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For WhateverDiamond, bc uni assigments really are the worst :D
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He was in a meeting and maybe it was supposed to be important, but Gojo had stopped paying attention twenty minutes ago.
Utahime, seated directly across from him at the little conference table they used for meetings, had stopped paying attention too. She was still taking notes, still nodding along to whatever Yaga was saying, but her eyes were on Gojo’s face, her cheeks a little flushed.
Gojo, half-amused and half-exasperated, felt a drop of tension slide down his spine, settling down in his gut.
He knew that look. He’d seen it before. Usually in the dead of night, ten minutes after a text from her had made his phone buzz on his nightstand. Or sometimes in the mornings before work, when he would show up at her apartment with breakfast in his hands but would end up with her in her shower a moment later, his face buried between her thighs and breakfast forgotten on the table.
He let his glasses fall down his nose a little, catching her eye from across the table. The flush in her cheeks deepened, her knuckles turning white as her grip on her pen tightened.
Another drop of tension slid down his spine, joining the first in his gut. Gojo sat up straight in his seat, letting one side of his mouth cock up into the smirk that bothered her so much.
He was rewarded when she frowned at him, her lips curling down, her eyebrows drawing together. Gojo had to bite back a smile, because her nose scrunched too in a familiar expression of annoyance.
Annoyed, frowning—but her eyes were still on his, fiery like always and soft around the edges, just enough for him to believe she wasn’t actually irritated with him.
He’d seen that look before. He knew it well. Want, lust, need—and maybe something deeper, if he stopped to think about it.
He did think about it, sometimes. He thought about how, once, she had texted him at three in the morning, asking for him to come over. But by the time he’d dragged himself out of bed and warped to her, she had been asleep, passed out on top of her covers with her phone still in her hand, the screen dimmed.
She’d mumbled something to him, a sleepy request, and Gojo, even though he had known that he should go back home and crawl back into his own bed, had slid onto her mattress beside her, curling his body around hers in the way he did after he fucked her.
Utahime’s eyes had been entirely soft, that next morning. They’d woken up entangled, her body wrapped up in his, and her eyes had been soft, flames diluted. And, for the first time, Gojo had felt that inkling as he’d held her, a feeling stirring deep within him.
He felt it again now, holding her gaze in the middle of the meeting he didn’t really care about. He felt the want, the pull of lust, the insistent need—and the deeper thing, as he watched her mouth fall out of its frown, tension hitting her too.
Gojo let out a slow breath, leaning forward in his seat, bracing his elbows on the table. Utahime had stopped taking notes but she still gripped her pen tightly as she looked at him, her knuckles still white. Eyes traveling over her, Gojo let his glasses slide further down the bridge of his nose because he was thinking of her bent over his desk, her hakama yanked down to her ankles, and he wanted her to see where his mind had gone.
He smirked again, his lips curling up, because the fire in Utahime’s eyes turned to a deep amber color, hot embers. He had a pool of tension in his gut now, his stomach tight, his breath too short.
Maybe he’d tell her to get on her knees for him. He thought about that too; imagining her pretty hair wrapped around his fist, her eyes watering, his cum dripping from her lips. Or maybe he’d get on his knees for her. Maybe he’d push her onto his desk and hook her calves over his shoulders, and let himself drown in the taste of her.
Gojo felt his smirk falter, slipping away because he was suddenly too breathless to hold it. His eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall above Utahime’s head, and he almost groaned in frustration because there was half an hour left in the meeting. He glanced back down to Utahime, leveling his gaze with hers and almost groaning again, because the want was still there in her eyes, still softly burning.
She was so pretty. He’d always thought that. Even before they’d started doing this, even before the texts in the middle of the night and the desperate, hurried fucking shortly thereafter. Even before the showers with her in the morning instead of breakfast.
Gojo raised his eyebrows at her, running his tongue over his teeth. He was half-hard in his uniform trousers, and glad that his jacket covered it. Utahime, cheeks flushed, her notes forgotten, blinked at him slowly, her eyes blazing with a sort of fever now, a single word written amongst the flames.
Please.
She said that to him sometimes, in the middle of the night when nobody else could hear. A soft, pleading whisper in his ear when he was deep inside her, fucking her into her mattress. She said that to him when his mouth was on her pussy, his eyes on hers, her thighs squeezing his head.
She’d said that to him that one night too, that night when he’d slid into her bed instead of going back home like he should’ve. She had been so tired and sweet, curled up on top of her covers with her phone in her hand, sleepily asking that he stay over.
Please.
