“Wait up” you grumble and attempt to get up from your messy bed.

“Nuh-uh” Hina keeps you down with a friendly push of small hands on your shoulders, eyes narrowing “you have to finish that essay, I’ll bring you a sandwich or something”

“Damn, I’m working hard for the both of us and all I get is a sandwich?” you playfully throw an extra pencil at her, she effectively dodges it with a light chuckle.

“I love that you know it’s gonna become our essay” by now, the mischievous glint in her eyes elicits nothing but a fond albeit resigned scoff.

And yet you’re still not entirely convinced as you wave goodbye, a don’t get too close to the pond! yelled a moment after the door shuts behind her, exasperated laughter already fading in the distance, echoing across the empty hallway.

With a sigh, you get more comfortable against the soft pillows and sink a little deeper in your bed, the heat of the laptop balanced on your legs enough to keep you from shivering as the rain carries its merciless pitter-patter on the windows, the wind blowing hard enough to slam the thinner branches of the elm, most ancient resident of your dorm, against the glass.

The influence of the classics on english literature is not a hard theme to tackle and you get rapidly absorbed by the topics you have messily categorized in order of succession on your notes: among the main points you care to underline, is the fact that neither is superior to the other. There’s a sharp distinguo you trace between the concepts of originality and novelty, an entire paragraph dedicated to expressing the idea that the creative activity of a writer shouldn’t be adversely affected by the interest they take in classical literature. Right as you delve into the specific examples you’ve chosen to discuss contemporary tendencies and estimate the influece of Latin and Greek upon modern writers, your fingers come to a halt.

Originality, novelty. Unraveling the concepts takes you back to that late afternoon in the quiet library, the ominous curve of an unfamiliar smirk teasing your peripheral, saccharine pitch asking you to settle an argument that was never serious enough to require an outside opinion to begin with.

You’ve met Satoru’s unsettling eyes more than once after that afternoon, they seemed to follow you whenever you happened to walk past his group or enter a room they were in. You hate that you can now anticipate the way he tilts his head, lazily throws one leg on top of the other, ankle resting on knee. You hate that Suguru now talks to you, says hello and good afternoon and wishes you luck on your classes.

You still can’t quite believe Yu, the way he’d casually sat between you and Hina on a Sunday morning when the lukewarm sun served as a break from the usual, gloomy winter days. He was all friendly smiles and relaxed chatter, easily endearing himself to Hina and winning her sympathies. You stayed frozen in utter disbelief until he naturally pulled you into the conversation as if you were one of his oldest friends, sweet giggles outlining the story of how you had brilliantly shared your valuable opinion with them.

None of your attempts at explaining the stupid exchange were taken into consideration, Hina’s big eyes sparkling with each detail Yu unraveled, from Utahime’s comical frown to Suguru’s sincere admiration. He fondly downplayed your skepticism and proceeded to stay for the entire study session, leaving you to mouth a shut up after the other in response to Hina’s exaggerated mimics all the while he immersed himself in one of those thick books they always make a show of carrying around.

It’s disturbing, the feeling of part of that unfortunate afternoon still lingering, sticking to you in a way you don’t know how to escape.

The Anglo-Saxons and their interest in Cato, Orosius, Pliny the Elder. The modern period with its shift of emphasis upon Catullus, Lucretius, Terence and his plays. The entire, separate history of the interest in Ovid, the consequent imitations stemming throughout the fifteenth century only to escalate into close to total neglect during the nineteenth and twentieth. Even as you focus on your essay once more, the unnerving feeling persists in your gut.

You conclude the first draft of the paper with some statement about how classical lore, mythology and style hover above the most representative writers of the elizabethan literature, the most original of all periods of english literature in its entirety.

A light grumble of your stomach demands you glance at the time and you sigh upon noticing it’s already been more than an hour. What the hell is she even doing? The vegan options suck, she may as well eat grass in the park. Unless they’re serving those falafel hummus salad wraps with spicy potato and feta, now that’s something you’d walk in a storm for.

An entire moment is spent considering putting a coat on and marching all the way to the dining hall, muddy campus and everything, but then a whooshing sound is followed by a creaking in your roof and the best you can do is send a mildly annoyed text.

She texts back ten minutes later, the message short and oddly enough void of her usual emojis, informing that the she’s run into her friend Yuki and so she’s most probably going to be late. Well, that’s ideal. As much as you love having the room all to yourself, you really are hungry and the only edible thing within a ten foot radius is a bag of tortilla chips.

The second you reach over to your laptop with the intention of continuing the show you had started watching together (serves her right for leaving you to starve to death) the room turns purple for a second and before the loud crack of the thunder can even hit, the already dim light of the lamp flickers, unsteady.

“Don’t you dare!” you glare at it as if it was a person. It certainly does seem to listen.

Gotta love old buildings with even older electric utility infrastructures.

