Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a failure. Not just a small one, but a big, loud, property-damage kind of failure. You’d been trying to master a precision strike with your technique all afternoon. The goal was simple: knock over a single training dummy fifty meters away. The result… You’d missed the dummy entirely and blown a comically large, perfectly circular hole through the wall of a nearby storage shed. Again.

Yuji had winced. Megumi had sighed the sigh of someone who’d seen this one too many times. And Gojo Satoru had just laughed.

“Well,” he’d said, clapping his hands together with far too much cheer. “That’s enough collateral damage for one day. Everyone hit the showers. Except you.” He’d pointed a long finger right at you. “You and I are going to have a little one-on-one session.”

And that’s how you found yourself here. The main training hall was empty, the other students long gone. The late afternoon sun slanted through the high windows. The air was still and smelled of old wood, tatami mats, and the lingering scent of sweat and effort. It was a smell you usually found comforting. Right now, it just made you nervous.

“So, what’s the plan, sensei?” you asked. “More katas? Meditation?” You were expecting a lecture, maybe some grueling new physical exercise designed to humble you.

“Nothing so pedestrian,” Gojo said. He walked a slow circle around you, his presence filling the empty space. He was so tall, so imposing. “The problem isn’t your form. It’s your flow. Your cursed energy pathways are clogged. There’s too much input, too much raw power, and not enough controlled output. It creates a bottleneck, and then, boom.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the maimed storage shed.

“Okay… so how do we fix it?”

“We need to clear the pipes, so to speak,” he said, stopping directly behind you. “My cursed energy, being the pinnacle of refinement that it is, can act as a... solvent. I can guide it into your system to break down the blockages from the inside. But it requires a direct connection. Skin-on-skin is good, but for this to be truly effective, we need a deeper point of contact. An energy-to-energy interface at the very source of your power.”

You were trying to follow his technical jargon, but you were getting lost. “The source? You mean… like, my stomach? Where my cursed energy comes from?”

You heard him chuckle, a breathy sound right by your ear that made the hairs on your arms stand up. “Close,” he whispered. He placed his hands on your hips, his long fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of your uniform skirt. “A little lower.”

His hands were so warm. They slid from your hips down to your ass. Your breath hitched. “Sensei?”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he said suddenly, his voice now devoid of its earlier playfulness. It was the same tone he used for lectures. “It’s important to align the primary energy channels for this to work.”

Your brain short-circuited. What? This had to be a joke or some weird test. But he was Gojo Satoru. The rules didn’t seem to apply to him, and his methods were famously unconventional. Maybe this was just another one. Mortified but not brave enough to argue with the strongest sorcerer alive, you did as you were told. You dropped to your hands and knees on the rough tatami mat.

Gojo moved behind you again, and this time, you felt him press against your clothed backside. There was something thick and hard nudging the base of your spine. Oh god.

“Skirt up,” he commanded. Without waiting for a response, he did it himself. Your skirt was quickly hiked up to your waist, baring your ass. You were wearing plain white cotton panties, and you’d never been more aware of anything in your life.

“Is this really necessary, sensei? It feels kinda weird,” you stammered pathetically.

“Absolutely necessary,” he purred. “This is jujutsu, pure and simple. We’re establishing a direct transfer point. Think of my body as a conduit, and yours as the receiver.” 

You heard the click of his belt unbuckling, the soft rasp of his zipper. His pants slid down his legs with a soft shush of fabric. And then you felt it. The full length of his erection against the seat of your panties.

You gasped, your body going rigid. He was huge. Even through the thin layer of cotton, you could feel everything. He rocked his hips forward, rubbing himself against you. What the hell is going on? You thought frantically. No, no. You must not doubt him. He knows what he’s doing. Just trust the process.

“Now,” he said. “Let’s remove the final barrier.” He hooked a finger into the side of your panties and slid them down. You unconsciously lifted your legs, one after the other to help him get them off. He tossed them aside carelessly.

The cool air on your bare skin was a shock. You were completely naked from the waist down, on all fours, with Gojo Satoru kneeling behind you, his cock now pressed directly against the crease of your ass. He shifted his hips, nudging you, and the blunt head found the wetness that had, to your utter shame, already started to gather between your folds.

“Ah, see?” he chuckled darkly. “Your body understands. It’s preparing the pathways. Smart girl.”

He wasn’t wrong. As mortified as you were, a traitorous, liquid heat was pooling between your legs. He hadn’t even done anything, and yet your pussy was weeping.

He began to move, his hips circling slowly. The tip of his cock rubbed against your entrance, smearing your arousal all over you. You squirmed, digging your fingers into the mat. The friction was maddening. Every rotation of his hips sent a jolt of illicit pleasure straight to your core. He wasn’t trying to get inside you. Not yet. This was just torturous tease.

“Feel this?” he murmured, dragging the tip of his cock from your drenched slit all the way up to your clit. “This is your cursed energy liquefying. Overflowing. It’s a good sign, but it means the blockages are right at the surface. We need to apply targeted pressure to pop them.” He nudged himself right against your clit, making you gasp and buck. “This is the epicenter of the blockage. We need to… stimulate it.”

He pressed down, rubbing the head of his cock back and forth over your clit. The sensation was obscene. You whimpered, your hips starting to move on their own mindless, seeking motion. You were so wet now. The logical part of your brain had long since clocked out. But the rest of you… the rest of you was on fire.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Let my energy flow. Feel that little tremor? That’s your cursed energy reacting. It’s recognizing a superior force and starting to recalibrate. I think we’re ready to progress. Just a shallow connection to start. We don’t want to overwhelm your system.”

He guided himself to your entrance. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself. He pushed forward, and the head of his cock breached your opening. It was just the very tip. He held you steady with his hands on your hips as he began to move. He thrust, but only an inch. In, then out. The thick ridge of his cockhead slid just past your entrance, then pulled back. In again, a fraction deeper this time. Your pussy clenched around him instinctively. Each shallow thrust was an agonizing tease. He was giving you just enough to feel his immense size, to make you aware of how much more there was, but denying you the satisfaction of being filled.

“Can you feel it?” he whispered, his voice thick. “My cursed energy is probing the pathway. It’s finding the resistance points.” His shallow thrusts became a little faster, right at your entrance. You were folds were being stretched, stimulated, fucked by just the first few inches of him. You could feel the rest of his hard length pressing against your perineum.

You were panting, sweat trickling between your shoulder blades. Your own hips started to push back against his shallow thrusts, trying to impale yourself deeper onto him. You needed more. You were so wet, so open, so ready. The ache deep in your belly was unbearable.

“Sensei…” you whimpered.

“What is it?” he teased, pulling back. “Tell me what your energy needs.”

You couldn’t form the words. With a frustrated sob, you spread your knees wider, tilting your pelvis up, lifting your ass higher in a desperate invitation. You pushed back against him again, your body screaming a single command: More.

“There it is,” he hummed with satisfaction. “Your body is asking for it. Opening up for sensei. Good girl.” 

His hands clamped down on your hips. Then he fulfilled your wish. He drove his hips forward in one stroke, going all the way in, sinking his cock to the hilt. You gasped. He was so deep, so thick. He stretched your insides in a way that was simultaneously painful and exquisitely pleasurable. He stayed there for a moment, unmoving, letting you feel every inch of him buried deep inside your pussy. Letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. You could feel your inner muscles fluttering, spasming around his thick shaft.

“Perfect connection,” he grunted, and then he began to move.

He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, making you whine at the loss, before thrusting back in. He established a relentless rhythm. It felt like you’d been at this for ages. Your knees were raw from the mat, your arms trembling from holding yourself up, but you didn’t want him to stop. You couldn’t.

Out of nowhere, he flipped you onto your back, grabbing your ankles and hoisting them up onto his shoulders, forcing your legs wide apart. “New position, new energy pathway,” he explained as he positioned the head of his cock at your dripping pussy. “We need to hit the meridians in your lower spiritual gate. Look down, my little protege. Watch the connection point. This is a crucial part of the lesson. Visual confirmation reinforces the energy pathways.”

Your head lolled back against the mat, but you obeyed, lifting it just enough to watch. The sight stole the air from your lungs. His cock was huge, thick and veiny, slick with your fluids and glistening in the dimming light. The head was poised right at your entrance. It looked so intimidating. You watched, mesmerized, as he slowly pushed himself inside you.

Your pussy stretched impossibly wide to take him in. You saw your folds engulf the head, then the thick shaft, inch by inch. It was an beautiful sight. You were being filled once more, and you were watching it happen this time. You watched the whole thing. You saw yourself take him. All of him.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Watch my cock slide into your tight little pussy. See how you take me? That’s your body adapting.” He thrust again, harder this time. “Every time I hit your cervix like that, it’s a direct shock to your energy core. It shatters the blockages. The deeper I get,” he drove in with punishing force, forcing a squeal from you, “the more effective the treatment.”

He began to fuck you in earnest. The sounds were deafening in the otherwise silent training room: the wet, slapping noise of his skin against yours, your choked sobs, and his steady stream of instructional dirty talk. 

And you couldn’t look away. You were hypnotized by the sight of his thick cock disappearing into you, then reemerging, only to plunge back in. You’d seen his cock. You’d felt its intimidating size when he was teasing you. A part of you, deep down, had been terrified, convinced you would tear, that it wouldn’t fit. But it did. Perfectly. Every powerful thrust seated him completely inside you, and while the stretching was intense, it also felt very good. It felt like a major accomplishment, a physical feat you never would have thought possible. You felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

You imagined telling Nobara about this later, as you’d always told her everything. You will not believe the size of Gojo-sensei’s cock, you’d say. And she would absolutely lose her mind. No way, she’d gasp, her eyes wide. Details. I need every single fucking detail. Is it thick? Is it veiny? How big are his balls? You’d describe how it felt to have him slide all the way in, how he filled you up so completely you felt like you might split in two, but in a good way. She wouldn’t even be scandalized. She’d just be insanely supportive. You took all of that? You’re my hero.

Too bad you could never, ever actually tell her. This monumental achievement was yours and yours alone.

“Feel my balls slapping against you?” Gojo asked, pulling you from your reverie as his pace quickened. “That’s percussive therapy. The vibrations help loosen the ambient cursed energy. Every part of this process has a purpose.” He pulled almost all the way out, before ramming back in so hard you saw stars. “See how wet I’m making you? Your body is flushing out the impurities. The slicker your pussy gets, the cleaner your pathways become.”

This can’t be right, your mind screamed, but it was a distant, feeble voice. But he’s Gojo-sensei… he wouldn’t… would he?

All you knew was the thick shaft of your teacher filling you, stretching you, driving you toward something cosmic. The friction was building an unbearable pressure in your core. You could feel the change in him, a coiling tension in his muscles, the way his hips hammered into you more frantically. He was getting close, too.

“Sensei, wait!” you gasped, your hands flying up to push weakly at his chest. “You should… you should pull out, right?”

His hips stilled for a beat, his cock still buried deep inside you. He looked down at you, his breathing ragged, a film of sweat on his brow. For a second, you thought he’d listened. Then he smirked. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Pulling out would waste the entire lesson. This is the most important part.”

“But—"

He cut you off with another deep thrust. “It’s a complete system flush,” he panted, his rhythm resuming, faster than before. “Think of it as… a high-potency jujutsu serum. My essence is about to be released in its most concentrated form. It has to be delivered directly to the source to have any effect. It’s what purges the blockages!”

Gojo was talking about his cum. He was calling it a high-potency jujutsu serum. He was really selling it, you had to give him that. He sounded like a late-night infomercial host. Tired of lackluster cursed energy control? Sick of accidentally blowing up school property? Try Gojo-Brand Cursed Energy Cure-All! Side effects may include pregnancy, emotional confusion, and a crippling addiction to being railed by your teacher!

“The more of my cum you take,” he continued, slamming into your cervix to really drive the point home, “the bigger the power boost. It’s a direct correlation. Do you want to get stronger, or not?”

You stared up at him, your mind trying to do the mental gymnastics required to process this. On one hand, this was the most transparently ridiculous line of bullshit you had ever heard in your entire life. On the other hand, it was really, really hard to think critically when there was a massive cock hammering into your pussy, sending waves of mind-numbing pleasure through your entire body. He definitely knew what he was doing with that, at least.

And this was Gojo-sensei. The Strongest. Surely he was telling the truth. He was your teacher. He was bound by some code, right? He wouldn’t just lie, wouldn’t make all of this up just so he could raw-dog his dumbass student and pump her full of his cum for his own selfish pleasure.

...Actually, that sounded exactly like something he would do.

