The Changing Room: Part II
"Ready to go, partner?" Gojo asked, his hand hovering over the door handle.
Miyuki took a shaky breath, smoothing the midnight-blue silk over her hips. Her lips still tingled where his thumb had pressed against them, a phantom kiss that was infinitely more maddening than the real thing. "Yes. Just... open the door, Gojo."
Gojo's fingers gripped the lock. The metal mechanism clicked, ready to slide back.
But before he could pull the door open, a voice rang out from right outside the curtain—so close, it felt like the speaker was standing inside the cubicle with them.
"I'm telling you, this shade of red is perfect for a curse execution! It hides the blood stains!"
It was Nobara. And she wasn't alone.
"It is a lovely color, Miss," a polite, terrified shop assistant replied. "Would you like to try it on? The fitting rooms are just here."
Miyuki's eyes widened in horror. Nobara was standing directly in front of their stall. If Gojo opened the door now, or if they walked out together—him in a tuxedo, her with swollen lips and flushed skin—there would be no explaining it away. The rumors would destroy them before the curses did.
Gojo froze. The Six Eyes must have processed the spatial positioning instantly because his casual demeanor vanished in a millisecond.
"Shit," he breathed, a sound so rare coming from the strongest sorcerer that it sent a jolt of adrenaline through Miyuki.
He didn't open the door. Instead, he slammed the lock back into place. Click.
Then, he moved.
"Back," he whispered urgently.
He stepped into her personal space, forcing her to retreat until her back hit the cool glass of the full-length mirror again. But this time, there was no playfulness. The cubicle was tiny, barely a square meter. To hide from the gap in the curtain and the potential line of sight, they had to be deep in the corner.
"Gojo, what are you—"
"Quiet," he hissed, his voice a low vibration against her temple. "Unless you want Kugisaki to see us walking out of a one-person changing room together looking like this."
He gestured vaguely at the two of them. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. The ozone smell of his cursed energy was spiking, mixing with the scent of her own arousal and the expensive fabric of the dress.
"So we just... wait?" Miyuki whispered, her voice trembling.
"We wait," Gojo murmured.
He was standing behind her now, his tall frame boxing her in against the mirror. His chest was pressed against her back, a wall of solid, radiating heat. Because the changing room was so small, there was nowhere else for him to be. His thighs bracketed hers, his hips resting dangerously close to her lower back.
"Arima," Nobara's voice came again, muffled but clear. "Are you dead in there? I found a dress that screams 'funeral chic'. You need to see it."
Miyuki panicked. She opened her mouth to answer, to make up an excuse, but her breath hitched as she felt Gojo's body shift.
"Don't answer yet," Gojo whispered, his lips grazing the sensitive shell of her ear. "Let her think you're changing."
"Gojo, you're too close," Miyuki breathed, her hands gripping the edges of the mirror for support. The sensation of his body against hers was overwhelming. The silk of her dress was thin, offering zero protection against the friction of his tuxedo trousers.
"I can't help it," he murmured, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Physics, Miyuki. Two objects cannot occupy the same space... unless they merge."
He shifted his weight, and his hips pressed firmly against her buttocks. A jolt of electricity—purely biological this time—shot up Miyuki's spine. She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder.
"You're enjoying this," she accused weakly.
"Maybe," Gojo admitted. His hands, which had been resting at his sides, slowly came up to rest on her waist. His large palms spanned the curve of her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh through the silk. "You smell amazing, by the way. Like fear. And jasmine. It's a dangerous combination."
Outside, the rustling of fabric continued. Nobara was arguing with the sales assistant about price tags. It was a mundane background noise to the absolute chaos unraveling inside the booth.
Gojo's hands didn't stay on her waist.
"The zipper," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher, darker. "I went to all that trouble zipping it up... but it's a shame to cover this back."
"Gojo, don't—"
He didn't listen. With a dexterity that belied his size, he found the zipper tab he had just secured. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled it down.
Zzzzp.
The sound was quiet, masked by Nobara's loud complaints outside, but to Miyuki, it sounded like a thunderclap. The dress loosened. The cool air of the boutique hit her skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of Gojo's palms sliding underneath the fabric.
"That's better," he groaned low in his throat.
Skin on skin.