You send another text for good measure, the possibility of suddenly finding yourself in the dark, alone, enough to induce a reasonable amount of anxiety.

hurry tf up, hina

Your screen lights up a second later, eerily quick. Again, odd. Doesn’t she always try to tuck her phone away while eating?

sorry baby, it’s raining too much

I think we’re trapped here for the next hour lol

You frown. Baby?

Something doesn’t sit quite right with the way she’s replying, maybe she’s given her phone to Yuki after grumbling about how you keep interrupting her meal. Still, you take your chances and send another text.

you okay?

Seen, instantly. Yet she doesn’t type back. Ugh, definitely Yuki taking over: she’s always been the number one supporter of the stupid no phones at the table rule, her glare over waffles and tea as you dared to check your social media over breakfast still engraved in your mind.

As you grumpily stare at the screen for a few more seconds, several things happen at the same time: the light coming from the lamp above your head flickers again, a branch slams against the window and your heart drops to your stomach at the three short but certainy energetic knocks on the door.

The entire evening has been so weirdly quiet, you honestly wouldn’t have guessed somebody else was in the building. Is there someone at the door or did your mind play a trick on you? It must’ve been the rumble of the thunder bouncing on the walls, the loud whistle of the wind. But then they knock again, with the same exact rhythm, and for some silly reason goosebumps blossom on your forearms because you simply know that, even as you tentatively call her name, it’s not Hina.

Shoko peeks inside, the white stick of what you can only guess is a lollipop hanging from her lips. It’s the first time you see her alone, without her friends or her sister. It’s also the first time she speaks to you and it’s surprising, really, how calm and gentle her pitch is.

“Hey, are you alone?” her eyes lazily scan the room, the question sounding every bit as unnecessary as one could guess.

“Yeah” you wonder why you reply in the most natural way, not a second spent wondering why the hell she’s there and how she knows which one’s your room.  

“I really don’t like storms” she tilts her head to the side a little, gaze blankly darting to the window and then intently locked to yours “you should join us”

Taken aback, you open your mouth and close it a number of times.

“Pardon?”

Shoko waltzes into the room, graceful as ever in her school uniform. As opposed to you, she’s wearing dark tights and your stare lingers on her thin legs a moment too long before travelling to her features again.

“They’re having another one of their arguments, it gets so boring. You’re lonely too, please join us”

There are so many questions running after each other in your brain, you’re not even sure which one to prioritize. Why would she ever think you’d…?

“No, thank you” it may have taken a minute but you finally snap out of it (whatever it is) and clear your throat, uncomfortable.

Shoko bites back a smile, enhanced. She can smell the uncertainty, the uneasiness. And can barely wait for when it will turn into panic. Doesn’t it always?

“You really must dislike us” she locks her hands behind her back and casually shifts her weight from one foot to the other “have we ever given you a reason to? I know Satoru can be a jerk but he’s harmless, really”

She sees the anxiety that flashes over your features and wonders what it would feel like to sink her teeth into it. It’s infuriating, how Suguru’s always right. She really was the best one to be sent to get you: not Kento, not anyone else.

“I don’t— it’s not that” you stutter adorably “we don’t really know each other, it’d be weird to…”

“It wouldn’t. We’re all students at the same school, aren’t we?” she offers a sweet smile and extends a hand “come. I won’t let them bother you, pinky promise”

You watch her shift the position of the lollipop in her mouth with a gentle sweep of the tongue, securing it inside her other cheek.

Sure, you could insist on staying in your room, waiting for your friend: she’d probably take the hint and leave. But this is weird. Shoko showing up unannounced, with no reasonable motive, insisting you take part in… what, exactly? One of the bizarre evening gatherings everyone keeps gossiping about?

You don’t care if they realize you don’t like them. Ever the keen observants, they probably already know anyway. But you’ll be damned if you allow some elitist assholes to think you’re intimidated, or worse, scared of their bullshit haughtiness. You talked to them once, you owned it, you can do it again and walk away the second things get too weird. Or Hina actually fucking decides to come back.

Shoko smiles softly when you rise from your bed and take her hand. She thinks boldness suits you.

You quickly type another text to your roommate, certain she’ll sense the annoyed tone at last and hopeful she’ll decide to get you out of the absurd situation.

I need you to come back, preferably now

it’s just rain get back here and take a shower or something

also bring be the goddamn sandwich, I’m starving

Seen. Instantly, right as you sent them. What the hell, is she deliberately ignoring you? Did Yuki forget to lock the stupid phone before putting it away?

since you’re clearly reading these, I’ll have you know I’m currently being kidnapped by the classics gang

Seen.

come look for me asap

Seen.

“Fuck’s sake” you grumble under your breath and Shoko turns to look at you from over her shoulder, gaze soft in the dim light of the hallway. For a fleeting second, you think that purple eyeshadow would look horrible on anyone else but she kinda pulls it off.

“Sorry, my friend hasn’t been replying to my texts” you clear your throat once more.

“I’m sure she will, eventually” she utters, tone flat. Lightning flashes violet on her chestnut hair and your stomach tightens a little, clammy palm nothing but a forlorn hope it will feel nasty enough for her to let go. Shoko tightens her grip on your hand, thumb lazily grazing over the top of it and in between your knuckles.

