That was how women became statistics. 

But then you think of Shinji. Selfish, oblivious Shinji who was probably fucking some random woman right now with not a care in the world about your feelings on the matter. 

“Lead the way.”

The man’s grin widens. 

“With pleasure.”

The love hotel is as cheap and on brand as you expected. Even so, you can’t help but stare wide-eyed as Gojo pays via a kiosk—not a single employee to be seen—before whisking you away to a shockingly clean and well-lit room. 

“Huh,” you say, sitting down on the bed and looking around like one of those awestruck tourists you run into occasionally. “It’s…nicer than I expected.” 

“You mean you don’t make a habit of propositioning strange handsome men often? I’m flattered.” 

He was technically the one who propositioned you, but you decide not to correct him. You’re too busy trying to fight off the sudden wave of nerves bubbling up in your gut. 

What were you doing? You didn’t even know this man’s name!

“Doing okay over there?” The man asks, voice an odd mixture of kind and playful. He stands by the wall, leaning against it with his hands in his pockets. Calm. Cool. Everything you wish you were in this moment. “You’re not backing out on me are you?” 

“No, I just…” You mumble glancing down at your shoes and then at the menu on the bedside table—anywhere but at him really. “I don’t know what to call you...”

He moves then, approaching slowly like you were an easily-spooked animal. His weight jostles you as he sits beside you, his thigh pressed to yours.

 “Is that all?” He grins. “Just call me Satoru.” 

“Satoru…” You taste the name on your tongue. It’s an older name. A pious name. One more fit for temples or very old buddhist families than this overly forward man with a sweet tooth. 

“And you?” He prompts. 

You tell him your given name, leaving out your married one. As far as you were concerned, Shinji would have no part in this. Not even his family name. This moment was for you and no one else. 

It was your turn to be selfish for once. 

“Pretty,” Satoru crooned, leaning in close to brush a strand of hair out of your eye. “Just like you.” 

“You don’t have to flatter me Satoru,” you say, a little annoyed and a little breathless. “You’re already going to get your cake.” 

“Oh?” He replies cheekily, fingers trailing down your neck. You wonder if he can feel the hard thump of your heartbeat ticking away underneath your skin. “And here I was planning on working really hard to earn it.” 

You feel light-headed. “Yeah? How so?” 

He leans even closer, mouth almost pressed to your ear. You feel the heat and humidity of his breath gust against your skin and shiver. 

“What do you want? What do you like?” 

And wasn’t that the one hundred million yen question? Because you had spent so long catering to the tastes and whims of a selfish lover for so long that you hadn’t really been allowed to learn what you liked. But you knew what you wanted so you decided that was as good of a place to start as any. 

“I want you to take off those stupid glasses.” 

With a cheeky little smile he acquiesces easily, folding them up and tossing them carelessly onto the floor. 

“Anything else?” 

“Yeah,” you say, growing a little bolder. “Take off your shirt.” 

That one almost makes him laugh. You can see the joy bubble up in his throat as he chuckles and stands up to do your bidding. It’s intoxicating, just being able to bark out orders and have this beautiful mountain of a man comply without complaint. Was this how men felt? Was this what you’d been missing all this time? 

Half a second later you’re greeted by the sight of smooth porcelain skin and far more abs than you think are strictly necessary for one man to have. 

(Honestly. Was this man even real?)

Your skin flushes hot as you stare and stare and stare, following the many grooves and indents on his chest like they were lines on a treasure map that would surely lead you to riches. 

(Or perhaps just his penis. But there was only one way to find out…)

You swallow, your mouth suddenly parched. “Pants too.” 

That grin never leaves his face as his hands move to his belt. He undoes it nice and slow and god damn it if that doesn’t do it for you. His fingers are big. Long. Perfectly shaped and you can’t help but think they’re the perfect size to—

His pants fall to the floor with a rustle, revealing more pale skin and toned muscles and a scattering of snow-white hairs that you follow from his ankles to his shins and up to his muscular thighs. Before you can stop them your eyes travel further north, cataloguing the dark briefs and the trail of white hairs across his lower belly leading down underneath the band of his underwear. 

X marks the spot, you think a little giddily. 

“And now?” He drawls, clearly enjoying himself a little too much. 

Like a zombie, you stand up and shuffle forward on auto-pilot, reaching your hand out to touch before remembering yourself and glancing up at Satoru’s amused face. You stare at his lips, soft and shell-pink, and wonder what they taste like. 

“Can I…” You swallow. “Can I kiss you?”

He grins, grasping you by the arms—gently. Oh so gently—and pulling you forward until you’re pressed flush against his skin, his hands warm against your spine. He feels like a furnace, warm and inviting, and you melt into him like putty. 

