Archive of Our Own ^beta

Kyoto is damp with the remains of summer rain. Cicadas rasp from the black trees beyond Utahime’s narrow balcony, their steady drone pushing through the inch of open door with the rest of the humidity. The tatami mats smell faintly of rice straw, and the towels she washed that morning still hang limply over the rack, reluctant to dry.

Utahime has been quiet all day, moving carefully in her small apartment, as though her body still remembers the weight of fever. The scar along her temple tugs when she frowns. A reminder. A mercy. Something polysemic. She has been practising different facial expressions in the mirror to see her range of movement and what will pull or pucker. It is better, of course, to keep her face absolutely still. 

In the wane of the evening and the slide into night, she does not expect a knock. Her awareness, the spiritual kind, snaps to the doorframe and to the swamping waves of cursed energy seeping through the hinges and puddling a bit in the genken. Only one person has cursed energy like that. 

And he never knocks.

If he wants in, Shoko tells her, Gojo Satoru simply appears, bending the air like a curtain, warping himself wherever he pleases. Utahime hasn’t seen him do it, but she has heard he has recently perfected the technique. She does not actually know him well enough to predict how casually he might break into her space. He has certainly never been to her apartment before, and she could be sure he’s supposed to be on Tokyo and Overseas assignments only. 

So when the sound comes, sharp, insistent, almost petulant, Utahime startles. The porcelain dish in her hands clatters back onto the counter. Nobody else would knock like that. It is as crude and telling as his cursed energy, as impossible to mistake.

Still, she opens the door cautiously, because it still seems improbable. Instead:

Gojo fills the frame of the door like he doesn’t know how to stand still. Sunglasses hooked carelessly into the neck of a grey hoodie, sweatpants low around his hips, white hair damp from the warm drizzle and sticking up like static. He looks like he has just rolled out of a dormitory, not like the strongest sorcerer alive.

His height makes him seem older, but the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot, restless, betrays the truth.

“You’re alive,” he says. Not a question. Not relief. Not joy. An accusation.

Utahime’s brow arches and the scar tugs a bit. “Disappointed?”

He shrugs one shoulder, mouth twitching in a way that makes dimples come and go. 

“Would’ve been pretty stupid if you weren’t.”

It’s bratty, the way he says it, like scolding her for misplacing something valuable.

Utahime inhales through her nose, already annoyed. “You knocked,” she observes.

He grins, and it’s too sharp, too edged, rocking back on his heels. The lamplight of the hallway, much brighter than the interior of Utahime’s home, snags on the damp strands of his hair, a silver halo around his head, fine as spun sugar.

“Would you prefer I warped in?” he teases, voice low and needling. His eyes flash with challenge, doing is best to be as irritating as possible. “What if you were in the bath?”

Utahime folds her arms, hip settling against the doorframe, as if that could be enough to block his entry. The cicadas outside shrill like a chorus. She arches a brow, deliberately steady, finding a way to do it that doesn’t move her new scar.

“Then I guess you’d get an eyeful,” she says coolly, letting the words hang, daring him to choke on them.

He snorts, the sound sharp and derisive, as if her retort barely deserves notice.

“Oh please, Utahime, as if there’s anything to see.” 

The words slip out too easily, too mean. He hears them as she does, and for the briefest moment his grin falters, surprise flickering in his eyes that he’d said that.

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she exhales through her nose, the sound quiet and scalding.

“Very funny,” she says, her voice smooth as the edge of a blade. “Did you want something?”

He rocks back on his heels, grin tugged back into place, sharper than before. But the beat of hesitation lingers, obvious enough that she catches it. He wants to stay. 

“Uh, yeah, Shoko said you were home,” he says, running his hand through damp hair, the motion jerky. “From the Infirmary, I mean. She said Kyoto does have a healer like her, so you had an infection or some shit?”

Utahime narrows her eyes. “You came all the way here to critique my immune system?”

He shrugs, too quick, too careless. “What can I say? Didn’t wanna waste flowers if you were just gonna keel over anyway.” His grin flashes, cocky, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

She exhales, tired already. “You are truly unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably thoughtful. You know I fucking hate Kyoto and yet here I am—” he shoots back and the arrow falls short. His voice is softer this time, like he knows the edge has gone too far already. His gaze flickers to the faint swathe of her scar, then skitters away. “...Just wanted to check. That’s all.”

The cicadas shrill again, filling the silence that stretches between them. His hoodie clings damply at the shoulders, and for all his bravado, he looks young standing there in her doorway, rain-slicked and restless. He looks uncomfortable. 

Utahime presses her lips together, considering. It would be easier to send him away, to let him stew in his own arrogance. But the hesitation in his voice lingers, more telling than any insult.

She sighs and shifts her weight, fingers loosening from her crossed arms. “Fine,” she says at last, stepping back and tilting her chin toward the room behind her. “Come in.”

