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Gojo is very familiar with Utahime’s legs after years and years of watching her performances.
It all started prior to winter break in his first year of high school. He had an hour to kill before his basketball practice and the chilly, humid weather was making him sleepy, so he decided to go take a nap in the old, and as far as he knew, unused art room (it had a bunch of old costumes he could fashion into a bed, which was certainly a plus.)
He was dreaming of making it to the finals at the interhigh tourney when the first quietly mysterious and whimsical notes of The Nutcracker’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy woke him up.
It was kind of funny, but it quickly turned annoying, as the person who started playing the piece played it over and over and heavily stomped around. It was annoying enough, in fact, that he lifted his head from his cocoon of old costumes to curse at the stomper. But the ‘oi, quit it already’ he was planning on saying quickly died in his throat, as he was mesmerized by the spinning, floating figure.
She looked like she was sprinkling drops of water with every step, with every twirl and every jump. And when she was standing on point (he realized that what he was hearing was not stomping but the impact of ballet shoes against the wood floor) all he could see was miles and miles of legs, with perfectly muscled thighs and calves, in baby pink.
What she was doing was cool as fuck, so much so that he accidentally said: “That’s so cool.”
The girl screamed in surprise, cursed at him, and threw a dusty guitar case that was lying around in his general direction before storming out of the art room, leaving behind her CD player, still playing Tchaikovsky.
When he recounted the incident to his friends on their way home after club, he learned that the dancing fairy was the famous Utahime-senpai, Shoko’s third-year friend, and despite not being into ballet at all, he pestered her to let him go with her to their senpai’s recital, so he could give this Utahime girl her stuff back, he said (in truth, he just wanted to see her gliding around again.)
So, on Christmas day that year, Gojo and Shoko watched as the curtains opened and the Tokyo Ballet Company presented their junior dancers in The Nutcracker.
He had never seen a ballet performance before, since his interests resided in basketball or anime and his attention span was that of a rodent, so it was a surprise that he managed to stay still for the whole thing.
What did not surprise him was how he leaned in when Utahime gracefully stepped onto the stage in her tutu.
She was stunning, her form was spectacular; every step looked light, and every pose looked balanced, as if she was floating. It was exciting to see how fast she went around the stage in tandem with the music. At one point she even danced with a partner (some prince, according to the program) and his throat dried up when he saw how tiny her waist looked with hands around it, how light she must be, he thought, if she could be lifted onto someone’s shoulder and be maneuvered like that.
After the performance was over, they waited outside the dressing room area, Shoko with flowers and Gojo with the CD player in a paper bag. When Utahime came out, still flushed from exertion, and saw him, she immediately started calling him a creep and a stalker, until Shoko graciously clarified that Gojo was her friend and just accompanied her to give Utahime her stuff back.
He awkwardly said sorry for creeping her out the other day and explained that he was sleeping in the art room before she came in that time and didn’t mean to spy on her or anything.
“I thought no one used the art room” he said, extending his arm that was holding the bag out for her to grab it, “You, um, you left this behind the other day.”
“I use it during lunch breaks and after classes are over,” she snatched the bag. “And I got permission for it, unlike you,” she scoffed.
When they went back to school after winter break, Gojo inadvertently started gravitating around Utahime. And reluctantly—slowly, they became friends. They even came to an agreement regarding the art room, he could still sleep there but had to leave if Utahime wanted to use it. She even started leaving fancy vitamin water and cut fruit for him in the art room, since she noticed his diet consisted solely of sugary snacks. And, when he heard that she pulled a muscle, he got her some of his muscle relief cream and KT tape.
And as the years passed, he saw her evolution as a professional dancer, learned of the immense dedication she poured into her career and the genuine joy it brought her, despite the demanding toll on her body and the limited room for social interaction outside her ballet circle.
Gojo was proud of having such a cool friend, and he never missed the opening night of any production she performed in, because how could he ever miss such a display of athleticism or not be there to witness the sight of her legs covered in nylon.
Recently though, Gojo came to abruptly understand that his feelings for Utahime were not entirely friendly. He attributed his feelings to familiarity and to her being a beautiful, intelligent woman.
His situation was tolerable enough and he expected the feelings to go away at some point. As time went on, however, they refused to fade and kept threatening to slither out of his mouth every time he looked into her warm eyes over coffee and croissants on Sundays.
To make matters worse, acting on his feelings didn’t seem feasible at that point in time, since she was recently appointed prima ballerina, and he knew that saying anything would only burden her.
So, Gojo was happy with the moments they spent together (even if those weren’t as frequent as he wished) and he kept telling himself he was fine with watching her succeed, that he was content to bask in her radiance while sitting in the dark as she danced. That as her friend, sharing in her happiness had to be enough.
But now, as he watches Utahime glide across the stage as Giselle and move into the arms of her partner during the cottage scene, he’s not so happy all of a sudden. Her partner is softly holding her waist as she twirls, then he lifts Utahime up and holds her on his shoulder, his hands on her ribs, under the decadent swell of her breasts. And it is the view of those hands on her bodice that makes him be consumed by a resentful, angry feeling; a repulsive sensation of unprecedented magnitude that latches itself to the pit of his stomach.
