#intern!reader

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

With a slight bow, he turned and left.

Y/N opened the bag, the aroma of fresh herbs and warm bread hitting her instantly.

She glanced around, suddenly aware of eyes on her.

A cluster of engineers across stared, their conversations dipping to murmurs. One whispered to another, gesturing toward the bag with a logo none of them could afford on a whim. Y/N caught fragments “Wayne’s butler? For her?” but she ignored them, her lips curving into a small smile.

She took a bite of the sandwich, savouring the crisp lettuce and creamy avocado, and ate happily, her focus drifting back to her monitors between bites.

Hours later, as her focus was back at the codes, Bruce strode onto the floor. His presence was magnetic, but Y/N barely noticed until he was at her office, leaning slightly to glance at her screen. She straightened, pushing her glasses up her nose, and handed him a tablet with the decrypted code, neatly formatted and annotated.

“Done,” she said, keeping her cool despite the flutter in her chest. “The encryption was layered—military-grade, but sloppy in parts. I isolated the key and traced the server. Details are all there.”

Bruce’s eyes scanned the tablet, a faint nod signaling his approval.

“Good work. Faster than I expected.” He paused as he handed the tablet back. “Did you like the lunch?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the shift she notice on his voice. He was already moving toward his office, his hand resting lightly on her lower back, guiding her along.

The touch was subtle but warm through the thin fabric of her blazer, sending a spark up her spine.

“Yes,” she said, almost shy. “It was… really nice. Thank you.”

He didn’t respond immediately, just led her into his office, the space vast and sleek, with dark wood paneling and a panoramic view of Gotham’s twinkling lights. The door clicked shut behind them, and before she could say anything else, Bruce turned, closing the distance between them. His hand cupped her cheek, and he kissed her, his lips firm yet gentle against hers.

Y/N’s breath caught, but she leaned into him, kissing him back, her hands finding his chest, fingers curling into the crisp fabric of his suit.

The world outside melted away.

He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

“You’re the most intelligent woman I’ve ever met.” His thumb brushed her jaw, and her heart raced.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the cord of the heavy blackout curtains flanking the office windows. With a smooth pull, they slid shut, the fabric muffling the outside world, shielding them from the prying eyes of the office beyond.

The room felt smaller now, intimate.

Y/N’s lips parted, a nervous laugh escaping.

“Nosy people out there,” she murmured.

“Let them talk,” Bruce said as he stepped closer again, his hand still lingering at her waist, and for that moment, it was just them.

© RSKDOLL 2025 — written by me and only me.

Hotch rarely spares a thought for the empty house next door. It’s more scenery than structure, slowly deteriorating with neglect, gutters strangled with fallen leaves and ivy clawing up weathered brick. He keeps the lawn presentable enough to ward off complaints from the neighborhood association, but beyond that, it might as well be a ghost, out of sight, out of mind, pushed aside in favor of more immediate demands.

The house’s former occupant, a mild-mannered elderly woman, had been perfectly agreeable company, never intrusive, always amiable enough to warrant polite nods or the occasional commiseration over Jim’s habitual disregard for modesty behind open blinds across the street. Their relationship, if one could call it that, remained comfortably superficial, never straying into genuine familiarity. And that arrangement suited Hotch entirely, aligning neatly with his preference for clear, intentional boundaries around his personal life.

At the mailbox, Hotch absently flips through the day’s standard collection of bills, takeout menus and coupon sheets that never make it past his front door. His routine is punctuated by the sharp report of a closing car door, redirecting his gaze to the adjacent driveway, now conspicuously filled by a moving truck.

Someone steps out, silhouetted by the syrupy, waning daylight. Hotch’s gaze stays fixed for longer than socially acceptable, he knows better, really, but something holds him in place, knuckles gradually paling around the paper as courtesy battles, and loses, to curiosity.

It’s a girl — no Hotch corrects himself quickly, clearly a young woman — overburdened by two enormous tote bags slung haphazardly over your shoulders and a precarious cardboard box balanced in your arms. You’re muttering hurriedly into a phone tucked awkwardly between your ear and your shoulder, finger fumbling unsuccessfully at the unfamiliar lock.