Forgetting entirely about the meeting for the sudden rush of desire that punched him in the stomach, Gojo pushed himself out of his seat, dragging his phone out of his pocket and up to his ear like he’d gotten a call that was important.
“Gotta take this,” he muttered to Yaga’s frustrated face as he worked his way around the conference table, a little amused at his own insubordination.
Gojo slid out into the empty hallway, heart throbbing and body tight, gripping his phone tightly. And, leaning back against the wall beside the door, he tried to wait an appropriate amount of time before he stuck his head back in the conference room, eyebrows drawn together.
He cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room until they landed on her.
“You’re needed, Iori,” he announced, holding his phone inside the door too.
His voice was a shade too rough, his charade perhaps too flimsy to be believable. He didn’t care.
“Oh, of course,” Utahime said, and Gojo fought a grin because she sounded as composed as she looked, a little flustered, slightly out of sorts.
Please.
She’d be whispering it in his ear soon, in that moment before he made her come. Gojo still hadn’t decided how he’d do it, if he’d fuck her or get on his knees for her, or if maybe he wanted to come in her mouth first. He was rock hard now, aching for her and a little angry about it, but his anger couldn’t take root as she made her way into the hallway too, leaving her notebook and pen on top of the table like she expected to be back in a few minutes.
He moved to the side as Utahime slid the door shut behind her, pushing it closed with a quiet click. He let out a breath, shoving his phone in his pocket, reaching forward to grip her wrist, his thumb over her pulse. And there was a moment, a second quickly passed, when the hallway was dead quiet but for the muted sounds of the meeting behind the closed door and empty but for the two of them, just the two of them, the only time when she ever whispered pleas into his ear.
Gojo felt a little unexpected pride flicker up through him as he thought about her whispers. She was so stubborn, except when they were alone.
He drew her hand forward by his grip on her wrist, his fingers guiding hers down to cup his erection in his pants. He didn’t smile when she exhaled sharply, too stunned by the throb of arousal in his chest.
“Now?” he murmured, glancing around the hallway, not really asking.
“Satoru,” Utahime whispered, biting her lip, as helpless as he was.
She squeezed him a little and he was bending to her before a groan could fall from his throat, catching her mouth with his to muffle the sound.
It was feverish, rushed like always, his desire for her brimming up and spilling over and leaving no time for patience. He reached for her, cupping her jaw with one hand and grasping a handful of her hair with the other, tipping her head back and urging her mouth to open to his; hungry, almost furious. She let go of his erection to fist her hands in his jacket, tugging at it urgently. His glasses fell off, clattering to the floor and he didn’t stop to pick them up.
Please.
He said it to her sometimes too, right at the end. Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, his body giving over, orgasm close. He said it when he wanted to fill her with his cum, or when he wanted to cover her in it, her body painted in his mess. And one more time, on a cold night last December when this whole thing had started, his hands covered in Geto’s blood and his mind slow from shock.
He remembered it still, standing on the street in the cold, knocking on her door because he had wanted to fight with someone and Utahime had always argued with him. But then her door had opened and her eyes had been kind, and the word had slid out of him before he could stop it, his urge to argue vanishing.
Please.
She’d let him in. She’d fallen asleep beside him on her sofa. And, a few weeks later when his head was clearer, she had let him in again when he had knocked, and she had kissed him back when he had pulled her into his arms.
Please.
He’d only ever said it to her. Only her.
Utahime’s hands were still fisted in his jacket as she stumbled with him down the hallway, panting into his mouth, choking on a hushed whimper when he sucked at her lower lip. Gojo had meant to warp them to his office, thinking again of bending her over his desk but he found that he didn’t have the patience for it; too urgent, too breathless, to think properly. He didn’t want her on his desk, suddenly. He wanted her here.
One of his hands rested on the small of her back, pushing her into his body and the other was feeling along the wall, seeking—
His fingers touched the cool metal of a doorknob and Gojo, his mouth slotted messily with Utahime’s, yanked it open, shoving her inside and dragging himself in too, pushing the door closed behind them with a noise that was perhaps too loud.
It was a supply closet, he discovered when he broke from her, his blood hot and his breath too quick. Dim and dusty and forgotten, the shelves stacked high with decades-old school supplies. The door didn’t have a lock and he didn’t care about that either.
“Here?” Utahime whispered, also breathing hard.
She sounded mildly scandalized and Gojo raised an eyebrow at her, one side of his mouth hitching up ironically. Her lips were swollen, puffed from his kisses, her eyes hazed with flames.
