#gojo drabble

[sixeyesonathiel]

daydreaming again. actor!gojo satoru who used to be action’s golden boy—blockbusters, stunts, martial arts choreography, brooding lone wolf roles—and then suddenly announces he’s “branching out into romance” everyone’s like “gojo satoru?? from gunmetal blade trilogy?? doing a historical romance adaptation of a slowburn enemies-to-lovers regency novel??” and he’s just standing there like 😌 “i wanted to explore my range.” shut UP you wanted to explore her tongue in your mouth. 

you’ve been the industry’s favorite fake couple for two years now—chemistry so radioactive it’s spawned edits, fan cams, 500k-word fics, and a six-part video essay titled “why they’re lying to us.” you just keep laughing him off in interviews, all perfect hair and lipstick and a look that says “he’s insufferable.”

tonight—tonight, after the met gala afterparty—you stumble into the suite. dress riding high, heels in hand, perfume clinging to your pulse points. you’re flushed from dancing, half-drunk on champagne and proximity. your skin still tingles from where his hand rested low on your back for the cameras. and he’s already there—shirt unbuttoned, collarbone gleaming, pupils blown wide like he’s seconds from wrecking everything he’s ever rehearsed.

“you’ve been staring at me all night,” you say, steady despite the heat curling between your thighs.

“so stare back,” he answers, low and unbothered. like he’s not already two seconds from folding you in half.

he has you against the wall in a blink. his mouth finds your throat, hands greedy against your dress like he hates how long you’ve kept it on. your professionalism doesn’t stand a chance. not when his knee parts your thighs. not when he groans like he’s waited years—watched you on screens, on carpets, in gowns he’s never touched—just to get his hands under this one. the zipper comes down with his teeth. you gasp. he grins.

“all that poise,” he huffs, dragging his mouth over your chest, “but look at you now.”

you try to snap, try to keep it together, say “it’s versace,” like you still care about keeping him in check—but it’s already too late. he’s got your leg hiked up, panties somewhere on the floor, fucking you into the mirror like he needs the reflection just to believe this is happening. your lipstick’s on his jaw. his thumb finds your clit with terrifying precision. your name shatters out of his mouth like it’s sacred.

he fucks you against the mirror. not gently. not sweetly. just like a man who’s been made to sit through photo ops and panel talks and half a year of pretending he hasn’t had you clenching around his fingers in a dressing room last spring. your gown is wrinkled from his grip. your panties torn. his pupils are so wide they eat the blue out of his eyes as he growls, “still wanna act like this is fake?” and drives into you slow just to feel you shiver.

you claw at his shoulder, hips rocking, mouth parted like you hate how good he feels. and maybe you do. maybe you hate that it’s him pulling those sounds from your throat, ruining your gown, your lipstick, your composure. but his hand cups your jaw like it’s something precious, something his, and he mutters “fuck, i knew you’d sound like this,” like he’s been imagining it since his first callback. your professionalism snaps clean in half. and when you come—writhing, shivering, gasping his name into his neck—he follows with a groan like prayer, like punishment.

you’re barely dressed. your thigh’s still trembling. and all you can say is, “we can’t keep doing this.”

to which he hums, kisses your temple, and says, smug as sin:

“then i hope the elevator camera got my good side.”

[novaimperia]

“he’s never made you cum? well, that just won’t do, bestie.”

that’s what satoru said when you told him your ex had been terrible in bed. 

being in his room, in just shorts and a shirt (his shirt), is normal for you two; you’ve been friends since you were in diapers, after all. you just got out of a bad breakup with a guy you didn’t really care all that much about and satoru was more than keen to hear the juicy gossip. he heard all about the gaslighting, the controlling behaviour, and the bad hygiene. but apparently, being a selfish lover was the worst thing the loser had ever done.

seemingly thinking that living an orgasmless life is the worst possible fate to face, he grabbed your ankle, pulled you under him, your back falling with a thump! on his bed, and grinned at you. “i have an idea. do you trust me?”

his bright idea?

making up for all orgasms you missed out. 

“s-satoru! no -ngh!- more. i can’t!”

flashing a mischievous smile through the wild cloud of pleasure glazing his eyes, he coos, “aw, tapping out already? didn’t realise i was friends with a quitter. come on, you got at least three more in you, don’t you? please, baby?”

you want to scream that you’ve already had five but all that comes out of you are lewd moans as you squirm on his sheets, sweat soaked, and shirt baring your tits to his groping hands. without waiting for a reply, he dives back in between your legs. 

“you taste so good – you been eating pineapples, or something?” wet lips wrap around your swollen clit and he makes a loud sluuuuuurrp! sound that echoes around the room. it’s too much, too fast. you can’t tell how long it’s been or even how much longer he plans on smothering himself between your thighs; you should have known satoru meant it literally when he said he's going to make up for lost time. “wanna taste yourself? you need to know how insane this pussy is.”

long, slender fingers smear your own wetness against your lips and he watches you suck on them. the bed begins to shake, banging against the wall ever so slightly. god, is he humping the bed?

“oh, yeah…such a good girl.” you earn a slap against your clit before he quite literally motorboats your poor cunt, blowing raspberries on the cream gushing out. “knew you’d taste good. i mean, you smell good. heh, did you know, i have a habit of sniffing your seat after you leave? it’s why i want you sitting on a pillow.”

delirious, you ask, “but i -ah fuck!- thought that was the j-japanese way?”

your back arches when his fingers curl up against your g-spot. “no, dum-my. that’s just the gojo way.”

“you’re a pervert!”

“i’m a pervert? baby,” he says, pouting against your puffy pussy, “you’re tightening up on my fingers. you're just as much of a pervert as i am. can’t we just agree that we’re both perverts? you like knowing that i’m filthy, don’t you? you like knowing that i jerk off to all the fit checks you send me. that i make copies of the nudes you have saved on your phone.”

“fuck!”

you cum all over his face for the sixth time that night.

through bleary eyes, you see his shiny, swollen lips curving up into a shit-eating grin. in his hand, he holds his pretty cock, which he teases to your quivering hole. then, right before he thrusts inside, he jerks his head to the phone on the bed. 

the fucker’s dialled your ex and you can’t even focus on the fact that he hasn’t hung up, because then your best friend is filling you up so deliciously, your legs tighten around his hips, locking at the ankles and keeping him lodged inside. 

he kisses your lips. the shutters go off. so does the flash.

“mmhm...satoru!”

“you really shouldn’t -ha- share your password with anyone, bestie. not even me.”

[classyrbf]

thinking about jerking off nerd!gojo with your tits in his dorm room. You couldn’t care less for the loser, forced to have him as a tutor because you were failing your chem classes and needed an easy way out of your parents bitching at you. Quite literally you’ve gotten tired of hearing him talk and talk about stupid elements, formulas and equations because you’d rather much see the look on his face when he’s about to cum and hear how he sounds when he’s begging.

So that’s how you ended up on your knees in front of him, shirt unbuttoned and your tits covered in his pre cum, his thick and veiny cock pulsing between the two mounds of flesh as you move it up and down his sensitive shaft. His breath hitches, cheeks flushed a bright red, hands shaking as he struggling to push his glasses back up only for them to slide back down. “F-fuck,” he so sweetly whimpers, licking his dry lips. He loves the way you’re looking up at him, like you’re staring into his soul while simultaneously taking it. His heart pounds against his chest, relishing in the feeling of your soft skin hugging his aching cock, your warm tits only giving him an idea of what your pussy might feel like.

“Nngh, oh f-fuck…we’re…supposed to be…studying,” he managers to croak out through his pathetic moans and whimpers. His sucks in a breath, eyes rolling back when you go even faster, the sound of wet flesh smacking against each other makes the perverted part of his brain go into overdrive. He’s so fucking close.

“Awe, but don’t you wanna cum, Toru?” You teasingly ask, watching the way his throbbing red tip leaks another bead of precum only adding to the lubrication. The nickname alone drives Gojo crazy. He fists the sheets below him, jaw slack, a dazed look in his eyes. “We’ll make a deal, yeah? I’ll let you cum and do this as many times as you want as long as you do my chem work for me.” You smile, holding your tits tighter. “Deal?”

“Ok, ok, ok.” He ferociously nodded, biting down on his bottom lip. “I wanna cum so badly, please.” He let out a ragged breath, falling back on the bed as his body began twitching, hips jolting upward to create more friction. Just in mere seconds, ropes of sticky, hot cum shot up, landing on your tits. “Shit, shit! Ah, ah, nngh!” Gojo’s eyes rolled back. This feels like the most he’s ever came in his life. His legs began to shake the longer his orgasm lasts, groans and whimpers escaping his throat, filling the small room. His raspy breaths fall short, finally coming down from his high. He can barely even think straight now.

“God, you made such a mess!” You huff, looking down at your coated tits.

“Oh, uh—I’m sorry!” Gojo quickly sits up, panicking as he searches around for something to help you clean up. He swiftly hands you one of his shirts, handing it to you. You snatch it from his hands, wiping up every last drop of cum before tossing his shirt to the side. “Are you…um—”

“I gotta go.” You stand up, buttoning your shirt. “Thanks for agreeing to the deal.” You lean over, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Gojo watches as you leave his dorm room without a care in the world, acting like you didn’t just milk him dry with your tits. At least he has something to look forward to every few days now.

[nezuscribe]

gojo never imagined an arrange marriage with you, but now you’re all he can think about.

he thinks about you when he’s training, when he’s seated at his round table, when he’s in his bed, everywhere, every time, you’re all he can think about.

and you’re oblivious to it.

you heard the gossip everywhere you walked, about the girl gojo was pleading with his family to marry. how much he loved her, how beautiful she was, how much more elegant she was compared to you. you knew you were never his first choice, not even his fifth, but it hurt even more when everybody acknowledged it.

you stopped wearing your wedding ring, started acting like you were just another person there. luckily gojo didn’t seem to be in any hurry about making heirs, so pretending like you two were working things out didn’t even matter anymore.

you find yourself alone most of the time. your maids were kind and patient, but they had so many things to do throughout the day that you felt awful pestering them to walk around the estate with you.

eating dinners with gojo became normal, but most of your other meals were in silence, always feeling like a speck of dust in the large dining hall.

one day when you’re walking around aimlessly you stumble across the training grounds, the open space below you filled with men swinging wooden swords back and forth at each other.

it wasn’t difficult to find your husband, his white hair hard to miss in a crowd of others. he didn’t notice you watching from above, and so you stayed hidden, not knowing if the men were picky with who watched them.

he was swift and agile. everything he did was precise and with meaning. no wonder he was named the best warrior of the north.

you found this to be more entertaining than walking around the gardens for the tenth time or watching the cooks assemble the next meal, so you didn’t even notice how gojo looked up to see you, somehow slipping away without you knowing.

you were in a state of watching but not really thinking, almost jumping out of your skin when you heard his voice behind you.

“didn’t know i had an audience,”

you yelp, flinching as you look behind you to see your husband all sweaty, panting slightly as he moves his hair away from his face. you eye the stairs that led him up here, wondering how you could’ve missed that.

you laugh sheepishly, giving him an apologetic smile as you pick are your nails.

“i’m sorry,” you scratch behind your ears, feeling heat rise to your cheeks under his intense gaze. it’s unfair how pretty somebody can look, especially after training for an hour straight, “i was just walking around and i saw this.”

he waved it off, shaking his head as he leaned his sword on the wall.

“not a problem,” his eyes shine, “i just would’ve tried harder if i knew my wife was watching.”

my wife.

the words fall so smoothly from his lips you wonder how many times he’s said it before. with malice, hatred, necessity?

you smile a little bit, eyes crinkling around the edges as you look away briefly, not noticing the way gojo chased after your cheerful face.

“how’d you get up here? where are your ladies?” he asks suddenly, looking around at the fact that it was just you up here.

“my what?” you say, looking up at him through furrowed brows.

“you know,” he waves his arm around as if that would help, “you’re ladies in waiting,”

you scrunch up your nose a little bit, something he noticed you did when you were confused.

“oh, well, my maids are working right now,” you tell him, noting that he still didn’t look any less confused.

“no, not your maids, your ladies,” he tilts his head to the side, “the girls your family sent them up to help you around.”

you stare at him, unblinking.

“the girls that are your friends, the ones that help accustom you…” gojo trials off when he realizes he’s not getting anywhere with you.

you feel even more embarrassed than when he caught you watching him, hating the way you were clueless at yet another thing in this life that no one explained to you.

“the girls you hang around with?” he finally lands on, hoping this jogs your memory.

you shake your head, eyes wide as you fidget with the fabric of your dress. his eyes fall onto your finger, lingering on the fact that you’re not wearing your ring.

“who do you spend your time with throughout the day?” gojo seems even more lost than you. he’s seen you with…? well surely that one time…?

“by,” you swallow, embarrassed, “by myself. i walk around a lot.” you admit sheepishly.

“your family didn’t send…?” he answers his own question with his silence.

this entire time you’ve been alone?

he opens his mouth to speak but somebody beats him to it.

“satoru! get down here! we’re still not done!” his friends shouts from below, and you look over your shoulder to see all the men staring at the two of you.

gojo stares at you, unblinking.

“i,” he swallows but can’t find any words.

you can’t either.

he leaves you there, running down those stairs as he shouts at the other guys to resume what they were doing. that entire day he was off his balance because he kept looking up to see you there, but you weren’t.

maybe you were just walking around, like you said.

[reignpage]

“What about that guy?”

You sigh. He’s at it again. For the past couple days, Satoru’s been hellbent on setting you up with random men. He pointed out all sorts of people – a big, burly man with a long beard, a skinny tortured soul, and yes, even a homeless man. There’s no logic to his selection; everyone’s good enough. But also, no one is. 

“On second thoughts, don’t go with that guy. He looks sketchy.”

Your brow quirks up. “Sketchy?”

“Yeah, like he collects My Little Pony figurines in jars.”

Sitting on a park bench, you two watch the world go by, alone in a little bubble. It’s cold but you don’t dare huddle closer to him. Instead, you wrap your arms tight around yourself. None of the men he picks out will ever be The One, that ship has long passed now. He knows that. Maybe that’s why he’s trying so hard. 

“He looks like he can cook – you like guys that can cook, right?”

You shrug. “It didn’t really matter since you bought good food for me all the time. And your private chef’s the best. Sweetest man I know.”

Laughing, he asks, “Am I second best, at least?”

“You were.”

Satoru falls silent. One day, you’ll acknowledge that you’re being unnecessarily cruel, but you can’t find it in you to care right now. He deserves this. How dare he sit here, beside you, like nothing happened, trying to set you up as if it’ll fix everything he broke? 

Doesn’t he know he’s hurting you? Doesn’t he know better? After all the years you’ve been together, he thinks it can end like this? That you two can laugh on this bench, your bench, like the old times? The realisation that he wants to let you go, sever all ties and never look back washes over you. Again.

You might just throw up.

“I can’t move on until you do,” he says, and when you close your eyes, you imagine he bears a soft smile on his pretty face, kind and playful. Always kind. Always playful. But now carrying a certain coldness you don’t recognise. It’s a coldness one only faces on the other side.

Shivering, you hold yourself tighter again. “I know.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I was.”

When the people pass by, they don’t give you a second glance. To them, they just see a blur, a shapeless mass of something that used to be alive. If they look closer, they’ll see two people: one frozen in time and the other stuck between worlds. 

Both forgotten in the chaos and lost in their own grief. 

Never to be found.

