Chapter Text
Fatal Fantasies
Finally, finally, she was home.
Kyoto had been a whirlwind of administrative red tape, and Tokyo hadn’t been any kinder, culminating in a relentless stretch of back-to-back curses that left her cursed energy running on fumes and her muscles aching for rest.
She had finally collapsed onto her bed. The cool sheets of her bed usually felt like the best after a relentless shift, but tonight, Utahime was tossing and turning. The cool sheets of her bed did little to soothe the sudden heat prickling under Utahime’s skin.
Her mind drifted back to just hours ago.
Everyone was completely exhausted. The Tokyo and Kyoto staff had managed a rare, out-of-the-blue hangout at a secluded, upscale bar, just a brief respite from the suffocating weight of their duties.
Mei Mei spent her latest profits on an expensive cocktail, Shoko looked half-alive after a grueling marathon in the morgue, Kusakabe and Nanami were nursing neat whiskeys, Nanami with a look that screamed he’d rather be anywhere else, and Ijichi was sweating through his suit just trying to keep the peace.
Utahime, on the other hand, had spent the entire night trapped in her own head. She should have been focused on her drinks or on catching up with Shoko. Instead, her treacherous eyes had kept darting across the booth.
No matter what and how she tries, Utahime couldn't focus on the conversation. She couldn't focus on anything except him.
Gojo had shown up later, his usual high-collared jujutsu uniform for a black button-down polo shirt. He had left the top few buttons undone, exposing a glimpse of his collarbone and the sharp line of his throat. He looked devastatingly, unfairly gorgeous.
It should have been a crime, really.
He had been laughing at something ridiculous, completely unbothered by the chaos of their world, and based on Utahime, he was radiating an effortless, infuriating heat that filled the entire room.
It’s not fair, Utahime thought, burying her face into her pillow. It’s entirely, completely unfair.
To make matters worse, Utahime’s own body was betraying her. She was right in the middle of her ovulation phase, and seeing him looking like that had practically provoked her hormones into a frenzy. Honestly, she blamed him entirely. If he hadn't worn that stupid shirt, she wouldn't be dealing with this ridiculous tension right now.
His fault for being so devastatingly attractive in the dim glow of the bar.
"Ughhh," Utahime groaned aloud, the sound muffled by her pillow as she twisted restlessly on the mattress.
As she moved, the dark violet silk of her lace-trimmed negligee she changed into slid high up her thigh, the cool fabric brushing against her heated skin. She caught her breath, frustrated by her own sensitivity tonight.
She kicked her legs out, frustrated, trying to shake off the sensation of his presence.
Frustrated, she squeezed her eyes shut, determined to force herself to sleep.
Just sleep, she commanded herself. Just block him out.
But the moment the darkness took over, something in her mind, her imagination, or her alter ego probably, immediately filled the void. The darkness behind her eyelids offered no safety.
Suddenly, she wasn't alone in her bed. In her mind's eye, Satoru was hovering directly over her, trapping her beneath his massive frame. Those brilliant, impossible Six Eyes, blue depths were staring intently down at her, making her feel like she was drowning in them, and then there was his smile, that smug, devastatingly perfect smirk.
Her gaze drifted to his nose. It was so flawlessly straight that a sudden wave of irrational irritation washed over her. She genuinely wanted to punch that perfect nose just so there would be at least one flaw on him. Just a solid, right hook to break the symmetry, just so there would be one less piece of maddening perfection in him to obsess over.
Unable to take the mental imagery for another second, Utahime snapped her eyes wide open.
Her heart was hammering against her ribs. Hissing a breath through her teeth, she rolled aggressively to the other side of the bed, staring blankly at the wall, praying the cool wood might finally snap her out of it.
"Get a grip," she muttered to the empty room.
She stared at the blank wall, her skin tingling, entirely helpless against the guilt of a sin that had happened in her mind.
Utahime pressed her cheek against the cool pillowcase, determined to force her racing mind into submission.