He steps past her, dripping faint rainwater onto her tatami. He prowls the small room as though it were a curiosity exhibit—brushing a fingertip over the back of her sofa, nudging a stack of books with his knuckle, picking up one of her teacups and turning it upside down to inspect the glaze.

“Cute place,” he says, voice mocking. “Smaller than I thought. Smells like a pack of grapefruit Hi-Chew in here.” 

Her jaw tightens. “Better than smelling like wet dog”, she says crisply, sliding past him to rescue her teacup from his hands.

Gojo barks a laugh, the sound echoing off her narrow walls, but she can see the flicker in his eyes, the momentary uncertainty concerning her displeasure with him before he covers it with another grin. It almost makes Utahime feel bad. 

Gojo drops onto her sofa, sprawling without grace, long legs spread, hoodie riding up just enough to reveal the ridges of his stomach. He looks careless in the way only someone beautiful enough to get away with it can: damp hair falling into his eyes, mouth curved petulantly, glossy lips catching the low light, jaw tight and ticking with some internal tension.

Utahime shuts the door with more force than necessary and lingers there, measuring her breath. He is different since the Star Plasma mission—sharper, harder, the air around him humming with untested power—but still almost unbearably young.

Her eyes drag over him despite herself: the new muscle stretching his sweatshirt sleeves, the length of him folded inelegantly into her small space. Attractive. Maddeningly so. He could be causing girls to swoon in some Shinjuku club right now. He could be anywhere, with anyone.

So why here?

Shoko keeps him earthed, yes, but does he have anyone else left? Utahime doubts it. The thought unsettles her more than it should.

What is he doing in her living room, dripping summer rain onto her rug?

“Do you want tea?” she asks at last, because civility is easier than silence.

“Tea?” he snorts. 

“Or what do you want? Chocolate milk?” Utahime asked, a little exasperated. 

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You always treat me like I’m a kid.”

“You always act like one.”

His mouth quirks, caught between retort and pout. “...Tea’s fine.”

The kettle rattles faintly as it begins to boil. Utahime moves with ritualised precision, scooping leaves, warming the pot, pouring water with the measured patience that makes the act soothing. Her scar tugs again when she furrows her brow in concentration.

When she glances up, she finds Gojo watching her.

He pretends impatience, foot tapping, fingers drumming, but his gaze doesn’t leave her. She hasn’t seen him look like this in a while: no uniform, no armour of tinted lenses, only a hoodie and sweatpants, his sunglasses dangling carelessly from the collar. Something about the way she pours, the way she stirs, seems to pin him in place.

His chin props on his hand as though he is idly studying her, but she knows better. The weight of the Six Eyes is deliberate, sliding over her body with unnerving precision. It’s an assessment, a cataloguing. He is checking her, measuring how close she came to death, how robust she looks now, how much fight remains in her frame.

The knowledge unsettles her. He pretends to be bored, tapping and drumming, but he is watching, and she can feel the truth of it like heat rising against her skin.

“You do that like an old lady,” he says finally.

“It’s called making tea properly.”

“Dunk a bag in hot water, done. All this fuss—” he waves at her — “is why you nearly got your head sliced off.”

Her hand stills mid-pour. She sets the kettle down deliberately. “Do you want tea or not?”

“Jeez, relax,” he sighs. “I want your granny tea.” 

She pours with extra force, lets it splash into his cup so that something of the ritual is desecrated.

When she sets the tray down between them, he leans forward, takes the cup with exaggerated ceremony, sips, and makes a face.

“Gross,” he complains.

“It’s strong,” she corrects.

“Terrible,” he amends, and she watches him spit the tea back into the cup. “You have any honey?”

Utahime exhales, long-suffering, and rises. She fetches the honey jar from the cupboard, slams it a little harder than necessary onto the tray.

“Here,” she says flatly.

He brightens instantly, teasing. “A consummate hostess.”

She ignores him, sits back, watching as he unscrews the lid. He dips a finger in without hesitation, stirs the thick gold into his tea with barely a swirl, then sucks the rest straight off his knuckle.

The sound he makes—soft, contented—is ridiculous. He’s instantly absorbed in the sweetness. His tongue drags slowly, lips closing around his finger before he pulls it free with a faint pop.

Utahime’s jaw tightens. Infuriating. And yet… she looks away, heat coiling in her chest.

“Better,” he says, sipping the tea again, this time without complaint. He leans back into her sofa like he owns it, long legs taking up too much space.

“So juvenile,” she mutters.

“Sweet things taste better,” he counters, licking the last shine of honey from his thumb. “Everybody knows that.” 

Silence stretches. Utahime’s neighbours have a muffled, stompy argument. Gojo stares into the cup, she into her own hands. Their bickering has always been a kind of rhythm, a pattern well-worn, but beneath it tonight runs something else: the strange relief of being in the same room, alive, when so many aren’t.