Moreover, he hates himself for the intense desire to scream, to demand the performance to be stopped, to climb the stage and to take Utahime away with him. And he realizes how pathetic he’s being. She’s doing her job (rather remarkably), and that’s her coworker. But this reasoning does not help and does little to dispel the unfulfilled impulse that festers in his chest.
So, all he can do is sit there, in his center mezzanine seat and watch.
Luckily, Utahime’s solo begins soon after, and Gojo gets lost in her artistry, on how her skirt flutters around her as she pirouettes, on her beautiful, strong legs. Then, when the deception of the duke that’s been fooling Giselle is revealed, and Utahime goes into a frenzy from the heartbreak her long, silky hair is loose, and she looks so astonishingly beautiful, it hurts him.
It hurts him not being able to call that woman his and not being called hers in return.
The second act is worse than the first though. She looks resplendent in her all-white costume and her French twist, her bangs are pinned away and her forehead calls for unlimited kisses. Her form is exquisite, her skill shines through in her performance. Worst of all, he can see the straight line of her back that he wants to caress, and the column of her neck that just begs to be bitten.
And the fucker that plays the role of the duke keeps grabbing, gripping and holding parts of her Gojo can only dream of touching. He dares to mourn her after causing her death with his lies. He totally deserves to be compelled to dance until he dies, Gojo thinks in his delusion.
Finally, when the leads do their révérence and then are joined by the corps de ballet, he pours his longing and appreciation for Utahime into fervent applause and exits the theater to sullenly wait for her in the foyer, since they’re going out to grab dinner to celebrate the opening of the spring season.
When people have filtered out and only him and some dance parents remain, the object of his yearning and all his cravings emerges from the dressing room area, accompanied by some members of the corps de ballet, including that man, her partner. As they walk, that man has the audacity to slip his arm around her shoulders. And Gojo’s mind perceives this as an affront, an injury to his unmet desire to be the one that touches her like that.
It's not fair, he thinks, wretchedly.
Not fair at all how this person thinks he can touch Utahime so freely, when Gojo can’t allow himself to cross the boundary of polite, appropriate skinship and hold her in the way that he truly wants. Meanwhile, this person gets to touch her like that, with such familiarity.
It's not fair, he thinks, bitterly.
In that moment, Utahime looks at him and waves, smiling, and to his good fortune, extricating herself from her dance partner. He hears her bid her members good night, and then makes her way to him, her heels clacking on the marble floor and the silky material of her red dress glinting under the golden lights of the venue. As he walks to meet her halfway, it occurs to him that all can be solved by him letting go of his cowardice and embracing his true selfish nature, even if it is just for a moment.
That is, slipping his hand into Utahime’s and pulling her into him, to take possession of her warmth and savor the sensation of her body pressed to his, her head under his chin.
“You were beautiful tonight,” he declares, the hand that’s not on hers settling on the small of her back, to gently steer her toward the doors. The material of her dress feels soft against his fingertips, and her body heat makes him feel giddy.
“Beautiful?” she asks, narrowing her eyes up at him, “Not cool?”
He chuckles, grabbing her bag, “Also cool. You always make it look so easy.”
“Wouldn’t be a pro if I couldn’t make it look easy.”
“It would literally kill you if you took the compliment, wouldn’t it?”
“Fiiine. Thanks. I’m glad you enjoyed the show,” she says as they walk to his car, then adds, “Where are we going tonight?”
He succeeds in stifling a rueful sigh. He did not enjoy that borderline cuck play he went through just now, but how could he tell her that he was in pain for one and a half hours? Besides, it was not all bad, she looked beautiful, very cool, and happy. And now, with rosy cheeks from exertion, she looks lovely.
So he says, “To get you complex carbs for optimal muscle recovery.”
Dinner was the same as it always was, with him choosing the restaurant because she never wanted to think about places to eat. This time, he picked an Italian bistro, a recommendation from his financial advisor, and after ordering their food they talk about the same things they always talk; their friends and their relationships, how things are going with his family and his work, the guest coaches and dancers that visit her company and the productions they’re rehearsing for. Tonight though, given the occasion, the conversation is centered on her show.
“What part did you like the most?” Utahime asks, as she stabs her fork on the tiramisu the waitress promised wasn’t too sweet.
He smirks, licking gelato off his spoon, “Ehh, is Utahime asking to be called a good girl? Do you want me to tell you that you did well?”
“Forget it,” she says, scrunching her nose before trying her dessert and then pushing it toward him. He happily accepts it, quickly finishing his own.
“Your solo when you came back as a ghost it—” was beautiful, “looked really fun. You were just the coolest Giselle ever.”
He can see how hard she tries not to smile. “Hah! As if you’ve seen this ballet before.”
“Of course I did! Don’t you remember? When you played the role of the queen of the spirits some years ago. Really. You’re so forgetful, Utahime.”
“Oh, that’s right. That was fun,” she says, “I loved being the bad guy.”
“Well, what about now that you are dancing as Giselle? Which part do you like best?”
She hums thoughtfully, “Definitely the pas de deux from act two. All the lifts make me feel ethereal and excited and I love how it looks. The adagio passage is very difficult but looks beautiful and Takaba is really good.”