[kisakunt]

nerdjo! who whines while he’s tutoring you. it’s been thirty five minutes and you’ve gotten through two problems, he reminds you. but you won’t stop changing the topic, or poking at his arm, or brushing his hair from off his glasses.

nerdjo! who begs you to stay up til midnight when you have a nine am lecture the next day so you can watch a new episode of his favorite, albeit lame, show with him because he wants to share it with you.

nerdjo! who, instead of bars, takes you to museums. he doesn’t act priss— he still laughs loudly at your jokes, he still slings an arm around your shoulder and tugs you along like you’re alone— but he does go into extensive detail when he sees an artifact he’s studied before or an art piece he looked up because it reminded him of you.

nerdjo! who calms you down when you have a big assignment coming up and insists on helping you with it (free of charge). he buys any supplies you may need, listens to you explain what you want to do with it, and compiles a step by step plan for how to achieve your goal as soon as possible.

nerdjo! who builds you lego flowers. call him lame, call him a child, but they’re forever! he says. he puts all but one together by himself and saves the very last one for you to do together, so the memory will last too.

nerdjo! who begs you to come with him to his optometrist appointment so he can make sure you still think he’s cute with his new frames. he wants to branch out, explore, switch it up— but he’s deathly afraid you’ll find him any less than handsome. he loves to impress you.

nerdjo! who knows you’re attracted to him. he knows he’s attractive as is, he’s not insecure about his looks. he’s an observant man, he knows what he does that makes you squeamish and he profits on it.

nerdjo! who pushes his glasses up while looking at you with two fingers. who tugs on ties he wears to interviews with one hand while he presses the other to your hip. who yanks his fingers through his hair and holds it in the air for just a second too long so you can see the way his eyes shine.

nerdjo! who, while he may be a nerd, radiates a confidence to him. that confidence shines through in moments like this, with his hands pushing your hips down as you desperately try to raise them.

nerdjo! who knows what he’s doing. his tongue is as precise as he is in between your thighs, lapping up at the sheer slick that covers you. he’s good at facts and memorization, so he’s memorized exactly when to flatten his tongue nice and slow and when to point it all fast like.

nerdjo! who moans when you do, rolling his hips into the bed as he continues dutifully. he’s obsessed. you’re everything, you’re the ground he walks on, you’re the hottest thing alive.

nerdjo! who has done this so many times it’s like religion to him. who is so used to your taste and your smell and the way you feel and it never gets old. and— no matter how many times he has been here, no matter how long he can last, no matter how little he’s being touched…

nerdjo! who cums in his pants more than half the time when he goes down on you. his whines vibrate against your clit, muffled by you dripping cunt.

nerdjo! who blushes a pink red, buries his face into your thigh, raises the pitch in his voice as he goes “couldn’t help it, baby, you’re so pretty… can i still fuck you?”

[teddybeartoji]

18+ mdni; gn!reader

satoru likes jerking off in front of a mirror. no, scratch that – he fucking loves doing it.

fully bare, he sits on the bed in front of a body length mirror. the sun peeks from the window, kissing the freckles and scars on his body. there's a pink flush to his skin - his chest, his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears; he feels warm all over.

thighs spread wide open, he's leaned back on his one arm while his eyes are glued to his reflection in the mirror. his own hand feels hot on his tummy as he trails them over his pecs and his perked nipples. they're awfully sensitive and satoru can't help but hiss when he gives them a little squeeze. his bottom lip gets caught between his teeth and his dick twitches. he's so fucking hard.

pre-cum leaks from his aching tip, all swollen and deprived. he's been sitting here for a good while now – he loves edging himself; he conjures up the prettiest pictures of you in his head as he trails over his abs. he thinks about it being yours instead. your hand, your fingers.

he plays with his happy trail as he thinks about you nuzzling your face in it. his dick jumps again and he let's out a shaky laugh.

finally deciding to give in, he wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and his eyes almost cross at the touch. but he refuses to shut them – still keeping them trained on his own body through the reflection in front of him. he tightens his fist as he pushes down a little, putting more pressure onto his sensitive balls.

his head lolls to the side as he watches a glob of pre-cum slide down the side of his shaft. he thinks about you licking it up. he thinks about you giving his aching dick a kiss. his pearly white teeth sink into the plush flesh of his lower lip, almost strong enough to draw blood when he moves his fist up, twisting his wrist as he goes over the leaky tip.

his hair is tousled and he's starting to sweat – he looks fucking good. all the work he's putting in at the gym is really showing under the afternoon sun; his muscles look more defined with the layer of sweat glistening over them and he's proud of what he's seeing. it's hot. he isn't afraid to admit that he thinks that he's sexy, that he looks amazing like this. even his cock looks pretty; rock hard and pink, pre-cum weeping from the slit as it bounces at every thought of you inside his head.

you and your gorgeous smile. you and your loving eyes. you and your stupid jokes. you and your... body. he feels like a bit of a creep thinking about you in such dirty ways when you're not even his.

yet.

pushing off his hand, he spreads his legs a little wider as he leans forward, getting more comfortable. his fingers stay wrapped around his length while his free hand goes to his stomach. he's so sensitive to every single sensation – no matter whether it's from his own touch or somebody else's.

he discovered something new a few days ago... his belly button is sensitive, too. he pumps his cock slowly, almost painflully so as he traces his navel. goosebumps raise on his skin despite him feeling anything but cold; his head feels dizzy in the best way possible, his tummy nice and warm. satoru circles the hole before pushing the tip of his finger in. it's feels so weird and so fucking good.

the sight of him sort of fingering his own belly button is strange, but satoru has never been one to stray from experimentation. he loves to try new things, he loves to have fun – and if a silly thing like this makes him feel so ridiculously good, then so be it. he's not gonna be ashamed of that.

he can't wait to let you do it to him either. he's even a bit excited to see your reaction to the offer – would you be weirded out or would you be into it? would you tease him for it, call him names? tell him that he's a freak? a pervert? he pushes into the tiny hole a little harder at the thought of you making fun of him, his fist tightening around his cock.

he spits down onto his cock and speeds up just a little, enjoying the slick sounds that fill the room. he stares at his own adam's apple, he watches it bob as he swallows. he thinks about having something down his throat. he thinks about how it would look, how it would feel. he moves his free hand to touch the sensitive skin of his neck and puts some pressure on it – the broken moan that ripples from him echoes around the whole apartment and he just wishes you were here to listen to him.

his eyes are low as they set on his heavy cock again. he tries to imagine his hand as your own – he needs to do it. he wants you to touch him so badly, he wants you to make him feel good. of course, he thinks about making you feel good aswell; he spends so, so much time on thinking about giving you head. about the way you'd taste, the way you'd whine and whimper. how you'd squirm below him as he fucks you into overstimulation. but he does like to think about you down on his knees in front of him too. he wants to be greedy. he is greedy.

taking his hand from his neck, he now cups his balls with a pleased sigh. he massages them, letting his own spit and cum cover them completely. it's messy, just the way he likes it. he feels it dripping down to his asshole and he can't keep his lips from tugging upward. his eyes trail up his body through the reflection – his sweaty abs, his pecs, his flushed neck; his plump and now a little swollen lips and the pink tint that's dusted across his cheekbones. he's quite fond of his dimples and he loves seeing them. he thinks they make him even better looking, more charming. they do.

satoru thinks about the way you always poke them whenever you have the chance. would you do it now too that he's here jerking off to disgusting thoughts of you like the needy boy that he is? he thinks about the way you like to rest your head on his shoulder and hide your face into the crook of his neck whenever he tries to tease you a little. how warm your breath feels on his skin. how your lips brush against his pulse point.

fuck.

as he fondles with his balls, he gnaws on his lip because he needs to feel more. he wants you to bite it instead, he wants you to play with him instead. taking his hand from his crotch, he lets it travel all over his body again – his thighs, his waist, his lower tummy. everything feels so fucking good. his hips buck up into his fist when his fingers dance around his belly button once more. his head lolls back but he never takes his eyes off from himself in the mirror. he moves up to massage his pecs now, his sensitive nipples. he wants to feel your tongue on them. he can't stop thinking about it – your teethmarks around the buds, the bruises you'd leave behind.

he grinds his cock into the tight little hole he's made with his hand, lips permanently stretched into a sick grin because he knows it's coming already. the knot in his tummy keeps tightening, his need growing with every stroke he makes. he thinks about holding it off but decides that he won't do it today; he's meeting you in an hour – he's going to have to jerk off again after that anyway.

satoru plays with his nipple while rubbing the swollen tip of his cock with his palm and oh, fuck he's close. he thinks about how warm you'd feel around him. he thinks about your pretty face. he makes his fist even smaller and humps into it, mainly focusing on the tip. it's just so sensitive and it feels so fucking good. he thinks about you wrapping your lips around it, about you licking at the slit. he thinks about your smile. how much better your hand would feel on him. the wet noises that emit from the friction between his fingers and his cock make his heart beat even faster – dirty, dirty, dirty. he thinks about recording the sounds and sending them to you. he thinks about videoing himself through the mirror; he wants you to see what he's seeing.

every twitch and every spasm, the muscles he's worked so hard on, his dimples, his fingers, the mess he's making for you. he rubs his free hand over his tummy, his belly button and he thinks about your eyes and—

white spurts of cum land on his hands and his belly and his happy trail. satoru moans with a smile on his face - he doesn't hold back, now finally letting his eyes close as his head falls back. he keeps fucking into his fist despite how much it feels. he loves it.

after a good few seconds, he finally cracks open his eyes and peeks at himself again. he looks like a mess. it's perfect. he let's go off his softening dick, focusing on the cum adorning his skin instead. he takes a finger and swipes through the thick liquid; he drags it all over his lower stomach, playing with it like a child. he pushes some of it into his belly button and chuckles breathlessly at his own silly antics. he doesn't care.

his phone dings, signaling an incoming message and to his delight – it's you. satoru hums at the sight. it's a simple text, just something about buying him sweets from the store but it has his dick twitching against his thigh again.

maybe he has time for a round two before meeting you...

+ everybody say thank you logan we love you @staryukis this one is for you baby<333333

[satorena]

࣪ ִֶָ☾. an ugly, green eyed monster resides in the pits of your guts, and to his utmost confusion— don’t you know he has eyes for you only?

cw. 18+. lowkey sub gojo. a littleee foot action. reverse cowgírl. cunningulūs. sorta ruined orgașm. fem!reader. 3k wc.

you’re upset.

you’re upset with him.

what he’d thought had been the perfect date at the perfect restaurant with the most perfect partner, had positively gone to shit, and he’s not sure who’s to blame. himself or that unnecessarily audacious waitress— who might get blacklisted as soon as he gets home for having the nerve to foul his girlfriend’s mood.

(but not you. you’re never to blame. you can literally do no wrong in his eyes.)

he tries to ease the tension in his sleek car by talking your ear off about god knows what, reminds you how beautiful you look in your suede dress, rubs the pad of his thumb at the smooth skin of your thigh— but to no avail, you remain as quiet as you’d been back in that crappy establishment.

after all, there’s only so many “wow’s”, “insane’s,” and “that’s crazy’s” you can muster. . . right?

wrong.

because when you both make it to your shared condo, he hangs his keys on their respective hanger and immediately kneels on one knee. you don’t seem surprised in the slightest— and he’d be a horrible boyfriend if you had been, you deserve nothing short of the ultimate princess package — arms crossed over your chest expectantly.

and just who is he to disappoint you?

his fingers get to work with quickness— expertly as they undo the straps of your heels. he can’t imagine the pain your gorgeous feet endure just for the sake of his lowly self. so he grants you a short but tender foot rub where your skin reddens. his knuckles ease some tension where it throbs, and the soft hum you release is enough to bring a smile on his lips.

he’s finally doing something right.

you roll your ankle once he’s finished his caress, face as stoic as ever, but before you can even think about resting your foot on the floor, he lowers himself and kisses. he peppers the ankle bone in hot, gentle kisses that come from the depths of his soul, and trails his way up from your calf all the way up to your mid thigh. when he lays down the last of his embrace to your leg, cerulean eyes flutter open and meet yours— eyes narrow just slightly.

he doesn’t falter in the slightest, parroting every movement onto the next leg. he undoes the straps of your heels, massages your foot, and spoils your leg in kisses once more. there isn’t an inch of you that doesn’t smell nothing short of divine.

but the moment fleets as soon as it came, and you make your way to your shared bedroom in the blink of an eye. his knee may ache against the hard floor, but he finds it impossible to keep his eyes off of you— there’s a certain elegance in every step you take towards the bedroom, hips swaying with divine femininity, fingers fumbling as they work to undo the hook at the top of your dress.

it’s only when you arrive at the door, that you take a beat of a pause. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you once. he doesn’t think he could if he wanted to, anyway. there’s a pregnant silence in the air, safe from the ticking of the clock in the living room. it seems you’ve finally managed, as your arms lower to rest at your sides and your dress slips comedically slow from your frame and pools at your ankles.

his dick immediately stirs to life. you’d gone commando this whole time. and it’s only when your hand hovers over the knob of the door, you cast him a look over your shoulder, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your coloured lips. you step out of the dress and waltz into your shared space, and he doesn’t think he’s ever ran this fast in his life, tumbling over scattered items in the house in desperate attempts to get to you.

(he picks up your fallen dress of course.)

oh, you’re so beautiful yet so cruel. he admires the duality you carry with ease— like a deceitful siren luring pathetic fishermen into the sea, he falls for your trap with no regards of his own safety, enamoured by your entire existence.

which was how he found himself bound to your king sized bed, limbs restrained to the headrest and his cock throbbing in his tight slacks. he’s flushed from the neck up— he’s so hard it hurts, watching as you pay him absolutely no mind, carrying on with your nightly routine. the anticipation drives him insane, as you pace from the bathroom, the sound of the shower running, before pacing back to your bedroom, grabbing your essentials before heading back to the bathroom.

all the while adorned in your birthday suit. wet and naked— his favorite combination.

god, you’re cruel.

after an infinity and a half, you come out of the bathroom, now wrapped in your silk robe, hair tied up and face completely bare. christ— just when he thought you couldn’t get any prettier. you sit at your vanity, grabbing at whatever tools you needed for your lash care, and that’s his final straw.

“princess,” he croaks, hoping he sounds as desperate as he feels. you tilt your head back, expression entirely remorseless, though you do cock a brow. he swallows harshly, “c’mon, untie me already. please?”

you blink at him, spoolie in hand, “for what?”

for what? isn’t it obvious? for him to grab at your hips, pull you over his face and tongue fuck you so raw that he erases all traces of negative emotions in your soul that’d come to life within the past few hours and have you forgive him of any wrongdoing.

duh.

gojo’s a smarter man and keeps those thoughts to himself. instead, he heaves out a deep sigh that kins to a whine and shifts his hips, “to properly apologize, baby.”

you turn your focus back onto your own reflection in the mirror, running the brush over your lash extensions. even when you pretend to ignore him, you’re beautiful. he doesn’t miss the way you cast him look through the glass though, “well what’s stopping you?”

he tugs his wrists against his ties restricting him as an answer, an exasperated look coating his face. truthfully, he could’ve easily managed his way out of this predicament but then he’d have to deal with your attitude worsening. he’s already on your bad side and doesn’t wish to stay there longer. so, he’s willing to sit this torture out just to have you forgive him.

but good lord, his balls hurt.

you put the spoolie down and sigh. hope blooms in his chest as you stand up from your vanity and make your way towards the bed. as you begin to crawl into bed, he spreads his legs a little further, creating an opening in case you were to change your mind. you have an unreadable expression on your pretty face, and he can’t lie, it’s kind of worrying him.

and turning him on, but fork spotted in kitchen, right?

you take the bait and make your way in between his legs. though, instead of releasing him from his restriction, you sit criss cross and give him a long look. his chest heaves and he’s starting to feel like those madmen scientists that come close to achieving whatever bullshit project they’d poured years of their lives into.

you don’t falter, however, “you want to properly apologize?”

he nods eagerly, like a puppy trying to please its owner, and frankly, that’s exactly what it is. some may call him desperate— pathetic even, but they’ve never came close to having the god earned blessing of having you as their partner. and they never will, so respectfully, they can shut the fuck up.