“You started this,” Gojo chuckled, sliding his hands to the curve of her waist, gripping her tight.
He bent to her again, catching her lips and easing her backwards against the door he had pushed closed, a soft groan working out of his throat when her tongue slid into his mouth.
“Did not,” Utahime said a little breathlessly into his kiss, but she was scrabbling for his jacket zipper, tugging it down.
“Liar,” he accused, rolling his hips into her.
He felt a little frantic in his urgency, shrugging his jacket off and flinging it behind them, sucking on her tongue until she whimpered again. He shoved at her hakama until he heard stitches rip, too aroused to be careful, the warmth of her body against his and the taste of her mouth cutting straight through him.
“You can’t look at me like that, Hime,” he muttered, dropping to one knee to pull her hakama off of her, flinging that behind them too. "And expect this not to happen."
He stood up quickly, furious at her fiery eyes and her soft prettiness, the heady taste of her and the sounds of her whimpers. And the deeper thing too; his hidden, curling emotions. He was furious when he kissed her again, dragging her roughly against him, thrusting into her hand when she unzipped his pants to draw out his cock.
Roughness, fury—and helplessly gentle with her, biting her lip but not enough to make her bleed, gripping her tightly but never enough to bruise.
“Satoru,” Utahime breathed, stroking him, pinned against the door by his body.
“You want my cock?” Gojo murmured, his lips pressed into her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. “You want me to be inside you?”
He was already moving her before she could answer, turning her around, pushing up her kosode so his hands could fit into the naked, smooth curve of her waist, neatly fitting together.
“Hime,” he breathed, rasping, staring at the little bow in her hair.
Utahime turned her head over her shoulder and her eyes were burning again, her hips pushing back into him, her mouth slightly open. Her palms were flat against the door in front of her, bracing herself.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Gojo grit his teeth, his fingers squeezing her—and then he was yanking her underwear down to her ankles, not bothering to push it all the way off. He wrapped his hands around her waist again and he lifted her slightly, his hips thrusting forward so that his cock slid between her thighs. He grunted, desire burning hot, because he could feel how wet she was even like this, her thighs slick from it, coating him.
He wondered, more desire burning through him, if she had been like this during the meeting, aroused enough to soak through her panties just from looking at him.
“God," he breathed, leaning forward to whisper in her ear. "God, you're gonna kill me, Hime. So wet.”
He briefly considered having her like this—his dick between her thighs, his cum spilling down, messing up a little of her neatness. But—
“Satoru,” Utahime said, her voice soft and secret.
Almost begging, almost pleading. Gojo swore, and he tilted his hips to slide up inside her, sinking into her slickness; engulfing, tight pleasure. Utahime choked on a sound that, had they been entirely alone, out of earshot, would’ve been a moan, sweet satisfaction at having him inside her.
“I’m coming over tonight,” Gojo muttered, his hands on her waist holding her an inch off the floor so he could thrust into her, a rough rhythm only slightly tempered.
“Yes,” Utahime gasped, one hand braced against the door and the other clamped over her mouth to keep herself quiet. "Oh—"
“I know,” Gojo groaned in a whisper, stroking her with his thumbs.
She fit well against his body, soft and small in his hands, her hair spilling down her back. The neat bow in it was slipping loose, unraveling as he fucked into her, falling through the silkiness of her hair.
He could feel it brewing, her pleasure. He could feel her body tensing as he thrust, her breath uneven and short. She turned her head over her shoulder again and he could see it in her eyes, so wide, burning, and very slightly soft. He could see the surrender in her, the last of her stubbornness gone.
“Fuck, Hime,” Gojo murmured, close too, his abdomen taut with it, threads of pleasure pulling tight.
He could hear noises from the hall, muffled talking like the meeting had ended early and he didn’t care, fucking her a little harder, wishing she didn’t have her hand pressed to her mouth so he could hear the sounds she was trying to keep quiet. But then—more surrender as her hand slipped down, her mouth opening.
“Please,” she whispered in helpless desperation. “Satoru—“
“Shit,” Gojo breathed, jaw tensing.
He suddenly couldn’t hold on any longer as he looked at her face, all the soft prettiness, all the want, all the emotion hidden in her eyes. His hands on her waist flexed, shaking slightly, and then he was lost, his head falling back for the sharpness of his orgasm, gasping harshly to keep from groaning her name.
