The lights in the bathroom were too bright, casting shadows on Utahime's face as she fiddled with her unruly hair. Her preferred white ribbon, usually so neat and tidy, was refusing to lay the way she wanted it to, the ends falling oddly, the bow lopsided. And she had forgotten to trim her bangs before leaving Kyoto. She could feel the ends of them beginning to tickle her eyelashes, too long, a little ragged looking.
Of course.
It wouldn't have mattered, usually, and Utahime rather despised that it felt important now, that she had even bothered to sneak away to fuss with her appearance at all. But here she was, yanking the bow out of her hair for the third time to retie it, her heart racing a little too quickly in her chest, her cheeks a little too pink. She took a deep breath, trying to soothe her nerves, that little pit of giddy excitement that was forming in her belly.
It didn't work.
The exchange event was bad enough, Utahime thought as she straightened her miko attire, brushing her hair over her shoulders, making sure it shook itself out just the way she wanted it to. Students versus students versus curses stressed her out enough as it was; it was too unpredictable, messy, not perfectly planned and in-order as she liked things to be. Add in the tension and general distrust she felt brewing in between the two schools, and it felt like quite a recipe for disaster.
And that wasn't even considering her own annoying, grating, very personal, problem.
Utahime glared at her reflection in the mirror, still dissatisfied with what she saw, mussing her bangs until they didn't look quite so intentionally styled. She felt frustrated, already irritated even though nothing had technically happened yet.
The problem was, she knew it would.
Which of them would break first?
It happened at nearly every one of these stupid events, the joining of the two schools. Sometimes it happened when he was in Kyoto on business. Sometimes it happened when she was in Tokyo to visit Shoko. Mostly, it happened because the both of them were simply bored, bored and unable to help themselves, need shaving away at their self-control.
That was the real problem, Utahime supposed. She hated losing control. She liked to be composed, put together, serene. She had always been that way, always following the rules, always meticulous and detailed.
Unless he was around.
She frowned at her reflection one last time in the mirror, feeling grumpy that her ribbon still looked ridiculous, but she decided that it would have to do. It annoyed her that he would have no such problem.
Gojo Satoru always looked good.
As it was with everything about Gojo, this bothered her. It infuriated her, actually. Attractive even in his ridiculous blindfold, handsome even with his hair sticking up like a strange white flame. Enticing even though he had absolutely no respect for authority, even though he was not neat and orderly, not remotely put-together and serene. Truly, it bewildered her that she wanted him so badly.
Utahime wondered who would break first, this time. She didn't want it to be her.
The last time, it had been Gojo. A staff meeting in Kyoto that he'd actually bothered to show up to, even though he'd been half an hour late and not in uniform, darkened glasses replacing his usual blindfold, white eyelashes peeking over the top.
That had been for Utahime's benefit, of course.
He'd slid into the seat across from her, blatantly ignoring Gakuganji's greeting. He'd been wearing the shirt he knew she liked, the one that showed off his collarbones, sharp and lovely, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Utahime's restraint had nearly broken then, her mind already wandering inappropriately, her body already tingling at a remembered pleasure returned anew. And then Gojo had looked at her like he knew exactly what was on her mind—which, Utahime reminded herself with a scowl, he probably had known—and the irritation from that look had been enough to stave off her longing, at least for a moment.
The moment hadn't lasted long, though. Utahime wasn't sure when, exactly, it happened, but there came a point where she realized she had abandoned taking her usual precise, orderly notes and was instead thinking of what Gojo would say to her after the meeting, if he would pull her aside under the pretense of discussing something urgent. The meeting had droned on and on, a mildly unpleasant buzz in Utahime's ears as she imagined it, Gojo tugging her into a darkened room and his lips on hers a moment later, urgent, wanting. She would part for him, welcome it, his tongue in her mouth, his hands tangled in her hair. He liked to mess it up, always saying he enjoyed the sight of her so undone, and Utahime hated that she liked it too.
