#ongoing series

There was nowhere in the entire trauma center that you could go to get away from her and, knowing Gloria, she wasn’t going to make it easy for you. Realistically, you understood that Gloria was just another cog in the corporate machine. She rode your ass - and every other medical professional in the system from doctors during residency to technicians and CNAs - because it’s what the big bad CEOs demanded. The hospital functioned on efficiency facilitated by money and if too many bad Yelp reviews arrived it systematically hurt numbers. Bad numbers equaled a bad flow of funds. 

Gloria no doubt listened to her bosses during an early morning meeting where they rattled off complaint after complaint that dealt with a showcase of data and numbers. Both, of which, the board constantly claimed, showed the true efficiency of the hospital - not the life-saving measures taken to keep people alive. No doubt its main focus rested on the emergency department downstairs, because, once again, Yelp reviews of massive wait times and poor satisfaction scores outweighed the expertise of attending doctors. 

You didn’t envy Gloria’s position of being hated for being said cog in the corporate machine. Her job focused on relaying the demands from the top. Gloria was forever the bad guy to staff whenever they noticed her no-nonsense demeanor coming towards them. It was hard to be sympathetic to her plight when she followed you around like a bloodhound. The woman was relentless.

“The board would like to see if applying additional support down in the emergency department would help alleviate time issues that are keeping patient satisfaction at a tremendous low.” 

Absolutely not. 

You would rather chew your arm off than be sent down there. Your retreat came to a halt as you turned to face her. There weren't too many places inside the hospital you could go, and you were willing to bet Gloria was willing to follow you anywhere until you conceded. Plus, you came to a full stop in front of the elevator, and no matter how much you’d like to magically teleport yourself inside of it, unfortunately, you were mortal and would just have to wait.

Gloria’s hands were interlocked in front of her middle - eyes drilling miniature holes in you that not that long ago used to make you squirm. That was back when you were just starting your internship - eager back then to make a great first impression. Terrified of being reprimanded for making an unpopular decision or speaking your mind. 

“Gloria, I’m in family medicine.”

“Last time I checked you started in the emergency department and helped out in intensive care.”

“Yes, great memory, Gloria. If you also recall, I moved to family medicine where I’ve been for the last couple of years.”

The transfer to family medicine was a hard pill to swallow. You’d grown accustomed to the craziness of the ER. The constant adrenaline rush that required you to always bring your A game. Where the anxiety was at an all-time maxed-out high where a simple mistake cost lives but a quick deduction could save them. Once you’d moved upstairs to help out Dr. Nave’s family practice, it’d been a huge adjustment. Eventually, once your body got used to the monotony of the days, you found you were finally able to sleep. To be semi-normal. 

There was no denying, however, that you left something important behind in The Pitt. Something you hoped you could leave there inside its sterile rooms and the overwhelming storm of emotions.  

“I’m not asking you to go back down there to answer every trauma call. I’m asking you to take your family medicine knowledge downstairs to help assess triage for minor issues -“

“You mean people who come in for chest colds,” you interrupted. 

“ - and help the senior doctors clear out these cases so they can focus on more immediate health care concerns.”

Gloria’s words crushed your small outburst and bore down on your shoulders, keeping you from trying to move away. Her hands were now connected at her elbows, which was her silent way of informing you she didn’t appreciate you trying to talk over her. That no would never be an acceptable answer. 

You felt the drag of your teeth against your cheek. The temptation to bite down to relieve your growing irritation was overwhelming but futile. No matter what argument you came up with, you knew Gloria was here to make sure what the board requested was done. 

Instead of bloodshed, you eased your frustration out inch by inch through your nose. Your eyes scanned over the shitty egg wash walls while you debated all of your available options, which were a big fat none. 

“How long?”

Gloria didn’t need clarification on what you were asking. The way she practically preened like a peacock let you know she knew she’d won. 

“As long as the board requires it.”

“I’ll do it just for today,” you interjected, ignoring her raised brow. “Today you can see if pulling me from Nave’s floor makes your charts or numbers move or whatever data it is you all look at. If it does nothing, today is my first and last day going down.”

Gloria considered your counterargument. The sharpness in her eyes brightened; the terms of this new agreement were revised without you knowing the new verbiage. The only thing you were sure of was that you could count on this small verbal agreement being drawn out in document form for you to sign later.  

“Alright, Dr. Fullerton. You’ve got a deal. I’m sure the board will agree. Now come on. If we walk down fast enough maybe, you’ll make it in time for shift change.”

She didn’t wait to see if you were going to follow. Why would she when Gloria knew very well you weren’t going to fight it, especially when the main reason for your denial currently wouldn’t be working today. 

Anniversaries were never really Robby’s thing.

You would never admit it, but your anxiety was fifteen feet away from grabbing you in a chokehold. 

Get a fucking grip.

It had been two years since you left the ER. Two years since Robby and you had called time on seven years together. Seven years of memories filled with all the good and bad, co-parenting Jake, and keeping your relationship secret until it wasn’t. The early years of walking to work together with quick kisses goodbye before you split up just before you turned onto the final street to the hospital. The both of you choose different entrances each time to try and not raise suspicion. 

It took Dana four days to figure out the two of you were together.

Dana was perceptive like that. Hell, she’d been the angel on your shoulder whispering hints that Robby just might like you as much as you liked him. 

“I told him to ask you out to dinner. He thinks you’ll say no.” “If he did ask, I should say no,” you countered.  Your eyes struggle to stay trained on the chart in front of you.  “Yeah, but I know you’ll say yes.” “And what makes you so sure about that, Dana?” “Because if you don’t stop giving each other googly eyes from across my nursing station I’m going to throttle you both.”

Robby had only been divorced from his wife for less than a year. You’d overheard snippets of conversations between Robby and Abbot, Dana, or Adamson about custody battles and visitations. The last thing you wanted to do was be a possible added stress to an already stressful situation. At least, that was the bullshit you kept telling yourself to try and stay away.

But Dana was right (she usually was, but you’d never tell her that). 

You couldn’t pinpoint a specific time when things started to change between the two of you. The coffee breaks on the roof looking out over the top of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. The jokes that caused smiles to crest over his face, rivaled the glow from the sun's early morning rays. He told you later, in the med closet, how the sound of your laughter was something he looked forward to hearing; the warmth of it was enough to keep helping him make it through his shift. A sound he began to crave in the quiet corners of his home. You could still remember the phone calls and early texts. The caution and heavy breaths that harbored a desire that longed to reach out and consume the other. The two of you were equally afraid to be the one to take that first step over the bounds of professionalism. 

The two of you knew the dangers of playing with lingering touches and knowing glances. The way you both acted like you wouldn’t ultimately end up burned. You could still recall the way he’d traced his thumb across your lips. The possessive way his eyes followed the motion made the desire for him to close that space, to claim you, to take you, threatened to make you lose all self-control.

Eventually, you stopped listening to the warning signs of all the what ifs; of being the intern and worrying about how it would make you look. When Robby asked you out on that date you didn’t hesitate to say yes.

You didn’t think it was possible to fall in love with someone the way you did with Robby. He was so attentive; he was thoughtful in the most pragmatic ways - packing extra scrubs in your pack. Teaching you how to fish and the differences between the lures and bait. The way he took the time to explain the objects he carved from wood and how much pressure was necessary to create the grooves and pattern. The way his voice would sound as he read to you; the soothing vibrations of his baritone the safest place you could be with his fingers in your hair.

He carved out a life that made it possible for all three of you to co-exist. His son, Jake, becomes the deepest interwoven part of your life you never realized was missing. On days Robby had him, you planned camping trips up in the mountains to hike and fish. To go on museum trips into Jake’s latest hobbies with the two of you making sure to have his game day off to cheer embarrassingly loud for him in the stands. The shared looks of pain from beside each other on the couch while Jake practiced his clarinet upstairs when he thought he wanted to be in the school band. You got lost in furniture manuals, cooking dinners that ended a few times with questionable outcomes, and attempting to bake tarts and pies that led to a one-time usage of the fire extinguisher. The euphoria of loving someone and being loved so fiercely in return made the years feel weightless, and when Robby finally proposed it made so much sense to say yes. 

And COVID happened. 

The quarantine and the endless amounts of patients that just kept coming - that felt like, no matter what you did, they couldn’t be saved. Family and friends, you both knew were ravaged by the infection. There were no answers. No medical treatments that you knew for sure would be what would save them. It didn’t discriminate and took lives without mercy. You just came to work every day, exhausted, and fighting to do what you could to heal those you could. You showed up every day for your patients.

Then Adamson passed. 

There was no denying Robby blamed himself for what occurred with his mentor. It didn’t matter what you said. What Dana, Abbot, or anyone else said. The guilt weighed down on his conscience, pressed so violently, that eventually, Robby cracked under the strain. His grief was all-encompassing and the added loss that should’ve been experienced together, was left for only you to bear - widening the gap between you until it became a chasm. 

The last time you’d seen Robby he’d been leaving to go to work. The latest fight - the endless bitter silences that stretched on - tore at the fabric of your being. Fractured pieces you didn’t know how to pick up on your own no longer felt worth fighting for. So, you decided to remove yourself from the equation. 

When Robby came home from work that night you were already gone. Your engagement ring and house key sitting on a note that asked him not to contact you. He’d made it clear enough that there was no place for you in the new person that he was becoming - made it clear that your grief would be processed alone. 

And so that was how you ended up transferring to family medicine. How you made sure to steer clear of all the places Robby was known to frequent. You ignored, as politely as you could, texts from Dana. Refused to talk about him in a work capacity or to close friends. 

The truth was that you were still in love with Robby after all this time. The idea that someone else could ever make you feel as whole - as complete - didn’t exist. So, yes, you only agreed to come back down to the emergency department, where it all started, because you comfortably knew he wouldn’t be here. Dana, you could deal with her by using a little recon - you just needed to stay two steps ahead of her. Langdon was easier to deal with because his loyalty to Robby was absolute, which made you public enemy number one. For you, that meant he’d stay away from you on principle. 

You were in the middle of shoving down the growing dread that was threatening to spill out of you when you came around the north hall triage. It was morning rounds. It was the attending's job to give the early morning pep-talk, debrief about patients who came in last shift, and go over the board. What you found waiting for you was what looked very much like a fresh batch of interns and/or med students taking instructions from a doctor you knew painfully well. One that made you question if it was too late to back out and turn tail and run. 

“Oh, shit.” Dana huffed the words under her breath, but Robby caught them. The way each one dripped in a warning he should’ve heeded. “Gloria -” 

It didn’t surprise him to hear she was here. He’d been warned by Dana but what Robby hadn’t expected was to see you - you - standing beside her. 

You who he thought completely disappeared to the point you’d quit the hospital. You, who he thought of in the most inconvenient of times, who haunted him, and you who he wanted to fucking scream and curse at you but also ask how the fuck you’re doing because Jesus Christ…

He didn’t need this shit today.

At least you had the decency to look as uncomfortable as he felt.

