Chapter Text
Everything was Suguru's fault. Absolutely everything.
Satoru remembered his best friend perfectly with that know-it-all nihilistic little smirk, leaning against the doorframe of his office at Jujutsu Tech, arms crossed and that glint of weary amusement in his eyes that characterized him so well. He had said it with complete naturalness, as if recommending a new ramen place or a schedule-organizing app: "Satoru, you're too tense. Even for you. You should try one of those phone escort services. Just to chat or vent with a stranger. It would do you good. And it would also do us good if you didn't walk around the hallways with that aura of being about to disintegrate the first person who looks at you wrong."
And sure, it was easy for Suguru to say. He had found his own twisted balance after his failed attempt at mass genocide, followed by countless mediation sessions and years of rebuilding something resembling a functional friendship with Satoru from the rubble of his broken idealism. And who now channeled all that intensity into training the second-year students with an almost frightening dedication and brewing organic green tea in a handmade ceramic teapot that Shoko had given him during one of those absurd gift exchanges they did to pretend they were functional adults. Suguru could afford the luxury of giving mental health advice.
Satoru, on the other hand, was still the strongest sorcerer in the world.
And the world—dependent on his strength without ever stopping to consider the cost—expected him to be infallible. A perfect machine that absorbed special-grade curses before breakfast, smiled with calculated carelessness during meetings with neighboring clans, and never, under any circumstances, showed a single crack in the facade. But reality was far heavier and more human than anyone was willing to admit. The new school year had barely been underway for a few weeks, and the higher-ups were already breathing down his neck with an endless pile of absurd missions, exorcisms in rural areas where curses were born from neglect and misery, investigations in ancient forgotten temples, bureaucratic meetings that could have been resolved with an email but required his physical presence to satisfy absurd protocols of hierarchy. He ended up smelling of cursed ash and stale dampness even in his eyelashes, and there were entire days when residual cursed energy clung to his skin like a second invisible layer, a parasitic buzzing that not even a forty-minute shower could fully wash away.
He could keep Infinity active as long as he wanted, but the energy emanating from curses was far denser than everyone believed.
His brain processed stress in a very particular way: accumulating a mental fatigue so dense it felt like melted lead at the nape of his neck, a dull buzzing behind his eyes that not even using Curse Technique Investment 24/7 could fully filter out because the exhaustion didn't come from outside. Rather, from his own overloaded psyche, from years and years of being the pillar holding up a leaky roof while everyone around him pretended the structure was solid.
That night, he had hit rock bottom.
The mission in the Shinjuku underground tunnels had been a disaster from the start. What should have been a standard grade-one curse turned out to be something older and more entrenched, an entity born from the collective claustrophobia of millions of passengers who for decades had compressed their anxiety into those narrow corridors. The thing refused to die with dignity, resisted with an insulting obstinacy, forcing Satoru to chase it through the underground for hours as the clock ticked on. He had to destroy three service tunnels and a maintenance area that would probably show up in some collateral damage report.
And then, of course, came the reports.
Three additional hours under yellowish lights, answering redundant questions from elders who hadn't set foot on a battlefield in decades but felt perfectly authorized to question his methods. Satoru had maintained a strained smile that worked as a shield as effective as Infinity itself. He had nodded at the right moments, made just the right amount of irreverent comments to maintain his reputation without crossing the line, and signed all the papers with a handwriting that became progressively sharper as his patience ran out.
After leaving that unnecessary meeting, instead of going home to sleep like any normal person—like Suguru, who was probably in his apartment drinking that organic tea and reading one of those dense books on Buddhist philosophy—Satoru ended up in a seedy dive in Roppongi. He didn't even remember the name of the place. Something with purple neon lights and a staircase leading down to a basement that smelled of e-cigarette vapor, cheap perfume, and urban desperation. He had sat in a corner, far from the few lost souls populating the place at that hour, and had started ordering double whiskies as if he knew what he was doing.
For starters, Satoru detested drinking. He generally abstained from it entirely; the bitter, harsh, and sharp taste of alcohol seemed like unnecessary torture for his palate, a vulgarity that didn't fit with his demanding tastes for almost everything in life. But the suffocating monotony of recent months, the invisible weight of being the immovable pillar of jujutsu society, and that desperate need to finally break free from his own routine had pushed him through the door of that clandestine bar almost by inertia. He hated every swallow he forced down his throat. He hated how it burned going down, the bitter aftertaste that lingered on his tongue, the way the alcohol blurred the edges of his thoughts without ever fully silencing them. He hated the burning in his chest and the sensation of losing control bit by bit, crumb by crumb. But that night, the disgust of the whiskey was the only thing strong enough to compete with the mental noise.