He flooded into her, feeling the warm slickness of his own release fill her as he came, his toes curling in his shoes—and another sensation, something almost sharper than his own gratification; Utahime tensing around him, her legs trembling, her pleasure spilling over. Gojo snapped his head up to watch, his eyes roaming over her hungrily, his hips still rolling. And it was a wave of self-satisfaction and something else, a feeling more vulnerable to watch her come, her lips pressed tightly together to hold in her cry, her fist slamming against the door with a quiet thud.
A shaky calm followed, urgent need fading to peace and Gojo didn't move for a moment, still holding her a few inches off the floor, his hips flush with her ass. Her underwear was still caught around her ankles and he noticed with a twist of dark satisfaction that some of his cum had spilled down her legs like he’d imagined earlier, pooling on the floor beneath where her feet hovered.
“I can get your things,” he murmured, easing her back down to the ground slowly, his body jerking when he slid out of her.
Utahime was a little unsteady on her feet and Gojo bit his cheek to keep his face neutral, another twist of dark satisfaction rippling through him. Her hair was disheveled, her bow slid to the floor—but her eyes were the familiar soft flames, very slightly diluted as she looked up to his face. His abdomen clenched because he wanted to hug her, and he lurched forward before he could stop himself, dragging her into his arms, tucking her body into his.
“I—can get your things,” he murmured again, his lips pressed to her hair.
He groaned softly, kissing the top of her head because she slid her arms around his back, nestling into him like she did in the night, after the fever of desire faded.
“Thanks,” she whispered into his chest.
“Mm-hmm,” he sighed.
They stood, listening to the chatter of voices outside but alone in the closet that didn’t lock. Gojo could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing, and he could feel her fingers stroking him lightly, trailing up his spine and then back down again.
“Satoru?” Utahime said after a moment, tilting her head back so she could look up at him, her chin pressed into his sternum.
Gojo smiled a little, his lips tipping up. He could still see the satisfaction on her face, her expression slightly dazed.
So pretty.
“Yeah, Hime?”
“Did you want to come over tonight?” she asked, brow furrowing.
Gojo exhaled a laugh, his smile growing. He dipped his head, his lips brushing by her ear.
“Yes please, senpai.”
Utahime smacked his back, but she laughed too, a breathless giggle that she buried into his chest.
“You’re such a moron,” she muttered, still giggling.
“You like it,” Gojo shrugged, unbothered.
He pressed his lips to the scar on her cheek before he eased back from her, zipping up his pants, running a hand through his hair. And he winked at her, snickering as she pulled her underwear back up to her hips.
“Be right back,” he murmured, his fingers clasping.
Utahime rolled her eyes at him, but Gojo saw her smile before he slid into darkness, stepping out into the now-empty conference room on the other side. He landed behind where Utahime had sat and he could see her notebook, still precisely where she’d left it, her pen placed on top. And—somewhat to his bewilderment, his glasses too, pitch-black lenses resting just beside her pen.
Gojo cocked his eyebrows up, a lazy grin curling at his lips as he turned to face the front of the room.
“Find my glasses for me, Sensei?” he asked innocently, still grinning. “That’s nice of you.”
Yaga was there, standing at the head of the conference table with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses.
“That was a long phone call, Satoru.”
Gojo laughed, sliding his glasses onto his nose.
“Megumi had a lot to say,” he lied, grabbing Utahime’s pen so he could twirl it through his fingers.
“Megumi,” Yaga repeated in a tone of frustration, his jaw tight, not fooled.
“Megumi,” Gojo nodded.
He held Yaga’s gaze, still twirling Utahime’s pen through his fingers. A vein popped in Yaga’s forehead and Gojo had to press his lips together to keep from laughing again. And then, slumping slightly, Yaga sighed, shaking his head as Gojo picked up Utahime’s notebook too, stopping twirling her pen so he could tuck it into his pocket. He clasped his fingers again, rolling his shoulders once.
“You love her, Satoru?”
Yaga’s question caught him off guard and Gojo froze for a moment, his body stiffening. His mouth opened slightly, something clicking—a dazed realization curling up from his stomach. He looked to the front of the room again, his head tilting to the side in slight shock.
“Uh—“ he started to answer, but struggled to find words.
“Goddamn,” Yaga muttered, but he sounded surprised rather than angry.
And then Gojo shook himself out of it, his mouth closing, everything settling back into place.
Or—almost everything. There was an awareness now, a flicker of understanding twisting in his chest.
“Damn,” Gojo whispered.
He thought, in the instance before he slid back into darkness, of the way she looked at him, soft flames, burning desire—and the hidden emotions too, something deep reflected in himself.
Please.
He’d only ever said it to her.
***
THIS ART IS TO BLAME for this, thank you, Five songs!.
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