18+ lawyer/professor! satoru gojo realizes that his favorite dancer/stripper is you— his student.
tonight shouldn’t be any different than the nights that came before. except it is.
he somehow established a routine of coming here after attending any whack-ass conference or reviewing boring academic paperworks. sometimes either with suguru, shoko, or yuki; seldom all four of them, and most times just him, to rest. yes, to rest.
and yeah, maybe to ultimately and absolutely watch his favorite dancer—to see you smile at him beneath that face veil as you performed.
“drinks, sir?” a server offered him. he shook his head and smiled as he sunk deeper in the plush leather couch he’s sitting on, drinking in the sight of how gracefully you air-walked around the pole, wearing a navy blue laced sheer lingerie set, with suspender belt connected to the garter straps.
your eyes landed on him briefly as you wrapped your body around the pole, hands stretched out in the air, the sheer veil mask covering half of your face.
satoru inhaled sharply, biting the inside of his cheeks and slightly adjusting his tightening pants as he watched you effortlessly twirl around that shiny metal bar.
his current problem? also you.
the one he’d been tipping generously for months after every performance on the main stage, followed by a 10 mins lap dance— and maybe, on some (most) nights where he doesn’t feel like sharing you— private bookings. maybe an hour or two.
every… other week. or night.
what goes on in that luxurious four walled room was for him to relinquish every night in his own bedroom as he stroked his throbbing cock slowly at first, thinking of how you bent over before him, your ass jiggling as you moved your hips in a circular motion.
how your fingertips felt on his face tracing his jawline and stubble, then the curve of his lips during hazy nights, from his philtrum down to his lower lip.
how your breasts felt beneath his palm, soft and perfect as he kneaded carefully, pinching the stiff peaks as he mapped the shape and feel of it under his calloused hands, sometimes with his mouth, sucking, kissing— with your bra covering his eyes.
he often came undone gasping your name—your performer name—shaking and trembling as he imagined it was you instead pumping his length, your thumb smearing over his tip, looking up at him with those fucking eyes that he has memorized at this point.
now he’s here, sitting, watching you closely under the dim strobe of led lights, his heart sinking to the pits of his stomach and up to his throat as he pieced things together.
the woman who has captured his attention, his heart, and his dick apparently— might actually be his student.
his fucking student.
he sighed as he ordered a tequila on the digital pad on their table just to chase away that gnawing desire and nauseating coil at the pits of his stomach and groin.
he fiddled with his lower lip as he watched the customers leave tips and cash the corner of the stage you’re performing on.
suguru was nowhere to be seen, while shoko walked over to their booth and flopped next to him on the couch, holding a whiskey when a woman wearing a purple string lingerie offered a lap dance with a smile.
“i’m good, thanks.” satoru politely shook his head, while shoko whipped out a handful of fresh of bills from her wallet and handed it to the woman.
“i’d appreciate it,” she flashed a subtle grin as she sat up straighter.
“you look miserable. what’s up with you?” shoko sipped her whiskey, glancing at the narrow-eyed satoru as he examined you intently.
he’s double checking if you— his favorite performer—really are his student, cross referencing in his mind everything he’d gotten to know about you behind close doors of the private bookings; and the one who submitted case digests about labor management, position papers, and recited (seldomly) in his class.
“nothing just… thinking about something.”
the music blasted around the surround speakers, indulgent and addictive as the cold breeze of the AC mixed with it—air charged as he recalled the moments with you.
for months, he’d gotten to know your eyes too damn well— the flecks of it and shape of it. under the hazy lights and darkened rooms, he had it mapped in his mind—how it’d crinkle at the corners when you smile at him beneath the veil mask. how it lights up—even momentarily— when he walks up to the stage to tip you after performance and to strike small talks.
how it widened the first time you saw him sitting at the far end of the room, watching you— or when he first tipped you a hundred bucks the first time, blinking at him confusedly for a moment before accepting it with a gradual smile.
it hit him that those eyes that looked up at him with much much familiarity from the first time might be out of recognition.
“don’t do that. thinking. i’m not used to it,” shoko clicked tongue, teasing.
he shook his head with an amused scoff as he pinched grain of salt and placed it on the back of his hand, downing the tequila shot with a grimace followed by a sharp taste of lemon hitting his tongue as he sucked on it to cut back the bitter bite of alcohol that scraped down on his throat.
the thing is, he loved your company. you had a great humor and was quick-witted with all the banters you two shared. effortlessly cool who held much mystery from all the information you withheld about yourself.
of course he asked about your background and matter of fact he just realized it now— how good you evade and answer around his questions, even the ones he tailored carefully.
he’s not a lawyer for no reason at all. during board games with him inside the luxurious room he booked for the two of you, nights where you wore his hoodies that he lent you, he’d gotten to know your hobbies, interests, and how your brain functions.
he memorized your perfume and scent and how your warm body felt next to his when you let him sit next to you with his arms around your shoulders, absentmindedly playing with your hair. on how sometimes you’d let him rest and nuzzle the crook of your neck as he traced ghosting pecks of kisses there until your breathing synced together.
your eyes haunted him every night. there’s no getting away from it.
he’d recognize it anywhere.
everywhere.
although he really didn’t expect it to be inside the bright lecture halls, nor in broad campus daylight, up close— when you submitted a case study.
and to his horror? he recognized your eyes first then your voice.
