aikemei - Tumblr blog

aikemei · 1 month ago

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tw periods, slight angst surrounding periods and period typical misogyny, misunderstanding, fluff at the end, a lot of suggestiveness LOL. this is post-canon, after bridgerton!gojo and miss itadori get married

a/n you are warned this is not a drabble this is almost a fic (still a bit short tho) but i was too lazy to make a layout for it

you woke beside your husband, bridgerton!gojo, with a peculiar slickness between your thighs and a slight ache in your joints, particularly that of your lower back.

at once, you knew what it was---your courses. you couldn't help but feel a little disappointment; while you and satoru had only wed recently, your...child bearing efforts had been rigorous. however, it had only been about a fortnight since you had become missus gojo, so it would be reasonable to assume a child was to come in due time.

that is to say, becoming with child was not what was troubling you at all---it was the tangent, irony smell of blood between your thighs, and, if you did not take quick action, it would soon stain your marital bed.

but the biggest worry of all: your husband.

unfortunately, you did not know his...stance about the monthly affliction women face. it was true you felt you could discuss anything with him---after a whole season of fighting like fools, you both had shown each other your most vulnerable parts. however, you were not sure how he would react to the blood that was slowly trickling out of you. would he be disgusted? would he want you to sleep on a seperate bed? the both of you shared your marital bed every night, despite the fact that the gojo manor had many other rooms and one that was formally yours, too.

yet it was not his disgust that you feared most. it was his silence---that he would silently hold back his true feelings of disgust to care for you.

you shook your head. you definitely could not stomach making him bear such responsibility. to be safe, you would distance yourself from him for a couple of days.

looking once more at him, you were relieved to see him sleeping peacefully like a babe next to you. in his slumber, he had wrapped his arms across your waist and buried his head in your chest. as carefully as you could, you unwrapped yourself from his arms and waddled miserably towards the door, and outside, until you found nobara.

after you had debriefed her in your formal room (the one where you were supposed to sleep in, but it had gathered dust nonetheless because satoru would not tolerate distance between you two), she sent a pointed look at you. "you are being ridiculous. that man is a lovesick fool when it comes to you."

"i know he adores me, which is precisely why i do not wish to be close to him during my courses," you mutter back, clutching your stomach and sitting uncomfortably on the bed. "what if he stayed silent about his true sentiments---"

before you could finish, a hesitant knock came on the door and came the voice of your husband. "my love, are you inside?" he sounded concerned, and your heart broke; he must have been confused why you were not by his side when he woke.

then, panic welled inside of you, and you quickly stood up, then immediately shrinked in pain. in a shrill voice came your response: "give me some time, dear, to get dressed!"

then came a confused but brief, "all right," and he obediently stayed outside the door, waiting for you. you hurriedly put on proper attire---not before putting a linen cloth over your crotch to temper the bleeding---and opened the door.

there he was: dressed in a white shirt that was clearly shrugged on in a daze, and pants. it was truly a shame you were resolved to avoid him and any intimate engagement; if it weren't so, you would have dragged him back to your bed for a reenactment of last night.

it seemed that this time of the month had amplified your lust; you were gazing intently at his bare chest and stomach and didn't notice how he had been trying to say something. it was only until he grabbed your hand and started walking that you got out of your reverie. "where are we going?"

"to break our fast," he sighed, looking at you with trace of amusement in his eyes. "it seems that you cannot seem to concieve any words of mine without food in your stomach."

heat creeps up your neck, but you stay silent as he leads you into the drawing room. he sits you down next to him on the couch, and you're so overwhelmed with the heat of his presence that you dizzily sit next to him, while he murmurs things to the maid. it's only until you are alone with him that he pulls you close, onto his lap---you panic once more.

you both have been spending your time as newlyweds at each other's sides; in the morning, he ushers everyone else out of the drawing room and pulls you onto his lap to feed you pastries by hand; during the day, the both of you find some way of keeping each other company, whether it be you reading in the library while he conducts his work or him lazing by your side as you play the pianoforte; at night....every unfortunate being in the manor knows what the both of you do at night.

however, if you were to bleed onto him, forget his reaction; you'd probably offer yourself up to the chef to be cooked for dinner.

your hands remain stiff where they hover in the air, unsure whether to wrap around his shoulders or press against his chest and shove him away. but your legs are already tucked awkwardly to one side, your skirts pooling in your lap and the linen cloth beneath them barely hanging on to dignity.

"now, then," he murmurs, voice low and drowsy, still husky with the vestiges of sleep, "would you care to explain why you vanished on me this morning?"

you stiffen slightly, gaze refusing to meet his. his thumb strokes your back through the fabric of your robe.

“i woke early,” you reply, feebly. “i did not wish to disturb your sleep.”

satoru hums, unconvinced yet concerned. “you were limping.”

your breath hitches.

he lifts his head, ocean eyes narrowing with concern as they search yours. “did I hurt you?” he asks, tone suddenly urgent. “was it last night? I—darling, I swear I never intended—”

“no! no, heavens, no,” you interrupt, pressing your hand over his mouth before he can spiral further. “it's not that. I just—” you trail off, heart pounding.

you feel a trickle escape you and remember that you are still situated on his lap. you jump up, to satoru's dismay, and pat down your skirts in a show of fluster. while you do so, you make sure to peek a glance at satoru's---mind you, very expensive---pants, and let out a sigh in relief when you find they are unmarred with any shade of red.

satoru blinks up at you, visibly startled at your sudden escape from his lap. he sits upright, arms slack at his sides, disheveled and blinking like a dog who had just been denied a treat. “darling?” he calls, voice still rough from sleep. “why did you—?”