She had been only dimly aware of the meeting then, too far gone in her thoughts, not recognizing, even, the direction of her own gaze and that it was focused intently on Gojo until he raised his eyebrows at her. He had smiled at her, absently twirling a pen with his long fingers, his tongue wetting the corner of his mouth because she'd given up trying to hide what she was thinking about. He'd flicked his eyes over her, looking as steady as ever, but Utahime could see through it, little pieces of himself that broke through his calm exterior. The way his eyelashes fluttered a little too quickly, the way he twirled his pen a little too perfectly, a restless sort of movement. The tightness of his jaw.
And then Utahime had gotten called on, someone asking her opinion of some such threat, and she had mumbled something back, not really caring if her response made sense.
Gojo had smiled at that, too, apparently finding it funny that he distracted her so easily. The thought had cleared Utahime's mind a little, cutting through the fog of her building arousal. She had flipped her hair over her shoulder impatiently and stared resolutely away from him, shifting in her seat, crossing her legs, ignoring the wetness that was present between her thighs.
But then he had pulled her aside after the meeting, making up some excuse about needing to speak with her, yanking her into an empty classroom and locking the door behind them. His mouth had been on hers a second later, one hand tangling in her hair and the other deftly undoing the ties of her hakama, tugging her panties quickly to her ankles.
"Your fault," he'd murmured roughly, pushing her backwards onto a desk, letting her unzip his jeans, draw out his cock. "You started it, looking at me like that. Making me want you like this."
Utahime had argued with this, of course, because he had started it. He'd pulled her into the classroom, he'd kissed her first. Never mind that she would've done it if he hadn't, her already-thin resistance at its bitter end.
She really didn't want to break first, not this time. But Utahime knew the battle was very likely already lost because she had to take another deep breath before she left the bathroom, rolling her shoulders to try and shake away some of the tension that had already formed, little knots of tightness that Utahime knew Gojo would massage away, if she'd let him.
The Tokyo Jujutsu campus was beautiful, stately, and still felt like home to Utahime, even though she had lived in Kyoto for several years now. Her students were already gathered, each of them somewhat tense, looking warily at their counterparts from Tokyo, who were all gathered in a circle and talking rambunctiously amongst themselves. Utahime counted everyone, verifying to herself that all were accounted for, each of them neatly in place, chastising them for already fighting.
They were all here except for one person.
"Now," Utahime said to them, frustration already rising, irritation already flaring. "Where is that idiot?"
She set her face into carefully-controlled disapproval, tamping down the part of her that felt excited, a little breathless, a little aroused. It didn't work, for when Gojo Satoru bounded up the sidewalk a moment later, pushing what looked to be a metal box on wheels, the muscles of her lower belly tightened most annoyingly. His uniform was as rumpled as it always was, his blindfold carelessly thrown over his eyes, his smile reckless and mischievous. He'd bought pointless gifts for all of them from Kyoto except for her, already teasing her, already getting on her nerves.
And yet.
His excitement about the return of one of his students, the dangerous one, the one discussed in that meeting she'd not paid attention to, had not been manufactured. Gojo had told her about him, once, a phone call in the middle of the night, his usually carefree voice low with anger. He had taken a trip out of the country, only a few days, and his student had been murdered. Never mind that the boy had come back to life thanks to the devil housed within him, never mind that he was now smiling and laughing with his fellow first-years.
Utahime had broken first, that night, and Gojo had warped to her apartment immediately after she'd asked him to, already pulling his shirt over his head before he'd even greeted her.
And now she could see the stress within him again, the stiff way he stood, the way his nonchalance was falsified for the benefit of everyone else, and Utahime wondered if she'd even be able to last until the evening. It would be easy, too easy, to pull him into some shadowy corner, to kiss away the stress that had tugged the corners of his lips into a frown. Too easy to distract him from his worries, even if it was only for a moment.
