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From their school days until now, Gojo Satoru had always been a uniquely infuriating force of nature. Whatever he wanted, he got. If he wanted the moon, the Gojo clan would have funded a space program by Tuesday. If he wanted a cursed spirit eradicated, it was ash in seconds.
So Ieiri Shoko had sworn to herself she would not let him bulldoze her. If Gojo said left, she went right. If he wanted to play, she wanted to sleep. It was a matter of survival.
But looking back over the decades, Shoko had to admit her track record was abysmal.
Even on this rare hot spring vacation, a desperate attempt by the higher-ups to keep their two most valuable assets from burning out completely, he had been an absolute menace.
They were supposed to be chaperoning the students on a weekend hot spring retreat in Hakone. It was supposed to be relaxing. But Gojo was a creature of constant, overstimulating output, and he had decided that his sole objective for this trip was to get her into his futon. For the past two days, that idiot had been relentlessly nagging her, his subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to drag her into bed bordering on comical. Normally, she would have caved. In the sterile cold of Tokyo, his chaotic heat was a welcome distraction, and more often than not, it felt good to let the strongest man in the world bury his burdens between her thighs. But not this weekend.
The doctor's itinerary was strict: soak in the healing mineral waters, sleep for a solid fourteen hours, and go on a massive shopping trip with Nobara in the morning, which meant walking miles through premium outlet malls carrying entirely too many designer bags. So she needed her legs to actually function.
The absolute last thing she needed tonight was that overgrown child exhausting her. If she gave him an inch, he would take miles, and she’d end up bedridden for the entire trip with bruised thighs and a destroyed lower back.
Shoko had refused that horny beast repeatedly. She refused him when they were unpacking. She refused him when they were eating dinner. She had even refused him in the hot springs. The men’s and women’s open-air baths were separated by a thick bamboo wall, but that didn't stop a needy Special Grade sorcerer. Through the sulfur-scented fog, a joyful voice had drifted over the partition.
“Shoko. Hey, Sho. The water’s nice, right? Your room or mine later?”
“Neither,” she's sinking deeper into the scalding water until it reaches her chin.
When she finally stepped out of the baths, wrapped securely in a crisp cotton yukata, the cool mountain air kissing her flushed skin, he was waiting for her in the hallway.
He didn't look like the untouchable god of the jujutsu world. He was leaning against the wooden sliding door of his room, yukata tied loosely at his waist, exposing the carved 'V' of his torso. His shockingly white hair was damp, plastered flat against his forehead, softening his sharp features.
He had just looked down at her, without the blindfold, the harsh fluorescent lights of Tokyo replaced by the soft, warm glow of paper lanterns, his crystalline, seraphic blue eyes wide, shimmering, and framed by wet white lashes, hit her with a pathetic, puppy-dog pout that was so devastatingly unfair they should have been classified as a CT.
Just come in for a bit, he hadn't even needed to say it out loud. The pout did all the heavy lifting.
It was a trap. She knew it was a trap. But it was so incredibly hard to refuse the Strongest Man in the world when he weaponized his stupid, beautiful face like that. So, she followed him back to his room, convincing herself that sitting there for a half-hour wouldn't hurt.
The tatami mats of the suite were soft under bare feet.
"Have a drink, promise I won't do anything," He offered the moment she sat stiffly on one of his floor cushions.
"I'm not drinking with you. It's late." She knew exactly where alcohol and Gojo Satoru led.
Undeterred, man simply picked up the room phone and ordered a bottle of absurdly expensive Daiginjo sake. When the ryokan staff delivered it, Shoko stared at the frosted glass bottle. As a doctor, she knew the detriments of alcohol. As an overworked adult, she revered it. Gojo poured a ceramic cup and pushed it toward the other side of zataku. It smelled like heaven, crisp, fragrant vapor of sweet rice, and devastatingly smooth of honeysuckle.
"I said no," Shoko repeated, crossing her arms over her own yukata.
"Guess I'll just pour a hundred thousand yen down the sink," Gojo sighed dramatically, reaching for the bottle.
"No, I–," Shoko snatched the bottle away. She couldn't stand waste.
So she drank. One glass. Two glasses. Then half a bottle. The alcohol burned her throat but left a sweet taste on her tongue, heating the blood flowing through her veins, paralyzing alert nervous system.