“i just remembered—i'm meant to be with nobara,” you blurt hastily, smoothing your skirts once more. “she needed… guidance. On a matter of embroidery.”

he tilts his head, clearly skeptical. “embroidery.”

“yes,” you say, far too quickly. “she's quite hopeless with her stitches, you know.”

satoru gives a soft hum. “i see.” he looks at you pointedly, but says no more.

you nod, all nerves, and inch toward the door with forced casualness. “i'll be back before supper,” you promise, though you plan nothing of the sort. “rest, please. you looked dreadfully tired.”

and with that, you flee.

...

the day drags.

you spend an hour in nobara's company, pacing and muttering until she throws a cushion at your head and tells you, in no uncertain terms, that you’re being idiotic. you ignore her.

you then wander the halls of the gojo manor like a ghost, ducking behind tapestries and pillars the moment you hear your husband’s voice approaching.

at one point, you’re certain he sees the edge of your skirts disappearing up the staircase, because you hear a faint, amused, “hm,” followed by very deliberate footsteps that turn away.

it doesn’t help. the ache in your belly has dulled to a throb, your joints heavy and mood sullen. you've gone through more linen cloths than you care to count, and your back feels like it’s being punished by God himself.

but worse still is the shame coiled in your chest.

you miss him. you miss the warmth of his lap, the rasp of his voice when it’s still tinged with sleep. you miss the way he’d drawn heated circles into your back without even realizing it. and you hate—truly, hate—that you’re keeping something from him.

...

by the time night falls and the clock strikes ten, you’re already curled up in your formal room, not even pretending to be useful. you know, instinctively, that he’ll come.

and he does.

the door creaks open gently, as though he’s trying not to startle you. “are you hiding from me again?” satoru asks softly.

you sit up from your curled position on the chaise, wrapped in a thick shawl. you've no more excuses left in you.

he's dressed in his day's clothes, but his shirt is rumpled and a bit unbuttoned. you wish he'd cover up more, for your unscrupulous eyes were devouring the sigh. he looks tired---but not angry. never angry.

still, you look away. “i didn’t mean to avoid you,” you say, voice faint. “truly, i was a bit occupied today.”

"no, you were avoiding me," he says, without heat. "you are hiding something from me."

you nod, the confession a lump in your throat. “i was.”

satoru sighs and crosses the room, kneeling in front of you. “tell me, darling. please.”

you hesitate, and then meet his eyes. "it's my courses."

he blinks. “Your—oh.” realization dawns in an instant. his brows lift. “that's all?”

you flush. "'that's all'? satoru, i bled onto the sheets today. while you were in it---the smell was pungent! then, at breakfast, i thought i would bleed on your trousers, and i've been waddling all day!"

he makes a move to interrupt, but your shrill voice continues, giving him no opening. "and i've heard how it goes!" you cry, but then your voice quiets, now low in mood. "i just did not you know your feelings on the matter. some husbands don't say anything about it but internally do not take kindly to the display. i thought it perhaps to spare you the discomfort. if you wish, you may sleep alone in the marital bed tonight." you laugh but your hands are quivering, your voice equally shaky. "it is due time that i start sleeping in my designated room, regardless."

there's silence, and you refuse to look at him.

you nod to yourself, eyes burning. "so, please do what you are comfortable with, my dear. i will wholly understand and will draw no resentment from your choice, for it is what you wish."

and still, he says nothing.

you do not look up—not when he pushes off the door, not when you hear his footsteps retreating down the hall. the sound of the door clicking shut behind him cleaves clean through you.

you sit for a moment, frozen.

so that was it, then. he had chosen comfort and distance from you.

and that was fine. that was what you had offered him—wasn’t it?

that was what you wanted, you tell yourself. for him to be comfortable. for him to have the space to choose without pressure or obligation. you didn’t want to burden him with your body’s inconvenient truths, didn’t want to tether him to your pain out of guilt or duty.

you had meant it. you had.

still, like a traitor, your throat tightens. you press a palm against your sternum, as if you could quiet the ache blooming there, deep and hollow and foolish.

you should get ready for bed. blow out the candle. crawl beneath the covers and sleep it off—

the door bursts open.

you startle, eyes flying up—and there he is again, storming in not with coldness or distance, but with purpose.

you blink as he steps towards you—not empty-handed, but with a bundle of linens, something wrapped in muslin, and a small ceramic jar tucked beneath one arm. his expression is unreadable as he walks to your chaise.

he crouches before you, silent.

then: he unravels the cloth and reveals a warmed compress, gently pressing it to your lower abdomen with a care that nearly undoes you. his hands are sure, practiced. the pressure soothes more than you can say.

next comes the jar—some ancient concoction for cramping and pain, herbal and bittersweet in scent. he rubs a dab into your wrists, then into your temples, then—when you remain frozen in stunned silence—cups your jaw, brushing a knuckle along your cheek.

“is this allowed?” he murmurs.

you nod, too stunned to speak.

he lets out a slow breath and says, “you absolute goose.”

your lips tremble. “I thought—when you left—”

“i went to the warming stone cupboard, you little fool.” his tone is fond now, teasing, like he can’t bear to let you spiral any further. “you think I’d leave you bleeding and aching and miserable just to have a soft bed to myself?”

you shake your head, and he leans in to press a kiss to your brow.

"i married you, mrs. gojo," he teases, the same way he used to say miss itadori when the both of you were at odds. "do you think i could bear to know nothing about your body with you as my wife? or, heavens forbid, sleep alone in our bed? i knew eventually you would be curled up in my bed, looking cross and adorable while i play nursemaid." he

your eyes brim. "i'm sorry."

