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Ieiri Shoko is running on fumes.
Not that this is a new or noteworthy occasion, to be clear; this has been her baseline since she returned to Tokyo Jujutsu Tech as their one and only medical staff member. But after spending more than three days awake and on call, after half a dozen post-mortems, after countless infusions of RCT into bodies she knows will be injured again within a week? Her last frayed nerve is this close to snapping. And still, rest eludes her.
Walking down the hallway, the heels of her pumps click against the hardwood floor. She quietly opens the door to her partner’s office, not bothering to knock—she knows him well enough to know that if he really doesn’t want to be disturbed, he won’t be there in the first place.
Luckily for her, Gojo Satoru is, in fact, at his desk. The innocent grin he shoots her way is a telltale sign that he’s been neglecting his paperwork, but his expression quickly shifts into something more serious as he gives her a quick once-over. His blindfold still covers his eyes, but she can feel his cataloging gaze. “Long day?” he asks mildly, tone carefully devoid of implication.
“Yep.” She doesn’t elaborate, knowing the worsening darkness under her eyes and the guttering hum of her RCT will spell it out for her.
Unfortunately for her, Satoru isn’t content to leave it at that. “How long this time?”
“Oh, about…” She makes a show of checking the clock on the wall of his office. “79 hours? Give it another 20 minutes and we’ll hit an even 80.”
It’s bait, but he doesn’t rise to it. Instead, he just keeps looking at her through that damned scrap of silk. The silence hangs in the air for a moment before he cocks his head slightly to the side. “Why are you here, Shoko? What do you need?”
Her eyes flick down, then away. The smile that curls across his face at her rising flush is somehow both sharp and languid, a leopard lounging in the sun. “I see. Alright, darling. C’mere.” He rolls his chair back and pats his thigh. It would feel condescending if she didn’t know just how much care he really takes with her.
She takes a few steps forward and stops, expecting him to pull her onto his lap. Instead, he grins, a serrated edge, and nods towards the space below his desk. She opens her mouth to protest, but he chooses that moment to deploy the voice that always makes her heart skip a beat. “Get on your knees.”
There’s no arguing with the unshakeable authority in his tone. Not with the way the command lances down her spine, electricity rushing through her nerves. When he uses that voice, her mind’s scattered focus narrows down to a white-hot point. Without a sound, she turns to duck into the footwell of his desk. It sends a hot rush through her that the pillow she’d left there last time is still tucked against the back panel. She retrieves it, adjusts it just so, and settles herself onto her knees. Satoru’s lanky legs are already apart; she leans her cheek against his thigh, feeling the body-warmed twill of his slacks against her skin.
She’s content to stay there for a moment, feeling her breathing and heart rate start to slow. Satoru’s hand drifts down to scritch at her scalp, his long fingers expertly applying the right pressure to coax a pleased sigh from her.
Slipping down farther, caressing her cheek, his thumb brushes ever-so-gently over her lips. This is an invitation she knows well; a call waiting for a response. Some nights, she lets the brush go by without reaction, and his hand will return to her head, petting her gently as she lets herself slowly begin to relax, knowing she’s safe here.
Tonight, though. Tonight is a night where she opens her mouth, flicking her tongue teasingly against the pad of his thumb. He chuckles, using his unoccupied hand to nimbly unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants. “Didn’t wanna assume but—I figured this is what you were here for.”
Shoko scoffs lightly, but can’t deny the way she swallows hard, mouth watering as he pulls his cock out of his briefs, already half-hard and prettily flushed. He gives himself a few pumps before retangling his other hand in her soft tresses.
“Open your mouth,” Satoru murmurs, and she does. He keeps his hand threaded in her hair, but she can feel how he’s letting her set the starting pace. She doesn’t make him wait, leaning forward to take the head in her mouth.
The room is quiet for a minute, just the sounds of breathing. Then, Satoru starts to talk. “You’re a work of art, Shoko.” She whines, muffled by his cock, but he continues on as if he hadn’t heard her. “Pretty as a fuckin’ painting.” Now he grips her hair firmly at the roots, feeding himself farther into her throat. “Just let go.”
She focuses on him, on breathing through her nose. The saliva pooling in the back of her throat clicks wetly as Satoru uses short, gentle thrusts to ease himself deep, deep, deep, until Shoko’s nose is nearly brushing the soft white hair at the base. Her vision is starting to get fuzzy, eyes tearing up, but just as she starts to push back at his hold, he’s tugging her off and back, giving her a moment to take a deep breath or two. Drool drips down her chin, spotting dark against the pillow. Just as she’s about to take him into her mouth again, she hears his cell phone ring and freezes.
Satoru lets it chime twice before he picks it up. He lets go of his grip on her hair; though she can’t see his face, his posture still reads as relaxed. “Ijichi~!” he singsongs as he answers. His voice carries the nearly-manic irreverence that she’s come to think of as his “public voice”, the mask he dons to interface with a world that both desires and disdains him. Shoko understands its utility, has grown used to its presence over the years. But something about its usage here and now prickles unpleasantly under her skin.