But still. You had to trust him. It was either trust him or admit to yourself that you were just a horny idiot. The “special training” narrative was much, much better for your self-esteem.

You gave a shaky nod, your hips starting to buck against him on their own. “Okay… okay, sensei,” you gasped. “I… I’ll do my best.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and the words short-circuited what was left of your brain.

Just as your own climax tore through you, you felt his cum flood you. He didn’t stop. He kept pumping, emptying himself completely inside you, his whole body shuddering as he poured what felt like a gallon of his high-potency serum directly into your womb. The warmth spread instantly through your belly, a radiating heat that felt both disgusting and kind of nice.

He stayed inside you for a few minutes, his cock twitching as it softened. You thought it was over. You thought the “lesson” was complete. You were wrong. Just as you started to process what had happened, you felt him begin to harden again, still lodged deep within your cum-filled pussy.

“Wh-what are you doing, sensei?” you stammered.

“Reinforcement,” he said simply. “One treatment is good, but repeated applications are better. It ensures the blockages don’t reform. We need to oversaturate your system. Get you properly stuffed with my energy.”

Before you could protest, he started moving again. Slower this time, his re-hardening cock sliding through the mix of his cum and your slick. The sensation was outrageous. He was fucking his own cum back into you. He changed your position again, pulling out just long enough to flip you onto your stomach, pushing your face into the mat and grabbing your hips to pull you up. He entered you from behind, the angle even deeper.

This time felt different. There was no pretense of a gentle start. He just fucked you, hard and rough, his hand tangling in your hair to yank your head back. He talked less, his words reduced to guttural curses and praises, telling you what a good girl you were for taking his cock so well, how your tight pussy was made for this “training.” It felt like hours passed. You came again. His own release followed soon after, another massive load flooding your already full womb.

You were sobbing now. You were so full. You could feel his cum trying to leak out, but he pressed himself against you, keeping it all in.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “We’re not done until I say we are.”

And to your absolute disbelief, he did it again. He waited inside you, hardening for a third time, and then resumed his relentless fucking. He pushed you onto your side, hooking a leg over his hip, his thrusts powerful and deep. By now, your pussy was hypersensitive, rubbed raw and aching, but it was also incredibly pliant, molded perfectly to his shape. His cum was everywhere, serving as a lubricant for his merciless pounding. Your body was on autopilot, bucking back against him, chasing a pleasure it was too exhausted to fully comprehend.

When he came the third time, it felt like your womb would burst. He pumped and pumped until he was completely spent. This time, when he pulled out, a thick river of his cum cascaded out of you, running down your thigh and pooling on the dark wood of the floor. The sheer volume of it was staggering. He moved away, leaving you a trembling, used mess on the floor. You heard him dressing in the dark.

“That should do it for today,” Gojo said casually, as if he’d just led you through a series of complex kata. “Your energy levels feel completely stable now. Excellent work.” He sounded pleased, like a teacher proud of his student’s progress. “Report to the training grounds at dawn. I want to see the results. And remember,” he paused at the door, “this is our little secret.”

The screen door shut, and you were left alone in the dark training room. For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just stared up at the high ceiling

What in the ever-loving fuck had just happened? 

Your exhausted mind tried to convince you that this was all just a dream. A spectacularly vivid wet dream brought on by the stress of your failing cursed energy control and a subconscious crush on your impossibly hot teacher. Yes, that had to be it. You’d probably fallen asleep during meditation and this was all a very, very vivid fantasy.

Except… the ache between your legs was undeniably real. The stickiness gluing your thighs together was real. Cautiously, you brought a trembling hand down to touch yourself. Your fingers brushed against your folds. They were puffy and sensitive from the hours of his relentless pounding. You slipped a finger inside yourself, just a little, and recoiled at the sensation. You were still so full of him. A thick stream of his cum immediately oozed out to coat your hand, the evidence of his repeated “instructions.”

This wasn’t a dream. No dream could feel this real, this… thorough.

Was jujutsu training supposed to be like this? You tried to recall your orientation, the handbooks, anything that might have mentioned “advanced energy transfer” via raw sex. Nothing came to mind. It seemed insane. Utterly, completely insane. But then again, everything about this world was insane. Curses that looked like nightmares, techniques that warped reality, a school hidden in plain sight. And this was Gojo Satoru, you reminded yourself yet again. The rules didn’t apply to him. Maybe this really was some top-secret, highly-advanced technique only he knew.

He’d seemed so convincing, his explanations so… technical. Percussive therapy, spiritual gates, energy payloads. It all sounded legitimate when he said it, his voice dripping with authority while his cock dripped with your juices.

But would he give this “special training” to anyone else? Maki would have impaled him with her naginata before he could even unbutton his pants. Nobara would have hammered a nail through his skull and called it a day. No, this was definitely not standard procedure.

It doesn’t matter, you thought. It’s too late now anyway.

It had been too late the moment you’d let him hike up your skirt without a word of protest. Too late the moment he’d hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slid them down your legs. And definitely too late when, after the first time he came, you hadn’t stopped him, had instead let him roll you over and fuck you again, and again. There was no going back.

Speaking of panties… where the hell were they?

Oh, shit. 

You hadn’t seen where he’d tossed them. Where had they landed? You started a frantic search, stumbling around the spacious room, peering into dark corners.

The others had training in here at sunrise. If any of them found a pair of your panties crumpled in a corner…you didn’t even want to imagine it. Nobara would know in an instant. She’d never let you live it down. The shame would be unbearable. You would have to pack your bags, leave the school, and go live in a cave for the rest of your life.

“Okay, think, think,” you whispered to yourself. “Where would an asshole sensei throw his student’s underwear?”

You crawled around on your hands and knees, ignoring the slickness still trickling from between your legs, patting the floorboards. Finally, your hand brushed against a small scrap of cotton near the weapons rack. You snatched them up, a wave of relief so intense it almost made you dizzy. You took a moment to pull your skirt down, trying to smooth it out, but it was a hopeless cause. You were a walking disaster. A mess of wrinkles, sweat, and Gojo’s spunk. You’d have to sneak back to your dorm and pray no one saw you.

Just as you reached the door, your eyes fell on the spot where he had first pushed you onto your knees. A large, milky puddle was glistening on the floor. You couldn’t just leave it there. With a sigh of pure exasperation, you grabbed a cleaning cloth from a nearby bucket, drenched it with water, and got back down on your knees, scrubbing away the last physical traces of your “special lesson.” 

Damn it. You should have just gone to Tokyo Gakugei.

Chapter Text

That next morning, you walked onto the training grounds feeling like a tightly-wound secret. Every muscle in your body ached. You could still feel the phantom fullness of him, the memory of his cock stretching you wide, the lingering warmth of his seed deep in your womb. You had scrubbed yourself raw in the shower, but it felt like you could still smell him on your skin. 

When you saw Gojo standing there with Yuji and Megumi, blindfold on, hands in his pockets, looking utterly relaxed and nonchalant, a hot blush crept up your neck. He gave you a lazy wave, a smirk playing on his lips that only you could decipher.

“Alright,” he announced, singling you out immediately, as he gestured to a line of target dummies at the far end of the field, at least fifty meters away. “The usual drill. I want you to knock down only the one on the far left. Don’t even ruffle the others.”

This was the exact exercise you’d failed so spectacularly yesterday, the failure that had led to you blasting a hole through a nearby building and initiating this whole… situation. Normally, the thought of trying again would fill you with dread. Your technique, Aerokinesis, was powerful but you had no finesse. 

But today felt different. As you took your stance, you felt strangely calm. You reached for your cursed energy, and instead of the usual uncontrollable torrent, it felt pliable. A steady river flowing exactly where you guided it. You extended your hand, pictured the energy coalescing into a focused point, and released.

There was no deafening explosion. Just a sharp whoosh as an invisible bolt of force shot across the field. The target doll on the far left was vaporized, its stuffing exploding outwards in a silent puff. The other dolls remained perfectly still.

Silence.

Yuji’s jaw was on the ground. Megumi’s eyes were wide.

You stared. You’d done it. It was perfect. Effortless.

A slow clap started behind you. It was Gojo. “See?” he grinned. “What did I tell you? A little direct energy alignment, and bam! Perfect control.” He winked, a gesture that now felt loaded with a hundred secret meanings. “Guess my methods work, huh?”

And in that moment, any lingering doubt, any tiny voice whispering that what he’d done was wrong, was silenced. It worked. He hadn’t been lying.

The day passed in a daze. You went to your regular classes, but the words were just a buzz in your ears. All you could think about was the feeling of your cursed energy, now so calm, and the memory of how it got that way. Late that afternoon, just as you were leaving the library, Gojo cornered you in an empty hallway.

“Excellent progress today,” he said, backing you against the wall, caging you in with his arms. “But we can’t get complacent. Your control is stable now, but we need to work on endurance. Maintaining that stability under prolonged… intense pressure. It’s a different kind of training.”

“What… what kind of training?” you asked nervously.

His grin widened. “Your energy core is like a muscle. We need to work it out, exhaust it, and then flood it with restorative properties so it rebuilds stronger. The best way to do that is through sustained energy exchange. Multiple applications are necessary to really hammer home the lesson. There’s a secluded clearing in the woods west of the school. It’s got a great ambient energy flow. Meet me there in twenty minutes. Skip the panties. It’ll be better for… ventilation.”

He just wants to fuck you again, that tiny voice whispered.

But my technique really is stronger, you argued back.

You should have said no. You should have told him you’d just practice the old-fashioned way. But the memory of your perfect shot that morning, and the even more potent memory of those earth-shattering orgasms, made you nod.

Twenty minutes later, you found him in a sun-dappled clearing. The air smelled of damp earth and pine. He was leaning against a massive old oak tree, pants already unzipped. His cock, already semi-hard, jutted out from the fly of his trousers.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, waving you over. “Alright, lesson time. Turn around and brace yourself against the tree.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you did as you were told. You placed your palms flat against the rough bark. You felt him behind you. He hiked your skirt up, his cool fingers brushing against the back of your thighs. You’d obeyed his instructions and worn nothing underneath.

“Today, we’re focusing on aligning the spinal energy channel,” he explained, his voice a low murmur by your ear as he pressed his erection against your ass. “This position ensures a direct line from the base of my energy source to the crown of your head.”

He didn’t bother with teasing this time. He just lined himself up and shoved his cock into you in one magnificent motion. You gasped. He was just as big as you remembered.

“That’s it,” he grunted, grabbing your hips to hold you still. “Feel that? Feel me buried deep in your tight pussy. That’s the starting point. Now, we begin the training.”

His pace was relentless. Every time he slammed into you, your head knocked lightly against the tree. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “Deeper now… got to really pound the energy in.” He pulled out almost completely before driving back in, slapping your ass cheek with his other hand. The sting made you cry out, your hips bucking. “Can you feel your energy flow stabilize?”

You couldn’t feel a goddamn thing except for his massive cock stroking your insides. But you nodded anyway, moaning as he hit a spot deep inside that sent shivers down your spine. “Y-yes, sensei.”

“Good girl,” he praised, picking up the pace. “I’m increasing the pressure now. Testing the limits of your reinforcement. You have to take it. All of it. Every fucking inch.”

His words were just a series of bullshit layered over the filthy act itself. You were being fucked senseless by your teacher. He was talking about cursed energy while his balls slapped against your ass, sending sparks of pleasure through you with every thrust. The sheer absurdity of it was almost as good as the friction of his cock inside you. An orgasm started to build in your belly. You whimpered, your knees starting to buckle.

“Almost there,” he panted. “Remember, you need the whole payload. Got to absorb every drop of this premium-grade cum. It’s what rebuilds the energy pathways.”

Then he came and flooded your womb. You felt him pulse and spurt inside you. Your own climax crashed over you a second later. He didn’t pull out. He just rested his weight on you, breathing heavily. His cum began to slowly leak from you, running down your inner thigh.

“Round one, complete,” he murmured after a minute. “Now we let it soak in before the second application. Deep conditioning requires layers.”

True to his word, he stayed inside you, letting himself grow hard again within your slick, cum-filled. You soon figured out: it was never just once with Gojo. The sensation of his cock re-inflating, stretching your pussy from the inside out, was an intimacy so profound it made you want to cry. Once he was fully hard again, he resumed his fucking, slower this time. He was working his cock through the mixture of his own semen and your fluids, and the sound was both disgusting and wonderful.

“See? This is how we make it permanent,” he whispered, his voice smooth and persuasive again. “We don’t give the blockages a chance to reform. We just keep hammering them down, keep stuffing you full of superior energy until there’s no room for anything else.”