And just like that, the perversely venomous sensation in his stomach is back, and the mascarpone from the tiramisu tastes rotten.
“You must really like the guy,” Gojo says, and immediately regrets it. He sounded so bitter.
“Oh? Who? Takaba? Well, of course I like him. We’ve been dancing together for weeks now.” Utahime says nonchalantly, stretching her neck side to side, the swan pendant he got her a few months ago for her thirtieth birthday catching the light with the movement. “Ah, it feels so good to be finally done with the premiere, but then I remember that for the next three weeks I’ll be dancing this ballet four times a week.”
Ah…
That means she’ll be dancing as Giselle eleven more times. With that man. Excluding rehearsals. And fuck, how he abhors it. The mere thought of someone else feeling her warmth, her breathing, her scent, the weight of her body.
All of those are things he so intensely wants to feel himself.
He wants to be the one that makes her feel ethereal and beautiful and excited.
He wants to be the person she likes the most.
The person she loves.
Gojo stands up. He should put distance between himself and these feelings, between himself and her. “It’s late,” he says, “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“Eh? But you haven’t finished your dessert–”
“I’ve had enough,” he says rather forcefully. “And you have another show tomorrow. You should rest.”
Frowning, she stands too. “Alright.”
The trip to her building is silent; he drives, and she just stares out the window. Outside, he sees thick clouds filled with rain stack above – certainly a reflection of the current atmosphere between them – and when they arrive it has started to rain.
“Well, thanks for coming tonight,” says Utahime, monotonously, no doubt aware of his seemingly random mood change.
Gojo hums, he pulls the hand brake as he parks. “Yeah, I had fun,” he lies. He didn’t have fun. He hated seeing her being touched by her coworker, which makes him a bad friend. He should be celebrating her achievements as a professional dancer, not focusing on that. “Do you think I could lift you up like that?”
“What?”
He swallows, grabs the steering wheel. He had not meant to ask that, the stray thought slipping out of his mouth. Nonetheless, he follows that with: “You know, like that Takaba person did on stage. I’m taller. I lift at the gym—”
Utahime laughs, and it sounds like wind chimes. “It takes more than strength, though. You need proper technique and coordination with your part—”
“Teach me, then.”
“Right now?” she furrows her brow.
“Yes. Why not?”
Gojo sees her expression shifting – from surprise to hesitation to acquiescence, her long lashes fluttering. Then, she smiles when she says, “Okay, I’ll show you the basics.”
It’s raining, so they make a run for it under his suit jacket. When they get to the elevator, they are panting. He really isn’t sure what he’s doing. In the back of his mind, he can hear his assistant, dear Ijichi, reminding him in a wheeze of his schedule for tomorrow – some meeting with the ESG task force of their automotive division.
He knows it’s late for her too, past ten pm. She is surely tired and probably has an early day tomorrow. Gojo looks down at her, searching for any sign of discomfort, but sees the corners of her mouth are ever so slightly up. She’s excited to show him a part of her world… and it fills him with love.
And in that moment, he is sure that he won’t leave her apartment until she’s satisfied and kicks him out.
When they enter, they both take off their shoes and he shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on the door hook to dry.
“Make use of those big muscles and help me move the furniture,” she says, pushing her coffee table they tracked for weeks on Mercari towards the entrance. “We’ll use the windows as a mirror,” she explains, referring to the large sliding windows that lead to her balcony.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt before lifting one side of her couch while she lifts the other.
“Do you know the basic positions?” she asks while switching her living room lights off and her balcony yellow lights on.
They’re both suddenly reflected on the windows, and he sees how her dress no longer appears cherry red, but a deep burgundy in the dark.
“I know there are six.”
“There are five,” Utahime clicks her tongue. “Here, I’ll show you,” she walks behind him and places her hands on his hips, and he jumps, surprised. “Stand up straight. Your heels together, toes apart. That’s first,” he follows accordingly. “Great, now separate them a little. Your ankles should be in line with your hips. This is second position.” The point of contact of her dainty fingers on his hips burn red like coal, and he can feel his face warm up. “In third you transition and take one heel to the arch of the other. Yeah, like that. Now transition again.” She pushes his front foot forward with her own, and her thigh presses against the back of his leg. Goddamn it. “Move this one approximately one foot, that’s forth position. No, no, keep a straight line, hips facing forward,” she chides, tapping his right hip when he collapses on it. “Now to fifth, bring your front foot back, opposite heel to opposite toe. Yes, good.”
“Easy,” he says, but he sounds unsure, his voice trembling a bit – she’s still behind him, doing who knows what, hopefully staring at his well-defined ass. “Now, put on some music so I can lift you on my shoulder.”
She laughs, “Sure. But as I said, these are the basics, you won’t be able to lift me up as gracefully as you think and you may end up hurting yourself. Partnering is more than strength; it takes synchronization and trust between dancers.”
The first notes of string instruments start to sound through the speakers they found on sale at Omotesando Hills on a Sunday after brunch.
“Don’t you trust me?” he asks.
And he knows the answer but still, the implication that she trusts others with her body like that fills up his heart with something bitter. He turns and finds Utahime sitting on the couch and putting her point shoes on.