He was drunk. Not completely wasted, but enough that the city lights seemed like blurred blots of red and blue watercolor through the window of his Tokyo apartment. He had managed to get home by pure force of habit—or maybe his technique had carried him on autopilot, he wasn't sure—and now he was sprawled on the Italian leather sofa he had bought in a fit of consumerism the year before, his sorcerer uniform half undone. His jacket hung from a single shoulder—because he had uselessly tried to take it off and, seeing that his limbs refused to obey him, had left it just like that, halfway. His black undershirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned to the third button—and, much like with his jacket, his fingers could barely coordinate for something as simple as undoing a piece of clothing. An incipient hangover was already threatening behind his temples, throbbing in rhythm with his pulse, and the silence of the apartment was so absolute and heavy that he could hear the echo of his own breathing.
Zero desire to deal with his own company. Zero desire to jerk off in silence like a loser, staring at the ceiling and pretending that the empty orgasm was going to solve anything. Zero desire to be Gojo Satoru for a while.
The crumpled paper was still in his pants pocket.
He remembered it just as the digital clock on the Blu-ray player read 3:46 a.m. with green numbers that pierced the dimness of the living room. He sat up with a clumsy movement, fumbling in his pocket, and pulled out the scrap of paper where Suguru had scribbled the number in his precise, elegant handwriting. Premium Omegas 24/7, it said, followed by a series of digits. Below, in a smaller note that Satoru could barely make out in the darkness, Suguru had added: "Don't thank me. Or do."
—Stupid Suguru —Satoru muttered, his voice thick and his lips numb, as he unlocked the phone with facial recognition and began to dial.
His fingers, usually precise, were clumsy from the alcohol. He typed the number with exaggerated concentration, squinting behind the dark glasses he hadn't even bothered to take off, and when the screen showed the complete digits, he didn't even check them. He just pressed the green call button and let himself fall back against the sofa's backrest, his other hand already distractedly lost along the edge of his belt. Without real arousal—it was more that empty mechanism of someone seeking a physiological release.
The phone rang long tones. Too long. Four, five, six.
Satoru frowned, looking at the screen with some confusion. Weren't these services supposed to answer immediately? Wasn't that the whole point? Premium Omegas 24/7. The slogan implied immediate availability, attention twenty-four hours a day, someone always on the other end of the line, ready to whisper empty compliments and prefabricated moans to sleepless, desperate clients who paid fortunes for the illusion of company.
—...Hello? Who is this? It's very late, damn it.
The voice on the other end of the line had none of the syrupy softness Satoru expected. It was raspy, deep, and rough, with that heavy quality of someone who had just been yanked violently from the deepest sleep. There was no professional modulation or the rehearsed manner of a phone operator; it sounded raw, masculine, and genuinely annoyed, scraping at his ear with the palpable irritation of someone a second away from hanging up.
Satoru blinked slowly in the dimness of his apartment. His brain, swimming in whiskey and exhaustion, took a few seconds to process the information. This didn't fit with what he had requested. The agency advertised itself as Premium Omegas 24/7; he had assumed female voices, perhaps the occasional softer male voice, something that fit the stereotype. But this... this was something else. Something in that deep timbre, in that rough texture of interrupted sleep, sent a different kind of shiver through him. Unexpected was the word.
Alcohol already dominated ninety-five percent of his brain functions, so instead of questioning the incongruity, Satoru simply accepted it. He settled more comfortably on the sofa—a maneuver that involved sliding down a little, resting the back of his neck against the leather backrest, and slightly parting his knees—and adopted what he considered his most seductive voice. A voice he had perfected over years of negotiations, inconsequential flirtations at social events, and that handful of empty encounters he had had throughout his adult life. A voice that exuded confidence, money, and that natural arrogance only someone born at the top of the world could afford.
—Good evening, sweetheart... —he dragged out the words, pressing his lips to the phone's microphone with a criminal confidence that only alcohol could explain. His breath lightly fogged the screen—. Wow, I didn't know the agency hired guys with such... interesting voices. Suguru was right, this is great service.
