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wri0thesley · 2 years

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A Well Rounded Education (5): Anti-Bullying Statement (Fem!Reader x Mahito, 11k)

series synopsis: you are a teacher’s aid to teacher Gojo Satoru, training to be able to take over your own class next year by shadowing and helping him out. gojo, unfortunately, does not make things easy for anybody.

chapter synopsis: you try and help a bullied student in your class, and catch the attention of said student’s big brother.

NSFW. MINORS DNI. afab reader with fem pronouns. bullying, violence (not at reader). mahito is . . . a little weird with his affection. smoking, fingering, public sex (kind of), piv sex.

(a well rounded education m.list and navigation)

Things have been quiet since your first ever undokai. You’re grateful for it, really; sometimes, when you’re trying to do things, or speaking to Maki and Mai, you have visions of their father and his sneering face underneath you, the cadence of his voice as he’d slurred out his particular breed of barbed-wire dirty talk.

(It’s just as bad when you speak to Yuji, and remember Nanami knelt between your thighs. Or Megumi – when you’re confronted with the memory of Toji’s lazy drawl and how strong his hands had felt on you. Or, God forbid, when you’re assisting Mimiko and Nanako and they look at you with knowing smiles and you wonder if Geto has shared with them any of those thoughts about what a good mother you’d be.)

What’s important, though, is that you’ve pushed all thoughts of men to the back of your mind in order to concentrate on doing your best by the children in your care.

Most men, anyway. It’s harder to ignore the one in charge of the class and the one technically in charge of you; the silver-haired man who walks into the classroom sucking on hard candy and coolly ignores any lesson plans that are thrust upon him. The one who waves his hand and grins when other teachers bring up the syllabus and exams, and somehow still manages to get every single student in his care through them whilst retaining their affections. Gojo is mystery wrapped in enigma wrapped in an unfairly handsome and frustrating package, and though at first he drove you to anger and distraction, you can’t help but realise you’re softening towards him a little.

Because he is annoying. He makes you grind your teeth and dig your nails into your palm and bite your tongue. But he is, too, you think . . . caring, beneath all of the bluster. You think back to his sympathetic tone after your encounter with Naoya (and how sweet he’d been, actually, in the end when he’d taken you for that ice cream – if you’d been a little revolted by how many scoops of varying flavours he’d ordered for himself). Yes, it’s safe to say that you feel just a little more affectionate towards Satoru Gojo than you did when you began this job.

The kids, too, have been in high spirits. Winning the undokai has made them bright and friendly to one another; fostered a sense of team spirit that makes your own heart thump in your chest with pride. They help each other more often; they chat excitedly, huddle in little groups, share themselves more openly with one another.

There is a small issue – a tiny one, miniscule really – on a school trip, that you’re left to deal with.

It’s a regular trip that you’re told is often taken; to a local temple, to sketch some architecture and talk a little about the history with one of the caretakers tasked with maintaining it. The incident – thankfully – doesn’t happen at the temple (you think even your patience might have worn thin had you had to witness your students being untoward on holy ground), but on the walk there.

Junpei is one of the quietest members of your class. He sits towards the back of the classroom with his hair falling over his eyes, his face nervous. He doesn’t have a particular friend, and you haven’t yet managed to find that thing that will make him come out of his shell and form connections.

(You’ve found, in the past, that children generally have some interest or another than will make them light up like fireworks with enthusiasm to be able to discuss it with someone else; you hear on the grapevine that Junpei is involved with a few clubs outside of school, but you haven’t yet managed to find out what they’re for. He doesn’t seem at all the kind who enjoys a sport, or martial arts, or things of that ilk.)

The other students can be . . . you don’t think it’s cruelty, exactly. But they can use Junpei as an easy target; toy with him a little. You try and nip this behaviour in the bud when you can (when you see it), but boys are smarter than one gives them credit for. Only, they’d been less smart during the walk to the field trip, and you’d seen Ito shove him hard into the prickly hedge lining the path, and you’d seen Ito’s two friends hold him there so the thorns dug into him even more whilst Junpei made an attempt to struggle out of it.

You’re the one to break it up. Gojo is practically bouncing along as he leads the trail of students behind him, and Junpei’s plight goes unnoticed – you now think highly enough of Gojo to realise that it’s not because he does not care, but simply because he does not see. You don’t think he’d let cruelty go unpunished, no matter how distracted and flighty he seems to be. So the responsibility falls on you, and you set your shoulders as you approach the group of boys and offer your hand to Junpei and tell the others that you’ll deal with them when you get back to the school.

You determinedly bring up the rear of the line yourself, slotting into the role of watch-person to ensure that no more mischief of this sort is enacted upon poor Junpei. There’s one particularly nasty scratch down his arm; you will have to log that one as an incident report.

Junpei, for his part, murmurs quiet thanks and stares at his shoes instead of at you. You know boys at this age can be rather proud, and you were all prepared for him to snap out at you about how you have embarrassed him before his peers and how he has handling himself (you even had a spiel prepared, for that eventuality) – but Junpei just seems grateful to be noticed. You hope that is not a sign of things you have missed leading up to now.

When back to the school proper, you pull Gojo aside to quietly tell him of what you have witnessed and to tell him, too, that you intend to have a meeting with those involved. There’s something on his face almost like relief when you tell him of the latter, palpable.

“You’re so much better at dealing with parents than I am!” He says. “People think you’re so responsible compared to me! I’m glad you’re taking it on—”

“There are people who don’t think I’m so responsible,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “I don’t know if Mr Zenin would agree with your assessment.”

Gojo waves an airy hand.

“He didn’t get a single thing that wasn’t coming to him!” Gojo practically chirps, and you laugh in response. Everything has been . . . so much easier with Gojo, since that undokai. Like he has unlocked a little part of him that finally allows you to get close, and see some of the real Gojo beneath the bluster – and you can’t help but think if he knew what you’d been getting up to that miniscule door – that chink in the armour that is Satoru Gojo - would be closed to you again forever.

In the end, Gojo decides to stay for the meeting that you call with the boys and their parents and Junpei anyway. He seems concerned that all of these boys were able to pick on Junpei without him noticing; but you know as well as anyone that Gojo often tends to tunnel vision on the members of the class that he thinks are brighter or more able. Junpei has merely had the misfortune to slip beneath Gojo’s radar up until now.

Well, that won’t be happening for much longer.