But Utahime only greeted him politely, keeping tucked firmly away from him within the circle of her students. She ignored Momo and Miwa's hushed giggles about his handsomeness, or their whispered theories of what his eyes looked like. She listened to everyone chatter, not looking at Gojo, pretending that it didn't bother her that he didn't talk to her. He didn't even make some offhand comment about her neatness, her hair that she had so precariously styled.
She tried not to think about it over the next couple of days, Gojo's general quietness. Mercifully, or perhaps worryingly, she had plenty to distract her—the event was more exhausting than even Utahime could've predicted; disastrous, deadly, a potential traitor in their midst, an attack on the school itself. Gojo had to pick up the pieces as usual, his strength making up for the weaknesses of others.
Utahime barely even got a chance to speak with him, and the rare moments they did have alone were tense, stressful as they tried to solve the problem at hand. Even after everything was mostly settled, Gojo didn't seek her out as he usually did, only poking fun at her in his normal way, no hidden smiles, no pulling her into empty classrooms. He didn't come to her room after everyone else had gone to sleep as she'd thought he might. The pleasant surge of arousal that usually pulled at her whenever she saw him shifted to a twinge of anxiety as part of her began to wonder whether or not this thing between them had at long last come to an end. Utahime didn't even know what it had been, so many encounters without a name, nights shared, a burgeoning, cautious intimacy. It bothered her that she found this thought rather distressing, something sad.
She wasn't supposed to have gotten attached. She knew Gojo certainly hadn't.
And yet the relief Utahime felt when she learned about the baseball game was palpable. Something to stave of the competitive nature of the two schools without going too far, something where they could all be together. Something ostentatious, because Gojo had never quite learned the art of subtlety.
And baseball was Utahime's favorite sport. Gojo knew that.
So she fussed with her hair once more in the bright lights of the bathroom, wrestling with it until her ribbon laid precisely how she wanted it to, tucking her too-long bangs beneath a baseball cap. Jittery excitement curled through her, because she thought this might be a different sort of game for Gojo and herself, a continuation of their secret competition with each other. She made special effort to procure a uniform for herself that matched the ones that had been provided for her students, not thinking about the last time she'd worn tights like this and he'd ripped a hole right through them to fuck her.
So Utahime joined her students outside, enjoying the dewy, misty morning, the soft warm weather washing over her and frizzing her neatly-arranged hair. She was only mildly surprised to find that this didn't upset her, even though she had worked to make it lay so perfectly.
Gojo liked it when she was a little messed up, after all.
Utahime pushed away the faint tremors of giddiness that were beginning to echo through her as she stood off to the side of the baseball field, hidden in the shadows beside an old storage shed that held various sporting equipment, most of it unused for several years. She was wiping down the pitching machine she had decided to use as a stand-in for Mechamaru, feeling shrewdly pleased with herself for thinking of this idea, when she heard the giggles again.
Momo and Miwa, standing in the middle of the field, each with their hands pressed to their mouths in a failed attempt to keep quiet. They were both blushing pink, trying and failing not to glance at someone standing by first base, whispering excitedly between themselves. Utahime felt herself flush, a little heat rising in her even though she hadn't seen him yet, even though she kept her gaze trained resolutely on her work. The tattered old rag clutched in her hands was greasy, and the pitching machine was already too clean, but she didn't stop.
She could feel him, an aura of power sliding into the edges of her senses, mischief sparking.
Utahime distantly recognized that she was re-dirtying the pitching machine with her rag, oil leeching out of the fabric and onto the shiny metal. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to keep her face neutral, to keep her mouth from turning up at the corners. She could hear footsteps coming towards her; slow, casual, familiar.
"So," a quiet voice said from somewhere behind her, deep and laced with power. Utahime felt her toes curl in her shoes. "Are you ready to be done ignoring me, Utahime?"
" Me ?" she hissed, fighting to keep her gaze on the pitching machine, gripping her dirty rag too tightly. She bent forward a little, pretending to examine the wheels of the machine, even though she'd already made sure that they were in working order.
"Yes," Gojo said. His voice was calm but Utahime could tell he was smiling. Her heart skipped a beat when he took another step towards her.