“you're forgiven, my love,” he says easily. “on one condition.”

you blink. “What?”

“that you stop hiding from me. i'm your husband. i'd much rather hold you while you’re bleeding than miss you while you’re gone.”

you give a watery laugh. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“i am a romantic at heart.” he stands, then scoops you effortlessly into his arms. “now come. we are going to our bed. i've fluffed the pillows, and you’re going to let me dote on you until you beg me to stop.”

you cling to him, heart light for the first time all day.

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aikemei · 1 month ago

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super horny babymama!reader with babydaddy!suguru tending to her every needs no matter how dire or casual they may be.

thank you for the request pookieeee, i hope you like it <3

you sat there staring at your phone, an unamused look on your face as you read the text from your supposed to be date tonight.

hate to do this, but I gotta cancel last minute…

all you can do is sigh in disappointment, rolling your eyes and tossing your phone onto your bed. You didn’t have the energy to respond, quite literally drained from scrolling on dating apps twenty four seven and having dates canceled. Getting back into the dating life was harder than you thought, especially now since you were single mother. It’s been tough finding someone, wanting a long lasting relationship and a nice guy who’ll also prove that he’s good enough for your kid too.

Even if you can’t find someone for long term at the moment, you were definitely in need for a good fuck. You couldn’t remember the last time you actually had someone in your bed. The built up sexual frustration added to your stress. You were so excited for this day too, even got Shoko to babysit for you after begging and begging. You frowned, heels clicking against the floor, getting a good look at yourself in the mirror, dress hugging you in all the right places and your makeup enhancing your features. It was a complete waste.

Whatever. You’ll just use the time to have some fun for yourself, reaching into your drawer to pull out your vibrator, hoping that it’ll help take some of the edge off. Any longer without cumming and you feel like you might explode. Unfortunately a horrible idea pops into your head the second you reach in your drawer. An idea that involved calling your baby daddy for a quick fuck.

You and suguru were great at co parenting, but getting too close would always make things messy and confusing, but would it really hurt to have him back in your bed again after a few months. The more and more you thought about it the nastier your thoughts became. He knew your body like the back of his hand, knew all your sweet spots, what made you tick and how to make you cum within minutes. Your pussy throbbed at the thought, and you broke.

You dialed his number, the phone only ringing twice before you heard his voice on the phone. “Hello?” He answered.

“Hey, Suguru.” You bit your lip.

“Hey, baby. Everything alright?” Despite not being together for a while, he never dropped the nickname despite your comments about it.

“Mmm, yeah. I just…my date canceled on me and I was wondering—”

“Need to me to come over?” He finished your sentence, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Anything for you, baby.”

“Yeah, but…I’m just feeling really fucking horny right now,” you take a deep breath, “and I need you so badly. I’ve been pent up for so fucking long, Sugu,” you whine.

“I know, baby, I know. Just be ready for me when I get there.”

Now twenty minutes later, Geto has you riding his cock, his hands squeezing at your hips. You’re bouncing on him with such intensity, greedily pleasing yourself, using his cock to get off. And he lets you without a care in the world. He watches your pussy cream around him, your pretty tits bouncing in his face, tempting to suck on. “That’s it, ride that dick,” he pants, reaching down and rubbing your clit with his thumb.

“Nnnghh, Sugu,” you cry, lewd moans bouncing off the walls and straight to his ears. “I love your cock…feels so fucking good,” you whimper. Your hips are slamming down harder, eyes rolling back at the pleasure coursing through your veins. Your chest heaves up and down with each breath, falling back on your hands and spreading your legs more, grinding your hips against his cock. “Mmmph,” your teeth catch your lower lip.

“Ohh yes, show off that pretty pussy to me,” he groans, still messily rubbing your clit. He feels your cunt clench down on him, a broken moan escaping his lips. “Fuckkk, I can’t get enough of you.” He bucks his hips up, fucking you back. The sound of your pussy squelching makes his cock throb even harder, your juices gathering at the base of his cock with each lethal thrust.

“Shit, shit, right there!” You moan. As you grow closer to your orgasm, your body grows tired from riding, making it hard to catch your breath. Geto notices how much of you slowed down, brows furrowed in concentration before he pulls you up and holds you against his sweaty chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly as he takes over, plunging his cock into you. “Ohhhh shit. Oh my god you’re so fucking deep, Sugu!” Your nails claw at his shoulders, your moans pouring into his ear.

The sound of skin against skin echoes through the room, his cock thrusting in and out a rough and selfish pace. It’s like he needed your orgasm more than you with the way he was fucking you. He always knew how to do it just right, making your toes curl, leaving you speechless and a drooling mess. “Cum, baby, fucking cum,” he whimpers, gritting his teeth as his movements grow sloppier. “No one else can make you feel this good, huh? Fucking you so deep and raw, making you cum harder and harder round after round,” his sultry voice sends shivers down your spine. “This pussy is mine. Say it.” You can hear the cocky smirk in his voice.

“Ah, yes, it’s yours!” You cry out, biting down on his shoulder as he continuously pounds into you, satisfying your every craving and need to be fucked. He knows exactly how you need it, and puts it down just right. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for you to stay away, and he plays right into each time because he can’t stay away either. He’s there at your every beck and call no matter what.

Your pornographic moans grow only louder, dripping cunt clenching around his thick cock before your body begins shaking from the intensity of your orgasm. “I’m cummingggg!” Your eyes roll back, incoherent mumbles leaving your lips while he fucks you through it.