Gojo kept pouring. He didn't drink but really enjoyed watching the moist lips and gradually blushing cheeks of the person in front of him with each sip.
Shoko didn't quite remember the exact sequence of her subsequent refusals.
She remembered refusing him when he moved to sit beside her.
“No, I’m tired.”
She remembered refusing him when his large hand slipped inside the collar of her yukata, burning palm tracing the slope of her bare shoulder.
“Gojo, I said no.”
She remembered weakly protesting when he pressed her backward onto the tatami, fingers gripped her thighs, parting knees to step between them.
“No. Just... wait.”
But Gojo only ever translated her no into not yet.
She didn't know exactly how she had gotten from sitting primly in her yukata to her current predicament. By the time the alcohol fully hit her bloodstream, rendering limbs heavy and mind wonderfully hazy, zataku table had been shoved aside.
Yukata was a crumpled pile of cotton on the floor. The dizzying rush of the alcohol mixed violently with the blinding heat in her lower belly. She was completely naked, straddling familiar-toned laps on the tatami floor. Legs were wrapped tightly around his narrow waist, her heels digging into his lower back. Gojo’s yukata pooled around his elbows, corded chest flushed a violent pink from the alcohol and the exertion.
The tatami mats creaked wet sounds beneath them.
The room was sweltering. Shoko was half-awake, brain floating in an alcohol-soaked euphoria. Gojo was inside her, buried so deep she could feel the tip pressing against the cervix.
"See?" he murmured. "Was that so hard?"
"Hic..." Shoko hiccuped softly, her breath reeking of Daiginjo sake, a hazy mist swirling around Gojo's nose, his glasses tossed somewhere.
"You said... you wouldn't do anything..."
"Don’t blame me. You climbed up there yourself," A cold breeze rushed against her exposed skin as Gojo raised hands to the sky.
They were moving in a slow, agonizingly languid rhythm. Both were half-awake and half-asleep, bodies melted into a state of supreme, lethargic bliss from the hot spring water and the alcohol.
Gojo lifted his hips, driving rock-hard dick deeper into the slick warmth. As he exhaled, breath reeked heavily of the sweet sake. The liquor had lowered whatever microscopic inhibitions he possessed, making his movements incredibly clumsy, heavy and awkward.
Gojo never drank. He is a lightweight, and hates its bitter taste. But tonight, he had spent the last hour kissing the expensive sake directly off her tongue, drinking it from her mouth in sloppy kisses until he was practically intoxicated by proxy. It hit his system like a localized explosion, flushing pale skin with a sudden, feverish heat.
Thrust upward again.
"Tell me shopping is worth missing this," he taunted.
More. More. More.
Shoko was too drunk and too overwhelmed with pleasure to argue. She wrapped her pale, slender legs tighter around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back, and began to ride him in earnest, chasing the hot ache in her core.
"Damn, doc," blue eyes watched her breasts bounce with every brutal upward thrust. "You've definitely got some Special Grade assets hidden under that lab coat."
"Say no more," she moaned, her nails digging half-moons into his shoulders. The room was spinning slightly, her body feeling wonderfully, heavily lethargic. She rolled her hips, grinding her swollen clit directly against his lower stomach, drawing a sharp breath from his teeth.
"Fuck, you're so soft," Gojo panted, hands wandering upward, long fingers wrapping entirely around heavy breasts. He squeezed hard, thumbs brushing over the flushed nipples as he drank her breathy moans.
Shoko soaked, her slick dripping down his thighs, the squelching sound of their bodies slapping together the only noise in the quiet inn.
He leaned up, his tongue dragging a wet path up the side of her neck. "Tell Nobara you're sick tomorrow. Stay here. Lemme keep my dick inside you all day."
"I told you... no..." Shoko gasped. She was exhausted, but body was hopelessly addicted to the burning stretch of him inside her.
"You say 'no' a lot for someone who is currently riding my–"
Then, the universe decided to intervene.
SNAP!
Time violently froze. The paperboard sliding door was wide open.
Shoko’s heart stopped, a spike of pure, paralyzing ice shooting through alcohol-soaked veins.
Gojo's reflexes were god-like. Even half-drunk and buried deep inside her, his physical speed was terrifying. In a fraction of a millisecond, he grabbed a blanket from the edge of the futon and threw it entirely over Shoko’s head and upper body, pinning her face firmly into his bare chest.