You do try and make a call to Junpei’s mother (his file says it is just a mother at home; it is not your business to go prying into why exactly that is), but she is too busy with work, she says, regret obvious in her tone. For a single mother . . . you understand how hard that must be, and you don’t hold it against her. Junpei looks just a touch frustrated that you even bothered calling her. In private, before the boys and their own parents have been called in, he says quietly to you and not to Gojo;

“I wish you hadn’t worried her like that.”

You think the meeting goes well. The parents of the instigators are all too happy to fall over themselves apologising for their son’s misdeeds, and even the sons themselves look suitably chastised when you tell them how disappointed you are in them and how you know that they are better, kinder boys than they have so far shown themselves.

You remember what being bullied was like. You’re not sure Gojo does – you think that’s a man who came from the womb well-connected and clever and handsome. Junpei looks more often to you when things seem to be getting louder or more heated, and so you give Junpei reassuring looks and reassuring smiles and use your sternest teacher voice on everyone else. As you and Gojo stack chairs companionably after the last of the meeting’s occupants have left the room, the two of you talk about how you think things went well. You say you will make an especial attempt to keep an eye on Junpei for a little while, just to ensure that the lessons that you have taught remain in their minds – but you’re certain they must. The boys had looked so earnest!

Keeping an eye on all of those boys turns out to not be needed after all. You do, of course, because you’re a person who sticks to their word – but they are friendly to Junpei now! They include him in their games, their conversations, bigger hands reaching out to pull the smaller boy into their inner sanctum. You had not been so bold as to suggest they befriend Junpei yourself (you remember all too well the indignity of that being suggested between you and your own bullies), but the boys seem to take it upon themselves to do so anyway. You’re so proud of them.

A few weeks after the incident and subsequent meeting, you pull Junpei quietly to one side during a lunch break. Ito waves at him as he passes and mouths something that you think is ‘see you outside!’, and you beam at the other boy as the door swings closed behind him and you and Junpei are left alone.

Junpei, for his part, doesn’t look as thrilled as you would expect him to. You’d hoped that the friendship might make him perk up a little – smile more, talk more, now that he was finally being included as a member of a friendship group. Perhaps it is simply not in Junpei’s nature to be like that; he’d hardly be the first quiet, melancholic child you’d ever seen. Still. You can’t help but wish he’d show a little more enthusiasm.

With too much cheer in your voice, you ask him;

“Well, Junpei? How are things?”

The boy looks startled to be asked. His eyes dart from side to side. He shifts restlessly on his feet.

(You realise, later on, that this should have tipped you off to there being something rotten in the state of your little school classroom. But it is remarkable what the mind will overlook when it wants to convince itself that, actually, things are going well).

“They’re going fine,” he says, after a moment, his voice low and quiet and monotone. “I’m . . . I’m fine.”

“And there have been no more incidents?” You probe him, gently. “The other boys are including you now? Nothing you would like to tell me?”

Junpei’s brow furrows. He looks up at you, and then back down to the floor. He is battling with something, though you still don’t realise it.

“No,” he eventually says, though the words shake in his mouth and in his throat. His hands are trembling, too. “There’s nothing that I need to tell you about. Th-thank you for helping me.”

You smile at him and pat his back and congratulate him. He’s still just as withdrawn, but if he says he’s getting better . . . he must be, mustn’t he? He must be feeling better. He knows that you’re there to help him and you have not only made that abundantly clear, but shown that in the organisation of that meeting!

You’re sure everything is fine. You watch from the classroom window as Junpei hovers at the edges of the grounds, before Ito comes bounding over to him and wraps an arm about his shoulders and drags him to a scrum of boys who are embroiled in some complicated conversation that you can only guess at the subject of.

Your attention is needed for many things. The life of a trainee teacher is never simple; the life of one who works under Gojo Satoru is even less so. Any headway you have made on friendship and softening towards the white-haired true head of your class has not at all softened his desire to dump every piece of paperwork he is expected to do upon you so he doesn’t have to concern himself with such things.

Before you start on your current stack of paperwork, though, you make a small adjustment to some group project lists, ensuring that Junpei and Ito and some others of that group can work together.

If they’re all getting along, after all, you see no reason to not run with it!

Junpei remains withdrawn and quiet and nervous, but you are beginning to suspect that this is simply the boy’s natural state of being. You even have a quick look at his reports, which for the past few years have had the same overall consensus – before then, it seems, he attended a different school and the knowledge of what he was like there has been lost in the shuffle. Communication within your own school is often a nightmare – you are not surprised to find out that it’s even worse when things come down to dealing with two different faculties and buildings.

Everything is swimming along, though. Ito and his friends grin at you and wave when they see you watching Junpei – and though they are perhaps a little rowdy for the quieter boy, it’s nice to see him being involved. A week or two pass in much the same way, and you are silently congratulating yourself and Gojo for a job well-done and a crisis well-handled when you notice the suspicious figure for the first time.

It’s a Friday afternoon. Junpei has stayed behind for some help with mathematics homework. Though it is not your subject of expertise, you have a basic grasp of it – your education is well-rounded, as is expected of so many general studies teachers. You’re bent over the desk with him, trying to explain the equations in simple terms that he might understand – his friends have all left for the day, filtering through the door with waves and goodbyes directed to both you and Junpei.

(“There!” You’d said, cheerfully, to Junpei. “Isn’t that nice of them?” Junpei’s face had remained as solid and impassive as stone, as he’d chewed on the end of his pencil with his brow furrowed at the sheet of equations beneath him.

“I guess,” he’d replied, though doubt had been evident in his tone.)

You catch sight of the suspicious figure only by chance. You take a break from your place by Junpei’s desk to grab your water bottle from your bag (and perhaps snaffle a little candy from Gojo’s desk, as a treat for both you and Junpei – what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and you’ll consider it payment for you once again remaining behind helping students whilst he insists he has somewhere important to be). The figure is leaning on the school gates, all leonine grace.

It’s clearly a masculine presence, you think, despite the silvery long hair that streams over broad shoulders. Said figure is smoking a cigarette within the school grounds, too, which is blatantly against the rules – but he doesn’t seem to care. Looking at this young man in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, you feel an awkward stirring of fear low in the pit of your stomach.

“Is something wrong?” Junpei’s quiet voice cuts through your fear. You turn your head to see that Junpei is peering towards the window, too, as if to get a glimpse at what it is that’s quietened you for so long and distracted you. Far from fear, though – the look that splits Junpei’s face is pleasure and happiness like you’ve never seen it. A smile that you only wish the boy could wear throughout his ordinary school days. “Oh! That’s my brother!”