She squeezed her eyes shut again, commanding her brain to think of anything else, the Kyoto campus budget, tomorrow's lesson plans, the tedious curse reports she had left on her desk. Anything but him.
The moment she decided to close her eyes again, the sensation of his touch returned, bolder and more vivid than before.
Her traitorous imagination refused to cooperate.
Her mind spun a reckless, forbidden fantasy. She was now beneath him, her back arching violently off the mattress, every muscle tight with an agonizing, desperate tension, and Satoru was there, utterly consumed by her, his silver hair brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as his head dipped low between her legs as those clever hands gripped her hips to hold her still.
Utahime gasped, her eyes snapping wide open in the dark.
"What the fuck is wrong with me?" she whispered aloud, her voice trembling in the quiet bedroom.
She brought both hands up and slapped her cheeks. The sharp smack echoed in the room, the sting bringing her back to reality, or at least trying to.
She was completely unraveling, and it was entirely the fault of her own hormones and one ridiculously attractive man.
She absolutely refused to close her eyes now. Sleeping was dangerous. She might have a wet dream of him. Instead, she stared fixedly up at the ceiling, watching the shadows, but keeping her eyes open didn't stop the memories from tonight from flooding back.
Her mind dragged her right back to the bar.
She remembered the casual, effortless way he had rolled his sleeves up his forearms, exposing the lean muscle and prominent veins that she had tried so hard not to stare at over her drink.
She remembered how surprisingly slim his waist looked where his black shirt was neatly tucked into his trousers, and then there was the moment he walked up to the bartender to order one of his ridiculously sweet, sugary non-alcoholic drinks.
Watching him from behind had been a form of torture to her. His broad, expansive back had done something unholy to her sanity.
Lying in bed now, her fingers twitched against the sheets as a stray, dangerous thought crossed her mind. She stared at her hands, flexing her long, neatly manicured nails.
How nice would it feel to sink her long nails right into that broad back and scratch lines down his skin until he groaned?
A breathy, disbelieving laugh escaped her lips. She covered her face with an arm, laughing softly at her own absurdity.
She was going completely mad.
She was a professional, a respected traditional Kyoto instructor, and a jujutsu sorcerer who dealt with life-and-death situations on a daily basis, and here she was, losing her absolute mind just because Gojo Satoru decided to look exceptionally good in a button-down shirt on a random Thursday night.
Ring ring!
The sudden, loud chime of her phone shattered the silence, making her jump so hard her heart nearly leaped out of her throat.
Panting slightly, she reached over to her nightstand and grabbed the vibrating device. The screen illuminated the dark room, casting a blue glow over her flushed face. She blinked at the caller ID, her breath catching in her throat.
It was him.
Utahime stared at the flashing name, a mixture of dread and a thrill she’d never admit out loud pooling in her stomach.
Speak of the absolute devil.
Utahime swiped the screen with a trembling thumb and pressed the phone to her ear. She dragged herself up into a sitting position, leaning her back against the wooden bedframe. The dark silk of her negligee bunched around her waist, but she was too hyper-focused on the device in her hand to care.
"Utahime~" Gojo’s voice drifted through the speaker, dripping with his usual, insufferable playfulness. "Did you finally make it home safely?"
Fuck.
His voice over the line was a dangerous thing. It sounded deeper, slightly raspy from the alcohol, and entirely too close to her ear. It triggered an immediate, electric reaction straight down her spine, pooling right in her lower abdomen.
As if she weren't already losing her mind, hearing him like this was driving her absolutely crazy.
Forcing her racing pulse down, she wrapped herself in her usual attitude. "Of course I’m home, Gojo," she snapped, her tone sharp. "Unlike you, I actually value sleep. Why are you calling me at this hour?"
On the other end of the line, Gojo let out a low, boyish chuckle.
Utahime swallowed hard, her throat suddenly bone-dry. How?