On the other end of the line, the silence was so absolute that Satoru could hear the distant hum of an appliance in the background. It wasn't the professional silence of someone preparing their next line.
In his small one-room apartment in Setagaya ward, Itadori Yuuji remained sitting in bed with his eyes wide as saucers, the phone pressed to his right ear and his pink hair flattened against one side of his head in a mess that testified to hours of deep sleep.
He had answered the call by pure reflex.
The hand not holding the phone clenched over the sheet, crumpling the fabric between his fingers. He felt heat rising up his neck, over his cheeks to his ears, setting his skin alight in a blush that had nothing to do with shyness and everything to do with an indignation so pure it momentarily clouded his vision.
—...What the hell did you just say to me, you pervert?
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, charged with all the fury of someone who was tired.
Satoru, completely oblivious to the storm brewing on the other end of the line, took the indignation as part of the show. In his alcohol-numbed mind, this was roleplay. The agency was good. Very good. They had hired an omega with character, one of those who played hard to get at first only to melt into moans later. He found it fascinating, almost adorable.
—Don't be shy, kitten —he purred, fully committed to his VIP client role. His free hand, the one that had been absently toying with the edge of his belt, now slid decisively toward the fabric of his pants. He felt the half-hard bulge beneath the clothing, applying a light pressure that drew a shaky sigh from his lips—. I know how this works. You charge me by the minute, right? Don't worry about the cost. I want you to talk to me like the dirtiest whore. Tell me how you're going to get on your knees and swallow my cock until you cry.
Yuuji froze. Literally froze. His fingers closed around the phone with such force that the plastic casing let out a creak of protest. His brain, still sluggish from interrupted sleep, took a full five seconds to process the avalanche of obscenities he had just received. Five seconds in which his expression cycled through every phase of human bewilderment: confusion, disbelief, absolute denial that this was happening, and finally a fury so monumental he felt the veins bulge in his forehead.
—W-what the hell is wrong with you, dude?! —his voice, usually warm and friendly, came out sharp and cracked with indignation. He sat up in bed so fast the sheet slid to the floor.
On the other end of the line, Satoru already had his hand firmly wrapped around his erection. The sound was unmistakable: that wet, obscene slide of skin against skin, the brush of fingers over sensitive flesh, the ragged panting escaping from his parted lips. He had unbuttoned his pants at some point in the last few seconds and was now pumping his fist with calculated slowness, his thumb caressing the tip with every upward stroke.
He laughed softly, a guttural sound that reverberated against the microphone. He was still convinced this was part of the service, a particularly realistic roleplay. And he loved it.
—That's how I like it. Feisty —he panted, wedging the phone between his shoulder and ear to free his other hand. Now he could stroke his testicles with his fingers, rolling them gently while he continued masturbating—. I bet you're already soaking your sheets just listening to me, omega. Tell me what you'd do with this hard cock. Tell me how you'd suck me off until you made a mess of yourself.
Yuuji felt something snap inside his brain. This wasn't a figure of speech. He literally felt a metaphorical crack, like stretching a rubber band too far and having it split in two.
He glanced at the time in the corner of the screen: 3:52 a.m. The numbers stared back at him like a cosmic mockery. In exactly three hours and eight minutes, he would have to be awake for work. And meanwhile, here was this idiot. This moron. This degenerate son of a—
—I'M NOT A SERVICE OMEGA, YOU IDIOT! —he shrieked, and his voice came out raspier and higher than he intended, a strange mix of fury and that natural gravel his tone carried. His voice cracked on the last syllable, breaking slightly. He ran his free hand through his tousled hair, gripping the pink strands between his fingers in frustration—. WHAT KIND OF SICKO CALLS A RANDOM NUMBER AT FOUR IN THE MORNING TO SAY THIS FILTH?!
On the other end, the wet sound of friction didn't stop. If anything, it seemed to grow faster and more urgent. The slide of skin against skin mixed with ragged pants and small grunts escaping from Satoru's throat without him being able to fully control them. His hand pumped his erection with increasingly rapid movements, his palm gliding thanks to the absurd amount of pre-seminal fluid he was producing. Normally it wasn't like this. Normally his masturbation sessions were functional, mechanical, a release of tension that lasted just long enough and left no trace. But now his fingers were dripping, the clear fluid running down his bare abdomen, dampening the white curls of hair at his base and making every movement produce an incredibly obscene, wet, and shameful sound.
