#s. gojo brainworms

[deltamel]

Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes. 

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks. 

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent. 

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy. 

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh. 

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste. 

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.” 

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight. 

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin. 

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

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© deltamel '25 — do not plagiarise, modify, translate, or repost my work onto any platform.

[deltamel]

and if i say i want the reverse? gojo sat on my strap, practically vibrating in the effort to muffle the whines he wants to release?? face a bright, incriminating red and hands clutching the fabric of his kimono as he tries to form a response when someone asks if he’s listening??? what then??????

Clan head!Gojo

[hinamie]

realizing how much i like drawing him a million years too late :<

[boxeom]

"One More"

Contains: Gojo Satoru/gn!reader, cw. suggestive, kissing turned making out, Gojo being a needy mf, just my thoughts thinking.

[Message From The Boxe]: Shout out to the gc but especially my girl, @/textmel8r (if you don't read everything she's made, I'll find you), for the fuel by saying "Gojo's the type of mf to say "one more"" and encouraging my brainworms!

-Boxe In the Box

One word; eager. Satoru kisses you in a vast amount of ways depending on how he's feeling, yes, but every one never fails to be so eager and passionate that it nearly makes you dizzy. Just before he has to leave, he's grabbing your waist and dragging you over to him with a big grin (he doesn't really care about what you were doing beforehand) as you wrap your arms around his neck. Satoru presses his lips to yours and you can feel him smiling against you- can taste the faintest hint of his way too sugary morning coffee.

You'll never doubt that Satoru wants you simply because every time he kisses you, it's like he thinks it's the last. An innocent peck or two is immediate followed up by a soft but cheeky "one more". And, of course, you indulge him. The kisses start to get a little longer, a little more deeper. You can't say no to those eyes even if you tried (and you have tried). He's holding you right against him- his hands start to wander (as does his mind), he's starting to get worked up the second you brush your tongue along his bottom lip. Satoru slowly walks you backwards until your back meets the nearest wall and the air is immediately shifting. You know you're stuck the second Satoru's pressing your body right against yours and slips a strong thigh between your legs. He's getting more hurried, more desperate as his tongue is immediately meeting yours like the only way he can get oxygen to his brain is by stealing all of your own.

You're realizing how hot your face is getting, how uncomfortable your clothes are starting to feel against your skin as the kiss becomes more tongue and teeth than anything else. Your chest feels tight and you have to breathe soon or you might actually faint. Fingers having tangled into in his hair at some point, you manage to tug Satoru's head back just enough to let you both gasp for much needed air and it has Satoru groaning in confliction. The two of you are panting into the other's mouth, heavy gazes and dilated pupils never breaking.

"S-Satoru," you breathe (and he bites his bottom lip when you say his name), "you can't be late to another meeting..."

Satoru's face is flushed and his ears are red- he practically looks drunk. You're not even sure if he heard you. His hand grips your thigh and hitches it around his waist, the both of you simultaneously moan or whine when the action gives some much needed friction. His lips descend on the slope of your neck as he grabs your ass and encourages the roll of your hips against his. You inwardly sigh. You know what's coming next and you know that you won't say no. Satoru kisses a heated path up your neck before giving one last press to the bottom of your ear, whispering;

"Just one more."

[tommybaholland]

jjk boys + most to least likely to hump/fake bang their s/o

featuring: yuji itadori, megumi fushiguro, satoru gojo, kento nanami, aoi todo, toge inumaki, yuta okkotsu, junpei yoshino, and toji fushiguro

most 

todo

-> you already know this man is ready to fake bang anytime anywhere. he’ll do it in public sometimes too, like when you’re waiting in line for something and he’ll hold you very close from behind to rub himself up against your (or his) favorite asset

gojo

-> he is definitely the type to see you doing something mundane like brushing your teeth or washing dishes and will just grab your hips, hump a few times, and then leave like nothing happened

toji

-> he would rather real bang you, but he’ll settle for holding your hips down as you lay on top, straddling him, while he grinds his hips from below 

itadori

-> he’s a bit of a mix between gojo and aoi: mischievous but a little less horny. he’s more so into touching your butt when you’re alone together but he’s not complaining if you push your backside into him while he spoons you

inumaki

-> he did it as a joke one (1) time when you were bending over to grab something and he decided to hump you from behind. now it’s not so much a joke anymore.. 

