every time you sink down on his length, his cock pulses your name in morse — his face screws up like he’s in pain, and you smile, tummy tingling with arousal. “give it to me,”

geto is good. he’s predictable; always so dominant until he’s all yours. he just needs that push in your caring tone, toes curling under the covers as his face goes blank.

it hits him like a semi-truck, and you, like a punch to the gut. then, it comes in waves — the warmth of his seed flooding your cervix as you seat yourself fully onto him.

you still, little whimpers and punchy moans falling from your gut as he cums inside. you toss your head back after a few seconds, eyebrows knitting together as… he just keeps going.

he fills you to the brim with his cum, hips shaking, then stilling as his cock leaks pathetically before shooting another desperate, hot rope. you exhale pointedly through pursed lips, knees shaking as you rise to them. geto grunts, eyes pressed so tight that he can’t stop blinking.

“d—don’t move, ah—

“you’re still going?” you mutter like it’s a point and not a question. your cunt aches and squelches as you slide off of him, unbelievably full already, and still not bearing the most of his seed.

“s—s- so sorry,” he whines, sitting up to his elbows when he feels you withdraw. he holds his breath for a moment, collarbone hollow and heated, before he tosses his head back again and keeps cumming.

you’re genuinely awestruck, face a fucked-out mess as you rest on your haunches, reaching for his tense cock as it cries out for you. when you grab his shaft, geto is so sensitive that he tenses, hips jumping off the bed.

he reaches for your wrist — blindly, instinctively, with the muscle memory of someone who has had to keep on his toes for twenty years.

you don’t fight anymore. that’s the rule.

until tonight.

“date go well?”

you freeze mid-step, the takeout bag in your hand crinkling. you don’t turn around. “what?”

“megumi told me,” he says from behind you, voice low and flat. “some guy picked you up. said he had flowers. cologne. nice car.”

you close your eyes, inhale slowly. of course he did.

“we went for dinner. nothing serious.”

“hm,” he hums. you can hear the crack of his gum. “he kiss you?”

your fingers tighten around the bag. “that’s none of your business.”

he laughs— low, sharp, ugly. “funny. didn’t know other men liked their mouths on used pussy.”

you whip around, slapping him before you can think. hard. the sound echoes in the entryway.

he doesn’t even flinch.

just tilts his head, jaw flexing, tongue running across his bottom lip. and then he’s moving— slowly crowding into your space until your back hits the wall and the food hits the floor.

“you done?” he asks, voice calm, hand on your waist like he’s done this a hundred times. “or you wanna hit me again before i fuck the attitude out of you?”

you breathe hard. you should shove him. scream. kick his ass out.

but your thighs are already clenching.

it’s toji— warm and big and dangerously familiar, his breath brushing your cheek, steady and unbothered. you hate him— you hate him— but you still dream about the way he used to fuck you like it was his goddamn right.

“fuck you,” you whisper.

his grin is slow and mean. “you will.”

+

you don’t remember how you ended up bent over the kitchen counter, panties shoved to the side, his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, saliva already pooling on your tongue from how deep he forces them in. your cheek is pressed to the cool surface, breath stuttering, hips pinned back against him while he crowds over you like there’s nowhere left to run.

“two fuckin’ years,” he mutters, cock grinding against your slit, thick and heavy and leaking against your folds, smearing slick up and down until you twitch. “two years and you still get wet like this for me. pathetic.” he drags the head through your mess again, unhurried, purposeful, making you feel every second of it, and your thighs tremble around nothing.

you try to turn your head, muffle something unintelligible that sounds like “don’t—” but he grabs your jaw, forces you still, and spits directly in your mouth.

you gasp, choke on it— and he uses it, of course he does. leans down, tongue sliding over yours, licking it up with a low, filthy groan, his cock twitching against your entrance as your body jolts. “fuck,” he breathes against your lips, “still take me so easy.”

“no running this time,” he growls, voice dropping as he lines himself up, thick tip nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to make a tiny you whine escape you. “you hear me? you take it. every inch.”

and you try. you really do.

but he’s already pushing in, splitting you open raw and thick and ruthless from the first thrust, no warning, no patience— just taking. he buries himself to the base in one hard snap of his hips, forcing a broken, muffled moan out of you, “mnn- ahh—!” your fingers clawing uselessly at the counter as your body jolts forward. the stretch burns, too much, too sudden, and he just stays there for a second, seated deep, wanting you to feel every inch of him lodged inside you.

“shit,” he groans, low and wrecked, “still so fuckin’ tight, fuck—”

then he moves.

hard. fast. relentless.

the slap of his hips echoes through the kitchen, sharp and wet and filthy, each thrust stealing the airw from your lungs while your moans break around a sob, drool slipping down your chin. “ah- ahh- f-fuck—!” it spills out anyway, messy and high, your body jerking with every deep drag of his cock as he fucks into you like he’s pissed off, like he’s punishing you for something you don’t even remember doing.

“this pussy’s mine,” he snarls, yanking your head back by your hair so your spine arches, forcing you deeper onto him. “doesn’t matter how many dates you go on. this—” he slams into you harder, knocking another choked cry out of you, “—belongs to me.”

you legs give out completely, knees buckling, but he doesn’t care. he just hauls one up, plants your foot on the counter, spreading you wider, folding you open so he can hit deeper, rougher— so deep it makes your stomach twist.

“look at you,” he pants, pace turning sloppy and heavy, “creamin’ on my cock already. fuckin’ mess- shit, listen to that.” his hand presses against your lower stomach, as if he can feel himself moving inside you, and the thought makes you whimper, broken. “you missed this, didn’t you? mmh, fuck, missed this fat cock stretchin’ you open, knockin’ the attitude outta you.”

you sob something like a yes, thoroughly wrecked, dissolving into breathy, dragged-out moans, “y-yes- hah- ahh—!” already unraveling, teetering on the edge, and he knows. he always knows. his hand slips down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing messy, unforgiving circles that make your whole body spasm.

“there it is,” he murmurs, almost mocking, overly pleased. “go on. cum on it.”

and you do.

you cum so hard your vision goes white, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing out of you as your body clenches around him, pulsing, dragging him deeper while your back arches and your hands slip against the counter.

and he doesn’t stop.

he never stops.

not when you squirm. not when you whimper. not when your voice goes soft and desperate, “t-toji, too much- mmh—!” not even when you sob into your arms and try to crawl away, hips twitching like you can escape the way he keeps dragging you back onto his cock.

“nuh-uh,” he grunts, grip bruising as he hauls you back, fucking you deeper, harder, like he’s chasing something. “where you goin’, huh? not done with you.” his pace turns mean all over again, each thrust punching a moan out of you. “you wanted to play house with someone else? go on lil’ dates like i’m dead?”

he leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth at your ear, breath hot and rough as his hips snap into yours.

You grew up in the nicest suburbs of Boston, got whatever it was you wanted, traveled on first-class flights before you were old enough to spell, had a father who treated you like gold in human form.

But, that last one? Yeah, that was the problem.

Being adored feels a lot like being controlled when you’re the only daughter of a man the entire country worships. Because in hindsight, you were. Not purposely, of course. You were daddy’s little princess from day one, which meant he needed to protect you at all costs.

From the moment you entered your elite preppy high school at age fourteen, that was when his watchful eye sharpened into one that never stopped watching. As a hall of fame athlete, a New England Patriots legend, he’s seen too much of this world to know that he needs to keep his precious girl safe from it all.

And when he retired? It got so much worse. He was always there. Which basically meant you couldn’t do anything without him knowing or without his permission.

Your best friend, Blair, who lived two houses down, lived the life you wished you could. Another rich, preppy privileged girl, yes, but one with parents who didn’t give a single fuck what she did. And she’s been partying since, well…forever.

She lost her virginity in the bathroom of a Red Sox game, threw a rager so big when her parents left for Saint Barts she got suspended for two weeks, snuck out of the house so often she practically wore a path through your backyard.

She begged you to join her. To come out and have fun, be a normal teenager, but you never could. Sometimes you wondered if your father even realized he’d built a cage around you—a gilded, loving, suffocating one. And you were tired of not being able to live life to the fullest.

Which is why when the time finally came to decide on college? You knew you had to choose the furthest plausible option. You also knew that wherever you went, would have to be with Blair.

So the two of you sat down and planned it. She listed all sorts of schools, Miami, Alabama, Ohio State, Wisconsin, all known for their party scene, but they weren’t far enough in your eyes.

Then, the idea hit you. California. All the way across the country, nice ass weather with no brutal winters, huge nightlife. It ticks every single box.

“How about USC?” You suggested.

Blair’s eyes widened like she’d won the lottery, “That’s it! That’s the fucking school. We’re applying—today.”

You indeed did apply that same day, keeping all of it, every whispered dream of palm trees and frat parties, a secret from your father. He didn’t need to find out that you were plotting your escape. Only if you got accepted, would you tell him.

After applying, came the long, excruciating wait. Every notification made your heart jump, every morning felt loaded with possibility and impending doom, but then on a random Tuesday afternoon after school, Blair got an email. You were sprawled across her bed when her phone dinged and when she checked it she froze, slowly looking at you, “No fucking way.”

Your heart stopped, “What?”

She glanced back at her screen as if it might disappear, “Bitch…I got in!”

You barely had time to process it before she launched herself at you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter, “Check yours,” She demanded, already grabbing your laptop.

Your hands shook as you logged into the portal and when the screen flashed in red and gold, Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the University of Southern California…

Your vision blurred, you were going to finally leave Boston and remove the shackles. Blair grabbed your shoulder, “You’re free, babe.”

The word hit differently—free. But not yet, because you still had to tell him.

You waited until dinner, when the house was calm and your father set down his fork and asked warmly, “How was your day, princess?”

You pushed the printed copy of your acceptance letter across the table, watching as he unfolded it slowly. His sharp eyes scanned the words once, twice, then a third time, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.

“…Southern California?” He said at last, voice tight, “That’s three thousand miles away.”

“I know.”

“And…you want to go there?”

“I do. Really bad.”

There was a heartbeat, a breath, a visible internal meltdown occurring within him, until he asked, “Is Blair going?”

“Yes. She got in too.”

He exhaled through his nose like that single fact alone saved his life, though it probably shouldn’t have. She’s the last person on Earth he should want going with you, but thankfully, he’s blissfully unaware of who she really is, “Well. I guess that’s different.”

Your mother kicked him under the table, “Just say you’re proud of her, honey.”

He looked at you again, long, conflicted, and terrified, yet still soft, “I am proud of you,” He murmured, “You know that. I just…you’re my little girl. And California is far.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t believe that, not at all, but he nodded anyway, “Then I guess…USC it is.”

Just like that, you were free. You could almost taste it. And now, months later, you’re here—Move-in day.

The California sun hits hotter and brighter, like even the light feels less restrained than anything you ever knew in Boston. Your father sits restlessly in the rented SUV that’s packed full with your belongings, your mother is in the passenger seat, Blair is following behind with her mom.

It should’ve been a sweet, sentimental moment. College send-offs usually are, but this one wasn’t. Because in order to get to your dorms, you had to pass Greek Row, and your father sees everything he fears most.

A group of shirtless guys on a lawn, covered in sweat playing die on an old, warped table. Two frat brothers throwing a football back and forth across the street like they own it, a cluster of girls in micro shorts walking toward one of the houses, someone’s shotgunning a beer while blasting John Summit so loud it shakes the sidewalk. Your father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.

“Oh,” Your mother murmurs gently, “Look at that…school spirit.”

He does not share the same sentiment. He stares, shell-shocked, shoulders squared like he’s preparing for war. One of the frat boys looks straight at the car, lifts his chin at you through the window, and smirks. Your dad nearly swerves into the closest telephone pole, “Oh hell no,” He curses under his breath, “Absolutely not. Over my dead body—”

“Dad,” You warn softly, cheeks burning.

He tears his eyes away from the horror, but keeps muttering, “This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. They let freshmen live near this? They let you live near this? Those boys are—They’re—”

“College students?” Your mom offers.

“Degenerates.”

You hide your smile behind your hand. Because the truth is, everything he saw that scared him? Is everything you wanted.

The noise, the craziness, the alcohol, the energy, the…boys. A world you were never allowed to touch is now directly outside your window.

Your father grips the wheel harder like he’s debating whether or not to spin the car around and drive your happy ass back to Boston himself, but he doesn’t. He continues onward; straight to the dorms, your new life, and the one thing he could never fully control—your freedom.

But freedom, apparently, also comes with an audience. The moment your father pulls into the freshmen unloading zone, heads turn. A few students stop mid-conversation, some whisper, some don’t even bother whispering. Phones lift in that sneaky, sideways way people use when they swear you won’t notice.

“Is that—?”

“That’s him, right? That’s him?”

“Dude, her dad is literally the goat.”

“Wait, does that mean she’s—?”

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, but your father doesn’t react. He’s practiced at this, years of fan interactions, interviews, cameras shoved in his face at even the most inconvenient moments. Nothing really shakes him—well, except the frat boys. Those do.

He steps out of the car and grabs your suitcase with one hand, posture straightening like he’s going on National TV. A couple of guys across the quad nudge each other when they recognize him, jaws dropping as if a God descended onto USC’s campus.

“Sir!” One of them calls out, already pulling out his phone, “Big fan! Like…huge fan!”

“Thank you,” Your father says with a polite nod, slipping seamlessly into his media smile and then, because the universe enjoys humor at your expense, another voice bursts from a group near the dorm steps.

“Holy shit, that’s his daughter?”

You want to sink into the pavement, but your mom slips her arm through yours, “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They’re just excited.”

Blair, climbing out of her mom’s BMW behind you, practically cackles, “Oh my God,” She whispers gleefully, “You’re famous already. Do you understand the power you’re about to wield?”

You glare at her, but she’s too busy vibrating with excitement. Meanwhile, your father spots the second wave of frat brothers who’ve stopped tossing a football to stare openly at the scene unfolding, and stiffens.

His tone drops into one that is low and protective, “Stay away from boys who look like that.”

“I will,” Oh, you most certainly won’t.

Once you’re all inside the dorm lobby, even more chaos ensues.

Athletes, business majors, engineering kids with lanyards all mingling, moving, dragging various pieces of furniture; and then there’s the group of girls next to the elevators, eyes flicking between you and your father with thinly-veiled recognition.

One whispers, not nearly quiet enough, “You think Gojo’s seen her yet?”

The other girl beside her giggles, “Please. Someone’s probably already told him.”

You freeze, Blair’s head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent, “No way! You’re being talked about by him?”

“Who is him?”

Blair lowers her voice, “Okay, so—remember how I stalked USC on TikTok for, like, two months straight?”

“…Yeah?”

“Well,” She says, pushing her Prada sunglasses up her nose, “There’s this international student from Japan, Satoru Gojo. Apparently the frat guy on campus. Junior, filthy rich, shameless, hot as fuck, total slut, owns a white Porsche, finance bro who probably fails all his classses, and ends up on every ‘hottest men at USC’ list.”

You stare at her, “And you know all of that from TikTok?”

“Yep,” She says proudly, “I do my research.”

You open your mouth, then close it, “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with—”

Blair gestures vaguely at your face, “Sexy freshman girl with famous NFL seven time Super Bowl Champion quarterback dad? You’re deadass his exact type of…project.”

You almost choke, “Project?”

She nods sympathetically, “Project as in…he’d want to be the guy to ruin you for every other man on campus.”

Your father hears the word ruin and nearly breaks his own neck whipping around. Blair immediately straightens, innocent smile plastered onto her face.

“Don’t worry,” She says softly out of the corner of her mouth, “You probably won’t even meet him,” Then quieter, when she knows your father isn’t eavesdropping, adds, “You’re totally going to meet him.”

Your dorm room on the fourth floor is already propped open when you reach it. Small, bright with two twin beds and bare walls. It’s nothing like the Boston mansion you grew up in, yet somehow it’s more exciting than any bedroom you’ve ever had.

Blair lets out a delighted gasp, “We live here? Oh my God, we actually live here!”

She races inside to claim her side of the room, throwing herself onto the bed next to the window. Your father stands in the doorway, scanning like he’s doing a threat assessment, “It’s…smaller than I expected.”

“It’s a dorm, honey. Not the Ritz,” Your mother reminds him.

He hums, but does not relax in the slightest. And just like that, the four of you are unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, folding towels, arranging the mini-fridge that your father inspects with the seriousness of a homicide detective. He tests the door three times, plugs it into a power strip, unplugs it, inspects the outlet, then plugs it back in.

“Dad,” You sigh, “It’s a fridge, not a life-support machine.”

“You say that now,” He warns and you just chuckle.

It’s chaos, but the warm kind. The kind you’ll remember and cherish forever, yet also feels like the end of something and the beginning of quite literally everything else. At one point, Blair steps behind you to hang a string of fairy lights and whispers, “Okay, but seriously—imagine Gojo in this room.”

You elbow her so hard she drops a clip, your father spins around, “What was that?”

“Nothing!” You and Blair answer in unison.

Your mother laughs softly. Your father absolutely does not.

Eventually, after your bedding is on, your father stands there at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. A silence settles, one that says that this is real, this is happening, and this is goodbye. For now.

He checks his watch, again. He’s been doing it all morning. He has a flight to Oregon to catch—the new job he picked up right after you announced you were moving across the country. He needed the distraction, otherwise he’d be stuck in Boston all day, thinking about what you’re doing out here…and what you probably shouldn’t be doing.

He’s a commentator for College GameDay. Covering the biggest football games of the year, traveling to each host school every week, however, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. But he just can’t.

“Princess,” He says quietly, “You sure you want this?”

You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of independence, but your face softens into the kind of innocent expression that always makes him melt, and you’ve absolutely learned how to weaponize it.

“I do,” You say softly, then perfectly timed and aimed, you hit him with the, “But…do you really have to leave so soon?”