He fucked you for what felt like another hour before he came again, pumping another massive load into you. When he finally pulled out, a thick river gushed out of you, pooling on the mossy ground at your feet. You were past the point of coherent thought.

It became your new normal. Every day, a new lesson. He’d corner you in the storeroom, claiming the tight confines would help you “focus your energy” better before bending you over a crate of cursed tools and fucking you from behind. He’d summon you to the school’s dusty archives, telling you the residual energy of ancient texts would “amplify the transfer,” before pushing you onto a table and spreading your legs wide. Another session was for “improving your stealth capabilities,” required him to fuck you silently in a supply closet, one hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your moans while the other held your hips steady for his deep thrusts. He took you in the infirmary after hours, on the rooftop under the moonlight, and sometimes in his own quarters, on his bed.

Each time, there was a new excuse. Fucking you on your stomach was for “grounding your energy.” Fucking you with your legs over your head was to “open up your celestial crown.” He was a master of bullshit, and you were a willing student. And every single time, without fail, he did it raw, and he came deep inside you. Sometimes once, sometimes two or three times in a single “lesson.”

“A condom would block the energy transfer,” he’d explained with a perfectly straight face. “It’s like trying to teach someone to swim while they’re wearing a life jacket. Counterproductive.”

You started to feel strange when you weren’t full of him, like something was missing. Your body was in a constant state of being either sore from a recent fucking, or tingling with anticipation for the next one. You learned to always keep a spare pair of panties in your bag.

The tiny voice of reason in your head would try to intervene now and then. He was fucking you because he could. Because you were naive and trusted him, and because you never said no. But it was hard to listen to that voice when your technique was improving by leaps and bounds. You were acing every training exercise. Even your classmates had started to look at you with a new respect. 

Maybe his cock was really magical. His cum really had some sort of high-grade jujutsu properties that no one else knew about. It was the only explanation that made any sense. A teacher wasn’t supposed to shove his raw cock into his student and pump her full of cum multiple times a day. You may be dumb but even you knew that much. But a teacher who got results, even through wildly unconventional and deeply inappropriate means… well, that was a good teacher, wasn’t it? The jujutsu world wasn’t normal. Why should its teaching methods be?

Besides, it felt so fucking good. Beyond good. It was transcendent. Every session left you blissed-out, your brain full of endorphins and your pussy full of his seed. The way he looked at you, the way he praised you, the way he made you feel… it was intoxicating. 

You decided right then and there not to think about it too deeply. It was what it was. You were getting stronger, he was getting off, and you were experiencing pleasures you’d never thought possible. And it’s not like everyone got to be impaled by Gojo Satoru’s magical cock on a daily basis. What was there to complain about?

Chapter Text

“Today’s lesson,” Gojo announced, “is about sensory amplification. A sorcerer can’t just rely on their eyes. You need to learn to feel cursed energy on your skin, in the air, everywhere. Your own sensory output is muted because you’re still filtering it through logic. We need to bypass your brain and plug directly into your nervous system.”

You were in an empty classroom. It was a place of learning, of mundane academic discipline, which made what he was suggesting feel all the more profane. He’d intercepted you after the last class of the day, dismissing the others with a wave of his hand and a promise of “personalized tutoring” for you. 

Now, he gestured to one of the sturdy wooden desks in the front row. “Up you go. Skirt up, legs open for sensei. We need to stimulate the primary nerve cluster at the core of your body to kickstart the amplification process. It’s the most direct method.”

There it was again. Another one of his flawlessly delivered, completely batshit excuses that sounded just plausible enough to pass this off as training. In other words, he wanted to eat your pussy.

A few weeks ago, you might have blushed or stammered. Now, you just did as you were told. There was no hesitation anymore. You hoisted yourself onto the desk. You hiked up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist, and then, at his expectant gesture, spread your legs wide. The cool classroom air ghosted across your exposed, panty-less pussy, making you shiver.

Gojo had kicked a chair out of the way and knelt between your open legs. He was on his knees before you, a god of the jujutsu world, humbling himself at your altar. The image was a paradox that scrambled your brain: him, in a position of supplication, yet in total control.

“The tongue is an excellent conductor of cursed energy. Direct application is key for this technique.”

You held your breath as he leaned forward, his face so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him before he even touched you. He took a moment to just look, his gaze tracing the lines of your folds, the little bead of your clit peeking out, the glistening slickness that was already coating you. He was making you wet with just a look, and he knew it.

“Perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then, his mouth was on you. The first touch was a broad, wet slap of his whole tongue, slowly dragging from your asshole right up to your clit. You gasped. He gripped your thighs with firm hands, pinning you down, holding you open for him as he went back for more. You weren’t going anywhere.

His lips peeled back your folds, exposing your sensitive inner flesh before his tongue would swoop in to soothe the area with purposeful strokes. You could feel the slight rasp of his stubble against your inner thighs, a rough texture that contrasted with the impossible softness of his tongue. He sucked, his cheeks hollowing as he created a powerful suction directly over your slit, then released you with a wet pop, and immediately flicked the tip of his tongue directly against your clit. You gripped the edges of the desk, your knuckles turning white as you moaned his name.

He hummed his approval. His tongue became more insistent. It circled your clit, danced over your swollen folds, then plunged deep inside you, tasting the juices you were now producing in earnest. You had to bite your lip to keep from screaming.

What actually made this whole thing feel so good? So mind-bendingly, soul-shatteringly good?

The big cock was an obvious factor, of course. His stamina was inhuman, and the way he filled you up was an addiction. The man was a prodigy in everything he did, and that apparently included cunnilingus. He knew exactly where to press, when to lick, when to suck. 

But that wasn’t the whole story. As his tongue delved deep inside you, then retreated to circle your clit again, your foggy mind started to wander, chasing the real, secret ingredient to this addictive recipe.

The wrongness of it all.

He was Gojo Satoru. Your teacher. His job was to guide you, to protect you, to train you to fight curses. His job was not supposed to include kneeling on a dusty classroom floor and eating your pussy like it was his last meal on earth. This entire arrangement was a spectacular breach of every rule, spoken and unspoken. He was taking advantage of your trust in the most profound way possible. He could be destroying your life, your career as a sorcerer, your reputation. He must have known. And yet he did it anyway. And yet, you wanted him to.

God, that was what made it so unbelievably hot.

The thrill of the secret was a potent drug. The constant fear of being discovered. The door wasn’t even locked. What if someone walked in right now?

What a sight it would be.

There you were, perched on a desk, skirt hiked up to your stomach, legs spread as wide as they could go, held in place by his strong hands. And between them, the strongest sorcerer alive, on his goddamn knees with his face buried in your pussy. How would you even explain this?

Oh, Gojo just happened to trip and fell. Face-first. Right into your conveniently spread, completely bare pussy which you were airing out for… uh, hygienic reasons. Yes, that was it. Good airflow is very important for a sorcerer’s core.

His hands, currently gripping your thighs and pulling them even wider apart? He was just seeking leverage, of course. Trying to push himself back up from his terribly unfortunate, pussy-oriented fall. And the disgusting, wet, slurping sounds? That was… him trying to regain his balance. With his tongue. A little-known jujutsu technique for stabilizing one’s inner ear. The way you were bucking your hips, grinding your pussy into his face? Just you, being a helpful student, trying to assist him in his quest for balance by providing a more… stable surface.

Yeah, totally believable. 

What else were you supposed to do? Tell him no?

He was The Strongest. He wasn’t just a man. He was a phenomenon, a god. When a force like Gojo Satoru tells you to open your legs, you do it. Arguing was pointless.

And now, weeks into this madness, you didn’t even want to say no. Why would you deny yourself this? Saying no would mean an end to all the thrilling secrets and the mind-blowing orgasms. It would mean an end to being special. In a school full of prodigies and clan heirs, you had something no one else did: the complete, obsessive focus of Gojo Satoru. Even if that focus manifested as him eating you out on a classroom desk.

As if sensing the trajectory of your thoughts, he pulled back to admire his work: Your pussy was flushed and slick, your folds plump and glistening, trembling on the edge of a climax. Without a word, he dove back in, his tongue working double-time.

“Oh god—” you gasped.

“No god, just me,” Gojo grinned shamelessly against you.

To punctuate his point, he slipped two fingers inside you, slicking them with your juices before starting a brutal rhythm against your G-spot while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The dual stimulation was too much. The pressure was building. Your vision tunneled. The sounds of the classroom, the distant tick-tock of the wall clock, the chirp of a cicada outside the window, faded away, replaced by the rushing in your ears and the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy. 

You couldn’t hold back any longer. Your back arched, your thighs shaking violently. Your orgasm ripped through you in a convulsing wave of pure bliss. Your pussy clenched and spasmed around his fingers as a torrent of slick fluid gushed from you, drenching his face, his mouth, his chin. You came, and you came, and you came, sobbing with the sheer force of the release.

When your spasms finally subsided and you slumped back boneless onto the desk, he looked up at you. His face was a mess, shiny with your fluids. There was a drop of you on his lower lip. He licked it off slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He looked more pleased than you’d ever seen him. 

Rising to his full height, Gojo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned in to kiss you. It was deep and possessive, and you could taste yourself on his tongue. It made your core clench all over again. While he kissed you, he unzipped his pants. You heard the rasp of the zipper and then felt the hotpress of his erection against your entrance. Naturally, he was rock-hard.

He broke the kiss to rain small, wet kisses down your neck while his hips began to move, rubbing the fat head of his cock along your wet folds. The friction made you moan despite your best efforts.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered. “You just came all over my face and you’re already twitching for my cock. Always so wet and ready for sensei’s cock.”

You nodded pathetically, your hips starting to push up, seeking the promised invasion. You were desperate for it. Desperate to be full again. But then, suddenly, the playfulness was gone. He grabbed your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh just enough to make you feel the pressure. His brilliant blue eyes bored into yours.

“Listen to me,” he said as he continued the torturous rubbing of his cock against your clit. “This pussy… it’s mine now. You understand that, don’t you? I’m the one who fixed it. I’m the one who fills it every day. I’m the one who makes it feel this good.” He pressed harder, making you gasp. “That means only I get to touch you like this. Only I get to be inside you.”

He pushed in just a little deeper. You let out a soft whimper.

“That means no one else gets to touch you like this. No other boys, no other men. No late-night study sessions with Megumi. No sparring too close with Yuji. I don’t want them anywhere near you. And if some other man ever, ever tries to put his hands on you… It doesn’t matter who he is. A classmate. Another sorcerer. Some random piece of trash on the street. If I find out, if I even suspect that someone else has touched what is mine, it won’t be pretty. I will find him, and I will tear him apart piece by piece, right in front of you. Are we fucking clear?”

You should have been scared. Horrified, even. Gojo was literally making death threats. But the logic centers had long since been fucked out of your brain. All you could feel was the rock-hard length of his cock rubbing against your clit. Arguing was the last thing on your mind. You wanted that cock. You wanted it now.

“Yes,” you breathed out. “Yes, sensei. I understand. I’m yours. Only yours.”

His eyes softened, a flicker of feral satisfaction crossing his face. “Good girl,” he smiled. “Begging so nicely. How can I say no?”

As a reward for your compliance, he drove his hips forward. His entire cock slammed into you at once, stretching you to your absolute limit. A scream was torn from your lungs. He pulled back, then slammed back in again. And again. And again.

As he pounded you senseless right there on the desk, a fleeting thought managed to surface in your mind. Gojo was being so dramatic. And for what? So unnecessary. After this, after him, what other man could possibly compare? No one. He was worrying about a nonexistent threat. He was in a league of his own, and you were happily, hopelessly ruined for anyone else. 

There was no competition. There was only Gojo. You were his. It was that simple.

Chapter Text

Your education didn’t stop at jujutsu. Gojo Satoru, as it turned out, was a truly dedicated educator, and he taught you many things behind closed doors. They weren’t about cursed energy manipulation or domain theory. They were about him. One of the core subjects in this specialized curriculum was sucking his cock.

His reasoning, when he first introduced this particular module, was as brilliantly absurd as always. You were in his private quarters, having just finished an intense session on his bed. You were lying there, sticky with his cum and boneless with pleasure. But he was still hard.

“You know,” he’d said, tracing a lazy finger down your spine, “your cursed energy control has improved, but your fine-motor application is still a bit... sloppy. You use a sledgehammer when you need a scalpel. We need to train the smaller, more precise muscle groups. Mouth, tongue, throat. It’s about channeling micro-bursts of energy with absolute precision.” He tapped his lips thoughtfully. “Plus, it strengthens the connection between your energy core and your… well, your face.”