“You’re ridiculous. All I’m saying is that it’s not as easy as it looks. Now, face the windows. We’ll do a modified Paris and Juliet pas de deux,” she stands up, and walks to him, “just do as I say. Stand in fifth,” she says, as she stands up in point, her back to him (the column of her neck is right there, and his mouth waters at the sight.) “Now, put your hands above my waist,” he swallows, his index fingers are a hair below her breasts. “Now stay still as I do an arabesque,” she gracefully kicks her leg behind her. “We move to the side, keep fifth position,” he holds her as she advances, does another arabesque. “Next, we’ll move to the other side two steps, and I’ll pirouette. You have to hold me, not too tight and not too close, so my axis doesn’t get fucked up, okay?”
Utahime twirls once, twice. Graceful arms that end with the tips of her nails are painted a crisp, clean white, head whipping around with precision. In their makeshift mirror Gojo can see how his form is all kinds of terrible; but he doesn’t care, because her silky dress flutters, exposing her thighs, and she looks too pretty and unreal in his arms.
He’s finally holding her, and it feels exhilarating.
She keeps moving and directing him at the same time, then the music stops, and he wonders if it can’t go on forever.
“That was fun,” he murmurs over her head, still with his arms on her waist as she lowers herself from point – he doesn’t want to let her go.
“Yeah,” she sighs, and to his surprise, leans against his chest, her hands brush his forearms, nails softly scratching his skin. “Now you know how good it feels.”
He knows she’s referring to ballet, to dancing in general. They’ve talked about this before. Dancing releases endorphins and all kinds of neurotransmitters, that’s why she finds it so fulfilling, that’s why she stuck with it despite not being exactly profitable. He knows she’s talking about that, but his petty, possessive, jealous self comprehends her words as ‘now you know how good it feels for them to have me like this’ and his hands are now on her belly, bunching up her dress.
Fuck.
“Utahime,” he starts, and alarms go off inside his head. Outside, a streak of lightning illuminates the sky, and then they hear the rumbling. “I can’t do this.”
Another bright flash, and she tenses in his arms. “What?”
Say you are joking, say you need to go, just don’t—
“I can’t hide it anymore. I’m sorry, but being friends is not enough.”
Her hands grab his wrists, she removes herself from his embrace and walks to stand almost with her nose against the window.
And his reality feels like it is held by a single thread.
“Not enough?” she asks, and after a pause, adds, “Should I interpret this as you wanting to be more?”
“Yes.”
She turns around, her back against the light and he can’t quite see her face, her expression. Her sweet, warm eyes.
“Took you long enough,” she scoffs.
Huh?
“Until tonight, I was starting to think it was all in my head,” she says, walking past him towards the couch. “That you took a vow of celibacy since you were appointed general director and stopped fucking around. But then, the evidence—”
“What evidence?” He turns to her.
She scoffs again, throwing her shoes to the side, then walks up to him. “Do you truly think me so oblivious? There’s a limit to how much a friend can stare at your tits.” Utahime stabs a finger to his ribs.
“I—I don’t stare,” he sputters, “I merely… admire. Stealthily, and only when I wear sunglasses.”
Utahime clicks her tongue, “Hah! Your lack of self-awareness is astounding.”
She turns again and he can practically see her smug face. Not even this can phase her, huh? Does she have to know best all the damn time? Is she still holding being senpai above his head?
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, grabbing her from behind, one hand on her hip, another splayed over her abdomen, “I am very aware of how much I want you right now.”
And this woman dares to sigh as she leans into him.
“Ah, what’s this? Perhaps Utahime wants me too?” he says against her neck, and she shivers when he gives it a wet kiss.
“Obviously.” She mutters, “There’s a limit to how much you can daydream about kissing your friend, you know.”
He laughs, “Is that so?”
“Well, yeah. You have luscious lips, okay?”
Gojo hums, satisfaction coiling inside his chest, warming his whole body. There is no limit to how much he wants to kiss her right this moment. Let her taste his luscious lips, let himself taste hers. But—
“Does this mean we are together now? Do you wanna?”
“Satoru, you idiot,” she turns in his arms and pushes him until the backs of his legs are against the floating tv stand he installed on golden week two years ago. “Everything around me reminds me of you. We meet every weekend; we do errands together. You’ve been to more shows than my parents. I do hatsumode with your family every year; you go to my company’s events with me.” She grabs him by the collar, “What else is there for us to do?”
Lightning strikes, and she looks so enchanting in the pale light, making a very sound point, that it takes him a while to respond. He hadn’t thought about it this way.
“Well, I can think of one thing or two left for us to do,” he says, his whole body vibrating with excitement, “but before that, I just want to make sure. You know, that you wanna be together as much as I do.”
There is a pause, and he is prepared to let her go if this isn’t what she truly wants. But then she huffs, “Yes, I do want to be together.”
Like that, with only her words, the venomous, viscous sensation in his chest – the envy, the boiling resentment he felt throughout the night are subdued, tamed for now.
It seems he only needed assurance from her.
“Good,” he says, as he thumbs her chin and lowers his mouth to hers.