His gaze flicks up to her scar. Quick, sharp, unguarded. She feels it, like a brush of heat against her temple. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.

Instead, he taps the rim of his cup, and she reaches for her own. Their eyes meet, then slip away.

The smallest flicker of something unspoken hums between them, as it has in the past, but now it feels like it’s ticked over into a new groove, a different song on the record. 

Outside, the rain begins again, hissing over the street below, and letting the silence between them take up a little bit of texture. 

Then, as she knew he would, he breaks it.

“So,” he says. “How’d it happen? You weren’t paying attention? Or were you just slow?”

Her jaw clenches. “I was ambushed.”

“Didn’t feel the cursed energy spike?” he scoffs, voice getting low with his disdain. “That’s rookie stuff.”

“Do you think I haven’t replayed it?” Her voice is sharper now, the scar tugging as her face tightens. She hopes she’ll get used to it in time. “Do you think I don’t know what I should’ve done differently?”

He shrugs, eats more honey off his finger, eyes on her. “Doesn’t look like you know.”

Utahime is stung, her fingers almost going to the scar on reflex, but she curls them into her palm at the last minute. 

“I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can’t believe you’re alive.”

The words hang between them, brittle.

Her throat tightens. Against her will, the memory rises: her students screaming as the cursed spirits swarmed, her voice hoarse from shouting orders, the desperate drag of cursed energy as she threw everything she had into shielding them. The sting of claws, the taste of copper, the moment when she realised she might not live long enough to see them run to safety.

She blinks the images back, forces her gaze to Gojo’s face. Restless blue eyes, jaw clenched, body taut with something he doesn’t know how to name. And suddenly it’s clear.

He’s not mocking her failure. He’s read the report, knows the scale of the ambush, the odds stacked against her, and he’s astonished she survived. His cruelty isn’t cruelty at all. It’s fear: camouflage thrown up in the only way he knows how.

He cares — too much.

Her pulse stutters with the realisation.

“Anyway, seems like all that was only half the problem.” He waves vaguely, dismissive. “Infection? Fever? That’s a fucking ignominious way for a sorcerer to go out.”

Her jaw tenses again. Damn, why does he get under her skin so easily? 

“You make it sound like I had a choice.”

“Everyone has choices.” He shrugs, slouching back against the sofa. “You could’ve come to Tokyo for better medical care. Less embarrassing.”

Her glare sharpens, but before she can cut him off, he continues: “The higher-ups are already scrabbling for spin. Losing students is bad enough. Losing faculty, in Kyoto of all places, after they negotiated your appointment—”

“Don’t talk about the students like that. They’re not pawns on a board,” she snaps. “And I’m not a bargaining chip.”

“You’re both of those things,” he says, without venom, like he hates to break it to her. “That’s how they think of you.”

She exhales through her nose, biting back a retort. The politics are wearying, their inevitable weight pressing against her.

And then, almost absentmindedly, he leans forward. His hand lifts, fingers catching a strand of her hair off her shoulder as he speaks. He studies it in the lamplight, rubbing the dark silk between forefinger and thumb, twirling it once before letting it slide free—only to catch another strand, as if to reassure himself.

Utahime freezes. He has never touched her before. He looks plunged into his own thoughts, twirling her hair through his long fingers like a woven basket. 

He keeps talking, as though nothing is unusual. “Kiyoshi’s parents filed a complaint, you know. Said you abandoned him. I told them if you had abandoned him, he wouldn’t be breathing. They didn’t like that answer.” 

His tone is flat, but his fingers keep working gently at her hair, winding the long tress around his knuckles like he’s binding them for a fight, like he’s tethering her in place.

She stares at him, bewildered, the scar tugging faintly when her brows knit. What is he doing? What does this mean that he’s in her small apartment, grounding himself in the texture of her hair, like she might float away if he doesn’t keep hold?

And beneath the irritation and the ache of his words, she feels it: this strange, fragile tether he’s tying, and the unspoken relief humming through it.

Her throat tightens, the fragile thread between them pulling taut. She lets him wind her hair once more around his fingers before she cuts in, voice cool and sharp:

“You think saying that helps? That you’re the arbiter of what I did or didn’t abandon?”

His brows lift, almost comically. “I just said you didn’t. You’re welcome.”

“You said it like it was up to you to decide. Like you get the final word.”

He smirks, but it’s thin, brittle. “Better me than the higher-ups.”

She pulls her hair out of his hand, glaring. “Better me than you. I can stick up for myself.”

The air between them hardens. Cicadas shrill outside, relentless. He leans back, arms spreading along the sofa as though she hasn’t just yanked herself free, as though the fight is his favourite game.