“How come you don’t like storms?” maybe if you keep talking, the bullshit situation will feel more normal. Maybe the walk in the stupid hallway won’t be as infinite.

Shoko giggles, the mere thought of how your features would morph into a mask of pure horror has warmth pooling between her thighs. God, why do the guys always get to have all the fun?

Storms make it difficult to hear them scream.

“Never been a big fan” her pitch is suddenly lighter, almost jolly “they make everything look so gloomy, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do” you don’t intend for it to be a jab but her chuckle makes heat crawl from the base to your throat up to the roots of your hair anyway. 

Of course their common room is the most magnificent of the building, somber and exclusive and, naturally, conveniently connected to their private rooms. The sanguine hues coming from the stone fireplace dance across the dark, wooden furniture and make the carvings of the coffee table grow in depth. There are two upholstered sofas and two armchairs surrounding it as velvet constellations painted in rich burgundy, the oil lamps serving as a convenient counteragent for musty electric utility infrastructures.

There’s a bookcase by the door, built in what looks like African blackwood. It’s filled with vintage hardbacks, leatherbound volumes and what you wouldn’t have a hard time imagining are expensive first editions. Some of them are turned around, piled up and showcasing the paper side, alternated with silver candleholders and white Carrara marble bust sculptures. You recognize Marcus Aurelius and a representation of Canova’s Venus and Adonis.

A peculiar, earthy scent wafts through the stale air of the sweltering room: notes of lemongrass, pine and wood.

“Ah, we have a guest” Suguru’s line sounds rehearsed, void of actual surprise, and you don’t like it one bit.

He’s sitting on the sofa, an empty spot left between him and Satoru, whose grotesque cerulean gaze bores into yours as he brings a grape cluster to his mouth. The coffee table is covered in trays and plates of food: an abundance of fruit, prosciutto wrapped figs, smoked oysters accompanied with champagne beurre blanc, salted chocolate and caramel tarts, a basket filled with an assortment of breads. What looks like an exceptionally expensive replica of a traditional lagynos, the hellenistic wine jug favored by the ancient Greeks, dominates the center of the table and elegant wine goblets in sterling silver accentuate the unusual choice of flowers embellishing the surface: lycoris radiata, or red spider lilies.

“We do” Shoko lets go of your hand at last and you instinctively flex your fingers. Inexplicably, she seems to notice because she turns to look at you with an unreadable expression, hand rising to secure part of your hair behind your ear “I promised you’d behave” the little wink is not intimate at all, like a secret whispered to your ear only for everyone else to hear.

“Don’t we always?” Kento’s bored tone draws your attention and you’re finally able to tear your eyes away from the odd energy tying your gaze to the magnetic figures perched on the sofa.

Nanami and Yu are sitting on the opposite divan, the latter waving at you with a sweet smile that has his eyes turn into little half-moons that swallow his pupils. Pale, lithe fingers are gracefully holding a joint that is held to his friend’s lips.

“Want some?” Shoko’s syrupy voice startles you, the question almost whispered against the shell of your ear as she passes you by to take the seat her sister’s offering.

How are they allowed to do this in the first place? Sure, they’re sickeningly favored but smoking weed in a dorm? Not even attempting to keep the scent from seeping out into the hallway? What would it take for them to get some semblance of an actual reprimand, a corpse hid in a closet?

“No, thanks” you attempt to take the last remaining empty armchair but Suguru pats the spot between him and his best friend, cracking a soft smile and tossing a casual comment about how famished you must be.

“No reasonable person would venture outside in this weather and it’s way past dinner time” he indicates the plethora of options scattered on the large coffee table with the gentle wave of a hand “please, sit with us. I’d like to benefit from your views once more”

“Thank you” you cautiously accept a fig because at this point your stomach is one step away from absorbing itself “uh— Ieiri mentioned you had another discussion going on?”

Against your better judgement, Utahime’s skeptical scoff prompts you to accept the invitation. Satoru scoots away ever so slightly, perhaps to give you enough room to feel comfortable. And yet the comfort doesn’t come, you can’t relax your shoulders as you sink into the soft velvet. For a second, you even wonder if it’s a good idea to eat anything they’re offering.

Her crystalline laugh pierces the air and you’re not surprised to find Utahime sitting on her lap, back flush against her older sister’s chest, glaring at you like a guard dog.

“Please, just call me Shoko” she peers at you from behind Utahime’s shoulder. Her arms easily envelop her sister’s smaller frame, hands conveniently placed on her lap as thin fingers work to pack dark weed into the thin rolling paper.

Shoko. You’re tempeted to articulate it right away, to taste the way it’d feel on your tongue.

“We are” Suguru’s gaze lingers a moment too long on your mouth, the way it sinks into the red, purplish flesh of the fruit “we were analyzing Ovid’s metamorphoses and Kento was really interested in hearing your thoughts”

You search for his gaze but he’s thrown his head back, legs parted in what’s perhaps the most relaxed pose you’ve ever seen him indulge in. Yu has propped himself up on one elbow against the backrest of the sofa, cheek squished by his fist as pink lips close around what’s left of the joint.