The kiss is better than anything he’d been conjuring up in his mind all this time. Her hands that are still grabbing his shirt, travel up to his neck and then to his hair, and he feels as the goosebumps break all over his skin, making him sigh into her. Her mouth is so warm, her lips are so soft and plush, and when he tentatively slides his tongue against hers, he can faintly taste the wine she had earlier, and it is decadent. The hand he had on her chin travels to her neck in a delicate caress, and he struggles really hard not to palm her breast and be respectful, but ultimately fails.
He already knew the silky material of her dress was thin, but now he feels the texture of the garment underneath and beyond that, perhaps a pebbled nipple pushing to greet his hand. Utahime hums into the kiss, and he lowers his lips to where her shoulder and throat meet to kiss and lick the delicate skin there, and makes sure to suck a mark, just so everyone knows she’s mine, he thinks darkly.
Utahime’s hands move from his hair to his chest, where she skillfully works the buttons of his dress shirt and then slips her cool, thin fingers under it to caress his sides and his back, which has him shaking and biting down on her shoulder.
“Satoru,” she says, breathless, in a way that makes him want to pull all sorts of sounds out of her. “Can we go to my room?”
Gojo lifts his head from the crook of her neck to look at her face, and her expression – half lidded eyes looking up at him, lips parted, pink tongue peeking out – makes it impossible for him to deny her. Leave it to her to look ready to be ravished and simultaneously so adorable.
He grabs her waist, that feels tiny in his hands, and lifts her up, just like he’s been wanting to do for seemingly years.
“Let’s go.”
Utahime squeals, grabbing his shoulders, and wraps her legs around his waist, solid thighs tensing around him. She looks surprised for a moment, and then smiles at him. “Huh, you really can lift me up.”
“Told ya. I’m strong, I can throw you around and really mess you up if I want to,” he jokes.
“I would like that, actually,” she says, the candor in her words taking him aback for a moment.
He considers it, sees it in his mind’s eye. Him on top of her, from behind, his fingers on her hair. The delectable column of her neck and her beautiful back displayed for him, as he sinks deep into her. Or maybe he could take her hard and fast on top of his kitchen table before brunch on Sunday. He could even fuck her standing, her gorgeous, strong legs around his waist, like how they’re right now in her living room.
His cock twitches in his pants.
Goddamn it, all that seems pretty fucking hot to him, honestly. Not now though.
Now he yearns for intimacy and must take things as slow as he’s able – get to know the body he’s been craving for ages and needs to learn the things she likes.
So he says, “Later.”
Her nightlight is on, he notes, when they reach her bedroom, and her modest queen size bed waits for them – unmade but looking all inviting and warm, like its owner. He sets her up on the edge of her mattress and kneels between her spread legs. They are at eye level now, and so, so close he can see the little streaks of gold in her beautiful eyes, a blush high on her cheeks.
Utahime’s hands caress his chest, his neck, his jaw. Then, she leans in to kiss him softly on the cheek.
“You’re too pretty,” she whispers against his skin, her mouth trailing little pecks down to his mouth, “I have always thought so, Satoru.”
He hums, stroking her ankles, “You have no idea, then, what you look like.”
Gojo hears her swallow, “And how’s that?”
He pulls back a little to look at her, both to store the image of her in his mind and to describe to Utahime how he sees her.
“Now, your cheeks are flushed,” he says, kissing her cheekbones, caressing her calves, “your neck too,” his lips fall on the bruise that’s already forming there, “and your chest too,” he inhales at the hollow between her collarbones, where he’d seen her spray her perfume on a number of occasions and it smells rosy, and a little like incense too. “You look very cute. And it makes me wonder what you’ll look like when you come around my cock.”
She chokes on her breath when his hands reach her thighs, and he cannot believe that he’s said something like that to her.
“That’s—that’s something I’ve been wondering too.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah,” she quietly admits, “I lay here, I touch myself and think of you,” her voice is shaking, but braving her embarrassment.
Proper, elegant, brave Utahime touches herself to thoughts of him. With her delicate fingers, spreading her magnificent legs. Surrendering to her own desires.
His mouth waters, he wants to see.
“Show me.”
Utahime inhales deeply before laying on her bed, and slowly dragging the skirt of her dress up to her waist, granting him prime view of her see through panties. She lifts her hips to slide them down her thighs, toned muscles rippling under the smooth skin as she moves to take off the garment, throwing it away. She sets the balls of her feet on the edge of her mattress, legs spread. And his tongue itches to taste her cunt, open and glistening, a tear of creamy moisture dripping from her depths and slowly down to her ass.
The room is silent, except for the pitter patter of the rain against her window and her labored breath.
“Beautiful,” he says, inching closer to see better. At this distance, he can smell her, and he fears he’ll start salivating like a fucking dog.
Utahime slides two fingers down to her entrance, she teases the twitching hole, drawing moisture before her fingers move to her clit in slow, firm circles. Her arousal displayed for him to see – her thighs trembling and her entrance quivering, wanting – is hypnotizing.
“What do you think about when you do this?” Gojo asks, stroking the arches of her feet.
“Your voice,” she answers, a drawl so seductive that almost succeeds in hiding her shyness.
“So Utahime really wants to be called a good girl,” he teases, and she lets out a sweet whimper, an all too telling sound of approval.
