Satoru Gojo

You and Satoru Gojo have been dancing around each other since high school. Back then, he was the annoying pretty boy who sat behind you in chemistry, always tugging your hair and leaving stupid doodles on your notebook. You lost touch after graduation—life just got in the way—but fate's a funny thing.

Years later, you walked into your new OB-GYN's office for a routine appointment, and there he was. Satoru fucking Gojo, all grown up with a white coat and a lopsided grin that hadn't changed one bit.

One coffee date turned into dinner. Dinner turned into weekends. Now you're six months into something real, something sweet, something nobody at his work is supposed to know about.

Except they've definitely noticed. The way he hums during charts. The way he's stopped complaining about night shifts. Shoko's been giving him these knowing looks for weeks.

Though right now, you're just another patient on his schedule. Just a regular abdominal ultrasound. That's what it says on the forms.

The exam room is warm and dim because he claims he "forgot" to turn up the lights. Sure, Satoru. The gel is cold and clear against your stomach when he squeezes the bottle. You're lying on the paper-covered table, shirt bunched up under your chest, trying very hard to remember that this is a real hospital and he's a real doctor.

"Okay, just gonna need you to lift your shirt a little more..."

His voice is all professional and casual. His hands are not.

The ultrasound wand is cold against your skin, sure, but his fingers—the ones holding your hip steady—are anything but clinical. He's taking forever to adjust the settings. Clicking buttons that probably don't need clicking. Staring at the screen like he's actually reading something instead of just watching the grayscale blur.

"Everything looks normal," he says, and you notice he's not even looking at the screen anymore. He's looking at you. The wand presses a little harder, gliding lower than it probably should. "Maybe I should check again. Just to be thorough."

His thumb is tracing tiny circles on your hip now, hidden under the edge of the sheet. You can feel every single one of them.

"Your heartbeat's elevated," he observes, like he doesn't know exactly why. Like his touch isn't slowly creeping higher, like the wand isn't dragging somewhere it definitely doesn't need to be for a routine ultrasound. "Should I be concerned?"

He's still not looking at the screen.

"The door's locked, right?"

He asks it like an afterthought, like his hand isn't already sliding up your thigh, like the wand isn't completely forgotten on your stomach, abandoned and useless. The gel is cooling on your skin but you can't feel anything except where his fingers are pressing, where his thumb is stroking, where his eyes are burning into yours.

You should probably say no. Stop. Something like that.

But the lock clicked twenty minutes ago, and he knew that, and you knew that, and neither of you has said a word about it.

---

The ultrasound wand is still sitting on your abdomen. The gel is cold and getting colder. Neither of you cares anymore.

His pants are undone—you don't even remember unzipping them, did he do that himself?—and your underwear is somewhere on the floor, probably kicked under the table. He's positioned himself between your legs in a way that is absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not standard medical procedure. The paper on the table is crinkling underneath you.

The room is still dim. The door is still locked.

All eyes on the screen.

And there it is. The grayscale image of your insides, your organs glowing soft and dark against the black background. Your bladder, void and empty. The shadow of your uterus, nestled deep.

And then—something that shouldn't be there. Something pressing into you from the outside, visible as a bright white peak on the display, pushing against the frame of your body.

The tip of him.

"Oh," he breathes, and his voice is different now. Gone is the professional doctor. Gone is the casual boyfriend. This is something else entirely. "Oh, that's..."

He trails off, completely transfixed. His hips are still, frozen mid-push, like he's scared moving will make the image disappear.

"I can see myself," he says, and his voice has gone all distant and fascinated, like he's discovering something impossible. "Inside you. On the screen."

He pushes forward just a little. The image shifts. That white peak presses deeper into the dark shape of your body, sliding past the shadow of your uterus, and he makes a sound you've never heard from him before. Low. Wrecked.

"That's so fucking hot."

He's not even trying to pretend anymore. His eyes are glued to that screen, watching himself disappear into you on the grayscale display. His hips roll forward again, slow and deliberate, and you can see it happen in real time—that bright flare of him sinking deeper, surrounded by the soft gray of your insides.

"Can you see it?" he asks, and his voice is strained now, barely holding together. "Can you see how deep I am?"

The tip of him is a bright flare against the grayscale, and he's not even fully inside yet. You can see the space he still has to fill. The thought makes your stomach flip.

"We should not be doing this," he says, even as he speeds up. His hips are moving faster now, the paper crinkling with every thrust, and the screen is showing you exactly what that motion looks like from the inside. The image is shaky—because he's shaking, because you're shaking—but you can still see it. Him. Moving. Inside you.

"You're my patient right now," he continues, and his voice is breathless and uneven. "This is a violation of like... seventeen different codes of conduct."

He grins. Sharp. Unhinged. That stupid pretty face you fell for in high school chemistry, now hovering over you in a dim hospital room with his pants undone and his eyes on the screen.

"We should make it eighteen."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He never does. His hand comes down to brace himself beside your head, and the other one—the one that was holding the ultrasound wand—is pressed flat against your stomach. Right over where he can see himself on the screen. Like he's feeling himself move from the outside.

*His thumb presses down just slightly, and the image on the screen shifts. He can feel himself through your skin. He can see it too.

"That's... fuck..." His voice cracks. His hips stutter. The ultrasound machine keeps displaying the truth of what he's doing, the grayscale evidence of just how deep he's gotten, and he can't stop staring at it. At himself. At you. At the way your body takes him like it was made for it.

"Look at that," he whispers, and his voice is soft now. Almost reverent. "Look at how good you take me. Every single time."

He's still moving. Slower now, but deeper, like he's savoring it. Like he wants to watch every inch disappear on that little screen.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see this," he admits, and there's something almost shy in his voice, buried under all that heat. "High school me would've lost his mind. Current me is losing his mind."

His forehead drops down to rest against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. The screen is still showing you exactly where he is, exactly how full you are, exactly how much further he wants to go.

"The wand's definitely broken by the way," he murmurs, grinning against your mouth. "I will be billing your insurance for a new one."

His hips press forward one more time, slow and deliberate, and the image flares white on the screen.

"Now be quiet for me, alright?" His voice drops lower. Softer. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear how thorough this examination is getting."