How on earth did he manage to make a simple, childish chuckle sound so devastatingly sexy? It wasn't fair. The man possessed far too much power over her senses, and he didn't even know it, and he will never know of it.
"Always so prickly," Gojo teased, though there was a softer edge to it now. Then, he let out a heavy sigh. That sigh did terrible things to Utahime's resolve. The sound of his breath catching in the microphone made her grip the edges of her sheets a little tighter.
"Look, I actually have a favor to ask," Gojo continued, his tone shifting into something slightly more business-like, though still casual.
"I’ve got a mountain of curriculum paperwork from the higher-ups that needs to be processed by tomorrow afternoon, but Ijichi just informed me I'm being sent overseas on an emergency mission first thing in the morning. It’s way too time-consuming for me to finish tonight, so... I’m entrusting it to you."
Utahime scoffs, rolling her eyes at the ceiling as she masked her frantic heartbeat with familiar irritation.
"Maybe if you weren't so busy flaunting yourself and making sure everyone in a five-mile radius knows exactly how arrogant you are, you'd actually be able to manage your time well," she countered sharply, leaning her head back against the headboard.
"Aw, Utahime," Gojo replied smoothly, and she could practically see the smug, devastating smirk stretching across his lips. "Are you saying you were watching me tonight? I knew that black shirt would look good on me, but I didn't know it would captivate you."
Her face flushed crimson in the dark. She threw her head back with a massive, exaggerated eye roll, glad he couldn't see the effect he had on her.
But despite the teasing, and despite the fact that her body was practically screaming at his voice, she knew she couldn't really say no to him when it came to the students' studies. She let out a defeated breath, nodding to herself in the quiet room.
"Fine. Just leave the files on my desk before you head to the airport, but you owe me for this, Gojo. Big time.”
"Name it then, Utahime," Gojo said, his voice dropping into a softer, surprisingly genuine register that caught her off guard.
That was the thing about Gojo Satoru. No matter how much they bickered, no matter how much they fell into their usual dynamic of her yelling and him pushing her buttons, he never failed to remind her that beneath it all, they were still friends. He teased her mercilessly, yes, but in the quiet moments, the glimpses of the boy who had grown up alongside her would peek through. He trusted her, and she, despite everything, trusted him.
Utahime shifted on the mattress, tapping the screen to put him on speaker. She threw the phone onto the empty space beside her pillow, letting out a long breath as she slid back down beneath the covers, finally attempting to sleep. Her eyes grew droopy as the warmth of the bed and the exhaustion of the day finally began to heavy her limbs.
"Hey, Utahime?" Gojo’s voice drifted out of the speaker, quieter now. "What's up? You're being unusually quiet."
"Tired," she murmured simply. The sharp, prickly edge of her usual attitude had completely evaporated, melted away by the late hour and the sheer fatigue deep in her bones.
On the other end, Gojo let out another low, soft sigh.
That single sound triggered that familiar, dangerous spark right back to life inside her. Utahime’s eyes closed, but sleep didn't come. Instead, Gojo kept talking. He was naturally talkative, embarking on a long, rambling story about some ridiculous souvenir he planned to buy overseas or how annoying the higher-ups had been earlier.
Normally, his yapping would annoy her, but right now? It was the perfect advantage.
With her eyes closed and his deep voice filling the dark, quiet space of her bedroom, her mind painted another vivid picture. She stopped fighting it. She leaned entirely into the fantasy, letting the image of him take over her mind, Gojo, right here, his long fingers trailing over her skin, his lips whispering the very words coming out of the phone.
Slowly, deliberately, Utahime slipped a hand beneath the covers, letting her fingertips glide over the smooth, dark violet silk of her negligee.
Gojo’s voice droned on, a soothing, deep backdrop to the heat blooming in her lower abdomen. Her hand traveled higher, sliding up her torso until her fingers cupped and squeezed her right breast through the thin lace. The friction made her breath hitch, a soft, involuntary hum escaping the back of her throat.