“See, this is why nobody likes Kyoto sorcerers,” he says, lazy drawl disguising the bite. “Always so prickly. No sense of humour.”

“Funny,” she shoots back, lifting her teacup just to give her hands something to do. “I could say the same about you. Except your problem isn’t humour. It’s that you think the world will collapse if you aren’t in control of every conversation, every fight, every person.”

His grin grows strangely tense, something solidifying in his amusement, but there’s colour high on his cheeks. “And your problem is you think you’re above it all when really, you’re just scared.”

Her cup lands on the table with a too-loud clink. “Careful, Gojo. You don’t know me.”

For a moment, silence. His eyes flash with something unguarded, raw: the fear she already sensed under his cruelty. Then he looks away, reaching for the honey jar again as though that’s safer to taste than the truth between them.

He watches the tea ripple from the impact of honey off his finger, then tilts his head, expression too calm, too deliberate. “I know enough. Enough to say you shouldn’t be a field sorcerer.”

Her breath stutters, caught between outrage and disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He leans back, stretching his long arms along the sofa as though to claim more space. “You’re better off in a classroom. Teaching. Training. You’ve got patience for it, and honestly…” He flicks his gaze to her scar, then back to her eyes. “You don’t have the numbers for the field. Not anymore.”

The words land like a slap.

Utahime feels her scar tug with the force of her frown, fingers curling hard into her palm. “So you read a report and suddenly you get to dictate the shape of my life? You think one mission decides what I’m capable of?”

He shrugs, infuriatingly blasé. “One near-death’s enough for me. And for the record, I’m not saying it because I think you’re weak. Even though you are. I’m saying it because I don’t want to read another report with your name under casualties.”

The honesty in his voice makes it worse, not better.

“You don’t get to want that,” she says, cold and steady, though her throat is tight.

His grin is gone. His jaw works, tense, as he ignores how close she’s come to saying something about the thing between them that they do not speak about. 

“So what, you think this makes you fit to keep running into fights? You barely walked away!”

Her hand slams flat on the table. “The fact that I walked away means I can hold my own!”

“You call that holding your own?” His voice is rising now, breaking its careless rhythm. “You were a hairsbreadth from dead!”

“And yet I’m not!”

“And that’s supposed to be good enough?!”

“It’s survival, Gojo! That’s the job! You should know that better than anyone!”

The force of her words propels her up from the sofa, heat buzzing under her skin. She paces the narrow length of the living room, fury carrying her toward the balcony door and back again. He follows suit, springing to his feet with restless energy, too tall for her space, his shoulders brushing the low ceiling lamp as he turns to face her.

“Survival isn’t enough if it means I’m reading your name on a damn casualty report!”

Her chest heaves, the scar pulling as she scowls up at him. “Why does it matter to you?” she shouts. “Why do you care so much?”

For a moment, he looks like he might hurl something back, some cruel, deflecting answer. But instead he moves, suddenly closing the space between them. His hands come up, cupping her face too roughly, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Her breath catches as her hands instinctively grasp his wrists. 

He’s shaking with it:anger, fear, something else. His gaze pins her, blue and furious, but his thumbs press against her cheekbones. One thumb drags unsteadily over the scar, tracing its uneven ridge. His chest rises hard against hers, breath ragged.

The argument dies in her throat, still uncertain whether he is about to hurt her.

For once, neither of them speaks. They’re just there, breathless, raw, his hands anchoring her face as if to prove she’s still here, earthside, not a ghost. His expression twists, caught between fury and grief, and suddenly, horribly, it looks almost like longing.

It’s the prelude, the precipice.

His hands are hot on her face, too rough, thumbs pressing into her skin like he’s holding her together, like he might shake her, or break her neck. His breath hits hers, ragged, furious, afraid. The scar burns under his touch.

And then it hits her.

Not just that he cares. Not just that he’s terrified of losing her. But the realisation, heavy and undeniable, that Gojo Satoru is in love with her.

The thought slams into her chest cavity like a fist. She stares at him, at the rawness in his eyes, at the way his mouth trembles like he might say something dangerous. He’s a boy, still, in so many ways—too young, too powerful—but his gaze is over-warm and mingled with something that has been there all along.

Her pulse hums with it, furious and bewildered. Attraction swells in her like a tide she can’t push back. She has always known he was beautiful—impossible not to know—but she has never let herself think of him as hers. Not like this. And suddenly her body is alight with the awareness that the thing between them is about to spill over, unstoppable.

She knows, in a single crystalline instant, that it should fall to her to end this. She is older, steadier, the one with sense enough to shut the door on whatever misguided flame he’s carrying for her. To diffuse it before it ruins them both.

But the scar still stings, and the memory of claws and blood and her students screaming lingers in her chest. She nearly died. The caution she’s carried for so long feels flimsy, laughable, against the weight of that fact.