Satoru didn't understand why he was so aroused. But his body knew. His body was reacting to something primal, instinctive: the genuine fury in that raspy voice, the real resistance, the certainty that this omega wasn't faking it.
—Then it's a shame... —he let out a low, breathless laugh, the words cut short by the pleasure rising from his lower belly—. Because you'd be perfect for this job. Your voice is so sweet... So fucking sweet, even when you scream. I'll hunt you down, make you come to me... Are you ready for me yet?
His fingers moved faster now. His thumb caressed the tip with every upward stroke, collecting the pre-seminal fluid and spreading it along the entire shaft. The muscles of his thighs tensed beneath the fabric of his half-removed pants. His testicles, heavy and hot, contracted slightly in anticipation. Pleasure built at the base of his spine like an electric current, hot and rising, and the wet sound of his own masturbation echoed through the silent apartment like an obscene drumbeat.
Yuuji, on the other end of the line, was on the verge of collapse. Not just from the indignation—which was still there, burning in his chest like a bonfire—but he didn't want to admit that the stranger's moans, that ragged and deeply masculine panting, were doing something strange to his stomach. An uncomfortable warmth. A tension that had nothing to do with fury and everything to do with the omega instinct he had spent years suppressing beneath layers of scent patches, suppressants, and forced professionalism.
He was not going to let this affect him. No. Absolutely not.
He gripped the phone tighter. The blush burned his face and he could swear, in a cartoonish way, that steam was coming out of his ears. But it wasn't embarrassment. It was rage. Pure and concentrated.
—You're a desperate alpha who has to pay for someone to talk dirty to him because in real life nobody can stand you for more than five minutes, right? —he spat, and this time he put all his venom into every syllable. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted the idiot on the other end to feel the impact of his words like a punch to the ego. But his voice came out trembling, slightly cracked at the end, and that infuriated him even more.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that this stranger could affect him like this.
Satoru, on the other hand, received the insult like a blessing. His head fell back against the sofa, exposing his throat, a low and genuine moan escaping from his parted lips. His fingers sped up. The erection throbbed in his hand with pleasure.
—Fuck... yes —his voice came out hoarse and broken, completely beyond his control—. Keep going. Insult me more. I'm close. I'm so fucking close...
Yuuji felt his heart hammering against his ribs with absurd force. He bit his lower lip until it hurt and his free fingers gripped the rumpled sheets with such violence that his knuckles went white, because otherwise he felt like he was going to fall. His body was reacting in ways he couldn't control: his fingertips tingled, an uncomfortable heat crept down his belly, his legs pressed together instinctively beneath the fallen comforter.
—You're going to come already, seriously? —his voice came out lower than he intended, and out of embarrassment he cleared his throat awkwardly—. You're a pig... A pathetic damn pig.
The sounds on the other end grew faster. The wet slide of skin against skin accelerated into a frantic rhythm, accompanied by increasingly erratic pants. Satoru felt the orgasm building at the base of his spine, tightening his testicles, clouding his mind with a fog of pleasure so intense he almost forgot to breathe.
He almost fell off the sofa.
Literally. His body arched in an involuntary spasm, his hips thrusting upward against his own fist, and he had to dig his heels into the edge of the furniture to keep from sliding to the floor. The phone remained precariously wedged between his shoulder and ear, and his voice sounded completely shattered when he spoke.
—Say that again. Now. Say it again.
It was a plea. A desperate plea wrapped in a commanding tone that wasn't quite working because his voice cracked at the end of every word.
And Yuuji, who had started this conversation feeling attacked and vulnerable, sensed the shift through the line, in the way the stranger's voice broke. That arrogant alpha, that moron who had called him silly nicknames, was completely at his mercy. The power, suddenly, had changed hands.
A strange sensation swept through his chest. Something akin to euphoria.
—I said —and this time his voice came out firmer and more confident, with an edge of cruelty he didn't even know he possessed— that you're a fucking pig. Pathetic. You probably have a useless dick you can't satisfy without paying. Nobody's probably touched you in years because you're insufferable and egocentric and...
Satoru came.
His nervous system short-circuited, tearing a muffled howl from his throat—shamefully loud, echoing against the walls of his apartment. His back arched completely, lifting off the sofa. His hips thrust against his own hand in involuntary spasms. And his voice broke into a desperate moan that escaped his lips without permission:
—Oh, f-fuck..!