Her fingers work her clit a bit faster now, toes curling and the muscles of her belly fluttering under her skin. Then she carefully slides her two fingers into her cunt, and he can see how her needy hole contracts and expands against her digits, and she arches her back.
Well, fuck.
“That’s so hot,” he says, cock throbbing in response to the visual stimulus, to her scent. “Feeling good?”
Utahime hums in assent, fingers going in and out at a steady pace. Her cunt pulsates around them, needy and wet. He wants to feel that around his own fingers, on his tongue, on his cock. The longing of being engulfed by her, devoured by her is unbearable in its intensity.
“It’s fine,” she mutters.
Just fine?
“Let me make it better, then,” he says.
Gojo grabs her wrist and licks her fingers to suck them dry, lapping under her fingernails, unable to let a single drop of her go to waste. He then quickly grabs the backs of her knees and drags her forward, so her ass is at the edge of her bed. However, when he leans in to gorge on her, she sits and unsuccessfully attempts to close her legs, since he’s kneeling in between; her knees flanking his head, her calves on his back.
“Satoru, stop—I haven’t showered,” she says, breathless, trying to push his head away.
She looks exquisite, so erotic with her hair falling from its bun, her bangs over her eyes. Sharply beautiful.
“Don’t worry about that,” he soothes, a grin on his lips, “it’ll be only a taste, I promise.”
He’s lying and she knows it, as evidenced by her little frown and he half expects her to scoff at him, to call him out. But she closes her eyes and says: “Fine. But only a taste, I’m serious.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he assures, sliding his fingers up her thighs and resting them on her hips, her dress tightly clutched in his hands. “Now, open your legs.”
Utahime lays back slightly, one hand supporting her and burying the other in his hair. She then spreads her legs, and he dives in, finally.
He hears how she chokes on a breath as his tongue licks a gentle, long strip up and down her slit, savoring her taste and her voice. And when he dips his tongue into her cunt, Gojo feels his eyes roll to the back of his head – the sharp, sweet taste of her is so fucking good. It’s simultaneously exactly as he imagined and somehow better.
The hand on his hair curls into a fist and Utahime collapses back into her mattress, legs shaking as he attempts to reproduce the movement of her fingers earlier against her clit. Slow, firm circles. He then opens his lips to trap her in his mouth, sucking and flickering his tongue against her. She moans and thrashes and crushes his head between her thighs.
“Fuck,” she cries out, her voice thick with pleasure.
And heaven feels closer than ever. Because he’s the one that’s making her react this way, feel this evident pleasure that has her cursing.
Gojo continues to suck and circle his tongue against her clit, setting a deliberate, gentle rhythm before giving it quick swirls, drawing from her all kinds of delectable noises. After he sucks particularly hard, she cries out and tries to get away, so to soothe her he gives her a careful lick up and down while holding her down, making her whimper.
He pulls away for a moment to breathe and the hand that’s on his hair falls to his cheek. He takes a second to look at her, chest rapidly rising and falling as Utahime takes shallow breaths. Her neck and her face flushed; her eyes are fixed on him.
“You’re doing so well,” he praises as he grabs the backs of her thighs, pushing them apart and toward her chest.
In this position, her cunt is wide open and in wholly exposed, clenching around nothing, calling to him. So he does the only reasonable thing, and dives back in and licks at the wet, puffy lips before sinking his tongue into her and tasting the feeling of her cunt contracting and expanding around him. He repeats the action until she’s gasping for air.
His cock throbs painfully, as if it wants to trade places with his tongue.
“Satoru, enough” she whines, her hands fisting his hair, as he dips his tongue in and out of her, “you promised,” she chokes out, “only a taste.”
“But aren’t you close?” he tries, dropping a kiss to her clit that makes her hips buckle. “Don’t you want to finish?”
She says nothing, and he takes that as surrender.
So he continues. Laps at her clit, his chin is dripping with spit and her. He sucks and licks side to side, then in circles, over and over. And he watches as she squeezes her eyes, as she throws her head back and covers her mouth with her hands.
And he feels the muscles under his hands shake as she comes with his mouth on her.
In that moment, he knows that he’ll be hoarding all these reactions and little noises she makes, he’ll draw them out every time they do this, as they are definite, precious proof that he pleases her as much as she pleases him.
She melts after, her legs loose and heavy against his back, and when she speaks, her voice sounds hoarse.
“You liar.”
He laughs into her thigh, leaving a kiss after wiping the mixture of slick and spit with the back of his hand.
“Aren’t you glad I persuaded you, though?”
“A bit,” she hums, standing up and walking to her dresser with unsteady legs. “Will you let me shower now?”
“What for? Let’s wash up after,” he says, watching her nimble fingers as she tugs the pins securing her hair.
“Who would’ve thought you had this kind of fetish,” Utahime mocks him, threading her fingers down her hair and then massaging her scalp.
He laughs, walking to join her in front of her dresser. The zipper of his dress bothers him, and he absolutely must do something about it.
“I have an Utahime fetish,” he says, mentally patting himself in the back. His charisma is boundless.
“Don’t be disgusting, please.”
“Hey, mean!”
She chuckles and he gets back to her by biting down on her shoulder after sliding her dress off her, the garment resting at their feet, a red puddle of silk. She turns and quickly slides his shirt works his belt, then his button and zipper. And when she palms his erection over his boxers, she freezes up.