His entire chest caves in, “Oh, sweeheart…” His voice thickens immediately, “I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with you the whole day.”

Inside, you’re buzzing, thinking, please leave already. Oh my God, leave and let me live.

But outside? You look up at him with big, sad, puppy dog eyes, “I’ll miss you.”

He pulls you into a crushing hug, “I’ll miss you more,” He murmurs, “So much more. I hate the timing of this stupid College GameDay thing—I should be here helping you settle in, not rushing to the airport.”

You cling just enough to sell it, but not make him change his mind and stay, “It’s okay, daddy,” You say, ultra sweet, “You have to work.”

He sniffles, “I’ll FaceTime you from Oregon,” He promises, “Every night.”

You nod against his chest, all gentle affection while your internal monologue screams, yes, yes, yes. Commentate on football and go.

Your mom steps in next, hugging you warmly, “Call whenever you need anything. And maybe…don’t tell your father everything you’re doing.”

Your father shoots her a look of the utmost betrayal, she ignores it. Blair hugs them both dramatically, “You guys are like my second parents. I’ll miss you too.”

Then he steps away, still unwilling, still staring at you like you’re five years old heading into kindergarten instead of nearly nineteen. He wipes his palms on his jeans and breathes out shakily, “Okay. Okay, I can do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be safe. Blair, keep her away from—”

“Boys?” She fills in the blank.

“Exactly.”

You almost laugh as he heads for the door, pauses, and looks back one last time, “You sure you’ll be okay without me?”

You nod sweetly, oh so, so sweetly, “I’ll manage.”

Resigned, he gives you one last look and disappears down the hallway with your mother. The moment they’re gone, Blair turns to you, deadpan, “Oh, you are one evil bitch.”

But you’re not pretending anymore. A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face, one you’ve been holding back for years, “Blair,” You breathe, “I am finally free.”

And somewhere down Greek Row, in a house with bass shaking the floorboards, a brother with white hair and blazing blue eyes checks his phone, seeing the group chat’s new messages.

sig chi or die

ryan: yo gojo you see the qb’s daughter?

ryan: she just moved in and she’s BADDDD

And he smiles, one full malicious intent. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he already plans to.

Blair gives you exactly ten seconds of peace after your parents leave before she turns to you, eyes manic with purpose, “Alright. Put on something slutty. We’re celebrating.”

“We literally just unpacked.”

“Exactly!” She says, already digging through her suitcase, “Sigma Chi is open for business and so are we.”

You laugh, half nerves, half adrenaline as she tosses the tiniest black skirt you’ve ever seen your way and a cropped baby tee. You catch it, then go still, because across the chest in red rhinestones it says, Let Them Eat Cunt.

“Blair.”

She beams like it’s the funniest joke on Earth, “I got it custom-made. For today. For your whore arc!”

“My dad would literally die if he saw this.”

“I know,” She says proudly, “Now put it on.”

You hesitate for only one second, then slide both the shirt and skirt on. The moment you do, Blair makes a strangled noise, “Oh my God, bitch. The guys are going to lose their fucking minds.”

You look at yourself in the mirror; skirt so short it could be considered a napkin, rhinestoned filth across your boobs, lips perfectly glossed and instead of nerves, a spark catches in your bloodstream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

“Yes,” You murmur, adjusting the hem, “They will.”

Blair freezes, “Oh? Oh?”

“Blair,” You say, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “I didn’t move across the country to behave.”

She shrieks into her palms, “You are out for blood tonight.”

“Dick, actually,” You correct calmly, “I’m out for dick.”

Her soul leaves her body, “Oh my God—yes! Say it again!”

“I want to get drunk,” You explain, “I want a hot guy. And I want to erase the last eighteen years of being babysat.”

Blair is feigning tears, “This is everything I’ve ever prayed for. I feel like a mother watching her child blossom into a slutty flower.”

“Let’s bloom, then,” You grab your phone, keys, and head for the door without a semblance of doubt.

Blair scrambles after you, “Wait, slow down—!”

“I have places to be,” You coo, already striding down the hallway.

“We haven’t even pregamed!”

“Sig Chi has alcohol,” She laughs manically at that and follows you outside into the California heat.

The walk over is brutally short, every step feels like peeling off another layer of innocence, the music from Greek Row growing louder, deeper, and dirtier. Blair bumps your shoulder, grinning slyly, “You know…he’s probably there. This is his frat.”

You already know who she’s referring to…Gojo. Again with this guy?

You roll your eyes fondly, “Blair, you haven’t even seen him.”

“Oh, but on TikTok I have,” She says, “And trust me—foreign rich boys? They’re always the ones who fuck like they’ve got something to prove.”

That piques your interest. Maybe, just maybe you’d have to find that one out for yourself.

You round the corner and Sig Chi rises ahead of you. Three stories in all its glory, music blaring, people spilling across the lawn, lights pulsing behind the windows.

Blair squeezes your hand, wicked grin glued to her face, “Okay. Deep breath, babe. Act natural.”

“I am natural.”

“Not with you wearing that shirt.”

You scoff as you step inside and the frat swallows you whole. It’s loud and cramped, bodies swaying under LED lights, the smell of beer and flavored vape clouds hanging in the air. A table of jungle juice sits in the corner, multiple couples are making out aggressively against walls, and then, you see him.

You don’t even realize it’s him at first, you just register—absurdly tall, insanely built, ocean eyes, broad shoulders, cut-off muscle tee showing biceps carved by God himself, LA Dodgers snapback backwards on his white hair, laughing lazily with two girls hanging off him like decorations.

So, this is the infamous Satoru Gojo. No wonder why he runs USC. He’s hot as fuck and knows it. He’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s his throne, until one of the brothers near him nudges his shoulder.

“Yo, QB’s daughter just walked in.”

Gojo doesn’t react immediately, he never does. Instead, he finishes whatever joke he was saying, grinning, dimples deep, girls giggling into his ribs.

Then, slowly, he looks up. The moment his eyes find you? Everything stops. The flirting, the talking, the lazy smile—gone.

His mouth parts just a little, eyes raking down your body, the skirt, your legs, and then eventually stopping right on your shirt. For a split second, he genuinely looks stunned, but then?

Oh, he smirks. A slow, sinful curl of his lips like all of his dreams have finally come true.

Blair whispers behind you, “Holy shit, Gojo’s staring.”

You don’t answer, because he isn’t just staring. He’s studying, recognizing, and realizing. He knows who you are, everyone does. You’re the football dynasty princess, Boston royalty, a girl whose father could call the dean of USC directly and have a frat shut down in ten minutes flat.

And yet, here you are. In that shirt, in his house, looking like trouble he suddenly, desperately wants.

A girl he wants to ruin before anyone else has the chance to.

He straightens up from the counter and sheds the girls clinging to him without a second glance. They look confused and annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He was never one to care about girls’ feelings anyway.

His eyes stay locked on you. Blair inhales sharply, “Oh my God—he clocked you. He fully clocked you, bitch.”

You swallow as he continues to stare, smirk, and look at your shirt like he wants to frame it above his bed. Then, he murmurs something to the guys beside him, still not breaking eye contact, and you feel it—the shift, the moment the king of Sig Chi decides he’s going to make you his next conquest.

Blair elbows you, “I swear to God if you don’t at least talk to him—”

“Blair—”

“No, shut the fuck up. I’m your wingwoman. I’m morally obligated to get you laid.”

You exhale, pulse electric, heat flickering under your skin as Gojo starts to move. Not toward you yet, but closer. Circling, watching, like a wolf that noticed the rabbit wasn’t scared of him.

You catch his eyes again, sharp blue under the brim of his backwards hat, and this time, he tilts his head. Acknowledgment, interest, amusement, and mouths something. Blair grips your arm, “What did he say?”

You gulp because you know exactly what he said. Two simple words, as clear as day, “Nice shirt.”

Her grip on your arm grows so taut your circulation stops, “Okay, holy shit. We need to get drinks right now or I’m going to pass out.”

You let her drag you toward the jungle juice table, but you feel his eyes following you. Every step you take, every sway of your skirt, his gaze is glued to it like he’s trying to memorize your movements.

Blair shoves a cup into your hand and whispers, “He’s coming over. I repeat, he is coming over!”

“Don’t look,” You whisper back.

“I’m not,” She lies, staring directly at him.

You take a sip of the juice; sweet, disgusting, perfect, and then, Gojo appears. He leans one shoulder against the wall beside the drinks table, arms crossing slowly, biceps flexing under his cut-off tee, snapback still backwards, silver-white hair falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close, annoyingly so, towering even with the casual slouch.

He looks at your face first, then your shirt again, and smirks, “Bold choice,” He drawls, voice low and painfully self-assured, “You always introduce yourself with your chest, or is tonight special?”

Blair chokes on her drink, you swallow, “It’s a shirt, not a dissertation.”

He grins, cocky and fucking lethal, “Could’ve fooled me,” He murmurs, eyes dipping to your bare stomach, your hips, your legs, “That thing’s doing a lot of talking.”

Your heart flips, but you refuse to fold so soon, “Then stop staring at it.”

He laughs, quiet, dangerously pleased, and drags his eyes upward until they lock directly with yours, “Oh, princess,” He says softly, like he already knows the nickname from his mouth will ruin you, “I’m not staring at the shirt.”

Your breath hitches as Gojo’s tongue slides across the inside of his cheek before he tilts his head, diverting conversation, “You’re new.”

“Freshman.”

“No shit,” His smile widens, “I meant new as in…no one here’s touched you yet.”

Blair coughs so violently she has to turn away, your cheeks heat, “Why would you assume that?”

He shrugs, bending slightly to dip his cup in the jungle juice bowl, filling it lazily, eyes never leaving you, “Because I’ve never seen guys on my lawn look so fucking scared.”

“Scared?”

His smirk grows, possessive and knowing, “They were staring at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Pretty skirt, filthy shirt, famous daddy?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, “Yeah. They’re terrified.”

You open your mouth, but he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, a bit woodsy. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “But I’m not.”

Your pulse stutters and he notices, of course he does. He’s got girls’ body language down to a fucking tee. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You walk into my house wearing that,” He whispers, “And you really think I’m letting anyone else talk to you first?”

Your soul leaves your body. He pulls back just a bit, eyes locking onto yours again, darkened now and unblinking; his smirk softens as he nods to the crowd, “Guys are already looking,” He says, almost dismissive, “Thinking about walking over.”

He lifts your chin with one knuckle, light as a tease, heavy as a claim, “But they’re not going to.”

Your lips part, “Why not?”

Gojo smiles, wicked, "Because you’re talking to me.”

Something hot shivers down your spine. Blair, silently screams in triumph. Gojo watches your reaction like he wants to eat it almost as much as he wants to eat you.

Then he lowers his voice even further, “And if any other guy touches you tonight?” He taps the rim of his cup against your, a subtle clink, “They’re dead.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, he smirks again, “You don’t even get what that shirt’s doing to people,” He says, leaning back just slightly to give you a moment to breathe, but not space to escape, “But it’s okay. I’ll show you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He straightens up, flicks his eyes over your legs one more time, and adds softly, “Stay where I can see you.”

Then he walks off, not far, but far enough to make you watch and to tell every brother and guy in the house that you’re his.

Not yet. Not fully. But don’t even fucking try.

Blair is still gripping your arm like a talon when Gojo strolls off, leaving you breathless, dazed, and partially frenzied.

“Holy shit,” Blair hisses, “Okay. Okay. We need more alc immediately. You need to ride the confidence wave.”

“I’m…pretty sure confidence isn’t my problem right now.”

“No,” She agrees, dragging you toward the bar counter, “Your problem is wanting to climb that man like a tree, but that’s what vodka is for. Loosen up, be the slut you were born to be.”

You snort so hard you almost trip. The kitchen island is cluttered with liquor bottles, chasers, cups, and three guys already pouring shots.

Blair slaps her palms on the counter, announcing way too proudly, “This is my best friend! She is having her slut awakening tonight, if you care!”

“Blair—!”

They shout like they’ve just been told USC won the national championship. One of them, a blond with aviators on indoors, grins at you, “You taking shots or you just gonna stand there and look hot?”

Blair gasps, offended on your behalf. You roll your eyes and reach for the Tito’s bottle. Blond aviators whistles, “Oh, she’s going straight for the hard stuff.”

Blair squeals, “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

You raise the bottle, “Wait—” Blair warns.

Too late, you’re already taking a deep, burning, reckless swig. The kitchen collectively screams and you cough once, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “Fuck.”

Blair smacks the counter, beaming, “Yes! That’s my best friend!”

Someone shoves a red cup into your hand, another chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

So you do, because why the hell not? This moment has been eighteen years in the making and the drink is warm, disgusting, and makes your head pleasantly light.

Blair hops onto the counter, already dancing, “I am so proud of you!”

Guys around you start cheering harder, forming a half-circle as if you’re performing, and you laugh—dizzy and loud.

For the first time in your life, you’re not a quarterback’s daughter with curfews and rules and expectations. You’re just a girl in a filthy shirt getting worshipped by a kitchen full of frat brothers.

One leans in, too close, grinning, “So, uh—you rushing? Because we were thinking—”

Another cuts him off, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “—thinking we should make you Sig Chi’s sweetheart.”

Blair snaps her gaze to you, giggles erupting, “Oh my God, (Y/N), they’re already trying to crown you.”

The first guy leans closer, bold with liquid courage, “You’d run this place.”

“Yeah?” You tease, voice looser than normal, “What would I get out of it?”

He smirks, “Priority at every party. Your own room. Free booze. And—”

Before you can even smile, a low voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, “Who the fuck told you idiots you could talk to her?”

Gojo stands in the doorway, cup in hand, expression blank and walks in with the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, “You boys drunk or just dumb as fuck?”

“Gojo, we were—”

“Don’t speak,” He snaps, stepping closer, “You think you can ‘crown’ girls now? Offer them rooms? Priority access?" He laughs once, “You can’t even organize a mixer without me holding your hands.”

One brother stiffens, “Gojo, come on—”

Gojo turns his head slowly, “You interrupting me?” The guy goes pale, Gojo’s voice drops, “As active brothers you’re supposed to know the rules,” He nods over toward you, “And rule number one—you don’t approach girls I’m watching.”

A ripple flows through the kitchen, “G-Gojo—”

“Probation,” He replies simply, “All three of you,” Their faces drop, “No parties. No tailgates. No socials. You’re on cleanup duty for two weeks with the Pledges.”

The room detonates with whispers, “And if you ever look at her again? I’ll pull your letters myself,” They stare at him horrified, “Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

The brothers scatter like roaches and Gojo turns to you, “Having fun?” He asks, voice warm again, teasing the way only danger could.

“M-Maybe.”

He steps closer; his knee brushes your thigh, the scent of his cologne wraps around your spine, and the buzz of the vodka evaporates from how stupid hot this is, “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”

Your heart jumps, heat rushing straight into your stomach, “I didn’t go anywhere.”

His eyes flick down your body, slow and deliberate, “Oh, you went everywhere,” He says, “Guys over here. Guys over there. Taking shots on my counter like you’re trying to get a reaction.”

Blair is wheezing into her cup somewhere behind you. You lift your chin, “What—did it bother you?”

His jaw ticks, just once, but you feel it like a pulse under your skin. He steps closer, body angling into yours, hand coming down beside your hip on the counter. He’s caging you in without even touching.

“It bothered me,” He says quietly, “How much fun you were having without me,” Your stomach churns, his voice drops further, “Didn’t like seeing other guys look at you like that.”

“You told them off,” You remind him.

“I shouldn’t have had to.”

Your mouth opens, he watches you react—your pulse, your breathing, and soaks it up like it feeds him, “You’re drunk,” He says, eyes glinting, “But you’re not stupid.”

“Meaning…?”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, “Meaning you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your thighs press together on instinct and he catches it, something daring flickers across his expression; hunger, annoyance, restraint, then he nods toward the staircase, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He smirks in the way he always does before hooking up with girls, “Upstairs.”

Your breath falters, “Why?”

He takes your wrist gently, shockingly gentle for someone with such big hands, and pulls you away from the counter. His thumb slides across your pulse point, “You want me to say it?”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you nod.

His eyes drag down to your shirt again, bold letters across your chest, daring the world. He lifts his gaze back to yours, “Because, princess…” He murmurs, voice an unholy whisper, “…I wanna do what your shirt says.”

Your knees nearly give and Gojo’s hand tightens on your wrist, “Come upstairs,” He says again, firmer this time, “Before I do something stupid right here.”

You don’t think or even breathe, you just let him lead you through the kitchen, past the music, up the stairs; his hand warm and unyielding around yours, every step feeling like the point of no return, and everyone watches.

Because the king of Sig Chi just bagged the coveted QB’s daughter.

Gojo hears all their whispered words, but they don’t affect him. He just smirks over his shoulder, hand still wrapped around your wrist, doing what he’s done almost a hundred times before, and keeps walking.

Up the stairs, down the hall, past guys who stop talking just to watch you go. You can feel the attention, the shock, the rumors already spreading like wildfire and the second the door to his room shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes onto yours before your back even hits the door, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist and dragging you closer until there’s no space between you. Your hands fist in the hem of his shirt; he groans into your mouth, the sound dark, low, sinful.

And then Gojo doesn’t walk you to the bed, no. He throws you onto it. One push to your hips and you fall back onto his mattress, bouncing once; he stands at the edge for a second, just looking at you, chest rising, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to pounce too fast.

Then he laughs under his breath. A quiet, disbelieving sound. He’s had all types of girls on this bed—sorority girls, party girls, girls who begged for his attention, but none of them ever looked like this.

His shirt rides up as he pulls his hat off to run a hand through his hair, eyes raking over every inch of you. The skirt pushed high, the lewd baby tee, your glossy lips parted from panting.