You had stared at him, your brain still too fuzzy from your recent orgasm to process the sheer audacity of his bullshit.

“So,” he continued, prodding his cock against your belly. “New lesson. Oral energy channeling.”

He taught you like it was any other subject. He was patient, methodical, and incredibly demanding. He made you kneel before him. You stared at his cock, so close to your face it was all you could see. The sheer size of it was still shocking.

“Think of it as a breathing exercise,” he said as he took your hand and wrapped your fingers around his shaft. “Slow, deep breaths. No teeth.”

You’d been clumsy at first. Awkward. You took him into your mouth hesitantly, gagging a little as his length hit the back of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your head, not pushing, just guiding. He showed you where to use your tongue, how to cup your lips, how to control your breathing to take him deeper.

Strangely enough, you were an eager student. A part of you did it simply because you wanted to hear his praise. You’d become addicted to the low groans he made, the way he’d call you a “good girl” when you did something he liked. Mostly, though, you did it because he made you feel so unbelievably good. He took so much from you, but he gave just as much back in mind-obliterating pleasure. You wanted to return the favor.

Frankly, the fact that you let him fuck you silly several times a day, whenever and wherever he wanted, was probably returning the favor enough. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t enjoying himself. The man clearly wasn’t suffering. But there was an undeniable pull, a strange current that flowed between you. It went beyond the physical. It felt like you were somehow hardwired to obey him, to please him. You didn’t understand why, but when Gojo wanted something from you, the word “no” ceased to exist in your vocabulary.

You were a fast learner. Within a couple of weeks, you’d become an expert. You learned the exact rhythm he liked, the way he’d twitch when you swirled your tongue around the sensitive head while simultaneously stroking his balls with your hand. Soon, you could get him off with just your mouth, and the pride you felt when he’d come, his body shuddering as he emptied himself down your throat, was immense. You’d swallowed it all without hesitation. He’d praised you for a full five minutes after that, running his fingers through your hair, calling you his perfect little protege.

Today felt different. The text message had been short. My room. Now. There was no playful emoji, no teasing sign-off. Just a command. When you slipped into his quarters using the key he’d given you, you found him sprawled on his back on top of the covers, completely naked. His blindfold was off, tossed carelessly on the bedside table, but his eyes were closed. He looked… tired. More than tired. He looked worn out. He hadn’t even stirred when you entered.

Usually, there was a playful preamble, a bullshit excuse, a cocky smirk. Now, there was just silence. He’d been in meetings with the higher-ups all day. They must have really run him through the wringer. He never talked about it, but you could always tell when he came back from these meetings. He was always wound tight, spoiling for a fight or a fuck. Maybe both.

He must have heard you enter, because his stunning blue eyes opened, but he didn’t move. He just watched you. You walked toward his bed silently. You didn’t need an order. You didn’t need a ridiculous excuse about “energy channeling.” You just saw him lying there, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before, and you knew what you wanted to do. You wanted to take care of him.

You settled onto the edge of the bed beside his hip and reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his soft cock. It was heavy and warm in your hand. Without a word, you took him into your mouth. He was soft and pliable at first, tasting of salt and clean skin. You worked slowly, your tongue tracing patterns over the tip, your lips gently tugging. It took a few moments, but you felt him begin to stir, to lengthen, to thicken in your mouth, filling it, pressing against the back of your throat. A low sigh escaped his lips, and his hand came up to rest in your hair, his fingers stroking your scalp lightly. It wasn’t the commanding grip he usually had. It was a soft, almost absentminded touch.

This wasn’t a “lesson.” This was you, offering comfort in the only way you knew how. And him, accepting it.

You focused completely on the task. You took all of him, your throat opening easily now, your gag reflex gone. You built the pace slowly, watching his chest rise and fall, listening to the soft moans that vibrated from his chest. His hips began to move, just a little, a gentle rocking that pushed him deeper into your mouth with each stroke.

There was no dirty talk, no instruction. There was only the wet sound of your mouth on his skin and his ragged breaths. He tasted of stress and exhaustion, and you felt like you were sucking it all out of him, taking his fatigue and his frustration and swallowing it down. His fingers tightened in your hair slightly as he got closer. He was almost there. You braced yourself, relaxing your throat completely.

He came with a shuddering groan and pumped his hot cum straight down your throat. You took every last drop. You continued to suck him gently even after he’d finished, until he finally went soft, his hand sliding limply from your hair. You gave him one last lick before straightening up.

You looked down at him. His eyes were closed again, his face now peaceful. The exhaustion was still there, but the sharp, angry edges had been smoothed away. Mission accomplished. You’d done your job. That was usually your cue to leave. He’d get his release, you’d have completed your “training,” and you’d be gone until the next time he summoned you.

“I’ll let you get some rest, sensei,” you whispered, starting to get to your feet.

“Stay.” 

The word was quiet, but it stopped you cold. You looked at him. His crystalline blue eyes were open, fixed on you. He lifted one arm, opening it in a clear invitation.

“Come here.”

You were baffled. What did he mean? This was… new. After your “lessons,” he’d always dismiss you. You’d get dressed and sneak back to your dorm, leaving him to whatever it was Gojo Satoru did when he was alone. There was no cuddling. No aftercare. Just the transaction of sex disguised as training, and then it was over. But he was looking at you, his arms still open, and his eyes held a flicker of something you’d never seen before. 

Slowly, awkwardly, you climbed onto the bed. It was a massive bed; you could have kept a respectable distance, but that clearly wasn’t what he wanted. You kicked off your shoes and crawled over him, settling into the space he’d made for you. As soon as you were nestled against his side, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in tight. He maneuvered you both until you were spooning, your back pressed against his chest. His other arm came around to wrap under your breasts, his large hand resting on your stomach. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and just held you. He breathed you in deeply, and then let it out in a heavy sigh. And then he was still.

This was weird. Unspeakably weird. You were tangled up in bed with a naked Gojo Satoru, and his cock wasn’t inside you. That had to be a first. He wasn’t grinding against you, wasn’t even trying to slip his fingers between your legs. He was just… holding you. After several minutes of surreal silence, you worked up the courage to speak.

“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

He was quiet for so long you thought he wasn’t going to answer. He just inhaled deeply again. “Nothing,” he finally murmured. But he didn’t let go. His grip, if anything, tightened. 

So you stayed. The minutes stretched into an hour. The sun set completely, plunging the room into a soft darkness. He didn’t speak again, and you didn’t dare press him. Gojo only ever revealed what he wanted to reveal. Pushing would get you nowhere.You just lay there, held in his arms, listening to the sound of his breathing as it deepened and evened out, until you realized he’d fallen asleep.

You could probably wiggle out of his grasp if you tried. You could slip out and go back to your own bed. But his arms felt like a fortress around you, and for some reason, you didn’t want to leave. The sheer weirdness of the situation was starting to feel nice. You carefully shifted, making yourself more comfortable, and closed your eyes.

You ended up staying the whole night. You woke a few times to the feeling of him shifting, pulling you closer in his sleep. He never let go. It was a long, dreamless, and surprisingly restful sleep. When you woke up properly, Gojo was still holding you.

It was lucky you were in his room and not yours, you thought with a sudden jolt of panic. If this had been your dorm room, Nobara or Yuji would have burst in by now to drag you to morning practice only to find you in your pajamas, spooned by a very naked Gojo Satoru.

You’d have to say it was a new form of intensive, overnight energy osmosis. Yeah, that sounded plausible. Plausible enough for Gojo to probably sell it with a straight face, anyway. You snorted at the thought, and the sound made him stir. His blue eyes fluttered open, looking directly into yours. Then, a slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, and you knew the standard Gojo Satoru was back online.

“Morning, my little protege,” he purred. “Ready for your next lesson?”

Chapter Text

Before you could even form a response, he shifted, his morning-hard cock pressing insistently against the small of your back. “Looks like your training last night was a success. My cursed energy levels feel completely restored.” He nudged you with his erection again, harder this time. “In fact, they’re overflowing. It’d be a waste not to channel some of it directly into you right now, wouldn’t it?”

It was a relief in a twisted sort of way. You didn’t know how to act around the quiet, vulnerable Gojo from last night. This swaggering, demanding asshole? This was the man you knew.

He rolled you onto your back, caging you beneath him. The sheets were a tangled mess around your legs. He looked down at you, that infuriatingly handsome smirk still in place, his white hair a halo around his head.

“I do apologize for my negligence last night,” he said as he pulled down your pants and settled his hips between your thighs. “Leaving your pussy so empty and unattended. It was irresponsible of me. Who knows what could have happened? Another cock might have sensed the vacancy and tried to fill it. We can’t have that.” He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours. “My poor baby must have been starving.”

Gojo was jealous and ridiculous, and you found yourself smiling despite the absurdity. “I managed,” you giggled into his mouth.

His smirk widened. “Did you? Well, allow me to compensate you for your suffering.” He positioned the thick head of his cock at your entrance, already slick from your body’s immediate response. “We need to make up for lost time. So today’s lesson is going to be… intense. Twice the intensity, in fact, to compensate for my lapse in professional diligence.”

Gojo slammed into you without any warning. The air was forced from your lungs in a sharp gasp. He filled you completely, stretching you wide, his pubic bone grinding against yours. The sex was different. It was still rough and demanding, but there was an added layer of desperation to it. He moved like he had something to prove, like he was trying to fuck the memory of last night out of you. 

His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, tangling in your hair, squeezing your breasts. He moved you around the bed, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling you to the edge of the mattress, hoisting your legs onto his shoulders. It was a whirlwind of limbs and sweat and raw, filthy sex. There was no bullshit explanation this time. Just your name, grunted over and over as he fucked you.

By the time you felt the tell-tale signs of his impending orgasm, you had already come twice. He flooded your womb with a massive load. But even after his orgasm had subsided, he didn’t pull out. He just collapsed on top of you.

“I… I have to go,” you mumbled, trying to wiggle out from under him. “There’s group training this morning. Everyone will be looking for me.”

“No training is more important than my lessons,” he murmured against your neck, his arms tightening around you, trapping you. “And this lesson isn’t over yet.”

To your absolute disbelief, you felt him begin to harden again inside you. “Sensei, please,” you pleaded. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Gojo chuckled. “This is part two of the lesson: retention and absorption. You have to learn to hold my energy inside you for prolonged periods. Builds resilience. You’re excused.”

“Excused from what? All of it? I can’t just skip everything!”

“You can when I say you can. Now be a good girl and stop squirming.”

Exasperated, you gave up. There was no use arguing. You were his prisoner. A willing one, maybe, but a prisoner nonetheless. You let your body go limp, allowing him to keep his cock lodged inside you. He didn’t fuck you this time. He just moved occasionally, a sensuous slide in and out, enough to keep him hard and remind you that he was there. He cuddled you, nuzzling your hair, peppering your shoulder with soft kisses, his hands stroking your sides, content to just… be. It was another bizarre first.

Thirty minutes later, you felt your phone vibrating on the floor where your clothes lay. Then, his phone, on the bedside table, began to do the same. A constant stream of notifications. Text after text lit up the screens. Your friends were asking where you were. The higher-ups were demanding him to show up, too. Probably all of Japan was looking for Gojo Satoru.

“Fine,” he grumbled, as if he were the one being inconvenienced. “Society needs me, I guess.”

He pulled out of you and stood up, stretching languidly, completely unbothered by his nakedness. “Get dressed,” he commanded. “But this isn’t over. Lunchtime. The old archives. We’re having a review session.”

You scrambled out of his bed, your legs feeling like jelly, and quickly pulled on your pants. You managed to slip out of his room just as he started his morning shower, making a run for your own dorm to try and make yourself look presentable before you had to face your friends.

As you rushed through the quiet morning hallways, your mind was reeling. Where in the ever-loving fuck did that man get his stamina from? It was inhuman. And it begged the question you’d been subconsciously avoiding for weeks: what had he been doing with all that libido before he managed to trick you into opening your legs for him?

Oh. Right. He must have been fucking other women. Of course he had.

He was Gojo Satoru. Powerful, ridiculously handsome, charming when he wanted to be. It was naive to think you were the first and only one he’d ever applied his… unique jujutsu methods to. There must have been a string of them before you. Women who weren’t naive students who believed ridiculous stories about “energy alignment.” Women who were more beautiful, smarter and more interesting than you. Sorcerers, civilians, curse users, who knew? He could have anyone he wanted. Women he’d fucked with the same relentless energy, women he’d filled with his cum, women he’d whispered the same nonsense to.