Too close—he was standing too close where anyone could see. Utahime strained her ears, trying to hear what her students were talking about on the field, hoping fervently that Momo and Miwa weren't staring.
"Look at you," he murmured softly. "Pretty girl."
"Gojo," Utahime whispered in faint protest of whatever he was doing, fighting the shiver that threatened her. She felt frighteningly aroused already, shaky from his proximity and a little annoyed at herself for being so susceptible. She could smell his cologne, subtle but sharp, always a pleasant scent, never too much. Stubbornness flared in her suddenly, overpowering her desire, the ability to think logically clicking back into place. This wasn't appropriate, not here.
"It's true," Gojo said, disregarding the warning that Utahime had layered in her tone. "You know, you've barely even looked at me for the past couple of days, Uta."
Utahime felt her eyebrows knit together, a little startled at the hint of genuine concern she heard buried somewhere in his words.
"You haven't looked at me, either," Utahime retorted, frowning.
She stopped pretending to examine the pitching machine, standing up straight once more. She could feel Gojo behind her, still a little too close. So inappropriate—and yet she wished he would step closer. A sudden image flashed through her mind, Gojo pushing her up against the dirty concrete walls of the shed, lifting her, her legs wrapping around his waist.
"Maybe I have been," he said, and Utahime could hear him smiling again, the humor rolling off of his tongue. She felt the faint press of his fingers into her lower back, something gentle, something secret. "You'd know if you'd been paying attention."
She wouldn't break first.
"We have a game to play," Utahime mumbled, gritting her teeth because her voice sounded sultry, lower than usual, dripping with desire.
"We do," Gojo agreed, pressing the tips of his fingers a little harder into her. Utahime fought the urge to step back into him, suddenly feeling that if she did, it would be okay. It didn't matter, really, who broke first. They would end up fucking anyway. They always did.
She felt the warm heat of his breath caress the back of her neck, his fingers sliding up her spine to brush her hair aside as he inched closer to her. His hand stopped at the base of her neck, his fingers curling gently around it, toying with the high collar of the shirt she wore beneath her jersey.
"Gojo, people can—they could see us," Utahime stammered, and she did lean back, just a little, unable to help herself.
"Does that bother you?" he questioned softly, a slight grit roughening his voice.
"No," Utahime breathed, shuddering because Gojo stroked his thumb up her neck, brushing her jaw. Then she blinked, because she was rather sure that it did bother her that anyone could see, and she couldn't quite figure out how he'd made her say otherwise.
Too easy. It would be too easy to pull him out of sight. The image of her hiked up against the wall of the shed in Gojo's arms became a little clearer in Utahime's mind, a little closer to reality.
"Pretty girl," he said again, and Utahime had to fight to keep quiet because she felt his lips brush against the crown of her head, the faintest touch. A whimper slid out of her unbidden, her hands clutching around the rag, the rough fabric imprinting a pattern into her palms.
Gojo chuckled, sounding pleased at the effect his words were having on her. Utahime heard him step closer, his hand on her neck nudging her forward, deeper into the shadows, further out of sight. She stepped around the pitching machine, letting the rag slip out of her numb fingers. Gojo pushed her forward until her palms hit the wall of the shed, and she gasped softly because he pressed his body against hers, long and lean and strong, pinning her against the wall. She couldn't hear any of her students anymore, the world narrowing to only him, only Gojo.
"Can you keep quiet?" Gojo murmured, pressing harder into her.
Utahime felt a thrill run through her, a dangerous, forbidden heat pooling between her legs. She could feel the ridge of Gojo's erection pressing into her ass and was only barely able to resist the temptation to grind into it. She shook her head, another quiet noise breaking out of her.
Gojo's hand slid from her neck to her face, his fingers curving gently over her mouth. Utahime whimpered again, forgetting that she was trying not to succumb to this before he did, arching her back so she might feel more of his hardness against her.