“Good morning, Dr. Robby. I’m aware you and most of your emergency department know Dr. Fullerton. She used to work down here previously a few years back.”

“You could say that again,” Langdon muttered.

“I’m sorry why are you bringing a random fucking doctor down into The Pitt?”

The annoyance contrasted with the peaceful professionalism Gloria tried to hold together. But if she was going to bring random doctors down here, God, bring you fucking down here, he was damn sure going to make her work for it. Inch by irritating inch.

“We both know that Dr. Fullerton is not a hospital resident or an attending transfer. As previously stated, she worked down here in this very ED, with you no less. She also holds one of the highest Press Ganey scores in this hospital.”

“I’m sure she’s very proud,” his words ground out like he’d swallowed gravel.

Gloria shot him a warning look as she continued, “-Something I figure she could teach the new students and old physicians here. I’m bringing her down to assist Dr. McKay today in triage.”

“Let me guess - this either has to deal with the hospital's numbers or lack of working bodies down here. Am I right?”

“What a fantastic guess, Robby. It does indeed have to do with the hospitals' numbers and poor patient output. Based on those numbers alone today, if it shows Dr. Fullerton’s presence helps patient satisfaction go up and wait times decrease - even in the slightest - she’ll be staying here. Permanently.”

His jaw ticked violently. He wanted to bristle and tell her where to stick her metrics and numbers. To tell Gloria to get you the fuck out of his Pitt. Somewhere in his brain, his common sense slowly won out. It didn’t matter how much of a fit he threw; Gloria had every intention of making you stay. Down here. With him. 

Robby also knew, realistically, that the chances of you driving up productivity were high. You were a damn good doctor. One of the best. Adamson had made sure. Christ, Robby himself made sure. Fuck. The edges of his vision were beginning to tighten in glaring white; he needed to get away before he succumbed to a panic attack. 

He should’ve kept looking away, but he was fighting a losing battle trying to keep his eyes away from you. It’d been nearly two years since he came home to find you gone. Two years for him to think of the hundreds of thousands of questions that he would demand for you to answer if he ever saw you again. All those months of burying it all down, telling himself he got what he wanted, only for it to be dredged up, and on a day like today, he was already close to his breaking point.

You looked good. Great, even. Just as gorgeous as the first day he’d met you and begrudgingly, for a split second, he wondered how you saw him. If you were equally as fucked as he was.

“Make sure she stays with you up in triage, Dr. McKay. I don’t want to see her in my red zone.”

He didn’t wait to hear confirmation from Gloria or McKay. He didn’t bother to see if you understood he meant every word he said. You had no place down here. Robby needed to start his shift - to start the normalcy of seeing patients - before he completely forgot why he chose to come into work today. 

He needed to get away before all his resolve shattered. The easiest way to keep himself whole was to begin his day. To do his rounds and when he passed you, he did his best to pretend you didn’t even exist.

___________

You panic at first, tensing up immediately, before you recognize it as Gojo’s. His hand lays weakly on the sheets in front of you, thumb twitching slightly in his sleep, but even in its lax state, you can still see pulsing veins trailing up the back of it, lining into his bicep into his porcelain skin that’s illuminated by the light just outside the windows. Smooth and pretty, but masculine at the same time, and you just now see that his knuckles are slightly red and there’s a small cut over the third one.

You lay still, unsure of what to do, and as you blink at the wall across from you, your mind wanders back to last night. The feeling of rage in your blood, unsettling in the moonlight, only to be completely dissolved by the feeling of Gojo’s arms pulling you into him, and holding you tight to his chest. So warm and soft, his comforting scent, the nuzzle of his chin above your head… when you close your eyes, you remember the sight of him hovering over you, that conflicted look on his face that was almost delicate with vulnerability, before it disappeared as he fell to your side and suddenly he was holding you in bed and you fell asleep in his arms. The memories have your cheeks feeling hot, and the fabric of your nightgown becomes suffocating.

You turn your head a little to glance over your shoulder, and you see that somewhere along the night, Gojo took his hoodie off, and you realize he’s shirtless behind you. Your heart beats a little faster in your chest, the otherwise shallow cadence of your early morning breathing picking up in speed, rousing you from sleep, and now you were so wide awake you could feel every sensation of his body pressed up against you from behind.

When you squirm a little, he mumbles deeply behind you before his arm curls around your waist even tighter and he pulls you in closer to him. You gasp, feeling him nuzzle his nose into your hair and his thumb presses into your rib cage right beneath your breast.  

“Satoru,” you murmur, shifting more in his strong hold, and when you do, your butt wiggles against the front of him and—

Oh.

Oh.

He’s—

He’s hard.

And you’re almost entirely shocked still from the way it feels against your ass. 

Even through the thick fabric of his sweatpants, he feels heavy and imposing and hot and big—

You wiggle your butt against him a little bit more, curiously, because you can’t help it, and he groans near your ear.

“Mm,” he mumbles, deep and guttural. “Don’t.”

“Why are you hard right now?” you hiss at him.

“Huh.” Is the only noise he makes as he tries to drift off back to sleep.

“I asked you a question.”

He shifts with a sigh. “Morning wood. Testosterone is higher in the AM. You’re a nurse, you should know that.”

“Well make it go away. It’s uncomfy.”

“How?” he asks with amusement in his voice, like he’s hoping you’ll continue to feign innocence because it was the cute thing to do.

“I don’t know. Go tug on it in the bathroom.”

You feel him exhale an amused scoff, then he presses his lips to the nape of your neck lazily, making you gasp, and you feel his mouth stretching into a smile against your warm skin. “You’re funny.”

The intimacy was searing, it spreads a heat across your entire body, and god, his voice… that deep, groggy sound that rumbles in his throat with the slight drawl in his tone…and when he presses a kiss behind your ear, it was over for you.

“Hey,” he says softly, to get your attention, his chin nuzzling the crown of your head, “thank you.”

“For what?” you exhale, somewhat airy, as if trying to prove that you’re not entirely affected by his touch.

He kisses the side of your neck. “For last night.”

Your heart is beating fast, and you blink a few times before you say, “I’m still mad at you.”

He sighs. “I figured as much,” he says and then he drops his head back down onto the pillow in retreat.

Would it be so wrong?

Is the question you ask yourself.

You’ve already pushed his buttons before,

And maybe it wasn’t wise to do so again,

Given the emotionally charged and rather tender moment you two shared last night,

One that has your head swimming with what-ifs that were still left unanswered,

But you find yourself wanting him now more than ever.

A feeling you don’t want to confront in your head,

But one you feel coarse throughout your body.

You let out a shaky breath and push yourself back against his front, feeling his rigid erection press up against the flesh of your ass, and he lets out a choked groan, one that sounds both aroused and mostly confused, before his arm slides down from under your breasts to hold you around your lower torso instead, almost anchoring you to whatever grinding movements you were making against him.

“You keep this up,” he says, “and I can’t make any promises about what happens next.”

You shuffle your thighs, both because you were aroused but also to coyly deflect any responsibility in riling him up, despite the fact that your ass still brushes against his front from the motion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you quip, innocently. 

“You’re lucky that I play along,” he says, and it felt like a reference to all of the times he just chooses to deal with your sporadic attitudes like it was no big deal even though you’re sure it would frustrate the hell out of any other man. 

His arm suddenly releases hold of your waist, then his palm smooths over the hill of your hip and down the velvet skin of your thigh, the texture of his hand rough compared to the duvet half-laying over you right now. You clench your thighs together, any and all movements of yours coming to a halt from the violent reaction you have to his touch, and there’s a small little voice in your head that’s screaming bad bad bad bad bad bad BAD idea to let him touch you like this but when he kisses down the curve of your neck, it’s entirely drowned out.

“Waiting for you to slap me,” he mumbles, “aaaaaany second now.”

“I’ve sworn off violence,” you gasp when his fingers feather a touch near your inner thigh.

“How convenient.” He pulls you in closer to him as he continues to tease you with his fleeting touch. “Your skin is so soft,” he says, pads of his fingers pressing into the plush of your thigh, his thumb hooking up the hem of your nightgown to gain more access. His nose brushes the hair away at the nape of your neck before he inhales indulgently. “Smells nice too.”

“Satoru.” Maybe it was a warning, or maybe it was just an acknowledgement of the man behind you that’s slowly touching parts of you that were unmapped by him before. Hell, it could’ve even come off as an encouraging moan of his name, for all you knew. You could hardly hear yourself think, let alone what you say.

When his lips press more firmly on the side of your neck, at that sensitive curve of supple skin, you’re unable to hide the reaction your body has to him anymore, a soft moan leaving your lips as you squirm with arousal and a borderline impatience. He pushes his front against your backside in response to the noise, and your eyes shut close to intensify the feeling.

He’s less chatty than usual, and you figure it’s because he’s sleepy and his brain’s not working, and maybe that’s why he’s tolerable to you right now, enough so to where you’re not too pissed off or annoyed at something he has said or done, hence why he has the opportunity to snake his hand up the front of your torso right now without you smacking him across the face for it. At least that’s the excuse you’ll tell yourself.

When his thumb brushes against your nipple, you let out an airy moan and press your entire body back against him with full desire.

“Fuck, you don’t wear anything underneath these?” he all but growls, his hand cupping your breast, gently kneading the softness that he finds and you swear you feel his cock jump in his boxers.

“W-Why would I wear a bra while I’m sleeping and at home?” you breathlessly manage to say.

“Well it’s hard for me to picture you braless underneath gowns that make you look like a 17th century pilgrim.”

Oh. Okay, yeah, there it was. That urge to smack him.

But the thought melts away when his thumb and index finger pinch your nipple, harsh in grip but gentle when he pulls on it, and you’re fully grinding your ass against him at this point, the arousal coiling tightly in your lower tummy, only barely relieved by the tight press of your thighs together.

The large span of his hand squeezes both your tits at the same time, making you moan against the pillow, a sound he reacts to by fully bucking his hips against your rear. “God, knowing that you don’t wear anything underneath these is gonna torture me whenever I see you around the house now,” he acknowledges with a sigh, forehead dropping to rest on your temple as his messy fringe falls against your eyelashes. 

The warmth of his hand leaves your chest as it finds its way smoothing down your midriff, and he briefly digs the heel of his palm into the soft plush of your lower belly, almost as if to experiment, and you completely jump and then writhe in his hold from the ache of pleasure that courses through you. He’s pressing open mouthed wet kisses against your neck now, more liberal with the groans and grunts that he leaves against the wake of your feverish skin as he grinds against you, and the tips of his fingers slip past the band of your panties but—

He can’t get any further than that.

His lips leave your neck and he lifts his head up a little to glance at the state of your thighs, and then he looks down at your face. “Spread your legs.”

You pull a pillow to your face so you can hide your flushed cheeks from him. You’re breathing fast and then sniffle a little against the cover. “Too much,” you muffle into it.

