#ghostjo

Having just moved into the building last month, you had already learned most of what you needed to know. Like that creepy elevator, or that residence on the fourth floor where people heard weird things—loud coughs in empty rooms or the scratching of glass. Though you honestly couldn’t care less. Trying to finish your master's was hard enough.

Today did a good job of exhausting you. From four consecutive lectures to a long lab period. It used to just be ‘mitochondria are the powerhouse of the cell’, now it’s ‘quantum coherence in enzymes to retroviral DNA integrations’. You didn’t know when you got so interested in biology, but here you were. At least job offers were already flooding your emails.

You wandered wearily home, trying not to cuss at anyone in your way. Science, apparently, did drive people crazy, and an overworked day was just the perfect fuel for this fire.

Lines of people stuffed together on the underground. You plonked down onto the first vacant seat you saw, head tilting back to rest against the back of your seat. The underground sped up slowly, then raced through the dark tunnels. You closed your eyelids, a sigh leaving your mouth as you attempted to take a short nap. The underground slowed, then climbed above the ground to reveal a scene that you had familiarized yourself with—a view that would instantly attract all tourists to the window.

You peeked an eye open, not to take in the scene, but to check the time. It was raining outside, fogging up the entire historic infrastructure. The gigantic clock hand was already well past the seventh mark. It was going to be your stop soon, and damn it, it was late. With a sigh, you hoisted yourself up, cussing—no. Impatiently excusing your way out of the carriage.

But since the universe was in a bad mood and decided to make yours bad too, the moment you stepped onto the sky-high platform, the sky roared. And just a few seconds later, it wept violently. Odd. You swore it was clear just a minute ago. Well, grey clouds and fog don’t count, right?

But fuck it. If this day couldn’t get any worse, you didn’t have a fucking umbrella.

“Umbrellas! 5 pounds! Umbrellas! 5 pounds!”

Damn, those vendors were quick—they always were—but to buy something you already had? Please. You were too much of a saver to do that. You had already risked yourself by renting a room in a haunted apartment because it was cheap, and you could spend that same amount on laundry—which would be entirely necessary since you were planning to dash home under the sky’s mood swing.

You stood at the underground exit, coat wrapped tight around yourself, tote bag hidden under the fabric.

Now here goes nothing…

7 minutes and 12 seconds and approximately 1989 cusses plus grumbles. You counted. That’s how long you took just to arrive at your seemingly welcoming apartment building. Hair clung to your face, coat dripping wet, face stone grey. The world was lucky you didn’t burn or kill anyone… yet.

You were an ovulating woman on edge; a rubber band stretched to its limit. If one more thing delayed your rest in your own space, you were seriously going to—

Ding! Creeaakk!

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking serious.

You saw red. The little monitor in the elevator showed the familiar number as you stood there waiting, finger spamming the closing button as the door kept on opening and closing for the third time now.

“Fuck this shit…” you muttered, huffing. You folded your arms and leaned against the cold steel with visible creases between your brows.

Suddenly, a cold gush of air pushed inside the elevator, lifting the hairs on your skin. You wrapped yourself tighter in your drenched coat, water still dripping from it.

“That’s the fifth time already,” you whined, your finger returning to the closing button as you saw the door opening once more.

Another gush of air pushed inside, this time stronger. Its cold crawled under your coat, and you swore it felt like fingers creeping up your skin.

Weird.

The elevator only ever opened a maximum of five times unless someone pressed the button outside. You’ve used this machine enough times to know that. And there were no windows on the fourth floor, but even if there were, they would’ve been closed. There was no way air could’ve rushed in.

Unless….

No. Keep your mind straight, woman. Spirits. Are. Not. Real.

Creaakkk…

The door finally closed.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. What were you even relieved about? Ghosts, spirits, souls—they go to heaven or hell, not stay here and haunt people. You should be the last person to be worried about these surreal—or you could say supernatural—beings.

You stood in the elevator, freezing, as the unescaped air kept crawling around your body. Down your arms, to your fingers, then up your forearms again, sliding up and down. The air slithered lower. From circling your ankles, up to rubbing your knees, then sliding up to your thighs. Higher, higher, and higher till it inched to your inner thighs—

You shuddered, flaring your coat to swat the air away. What the hell was taking this elevator so long to go up?

Your eyes wandered up to the monitor, only to freeze. It still showed number 4. And in the reflection off the thin glass, the reflection of—

“Me.”