So instead of pushing him away, she slowly lifts her hand and touches his face in return. 

Her thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, soft, testing, as though she’s crossing the line in slow motion. Gojo’s impossible eyes widen just a fraction at her gentle touch. 

That’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into hers, clumsy and violent, his body surging forward so fast she staggers. Her back hits the wall with a thud, his frame caging her in. The kiss is messy, hungry, all teeth and heat and desperation, his tongue shoving past her lips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he doesn’t devour her whole.

She gasps against him, steadying herself with her hands on his shoulders. His strength is overwhelming, his need blistering. He kisses like he’s drowning.

She gentles him with touch, coaxing his mouth into something deeper, slower, more deliberate. Her lips move against his with patience, guiding the frantic rhythm into something that crackles with sensual intensity. His fists clench against the wall beside her head, but slowly he yields, letting her draw the storm into something less frantic, more consuming.

He groans into her mouth, teeth scraping over her lower lip, catching it between his own like he might brand her there. The bite makes her gasp, and he takes it as invitation. He drags his mouth down her throat, tongue hot and reckless, and then he’s biting again, harder this time, sucking until her skin burns and the bloom of bruises rises vivid and certain.

Utahime gasps, her fingers digging into his hair. The realisation hits with a jolt almost as sharp as his teeth: he likes this. The press of his jaw, the way he can leave proof of himself in her flesh, mark her as his. Each nip is hungry, juvenile, but there’s something deeper too: the sharp edge of need that borders on worship, the desperate insistence that she belongs to him.

And gods help her, it turns her on. Each hot scrape and wet pull sends a pulse straight through her, electric, aching low in her belly, her thighs tightening instinctively around the sensation. Every mark he leaves is a shock of heat to her cunt. 

His mouth is fevered, wet, biting until she gasped, leaving her bruised and raw. Salt, honey, salt, honey, salt, honey—-every nip stings, every pull soothes, his hunger both punishment and reward.

But he’s too strong. She feels it in the way his mouth latches hard enough to bruise, the way her pulse pounds helpless under his teeth. If she lets him go unchecked, he’ll hurt her, not from malice but from sheer, ungoverned intensity.

“Gojo,” she breathes, the warning frayed and breathless.

He grins against her skin, bratty, boyish. “What? Too much for you, senpai?” His tongue flicks over the sting of his own bite.

Her grip in his hair tightens, firm, tugging his head back just enough to force his gaze up to hers. “Control yourself,” she whispers, steady even as her body hums with want.

For a moment, he resists, mouth dragging sloppily along her throat, teeth grazing the line of her collarbone like he might sink in deeper. But her thumb strokes his cheek, her mouth brushing his again, slow and sure. She offers him something else: not frenzy, but depth.

And, as before, he yields. His teeth ease, his mouth softens, and when he kisses her again, it’s still sloppy, still charged, but coaxed into something sensual, molten. A kiss that doesn’t just claim but consumes.

The marks he’s left throb against the heat of his tongue, every bruise a reminder of how close she came to being devoured whole and how badly part of her wanted it.

The couch receives them in a graceless sprawl, their mouths still locked. Utahime pulls him down with her, her hands at his nape, tasting his breath, tasting his need. He kisses like he’ll die if he stops, messy and urgent, his hands sliding over her body without precision, squeezing her breasts through her blouse with a desperate kind of reverence.

She feels the tremor in him, the way he’s holding back despite the urgency of his mouth. He’s terrified of breaking her, even now.

So she takes his wrist, drags his hand down, presses his palm between her thighs. “Like this,” she murmurs against his mouth, her voice soft but commanding.

His breath stutters, his lips parting in shock. His hand trembles as his fingers slip inside her panties, clumsy and too rough. She gasps, not from pleasure but from the force of it, and he jerks back a fraction, wide-eyed, guilty.

She doesn’t let him pull away. Instead, she closes her hand over his, guiding him, teaching him with the movement of her hips, rocking against his fingers until the rhythm builds into something molten. She moans into his mouth, swallowing his startled gasp.

Gojo looks wrecked, almost cross-eyed with the intensity of it, her heat, her wetness, the way she’s fucking his hand while kissing him deeply, coaxing him into her pace. The sound he makes is ragged, helpless.

“Gojo—” she whispers, both a warning and a reward, and he groans like it undoes him.

Then his mouth tears from hers, and he drags it down her throat, biting again, marking her collarbone, her chest. He’s insatiable, kissing lower, down the slope of her belly, each scrape of teeth sending jolts of heat straight to her core.

He’s hovering again, hesitating just above her thighs, his breath hot against her skin.

She curls her fingers into his hair, firm, coaxing. “Here,” she says, soft but certain, guiding him exactly where she needs him.

And then he obeys.