For fucks sake, you weren’t a virgin. You’ve had your fair share of sex in this life at your age, as you’re sure he has too. Yet for some reason the sensations, the touches, the sounds, everything he’s giving you feels so much more intense than anything else you’ve ever had in your life and you’re not sure you can handle it. At least not in any way where you can hide how deeply, deeply, deeply turned on you were right now.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice surprisingly reassuring, but that somehow makes you blush even more, and he gently nips at the lobe of your ear with his teeth while his thumb rubs soothing circles over your lower belly, “it’ll feel good. Promise. And if it’s too much, just elbow me in the ribs.”

“Thaf’s not a proffer (propper) safeword,” you muffle into the pillow.

“Baby. I don’t mean to sound rude, but do you really need a safeword just for me to touch your pussy?”

Oh.

Hearing him so casually call you baby right now did something to you…and there’s no way to even put it into words, just a feeling of visceral arousal that has you instantly melting and sweetly opening your legs for him, and he kisses the hill of your cheekbone before he settles his head back down on the pillow. He gives you his outstretched arm to rest on, your head falling on top of his warm muscled bicep, all your day-two salon blowout hair scattered across the pillow and tickling his skin, and you have to hold your breath when his hand slips right into your panties and his middle and ring fingers glide between your slick folds.

“Fuck,” he shakily exhales behind you, his touches moving with ease from the wetness, smearing it up to your clit where he rubs soft, teasing, agonizingly slow circles that match the lucidity of his sleepy state, “you’re so wet.” 

“N—” you gasp when he draws them faster. “I’m not,” you insist. 

“You’re gonna argue with me right now when I’ve got the proof all over my fingers?” he drawls near your ear, abandoning your clit in favor of slipping two of his thick fingers inside of you so suddenly that your entire body curls up in pleasure, thighs clenching together tightly but his hand is still strong enough to move between their pressure as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out, in and out, in and out of you, curled upwards to that spot inside that has you seeing white. 

You moan with no concern of the sound anymore, freely and whiny into the air, and he ruts his hips against your ass in response to the noise, which only elicits more from you. “Keep ‘em spread,” he tells you, voice strained through his own arousal, knuckles pushing up on your inner thigh to prod you open. 

Ten minutes ago, he’d have never even gotten close to seeing let alone touching the most intimate parts of you. And now, his fingers are knuckle deep inside of you. But it wasn’t enough, you’ve become greedy, and you want more.

“Satoru—” you whine, hand shooting out to grab his wrist, feeling the tilt of it towards your pussy as he continues to casually finger you while you struggle to listen to him—…struggle to keep your thighs open in the face of the desperate arousal that spreads across all your senses. “Mm, faster—”

“Would you kill me if I asked you to beg for it?” he huffs, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knew he was pushing it, that insufferably cocky side of him you’d usually despise if you didn’t feel his slick knuckles against your inner thigh every time he pushed his fingers all the way inside.

You turn your face into his outstretched arm, eyes shut close. “Just—” He cuts you off when his thumb finds your swollen clit, the coarse pad of it running over the bundle of nerves as he shallowly continues to fuck you with his fingers, “just do it faster—”

He slows down the pace, thumb entirely abandoning your clit all together, making you gasp, and you hear his voice near your ear when he says, “how about a ‘please’?”

“Oh my god, okay, please, you asshole!” you all but scream, nails digging into his wrist now, dangerously close to his pulse, and you make a mental note to kill him for this later, but you don’t get past the first few words in your head before you hear him say,

“Ehh I’ll take what I can get,” and then the pure pleasure of his fingers relentlessly slamming into you takes over anything else.

He kisses the crown of your head, murmuring words of sweet praise into your hair, words you couldn’t even make out if you tried, because that dull ache of pleasure in your lower belly just builds and builds and builds, even further when you glance down at the sight of him pumping his fingers inside of you over and over. Your head plops down onto the pillow gently when his arm escapes from under, so that he can wrap it around your waist, trying his best to hold you still as you squirm from the pure pleasure, but he abandons the attempt to impatiently yank your gown up instead, your warm breasts becoming exposed to cold air and he squeezes them in his hand roughly before pinching your nipple, making you writhe and arch your back. The grip you had on the wrist of his pounding hand was now seethingly harsh, nails digging deep enough to draw blood, borderline trying to slow him down from just how seriously he took your request for him to go faster, because it was almost too much, but in the most blisteringly arousing way possible.

“Please, Satoru, I’m so close—” you whine, and the second he hears the hint of a plea in your voice, his other hand slips past the fabric of your panties and finds your clit, all four fingers relentlessly rubbing back and forth against the sensitive bud, making you scream, the heel of his palm placing a constant pressure on your lower belly, and when he curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that makes you see stars, you completely come undone, your orgasm washing over you as your walls flutter around his fingers that continue to coax you through every pulsating sensation, moans spilling from your lips, squirming from the pleasure, before you’re completely spent and your body slowly goes limp, relaxed, face halfway shoved into the pillow and teary eyes shut close in ecstasy, hand laying weakly in front of you on top of satin sheets as you try to regain your breath.

You hear Gojo huffing slightly behind you too. He pulls his fingers out of you and you can barely see over your shoulder that he brings them to his mouth. Fuck you need to see it. Need to see the sight of him licking them clean. But all you hear in time is the lewd pop sound when he pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he practically hisses, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth, and he sounds desperate when he says, “let me eat you out, please—”

“No—” you gasp, a little too quickly and a little too sharp, perching yourself up onto your elbow slightly so you can turn your head to look at him. He’s looking at you with wide blue eyes, completely at halt, like whatever your next wish was would be his command. But he also looks like he wants to stuff his face between your thighs. The duality of man.

You’re still heaving from your orgasm, feeling misty in your chest, eyelashes fluttering with a slight hesitation to say what’s on your tongue because you know it’s only because you’re scared of the intimacy, and yet you want it all at the same time, too.

“Just fuck me,” you say, and to prevent sounding needy, “I have places to be.”

You briefly bite your tongue in regret over the addition, worrying it sounded pretentious and cunty and perhaps too princessy for his taste, but instead he loses his shit. Evident in the broken and desperate groan that leaves his lips, the way he immediately starts fumbling with his sweatpants then his boxers to pull himself out and press the hot tip of his erection against your ass, insanely relished in the fact that you just asked him to fuck you, which should sound like music to his ears at this point based on how strained and hard his boner’s been poking at your ass for the past twenty minutes. And it’s a strange concept, one that has you feeling delirious with confidence as you realize that one of the hottest men you know feels like he’s the lucky one here because he gets to stick his dick inside of you.

You fall back down onto your side in as casual of a way as you could manage, and his strong arm immediately wraps tight around your waist to pull all the softness of you against all the rigidity of him, into that same spooning position that got you into this arousing mess in the first place. You can feel him shifting quickly behind you, mattress dipping with hasty movements as he slides a palm between your thighs then lifts one up to spread you open for him, and then he’s pumping himself in his hand, once, twice, face buried in the crook of your neck as he indulges in a few broken groans, the sound making you point your knee high up towards the ceiling, cheeks flush and almost ashamed by how badly you need him to tear your open right now. There’s no teasing, or tormenting, or taunting from him like there usually is, all of that skipped on the basis of the sheer desperation that coats the shaky breaths he continues to exhale behind you. He lets you bite down on his hand as he yanks your soaked panties to the side and rubs his throbbing length between your slick folds, tip bumping against your clit, his precum smearing over it before he wraps a fist around his cock to position himself at your entrance and then slowly stretches you out, inch by inch, murmuring a deep and sleepy shhh it’s okay near your ear when he hears you whine and whimper from the heavy intrusion, before he’s buried to the hilt inside of you.

“Oh my god,” he sighs, almost at the same time that you do too, and you hear him swallow hard, his cock twitching inside of you. His arm wraps around you tighter, pulling you flush against his front as he presses sweet kisses behind your ear and you two just stay like this for what feels like eternity, his chest expanding in rugged and uneven breaths, like he’s savoring the sensation of being inside of you, before you just can’t take it anymore and wiggle your hips for him to just move already.

“Please, Satoru,” you whine, sniffling a little from the pure arousal, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm, “please—, move.”

He gently nibbles the lobe of your ear, withdrawing his hips back until he’s almost all the way out, save for the tip, before languidly pushing into you again, and your hand reaches out to grab the pillow in front of you to shove your face into to muffle your moan. 

“I must still be dreaming,” he groans, slowly fucking you now with no rhythm or pace, just pure instinct like this is what he was made for, “there’s just—fuck,” he grunts when you clench around him tightly, “there’s just no way you’re letting me do this right now.”

“Mmff,” you muffle into the pillow, pushing your ass against his hips as your form of charity, and he uncrosses one of his arms from your waist so that his hand can snake up to cup your breast in his palm, and all the words you could possibly come up with in your head dissolve into a moan of pleasure instead.

“So tight, god, you feel so good,” he mumbles, his nose nuzzling into your hair as he breathes in deep, and you feel like your cheeks are on fire.

As he continues to knead your breast in his palm, then the other, then squeezes both at the same time, you rock your hips back gently into his, your arm reaching behind yourself, fingertips grazing the short hair of his undercut before you find yourself gripping at the soft tufts above it. You hear him inhale sharply, then he kisses your temple in encouragement as his thrusts pick up in pace and you feel that simmering ache of pleasure in your lower belly grow fiercer. Like he can read your mind, his hand leaves your tits, smoothing down your torso to lay flat against your lower belly, and he sighs in content when he can feel how deep he is underneath his palm over your belly.

You sigh into the pillow, over and over again, as he minds his business in rutting his hips into yours and makes it clear to you that he’s more than enjoying himself from the guttural groans that leave his lips from the pleasure. And when you arch your back further, an invitation that he just can’t refuse, he’s suddenly turning over, making you roll onto your stomach, and he holds himself up on one arm with his chest pressed firmly to your back before he pulls your panties halfway down your thighs and slides a pillow under your tummy, your hips now raised higher for him to slip his cock right into you again, so smooth from how slick you are but you still feel that delicious stretch from the girth of him, and the angle that he gets on you like this, with your ass up in the air, paired by the feeling of his balls slapping against your skin with every thrust that he resumes on you, has you about ready to scream.

“S-Satoru—” you whimper, arms stretching out in front of you as you push your ass back into him, forehead plopping down onto the pillow in front of you, soft hair covering your face as he pounds into you. “Mm—…oh…oh my god.”

“Fuck,” he grunts in between heavy thrusts, hips stuttering briefly from the sound of your moans, “y’know, I always pictured you’d be kinda prissy in bed,” he huffs, leaning over to pull the short sleeve of your flimsy nightgown down your arm to expose bare shoulder so he can kiss you there, “but you’re actually kinda cute.”

“That’s not—ah!” you gasp when he picks up the speed, like he already knows you’re about to argue with him over it, “Satoru!” You yelp, half in frustration, half in pure ecstasy, and you can feel his annoying grin against the curve of your shoulder as he kisses his way up to the side of your neck.

“C’mon baby, just leave it at that, yeah?” he purrs near your ear, his hand coming up to lightly pinch your nipple, “not everything has to be an argument.”