junpei

-> he’s quiet and shy but he hasn’t seen heaven until he accidentally brushes up against you while trying to spoon you in bed. it’s an oddly pleasureful sensation so he does it again and again and again and again and again until :o

nanami

-> it’s not in the forefront of his mind but he doesn’t mind a little dry humping here and there. he especially likes when you’re sitting in his lap and you happen to wiggle around a bit to get comfortable...gets him every time

yuta

-> he really tries to be the most respectful he can to you and doesn’t want you to feel any pressure to do anything :’) but if you ask him if it’s okay, he’ll give it a try for you

megumi

-> not into it and doesn’t understand the appeal, which is typical for his boring self (aoi wrote this)

least

it’s wild card night! put all your brainworms here..

for more writing and nsfw extras, join me on patreon!

[deltamel]

SHUT UP!

🏮 sub!gojo x dom!reader 🏮 strapping mr super annoying (read: pathetic) six eyes

Just thinking about how Gojo is, simply put, really annoying…

How even when you’re both fucking he just won’t shut up. Poking and prodding you with taunts as you ride him, that you’re going too slow or too fast, that he’s in a rush and doesn’t have all day or that he isn’t looking to make a new olympic record for the fastest round. Even when you gag him, his own blindfold shoved messily into his mouth, it’s like he speaks with his hands. Pushing and pulling you every which way—forcing your hips to move under his strong grip or tugging your head down and baring his neck in the hopes you’ll get the message to bite at the skin there.

Satoru maintains his flurry of babbling words and annoyingly insistent hands every single time—without fail. Desperate, you’ve tried anything you could think of to knock him down a few pegs; he’s been gagged and bound and hit and degraded. But nothing seems to disrupt the banter he likes to keep up even when the timing is totally inappropriate. He never seems to care—even enjoys it, you’d venture. A cheeky, arrogant smirk gracing his face whenever he sees you getting frustrated at him—your barbed, exasperated words only encouraging him.

That is, until you tried strapping him.

He kept up his stream of antagonising remarks through you kissing him and forcing him to lay back onto the bed, through bending his legs as you move to kneel between them. All up until your curious fingers began prodding at him, smoothing over his entrance. Satoru protests, moving to sit up and laughing awkwardly to try and regain the upper hand.

Relax. Trust me.

The breath catches in his chest when you first sink a finger into him, feeling along his walls curiously. An addicting red flush spilling over his cheeks and down his chest. And by the time you’ve got three fingers inside him, squelching noisily and scissoring when you thrust in, he’s keening under you. Hands scrabbling for purchase on the soft bedsheets below him and head tipping back to whine in embarrassment. No trace of the annoying sorcerer you’ve become so intimately acquainted with to be found.

And god, when you raise yourself up on your knees, drizzling lube onto your strap and stroking along the length—it’s like he’s gone mute. So entirely enraptured as he watches your fingers spread the sticky liquid, throat bobbing nervously.

The only sound you hear from him when you press into him, forcing him to take inch by inch of you until you’re snug against the back of his thighs, is Satoru whining, a breathy oh fuck that tangles in a high-pitched moan. It’s like he’s been possessed—or maybe you have, determined to hear more as you pull out before snapping back in, hard. Listening to how the air is punched out of him.

And as you fuck into him, your pace punishing in every right—elated at this newfound silence after suffering for so long—he writhes under you. Utterly gone. His face red and splotchy, with tears clumping at his lash line that spill over on a particularly rough thrust. A slurring string of keening, desperate noises drip from his lips, only interrupted as you force him up the bed when you rut into him.

Satoru’s ah ah ah devolving into fuuu-nghh when you hit his prostrate, slamming into it without remorse. His abdomen quivering and back arching, lips red and swollen with how he’s biting them. And when you balance yourself, reaching a hand to roughly fist his dick in time with your hips, he sobs, voice jumping as he comes—release painting his stomach and tears streaming down his temples, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

You grip his waist firmly, digging your fingers in as you help him ride it out so that he may be left with a bruise. A reminder tomorrow—of how you quite literally fucked Satoru’s snarky words right out of him.

[deltamel]

—Heart in a headlock

💌 mel is thinkin’ ‘bout…

edging satoru in front of a mirror and forcing him to watch as he unravels at the seams a/n: figured i should finally post this drabble started and abandoned in october. title insp. headlock by imogen heap.