“that’s all i want.” he emphasizes, and for extra measure, “let me say sorry the best way i know how.”

he watches the gears turn in your pretty head. and, with a convictive nod, you stretch your arms backwards to support your body weight as you bend your knees and spread your legs. and whether or not you meant to send him to the great court in the sky, you swipe your tongue against your index and middle finger, before crawling them down your stomach and right at your cunt, spreading your lips apart in a filthy fucking sound.

his eyes might as well pop out of their sockets in heart shapes as his jaw falls slack. he thinks he hears his stomach growl in hunger, eyes narrowing at the sight of the meal he craves most. your robe slips past your shoulder and reveals a sexy amount of collarbone and boob, while simultaneously slipping past your hips, revealing the cash prize.

your dripping pussy.

his throat runs dry as all rational thoughts are immediately thrown out the window. if he doesn’t have your cunt in his mouth this instant, he might actually die. she clenches around nothing and trickles a tantalizing trail of slick. you have the world’s prettiest smile on your lips, and despite deriving pleasure from his demise, he’d gladly let you ruin him if it got you this turned on.

“thought you wanted to apologize, toru?” you ask him, with feigned innocence and a tilt of your head. and if the cutesy bat of your lashes wasn’t enough to kill him, then dragging your foot over the print of his bulge definitely did. you rest the arch of your heel over his shaft and experimentally roll it around. he didn’t even consider he was into foot play, but coming from you? another box checked from his kink list.

he groans, hips chasing the pleasure set ablaze in his fiery guts, “god— i do. i really, really do,” lord knows if you keep this up, he’s never going to beat the minute man allegations. and frankly? he doesn’t care.

“but i’m right here,” you coo, lowering your foot to cradle at where resides his heavy balls. you nudge at the sack and the whimper that follows his lips cracks a pity pout on your own, “what’s the hold up?”

this psychological ass torture. at this rate, he figures you know he knows he can free himself out of the ties at any given moment. but doing so would definitely upset you. and the chances of him getting some would be slim to absolutely none.

you beautiful yet painfully cruel woman.

“you know what’s the hold up,” he groans, fighting both inner demons and the urge to paint his boxers white, “at this point, you don’t even need to untie me— just let me eat you out, please.”

and like the angel sent from heaven you are, you comply. had he been released from the binding, he’d gladly be kicking his feet in the air and twirling a strand of snowy locks in his fingers in pure bred excitement. except, in the position he’s in, that outcome is not possible. but never fear— munch man is here!

and with his back pressed against the headboard, you stand on the bed, your feet at each side of his hips, and bend forward— not without a quick look back and a knowing smirk of course. and from this angle, with your spine dipping into a sinful curve, he’s presented with a view that puts the goddess of beauty herself to shame.

the roundness of your ass paired with the fullness of your cunt— a two for once combo. hell fucking yeah.

and he wastes no time. he stretches his neck as far as it allows him to and then some, as he indulges into the five star michelin meal that is your pussy. with your arms stretched out and your hands supporting your body’s weight, you moan gracefully into the quiet of the night, your sounds unfortunately overshadowed by the slurping of his filthy mouth at your sloppy core. if he was a better man, he’d have reduced his own volume at the expense of hearing yours,

but it was just so hard when you tasted so good.

and like the selfish bastard he is, he doesn’t quiet down. doesn’t even think to, instead voicing out his delights in the art of cunningulus. yes, because being blessed with the opportunity to have your pussy in his mouth is nothing short of art itself. he flicks his tongue from that sensitive bundle of nerves and drags it up to your tight hole, and tongue fucks the shit out of you.

“s-shit, baby,” a soft mewl comes from your voice. he feels a hand caress his hair, and when your manicured nails claw at those locks, he feels his cock jump eagerly in his pants, “that’s it— fuck, eat it right.”

he’s a weak, weak man. you grind your hips back on his face and praise him for doing what he was put on this earth to do, all the while riding his tongue. he flattens the muscle and lets you use him like the toy he is— up and about for your pleasure, always. if he died suffocating between your plush thighs, don’t mourn his death, because he went out doing the thing he loved,

you.

it feels like both forever and a second when he’s rewarded with your juices. you wail and cry out his name, and before he knows it, you’re gushing all over him— his nose, his mouth, his chin. to the best of his abilities, he widens his jaw and slurps everything you have to offer him. the taste is so authentically you, a sweet nectar you couldn’t pull out of the ripest of fruits from a tree. his face is moist and damp and the only thought process going through his mushy brain is don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet don’t cum just yet.

luckily, he doesn’t, but you’re not done just yet. because it doesn’t take anymore than a few breaths for him to catch up on unsolicited air, before a deep and boyish moan rips out of his chest like wind had gotten knocked out of him.

in all your glory, you squat down— he’d been too dazed out to even notice when you’d taken his brick hardened dick out— and ride him. you’re pulling out all the big guns— both hands and feet planted on the mattress, your silk robe resting right above your lower back, as you sink down on him.

gods, it takes everything in him— everything, to not bust. his fingers tighten against themselves as his toes curl, and his head is thrown back, but even so, he never takes his eyes off of you. the ripples of your ass ricocheting with each bounce, the amplified bass of your cries, the melody of your wetness squelching on his cock.

why the fuck would he ever look away?

your pace is steady and fast— you are by no means wasting time. and he loves it just like that, quick and meaningless despite his love for you being everything but that. every meet of your ass on his hips comes as fast as the last one, and tugs on the coiling in his stomach ready to snap.

sweat begins to collect at his hairline, and given the fact you’d sprayed him earlier, he’s certain his hair is now matted to his forehead. no matter though, “justtt like that,” he eggs you on, knowing despite your foul mood, there’s nothing you enjoy more than praises. there’s nothing he enjoys more than praising you, “use me baby, this dick ‘s all yours— fuckkk,”

and because he knows his princess so well, you ride him even harder— his sincere words running like fuel to you. he notices your creamed unison coating the peremiter of his dick, glazing his shaft to the point he can barely feel himself in you because of how wet everything feels.

“damn— ‘m not gonna last,” he warns you, and to his biggest mistake. his balls are heavy with love he’s itching to release in your womb, and if you keep jerking at his cock with your gummy walls, he’s bound to spill. he blames it on it being the first round, after all.

you tilt your head back and there’s a mischievous glint in your pretty eyes. you bat your lashes a few times, and the corner of your lips tug into a radiant smile, “yeah? you wanna cum inside, baby?” there is literally nothing more he wants. he nods his head excessively, not enough languages in this entire world to describe in words just how badly he needs to fill you up with his sperm.

but still, he tries with moot point, “yesyesyesyes— fuck, i’ll do anything,”

and with purposeful kegels, you clamp down on his cock whenever you bottom out and latch onto his tip whenever you sit up. he can’t take anymore— he feels heat licking at every extremity of his limbs, blood rushing into his head and his abdominal muscles are caving in. he needs it— he needs it.

at the very last second, just as the dam is ready to break and release— you pull away.

his eyes widen before snapping shut as his orgasm washes over him anyways. his cock springs out of your warmth and rests at the crack of your ass, and shoots. he’s soiling your gown in his nut, and you slip a hand between your thighs to cradle his twitching balls. his back arches at your touch, and somehow, shoots double his average load.

“aweee,” you coo condescendingly while fondling his privates, giving him both the best and worst time of his life, “‘s too bad i’m still upset with you.”

his ears ring pretentiously as his limbs fall limp— not his dick though. never his dick when you’re around— his breathing ragged and skin blotched a bright shade of pink. with an adorable giggle, you give your ass a little shake, and his dick bounces with you, shooting weaker spurts of cum. what a view.

but shit. . . he’s gonna be here for a while, isn’t he?

as long as it’s with you, he doesn’t mind. he’s ready for round two whenever you are.

sum calm, sum slight 🙂‍↔️. enjoy these crumbs while i fight for my life

[rissouu]

bully!gojo who made your college experience a living hell. anytime he saw you walking down the crowded halls best believe your books and anything else in hand was thrown to the floor. don’t even think about asking why he did it because he didn’t even know himself.

“seriously gojo?” you looked at him with a broken frown, tears threatening to fall as you fished to pick your books up. “im already having a shitty day, do you always have to make it worse?”

your words hit him a little harder than intended. it’s not like he meant to be such a pain in your ass, but how else would he get a word out of you?

he cornered you near the dorms one time, you’d thought he was going to attack you or something. so imagine your surprise when the satoru gojo asked you out instead..

he told you about the true reasons he targeted you, and how it was all an act because he was too much of a wuss to communicate. hell, he even told you about all the guys he ran off when they got too close to you.

but that was 6 years ago— now you laid in his bed with a 20-carat diamond ring on your finger, and two toddlers latching onto the warmth of your leg.

drool dripped down the sides of your husband’s mouth, leaking onto your neck as he slept soundly on your chest. gojo was so pretty when he slept that you almost couldn’t believe he was real sometimes.

you planted soft kisses on his cheek, maybe three (or four).. who knows. when it came to gojo everything was irresistible, you realized you might’ve been just as obsessed as he was.

bully!gojo who was never really your bully, but rather your shy secret admirer.

[fgojous]

satoru loves your tits.

there’s no explanation. he just loves it. he loves squeezing it, pinching it, massaging it, biting it and even slapping it lightly with his big ass veiny hand.

he’s so weird but you love him anyway.

there are times where you’re just on the couch—scrolling on your phone, he’ll collapse on you and the first thing he does? bury his face on your cleavage and his hands were already squeezing it—softly, then not-so-soft and you’ll whine and he’ll just laugh.

when you’re cooking breakfast? he’ll hug you from behind, slip his hands under your shirt and he’ll squish your tits while smelling your neck.

and he’ll giggle like a lovesick teenager while doing it.

when you’re in bed and he spoons you? his hands?

yeah, you guessed it. on your tits—just resting on top, and he falls asleep with his hands on your chest and you’d giggle hearing him mumble so soft just before he falls asleep.

sometimes he’ll squish it too tight and you’ll swat his hand away. and he’ll give you this annoying yet cute pout. like he’s going to die when he doesn’t get his hands on you.

then he’ll make you give him a tit job for allegedly hurting his feelings by saying you’ve forbidden him from holding your tits—talk about dramatic.

and he loves it when you’re on top. because he gets to see it bounce on his face, he gets to push them together and suck it on his mouth.

then the next morning, you’ll see your chest littered with hickeys.

but yeah. you love him anyway. even if he calls you my big tittie girlfriend! with hearts in his eyes, but it’s okay, cause you love biting his ass when he turns his back on you.

[ohimsummer]

puppyboy! satoru loves having his ears scratched.

“how’s that feel, baby?”, you coo at him, smiling at the expression of pure bliss on his face. it’s clear by the nonstop tail wagging and the way he buries his head into your touch that he’s thoroughly enjoying this.

but he whines in response anyway, face scrunching as you tease those sensitive spots at the tips of his ears. he shuffles closer to you on the couch; you have to lean back so he can straddle you like he wants, squeezing your waist and leaning forward to plant a couple of ticklish licks over your neck. satoru’s basically pinning you down right now, though you don’t mind. his clinginess and constant need for skin-to-skin contact is always welcome.

you end up zoning out while scratching his ears, allowing your mind to wander away. satoru can never get enough of this, and one scratch of his ear can become fifteen minutes of him indulging in your affection, groaning and whining as you pamper him.

but soon those groans turn to whimpers, and he grows more fidgety. you don’t pay too much attention, as satoru has always been a restless hybrid. then you hear the curses, him muttering out ‘f–fuck, oh my go–, god—!’ under his breath, and the whimpers grow louder. you don’t realize he’s grinding against your lap until you feel something hard poke at you, but by then it’s too late. it’s a struggle to hold his head in place as he’s pushing so hard against you until…

“… satoru?”

he’s gasping for breath, and his head is heavy in your palms, and his whole body collapses on top of yours. satoru whines at the mention of his name, but he doesn’t move, can’t move after what you just unknowingly put him through.

he just really, really loves those ear scratches.

🐶: @staryukis @teddybeartoji @lxnarphase @blkkizzat @deepenthevoid @bubblez-blop @luvvmae @risuola @bunnymacaron @spicana @fvsm4x @washeduphasbeen @eveisred @winniethepooh-lover @hiraethwrote @mwuffyy @sugoroo @incognito-veritas @sleepinginmygarden @toadtoru @tuesday-bloo @kiotty @sugojosgf @tamaki-jiki @drop-dead-karma @urgodmoon @miya4life @shunfrr @lennyknnm @unabashedpainterlove @zombiicakezz @bootybutt301 @jessica120120 @v1xenluna @orrbii @iilluummiii @notdwenby @homeslices @ayatons @ami20019 @shauntie14-blog @sillybillylamb @cremecheesecak3 @3amtalk @brunettecore @valentxi @meow-satoru @sxnkuna @percydoll @pr1ncessa @baomin @iamcherryblossomsbitch @reiluvr @enyathedrakaina @cypherluv @lapinaenmicoche

[sixeyesonathiel]

you should’ve read the damn contract.

but you were desperate. truly desperate. broke to your bones, barely scraping by on instant noodles and tap water. you had holes in your socks, a phone with a shattered screen, and a wallet so empty it echoed. the idea of splurging on a sex toy? laughable. you couldn’t even afford a second-hand toothbrush. so when the sign-up form for "assistant tester" promised fast money with zero qualifications, you didn’t hesitate. clicked agree. no reading. no questions.

and now?

you’re strapped to a glossy, too-clean chair in a sterile lab with your legs spread wide, bound in place. and between them, humming softly with unholy precision, is a goddamn vibrator from the future.

silver, contoured, sleek—latched in place by soft restraints, the head of it resting firm and perfectly angled against your clit. it’s warm from its internal thermal sync, fitted with pressure-reactive gel pads and frequency mapping. you hadn’t even known vibrators could do this. it’s more machine than toy. and you are its first test subject.

“no offense,” satoru drawls, voice impossibly casual as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “but you’re twitching like a virgin in a wind tunnel. and this is literally the lowest setting.”

he grins around the end of a candy stick he’s been chewing for the last ten minutes, bright blue eyes tracking the shivers running down your body. his lab coat hangs off one shoulder like he forgot it halfway through putting it on, and his black compression shirt clings tight to his lean frame beneath it. his pants ride low on his hips where he’s slouched, thighs spread, casual in posture but intent in gaze. the goggles meant for "serious" testing sit uselessly on his forehead, pushing back his mess of white hair, strands sticking out in static waves.

his eyes flicker with amusement, mouth quirking as he watches your body react, fascinated. “don’t tell me,” he says, spinning slightly in his chair with a nudge of his heel. “you’ve never used a toy before.”

you jerk when the vibrator pulses, and your breath shudders. your thighs tremble as you try to close your legs on instinct—only to be kept wide open by the straps. your brows knit, lips parting in a soundless gasp, skin flushed from your cheeks to your collarbones. “i... haven’t,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

satoru blinks. then brightens. “what? oh my god. you’re serious?”

his grin widens—vicious and delighted.

“holy shit, this is even better than i thought. you signed up for high-grade prototype testing and your poor little pussy’s never even met a toothbrush’s vibration mode?”

“satoru!” you cry, humiliated, squirming against the relentless buzz between your legs. your hips twitch with every pass, toes curling in their restraints, spine arching slightly as the pleasure sneaks up your nerves.

he laughs like this is the best thing that’s happened all week. “nah, this is so good. write that down,” he mock-mumbles, pretending to scribble on his tablet. “subject is hopelessly inexperienced. results? extremely promising.”

he rolls his stool closer, the wheels creaking as he leans in. his breath fans across your thigh. he moves with lazy confidence, legs spreading slightly wider, hands loosely folded over his knees.

“can you even tell what part is making you moan like that? is it the pulses? the heat setting? or is it just the fact that someone’s finally paying attention to that sad little clit of yours?”

your hands grip the armrests harder, knuckles white. your face twists with the effort to stay composed, but another whimper escapes, and your lashes flutter from the building sensation. every hum of the vibrator sends your hips bucking.