"Gojo-sensei! Do you want to go play ping-pong and then hit the baths– Oh..."
"Ah!" Gojo's voice pitched an octave higher than usual. He didn't turn around, keeping his broad chest firmly shielding the squirming form under the blanket. "Megumi! Yuji! Bad timing!"
Yuji and Megumi stood frozen at the threshold, jaws dropped wide enough to fit an egg.
The visual they were presented with was catastrophic. Their teacher kneeled, entirely half-naked, heavily muscled back facing the door. Whole body was coiled tight like a predator caught in a snare, the muscles of his spine and shoulders popping under his pale skin.
"Sensei! We didn't-" Yuji stammered, hands flying up to cover his eyes, though he was peeking through his fingers.
"We didn't know you had... company."
While Megum finished his friend's sentence, still looked desperately at the ceiling, walls, anywhere but the pair of slender, bare legs locked around his teacher's hips.
To make matters infinitely worse, the sudden draft from the open door swept the pungent smell of premium sake, and something else, sweet, earthy, and unmistakably illicit musky tang, directly into the hallway.
Megumi’s brain short-circuited. Alcohol. Gojo never drank. Ever. The heavy scent of sake immediately threw Megumi’s analytical mind into a tailspin, trying to calculate who could possibly have gotten their teetotaler teacher completely wasted and entirely naked in the middle of the afternoon.
"Who’s that?!" Yuji managed to croak out.
"Just–Uh–A girl from the gift shop!" He lied through his teeth, hands gripping Shoko's thighs under the blanket to keep her still. "Seems like Hakone charmed by me, obviously, so I got more than just souvenirs."
A what? Shoko wanted to materialize a scalpel and stab him in the kidney.
Inside the suffocating darkness of the blanket, Shoko was hyperventilating. The doctress was trapped, blind, and currently impaled on coworker’s dick while two of her teenage patients stood three feet away.
She was the woman who patched them up. If the students realized it was her, if they recognized her legs, or caught a glimpse of her dark hair, she would never, ever live it down.
She clamped her mouth shut, barely daring to breathe, praying for Gojo to just dismiss them.
But that man was an absolute, sadistic bastard.
Idiot didn't thrust, that would be too obvious, but contracted the muscles of his lower abdomen, shifting thick dick slightly deeper inside her flooded cunt.
Shoko clamped a hand over her own mouth, futilely. A wet, incredibly distinct female moan slipped through fingers, echoing clearly in the dead silence of the room.
Yuji physically recoiled as if he had been struck by Black Flash.
“Ah... sorry, kids, Sensei is a little tied up right now. Hit the baths first, alright? Scrub each other's backs or something. I'll treat you to some fruit milk later."
Megumi looked like he was going to vomit.
"SORRYYY!" He shrieked, his voice reaching a pitch only dogs could hear, then bowed at a perfect ninety-degree angle, grabbed the collar of Yuji's yukata, and slammed the door shut so hard the paper panes rattled.
Slowly, Gojo reached up and pulled the heavy silk duvet back.
Shoko’s face was all red. Hair was a messy, static-filled halo around her head, and she had her face buried so deeply into his chest she was practically trying to merge her molecules with his sternum.
She looked up just as he threw his head back and burst into a fit of breathless laughter.
"It's not funny!" she slaps his shoulder hard enough to sting. "You idiot, I told you–!"
The silver wheezed, wiping a tear from his impossibly bright blue eyes. "I panicked! What was I supposed to say?"
"Anything but that."
"You should have seen Megumi's face," Gojo braced hands on the tatami beside her head to keep from collapsing onto her. "And you completely ruined my cover. Moaning like that while my students are right there?"
"You shoved it deep on purpose!"
"Guilty," He hummed, utterly unapologetic.
"They know it's me. They're not stupid."
"Whatever. They're gone. And we paid a lot for this sake."
His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He brushed a damp strand of hair from her hot cheek. The inner walls clenching instinctively as Gojo grabbed a handful of soft flesh on her ass, preparing to flip her onto the back. Caught her wrists, pinning them easily to the tatami above her head.
Shoko’s breath hitched, the lingering embarrassment melting instantly into the slick heat between her legs.
"You're a dead man..." the blanket slipping entirely off her shoulders.
"Die while I'm buried inside you? Aw, don't threaten me with a good time."