“Our professor wants us to point out why their repetitiveness is unimportant” he smiles, words slightly dragged. 

“I mean, myths are not sacred stories and mutability is not sacrilege” the sweet taste of the fig melts in the back of your throat right as Satoru’s eyes travel back to you once more, it takes everything in your not to turn your head and challenge his stare “they’re still relevant because there’s still vibrancy to them. Stories were meant to be mutable, Ovid was never supposed to preserve canonical versions that had already been retelled thousands of times”

Geto hums, the corner of his lips already curving upwards. Such a pretty thing, with a pretty mind too.

“What did you like the most about them?” the question vibrates with genuine interest and you pick another fig as you dwell over it.

The stories, the narrative techniques, all the varied tones, make the metamorphoses one of your favorite Latin poems. You love that they’re a celebration of nature and, at the same time, a raw representation of the fundamental uncertainty of all things human. Love is kept  as a recurring theme and gods are only portrayed as allegories for forces and passions that guide the human decision making process.

“I think his mocking attitude is fun” you attempt a smile “it’s just… such a hilarious, epic, tragic opus. Whatever Ovid writes keeps its sheer beauty even in the darkest of lines and, god, does he have some of them”

Satoru huffs a small laugh out of his nose and this time you do look at him. He’s gorgeous, could easily become the Narcissus of any Echo, the nymph that in the myth falls desperately in love with him only to be rejected, scorned and humiliated.

Oh marvellous boy, I loved you in vain, farewell.

Would his body fade, his bones turn to stone? Would those eyes look at something other than his own divine reflection?

“Tongues being wrenched out, humans barking out their sorrows, women turned into mute creatures by envious gods. Yet you see beauty in them” he’s not mocking you, it’s the most serious you’ve ever heard him sound. The challenge he offers is void of sarcasm or skepticism, it sounds more like… a kind observation.

“As humans, we’re imperfect” although this may not exactly apply to you “we’re blinded by lust, passion, greed, jealousy. Just as the tide goes out only to go in again, we too drift and change in shape and are left witnessing each other’s ever shifting existence. Don’t you think he portrays the concept wonderfully?”

You’re not sure why you’re hoping for a decent exchange of views. Maybe you want to take a peek into their world, a real one, because there must be something other than the unnecessary travesty they carry around, something behind all that self-righteous bullshit. You want to know who they are, what they actually think, if something really does make them special. You don’t care about impressing them, you just want to understand.

But then Satoru’s lips curl into a smug smirk you’re all too familiar with, broad and spine-tingling. His pupils are dilated, swimming in the depths of his impossibly blue eyes as the tip of his tongue traces his upper lip in a pink flash.

“Nec perit in toto quicquam, mihi credite, mundo, sed variat faciemque novat” he articulates the words slowly, savoring each syllable and basking in the way your shoulders stiffen once more.

“What we call birth is but an incipient change from a prior state” Suguru chimes in delicately and when you turn to him you get the impression that he’s sitting closer than he was “while death is but cessation of a former state” he’s offering you a cup, filled with wine to the brim.

“Ah, no, thank you” you attempt a smile. Foxy eyes make it impossible to discern the size of his pupils but something tells you, even when high, he’d be able to remain perfectly lucid.

“I insist” he tilts his head to the side a little “our professor gave us the recipe, it’s our very own ambrosia”

You’re hesitant when you reach for the cup, the one he’s been clearly drinking from. But then again, maybe some liquid courage wouldn’t hurt while facing what’s your strangest evening to date.

The first sip burns in your throat and explodes in your chest, flush rising from your neck to your cheeks. It’s pleasant, most probably sweetened with honey and infused with spices you can’t quite pinpoint.

“Good girl” Satoru’s chuckle is close but somehow muffled. You take another good sip from the cup under Suguru’s expectant gaze and give it back, he thanks you with a smile.

It doesn’t take but a couple minutes spent discussing your favorite myths from the metamorphoses, Kento and Utahime having a lazy debate over Pyramus and Thisbe, for everything to start to feel kinda blurred around the edges, your head dizzy as if you’ve walked into some sort of misty haze. You can see Shoko’s mouth move and guess the sound of her laugh when she looks at you but receives no response, you can hear Suguru’s voice asking if you feel okay, but you’re floating underwater and your body suddenly feels so unbearably hot.

“I’m fine” you murmur and someone from across the room laughs. Is it Yu?

“You’re more than fine” Satoru’s hand ghosts over your bare knee for a moment, one digit starting to lazily trace the skin all the way up to the hem of your skirt “look at you. Our very own Diana” your eyelids feel heavy when you look at him, smile glistening even in the dim light of the room as thunder rumbles in the distance.

“So furious that we’ve seen her, she’d turn us all into deers and watch us getting mauled by a band of hounds if she could” his eyebrows raise to mimick your surprised expression when you open your mouth to protest.