You stare from Junpei to the strange silver-haired man, tapping his ash onto the immaculately maintained grass. There is nothing to suggest a brotherly bond in their faces, appearances or in the way they hold themselves – but perhaps, if you got a little closer . . .

“He’ll have come to pick me up,” Junpei says, quieting a little, depositing a pencil case and his workbooks into a black satchel.

“Do you mind if I come with you to see him?” You find yourself asking, against your will. That brief flare of disquiet in your stomach hasn’t left you for a moment.

You’ve heard of drug dealers who hang around junior highs, trying to convince kids to run their wares for them. You know very little about the drug trade, but this man with his leather jacket and cigarettes and easy stance seems to you exactly the type who might be involved. And there’s nothing to say, either, that he’s not convinced Junpei to say that he’s his brother! You’ve heard plenty of gangs refer to anyone below their ranks as ‘little bro’ and ‘big bro’. You simply want to look out for Junpei! You’ve tried so hard to help him so far, after all--

Junpei gives you a quizzical look, but he nods.

“He usually waits outside of the gates for me,” Junpei explains. You don’t understand why, exactly – most of the boys, at this age, are able to walk themselves home or catch their own buses. But it is not your place to pry into the private lives of your students, as your courses have drilled into your head more times than you can count. If they seem healthy and safe and cared for, all of the course literature says, that is all you should look out for in regards to their home lives. That is all that can be asked for.

“I’d like to have a word about smoking on school property,” you offer, by way of explanation. You do not tell Junpei that you intend to get the measure of this man and tell him to leave Junpei alone, if you for a moment suspect foul play on his side.

You follow Junpei out of the classroom, locking up beside you, your own bag and coat held tightly against your body. If this man is surprised to see that you are accompanying his ‘little brother’, not a single whit of that is betrayed in his eyes.

They’re curious eyes, by the by. Bicoloured; one grey, one bright blue. Tattoos bisect his face and, as you get closer and can see a little more of him, seem to bisect other joints too. The ones on his collarbone are visible, and so are ones on his wrist as he once more taps ash onto the ground below him. The tattoos look almost like some kind of barbed wire.

No. This man can’t be at all related to Junpei. There’s nothing of each other in their faces or in the way they carry themselves. Mahito greets Junpei, too, with a lazy, insouciant grin that sets your teeth on edge just as much as the fear of how he may be using Junpei for personal gain.

“That’s against our rules,” you say, gesturing to the cigarette. He faux widens his eyes in surprise, and then promptly drops the cigarette onto the floor, putting it out under his heel. That grin does not leave his face as he says;

“Ah, my apologies. Will that do? Anything else I should be aware of?” His voice is deliberately slow and carefully pronounced, as if he’s mocking your way of speaking.

“The school generally frowns upon people like you hanging around it,” you say, putting on that best stern prim-and-proper voice that you’ve practised with parents and guardians alike. The polish of this careful voice has not been dulled even by the fact that, many times when you’ve used it, you’ve ended up with your legs spread and your blouse in disarray. Certainly, this man won’t suspect anything of that kind has ever occurred, not if you’re playing the part correctly--

“Oh?” He grins at you again. His eyes flash with something that isn’t quite interest; it’s rather sharper and crueller, you think, and all it does is truly emphasise in your mind that this man is no brother to Junpei. At least, not in any biological sense. “And what kinda ‘people’ would you be meaning by that?”

You narrow your eyes at him.

“Anyone who doesn’t have the best interests of our students at heart,” you say, quietly. “Surely you realise only parents, guardians and family members should be on the grounds? I mean, you ought not to be in the school at all, you could wait outside the gates, but to come here to try and use one of our students is just shameful--”

“Use?” He tilts his head to one side. “Jun’, do you think your big bro is using you?”

Junpei shoots you a look that’s almost betrayed. You’re not surprised; you’re sure this man has made Junpei feel special, heaped praise upon him and told him that he’s special and cool for taking on such errands as you’re certain he makes the younger boy run.

“I really must ask you to leave,” you say, though now you’re here you’re starting, too, to realise just how broad this man’s shoulders are beneath the leather jacket and how big his hands are. You’re beginning to wonder about the tattoos, and whether you may have bitten off more than you can chew. “I’ll be calling someone who I’m certain is related to Junpei to come and pick him up instead. It’s my duty to make sure my students are safe--”

Junpei looks utterly scandalised now.

“He’s Mahito, he’s my brother,” Junpei says, uncomfortably. “I’m not lying, I know he looks kinda--”

But the man’s eyes have suddenly been lit with a bright, angry light. He’s pulled himself up to his full height, a sneer on his face.

“Oh,” he says. “Very noble of you to pretend to care about my little brother now, isn’t it? I know exactly what happens to Jun’ here. I know exactly what kinda ‘best intentions’ and ‘safety’ you have in mind--”

“You can call my mom,” Junpei says, tugging on your sleeve miserably. “She’ll tell you, he’s my brother--”

“Lotta caring you’ve been doing,” Mahito continues. “Puttin’ him in groups with guys who push him around. Swanning around as if you’ve solved a bullying problem when all you’ve done is deliver him right into their hands.”

“I—” You stumble over the words. There’s no reason for Mahito to know about the bullying and your attempts to sort it out if he’s not really Junpei’s brother, is he? It’s certainly not the kind of thing a young boy wanting to impress a much older and cooler and more dangerous one would freely give up. And now you’re closer to them, you see that despite the lack of relation in their looks, they have an easiness about one another that does bely a sibling relationship. You’re still fumbling for words when Mahito rolls his eyes again.

“Little tip, cutie,” he says. “Y’should never gloat about anything until you’re absolutely certain that you’ve actually done good, or you’ll just look like a brainless self-congratulatory bit of fluff. There’s more evil in the world than there is good, and not noticing it’s just as bad as being part of the problem.”

It’s a surprisingly philosophical piece of conversation to be coming out of the man, and you’re once more trying to grasp for words to respond to it with, when Mahito groans and scuffs his shoe boredlym on the grass beneath him. Condescendingly, he says to you, one eyebrow raised;

“Don’t worry that pretty little head about it.” His eyes very slowly drag up and down the length of you, as if proving a point to himself. His lip curls at what he sees. “I’m sure you’re very popular with the dads, right?” That gaze lingers on your neat pencil skirt and the stockings and the immaculately pressed blouse, somehow not all that wrinkled despite a day spent leaning over desks and running around after the students. “That’s the kinda thing that’s important to someone like you, isn’t it?” He shakes his head in disgust, and you feel heat rush to your face.