There was no Infinity. He had deactivated the neutral Limitless entirely for her. There was no barrier between his fingertips and the naked skin of her stomach. His hands slid around her waist, splaying flat over her abdomen, pulling her flush against his groin.
Miyuki's knees went weak. She watched herself in the mirror—her eyes were blown wide, her lips parted, and behind her, Gojo Satoru looked like a demon claiming a sacrifice. His sunglasses were askew, his blue eyes burning with a focused, predatory intent that made her toes curl.
"Your heart rate," Gojo whispered, dipping his head to nuzzle the sensitive column of her neck. "It jumped again. 150. You're going to pass out, Miyuki."
"Stop," she whimpered, but she leaned back into him, betraying her words.
"Make me," he challenged.
His hands moved higher. They glided over her ribs, his thumbs tracing the underwire of the dress's built-in bodice. He was teasing her, mapping her body with an arrogant familiarity that drove her insane.
"Nobara is right there," Miyuki hissed, trying to find a shred of sanity. "If she hears us..."
"Then be quiet," Gojo breathed.
One of his hands left her ribcage and moved up, cupping the weight of her breast through the loosened silk.
Miyuki gasped loud and sharp—a sound of pure shock and pleasure.
Gojo's reaction was instantaneous.
His other hand flew up and clamped over her mouth, silencing her.
"Shh," he warned, his voice a growl against her ear. "I told you. Quiet."
He had her completely trapped now. One arm was wrapped around her upper chest, his hand covering her mouth, his thumb pressing into her cheek. His other hand was free to roam, and it was merciless.
He slipped his hand fully inside the front of the loosened dress.
Miyuki's eyes rolled back as his warm, rough palm cupped her bare breast. The sensation was blinding. His thumb brushed over her nipple, hardening it instantly, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to her core.
"Mmph!" she cried out against his hand, her hips bucking involuntarily against him.
"Good girl," Gojo praised, nipping at the exposed skin of her shoulder. "Take it. Don't make a sound."
He was relentless. His thumb circled her nipple, teasing, pinching lightly, while his hips ground a slow, rhythmic circle against her backside. He was hard. Impossibly hard. She could feel the ridge of him through his trousers, pressing into the small of her back, a constant reminder of the danger she was in.
Miyuki's hands scrabbled at the mirror, trying to find purchase, trying to stay standing. Her world narrowed down to the heat of his hand on her breast, the roughness of his palm against her softness, and the taste of his skin against her lips as she breathed into his hand.
Gojo wasn't faring much better. His breath was coming in short, ragged pants against her neck. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, inhaling her scent.
"You have no idea," he muttered against her skin, his voice thick with lust, "how long I've wanted to do this. To touch you. Without the distance."
He bit down gently on the cord of muscle in her neck—not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark. A claim.
Miyuki whimpered into his palm, her legs trembling so violently she thought she might collapse. She arched her back, offering herself to him, silently begging for more. The dress was ruined, slipping off her shoulders, held up only by the tension of his arm across her chest.
"Satoru," she tried to say against his hand, the name coming out as a muffled plea against his palm.
Gojo went still.
The rhythmic movement of his hips stopped instantly. The thumb teasing her nipple through the silk paused mid-caress. The change in the atmosphere was palpable—sharper than the ozone, heavier than the lust.
He didn't just hear it; he felt the vibration of his given name against his skin.
Slowly, agonizingly, he peeled his large hand away from her mouth, sliding it down to cup her jaw, his thumb pressing into her flushed cheek. He looked down at her, his blue eyes blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris.
"Wait," he breathed, his voice rougher than sandpaper. "What did you just call me?"
Miyuki blinked up at him, dazed. Her chest was heaving, her mind a haze of pleasure and panic. "I... what?"
"You didn't say Gojo."
His grip on her jaw tightened just a fraction—possessive, demanding. He leaned in until his lips were hovering millimeters from hers, stealing the air from her lungs.
"You said Satoru."
The way he said his own name sent a fresh shiver down her spine. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation. A discovery.
"I didn't mean to," Miyuki whispered, her voice trembling. "It just... slipped out."
"Don't take it back," Gojo growled low in his throat. He moved his hand on her breast again, squeezing firmly, a reminder of who had her pinned against the glass. "Say it again."