“Mm,” you muffle your irritation into the pillow, high pitched and whiny which he seems to find arousingly amusing given the huff of a laugh he exhales on the nape of your neck and the way you feel his cock jump inside of you, and then he’s nuzzling his nose into your hair again, freely, messily, rubbing his cheek against soft, tousled strands as he sighs with content, and then suddenly, he’s wrapping an arm around your ribcage just under your breasts, and pulling you upright with him so that you’re effectively leaning back against his chest with an arch to your back as he continues to fuck you from behind.

“Seriously, I mean it,” he lowly murmurs near your ear as you tilt your head back onto his shoulder in pure pleasure, and he rubs his cheek affectionately against your hair at the crown of your head while you dig your nails into the skin of his forearm tucked underneath your breasts, “you look so pretty with your hair like this,” he breathes out, almost broken, and it nearly makes you cry when he kisses your cheekbone over the splayed strands of bangs that sit over the curve, “so insanely pretty.”

You were gone, you just didn’t care anymore. With exactly sixteen sweet words, you were done for. You didn’t even realize a man worshiping your hair in the middle of sex was ever something that would have you so down bad on your knees, but you had never felt more deliriously hazy in your life. And you almost want to tell him to just pull on it, then, if he likes it so much, but there’s a simmering feeling at the base of your heart that just wants him to keep being gentle with you instead.

“Satoru, please—” you moan, throat loose and airy, thighs desperately clenching together with need, which only makes you squeeze around him even tighter and the effects of it shows in the way he drops his forehead to your shoulder, his fringe tickling your skin as he breathes heavily.

“God you’re squeezing me so tight you’re gonna cut the circulation off of my dick,” he scoffs, poorly containing just how turned on it makes him feel, and he gently leans over to lay you back down on your stomach so that your cheek is pressed into the pillow and he’s back to fucking you from behind while your ass is up in the air.

“That’s not how that—mm, works, you idiot—“ You struggle to say as heat spreads across your chest, and that tight coil in your tummy pulls more taut with each thrust, to where you feel your vision start to spot, and like he can tell you’re on the edge, his hand snakes down between your thighs and the rough pads of his fingers start to draw circles over your clit, making you gasp so sharply it feels like your throat has gone hoarse.

“C’mon, baby,” he groans, his thrusts picking up in speed along with everything else. He’s panting and heaving, and you feel a droplet of sweat fall from his face onto the back of your neck.

With one more pass of his fingers over your clit, you shut your eyes close, your entire body curls inwards and your orgasm washes over you in pleasureful waves, making you scream out a moan as you squeeze around Gojo’s cock over and over, and you feel his thrusts grow erratic, insane, all loss of tempo and rhythm, his grunts above you sounding so sonically desperate and it’s only when you feel the stutter of his hips, that you barely gain enough sane conscience in the whirlwind of pleasure swimming in your head to remember you have to tell him—

“Wait, Satoru—” you gasp, entirely sober from the delirium, “n-not inside, you can’t.”

“Huh?” he breathes out, in caution, like he had just been on the verge of cumming inside of you, then exhales a breathy—“fuck,” at the implication, and he stays inside of you until the very end of his composure, like he didn’t want to waste a single second of being inside of you, to where you could physically feel his balls jump against your clit with the last thrust he makes right before he pulls out and quickly replaces the squeeze of your cunt with the squeeze of his hand instead, and although you can barely see it over your shoulder, you can just picture it— how hot he looks as he pumps himself over your back with a fucked out groggy expression all over his handsome face. 

“Shit, shit, shit— I’m gonna—” He fumbles with your nightgown to try to pull it up so he doesn’t completely soil it with his cum, but he only succeeds in pulling it up halfway before you feel hot spurts land on the fabric, sporadically painted across the exposed skin of your back, over your ass, your thighs, hell you’re even sure some of it landed in your hair as you hear him groan over and over behind you, a sound so lost in pleasure it has you reeling thinking about how you’re the one that’s causing it, and even after just having had an orgasm, your walls still clench around nothing from the thought.

When he has no more to give, he lets out a shaky breath, one that could constitute as a satisfied sigh, before he flops down onto his back next to you, chest heaving heavily, lips parted with deep breaths, eyes wide as he stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head like he’s in shock before he turns his neck to look at you.

You’re breathing heavily, then shove your face into the pillow, chest laying over your balled up fists you have kept near your rapidly beating heart, and you hear the heaviness in his breathing as well beside you, the sound intensified by the tight shut of your eyes, and you finally feel the horny haze in your head clearing slightly from the early hours of the morning.

The mattress shifts underneath you with Gojo’s weight as you feel him turn onto his side, and he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you in towards him.

And it occurs to you,

It finally occurs to you,

That you two just had sex.

He presses his lips lightly to the top of your head in nothing less than a kiss, before murmuring in a soft voice, “c’mon, let’s go clean you up–”

You slip out from under his arm, from out of the bed, and BOOK it to the bathroom like your life depended on it, shutting the door behind you, and then twisting the lock before you place your palms flat on the surface, huffing and puffing panicked breaths.

It only takes Gojo about five seconds to attempt to open the door, have a moment of brief confusion when he finds that it’s locked, and then knocks. “Wha—…y/n? The fuck? Is everything okay?”

“No! I mean–...yes! I mean–...I don’t know!” you yell.

Even through the wooden barrier of the door, you swear you can see him blink as his face twists with confusion, entirely perplexed by your behavior.

You breathe in deep, and exhale slowly, then rest your forehead on the surface of the door, glancing down at your feet over the cool tile of the bathroom. You shut your eyes close as you still feel the ghostly sensations of his arms handling you in bed, hands roaming across your skin, the feeling of him inside of you–

You shake your head to push the memories away, an almost visceral reaction to them, and it’s mostly silence for what feels like forever but was most likely only a minute, when you hear Gojo say on the other side of the door–

“Just come out here. Let me see you.”

You shake your head, as if he would have any way of seeing your refusal, before you say, “no, I’m–...I’m going to take a shower.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and you don’t wait to hear whatever response he does give before you’re turning the hot water on in the shower, to drown out any noise, including the sound of your own pestering thoughts.

You pull your nightgown up over your head, tossing it into a corner of the bathroom along with your panties, open the mosaic glass door to the shower, and walk underneath the overhead shower head, the water trickling down your now tousled, soiled hair, whatever style or curl that it had been smoothed into the day before now falling from the strands, until it’s flatly soaked with water, and you run your hand through your hair, still letting go of soft, remnant huffs of air from your lips to try and come down from the intense feelings that sit in your chest.

What did this mean, now? You two crossed a line that was quite literally never supposed to be crossed. Not according to your rules, or your silly contract, or any notion of this fake marriage. Will this make things awkward? Will this make things feel more real? Will this sort of thing happen again? Would you be able to stop yourself from letting it happen again? 

And will this just further complicate the confusing feelings that you seem to have for Gojo?

What were the possibilities after this, if any?

You’re surprised to find that there’s a small part of you inside, give or take once any of the awkwardness passes, that is for once not afraid to explore the what-ifs.

You step out of the shower, the steam feeling sticky on your skin as you wrap a towel around yourself and then wipe a hand across the foggy mirror to see your reflection. You look fresh, clean, no longer sleepy or dazed, but you blink at the sight of you as you still feel flushed at the chest, and sad that the hair he likes so much is now gone.

How can a person feel so sure and yet so conflicted about one single thing?

Once you finish freshening up, you open the door to get back into the room, but not without peeking your head around to see if Gojo’s still there, only to see that he’s not. And so you apprehensively step out into the room, quickly get dressed, try to dry your hair off the best you can in a hurry, and then—

Your stomach growls.

“Ah,” the soft sound leaves your lips.

You didn’t even do any of the work and you’re hungry?

Your own green sickens you.

You waft across the floors of the loft in your fresh nightgown, then peek your head over the railing of the stairs to see if you hear any noises, but you don’t.

“Mm?” you hum in confusion, then slowly make your way down the stairs.

Having successfully evaded all the creaky wood, you turn the post at the bottom, making your way towards the kitchen but quietly, stealthily, the Pink Panther theme song playing in your head as you tread the wooden floors like a spy.

Your heart was beating fast in your chest, and when you made it to the kitchen, it’s empty. You round the kitchen island, trace the marbled surface with the pad of your index finger.

Where did he go?

And then you realize— it smells like fresh coffee.

You turn around near the pantry, and just at that moment, Gojo comes walking out of it and nearly collides with you in his stride.

“Oh shit—” he says, hand darting out to hold your elbow so you don’t fall backwards onto your butt, and just from that contact alone, you’re searing.

You yank your arm out of his grip and stare at him with a panic. He’s still shirtless, wearing his loosely hung black sweatpants, but his face looks freshened up and his hair is flattened down in an attempt to tame it, and he’s squinting at you like he doesn’t have his contacts in and is struggling to make out what kind of expression you’re offering him.

“Hey,” he says, “can we talk—”

You weren’t ready to talk about it yet. 

Didn’t have enough time to have an existential crisis over it.

And as if God was on your side, the doorbell rings.

“Ah!! Gotta get that!!” you chirp before turning on your heel towards the main entrance, but he reaches out to grab your wrist, making your breath hitch.

“Just hold on one sec—”

“I can’t,” you say, and you both hear the doorbell ring again, “it’s probably the highschoolers I shoo’d off yesterday because I didn’t have any cash to give for their fundraiser. I promised I’d go to the ATM.” You yank out of his hold. “Highschoolers are scary. Don’t wanna make ‘em wait!!! Or they’ll…egg…your house?” You say, blinking at him, the same way he’s blinking at you, because you’re just as confused about what you said as much as he probably is. “Ah…ahahah,” you let out some forced laughter, which most definitely just sounds awkward. You take two steps forward towards the hall, but then turn around to face him again. “Um. Also. If you have any cash on you, that’d be great. I forgot to go to the ATM.”

His expression suggests that he is just so entirely confused by you, and then he watches as you beeline to the door.

You breathe in deep, then exhale slow, tuck some damp strands behind your ear, and just try your best to calm down your beating heart before you yank open the door, fully prepared to see some obnoxious teenagers, when—

You’re met with a wide-eyed, surprised-looking Sylvie standing at the front door instead.

“Ah?” you softly exclaim.

She blinks blankly, her mouth that had been slightly agape at the sight of you closing as if she found it to be too improper of a reaction for her standards, and she smooths down the fabric of the bright blue denim waistcoat she was wearing, her palms gliding down to the matching dress pants, and then tucks her neat hair behind her ear.

“Sylvie?” you blink in surprise, “w-what are you doing here?”

She creases her brow at you, then leans back to check the house number to the side of the doorframe to check if she’s got the right house, and then her gaze shifts back to you. “What are you doing here, y/n?”

“Oh, that’s—” Your voice trails off gently, suddenly unsure, but then you find it again. “That’s what I asked you.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks again, eye contact unwavering, and somewhat impatient.