“Oh baby,” he croons—soft and sweet like the cake he’s trying to seduce out of you. “You can do whatever you want.” 

You don’t hesitate to take him up on the offer. 

His mouth tastes like candy and you chase the taste of sugar and strawberries until you’re sucking it from his tongue. He moans happily, the sound buzzing against your teeth. You pull back, suddenly out of breath, and watch the light glisten and glimmer in those kaleidoscopic eyes. They’re even more beautiful up close. More like diamonds than fleshy lenses. 

“Sit,” you whisper against his mouth. 

He doesn’t argue—a rare novelty for you—just strides over to the bed and sits down on the edge, feet on the floor, leaning back on his hands, waiting for your next instructions.

You feel a steady throb between your legs that makes you want to press them together. You don’t think you’ve been this turned on in…you don’t even know how long. Possibly ever. You don’t even remember stepping across the room. One moment you are staring at Satoru from the corner and the next you find yourself crawling into his lap, knees planted on either side of him as you thread your fingers into that stupidly pretty white hair and tug until he’s staring up at you. 

“Will you be a good boy?” 

The words leave your mouth before you even have time to think about how horrifyingly embarrassing they are. But before you can snatch them back and apologize something interesting happens. You see Satoru’s eyes dilate, the black swallowing up the blue, and his hands reach up and grasp at you—your sides, your shoulders, your ass—as his mouth opens in a shivery gasp. 

“I’ll be your good boy.”

Oh. 

…Oh. 

He liked that. He liked that a lot. The thought alone makes you shiver with shock as much as delight. Suddenly, you want to press even more. See how far he’ll let you take this. It’s such a golden opportunity. You’ve never met a man who was so…pliant in bed. Who enjoyed you taking charge instead of manhandling you and acting like some alpha male gorilla beating its chest in a display of dominance. 

You scratch your nails along Satoru’s scalp and watch his eyes go half-lidded. Beneath you, something begins to grow hard with interest. Then, with a little grin of your own, you shove him down until he’s splayed out along the bedsheets all pretty and docile just for you. 

You reach down, shoving your self-consciousness to the side with brutal efficiency—because how couldn’t you feel self-conscious next to this perfect specimen of a human being?—and strip your blouse off. Then roll to the side so you can wriggle your way out of your jeans with far less grace than your white-haired companion. 

You hear a snicker beside you and glance over to see Satoru biting his lip as he watches you struggle. Just for that you poke him in the ribs. 

“Good boys don’t make fun of their lady friends.” You declare, looming over him like a particularly sullen stormcloud. 

He snickers again and you poke him a second time, eliciting a sound that sounds suspiciously like a giggle. 

“Is that what you are? My friend?”

“I can be,” you promise, half earnest, half mocking. You’ve never felt like this before with a man. Playful and domineering at the same time. “If you like. I would be such a good friend to you if you let me.” 

His eyes glint in the bright florescent light as he sucks in an unsteady breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing noticeably. Underneath you his cock stirs, already half-hard and desperate to hide itself someplace warm and wet. You reach a hand down and stroke him over his underwear and Satoru lets out a shocked little grunt. 

“Is this the kind of friend you want Satoru?” You ask innocently, lips brushing against his own as below your hand pets and strokes him into a frenzy of shivers and moans. 

You can’t help but feel intoxicated watching him. You’ve never been one to derive all that much pleasure from watching someone else receive it. Shinji always made attending to his needs feel more like a chore rather than something sexy and fun. But this? This wasn’t just fun. It was rapturous. 

Every twitch and moan you managed to elicit out of this too-pretty man sent a wicked little thrill through you and blood pumping straight to your cunt. You were already wet. Sticky and slick like you’d never been before and—god!—he hadn’t even touched you yet! 

“What do you want?” You ask, in a bizarre role reversal of only a few minutes ago, palm still pressed firmly against the underside of his dick. 

“I wanna see it,” Satoru slurred, eyes blown out and cheeks dusted a fetching shade of pink. “Your pussy.”

Well who were you to deny such a delightful request? 

You unclasp your bra first, letting it fall down your shoulders and free your breasts from their lacy confines, and sigh with pleasure. Satoru’s eyes immediately zero in on your chest before his fingers follow closely behind. He palms one breast, the heat of his hand scorching as he gently catalogues the shape and weight of it. 

“You’re so soft,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. 

“Yeah?” You say, trying not to pant like a bitch in heat. You think you might be enjoying this all a little too much. 