“stop staring,” you choke, voice breaking from the mix of shame and pleasure.

he snorts. “what, you shy now? sweetheart, you’re on my table, strapped open, soaking my tech. i’m doing you a favor.”

he flicks a finger against the side of the vibrator casually. it twitches in response.

you gasp, whole body jolting. your eyes fly open wide, lips quivering as your muscles lock up for a moment.

he watches your back arch, eyes sharp and entirely too smug. “god, that’s adorable. you really don’t know what to do with it. how long you been walking around with a cunt that’s never been spoiled?”

beep.

he taps the tablet.

the vibration intensifies.

your whole body jumps, a startled moan ripping from your throat. your eyes squeeze shut, face contorting as your chest heaves in shallow gasps.

“ohhhh yeah,” he says, eyes gleaming. “now that’s the sound i needed on record. keep goin’, princess.”

you shake your head furiously, tears pricking at your eyes. your shoulders twitch with every wave of stimulation. “satoru—i c-can’t—”

“you can,” he says, nudging your thigh with his foot. “that’s literally the point. now stop whining and let the tech do its job. unless you want to redo all the calibration logs.”

he leans forward suddenly, forearms on either side of your thighs. he’s close now, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body, the sharpness in his gaze as he watches you break apart. “you’re already crying and we haven’t even hit auto-rhythm. wanna see what happens when we let it pick the pattern it thinks you like best?”

“no—!”

beep.

too late.

he watches you twitch and writhe, cheeks flushed, lips trembling from overstimulation. your cunt is soaked. the toy hums louder. your jaw slackens as you pant, barely holding onto your sense of self.

“god,” he mutters, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice, “you’re gonna short-circuit the sensors with how wet you are. is this what happens when broke girls finally get some tech between their legs?”

you let out a strangled sound—half moan, half sob—as your body twists against the restraints, chest heaving in shallow bursts. your head tosses to the side, hair clinging damply to your temple, strands sticking from the sheen of sweat along your brow.

satoru tilts his head, one white brow arching lazily as if he’s genuinely puzzled. his lip tugs up in amusement, eyes gleaming with mischief under the fringe of silver bangs. “what’s wrong? you wanna stop?”

your voice breaks on a whisper, barely audible through your trembling breath. “yes,” you whimper, eyes glassy, lashes wet.

he flashes a grin—wide and obnoxiously bright, the corner of his mouth dimpling as he leans back on his stool, spine stretching in a casual roll like he’s just lounging at a bar, not orchestrating your unraveling. “too bad. you signed a full-cycle clause. twenty minutes minimum.”

his wrist lifts casually, tablet tilted toward him with a flick of his fingers. his thumb scrolls the screen like he’s checking a grocery list. “we’re only at seven.”

“satoru, please—” your voice cracks on the plea, lip quivering as your hips instinctively try to shy away from the overstimulation.

he doesn’t even blink. “oh now you’re begging. yeah, that’s goin’ in the notes.” he mutters it more to himself than you, tapping something in lazily, though his eyes never leave the way your body squirms.

his hand comes down slow, deliberate, resting lightly on your hipbone. the heat of his palm spreads through the thin fabric of the gown they’d given you, and his fingers flex slightly, just enough to feel the way your muscles tremble beneath his touch. you flinch—just barely—but he catches it, and his lashes lower in interest.

“try to keep your voice down, though,” he says, tapping your thigh twice like it’s nothing. “walls are thin. or don’t. up to you.”

then he leans back again, reclining just slightly in his seat, one knee bouncing idly, clipboard resting across it. the corner of his smile twitches as he watches your face twist again, eyes fluttering shut. “science is beautiful, huh?”

[classyrbf]

thinking about getting pounded by colleague!gojo in his office after hours, thinking no one else is around. He has you bent over his desk, your panties pushed to the side while his thick cock stretches you open, leaving you a drooling mess. But then suddenly, colleague!nanami walks in, completely dumbfounded by the sight in front of him. He stands there in shock, the papers he was holding in his hand now scattered on the floor while he watches you, his colleague, being fucked dumb by the gojo satoru. “Nnnngh, t-toru! N-nanamiii!” You’re trying your hardest not to moan, completely embarrassed that he’s seen you in this light. “I know he’s standing right there, sweets.” He bends down close to your ear, his breath fanning across your sweaty skin. “He likes it,” he whispers, an evident smirk in his voice.

You can’t help but stare at the blonde in front of you, an obvious bulge in his slacks, his cheeks dusted a light pink. “Isn’t that right, Nanami? You like watching our pretty little coworker getting fucked, don’t you? You do have a crush on her after all,” he chuckles. He grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look nanami in the eye while you take his cock, feeling his throbbing tip rub against your cervix. Nanami slowly steps forward, his eyes fixated on you. He reaches his hand out, gently caressing your cheek, swiping the pad of his thumb over your swollen lips. You look back at him with teary eyes, noticing the stern look on his face. You can’t tell what’s running through his head, but god he looks so good in his new suit and his disheveled hair, not to mention his raging bulge that was right in front of your face.

“N-nanami—ah! Fuck!” Your eyes squeeze shut at the sheer force of the gojo’s thrusts. Nanami unbuckles his belt, making quick movements to get his aching cock out. His chest heaves up and down, moving rapidly as he reaches into his slacks, his cock springing upward. He should be angry, furious to see you like this with gojo, it should be him that has you bent over his desk, but in a twisted way he doesn’t mind it. He likes seeing you in a such a vulnerable state, nearly on the verge of tears and desperate enough that you don’t care if you’re caught. He slowly strokes his cock just inches away from your face, settling his thumb in your mouth, encouraging you to suck it.

“This pussy is so fucking tight, mmm. You like having him watch? I bet you do.” Gojo lets out a breathy moan, sinking deep in your sopping cunt, making you moan around nanami’s finger.

Low grunts and whimpers erupt from nanami’s chest no matter how hard he tries to hide it. He follows the same pace gojo is fucking you at, imaging how warm and wet your cunt is as he stares down at you, noting the way your tongue swirls around his finger. “Don’t take your eyes off me, baby,” he says with a shaky breath, his grip tightening around his cock, moving his wrist in circular motions. He tosses his head back, his adams apple bobbing up and down, heavy breathing and shallow moans bouncing off the walls of the small office.

“S-shit, sweets! Fuck, I’m gonna cum!” Gojo grunts, his grip on your hips tightening, sure to leave indents in your skin. “God, you feel so fucking good! Gonna let me cum inside you? Say yes. Say—” You nod your head without hesitation, eyes focused on the way nanamis movements grow faster, biting on his bottom lip. His smears his precum over his swollen tip, dragging his hand all the way down and back up his shaft.

Gojo slams into you one last time, jolting your body forward as he paints your walls with his sticky cum, feeling his cock throb inside you with every drop he releases into you. “Nnnngh, fuck!” He slowly fucks his cum into you, squeezing the flesh of your ass and spreading it as he watches how your pussy grips around him.

Nanami’s breaths grow louder, his cheeks now flushed red just like the tip of his cock. “O-open for me, baby. Yeah, yeah just like that. So fucking perfect.” His eyes roll back when you stick your tongue out for him, just mere seconds later he cums all over, letting out the loudest moans. He milks his cock, not letting a drop go to waste.

Both of them try and catch their breath, your legs feel like jelly and your pussy completely sore. “Gonna let Nanami have a go at you next time?” Gojo teases, helping you stand to your feet. You shyly glance over at him, as if you haven’t just swallowed his cum and looked in the eye for the last few minutes. “What if he asks nicely, hm?” Gojo presses wet kisses to your neck, his hands roaming over your body and down to your ass.

“Unless she doesn’t want me to ask nicely. Maybe she just wants to be forced down and fucked.” You feel nanami’s breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine, completely sandwiched between these two men. His hand comes up from behind, wrapping around your throat to pull you back for a kiss, his tongue swiping over your lips and into your mouth. You kiss him back, sloppily.

“Might have to take her somewhere else to fully have our fun then.” Gojo reaches under your skirt, licking a stripe across your ear and down your neck.

[nezuscribe]

imagine an arranged marriage with gojo. like he never wanted to be married in the first place, still in his prime of fucking around.

he doesn’t even know you. he’s heard your name before (who hasn’t) but he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want that gold ring on his finger.

but you’re elated, never been happier. you get a hot husband, away from your shitty family, and a bigger estate? yeah never been happier

gojo never comes down for meals, always finds his way to hide from you. in his mind, as long as he doesn’t see you, he can pretend he’s not married to a stranger.

but think about how one day he accidentally walks into the dining hall to see you there, still finishing up your dinner. it’s earlier than he usually goes, but now there’s nothing that could be done to hide the awkwardness in the air. he sees the way you’re trying to shove everything down to leave as quickly as possible.

but he eats dinner with you that night. the small talk is deadly and he feels his eyes twitching but you’re just glad to have spoken more than two words to this man you’re supposed to call a husband.

dinner together becomes a biweekly occurrence, and despite him not wanting to, gojo begins to look forward to them. he finds himself hiding his smiles at your stupid jokes, listening as you talk about your old life.

until one night he’s walking past your room he hears muted sniffles through the door, pausing to make sure he heard it correctly.

“he hates me,” your voice comes out muffled and shaky, “they told me he was o-okay with this…”

your maid hushes you, tells you not to worry about it, and he can still hear your little hiccups, the way you try to calm yourself down.

“…if i knew it was going to be like this i would’ve just agreed to marry that zenin…at least he would’ve told me to my face what i was doing wrong…”

gojo feels a part of him stir in jealously.

sure he didn’t want this marriage,

but he’s beginning to want you.

[4nicolas]

satoru thinks he likes the moments after sex with you more than the actual sex itself.

I mean, don’t get him wrong he absolutely loved when the two of you fucked but there just something about the intimacy of the afterglow.

whether satoru was collapsed on top of you or you were collapsed on top of him it felt great. the warmth of your bodies combined made you feel even better.

the two of you coming down from your highs and simply enjoying one another’s presence was another kind of bliss.

he couldn’t get enough of you, he wanted nothing more than to keep you in bed all day; cuddling or being intimate he didn’t care. as long as it contained both your bodies pressed together.

although you were both sticky and sweaty you still felt incredibly comfortable. laying in your own fluids is gross, yeah, but with satoru none of that mattered.

even when the two of you were intertwined satoru still needed more, he needed his arms around you and his legs tangled with yours. he just needed you as close as possible.

your presence alone made him tremendously happy, having your physical touch was just an added bonus, he feels like the happiest man alive when you give him something as simple as a hug. so obviously cuddling was his favorite pastime.

the two of you breathing heavily, not speaking but all the words you wanted to get out being said. your love and adoration was already communicated through the past moments and laying in a comfortable silence was just the cherry on top.

satoru liked to trace little shapes on your skin, his fingers lulling you into a trance, he tried not to let you fall asleep though, he needed his precious lover to keep him company.

if you did find yourself falling asleep satoru would mumble your name or gently scratch your scalp, though if you were genuinely exhausted he would let you sleep.

when you did end up falling asleep he would try and maneuver the both of you under the covers, the added layer keeping you cozy, and being in satorus arms even more so.

other times satoru would try and coax you into taking a quick shower or bath, especially if you both went a bit rougher. all he wanted was the make you feel safe and comfortable and he would always try his hardest to do so.

sometimes the showers consist of satoru lazily holding you against his or vice versa, simply basking in the warm water and each others bodies. did satoru ever mention he loved being close to you?

he does tell you that, a lot actually. but if he didn’t he most definitely would make up by showing it. sometimes when you two take a bath together he’ll let you lay against him, gently massing your shoulders or arms after a long day.

he’ll give you space treatment if you really wanted, anything for you, just say it and he’ll get it.

one part he didn’t like was having to bother or move you so he could wash the sheets, which leads to him not cleaning them just to keep you comfy.

sometimes he would have you sit in the warm tub while he washed the blankets and took care of everything. he wanted to make sure you came back to a clean and fresh pair of covers.

he gave you royal treatment and he knows what that means because he was treated like a king his whole life. though he definitely did much better than that, he gave you all the love and attention you could need tenfold.

when all was said and done the two of you normally got cuddled up under the freshly washed blankets of your shared (king sized) bed, after having taken a nice hot shower or bath of course.

the two of you would hold each other close the entirety of the night, not letting go for a second, and you better hope you don’t have to pee in the middle of the night because you’re not getting out his grasp.

all in all during intimacy and the aftermath and he would take care of you the best he could. after all your the only person whose ever made him feel this way before. it was weird to care so much about one person, he didn’t know how to feel.

he tries his best and will continue to for as long as you two live (yes live, because you’re not breaking up ever.) satoru will do anything and everything for you because he loves you.

he loves you more than anything in the world and couldn’t imagine life without you, so for the rest of his life he will do everything in his power to appeal to you.

of course you tell him he doesn’t need to do all of that but he insists and who are you to say to the satoru gojo?

—

not proof read, im tired and it’s 3am! :P

[getouyuri]

r/Marriage: am i (24m) overly obsessed with my wife (24f)?

౨ৎ pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — all work and no play makes the fearsome oyabun of the gojo-gumi a tremendously dull boy. since you're a saint, you come into his office with no panties and a mission; to let your puppy play.

౨ৎ content & warnings — MDNI 18+, fem!reader, modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names, gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, gojo is actually insane, dark themes, mentions of murder & violence, p in v, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, dom!reader, femdom, mommy kink, semi-public sex (office), pussydrunk gojo, mild pet play / puppy play, oral (f! receiving), cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, spanking (both receiving), reader uses gojo’s tie like a leash, MEN WHO WHIMPER >>>

author's note — i love yakuza aus and i love sub top wife guy gojo what can i sayyyy. this is my first fic on this account and it's just self indulgent as hell tbh. this is Not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. more notes at the end! hope u all enjoy 🫶🏽. full masterlist here.

writing © getouyuri. fanart © maronjapan9art. dividers © thecutestgrotto. wc: 13k

It’s not even 12pm on a Friday, 95 degrees, when the white flag swinging from his person is finally brought to his attention.

“Boss,” Choso says, completely straight-faced as he cleans a gun and stares imploringly at Satoru. Waxing and waning. “There's… something hanging out of your pocket.”

“Oh?” Satoru looks down, snags his fingers into the panties that are peeking out from his slacks, and rubs his thumb over the delicate embroidery in the hem. Interesting. “Oh, sweet.”

A completely normal, well-adjusted member of society would turn into a bumbling, blushing maiden and stuff these goodies away, mortified. Too bad he’s a shameless certified freak, seven days a week.

Like he’s playing cat’s cradle, he pulls at the inner hem and spreads the lingerie open to get a good bird’s eye view down into the panties. Satoru tests the stretch of the material. Turns it this way and that. Examines the gusset for any exciting stains and clicks his tongue when he finds none.

The air of the group at his beck and call sours into something painfully awkward, almost disbelieving. When he clears his throat, all eyes look away from him. Satoru takes the opportunity to crumple the fabric and press his nose into it in order to breathe your scent in.

Delectable. 10/10.

Outside the nearest window is the familiar buzz of typical Tokyo afternoon activity and traffic. Sitting in a loose ‘v’ around him in the ten-seater van they’re packed into are the men he’s tagging along with to swing by the red light district in pursuit of Ryomen’s trail. It’s rare that Satoru himself gets involved in tasks like this that are far below his pay grade, but he’ll take any opportunity he can get to get close to that fuckface and give him hell. He can practically smell his rival’s scent on the breeze.

“Huh,” he finally remarks. Choso is the only one that dares to look at him. “My wife must’ve planted these on me earlier.”

That morning, Satoru regretfully had to pull himself from his comfortable bed and his wife’s soothing warmth, though he promised you (with cuddles and kisses to further convince you and wipe the frown off of your face) that he’d wrap things up quick and meet you at the Gojo-gumi’s main headquarters for lunch. Unfortunately, hours later and worn ragged, he knows now that there was no way he would’ve been able to head over there any earlier than now. He texted you to let you know the change of plans.

Pure fucking chaos was unleashed on Tokyo this morning, all of it carefully orchestrated by Ryomen. One of the Gojo-gumi’s bigger warehouses that they use as storage for black market weapons and drugs was ransacked and then bombed by Tora-gumi shitheads. Many of Satoru’s men that stepped in to try and defend the warehouse’s stock were killed.