The first flick of his tongue is tentative, cautious, but her hips jolt, a sharp gasp leaving her. She rewards him with a tug of his hair, with a low moan that makes his whole body shudder.

“Yes,” she breathes, “just like that.”

He groans into her, eager and wrecked, and the vibration makes her cry out. His mouth works harder, wet pulls that leave her toes curling against the cushions. He is frantic to please her, messy but desperate, and she rides his face with quiet, relentless guidance, coaxing his raw need into something that drives her higher, tighter, until she can hardly bear it.

She looks down.

And the sight makes her dizzy.

Those blue eyes—burning, unblinking—fixed on her as his mouth works. A boy between her thighs, beautiful beyond sense, giving everything of himself to this act like it’s worship.

Her chest tightens. I’m fucking him. Me. I’m guiding him through this like—like he’s mine to keep.

A stray thought: Is he a virgin? He’s so desperate, so eager. But she disregards it:  he’s too beautiful, too dangerous, too Gojo to belong to innocence.

Her thighs tremble, his hair damp in her grip, his jaw slick with her. She rides the waves, hips rocking helplessly. The coils of heat tighten, crest, almost snap. She cries out, her voice breaking.

The climax rips through her, sharp and molten, her whole body tensing as she spills apart against his mouth. Her thighs tremble, toes curling against the couch cushions, one hand fisted in his hair, the other clamped on the armrest like she’s anchoring herself to the earth.

Gojo groans into her as she comes, lapping like he can drink it down, desperate to wring every last tremor out of her. By the time she slackens back against the cushions, breath ragged, he’s shaking too: chest heaving, lips and chin slick, eyes blown wide with something close to reverence.

She holds him there, grounding herself in the wet pull of his mouth until the spasms ease.

When she finally loosens her grip, he looks up at her, lips swollen, chin shining, eyes dazed with awe. A boy, and not a boy at all.

And she thinks: How could I reject him? He would shatter.

She feels him hard against her thigh, insistent even through sweatpants, the heat of him impossible to ignore. His breath stutters against her skin as he lifts his head, mouth red and swollen, but he doesn’t speak. He looks ruined, undone, as though words are beyond him.

He just waits.

She realises in a rush that he’s waiting for her: waiting for permission, for instruction. The strongest sorcerer alive, and he’s trembling, breathless, hanging on what she’ll say next.

Utahime strokes his damp hair back from his face, her fingertips sliding over his temple, down to the sharp cut of his cheekbone. He’s devastatingly beautiful like this: flushed, eyes glassy with awe, mouth slack. And it strikes her, sudden and irrevocable, that she is going to let this happen.

Despite everything she knows better. Despite the way the ground could shift beneath them when morning comes. She is going to fuck him, probably raw, because life is short and she nearly lost hers, and his beauty, his hunger, the intensity of what burns between them—it’s all too much to deny.

Her thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth, smearing the wetness he left there. “Take me to the bedroom,” she says softly.

For half a heartbeat he just stares, eyes wide, chest heaving, as though he can’t believe she’s said it. Then his grin breaks—boyish, triumphant. “You got it, senpai.”

His arms slide under her in one fluid motion, strong and certain, and he scoops her up like she weighs nothing at all. She expects the stagger of footsteps, the creak of the floorboards as he carries her down the hall. Instead, the air folds around them with a sharp snap, a dizzying rush of cursed energy.

He warps them straight into her bedroom. 

Show-off.

Utahime gasps, clutching his shoulders as the tatami floor reforms beneath them, the walls of her room blinking into focus. The air hums with the residue of his technique, charged and crackling. He’s still grinning down at her, smug, his breath warm against her temple.

“Could’ve just walked,” she mutters, though her voice comes out breathless.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says, pulling his hoodie over his head.

She looks up at him, at the raw hunger in his eyes, at the boyish pride tangled up in awe. And she thinks, with startling clarity: Oh, I should do better, but I am going to ruin us both.

The bedroom is darker, quieter. Outside, the rain is falling softly. 

He lowers her onto the messy futon, his body a restless hum above hers, and for a moment the room holds nothing but their ragged breathing. He leans down, intent on kissing her again, intent on losing himself—but her hand catches his jaw, firm.

“Me on top,” she says.

The words hang charged in the dark, daring him to argue. His eyes flash with something bright and hard, but he swallows it down, nodding once, the movement jerky, like conceding costs him.

They undress slowly, piece by piece, the air thick with heat and hesitation. Her blouse first, buttons sliding free under his shaking hands. His t-shirt next, tugged off in one graceless sweep, leaving pale skin bared, lean lines of muscle cut sharper than she remembers. Each new inch reveals the fire between them, but there’s no rush. Not yet.

His hands are greedy even as she pushes him back onto the futon, his mouth still trying to chase hers, but she reins him in with her palms at his chest. “Slow,” she murmurs, and he groans, half-complaint, half-surrender.