Your cardigan slips thoughtlessly aside, revealing a smooth sweep of skin at your spine. His eyes dip lower before decency yanks it forcibly upward again, self-reproach prickling beneath his collar.

Young. Far too young, he reminds himself with sober conviction. Possibly still in college. Off-limits in every interpretation of the word.

The door swings inward with sudden force, pitching you forward into a graceless stumble punctuated by a small, startled squeak. His muscles coil, one foot already primed forward in an unnecessary rescue. You regain your balance quickly, arms righting the load without assistance.

Just as he’s about to discreetly look away, your head turns, perhaps intuitively sensing his scrutiny. Perhaps by sheer coincidence, though Hotch doubts it. 

Either way, when your eyes find his, he stills.

You’re unexpectedly — no, almost unreasonably —- beautiful. But even that qualifier feels off, because unexpectedly implies he envisioned this scenario and simply miscalculated. It implies he came to this moment with assumptions. He didn’t. He didn’t even realize he was getting a new neighbor. What he’s feeling now isn’t the failure of prediction. It’s the failure of preparation. And Aaron Hotchner, of all people, does not appreciate feeling unprepared.

Your eyes are a mosaic of shades, elusive and difficult to pinpoint with just one look. He catches himself wanting to pause everything, just to study them long enough to trace every hue until he could paint them from memory. Completely absurd, he thinks, even as golden light brushes in them, revealing more flecks of color, reflections that seem to catch with every movement. That same light skims across your skin now, illuminating every slope and hollow of face that’s uniquely, almost achingly lovely.

“Oh! Hi!” Your face instantly radiates warmth, all traces of momentary confusion rapidly dissolving into sincere, unabashed friendliness. In your hurry to greet him, you quickly set down your belongings, completely oblivious to the thick books tumbling from the box and sprawling across the porch. You rush toward him with enthusiastic, apologetic steps. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even notice you standing there! I was a little distracted by — well, all that,” you gesture behind you with a laugh. “But anyway, hi!”

“Hi,” Hotch replies slowly, inclining his head toward the house. “I suppose you’re moving in next door?”

“Yes!” you say, immediately extending your hand as you offer your name. “My grandma actually left it to me. Honestly, I’m still processing how much space there is, I mean, it’s just me. But isn’t it beautiful? It’s a Craftsman bungalow, built around 1915. They were actually part of the Arts and Crafts movement, celebrating handmade work instead of mass production. See how they used wood and stone to blend in? And the open floor plans were supposed to encourage family interaction, which…” You pause, glancing at the porch, smiling sheepishly. “Well, saying that aloud does make the size a bit ironically excessive for one person, doesn’t it?”

His brows raise as he takes your hand, the sheer velocity of your speech catching him off guard. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens, half-curious if you’ll come up for air. He’s not sure you notice how fast you’re going.

The gentleness of your hand startles him. Warm and smooth, untouched by the rugged imperfections he has come to view as unavoidable companions of experience. No scar tissue, no marks, no wounds.

His hand, by comparison, is rough-hewn, textured from relentless repetition, the practiced grip of a Glock 17, calluses hardened on a firing range. There’s a white scar slicing across the space between thumb and forefinger, evidence of a blade and a bad angle, just one of many, others tucked beneath shirtsleeves or hidden by the waistband of his trousers. 

He’s never minded it until now, never even considered it worth nothing, but now, with your hand is his, he’s aware of just how easily his grip could bruise and mar your unblemished perfection.

“Aaron Hotchner.”

“Oh! You’re that Mr. Hotchner! My grandma always mentioned you, she said you were her very serious, very polite neighbor with suits straight out of a fashion magazine.” You pause. “I hope that wasn’t weird to say out loud.”

“No, not weird at all.” He huffs a small laugh. “Though, I’m not sure I’ve ever thought of my suits as fashion magazine material. Your grandma was being very generous.”

That response prompts an instant smile, one that seems to flood your face with such beauty he can hardly bear to look directly at it. He really needs to go inside.

“She was generous, but also pretty accurate,” you say, redirecting your attention toward the tidy row of houses along the street. “I hope everyone else around here is as nice as she made you sound. Any neighborhood secrets I should know?”