You’re not like the others…you’re worse. You’re a good girl, not his usual type, not ran through; temptation he was never supposed to touch, the quarterback’s daughter with the perfect reputation, and the perfect face, and the perfect body he’s dying to destroy.

His laughter fades, replaced by something darker and hungrier as he steps closer, eyes dragging over you like he’s choosing which part of you to ruin first.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, tone dropping, “I knew you’d look good on my bed.”

Then his hands, big and unforgiving, close around your thighs. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal pull, your skirt sliding up high on your hips, your breath punching out of your lungs.

Your ass hits the edge of the bed, legs falling open for him on instinct. Gojo inhales sharply like the sight of you hurts him, “Fuck,” He breathes, half a laugh, half a groan, “You’re gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t climb onto the bed, doesn’t join you, he just stands there, looming, tall and broad, with his thumbs pressed into the soft inner curve of your thighs; pushing them wider until the stretch borders on obscene.

You can feel your pulse now, between your legs, desperate and unable to ignore. He looks down at you like he’s about to pray to whatever god put you in front of him or ruin you for sport. You can’t distinguish the two.

His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, “Lift.”

You obey in an instant; he slides them down your legs slowly, savoring the reveal, until they hit the floor with a soft thud.

The second he sees you, bare and already wet for him, his jaw flexes, “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, running a hand through white strands to control himself, “You’re soaked.”

Heat floods your face at the sight, at the words, and he smirks because he can tell, “Shy now?” He teases, “You wore that shirt and came to my frat but this—” His thumb barely grazes the inside of your thigh, nearly touching where you want him, “—this is what makes you flush?”

You try to speak, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he bends deliberately slow, bringing his mouth closer until his breath hits your skin. Your thighs tense, it only makes him grip them harder, “Relax,” He coos, eyes lifting to yours from between your legs, “I’m gonna take care of you.”

You don’t get a chance to register anything, he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe up your pussy—so slow you swear he’s doing it just to see how flustered you’ll get from the first touch alone.

Your head falls back against the sheets and he laughs, a soft, smug sound that vibrates right into your core, “Taste so good,” He mutters, already going back in for more, “Knew you would.”

And then he loses himself. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting your hips off the edge of the bed, dragging you closer until your knees are hooked over his shoulders and his mouth is pressed fully against your sopping cunt.

He eats you like a man starved, deprived, one that’s been waiting for this ever so patiently, and one whose life mission is to ruin you for every man who could ever come after him. His tongue flicks and circles and presses, “Satoru—”

He groans, the sound reverberating so deep your body shudders, “Say it again,” He says between licks, “Fuck, say my name again.”

You do, over and over, because you simply can’t not.

He tightens his grip on you, holding you still as he sucks your clit with a filthy reverence, and your back arches so hard your vision spots. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he doesn’t allow it. Gojo pushes your thighs wider with his shoulders, pinning you open without even trying.

“Yeah…” He murmurs into your skin, breath so hot it makes you twitch, “Keep ‘em open for me.”

He dips his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that knocks a cry out of you and you try to wiggle away from the intensity, but he stops you.

He growls, a low warning, fingertips digging into your thighs, “Oh no, you’re not running from this,” His voice drops, rough, entertained, and mean, “Daddy’s princess doesn’t get to run.”

Your body jolts like he slapped you and he feels it; pausing for a second, his lips still brush your folds as he lifts those piercing blues to watch your reaction. A smirk cuts across his face.

“Oh my fucking God,” He breathes, “You liked that shit.”

You try to lie, “I—no.”

But you did like it. Some depraved, twisted part of you liked it.

He laughs, delighted, “Yeah? You denying it?” He gives your cunt another slow lick, “Cause your pretty pussy’s kinda telling me everything I need to know.”

Your face burns with shame, unable to stop the shrill sound that falls out of you. He groans, guttural and hungry, “Holy shit—daddy’s good little girl getting off on being talked to like a slut?”

He moves closer to whisper directly on your skin, your lashes flutter from the warmth, “Guess daddy’s girl isn’t so good anymore.”

You can’t stop yourself from reacting to that, your hands yank his hair hard and he moans straight into your cunt at the pull, “Ohh fuck yeah,” He hisses, “Give me that again, princess.”

You tug him once more, pushing him deeper into your core; your voice comes out small and shaky, “Don’t…wanna be good…” Gojo tenses, your next words fracture on a whisper that will haunt him forever, “…just wanna be good for you.”

That line sends him into a frenzy, his mouth crashes back onto you sloppily—tongue working like he wants to drag that confession out of you again, sucking your clit with a messy, perfect pressure that shatters your thoughts.

He holds you open as he devours you; there’s no rhythm to it at all, just a man fully out of his fucking mind.

“Satoru—Toru—” Your voice cracks as your orgasm slams through you with a force you didn’t think possible.

And he groans like your pleasure pleases him, licking you through the entire climax, refusing to let go of you until you collapse onto the mattress, trembling.

When you do, he pulls back slowly; face glazed, breathing erratic, eyes wild, “Fuck,” He whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Need to be inside you.”

He doesn’t waste a minute, lifting you by the hips again both effortlessly and possessively, he drags you up the bed until your head hits his pillows.

“Goddamn, look at you,” He sneers, hovering, “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

You whimper helplessly as he’s already lining himself up; thick, flushed, heavy in his fist, and pushes in, sinking inch by inch into a pussy so tight his eyes flutter shut.

“Ahh—fuck, princess,” His voice wavers, “You’re gripping me—fucking gripping my shit already—”

He tries to breathe properly, but fails miserably, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Feels insane.”

He pulls out, pushes back in deeper this time, and your cry is instant. It’s music to his ears, “Yeah…that’s it. Take it. All of it.”

His pace builds, slow at first, then faster, angling to hit the spot that makes your nails drag down his back. When you clamp around him, his breath stutters, “Oh my God—don’t do that shit,” His hips jerk without his permission, “Fuck, I’m trying to pull out—I’m trying.”

But he’s not. He’s lying.

You feel it in the way he grips your thighs harder, his hips snapping deeper, the shudder that runs down his spine like he’s fighting himself.

“Toru—”

He cuts you off with a broken groan, “I’m trying to pull out, I swear. But your pussy—shit, won’t let me.”

Your walls clench around him again and he grunts, forehead pressing to your cheek, “Princess—stop squeezing, fuck.”

He tries to pull back this time. He really does, but he can’t. You’re too warm, too tight, and way too fucking wet from how good he ate you out.

“Oh—no, no, no,” He chokes out, “Fuck—I can’t, I can’t.”

His thrusts turn frantic and the filth spills right out of him, “Shit, I-I’m gonna cum—inside,” His hips slam into yours, desperate, “Can’t pull out. Fuck, I can’t—pussy won’t let me.”

Your nails claw into him now, so hard it’s certain to leave marks, and that’s what ends him, “Fuck,” He drags the word out, burying himself all the way to the hilt, and cums right inside you.

Spilling into you in long, uncontrollable pulses, hot and thick. He groans into your neck, “God—fuck, fuck, princess—cummin’ in you—so deep, shit.”

Each spurt drags another sound out of him, almost pained with a hint of reverence; his hips keep spasming and he stuffs himself deeper, like he can’t help it.

When you finally finish milking him dry, he lifts his head, looks down between your bodies, and sees it.

Where he’s still inside you, how full you are, a ring of white already gathering around the base of his cock and something shifts in him, “…Holy fuck.”

You blink, dazed, “What?”

He doesn’t hear you at all, eyes glued to the sight of you stretched around him, dick nestled in you like it belongs there. His tone drops into something low and stunned, “I—I really came in you.”

You nod weakly, out of breath, “Mhm.”

He swallows hard, but doesn’t pull out. Instead, he presses in even deeper, like he needs to feel it one more time. You gasp and he throws his head back, “Oh my God…” He mutters, almost to himself, “…it’s so warm.”

He runs his hand down your stomach, stopping right above where he’s still buried. Then he pushes gently, just enough to feel his load shift deeper, and you whimper.

“Shit…” His voice is nothing but pure, filthy awe, “I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even fuck raw.”

You expect panic, but what hits him is the opposite. A wave of feral, possessive pleasure that lights up every neuron in his brain. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to yours with an emotion that looks close to worship.

“Princess…” He’s smiling, a crooked one, “That felt fucking incredible.”

Your stomach flips, because he’s right. It really fucking did.

He lifts your thigh higher on his hip like he wants to see everything and have this visual burned into his mind forever, “Fuck…” He whispers, chest rising faster, “You took all of it.”

His fingers gently spread you open around him, his cum spills out just a little, and he moans, “Ohh, fuck—look at that…” A soft laugh falls from his lips. You’ve never seen a man look so corrupted by his own desire.

But then, reality slaps him across the face, “Oh shit. Shit, shit, wait—no, no, no—” He drags a trembling hand through his mussed hair, expression fracturing between pleasure and dread, “—I cannot believe I just fucking did that.”

“Satoru—”

He cuts you off, still staring at the wetness leaking around him, “I mean…That was fuckin’ crazy—like way too good. Scary good. I get it now.”

Your pulse trips, “But also—” He finally pulls out and when more of his cum spills onto the sheets he moans again, “Fuck, okay—we need to go. Now. Like now-now.”

You raise a brow, “You’re freaking out?”

His eyes snap up to you, “Do I look like I’m freaking out?” He gestures at your pussy, “I just creampied the girl whose dad could literally shut down our chapter. Of fucking course I’m freaking out.”

But then he pauses, glancing down at you, your thighs, the mess between them, and something hot flickers back onto his face, “Not gonna lie though…it looked really fucking good.”

Heat floods your cheeks and he smirks, clapping his hands once decisively, “Okay. Get up. We need a Plan B before I start thinking with my dick again.”

You’re still trembling, the last of his load spilling out onto the sheets, and he stares at it—at you, for a second too long, chest rising like he’s physically restraining himself from going back inside.

But then he steps away, fast, a black hoodie already in his grip when he barks out, “Up. Now.”

You’re in a haze, legs barely working, but his urgency snaps you out of it. You sit up, shaking, pulling your skirt and panties back into place.

Gojo’s already dressed, hoodie thrown over his head, white tendrils sticking out, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch, “Satoru…”

His sharp eyes cut to you, wide from leftover adrenaline, “Not now,” He says quietly, “We can’t talk right now.”

Because he’ll lose it and he’s hardening again, even with his cum leaking out of you, “Let’s go.”

You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing your hand and leading you out the room, down the stairs, and through the pulsing music, ignoring every brother who tries to high-five him and every girl who wants to touch him.

He’s too wound up and aware of the possibility sitting warm between your legs.

Outside, the cool west coast air hits, but it does nothing to help him. His grip stays taut on your hand, guiding you quickly down the sidewalk, away from Sig Chi and anyone who might see him like this.

He doesn’t speak to you, not once, but you can hear his uneven breathing and every few steps he mumbles something nearly inaudible.

“Fucking dumbass…”

“Should’ve pulled…”

“Evil ass pussy…”

However, thank God for college towns and their love for twenty-four hour pharmacies; a CVS sign glows bright up ahead and Gojo moves quicker, beelining it with you in tow.

Once inside, he pauses at the automatic doors, lifting his hood higher to shield his face, then walks straight to the family planning aisle. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no need to browse or think, he just grabs the Plan B box so fast the air moves with it and heads for self-checkout.

No cashiers, no chance for eye contact, no witnesses. He’d rather be shot dead than caught lacking like this. If anyone found out that Satoru Gojo had a weak ass pull-out game, he’d lose all sense of power on campus.

He scans the box with tottering hands, grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler next to the register, pays in cash, and throws the receipt away as soon as it prints. Only then, does he finally look at you, “Come on.”

The two of you make it maybe ten steps outside before he’s gnawing the Plan B box open with his teeth. He places the tiny pill in your hand and shoves the water at you, “Take it.”

He watches every centimeter of movement; the pill hitting your tongue, the rim of the bottle on your lips, and the bob of your throat when it’s all swallowed.

When it’s done, his shoulders fall, showing you how fucking scared he actually was, “Okay…” He murmurs, nodding, “Okay. Crisis averted.”

But then you shift your weight and his gaze drops to your legs, the memory of how you squeezed around him hits, “…Fuck.”

“What?”

His voice is quieter now, “You look way too good right now for someone I almost got pregnant.”

You laugh softly, but he doesn’t. There’s not even a flicker of amusement behind those bright eyes. He steps closer though, hand lifting to your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “Come here.”

Gojo tilts your chin up, scanning all of your features with that same predatory focus he had right before he got on his knees for you. Then, he speaks like he’s laying down scripture. A speech he’s given to hundreds of girls before, you’re sure.

“Alright, princess. We need to set some ground rules.”

“Rules?”

His thumb grazes your lip, “Number one,” He says, tone steady, “This is just sex. Nothing more.”

You gulp as he continues, “Number two. I will never be your boyfriend.”

That one stings for reasons unknown. You nod anyway, “Number three. You don’t ask who I’m seeing.”

So he still plans on seeing other girls. Okay.

“Number four…” He steps closer, so close you think he might kiss you, “…when I want you, I get you.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip violently, “And number five,” He adds, “You don’t let any other guy touch you like I did tonight.”

He can fuck other girls, but you can’t fuck other guys? The fuck?

“Why not?”

His eyes burn into yours, “Because you told me you wanted to be good for me…and I’m holding you to it.”

Then just like that, he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, hood still up, fully composed frat boy again, “Got it? Okay, cool,” He rushes, “I’ll text you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup,” He pops the p, starts walking backward, eyes dragging over your entire body one last time, “Night, princess.”

And turns away, leaving you standing under the glow of the CVS sign like some whore he used, legs shaking, heart pounding, and the worst part about it all? You still want him and still want more.

Freedom like this is too much fun.

But you tell yourself you won’t text him back. This was a one-time thing, you needed to get it out of your system as a repressed daddy’s girl. That you’re not the type who gets addicted to a frat boy she met at a party, no matter how hot he looks or how good he fucks.

Yeah…that lie lasts about less than twenty-four hours. Because the next night, at 12:47 A.M., your phone buzzes.

satoru: open your dorm window

You blink at the message, confused, until headlights sweep across the courtyard, bright, white-blue, and unmistakable—his Porsche.

Blair is already asleep beside you, your heart’s sprinting. You slide the window open to peek out and there he is, leaned against the hood, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, looking at your window like he knew you’d listen.

He lifts his chin, “Come down.”

He doesn’t say please or explain further and you go, of course you go.

The next time you see him, it’s in your dorm room. And it starts with kissing—always kissing.

He’s got you pinned against the inside of your locked door, hands under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, grinding you against the thick outline in his sweats with a low, starved sound in his throat.

“Missed this,” He mutters, lips on your neck, “Missed you.”

You don’t have time to decipher the meaning before your phone rings. Your dad’s contact photo lights up the screen.

You freeze, but Gojo doesn’t. He looks at it, then at you, and smirks evilly, “Answer it.”

“Toru—” But he’s already dropping to his knees.

Your phone quivers in your hand as you swipe to accept the call, “Hi, princess,” Your dad’s voice comes through, “How was your first few nights in the dorms?”

Gojo pushes your skirt up, your pulse skyrockets as you force a steady tone, “G-Good. Umm. Really good.”

He drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, eyes locked onto yours the entire time, enjoying every ounce of panic flickering across your sweet face.

“That’s good to hear,” Your father continues, “You settling in okay? Eating enough? Staying safe?”

Gojo’s mouth touches you and you nearly drop the phone. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, savoring you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, “Mhm,” You manage, “I’m—Dad, I’m—I’m very safe.”

Gojo laughs softly against your pussy, “Good girl,” he murmurs, too quietly for anyone but you to hear and sucks your clit into your mouth.

Your voice breaks into the speaker, “What was that?” Your dad asks suddenly.

“N-Nothing!” You choke out, breathless, “Just—Just moving…something.”

Gojo looks up at you, eyes blazing, pupils dilated, and pride dripping from his smirk as he ruins your composure with the lightest touch of his tongue. You end up cumming so hard you have to mute yourself.

When you hang up, Gojo wipes his mouth with his thumb and stands, kissing you deeply, giving you a taste. Then he whispers on your lips, “Next time you say you’re safe…you’re gonna tell him that I’m the one keeping you that way.”

You don’t know whether that’s true or the biggest lie you’ve ever heard.

And the next time after that happens three nights later. You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank top when he texts.

satoru: out front

satoru: now

You slide into the passenger seat of his 911 and the smell of him, clean and sharp, wraps around you immediately.

He doesn’t even say hi. His hand is in your hair before you finish closing the door; he’s pulling you over the console, kissing you with the same urgency as the first night.

Then he leans back in his driver’s seat, spreads his legs, and nods down at his lap, “Need your mouth,” He breathes, strained like he hasn’t gotten off in months instead of last night with some other girl, “Now, princess.”

And you give him it, because you’re somehow already gone for him and want to see what you can do. He grips your hair while you throat him deeper and deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath in Japanese and dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.

God, you fucking love it when he does that.

“Fuck—baby, baby, wait—” He pulls you off his throbbing cock, kisses you hard, and pushes your panties to the side, “Get on top.”

You straddle him and he drags you onto his dick in one long, devastating push. The car rocks as his hands grab everywhere—your hips, ass, waist, guiding you, using you, groaning into your neck.

“Mmm, that’s it—ride me,” He whispers, “Show me how bad you want it.”

You ride him until the windows fog and the V6 engine ticks with residual heat. He cums on your stomach with his face buried into your chest; a low, wrecked moan muffled against your skin.

That same weekend, there’s a night where he pulls you into a dark hallway at Sig Chi during a party. He pushes you against the wall without warning and slides into you from behind, hand clamped over your mouth.

The bass of house music is pounding, the hallway is thankfully empty, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and he fucks you slow and deep—like he’s trying to memorize the exact way your cunt clenches around him.