On the phone, Gojo paused for a fraction of a second, thinking she was just acknowledging his rambling.
"Right? I knew you'd agree with me on that," he continued smoothly.
Utahime nearly bit her lip to stop a breathy, wicked laugh from escaping. Oh boy, she thought, a flush of pure, shameless adrenaline rushing through her veins. If only he knew.
Gojo’s voice didn’t miss a beat, seamlessly diving into another mundane complaint about the upcoming mission, his deep tone echoing softly in the dark room.
He sounded so completely oblivious, so entirely normal, and the contrast between his casual chatter and the scorching heat in her bed was dizzying.
Utahime’s breath hitched as she gave in completely. Leaving her right hand to gently squeeze and tease her breast, her other hand slowly slid down her stomach, smoothing over the silk before tracing the line of her hip.
She guided her fingers down her thigh, the cool air of the room hitting her bare skin where the negligee had ridden up, before finally bringing her hand back up to center.
Her palm pressed flat against her heated, fabric-covered core.
The friction of the silk alone made her hips twitch involuntarily against the mattress. She was burning up. She bit her lower lip hard, sinking her teeth into the flesh to stifle the sudden, needy gasp that threatened to tear from her throat. The sheer thrill of it, of doing this while he was right there on the line, speaking directly into her room, was a wicked catalyst, amplifying every single sensation tenfold.
"...and honestly, I don't think they even know what they're doing," Gojo was saying, his voice dropping a fraction lower, a casual sigh lacing his words. "Right, Utahime?"
Hearing her name fall from his lips in that low, intimate rumble was the exact moment her restraint shattered.
Her fingers slipped beneath the damp edge of the violet silk. She didn't hesitate, finding her sensitive, swollen clit and delivering a slow, firm rub.
A ragged, silent breath escaped her nose. She was wet, so incredibly wet, the slick heat coating her fingers instantly as she began a steady, torturous rhythm.
Every word he spoke became a stroke, every chuckle a wave of friction that sent electric shocks straight to her core. She kept her jaw locked tight, her eyes squeezed shut as the image of his beautiful, uncovered blue eyes flooded her mind again, staring down at her with a hunger that matched her own desperate, hidden reality.
The friction of her thighs rubbing together and her body shifting restlessly against the mattress caused the dark violet silk and the heavy duvet to rustle loudly in the quiet room. The distinct sound of shifting fabric and sliding sheets carried directly into the phone’s microphone.
On the other end of the line, Gojo’s rambling finally paused. "Utahime? You shifting around over there? Are you trying to fall asleep?"
She couldn't answer him.
Her throat was locked tight, her jaw clenched as she fought to keep her breathing silent. Her hands were entirely consumed by her own body, one hand tightly squeezing a hardened nipple through the lace of her negligee, while the fingers of her other hand worked relentlessly against her dripping, swollen core. The sheer pleasure was blinding, and any attempt to speak would have resulted in an undeniable, needy whimper.
Hearing only her heavy, muffled breathing, Gojo assumed she was drifting off. His voice softened into a lower, unusually gentle register.
"Guess you're already half-asleep. I'll let you go and hang up now. Don't forget about those files tomorrow."
"Bye, Utahime," he murmured.
The moment the farewell left his lips, Utahime’s restraint completely snapped. Slipping beneath the slick fabric, she pushed her middle finger straight inside herself, the sudden, tight fullness making her eyes roll back.
Her back arched violently off the mattress. A ragged, heavy sigh broke past her lips, quickly melting into a breathless, uninhibited moan that echoed in the dark.
Driven by the overwhelming heat of her ovulation and the sheer taboo of the moment, she pushed a second finger inside, her hips hitching upward to meet her own hand.
It felt like absolute heaven, the friction sending waves of intense pleasure straight to her core. Yet, even as she stretched herself, a deeper ache flared inside her. None of this compared to the fictitious desire of Satoru actually being here, of his massive, powerful hands being the ones to undo her completely.
Closing her eyes, she let the fantasy consume her.