Hurriedly, you shimmy out of your panties and fling them across the room, not even bothering to check where they land before crawling into Satoru’s lap and kissing him hard on the mouth. 

“Your turn.” You announce, reaching down to palm his clothed cock once more before slipping your fingers underneath the waistband. He looks so pretty beneath you, all shivery moans and fluttery eyes, and when you pull down his briefs you finally get a good look at him. 

Satoru’s penis, you discover with delight and annoyance, is just as pretty as the rest of him. Long and smooth and thick with a flushed head peeking behind the foreskin and a pulsing vein along the underside. It will take some adjusting to work it inside of you but, for once, you feel that you’re up to the challenge. 

“Is there any part of you that isn’t hot?” You ask with a touch of exasperation. 

Satoru laughs, full-throated and genuine. “Afraid not. Are you disappointed?”

“Oh, terribly,” you agree, leaning down to suck a bruise into the skin at his hip. “You’re too pretty for your own good. Someone should punish you.”

“Oh!” He hisses, neck arching. “Yes. Someone should.”

You don’t bother with any other niceties, only pausing just long enough to catch his eye before gripping his cock in one hand and then leaning down to swallow him whole.

He jerks. “Fuck!”

You hum approvingly at the solid weight of him on your tongue before running it up to taste the slit at the top. He’s strangely sweet there and you suck at him until your cheeks hollow out earning you a quiver and a choked little noise from above. 

It’s been so long since you’ve truly enjoyed giving head. Once upon a time you had reveled in the power of it. The sheer, indulgent thrill of being able to twist your partner around your finger with just a flick of your tongue and the wet heat of your mouth. 

But then your husband had come along and turned the act into a chore at best. A humiliation ritual at worst. One where he, not you, had all of the power. Where you were made to kneel before him and endure an hour of degradation and name-calling. You like that you whore? He would say before pulling your hair so hard that your scalp would be sore for days afterwards. And the moment you would attempt to protest such treatment he would only further demean you for it. A real wife would like it, he would insist innocently. A real wife would be happy just to make her husband happy. 

But Satoru, it seemed, was nothing like your husband. He was perfectly happy to hand you the reins of this encounter. Delighted in it even. Every swirl of your tongue earned you an encouraging groan. Every stroke of your fist bestowed a whole-body shiver. When he touched your head it was gentle, his fingers cupping instead of grabbing. And the words you drew out of him were sweet instead of sour. 

“You’re so hot.” 

And…

“Yes! Right there!” 

And…

“You’re so good to me.”

It was an invigorating change from what you had grown used to. 

“Am I?” You inquire before rolling your tongue along the pulsing vein along the underside of his cock. “And just how good am I Satoru?” 

You twist your wrist on the downstroke and then let your hand drift down further to cup the delicate skin of his testicles. Satoru gasps, the sound going straight to your cunt. 

“The best!” He pants. “The bestest!” 

His eyelashes—nearly translucent like dewdrops—flutter prettily as his chest rises and falls with each heaving breath. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” you say impulsively and watch with rabid interest as he shivers and flushes like a teenage girl who has just been handed a compliment by her crush. 

He is though. There’s a heady sort of thrill in seeing such a big, powerful looking man brought down like this. To take all that bravado and power and strip it away until there’s nothing left but sensation and unrestrained reaction. 

You pull back to admire the mess you’ve made of him. The flushed face and chest, the weeping cock so swollen and dark with blood it looked nearly painful, the twitching fingers, the pretty white hair all in a disarray. All of it made the hunger twist in your gut until you knew you couldn’t wait any longer. 

(You had played with your food long enough.)

“Condom?” You say, less a question and more a demand. 

You may have been completely reckless today, going to a love motel with a complete stranger, but even you aren’t dumb enough to fuck him raw. 

You expect some sort of pushback. You’ve never met a single man who hasn’t complained about using condoms. Shinji especially had bitched about them all through the first six months of your relationship when you had insisted upon using them. But Satoru, as with everything else you’ve thrown at him this afternoon, does the complete opposite of what you expect. 

Without a word, he scrambles over to the beside table and fishes out a handful of condoms in a variety of exciting colors. You don’t ask how he knew where they were—who were you to look a gift-horse in the mouth?—only shoved him back down and then plucked one of the condoms from his hand to check the expiration. To your—and probably Satoru’s—relief they appeared well within the use-by period and so, without further ceremony, you tear the foil packet open and claim your prize. 

“Be a good boy and help,” you say softly into his ear and Satoru, to his credit, doesn’t even hesitate. He snatches the condom from your hands and rolls it over his cock without a single complaint, just a wild, wanting look telling you Please sit on my dick before I cry. 