His erection throbbed violently in his hand, shooting thick, hot spurts of semen onto his bare abdomen and the rumpled fabric of his shirt. The whitish fluid stained his chest, slid along the contours of his abdominal muscles, and dripped onto the leather of the sofa.
But the physical relief barely lasted a second before colliding with the visceral frustration of his biology. With one hand he kept squeezing himself, feeling the hot, slippery skin and what remained of precum and fluid running between his fingers with an obscene sound, while with the other he desperately gripped the knot that was already beginning to swell heavily at his base. That ring of flesh, sensitive, throbbed and expanded beneath his palm with a stubborn, aching urgency.
Each pulse of the swollen knot sent waves of empty, stinging pleasure along his spine. Alphas weren't made for this; knotting into nothing was a biological insult.
Satoru stayed there, sprawled and panting with his mouth open as if he had just sprinted an entire marathon at full speed, his eyes glassy and completely unfocused in the dimness of the ceiling. The phone barely rested precariously against his shoulder, and his fingers trembled at the base of his own erection, unable to release the knot that kept pulsing, heavy and painfully swollen, forcing him to breathe deeply through that frustration.
Yuuji heard all of it.
Every moan. Every pant. The wet sound of ejaculation. And he stayed completely still, the phone pressed to his ear, feeling his own blood boil.
Satoru swallowed, squeezing the knot tightly as he cursed under his breath —Fuck... —he groaned, his voice hoarse, broken, trembling—. It swelled completely... and I have nowhere to put it.
The pink-haired boy said nothing. He couldn't say anything. His mind was a whirlwind of residual indignation, absolute confusion, and a tingling that ran through his veins. His breathing, accelerated for no apparent reason, was the only thing betraying his state.
On the other end of the line, Satoru was also breathing heavily. Ragged pants that gradually calmed, becoming deeper and more conscious. The buzz of the orgasm began to dissipate like morning fog, and with it came, slowly, painfully, comprehension.
He blinked and looked at the phone still in his hand, now stained with remnants of fluids he didn't bother to clean.
—Uh... so... you're not... from the hotline?
The question came out small. Confused. Completely devoid of the seductive arrogance from a few minutes ago. It was the voice of a man who had just realized he had made the most embarrassing mistake of his life, and the alcohol, which was slowly beginning to dissipate, only amplified the horror of the situation.
Yuuji took a deep breath. So deep the air whistled between his clenched teeth. The fury, which had been momentarily eclipsed by the shock, returned with full force, multiplied by the indignity of having listened to this stranger come.
—THE ONLY HOTLINE HERE IS GOING TO BE MY FIST IN YOUR FACE IF I EVER FIND YOU!! —he bellowed, running his free hand through his tousled hair with a gesture of absolute frustration. The pink strands clung to his sweaty forehead, and his chest heaved as if he had been fighting—. IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING ON A DAMN TUESDAY, YOU MISERABLE DEGENERATE!!
His voice echoed against the walls of the small apartment.
Click.
The call cut off abruptly with a dry, definitive beep.
Satoru remained completely motionless in the middle of his living room, the phone still pressed to his ear and his mouth slightly open, processing the echo of those shouts in the stillness of his apartment. There was a moment of absolute silence in which the only sound was the electric hum of the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window.
Paradoxically, that explosion of fury fulfilled what he had been seeking: the constant, heavy buzzing in his head disappeared completely, displaced by bewilderment. The insult had been so raw, so direct, so genuinely furious and so absolutely devoid of the reverence or fearful respect that absolutely everyone held for him, that the alcohol seemed to evaporate from his system in a second, replaced by a rush of completely unexpected adrenaline.
Nobody spoke to him like that. Nobody dared raise their voice at him, much less tell him to go to hell with such small-town, uninhibited naturalness. People shrank in his presence, walked on eggshells around him, smiled at him falsely or trembled. But this unknown boy, with his raspy voice and early-morning bad mood, had just treated him like a complete idiot.
Satoru slowly lowered the device from his ear and stared at the illuminated screen, where the call log numbers still blinked. Slowly, the corners of his lips curved upward, stretching into an enormous, brilliant, and absolutely fascinated smile that lit up his clear eyes in the dimness.
—Definitely... —he murmured to himself, letting out a low, incredulous laugh as he typed quickly— I'm going to call again tomorrow.
[ NEW CONTACT ]
Name: "Angry boy from the wrong line"
Number: [ SAVED ]