“Deprendi miserum est” Shoko's playful pitch makes someone, perhaps Suguru, laugh condescendingly.

“You look nothing like Actaeon” is all you manage to let out and he laughs sweetly, hand reaching out to gently cradle your cheek, thumb tenderly grazing the portion of skin underneath your eye.

“What do I look like?”

What, not who.

Something in a corner far away of your mind is ringing as his thumb travels down to skim over your bottom lip, your mouth parts on its own accord and he gently pushes the digit between your lips.

You suck on it and it feels like the most natural thing on earth: it’s flattering that a being so ethereal would grant you such attentiveness, it’s only fair you return his fondness with equal generosity. He could ask for anything and you’d do everything in your power to satisfy him. Isn’t that why you’re here for?

“Tell me” Satoru’s pitch sounds accomodating but Suguru can barely contain a scoff at the actual impatience simmering beneath the surface.

His thumb wetly pops out of your mouth and you attempt to blink away part of your stupor, mind dangerously decelerated as you struggle to remember the answer you should be chasing.

But then he tilts his head to the side and offers another smile, a bolt of lightning exploding behind the tall window on the other side of the room. It might’ve as well struck you because you feel on fire, quite literally set ablaze right as another clap of thunder dissipates part of the fog flooding your head.

“A god” you murmur, equal parts fascinated and daunted beneath that stare.

He hums, pupils somehow blown wider in darkened celestial depths as he gently reaches over to guide you toward him. You’re clumsy as you attempt to carefully balance yourself atop his lap, head spinning even if big yet gentle hands patiently support your graceless movements.

Except he’s not being accomodating, he’s leading. You’re moving pliably, responding to the simplest of inputs with such submissiveness Gojo’s practically stiff in his pants already.

Lips are gentle and surprisingly soft as they first press to the column of your throat, they trace your skin while his broad hands keep you in place, fingers not even having to sink into the fat of your thighs to make sure you don’t move. His kisses are wet by the time he mouths his way up to and along your jaw, stopping mere inches away from your lips, reveling in the way your chest rises erratically underneath the pressure of your heavy breathing. Darker petals are already blossoming on your throat, skin still stinging in the spots he has sucked, bitten and then licked better.

“So worship me” he coos, a sudden squeeze of your hips prompting you to inch forward.

Your kiss is tentative, still asking for a permission you’re not sure you’ve been granted, obvlivious to the fact that you never needed one. You feel rough fingers cradling the back of your head to tilt your face and demand you kiss him deeper: still slow and attentive but more courageous, you comply and the sweet taste of wine melts on both your tongues, his rendered slightly bitter from the weed.

It’s addictive and exhilarating and when you pull back he doesn’t give you the chance to catch your breath because he chases you, an annoyed “not yet” breathed against your mouth, lidded eyes falling on the string of spit connecting your lips right before kissing you again. One of his hands slips underneath the hem of your skirt and strokes the soft skin of your thigh with intent, up and down, certainly distracting but not enough to convince you to break away from a kiss turned greedy, insatiable. Your hands travel from the back of his neck to his broad shoulders, pressing lightly against them to signal the lack of oxygen making you even more dizzy. Gojo would smirk if his tongue wasn’t buried so deep down your throat, the hand still holding your hip guiding your body to grind against his own while you let out soft mewls he keeps swallowing, a satisfied groan leaving his chest at last when you comply so easily. So obediently.

He allows you to draw back but not before pinching your bottom lip between his teeth, the sting so painful it makes you whine.

“So pretty” he says breathlessly, then inches forward once more and lets his tongue carefully trace your swollen lip to collect the blood “almost makin’ me want to keep you”

“Don’t be… ridiculous—” Utahime’s voice comes out faint from behind you, soon breaking into a muffled moan. But when you attempt to turn around, Gojo harshly grabs you by the jaw and painfully sinks his fingers into your cheeks.

“Eyes on me” the command is stern, makes a shiver run down your spine. The hand underneath your skirt lightly pinches your inner thigh, it hurts but not in the way you’d expect and you find yourself rolling your hips once more, in a silly attempt to get closer to that warmth. His smile is clement as the tips of his fingers gently run over the fabric of your cotton panties, it only grows in size and brightness when he finds the material already damp.

“Oh, you poor thing” he purrs right as he presses long fingers a little harder against your cunt, the softest of gasps promptly silenced by his lips grazing yours and then gently murmuring “see? Isn’t this nice? Did you really need to act all high and mighty after all?”

You tremble pathetically while he keeps rubbing you back and forth, slowly but applying just enough pressure for your heart to pick up its pace and your stomach to contort in all too familiar knots.

“Please…” you breathe out. It takes everything in you not to reach in between your own legs and grab his wrist to get some relief.

“Please what, pretty thing?” his thumb casually swipes at your clit and this time he lets you whimper for everyone to hear, the way you’re heaving and the feeling of your nails sinking into his shoulders going straight to his painfully hard cock.