“Fuck, yes, you feel so good!” His grip on you is bruising, your pussy creaming more than before as his thrusts grow stronger. “Ohh shit, you’re bouta make me fucking cum,” he breathes heavily, quickly making the decision to pull out before he ends up making a rash decision and getting you pregnant again. The warmth of his sticky cum coats your pussy lips, geto making sure to smear it between your folds. “Damn, baby,” he breathily chuckles.

“Oh my god,” you lay there on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “God, I haven’t cum that hard in so long. I feel like I blacked out for a second,” you giggle. His fingers hook under your jaw, pulling you in for a kiss, his tongue sliding against your lips and into your mouth. Your hands travel down his toned stomach, pulling away. “Fuck me again,” you whisper, your hand sliding lower, wrapping around his hard cock. Geto wastes no time, flipping you onto your back, your knees pushed up to your chest.

You were ready to be here all night.

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aikemei · 2 months ago

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“we shouldn’t be doing this...” kento breathlessly muttered in bed.

“hm? do you not like it? do you want me to stop? we’re just having a great time.” you reply as you rub his chest, your touch so soft and gentle made him forget what he was worrying on.

“i do like it. it’s just... feels unethical.” he retreats from your hold for a few seconds then came back to lean in again.

“i don’t think cuddling with your wife is considered ‘unethical’, baby.” you kiss his forehead, nuzzling his face on your neck as you pat the back of his head.

“yes, but i’m sick. what if you catch it?” he whispers, his hot breath tickling your neck.

“if snuggling with my husband would be the cause of my flu, i’d gladly accept it.” you let out a soft giggle as your free hand slithers on his back, massaging little circles on it.

after a few days, kento got better. and then there you were, sick in bed. but no worries! he’s there to take care of you like how you did to him.

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aikemei · 2 months ago

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SYNOPSIS ᯓ Gojo doesn't usually fuck his clients. This was supposed to be a normal massage. But with hands like that and a cock to match... "professional" was never on the table.

PAIRING ᯓ Masseur!Gojo x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS ᯓ smut MDNI, happy ending massage!, oral (f receiving), size kink?, PIV, spanking, biting/marking, dirty talk, possessiveness if you squint!

WORD COUNT ᯓ 5.3k

You’d driven past the place at least a hundred times.

It’s a stupidly sleek little building tucked perfectly between a Pilates studio and one of those overpriced juice bars. Like the kind with an obnoxiously chic and overly sensual neon sign that says TOUCH. White letters on smoked glass, all minimalist and judgy and expensive.

Every time you passed it you’d scoff.

“They probably charge three hundred fucking dollars just to rub your back and judge your pores.”

You’d even spat out an insult once like the building itself would crumble under the weight of your words, hitting the gas on your way home from work. Said it with the kind of righteous confidence that only comes from truly believing you’d never be that kind of girl. The kind who just… lets someone touch them like that. Oil-slicked and half-naked, moaning on some fake leather table while a stranger pretends it’s “therapeutic.”

Weird, isn’t it?

Definitely not for you.

And yet, here you are.

Saturday morning. Pillow hair, soul cracked like a boiled egg, lying in bed with your phone half on your face as you text your best friend in a fugue state,

you ever feel like your spine is just floating? help

You expected a “same.”

get a massage. i’m serious.

You snort. Riiight, a massage, huh?

You stare at the screen, eyes locked to the message like if you stared long enough it’d dial itself.

No amount of sarcasm or dignity can fix the way your shoulders feel like cement. Or the way you haven’t slept properly in weeks. Or the way your boss sent a “quick favor” email at precisely 11:48 PM last night, which you answered because your spine is already jelly and your will to live has already been transferred to a spreadsheet.

So… yeah.

Maybe you are that girl.

The bell attached to the door jingled as you step into the spa, and this is where you immediately felt out of place. The air smelled like eucalyptus and tears of the rich. The lighting was soft, flutey music passing through one ear and out the other, the woman at reception desk with the kind of smooth and poreless skin someone had when they bathed in rosewater.

You step up, feigning confidence like you hadn’t just Googled “what happens at a massage” just an hour ago.

“Hi, uh… I’d like to get a massage?”

She looked up from her computer with a smile too serene to be trusted. “Of course, what kind were you thinking? We offer Swedish, Thai, deep tissue, shiatsu, hot stone, aromatherapy-”

You nod slowly, brain buffering like YouTube trying to stream Paul vs. Tyson. Swedish? Do you get buttered up and rolled around like an IKEA meatball? You can’t ask that. You’d already committed the biggest crime by pretending you belonged here.

“Deep tissue,” you said, like you knew what the hell that meant.

She gave you a polite nod, tapping away on her keyboard. “Great choice. One of our more intense options. How long would you like the session? Sixty or ninety minutes?”

“Um… sixty’s good,” which is actually code for: I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m more scared of farting if you press too hard on my spine.

“Perfect,” she chirped. “The massage therapist will discuss pricing with you. You can take a seat, they’ll call you back shortly.”

You stepped aside, sitting on the impossibly soft couch in a sack of second-guessing. Of course there was a candle named something you can’t pronounce. And of course there’s a small framed sign on the coffee table reading: Relaxation is a journey, not a destination.

Just as you begin contemplating how to fake an emergency bolt, an intrusive thought crossing your mind to stand up and scream that you had a fucking bomb, a calm voice called your name.

You stood up, maybe way too quickly, meeting the eyes of a woman smiling at you with a clipboard in hand.

Thank god. A woman. The anxiety deflated from your shoulders. You didn’t really consider the possibility of a male masseuse until now, but the idea of some beefcake oiled up and kneading your thigh was not something you emotionally prepared for.