She can’t hear Ijichi’s side of the conversation, but she can hear Satoru yammering on, as he is wont to do when presented with the opportunity to playfully needle his colleague. He’s prone to going on wild tangents at the slightest provocation; this call could easily last half an hour if he really gets going.
Shoko is often considered, among her colleagues, to be the “sensible one”—and it’s true that she does possess a large measure of common sense and self-awareness, perhaps innate or perhaps developed as a counterweight to the antics of her high school classmates. The mistake that others often make, though, is expecting her to always act in accordance with said sensibility.
Satoru’s hard cock is still in front of her, still shiny with her spit. She leans forward and mouths ever-so-gently at the frenulum, pressing the tip of her tongue into it until she’s rewarded with a dribble of precum trickling against the corner of her mouth. Sitting back against her heels momentarily, she wipes at the liquid with her thumb. Though she can’t see through the desk, she casts her eyes up to where she knows he’s watching her—this close, she can feel the Six Eyes’ gaze like atmospheric pressure against her limbs. She winks and licks her thumb, and is immediately rewarded with the tiniest hitch in Satoru’s breath; inaudible unless actively paying attention.
The vaguest trace of guilt drifts through her sleep-deprived brain, but she brushes it aside like dust. It’s fine, she reasons to herself. If anything, Ijichi would be grateful for my service here—I’m actually making Satoru cut to the chase for once. And he certainly doesn’t seem to be minding. Her own justification makes her giggle silently, the curve of her smile tangible as she presses another kiss to the underside of his cock. It twitches; Shoko has to bite her lip to avoid laughing outright.
She continues to kiss along the flushed skin, occasionally giving a kitten lick to the head to lap up the still-dripping precum. Above her, Satoru’s responses are growing notably terser, until he’s answering in one or two word replies. To his credit, his voice is remarkably even, but Shoko can tell the amount of effort he’s putting in to keep it that way.
Finally, finally, Ijichi seems to have gotten the information he needed, and Satoru wastes no time in bidding him goodnight. The millisecond he hangs up, his hand flies to her hair and tugs hard, hard enough to make Shoko splutter and cough as his cock bumps the back of her throat. “You minx,” he rasps. “Needy, aren’t’cha? Just had to have my”—he grinds deeper, harder into her mouth, making tears prick at Shoko’s eyes—”full attention, right?”
She can’t defend herself, not with every spare scrap of brainpower dedicated to making sure she doesn’t choke as Satoru properly fucks her throat, so deep that she dizzily wonders if someone with a hand around her throat would be able to feel him there. If the white-knuckled way he’s gripping her hair is any indication, her teasing has clearly worked him up. Her own hands are braced against his shins, ready to push back; luckily, she doesn’t need to.
Now, Shoko knows she’s a biased source, but in her opinion, the noises Satoru makes when he comes are some of the prettiest in the universe. He moans, normally bright tenor dark with lust as he tapers off into rough pants, catching his breath. Shoko, not done being cheeky, chooses this moment to suck, hard. The strongest sorcerer of the modern day lets out a groan like he’s been punched in the solar plexus, and it makes something in her core flutter, pleased and proud.
She slowly leans back, letting his cock slide out of her mouth until her lips are wrapped only around the head; she swallows, and he hisses through his teeth. Finally, she sits back, wiping at her mouth, licking her lips—until she feels a strong hand wrap around her upper arm and pull her forward.
Satoru effortlessly hauls her up from where she’s kneeling. His hands cup her face, his blindfold now askew, star-white hair mussed and falling over his forehead. “You’re mean, y’know that?”
“Who, me?” She bats her eyelashes innocently just to hear her partner’s fondly exasperated huff. He rolls his eyes, but he can’t help answering her grin with one of his own.
“See, unlike you, pretty, I’m nice. So I’m gonna give you a choice, Shoko. D’you wanna be done? ‘Cause we can be done right now. Or… do you want me to bend you over this desk and make you scream?”
She can feel her skin burning against his warm hands. Try as she might, she can’t look away from the tender intensity of his eyes, blowtorch blue and searing down to her core. “I-I want…” Her voice catches in her traitorous throat.
“You want…?”
“Want you to… make me scream.”
“That’s my girl. Was that so hard?” Before he’s even finished speaking, he’s spinning her around and pressing her hips flush against the solid mahogany. She feels him place a firm hand between her shoulder blades and she doesn’t resist the push, easily bending until her cheek is resting against cool wood.
Next, he tugs her jeans and underwear down. The air-conditioned air hits her soaking cunt like a slap, and she hisses, twitching her hips involuntarily. He chuckles, low and nearly mocking. “Damn, Sho. All you’ve done is suck me off, and you’re this wet? Poor doctor needs some tending-to, doesn’t she?” He slides a teasing finger through her slick slit, bumping lightly against her clit.
Shoko spits an incoherent curse from where her face is pressed against the table. “—mmph, Satoru, fuck me—“ She cuts herself off with a gasp as he easily presses two digits into her, curling them down at the same time that he presses his thumb firmly against her swollen clit. A high, embarrassing squeak slips out of her mouth as she clenches around his fingers.