“He can’t help you if you don’t tell him what you need” you can hardly recognize Kento’s voice in your dazed state, it still carries its usual, unfazed pitch but there’s something new vibrating to it. Something Yu’s low chuckle and the groan that follows seem to confirm.

“Touch me” you sink your teeth into your bottom lip at the feeling of fresh arousal soaking your underwear under the pressure of his fingers, the lazy rubs his thumb teases your bud with “fuck, Gojo, just—” you damn near let out a sob when the warmth of his hand is abruptly taken from you, hole pathetically fluttering around nothing at all. Hips buck in protest and he chuckles at your impatience, savoring every last drop of your desperation. It’s his favorite part.

“Ask nicely” the tip of his nose grazes your cheek before he lays a soft kiss on it “and say my name right”

“Satoru” you whine, every single nerve ending of your body catching fire at the anticipation wrecking you from the inside “please, please, just touch me”

There’s no time and you don’t currently have the mental capacity to take a second, acknowledge how that name feels when spelled out loud for the first time. You can’t discern the taste between your teeth because your underwear is moved out of the way, safely pushed to the side and your mind goes blank when he finally touches your bare, feverish skin. Satoru doesn’t cast his eyes away from you as his lithe fingers rub you back and forth some more, collect part of the slick that trickles out of you like a syrup so sweet. They tease the opening of your cunt right before a finger carefully dips inside: he’s barely holding back a groan when you instantly clamp down around it, wet and tight and so warm.

He thrusts slowly, pushing up into you with exasperating languidness, so much that you have to roll your hips with a strangled moan to keep the fire in your gut ignited.

“Stop being an asshole” Suguru’s voice is so close and yet seems to reach your ears from far away.

“Yeah, Toru, hurry up” you barely register Shoko’s mocking words, the light giggle that follows “let’s see who can make them come first”

Gojo smirks, one hand rubbing reassuring circles into your hip as he adds another finger and starts moving in and out faster, digits skillfully curled and thumb pressing to your clit once more.

“That’s not very fair, Shoko. I don’t know this one as well as you know your sister” and yet you cry out once more, legs tightening around his hips the deeper he pushes his fingers in. The rhythm is relentless, the squelching sounds filling the room obscene. You’re too lightheaded to realize they’re not coming just from you.

“Quid est rei? Let me hear you, pretty” he presses another kiss to your jaw and angles his wrist, curled fingers roughly dragging in and out as they continuously stretch you open and batter a specific spot over and over again, until you can’t hold back a vocal, desperate moan. You feel so full and yet impatient for more, for that boiling wire in your stomach to finally snap.

He gazes at her lips, and knows that gazing is not enough. He marvels at her fingers, her hands, her wrists, her arms. And what he does not see he thinks is better.

Satoru starts trailing kisses over the skin of your throat, he seems to have already memorized where to suck to make your pulse tap faster against his mouth. You’re so human, so fragile, so desperate for him. Would it be so wrong to keep you? You wouldn’t look nearly as pretty as the last one anyway, not covered in all that blood and with that cute little mouth frozen in a forever scream. A little inebriation is all it takes to instill some sense of devotion into that charming, opinionated brain of yours. Just a few sips of a special nectar to have you making a mess on his crooked fingers, moan after moan springing from your shameless throat as sticky arousal dribbles down his fingers and between his knuckles.

“What d’you say you help me out, angel?” he’s leaking in his own underwear by the time his teeth sink into the tender skin of your neck and his movements nearly come to a halt, making you whine in protest. Satoru’s smile is feral when it meets your scowl. “C’mon, don’t you want to please me?” his thumb presses on your clit and gives it a few rough rubs, the muscles of your thighs twitching in response.

“Yes, yes” you clumsily reach for his crotch, give it a few messy strokes before he groans right into your mouth and grips your wrist. He presses your hand against himself for a moment, hips rubbing against your palm, clarity of his mind threatening to abandon him when you grind down harshly, in desperate search of some friction, and he feels the wetness of your cunt against the back of his hand.

“Let me please you, I’ll do anything” you whine when he forcefully moves your hand away, grip around your wrist bruising as his other hand roughly lifts your skirt over your thighs. Ah, there you are. Satoru unconsciounsly licks his lips at the sight of your swollen clit, slick folds glistening with fresh arousal he’s dying to taste.

But now Suguru can see you too and he knows just how impatient he gets. Fuck.

“Anything?” it’s meant to be a tease but Satoru is just really trying to hold it together, to gain back some sort of lucidity. You’re still languidly grinding against him, making a visible mess of his light brown pants. It takes every ounce of self restraint left in him to stop your movements and start rubbing at your dewy skin again, spreading your lower lips and barely dipping two fingers inside your fluttering hole.

“God— yes, Satoru. Anything, anything” your despair is addicting and he chuckles darkly at your franctic nods, presses his forehead to your cheek as his gaze sets on the gorgeous, glimmering sight underneath him.