Gojo clamped his hand a little tighter over Utahime's mouth as he leaned into her, pushing his hips forward. She could feel his breath tickling her ear, his head lowered and resting by her shoulder.
"You like feeling that, Hime? You like feeling how badly I want you?"
Utahime's heart was pounding so loudly that she was sure Gojo could hear it as she nodded, her jaw clenched tight at the admission.
"So pretty, but dirty," he said softly, admonishing. "Dirty, and yet you look so neat, Hime, so perfect."
She felt him push the collar of her shirt down with the hand that wasn't cupping her mouth, the pads of his fingers rough, callused, against her skin, making her tingle.
"Hold still."
Gojo's lips were searing hot as he moved them over the pulse point on her neck, as he latched them onto her, something fiercely possessive. Utahime moaned into his palm, the sound muffled. She rocked back into him despite his request to keep still, shuddering as he sucked harder, bruising, grazing his teeth against her.
"That's better," he said after a moment, his voice ragged as he pulled back to survey his work. His hand slipped from her mouth, his thumb brushing over the mark he'd made. He slid both hands down her back, fingers pressing into her hips.
"You want me to fuck you, Hime?"
Utahime felt an ache throb within her, something she'd never been able to control, something that fed on the low timbre of Gojo's voice, on the thread of softness that was woven into it. But she kept quiet, her breath trembling through her, the place on her neck where he'd marked her burning.
Gojo gripped her hips tighter.
"Say it."
"I want you to fuck me," Utahime breathed, relenting, her cheeks flaming. She could hear voices now, students chattering, walking closer to where she and Gojo stood hidden in the shadows, her palms still pressed into the rough concrete wall of the shed.
"I thought so," he murmured darkly, tilting his hips into hers, letting her again feel how hard he was.
Gojo abruptly backed away from her, and she felt the shock of his absence reverberate through her, snow in the middle of summer. Utahime heard him clear his throat as he adjusted his pants before sidling out of the shadows. He shouted something nonsensical at Megumi as he walked across the field, sounding light and untroubled, unconcerned about the desire that had heated Utahime's blood, left her gasping.
Utahime stayed hidden for a moment, breathing deeply to calm down, excitement flaring in her, making her smile in a way that she knew was too obvious, too revealing.
She walked slowly into the dugout where her students had gathered, her fingers absently tracing the bruise on her neck, hidden by her collar. She felt dazed, distracted, arousal clouding her thoughts. She tried to force the grin from her face but was unsuccessful for several moments, too lost in her own thoughts.
"I've never seen him just in glasses, his eyes are so blue—"
"Why is he dressed like he's going on a date—"
"Do you think he'll take another picture with me? Oh my god—"
Utahime felt her smile slip into a scowl at last, finally pushed over the edge by Momo and Miwa's girlish excitement. She started to fuss at them, feeling immediately grumpy because she knew exactly who they were talking about. But because she had no self control, she looked too, her eyes darting across the field in what she hoped was a nonchalant way, something casual, and her words died in her throat before she could speak them.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Utahime felt her stomach flip, another rush of arousal flooding heavily through her.
It mixed unhappily with frustration because he was the one who was supposed to be staring at her, wearing her little uniform, but Gojo had managed to one-up her. He was indeed dressed as if he were going on a date, a light blue shirt tucked neatly into dark slacks, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, muscular forearms on full display.
She felt her cheeks burn once more as Gojo caught her eye, winking at her slyly over his glasses. His grin was sharp, knowing, because Utahime had never been good at hiding what she was thinking.
"Utahime-sensei!" Miwa said excitedly, pulling Utahime's focus unwillingly from Gojo. "Did he just wink at you?"
"He's an idiot," Utahime said firmly, letting her frustration fill her voice, pleased that it actually worked and that her tone was no longer gentle and low.