Satoru was eager, at first—as someone who is egotistical to a fault. He heard the words sex and mirror and jumped at the chance to force you to watch how you'd crumble while he pounds into you. He was so eager in fact that he insisted on carrying out your request right then and there. Hell, you both have a day off from teaching at Tokyo Tech, and he felt himself stirring in his trousers as soon as you walked over to him with that plotting, mischievous look in your eyes, so why not?

This is all to say that Satoru is flustered when you guide him to rest back against your chest, snaking an arm around to grab his jaw—twisting his head so that you can kiss him over his shoulder.

This isn’t how he wanted it to go.

You kiss him breathless, your fingers digging into his jaw to reprimand him when Satoru presses his face forward, trying to take the reigns. And your hands creep under his cotton t-shirt, pushing up the fabric and bunching it at his collarbone. Calculating fingers rove his chest, nails leaving pink lines in their wake. He groans into your mouth, back arching in surprise as though he can’t decide whether to strain towards or away from your touch.

When you hook your legs over his and spread apart your thighs, Satoru hisses in displeasure at the stretch of his legs being prised even further open. Tangling one hand into your hair, he sinks into the kiss to distract himself, the other finding home in a desperate clutch around your wrist.

Breaking the kiss, you force his face forwards to meet his own dazed eyes in the reflection, fingers holding each side of his jaw tightly. Satoru flushes a bright red but he isn’t able to tear his eyes away, entranced at his own discomposure and how you leer at the sight. The skin under the pressure of your fingertips is bled of colour.

“Aren’t you pretty, hm?”

He groans, clearly embarrassed and your lips part to reveal a smile that is all teeth. The first pass of your fist on his cock draws a gasp from his lips while he watches the reflection—your thumb swiping at the beading arousal. Leaning forward to bite his earlobe, you drag your teeth down the side of his neck and speed up your hand. Satoru's head tips back onto your shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as he chokes on an overwhelmed moan. Unimpressed, you tighten the fingers on his jaw and force his head up.

“Watch yourself.”

You are unrelenting, and the pace you've set has his hips soon thrusting up to meet your fist. He pulls frantically on the hand entwined in your hair—presumably wanting to come with your mouth on his. How sweet.

Leaning forward to prop your chin on his shoulder, you shake your head and watch as he pouts in the mirror before you—spit-soaked lips trembling. And when he babbles ‘m gonna come, gonna come ah— you squeeze your fist at the base of his cock and laugh at his shattered, pleading noise. At the way his thighs tense and his chest heaves; mouth wide open as he fights for breath.

All thoughts of bending you over in front of the mirror—of pressing your face to the glass and watching your pleasured gasps fog your reflection—vanish. And all that plagues his mind are your lips and your touch and his aching cock, begging for some relief.

“Please, please, please, please—“

With the brute force he's been carefully keeping a lid on, he breaks out of your hold to meet your gaze, his own wide, watering eyes staring at you imploringly.

"What is it you want?" you ask, voice low.

Satoru doesn't speak—can't seem to bring himself to, and you click your tongue disapprovingly, teasing your nails down his trachea.

"Ah—" he starts, the first strings of a song, and you can feel his throat bob nervously. The notes build up in the air surrounding you. "I want— I want to come."

Deciding to indulge him, you tug his head to face forward again and when you've ensured he's watching himself, you resume moving your hand. The effect is immediate—a high, breathy whine catches in his throat and it tapers off into a delicious gasp.

“Oh fuck— ah, ngh, please, please can I— oh, nghhh—“

It should be embarrassing, frankly, how quickly he’s at that edge again. Large, warm palms grasping at whatever part of you they can reach and thighs that spasm under your own. You know the signs all too well—enough to deny him once more, pulling your hand off entirely this time to watch how his dick twitches pathetically against his stomach.

What? You never said you'd indulge him right away...

The facade of the sorcerer crumbling under your touch is addicting and you want to drag it out like a bad habit you never intend on giving up. Satoru's eyes dart to meet yours in the mirror before they quickly turn away, fixing his attention on an unremarkable corner of the room.

"Why're you acting shy, baby?" you croon. "I know you like this."

He shivers as your words crawl over him, and he shakes his head petulantly, refusing to meet your eyes as he mumbles.

"No I don't."

"You don't, huh?"

Your fingers brush up the length of his cock, your index circling the head lightly. His breath jumps but his voice is firmer than it was before.