(And, well, who are you to refuse such a look?)

You throw your leg over his hips and mount him like you would a noble steed. Beneath you Satoru’s cock brushes against the lips of your cunt and you can’t help but grind against it once, twice, until you rip a delicious moan out of him. 

“Please!” He huffs, hands moving to grip your thighs and urge you down where he aches. 

Poor thing. You think a little viciously, and then line yourself up and drop down without further fanfare. 

He slides in, nice and easy. You’ve been slick down to your thighs for what feels like hours so there’s barely any resistance. Even still, he’s big and the stretch is far more than you’re used to. Shinji wasn’t small by any stretch of the imagination but he clearly had nothing on Satoru and his porn star sized dick. 

“Fuck,” he pants like a dog as your thighs finally meet his and you bottom out. 

“Wow,” you say, suddenly a little overwhelmed. He’s so deep you could almost swear you felt him pressing against your liver. “You’re something else.” 

Despite everything, Satoru grins. “I know.” 

Just for that you rise up on your knees and then fall back down so quickly your skin meeting his makes a slapping sound. Immediately his self-satisfied smile is replaced with a dazed look and a choked off moan that sounds like something out of a porno. 

(Not that you would know anything about that of course.)

You lean your weight on one hand as the other slides up to wrap itself around his throat before you say, sugary sweet, “No more talking.” 

And then, finally, you take him for a ride. 

You can’t remember the last time you enjoyed cowgirl. Shinji, for all his control issues in the bedroom, demanded it from you often enough…but only so he could be lazy and not do any of the work. He would drag you onto his cock and then lay back and grunt at you to ‘go faster’ or ‘stop grinding’ because, as far as he was concerned, cowgirl—as with every position—was about his pleasure, not yours. 

But with Satoru….it’s a completely different experience. Riding him feels a bit like riding a unicorn. Like you’ve somehow managed to tame a creature so mythical and magical that you can’t help but feel in awe of it. That it would even allow you such a boon. He lets you do things that wouldn’t have even occurred to your husband. Like when you spend several long minutes leaning back and forward just searching for your g-spot. Satoru doesn’t complain, doesn’t huff or act impatient or put upon, simply allows you to do whatever it is you need to do until you feel his cock hit that spongy place along your anterior wall that makes your whole body light up like Shibuya at night. 

“There?” He murmurs a little cheekily before flexing his hips to continue rubbing against that spot until your breath stutters and your vision goes spotty. 

“Oh my god!” 

“Satoru is fine.”

You can’t even slap him on the shoulder for that comment like you want to, not when you already feel like he’s scrambling your insides with his dick. Instead, you decide to wrestle back control and give you both what you want, setting a pace that has you bouncing hard and fast. Once again, Satoru is rendered mute as you use him and his stupidly pretty cock to bully your g-spot until you’re both slippery with sweat and moaning like whores. 

You’re done with teasing. Done with foreplay. You want to come and you want to come right fucking now. 

“Be a good boy,” you gasp into his mouth. “And make me come.” 

Instantly, you feel those big fingers of his slip down and rub along your clitoris and it takes barely more than a moment before your release overwhelms you. It’s shocking in its intensity, your body collapsing in on itself in a series of toe-clenching, shivery pulses that steals your breath. You slump forward and hear Satoru grunt into your ear as your cunt strangles his cock. 

“Fuck,” he groans, fingers digging into your ass until you’re sure they’ll leave bruises. You hope they do. You imagine the look on your husband’s face if he was faced with the evidence of another man’s claim on you and smile. 

And then, quick as you please, you suddenly find yourself flipped over onto your back and the broad shoulders of your companion blocking out the light as he slots himself back inside of you. 

“I just need…just a sec…” he grunts, gripping your breast as he thrusts once, twice, half a dozen times, before stuttering to a stop as he comes. It’s almost maddening to watch because he’s just as pretty coming undone as he is doing literally everything else. Instead of looking a little silly or embarrassing the way so many others do when they come his face and chest flush a fetching shade of pink and his eyes flutter prettily. 

(It really was deeply unfair just how pretty this man was. Rude even.)

Afterwards, he slumps to the side and you pat his flank like an overworked horse. 

“So…” He began, sly humor creeping back into his voice. So much for fucking the brat out of him. “How did I do? Do I get my reward now?” 

You can’t help but laugh and wave your hand towards the bakery bag, chest heaving as you continue to try to catch your breath—Satoru himself is conspicuously not out of breath. Ugh, was he even human?

“Go ahead,” you chuckle. “You earned it.”

Next Chapter | Jujutsu Kaisen Masterlist

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