“You’re so fuckin’ addictive,” He breathes into your ear, “Gonna end up wearing you out every night.”

You don’t doubt it.

A week later, you’re in your communal dorm bathroom when you see it—blood. Thank the fucking Lord. The Plan B had worked.

You text him two words.

period came

Four minutes later he responds.

satoru: i’m here

You barely have time to lie down before he’s on top of you, mouth everywhere, voice rough with relief, “Good girl…” He murmurs against your stomach, “Fucking good girl.”

Then he pushes two fingers into you and you arch your back, whining. He smiles into your neck like it’s the best thing he’s heard, “Celebration sex,” He decides, “C’mere.”

Period? He does not care whatsoever. He fucks you like you’re his reward, and you let him.

But one morning, you catch him staring. Not at your tits or ass or mouth—at you and your face, something beneath your skin he’s trying and failing to deny.

He looks away fast, jaw tight, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from a fact inside himself and you pretend not to see it.

Because you know if you acknowledge it and name the thing growing between you, what you and him have will stop being fun and become dangerous.

Though the truth lingers in the air the next time he texts you at 1:03 A.M.

satoru: want you

And your fingers answer before your brain does.

come get me

He comes quickly.

Ten minutes after your text, his Porsche glides to a stop outside your dorm like it was summoned, and sends a text.

satoru: here

You’re already moving. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your jaw and kisses you before you can even sit down, pulling you into his lap like he’s starved. It’s harsher tonight.

“Always taste so fuckin’ good,” He mutters against your mouth, “Just for me, right?”

You don’t answer because you know he doesn’t need you to, it’s obvious. However, the next time he’s throwing you onto his bed, when you land on the sheets—something shifts.

There’s a scent in the air. Faint and sweet, a floral perfume you don’t wear. You don’t do floral, only gourmand fragrances. It hits you before you even spot the evidence.

There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that’s not yours, tube of lip gloss half-tucked under his pillow like it was hidden there in a hurry, a sweatshirt on the floor that definitely isn’t his.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice you noticing, because he’s too busy touching you.

His hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, his mouth dragging down your neck, voice thick with desire that doesn’t sound recycled or casual, “You been thinking about me all day?” He murmurs, “Thinking about how good I fuck you?”

You force yourself to swallow it down. The perfume, the hair tie, the gloss, the clothing, the ache blooming beneath your ribs.

But because you don’t answer, he grabs your jaw gently, making your eyes look into his, “Don’t get quiet on me now,” He smirks, “You’re not allowed.”

He kisses you again, filthily, and the sadness knots inside you in a way you refuse to acknowledge. Not now, not when he’s touching you and you want him this badly.

So you pretend.

You let him wreck you again, let him fuck you into the mattress with the haste of a man who can’t get enough. Although something tiny fractures within you when he flips you onto your stomach and you see the lip gloss again.

You shut your eyes, a yelp breaking from you as you try to imagine that it was never there.

Then four days later, you’re the one who texts first. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t help it.

you busy?

Delivered with no response.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then an hour.

You throw your phone aside, furious for caring in the first place. You knew what you were getting into from the moment you let a guy like Satoru Gojo fuck you.

Blair, who’s sitting in her bed beside you, glances at your expression and raises a brow, “Him again?”

You lie, “No.”

Two more hours pass and nothing. Your stomach twists with something awful and sharp because you know exactly what he’s doing. More so, who, he’s doing.

At 1:36 A.M., your phone lights up.

satoru: nah

satoru: come thru

You look at the texts, pissed off by his lack of consideration, but even more pissed by your lack of control. Because you go to him like he says.

You hear the music from the street when you arrive at Sig Chi. The house is loud and buzzing, full of energy he clearly enjoyed without you present.

He meets you at his bedroom door and the second you see him, all the oxygen leaves your lungs.

His hair is tousled under his blue snapback; his shirt is twisted, collar stretched like it was yanked. There’s a pink flush across his face, his lips look too red, like he’s been kissing for hours.

His breathing is slightly off as if his heart rate still hasn’t calmed down yet, but the room? Oh that’s the killer blow.

The sheets are tangled and half on the floor, there’s mascara smudged on his pillows, and God the trashcan ruins you. You can see multiple golden foils from where you are—condom wrappers.

And Gojo just stands there, letting you take it all in like he doesn’t even care. He watches you, blue eyes cool, leaning against the doorframe like you’re the one who kept him waiting, “You coming in?”

Your throat burns. Say no. Say no. Say fucking no.

But you step inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you with the smell of a perfume that isn’t yours.

“Come here,” Gojo says.

And because you’re weak and something about him has rewired your brain, you walk closer instead of slapping him.

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you like he wasn’t just inside another girl before this. It’s greedy and possessive in a way he has no right to be; you let him take and take, until something within you snaps.

You push him back a step, breathing labored, “Satoru.”

He lifts a brow, already annoyed at being interrupted, “What?”

“I want…” Fuck, you hate yourself for how small it sounds, “…I want to be the only one.”

There’s dead silence in the room, but then—then he has the fucking audacity to laugh, “Oh, princess,” He coos, amusement curving his mouth as he pulls your waist against his, “That’s not how this works.”

Your stomach is in knots, the smirk is still there, “You can’t be the only one,” He says unapologetically, “But—”

His hand slides down your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, “You can be my number one.”

Number one. Like you’re just barely good enough to earn the top spot on a team’s roster.

“…Your number one,” You echo.

“Yeah,” His lips brush your throat, “The one I fuck the most. The one I come back to. The one I call when I actually want it.”

You feel sick, “And what about me? Do I get anyone?”

He pulls back to look at you with eyes as sharp as knives, “No.”

The word lands like a slap, “No?”

“No,” He confirms, “You don’t let any other guy touch you. That was the deal.”

“That wasn’t a deal,” You seethe, “That was something you said after you—after you almost got me pregnant.”

He shrugs, “So? Still stands.”

Heat floods your entire face—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled, “You’re allowed to fuck other girls,” You vocalize, “But I’m not allowed to—”

He cuts you off with a kiss so deep you forget how to breathe and when he breaks it, his voice is dangerously soft, “I don’t share.”

You swallow, pissed at yourself for the way your body always reacts to him, “And what if I don’t want to be your number one?”

Gojo smiles, “Then you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”

Your pulse trips because he’s right and you hate it. You shove him weakly, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he walks you backward toward the bed, “Don’t start pretending you don’t want this. Not after the way you moan for me.”

“Satoru—”

“You asked for the only one treatment?” He asks against your mouth, “Fine. I’ll fuck you like you’re the only girl in the world.”

He pushes you onto the mattress, “And then…I’ll remind you that you’re not.”

His tone is cruel, you’ve never heard him sound like this, and despite that fact, your body still betrays you. He drags your shorts down, mouth already on your inner thigh, kissing higher and higher, biting hard enough to leave a mark.

“Satoru—stop,” You whisper, but you don’t mean it and he knows you don’t.

His tongue licks up your folds and your back arches like you’ve been shocked. The reaction makes him laugh, “See? This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

You want to hit him, kiss him, run, and stay all at once. Your voice is barely a sound when you say, “I hate you.”

The words make him grin, “No, you don’t.”

He flips you onto your stomach before you can respond, pulling your hips up, positioning himself behind you—no condom, like always, “I’m your number one, too,” He murmurs, tip prodding your entrance, “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Satoru—” He pushes into you in one long, ruthless stroke.

Your gasp shatters in the quiet room, “Fuck,” He groans, hands gripping your hips so tight you think they’ll bruise, “Every time—every time, you’re tighter.”

Then he fucks you like he’s proving a point, “Say it again,” He growls, “Say you want to be the only one.”

“I—I want—” You choke out, tears blurring your vision, “I want to be the only one—please—”

He moans, he actually fucking moans at that, as if your pain gives him pleasure, like he’s some sick sadist.

“Oh, princess,” He says, kissing your shoulder, “You break so pretty.”

And then he leans down just enough to whisper the nail in your coffin, “But you never will be.”

You cum around him anyway. Because you foolishly still want him, and maybe you’re some sick masochist too.

And when he finishes, pulling out of you with a quiet hiss, you think maybe he’ll soften—maybe he’ll say something real. But all he does is toss you a towel to clean yourself and grab his hat to shove it back on his head, muttering, “Close the door behind you.”

And like the dumbest bitch alive, you do.

You walk home at 3:12 A.M. with aching thighs and your heart bloodied. When you slip into your dorm, Blair is still awake with her laptop open. She looks up once, clocking everything in a single glance, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” You lie, kicking your shoes off.

She just stares and you stare back, knowing that she doesn’t believe you in the slightest, but doesn’t press.

You shower and scrub your body as if it can erase Gojo from your skin but you still feel him everywhere. Then you crawl into bed, praying you wake up a new person, but of course. You don’t.

The next morning, right as you wake, you open Instagram on autopilot, and Blair, sitting cross-legged in her bed eating dry cereal from the box looks over at you as your face goes blank.

Because on your feed is his story.

@.gojosatoru

Posted 32 minutes ago.

He’s at In-N-Out, with a blonde girl in his passenger seat, and her hand on his thigh. No caption.

Blair freezes mid-chew, “…Is that—?”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans closer, “Oh, fuck no.”

Your fingers go numb as you remember last night. He told you you were his number one, held you down, and fucked you like you belonged to him.

Now he’s posting publicly with other bitches? So as number one you can get the sex but you’re not worthy of anything else? Sure.

Blair sets her cereal aside, “Babe…are you okay?”

You fucking hate that she has to ask that. You swallow hard, “Yeah. Totally.”

She scoots closer, voice lower, “(Y/N)…he’s an asshole.”

You know, you’ve always known. But last night, in his bed, with his hands on you and his cock so deep—you forgot.

Blair studies you, then says gently, “You’re not this girl.”

Something inside you snaps back into place.

She’s right. You’re not. You’re not the girl who gets hidden, you’re not the girl he gets to fuck at 2 A.M. and replace by breakfast, and you sure as hell are not someone’s afterthought.

You inhale slowly, exhale sharply, and stand. Blair blinks, “What are you doing?”

You look her dead in the eye, “Remembering who the fuck I am.”

“And who is that?”

You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you walk over to your dresser and pull out the skimpiest bikini you own. Blair lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’re gonna make someone crash their car.”

Putting it on, tightening the strings so it sits just right, you look at your reflection in the mirror.

The girl staring back at you isn’t the one crying over a frat boy. She’s someone else entirely; someone Satoru Gojo should have never underestimated.

You grab your phone, open your camera, and take the mirror selfie. Blair leans over your shoulder, “Caption?”

“Don’t need one,” You say with a smile, all you do is post the location of where you’ll be—Santa Monica Beach.

Oh, but you do decide to throw in a blue heart emoji, just to twist the knife. Then you hit post.

The likes come in immediately and your DMs explode. Blair’s jaw literally drops, “Oh my God, babe—TKE is already swiping up. Like, three different guys, holy shit.”

Yeah, that’s right. This is who you are.

Blair laughs with pure joy, “And guess who else viewed it?”

You don’t even ask, already knowing. Because a second later, your phone buzzes excessively.

@.gojosatoru: wtf is this pic

@.gojosatoru: delete ts

@.gojosatoru: answer your fucking phone

@.gojosatoru: (y/n)

Blair snorts, “Oh, he is so pressed.”

You slide your phone into your tote bag choosing to ignore it. He can scream into the void for all you care.

“Coming?” You ask Blair casually.

She grins, grabbing her sunglasses and keys, “Fuck, yeah I am. I ain’t missing this shit.”

You sling your towel over your shoulder and for the first time since you came to USC, you feel like yourself again, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

You smile, “To remind him why he should’ve never posted that blonde bitch in the first place.”

You and Blair barely make it into the hallway before your phone vibrates again, but it’s not Gojo this time. It’s the TKE boys again.

tyler: u heading to santa monica?

zach: come slide we’re pregaming in the lot

kyle: we got room in the jeep if you need a ride

Blair leans over your shoulder, “Oh, we’re definitely taking the ride.”

You shouldn’t, but then you think of Gojo and how you’re done letting him dictate your life as if he’s the only one with power.

So you type back.

still at the lot?

The response is instant.

zach: still here. u look insane btw

kyle: pls come im begging

Blair cackles, “They’re literally foaming at the mouth, Jesus.”

You head downstairs and step outside into the morning California sun, the second the TKE boys see you, the whole group goes silent.

“Damn,” Tyler says, walking forward with a grin way too confident for someone who failed Econ twice, “You look…wow.”

You lift your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a lazy once-over, “Thanks. You driving?”

“Yeah,” Zach blurts before Tyler can speak, “You two riding over with us?”

You exchange a glance with Blair, “Sure.”

The boys practically beam; Tyler opens the passenger door for you and Blair slides into the middle seat, Zach sits beside her trying to play it cool.

The TKE boys are laughing, hyping each other up as music blasts through the speakers, and they glance at you like they can’t believe you’re actually coming with them.

You feel Blair tap your shoulder from behind, “You good?”

“Never better.”

But your phone keeps vibrating in your bag and you know exactly who it is.

satoru (16 missed calls)

satoru (24 messages)

You peep the last three.

satoru: where tf are u

satoru: stop ignoring me omg

satoru: seriously pick up

Blair sees the name and giggles, “He’s unraveling.”

Tyler leans over the center console, spotting the contact too, “Oh shit—Gojo’s blowing you up?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”

Zach scoffs, “Isn’t he like…obsessed with you?”

You smile sweetly, “Nah. He’s not.”

They seemed pleased with that answer and in less than twenty minutes, the Jeep rolls into the Santa Monica lot. Warm wind tangles through your hair as the ocean comes into view.

Everyone hops out quick, grabbing something to bring, but you? You step out slowly, letting the sun hit your bare shoulders and letting the boys stare unabashedly because they can’t help themselves. And God, does it feel good.

You eventually spread your towel on the sand, lay back, and get right to tanning. Everything is warm and golden, the boys crack open beers, Blair sets up the speaker playing Bad Bunny on full volume.

Tyler hands you a High Noon and you take a sip, laughing at something stupid Kyle says. And for one moment, you feel free again. But your goddamn phone won’t stop buzzing in your bag.

Blair nudges you, “You gonna check that?”

“Nope.”

She grins, “Good.”

“(Y/N)!” Tyler calls, tossing a football, “You play?”

You catch it one-handed despite being off guard, “Do you forget who my dad is?”

They laugh and so do you, but your phone still keeps popping off like a warning for what’s about to come next. Because not even ten minutes later, you hear it.

That sound, the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine being pushed too hard. A Porsche 911 tears into the parking lot—his Porsche. Your heart plummets as Blair whispers, “No fucking way.”

The boys turn, heads all over swivel, and then he appears. Satoru Gojo steps out of the Porsche like he didn’t run five red lights on the drive here. His white tee is wrinkled to shit, blue shorts slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his mussed white strands, jaw clenched so hard you see the muscle jump.

In his hand is his phone, the one he used to blow up yours, and he doesn’t walk over to you, no, he stalks. Across the sand, straight toward you with a purposeful, terrifying calm, the kind that makes groups of guys instinctively step back.

But you’re not scared in the slightest. You lift your sunglasses and meet his eyes; cold blue, laser-focused. He stops in front of your towel, shadow sprawled over your body, chest heaving like he’s on the verge of losing it.

“(Y/N),” He hardly ever uses your name, “Get up.”

You make him wait three whole seconds before you do; you stand, unbothered, brushing sand off your thighs, refusing to break eye contact. He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Pretty sure I’m sitting on a beach.”

The TKE boys shift behind you, Gojo’s eyes flick to them—Tyler holding a drink, Kyle shirtless and smiling, Zach close enough that his knee had brushed yours.

He laughs once, “With these loser cucks?”

Kyle bristles instantly, “Bro—watch your fucking mouth.”

But Gojo doesn’t spare him a glance, he keeps his eyes on you, “Deadass?” He murmurs, “This the shit you’re on now?”

You shrug, “Looks that way.”

“You ignored sixteen calls. Sixteen.”

“Yeah,” You reply, lifting your drink again, “Cause I didn’t wanna answer.”

Kyle folds his arms, “Yo, she’s busy. Maybe back up.”

Gojo turns his head just enough to look at him, “I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Then his eyes snap back to yours, “So you’re really out here with TKE?”

“Why not?” You ask.

He scoffs, sucking his teeth, “They know that you were on my dick last night?”

Your cheeks grow hot with rage, but he wants that reaction, so you decide to give him nothing, “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”

“You forgot?” He repeats, voice tight, “After the way you were screaming my name?”

Kyle steps forward, fists clenching, “Alright, back the fuck off—”

You lift a hand, stopping him without looking away from Gojo, “No. Let him talk.”

“You’re really gonna stand here and pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“You mean the part where you said I’ll never be the only one?” You ask, titling your head, “Or the part where you posted the blonde on your story less than twelve hours later?”

His jaw ticks, “That’s what this is about?” He snaps, “A fucking story?”

“No. It’s about you thinking I’m stupid.”

“You’re jealous.”

You genuinely laugh, “No, Satoru. You’re delusional.”

His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating grabbing you or strangling someone. He glances at the boys again and something cold creeps into his countenance, “Answer me something.”

You raise a brow as he gestures at the guys behind you, “You fucking one of them now?”

Tyler coughs, Kyle looks away, Zach smirks like he hopes so, “Why? You care?”

Gojo steps closer, the warmth of his chest brushing the top of yours, “That’s cute. Acting like I don't."

“Go home, Satoru.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

His gaze drags over your bikini again, “Get in the car.”

It’s sad—that some part of you almost gives in like always. Because you know that if you left now, the argument would end. It’d end with him giving you the craziest dick of your life and you back at square one; you refuse to do that again.

So, you stand taller, “No.”