A loud yelp escaped your mouth. Your hands scrambled to press the elevator buttons—to make this shit open, make it move, get you out of here… But when you turned your head back, you saw nothing.

Were you hallucinating? The reflection and the voice… it must’ve been your brain pulling tricks on you after the long day. Cambridge assured people’s days were never short.

You heaved the shock out of your lungs. And now calmly, although shaking from the cold seeping from your coat, you pressed the number to your floor. Relief flooded into your system once you felt the elevator finally move again.

But still, a sense of uneasiness rested within you. People get hallucinations because of mental conditions, drugs, or past trauma. You didn’t associate with any of those. No drugs, no alcohol, no schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, and no traumatizing past.

So like a habit, your eyes started wandering again… until they met the reflective steel surface of the elevator door.

“Having fun ignoring me, princess?”

Nope. No, no, no.

You snapped your head back, seeing nothing, and continued to reassure yourself. Eyes closing shut.

Hallucinations, hallucinations, hallucinations…

“You can only see me through a reflective surface, darling,”

Hallucinations, hallucinations, hallucinations…

“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Nothing to be scared of,”

A feather touch of cold brushed your wrist.

Your eyes blasted open, looking straight ahead, straight to—my gosh—the most handsome man—or ghost—you’ve ever seen.

Striking, tousled white hair. Tall, not lanky, muscular. Each muscle popped under the thin white tee he was wearing. Grey sweatpants hung loosely on his small waist, one hand holding your wrist, the other slowly running through your hair. His skin was pale white, cerulean orbs staring right back at you, making you shiver with every inch of skin his cold, translucent fingers touched.

You couldn’t move. Just couldn’t. Breath stolen.

The man—ghost—in the reflection smirked. What was so amusing right now? You were facing a ghost. A very handsome one indeed. And he was finding a cold and dripping you amusing?

Your throat bobbed, trying to form some sort of comprehensible sentence. “W-who are y-you?” you managed to croak out. You weren’t wrong; fear had entirely consumed your throat.

“Satoru. Satoru Gojo,” the ghost whispered into your ear, “and has anyone told you it’s not a good idea for a woman to be running in this elevator alone?”

You slowly shook your head. Somewhere between the terror and the disbelief, you realized you could speak again.

“W-what are you?”

Satoru shrugged. “A ghost or spirit. Whatever you humans find easier to say,” His hands slowly drifted to your back, then circled your waist. He leaned down and whispered right next to your ear, “But I doubt you’re thinking of anything but what I am right now,”

You flinched. He smirked.

Well, fuck it. Damn right, he was.

Because who’s at fault when you’re facing the hottest… thing you’ve ever seen? You were scared, that’s true. Terrified even. But then again, you were an ovulating woman on edge. It was as if you weren’t just frozen because of the cold and your fear… it was to snap your thighs together to shut that squelching wet hole of yours. Batshit crazy, you know. Pfft, to be wet over a hot ghost? Not on your list.

Yet here you were, being completely see-through to Satoru’s eyes. And damn it, if that didn’t make him any hotter than he already was.

The elevator suddenly felt much more claustrophobic than it ever had.

The elevator finally inched up, moving slowly to the 5th floor. But the physical world felt entirely distant. Your focus was locked on the reflective steel of the door, trapped beneath the weight of a gaze that felt entirely too heavy for a ghost.

"Nothing to say, princess?" Satoru murmured against your ear, a freezing puff of air that somehow made your skin flush a furious red.

In the reflection, his fingers tightened around your waist. But looking down at your own body? There was nothing there. Just the heavy fabric of your drenched coat pressing against your skin. But even though it was just the fabric, it sent an electric shiver straight down your spine. It was maddening. Your eyes saw his large hands mapping the curve of your hips, but your nerve endings only registered a biting, static chill that left a trailing wake of fire.

Your hands twitched against your own coat. Fight it, your brain screamed. He’s a spirit. You’re hallucinating. You’re tired.

“Why me?” you managed to ask, seeking dialogue as a distraction from how your body was reacting.

Satoru laughed loudly. “Honey, you think a gentleman like me would leave an edgy, tired, beautiful young woman to deal with all that stress herself?” He chuckled again. “I’ve been eyeing you long enough to not miss my chance at this.”

His chance? Watching you? Hot.

Goddamn it. You were finding everything hot. That was not a good sign. Not when you were seconds away from climbing this man like a tree if he turned out to be touchable.