But her eyes betrayed her again, because they glanced back over to where Gojo stood on the field, so effortlessly handsome, white hair falling softly over his forehead. She quickly reconstituted her rankings of her favorite shirts of his, deciding that this one clearly belonged at the top. He stared back at her, his eyes sliding down her body, lingering on her tights as if he too were remembering what had happened the last time she'd worn a pair. He flicked his gaze back up to meet Utahime's, and the sharpness of his grin shifted, softening to something that Utahime couldn't make sense of.
"An idiot," she whispered, even though nobody was listening to her anymore.
The game was nearly as disastrous as the entire exchange event had been, and Utahime found it increasingly difficult to concentrate the longer it went on. The ball could've been hit to the outfield and her eyes would be on home plate, on Gojo standing behind it. She wondered with a growing sense of curiosity if he had meant what he'd said, if he really had been looking at her during the event and she'd just been ignorant of it. Utahime suspected that he was only messing with her, saying something that he knew would rile her up, throw her off a little.
He was certainly looking at her now, though, his eyes flickering to hers more and more often as the game went on. It made something warm curl in her, something pleasant, and she felt suddenly very impatient for the game to end.
She would break first. She no longer cared.
The game at last came to its conclusion, and Utahime found herself once more tucked in the middle of her students as they crowded in the dugout, all arguing over who had made the most mistakes and who was really at fault for the loss. She didn't chastise them as she normally would because she was too focused on the rhythm of her own heartbeat, which had kicked into urgency because a tall figure was walking across the field to them, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes relentless behind his glasses.
Gojo poked his head into the dugout, peering at her over the heads of everyone else. He tilted his head, wordlessly beckoning to her.
She glanced nervously at her students, hesitating, but they were all preoccupied with each other, their arguments turning into laughter now. So Utahime slipped out of the crowd, stepping carefully over a stray baseball bat. She ignored the squeal she thought came from Miwa as she let Gojo pull her into the circle of his arms, his fingers clasping behind her back as he tipped them into nothingness. The sights and sounds of the baseball field disappeared instantly, replaced by the dim lights of Gojo's bedroom, quiet, private.
She expected him to let go of her but he didn't; instead, his hands slid a little lower, cupping her ass as he lifted her with little effort, her legs wrapping automatically around his waist. He leaned his head back slightly so that Utahime could pull his glasses off, letting her fold them into the collar of his shirt.
Gojo looked at her steadily, white eyelashes blinking slowly, making her breath catch in her throat. She thought that her burning desire from earlier had tempered, somehow, softened into something else that Utahime couldn't make sense of. She wondered if the same thing had happened to Gojo, because he wasn't making his usual comments now, nothing sly or teasing. He was only looking at her, his teeth worrying his lower lip.
"Whose fault is it this time?" he mused. He leaned forward, nudging Utahime's baseball cap off with his head so he could rest his forehead against hers, his gaze dropping to her mouth. She heard her hat hit the floor with a quiet thump.
"I don't know," Utahime whispered.
Her hands came to rest on either side of Gojo's face, and she bit her lip for the surge of feeling that suddenly, unexpectedly rose in her. It confused her that she couldn't place it, the origin of it, the reason for it. She thought it might have to do with the boldness of his gaze, the firmness of his hands on her. Or maybe it was that flicker of concern she'd detected in his voice earlier, that moment when he'd suggested that she'd been ignoring him. She considered the bewildering possibility she may have been wrong in assuming that Gojo hadn't gotten attached to this thing between them, pondering, just briefly, the idea that Gojo had also felt sad at the thought of it ending, even if it had always been something without a name.
"Utahime," he said softly, smiling as he dipped his head to capture her lips, grunting when Utahime curled her hands around the nape of his neck, her fingertips stroking the soft fuzz of his undercut.
Gojo's mouth was warm, his lips soft as he moved them with hers. His shoulders hunched as he lowered Utahime slowly to the ground, rubbing her purposefully against his body, her jersey catching on his belt buckle.
Utahime didn't break from him to untangle herself. She opened her mouth to him as she fumbled with her shirt, with Gojo's belt, tangling her tongue with his as she struggled. His hands covered hers after a moment of this, easily unhooking her shirt, metal clinking as he undid the latch of his belt, laughing softly against Utahime's mouth as she yanked his trousers down.