“Is a ten dollar bill enough? Or do you need a twenty?” You hear Gojo’s voice as he approaches from the side in your periphery while fishing through bills in his wallet, still gloriously shirtless and somewhat disheveled from sex and sleep, and he runs a hand through his hair before he walks right up to you, hands you a couple of bills and says, “ehhh just give ‘em a couple of twenties.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary anymo—” you start, but then his face lifts and he’s glancing towards outside of the door.

It was like something out of a movie, the way you would describe it. The way his face twists from relaxed, somewhat disinterested, into full-blown, unadulterated shock. The way his shoulders stiffen, he’s rendered still, chest decompressing with the exhale he huffs out. You’ve never seen the blue in his eyes so clearly before, not with the way they’ve never been so wide in all the time that you’ve known him, and it breaks your heart—how pretty they are.

“S—” he starts, but the syllable gets caught in his throat.

Your gaze slowly pans from him to Sylvie, who stands just outside the door, and you find that, as her eyes shift between the two of you, her expression is the exact same as his. Wide, shocked, but there was something else in there too. But just the idea of deciphering what it could be, what it could mean, makes you feel so entirely discouraged, like a stranger in your own skin, and it makes your shoulders sulk, same with the sink of your heart towards the center of the Earth.

With eyes flicking back to Gojo, you blink at him once slowly, then twice, feeling like you were out of breath from just standing alone.

You didn’t even need to ask who she was to him. You can tell by the way he’s looking at her.

Sylvie is his ex-wife.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of ch10. 'what if?']

[end of in holy matriphony: season 1]

song of the chapter: 'boyish' by japanese breakfast

a/n. mann i would hate to be gojo rn LOL anywho, thank you sm for readinggg <33 aaaaaaa i'm so nervous to kick off all the DRAMA and angst but............ i'm also very excited 🤭 i am once again shitting bricks posting this chapter bc i just get so nervous posting smut, idk maybe cuz i hardly post it but idk it just is so nervewracking??? and feels so vulnerable??? ahaha i imagine it gets easier the more you post it but like DAMN idk how the jjk smut authors do it. i feel more vulnerable posting this than any other chapter 🤣🤣 buuuuuut i also enjoyed writing it 🤭hehe. apologies for any typos i wrote it w one handKSDJFH im joking i just love this whole two steps forward one step back dynamic btwn reader n gojo like it's the stuff i LIVEEE for in slowburns...i'm so excited to write all the complicated emotions that come w sleeping w a man n then his EX WIFE SHOWS UP AT THE DOOR NOT EVEN AN HOUR AFTER...hell yea huuuuge and i mean BIG and i meannnn COLLOSAL shout out to my lovely beta reader leni, who held my hand as i edited this chapter lol. i had an absolute blast running this one by you 🤣🤣 tysm to all my readers who support this story <3 i was so blown away by the love w ch9, it was a behemoth to edit, and SO challenging to write. i wanted to write a lengthier author's note for that chapter bc i had SO much to say about my writing process for it but i lowkey got lazy LOL but yea it definitely tested my writing abilities the most i think of anything i've put out so far. so i really am so glad it was well received! as you may have seen, this marks the end of ihm season 1!!! sort of a cliffhanger i'm sorryyy i don't usually enjoy leaving chapters on cliffhangers but i just love the open endedness of this scene :'') ihm will be going on a bit of a break after this. i want to spend a little bit of time hashing out some of the details for the next part of the story, and also take a little time off writing! ...its ok ihm gojo my beloved... i’ll be back soon lol i sound like i'm going fucking mental. anyways. once again thanks so much for all the likes, comments, reblogs, asks etc <3 interacting w you guys is a great part of my joy these days. hope you all have a lovely day/night! ah also!!! ihm playlist!!! finally debuting it!! still a tiny bit of a work in progress but you can find it here: playlist. i name it herbal seedlings bc idk all i could think about was reader’s herb garden - ellie 🧚‍♀️✨

➸ you're all caught up!

taglist is open || please comment under this post to be added. if you're unsure if you're already on the taglist or will be tagged in future chapters, feel free to comment here n i'll make sure to add you! also please make sure you adjust your settings if needed so that i can tag you. let me know whenever your taglist preferences change.

note. i'd recommend subscribing to the fic on my ao3 so you can get email notifs as well if you'd like! ; please do not ask me for updates or ask me when i am going to next update (read rules)! thank you!

🏷️: @hvarts4satoru @tetsuski @septemberctdfics @hemmosfear @a-trashbag

@shoruio @susususukanana @fushiguroooozzz @getosugurume @ehcilhc

@kaisenkalogathia @manhattanstrawberry @disappointedpeaches @aldebrana @chich1ookie

@gojodickbig @um-no-ok @chiyokoemilia @pickuptruck01 @cactisjuice

@sorilyae @bloopsstuff @fwgojos @tw0fvced @suguruslovedoll

@fanficgirlboss @ariasnoodles @astrokenny @coolwitchtree @fiftyfeetstrawberryparfait

@anujah9 @asimpinamillion @satorugirlie @ilovebeansyay @mymoonisgrey

@4y3sh4 @aldebrana @electrckchild @userbananababes @jaegersity

@sashisuslover @akariro @mya1112 @lavender-hvze @joemama-2

The projector whirs like it’s considering bursting into flames, casting flickering light across your classroom. The fourth-years in your English lit. class sit tiredly on their chairs, their bodies slouched in varying degrees depending on their stage of senioritis. Half of them are waiting to be entertained, the other half are already half-checked out.

“Alright,” you say, remote in hand, “Remember the excerpt we just read, and keep in mind that we’re analyzing narrative perspectives and unreliable perceptions. I’m going to show you a clip from the movie, just so you guys can visualize what you just read. Pay attention to what’s said, but more importantly, how it’s said. How does Darcy see himself in this situation versus how Elizabeth perceives him? How does the author, or in this case, the filmmaker, favor one perspective over the other?”

There are a few dutiful nods, and a few blank stares. Someone in the back whispers something about SparkNotes, and you decide to ignore it.

You cue the clip. On the screen, a still-frame. You’re about to show your students Elizabeth Bennet, standing in a rain-soaked gazebo, and glowering as Mr. Darcy stumbles through a confession of love that sounds suspiciously like an insult.

“This,” you add before pressing play, “Is one of the most famous proposal scenes in English literature. Oh, and also keep in mind this is a highly dramatisized version from the actual novel but I just love this scene. So, I’m forcing you all to watch it. And make sure to jot down notes for the questions on the side.”

The room quiets, and you shut off the fluorescent lights, leaving only the warmth of your fairy lights on — the coziness only furthering the exhaustion of your students, you think. But then the orchestra starts in a chaotic frenzy jolting a couple kids awake, before dying down as the sound of rain hisses from the projector speakers. Darcy starts listing the reasons why Elizabeth is unsuitable for him before proclaiming he can’t stop loving her anyway. Elizabeth’s fury is sharp, cutting. Keira Knightley is an angel.

You’re watching your students more than the film, as you take a seat at your desk and grab your sugary coffee for another sip. A few try not to smile at Elizabeth’s sharp tongue. A couple girls try not to smile at Matthew McFadden and his very pretty blue eyes.

It’s as thunder claps over these star-crossed lovers, that the door slams open.

You feel heads turn, but you’ve developed a sixth sense to know who’s at the door without even moving.

And in strides Satoru Gojo, physics teacher across the hall, nightmare of the faculty lounge, and apparently incapable of reading a clock. His white hair is unpleasantly tousled, and as you make eye contact you notice how his half-rimmed black glasses gleam under the fairy lights.

You look up at him, and scrunch your face with emphasis to your exasperation. “Really?”

“Relax,” he says cheerfully, “Just need to borrow your stapler.”

“In the middle of my class? How many times have I talked to you about this–”

“Oh..” He looks up, as if for the first time acknowledging that he’d burst into the middle of your very important—not at all self-indulgent—lesson about Pride & Prejudice. He waves back at a couple students, and obnoxiously smiles. “The lights were off and I thought you had a prep period too. And my stapler jammed. I can’t help it!” He doesn’t even lower his voice.

The students glance between you and him, their attention fully wrenched from the rain-soaked misery of Darcy and Elizabeth. Someone snickers, and your head whips around too fast.

You look back at Gojo, who’s now rummaging over your desk. Inconsiderately blocking part of the projector with his tall frame and big head. You slap his wrist, and he looks down at you, a little amused.

You hiss through your teeth, pointing at the projector. “Can you not?”

Gojo cups a hand to his ear dramatically, and leans closer towards you, as if trying to hear what you had just said, but then you watch his jaw drop as Elizabeth says that Darcy’s the last man in the world she could ever be prevailed upon to marry.

“Wow. What did he do?” Which gets a couple laughs from the students, to your dismay.

He stands, moving aside from the projector and instead going behind your desk now, looking through the drawers like they’re his. You glare at him, and the coffee in your hand suddenly starts feeling like a projectile you could be using.

“If you’re going to interrupt, at least be quiet.” You stage-whisper.

“Me? Loud? Never.” He presses a finger to his lips like a cartoon spy, in an exaggerated shhh sound.

“The stapler is in the small drawer on the left. Leave my classroom.” As he moves a bit closer, opening the only drawer he forgot to check, your eyes pan up to his navy blue shirt, which reads in heinous lettering: Without friction, we’d all slip into despair. It’s a new one, and you have to wonder how many t-shirts with physics puns on them this grown ass man owns.

“Nice shirt.” You sarcastically quip. He pauses for a moment, holding your pretty pink stapler in hand.

“Aw. You like it?” He looks down at you in your chair, and pinches the front of his shirt with his free hand, as if to give you a better look at it. You want to smack that grin off his face.

“Hard not to when it’s screaming, I have no social life! in Comic Sans.”

He frowns, stage whispering back at you. “You’re kidding. This shirt’s a conversation starter. It’s so deep and poetic. Far from anything you could comprehend” 

“Sure,” you deadpan, “Specifically, it starts the conversation: ‘God, what a loser.’” 

“Me? A loser?” He whispers and cups a hand over his mouth this time, saying something now only you should hear. “Didn’t you turn down going to the club with Shoko last weekend so you could rewatch ‘The Great British Bake Off’?” You think that you can feel your face flushing.

“Wha—Why would Shoko tell you that?!” you sputter, a little louder than intended. Shoko Ieiri, what a traitor. A couple students near the front titter, and Gojo tips his head, smug.

You shoot the front row a sharp look. “Don’t encourage him.”

Onscreen, Darcy’s voice cracks with tension: “Forgive me, for taking up so much of your time.” But no one’s watching. They’re watching the way you’re squared off against Gojo like you’ve been through this routine a hundred times before.

You try to will your students’ attention back to the projector, but the air is buzzing with suppressed laughter, and the clip ends. Elizabeth is storming away from Darcy. Silence.

All eyes are on Gojo, as he starts walking towards the door.

One of the students mutters, just loud enough to hear, “Kinda feels like Elizabeth and Darcy right now.” You look around to see who said it, and of course it’s Hakari in the back row, slouched and practically half asleep. Always instigating.