“Take what you need, then” Satoru angles his wrist but keeps still, patient “fuck yourself on my fingers and maybe I’ll fill that pretty little pussy up”

He hates that it’s a lie, despises the idea of giving up his chance to effectively ruin you. He’s a man of his word, when the consequences of not abiding by the agreements are too troublesome anyway.

But is he really above giving in to temptation? You called him a god, you’re here to worship him. He’s a perfect being, he’s the one calling the goddamn shots. And so this has to be different, special, a moment belonging only to the two of you. Even as Shoko’s fingers relentlessly stretch her sister open, even as Kento’s dark gaze is fixated on him and Yu is lazily stroking his cock, wrist turning skillfully in comforting circles. Even with Suguru’s eyes not missing a single movement or twitch of lips. Satoru can practically discern the shadow of a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, it infuriates him. 

This moment has to be his. No one else’s.

And so, as you restlessly roll your hips, he starts moving in and out once more, precise and fast. It’s the deepest he’s ever pushed his fingers inside you and the electricity crackling below your stomach leaves space to nothing more than a wordless cry out from lips frozen in muted pleasure.

“Please, please, please” you sob and reach to rub at your clit, eyes rolling back when his thumb presses harshly against your fingers and works the bud in sync with you.  

“Come, pretty girl” the velvet of his voice sends a jolt of pleasure between your thighs, lips pressed to the shell of your ear as his other hand closes around the base of your throat “say my name and cream on my fucking fingers”

Devote yourself to me. Worship me, worship me, worship me.

You reach in between your legs and grab his wrist with feverish desperation, pushing down to bring him closer and fuck yourself on his hand as deep as you can, until he abuses that specific spot inside you over and over and over.

“Satoru” you cry out “close, so close—”

“I know, angel” he half-chuckles because of course he can feel that “let go for me”

You’re sobbing out his name, juices from your soaked cunt drenching both your hands as you rock back and forth, sounds you’re well past feeling embarrassed about drown out the noise of the storm. He doesn’t stop when your jaw goes slack and one of the strongest heats you have ever experienced explodes in your core. Satoru keeps moving and moving and moving even as your hips still and your muscles seize up, raw touch turning so sensitive your nails dig into the flesh of his wrist.

The heavenly sound of your whines still echo in his dazed mind when he slows his movements and ultimately stops, gaze drinking in the bliss embedded in your features before he tilts his chin forward to press a sweet, chaste kiss to your lips. 

“Did so well for me” you smile at the praise, flinching just a little when he slides his soaked fingers out of your warmth and brings them to his mouth. Just a taste, he thinks he should get to have just a taste.

He can only indulge in it for a moment before a hand from beside him uncerimoniously closes around his wrist. Suguru brings the long digits to his mouth and lets his tongue shamelessly swirl around their length as he suckles on them, eyes shutting for a moment at how unexpectedly sweet you taste.

“I still won” this time you don’t attempt to turn around, you don’t care about whatever Shoko is talking about. Not when his eyes see nothing but you, free hand gently stroking your thigh, lips murmuring honeyed praises. You want him and you’re blinded by the wild gratification that comes with him wanting you.

I am dragged along by a strange new force. Desire and reason are pulling in different directions. I see the right way and approve it, but follow the wrong.

Satoru gently takes the hand still nestled between your legs with a light chuckle, genuine amusement softening his perfect features.

“Taste yourself” he guides your drenched fingers to your mouth but not before pressing a kiss to your knuckles “so you don’t forget what I do to you”

You’re still throbbing pathetically as you comply and suck on your own fingers, lick them clean under his attentive gaze, the hardness you’re sitting on causing new warmth to pool into your core.

You’re not hesitant when you kiss him again, desperate to have him taste your essence with every swipe of your tongue. The guttural groan that arises from his throat makes you smile, triumphant. You kiss him, lazy and messy and deep, timidly rock your hips in hopes of further pleasing him. All that you are, all that you’ll ever be, belongs to him now.

“I think that’s enough. Don’t you, Satoru?”

And just like that, he pulls away, harshly stills your movements with a firm grip of his hands. He doesn’t look at you, head falling to rest against your shoulder as he catches his breath.

Looking to your right causes a new wave of dizziness.

Geto is out of focus but smiling kindly at you, eyes that are so different from Satoru's narrowed and curved into little crescents. They bring a different kind of darkness and yet you feel drawn to him all the same, eager to abide by any request. It just feels so good, to be obedient. Whatever you kept worrying about? They mean well, they want to take care of you. It’s the safest you’ve ever felt.

“C’mere” Suguru is sitting close enough to support your poorly coordinated movements as you attempt to detangle yourself from Gojo, who presses a final kiss to your forehead before retracting without complaint.

“Sweet girl” Geto welcomes you onto his lap with the sweetest touch, reassuring hands pushing back some of the hair sticking to your flushed face “sweet, smart girl. How lucky are we that you decided to join us” he coos.

Captivated by his glittering onyx gaze, you give yourself to him just as easily, mind swimming and barely able to register the harsh sound of the rain against the windows. You lean towards him, although there’s really no need because he ever so gently cups your chin to bring you close anyway.