"It's your fault, then," he said, pulling back from her, eyes electric, sparking. He bent forward, fingers sliding underneath the hem of her jersey as he pulled it over her head, the undershirt she wore underneath quickly following.
"Whatever," Utahime muttered, feeling as stubborn as ever as Gojo leaned into her, reaching smoothly around her to unlatch her bra, letting it fall to the floor. His thumbs brushed her nipples, making little shivers of pleasure arc through her. She made a pleased sound, nodding breathlessly so he'd do it again.
She wanted him so badly. In—in a lot of ways, she realized. Confusing, complicated ways.
The knowledge hit Utahime like a wave, rolling over her and settling somewhere in her belly. A bolt of desire smacked through her at the same time, making her breath stutter even as the whole thing bemused her, this sudden depth to her feelings.
What had he said to her before? It took Utahime a while to remember, her thoughts sluggish from lust.
You like feeling how badly I want you?
She thought of how his smile had softened when he had looked at her outside, the thread of gentleness in his voice when he'd teased her against the wall of the storage shed. Her brain struggled to reconcile it, the hints, the small glimpses of a cautious truth he'd perhaps been slowly revealing to her.
Gojo pulled his hands from her breasts, unbuttoning his shirt with nimble fingers. Utahime heard his glasses clatter to the floor as he shrugged his shirt off of his shoulders, as he tugged her shorts down, peeling her tights off with them. He was hard, his cock leaking already, the muscles of his abdomen clenched tightly in frank, open desire.
"You want me to fuck you, Hime?" he asked quietly, the hint of gentleness in his voice more prevalent now, or maybe it had always been there and she simply hadn't seen it.
"Yes," she breathed, not needing him to ask twice this time, resolve crumbling.
Gojo shuddered, his hands interlocking with hers as he pulled her to his bed, made perfectly, the coverlet pure white and the pillows fluffed.
Utahime liked for things to be neat. Gojo knew that.
She crawled over the mattress, rumpling the coverlet, disturbing the order of the pillows as she lay back against them, her hair fanning out behind her. Gojo followed her, kneeling in between her legs, one hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself absently as he watched her settle into his bed like she belonged there.
"You want me to fuck you, Hime?" he whispered, asking twice anyways, eyes guttering. "You wanna feel how badly I want you?"
"Yes," Utahime said again, matching his quiet tone, another wave of desire rolling through her, tingling pleasantly, urgently.
Gojo leaned over her, one hand pressing into the pillows by her head, messing them up even further. The fingers of his other hand wrapped around her thigh, curling it around his hips, the head of his cock teasing at her cunt. She parted easily for him, slick with need.
"So wet," Gojo murmured, thrusting forward a bit, teasing her further.
Utahime lifted her hips to try and take him deeper, exhaling in frustration when Gojo leaned back, once more leaving her gasping, blood heated in unfulfilled desire.
"Satoru, please," she breathed, complaining, fists clenching by her sides, breath coming too quick. Gojo only looked at her, his eyes slowly traveling the length of her body, his pupils wide, darkened.
She shivered, something uncontrollable under his gaze, unclenching one of her fists so her fingers might trace the mark he'd left on her, the bruise on her neck. Gojo smirked, almost a smile but not quite, too possessive, too smug.
He leaned back down to her, sheathing himself abruptly, easily because she was so wet, filling her in one stroke. Utahime cried out, her hands smacking to her mouth to muffle the sound. She clutched at his cock tightly as Gojo lowered his mouth to her neck, biting her gently, his tongue hot against her sensitive skin.
"Satoru." Utahime breathed his name through her fingers that covered her mouth, shifting her hips restlessly, not caring that her voice was a whimper now, urging him to move, to fuck her. She wrapped her other leg around his waist, her heels pressing into him.