Gojo perks up instantly. “Wait, which one am I?”

“You’re Mr. Collins.” you snap.

Gasps and laughter ripple through the class.

“Ouch,” Gojo says, clutching his chest theatrically. “Marriage proposal still stands, though.”

You can feel your blood pressure climbing as the students shout their ooo’s and ahh’s. “You got the stapler. Now, Get. Out.”

He grins, holding it up like it’s a trophy. He’s almost out the door now, his head is just peeking in like he wants to do one last thing to piss you off. “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t call me that.”

“Right, right.” He pushes his glasses up, and his voice sing-songs sweetly. “See you at dinner, honey.”

And then he’s gone, out the door and across the hall to his classroom—and the entire class loses it. You want to sink through the floor.

“Alright,” you flick the lights back on, and try to act like you’re not planning to take that stapler back and whack him over the head with it once the bell rings. “Settle down. I don’t know what Mr. Gojo’s problem is but I want you all to act like that never happened. For my own peace of mind.”

They’re still giggling and you can hear the trail of whispers through the classroom. But still, it’s the image of Gojo’s grin that’s burning hot at the edge of your patience.

Your classroom feels strangely hollow after the bell, like the laughter of your students still clings to the walls even though they’ve all scattered for break. The projector is cooling down with a low hiss, the fairy lights glow faintly on the walls against bookshelves, student projects, and all the Etsy posters you bought for decor, and the only sound is the steady hum of the AC above to cool the late August heat outside.

You sit at your desk, stirring a plastic cup of iced coffee that tastes like melted ice cream and regret. Sickly sweet, just how you like it, though this morning you feel like you made it a little too sugary. You’ll survive, though.

The door creaks open and Utahime steps inside, a familiar relief with her cardigan draped neatly over her shoulder, her keys and staff lanyard swinging around her neck, and her ever-practical cherry red heels clicking against the linoleum. Without hesitation, she sinks into a student desk in the front row, sighing as her knees bump awkwardly against the underside. She lets her heels dangle a little, like she’s trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit.

“Don’t you have your own office?” You ask.

“Mm.” She tilts her head back, studying you from across the room. “Don’t you have better coffee?”

You look down at your coffee, now a bisque-shade from how much creamer you put in it this morning. Unpleasant to the untrained eye. But you snort, and take a sip anyway.

“That’s going to kill you before the students do.”

“It’s called self-preservation.” You swirl the coffee like it’ll magically taste better if you move the sugar around.

Utahime props her chin in her hand. “How’d you sleep?”

The truth is that you stayed up half the night rereading old messages from Naoya until your chest felt too tight to breathe. You could never tell Utahime this, though. First off, she was the one who you had cried to then rewatched the third season of Sex & The City with that weekend he’d broken up with you. Second off, she would use her guru-esque quality, not just as a school counselor, but as one of your best friends, to advise you against your self sabotaging habit of only looking at the good parts in your less than adequate, decade long relationship.

You force a casual shrug and don’t meet her eyes. “Fine. Finished a reread of Gatsby before we start our unit.”

“Mm-hm.” Utahime’s tone makes it clear she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it slide—for now.

Instead, she gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “So. How many times did Gojo barge in this week? I’m still betting under forty for the whole year. Suguru said over. So, no pressure, but just to let you know I have twenty dollars on the line right now.”

You groan and drop your forehead onto your folded arms on the desk. After the bell rang, you had quickly stomped over to his classroom to retrieve the stapler he’d stolen from you, but the idiot had already left and put a bright blue post-it note on his door that read: “BRB. I have the stapler on me. You know where to find me, Ms. L/N ~ ;)”  You had ripped it off and threw it away—and hoped no one else noticed the perpetual steam coming out of your ears.

“Every day. Every single day this week. It’s like living across from an albino raccoon who figured out how doors work.”

Utahime chuckles, but her expression softens. “You’ve gotta stop falling for his bad ragebait.”

You peek up at her through your arms. “I can’t stop him from getting under my skin. It’s like his only hobby.”

“Then ignore him.”

“I’m trying. But then he does that thing where he inhales and then exhales—”

“—You mean breathing?”

“Exactly.”

Utahime shakes her head, amused, but the laughter fades as her eyes search yours. “You sure you’re okay?”

You straighten, wrapping your hands around the icy condensation of your coffee cup so your hands feel numb. “Sure. Never better.”

“You don’t have to joke about everything.”

“I’m not joking.” You smile anyway, the kind that feels plastered on. “I’m deflecting. It’s different.”

She doesn’t say Naoya’s name, but you hear it anyway, tucked inside the silence between you. It’s been about two months and eleven days since you had called it quits on who you thought—at some point or the other—would be the man you would spend the rest of your life with. Your high school sweetheart, the man who had seen you from junior-year prom to your masters thesis. Who you had moved in with at 19, then kicked you out at 27. It was mostly mutual, an unremarkable, inevitable split. The last couple years had felt like the end of a novel, dragging out the last few pages long after the story should’ve concluded. There wasn’t a week where you didn’t argue, scream at each other, or even talk at all. Ten years in, and you felt like it had been about six since the last time you could say without hesitation that you loved him unconditionally. The scary part is you don’t know if he ever loved you that way at all.

Doesn’t mean leaving didn’t hurt, though.

Utahime shakes you out of your thoughts, as she leans back in her chair, letting her heels swing lazily. “So…still dreaming about your good-for-nothing ex, or have you moved on to…physics teachers?”

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Excuse me?!?”

“You know, the students are already starting to speculate ever since you took down those photos of you and Naoya from your bulletin board,” You take a glance to your left, where you had a cute bulletin board you had crafted of scraps and pictures and stickers and sentimental items. It was half empty now…since most of your pictures were of you and your ex. You didn’t really think anyone would notice, but now that you’re looking at it, the emptiness is screaming at you. Yikes. “I’ve caught a few of them whispering whenever you two appear in the same hallway.”

“What? Speculate — speculate about what?!”

“About you two.” She smirks knowingly. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Your reputation precedes you.”

Your eyes narrow. “Reputation? You mean being a grown woman who actively wants to whack an unfunny physics teacher? Did they finally catch me planning first-degree murder?”

“Kind of,” she says, concealing her amusement. “Except…it doesn’t really sound like murder to the average high schooler. To them, it just looks… interesting. For lack of a better word.”

You groan and press your forehead into your palm. “I can’t. I just can’t. It’s literally my life goal not to give him any fuel, and now—”

“Now they’ve invented a fantasy version of you two,” Utahime finishes for you, tilting her head. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. You’ve got some competitive energy going on. Maybe one could even call it sexual tension if I had to give it a word—” You make a gagging noise, profusely shaking your head, and Utahime laughs at you.

“And I mean all of that for a guy who has Digimon collectibles all over his room. And a weirdly large collection of physics shirts.”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “It’s a curse. I walk into the building and somehow my first thought is, ‘Which new physics pun is he wearing today?”

“And the second thought is?”

“Oh. That I should hide my stapler.”

Utahime raises an eyebrow. “Ah. That explains the blue post-it note.” She winks. “Classic Gojo.”

You groan, dramatically dragging a hand through your hair. You had really hoped no one else had seen that. “I don’t even know why he bothers me so much. I feel like he’s gotten worse this year, and we’re not even a full week in yet. Last year, I tried to use his tricks against him and randomly burst into his class to distract his students, but he didn’t even care. He just found it funny so I gave up that tactic because seeing him all golly made me annoyed.”

Utahime’s not looking at you anymore, picking at the fuzzy pills on her cardigan with her nails. “You know, sometimes the people who get under your skin the most aren’t the ones worth your attention, but they’re the ones who teach you the most about yourself.”

You snort softly, half disbelief, half in agreement. “That’s a nice way to say, ‘You’re weak for letting him annoy you this much.’”

“Maybe.” She smirks, playful again, and still not looking up at you. “But be careful around those students. They’re vicious.”

You clear your throat, “Seriously, though, Gojo? He’s like a fungus. The more you try to scrape him off, the more he grows back.”

Utahime smiles at you. “Then maybe you should stop feeding him your attention.”

You sip your coffee, saccharine and stinging. But deep down, you can’t shake the question: if he’s really not worth it, then why does he get under your skin so much?

The gym at Jujutsu High smells like freshly polished floors, popcorn, and a faint trace of febreeze. At least it didn’t smell like BO anymore. Or, at least not yet. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, cutting across the chaos below. The bleachers are completely full, and the gym is buzzing. Students are running everywhere—teams being called, banners being hung, foam fingers waving like flags.

It’s a Friday at lunch, and it's the end of your first week back. You’d almost forgotten that you had volunteered to supervise the Welcome Back Rally, until Utahime–who was also volunteering, against her will—had dragged you out of your classroom and placed a clipboard and whistle in your hand.

You’d imagined a relatively easy job, like patrolling the bleachers, maybe confiscating contraband snacks from first-years, or clapping politely at the cheer routine. What you hadn’t imagined was being paired with Gojo, because apparently the faculty roster is written by someone with a personal vendetta against you.

“Ah, my partner in crime.” He greets, sliding up to you with a grin wide enough to make you want to pull his teeth out. “And here you were, thinking you could make it through one school event without me.”

You eye him flatly. “I was actually hoping that exact thing, yeah.”

Your assignment, according to Mr. Takaba, the school’s activities director and his curt clipboard instructions, is to, “monitor the relay game.” Which translates into standing near a mess of cones and hula hoops while unobservant teenagers attempt organized chaos. Predictably, the chaos wins. A basketball goes rogue, someone trips over a hula hoop, and now some freshman’s already bleeding from the nose. You cover your gasp with your hand, and Gojo makes a surprised face. The crowd goes, oooh..and not in a good way.

“Oh. Um. This is fine.” Gojo says, as you both watch a senior haul away the freshman, who’s holding a hand over his bleeding nose. Shoko could take care of that.

The two of you are the only ones monitoring the home-side bleachers, so you and Gojo are unusually silent for a bit, watching the rally play out. Occasionally blowing your whistle here and there if you notice someone being unfair, but you’re mostly zoned out.

“Where were you this summer?” Gojo says suddenly, leaning against the railing, “I feel like I heard nothing from you.”

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. The dynamic between you and Gojo has always been…perplexing. Some of your closest friends at work, like Shoko Ieiri, the school’s head nurse, and Suguru Geto, the world history teacher and co-advisor of the school newspaper with you—have all been some of Gojo’s closest friends since university. You just can’t pinpoint where you and Gojo’s little back and forth started—it feels like there’s been a great number of reasons and incidents and coincidences that have built up over the years, ranging from things with Naoya that never sat right, to stupid things like using up the last life of ink on their shared printer—but ever since you’ve been teaching at Jujutsu High, so has Gojo. And by some cruel architectural twist of fate, he’s also always been just across the hall. 

You glance at him, clipboard in hand. “I just live a life of mystery, apparently.” You’d spent the whole summer sulking after your break-up. 

He smirks. “Mm-hm. Right. Or you were avoiding me.”