I-it’s not that the approval of the fathers is important to you at all! The approval of all of the parents is important to you; them knowing that you can be entrusted with the malleable minds and the education of the children. It’s not your fault that the fathers of these children have all proved to be so damnably good-looking, and it’s certainly not your fault that all of this just keeps happening to you--

“You’re pathetic,” Mahito says to you, with real vehemence in his words. “I’m not surprised by it, but . . . y’know, when Jun’ said that you’d tried to do something about the bullying back during the field trip, maybe I had my world-view changed a little. I thought; ‘hey, maybe not everyone’s self-sufficing at the heart of it, maybe some people do genuinely want to do good--’”

“I do want to do good!” You protest, but your voice is weak. Mahito’s face is sharp. He’s kind of pretty, for all of the vitriol that’s spewing out from him every time he opens his mouth.

“I had hopes for a little bit,” he continues. “But you’re just like everyone else. In it for a recommendation or something, huh? Want to get a good report from the bastard teacher of Jun’s class who never even looks twice at him--”

“You’re being c-cruel!”

“But people are all exactly the same. I’m the only person looking out for Jun’, and I guess it’s gonna stay that way, huh?”

It does wound you; you do care about the children. The thought that you’ve unwittingly just made things worse for Junpei . . . you’re at a complete loss for a response to Mahito, and the man just rolls his eyes and turns his attention to his little brother.

“Jun’,” Mahito is saying, losing interest in you entirely now that you’ve lost any attempt to speak and snap back at him. “S’time to get going. Mom’ll be worried if we’re much later, especially after those bruises you came home with last week.” He chances a glance at you. “Y’know. The ones you told Mom that you got in a game of soccer, but that you and I know better about.”

Junpei looks at you. You can’t quite read his expression, and you really hope that just how flustered and confused Mahito has made you isn’t written as plainly on your face as you feel that it might be. You’ve tried to make yourself seem like an approachable friend to him, but you’re still his teacher – and a small air of authority is important to you. Junpei presses his lips together, flickers his gaze back to Mahito and shoots you a helpless look.

“Aww, don’t worry,” Mahito says, seeing where Junpei’s gaze has landed. “I’m sure your teacher’s got plenty of,” he coughs in a way that’s obviously meant to really push his double meaning, “things to do lined up.”

Mahito’s words, alas, stick in your mind. Everything he’d said about being the only person looking out for Junpei – everything he hadn’t said, with those glances at you and the sneer in his voice as he’d mentioned Junpei coming home with bruises. Had you really been so obsessed with doing a good job – so self-congratulatory and pleased with yourself – that you hadn’t noticed something like that going on right in front of your nose?

You’d like to think that you do genuinely want to do good. You’d like to think of yourself as a good person – a good teacher, who cares about the children in their care and wants to do right by them. The thought that you could have missed something so obvious because you were too wrapped up in yourself . . . ugh. You can barely stand it. You can’t stop thinking about it for days.

You brood about it over the weekend. No matter what you try and do in your little apartment, on your own, you think about Junpei. You mark some of the classwork that Gojo really should have taken home to work on, and you come across his essay – in a nervous, cramped little scrawl – and you resolve to yourself that you’re going to fix this if it kills you.

Somehow, you don’t even consider that Mahito had been saying these things to get a rise out of you. There’s too much truth in them for you to believe that. So you draw up plans and you think and you do not get a wink of good sleep for the entire weekend, your mind entirely taken up by making sure that you do right by Junpei.

Gojo has never paid much attention to him; and you suddenly feel quite awful that you only started paying real attention to him once all of these problems came to light. You internally scold yourself for this oversight; you should have an equal affection for all of your students. You should care about all of them, even when no problems have fully made themselves known – it shouldn’t have taken an ‘incident’ for you to have seen all of this, dammit!

You hope your plan works better this time, as you corner Yuji as he comes into class this morning and take him into Gojo’s office to have a Serious Talk (capitals very much required) with him.

At first, he’s obviously concerned that he’s in trouble – all manner of things come bubbling up out of his mouth. Protestations of his innocence in crimes that you hadn’t even realised had been committed (it seems that you haven’t been the only one occasionally helping yourself to Gojo’s candy stash). Eventually, you manage to quiet the over-excited boy and explain to him.

His eyebrows draw in as he considers what you’re asking him.

“I don’t like Ito,” Yuji says, eventually. Though you can’t agree with him, you’re not surprised that Yuji’s noticed that the other boy isn’t exactly kind. Yuji is a surprisingly good judge of character for someone of his tender age who often appears as though he’s not all that book-smart. “I don’t really know Junpei, but . . . it’s not right, is it? When strong people use weaker people to make themselves feel better?”

He looks to you for your approval, and you smile encouragingly at him. Your heart is beating fast and practically leaping for joy within your chest, though – you’d thought Yuji would be a perfect match for this particular task, and it looks like you were right!

After all of the time you’ve spent second-guessing and hating yourself this weekend, it’s nice to feel vindicated in something.

“Okay!” Yuji decides, with all of the simple ease that young boys have. “I’ll help!”

Yuji agrees that he’ll do his best to try and include Junpei in everything; that he’ll make sure the boy isn’t cornered by Ito when you can’t see him – in general, that he’ll act as Junpei’s friend and protector.

You’re incredibly grateful for Yuji’s sweet nature. There are some boys in your class, you think, who wouldn’t ever have dreamed have including the strange, taciturn Junpei in their inner circle. In fact, up until the end of the day you’d been worried about one of Yuji’s friends in particular--

But Megumi takes Yuji dragging Junpei around with him like a stray dog surprisingly well. He catches you looking at the three of them nervously and gives you a small smile that suggests to you that perhaps Yuji has shared the details of this mission with him. Recalling that Megumi had doled out his own sense of justice on the boys who’d been bothering him . . . you don’t feel quite so worried about how he’ll treat Junpei any more.

You overhear Junpei and Yuji the next day talking about some horror film that they’re both definitely too young to have seen. But both of them are bright-eyed and enthusiastic – even Junpei. It’s the first time you’ve seen Junpei look so excited about anything, as he motions with ill-disguised glee, describing some brutal dispatch the villain of the piece had apparently taken part in.

Film, huh?

All of that time spent trying to work out what Junpei’s particular ‘thing’ was, and Yuji had cracked in less than a day. You smile to yourself as you organise your notes and cast an eye over the classroom to make sure all of the day’s worksheets are set out on the desks already. Gojo catches your eye and grins at you. He’s relaxing on his desk, his feet up on his desk clad in shoes that you’re not certain you could afford even with a month’s pay check.