“You’ll do as I say” he whispers, the firmness of his hold preventing you to further lean over “won’t you, sweet thing?” you can’t suppress a gasp when his knuckle forcefully comes against your still sensitive cunt and presses hard against it.

“I—” breath catches in your throat when he suddenly pushes two curled fingers inside just once, in and out, movement harsh and painfully fast.

“Look at me” Suguru tightens his hold on your chin as a warning, tilts his head to the side when your clouded gaze meets his hungry one “you’ll let me split you open on my cock for everyone to see, you’ll take what I give you until you’re sore and raw and then you’ll beg for more”

“Yes” you breathe out and he chuckles at the feeling of your legs clenching around him.

“Yes what, sweetheart?” delicate fingers move over your clit in slow circles, absolutely unbothered by the way you start squirming, unable to control the way your body reacts to a touch so controlled and yet overwhelming.

“Yes, I will— God, I'll let you—”

“I’m a patient man, darling”

You honestly want to cry at the sensation of his fingers barely sinking into your hole, the tips teasing your entrance over and over again as his thumb never loses its rythm over your sore bundle of nerves.

“I'll let you split me open!” you cry out “I’ll let you do anything!”

“You will” his fingers curl and the heat of arousal explodes inside you once more. He finally dips his digits all the way in, up to his knuckles, right as he kisses you. It’s rough and messy, teeth clashing and tongue eagerly licking into your mouth, the tip of his cock leaking copiously at every strangled moan you let out, at every subtle, pitiful roll of your hips against his hand.

Suguru breaks away first and harshly pulls his fingers out but you know better than to complain, too eager for what’s to come.

“Touch yourself” it takes a few seconds to understand that he’s not talking to you, although his gaze has not left your eyes a single moment. 

Satoru’s relieved groan seems so far and yet close, embedded in fresh memories that make your heart beat with the frenzy of a caged rabbit. You don’t dare look in his direction.

“Perhaps we really could keep you, mhm?” Suguru kisses your forehead, eyelids, the tip of your nose and then dips his head to trace your jaw, angles your head to have better access to the already marked skin of your throat. He almost clicks his tongue in annoyance: what a mess, he would’ve made a much more gracious job.

“Not even scared enough to beg yet” Suguru moves his hand down, you catch the faint glisten of the wetness covering lithe fingers as he reaches below the waistband of his pants “and you still managed to arouse him. Isn’t that a first, Satoru?”

Mesmerized by the sight of his cock, you fail to register whatever reply comes from Gojo. Suguru’s fingers easily circle the impressive girth of a length so pretty, curved and with a flared, heavily leaking tip. Is every part of them this beautiful? Will you have the chance to find out more, to learn the edges of every single one of their bodies? Will they all claim you, keep you?

Geto gives himself a few strokes, wrist turning elegantly as his lips welcome a smile so soft.

“Would you want to stay, sweet girl?” his free hand travels down to your hip and gives it two light taps. You barely gather some strength and use the leverage of his shoulders to push yourself up just enough for his cock to find your entrance and teasingly move against it a few times. He barely pushes you open and stays like that, the sound of your ragged, labored breaths music to his ears.

“Yes” you rasp “yes, please let me stay”

“Over my dead body” Utahime’s bitter reproach doesn’t faze you, not as Suguru pushes in some more, your muscles tensing as drools collects in the corners of your parted lips.

“Don’t bother, we have enough of those already” Yu’s low chuckle reaches your ears a moment too late.

Suguru grabs your hips and sits you down on him harshly, in a single, brutal movement that has your mind going static and your entire body burning at the sudden stretch. You’re stuffed so full and he’s so deep, almost like he’s pressing against the inside of your stomach.

His controlled facade alters for a moment, the sensation of your tight walls sucking him in so superbly clouding his senses and better judgement.

“Fuck” you whimper, nails digging into the soft fabric of his perfectly ironed white shirt “Suguru” his name on your lips, the pleasure distorting your fucked out features make his cock twitch inside your pretty pussy. Just perfect, you were made to take him, for him to painfully carve its way inside you.

Dark shadows swim in his intense stare while you struggle to breathe properly as he slowly grinds you against him. Is this a reward or a punishment? You can’t tell anymore.

“Look at how gorgeous you are with my cock spreading you apart” he presses his lips to your forehead once more, it feels like the blessing of a deity.

“Keep me” you whisper, delirious, desperate for him to move or at least allow you to roll your hips some more “I’ll be good, I promise I’ll be so good”

Someone reaches over from behind you to gently comb some hair back from your forehead, now covered in a sheen of sweat. A melodic, familiar chuckle inadvertently sends a shudder down your spine even in your hazed state.

“Let her stay, Suguru” Hina lays a kiss on the top of your head as her chest presses flush against your back “we’ll help you take care of her”

index vocabolorum:

Nec perit in toto quicquam, mihi credite, mundo, sed variat faciemque novat - there’s nothing in the entire universe that perishes, believe me; rather it renews and varies its substance

Deprendi miserum est - it is wretched to be found out