“I can’t say there are many secrets,” he admits, “but I’d suggest being careful if you value privacy, news travels fast here, especially if you accidentally leave your recycling bin out a day too long.”

“Oh no, that’s exactly the kind of secret I needed to know,” you laugh, placing a hand over your heart. “My recycling bin and I have a very complicated relationship. I’ll try not to scandalize everyone my first week.” You glance quickly at the boxes behind you. “I won’t keep you any longer, though. It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Hotchner. Hopefully I’ll see you around, preferably not on recycling day.”

Hotch watches as you step away, already immersing yourself in the scattered array of boxes awaiting your attention. 

The stretch between your front door and his is hardly more than ten paces, yet the distance suddenly feels different — lengthened somehow, or perhaps strangely diminished. He isn’t quite sure which it is. 

Closing the door behind him, he releases a breath. For the first time in recent memory, the quiet solitude of his home feels insufficient, as though he’s listening without fully meaning to, for the sound of another presence just beyond his walls.

Like. Nothing. You thought DRS was some kind of spreadsheet software. The only driver you’ve ever heard of is— “Wait, who’s that?” you ask, squinting at a guy in red overalls with curls, a jawline carved by Renaissance artists, and a confused expression as he stares back at you.

“That’s Charles Leclerc,” someone whispers next to you. “One of our drivers.”

You nod slowly, like that means anything to you.

ENTER: LEWIS HAMILTON.

You're standing by the pit wall trying not to look completely lost when a man in all black walks by with a casual gait and noise-canceling headphones. He pauses, doubles back, and lowers his sunglasses slightly.

“You alright there?”

You blink up at him. “Um. I think so. I’m just observing today.”

“You look terrified.”

“Not terrified,” you lie. “Just processing.”

He chuckles. “First GP?”

“First… what?”

“Grand Prix.”

“Right.” You clear your throat. “Yes. First time. Ever.”

He tilts his head. “Wait. You’ve never seen an F1 race before?”

“Nope. Never even watched one.”

The man looks genuinely stunned. “And you’re interning for Ferrari?”

You nod. “Apparently.”

There’s a long pause. Then, to your utter surprise, the man sticks out his hand.

“Lewis.”

You blink. “Lewis…?”

He laughs. “Hamilton.”

“Oh.” You shake his hand, and it clicks about five seconds later. “Wait. Like the Lewis Hamilton?”

“Yep.”

“...Sorry. That name sounded familiar but—”

He just laughs harder. “You’re gonna fit in just fine.”

YOU, SOMEHOW, GET ADOPTED.

After that, Lewis decides—without consulting anyone else—that he’s mentoring you now.

You find yourself in the Mercedes garage twenty minutes later, still wearing your oversized Ferrari gear, watching race engineers hover over a laptop while Lewis explains telemetry to you in the simplest words possible.

“I think this is technically treason,” you murmur.

“I’m giving you a neutral education,” he replies. “Team agnostic.”

That evening, he takes you for a walk down the paddock and introduces you to a bunch of drivers, casually dropping “She’s new. Doesn’t know anything. Be nice,” like you’re some kind of endangered animal.

Carlos Sainz looks at you like you’ve just told him you’ve never heard of Google. Oscar Piastri stares at you blankly for a solid five seconds. Max Verstappen says, “That’s impressive. In a bad way.” Daniel Ricciardo is way too enthusiastic, giving you high-fives and asking if you’ve “picked a favorite team yet” like it’s Pokémon Go.

But the best is Lando Norris, who says: “Wait. You don’t know who I am?”

You shrug. “Not really.”

He turns to Lewis. “She has to be lying.”

“She’s not,” Lewis replies, proud. “Isn’t it refreshing?”

“Humbling,” Lando mutters.

“SHE THINKS ALONSO IS A TEAM PRINCIPAL.”

You get grilled at every meal.

The grid has never met someone in the paddock who knows less about Formula 1 than your average dog.

You once called Checo “the guy who drives the green car.” (You were thinking of Aston Martin. He drives for Red Bull.)

You once asked what the point of qualifying was. You once referred to the FIA as “the F1 police.”

You once said “Isn’t that the pit guy?” about Toto Wolff.

Somewhere between Hungary and Zandvoort, you became everyone’s favorite chaotic paddock mascot.