“They look like they’re getting along,” he says. And although you haven’t confided in Gojo exactly what you’ve been doing (and although you certainly haven’t confided in him exactly what had transpired in that meeting with Junpei’s elder brother), he winks at you.

Three days after that, you even hear Yuji inviting Junpei over to dinner at his house as the two leave the classroom together.

“My dad’s a really good cook,” Yuji enthuses.

(You can believe that; you imagine Kento Nanami is exceedingly good with his hands. You’d had plenty of first-hand experience of what those hands could do –

You shut down the thought before it starts going too far into a direction you don’t want it to).

Things get better. Junpei begins to raise his hands to answer questions – his voice is brighter when he speaks, and you often see him sandwiched between Megumi and Yuji in the school grounds.

There’s only one blip in all of this happiness.

Unfortunately, it’s one you can’t fully involve yourself in.

Yuji gets into a fight with Ito on the grounds, when one of the other teachers is supervising the kids on their lunch break. You only find out the details later – find out that Ito was mocking Junpei for hiding behind Yuji, and calling him a weak coward who would never amount to anything and was good only for being a punching bag for stronger, better people. People like Ito himself--

Yuji gives him a black eye.

You can’t be seen publicly to endorse Yuji’s behaviour, of course. Fighting violence with violence is wrong – and it’s not your lecture to give, anyway. It’s Utahime’s, who was supervising out there at the time. But when you catch Utahime and ask her if you can talk to Yuji before she lets him go, she smiles at you in a way that makes it entirely clear that she knows what you’ve been up to.

(How do all of these people always seem to see through your plans and schemes? She’s just like Gojo. It’s like there’s sorcery or something afoot here, and you’re the only one who’s been left out here in the dark).

“I didn’t go too hard on him,” Utahime says. “But don’t go letting him think it’s fine to punch whenever he wants to!”

You reassure her that you won’t, and slip into the classroom that Yuji had been having his little lecture in. He smiles seeing you, all bright and perky – and then remembers why he’s there, and deflates again. He picks at a hoodie string as he mumbles;

“Are you gonna tell me off too?”

“I should,” you say to him. “But . . . Yuji, you know I’m not going to do that. Don’t tell anyone this, alright? But I wanted to let you know I was proud of you for standing up for Junpei.”

He’s dazzling again as the praise washes over him.

“You still have to do the detentions,” you say, before he can get too over-excited. “No matter how proud I am of you, I can’t get you out of that! But . . . Yuji. I just wanted to thank you, okay?”

You’re surprised as he stands up and flings his arms around you, squeezing you tightly – but as you relax into the younger boy’s hug, you can’t help the smile that alights on your face. You’ve done something right, finally. You’ve not only fixed your mistakes, but you’ve improved both the lives of Junpei and Yuji--

Yuji lets go of you and grins that bright, bold smile right up at you, his eyes crinkled.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yuji tells you, and you take that little compliment and statement of trust and you lock it up right in the middle of your heart. These are the reasons you wanted to go into teaching. You smile down at Yuji.

“I’m glad I met you, too,” you tell him.

“My Dad keeps telling me to invite you over for dinner,” Yuji continues, and you have to dig your nails into your palm in surprise to stop your face giving you away. “Will you? I . . . don’t wanna tell him about the detentions myself.”

“I . . .” Your cheeks are hot. “I’ll talk to him, yes.”

(You will not be going to his house for dinner. That’s too close to tempting fate for you.)

( . . . You don’t know if you could resist Kento Nanami in his own house.)

You’re getting ready to leave a few nights later; putting the classroom in some semblance of order after one of Gojo’s patented ‘I refuse to use the syllabus and will be doing this lesson my way’ afternoons. The chairs and tables have all been rearranged, and Gojo had hared out of the place throwing a wink and a “I knew you’d take care of it!” behind him.

A few months ago, this would have made you so angry you could barely breathe, and you’d have been muttering as you righted the furniture. Today, though . . . well. You’d seen how invested the students were in Gojo’s lessoning, and you’d realised that he very much just wanted to make the learning experience enjoyable. Nothing to do with wanting to be special.

His personality can be so annoying, you think, that it’s little wonder people just think he’s arrogant instead of realising that he’s brilliant. Even you don’t want to admit quite how brilliant you think Gojo is.

It’s whilst you’re thinking about this that the door of the classroom opens – and as you turn to view your new visitor with a smile, already unconsciously readjusting your skirt, you find yourself confronted with a very unexpected guest.

“I wanted to apologise,” Mahito says. He’s smiling, but there’s something distant about that smile – something that makes you shiver, even as he turns the full force of his mismatched eyes on you.

“How did you get in?” You ask, deliberately not panicking despite the fact that you don’t fully trust this man. You’ve been alone in classrooms with strange men too often, recently. Your skin feels strange and prickly as you make yourself smile.

Mahito’s . . . handsome. He’s not handsome in the way Toji or Nanami or even Naoya are – but there’s a kind of dangerous, leonine grace about him. He’s like a sleek panther, toying with you in his claws. Deciding whether he’s going to play a game with you or devour you whole. You wish that your body didn’t give an involuntary shiver when you think about the possibility of being devoured.

Mahito shrugs easily, leaning on the door-frame with a smile not leaving his mouth. He drags his eyes up and down you again, and you barely keep hold of yourself as you nervously shift your weight onto one foot.

“Easy enough,” he says, in that curious voice he has. There’s a musical but mocking quality to it, but he seems to mean no harm. “I told the woman at the front desk I had a meeting with you about Junpei.”

Ah. Junpei’s mother, notoriously busy with work and difficult to get to come in even though she quite clearly wants to be there for her son. They wouldn’t have found her sending his older brother in all that surprising, once Mahito managed to explain that he was indeed a brother.

“Is . . . is there a reason you wanted to see me?” You ask him, and Mahito chuckles low under his breath. You can’t help looking at those strange stitch tattoos and wonder why he got them. They . . . suit him, you think. The silvery hair and the leather jacket and the tattoos and the mismatched eyes. You realise, looking at him, that he’s about the same age as you.

Wistfully, you wonder when the last time you spent any time in the company of a man your own age was.

“I told you,” he takes a step towards you and you swallow and wet your lips instinctively. He’s tall, and broad; you hadn’t realised before just how well-muscled the torso beneath the jacket was. “I wanted to apologise for before. Junpei’s told me about . . . well, cutie. It seems I have to change my mind about you once again.”