When she swings her leg over him, straddling his hips, his whole body shudders. His hands seize her immediately, possessive, rough palms curving over her ass, gripping her hips like he might anchor her there forever. The look on his face is almost unbearable: awe tangled with hunger, like he’s dreamt this and can’t quite believe it’s real.

Her cunt brushes the heat of him and his breath breaks, sharp and needy. She reaches down, her hand wrapping around the thick length of him, hot and heavy, making him shudder, his head tipping back against the futon.

And then, the moment. She braces herself, takes him in hand, and lowers onto him slowly, inch by inch.

The stretch makes her gasp, warm and aching, and he groans low in his throat, clutching her tighter, fingers digging into her hips like he might break skin. He wants to surge up, to buck, to take her in one hard thrust—she can feel it in every taut line of his body—but she reins him back, pressing her palm to his chest, steadying herself.

“Easy,” she whispers, though her own voice trembles. “Let me—”

She sinks further, slowly, deliberately, the sheer size of him making her pulse around him, her body adjusting with every shiver. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched, breath tearing ragged from his lungs as though the restraint is killing him.

Finally, she takes him all the way in, seated fully in his lap, and the shock of fullness makes her toes curl, her head tip back. He swears, rough and strangled, arms locked tight around her, as though he can’t tell if he wants to pull her closer or let go before he loses every shred of control.

She opens her eyes, looks down at him, utterly wrecked beneath her, lips parted, chest heaving, hands shaking where they grip her body—and she knows: this is hers to guide.

Always hers to guide.

“Let me—” he begs.

“Not yet,” she says, breathless. “Follow me.”

He obeys, just barely. 

They still.

Utahime stays seated in his lap, full of him, stretched almost unbearably, and for a moment she doesn’t move. The air hums with their mingled breaths, their heartbeats thundering in the same rhythm.

Gojo’s head tips back, then lolls forward again, eyelids fluttering, lips parted like he can’t catch enough air. “Fuck,” he rasps, voice wrecked, “you’re—too—tight—” The words stumble out between gasps, as though even speech is too much effort when she’s wrapped around him like this.

She can feel every tremor in him, every ripple of restraint. He’s fighting not to thrust up into her, his body straining with the effort of letting her set the pace.

His hand comes up, almost clumsy in its reverence, and traces the line of her scar. She flinches at the unexpected tenderness, throat working as she swallows against the flood of heat in her chest.

“Don’t—” she whispers, catching his jaw, guiding his mouth away before he can press a kiss there. She isn’t ready for that, not from him, not when the weight of it would undo her completely.

So instead she steers him lower, to her throat. His mouth opens against her skin, teeth scraping, sucking until another hickey blooms. The sharp sting of it makes her gasp, and the heat courses through her, clenching her tight around him.

Gojo chokes on a sound, half-groan, half-laugh, his fingers bruising her hips. His head drops back for a moment, overwhelmed, and then forward again to nip and suck harder, like he can’t get enough.

Her body answers without thought, and slowly, deliberately, she starts to move. The first roll of her hips is shallow, exploratory, slow and deep. His throat bobs, his hands clench, a hoarse sound tearing from him as though she’s drawing his soul out with every hesitant stroke.

She sets the rhythm, steady and unhurried, guiding them both into it: a pace that burns, that consumes, that lets her feel every inch of him as she rolls over his cock.

And he lets her.

She rides him slowly, steadily, setting the rhythm herself. Deep, dragging strokes that make her whole body thrum with sensation, heat blooming low in her belly. His hands clamp hard on her hips, urging her faster, but she leans into his chest, lips brushing his ear, whispering, “No. My pace.”

He groans, helpless, head tipping back. His thighs twitch beneath her, every muscle taut with the urge to surge up, to take control, but she keeps him grounded with the deliberate roll of her hips. Each slow descent makes his breath stutter, each deep pull nearly undoes him.

When he starts to lift, desperate to thrust into her, she presses her palm to his chest, shoving him back down into the futon. Her voice cuts low, sharp: “Behave.”

It wrecks him. His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open as he trembles under her, undone by her control.

Guiding his hand up from her hip, she drags it between their bodies, pressing his fingers against her clit. His eyes fly open, startled and wide, as she shows him the pressure, the motion, rolling his touch until the sparks scatter through her nerves.

“Here,” she breathes, rocking against his hand, showing him exactly what she likes. “Just like that.”

He stares at her like she’s holy, jaw slack, cheeks flushed, his breath breaking as her body tightens around him with every stroke of his fingers.

And then the words spill out, cracked open, unguarded.