A muscle in his cheek pops, “…No?”

“You heard me.”

And because Gojo can’t win with logic and can’t bear the thought of being denied for once in his life, he reaches for cruelty, “Fine…You’re cut.”

Cut. From his roster. But your voice is steady when you say, “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” You say, “Good. You did me a favor.”

Gojo’s expression flattens, “Cool. I’ll replace you in an hour.”

You take one step forward and smile, “I’ll replace you in fifteen minutes. Won’t be hard.”

The collective gasp from the boys is audible. Gojo doesn't even blink, but the vein in his neck jumps and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks hurt. Real hurt.

He steps back, then once more, “Enjoy your day,” Adding coldly, “Princess.”

He turns and walks away, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and you don’t look after him. Not even when the Porsche engine snarls and he peels out of the lot so fast seagulls scatter.

Blair exhales, “Holy shit…I’m glad I came.”

Tyler whistles low, “Yo…you’re gonna break that dude.”

“Good,” You say, laying back down on your towel, “It’s his turn.”

But the beach doesn’t go back to normal after that. You tan, you swim once, you drink enough to feel warm, the boys continue to orbit you like planets caught in your gravitational pull, yet it's not the same.

Blair leans in at one point, whispering, “You know you don’t have to actually hook up with any of them, right?”

Right. That was the whole reason why you did this in the first place. To get revenge.

You hum, “I know.”

Though when the sun begins to set, casting amber over the waves, Kyle asks if you want to come back to the TKE house and you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

Not because you’re dying to fuck him, but because of everything Satoru Gojo did. The house is louder and dirtier than Sig Chi—bass rattles the wall, bodies are everywhere. Kyle leads you upstairs, respectful, a little nervous, but beyond eager.

Your stomach twists with anticipation, you’re finally getting your lick back. Kyle closes the bedroom door behind you, “Want a drink?”

“No.”

You step closer and his breath catches, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He leans in and kisses you…It’s fine, you guess. Soft, warm, nothing like the way Gojo does. You’re unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Kyle’s hands are on your waist and his mouth moves down your neck. He’s sweet, careful, and you should like this more—you don’t.

But you need it. You need something to hold onto that isn’t him. Kyle whispers, “You’re so fucking pretty,” And you let him guide you toward the bed.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, you ignore it. Then it buzzes again, long and insistent. Kyle notices, “You can get that if you want—”

“No,” You breathe, “Keep going.”

He nods and kisses you again, and you try, God you try to lose yourself in it. But the second his hand slips under your top, your phone lights up in the dark room. Bright enough in your bag that you both see it.

satoru: answer

satoru: stop playing

satoru: (y/n)

You go still, Kyle pulls back, “Hey…you okay?”

“Yeah,” You lie, “Just—just keep going.”

He leans in, but your eyes stay fixed on the glowing screen. Another message comes through and it’s not angry this time. It’s worse.

satoru: please

Your breath stutters as Kyle kisses your shoulder, your phone vibrates again.

satoru: princess please

Your entire body locks, because this isn’t how he talks. This isn’t a man who begs and it definitely doesn’t sound like one who moved on in an hour. Kyle’s hands slide down your waist, his lips brush your collarbone, and then you reazlie—you can’t do this.

You sit up abruptly, “Wait.”

Kyle freezes, “Oh. Uh, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, “No, you’re great. I just—I can’t.”

He bows his head, disappointed, “It’s cool. Really.”

You grab your phone and open the messages, staring at the last one until your chest aches.

satoru: please just pick up

Blair texts you at the same time.

blair: WHAT DID YOU DO? HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN

You inhale sharply as the truth slams through you. You’re not over him, not even remotely. Your fingers tremble as you text Blair back.

where is he

blair: SIG CHI bro he showed up like a psycho

blair: he asked EVERYONE if they’ve seen you

Your pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Kyle is still on the end of the bed, giving you space and pretending he doesn’t see your face falling apart, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod even though you aren’t, and stand too quickly, grabbing your bag, “I—I have to go.”

“Because of him?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods slowly, expecting it, like every guy on campus knows that whatever the hell is happening between you and Satoru Gojo is bigger than anything they could touch, “Douchebag doesn’t even deserve you.”

Yeah, he’s probably right about that but you bolt out of the room anyway, run down the stairs, and through the crowd spilling beer everywhere. Someone calls your name, but you don’t care. Your phone is in your hand, Gojo’s name filling the screen over and over like he’s clawing to get to you.

Pushing out into the street, cool evening air slams into your chest and you call him without thinking. It rings only once, “(Y/N).”

“Satoru—”

“You’re at TKE?” He blurts out. There’s noise behind him—music, voices, and footsteps as if he’s pacing through Sig Chi.

“Yes…”

“Did you go back with Kyle?” Your mouth opens, but you’re unable to speak, so he does it for you, “You did.”

“Satoru—”

“Just tell me,” He cuts you off, voice shaking with fury he’s trying to swallow, “Did he touch you?”

Your pulse slams against your ribs, Gojo keeps going, “He kissed you, right? You let him? You went into his room? You let him fucking—” He stops suddenly, breath hitching like finishing the rest of his sentence would choke him.

“Nothing happened.”

“…You’re lying.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears burning, “I left, Satoru. I left him. I’m literally calling you—”

“Why the fuck were you even there?”

“Because of you!”

A voice in the background of Gojo’s line says, “Bro, chill—” And you hear him snarl, “Shut the fuck up,” Followed by a door slamming so loudly you flinch. Now he’s alone and the truth crawls out of him, “I thought you were gone…I thought you actually went and—and fucked him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

Almost…and you would’ve too if he hadn’t kept texting, “You don’t understand,” He says hoarsely, “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I tore through the whole fucking house. I asked everyone. I—”

“Satoru…”

“Where are you now?”

“Heading toward Sig Chi.”

You hear movement and the sound of his breath catching, his shoes hitting the floor, something crashing behind him as he pushes through the thumping house.

“Stay on the phone,” He orders, “You’re not walking alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stay on the fucking phone.”

You listen then. Breath syncing with his footsteps as he barrels through the hallway and out the back door, onto the street. He’s running now, you can tell, “Satoru—slow down—”

“No,” He pants, keys jangling, car door slamming, Porsche engine purring to life, “You think I’m letting you walk alone after someone else had their hands on you?”

Your grip tightens on the phone, “So what? You’re coming to get me?”

“I’m already halfway there,” He breathes, rounding a corner so sharp the tires skid, “Don’t hang up.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

A long exhale leaves him, desperation blended with rage, “Tell me again. Tell me nothing happened.”

“…Nothing happened.”

He lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, “Good…Because I’m two minutes away, and if he had fucked you—”

You feel it in your bones, the relief so violent it comes out as anger, “Satoru,” You whisper softly, “Just…get here.”

“I’m coming, princess,” And then he hangs up.

The Porsche’s roar echoes down the street long before his headlights appear and once they do, he swings by the curb so fast you stumble back a step. He rolls the window down only to say, “Get in the car.”

You open the door, slide into the passenger seat and the second you’re in, he peels off so hard your shoulder hits the door, “Fuck—relax.”

“Can’t,” His knuckles are white on the wheel, every muscle in his forearm flexes with barely contained aggravation, and he doesn’t look at you once during the drive. He whips into the Sig Chi driveway, parks crooked as shit, and kills the engine.

Finally, he turns his head, eyes blazing, “Inside.”

You don’t argue; you follow him through the front door with your pulse in your throat, up the creaking stairs, through the hall, until he shoves his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it with so much force the walls shake.

“What the fuck was all of that?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Your tone is full of bitterness, “Don’t think I forgot about the blonde you posted today. Don’t act like you didn’t show me exactly where I stand.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” You step closer, chest heaving, “Was it different when I walked into your room last night and saw a trashcan full of condoms? When your sheets were a fucking mess? When your lips were swollen and you looked like you’d just—” You don’t finish that thought. He flinches at your words, but you don’t stop there, “When you fucked me and laughed in my face, telling me I’d never be the only one?”

His throat works, “Say something,” You snap, “Go on. Justify it. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“I didn’t fuck her,” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I didn’t fuck anyone,” He says louder, “Not the blonde. Not last night. Not today. Nobody.”

You stare at him, “Satoru. Your room—your trash.”

“I couldn’t even get it up…happy?” He spits out the truth like it hurts, “I kept—” He gestures violently, “—trying. With someone else. But it didn’t matter. My dick wouldn’t stay fucking hard.”

Your mouth falls agape, he keeps going, voice cracking down the middle, “I kept putting the condom on and I’d go soft. Again and again and again,” He laughs once, “That’s why there were wrappers. Not because I fucked anyone, but ‘cause I literally couldn’t.”

He steps closer, “You wanna know why?” You don’t say anything, but he gives you the answer anyway, “You.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” He says, voice dropping dangerously soft, “Can’t stop seeing your face, can’t stop remembering how you sound when you cum, can’t stop thinking about how it feels to be inside you.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, “And do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel?” His voice breaks again, “That I can’t fuck anyone else because the only pussy I get hard for is yours?”

Now you’re trembling, “But sure, go ahead. Tell me again you were just being petty. Tell me again that you thought going home with that TKE fuck was gonna hurt me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” He rasps, “You wanted to make me jealous,” He takes a step closer, “You wanted me to come find you,” Then another, “You wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you.”

Your back hits the wall, he cages you in with his arms, “And congratulations…It fucking worked.”

“Satoru…”

His forehead presses to yours, breaths mingling, anger turning molten, “You’re not replacing me, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else touch you…because you’re mine.”

Something hot flickers in your chest, “And you’re mine.”

He freezes, blue eyes turning a shade darker, “Say that again.”

You lift your chin, “You’re mine.”

As soon as the words leave your tongue he surges forward, mouth crashing onto yours with a force that feels like the room exploded. His hands are already on your hips, lifting you, dragging you toward the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, bouncing once before he’s on you, over you, everywhere; kissing you like it’s oxygen. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue forcing its way in, and his fingers tear your shorts down so fast the friction burns.

“Spread,” He growls against your mouth. Without hesitation, you spread your legs wide open. He drags you down the bed by your thighs like you’re something he gets to rearrange however he wants, and when he drops to his knees—it’s over.

His mouth is on your cunt instantly, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking and licking like he’s trying to claim you with his mouth first.

You arch intensely, a choked cry crooning from your throat, “Fuck—Satoru,” Your thighs clamp around his head, but he forces them wider. You try to lift your hips and he pins them down.

“Stay still,” He mutters, “Or I’ll take my time,” It’s a threat, a wonderful filthy one. He eats you until your vision blurs and you’re pulling at his white tendrils; when you cum, you break with your head thrown back, mouth fully open, moaning his name in a way that would destroy him if he weren’t already in shambles.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” He pants, climbing over you, dragging his mouth up your stomach, ribs, throat, “Ruined and wet and waiting for me—fuck.”

He lines his cock up without looking, he doesn’t have to at this point. He knows your body by heart, and when he pushes in it’s one languid stroke that make your nails claw into his back and his breath punch out of him, “Shit—baby, so tight—”

He locks one hand behind your knee, shoving it higher, deeper, opening you more than you’ve ever been before, “You feel that?” He grits, hips snapping hard enough the headboard slams the wall, “Feel how easy this pussy takes me after I eat you out?”

The moan that escapes you sounds like a sob, “Feel how deep I am?” He thrusts again, brutal and perfect, “Feel me right fucking there?” One of his big hands presses right on your lower belly, a helpless whimper falls from your lips; his eyes go dark, “That’s where I wanna cum.”

Your stomach drops, “Satoru—”

“I want it so bad I can’t fucking think,” Each thrust is more forceful, sloppier, desperate, “You have no idea,” He pants, “No fucking idea what it did to me the first time—seeing my cum dripping out of you. Fuck, I been thinking about it every night since.”

Your cunt clenches around him, his eyes roll back, “Yeah…” He groans, “You liked that, didn’t you?”

His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face still so you can’t look away, “You want me to fill you again? Want me to make you mine for real?”

God, you shouldn’t want it. Not one bit.

Not with him and not when the risks outweigh the rewards. But at the same time, you fucking do.

Your brain fogs, melts, almost liquifies, “I want—” You gasp, nails sinking into his back, “I want you to fill me—”

He growls, “Fuck, princess—don’t say it unless you mean it—”

You’re too far gone to stop yourself, “Make me yours,” You whisper, trembling, “I want all of it, please.”

Hearing you beg for a load would make even the strongest man fold, and for a guy like Gojo, it takes very little to get him to. He snaps, thrusts turn punishing, ragged, the rhythm of a person who has lost every ounce of sanity, “You don’t—understand what you’re asking for.”

You cling to him, eyes half-lidded, “Satoru—don’t pull out.”

He shudders, grip on you tightening painfully, “Baby—fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit, you’re gonna make me cum—”

You wrap your legs around him and pin him in place, he fails to hide the moan that leaves him, “Oh my God,” He grunts, “You want it—you actually want it.”

He convulses then, slamming into you one last time, shoving himself all the way until his tip kisses your cervix, and cums inside you with a sound that is pure, ruined surrender.

His cock is throbbing, pulse after pulse, pumping you full of hot, thick white ribbons. He stays there, trembling through it, shaking, and when he finally pulls out, he looks down.

The sight that greets him is his favorite in the world. His cum leaking out of your pussy in warm, heavy streams, “Fuck…That’s perfect.”

He drags two fingers through the load, smearing it, then pushing it back in you with the darkest smirk on his face, “I could get addicted to this,” He murmurs, before adding, “Maybe I already am.”

Your chest is heaving, the room spinning around you. He’s still hovering over your hips, transfixed on the mess he made like he can’t look away, “Should make you keep it.”

Your entire body tenses because he doesn't look at your face when he says it—he’s still staring at your legs, like the sight has rewired something fundamental in him.

He pushes his fingers deeper, you whine, “But I can’t,” He mutters more to himself than you, “I shouldn’t.”

He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your thigh, eyes hooded and dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Gojo sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, when it finally hits him—reality.

He actually did it. He came inside you. On purpose this time. His eyes flick up to yours, unsure, “…We need to get you a Plan B.”

You knew that was coming, but the tone is different. He sounds shaken, disappointed even, “Okay.”

But he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you—the bite marks blooming on your throat, the mess between your thighs he put there, and something in him cracks all over again, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Your pulse stutters as he exhales hard, standing. The room tilts as he grabs his USC hoodie off the floor, tugging it over his head with shaky hands. He hesitates a second too long before speaking, “I-I didn’t mean to…do it like that.”

“Do what?”

His eyes flick away shamefully, “Nut in you like I was trying to get you pregnant,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “Because that’s what it felt like,” Your heart skips, he glances back at you, almost pained, “But that’s not—we’re not doing that.”

Silence stretches, then he shakes his head as if snapping himself out of whatever daze he’s in, “Get dressed. Please.”

You pull your shorts back on and he hands you one of his shirts without looking directly at you—like one wrong glance, on more glimpse of you fucked-out and dripping, and he’ll pin you back on the bed to do it again.

When you’re covered enough to leave, he grabs his keys; his hand finds yours, he squeezes without thinking and doesn’t let go. He leads you out of Sig Chi through a side door because he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this. 

He walks too quick, not talking, not until you reach the quiet part of the sidewalk does he finally say something, “Don’t ever let me lose you like that again.”

You look up and he’s staring straight ahead, but his grip tightens, exposing more than he means to, “Come on,” He murmurs, unlocking the Porsche, “We’ll get the Plan B.”

But even as he says it, even as he feigns rationale, his hand won’t stop squeezing yours. The Porsche unlocks with a chirp, he opens your door for you and then slams his own harder than necessary. He starts driving, fast, silent, and focused but not on the road. 

Every streetlight flickers across his face, shadowing and revealing the truth in flashes. Good. She’ll take the pill. This was just heat, adrenaline, possession. 

But beneath that, something far darker hums through him. Still…fuck. I could give her what no one else can. I want that.

He swallows hard, grips the wheel tighter, drives even faster. The CVS is almost empty, thank God. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake, walking over straight to the aisle he was in mere weeks ago.

Gojo remembers the last time he bought it, but the last time he never wished, that for one stupid second, that if biology had given him a loophole, that maybe—maybe you’d keep a piece of him.

He grabs the box with stiff fingers and at the register, the cashier doesn’t make eye contact; something ugly and possessive in Gojo likes that. Likes that no one here knows what he just did or what he put in you and how deep you let him.

He pays the fifty dollars again, shoves the box into his pockets, and hands it to you the second he makes it back to the car as if he may take it back if he doesn’t. 

You take the pill out, open a water bottle, tip your chin back, and he watches. His jaw moves once, like he’s grinding the idea to dust. Good. She’s safe. She won’t be pregnant. This isn’t happening. 

Then, right behind it, a quieter, eviller truth. Would’ve been kinda nice if it was. 

And the thought doesn’t fade, it festers. Even after you swallow the pill and he drives away with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, even after he drops you off at your dorm and tells you to text him when you’re inside. 

No, it fucking lingers. A wrong desire he keeps trying to destroy, a feeling he can’t outrun. Something vital within him shifted when he finished in you that second time, and it bleeds into everything that happens next.

The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes.

satoru: you got class at 10 right?

Before you can answer, another text comes.

satoru: be outside in 5

He picks you up with a coffee in the cupholder, the exact way you like it, and a muffin he claims he “accidentally bought two of”. You don’t call him out on the lie. 

Gojo doesn’t drop you off at the curb, either. He walks you all the way to the building and when you turn to go inside, he hesitates, “Text me when you’re done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” He cuts you off quietly, “But just do it,” And he walks away before you can fight him on it.

The night after, he shows up again in the same hoodie with the same look in his blue eyes, and that same damn inability to stay away.