And were they… were they relieved, now that they’d escaped his insatiable appetite for sex? Were they breathing a sigh of relief somewhere, glad to have their bodies back to themselves? They’d probably thrown a party when he’d finally stopped calling.

…Or had they? Would they miss it? Would they lie in their beds at night, feeling empty, wishing he was there to fill them up? Did he ever hold them through the night?

Or maybe… he hadn’t even stopped fucking them at all. Maybe you were just his on-campus entertainment. He spent a lot of time here, so it made sense to have someone available. What was stopping him from having a woman at the Jujutsu Headquarters for when he was stuck in meetings? Another at his clan estate for when he had to deal with family obligations? A whole rolodex of numbers for when he was on missions in different cities?

A knot of something ugly and unfamiliar coiled in your stomach. It shouldn’t have mattered. You knew what this was. This wasn’t a relationship. You weren’t in love with him. And he sure as hell wasn’t in love with you. He’d never said a single word about love, or feelings, or anything that wasn’t about your “training” or his cock. This was a purely physical arrangement, albeit one cloaked in absurd jujutsu jargon.

So what if he fucked other women? He wasn’t your boyfriend. You weren’t dating. It wasn’t cheating if there was nothing to cheat on. He could fuck the entire female population of Japan for all you cared. His personal life was none of your business. You were his student. His plaything. And one day, probably soon, he’d get bored of you, or find a new toy, and this would all be over. You were a convenience, an experiment, nothing more. The thought made you want to cry. Or hit something really hard.

By the time you got to the training grounds, late and disheveled, the stone in your gut had transformed into a raging inferno.

Nobara was tapping her foot impatiently. “There you are! Oversleep again? Seriously, what is Gojo even teaching you in these secret lessons?”

“Advanced cursed energy application,” you mumbled, striding past her towards the row of practice dummies.

“Right,” she said sarcastically. “Well, let’s see it.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You poured all your confusion, your hurt, and your rage into the blast. A concussive wave of air erupted from your hands, vaporizing the first training dummy, and the one behind it, and the one behind that, until the entire row was just splintered wood and scattered stuffing.

There was a stunned silence. Nobara and Megumi stared at the devastation.

“Whoa,” Yuji breathed. “Your special training with Gojo-sensei is really paying off! Whatever he’s teaching you, he needs to teach the rest of us, too!”

You raised your hands and blasted the next row of training dummies into oblivion.

Chapter Text

After you blew off some steam on the training dummies, you headed to the archives for your “review session” as ordered. And just like that, everything was back to normal. Or, what passed for normal in your secret world with Gojo. He was there, leaning against a towering shelf of ancient scrolls, looking infuriatingly handsome. For the next hour, he fucked the remaining anger and confusion right out of you. And you let him. You were addicted to this feeling as much as you hated it.

Afterwards, he pulled you into his lap as he sat on an old reading chair, still buried deep inside you. He took out a small bento box he’d apparently brought with him. “You missed breakfast. Eat,” he commanded, and proceeded to feed you piece by piece while you warmed his cock.

It was insane. It was fucked up. And as he popped a piece of tamagoyaki into your mouth, you thought that maybe this was enough. Maybe you didn’t need to be his only one.

But then, Gojo started getting weird. 

He’d always been a pervert, of course, copping a feel whenever he could, but it used to be a goal-oriented kind of handsy. Every touch, every grope, had been a clear prelude to one of your “lessons.” His hand sliding up your thigh under the lunch table meant he wanted to fuck you after classes. A brush of his knuckles against your breast as he passed you in the hall was a signal to meet him that evening. It was a language you’d learned to understand.

But now, the grammar was changing. He was becoming… touchy. Not just the blatant groping of your ass in the middle of a sparring demonstration or the sly caress of your breasts when he leaned over your shoulder to “correct your form.” Those were par for the course. What was new were the smaller, stranger things.

You’d be sitting with the others in class, and you’d feel the light brush of his fingers carding through your hair. He started pinching your cheeks. He’d do it in front of everyone, just a quick pinch and a condescending, “Paying attention, are we?” that left you flushing and your classmates none the wiser. 

Once, while you were all eating in the cafeteria, you’d complained about being tired, and he’d leaned over, ostensibly to steal a piece of your karaage, but instead used his hand to gently massage the back of your neck for a few seconds before popping the chicken in his mouth. Yuji and Nobara had just groaned at him for stealing your food.

It was disorienting. You knew how to handle the lecherous sensei who wanted to fuck you. You’d built a whole framework of denial and bullshit excuses to cope with that. But what were you supposed to do with… this? It felt more dangerous than the sex. The sex you could write off as a physical need. But this… this felt personal. It made the ugly coil of jealousy in your gut twist even tighter. Was he this tender with his other women, too? Did he pinch their cheeks and massage their necks?

The weirdness escalated. One afternoon, you were hurrying back from the library, arms full of books, when you were suddenly slammed against a wall in a blessedly empty side corridor. Before you could even scream, a hand was over your mouth and a familiar, intoxicating scent of him filled your senses. 

Your immediate thought was, Oh my god, he’s finally lost his mind. He’s going to fuck me right here in the hallway. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for him to hike up your skirt.

But he didn’t. He didn’t try to lift your skirt. His hips weren’t grinding against you. In fact, he wasn’t even hard. He just held you there, then slowly, he removed his hand from your mouth and replaced it with his mouth. He kissed you. His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling with yours. It wasn’t a kiss that was a prelude to sex. It felt like the main event itself. It was slow and sensuous. He kissed you until you were breathless, until your legs felt weak and the heavy books in your arms started to tremble.

And then, as abruptly as he had appeared, he pulled away. “Just checking your ambient energy levels,” he grinned, and then he vanished.

You slid down the wall, your legs giving out. What the actual, ever-loving fuck was that?

It happened again. And again. He became a master of the ambush kiss. He’d materialize in a blind spot as you walked to your room, press you into the shadows, and kiss you senseless before disappearing. He cornered you in the infirmary while you were looking for bandages and left you lightheaded and weak-kneed. No sex. No “training.” Just a kiss. Sometimes, several kisses. They were fleeting, public-yet-private displays that left you feeling jittery and confused.

And then there were the photos.

You first caught him out of the corner of your eye while you were studying in the library. You looked up from your book and saw him, sitting several tables away, pretending to read a ridiculously oversized tome. But you could see the glint of his phone, angled perfectly in your direction. The moment your eyes met, he quickly hid the phone behind the book.

You didn’t say anything. What could you say? But you started noticing it more often. In the cafeteria, while you were sitting between Nobara and Megumi, laughing at something Yuji said, your head tilted back, a piece of tempura halfway to your mouth. You happened to glance over towards the entrance and saw him, leaning in the doorway, phone held up and pointed directly at you. You froze. He didn’t even try to hide it this time. He just smirked, lowered his phone, and gave you a little wave before turning and walking away.

They were never risky photos. He wasn’t trying to catch you undressing. You were always fully clothed. Reading. Eating. Training. Talking to your friends. What could he possibly want with dozens of pictures of you doing the same uninteresting things daily?

One day, you finally worked up the courage to confront him. It was after one of your now-routine “lessons” in an empty classroom. You were both getting dressed.

“Why do you keep taking pictures of me?” you asked.

Gojo paused in the middle of buttoning his shirt. He didn’t feign ignorance. He just shrugged. “It’s for your training file,” he said, not even looking at you. “I’m documenting your progress. Tracking your ambient cursed energy aura in different environments. It’s a visual log. Very scientific.”

It was, by far, the most transparently idiotic excuse he had ever come up with. And that was saying something.

“But cursed energy doesn’t show up in photos?” you pointed out.

“Does it matter?” he laughed. “It’s just a few pictures. Don’t worry about it.”

But it wasn’t just a few pictures, and you couldn’t just not worry about it. What did it all mean? What was he up to?

The fucking, of course, was still relentless. But even that had changed. He rarely ambushed you for sex in random locations anymore. Instead, it was always a summons to his room. The bullshit excuse about training was almost certainly no longer necessary. You were well aware of what was happening by now. But he kept it up. It had become part of his foreplay, part of his dirty talk.

“Your energy levels are looking a little low,” he’d purr, stripping you down. “Sensei needs to give you a full system recharge. Multiple applications. For your own good.”

And you’d just roll your eyes and let him push you onto the bed.

After he’d fucked you into a state of blissful exhaustion and pumped you full of his cum, he wouldn’t let you leave. He would roll onto his side, pulling you with him, keeping his now-softening cock lodged deep inside you, just… held you and started talking.

Not about his missions or the higher-ups or anything important. As he held you, he’d talk about mundane things. He’d complain about a bad cup of coffee he’d had that morning, describe a ridiculous hat he’d seen someone wearing in the city. The little details of his day. And he wanted to know about yours, too. He’d ask what book you were reading, what Nobara had been complaining about, whether you’d aced your last test. He’d relocated the sex to his room almost exclusively for this reason, you suspected, just so he could hold you afterward and talk.

His favorite position was spooning you from behind, his arm wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. He’d pull out his phone and scroll through his social media feed with you.

“Look at this idiot,” he’d chuckle, showing you a video of a cat spectacularly failing to jump onto a counter. He’d show you meme after meme, watching your face to see if you laughed.

It was the most surreal thing in the world: lying there naked, full of your sensei’s cum, his cock still inside you, watching stupid internet videos on his phone, giggling together at a video of a raccoon trying to wash a piece of cotton candy. It felt disturbing. It made you feel like you were a real couple, just lounging in bed on a quiet night.

Tonight was one of those nights. He’d fucked you twice already. Now you were snuggled against him, his phone screen cast a soft glow on your faces.

“Oh, you’ve got to see this one,” he said, swiping through his photo gallery. “I saw the funniest damn cat on my way back from a meeting yesterday. It was sitting on a fence and it looked exactly like one of the elders. Hold on, where is it…”

He swiped through the pictures on his phone, searching. Swiped past a photo of Yuji with ramen noodles hanging out of his nose. Swiped past a blurry picture of Megumi brooding. Another one of Nobara being huffy about something. And as he flicked through the thumbnails, you realized his photo gallery was full of you.

It wasn’t just a few pictures. It was hundreds. Maybe thousands. There were the pictures you’d caught him taking: you at lunch, you in the library. But there were so many more you hadn’t seen. Another of you yawning over a textbook. Another of you from the back, just walking down a hallway. There was a photo of just your hand, curled around a pencil as you took notes in class. A picture of your shoes, left by the door to his room. Snapshots of every mundane, uninteresting moment of your life, all captured and stored here, in his phone. He had the occasional photo of the others, usually when they were doing something stupid that he could use for blackmail later, but it was nothing compared to the sheer volume of pictures he had of you. Ninety-nine percent of his camera roll was just… you.

He finally found the picture of the grumpy-looking cat and held the phone up. “See? Tell me that doesn’t look like old man Gakuganji.”

But you weren’t looking at the cat. You were staring at the screen. This was feeling a lot like… an obsession. This wasn’t the behavior of a man who was just casually fucking a bunch of different women. This felt targeted. Personal. What did it mean? Was he just a creepy stalker in addition to being a manipulative sexual predator? Or was it something else entirely?

He must have sensed something, because he put his phone down and nuzzled his face into your neck. “What?” he murmured. “Don’t like the cat?”

You just shook your head. He didn’t press. He just held you tighter. You felt more confused than ever. 

The question wasn’t “what was he up to?” anymore. The new, much more terrifying question was… what did he really want with you?

Chapter Text

The missions started abruptly. They were always framed with a thin veneer of official urgency. At first, they sounded legitimate enough. Gojo would find you, usually in the middle of something mundane like lunch or studying, and announce, “There’s a curse cluster reported in the city. It’s a perfect live-fire exercise for you. Minimal risk, good for refining your targeting under pressure. I’ll supervise.”

It made sense. You’d been improving, and you needed real-world experience. 

The “curse cluster” turned out to be three slug-like curses, grade 4, sliming their way up a graffiti-covered wall behind a dumpster. They barely registered your presence before you obliterated them with a single blast of wind. The entire “mission” took less than forty-five seconds. You didn’t even break a sweat.

“Excellent control,” Gojo said. He sounded impressed, but also completely unsurprised. “Clean and efficient. Minimal collateral damage.” He gestured to the dumpster, which had a few new dents in it. “Mostly minimal.”

You stood there, hands on your hips, buzzing with leftover energy. “That’s it? That’s what required the Strongest Sorcerer to personally supervise?”