“This way,” she gestured for you to follow her down a hallway lined with softly glowing wall sconces and the sound of babbling water. You’d never felt so simultaneously underdressed and overscheduled.

She opened a door and motioned you inside. “You can undress to your comfort level and lie down under the towel, face down. I’ll let your massage therapist know you’re ready.”

“Towel?” you echo, glancing around. On the table sat a singular, small, pathetic white towel. It looked like something you’d pat a cat dry with, and you didn’t know if you expected a beach towel or a blanket.

Still, you nodded like a champ.

There you stood, alone after she exited and shut the door behind her. Unsure of how much was too much as you undressed. Were you supposed to keep your underwear on? Take it off? Would that be weird? Shit, what was the social etiquette here? It felt wrong to Google it, like the masseuse would walk in on you hunched over your phone naked like a caveman discovering the world wide web for the first time.

Eventually, you compromised by only keeping your underwear on and sliding under the towel, if you can even call it that. It barely covered your ass, and if you breathed wrong a cheek was gonna peek.

You lie face down, pressing your face into the weird little donut hole in the massage table. Every attempt at relaxation was a fail, your body as stiff as a mannequin.

The door creaked open, a voice drifted through the air all too low and smooth, way too sexy for this situation.

“Good evening,” he said.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwaitwait.

You lift your head just a fraction, seeing a tall man stepping into the dimly lit room. White uniform shirt rolled to the elbows. Forearms like Greek sculpture. Messy white hair. A face so hot you swore you could hear angels filing HR complaints. His eyes were icy, meeting yours and curved with a smile.

“I’ll be your masseur tonight,” he said. “Name’s Satoru. Just let me know if anything feels uncomfortable.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool,” you say, voice cracking.

He chuckled softly, washing his hands in the corner, the sound of running water far too sensual. You press your face back into the donut, trying not to internally implode.

You asked for this, your brain whispered.

You chose deep tissue, whatever that meant.

You hear the flick of a small bottle opening. Something shifts behind you, the scent of cedarwood and vanilla blooming through the room like a secret. A soft, wet sound followed, and then-

Drip.

Oil hit the small of your back first. Warm, silky. You twitched without meaning to.

“Sorry,” his voice came playful and low, like he wasn’t sorry at all. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak, only letting out a small squeak of laughter.

Then came his hands.

Large, warm, firm. Gentle as they pressed into your shoulders, thumbs digging slow, practiced circles into the knots near your spine. You can’t help the exhale escaping your lips, something between a sigh and a sound you’d only make in bed.

“This your first massage?” he asks, and damn him. Even his voice sounded like a smirk.

You coughed. “That obvious?”

“Just a bit,” he teased, hands now kneading into the ridge between your neck and shoulder. “You’re stiff. Tense.”

You laugh nervously. “It’s just work stuff. Desk job.”

“Hm,” he hummed like he already knew. Like he could read it in your body the moment his hands touched you. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down. We’ll see if we can get you loosened up.”

You made another strangled sound of agreement in response, biting your lip.

Every stroke of his palm dragged warm oil over your skin, spreading heat along your back, down your spine. The pads of his thumbs pressed into the muscles beside your shoulder blades, firm but slow. It wasn’t just good, but shamefully so. Soothing, deep. Every time his thumbs pressed in, you felt your breath catch in your throat.

Focus, you told yourself. This is a professional, he does this all the time. And you’re not special, just some towel-clad client on a table meant for meat tenderizing.

But gods, his hands.

They were confident, skilled, moving in ways like they had the heaven’s permission to touch you. Maybe they did, each stroke leaving your skin burning in its wake. Your hips shifted slightly. Not on purpose. Well, maybe it was on purpose. You hated yourself for it.

He hadn’t said anything for a while, the room quiet aside from the ambient spa music and your stupid heartbeat echoing in your ears, your heart trying to crawl its way out from your ribcage. You focused on the feeling, the press of his digits into your shoulder. On the long drag of his hands gliding down, down, oil-slick and hot against your spine.

Shit, your brain was melting.

You felt his hands move again, slower now, gliding at your middle back. You couldn’t help but wonder if the towel slipped, didn’t dare look. You just stayed still, very still, praying for dignity while also very much wishing he’d go lower. His thumbs pushed into the small of your back, just on either side of your spine, and you exhaled, loudly.

You immediately regretted it. But he didn’t say anything. Just chuckled softly, barely a sound, and pressed deeper.

Gojo had given thousands of massages before. Hell, he’d worked on celebrities, models, athletes, all kinds of bodies sculpted and polished and worshiped. But this one? You? You weren’t some glammed-up goddess or an over-confident regular. You were shy, uncertain, nervous in the sweetest way, biting your lip like it’d save your soul.

And when he asked what was hurting, where it ached, you’d mentioned work like it explained everything.

He knew exactly what you needed.

His thumbs dragged slow over the curve of your back. You shifted slightly under him, just the tiniest movement, but not from pain. From heat. From something much, much lower. Gojo felt it, the tremor running through your muscles like a secret. The towel was still clinging to your hips, just barely, and he let his hands dip lower, enough to brush the top curve of your ass to see if you’d flinch.

And you didn’t.

Fuck.

He was breaking rules. His own rules. He didn’t do this. Never had. Not once. Not even with the flirty clients or the ones that offered more.

But then again, none of them were you.

Your skin was warm beneath his palms, your breath hitched in a rhythm that wasn’t just relaxation. He could hear it, feel it. And when his fingers barely slipped under the hem of that towel, just to knead the tight muscle at the base of your spine, he felt you tense.

Not with fear, but want.