He kisses you before the door fully closes behind you—soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of wanting you too much. Then he remembers your voice calling him yours, your legs wrapped around him, your cunt squeezing around his dick while he came inside you, and suddenly? He’s not soft anymore. 

He lifts you, carries you to your bed, lies you down like you’re fragile, but unravels you like he’s ravenous. He fucks you slow and deep, way too deep; breathing into your neck, voice shredded, hands quivering on your thighs.

At one point, he stops entirely. Stops moving, buried all the way inside you, hips pressed flush, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in physical pain, “Princess…” His forehead presses to your jaw, “If I move, I’m gonna cum in you again.”

You shiver and he doesn’t pull out, not yet, only when he finally forces himself; finishing on your stomach, staring at your body the way a sinner stares at temptation—ruined, in awe, and absolutely starved for more. 

In the days after, he starts acting like your boyfriend. Though neither of you ever say the word, and acting like your boyfriend also apparently includes spoiling you rotten, but he’d never admit that’s what he’s doing.

It starts with him handing you his card one afternoon, “Here. Go get your nails done. Want your hands lookin’ nice around my cock.”

You choke on air, but he won’t meet your eyes, pretending it’s not the sweetest, filthiest thing anyone's ever said to you. Next thing you know, he’s paying for all kinds of appointments. He sends you money for your facial along with a text claiming, “i could give you a better one but idt you’d like it as much”.

Then he’s bringing you on routine mall runs. He takes you straight to Sephora, Aritzia, Zara—anywhere you so look at or mention and buys everything you touch. You tell him he’s insane, but he just shrugs, “It’s not a big deal. Gotta keep you pretty for me.”

You don’t buy the reason for a second.

Then comes the dates. Real ones at fancy places. The first time you’re confused when he tells you to “dress nice”. The second time, you’ve learned that “dress nice” means he’s dropping a stupid amount of money at a restaurant where the menus don’t have prices.

From sushi restaurants in Beverly Hills to Italian spots in West Hollywood, the dinner always goes the same way. With him watching you the entire time like the sight of you sitting across from him looking so beautiful is doing things to his soul and paying the bill without giving you any time to even pretend to pick it up.

“Don’t insult my manhood, princess,” He jokes, already placing his card down, “I’d rather die than let you pay a dime.”

But the worst parts aren’t the dates or the ridiculous instances of spoiling you. It’s what happens after.

One night, you’re sitting in his bed when he removes his silver chain he never takes off, the one you’ve seen in every photo and TikTok. He’s hooking it around your throat while you protest, “Toru—”

“Shh,” He hushes, “Just try it.”

It settles against your collarbone, cool and heavy with a distinct weight to it. His eyes drag over your neck, slow and hungry, like the sight of something that’s his on you does something violent to him, “Mm,” He hums, thumb grazing the metal, “Looks real good on you.”

Your pulse stutters and he kisses you before either of you can process what it means.

And then there’s the night where you’re laying on his chest, tangled in the sheets after he fucked you senseless, when you ask, “What’s Japan like?”

His voice softens in a way you feel in your ribs, “Depends where you go. Tokyo’s crazy. Kyoto’s pretty. Snow up north is perfect.”

You smile into his skin, “Sounds amazing.”

“Yeah,” He replies, adding way too casually, “I’ll have to show you one day.”

You’re quiet for a second before saying, “Teach me something.”

His eyes are warm, melting, “Okay…Say this—suki.”

“Suki,” You whisper; he exhales slowly, almost shakily, “What does it mean?”

He hesitates, choosing to lie gently, “It means…I like this.”

You believe him, but the truth is written all over his face. He doesn’t mean he likes the moment, he means you. Then he looks at you with his chain glinting on your neck, wondering when wanting you turned into needing you—and he’s terrified he can’t stop.

And the need for you only grows.

He picks you up every day from class, keeps snacks in his car that he only buys when you’re around, gives you his favorite sweatshirt when he notices your cold, opens your door every time. On his wrist sits your hair tie, although he says it’s for you, part of you thinks he wears it just because it’s yours.

When you’re walking together, he switches sides so he’s closest to the street. When guys stare, he sees it before you do. One afternoon on the quad, a guy from your lab waves too eagerly at you. Gojo’s voice is flat, “Who the fuck is that?”

You elbow him, “He’s just in my class.”

Gojo scoffs, “Yeah. Don’t like how he looks at you.”

You try not to smile, yet you do.

His frat brothers also start to tease him, “Gojo doesn’t even talk to other bitches anymore.”

“Bro’s whipped.”

“He’s in love with the QB’s daughter.”

He throws a pong ball at their heads, but doesn’t bother denying any of it.

Then, the sex between you? It starts to evolve into something precarious. He no longer fucks you like some sleezy, fuckboy frat bro chasing a climax. The tempo is slower, sensual, intimate in a way that makes your blood curdle.

There’s a night in his room with the lights low and music soft, where you’re riding him, moving slow, his hands gripping your hips like you’re sacred.

His head falls back against the pillow, he’s too sensitive, too close, “Baby…” His voice breaks, “Don’t…don’t do that unless you want—”

But you roll your hips anyway and he loses it. His fingertips dig into your thighs, eyes rolling back, breath catching in a strangled gasp, “Fuck, princess—stop, stop—if I cum like this it’s going inside you.”

And the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound scared of that. He sounds desperate for it.

He pulls out at the very last heartbeat, just barely. His cum splashes across your chest in hot, heavy ropes and he stares at you like he’s memorizing it. He touches it, swipes some with this thumb, smearing it over your skin. He whispers, almost reverently, “God…would’ve looked better in you.”

Then his gaze glosses over his chain around your neck, and he wonders what it would be like to give you something more permanent.

Next weekend, there’s a tailgate at Sig Chi for the USC football game. It’s loud and crowded, red solo cups litter the backyard and Don Toliver is blasting from a blown out speaker Gojo keeps threatening to throw over the fence.

You’re sitting in his lap in a tiny red skirt you probably should’ve reconsidered, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you showed up. His hand rests on your thigh at first until it slithers its way to the curve just beneath your ass; thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s publicly claiming territory.

Every time you shift, you feel how hard he is under you. He’s shameless in how he pretends not to care, but his brothers definitely notice. One of the Pledges walks by and does a double take, though Gojo doesn’t look up. He just tightens his grip on your waist and says, completely casual, “Yo, Pledge. Flick me up with my girl.”

My girl. The words strike your bones, “Your—your what?”

Gojo finally lifts his eyes, jaw set like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and that he hates the entire Pledge class, “My girl,” He repeats, patting your thigh once, “C’mon, hurry the fuck up, idiot.”

The Pledge blinks and scrambles to grab his phone, you try to move off Gojo’s lap, flustered, but his arm locks around your waist, “Sit still,” He murmurs into your neck, “Wanna see how pretty you look sittin’ on me.”

Your pulse skitters and he doesn’t even look at the camera—he looks at you, hungrily, lazily possessive, like he already knows he’s gonna post this shit.

When the Pledge sends over the photo, he’s immediately plugging it into his feed on Instagram, which is something he never does. His feed is reserved for himself, thirst traps, aesthetics. So when he posts you with a caption, “me and mine”, all of USC sees it and implodes.

He brushes a kiss onto your jaw, “Let them talk.”

And that same night, you barely make it inside his room before he has you against the wall, kissing you like he’s been deprived of it. Your skirt is on the floor already, your top has been shedded. He lifts you, legs locking around his waist, and thrusts into you so deep your vision spots.

His entire body is shaking, “Princess—fuck, slow, slow, if you keep—”

But you’re too cockdrunk to stop. He grips your ass, burying himself inside you to the hilt, moaning into your shoulder like he’s rupturing, “I’m not gonna…baby—I can’t, if you don’t let go.”

You tighten your legs around him and he falls apart. For one horrifying, heart-stopping second, he doesn’t pull out. He stays in your pussy, groaning into your neck, the two of you trembling against each other.

Gojo only yanks himself out at the very last fraction of a second, finishing in thick, desperate ropes on your inner thighs; he stares at the mess like it’s his masterpiece, but also like he wants it somewhere else.

He strokes your thigh with the back of his fingers, voice impossibly soft, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every time—every fucking time, I almost stay inside you.”

Your heart skips a beat, “And the worst part?” He looks at you, eyes blazing, “I don’t even know if I’d stop myself next time…”

And it happens two nights later, when things between you have settled into this terrifying, intoxicating rhythm. You’re already falling asleep in his bed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your lower back like he’s locking in you place.

He whispers, “Come here,” Pulling you into his chest so your thigh slots between his and you feel him instantly—he’s hard, achingly so.

You look up at him through sleep-heavy eyes and he caves. He rolls you onto your back, slow, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to fuck you.

His mouth finds yours, hungry and unhurried; your breathing is barely steady when he finally pushes his cock into you and it’s different. All of it is. Far too deliberate, delicate, deep.

He groans into your neck, voice already wrecked, “Fuck…I’m obsessed with you.”

He’s still sliding himself in when you clutch his biceps, arching up into him with his breath catching in his chest, when he loses the last piece of control he had. His hips snap forward sharply, burying his cock fully inside, and curses low like the feeling of being right where he is now knocks the sense out of him.

He does try to pull out once, you feel it, the hesitation in his hips. But for reasons unknown, you wrap your legs around his waist on pure instinct rather than purpose, and he can’t stop what happens next.

Gojo collapses into you with a broken sound, forehead to yours, thrusts morphing sloppy and desperate, “Baby—fuck, don’t—” His voice cracks, “I can’t—if you do that—”

But you’re already tugging him closer, nails digging into his back, those pretty little cries spilling from your lips send him straight past rational thought.

His hands clamp around your hips, dragging you flush against him, “Oh…God—” He chokes and thinks maybe for a second, he’ll try to pull himself back, but the moment he feels you tighten around him, he breaks with a sound he’s never made before.

A desperate, helpless moan punched out him as he bucks his hips and stays there—buried, locked to you like he couldn’t move even if he tried.

“Fuck, I’m cumming—inside…shit,” And you feel it, hot spurts filling you so completely full that it steals your breath. He can’t even stop, his entire body spasms against yours, quaking through the release, his forehead lodged into your throat as if he’s holding onto you while he falls apart.

It’s a lot. More than the last time. More than either of you expected. So much, it’s leaking around him even while he’s still stuffed deep, twitching through the last waves. He doesn’t move, he just stays there, even when he pulls his face up to look at you with blue eyes blown, “…Fuck. I didn’t pull out.”

Your heart sits high in your chest, he watches your expression like it’s life or death, “Honestly…I didn’t even try.”

But that’s when it hits him. He should tell you to go on birth control. He knows it. That it’s the responsible, sensible, smart thing to do; the normal thing guys in college say when they don’t want their lives derailed.

Though, truth is? He doesn’t want normal, not with you. Because birth control kills the possibility, the danger, the fucked up little thrill that coils low in his stomach every time he pushes in deep and realizes that he could claim you in the one way no other guy has.

If you were on the pill, there would be no risk. No moment where he hovers on the edge, shaking, wondering if he should pull out or just stay, and he lives for that moment. That heartbeat of insanity right before he cums, where he thinks, if I don’t pull out, she’s mine for real.

So that’s why he never says the words, “You should get on birth control.”

And as deranged as it is, he doesn’t want to eliminate the one thing that makes fucking you feel holy, catastrophic, and fate-altering.

But…little does Satoru Gojo know that you’re already on it. You got on it right after that second time he finished in you.

Because that night scared you—you couldn’t trust him anymore, you couldn’t trust yourself either, and the recklessness was going to ruin you both.

You weren’t an idiot. Despite being a sheltered good girl your whole life and being inexperienced with sex, you know the consequences. And after watching his hesitation to pull out disappear night after night and feeling him stay inside you longer each time you fucked, you knew you made the right call.

However, you kept it a secret. You figured it was what was best for the both of you. You were protecting yourself all while letting him play out his little fantasy or whatever sick game he gets off on, letting him think every time might be the time he gets you pregnant.

It was smart, it was calculated, it was you being safe. Or…So you thought. Because of course, life had other plans, cruel and ironic ones. The kind of plans that are in motion before you even realize anything is wrong.

The Plan B you took after that second time he finished in you? Yeah. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when you’re ovulating. And that night was exactly when you were.

The symptoms creep up on you so sneakily that you don’t even notice them. At first, it’s just fatigue. A bone-deep heaviness that sinks into your limbs on a random Monday morning, although you chalk it up to Gojo keeping you up until 3 A.M. again—him pinning your wrists above your head and whispering “one more round, princess”.

But then the smell of breakfast the next day makes you nauseaous, an odd twist within your gut when you catch a whiff of Blair’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich, “Girl, you good?”

“Fine,” You lie, "Probably just dehydrated,” Though you’ve been drinking water all day and still feel wrong.

Then your boobs hurt, really hurt. Tender in a way you’ve never felt before and Blair notices when you flinch throwing your tote bag over your shoulder, “That bad?”

“I think I’m getting sick.”

You’re not getting sick. You know what your body feels like when something is off and this feels different. The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when Blair says casually from the sink beside you, “When did you last get your period?”

“Last month,” But then your hand stops in mid-air.

Last month. You haven’t gotten it this month yet and it should’ve come by now. Your blood runs cold, “Wait…what day is it?”

Blair checks her phone, “October 27th.”

No. No, no, no. Your toothbrush slips from your fingers and clatters into the sink as realization cleaves through your ribs. It’s been three weeks since that night. Three weeks since the Plan B. Absolutely enough time to pass to start experiencing...pregnancy symptoms. And you already know it has a reputation for not always being effective.

“(Y/N)…?” Blair frowns, “What’s wrong?”

You lift your trembling eyes to hers, “Fuck class, we’re skipping. I need to go to CVS.”

She nods at that and the two of you urgently walk together to the CVS of doom and despair. Except this time, there’s no adrenaline buzzing within your veins, only fear.

You’re in the family planning aisle once again, but not to grab a Plan B, instead it’s a box of three pregnancy tests that feel far too heavy in your shaky hands. Blair hovers behind you, pale, “You really think—?”

“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t know.”

But you do. You do know. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it. Your hands continue to tremble as you pay and walk back to the dorms and shut the bathroom door. Blair waits outside for you, “(Y/N)…I’m right here, okay?”

You nod, barely breathing, your reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pretty, terrified, wearing his silver chain around your throat like a brand or prophecy to something more.

You open one of the tests, take it, and set it on the counter. You wait two minutes, only two, and grip the sink and pray. For what, you’re not sure. That it’s negative? Or that it’s positive so you don’t have to keep pretending you aren’t already half in love with Satoru Gojo?

Negative. Yeah, definitely negative. You’re only eighteen, in your first semester of college. You moved across the country for this experience. Your dad would literally murder you for fucking it up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, then you look, and everything inside you falls, collapses, and rearranges.

Two pink lines. Bold and immediate. You’re fucking pregnant. That can’t be. You rip open another test and force yourself to pee again. False positives happen all the time, right? Right?

You wait another two minutes, only for the result to be the exact same…pregnant. Yeah, there’s no denying both. But fuck it, might as well take the third.

Another test, another positive. Three positive fucking tests, “Oh my God,” You whisper, “Oh my God…oh my fucking God—”

Blair knocks lightly, “(Y/N)? You okay? What’s happening?”

“He…” Your voice cracks, “He got me…pregnant.”

The word tastes unreal in your mouth, “But didn’t you take a Plan B? Aren’t you on birth control—?”

“I must’ve been ovulating or something,” You hiccup, tears brimming, “I-I did everything right.”

“Baby…open the door.”

You open it, numb, and Blair pulls you into a crushing hug as the three tests shake in your hand, “Oh, sweet girl…” She coos, “What are you gonna do?”

You shake your head, tears hitting her shoulder, “I—I have to tell him.”

As soon as you make it back to your dorm room you text him.

toru come over

now

please

He replies instantly.

satoru: omw what’s wrong

satoru: princess ??

You don’t answer, but minutes later you can hear the rumble of his Porsche pull into the dorms’ parking lot and not even seconds pass before his frantic knocking rattles your door. When you open it, he stops breathing. Your eyes are bloodshot red, your entire body is quaking, and his chain, of course it’s still on your neck.

“(Y/N),” He exhales, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers, “What the fuck’s going on? Did someone—did a guy—? If someone touched you I swear I’ll—”

“It’s not that,” You whisper and hold out the three tests.

Gojo goes utterly still. He looks at the tests, then at you, then at the tests again. His throat bobs, “…What are those?”

“You fucking know what they are.”

“They’re…positive?”

You nod once, he inhales sharply like someone punched him, “Fuck,” He says it again, quieter, “Fuck.”

You watch his whole demeanor short circuit. At first it’s shock, but then something within him settles, something darker, something like acceptance wrapped in possession. He’s already thinking, you’re pregnant. With my baby. Mine.

His throat works once, hard. His mouth twitches, barely but unmistakably, because he tried to smother whatever expression is trying to surface.

“C’mere,” He murmurs, pulling you into him like he can fold the entire world away. You break immediately, tears spill hot and fast, your hands clawing into his hoodie as you shake uncontrollably.

And Gojo holds you, arms wrapped around your waist, palm pressing the back of your head gently into his chest, and behind your hair, unseen, his lips curl with a quiet, corrupt satisfaction he can’t suppress.

He does feel bad that you’re crying. He really does, but he also doesn’t care in the way he probably should. Because at the end of the day, you’re carrying his baby, and no one else will ever be able to say that.

He keeps rubbing circles into your spine, shushing you softly. His voice is warm, soothing, everything he thinks he’s supposed to sound like in this moment, “It’s okay, princess…breathe. I’m here.”

But really, ever since you said the words, he’s been reminiscing. Which time was it? After the third time he came in you, he’s stayed in you more often than not. He’s lost count of the nights he finished deep inside, hand fisted in the sheets, moaning your name.