Your face heats up at the pet name. Mahito barely notices. He simply keeps advancing upon you – and you don’t realise that you’ve been backed up into a corner until the edge of Gojo’s desk digs into your thigh. It appears your idea of Mahito as a big cat has been justified – and you’re the poor gazelle that he’s chosen to capture.

“I suppose I should apologise that I implied you were a slut,” Mahito breathes, very close to your ear. He smells like motorcycle oil and cigarettes and something else that you can’t quite place--

(A few moments later, you place it, and you feel very naive for not realising what it was sooner).

“You can’t blame me, can you?” He says, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. “You are very pretty. And some men . . . they circle like lions, don’t they?”

“I think you have a very skewed perception of what being a teacher is like,” you breathe to him, not wanting to admit how uncomfortably close to the truth he is. Mahito laughs, deliberately almost pinioning you against the desk. Your heart is beating double time in your chest.

“Don’t look so scared,” he says, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. The smile makes his eyes crinkle – he’s almost cute, smiling like that. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re being a little intimidating,” you reply, trying to keep a hold on your voice so you don’t sound quite as terrified as you really are. This seems to amuse him – he laughs out loud, like the noise of a gate creaking in the wind, and he backs up a little. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lighter and cigarette case. “Don’t. You’ll set off the fire alarms.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“You never set off a fire alarm for fun?” He asks, teasingly – but he obliges you by placing them back into the pocket. “Aww, you bookworms are all the same. Don’t you wanna have a little adventure?” The way that he emphasises the final word makes you shiver.

“I—”

“I know how they overwork teaching students,” he says, and he’s wheedling now. You feel quite overwhelmed by everything Mahito says and does; the way that he comes into your life and immediately stirs up feelings you don’t fully understand. “Have you even gotten a good look at the city you’re working in, cutie?”

“I’ve been very busy,” you say, but your throat is dry.

“Let me show you around,” he’s grinning, predatory, like a cat who has been given a full bowl of cream. “C’mon! I’ve got nothing better to do – not that I don’t think showing someone as cute as you around isn’t something worth doing . . .” He leans in again. “I’ll show you all of my favourite places. You’ll really start to see everything in a . . . new light.”

There’s that way of putting emphasis on strange words, again. Listening to Mahito . . . you can’t quite explain the pull that he has over you. There’s something almost hypnotic about the way he talks. You can’t help but feel as though this is a man who could convince you to walk off the edge of a cliff, if he were that way inclined.

And it really has been a while since you were alone with a man your own age.

“I shouldn’t,” you try and say, gently and carefully. But Mahito’s wheedling voice and his insistence that you deserve to have a little fun simply won’t take no for an answer – and before you really know what you’re doing, you’re walking beside Mahito in the drizzle.

“I’ll show you all my favourite places,” he says, with a grin. And then; “Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”

Thankfully, he doesn’t take you on his motorbike. He does look at it, longingly – but then he looks up at the sky, realises there’s no way you’re getting on the back or the front of the thing without a helmet, and puts his arm around your waist to lead you around on foot instead.

You don’t know where you’re expecting him to take you. A club, perhaps; he seems the type.

You’re certainly not expecting, first of all, to be taken to a sewer.

But Mahito is delighted by it, as he spreads his arms wide.

“It’s not really a sewer,” he explains, breathing in deep. “It’s where all of the purified water comes out; it’s perfectly clean, I promise. C’mere--” He grabs your wrist and pulls you against him, your front pressed right against his. He’s still smiling, his eyes startlingly bright and clear. “Breathe. Doesn’t it smell like springtime?”

You hesitantly take a deep breath. You’re finding it difficult to reconcile the idea of the ‘smell of springtime’ with your very real and true knowledge that you are stood on the side of a sewer. Mahito can tell you that the water running off is totally clear and purified, but . . . well. It’s easier to say these things than it is to believe them.

But to your utter amazement, Mahito is right. It does smell fresh, and clear, and clean – like grass on an early springtime morning, dew-dappled and peaceful.

“I like to come here to relax,” he tells you. “The concrete isn’t so uncomfortable, really. And nobody ever wants to disturb the man sat reading in the sewer.”

“Do you read a lot?” You ask him, seizing on the question. He grins down at you.

“Oh,” he says, “now and then.”

On the bridge with a fifty foot drop he takes you to next, he tells you that he has a double major degree in sculpture and philosophy. When you ask him what he does now, though, he simply waves his hand airily.

“A little of this, a little of that,” he says, mysterious. Before you can pursue the line of questioning any further, though, he’s grabbed you about the waist and pressed you in front of him, forcing your front to lean over the railing of the bridge.

“Isn’t it . . . stimulating?” He breathes into your ear. “Watching all of those cars, below? Thinking about how quickly you could just . . . cease to exist?”

Your spine prickles, but Mahito just laughs, and wraps his arms around your waist. His nose presses against your ear, breathing in deep – and your mouth goes dry. It’s very clear what Mahito wants--

And, honestly? You don’t think you’d mind. It’s nice, isn’t it? To be wanted by someone your own age without any kind of hidden agenda?

The cars race by, underneath the bridge. The drizzle is coming down in a fine mist, making everything look hazy and unfocused. The night is falling fast about you; street lights and headlights behind the drizzle, making you feel like you don’t really exist. Your heart is beating in your ears.

When he takes your chin in his hand and turns your face to kiss you, you let him.

You don’t expect to be brought back to Mahito’s home for things to go any further. Mahito doesn’t seem traditional in any sense of the word.

But the abandoned house he does bring you to is pushing it a little far, even for you.

“Are you going to murder me?” You ask Mahito, staring around at the empty room. Mahito shoves his hands in his pockets and whistles, a grin bisecting his face. His eyes flash dangerously, and you immediately begin to plan an escape route.

“Do you think I look like a murderer?” He asks, which you tactfully do not answer. The stitch tattoos and the wide, manic grin and the bright eyes and the fact that his laugh sounds like a creaking gate with rusted hinges do not help matters. “Oh, I’m not a murderer, cutie! I promise! I’m a lot of things.” He places a hand to his heart. “A poet. A philosopher. An artist.” He winks at you. “A lover.”

These are all very interesting ways for him to say ‘a layabout’.

“Are you really going to seduce me in an abandoned building?” You ask Mahito, and he laughs at you. He captures your chin between two of his fingers and stares directly into your eyes.

“It’s working, isn’t it?” He says, very low and dark. “Your heart is beating so fast.”