"Not yet. Feel me inside of you," Gojo said firmly, licking a trail up her neck, teeth grazing at her earlobe, making her moan. He pressed his hips a little further into hers and Utahime felt her eyes flutter at the fullness, the sweet, snug fit.
"Do you see it?" he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, goosebumps racing down her spine. "Do you see what you've done to me, Utahime?"
He laughed breathlessly, withdrawing slightly before thrusting back into her, making Utahime arch against his soft mattress, gasping.
Gojo pulled his mouth from her ear, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking across her cheek. His touch was gentle but his eyes were blazing, glowing, ethereal. Utahime let her hands fall from her mouth, reaching upwards to thread her fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling like she wasn't nearly close enough to him even though she could barely breath around the fullness, the feeling of his cock seated deeply inside her.
"You've made me love you," Gojo whispered, accusing, a wry smile curling at his lips. "And you don't even know it."
He slid out of her nearly all the way before thrusting back into her, hard, relentless, furious. Utahime cried out, her satisfaction sharp, something profound, something fundamental burning inside her at the truth in his voice, at the sight of him as he fucked into her, groaning, cursing, one hand braced on his pillows, tangled in her hair, and the other still tenderly cupping her face.
"Gojo," Utahime said hoarsely, tightening around him, pleasure building, coiling, his hair soft against her hands.
"Satoru," he corrected breathlessly, eyes roaming her face hungrily, desperately. "Hime, you're so fucking pretty, fuck ."
"Satoru," Utahime gasped, tensing her muscles to keep from coming, fighting the trembling that was beginning to snake through her body. She could feel words on her tongue and surprise flared in her at how easily she knew they would roll off out of her, how easy it would be to admit it.
But she came before she could speak, crying out helplessly as pleasure burst outwards, stealing her breath, burying her words.
"That's it, pretty girl," Gojo said roughly, his hips stuttering as Utahime shuddered, trying to compose herself, muscles limp with satisfaction. "Touch yourself. Come on my cock again."
"Satoru, fuck," Utahime mumbled, dropping a hand from his hair, sliding her fingers between her legs, slick over her clit.
It didn't take much. She was oversensitive, pushed already to the edge by Gojo's hard fucking, by the sight of his own composure slipping, the soft, ragged sounds spilling out of his throat that let her know he was close. His name caught on her lips when she came again, feeling vulnerable, looking into his eyes as pleasure washed over her once more.
"You've made me love you, too," Utahime whispered, breathless from the force of her orgasm, her heart throbbing painfully, sweetly, in her chest.
Gojo's eyes widened beautifully, his lips parting as he groaned. He pulled out of her suddenly, his cock in his hand as he spilt onto her stomach, lashes fluttering in some primal satisfaction because he liked to make a mess of her.
He didn't stop to catch his breath, bending forward to pull Utahime into a rough kiss, panting into her mouth, body still shaking. Utahime's legs tightened around his waist to pull him closer, his cum warm on her belly.
"You love me?"
His voice was hoarse as he formed the words against Utahime's mouth, but it tugged at something within her as he kissed her, as he licked at the seam of her lips.
"I love you," she said, marveling a little at her own willingness to speak it into being. She nodded so he could feel it, kissed him back so he knew. She shivered suddenly, because she could feel something brimming in her, stemming from his kisses, from the pleasant soreness between her legs, from the aftershocks of the pleasure he'd given her.
Utahime wondered whose fault it was. His, for loving her? Or hers, for loving him back?
Who had started it, in the first place?
She had never been able to remember who had been the first of them to begin this, who had initiated the first look that lingered a little too long, the first secret touch, the first kiss. She thought it had to have been Gojo. But doubt flared in her, indecisiveness, because she seemed to recall, dimly, asking him to kiss her that first time. She thought she might've stretched up onto her tiptoes to make it easier for him. She had been surprised at how natural it felt.
That was right, Utahime thought. She had been the one to start it, the one to break first. It had been too easy.
I tried to write him as a menace but I made him fall in love instead, whoops. Also, playing with longer-format chapters lately, let me know if you like it because I think I do!