Was it the night on his couch? The night he fucked you in the bathroom of his frat formal because he couldn’t stand the way his brothers were looking at you? Was it when he pulled you onto his lap and didn’t even pretend to pull out? Or—

You sob, “I don’t—I don’t know how it happened—I thought—”

He pulls back slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, “Well, we stopped buying Plan Bs. So we weren’t exactly being…safe.”

Your chest tightens, oh, right. He has no idea that you’ve been on the pill, “Satoru…I need to be honest with you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, petrified for whatever you’re about to say, “…Okay,” He says slowly, carefully, “Tell me.”

Your bottom lip trembles, “I…I’ve been on birth control.”

Everything in him freezes, “…What?”

“I started it…after that second time, the night we fought,” You whisper, tears slipping fast down your cheeks, “I couldn’t trust us anymore. I knew we were being stupid and I just…needed to do something. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to change.”

Gojo stares at you like the entire universe just rearranged itself behind your eyes. Birth control. You were on birth control and still wound up pregnant. It wasn’t the nights after. It wasn’t the couch or the bathroom, it wasn’t the time he came in you so deep he saw stars behind his eyelids.

No, it was that night. The one where he called you his and you called him yours, the one where he finished inside you on purpose and you wanted it. The night you took the Plan B after he watched his cum drip out of you like it was the eighth Wonder of the World. Of course it was that night; a night that ended up being prophecy.

Gojo isn’t even upset with you for not telling him about the whole birth control thing, either. Matter of fact? Some twisted, fucked up, and deranged part of him feels satisfied. Because you really tried, you tried so hard not to get pregnant.

But fate already made its decision long before either of you pretended you had control and the idea of that makes something warm and primal settle in his chest, “Oh my God…it was that night.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears dribbling down your cheeks, “Satoru, I—I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I took the pill, I was on birth control, we—we should’ve been fine—”

He shakes his head immediately, firmly cupping the back of your skull. What he wants to say is that this was always supposed to happen, but instead he opts for, “Hey. Stop. No. This isn’t on you.”

Because it isn’t. If anything, the blame sits squarely on him—he’s the one who kept cumming in you like he was trying to write your future with his body alone. You were the one taking precautions and trying to keep things under control. He was the one who didn’t stop.

So, of course you got pregnant. He practically begged the universe for it with the way he fucked you, “I should’ve been pulling out,” He murmurs, thumb brushing away the tears, “But I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Your breath breaks, “How come you don’t you look upset?”

Gojo stiffens at the accusation. He doesn’t look devastated or destroyed and he definitely doesn’t look like a twenty year old frat boy whose life got flipped upside down.

He looks…eerily calm, “I don’t know what I’m feeling yet,” He lies; he knows exactly what he’s feeling and it’s not something he can say out loud without disrupting whatever fragile world you’re clinging to.

You turn away, pressing your hands to your face, shoulders jerking, “My whole life is screwed, Satoru. My dad—my classes—everything. I don’t even know how to breathe right now.”

His stomach twists, he hates that his lack of fear and panic makes him feel like a monster. He steps closer until his chest brushes your back and wraps his arms around you from behind, tugging you into him.

“Princess,” He murmurs against your shoulder, “I know you’re terrified. I get it. You have every right to be. But I need you to hear me,” You don’t look at him, but he tilts his head, voice dropping into something achingly soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your lips quiver, “Then why does it feel like everything is falling apart?”

He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to the curve of your neck. Everything is falling apart for you, but for him? It feels like everything is falling into place.

The girl who arrived to USC that every guy wanted, the girl who has always been good until she met Satoru Gojo, had been claimed by him. He closes his eyes, swallowing down the feral pulse in his chest, “It feels like it’s falling apart because you’re shocked. It’s big and sudden. Anyone would feel what you’re feeling.”

You shudder and he tightens his hold, protective in a way that feels instinctual, “But you’re not alone in this. Not for one second.”

You sniff harshly, “You’re taking this way too well.”

He almost laughs at how easily you see through him, “I’m taking it the only way I know how.”

Quietly, privately, his mind says a different thing, because some part of me knew this was coming the second I didn’t pull out. He presses a soft kiss to your temple before you can see the flicker in his expression.

“Talk to me,” You whisper, voice rasped, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He hesitates, because the real answer is, you’re pregnant because of me. Because you told me to make you mine and I did. What he says to you is gentler, “I’m thinking that we’ll figure it out and that you’re safe with me.”

But beneath it, humming like electricity in his bloodstream, I don’t regret it. Not even a little. It was always gonna be us. You were meant to be mine.

You don’t even get a chance to respond to what Gojo has said when the universe decides to fuck you over for a second time. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie. A single buzz, then another. You still instantly, Gojo’s hands pause on your waist, “Who is it?”

You pull back just enough to fish your phone out, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your vision blurs as you blink at the notification. And when you see the name on the lock screen, you freeze entirely.

Gojo’s brows knit, “Baby?”

“…It’s my dad,” You swipe his message open with tottering fingers and the text hits you like a brick to the sternum.

dad: Hey sweetheart! Good news! College gameday is in USC this weekend so I’ll be seeing you in a few days.

dad: I can’t wait to see you, princess. Love you.

Your throat swells, he leans in slightly to read the message himself because you can’t find your own voice, and for the first time tonight, Satoru Gojo breaks, “…Oh fuck.”

Your dad is coming in three days.

subject: urgent assignment submission

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

hey prof higuruma,

just attached the draft for the criminal procedure essay like you asked—reworked the section on miranda rights based on your feedback from last office hours. let me know if it still needs more case citations or if i’m overcomplicating the exclusionary rule again

thanks for staying late to look it over again, you’re saving my gpa here!

talk soon,

[your name]

(attachment: Criminal_Procedure_Essay_Draft_v3.docx)

tuesday lecture comes and you get there early this time. you sit in back row, legs crossed tight. he walks in five minutes before start wearing his usual black suit, sleeves already rolled. briefcase hits the podium hard. he doesn’t bother looking around before he starts.

“entrapment. page 231. we’re covering it today.”

he paces. voice low and tired like always. “entrapment defense requires government inducement that would cause a normally law-abiding person to commit the crime. it’s not just opportunity. it’s active persuasion, pressure, temptation that overrides free will.”

he stops, leaning on the podium. eyes scan the room slow looking at your section longer than others.

“consider seduction as a tactic. undercover officer poses as a romantic interest. they builds trust, uses flirtation, compliments, physical proximity, promises of intimacy. the target eventually agrees to sell drugs or whatever the crime is because the seduction makes refusal feel impossible. courts have ruled both ways. some say it’s legitimate police work. others say when it crosses into sexual manipulation it becomes entrapment per se.”

he keeps going, he describes cases. like how a female officer in a bar is wearing a low-cut dress touching the suspect’s arm. whispering how much she wants him. leading him to the deal. male officer doing the same to a female suspect. lingering looks, suggestive comments. “let me take care of you.” he lists factors courts weigh: intensity of the advances. repetition. whether the target initiated or resisted. how long the seduction lasted before the crime occurred.

the whole lecture his tone stays flat. no glances your way. he talks about “arousal as leverage” like it’s just another legal element. “when sexual desire is weaponized to lower inhibitions, the line between persuasion and coercion blurs. but the test remains objective: would the average person succumb?”

you feel his stare when he asks the question like he’s personally talking to you.

when class ends, he leaves fast.

wednesday night you send your second one.

subject: revised entrapment section – attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

prof,

added the entrapment cases you referenced in lecture. focused on the seduction hypotheticals and court splits. let me know if the analysis is on track.

[your name]

(attachment: Entrapment_Analysis_Revised.pdf)

again, no reply.

thursday you spot him at the faculty coffee stand outside the law building. the line’s short and he’s in front. pays with exact change as he takes his black coffee. when he turns, your eyes meet. you’re three feet away. he pauses and looks straight through you. he doesn't bother acknowledging you, then he steps around you, walking away.

your hands shake holding your own cup.

friday night comes and you promise yourself that this will be your last attempt.

subject: entrapment follow-up questions – example attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

hi prof,

had a couple questions on the objective test for seduction-based entrapment. attached a quick example i wrote up to clarify my thinking. appreciate any notes.

thanks,

[your name]

(attachment: Seduction_Entrapment_Example.docx.)

saturday morning your inbox lights up.

subject: re: entrapment follow-up questions – example attached

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

that’s the third nude you sent this week.

monday 5:30 pm. my office.

h. higuruma

you arrive at his office door at exactly 5:30 pm on monday, heart pounding like it's about to burst out of your chest. the law building is mostly empty this late–classes wrapped up hours ago, and the few lingering students are buried in the library or grabbing takeout from the food trucks outside. his door is cracked open, a sliver of warm lamplight spilling into the dim hallway. you knock lightly, his voice cuts through immediately.

"come in."

you push the door open, stepping inside. the office is what you'd expect from your professor.

stacks of case files on the desk, bookshelves crammed with legal tomes, a single window overlooking the campus quad. he's seated behind his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like always, exposing those forearms you've caught yourself staring at during lectures more times than you'd admit. his eyes flick up from a pile of papers, dark and unreadable, pinning you in place.

"close the door," he says, it’s not a request too. when you do, the click of the latch echoing too loudly in the quiet room. "lock it."

your fingers fumble on the knob, but you manage. when you turn back, he's already standing, rounding the desk with slow steps. he doesn't say anything at first, just leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, watching you. the silence stretches, it was awkward until you can't take it anymore.

"professor, i—about the attachments, they were accidents. i swear, i meant to send the essays, but my files got mixed up, and—"

"accidents," he repeats, he uncrosses his arms, picking up a folder from his desk—your emails printed out, you realize with a flush of heat to your face. he flips through them casually, as if reviewing a student's brief. "three times in one week. each one more... explicit than the last."

your cheeks burn. the first had been a simple nude, you in front of your mirror, lace panties and nothing else, snapped for your own confidence boost after a rough day. the second? you'd been bolder, sprawled on your bed, hand between your thighs, capturing the arch of your back. and the third... god, the third had been you on all fours, ass up, looking over your shoulder with a smirk that screamed invitation. you'd meant them for a situationship that fizzled out, but in your late-night haze of studying and scrolling, you'd attached the wrong files. or had you? the thought nags at you now, but you push it down.

"i didn't mean for you to see them," you whisper. his gaze drops to your lips, then lower, tracing the way your blouse clings to your curves under your cardigan, the skirt that's maybe an inch too short for a professional setting like this.

he sets the folder down, stepping closer. close enough that you can smell his cologne–too strong for your liking. "and yet, here we are." his hand lifts, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your chin up so you're forced to meet his eyes. they're darker now, pupils blown wide. "you didn't delete them. didn't send a frantic follow-up apologizing. just kept sending more."

before you can stammer another excuse, his thumb presses against your lower lip, parting it slightly. "on your knees."

you drop without thinking, carpet rough against your bare knees. he doesn't rush when unbuckles his belt, zipper dragged down loud in the quiet office. when he frees himself he's already hard, thick in his hand as he jerks himself watching your face the whole time.

"open."

he guides the head past your lips, you taste him as he slides deeper, filling your mouth inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat. your eyes water instantly. he groans low, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other braced on the desk behind him.

"that's it," he mutters. "take it."

he starts to move slowly letting you adjust, then faster. shallow thrusts turn deeper, until he's fucking your throat in earnest. you gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin, but he doesn't stop. his grip tightens in your hair, holding you steady as he uses your mouth like it's his to take. every time you choke he pauses just long enough for you to breathe through your nose, then pushes back in, deeper, until your nose brushes his pelvis.

"look at me," he orders when your eyes flutter shut.

you force them open. his expression is almost detached but the way his hips continuously move faster betrays him. he's close. you can feel it in the way he twitches against your tongue, the way his breathing turns ragged. one more deep thrust and he holds himself there, releasing down your throat without a warning. you swallow reflexively, choking a little, but he doesn't pull out until he's finished, until you've taken every drop.

when he finally pulls out, a string of spit connects your swollen lips to the tip. he tucks himself away, zips up then he scoops you up by the waist like you weigh nothing. your legs dangle for a second before he sets you on the edge of his desk, papers crinkling under you. he pushes your thighs apart with his knee, settling between them, his hands gripping your hips to hold you in place.

"touch yourself," he says quietly.

he wants you to what…?

heat floods your face anew. "w-what? here? that's... embarrassing."

his lips twitch into something almost like a smirk, he leans in closer, breath hot against your ear. "you weren't embarrassed when you sent those nudes. all sprawled out, hand between your legs, begging for attention." his fingers trail up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher, but stopping just short. "show me now or was that all an act?"

shame and desire twist in your gut, but your hand moves anyway, slipping under the lace of your panties. you're soaked already—from the way he used your mouth.. fingers glide over your clit, circling slow at first, and a soft whimper escapes you. he watches, unblinking, one hand still on your thigh.

you pick up speed, hips rocking into your touch, breaths coming faster. but it's not enough—his stare is too intense like he's analyzing you. "please," you whisper, free hand reaching for him, but he catches your wrist, pinning it to the desk.

"no. keep going." his voice is low, commanding. "let me see you fall apart like in that second photo, that was my favorite one you know.”

your fingers start dipping lower, thrusting shallowly. the edge in you builds but just as you're teetering, he pulls your hand away. you whine in protest, but he silences you with a look.

"not yet." he drops to his knees then, surprising you, hands shoving your thighs wider. he drags your panties aside, not bothering to remove them, and leans in. his breath ghosts over you first, making you clench around nothing. then his mouth is on you—tongue warm and broad, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit.

you gasp, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. he groans against you, he eats you out like he's starving. his fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open as you squirm, the desk creaking under your shifting weight.

"hiromi—fuck," you moan, head falling back. he sucks your clit between his lips. one hand leaves your thigh, two fingers sliding inside you easily, curling to hit that spot that makes your vision blur. he pumps them in time with his tongue, building you back to the edge faster than before.

it crashes over you without warning, thighs clamping around his head as you come undone, crying out his name. he doesn't stop, lapping through it until you're oversensitive and shaking, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes filled with satisfaction. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then reaches between your legs again. he tugs your panties down your thighs, you lift your hips to help. he balls them in his fist, slips them into his pocket like a trophy.

"that's enough," he says stepping back.

you blink, still dazed, legs dangling off the desk. "what?"

"go home."

"but—" you start, voice small and wrecked, glancing down at the obvious bulge in his slacks. "you didn't—i want to—"

"i will." he steps closer one last time, brushes a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. "when i decide. you'll get an email when i want you back here.”

he leans in, lips brushing your ear. "and next time, wear something easier to take off."

he steps back, opens a drawer, pulls out a tissue packet and sets it on the desk beside you. then he sits again, picks up a pen, and starts marking papers like you aren't still perched there, dripping because of him.

you slide off the desk on unsteady legs, fix your skirt, wipe your face. he doesn't look up as you unlock the door and slip out into the hallway.

you still haven't processed what happened but you know you’re going to check your inbox obsessively from now on.

you’ve been ghosting his class for almost two weeks.

not on purpose…at least, that’s what you tell yourself. it started innocently enough when midterms starts, three back-to-back exams in four days was hell. then the cold came, a scratchy throat turning into fever. you told yourself you’d catch up once the fog cleared but even after the fever broke, you didn’t go back.

a stupid group project drama piled on next. one groupmate ghosted entirely, another argued over every citation, and the third kept rewriting your sections without asking. you spent nights in the library staring at shared google docs, highlighter bleeding through pages you weren’t reading, mind drifting somewhere else entirely.

and underneath all of it was the real reason.

the humiliating, pulsing truth you couldn’t admit out loud even to yourself.

every time you pictured walking into that lecture hall, sliding into your usual seat, you felt his eyes on you again. the one he gave you that monday evening in his office when the door was locked and your knees were on carpet and his hand was fisted in your hair.

the memory played on cruel repeat, you could still taste him—still feel the stretch of your throat when he fucked it.

you tried to study criminal intent the way you always had: highlighters, flashcards, color-coded notes. but every time the mens rea slides appeared in your mind, you saw him at the podium instead. black marker in hand, diagramming voluntary manslaughter like it was nothing, his voice never failing to sound low and tired.

you imagined him turning to the board and writing your name in the margin next to “reckless disregard.” imagined him underlining “guilty mind” twice, then looking back at you over his shoulder with that unreadable stare.

your stomach would knot. your thighs would press together under whatever table you were hiding at. heat would crawl up your neck and settle low in your belly until you had to excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe.

so you skipped.

there’s no way you could focus anyway.

one lecture became two. two became four. by the sixth absence you were submitting everything online. you polished every pdfs attached to curt emails with subject lines like “week 7 reading response” and “torts ii problem set.” you were still doing the work. still getting As on the assignments he graded without comment. no one could say you weren’t keeping up.

but he noticed.

higuruma hiromi doesn’t chase students. he doesn’t send gentle “concerned professor” emails with smiley faces or pull anyone aside after class with a hand on the shoulder and a murmured “is everything alright?” he isn’t built that way. he marks absences in neat red ink on the roster. 

so you knew he’d seen it. knew because the last assignment you submitted came back with feedback that was longer than usual.