He pressed deeper, just enough to test. And he almost groaned aloud when your hips lifted. As if it was an accident. But he knew better.

He loved the way you were sensitive for him, dragging his thumbs along the edge of the towel, fingertips brushing your perceptive skin that made his cock twitch.

He was throbbing against the zipper of his pants. He needed to stop.

But he wasn’t going to stop.

“First session’s free, by the way,” he murmured, just above your ear, his salacious tone a blessing to your ears. “House special.”

You made another soft sound and Gojo had to bite his cheek just to stop a deep groan threatening its way out from his lungs.

You thought you were in the clear when his hands left your back. For a moment, you considered breathing again. But then-

“Gonna move to your legs now,” he said, voice smooth and casual. “Starting from your feet.”

You couldn’t find it in you to protest. Your feet. The one part of your body that rejected human contact like a toddler would broccoli.

You tensed as he lifted your foot gentle, resting your ankle against a bolster. You took this opportunity to look. And he looked way too comfortable, crouched near your calves, rolling his sleeves up even more, his forearms, fuck, the veins, and warming more oil in his hands.

The first touch was light, gliding his fingers over your heel, your arch-

You flinched.

“Oh?” he laughed, glancing up. “Ticklish?”

You wanted to crawl inside the nearest candle holder and die.

“Maybe a little,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“Noted,” he chuckled. “I’ll be gentle.”

And if Gojo Satoru wasn’t a liar before, he was now.

Because his thumbs rolled firm circles into your arches, sliding up the curve of your foot, down each toe like he fucking knew. You twitched again when he hit that spot near the ball of your foot.

He didn’t even pretend not to notice.

“Aw, you’re trying not to laugh.” His voice was warm. “Cute.”

You exhaled like a balloon deflating, face hot. “You’re evil.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, slowly dragging his palm up your sole to your ankle. “That’s one way to thank me.”

He didn’t linger much longer there, probably for your dignity which was already on life support, before he moved up, kneading your calf in strong, slow strokes. His hands wrapped around the muscle with confident pressure, and oh, it felt good.

All thoughts of embarrassment evaporating the moment his thumbs began sliding up your calf, massaging deep into the tissue. His touch slowed as he moved higher, now smoothing hot oil into the back of your knee.

Then he moved to your other leg. Same path. Foot, ankle, calf. All familiar but different. Like he was trying to memorize you. And this time his hands went slower, savoring the goosebumps prickling your skin as his hands moved higher, thumbs digging deeper. And when he reached the back of your thigh, right where the towel barely covered, you felt it.

The hesitation. The pause. The line of professionalism being toed.

And then crossed.

His hands never stopped moving, but his thumbs dragged slower, brushing up the back of your thigh and letting his touch linger along the soft skin there. His touch was light, too light to be considered a deep tissue massage.

“Still doing okay?” he asked, voice low.

You could only nod.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re very responsive.”

Was this normal massage talk?

No, it couldn’t be. But you didn’t dare respond, didn’t want to stop him, even as your breath hitched and thighs threatened to instinctively press together.

Gojo’s hands stayed high on your thighs. One thumb circled the outside of your thigh.

“You’ve got tension here too,” he remarked, and this time, it wasn’t professional at all.

Your hips jolted.

“Sensitive?” he asked, almost a whisper.

You wanted to say something, maybe yes, maybe God, please don’t stop, but all that came out was a hum, shaky as his fingers gripped your thigh tighter.

“Don’t worry,” his voice silk-soft and soaked in pure heat. “I’ll take care of it.”

You didn’t even know he shifted until his voice came too close to your ear, just a low murmur.

“I’m gonna remove the towel now. That okay?”

You’re too far gone, just nodding.

“Need you to say it for me,” his voice is gentle.

“Yes,” you swallow, voice barely above a whisper.

He grips the towel, slow as sin, dragging it off your spine and letting it peel off you like he’s unwrapping something expensive. His fingers graze, not enough to claim but just enough to tease. You’re face-down, so you don’t see it. But he’s squinting, biting back a groan, cock already stirring and probably dripping.

He oils up again, slick and warm, spreading his palms across your ass with expert precision.

“Just breathe. This’ll help with tension in your glutes.”

Glutes, he says it like a medical term. You almost believe he’s just being good at his job, except his hands are kneading deeper, practically stroking the plushy fat of your ass.

His hips subtly press against the table, trying to relieve the throb without making a sound. His jaw is slack, eyes hooded, and he’s already sweating. He’s circling your ass with the heel of his palm, eyed glued to were your thighs part ever-so-slightly, revealing the slightest sliver of wet lace. His mouth waters.

His thumbs brush the hem of your panties, it’s innocent at first. But then he does it again, lingering.

You can almost feel the air shift.

Something about the way he touches you makes your skin buzz. He hasn’t said anything… too off yet, but the drag of his fingers along your thighs, the brush against the edge of your panties, you’re beginning to think it’s not exactly on the menu at most spas.

“Gonna take these off too. Helps me reach deeper tissue,” his finger hooks just teasingly into the hem at your hips.

You know it’s a lie. It has to be. But you nod.

And again, he waits.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you exhale, heartbeat in your ears.

Then he hooks only his thumbs into your panties, slow, like it’s a favor. You lift your hips slightly so he can pull them down, and he takes his time. His thumbs caress you as he drags them down to your knees, ankles, then off completely.

And now you’re bare. Naked. Exposed under his hands and eyes, no doubt dripping from tension and need alone.

The only sound in the room is the soft roll of incense smoke, faint music, and the slick shhhhhkkk of oil between his palms to start again, skin to skin.