“My presence is an invaluable learning tool,” he replied. “Also, I was craving melonpan from this little bakery nearby.” He slung an arm around your shoulders. “Come on, my treat. A reward for a job well done.”

Gojo led you through a maze of streets to a brightly lit bakery that smelled of sugar and warm bread. He bought two massive, fluffy melonpans and a couple of canned coffees from a vending machine. You ate standing on a street corner, watching the endless stream of people rush past. It was... nice. He didn’t grope you, didn’t whisper a single lewd thing in your ear. He just made fun of a man trying to parallel park and told you a stupid story about a prank he’d pulled on Principal Yaga as a student. 

You’d spent the entire afternoon with him, and he hadn’t laid a single inappropriate finger on you. It was the longest you’d been in his presence without him trying to get his cock inside you. The absence of it felt stranger than its constant presence ever had.

This became the new pattern. Twice, sometimes three times a week, Gojo would invent a flimsy pretext for a “mission” in the city. It was always a low-grade curse you could handle in under a minute, or some vague “surveillance” that required no actual work. They were excuses to get you alone, off campus, and away from the cloistered world of Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. The missions themselves were a joke. Anyone could see that. A gaggle of grade 3 sewer curses in Ikebukuro hardly necessitated the personal attention of Gojo Satoru. But after the five-minute “mission” was complete, the real event would begin.

He’d take you to dinner at restaurants with long waiting lists that magically had a table for two the moment he walked in. He taught you how to eat things you’d never seen before, showing you the “elegant” way to crack open a crab leg or pluck the meat from an escargot shell, never once making you feel foolish for not knowing. He took you to smoky jazz clubs tucked away in basement-level rooms, to minimalist art galleries, and once, to a loud arcade where he spent an obscene amount of money trying to win you a stuffed alpaca from a crane machine. He was terrible at it, his refined control over cursed energy apparently not extending to the cheap metal claw. He eventually got so frustrated that he used his technique to subtly warp the space inside the machine, causing the alpaca to just fall out. He presented it to you with a triumphant grin. You named it Sensei, just to be an asshole. He loved it. You carried the large plushie around for the rest of an afternoon spent browsing vintage video game stores.

During these excursions, he was a different person. The predator who cornered you in storerooms was gone. In his place was a charming, witty, and surprisingly attentive man. He’d point out things he found funny, tell you stories about his teenage years, ask for your opinion on art or music. He was still an arrogant bastard, but it was a playful arrogance, not the sexually demanding dominance you were used to. And the most unsettling part was that he never touched you. Not in the way he usually did, anyway.

There was no hand sliding up your thigh under the table, no fingers brushing against your ass as he passed behind you. The man who had a catalog of a thousand bullshit reasons to shove his raw cock in you didn’t seem to have a single one for copping a feel in public. But there were other touches. Small, shockingly intimate gestures that threw your entire system into disarray.

It started with him casually taking your hand as you crossed a busy street. His long fingers just wrapped around yours, a practical gesture to keep you from getting lost in the crowd. This was wrong. This was a hundred times more fucked up than him bending you over a desk in the archives. Fucking was your secret. It was your training. You could compartmentalize it, rationalize it away. His cock inside you was a known quantity. 

But hand-holding? In public, under the bright, unforgiving lights of Tokyo, surrounded by thousands of ordinary people living their normal lives? It felt like something a boyfriend would do. It felt real in a way that the “training” never did. It was an acknowledgment of… something. You didn’t know what, and the not-knowing was terrifying.

He didn’t let go when you reached the other side. He just kept holding your hand as you walked, swinging your joined arms slightly between you. You were acutely aware of every single person who walked past, their eyes gliding over you. A young couple, just a few years older than you, smiled as they passed, their own hands clasped. Oh, look, their smiles seemed to say. Another couple in love. The assumption was so wildly off-base, yet felt so horribly plausible in that moment, that you thought you might be sick. You felt like a fraud. An imposter.

“Sensei,” you said. “My hand is getting sweaty.” It was a pathetic excuse, but it was all you could come up with.

He glanced down at your joined hands, then back up at you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Is it?” he purred, and then deliberately tightened his grip. “Don’t worry. I don’t mind.”

You wanted to pull away. You should have pulled away. But you didn’t. You just let him lead you through the city. You walked for three blocks through the glittering streets of Ginza like that, hand-in-hand. You felt so self-conscious you thought your face might catch fire.

Today’s mission had been particularly absurd. A “curse” was haunting the koi pond in a serene garden in the middle of the city. When you arrived, the “curse” turned out to be a slightly bigger-than-average frog that was croaking loudly. You stared at Gojo. He just shrugged. “It has a very negative vibe, don’t you think?” You’d ended up shooing the frog away with a stick. Mission complete.

Now, hours later, you were sitting opposite him in a rooftop bar, a glass of something fizzy and expensive in your hand, the endless galaxy of Tokyo’s lights sprawling out beneath you. 

“You’ve gotten stronger,” he said, swirling the ice in his glass. He wasn’t looking at you, but at the view. 

“Thanks to your special training,” you replied. The words were automatic, the script you’d both been following for months.

He turned his head, and his Six Eyes, unobstructed by his blindfold, were so bright, so impossibly blue. “The training helps,” he conceded. “But the talent was already there. I just… cleared the blockages.” He smirked, a flicker of the lecherous sensei returning.

You waited for the other shoe to drop. For him to say something like, Speaking of blockages, your pussy could probably use a good clearing out. But he didn’t. He just went back to looking at the city. 

He’d started buying you things. Not expensive gifts. No designer bags or jewelry that could get you into trouble if anyone noticed. Just small, random shit. A keychain you’d pointed out in a shop window. A tube of hand cream after you’d complained about your hands being dry. A set of colored pens because you liked to color-code your notes. A pair of silly novelty socks with octopuses on them. He never asked if you wanted them. He’d just see something, say, “Oh, this is stupid. You should have it,” pay for it, and hand you the bag. 

Each small gift was like another thread in the invisible net he was weaving around you. It was working. Whatever game he was playing, it was working. The lines were blurring. He wasn’t just the perverted asshole who fucked you anymore. He was the one who knew you preferred sweet tamagoyaki to salty, the one who remembered you loved the smell of old books, the one who held your hand and walked on the outside of the walkway. And you were starting to forget how to separate the two.

You were so lost in thought you didn’t notice he’d reached across the table until his fingers brushed against yours. You flinched. He simply smiled and laced his fingers with yours, resting your joined hands on the cool surface of the table between your drinks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

“Nothing,” you mumbled, staring at your hands. His was so much larger, calloused from fighting but gentle in the grip. It looked so… couple-y. It made your stomach clench. This was so much worse than him just being a pervert. A simple pervert you could understand. This? This was psychological warfare.

“You’re thinking too loud,” he said. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Don’t think. Just enjoy the moment. The view. The drink.” He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles. His eyes never left yours. “Me.”

Your breath hitched. You could feel the blush creeping up your neck. You pulled your hand back, cradling it in your lap. He just chuckled, leaning back in his chair, looking utterly pleased with himself.

Why is he doing this? the tiny, logical voice in your head screamed. This isn’t part of the training! 

He was courting you, you realized with growing hysteria.

Under the thinnest possible veneer of “missions,” he was taking you on dates. He was wooing you, like a normal person. A normal, unbelievably hot, ridiculously powerful person who also happened to be your sensei and regularly fucked you senseless.

Was this what he did with all of them? Did he wine and dine them, buy them little gifts, hold their hands, and kiss their knuckles before taking them home and fucking their brains out? Was this just his standard operating procedure for seduction? The thought sent a now-familiar spike of ugly jealousy through you. Or was it different with you? Were you special? God, you hoped you were special. You hated that you hoped that.

“Let’s go home,” he said eventually when it got late.

Home. He meant his room at the school. Not your dorm. His. It was where you spent half your nights now, anyway. But the way he said it, so simply, like it was just logical for you to go home with him… it did something to you. You followed him without a word.

The moment the door to his quarters clicked shut behind you, sensei was back. He crowded you against the door, his body pressing you into the hard wood. The smell of him filled your senses.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“Yes, sensei,” you whispered.

“Good,” he said. His mouth crashed down on yours. 

This was a hungry kiss, full of all the pent-up frustration from the day. His hands were everywhere, tangling in your hair, grabbing your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh. He ripped the buttons on your blouse, sending them skittering across the floor. This was the Gojo Satoru you knew

“Fucking finally,” he growled against your lips, yanking up your skirt and hooking his fingers into the waistband of your panties. He tore them down your legs. He worked his own pants open, his hard cock springing free. He didn’t bother taking anything else off. “You have any idea what it does to me? Watching you walk around all day? So fucking cute. All those pathetic men looking at you, thinking you’re so sweet. Thinking they might have a chance. They have no idea you’re mine. No idea that I fuck you raw every single day. No idea how beautiful you look when you’re full of my cum.”

He lined himself up and slammed into you, swallowing up your scream of pleasure with his mouth. Every slam of his hips made the door rattle in its frame. He was fucking you like he was starving, like he’d been holding back all day and was finally unleashing everything on you.

The dates, the hand-holding, the little gifts… they weren’t a replacement for the sex. They were foreplay. He was conquering you on two different fronts. He was claiming your body in private and claiming your heart in public. He didn’t just want your body. He wanted everything. Every thought, every feeling, every last piece of you. He wanted you to fall in love with him.

The realization scared the shit out of you. It made you want to push him away, tell him to stop. But as he drove into you, deeper and harder, whispering filthy praises into your ear, all you could feel was a wave of dizzying surrender. He hit a spot deep inside, sending a lightning bolt of pleasure straight to your brain, and your orgasm ripped through you. As your body convulsed around his cock, you had one last coherent thought:

It was already too late.

Chapter Text

The inevitable finally happened. For months, a strange sort of luck had prevailed. Every time your period arrived, Gojo had been away. A long-haul mission, a week of meetings with the higher-ups in Kyoto, a trip overseas. You’d been grateful for the coincidental timing, as you couldn’t imagine how his “special training” would accommodate the messy reality of menstruation.

But luck, like all things, runs out.

You woke up that morning with a dull ache in your lower abdomen. By late afternoon, it had escalated into a full-blown assault. Vicious cramps clawed at your insides, leaving you feeling nauseous and weak. You’d skipped afternoon training, and had spent the rest of the day curled in your bed like a pathetic lump of misery wrapped in your cheapest, most comfortable pajamas. You’d fallen into a fitful, cramp-ridden doze, only to be jolted awake by the buzz of your phone on the nightstand.

It was Gojo. The text was exactly what you expected. He was here. On campus. And predictably, he was horny.

Usually, the message, as demanding and arrogant as it was, would send a Pavlovian thrill through you. A tingle of anticipation for the pleasure to come. Tonight, all you felt was dread. You stared at your phone, the screen glowing accusingly in the dark of your small dorm room. Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard. What were you supposed to say? 

Sorry, sensei, can’t get my daily dose of your magical cock right now because my uterus is actively trying to claw its way out of my body. Raincheck?

In the end, you settled on something simple: Tired. Sorry.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. It was the first time you had ever said no to Gojo, even a soft, apologetic no like this one. You tossed the phone onto the floor, pulled the covers over your head, and waited. You knew it wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. You braced yourself for the fallout. A string of angry question marks? A demanding phone call? A dick pic with the caption, “Are you sure?”

The most likely scenario, you figured, was that he would just appear. Teleport directly into your room, scoop you out of bed, and carry you back to his quarters, your protests be damned. The thought of being fucked right now made you want to vomit. Your body felt bloated and tender, and the last thing you wanted was his massive cock pounding against your already-angry cervix. You squeezed your eyes shut, offering a silent, desperate prayer to whatever gods might be listening. Please, just let him be too lazy to come get me. Please.

Your prayer went unanswered. A few minutes later, you heard the soft click of your door opening. Gojo hadn’t even knocked. He just let himself in. The door shut with another quiet click. Light footsteps approached your bed. A large hand rested on the lump of blankets that was you.

“Tired?” Gojo asked, his head tilted teasingly. “You weren’t too tired to vaporize three rows of training dummies this morning. I saw the repair bill. Come on. I’ll carry you if I have to. We can call it a lesson in endurance under duress.”

You groaned, curling yourself into a tighter ball. “Go away, sensei.”

“What’s wrong?” He peeled the blanket back from your face and pressed his cool fingers against your forehead. “Are you hurt somewhere? Did you strain something during practice?”

You took a shuddering breath. There was no getting out of this. You’d have to use your words. “I got my period,” you mumbled.