At the exact same time there was a shootout in one of the strip clubs— fittingly named Hell’s Paradise— that Satoru owns as one of his many, many business fronts. He and his men arrive on the scene soon after the fact and find the bodies of some of the women that worked there, all of which were personally beneath his unwavering protection that he failed to give them today, alongside some civilians that got caught in the crossfire.

Shoko herself isn’t here, but the traces of smoke linger around her girlfriend— and Satoru’s friend— like a protective ward when he goes to speak with her. Clearly, Shoko was either in the building or cat napping with her not too long ago.

Satoru isn’t labeled as the most terrifying oyabun in Japan for no reason; he handles all of it coldly and clinically to make sure many, many people pay the price for daring to threaten the syndicate, his family, that he’s worked so hard to maintain and provide for. He personally beats the fuck out of and kills the Tora-gumi’s members that were involved in both incidents, and what Satoru doesn’t do with his own bare hands, he sends Choso out like an angel of death to take care of.

While Choso ‘cleans up’, he calls Shoko and sends her out on the prowl to feel out if there’ll be any more planned attacks on the Gojo-gumi.

Fucking Ryomen.

Stepping out into the alleyway behind Hell’s Paradise, he fishes his good luck charm out for the fifth time today and takes another long whiff.

But hey, at least he has a piece of his wife with him wherever he goes, right?

Satoru gets a ride back to the Gojo-gumi headquarters. There’s a bathroom attached to the room with a shower that he had installed years back, so he strips off his bloodied clothes, showers and changes into a fresh suit, meanders back into his office, and tosses himself into his chair.

“God, what a pain,” he whines to himself.

If Satoru could pawn this monstrosity of a paperwork pile sitting in front of him off to one of his secretaries (like you, for example), he so would. Alas, things of this caliber are delegated to the boss man, and the boss man only.

His blue eyes linger on the skyline outside of the window. The Gojo-gumi headquarters is located in the heart of Tokyo and it’s not exactly a secret; hell, even the police know where this place is and what goes on behind its closed doors. Unlike his various business fronts, this establishment is strictly a hub that his syndicate directly operates out of. Organizing all their criminal operations, managing businesses, holding meetings, it all goes down here.

Years ago, it was rare that Satoru could be found sitting here. He used to just swing by the main room, get shit done, not spare his office a glance, and leave. Now, though, he has extra incentive to frequent his office. You’re here every day of the week.

The room feels filled to the brim with your presence despite you being conspicuously absent. The dark wooden surface of his desk is topped with a framed picture of you and him at their wedding, and next to it are various trinkets that you’ve bought with him in mind. His sweetheart.

Satoru lounges back in his plush leather chair (because he likes that it makes him look like royalty, thank you very much), man-spreading with a faint pout. The beginnings of a migraine buzzes right behind his eyes the longer he stares at the work calling his name.

There’s that deal he needs to finalize with Suguru that’ll leave them with a 20% increase in profits by the end of Q1. The Gojo-gumi's gonna be swimming in cash, and the Sutoraifu-gumi will have a steady supply of the goods their members need. Lord knows Suguru and his men need it after the whole Kenjaku debacle that went down a while back. Satoru’ll get to those papers soon and send them off with Suguru’s biker girl whenever she swings by again to hang out with you.

Then he has to look at the letter from the chief of police, which, yawn, that’s the least of his concerns. The detective— Kusa-something, whatever, he always forgets his name— must’ve tattled on him again for his, ah, unsavory way of handling business. That damn rookie Kusachi has a nasty habit of getting in his way and trying to take him on. Satoru could just try to pay the chief off again… and maybe he could visit Kusada’s home, set him straight. And by set him straight, he means chatting to Kusabuse’s family and telling him that their man’s extracurricular activities are gonna get him killed. His family can handle it from there.

And then—

A soft knock at his door pulls him out of his reverie. “I’m busyyy, Kento, Ijichi!” he calls just in case they’re here to hound him, fingers adorned in rings absently adjusting his tie.

It opens to reveal Kento’s unimpressed stare. He glances over Satoru’s unorganized desk, important documents scattered all over and clearly not finished. ‘Organized chaos’ he calls it. You tell him that it’s just shit on a platter.

“… cat’s outta the bag, I guess,” Satoru says glumly, his pout unbefitting of an oyabun further deepening.

Apparently, by the little entourage that Kento has with him, his second-in-command isn’t here to scold him, though. Because you, his gorgeous wife, enters his office next with Ijichi shuffling in behind you, who closes the door behind the group of three.

Satoru perks up like a meerkat and leans forward, fingers dropping away from his tie to instead interlace as he regards everyone, you in particular harboring most of his attention, with a cheery grin that’s at odds with his reputation. Though he’s the epitome of lax playfulness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his gaze as he looks them all over. You have a folder tucked beneath one arm and you look bored.

"Well, well, well, look who it is," Satoru drawls, his tone as smooth as silk. "My three favorite people, alllll in one room. It’s a little too early to be throwing me a surprise birthday party, isn’t it? My birthday isn’t for another few months,” he jests.

Ijichi not so subtly checks the date on his phone even though he knows damn well it’s April, not December. On the other hand, Kento’s eyes flatten slightly. One of his hands goes to his hip while the other massages at the bridge of his nose as if he’s already getting a headache; as he usually does in the oyabun’s presence. “Now isn’t the time for jokes, Satoru,” Kento inserts, dour as ever.

Your poker face twitches.

A blown raspberry echoes in his office. “You always say that, Kento. Would it kill you to pull that stick out of your ass and smell the roses? Experience joy and whimsy?” Satoru dramatically intones. His hand splays across his chest. “You wound me.”

Kento doesn’t even bother to entertain him. Back straight and thumb practically digging into his skin, he rattles off his report; the Gojo-gumi were able to intercept Ryomen’s ploy to undercut the Gojo-gumi’s control over the heroin trade. When he finishes, he promptly turns and makes like Scooby Doo, not wanting to be there a second longer. Ijichi hurriedly scurries at his heels.

The door clicks shut behind them and he puffs out a breath of relief at his wakagashira’s and saiko-kommon’s departure, sitting back in his chair with a gentle creak of the leather beneath him. Satoru kicks his leg up over the other, the side of his calf resting on his knee, and looks you up and down. “And then there were two. Fancy seeing you here, wifey,” he drawls.

“You say that as if we don’t work in the same building,” you snort. Then you soften, closely examining him. “You okay? Your texts worried me earlier, so I texted Choso and his partner to get more details. I heard things got pretty hectic earlier.”

He smiles at you, feeling all warm and fuzzy. Satoru doesn’t get how couples just faze out of the honeymoon stage. Years later and you still have him wanting to kick his feet whenever he’s in your presence. “Things are peachy, pinky swear. I’ve got it covered, sugar. Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he assures you. He crosses his fingers over his heart.

You eye him for a moment longer, but whatever you spy on his face makes you relax. Thwacking the folder against the wooden surface before scattering it among the pile, you then round Satoru’s desk and plant yourself in front of him. He inhales unsubtly, catching a whiff of your perfume that makes him go a little cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and your lips twitch as you take your throne on the lip of his desk.

Everyone here at headquarters is required to follow a certain dress code. Satoru outshines them all, of course, fitted in finely tailored slacks and dress shirts with either a crisp light blue waistcoat thrown atop it or an ironed suit jacket. And as one of the many secretaries flitting around the building keeping the well-oiled Gojo-gumi machine chugging, it’s important for you to look just as professional. Especially since you’re his wife.

Which is why you look like an infuriatingly sexy librarian, decked out in a tight black pencil skirt that hugs your hips, a blouse with the top two buttons undone and the collar pressed open to flaunt the designer necklace he bought you swinging from your neck, sheer black nylon thigh-highs that he’d kill to feel around his head, and stilettos, cute little charms on the buckles giving your outfit a whisper bit of cheer.

(The thought of you making yourself look extra pretty today just for him has Satoru internally busting on the spot, his blood simmering beneath the fine layer of his skin.)

‘The oyabun’s wife’, his men always dreamily sigh when you walk past them— only to whip around and stare at the wall when he slinks by not even a step behind you, his blue eyes cold and caustic when he glares at them in warning. Gorgeous, breath-taking, a prized jewel— and you’re all his.

“Normally I’d only be here to scold you and make you do your work, hubby,” you hum.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ in my near future,” Satoru muses aloud, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“No. Just a ‘however’.” Instead of being two dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyy’, they’re two smartasses fashioned in the same factory, complete with warnings labels.

“Yeesh. Can I ever be right with you?” He plasters his hand over his heart yet again and gives you a simpering moue.

You roll your eyes, a wordless ‘duh’. Satoru's lips slant upwards into a Cheshire cat smile as you reach forward and loop his tie around your fingers before giving it a tug, coaxing his chair to roll forward on the sleek hardwood floor. He uncrosses his legs and allows himself to be pulled up and out of it, heeled like a dog, stepping forward to stand between your legs after lightly kicking his chair away with a soft clatter.

Looking down at you through long white lashes that flutter like the first snowfall of winter, his gaze is a mix of playfulness and appreciation in its rawest form. Satoru has to admit, this view is far more pleasant than any document that he was pretending to give his attention to before you strode in.

Your perch on his desk gives you an air of sophisticated dominance that makes his cock give a very interested twitch in his trousers that he can’t help. Sue him for being horrendously attracted to his wife.

Though he towers over you by a mere head due to the slight height advantage that his desk gives you, there’s no doubt that he yields completely and utterly to you. His brain conjures up an image of Nike, the Greek goddess of victory. Glorious and championing above the rest of them; victorious.

‘Woof’, he thinks unintelligently.

“However,” you finally continue, beginning to smile. You keep a hold on his tie and tap his nose with the pointer of your free hand, which he wrinkles at you. “I’ve decided that I’ll spare you the lecture for today.”

Satoru's hands come up to rest on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the sleek nylon covering them. Your inviting warmth bleeds through the thin fabric. He so badly wants to get on the floor, brush them down, and sink his teeth into your plush skin until your skin pinkens. He settles for giving you a gentle squeeze.

“I thank you, oh great and benevolent goddess of the yakuza underworld,” he proclaims, delighting in the fondly exasperated groan that rumbles low in your throat. “I gotta say, I'm grateful for the reprieve, sweets. Though I suspect your mercy is short-lived," he adds with a chuckle. “So give it up already. Spill.”

Fucking hell. There goes a tiny fraction of the element of surprise that you thought you were holding over him like an anvil in a cartoon.

You silently curse his eerie perceptiveness. And his newfound x-ray vision, apparently, since he leans back a fraction to take you in again, his focus lingering on your skirt. But hey, the ball’s still very much in your court, and you’re playing to win.

Not letting it faze you, you heft your legs up, his hands shifting with you, and drape them around Satoru’s waist. His desk creaks beneath you at the distribution of weight. “Yeah, yeah. What I mean to say is that your husbandly duties are calling to you, not your obligations as oyabun.”

Satoru’s blue eyes search yours and he tilts his head, adorably puppy-like in a manner that suggests he’s more innocent than his ruthless reputation paints him to be. Though he’s the epitome of laxness, there’s a questioning sharpness to his expectancy that’d make lesser men quiver and confess to their every sin.

You stare right back at him. “I don’t have any panties on,” you explain simply.

If Satoru was aroused before, he’s now hornier than a pent-up nun. He hardens so fast that it makes him dizzy. “So you’re on that type of timing, got it,” he notes through his suddenly dry mouth as if his brain chemistry isn’t actively warping with this new information.

He wets his lips. His attention darts to the door. “Ijichi locked it,” you confirm before he can ask his question.

Good. Now he can focus on what matters: no panties. No panties. No panties. Fuck.

"Well, as your husband, it's my duty to attend to your every need and desire. And right now, it seems one of those needs is to have me buried deep inside your pretty kitty,” he coos, voice dripping something sinful. “But wowww, I never thought I’d see my stern ‘business over pleasure’ sweet pie pulling this kind of stunt. Seducing me so shamelessly in my own office... for shame! What would people say if they knew you were on a mission to tempt your poor, innocent husband into sin?”

You sigh, long-suffering.

Suddenly curious to see if you’re hiding another surprise elsewhere, one hand leaves your knee and drifts up to the undone buttons of your blouse, popping another one open to expose more of your soft skin. Satoru bites his lip as his eyes snag on the lace of your bra. A shame that you’re not bra-less, but he’s fine with seeing you wear half of the set he commissioned for you from a designer in France that you like. He’s more than okay with this, actually.

You make no move to scold him or cover yourself up— you just amusedly stay fixed on him, your eyes gaining that telltale gleam when you’ve got him all tied up in knots. He’s walked into a honeytrap, hasn’t he?

Despite the clear desire emanating from him, there's a tenderness to his touch, a reverence for your body as the hand on your knee skirts up. He slides it higher up your thigh until the hem of your thigh-high gives way to skin, disappearing beneath your tight skirt to ascertain your bold claim. When Satoru’s knuckles graze your bare folds, which are slowly slickening, he whines as if he’s the one being touched. “Fuck, princess... you're actually not wearing anything at all, huh?” He groans softly, half surprised and half not that you were telling the truth.

“Duh,” you exhale. “I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you, though. Did you not see the—“

“The little treat that the panty fairy snuck into my pocket?” Now understanding, Satoru’s grin grows. Reverent… and, well, very perverted. “Sure did. I sniffed them, too.”

Your face contorts as if you don’t know what part to address first before you give up.

“But sometimes thiiis guy.” His eyes pointedly roll upwards in the direction of his forehead, then down at the obvious bulge in his pants. “Likes to take the backseat and let this big guy do all of the thinking. Can you blame me for being a little off my game today?”

“I can, actually. Do better. Even Yuuji gets more work done than you do, distractions and all,” you reply plainly.

Which says a lot. Yuuji’s one of the other secretaries here, though giving him that title feels… a little generous. You and Satoru see him regularly since Choso feels more comfortable going out and doing his job when Yuuji’s safe at headquarters. The teenager comes scampering into the building every day after school and Satoru pays him to do the class work that his teachers send him off with, play on his Nintendo Switch, and sometimes organize the racks of boxed files or make phone calls.

“Heyyy!”

Your cool breaks and you laugh. “You’re just easy to get to. That’s okay, though. It makes things more fun for me,” you tease in a slight singsongy lilt. You turn your head to worry his earlobe between your teeth, nipping then sucking for good measure before releasing it with an audible pop.

Breathing starting to pick up, he drops his face into the crook of your neck and drowns himself in the cocktail of the spritz of that floral perfume you favor and your natural scent. All the while, he blindly traces your slit. Up and down, entrance, clit, entrance, clit.

You cup your husband’s nape as Satoru nuzzles into your neck more urgently, feeling him shiver against you as your palm rasps over the short prickly hairs of his undercut, petting him. Your legs part a bit, skirt inching up as you rut your cunt against Satoru’s exploratory fingers and smear your wetness on him. Still, he doesn’t push in yet.

You’d think he’s teasing you if not for the obvious signs that he’s stalling. Either waiting for your permission or waiting for the best time to ask for it.

How well-trained.

"You make it sound like a bad thing, sugar. Like being under your thumb is a weakness and not a treat," Satoru says abruptly. "I prefer to think of it as... being very, very stupidly in love with my wife. I’m so far gone for you that I’d do anything that you asked of me.”

It’s so easy for him to say such devastating things from the heart without batting an eye; he’s as earnest as a child. It fells you day by day.

His voice is soft despite his low, raspy cadence, brilliant blue eyes bright with his eagerness to serve. At times, it’s almost hard to reconcile this man, the one who’s eating out of the palm of your hand, his nonexistent tail wagging the entire time, with one of the most feared oyabuns in Japan who could probably level half of Tokyo in an hour.

But you’re not forgetting his acts of what he calls ‘devotion’ any time soon. It’s rare that you walk in on him showing the full spread of his true colors, but there’s multiple incidents that stick out like a sore thumb. The one that clings to you like a particularly persistent burr occurred months before you even started dating.