He shifts, thumbs dipping lower and palms kneading the tops of your thighs. It’s almost too much, you want to move, clench your legs shut, but you don’t. You stay soft, pliant, open.

And he watches. Every flutter of your muscles. Every twitch. The faintest glisten where your thighs part.

This was no longer routine.

So wet already. You poor thing probably didn’t even mean to be.

He watches your hips shift when he gets close, the way your toes twitch as his thumbs drag sinfully along your inner thighs. It’s like you’re desperate and embarrassed all at once. And yet, you obeyed him. And he loved every second of it.

You’re so pure, so sweet, so filthy for him. Not a single complaint. No hesitation.

Glutes soft and flushed from the heat of his palms. Inner thighs slicked with oil. Breathing shallow and shaky. And his favorite part, your slit tucked between trembling legs, glistening with more than just oil.

He shifts again, subtly dragging his cock against the edge of the massage table. Hard, throbbing, and unforgiving.

“You’re responding really well,” he murmurs, the heel of his palms pushing into your inner thighs enough to part you only so he can see more.

And you’re going insane.

His hands on your thighs, voice in your ear. Every pass of his palms leaving your nerves sparking, and it’s taking everything in you not to freely moan when his knuckles drag just too close.

When your legs twitch again, of course he notices. “Don’t worry. You’re doing great. Just let me take care of you.”

But then his sinful thumbs sweep higher. Still outside, not touching where you need him most. But close. So, so close. And you can’t help the gasp escaping you.

And that’s when he finally brushes his fingers along your folds, light, feather-soft, as if he’s checking something.

Your whole body jerks. His voice lowers a few octaves.

“You’re soaked.”

A beat of silence.

“Want me to keep going?”

Again, you nod.

“Words, sweetheart.

You swallow, face burning and contorting where it’s nestled in the headrest. “Yes… please.”

“Good girl,” his chuckle is low and so smug.

You’re so responsive for him, every time his fingers tease your slick little slit, your thighs tremble like they’re fighting not to squeeze shut.

You don’t even realize the slightest rock of your hips, silently begging for more like you’re chasing his fingers.

He palms your ass again, spreading you open as he traces a single digit up and down. Folds puffy and hot, dripping onto the table, clit twitching like it knows what’s coming.

“You said this was your first massage, right?” he says, dragging a single finger deeper between your folds. “But you’re begging for attention.”

Then his thumb gently presses against your clit, unmoving but giving you the pressure you oh so desperately needed.

“Think you might’ve been made for this.”

You can’t breathe, can’t think. All you know is his hands. The way they press into you, spreading your arousal and oil around as if it’s a divine ritual. The way his thumb circles your clit painstakingly slow, so patient.

You mewl, too far gone to be ashamed.

“Want the full package?” his question come velvet-smooth.

You blink, dazed. “…The what?”

His thumb pressed in just a little harder, your body tensing. “Y’know, the extra. Let me take care of everything.”

“Y-yeah…” your voice is barely audible, but it’s all he needs.

He smiles, the thick curl of anticipation mixing with the burning incense in the air, winding your spine as he murmurs your new nickname again:

“Good girl.”

It’s like this was always going to happen. Like he’s done this a hundred times before and you were just next in line, all dripping wet and none the wiser.

Then he’s palming you again, hands oiled with a fresh squirt as both hands slide over your skin. It’d be professional if it wasn’t for the way his thumbs spread you once again.

It’d be professional didn’t brush directly over your soaked folds, a low growl he lets out, low and restrained when he sees your cunt pulse for him.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging two fingers through your slick.

Then he dips two fingers inside you, slow and filthy as he immediately curls them right into that soft spot between your ridges that has you gasping into the table padding.

“God, you’re tight. Gonna have to open you up first, yeah?”

It’s as if it’s still part of the massage.

He fucks you slow with his fingers, his free hand moving to move ‘round and ‘round against your clit with his thumb. And fuck, he’s too skilled. Every filthy, wet stroke of his fingers has you whimpering, any semblance of professionalism lost by the sound of your whispers.

“So responsive,” he mutters almost to himself. “You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

Then-

Smack.

Your body jolts, a sharp sting across your ass, the crack echoing through the room.

“Mm,” he hums, smoothing the reddened spot of his handprint like he’s checking the quality of his own work. “Pretty thing makes such pretty sounds.”

Another smack. You gasp.

“Flip over for me.”

His tone is easy, casual like he’s asking you to flip a page in a magazine. Your legs move before you, body fully glistening with oil and anticipation.

His face looks almost desperate. Sweat at his temples, white lashes fluttering over hooded eyes at burn. His lips are parted, flushed, bitten like he's been holding back from devouring you whole.

He's no longer the calm masseur from before, but a man on the edge of losing it.

Every inch of him thrumming with want, you can see it in the way his jaw flexes, the slight tremble in his fingers at his sides. His gaze drops between your legs, staying there like he's starving.

He wants this, wants you just as badly. Maybe worse.

And he sees you. Laid out like an offering, tits soft and heaving, thighs glistening, cunt spread and twitching, begging for his attention.

He lets out a low, heavy breath. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then his hands are tracing down your thighs, hooking under your knees just to bring them to your chest.

And he goes in, no teasing or warning, just his hands spreading you wide, full mouth-to-pussy action.

His tongue slides over your clit like he’s starving. Moaning into you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. It’s filthy, loud, wet, feral.

He laps at you like he wants to crawl into your skin and live there. His lips lock around your clit, tongue flicking fast and relentless, fingers digging into you.

Your hips buck instinctively. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers clutching his silvery strands as your legs twitch, toes curl.