Miyuki bit her swollen lip. "Gojo, please—"
"No," he cut her off, his voice dropping to a dangerous, desperate whisper. He pressed his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as if savoring the moment. "Not Gojo. I hear that all day. I want the other one. I want the one that sounds different when you say it."
He opened his eyes, pinning her with a gaze that stripped her bare.
"Say my name, Miyuki. I want to hear it on your lips while I'm touching you."
Miyuki felt her resolve crumble. The heat of his body, the demand in his eyes, the sheer vulnerability hidden beneath his command... it was too much.
"Satoru," she breathed, the syllables soft and broken.
A shudder ripped through Gojo's body. He groaned, a raw, wounded sound, as if the name physically hurt him in the best way possible.
"Fuck," he swore, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I want to ruin you right here. I want to hike this expensive dress up and take you against the glass until you forget your own name and can only scream mine."
He licked the spot on her neck he had just bitten, soothing the sting with a wet, hot slide of his tongue.
"But we can't," he groaned, pulling back with immense effort, the frustration evident in every line of his body. "Not with an audience."
"Hey! Arima!" Nobara's voice was closer now, impatient. She knocked on the door of the cubicle next to them. Bang. Bang. "Are you alive? I'm getting bored!"
The noise was like a bucket of ice water.
Gojo froze. His hand stilled on her breast. His hips stopped moving against hers.
For a second, Miyuki thought he might ignore it. She thought he might just keep going, consequences be damned. The air in the cubicle was heavy with ozone and lust.
But then, with a heavy, shuddering sigh, Gojo removed his hand from her breast, though he lingered for a second, a final squeeze that made her knees buckle. He slowly took his hand off her mouth.
Miyuki sucked in a desperate gasp of air, her chest heaving. "Oh my god."
"Yeah," Gojo muttered, his voice wrecked. He rested his forehead against the back of her head for a moment, gathering his composure. "God has nothing to do with this."
He spun her around.
Miyuki looked like a wreck. Her hair was messy, her lips were swollen and red, her chest was flushed, and her dress was hanging off one shoulder. She looked exactly like she had been ravaged in a changing room.
Gojo, unfair as ever, looked mostly composed, save for the dark flush on his cheeks and the blown-out pupils of his eyes.
"Turn around," he ordered softly, but his hands were gentle now.
He pulled the dress back up. His fingers brushed her skin again as he did up the zipper, but this time the touch was efficient, almost apologetic. He smoothed the silk over her hips. He adjusted the strap on her shoulder.
Then, he reached out and straightened the silver choker around her neck. He stared at the red mark he had left just below it.
"Cover that with hair," he murmured, his thumb brushing the bite mark. "Or don't. Let them wonder."
"You're terrible," Miyuki whispered, her voice hoarse. She felt dizzy. The transition from intense pleasure back to reality was jarring.
"I'm the strongest," Gojo corrected, a ghost of his usual arrogance returning, though his smile was crooked. "Compose yourself, Arima. Deep breaths. We have a show to put on."
He checked his watch, then checked the mirror. He adjusted his tie, ran a hand through his hair, and put his sunglasses back on properly.
"I'll go out first," he whispered. "I'll distract Nobara. You come out ten seconds later. Say the zipper got stuck again."
"It technically did," Miyuki muttered, glaring at him.
Gojo chuckled, a low rumble that she felt in her toes. He leaned down and pressed a quick, hard kiss to her forehead.
"You look beautiful," he said, and for once, he sounded completely sincere. "Now, let's go steal the show."
He unlocked the door. Click.
Gojo stepped out into the boutique with the confidence of a king.
"Kugisaki!" his voice boomed, cheerful and loud, effectively drowning out any suspicion. "There you are! Look at those shoes! Hideous! I love them!"
"Huh?" Nobara's voice was startled. "Sensei? Where did you come from?"
"I was... inspecting the merchandise," Gojo lied smoothly. "Stop asking questions and look at my tuxedo. Don't I look magnificent?"
Inside the cubicle, Miyuki leaned against the mirror, pressing her cool hands to her burning cheeks. She counted to ten. She tried to slow her heart rate, but the feeling of his hand on her breast and his teeth on her neck was branded into her memory.
She looked at the reflection. The girl in the mirror looked dangerous. She looked like she held a secret that could burn the world down.
She smoothed her dress one last time, lifted her chin, and stepped out.