It had been a fairly normal day, all things considered. Most of the men of the Gojo-gumi were preparing to intercept one of Ryomen’s ploys, banding together like sharks after blood in the main common room at headquarters. You remember frowning as you peered at each passing individual that was armed to the nines, searching for their leader so that you could deliver important documents before he could go gallivanting off to get his hands dirty, but Satoru was nowhere to be found.

You went to drop off the manila folder to his office but paused when you heard voices through the cracked door of his office. Sighing, you squatted to slip it under his door and leave, but Satoru’s voice in particular made your blood run cold and your joints lock up before you could lower yourself. “I should cut your balls off and feed them to you, you piece of shit,” he muttered with a scoff.

Apparently, one of his men, Hiro, had been coveting after you. His little work crush was fairly innocent to everyone who caught wind of it, but Satoru? He was the only one who dug into it and discovered Hiro’s… unsavory way of going about privately expressing his affections for you.

Unable to resist, you peeked through the crack right as Satoru unceremoniously tossed Hiro to the floor in front of Nanami and Choso, both of them passively watching. The easy, relaxed posture of Satoru’s lean frame hardened, his broad shoulders squaring as he stared down at the man’s mask of fear. His light blue eyes, typically vibrant and full of mirth, held a cold, calculating glint, like fake flakes fluttering around a snow globe.

You couldn’t watch much of what followed. You turned away when Satoru drew a wickedly sharp dagger from the strap around his thigh and stabbed it straight through the thickness of Hiro’s leg without so much as a warning. His underling’s screams echoed through the room as Satoru slowly, methodically twisted the blade, tearing through flesh and sinew. Blood pooled around the wound and spilled down the sides of his leg, staining the polished floor a deep, sticky red. Numbed to the violence, Nanami bent down at Satoru’s gesture and snatched Hiro’s phone from his pocket as he sobbed and sobbed, decisively crushing it and any evidence it contained beneath his shoe.

“Miss secretaaary, that you?” Satoru’s voice startled you for a second time that day. You forced your attention back to the cracked door, gaze locking onto Satoru’s pleasant, cheery smile that he gave you as if he wasn’t brutally torturing a man that he was planning to soon kill in cold blood. “Oh, good, it is. You can leave those documents on my desk.”

And that was that.

Satoru’s not exactly a good man. He’s done terrible things, will do worse still. This is a man that’s killed for you countless times and would do it again in a heartbeat. But if you asked him to give it up, he’d walk away from the Gojo-gumi and Japan as a whole without a word and give up the title of oyabun to Yuuta. He’d start fresh, wash himself of his sins, and build himself anew just for you. Not that you’d ever ask him to do that, but just knowing that you could and that he’d follow through… you’ve never felt so powerful, so needed in your entire life.

Satoru truly loves you.

“You know, I’ve heard that it’s good to air your privates out from time to time. For circulation and all that jazz.” The Satoru of the present interrupts. The tip of his finger curls, swiping up some of your wetness that spills from your entrance. “Clearly, though, you just wanna fuck nasty.”

You snort out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I need you or whatever,” you dismiss him. As if you don’t need this man to nut in you, like, yesterday.

You grab his wrist, guiding him to fully probe at you instead of skirting around the core of you like he has been for the last few minutes. Quick to take you up on the offer, he parts your folds.

Satoru’s pointer finger sinks into you knuckle-deep, hot and fast, and you moan. It takes him a moment to realize why the slide is so easy, and when he does, he whips his head up, suddenly wild and straining at his leash.

“Sweets,” he groans with barely concealed awe. “When did you do this, huh?” He crooks, searching, and you arch when the roughened pad of his trigger finger pets at your walls, so close to where you want him. Tightening around him does nothing to disguise how comfortably loose you are from prepping yourself earlier. Then, a little giggly, a little manic, “Did all those spreadsheets on your desk get you hot and bothered?”

“Mhm, you know I just lo-love payroll,” you hiss when he works another stupidly long finger into you, then a third, his wedding band gleaming on it, and finally massages your g-spot. Your nails flex against his nape. “Had a quick finger blast 1000 session in the staff bathroom.”

“Hot,” he says with feeling. While prying for the sordid details is tempting, there’s more important matters at hand. Like rearranging your guts on his desk to satiate yours and his neediness while you chant ‘good boy good boy good puppy’ before someone inevitably comes knocking to bother him.

Humming a jaunty tune, Satoru pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, feeling you grow wetter and hotter with each slow lazy thrust. He takes his time, relishing the way your velvety walls flutter around the intrusion of his digits every time he perfectly hits his mark.

Artistically draped atop his desk, you’re beautifully flushed and your eyes are glazed over, lashes fluttering when they threaten to roll back. He can see the fondness etched into your expression, the love, even as you examine him with that imperious tilt to your chin. Your face says what you don’t speak aloud: 'I know I have you wrapped around my little finger, and I'm not afraid to use that to my advantage.’

He’s no art fiend, but he’d go scuba diving in an instant to find the missing head of the Winged Victory of Samothrace and gorilla glue the two parts back together to prove that you’re art in the flesh, a statue of a goddess made with blood, sweat, tears, and passion come to life.

There’s very little space between you. Your breaths intermingle. Pointedly, he glances down at your lips, and you do the same to him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, but you’re already hauling him in with the hand on the back of his neck.

You slot their mouths together with a low, happy noise akin to a purr. He kisses back eagerly, desperately, positively starved for your affection that he’s been yearning for all day. Satoru’s lips part with a shuddery sigh and he pushes his tongue past your pillowy lips to stroke along yours, tasting the sweetness of your mouth; a dash of mocha overridden by those matcha chocolates that he got you hooked on.

You squeeze tighter around his waist, milking a wounded noise from him. Gentle yet firm, you trap his tongue between your teeth, scraping over it and coaxing out the reaction you want. He predictably wedges himself closer and you drag your nylon-clad thigh over the bulge at the crotch of his pants, up and down.

The desk creaks beneath you again as Satoru leans into it and shamelessly dry humps your leg with obvious flexes of his hips. You’re no better, though, rutting into the cup of his palm and squirming in delight every time those delicious callouses of his chafe against your aching clit.

“Feeling good?” He mumbles into you. You nod, tilting your head and realigning your lips, making their kiss that much more heated. His ministrations briefly make your mouth uselessly part against his, too wrapped up in pleasure to function.

Satoru’s the first to break away. He hikes your skirt up, revealing more of your plushy legs clad in those sinful thigh-highs until he finallyyyy lays eyes on the prize. He cups your mound then pulls his palm away, just to watch how thin translucent strings chase after him before snapping and splattering on your inner thighs.

He lifts his hand and looks you dead in the eye, warming some of your gathered wetness between his forefinger and middle before sucking them clean. Ravenous. You know what he wants.

“Can I, y’know, take a proper look at your pussy up close?” Satoru asks, sly but not sly. “I wouldn’t be a good hubby if I didn’t make sure that my girl properly got herself nice and ready for m—“

“Satoru? Get on your knees.”

You have to give it to him, the man moves fast as fuck when given an order. Satoru swiftly drops down, making you worry for his knees that hit the rug hard enough that the wood below it audibly thunks.

And he stares. In an unabashedly perverted manner, at that.

“Let’s see this pretty pussy,” is all he mumbles, chewing his lips and fastening his thumbs into the skin around your folds, tugging you open with a filthy squelch of wet skin peeling away from wet skin. Spreading you wide enough that you prickle with pins and needles— or maybe that’s just because of his unnerving stare.

Your glistening cunt is swollen and enticingly slick with need. The sight of your pussy lips unfurling before him and your clit peeking out from beneath its hood has his mouth watering. Satoru’s cock jumps in his pants like he’s just had a live wire threaded into the slit of his cockhead, desperate to bury inside of you, balls deep.

He looks up at you then. His cerulean eyes gleam with a borderline manic light, wolfish in his intensity. “What next? Want me to heel? Chase my tail? Roll over?” He drawls, cocking his head. He’s more than ready to debase himself in any way you want just to get his back scratched.

You shrug, “I want whatever you want.”

Greed is a sin or whatever, he thinks dimly. But he can't bring himself to care. His fingers dance up and hook under the crook of your right knee, placing it on his shoulder. “Then lemme eat my meal.”

You hate that that makes you shudder. It also makes you wanna shut him up.

“Who are you asking?” You check, cupping your ear. “Try again; you know better, baby.”

The lilt you take on to simultaneously coax and rebuke him only serves to turn him on more, making his poor neglected cock press insistently against his zipper. Satoru knows that look in your eyes. It's the same one you give him when he's been particularly foolish— the ‘bouquet(s) incident’ instantly comes to mind— or when you want something from him. In this case, it's clear that his wife wants him to be good.

His cheeks flush a soft pink, his blue eyes growing hazier with lust, not embarrassment. You’d think that he’d rally against the condescension that coats your words like condensation pearling on a windowpane, but not an inch of his pride bristles beneath your firm hand. Not when he’d strip himself down to the marrow and hand all of himself to you on a silver platter. His pleasure, his pain, his heart and soul… it’s all yours for the taking.

“Mommy,” he moans as if the word itself does more for him than it does for you. And it probably does. “My sexy, gorgeous, take-no-shit-from-anyone, especially her husband, mommy. Can I taste you, please?”

You smile, pleased. Then, finally, because he’s been waiting so patiently, “Go ahead.”

Shit, you don’t gotta tell him twice.

Like a scenthound tracking a trail, Satoru instantly shoves his way between your legs and buries his face in your crotch, gulping down lungfuls of your scent with the desperation of an addict and making you huff out a shaky laugh. The heat radiating from you is staggering.

"You smell like heaven, holy fuck. Good enough to eat. Lucky for you, I’m starving,” he borderline complains. It’s a complete juxtaposition to how he purrs those muffled words into your skin. You shudder at the vibrations.

“That was corny as—“

Satoru was as menacing when it came to pleasuring you as he was as oyabun. There’s no shooting straight and simple with him; he’s reckless, skateboarding on the knife’s edge for the hell of it. He goes from carelessly smothering himself into you, eyes teetering back in their sockets as if drunk with each pass of your slick across his chin, lips, cheeks, to turning his head and dragging messy kisses into the crease between your hip and leg. His saliva and your wetness ooze down your inner thigh, akin to a ripe May mango being carved open and spilt on hot concrete.

But if he’s dangerous, then you’re terrifying.

Pain shears razor-sharp through his scalp. You snag your fingers into his hair, guiding and tethering at the same time, forcing him to stare into the mess they’ve both made of you. He whines, chomping at the bit for it.

“That’s not what I gave you permission to do. Down, boy.” You click your tongue. His teeth click together with how fast he shuts his trap. “I’m beginning to think that you can’t take orders after all. What a shame,” you sigh, the timbre of your voice gentle but your words condescending.

Though he gives you a guilty pout, his cock instantly spurts precum due to the way you’re speaking to him, further soiling his boxers. A teensy part of him wants to act out, harmlessly push against you until you round on him with the intensity of a thousand suns so that you’ll break him over your knee. Playing the part of the petulant brat is fun sometimes. However, his knee-jerk reaction to prove you wrong and take you up on your silent challenge that you’ve presented him with wins out.

Satoru can be a good boy without a doubt.

Sure, he was never the type to care about what other people thought of him, just as long as everyone knows that he’s the reigning king of the yakuza scene. That he’s the richest, the handsomest, everything in that vein.

But the idea of showing you how he could lend his ear to you and listen well, how he was only good for you, that he was only yours to kiss and love and fuck, was enough to drive him borderline crazy.

With his extremely selective hearing and all that corded muscle packed beneath his baby soft skin, you both know damn well that he could steer this situation however he pleased if he wanted to. Yet he goes pliant in your grip, watching, waiting, licking hungrily at his pronounced canines. A predator turned tame as he awaits your order.

It makes you feel drunkenly valorous.

You tilt his head up, angling him so, as if reminding yourself that you’re holding genuine gold and not any of that counterfeit bullshit. His blue eyes are half-mast and dreamy when you peer into them, pupils blown wide. He’s sitting back on his heels with a casual ease, too far away to kiss but not far enough that you can’t smell the intoxicating scent of him, a heady mix of vanilla and cinnamon and sandalwood.

This beautiful, arrogant, infuriating nutcase of a man. Seeing him like this makes your heart do flips. You live for moments like these, when he can let go and just be yours completely. The most feared man in Japan, brought to his knees by the woman he loves.

You tap your chin. “Didn’t your parents teach you that it’s improper to play with your food?”

His retort comes quick. “I think they cared more about making sure I could properly unload, load, and shoot a gun in less than ten seconds. And juggle multiple businesses at once. All of which I excel at, by the way.”

“Smart ass,” you scoff, but the words lack their usual bite. You sound affectionate.

“Mm, but you love my mouth.” Satoru, lecherous, wiggles his eyebrows. You can’t deny that.

“What was it that Suguru told me ages ago?” Satoru wonders aloud, glancing up at the ceiling as if it’ll come to him in a show of divine light. You’re incredibly unimpressed and almost want to shove him face first into you and do all the work yourself, but you wait. “‘Thanks should be given thricefold?’ That’s all I’m doing.”

He replants his face into your inner thigh, wetting the lacy top of your thigh-high with one indulgent lick, then latches onto your plump thigh and sucks and bites with a vengeance. The peachy pink of his shapely lips bleeds forth and mixes with your skin, producing the same color beneath his teeth. Once the hickey is dark enough for his standards and you’re writhing a little, he mumbles a faint ‘thank you’ and switches to your other leg, mauling your skin with obnoxiously loud slurps, leaving a second mark and professing his thanks again.

Then his mouth finally makes contact with your cunt and you’re a goner.

This is the same man that got you a little wet on their first date, you remind yourself. You remember sitting across from him, taking subtle deep breaths as if the very air in your lungs would break every piece of fine china in the five star Michelin restaurant that Satoru dragged you to, and stiffly cutting your wagyu steak.

Satoru knocked back the rest of his non-alcoholic drink like it was a shot, ice clinking against his lips, then sucked the single cherry between them. Grinning a little at you, he chewed into the cherry with crisp snaps of his teeth until only the stem remained. And the show-off kept his mouth open so that you could watch him tie the teeny tiny stem into a neat knot using only his tongue and the support of his teeth.

It’s safe to say that he’s really, really talented with his tongue.

He drags deep, open-mouthed kisses up and down your slit, sloppily making out with your cunt. His tongue lolls out of his mouth and firmly licks into you, and when he moans like a whore into your quivering pussy at the first taste of real, genuine ambrosia, the vibrations take root in your nerves and shake them fiercely. You keen as if you’ve been socked in the stomach, hands digging harder into his fluffy white hair and making him moan again.

“Oh, shit, yesyesyes, good boy,” you pant at the very sudden and very enjoyable onslaught.

From what you’ve learned, the best way to train a puppy is through positive reinforcement, patience, and rewarding good behavior. It works wonders.

Satoru's hand crawls to the underside of your left thigh and he tosses that one over his broad shoulders too, settling in to eat you out with single-minded focus. He feasts on you like a man starved, gathering the wetness that drips from your core, dipping inside your entrance that doesn’t resist him even a little bit to taste you more fully and nuzzling his nose against your clit, spurred on by the praises you keep singing. Three laps and he’s a swimmer. The cocktail of his saliva and your slick coats his chin and pools on the wood beneath your ass.

You dig the points of your stilettos just above his shoulder blades. Using your newfound stirrups and gripping the reins of his hair, you vigorously grind yourself against his face to try and unravel the knot in your stomach. Satoru loves when you get bossy like this, wrangling him so that you can take what you want. It’s so fucking hot.

“That’s what good pussy sounds like,” he groans, muffled by your skin, even though he can barely hear the lewd squelches of your responsive body himself, the wet clicks of his suckling. Your trembling thighs are firmly locked around his head— it wouldn’t be so bad to suffocate here. You squeeze harder, squishing his ears further against his head, as if telling him to shut up and stop quoting Vines of all things while buried in his favorite deep-dish.