He loves it. The desperate little grind of your hips, the wrecked moan slipping from your throat, the way you push his face impossibly deeper.

So he doubles down, dragging his tongue lower and fucking it into your hole with lewd precision, then pulls back just to suck at your clit like it’ll grant him immortality.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans, lost in a daze himself. “Sweet little thing, gonna cum all over my mouth, huh? So fucking wet. Bet you’ve been thinking about this.”

He flattens his tongue, grinding it against your clit, and you cry out, entire body jerking, thighs clenching around his head. But he doesn’t stop, if anything only groans, grinding his hips into the table like he’s getting off just on your taste.

You’re soaked. Senseless. A carnal desire to soak his face in your arousal.

And when you gasp his name, fingers tugging at his locks, body trembling-

“That’s it,” he purrs. “Cum for me, baby.”

You shatter. Completely. Fully. Back arching from the table, breath punched from your lungs, cunt clenching so hard around nothing it’s fucking cruel. He just stays there, tongue flicking, dragging out every last pulse of your orgasm until your legs go numb.

Your thighs are trembling around him, your cunt a swollen, slick mess, still twitching with aftershocks. You’re still moaning, fucked-out and blissed as he presses kisses to your inner thigh.

Fuck. He thinks you look perfect like this. Made to be ruined for him.

And he’s done being patient.

So he stands, unzipping his pants. His cock springs free, red, leaking, painfully hard. And shit, he’s big. A slight upward curve, a thick vein running along his thick, long length.

“Up,” he says, voice coaxing like he’s asking you to breathe.

Your legs wobble as you push yourself off the table, only for his hands to grip your waist and bend you right back over it. Your bare chest pressed to the cushiony surface, cheek against the towel.

“There you go,” he drags the thick head of his throbbing cock through your folds, smearing your slick across your lower lips and on his tip until it could drip off. “Gotta get all that tension out, yeah? Let me work those knots a little deeper.”

You walked in here all shy and tense, even spending twenty minutes willing yourself to open your car door. New client, first massage, all stiff shoulders and tight posture. Said your job had you aching. Said you needed relief.

And the first time he saw you, big eyes, nervous smile, a little stutter from your lips when he first touched your shoulders.

He knew exactly what you needed.

“First massage,” he breathes, lining his tip to your entrance.

Then he pushed in. Deep.

You choke on a moan. He’s so thick, splitting you open inch by inch, your walls struggling and stretching to take him. His hands dig into your waist, still warm with oil, just holding you savoring the moment he finally sinks all the way in.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “That’s it- just like that- you were made for this.”

He pulls back, only until just the tip lay past your entrance, before slamming back in. And you jerk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the table.

Each stroke rocks through your spine. Your tits drag against the table, mouth hanging open, drool smearing the table. Your mind’s a blur, just the sound of skin slapping, Gojo’s breathy moans, and the obscene, wet noise of him slamming into you over and over and over.

“Say thank you,” he almost growls, snapping his hips up so deep your toes curl. “Say it.”

“T-thank you,” you gasp, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

Then, smack. A sharp slap to your ass, and you whine.

“For what?”

“F-fucking me- oh my god- for fucking me-”

“No,” he pants, rutting into you harder now, cock hitting that sweet spot so perfect it could make you squeal. “Say it right. Thank you for relieving my stress.”

“Thank you-” you cry out, broken and shaking. “Thank you for- mmh- relieving my stress.”

He leans over you, his hardened chest against your back, cock still pistoning in your soaked cunt. His mouth finds your neck, tongue dragging across your bare skin before he bites. Sucks. Marks you.

Another hickey. Then another.

You’re completely gone, every thrust having your eyes fluttering, your moans shameless, drool coating your lower face. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing his thick length more than you already were, clenching with every thrust, every filthy word.

His hips stutter, balls tightening as he pounds you into the table.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Gonna cum- fuck- gonna cum all over this pretty back.”

And he does. One last brutal thrust and he pulls out, cock twitching before spilling across your lower back in hot, thick ropes, painting your skin in streaks of white.

He watches it drip down your spine, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and still twitching from how hard you just milked him for all he’s worth.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, leaning down to admire his work. “You really were stressed, huh?”

Then he drags a hand up your spine, wiping his fingers through the mess he made, rubbing it into your skin like a filthy seal.

The air is thick with heat, sex, and you. His hand rubs sensual circles into your back.

“You good, sweetheart?” he brushes the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

You nod, dazed, wrecked, legs still trembling. He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost startles you.

“First kiss,” he whispers against your lips.

Then he straightens, grabbing a warm towel from the side table. His hands are gentle as they wipe you down, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on obscene. He helps you stand straight, pressing another kiss to your temple, his big hands careful and supportive.

“So…” he starts, tapping his lip. “Same time next week?”

You can only stare, flushed and panting.

“No charge, obviously,” he adds, giving you a wink. “I’m invested in your health now.”

Of course you’re coming back. With a dick like that? With a mouth like that? You’d be stupid not to.

You shake your head, trying not to smile.

“Take your time, I’ll be outside.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

You sigh, dragging yourself over to the side table on shaky legs, slowly redressing like your soul wasn’t just rearranged. You grab your clothes, pulling your bra back on, then your shirt, then-

Your panties.

Your panties?

You check under the table. Beside it. In the towel pile.

Your brows shoot up, a slow, disbelieving laugh escapes your lips.

That smug thieving bastard.

He took them, slipping them into his pocket. You shake your head as you pull on your pants, cheeks still flushed, heart returning to a normal rate.

Oh yeah, you’re definitely coming back.

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