Gojo was silent. It was a long, awkward, heavy silence. His hand dropped from your forehead. You risked a glance up at him, trying to gauge his reaction. Was he disgusted? Annoyed? Was he going to deliver a ridiculous lecture on how menstrual cycles disrupted your cursed energy flow?

A vivid and horrifying image flashed in your mind: him, shrugging and saying, “So? A little blood never hurt anyone,” before yanking down your pants. The thought made the nausea worse. You had to preempt it.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pushing yourself up to a sitting position. The movement sent another cramp spasming through your belly, and you winced. “I can still… you know. If you want. I can give you a blowjob or something. I’m good at it now, right?” You were trying to sound seductive, but your voice came out small and shaky.

Gojo just stared at you. His expression was completely blank. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at all, and that was scary. “No,” he said finally. “That’s fine. Just… rest.” And then he turned around and walked out of your room, shutting the door behind him.

Relief washed over you first. He hadn’t been angry, hadn’t forced it, hadn’t even taken you up on your offer. You were safe. You could suffer in peace. But the relief was immediately swamped by a much bigger, much colder wave of disappointment. 

He’d left. He’d just left. He left because you were useless to him tonight. He came here wanting to get off. You couldn’t provide the service he wanted, so he just… walked away. It was that simple. That transactional. 

And where had he gone? Back to his room to sulk? No. Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to deny himself. If he couldn’t get what he wanted from you, he would just get it from somewhere else. The ugly thoughts from weeks ago came roaring back. He was probably on his phone right now, scrolling through his contacts. Texting one of the other women. Hey, you up? My student is on the rag, so I’ve got a free evening and a full load to get rid of.

She’d be so happy to see him. She wouldn’t be a pathetic lump in a tiny dorm bed. She’d probably have a big, fancy apartment in the city. She’d open the door wearing something silky and sheer. She’d be beautiful and witty and she’d never, ever complain about being tired. He wouldn’t have to lie to her about “training.” He’d just fuck her on her expensive couch, and she’d take every inch of him and beg for more. And he’d fill her up, just like he always filled you up.

Normally, you could push these thoughts down. You could bury the jealousy and insecurity under the raw physical pleasure he gave you. You could remind yourself that this was just a physical arrangement. But tonight, you were tired and hormonal and in pain, and your defenses were nonexistent. The thought of Gojo with someone else was an agony far worse than any cramp.

A hot tear escaped the corner of your eye, then another. A pathetic sniffle turned into a quiet sob. You pulled the blanket over your head, muffling the sound as you began to cry in earnest. You cried for the sheer unfairness of it all. You cried because you were in pain. You cried because you felt so stupid, so disposable. You cried because the strongest sorcerer in the world had just walked out on you without a backward glance, and all you wanted was for him to come back.

You cried for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only ten minutes. You were so lost in your misery that you didn’t hear the door open again. 

“Why are you crying?”

You flinched, your head snapping up from your tea-soaked pillow. It was Gojo. He was standing over you in the exact same spot as before, but this time, he was holding a small, fabric-covered hot pack in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. His brow was furrowed in genuine confusion.

“What happened?” he asked again, sounding worried now. “Did the cramps get worse?”

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be halfway across the city, balls-deep in some other woman.

“I… I thought you left,” you sniffled, wiping your nose on the back of your hand.

Gojo gave you a look like you’d just said the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “I went to get you this.” He held up the hot pack and the mug. “Instant hot chocolate from the teachers’ lounge. It’s probably garbage, but Shoko says it helps.”

You just stared at Gojo, your tear-clogged brain struggling to process the development. He hadn’t gone to another woman. He had gone to raid the faculty lounge for a heating pad and a cup of shitty instant hot chocolate. For you. It was the most absurd, most unbelievable thing that had happened since this whole insane arrangement had started.

“I’m… I’m fine,” you stammered, utterly mortified by your stupid breakdown. “You didn’t have to.”

“Clearly, you’re not fine. You’re leaking from your eyes. That’s usually a bad sign.” He set the mug down on your cluttered nightstand and held out the hot pack. “Shirt up. Let’s get this thing on your stomach.”

“I can do it myself,” you mumbled, reaching for the hot pack, embarrassed by the sudden, overwhelming rush of… something. Gratitude? Affection? You didn’t know what to call it.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, batting your hand away. “I know how these things work. Just lift your shirt.”

Hesitantly, you did as you were told, pulling up the hem of your oversized t-shirt to expose your stomach. He knelt by the bed and carefully placed the hot pack on your lower belly. The heat was instant and blissful, seeping through the thin fabric of your sweatpants and starting to soothe the angry clenching of your muscles. He held the pack there for a moment, making sure it was settled in the right place.

“Here,” he said, handing you the mug. 

You sat up a bit more, wincing slightly, and took it with both hands. It was cheap, watery hot chocolate, but it was warm and sweet, and it felt like the most wonderful thing you’d ever tasted. He watched you take a few sips, then, to your shock, he took off his shoes and flopped down onto the tiny dorm bed beside you.

Your dorm bed was a standard single, certainly not made for two people, especially when one of them was over six feet tall and built like a goddamn statue. He had to lie on his side, propped up on an elbow, his long legs hanging off the end of the mattress. The space was so cramped that his chest was pressed against your arm. When you finished the last sip, you placed the empty mug on your bedside table. Gojo was still watching you.

“Is kissing okay?” he asked softly.

The question caught you off guard. He had never asked before. Not once. Not for anything. He was a man of action, not permission. He took what he wanted. But tonight was different.

Your throat felt suddenly tight. You couldn’t speak, so you just nodded.

Gojo shifted, moving with surprising grace in the cramped space, and crawled up until he was hovering over you, careful not to put his weight on you. He leaned down, brushed a stray strand of tear-damp hair from your cheek and kissed you.

It was nothing like his usual kisses. His lips moved over yours slowly, tentatively. It was a kiss that wasn’t taking, but giving. A kiss meant to soothe, not arouse. A kiss that expected nothing in return. When he finally pulled away, you were breathless. 

“You… you should probably go,” you whispered as you slid down and pulled the blanket up to your chin, even though him leaving was the last thing you wanted. “You can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?”

“It’s… my room. The bed is tiny. And someone might see you leave in the morning.”

“Let them,” he shrugged.

Then, he settled back down onto his side, a precarious position on the very edge of the narrow bed. One wrong move and he’d fall onto the floor. He didn’t seem to care. 

Gojo stayed like that all night. He didn’t try to touch you, didn't try to initiate anything. He just lay beside you. At some point, his hand found yours under the covers, and he laced his fingers through yours. You fell asleep to that feeling, to the sound of his steady breathing, to the comforting warmth of his body next to yours.

You woke up the next morning feeling sore and cramped, but a thousand times better than the night before. Gojo was still there, somehow having managed not to fall off the bed. He was awake, just watching you.

He did it again the next night. And the night after that. For the entire duration of your period, he slept in your tiny bed. He’d show up after you were already tucked in, strip down to his boxers, and fold his large frame into the sliver of space next to you. When your cramps weren’t so bad anymore, he’d pull you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. The most he ever did was kiss you goodnight. It was the most chaste and also most intimate time you had ever spent together.

On the fourth night, as he was settling in beside you, you finally worked up the courage to ask. “Why are you here?”

He turned to look at you, his face inches from yours in the dark. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… why are you sleeping here? In my uncomfortable, tiny bed? We’re not… you know.” 

Gojo was quiet for a moment. Then he silenced your question with a kiss. It was as gentle as the first time, but it left you dizzy and clinging to his shoulders.

“Where else would I be?” he murmured against your lips, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. 

He kissed you again, longer this time, a thorough kiss that scrambled your thoughts and made your body ache for him in a way that had nothing to do with cramps. By the time he was done, you’d completely forgotten what you were so worried about.

Chapter Text

The problem with a god becoming your lover is that gods don’t care about mortal rules. They don’t understand things like subtlety, or discretion, or the career-ending, life-ruining social catastrophe that would occur if a student was found with her sensei’s tongue down her throat. Gojo was a god, and his affection for you was becoming a natural disaster you were constantly trying to contain.

These days, the wall between the “lecherous sensei” and the “secretly affectionate man” had crumbled entirely. He was just… Gojo. A Gojo who was now bafflingly, terrifyingly clingy. The daily lessons in his room were still the main event. But the affection was getting more and more out of hand. It was leaking out, seeping into every corner of the campus, threatening to flood your entire life. He hadn’t fucked you in a random place in a long time. But in many ways, what he was doing now was far more dangerous. The previous ambush kisses had escalated.

The first truly bad close call happened in the library, a place you’d once considered a sanctuary. Now, it was just another stage for Gojo’s high-stakes game. You were in the archives section, searching for a reference book, when he simply materialized behind you in the narrow aisle. You didn’t even have time to yelp before his arms were around you, pulling you back against his chest.

“Looking for something?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

“Stop!” you said, trying to wiggle out of his grasp. “It’s the middle of the day. There are people around.”

“No one ever comes back here,” he replied, turning you around to face him. He pinned you against a shelf of leather-bound tomes, caging you in with his body. “We’re all alone.” He leaned in, his Six Eyes bright and hungry behind his dark glasses, fixed on your mouth. He was going to kiss you. You knew it.

“Sensei, I’m serious—”

Your protest was swallowed by his mouth. His hands slid down to cup your ass, lifting you so you were pressed more firmly against the hard ridge of his erection. Your own treacherous hands came up to fist in the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer. For a few blissful, idiotic seconds, you forgot where you were. You were lost in the taste of him, the feel of his body against yours.

“Do you need some help finding that?” The voice of the librarian startled you. It was coming from the next aisle over. You shoved at Gojo’s chest, your eyes wide with panic.

Gojo smirked against your lips before pulling back. He put a single finger to your mouth in a “shushing” gesture. The bastard was enjoying this.

“No,” Megumi’s voice replied. “I know where that section is.” The sound of his footsteps was coming around the end of the aisle. He would be in your line of sight in five seconds. Four. Three.

You had a slow-motion vision of your life ending. Megumi would round the corner and find you, breathless and flushed, pinned against a bookshelf by Gojo who was sporting a raging boner. There would be no explanation. No plausible excuse. How do you explain having your sensei’s hands on your ass and your lipstick smeared all over his mouth? Oh, Gojo-sensei was just… demonstrating a close-quarters combat technique for immobilizing an opponent using only his mouth and groin. It would be over.

Gojo gave you a wink. And then he was gone. There was no sound, no gust of wind. The warm of his presence disappeared as he teleported away. You heard Megumi’s footsteps stop at the end of the aisle. You snatched the nearest book off the shelf and held it in front of your face, pretending to be engrossed. Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he could hear it.

Megumi stepped into the aisle. He glanced at you, his expression as impassive as ever. “Oh. It’s you,” he said.

“Hey, Megumi,” you squeaked, your voice two octaves higher than usual. God, I’m pathetic, you thought. His Divine Dogs could probably smell Gojo all over me.

Megumi nodded, his eyes scanning the shelves above your head. “Have you seen Gojo-sensei? Yaga-sama was looking for him.”

“Nope,” you lied. “Haven’t seen him. Been here for ages.”

Megumi grunted in response, pulled a book from a high shelf, and walked away. The moment he was gone, your knees gave out. You slid down the bookshelf, landing in an undignified heap on the floor. You sat there for a full five minutes, the heavy book in your lap, just breathing. Your luck had held. This time.

The incidents started piling up. Each one was a new shade of nerve-shredding horror. A few days later, you were in the training hall after dark, practicing on your own. You thought you were alone, but of course, you weren’t. Gojo appeared at your side, startling you so badly you almost blasted him into the next prefecture.

“Clumsy,” he tsked, easily deflecting your panicked attack. “Your stance is off. You’re over-rotating your hips. Here, let me help you.” He moved behind you, molding his body to yours. “You’re holding your shoulders too high. Relax.” His hands settled on your hips. He was ostensibly correcting your form, but his chin was resting on your shoulder, his breath tickling your neck. It was dangerously close, but you thought, Okay, this is… plausibly educational. If someone walks in, I can pass this off as training.

You were a fool. His hands started to slide up. They moved from your hips, up your waist, his large palms splayed across your stomach. He wasn’t groping you, just holding you. But it was too intimate. 

“See?” he whispered, his lips grazing your earlobe. “When you align your core with a more powerful energy source, everything flows better.”

That was when the door to the training hall burst open with a loud bang. Yuji and Nobara tumbled in, bickering loudly about whose turn it was to clean the practice weapons. “I told you, I did it last week! You were supposed to do the weapons rack, I had the mats!” Nobara was shouting.