You do not want to admit to him just how well it’s working. You’ve always felt like you’d have higher standards than this! Fucking the fathers of your charges in other people’s offices is one thing, but to be intimate with Mahito in a place you know nothing about--

He stops your train of thought entirely by kissing you again.

And you give in to the kiss, this time. Why not have fun? Why not embrace whatever Mahito is going to do? You like him, for all of his strangeness. And you certainly find him attractive.

He bites at your lower lip, sucking on it, and your eyelashes flutter closed as you sigh into his mouth. He does taste like cigarettes – but you find that you don’t mind it all that much, as your hands come hazily up to pull at his jacket.

“Oh?” He murmurs, pulling away from you just a touch. “I didn’t figure you as the kind to take initiative, cutie.”

“There’s a lot about me you probably didn’t figure,” you say to him, and Mahito grins sharp and dangerous again.

“Ah,” he says. “Well. Never let it be said that I don’t enjoy a good surprise.”

He helps you shrug off his jacket. He doesn’t have a second thought, either, about taking off the grid-patterned t-shirt he’s wearing beneath that – and it’s all you can do not to ogle him. Beneath what Mahito is wearing is a surprisingly broad, toned body – and there are two shining barbells through his nipples. When he sees you looking at them, he grins.

“I won’t undress you all the way,” he murmurs, grabbing you by your waist. “You don’t look like you’re as used to the cold as I am--”

“I don’t know how comfortable I feel being naked in an abandoned building,” you point out breathlessly. “What if somebody catches us?”

“No sense of adventure,” he chides you again – but then, his fingers are at least undoing the buttons with quick, practised motions. “Oh, this is pretty.”

You’re wearing a pale blue bra trimmed with ivory lace – Mahito takes a handful of the flesh and squeezes almost to the point of pain, making a gasp die in the back of your throat. The satin of the cups is thin enough that your nipples pebble beneath it, making the fabric stick out.

“You’d look pretty with some piercings too, I’d bet,” he says against your ear. And then; “You really are something else, aren’t you? I bet you’re fight off those dads--”

“I don’t want to talk about work,” you say, and you push gently on his shoulders. Mahito, grinning, lets himself be pushed down onto the floor, until he’s sat with his back against the wall. You’re straddling him, almost – and Mahito seems inordinately pleased to have found himself on the bottom. “I just want to--”

“You just want to fuck me,” he says, relishing the words. You look down at him – his mouth is open, his chest heaving, his mouth swollen, practically panting. “Good news! I want to fuck you too. Desperately.”

“Well,” you tell him, “we can’t have you getting desperate over me--”

One big hands lands on your thighs as he man-handles your skirt upwards, pushing it until all of the fabric is rucked around your waist. He hooks a thumb into the elastic waistband of your underwear (pale blue satin, matching the bra).

“You’ve gotten these cute panties all wet and messy,” he says, grinning. His other hand reaches for the seam between your thighs – long fingers rubbing over the damp spots. The silver rings he’s wearing glint in the faint moonlight coming in from the cracked, broken windows.

(Oh my God. The windows are cracked. Are you really doing this? Are you really doing this here?)

“Better take them off, then,” you say to him, your voice coming out surprisingly husky. Mahito’s grin doesn’t fade a whit.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Mahito says, and then your underwear is being inches down your thighs. Mahito’s breath catches as he sees the strings of your arousal clinging to your sex, breaking as he parts it and the fabric. You lift yourself to allow him to fully manoeuvre you out of them – and then he drops them to one side, much more interested in what’s in front of him.

“I suppose I can’t convince you to lie on the floor,” he says, big hand sliding up your damp thigh. “I’d love to eat you out, cutie.”

You can’t believe that you actually consider it – letting your prim little outfit get all messy and even more rumpled as you lay flat on your back with Mahito’s pretty silver head buried between your thighs. You bet he’s good with his tongue. He’s too good with words to not be--

“No,” you say, but there’s real reluctance in your tone.

“Mm,” Mahito teases. “Guess that’ll have to wait for next time, huh?”

Whatever you were going to say next is cut off by the way that Mahito’s hands have found their way between your legs and parted the lips of your sex with expert practise. The pad of his thumb rubs against your clit slowly, circling it in order to begin to call up licks of flaming heat. One of his other fingers gently prods at your entrance, making sure you’re wet enough to take him.

“I’m good with my hands, too,” he says, grinning arrogantly. “A sculptor, remember?”

He sinks his index finger deep inside of you with one slick, smooth motion. You hear it as it goes in – the sound lewdly loud and wet in this utterly empty room. The shock of his cool rings as he almost fits the whole thing inside of you, cold against the places where you’re aflame entirely . . . you gasp out his name, and Mahito practically preens.

You have no choice but to cling to his shoulders, sinking to your knees as he begins to fuck into your with his finger in earnest. Your own breathing is heavy, now. His thumb keeps playing with your clit as he goes, murmuring something very low and soft that you can’t make out through the fog of pleasure that settles about you like a blanket.

Mahito won’t stop looking at you, though – his eyes utterly obsessed, drinking in every flutter of your lashes and every little shudder of your body. It’s like you’re the most fascinating thing that he’s ever seen and he doesn’t want to miss a moment of your reactions. It’s hard not to be flattered, when he’s looking at you like that.

Two fingers. Oh, God. This time, as he fucks you with his fingers, as well as moving them in a thrust motion, he gently parts them just a little as if he’s trying to open you up wider. And . . . that feels even better than you could ever have imagined. A hot, tight ball of pleasure in your lower abdomen seems to get even hotter and even tighter.

“It’s like you’re trying to take my fingers off,” Mahito murmurs. “You just keep getting tighter--”

“I think--” Your voice is a choked out little whimper. Mahito’s thumb becomes more brazen with its touch on your clit; flicking back and forth with even more pressure.

“Oh, you’re definitely going to,” he says, hungrily – and, as if his words bring it forward, you find yourself coming hard around his fingers. You fall forwards just a little, your sweat-slicked forehead pressing against his shoulder, as everything inside of you comes apart like fireworks exploding inside of you.

His fingers are still buried inside of you, but they still as he lets you ride out the trembling aftershocks of your orgasm. You pant into his skin.

Wait.

What’s that sound?

He’s not thrusting his fingers into you any more, so what’s that strange slick noise, skin rubbing against skin? You become more and more aware of it as the final ebbs and tides of your orgasm begin to recede, and you lift your head to see where it’s coming from.

Oh.

Mahito’s other hand is wrapped around a pretty, slender cock – teasing himself, shlicking back and forth in a rhythm not unlike the one that he was previously using on you.