He doesn’t stop running his mouth, though. “Tastes so good, f-fuck, bet you feel good too with how soaked you are. Keep moving your hips just like that, mommy, use me— just like that, yeaaah,” is breathed nose-deep into your folds that soaks every word up like a sponge. “Drag that pretty cunt all over me.”

His lips are lovely and warm, diligent in his ministrations. Choppy exhales ghost across your skin and make you flinch. He pulls back a little to lave over your clit, tasting the sweet, salty wetness that coats it, and he sinks into the bliss and into you. He gorges himself on the sweetness of your juices, swallowing it down and letting it trickle down his throat.

Satoru looks up at you, eyes frantic with adoration like he’s pleased to be doing this, just eating you out without any sort of gain for himself. There’s been countless times where Satoru’s pinned you down and munched for hours, languorous in his effort to coax noises and reactions from you. He’s done it in a changing room, during their movie marathons, on his private jet to one of their vacation homes, fresh from beating people black and blue, when you were sleeping in their cozy king-sized bed back at the Gojo estate… the list goes on. Earning gratification via your pleasure is enough for him.

Each stroke through your weeping slit elicits an approving moan or whimper from the beauty perched atop his desk, growing higher in pitch the closer you get to the edge. Your husband sounds just as wrecked, mewling babbled nonsense into you, ferally plunging his tongue in and out of your silken depths that he’d kill to stay swaddled in forever.

You screw yourself down onto him with equal fervor, your body heaving with the force of your pleasure, twisting and writhing and making the desk creak. Perhaps you’re being a bit too punishing with your pace and not letting him up for air, but Satoru takes it all with grace, not a single whimper of protest slipping past your hips that slap against his face.

"Cum for me, angel," he pathetically begs, his thumb seeking out your clit to trace circles against it. His tongue continues its relentless assault, determined to push you over the edge and into blissful oblivion. "Let me feel you. Want my baby to make a mess of me, c’mon.”

When it becomes too much, the fervent sparks licking down the sparkler too fast, you lightly bat his head away. Satoru goes quickly and obediently. Your hips itch to chase him. “Open, puppy,” you bite out.

His mouth falls open, whiny pants drooling down his pretty pink tongue. That’s all it takes to do you in. With his thumb rolling over your swollen rosebud and his eagerness on full display, you let the intensity of your orgasm sweep you away and you keen as you squirt all over his face.

Viscous fluid splashes on his tongue and he moans, looking utterly out of it as he watches you find your release. Slick coats his cheeks, chin, and lips in a glistening sheen and he licks up what he can. Satoru scrambles forward for more of it even as you try to physically hold him at bay with the weak hand fixed in his wavy strands.

“Please!” He basically cries. You’re a sucker for good manners. You’d try harder to keep him away if you actually didn’t want him all over you, so he takes your unspoken permission that comes in the form of a furrowed brow, as if you’re scolding yourself for giving in, and he runs with it.

He practically collapses into you. He seals his mouth back over your gushing pussy, fingers abandoning your clit in favor of clawing at the nylon smoothed over your thighs. Groaning, your shaking legs relax around his head and slip off his shoulders, splayed open for him to lick his plate clean. Satoru does just that, a little clumsy in his haste but no less passionate.

He keeps going until your erratic twitches turn into steady shudders, your nonstop moans quieting down, until his jaw aches from how hungrily he threw himself into the task. He doesn’t even realize that he’s palming himself through his slacks until his hips sway forward and he pulsates in his grip.

Satoru reluctantly draws back as if it physically pains him to not be buried beneath your skin when your high heel lightly kicks at his flank, too overstimulated to allow him to keep going. His gaze drags over you, recommitting every fine detail to memory; trembling lips punctured by teeth marks, your expression dreamy, body curled halfway over him and ripe for the taking. He wants to remember you like this, wants to burn this image into his brain so that he can call it up when the long nights stretch before him and the weight of his duties threaten to crush him.

“You’re so pretty, mommy. My pretty baby,” he whispers.

He meets your eyes that burn into him. He can only imagine what he looks like. Pink from the tips of his ears down to his neck, face messily painted over with your slick, white hair fluffed up and a little frizzy from the sweat at his hairline. A pussydrunk mess.

You almost want to press your high heel to his chest, kick him to the floor, and then ride him until he cries. The lazier half of you wants to sit back and take the reins from below.

“Let’s get those pants of yours off, baby,” you gently coo.

Satoru exhales sharply and fumbles with his belt. The leather strap slips through the buckle with a sharp clink and he tosses it to the floor. His boxers drag along his erection almost painfully as he shoves them and his slacks down to bunch around his shapely thighs.

Flushed and dripping, his cock draws up now that it’s free of the confines and slaps against his abdomen, staining his pristine white button up with the copious amounts of precum that slicks it. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve been convinced that he already blew his load in his pants. You sit up straighter to get a better look, looking as drunk as he feels.

“Please let me fuck you, mommy... I need it so bad. Need to make you feel good,” he pleads, blue eyes nearly rolling up to the light fixtures on the office ceiling as he finally fists his weepy cock. It feels so good that it hurts.

He was never apologetic about his spoiled golden child tendencies when it comes to you, even borderline proud of acting so shameless about it at times.

Still, Satoru needs a certain level of coaxing in order to be truly vulnerable. His obedience has always been fickle— difficult to coax out of him when his head is on straight, his thoughts moving too fast for him to melt like putty beneath you that easy. Pride is a wretched, untamable thing. An unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Yet he’s on his knees begging to get inside of you.

“Get up,” you breathe.

“Huh?” He mumbles stupidly, still fixed on you.

Your laugh is devastatingly fond. “Are we fucking or what?” You shove your pencil skirt up to your midsection.

Satoru gets a little distracted by the sight of your mussed up thigh highs, the tops of them soaked through, the splotchy hickeys dotting both of your legs, and your messy folds. His thumb stutters over his swollen cockhead.

“You don’t wanna leave mommy waiting, do you? Come get your dick wet.”

The second you finish speaking, he’s on you, flying up onto his feet and ignoring the smarting pain in his knees. He reaches past you and wildly sweeps at his desk, sending papers and pens to the floor. In the next instant, his hands are on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs up and out to get a good look at your bare ass and glistening cunt.

While admiring the view, he risks his precious left hand by letting it come down to deliver a sharp smack to your ass. When you don’t bite his head off, he does it again, because damn, that’s a lot of movement back there. Your asscheek flares red like a warning. He’s of the opinion that you should get ‘Ms. Nasty’ tatted there, but you always shoot down the idea.

Fingers wrench at your hips to haul you forward, making you choke on air. Sweaty palms scramble for purchase on the smooth oak, stretching back behind you and hooking onto the edge of the desk at the last minute before he can send both of you falling to the floor in a heap.

“Gentle,” you scold. The flare of his nostrils gives away his uncharacteristic disappointment with himself, which you think is a little unfair to himself. He really has been so well behaved; one mishap is nothing. Humming soothingly, you pet at his cheek and his tension releases like a deflated balloon.

You shimmy a little, rubbing your velvety warmth all over his cock that he notches at your entrance. "Good boy," you purr, hooking your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles at the small of his back, tying you both together with a cute little bow. "Such an obedient little puppy, following mommy's every command.”

Satoru groans, guttural and wet, and surges forward to connect your lips. The tangy taste of your own slick greets you, but you don’t mind, drinking down every pornographic whimper that drips from his mouth.

“Put it in,” you mumble between drawn out kisses. You rub your thumb just behind one of his ears and a pleased hum rumbles through his chest, which rises and falls rapidly as anticipation coils tightly in his gut. You shove his suit jacket off of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then loosen Satoru’s tie enough that you can get your fingers on the first button at his collar and work your way down. You leave his shirt hanging from his shoulders but you roll his sleeves up.

Arms that have snapped countless necks flex as Satoru plants his hands on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in. You drag your hands up and down them, squeezing at the muscle of his biceps beneath his skin, shamelessly feeling up your husband. His cocky smirk is like a brand against your lips.

One, two, three more kisses are exchanged before he pulls back with a wet pop and you can finally peel your eyes open.

Lean muscle and pale scarred skin greets you, peeking from behind the curtain of his undone shirt. Not that you can see it from here, but you can practically picture the massive tattoo of a six-eyed, six-winged angel that he has etched into his back. There’s that jagged scar of his that always makes you wince in sympathy, the line of it running from one shoulder to his opposite hip that an assassin gave him when he was in high school. A smattering of fine white hairs races down his navel to the denser patch of hair curling around his cock. God, you wanna rub yourself all over him like a cat in heat— especially on those washboard abs of his.

With a deep breath, he begins pushing in, working just the tip in past the ring of your cunt. Instantly, Satoru stutters over a moan as if near tears.

Your velvety hole drenches Satoru’s cock with your syrupy slick and clamps down mercilessly as if trying to trap him inside. He shudders, a full-body tremor that starts at the top of his head and travels down the length of his body. Satoru has to grit his teeth to keep from emptying his balls right then and there like a teenager getting his first taste of pussy.

He’s genuinely delirious. His head is dizzy, stupid, because his wife is obscenely fucking tight despite everything and so damn warm. “My toes are throwing up gang signs,” Satoru coughs out as they curl in his Italian leather shoes and you bust out laughing. As responsive as ever, your cunt tries to wring his dick like a towel and he chokes.

You’re actually gonna be the death of him. Here he lies, Gojo Satoru, the deadly oyabun of the Gojo-gumi and the pride of the Gojo clan, dead via sex. May he forever rest in peace.

You’re not faring much better, though. Your previous orgasm left you raw and sensitive, so you’re fighting against the urge to run from his cock and the pleasure that crashes over you each time he throbs inside of you. “And I’m sending off Morse code signals,” you breathlessly joke. It’s a miracle that you’re able to manage a coherent sentence.

“Uh huh, I can tell.” Satoru licks his lips, staring down at where he guides another inch into you, then another, making you slap the desk to try and cope with the way he’s spreading you open. You feel full to the brim and he’s not even halfway there. “Your tight little cunt’s telling me that she can’t handle my cock.”

He needs his mouth washed out with soap. You have to hold back another peal of laughter.

Satoru brokenly whimpers, a sound that’s equal parts pleasure and pain, when you yank at his designer silk tie like a leash without warning. The expensive fabric pulls taut against his throat. Your next tug sends him stumbling forward, hips slapping against the plumpness of your ass with a heavy smack that echoes through his spacious office, forcing him to sink into your welcoming heat up to the hilt. The desk creaks, the wood protesting the rough treatment. Both of you moan when his cockhead smushes against your g-spot and your brain momentarily goes blank.

“You sure it’s not the other way around?” You try for a smirk and it wobbles around the edges.

“Hmph.” Satoru manages to pout at you, pursing his lips. He even rolls his eyes. This diva.

Attempting to dig up the dregs of your sanity and cling to it is hard. You’re one wrong step away from losing your cool, the sheer pressure and pleasure of being practically split in two overwhelming you. It's too much, too intense, and yet you can't stop from leaning into it nor stop the excessive amounts of slick pooling around him and dribbling onto the desk in a steady rhythm, spelling out your arousal. All you know is that you want more— more of Satoru and this perfect, mind-numbing ecstasy.

The man of the hour goes willingly as you wrap more of his tie around your fingers and reel him impossibly closer. He drops his weak head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck as he grinds his hips in tight circles that stir up your insides, practically humping your ass like a rutting canine. He only stops when you let loose an unsteady peep.

His breath shakes out of him in short, sharp gusts, lost in the sensation of being buried inside of you. "You feel so fucking good, sugar," Satoru slurs his words a little, nipping at the tendons in your neck that flex when you swallow before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue. He inhales the lip-smacking scent of your natural scent and your perfume. "So wet and perfect. Can't get enough of this sweet cunt."

He kisses his way down your neck and to your collarbone as you both adjust to being so intimately joined, reveling in how you loll your head back to give him more skin to work with. He spies down your shirt that gapes open a little, showing where your necklace is trapped between your heaving breasts, and gets an idea.

The muscles in his arms bunch up right before Satoru rips at the front of your blouse, figuring he’ll buy you a prettier and more expensive one later. He doesn't care. All he cares about is getting his hands on your tits, plain and simple.

You can only watch in mild horror as buttons pop off and fly everywhere (one nearly takes out his eye), ping ping pinging off the walls and the floor, a shower of scattered stars. One goes skittering beneath his office door. Another bounces so hard off of a tiny lamp across the room that it goes careening off of the side table and the lightbulb smashes into bits on the floor.

Since everything’s already going to shit, he doesn’t bother with finesse when it comes to the front of your now decimated, but blessedly open, shirt. He simply yanks the fabric down your arms until it pools around your elbows.

“What the hell, Satoru!” You scold him. The subtle hitch of your hips and your dilated pupils betray you. “I swear to god, if you don’t learn the art of subtlety and figure out how to stay quiet, I’ll—“

“Relax, my men’ll probably think it was hail or something,” he says flippantly.

Your glare is withering. Shit, he needs to score brownie points all over again.

He nips at the soft upper curves of your breasts, burying his face between them as far as he can with the restriction of your bra holding him back, and innocently blinks up at you, trying to look as sweet as pie. “Wait, I’m sorry for interrupting you. Go on, wrap it up. Tell me how you’d shut me up, yeah? Would it hurt? I wanna know all the dirty deets,” Satoru simpers.

“Hit dogs holler.”

Ooooooh.

“Fuck, fuck, stop right there, I nearly came,” Satoru moans dramatically.

Your low, aggrieved noise turns into a wobbly inhale when he leans down to mouth at the swell of your cleavage, tongue tracing the edge of a cup before he pulls that down too.

Out pops your titty. His dick nearly busts inside of you as if saying hi. He quickly yanks down the other cup to let both of your breasts fully spill free, both of them begging to be worshipped. “There’s my girls,” he croons.

Your nipples quickly harden now that they’re exposed to the cool air chugging through the vents. There’s very few things better than anointing every inch of your pretty tits with kisses and licks and nips, which he does happily. He squishes them together to enthusiastically motorboat them (he misses the way your eye twitches), slaps your left tit to watch it jiggle and spits on the right one, watching the strand of saliva slip down the curve of your body. Satoru chases it down and sucks your nipple into his mouth. Being winded by all this stimulation does nothing to stop you from eagerly arching into him.

“Having fun?” You ask dryly. Teeth roll your nipple around, gently biting into it and eliciting a weak spasm from you. Your vision threatens to cross when that makes your body swallow his cock in further.

He pulls back, breaking the seal of his lips on your breast with a lewd pop. Just to ensure he’s covered all his bases, he openly sniffs your chest. You grimace at him. “Mmmmm. Yup. Can I move now, mommy?”

You nod.

“Good.”

You’re promptly fully laid down atop the desk. Before you can even blink, he’s screwing his shoes into the foothold of the carpet beneath him, gripping at your hips, and he plasters half of the weight of his upper half on you without crushing you.

Hips draw back with the tautness of a bowstring, a deadly instrument of war. The tension is suspended when he slides the thickness of him almost fully out, your folds just barely clinging to the underside of his throbbing cockhead.

He releases it. Driving forward, he hits his mark with military precision and you swear you can feel him up in your throat.

“Satoru,” you gasp, your voice nearly drowned out by the sticky squelch of his body reconnecting with yours. You’re leaking so much that your ass and thighs and his pelvis are finely glazed with slick, a concoction as thickly sweet as the one pasted over pastries.

“Shit.” The curse punches its way up his throat and out of the drooling seam of his mouth. Starting up a filthy grind drags more from his worn lungs. He rocks with the sensual finesse and purpose of someone seasoned in the realm of the red light district, dragging along each crevice of your heavenly warmth.

