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Utahime’s internal monologue has been defensive the whole walk over here. This, as she told Shoko’s deeply amused smirk, is a strategic manœuvre. This is the art of war.
Just one visible hickey. Maybe two or three, depending on the placement and the fall of fabric. She’ll need to be a bit discreet so it mustn’t be anything a turtleneck can’t cover. But it should be visible enough on her neck that even that smug little Kamo clan prick will see it and know he wasn’t the last person to touch her.
That’s all.
She knocks once and lets herself into Gojo Satoru’s dorm room like it’s any other day, and her reflexive contempt for him means she doesn’t bother to stand on ceremony with him. She realises her abrupt entrance is probably a mistake, because he’s lounging shirtless in bed with a box of Pocky and a manga balanced on his stomach, his long legs tangled in a violently patterned blanket that doesn’t even pretend to match his bedding. He doesn’t seem surprised to see her, which figures—he very rarely is surprised by anyone. The Six Eyes probably saw her cursed energy back at the Torii gate.
He looks up nonchalantly, grins at her over his sunglasses, and says, “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Second Grade Spinster herself.”
“Semi Grade One,” she corrects through her teeth, realising too late that she’s insulted herself. “And I need a favour.”
“Oh?” He props himself up on one elbow. “Need me to scare someone? Spy on someone? Break someone’s kneecaps? Because I charge by the hour for extracurricular violence.”
“I need you to give me a hickey.”
There is a beat of silence in which even he blinks.
“I—” He makes a shhhtk noise with his mouth like a can opening. “Okay, wow. You’re just diving right in. No flowers, no dinner? What happened to romance?”
“It’s not like that,” she mutters, her face a bit hot as she already begins to regret everything. “I need my ex to see it.”
Gojo’s eyebrows shoot up. “You have an ex?”
Utahime kicks his bed frame, flustered by the reality of him half-dressed. “Can you do it or not?”
She decided to ask Gojo because, frankly, he has a reputation. Everyone knows it. He’s cocky, shameless, always surrounded by too many girls laughing too loudly at things he didn’t even try that hard to make funny. Shoko has told Utahime enough casually horrifying stories—half-jokes, half-warnings—for Utahime to assume he’d have no moral qualms about something like this. Gojo is the kind of guy people dare to do reckless things with.
Also, he has never liked Kamo Tanaka, so Utahime assumed he’d be a natural co-conspirator. Or at least, Gojo made a point of being especially unbearable every time Utahime brought him up or dragged him along. Did Gojo not know that they were dating? Now she’s a bit worried he’ll say no and she refuses to humilate herself by begging. Would that be more embarrassing than having to hear Kusakabe’s awed whistle at Tanaka’s new girl play in her head over and over? And Utahime’s own brother making a chirpy little comment about Tanaka’s game, when he is nothing but a two-timing bastard? The double standard really isn’t fair.
Now Utahime is a player on the offensive.
Gojo takes a long, leisurely look at her. “I can do it. But you’ll owe me.”
“I’ll buy you whatever sugary monstrosity you desire.”
“I was thinking more like a heartfelt apology for being so mean to me all the time, but—sure. Sugar.”
He pats the bed beside him. “Come on, then. Let’s ruin this man’s life.”
Utahime sits stiffly on the edge of his bed, the backs of her thighs tensing against the lurid duvet.
“I’m not lying down for this,” she says defensively. “Just get sucking.”
Gojo shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He shifts onto his knees behind her, big hands ghosting over her shoulders to move her hair aside. She freezes.
“Relax,” he says, amusement curling in his voice. “You think this is my first time?”
“I’m sure you’re well-versed, you slut,” Utahime mutters, making him snort. “I figured it was your first fake hickey.”
“Luckily, I’m a method actor, Utahime.”
He ducks down, breath brushing warm against the curve of her neck.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs. “Chill.”
“It’s because you’re annoying,” she says, but it comes out too soft. “Just do it.”
Gojo hums in acknowledgement. Then, before she can prepare, he presses his mouth to her skin—warm, open, just under her earlobe—and sucks hard.
She yelps, swatting his shoulder. “Too hard!”
He pulls back with a laugh as she slaps her hand over the treacherous warm spot where his mouth has been, glaring at him over her shoulder. His lips are slightly wet. His grin is infuriating. Utahime grasps his sunglasses off his face and angles them to check her neck in their reflection. There might be an unmistakable mark blooming just beneath her ear, but it’s maybe too soon to be sure. Maybe Utahime is just blushing.
“Too hard?” he echoes, delighted. “I thought you wanted it obvious.”
“Subtle obvious! Not murder obvious.”
“’Subtle obvious’ is an oxymoron, Utahime,” he says, eyes dancing, delighted by her lack of composure. “Want me to do another?”
She hesitates, cheeks flushing.
Then nods.
“The angle is wrong though.”
“Okay, face me then.”