“Aww, cute.” She can hear the smug expression on his face and it makes her bristle before he starts to fingerfuck her in earnest. It’s hard to hold any single thought in her head when the strongest sorcerer in the world is twisting his fingers expertly into her G-spot and oh, holy shit, that’s his mouth against her clit. He’s kissing it, tonguing at it, and it’s all she can do not to fully lose any sense of self as he presses a third finger into her.
He keeps up a steady pace, stoking the simmering roil in her core, drawing it tighter and tighter. She can hear him saying something as he pulls back for a moment, but as dazed as she is, it’s hard to catch unless she really focuses. His low murmur is almost hypnotic. “Look so gorgeous all laid out for me. Usually so composed, yeah? Always put together, always teasing. But when you’re all strung out like this, I can finally get you back.”
She huffs, dizzily indignant, but he knows her—he chooses this moment to suck at her oversensitive nub, and any token protests she was going to make melt away, replaced instead by short, pitchy whines. “S-Satoru—Satoru, fuck…’m close…” He laughs and, with one last twist, pulls all three fingers out of her. Shoko nearly sobs at the sudden feeling of emptiness. “Oh, fuck you—“
“Just a sec, darling, I’m planning on it.” God, Satoru’s infuriating, but she takes a dirty solace in the fact that he’s not as unaffected as he’s acting. He’s back to full hardness, and she feels the twitch of his dick against her ass as he resettles his hand on her back. “Now. Say please.” The burn in his voice could rival cask-strength whiskey—she’s drunk enough of it to know.
Not for the first time, she curses his self-control. Gojo Satoru is widely known as an impulsive bastard, always up for a diversion, a detour, an unplanned excursion for the purpose of simple delight. Less well known is this: it’s not that he doesn’t have impulse control—it’s just that he hoards it for moments he deems worthy. His hand against her spine pins her like a dissected specimen, thwarting her attempts to grind against him.
She’s too gone to banter or push back. He’s done his job well. There’s not an ounce of stubbornness left in her bones as she pants, “Satoru, please. Please fuck me, holy shit, need you so bad, plea—ah!”
In one smooth slide, he’s buried to the hilt inside her. “Good girl.”
The one remaining unmelted corner of Shoko’s brain is deeply grateful that both she and Satoru are chronic insomniacs who operate at hours inconceivable even to most other sorcerers; it means that the nearly inhuman wail she lets out is at least marginally likely to have gone unheard by any students or colleagues. Spread out against his desk like she is, all she can do is take it as he sets a punishingly intense pace.
Her moans are sharp and staccato, punched out of her by each kiss of his cock against her cervix. She can feel the head drag against her G-spot, and she tightens around him, achingly close to her peak. The slick sounds of him driving into her cunt fill the room, joined by her fervent whimpers of Satoru, Satoru, Satoru, over and over.
He groans, hand sliding off her lower back to brace himself against the desk as he bends fully over her. She feels him bury himself inside her at the same moment that he sinks his teeth into the nape of her neck—and the coil in her snaps. She sobs as she comes hard enough that her whole body spasms, her orgasm coursing through her like a live wire. “There you go, that’s it, good girl,” Satoru purrs in her ear, and God, he’s still fucking her through this. His rhythm doesn’t falter, conducting her through the crescendo with each and every stroke.
Her partner’s stamina is Herculean, but even he can’t stand it forever. Aftershocks jolt her, making her cunt throb desperately, and she hears him choke back a moan. Scraping together what little speech she can, she whispers, “Come in me, Satoru.”
At her words, he practically buckles over, chasing his release with a flurry of hard, frantic thrusts. It’s only a moment or two before she feels the warmth of his come filling her up, making something in her finally untense. He rests his forehead against the bitemark he left, and she can feel how both their skins are tacky with sweat. It’s a delirious, lovely kind of intimacy.
She’s boneless against the desk when she feels Satoru pull out, but she doesn’t even have time to whine before she feels his tongue against her cunt again. She startles weakly, and she can feel his secret grin as he holds her legs still. “Calm, Sho. Just cleaning up the mess.” The words are cheeky, but the tone is fond. He’s achingly soft as he laps at her, nimbly licking up nearly every trace he’s left. As he does, he rubs his thumb in small, soothing circles against her inner thigh, keeping her dozy and dazed. Through his ministrations, she reaches one more gentle crest, the pleasure eddying over her, washing away any last creases in her brow.
Like camera shutters, her eyelids flutter, capturing the next moments as a series of still images: Satoru carefully folding her jeans, a mini bottle of water half-gone in a gulp, a toppled pile of papers restacked. The end of the sequence finds her nestled securely against her partner’s chest, head in the crook of his shoulder. “Up for a teleport?” he murmurs. One sleepy assent later, he’s tucking her into her own bed.
He turns to go, but Shoko catches his wrist, pressing her lips to the dusk-blue veins. Stubborn to the last, she clings to the waking world long enough to whisper, “Thank you.”
For tonight. For everything you do. For everything you are.
Her last sight before slumber finally whisks her away is his smile, the one that she knows is just for her.