Her cat-shaped eyes widen, and he fears she’s going to ask to wrap things up right this instant.
“You okay with me on top?” Utahime asks, tilting her head to the side.
Gojo exhales shakily. “Yeah.”
She smiles at him before tugging and releasing the elastic of his underwear and leads him back to her bed. She arranges her two memory foam pillows, the ones they bought at a specialized store last month, against the headboard. In the meantime, he rids himself of his boxers – they sport a very telling, very wet stain where his cock had been crying out with the urge to merge with her.
“Sit here,” she instructs.
When he obliges, she straddles his lap hovering above his cock, and unclasps her bra, letting it fall somewhere on the floor. He vaguely registers her hands on his shoulders, as it is then when his brain ceases to function and he twitches, once, twice.
Of course, Utahime has perfect tits.
Enthralled, he reaches out to them, and her nipples react instantly to his touch. Her tits are heavy and her skin, that is warm and soft, breaks into goosebumps. He massages them, pushes them together and lowers his head to nuzzle his face in her chest, eyes closed, relaxing. She sighs beautifully, arching her back, seeking his warmth.
“I was joking earlier, but it really seems that you are my fetish,” he mumbles into her skin.
She lets out a quiet laughter, her hands move from his shoulders to his chest, then she softly scratches his sides. He shivers, slides his arms around her in a tight embrace, and inhales her scent. Roses, incense, sex.
He inhales sharply when he feels her delicate hand give a tentative stroke to his shaft, down, up, a twist around the tip.
He gasps.
“Good?” she asks, somewhere above his head.
“Good,” he echoes, whole body shaking as she picks up the pace.
Utahime sits back on his thighs, undoing their embrace, and grabs him in both hands. He lays back and watches her. She is focused on her exploration of him, sets a careful pace, twisting her hands around him and going up and down. Tightens her grip every time he twitches in her hands, wets her lips, eyes glued to his member, pupils following the motions.
And when he’s feeling especially good, when he’s wildly thrusting his hips up, she lets go of him and he almost sobs.
“That was so mean, Utahime,” he laughs, but he really wants to whine and beg.
“Sorry,” she says, not feeling sorry at all. “That’s one pretty dick.”
“Then why don’t you sit on it and make it prettier with your cum?” he challenges, moving his hands, releasing her tits and grabbing her waist – it looks tiny in his hands, and he feels dazed at the sight.
She scoffs but moves closer anyway.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says as she aligns her body with his, one hand on his shoulder for support and the other grabbing his shaft.
And he wants to shoot back something clever, something fun. He wants to tease her and make her roll her eyes at him.
But his frontal lobe shuts down when she engulfs his tip, and then slowly, little by maddening little she devours him with her cunt. When it’s too much for her, she slides up and down again. The fit is so snug, so warm and wet. And her face. She looks utterly dazed, eyes unfocused, almost crossed and her lips parted, saliva gathering in one corner, threatening to flow down her chin.
“Okay?” he wants to know, through gritted teeth, feeling the tension in his neck.
He wants to fuck up into her until she’s full of him, stretched completely, but is terrified to hurt her. To do something that might make her uncomfortable and result in Utahime hating him.
“Oh,” she breathes, her hands on his cheeks. “Yeah, fine. It’s just that—it’s a stretch.”
Utahime lowers herself down, down, down. He looks at where they’re joined and more than half of him is inside her. Taking it so well, he wants to say, but loses language proficiency again when she rocks her hips and her cunt pulsates appreciatively around him. She gasps, rocks her hips again and again.
“You like?” he eloquently tries to find out.
She hums, not much more articulate herself it seems.
“I like,” she mumbles, before moving forward to kiss him, pretty nails digging into his shoulders.
He groans when her tongue slides against his. This is everything he’s been craving, everything he’s been yearning for. She’s so entirely pressed against him, her tits crushed against his chest, sharing her warmth with him, lying the weight of her body on his. Utahime moves like the tide against him, her hips undulating impossibly slow, making him moan into her mouth.
“Fuck,” he gasps, dropping his head against her headboard, eyes closed.
She does that wave motion again and he’s – finally – completely deep inside her.
It feels so good, having her at last and to be hers like this. To feel her on his body like he’s been dreaming probably since he first saw her years and years ago. It feels so good, to finally have this aching, blazing passion for her realized.
He opens his eyes to look at her then, and—
“You’re drooling.”
Utahime blinks. It takes her a couple of seconds to register his words before she wipes her mouth, her chin with the back of her hand. She swallows and says: “Well, thanks for the food.”
Gojo lets out a laugh that turns into a groan when she moves her hips – up, in, out, down his cock. A sweet, deliberate devourment that drives him insane. He seeks her mouth to eat her up as well, his arms around her. One of his hands grabbing the back of her neck, trapping her in his kiss, and the other massaging her breasts, softly pinching her nipples, alternating and making her moan against his mouth.
At some point, between her careful engulfing and his touches, her pace stutters, before becoming erratic as she grinds, and her every movement sends currents of sensation through his entire being. Gojo’s hands grips her hips, stilling her, moving her in a way that won’t make him come undone so soon. He carefully shifts them, kneels forward and lifts himself up, his hands on her ass moving her with him, holding her up.