“Please,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “You’re everywhere anyway. I get my fill of Gojo for the entire school year. I need summer to recharge in peace.”

“Touché,” he says, hands tucked in his pockets. “But seriously…did you ever catch up with Shoko while I was off being brilliant and terrifying somewhere.”

You frown, thinking. “Yeah. We hung out a couple of times. Mostly called, though. She lives so far from here.”

He nods, and you glance at him, eyebrows raised. “And you? Did you actually do anything useful, or just flirt your way through your summer like usual?”

“Excuse me,” He feigns offense, tilting his head. “Flirtation is just a bonus. I was busy all summer with coaching baseball camp, and doing research at the university with this NASA-backed team there for Quantum Propulsions. I saw a real rocketship they’re building. You wanna see?”

He side steps a little closer to you, pulling out his phone and scrolling over to his photos app to show you a selfie of him with his face in the corner of the frame, pointing up at a rocketship with a big smile on his face. 

“You like it? I put it in my class introduction slides this week.”

“Mm. It’s not your worst picture.”

“I guess I’ll take it.” He says, turning off his phone and stuffing it back into the pocket of his dark wash jeans. He doesn’t move back to his original spot, but he crosses his arms and watches the game for a bit, playing with the whistle between his fingers.

“Oh. You know I saw Naoya at a family thing last week? He kept glaring at me, but he looked like shit. Did he tell you abou–” He started trailing off, but your head had only registered, he looked like shit. You decided to take it as a small win.

“Don’t.” You grumble under your breath.

He leans closer, voice dropping just enough to carry over the crowd noise. “Oh, come on. I feel like the guys never liked me. Said I was too…flirty? Imagine that—me, flirty? The horror.”

“You know, he thinks that you’re off-putting.” You say, smirking despite yourself.

“I’m ignoring that. But, anyway. He came up to me at the family thing, because it was some Gojo-Corp slash Zenin-Corp schmuck fest I didn’t ask to be a part of, and he just kept glowering at me. Like, hello? Did I do something to you?”

You laugh quietly, shaking your head. “I swear you remember every single time someone’s ever wronged you, even minor stuff.”

“I don’t forget, I catalogue,” he says, mock-proud. “It’s a skill. Besides, it keeps things interesting. You’d be bored if I didn’t stir the pot a little.”

You glance at him, you find it slightly endearing, despite yourself. “I’m…not bored. Just constantly exasperated.”

“Exactly,” he grins, as if he had successfully proved a point. “We’re the perfect team. You, glaring. Me, grinning. Classic combo.”

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not sure ‘classic combo’ is the phrase I’d use for disaster waiting to happen.”

“Semantics,” he says lightly, leaning back a little with arms crossed. “Anyway, I missed this—seeing you overanalyze everything and still manage to look ridiculous while doing it. Kinda like a sport in itself.”

You huff, a little embarrassed but trying to hide it behind your clipboard. 

The gym breaks into claps and whistles as the voice of athletics director, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, announces over the speaker that the next relay round is about to start. You’re crouched down, trying to untangle two jump ropes that some geniuses thought would be funny to knot together, when you feel it — something flicks against the back of your ear.

You whirl around.

Gojo is standing there, twirling his whistle on a lanyard around his finger, infuriatingly casual as he looks down at you. “What?”

“You just flicked me.”

“Excuse me?” His voice dips into fake innocence, his grin widening when he sees your glare. He does it again.

“Stop that!” You hiss, and you’re back on your feet, glaring at him while he keeps twirling it between his fingers.

He leans down just enough to make his voice carry over the roar of the bleachers. “I’m just keeping you on your toes.”

You pause, and give him the most apathetic look you could muster.

“Get it…cause you were just crouching. On your toes…No?”

“You’re insufferable.” You yank the whistle from his hand and stuff it into your pocket, like you’ve confiscated candy from a baby.

Gojo just shrugs, then cups his hands around his mouth and looks at you, while simultaneously yelling towards the chaos of students, “Hey! Don’t steal school property, only teachers get to do that!” Before he places a hand to emphasize the gap between your height and his, making a show of how much taller he is than you. A few kids laugh, and you want the ground to swallow you whole.

“You are not funny.” You half cross your arms, with your clipboard still in hand.

“Not funny? Please. I’m the highlight of this rally.” He lifts his arms like he’s presenting himself to the crowd, and it gives you a full view of his newest outfit, written in block letters on a white shirt, accompanied with the graphic of a rollercoaster cart going up a drop: I have potential.

You hide your slight smile with a scowl. “Highlight? More like an eyesore. You lost your potential when you came in wearing a shirt like that.” 

He clutches his chest. Offended. “My shirt is a beacon of scientific truth.”

“It’s a beacon of why you don’t have a girlfriend.” You scoff. He pauses, and you think you’ve gone too far… but then he laughs at you, and the sound of it weirdly makes you lighten up.

“Hey, if you called me insufferable, but dated that one awful guy for—what was it—ten years?” He smirks at the way your jaw tenses. “Then that means there’s hope for me.”

You freeze, blinking at him. You wish you could have seen the look on your face at this moment. “Wait—did you say dated? As in past tense, used to date.”

He freezes too, smirk faltering. Absolutely caught. “Uh… I might’ve… overheard. Or someone mentioned it.” You looked at him, completely unimpressed. There’s only one other person who you ran to almost immediately after it was over. Who you called even before the snot had stopped running down your nose. And there was also only one person who was friends with both you and Gojo, who also had a big mouth. “Okay, fine—Shoko told me. But it’s not like I was being weird about it, I swear.”

Shoko Ieiri, that absolute traitor.

You glare. “You asked Shoko about my breakup?”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “Yeah…? Maybe that was overstepping. I just saw you guys unfollowed each other on Instagram, so I asked.”

You laugh, a little bitter, and shake your head at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Maybe you were overstepping??”

He shrugs, but his eyes flick over you like he’s checking if he can cross a line again. He’s so shameless you have to stop yourself from blowing the whistle in his ear. “I’m just saying—if a dumb t-shirt makes you cringe, but a guy wasting ten years of your life didn’t? Kinda feels like your priorities are flipped.”

You actually can’t believe he just said that. The laugh you let out is sharp and bitter, surprising even yourself. “You would know all about bad priorities, wouldn’t you?”

That shuts him up for a beat. Long enough that the sound of cheering and sneakers squeaking on the gym floor go on for longer than either of you are comfortable with. Then he smiles again, brighter, faker this time. “Tch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were projecting.”

You snap your head toward him. “Projecting what, exactly?”

“Mm.” He pretends to think, tapping his chin with one long finger. “Frustration. Deep-seated bitterness. Maybe some unresolved romantic trauma?”

Your mouth gapes open. “Excuse me?”

When you look back up at him, you see his head tilt up towards the bleachers, where a gaggle of juniors are very obviously whispering behind their hands, half-giggling, half-staring at the two of you like you’re they’re favorite celebrities. He nods his head at them, and you smile at them, and they burst out giggling before the two of you turn back around. What Utahime said to you yesterday rings in your head suddenly. You know the students are starting to speculate about you two…to them, it looks—interesting.

You shake your head, and he looks back at you, leaning in a little as the crowd roars again. “I mean, hey,” He says with an exaggerated shrug. “You don’t have to take it out on me just because someone dumped you.”

“I didn’t get dumped,” You hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest. “It was mutual.”

He gasps, scandalized. “Mutual? Oh no. That’s just what people say when they definitely get dumped.”

You shove his hand away as he reaches over like he’s about to pat your head. “Just stop talking.”

“Can’t. Won’t.” He beams. “Making you mad is way more entertaining than the relay race.”

“Gojo, I swear—”

“What? You’ll report me to Yaga? Please. He loves me.”

You’d thought about it. Had done your research to see if Gojo making you irritated and contemplate violence every time you see him border on the grounds of workplace harassment. But then you think about the things you’ve done to get him back over the years. Implied he got too excited over Digimon to his class of seniors, (if you know what I mean) which he laughed at. Broke some of his lab equipment after yelling at each other, which got slightly on his nerves. (And you felt bad, so you paid for most of it.) Swapped his whiteboard markers with ones that were dried out, to which he swapped yours with permanent markers. (The janitor had complained about it to Yaga.) Hid his chair in your room and replaced it with a kindergarten-sized one from the art room for a couple days. Hijacked his Spotify playlist to blast Dance Monkey in the middle of his lecture. To which he figured out your Spotify login and added I Am A Gummy Bear to all of your playlists. Those were some highlights among other things over the past four years.

And you know that Principal Yaga would only bring up all these other incidents if you were to complain about Gojo. Ugh.

“Yaga barely tolerates you.”

“Jealous?”

“Of what. Your complete lack of shame?”

“Of my charisma.” He winks. You gag.

“Gojo, if you say one more word, I’m shoving my whistle so far down your throat you’ll be calling plays from your stomach.”

He leans down until he’s eye-level, smile sharp. “Kinky.”

You feel your face flush again, and you spin around to see if anyone else had heard that. Thankfully, everyone seemed too focused on the kids about to hop over the finish-line of the three-legged race.

“You’re unbelievable.” You mutter, storming off towards the cones as the crowd erupts in cheers at the end of the race, commemorating the end of the rally and the start of the final cheer routine, which was highlighted in bright yellow on your clipboard. Behind you now, Gojo’s laughter booms over the crowd, louder than the pep rally itself.

Before he can retort, a cheerleader comes sprinting too close to the sidelines. She collides with one of the relay cones, sending it skidding straight toward you. You stumble back, about to lose your balance—until you feel a strong arm shoot out, catching you around the waist to steady you back on your feet.

And of course, because the universe hates you, Satoru Gojo doesn’t let go immediately. His hand is firm against your side, his face dipping closer than it has any right to be, his breath brushing your ear when he murmurs, “Careful there, wouldn’t want you to sue the school for hazardous cone placement.”

Your pulse spikes, embarrassment and heat searing through your face like you’d just played the entire relay yourself. The squeak of sneakers slows, replaced by a ripple of whispers and a sharp, collective gasp from the bleachers. The sound alone makes your stomach drop. You know people saw. Too many people.

You jerk out of his hold, spin around toward him with your clipboard clutched tight against your chest like a shield. “You’re unbelievable.” You hiss again, but this time it comes out thinner, because you can still feel the ghost of his hand against your waist.

Gojo leans back, his ears a little red, but his expression is unbothered, with that blinding grin spreading across his face like he’s covering another laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head as if he didn’t practically manhandle you in front of half the school. “I saved your life. You should really be thanking me.”

“You could’ve tripped me harder than the cone did.” You try to snap, but your voice wobbles, and judging by the smug sparkle in his eyes, he heard it.

“Huh. You’re right. Next time I’ll really commit.” He sing-songs, walking away to pick up the cone, and you feel your eye twitch. You step back as the cheer squad rallies into formation, and you can still swear you hear his soft chuckling over the buzz of the crowd. The sound of it echoes in your ears long after the marching band drowns it out.