(Your stern, nonchalant facade nearly crumbled when you asked him if he’d ever been to the red light district back when you first started dating years ago, long before wedding bells rang. At the time, you kind of wanted to throw up even though it would’ve made sense and you would’ve understood. Why get jealous of what came before you? However, Satoru looked at you like you hit your head. “For Gojo-gumi business? Yeah, of course I have. I literally own a few clubs in those parts.”)

Every silky inch of you threatens to be his ruin. You’re pillow soft. Satoru has to screw his eyes shut in a futile attempt to handle it. “God, fuuuuck, baby. M’so drunk on this pretty body of yours, so addicted to you that it’s driving me crazy,” he warbles.

His fingertips dig into the soft pouch of your hips, keeping you in place so that you can release your death grip on the edge of his desk. “There you go, that’s— that’s perfect, right there. That’s a good boy. Mommy’s perfect boy,” you babble right back.

The way you praise him all sweet with your voice tuned to a higher pitch, your blessed hands finally petting over every inch of him that you can touch, slipping under his shirt to dance along the knobs of his spine, nails biting into the inked angel on his back, drawing your fingers back out to brush them along his face— it’s like a switch flips in his brain, reducing him to a needy mess incapable of doing nothing but pleasing you. You have him under lock and key.

The poor desk beneath you feebly creaks and wobbles, openly protesting their coupling. Drawers rattle in their slots from the force of Satoru's increasingly powerful thrusts, banging open in a chaotic cacophony and spilling papers and office supplies onto the floor. With a whine, Satoru changes the pace so that he’s battering his way in and out of your cunt to the rhythm of your pulsations around his cock, like a bass being plucked. Your joint moans grow borderline frantic.

“Open your eyes.” Satoru peels his eyelids apart to look at you as requested. He blinks back the spots lining his vision.

Your beauty is the kind that he’s sure artists would kill to put on paper. Sweat glistens enticingly on your trembling body, making it seem like you’ve been buffed in stardust, your abs fluttering every time his cockhead kisses that spongy spot deep inside you that drives you insane. The commanding pools of your eyes reel him in and it makes him melt.

“My gorgeous fucking wife,” he rasps. “Mine.”

The flat of Satoru’s palm smooths down to your stomach. He presses down right where there’s visible distension from the thickness of his cock embedding itself in you. Your lips fall apart in a lewd ‘o’ as the pressure adds to the hot sparks of pleasure flooding your body. “That’s how deep I am, huh, princess? It's allll in your tummy,” he crows breathlessly, trying to sound cocky but failing. Miserably.

Your nod is borderline frantic. “Keep fucking me just like this,” you insist, eyes rolling back, body jolting. And he obliges.

His face is dusted in a dark pink shade that L’Oréal would kill to make a lipstick out of and Satoru’s sporting a fucked-out, hopelessly giddy grin. Sweat marches down his temples, his snow-white hair falling damp and disheveled over his brow from his exertions. His once crisp button-up hangs off his broad shoulders, the tie swinging from around his pale neck.

Blue eyes hazy and wrecked, lust swims in the yawning voids of his irises as he stares down at where he’s joined with his wife. He watches, enraptured, as your stretched cunt greedily sucks him in, tight walls adhering to him and pumping out slick.

With the way Satoru’s sinking into you with heavy deep strokes, you matching him with frenzied ruts of your own hips, it’s like he’s trying to crawl inside of you and never come out. This intimate closeness is what he craves, needs. Satoru’s long white eyelashes, clumpy and wet, veil his vision with how low lidded his eyes are. He blinks at you between the slits with raw, open affection.

Using his hold on your hips, he yanks you onto his cock over and over and over again. His chin drops to bump against his sternum, groans hissing through the barrier of his teeth as you cry out and squeeze around him. “Sosososo fucking good, swear on everything that you’re perfect. Use me for your pleasure. Juuust like that, pretty, I got you,” Satoru spews like a two-bit whore on the street.

He’s too loud. Any illusion that you may have been quiet enough to have gone undetected to the rest of the building has been long shattered, but schematics, schematics.

Your thumb draws at the plump swell of Satoru’s bottom lip, pushing into the slight natural divot of them. His eyes follow the movement, transfixed, and he opens up without hesitation when you replace your thumb with two fingers.

Satisfied, you sink them into Satoru’s mouth. “Stay quiet and occupy yourself with mommy’s fingers.” He lets out a muffled moan in response as you push them deeper, tongue instinctively curling to try and force them right back out, but he forces himself to relax. He draws his tongue lazily over your fingers, tasting his own saliva mingling with the faint flavor of your lotion.

Creeping over his soft palate, you press at the back of his throat, coolly watching him gag around the invading force for a moment before sliding them back out, back in with a wet noise. Drool escapes the corners of his stretched lips in rivulets and dribbles down his chin and onto your sternum, making him look more like a sloppy, over-excited puppy than the feared yakuza boss he is.

The points of his canines shrieeeek over the gloss of your nails when you stretch your fingers apart in a ‘v’ and nestle them between his teeth. Yet he doesn’t bite down. He holds your fingers there like a soft mouthed retriever, docile and tender.

“My baby likes having any part of mommy in his mouth, yeah?” You manage.

He dutifully nods. You indulge him until your fingers prune, letting him suckle and gag himself on you to his heart’s content. There’s a constant stream of gargled moans and whimpers flowing from him, all of his words running together until it’s just meaningless sound. Only then do you pull them out, allowing more of his saliva to splatter on your sternum and ooze down between your bobbing breasts.

It’s a little hard to secure a hold with your wet fingers, but you manage to snag the edge of his tie and once again use it to dictate the pace of his thrusts, pushing and pulling him around the same way one does with a toy.

By now, any semblance of coherency has all but been forgotten and he’s just rutting into you, mindless, puppy-like; the relief of fixating on you and your pleasure a thrilling change of pace from the constant demands and expectations that come with his position. He may be looming over you as he fucks you like his life depends on it, but he’s under no illusion that he’s the one in control here.

You’re moving in sync, two waves cresting and crashing and ensuring each other’s ruin every time you come together. Teeth chafe against skin, promising, before sinking in. Fingers grapple for proper leverage, smoothly trimmed nails sinking into warm thighs and scalps and sweaty backs. Your ass claps against his thighs so hard that it burns, sopping pussy ravenous in its efforts to envelop him.

“Shit, m’not gonna last long,” you heave. Your legs tighten around his slutty ass waist and cling there for dear life when one of his flexing hands drops away from your hip, hurriedly dipping down between you and frantically rubbing his thumb over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“You’re so close, I can feel it, f-fuck, squeezing me so tight. C’mon. Make a mess of my cock, please cum for me again, mommy. I’m all yours, I’m all yours, I’m all yours,” Satoru deliriously whines.

You see red.

It’s not the kind of red that comes from anger. No, it’s the kind that comes from having your brain cells fry from the sheer mind-numbing euphoria that bursts through your body like a supernova. You’re pretty sure you wail as your slick rushes wetly from your plugged up cunt, but it’s drowned out by the roaring blood swelling in your ears.

You babble a litany of nonsense, half of it praise and half of it mindless chants for more, for less, you don’t know. Satoru more than happily fucks you through your orgasm, thumbing your clit, driving wildly into you and making you mercilessly convulse.

"That's it, angel," he groans, feeling his own release fast approaching. A gooey feeling curls in his stomach, hotly insistent, and his balls draw up. It’s riding him hard.

Bowing further over you, he bodily pries your shaking legs away from his waist and tosses them over his shoulders, folding you in half like a lawn chair and making one sleeve of his shirt slide further down his arm. The new angle allows him to push impossibly deeper and your moan scratches it’s way out of the column of your throat.

"I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna cum, sweets," he grits out through clenched teeth, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. But it's a losing battle, his body trembling and tensing as he teeters on the precipice of ecstasy. Only you, his anchor, ties him down to earth. "Tell me I can... tell me I can cum inside this perfect cunt."

You don’t respond, either too busy drowning in the remnants of your climax or just blatantly ignoring him, and he releases a big shuddery whimper when he realizes his misstep. “Please,” he tries.

Big blue eyes watery and wide, he looks like a ruined angel above you. “I’ll buy you that new phone you wanted, or take you on a trip anywhere in the world. I’ll do anything, say the word and I will. Just— just lemme cum. Please, mommy.” His saliva-slick lips drag down your chest and seal around one of your pearly nipples, suckling gently and trying to appeal further to you.

He sounds so broken, so desperate, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. It almost makes you wonder if you could cum again just from hearing him like this. You know you could make him beg for hours if you wanted to, even demand that he halt completely, but he hasn’t done anything to warrant being on the receiving end of your borderline sadistic streak.

(Though, knowing this 6’3 eager to please masochist on top of you, he’d rock with it.)

“Go ahead, baby,” you tell him. Nails claw at his back, likely shredding along the feathery lines of the tatted angel’s wings, further spurring him on.

“Ffffuck, thank you, thank you, I love you so much,” he chants around your swollen nipple, voice breaking on each word. He pulls his mouth away, spit clinging to his lower lip and connecting him to your tits that sway every time he rocks his twitching hips against yours.

Satoru greedily paws at you, squeezing your pillowy breasts, tracing your curves, pressing into your navel, anything he can get his hands on. He's like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, determined to sample everything until he’s no longer allowed to.

Your neck strains as you thrash your head and he visibly wavers like a house about to fall. “What, can’t take it anymore?” Satoru pokes fun, but his question is really a ‘you good?’

“Shut up.” ‘I’m fine, I love you, go ahead.’

The perks of a married couple… telepathy.

Satoru drops his head, slams into you a little faster. The drawers continue rattling like teeth in a jar. Despite the euphoria clogging your pores and melting your brain down, you lift your hands, cupping his face, thumbs fanning outwards from the bridge of his nose and gently digging into the warming apples of his cheeks.

He leans into your touch, nuzzling into your palms as your thumbs brush away tears that he didn’t realize were escaping him. In his electric blue eyes that make your nerves sing with just a glance, you can see the depth of his devotion and trust in you, the way he's utterly handing himself over to you in this moment.

“You’re so good to me, baby,” you whisper. “Mommy’s perfect puppy.”

His vision goes black and his mouth opens. Then, suddenly, a searing and blinding white explodes across his retinas like a droplet of paint in a cup of water as he lets go.

His cock jerks, painting you over and over again with spurts of his spend. He pulses inside you with each aftershock that rumbles through his very bones, your pussy eagerly wringing around him in turn, milking him and siphoning his soul out via his cock, and forcing him to plug his load in deep.

The whole while, Satoru lets out watery whimpers, peppering your scrunched up face in sloppy uncoordinated puppy kisses and grinding into you. If you squint, you swear you can see a fluffy white tail wagging faster than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings behind him.

As he comes down and his movements peter off, stopping to mould his pelvis to the curve of your ass and leave himself buried in you, he nuzzles his way between your tits. Your perfectly soft, plush, pillowy tits. This is heaven. Needily, he rubs his cheek on the gentle swell of your right boob, drinking you and the smell of sex and sweat in.

Your hand sinks into his white hair, stroking the sweaty strands and trying to comb them into place between gentle scratches at his scalp to pacify him further. He practically purrs. In his wife’s presence, Satoru isn’t the almighty oyabun of the Gojo-gumi. Nuh uh, no sir. He’s completely and utterly your annoying husband that scrambles for your affection as if he’s a broke person on the street chasing pennies— and you always give it to him.

Together, the two of you slowly breathe and bask in the afterglow. Satoru, humming out sweet nothings, you, petting over him and probably tracking the fan above them that spins round and round. Minds blissfully blank.

(‘I need to buy this man a collar,’ you think to yourself. ‘And then peg the absolute dogshit out of him.’)

God, he’s so fortunate to be able to come home to you every damn day. He’s been counting his lucky stars since the day they met. A sudden burst of emotion swells in his chest, warm and golden like the summer sun.

“Love you, pretty,” he sighs dreamily. He catches your hand in his, planting a kiss to the back of it, then to your engagement ring and wedding band.

Your hands refix themselves on his cheeks with a gentle squeeze. “I love you too, baby,” you murmur, drawing him into a hopelessly sappy kiss. He pecks you one, two, three more times, chasing your lips, and you laugh softly.

Satoru jolts when skin cracks against skin in a sudden spank, a vicious throb skyrocketing beneath the skin of his ass. “Hey! Way to ruin the moment!” He complains with the most offended look he can muster. You smile with false serenity.

He’s sure it’ll bruise into a small reminder, one that will surely haunt him for days to come whenever he sits in his office chair and feels the bruise pulse beneath the pressure, drawing him back to this moment— Satoru breaking your back on his desk, waiting for you to give him permission to go ahead while he writhes, needy and wanting and begging with his body.

You pull back a little to scrutinize him. “That was for my shirt that you—“ he winces when you jab a finger at him, “destroyed.”

You yelp when he abruptly slots his arms beneath you and hoists you up off of the desk. Satoru drops down into his chair, sending them skidding back a few steps when it gets the wheels rolling, and cordons you off in his lap by squeezing you close, his stupid dick still buried in your guts. You widen your legs to properly straddle him then frown at the sensation of tacky drying cum, slick, and sweat between your bodies.

Behind Satoru, the sun peeks over his head and sets his white hair aglow. Towering buildings go on and on, stretching out before the empire of the Gojo-gumi.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear and lets his touch linger a little before he snuggles you closer. In his arms, you’re utterly at ease. He’s equally at peace— always is, actually, in your presence. You quiet the incessant din of his life and fill it with you; your snark, your gentleness that you only ever show him, your authority that he leans on, your love and your dreams for you and him.

You’re intrinsically part of him now. Nothing can ever change that.

“I’ll buy you a new one, relaaaax. You can wear my shirt on your way out and I’ll just grab one of my spare suits for myself,” Satoru cajoles, puckering his lips and theatrically fluttering his lashes. You grumble something highly censorable. Trying to find a way to hush you up before you can let loose on him, he glances around the room, drinking in the pens, papers, the shattered lamp, random buttons, and half of their clothing littering the ground. A mess that he most definitely will not be cleaning up himself.

Then, once he finds it, he scoots them along a fraction in the chair and taps his foot against a certain paper. You look behind you. “Oh, good, I needed your signature on this. Now I can go forward with my plan,” Satoru says cheerily.

You blink, confused. You don’t hold any executive power in this building, not enough to warrant your signature. Nor have you signed anything of note in the last week, here at headquarters, at home, or otherwise.

Satoru taps his foot against it again. Dotted along the paper are dried splotches of what is most likely your wetness. Your supposed ‘signature.’ Heat rises to your face. “I got us a seventh vacation home!”

“Fucker.”

After he has a giggle fest over it and you quiet him down with more kisses and unserious scoldings, which leads to an overly heated make out session that has you evaluating the pros and cons of another round, a fist pounds on the door. You pause in the middle of mauling your husband’s neck, painting the smooth expanse in hickeys in revenge for the two fat ones throbbing on your thighs, and pinch his side to push him into action.

Satoru rolls his eyes so hard that it’s a wonder they don’t get lodged back in his skull. “Does it look like I’m available? The door’s locked for a reason,” he hollers.

A beat. You hear Kento’s familiar, utterly exhausted sigh. “If you two are done in there.” It’s clear what he’s referring to. Your eyes flare again and Satoru tries for a smile. “Gojo is needed elsewhere. I’ve been made aware that Geto has been blowing up his phone for quite some time now. It’s urgent.”

Then, when neither of you answer, Kento adds, “There’s been an incident in Shibuya.”

Oh hell no.

Satoru’s about to show Shibuya a real incident for interrupting his moment with his wife.

author’s note: he will be collared in a drabble GOD WILLING

thank you all for reading this freaky ass shit, hoping to post more of my 1748282 wips soon :3 reblog and/or comment to let me know ur thoughts because i eat replies UP, they’re all greatly appreciated muuuah 🫶🏽

tags: @stuboo2053 @pvmpkingod @spirit-kat @skz8stay @loyalguma @amane1271 @irishiruuu @m1nrrva @onixsky @q2uq2u @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @libr4sonsa @kaitospo @n1vi @ieathairs

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