“Wrap your gorgeous legs around me,” he requests over her lips, frontal lobe fully functional due to the panic of almost cumming inside her.
When she complies, he fucks up into her, making her cry out his name, drooling and with unshed tears in her cloudy eyes. Which truly feels glorious, her satisfaction transferring to him. He’s the one who’s making her feel this good, the one she’s sharing her body with. And he’s proud, elated to be giving this part of himself to her. To his best friend, to Utahime. The woman he loves.
For a moment, her eyes focus on his, and she smiles.
“You’re mine now,” she whispers cheekily, before leaning back exposing her chest to him, her tits bouncing tantalizingly.
Utahime’s hands fall somewhere behind her, and she forces him to sit on the mattress, taking charge of their pleasure once more. The movement of her hips replicates her previous maddening pace – up, in, out, down. She slowly builds up a calm, serene rhythm that makes his blood burn in his veins, but soon after, she’s moving wildly again, sinking deep and grinding down, moaning and cunt clenching around him.
And the sight of her abdomen moving fluidly is too alluring – it captivates him, hypnotizes him, makes him stupid. Calls to him for a caress.
It’s like she is the ocean, and he wonders what he still hasn’t discovered about her, what kind of marvels she keeps hidden under her surface. A nice, romantic line of thought. He is unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion, however, because she comes with a jolt so good, shivering and cunt pulsating around his cock.
He reaches to her, embracing her, feeling her tremors.
“You’re doing so, so well,” he says, shifting them, so she is on her back and he is looming over her.
He holds her up by her waist, keeping his back straight, and when he unintentionally slips out of her, she whines in protest. So cute and needy.
He makes it up to her by sliding inside, slow and soft. A fluid, intentional movement that has him clenching his jaw and grunting. It’s deep like this, feels too good.
She hums her approval, slipping her hands over his forearms. She looks well-loved and happy, body flushed and a sheen of sweat on her skin. And he never wants to stop doing this, with her and fully resents that’s a regular Thursday and not a holiday.
“Did I fucked you so good you lost the ability to speak?” Gojo teases, feeling not much more able himself.
Utahime she laughs, dark hair around her, beautiful. Like she’s some work of art he’s desecrating.
“I was the one doing the fucking,” she replies, sinking her nails into his skin, feisty. “Now, really mess me up, yeah? Like you promised.”
A wolfish grin forms on his lips, and for once Gojo does as he’s told. He fucks her into her mattress, deep and hard – like he’s been craving, unleashing his desire, surrendering to the overwhelming force of his love – bruising grip on her waist, and Utahime lets out little noises that are not quite moans, not quite giggles.
“Don’t even think of running away, I won’t let you,” she warns, in a throaty voice.
“That’s fine,” he gasps, it’s getting hard to breathe. “I can’t run away from what’s mine.”
“Yours? Really?” she mocks him, or tries to, but she sounds so breathless that it comes out too pitiful, like she’s begging confirmation.
He fucks her erratically now, feeling selfish, momentarily setting aside his need to care for her in favor of his own pleasure.
“Yeah. I am yours, and you are mine.” Gojo declares in between thrusts, feeling her clench around him. “Do not forget that,” he chokes out.
She doesn’t respond this time, her back arching and her legs around his hips locking him in place. It’s so deep like this, feels too good. And she must feel it too, because she jolts, shivers again, and her mouth opens in a silent cry, coming undone with his cock moving in and out of her.
And the last thread of his reason snaps at the sight of her completely surrendering to pleasure.
His grip on her waist loosens, and he slips out of her. His synapses howl, grieving the loss of her wet, snug cunt, but despite all his failures, despite the primal need to breed her, plant his seed in her and the dark desire to tie her to him forever, he cannot bring himself to cross this final boundary without speaking about it before with her. Instead, he takes his cock in a tight fist and strokes himself to the memory, and spills himself on her belly, strings of white sullying her skin.
He sits back, still catching his breath, looking at her, admiring her sharp beauty and her completely fucked out appearance. Outside it’s still raining, he notes, and the room smells like sex, Utahime and his own cologne.
He gets up from her bed and comes back with his shirt to wipe her clean of him.
“I meant it,” he says quietly, he’s chasing the drops of him that wish to escape the clean-up. “You are mine now, and I am yours, Utahime.”
“That’s fine, I’ll take responsibility,” she hums, reaching to his face to caress his cheek.
“Okay, I won’t let you get away, either.”
“Fiiine. Let’s shower.”
After washing up together, they lie on her bed and turn her AC on, naked.
It feels so natural, like they’ve been doing this for years. There’s no hesitation in the way he nuzzles her into chest, nor in the way she throws a leg over him.
“Turn off the light,” she says, commanding tone slipping through the exhaustion.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, reaching his arm to press the off bottom of the lamp he got her for Christmas some years ago.
He kisses her sternum in the dark and closes his eyes, feeling right at home in her arms. Secure, confident.
Happy that she trusts him with her body in this way, and more importantly, with her heart.
“Hey, Satoru,” she calls, pulling him away from self-reflection. “I love you.”