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful—always have been—too good for me—” His voice breaks on a gasp as she squeezes around him. “Fuck—Utahime—I can’t—do you even know what you do to me? Always yelling at me, always so steady—and I can’t stop thinking about you, every goddamn day—”

His head drops back, breath ragged, fingers slipping against her clit as though her pleasure drives the words out of him. “Shouldn’t be like this, but—fuck, I want you—I’ve always wanted you—”

The confessions burn through her, more devastating than the raw stretch of him inside her. Her thighs tremble, the rhythm faltering as heat rushes sharp and unbearable through her chest.

“Gojo—” she gasps, not sure if it’s a warning or plea.

He groans, wrecked, almost cross-eyed as she drags him deeper into her with every slow thrust. The desperation in his babbling, the way he’s too turned on to filter himself, only heightens the wet pull of her climax building again.

And still, she keeps control. Even as the wave rises hot and overwhelming, even as his words batter at her composure, she rides it out, showing him how to touch her, how to please her, guiding him with every roll of her hips until he’s nearly sobbing from the force of it.

The words keep tumbling from him, unguarded, his voice breaking with every thrust of her hips, every pulse of her cunt around him. It tips her over the edge. The combination of his fingers working her clit and his cock filling her so deeply pulls a ragged cry from her throat, and she comes hard, clenching around him as the heat floods through her.

He groans like he’s been gutted, body jerking under hers, undone by the sight of her falling apart on top of him. “Fuck—Utahime—”

She barely has time to steady herself before he moves. In one sudden surge, he grips her hips and flips her beneath him, pressing her back into the futon. He braces his hands on either side of her head, hovering over her, eyes wild, mouth wet and swollen.

“Can’t—fuck—can’t hold back anymore,” he pants, voice wrecked, as he sinks into her again.

She gasps, arms circling his shoulders, the stretch sharper this time as he drives into her with a pace he’s been holding back from the start. Still, even in his desperation, she feels him straining for control, forcing himself to keep his weight from crushing her, trying not to hurt her even as the urge to take over finally consumes him.

It’s raw, sloppy, overwhelming, his hips snapping into hers, her body jolting with every thrust. He buries his face in her neck, biting again, groaning into her skin as though the sound might kill him if he kept it in.

Her nails rake down his back, dragging another guttural noise out of him.

He lifts his head, eyes blown, lips trembling. “Where—where do you want me?”

The question breaks her, the sudden awareness of how close he is, how close they both are. She cups his cheek, breathless. “Not in me.”

He chokes on a groan, hips stuttering once, twice, before he pulls free, fisting himself hard as he kneels over her. His release spills across her belly, her breasts, hot and startling. He gasps with every pulse of it, breath torn from his chest as he watches the pearled glisten coat her skin.

For a moment, the world is just that: his body trembling, his eyes fixed on her, his spend marking her in sharp, messy lines.

Utahime lies beneath him, chest heaving, staring up at him as it hits her all at once: Gojo doesn’t get breathless from effort. He doesn’t get winded from battle or exertion, never has.

This ragged, trembling wreck above her — it isn’t fatigue.

It’s emotion.

He is breathless because of her.

The cicadas sing on, their rasp weaving into the heavy quiet of the room. Utahime lies back on the futon, skin sticky, chest still rising unevenly, trying to catch hold of herself.

Beside her, Gojo hasn’t stopped moving. Not in the wild, desperate way from before, but in a softer current — fingers tracing the curve of her cheekbone, brushing her temple, ghosting over her lips like he’s memorising her piece by piece. His breath is still unsteady, his gaze too raw to bear.

And suddenly, the weight of it crashes over her.

He feels too much. Far too much. And for her. She almost feels cruel, knowing what she knows: that she is fragile, that in their line of work her death is a coin flip, that she cannot let herself imagine longevity. It makes something ache in her chest, a strange pity that he might love her, because she will almost certainly die before him.

He’s so young, still, even with that godlike power humming under his skin. He probably thinks he can protect her forever. She wants to tell him that he can’t. That the world doesn’t allow it. That this, whatever it is between them, is reckless and doomed.

But when she shifts, when her lips part with the beginning of the words, she sees it in him: the narrowing of his eyes, the faint jut of his chin, the boyish stubbornness already coiling, ready to argue, to contradict her, to insist she’s wrong. Petulant in advance.

So she swallows the words. Not tonight.

Tonight she lets him keep tracing her face, lets his fingertips linger at her mouth, down the slope of her jaw, softer than she’s ever felt from him. Tonight she lets herself feel what she shouldn’t: the warmth of his body beside hers, the hum of being alive when so many are not.

She can show him the truth another time. For now, she closes her eyes, exhales, and leans the smallest fraction into his touch.

The night holds them there, catharsis without resolution, two sorcerers balanced on the knife’s edge of what they’ve done —and what will come after.

Salt on the tongue, honey on the teeth. 

That is what it is to let him close: pain and sweetness, reckless and tender, tangled until she can’t tell them apart.