You’re half-paying attention to the students as they file out of the gym, congratulating teams and waving banners, but the whispers follow you like a persistent shadow. Every time someone giggles behind their hand or nudges a friend, your stomach twists. You’re convinced it’s because pep rallies are dumb, and not because of anything—or anyone—in specific.

You teach English to seniors in the morning, and sophomores after lunch. You go about your last two English 2 Honors classes of the day trying to ignore the lingering heat in your cheeks. You pass out all the worksheets you had printed the day before, teaching the slides to round out your lesson on Literary Devices like you always do in the beginning of the year. You don’t forget to remind your class about their timed summer reading essays next Friday, which gives way to a unanimous groan.

You would’ve forgotten the way Gojo had held you at that pep rally, if only not for every time you glance up, you’d notice the subtle smirks and sidelong glances your students exchange. A few kids even whisper to each other while stealing glances at you, and it sets your nerves on edge. You shift your weight on your tennis shoes, hoping it’s all in your head. Surely, it’s just the lingering excitement from the rally.

By the time the final bell rings, you’re practically sprinting out the classroom, trying to look casual while stuffing papers into your bag. The hallways are still buzzing with students, some waving at friends from other classes, others chattering in small groups. And yet—and maybe you’re just a little paranoid—you notice the occasional pause as someone spots you and then whispers to the next person.

You’re crossing the main hallway near the teacher’s lounge, when you hear a small gasp from the far end of the corridor, followed by muffled laughter. Your stomach lurches. Kids are really scary sometimes. But you have to ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

Still, the whispers and stifled giggles continue, subtly threading through the hallways as you make your way to the lounge. You’ve barely just closed the door, when it swings open behind you, and Utahime steps in, phone held out in front of her face.

“Explain THIS.”

You’re startled at first, but you follow her gaze, and your heart feels like it fell down to your ass. There it is—the photo. It’s a Snapchat photo, taken in low, zoomed in quality, with a black bar of text below that writes: “English X Physics OTP??????” The background is blurred, the gym chaos still visible, but the focus is zoomed in on the two of you. Gojo, leaning in close, one hand braced around your waist, your face flushed and wide-eyed like something out of a rom-com poster. And it all looks way too intimate than it really was.

“Oh. My. God.” You slump into one of the worn chairs in the lounge. Utahime follows, taking her phone back and staring at it with an infuriatingly gleeful grin plastered across her face.

“Oh, come on,” Utahime says, nudging you with her elbow. “It’s hilarious. Look at this!” She holds up the phone again, and you reflexively shield your face. “The posture! The panic! You’re basically a rom-com lead who just realized the camera’s on.”

“I am not a rom-com lead,” You whisper defensively. Your hands are covering your face out of complete embarrassment. “How many people has this gotten around to?? That looks—that looks criminal out of context—”

Utahime snorts. “Relax. It’s fine. It’s…well, it’s definitely not fine, because everyone’s seen it by now, but at least it’s funny.” She tries to give you a supportive smile, but is clearly savoring your meltdown. “I’ve got to say, though, the way your eyes are this wide—adorable.”

“Utahime!” You squeak, flailing. “Please delete it. Hide it. Burn it. ANYTHING.”

“Too late,” She says brightly, scrolling through her phone like she’s about to share it to everybody but you. “The students have it posted all over their private stories, apparently. You’re viral, congratulations.”

Before you can sputter further, the door to the lounge swings open and Ijichi, the secretary, pokes his head in, clipboard in hand and a polite, but firm expression.

“L/N?” He says, a little shy. “Principal Yaga is asking for you in his office. Right now.”

You jolt upright, nearly tripping over the chair. “Wha–what? Why?”

Ijichi blinks, a little startled at your reaction. “I don’t have details. He said it’s urgent. If you could come with me, please.”

Utahime bursts into another round of laughter, practically doubled over now. “Ohhh, this is perfect. Go on—walk into the storm, Ms. Bennet. (She says in a mock British accent) Make me proud.” 

You groan, flinging your bag over your shoulder and muttering curses under your breath as you follow Ijichi out of the lounge. You can still hear Utahime in there, barely able to contain her giggles while your stomach feels like it’s turning to mush.

As you follow Ijichi down the quiet hallway, now devoid of students, the worst possible scenarios slip through your mind. Of course this had to be about the photo—but can they fire you for that? Surely to any professional teacher, it would just look like a co-worker helping another co-worker from an imminent case of eating straight shit right? I mean, it was only to those hormonal teenagers for it to look like something else entirely, right?

And of course, of course, when you round the corner outside the principal’s office, there he is. Gojo. Sitting casually against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, phone in hand, scrolling with what looks like an irritatingly calm expression. He looks up, just for a second, and behind his glasses, the sparkle in those clear blue eyes tells you he knows exactly why you’re panicking.

“Yikes.” He mutters softly, seemingly more to himself than you, though you can feel it like a poke to the ribs.

Ijichi clears his throat, opening the door to Yaga’s office. “You two can come in,” He says, voice dry, eyes flicking between you and Gojo like he’s silently cataloguing the impending chaos.

Behind the door, Principal Yaga sits behind his desk, expression unreadable behind those visors he wears, even indoors. The office smells faintly of a Bath & Body Works mahogany and teakwood candle, and his chairs are weirdly far from his desk, and also weirdly shorter in comparison, making Yaga seem like a giant in front of them. “Sit,” he says, not bothering with pleasentries. Both of you comply, though Gojo makes it dramatic, leaning back and spreading his arms onto the rests.

“I’ve called you two in for a talk on professionalism.” Yaga begins, folding his hands on the desk. You feel your face cringe, and you don’t even bother looking over at Gojo. “While I don’t care what you do on your own time, I do care about what students see. I’ve seen the picture being spread. Stop giving them fuel for gossip. Stop giving them reasons to speculate about your behavior.”

You quickly nod, scared to look away, but Gojo leans toward you just enough that you can hear him whisper, with a smirk on his face. “Wow. We become that popular that fast?”

You snap your head toward him, voice sharp, but whispering, “Shut up. You’re literally the reason we’re here.”

Yaga sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Again. I don’t care what you two do outside of school, but this—” He gestures at the two of you, Gojo holding his chin with his hand, while leaning his arm on your arm rest, and you, your face unconsciously close to his as you were whispering to him just seconds ago. “—this hallway spectacle—is inappropriate. Since it’s already being spread amongst the students it could become a whole thing with the parents contacting us about professional conduct, and I just don’t want to deal with that headache. It’s happened before, and it wasn’t fun, Mr. Gojo and Ms. L/N.” 

You blink, swallowing hard, trying to gather your words because you’re afraid if you open your mouth you’re going to puke from the embarrassment. “I completely understand, Yaga. Trust me, it won’t happen again. And about the picture, I promise you—”

Gojo leans even closer, completely cutting you off with an amused tone to his voice, “It’s fine, really. It was all totally staged, Yaga. See? She actually tripped on purpose just so she could land in my arms.”

You snap, glaring at him so sharply that he actually flinches slightly. “Stop. Playing. Games. This was not intentional. A rogue cone came flying at me and he just so happened to help me, even though I very clearly did not need any help. You actually made it WORSE!”

Gojo chuckles softly, eyes sparkling, locked into yours. “But it looks so much better when you act flustered. I mean, have you seen the picture? Not the best angle but I thought we looked kind of cu–”

You throw your hands up, exasperated. “Delete that photo from your phone, erase it from everyone else’s memory, and —”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” Gojo interrupts, voice still teasing. “You’re making it sound like you’re…obsessed with me or something. Careful, or Principal Yaga might think the same.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re afraid they’re actually going to twitch this time. The audacity on this motherfucker. “Obsessed? With you? Are you insane??!” 

Yaga groans, clearly done with both of you, and cuts in, voice sharp and final. “Do I make myself clear? Professionalism. Enough of this whispering, smirking, or any other nonsense. Our lead janitor is still angry at the two of you for your antics last year. I don’t care what you do on your own time, please. Go home. Both of you. Now.”

That seems to spook the two of you a bit, and you both look over at each other, immediately shutting up. You gather your things, give Yaga one last nod of understanding, and walk out the door, where Ijichi stands in the corner still, eyeing the two of you with a look of curiosity. You wonder how much of the conversation he’d heard.

As you walk out into the hallway, unfortunately having to walk the same direction to the staff parking lot, Gojo quickens his pace to match yours, and lets out a long, dramatic, mock sigh of disappointment, then leans toward you with a sly grin. “All I got out of that was Yaga just gave us his blessing. Officially. We’re cleared for all future shenanigans.”

You turn your head back at him incredulously. “He just said the exact opposite of that.”

“Opposite, same, potato, potathto…details, details. I prefer to think he secretly agrees with me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, listening to the way your steps sync on the linoleum floor. Imagining the takeout leftovers that are at home, waiting for you, before letting out a long, frustrated breath. “I hate you.”

“And yet,” He says, “You’ll be thinking about today all weekend.”

There’s some quick math done in your head, as Gojo blabbers onto you about his weekend plans. You calculate the amount of weeks in a year. Then you figure out how many weeks are left in a school year. 35 weeks of 36 to go. 35 more weeks of Gojo in your ear. 35 weeks more weeks until Gojo finally shuts up. 35 more weeks until you can find your sanity again. 

You think this year will be so much fun.

⭑ mae's note: HII you've officially finished the first chapter!! i'm sorry if any of it got info-dumpy at one point, but i really wanted you guys to get to know these characters, and get to meet some more familiar friends along the wayyy :D constructive feedback is soo appreciated and my inbox is open for questions & comments (help and ideas for future chapters from a teacher would be sooo appreciated LMAO, i know nothing about teaching, google has been my best friend writing this so far) as for updates, i'm planning to post a new chapter bi-weekly, but there will be some changes depending on my schedule and everything going on. i'm ngl i kind of base my motivation on interactions..💔 so if you liked this at all likes+reposts+comments are my driving force </3 see u guys in the next one!!

TAGS: @deeninadream @kaecient @kpopwh0r3 @waterfallofroises @sacracoeur @sunflxwerhunny @dcvilxswish @shadykittyperfection @lyra-belserion11 @berrychaivibe @littlemisssatorugirl @hastletea @elegancefr @alyistheboss @shiroitobo @disappointedpeaches @zoeyflower @goonslayerr @matchaveins @alnoorim @hnnyflkss @bloopsstuff @casssiesthings @coffee-and-geto @starzbrii @plutosgold @tsukistopglazer @sypnasis @shibataimu @pickuptruck01 @sxgacxbe @khenanadeche @yesdere @ultimateelitepenguin @horriblydownbad

Part 1: the beginning

Part 2: late nights

Part 3: dinner

Part 4: sweetheart

Part 5: a gift

Part 6: unsaid feelings

Part 7: distance & doubts

Part 8: the agreement

Part 9: a rough day

Part 10: feelings of the heart

Part 11: first date

Part 12: you and me*

Part 13: birthday*

Part 14: the cabin*

Part 15: tough shift (coming soon)

updated 05/14/2025

posted on AO3 with a f!oc: AO3 Companionship