You feel yourself tighten around the fingers still inside of you at the sight.

“Oh?” Mahito chuckles. “You like knowing what you do to me?”

His jeans have been pushed down far enough (when did he have the time?) that you can see the matching barbed wire tattoos around the tops of his thighs – and the band just above his pelvis, dangerously close to the pretty cock weeping clear fluid.

“I’d rather help,” you murmur to him. Mahito smirks.

“I can’t say I’d complain.”

His fingers come out of you with a little gush of your own slick, making a mess of your thighs. But you already have your new target in mind, and you can’t bring yourself to care about that when Mahito’s cock would fit so nicely inside of you.

Besides. He made you feel good – you want to repay the favour. You don’t want Mahito to leave this little encounter feeling superior to you. A part of you wants to show off.

“You’re gorgeous,” Mahito says – and the compliment is unexpectedly tender, unexpectedly open and truthful – you look at him in surprise, and one of his knuckles tenderly brushes over your cheeks. “You look so pretty there. Might have to take you home with me and keep you locked up forever so I can look at that pretty face whenever I want to.”

From anyone else, the words would be terrifying. He speaks them with a kind of frank openness that makes you think that he very much has the capability to do so – and then, he grins and his expression changes and the moment is lost as he takes your hips in his hands and pulls you so that you’re resting above his cock.

You don’t want to admit that what he just said made you wetter.

Mahito’s not the biggest you’ve taken, and you’re thankful for that as you sink onto him immediately with no more preamble. Mahito clearly wasn’t expecting it – he groans aloud, his hips tilting upwards, his mouth opening. His mouth is pretty, too – glinting wetly in the moonlight as you adjust to the feel of him inside of you.

He’s also a man of little shame, which you find as you experimentally lift yourself off of him and then drive back down. The moans that Mahito makes wouldn’t be out of place in a porn film; they’re filthy, but somehow still musical, as he looks at you hungrily and demands;

“Don’t go slow with me, cutie. I can take whatever pace you want to set--”

Any sensitivity after your earlier orgasm is forgotten – in fact, as you begin to set a surprisingly punishing pace, you realise that all that earlier orgasm has really done is made you hungrier. Like it knew it was just going to be a precursor to the main event. Your fingers tangle in his long, silvery hair, and his eyes practically roll back in his head.

“Pull it,” he demands, roughly – and why would you deny him that, when he sounds so certain of what he wants?

You use a combination of your knees and his hair for leverage, winning groans and whimpers and those pornographic moans with every thrust and every bounce of your body on his. You feel so close to Mahito like this. His arms wrap around your waist, giving you a little extra strength in riding him.

His hips come up to help, too. He lets you be in charge, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try and take a little bit of control back. Every so often, he gives a particularly sharp thrust that almost sets you off-balance and alters the pace. Said alteration is usually to make it faster, and rougher – and you can’t help thinking that you’re going to have bruised knees when you wake up tomorrow.

There’s the unmistakable sound of delicate fabric ripping, but that also falls to the wayside as yours and Mahito’s bodies continue to meet slickly and wetly and hard. You realise that you’re moaning just as much as he is, now – uncaring of anyone who might hear your very obvious noises through those cracked windows. There are far more important things to worry about than people outside thinking two squatters are getting busy inside of the abandoned house.

“Shit, cutie,” Mahito groans. “I’m not gonna last as long as I want to--”

“I don’t mind,” you say, gasping as your body continues to bounce on his. “I think-- I think I’d like to feel you come—”

Mahito laughs again, breathless and creaky and somehow still musical.

“Oh, you will,” he assures you. “I—I--”

His final statement is lost in his groan of pleasure. His thighs begin to tremble. His arms, where they’re wrapped around you, get tighter and more certain, until he’s holding you so close you fear he’s squeezing the breath out of you. And inside of you, you feel his cock twitch and spill and a hot flood as he comes inside of you.

He’s got just enough sense to put his hand between your thighs, to grind against your clit with his fingers so that your own (second) release comes not moments after his, your sex squeezing and clamping about him as he comes as if it’s trying to make sure he’s emptied himself as fully as possible inside of you.

You collapse against him for a moment, too drained and too hot and too flustered to do anything other than let his cock soften inside of you. And then, your senses slowly return to you.

You slide Mahito’s cock outside of you, leaning backwards.

“Mmm,” Mahito says, smiling at you, his eyes sated and satisfied. “Come back here, cutie. Don’t be like that.” You tug your underwear off the floor and up your sticky thighs, your skirt down – re-button your blouse as best you can. Your stocking has laddered from the rough unadorned floor – that must have been the tearing sound - but you suppose there’s nothing you can do about that. You crawl over to Mahito, propped up on his elbows. He grins as he runs a hand over your hair, over your cheek, brushes his thumb over your lips--

“Hey!” He’s unclipped your brooch whilst you aren’t paying attention. It’s not expensive – just a little enamelled flower you’d liked the look at in some second-hand shop or other – but still! “If you’re looking for value, you’re not going to find it in that.”

“Oh, I know that,” he says, pinning it to his jacket with a grin. The blue forget-me-not stands out against the black leather. It matches his blue eye. “I just like to take a trophy now and again.” He raises one eyebrow. “You’d rather me have this than your underwear, right?”

You go hot, but you nod nonetheless. If this is what pleases Mahito . . . well. You don’t really want to be walking home without your underwear. That would make you feel even worse than the fact you fucked him in a building he had to break into.

Gojo finds you the next morning. He’s smiling and grinning and asking you if maybe you’d like to get ice cream again – talking about how exams are coming up, and maybe the two of you should try and make some provisions to make sure that the kids don’t get overwhelmed. You’re stood beside him by his desk while he gestures emphatically and rocks on the balls of his feet, when Junpei walks into the classroom and walks over to the both of you.

You smile at him, tipping your head to one side. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so quiet since he became friends with Yuji.

“Is everything okay?” You ask him, and he’s clearly debating something in his mind. Evidently, whatever he’s deciding to do wins out, and he extracts his fist from his pocket and lays something down on Gojo’s desk.

“My brother wanted me to give this back to you,” he says, as you and Gojo look down at it. “He says he was worried you’d miss it. And he said . . .” Junpei hesitates. “He said he’ll take something more fitting as a trophy next time.”

You look down to see the little enamelled forget-me-not brooch.

#mahito x reader #mahito smut #jjk x reader #jjk smut #fem reader #afab reader #writing #mahito x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #not sfw #fem pronouns #jjk writing #jjk posting #jjk teacher aid au

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