Logan Sargeant teaches you what the flags mean. Pierre Gasly makes flashcards. Charles Leclerc gives you Ferrari-specific homework, and when you fail a quiz, he glares at you across the garage like a disappointed tutor. George Russell, bless his overly British heart, draws you a literal PowerPoint explaining tire compounds.

You give it your best, but some things just don’t stick.

“Downforce is… the thing that makes the car go fast?” “No.” “Is it… the opposite of upforce?” “Please stop.”

THE FERRARI GARAGE GROWS WEIRDLY PROTECTIVE OF YOU.

Even though you were dropped into the team like a clueless duck in a wind tunnel, the Ferrari staff (including your assigned supervisor, Francesca, a no-nonsense engineer with permanent sunglasses and a heart of gold) starts defending you against the chaos.

When drivers from other teams swing by to quiz you or tease you or offer you “team switches” if you name all ten constructors correctly, Francesca physically herds them out with a wrench in one hand and a torque gun in the other.

“She’s our intern,” she says firmly.

“She’s our student,” Lewis argues from across the garage.

“She’s an educational tool,” Alex Albon adds, holding a dry erase board for no reason.

THE MEDIA CATCHES ON.

At first, no one knows who you are.

Then you're the girl always walking with Lewis. Then you’re the girl who’s not wearing a team cap ever. Then you’re the girl who didn’t know who Fernando Alonso was and said it out loud in front of a microphone.

Your story spreads like wildfire.

FERRARI INTERN HAS NEVER WATCHED F1 BEFORE MECHANICAL ENGINEERING STUDENT PLUNGED INTO F1 PADDOCK CHAOS LEWIS HAMILTON ADOPTS INTERN WHO THINKS “SLICK TIRES” ARE A PERSONALITY TYPE

You trend on Twitter for a hot minute after the Singapore GP when someone records a video of you accidentally calling the paddock “the pit stop village.”

You think about hiding in a tire blanket forever.

Instead, Lewis just reposts the video with: “let her learn ❤️”

AND YOU DO. LEARN.

Eventually.

Kind of.

You learn how to differentiate between hards, mediums, and softs. You figure out what understeer feels like. You memorize the order of the race weekend.

You learn that Carlos always wants coffee, Charles likes quiet before FP1, and that never—ever—should you talk to Lance Stroll during cooldown laps.

You learn how to identify engine issues by sound. You learn what brake ducts are. You learn that telemetry isn’t just colorful graphs.

You learn how fast things can go wrong. You learn how brilliant the engineers really are. You learn how much goes into just one race weekend.

You still don’t understand Max Verstappen’s sense of humor. But you’re working on it.

ONE DAY, YOU REALIZE: YOU ACTUALLY CARE.

You wake up before your alarm in Japan because you’re excited to get to the garage. You watch qualifying with a clipboard and take notes voluntarily. You high-five mechanics when a pit stop hits under 2.4 seconds. You start speaking in acronyms. DRS. PU. MGU-K.

At some point, this all stopped being scary.

At some point, you stopped being just the girl who didn’t know anything.

Now, you’re Y/N. The intern who asks good questions. The intern who stayed an hour after the last race to help clean up. The intern who brought brownies to the factory and got shouted out in the Ferrari group chat.

At some point, this became more than just luck.

It became you.

POST-SEASON. ABU DHABI.

You’re standing at the edge of the pit wall again.

But this time, you know the race order. You know the tire strategies. You know that Ferrari is fighting for P2 in the constructors, and that Lewis is chasing a podium finish in his final year.

You’ve got your headset on, your notes clipped to your hip, and a smile tugging at your lips when the five lights go out.

Later, when the champagne pops and the fireworks explode, you find yourself caught between hugs from Carlos and confetti from nowhere.

Lewis finds you after media. He pulls you into a hug and ruffles your hair.

“Look at you,” he grins. “You made it.”

You grin back. “Still don’t know how to pronounce ‘diffuser.’”

He laughs. “Don’t worry. Neither do half the drivers.”

IN THE END…

You were never the best engineer. You were never the loudest. You didn’t know a thing when you started.

But you tried. You stayed curious. You asked questions.

And somehow, along the way, the paddock fell a little bit in love with you.