Now who the hell let this man die? Irritatingly handsome, good with words and touches. Men like that are rare nowadays, and the ones that actually have those qualities? Apparently dead and turned into a spirit, as it seemed.

"I can hear your heart," Satoru chuckled, a low, vibrating sound. In the reflection, his head tilted, his white hair brushing against your cheek as he watched your expression crumble. "It's racing. And you're shaking... but not from the cold, are you?" he pushed again.

You said it once, and you were going to say it again. This beautiful fucking man was right. He was entirely right. The raw, primal frustration of your day, the hormonal edge of ovulation, and the sheer absurdity of being cornered by a devastatingly handsome ghost had fused into a dizzying cocktail of arousal between your thighs. You tried to press your thighs together, a reflex to hide the sudden dampness pooling between them, but the movement only made you more aware of it.

And of course, he noticed as well. His cerulean orbs shone even brighter as he watched you with a predatory gaze.

"You're so tense," he whispered, and in the reflection, one of his hands slowly slid down from your waist, his translucent fingers tracing an agonizingly slow path down your hip, smoothing over the wet fabric of your trousers, heading straight for the inside of your thigh. "Should I help you relax?"

Gods, you should say no. You would have said no and immediately screamed your lungs out a while ago if your hormones weren’t pushing you in the wrong direction, but damn it, you couldn’t find it in yourself to actually say no.

"We're... we're almost at my floor," you managed to choke out, the last little cling you had left on your dignity. Your voice trembled as your eyes locked onto his hands in the reflection. The monitor above shifted. Floor 7. Just two more floors.

"Then we'd better hurry," Satoru whispered.

His hand slid firmly between your thighs, his palm pressing upward, parting them just a fraction. The sheer contrast of his freezing aura against the pulsing, desperate heat of your body made a soft, breathless gasp hitch in your throat.

What terrified you wasn’t that your body was reacting; it was that you were letting it react. You weren’t moving away.

"Look at me," he commanded softly, his grip tightening in the reflection. "Watch what I'm doing to you."

Your eyes locked with his, showing zero objection as he slid his hands higher. You felt him pinning his weight on you, softly pressing you against the metallic doors of the elevator, careful not to do too much since you wouldn’t be able to see him.

Just a second later, you felt it. His finger was just millimeters away from your heat, and then, painfully slowly, he cupped you firmly through your trousers.

A helpless whimper left your lips. The phantom friction was so insanely good that you bucked your hips into his hand. His lips curved into a wide, devilish grin of triumph as he began to circle your clit. You braced your hand onto the door as your eyes closed shut.

You just needed to feel.

“That’s it, sweetie, let me take care of you…” he cooed in your ear.

But just as things were getting good, of course, the universe had to ruin it for you.

Ding!

The sharp chime of the elevator broke the spell as you opened your eyes, catching one last glimpse of Satoru’s dark gaze before it vanished as the door creaked open. You gasped, stumbling forward into the space. Your breath came in ragged, uneven pants. You threw a frantic glance back at the now-empty elevator.

He was gone.

Shaking, your body humming with a desperate, unfulfilled ache, you rushed out into the dimly lit hallway. Your flat was at the very end of the corridor. You fished blindly into your wet coat pocket, your hands trembling so hard you almost dropped your keys twice. Finally, you shoved the key into the lock. You twisted it, pushing the door open into the dark, quiet sanctuary of your apartment.

You stepped inside, letting out a long, shuddering breath as you reached for the wall to slam the front door shut behind you.

For a moment, you just stood there, trying to process what the hell had just happened and why that heat of yours was still burning. But before you could think any longer, you felt it—the familiar gush of air. Panic and desire fused, driving you to immediately speed to your bedroom, where your full-length mirror was waiting.

And again, your initial thought was correct. There he was, hovering right next to you through the reflection of your mirror with a lazy, dominant smirk on his face—Satoru Gojo.

“Didn’t think I’d leave you, did ya?” he questioned, his hands finding the dip of your waist again. “And come to think of it, you’re a little more needy than I thought.”

You instantly turned back but saw the same emptiness. It just didn’t feel empty.

“Reflections only, sweetheart. Keep your eyes on the mirror. I started something, and now I’m guessing you’re desperate for me to finish it?” he whispered in your ear.

You didn’t answer; you couldn’t. You just froze as you felt his invisible force stripping away your clothes—your wet coat tossed onto the ground, followed by your sweater and trousers, leaving you only in your undergarments.