Utahime swallows, her ears feeling warm and her pulse buzzing as she turns. Gojo’s long legs are spread out on the bed, shifting against the headboard to make space for her, and she kneels between them.
The next one is lower. He lets her adjust the collar of her shirt and follows the exposed edge of her collarbone with his mouth, slow and careful, trying to find a tender spot, a spot that would feel natural for lovers.
There’s a pause before he starts.
She doesn’t know why it feels different, this time.
His lips drag against her skin, soft and maddening, and then he sucks gently, just enough to tease, his hand braced lightly on her waist to keep her steady, because she’s positioned herself at a comical distance from him.
Her breath catches.
Gojo lingers there, tongue flicking at the bruised skin, before he pulls away. He doesn’t say anything. Neither does she.
The silence buzzes.
Gojo’s hand is still on her waist as she uses his sunglasses once more to check her neck.
Utahime turns her head slightly. “That was… fine.”
His voice is low. “Fine, huh?”
“Functional. Could be a bit darker.”
His hands—large, warm, and long-fingered—slide around her waist, and before she can swat them away or demand to know what the hell he thinks he’s doing, he grips and pulls her toward him in one smooth, decisive motion, dragging her fully into his lap until her knees are bracketing his hips and the curve of her thighs settles against his.
She lets out a muffled gasp of protest that doesn’t quite land, because her balance shifts all at once—her hands instinctively finding his shoulders, her pussy pressed flush against the hard line of his lower body—and for a moment the contact is so direct, so unmistakable, that it empties her lungs.
“Let’s fix that, then,” he murmurs, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, as though he hasn’t just manhandled her into a position that feels suspiciously like straddling. His voice is too low, too calm. “You have to be closer, Utahime. You’re going to give me a crick in my neck.”
She wants to tell him off. She does. But her breath won’t come, and when he leans in again—this time without waiting—his mouth finds a sensitive hollow beneath her jaw, with an intensity that’s entirely new.
The third hickey is slower.
Deeper.
And the shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable now that he’s no longer crouched behind her, but beneath her, one hand splayed possessively over her hip to keep her steady, the other rising to tip her head back so her neck is exposed to him, as his lips sink into her skin like he’s tasting something forbidden and long-anticipated.
His breath is hot, his mouth open, and the suction he draws—low, deliberate, edged with tongue—makes her gasp without meaning to, her fingers tightening over his warm, bare shoulders.
Neither of them have the breath to speak.
He just stays there, mouth working slowly, rhythmically, coaxing the bloom of something raw and telling against her skin while his fingers twitch at her waist like he’s barely keeping himself restrained.
Utahime knows she should move. She should say something.
But instead her thighs tense around his hips, and when she shifts—just slightly, just enough to get her bearings—she feels it.
Hard.
Blunt.
Pressed directly between her legs, thick and unambiguous even through two layers of fabric.
She goes utterly still.
“…Gojo.”
“Mmph.”
The sound is muffled, distracted, like he doesn’t want to stop, and when she doesn’t respond immediately, he pulls back a breath’s width and rests his forehead against her shoulder with a shudder that feels like it rattles through both of them.
“You’re—” she starts, but the sentence dies on her tongue.
“I know,” he says, his voice thinned down to merely a scrape of air.
Utahime shifts her hips instinctively, trying to create space, and the motion draws a raw, broken sound from him—something so low and involuntary that it catches between them like static and makes everything much worse.
“Sorry,” he mutters, finally lifting his head. His cheeks are pink, his pupils blown wide. “You were, uh. Very cooperative.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says hoarsely.
“You sat on my lap and moaned.”
“I did not—”
“Okay, you breathed all sexy, which is basically the same thing at this range.”
“You’re disgusting,” she almost chokes, trying to get her upper hand back.
“And so hot,” he says with a rueful little laugh, as if he hasn’t heard her feeble retort, half-strangled. “Which is unfortunate for me right now.”
Something about being wanted by him is doing something unseemly in the pit of Utahime’s stomach. She tries so hard to sound like her normal self, but her voice is wobbly.
“You could’ve said no,” she swallows.
Gojo lets out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You think I’ve got that much self-control?”
Them his voice is sharper. It’s so rough, hungry, like it’s frayed at the edges, like he’s just woken up. “You come in here all flushed and furious, climb into my bed, and ask me to put my mouth on your neck like you don’t know what that does to me? What part of that was supposed to go well for me?”
Utahime opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to tell him not to be ridiculous—both are her reflex when it comes to him—but the words stall the instant he shifts beneath her again, and she feels it: the thick, aching press of him against the thinnest part of her, straining helplessly beneath fabric and heat and months of something deeply unspoken between them.
His hands tighten at her hips—barely—but it’s enough to anchor her there, to make the weight of her atop him deliberate.
Her breath stutters.
“Gojo,” she says, low and warning and unsure.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” he says, tightly. “I won’t. I swear. Just—just give me a second. I’ll calm down.”
He bows his head, forehead dropping to her shoulder with something like restraint, and she feels his breath—hot, uneven—ghost against her collarbone, cool where his saliva has been on her skin.