“strong analysis of actus reus, but your discussion of mens rea lacks depth. consider the subjective vs objective standard more carefully. office hours are still available if clarification is needed.” 

was that an invitation? you don’t know.

you deleted the email without replying. closed your laptop. buried your face in your pillow and tried not to think about how badly you wanted to walk into his office again.

instead you stayed away.

it’s a thursday evening and the sky is already dark by 5:30, rain hammering the campus like it’s trying to wash the whole place clean. you’re huddled under the inadequate bus shelter outside the law building. you opened your phone for the third time to check the ETA, the next bus kept getting pushed back.

your fingers are numb on the screen. the cold seeps through your hoodie, makes your teeth chatter in small, embarrassing bursts.

you keep thinking about how stupid this is—standing here freezing when you could have easily just stayed in your apartment with the heater on and another excuse not to face him.

you only came here cause you needed air.

you needed it because every time you close your eyes all you see is him.

the tired lines around his eyes that made him look older and sharper. the way his jaw tightened right before he told you to open your mouth. the low rasp in his voice when he said “that’s it” while he pushed deeper, like he was grading your ability to take him.

it's making you insane.

it makes your chest ache now. it’s not just want, you actually need him. shame mixed with this stupid, gnawing need to know if he thinks about it too. if he replays the way you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, or the sound you made when he finally let you breathe. you hate how much space he takes up in your head.

headlights cut through the downpour suddenly. a black sedan slows, pulls right up to the curb in front of the shelter. the passenger window slides down with a quiet hum.

“get in.”

his voice slices through the rain noise.

you stare for a second. higuruma is behind the wheel, his face is half-shadowed, but you can see the faint crease between his brows.

you hesitate.

“i’m not waiting,” he says. “the bus is delayed. you’ll be here another half hour at least.”

you feel your pulse jump in your throat. it’s really him, sitting there in the driver’s seat with the same rolled sleeves and the same tired expression you’ve been replaying for weeks. part of you wants to stay right where you are under the shelter and keep pretending none of this exists, because getting in the car means facing whatever this is head-on. but the cold is biting through your hoodie, your jeans are soaked at the bottom, and the thought of waiting out here alone while he drives away makes your chest tighten. you already know you’re going to regret it either way, but standing here freezing feels worse than whatever happens next.

your feet move before you decide. you duck out from under the shelter, yank the door open, slide inside. the door thuds shut and suddenly the world is muffled…everything else gone quiet except your own heartbeat thumping loud in your ears.

higuruma doesn’t look at you right away. just checks the mirrors, pulls away from the curb smooth and controlled.

silence stretches awkwardly for a few minutes.

“address,” he says finally.

you rattle off your off-campus place a few miles away. he nods while he inputs it into the gps without comment. the screen glows blue on the dash … then more silence. the wipers sweep steady as you steal glances at him, his hands on the wheel look steady, veins standing out against his skin. 

“six absences,” he says out of nowhere. “consistent, aren’t you?”

“i submitted everything on time.”

“i know.” he flicks the turn signal, merges left. “your work is fine. better than fine but you’re not in the room. that’s still a problem.”

you swallow, “i’ve been busy. you know midterms…group stuff, also got sick for a bit.”

“convenient timing.” he chuckles as heat floods your face. 

“it’s not like that.”

“isn’t it?” he glances over. “you avoid the lecture hall, avoid my eyes. but you still send polished assignments like nothing happened.”

“i didn’t know what else to do.”

“you could have come to office hours.” his tone is even, you almost hear boredom in it. “asked for clarification on mens rea like i suggested in the feedback. like a normal student.”

but that’s the thing, there’s nothing normal about this.

“i didn’t think you meant it,” you mumble.

“i don’t say things i don’t mean.”

the car fills with quiet again. 

“where do you live?” you ask suddenly, desperate to change the subject, to make this feel normal.

he raises an eyebrow. “why?”

“just curious. i mean you know where i live now.”

“apartment near the courthouse district. walking distance, it’s convenient.”

“do you… drive students home often?” 

“no.”

another turn, the surroundings are familiar now. your complex is coming up soon.

“you’ve been thinking about it,” he says. 

“about what?” you play dumb.

“monday.” he doesn’t elaborate, he doesn’t need to.

you press your thighs together, try to ignore the pulse between them. “yeah.”

“and?”

“and it’s hard to sit in class pretending it didn’t happen.”

he pulls into the loading zone in front of your building. you hear the engine idles, rain drums on the roof. he finally turns to look at you—like really look. eyes dark and unreadable, but you want to believe that there’s something under the tiredness. hunger, maybe. or just patience wearing thin.

“then stop pretending,” he says quietly.

you stare at him. 

“come inside,” you whisper. “just… to get out of the rain.”

he studies you for a long second. then reaches for the keys, kills the engine.

the sudden quiet is deafening.

he gets out first, circles around, opens your door like it’s nothing. you step out into the downpour again, colder now after the heater. he doesn’t offer an umbrella…he probably doesn’t have one. just waits while you fumble for your keys, both of you getting soaked in the short walk to the entrance.

inside the stairwell it’s warmer, but your clothes are heavy with rain and dripping onto the concrete steps. you lead the way up, feeling him right behind you—close enough that you can hear the soft squeak of his shoes on each stair, feel the faint heat coming off him even through the damp air. 

your hands shake a little when you unlock the door. it swings open into the small entryway, string lights from the living room spilling faint yellow across the floor.

you step inside first, kick off your soaked sneakers by the mat. he follows closing the door, he doesn’t take off his shoes right away, he stands there observing your place. he takes a mental note of it, looking at the stack of textbooks on the coffee table, the open laptop with his class portal still pulled up, the half-empty mug of tea.

you turn the lamp on higher, then head to the kitchenette to grab towels. anything to keep moving. “i’ll get something to dry off with,” you mutter, mostly to fill the quiet.

when you come back with two towels, he’s already peeled off his wet jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. his shirt is clinging in places—white fabric turned semi-transparent over his chest and shoulders, sleeves still rolled up, forearms flexing when he takes the towel from you. 

he dries his hair roughly, then his face, eyes never leaving yours.

you try to focus on drying your own arms, but your gaze keeps dropping to the way the wet shirt outlines the lines of his body—the faint definition of muscle under the fabric, the dark trail of hair visible through the damp material where it sticks to his stomach. your mouth goes dry. you remember exactly how that skin felt under your palms last time, how his abs tensed when you swallowed around him.

he notices it. 

“you’re still shivering,” he says, voice low. he steps closer, takes the towel from your hands, and starts drying your hair himself. fingers brushing your scalp through the fabric. it’s so gentle that you froze.

“take the hoodie off,” he says after a moment.

your fingers fumble with the hem. the wet fabric peels away from your skin with a cold suck, leaving you in just your thin t-shirt and bra underneath. the shirt is clinging too, nipples hard from the chill and from him watching. you cross your arms instinctively.

he drops the towel on the floor. reaches out, hooks two fingers under the hem of your t-shirt, and tugs it up slowly. you lift your arms without thinking. the shirt comes off, lands somewhere behind you. his eyes drop to your chest, then back to your face.

“still cold?” he asks.

you shake your head. you’re burning now.

he steps in until your back hits the wall by the entryway. one hand plants beside your head, the other slides down your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through the bra making you inhale sharply.

“tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

you don’t.

you don’t want him to stop.

his mouth finds yours—harder than the first time he kissed you in your memory. there’s no buildup, just pure hunger. his tongue pushes in immediately and you moan into it, hands scrambling up his wet shirt, fingers digging into the fabric over his chest. he groans low against your lips, presses his hips forward so you feel how hard he already is through his slacks.

your fingers curl into the wet cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s already no space left between you.

he breaks the kiss first, just enough to speak against your lips. “kitchen counter now.”

you nod, legs shaky as you lead him the few steps into the narrow kitchenette. he doesn’t give you time to think. his hands find your waist, lift you onto the counter in one smooth motion like you weigh nothing. the cold granite bites into the backs of your thighs through your damp jeans. you gasp at the temperature difference.

“these need to come off,” he mutters, fingers already working the button of your jeans. you lift your hips when he tugs, helping him peel the soaked denim down your legs along with your underwear. 

you’re bare from the waist down now, legs dangling off the edge, thighs trembling slightly from the chill and anticipation. his eyes tracing the curve of your hips, the soft skin of your inner thighs, the way you’re already glistening for him.

“spread wider,” he says.

his palms slide up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing close but not quite touching where you want him most. you desperately shift forward, chasing his hands; he presses one palm flat to your lower stomach, holding you still.

“patience,” he murmurs. “you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. you can wait a little longer.”

“hey i told you i wasn’t–”

“ah yes, right… you were busy, right pretty?”

his thumb finally grazes your clit and your hips jerk. he does it again, slower, watching your face the whole time. your breath comes in short pants. he circles then collects wetness on his fingers before bringing them back up to rub slowly.

“you’re soaked,” he continues, “been like this the whole ride?”

“since you pulled up,” you admit, which makes him hum in approval. two fingers slide inside you without warning, stretching you open. you moan, head tipping back against the cabinets.

“look at me,” he says.

you force your eyes open. his expression is focused, almost clinical, but his pupils are blown wide and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones. 

he’s affected too.

he adds a third finger, stretching you further. the slight burn only makes it better. 

“good,” he mutters. “just like that.”

his free hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss. his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with his fingers. you’re rocking against his hand now, chasing the pressure, little whimpers escaping between kisses.

“mhm…so good.”

he pulls his fingers out right when you’re teetering on the edge which you whine in protest.

“not yet,” he says against your mouth. “want you to come on my tongue first.”

he drops to his knees between your spread legs. the sight of him there, kneeling on your kitchen floor, hair damp and messy from the rain—it does so much things to you. he hooks your legs over his shoulders, hands gripping your thighs to hold you open.

he doesn’t tease this time. just leans in and licks a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit. you cry out, hands flying to his hair. you feel him groan against you. his tongue is relentless, pointed flicks over your clit, then sucking it between his lips. he alternates, never letting you settle into one sensation long enough to predict it.

“hiromi—” his name comes out broken.

he pulls back just enough to speak. “you can go louder, right? wanna to hear it.”

“hiromi,” you moan again, louder this time. he rewards you by sucking hard on your clit while two fingers slide back inside, curling ruthlessly against that spot.

you’re dangerously close. your thighs start to shake around his head. he doesn’t let up, he keeps the same steady rhythm, tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem.

“come,” he orders, voice muffled against you. “now.”

your whole body tensing as you come apart on his tongue. you cry out his name, fingers tightening in his hair, hips grinding against his face. he doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation.

he finally pulls back, his lips and chin all shiny. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands slowly. his erection is straining against his slacks now.

it’s obvious and thick.

you reach for his belt with shaky hands. he lets you undo it, lets you push his slacks and boxers down just enough to free him. he’s heavy in your hand, hot and hard, precum beading at the tip. you start to stroke him making him hiss through his teeth.

“enough,” he says, catching your wrist. “want inside you.”

he lifts you off the counter, hands under your thighs again. he turns, carries you a few steps into the living room, and drops down onto the couch with you straddling his lap. the cushions sink under your combined weight. 

his cock is still hard, pressed up against your stomach now. he lifts you just enough to line himself up. you feel the blunt head nudge at your entrance…thick and insistent.

“relax,” he says, “breathe, won’t you? let me in.”

you try. you really do. but the stretch is already intense just from the tip pressing in, and your body tenses instinctively. you bite your lip, hands braced on his shoulders.

“i’m trying…” you mutter, half-laugh, half-whine. “...you’re big.”

he huffs a quiet laugh against your collarbone, the sound rough and amused. “i know but you took it fine with your mouth before, this should be easier. just relax those hips for me.”

his thumbs rub slow circles over your hipbones, coaxing. you exhale shakily, try to loosen up, but when he starts pushing in harder.

your breath hitches and your nails dig into his shoulders.

“easy,” he murmurs. “why’re you fighting me?”

“hey i-im trying,” you repeat pouting. “but y-you’re stretching me so much.”

he pauses halfway in, lets you adjust. his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then back down to your ass. he squeezes gently, spreads you a little more.

“there you go,” he says. “good girl. feel that? you’re opening up for me already.”

you can feel every inch of him...too thick and hot, it burns in the best way, that full, almost-too-much pressure that makes your thighs shake. inside, he feels heavy like he’s pressing right up against every sensitive spot at once. 

“fuck,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “you feel—shit…so tight. like you’re trying to keep me out and pull me in at the same time.”

you both groan at the same time when he pushes all the way inside.

“you okay?” he asks, one hand to come up to brush damp hair off your forehead.

“yeah,” you whisper. “just really full. you feel huge like this.”

“good,” he says. “you want me to move?”

you nod fast, breath coming in short bursts. “yes please.”

“then tell me properly. use your words. what do you want, hm?”

you swallow feeling slightly embarrassed. he’s looking right at you, eyes half-lidded but sharp, waiting. 

“i want you to fuck me,” you mumble.

he tilts his head, one eyebrow lifting. “that’s cute but i said properly baby.”

your thighs twitch around his hips. he’s still buried all the way inside, the fullness is driving you insane. you can feel every vein, every slight shift when he breathes.

“hiromi…” you whine, rocking your hips a little.

he tightens his grip, holding you still. “nuh-uh. no cheating. say it like you mean it. you’ve been hiding from me for two weeks—least you can do is ask nicely.”

you bite your lip, embarrassment and need twisting together until it hurts. “i want you to fuck me hard,” you say, louder this time, “pleasee…i-i need it.”

he smirks again, feeling satisfied. the corner of his mouth tilting up just enough to show he likes hearing you beg.

“there we go,” he says quietly, “that wasn’t hard, was it?” his hands slide to your ass, fingers digging in as he lifts you a couple inches, then drops you back down hard onto his cock. the sudden thrust makes you yelp.

“o-oh hiromi-"

he doesn’t let you catch your breath. starts fucking up into you. each thrust is deep enough to make your whole body jolt while the couch groans under you both, springs protesting every time he bottoms out.

“does this turn you on?” he asks, “fucking your professor on your shitty little couch? hm?”

you moan louder than you mean to, head tipping back,

“thought so.” he thrusts harder, one hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, keeping your face close to his. “been skipping my class, sending me perfect little assignments like nothing’s wrong, but every time you typed my name you were probably dripping thinking about this. about me splitting you open just like this.”

you can only moan in return too gone to comprehend what he’s saying. he curses under his breath when he feels you clench, pace turning rougher. the wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the quiet apartment, mixing with your gasps and his heavy breathing.

“look at you,” he mutters, eyes locked on where you’re taking him. “taking it so well. my good little student, finally getting what she’s been aching for.”

he shifts his angle slightly, tilting his hips so every thrust drags right against that spot inside you. your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open on a broken moan.

his face is flushed, hair falling into his eyes, jaw tight with restraint. but he’s watching you like he’s memorizing every twitch. like this won’t happen again.

“tell me,” he says, voice dropping lower. “tell me whose cock is making you feel this good right now.”

“yours,” you gasp. “ah hiromi’s! only yours—”

he rewards you with a particularly deep grind, rolling his hips so the base presses hard against your clit. “that’s right,” he murmurs. “and you’re gonna come on it again. gonna soak my lap like the needy little slut you are for me.”

his hand slips between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, firm circles that match the brutal rhythm of his hips. your stomach tightens, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

“puh...please i’m close.”

“i know,” he says, voice strained now. “can feel you fluttering around me. go on come. make a mess…it’s yours anyway.”

it hits fast and hard. your whole body locks up, back arching, cry ripping out of your throat as you come apart.

“fuck—good girl—fuck—”

he keeps fucking you through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking, until his thrusts turn sloppy. 

“where do you want it?”

“inside,” you gasp immediately. “please inside.”

that’s all it takes. he grinds deep as he comes, filling you up. he groans long and low against your neck, arms wrapping tight around your waist, holding you down on him while he rides it out.

for a long minute neither of you moves. all heavy breathing, sticky skin, the faint patter of rain still outside. you can feel him softening slowly.

he kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth.

“you good?” he asks quietly.

you nod against his chest, still catching your breath. “yeah. really good.”

he huffs a small laugh, hand stroking slow down your back. “what do you wanna do?”

you’re still straddling him. the living room smells like rain and sex. your forehead is pressed to his shoulder.

“stay,” you mumble into his neck. “stay like this a little longer.”

his fingers keep tracing lazy lines up and down your spine, from the nape of your neck all the way to the small of your back, then back up again. it’s soothing in a way that makes your eyelids heavy.

his gaze drifts past your shoulder, landing on the open laptop still glowing faintly on the coffee table. the screen’s dimmed but not off since his class portal is still pulled up from earlier.

“this where you took one of the photos?” he asks casually.

your stomach drops and flips at the same time. heat rushes back to your face so fast it makes you dizzy.

“what?” you whisper, even though you know exactly what he means.

he nods toward the couch. “right here on this cushion. ass up, looking back over your shoulder. the third one you sent. background looked familiar, same string lights in the corner, same throw blanket bunched up like that.” his hand pats the cushion beside you. “thought it might’ve been the bedroom at first but no kitchen light’s wrong for that angle. had to be here.”

you bury your face deeper into his neck, mortified. “hiromi…”

“what?” he sounds genuinely amused now, the low rumble vibrating through his chest. “you’re the one who attached it to an entrapment analysis. i had to look closely.”

you groan, half-laugh half-embarrassed whimper. “i didn’t mean for you to—i mean, i didn’t plan—”

“sure,” he cuts in gently, fingers sliding into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. “but you didn’t delete it either.”

you lift your head just enough to peek at him.

“you kept them?” you ask quietly.

he doesn’t hesitate. “yeah, all three. printed them out, remember? filed them under ‘supplemental materials.’” he pauses, thumb brushing your cheek. “don't get me wrong, it's not for grading, it's more for...reference...?"

“reference for what?”

“for nights when i’m grading papers at 2 a.m. and wondering why a certain student keeps disappearing from my lecture hall.” he continues, “or for when i need to remember exactly how you looked when you were trying to tempt me into breaking every rule in the faculty handbook.”

“and… did it work?”

he looks at you for a long second, then leans in and kisses you, a simple one. when he pulls back his forehead rests against yours.

“obviously,” he mutters. “look where we are.”

“shower soon,” he says again. “then bed. and tomorrow—”

“i’ll be in class,” you finish for him.

“get a better seat,” he adds. “where i can see you properly.”

you smile into his skin. “yes, professor.”

“brat.”