She imagined those long, pale fingers, the ones she had watched wrap around a drink glass earlier, now sliding over her hips, gripping her waist with terrifying, possessive strength.
She imagined him leaning over her, his soft white hair brushing her cheek, his lips pressing against the sensitive shell of her ear as he whispered low, dirty praises.
“Look how wet you are for me, Utahime...” the imaginary voice rumbled in her mind.
The thought of his thick, skilled fingers ruthlessly stretching her, moving inside her with an agonizingly perfect rhythm, pushed her right over the edge.
Utahime let out another loud, desperate moan, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as her walls clamped down tight around her own fingers, the first waves of a powerful climax beginning to ripple through her entire body.
Her hips rolled against the mattress in a desperate, pleading rhythm, the slick friction of her fingers pushing her closer and closer to the edge, but even as the pleasure heightened every nerve ending in her body, a sudden, jarring wave of panic crashed through her mind.
Her thoughts were running a mile a minute, plunging her into a sudden moral crisis that crashed with pleasure.
She felt half guilty and half fiercely unapologetic.
Was this a sin? Was it wrong to be getting off so completely to the explicit thought of a man who was supposed to just be her annoying colleague?
She was practically burning alive under her own sheets, but she tried to rationalize it to herself, at least she wasn't actually touching him. She wasn't crossing any real-world lines, right? His skin wasn't here. It was just a fantasy.
The thoughts felt dirty, illicit, almost dangerous. Yet, she tried to bargain with her own conscience as her hips twitched against her hand.
But Utahime had never done anything like this before. On the rare occasions she did pleasure herself, it was a quick, functional affair, just a mindless rub to relieve tension, thinking of absolutely nobody in particular.
But tonight? Tonight was completely, terrifyingly different. How did this even happen?
Gojo Satoru.
How had he managed to infiltrate her mind so thoroughly that she was literally soaking her sheets while screaming his name in her head?
The mere name in her head felt like an invocation.
How had he managed to breach the walls? How was she lying here, slick and shivering, touching herself so thoroughly with the vivid, devastating image of him burned into the back of her eyelids?
“There’s no such thing as bad thoughts, Utahime. Only bad actions.”
Mei Mei’s smooth, mercenary voice from a conversation months ago suddenly drifted into her memory.
Yes. That was it. She clung to the memory like a lifeline, desperately convincing herself that her private thoughts belonged only to her. Yes. Thoughts were free. Thoughts were private. There was no crime in a fantasy.
With that final barrier of restraint dismantled, the pleasure rushed in to fill the void, absolute and consuming.
The friction of her two fingers moving inside her grew faster, matching the desperate, erratic rhythm of her heart. She could feel it right there, the tight coil about to snap.
Utahime arched her back so hard her shoulders dug deep into the mattress, her toes curling into the sheets. She sped up her fingers, driving them deeper, harder, ruthlessly targeting the swollen center of her desire. The heat shattered.
"Satoru!”
She screamed his name, her voice a raw, uninhibited cry that shattered the quiet of the room as a powerful, shattering orgasm ripped through her body.
Her walls clamped down desperately on her fingers, and she collapsed back onto the mattress, panting heavily, her chest heaving as the aftershocks washed over her.
Her fingers remained buried inside her, trembling, coated in her own slick warmth.
For a few blissful seconds, there was only the sound of her own ragged, heavy breathing filling the dark bedroom.
Suddenly…
A static sound broke the silence and then…
"Wow, Utahime..."
The voice drifted out of the phone speaker, loud and clear in the quiet room. It was deep, slightly breathless, and entirely unmistakable.
"I mean, I knew I was unforgettable, but I didn't think I'd get a live performance."
Utahime froze. Her heart, which had just begun to settle, stopped entirely. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt faint. With horror dawning over her like ice water, she looked down at the glowing screen of her phone, still lying on the mattress beside her.
The call timer was still ticking. He hadn't hung up.
Shit.