Again, that heart-stopping, world-ending panic. Again, that flicker of movement as Gojo vanished, leaving you standing alone in a fighting stance, the warmth of his hands still imprinted on your stomach.

Yuji spotted you. “Oh, hey! Still training? You’re so dedicated!”

“She’s probably just trying to get out of her cleaning duties,” Nobara grumbled, shooting you a suspicious glare.

“Just… working on my stance,” you said, your voice tight. Your uniform felt rumpled where his hands had been. Your neck tingled where his mouth had touched. You were sure they could see it. You felt like you had a giant, glowing sign floating above your head that read: WAS JUST BEING INAPPROPRIATELY HELD BY MY SENSEI.

They thankfully didn’t notice, too wrapped up in their own argument. They grabbed their gear and left as loudly as they came, leaving you alone again in the silence, your entire body trembling with leftover adrenaline. You felt like you had just survived a car crash.

Gojo found it hilarious. After each close call, he’d text you a smug emoji, usually the winking face or the little purple devil. He saw it as a game. He didn’t have to deal with the consequences. He was Gojo Satoru. What would they do, fire him? He was untouchable. You, on the other hand, were just a student. A nameless, clanless, entirely dispensable student who would be expelled, disgraced, and thrown out into the world with a ruined reputation.

The most terrifying encounter was with Shoko. She wasn’t as boisterously oblivious as Yuji or as self-absorbed as Nobara. She was quiet and observant, and you had a sinking feeling she saw more than she ever let on.

Gojo had cornered you in an empty classroom after a grueling group training session, the real combat training with Maki, not the bullshit kind you did with him. You were covered in sweat and a few new bruises, your muscles aching, and you just wanted to go take a hot shower and collapse.

“What is it?” you asked, annoyed.

He didn’t say anything. He pulled you into a hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck, unbothered by the sweat and grime. He just held you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. It wasn’t sexual. It was… weary. The way he had been that first night he’d stayed with you. The hug felt less about desire and more about seeking a moment of quiet refuge. Moments like this confused you the most, made it so hard to be angry with him. You softened, wrapping your own arms around him, hugging him back. You could feel the steady beat of his heart. For a minute, it was peaceful.

Then you heard the footsteps. Slow, steady footsteps coming down the hall. And a voice. Shoko’s.

“Gojo? Are you in here? Yaga’s been looking for you for days. You need to stop ignoring him.”

This time, the panic was different. Shoko was his peer, his friend. She knew him. She wouldn’t be fooled by a flimsy excuse.

Gojo pulled away from you, his expression annoyed at the interruption. He gave you a quick kiss on the forehead. “My room. Tonight,” he whispered, and then teleported out just as the classroom door slid open.

Shoko stood there, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. Her eyes, tired and shrewd, took in the scene. Just you, standing in the middle of an empty classroom. You were breathing a little too hard. Your face was flushed a deep, tell-tale red. Your hair was a mess. And you were alone. A little too alone.

She took a slow drag from her cigarette, her gaze never leaving your face. It felt like she was performing a medical scan, diagnosing every lie your posture was telling. She knows, you thought, your stomach twisting into a knot. There was a long, excruciating silence.

“If you see that idiot,” Shoko said finally, her voice raspy with smoke and boredom, “tell him he has paperwork to do. And that if he doesn’t want Yaga to flay him alive, he should probably do it soon.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked away. Her lack of reaction felt louder and more damning than any accusation. Megumi wouldn’t care, Yuji would be oblivious, and Nobara would be pissed off for reasons of her own, but Shoko… Shoko looked at you like she knew about all the filthy things you’d been up to with Gojo.

You stumbled back to your dorm, your nerves completely shot. The secret was becoming a physical weight. You felt it in the constant tension in your shoulders, in the way you now jumped at every unexpected sound. You started seeing shadows in your peripheral vision, constantly glancing over your shoulder, convinced that sooner or later, your luck was going to run out.

That night, the accumulated stress of a dozen close calls had curdled into a thick sludge of anxiety in your stomach. It was impossible to relax, even with Gojo’s cock buried to the hilt inside your soaking wet pussy. You were in his room. The curtains were drawn, the door was locked, but you still couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom.

Gojo was sitting up in his large bed, his back propped against the headboard, a living throne for you to ride. He was in a playful, almost feral mood, his hands and mouth dedicated to your breasts. He was taking his time, lavishing attention on each nipple, sucking and licking and flicking them with his tongue. He made disgusting, slurping noises that vibrated through your chest and down to the core of you where he was buried. 

“Look at you,” he mumbled, licking a circle around your nipple. “My perfect girl, sitting so nicely on my cock.” All the while, his hips moved in a slow rhythm, rocking you gently on his cock, each upward thrust a lazy slide against your deepest parts. 

It should have been incredible. It was incredible, on a purely physical level. The full, stretching pressure of his cock, the slick slide as he moved inside you, the hot pull of his mouth on your skin… it was everything your body had come to crave. But tonight, your brain refused to shut up. All you could see was a highlight reel of the last few weeks’ near-disasters. Each close call played on a loop. The secret was a venomous snake coiled in your gut, and it was squeezing the pleasure out of everything.

Gojo left a trail of saliva across the valley between your breasts as he moved to the other one, laving at it, slobbering over the peak until it was soaked, then flicked the very tip with his tongue, again and again, until you were writhing on top of him. A gasp escaped you, your hips instinctively bucking down on his shaft. He loved seeing you like this, a complete mess, impaled on his cock and helpless to the things he was doing to your body.

“Good girl,” he praised. “So fucking eager for sensei. Love how you grip my cock every time I suck on your tits.”

You barely heard his filthy words. You were too busy debating with yourself. You knew you had to say something. You had to make him understand. This couldn’t go on. The stress was going to kill you if a surprise encounter with Principal Yaga didn’t first. 

But how would you even begin this conversation? How would you tell the strongest sorcerer to please stop being so recklessly affectionate because you were terrified of the consequences? What if he thought you were complaining? What if he thought you didn’t want his attention anymore? What if he got bored and just… stopped everything? The thought of that was, in its own way, just as terrifying as getting caught. After what felt like an eternity of silent, panicked debate, you couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

“Sensei, you need to stop doing this,” you blurted out.

His whole body went still beneath you. The steady rhythm of his hips halted. His mouth froze on your breast. The abrupt cessation of movement was so startling that it was a moment before you even realized you’d said the words out loud. He lifted his head from your breast, a confused frown creasing his handsome face. His mouth was wet, a glistening trail of spit connecting his lips to your nipple.

“Stop doing what?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “This? Does my good girl not like having her tits sucked?”

He dipped his head again and latched back onto your nipple, sucking hard like he was trying to pull the soul from your body. An electric shock of pleasure shot through you, and you gasped, your pussy clenching around his cock involuntarily.

“Or this? Fucking my girl until she can’t think straight? Is that what needs to stop? Because it feels to me like your tight little pussy is begging me for more.”

He thrust upwards with more force than before, driving his cock deeper into you than you thought possible. The unexpected depth and pressure made you cry out, your body collapsing forward against his chest in a pathetic, moaning heap.

“Is this not feeling good, baby?” he asked again, and then, because he was an asshole, he started doing both at once. His mouth worked your nipple like he was starving while his hips began a rougher rhythm. “You don’t like it when my cock makes your whole fucking body shake? Tell me you don’t like feeling me all the way in your guts.”

The dual stimulation was overwhelming. It was a direct assault on your senses, designed to short-circuit your brain. And damn him, it was working.

“No,” you gasped out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you tried to hang on. He was picking up speed now, his hands gripping your hips, bouncing you faster and faster on his cock, the head of his shaft hitting that perfect spot again and again. “I mean… the other things. You know… you know what I’m talking about! Out there!” The words came out in breathless pants between the wet slaps of your bodies colliding. “What… What if we get caught?!”

Gojo seemed to get it then. A flicker of understanding crossed his face, but not a shred of alarm.

“What’s with it?” he asked, didn’t even slow down. “A little audience might be fun. Imagine them seeing my cock buried balls-deep in your tight little pussy. Seeing how wet you get for your sensei.”

The nonchalance in his voice, the lack of concern, dismissal of your genuine terror, was like a splash of gasoline on the fire of your anxiety. Anger flared through you, momentarily overriding the pleasure.

“My life will end!” you gritted your teeth.

That finally got his full attention. He slowed his fucking, the frantic bouncing easing back into a deep, deliberate stroking. He propped you up, pushing you back until you were sitting straighter, his hands moving from your hips to your shoulders to hold you steady, forcing you to look him in the eye. 

“Why will your life end?” he asked. His playful demeanor was gone.

“Don’t play dumb. You know why,” you snapped, your voice trembling. You were so upset, so terrified, you could feel the frustrated tears welling up in your eyes. This man was going to ruin your life, and he had the audacity to act like he didn’t understand the problem.

At the sight of your tears, Gojo stopped moving completely. The sudden stillness was almost as jarring as his fucking. He let go of your shoulders and cradled your face in his large hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, wiping away a tear that had escaped.

“Is that what you think?” he asked softly. “That I’ll abandon you? You’ll be found out, I’ll walk away, and you’ll be left to face the consequences alone? That’s what you think will happen?”

“What else?” you choked out, the words thick with unshed tears.

What other possible outcome was there? In every story like this, the powerful man walks away unscathed and the girl is destroyed.

Gojo tilted his head, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well,” he said, tapping a finger against his chin in a ridiculously theatrical gesture, “I’ve always thought we’d just get married.”

You stared at him. The words didn’t compute. They were a random string of sounds that made no sense in the context of your life. He might as well have said he’d always thought you’d both sprout wings and fly to the moon. You must have misheard him.

“Are you crazy?” you hissed. “You’re my sensei! I can’t… we can’t… I can’t marry you!”

“Why not?” he smirked. “It’s the logical next step. It solves everything. Once we’re married, no one can say a damn thing. What are they going to do, complain that a husband is obsessed with his wife’s pussy? Fucking her raw every day? Sounds like a perfect marriage to me.” He shrugged. “Okay, maybe you have a point about appearances. We’ll do it properly. We’ll get engaged first. A big, shiny ring. That makes it official, shut everyone up. Then we can have a nice, long engagement. I’ll keep fucking you every day, and then we’ll get married right after you graduate. Perfect plan.” He was grinning, confident and bright, as if he’d just single-handedly achieved world peace.

“I’m not joking, sensei!” you gaped at him, feeling the last vestiges of your sanity slipping away.

“Neither am I,” he said, his smile softening as you continued to stare at him, utterly speechless. He started to move again, a deep thrust that made your breath hitch. “Unless,” he purred, “you don’t like me anymore? This cock not good enough for you? Is that it? Found someone else you’d rather have fuck your pretty little pussy?” His hips pushed up, stretching you impossibly wide. “Go on, tell me. Is there a better cock out there?”

“Stop making everything about your cock!” you sputtered indignantly.

“But it’s such a good debater,” he said shamelessly, rotating his hips to grind his pubic bone against your clit. “Very persuasive. Right now it’s telling me you love this. It’s telling me you never want me to pull out. Am I wrong?”

He was right. The infuriating, magnificent bastard was right. The delicious friction of his cock sliding in and out of your slick folds was systematically dismantling every one of your arguments, melting your panic, eroding your anger. The anxiety was still there, a faint buzz in the back of your mind, but it was being drowned out by the feeling of his length filling you. You wanted to scream at him, to argue, to tell him how insane he was. When you opened your mouth, the only thing that came out was a series of helpless, breathy moans as he picked up his pace, his thrusts growing stronger. 

“That’s what I thought,” Gojo growled triumphantly.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a deep, consuming kiss. His tongue tangled with yours, tasting your tears, tasting your desire. His hips never stopped moving, fucking you into submission, driving every rational thought from your head. He broke the kiss, but only to whisper the words into your mouth, his breath hot against your lips.

“Never think I don’t care about you,” he murmured, each word punctuated by a deep thrust. “Never think this is just me getting my dick wet. Never think I’ll let you get hurt. As long as I am breathing, I will always take care of you. I swear.”

The kiss, the feeling of him buried so deep inside you, the tingling sensation of cursed energy dancing under your skin as his binding vow settled into reality… it was too much. The knot of fear in your chest completely unraveled, replaced by a violent, shattering orgasm. Your body seized, your pussy clenching and milking his cock as waves of pleasure crashed over you. And through it all, he held you tight, whispering your name over and over again, never once letting you feel like you were going to fall.