“i think she might be my student,” he breathed after the dancer left them with a smile and a wink to his friend sitting next to him comfortably.
he looked at shoko who whipped her head towards him in an instant, her mouth hanging open for a moment as she processed what he said when suguru sat down next to shoko, yawning.
“what are you guys talking about?”
“somebody’s about to lose their license,” shoko laughed as she threw her head back to the couch.
“what? what do you mean-“
“satoru’s her regular,” shoko nodded at your direction, performance almost ending as you spun on that pole followed by a smooth split landing on the floor.
“and apparently,” shoko wiped her eyes as she downed her remaining whiskey. “she’s his student,”
“the fuck dude?” suguru gaped at him.
“don’t look at me like that—acting like you didn’t book her too. she might also be in your class, dumbass.” satoru groaned.
“in my defense, it was only once and i didn’t know ! also, you paid for it—“ suguru shook his head, thinking to himself.
“you two are dumb as fuck. how could you not recognize your own student?” shoko chuckled, standing up.
“anyway, i’m going home, i still have microsurgery tomorrow.”
“i’m coming with you.” suguru stood up quickly after her, pausing briefly to look back at satoru as he grabbed his coat, quietly asking if he’s coming with them.
“you guys go ahead, i’ll…” he trailed off as he saw you walk down the stage, eyes on him for a moment before a guy approached you slipping crisp bills in your garter straps.
he clenched his jaw when he felt that bitter surge of irritation in his chest as he glanced at suguru who followed his gaze with a sigh.
“get your shit together, man. you wouldn’t wanna lose your license would you?” he smacked satoru’s chest affirmatively before jogging after shoko.
he’s in deep.
he stared at you once again, his elbows on his knees as he mulled over things. the club’s manager was talking to you, glancing over in his direction as she tucked a hair behind your ear and adjusted your face veil.
you nodded as you looked at satoru after the manager walked away.
he straightened up, his heart hammering as you walked closer to his booth, magnetized by how your hips swayed each step you took closer to him.
you look stunning. definitely not good for his heart.
(and his fucking pants.)
he grabbed his wallet from his back pocket without breaking the eye contact and pulled out couple of crisp bills and folded it as he handed it to you, clearing his throat, cataloguing that practiced curve of smile on your eyes once you sat next to him.
“thanks. lap dance?” your voice echoed in his system. soft and full. who is he to say no to you, really.
he took in every detail of you next to him— you had bags beneath your eyes. you looked exhausted.
he squinted his eyes. huh. after a moment, he nodded.
“thought you wouldn’t drop by tonight.” you said as you started your dance, body rolling on him languidly in your 8” heels.
“why’s that?” he signaled to a server to bring two drinks on his booth as he took in the detail of how you bent down, your hands’ warmth seeping beneath the fabric of his pants, when an idea lit up in his mind.
perhaps a playful interrogation over jenga. or chess—to catch you with you and your words.
after all— you’ve known him for months. as a stern and perhaps a stuck-up annoying professor and your loyal customer.
now how unfair is that, no?
he hoped it was him bugging you and keeping you up every night the same way you did to him unknowingly all these past few months.
whether its because of him as satoru, the man he just is behind closed doors with you that spent hundreds and thousands just to enjoy your company, or as your professor who just dropped tons of readings earlier— as long as its him occupying your probably now-frayed mind, he’s fine with it.
“nothing, just-“
“actually,” he drawled, licking his lips as he admired you up close. “do you wanna go upstairs? the usual?” he smiled, carefully watching your reaction.
you momentarily stopped as you straddled him, his hands resting gently on your hips, tracing ghostly patterns over the laced fabric that made your stomach coil in that familiar way.
you knew something’s up — he could clearly see that behind the slight hesitation behind your eyes, the soft movement of veil from your shallow breaths. he chuckled as he held your gaze.
“got something to tell me?” you tilted your head at him.
“i don’t know. do you?” he smirked as you led him inside the elevator, brows creased as challenge and curiosity radiated off of you.
he’ll keep suguru’s advice, sure.
but he’ll do it his way. time to see how long could you keep this farce up. he’d come to a realization way too late, but fuck. better late than never, right?
game on.
yna’s note 𓍼ོ hi. i researched how strip clubs work, duration of lap dances, and culture >< idk if i did it justice at all but i tried :) i have so much respect and MUCH admiration to all the midnight ballerinas out there. u guys are the fucking coolest. pls teach me how to do an aerial fankick 🥹 anw if there are any inaccuracies… close your eyes and pretend its there bcs its company policy. enjoy ! xx
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