A pause.
Then she says, too quiet, “One more.”
His head lifts.
“What?”
“One more hickey,” she says, and she hates how breathless she sounds, how unsteady. “Just one.”
His eyes search hers, something uncertain but steady in his gaze. When she doesn’t take it back, doesn’t flinch, he nods once, jaw tight.
“Yeah,” he says roughly. “Okay.”
His mouth finds her neck again, just above the pulse point, and this time it’s different. This time there’s no pretence of teasing. His lips are hot and open and needy, and when he sucks, it’s deep and rhythmic, his tongue working slowly at the same spot like he’s aiming for something more permanent, as if this fearful vulnerability isn’t indeliable enough.
And when her hips roll—just once, just instinctively—he moans against her.
Utahime shouldn’t.
She knows she shouldn’t, but something is whipped up between them.
So she does it again anyway, slowly, helplessly, grinding down into the pressure beneath her until the friction becomes maddening, until she’s aware of nothing but the chemical heat in her stomach and the slick tension building with each pass of his cock pressed flush between her legs.
His hands slide up, gripping her hips with a desperation he doesn’t voice, and he moves with her now—short, stuttering little thrusts up against her like he’s trying to resist and failing miserably.
Her nails dig into his shoulders as his teeth graze her skin, and she’s awed and aroused by the sensation of his muscles beneath warm, vital skin, the bareness of youth and power.
And she’s close, her breath coming in sharp little gasps as the pressure coils tighter and tighter inside her.
She doesn’t mean to come. It’s never happened for her like this before, so she hardly believes in the promise of the pleasure that she’s finding against his body.
It just happens—a rush of heat and electricity and the helpless shudder of her thighs tightening around him, her body tensing as the sensation crests and crashes over her, silent and breathless and humiliatingly hot..
And Gojo feels it. She senses how he experiences her pulse against him, the gasp as she presses down even harder, a bit messily, desperately—and he breaks.
A ragged noise tears out of him as his hips jerk up once, twice, and then he stills completely, his whole body locking beneath her as he lets out a guttural, strangled fuck into her shoulder and comes, shaking, against her.
The silence that follows is stifling. It is thick with heat and sweat and something they’re both too young and green to articulate properly.
Gojo slumps back slightly, both of his hands now pressed into her waist, almost painfully keeping her in place as he jerks slightly through aftershocks, and breathes—long, slow, and almost a bit despondant.
“…fuck.”
Utahime lifts her head, just enough to see his face, the bob in his long throat.
He’s flushed down to his collarbones, hair damp at the temples, mouth parted like he’s still trying to figure out what century it is.
“I’m charging extra,” he mumbles, voice ruined.
“You’re…crass.”
He swipes a shaky hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did, but not like that, not—” He falters. “Not on you.”
“Gojo.”
His eyes flick toward hers, cautious, unsure of her tone
“You’re bruising my waist.”
That gets a weak, mortified laugh out of him as his grip loosens only slightly.
“Tell your ex I deserve a medal.”
He blinks, dazed, like he’s only just now registering the position they’re still in—her straddling him, his hands still on her waist, the humid aftermath of what they just did hanging between them.
Then Gojo’s eyes drop lower.
And when he sees it—sees the damp, obscene imprint he’s left on the soft cotton between her legs—he groans.
“Are you mad?” he asks, so raspy, so worried.
She doesn’t answer right away, because she’s just seen it too.
The heat still thrumming through her stomach sharpens to something darker, more electric, as her gaze lands on the stark, wet stain blooming against the gusset of her underwear—evidence of just how much he came, how thoroughly, and how directly it was connected to her pleasure.
And instead of recoiling, instead of flinching, she feels her thighs clench tighter around him.
Her whole body pulses with the memory of it—the sound he made when he finished, the way his hips jerked up into hers, the slow roll of her own release cresting just before his—and now she can see the proof of it, warm and damp and clinging to her in a way that makes something hot and shivery crack down her spine.
Gojo says something—something low and sheepish and stupid—but it barely registers.
Because she’s still staring.
Because her breath is getting shorter again.
Because she’s never been more turned on in her life, and she realises, with the slow, sinking dread of someone who’s just stepped off a ledge, that this isn’t over.
Not even close.
This is going to be a problem—a long-term, recurring problem.
“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” he mumbles, almost plaintive this time.
She drags her gaze up from her ruined panties to his flushed, wrecked face.
“Nope,” she says, a little hoarsely.
He watches her warily.
“Are you at least going to make that ex squirm?”
She slides her hands up his chest, slow and absent, still permitted for a while longer. Does Gojo deserve it? The way she feels right now? All this and sugar too?
“I’m going to ruin him,” she says softly, sliding her hand into his undercut, remembering when his hair was shorter.
Sweet, sweet, sweet.
Gojo laughs—weak, quiet. “That’s my girl.”
She doesn’t correct him.
Not this time.