“Fucking beautiful,” he whispered, his eyes memorizing each dip and curve of your body. But despite his raging desire, he kept his hands off where you wanted them most.

“Now answer me,” he demanded, his eyes staring straight into yours in the glass. He moved closer, pressing his presence flush against your bare back.

“Y-yes,” you stuttered. You didn’t even know when you had decided to let a ghost you'd known for all of twenty minutes touch you like this. But then again, you couldn’t really blame someone who was ovulating and had just endured a hellish day, could you?

He clicked his tongue. “Yes, what? Use your words properly now, sweets.”

"Please," you whispered, though you didn't even know what you were begging for.

"Please, what, sweetheart?" he cooed. "Tell me what you want me to do to you. Say it out loud, and I'll make sure you feel every single bit of it."

You couldn’t think. The academic rigor of Cambridge, the rain, the exhausting day—it all vanished, evaporated by the sheer heat pooling between your thighs.

"Touch me," you gasped out, your voice desperate. "Satoru, please."

That was his last restraint.

A low, deeply satisfied growl vibrated against your back. Immediately, his fingers slipped entirely beneath the waistband of your underwear. The sensation hit you like a lightning strike. His fingers were freezing—a shocking, icy contrast against your dripping, boiling heat—but the moment he made direct contact, a volcanic wave of pleasure tore through your lower abdomen.

"Ah!" You bucked into the touch, your body leaning forward and bracing itself against the mirror.

"Keep your eyes open," Satoru commanded, his grip on your hip tightening, pinning you firmly. "Watch."

You forced your heavy eyelids open, staring desperately into the glass. You watched his long, pale fingers begin to work, circling your clit with perfect friction. The rhythm was brutal and deliberate.

“Let me take these off, yeah?” he asked, and you desperately nodded.

Riiipppp!

You gasped. Looking down in the mirror, you only saw what was left of your underwear.

“Those were new,” you accused him weakly.

“Fuck that,” he cursed, continuing to play with your clit and effectively silencing your complaints.

His name fell from your lips like a prayer. The phantom friction was too much. You were already on edge, completely wound up from the day, and Satoru was driving you over the cliff with terrifying speed. Your breath came in ragged, high-pitched whimpers.

“So wet. So impatient,” he huffed, slipping a finger inside you.

“A-ah! Yes—fuck! So g-good,” you drawled, helplessly clawing at the smooth surface of your mirror to try and find balance as you felt your own slick sliding down your inner thighs.

His finger sped up as another joined in, stealing your breath away completely. His other hand moved up to reach and cup your breast under your bra, tearing yet another loud moan from you.

The stimulation was insane. His fingers were curling and working inside you while his other hand teased your nipples. You felt it—the tingling sensation of a rubber band stretched to its absolute limit, nearing its snapping point.

“I-I’m gonna c-cum!”

“Yeah? Look how wet you are for a ghost, princess," Satoru whispered darkly against your ear, picking up the pace until it was a punishing, blurring speed. You could barely see his fingers as they pistoned in and out of you. "You're so close. Take it."

You let out a broken sob. Your hips rolled helplessly against his hand, chasing the blinding friction. The tension in your thighs stretched to a flawless peak, and then, you came.

Your vision whited out as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clamped down violently around his fingers, a loud, ruined cry tearing from your throat as your knees completely gave out. You would have hit the floor, but the solid, invisible weight of Satoru caught you, lifting you effortlessly against him as your body violently shuddered through the release.

For a long minute, the only sound in the apartment was your ragged, panting breaths and the heavy thumping of your heart.

As the spots cleared from your eyes, you weakly looked back up at the mirror. Satoru was still there, staring at your flushed, ruined expression with a dark, deeply possessive hunger. Slowly, he drew his hand out from your reflection. His fingers were glistening.

Without breaking eye contact with you in the glass, he brought his wet fingers to his lips, lazily licking your taste from his skin.

A fresh shiver ran down your spine, your core pulsing with a deep, lingering ache. You thought it was over. You thought he was going to let you breathe.

Instead, you felt the heavy, unmistakable ridge of him press hard against your lower back. The explicit feeling of his length left absolutely no doubt about his intentions.

He wasn't done. He hadn't even started.

Satoru reached forward, gripping your hair firmly to tilt your head back, his lips brushing against your jaw as his cerulean eyes blazed with a dangerous, untamed promise.

"That was just to clear your head, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice dangerously low against your skin. "Now, let's see how much of me you can actually take."