"No."

Nodding once, you lean away from where you'd been plastered against his back and remove your hands, leaving only your legs draped over his as a point of contact. Satoru sways back towards you subtly and you smile, unsure if he's even conscious of the movement.

"I should stop then," you sigh, running the non-sticky hand back through your tangled hair, pushing it away from your face. "If you don't like it, of course."

Relaxing against the chaise longue that you're both seated on, your eyes are trained to Satoru's face in the mirror. Flickers of conflicting emotions, warring for control, flash across it. You splay your fingers out in front of your face, turning your hand over to inspect your nails as you wait. Satoru's eyes follow the movement with poorly-veiled interest.

The sound of him clearing his throat some measured moments later gets your attention, and you glance up. Satoru's heavy hands grasp your knees, fingers flexing anxiously, before they slide up your thighs. He leans back, slowly, ever so slowly. Until he's laid atop you, where you've relaxed against the velvet back of the chair.

A corner of your mouth itches to twitch upwards. The weight of the too-tall, dense-muscle-packed sorcerer is just this side of too much, but you don't protest. Especially not when he tilts his head to the side, coasting his gaze up to yours with a face that is so utterly repentant.

"I'm sorry, darling," he breathes.

You lean forward to brush your nose against his cheek, dragging it up until your lips mark the same spot. He sighs under you. Relief.

Lips part and your teeth bite the skin.

"I know you are," you say against him.

Satoru groans. The pink mark on his cheek bleeds into a flush you worry could be permanent, for how persistent it has been in its presence tonight. You let your face hang just above his own.

"I wish I could say it mattered."

[mistytwooo]

Oh this is fire. Havnt had a good anime read in a while.

Big Man, Little Dignity

── MEMORISED ALL YOUR LINES, FANTASISE YOUR DEMISE. satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through tokyo tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you. word count. 5.5k

CONTENT. MDNI. fem!dom!reader, manipulative!sub!gojo, (brief mention of reader having a cunt but otherwise no description), bratty sub gojo, manipulation, foot humping, degradation, light choking, no prior discussion of kinks or aftercare, toxic dynamic, existing relationship, friends with benefits, pwp

MEL'S NOTE: what began as a character study of manipulative!gojo devolved into sentencing him to come in the most deliciously humiliating way. title insp. is the namesake song by paramore. a massive thank you to my gorgeous beta @nyxomniax (nyx's ao3) <3

“I really don’t like your attitude.”

Although attitude is a crude euphemism—Satoru’s sharp gaze seems to penetrate even through his blindfold. If looks could kill, as the saying goes. 

You sigh. Tonight was supposed to be a taunt, a challenge, a plea—all rolled into one tight, conniving quip that would snake its way around Satoru until the tips of his ears turned red where he knelt before you. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, at how your words roll off him, as though they’ve physically hit his Limitless and have slowed to the point of non-existence.

“Well,” he starts, petulant. “I really don’t like how long this is taking.”

You scoff, crossing one leg over the other as you lean further back into the cracked leather of the sofa you're sitting on. It creaks beneath you in protest.

“So how about we skip to the good part?” Satoru grins widely at you, utterly unashamed even as your eyes dip down to the hard outline tenting his uniform slacks. 

You’re bored, you realise. Uninterested in acting out the same scene and reciting the same worn, tired script to a man who, to your knowledge, couldn’t give less of a shit if you were completely mute as you let him rut into you.

It is… strange.

Months of hushed, sweaty hook-ups flash through your mind, like some kind of slideshow that should be playing all of your favourite memories before you die. These are anything but; they’re a twisted amalgamation of simmering anger and bestial grunting way too close to your ear to be enjoyable.

Why had you let it get this far? Spin this far out of control?

“Oh sure, I have all day,” Satoru says, his voice laden with sarcasm. “Absolutely no rush whatsoever. Take your time, even!”

You press your lips together, unimpressed.

Shame burns through you like you are no more than bone-dry tinder unfortunate enough to be in its path. You wanted to lead tonight, to set the pace—and you believed forcing him to kneel at your feet and feeding him the command to behave would be sufficient. That he may finally take the bait. Naturally, you seem to have asked too much, and you’re utterly lost as to how you’ve deluded yourself into such a fictional image of him. One that is flushed and moaning and writhing beneath you. One that would beg you for more.

He’d never.

Satoru is more likely to strip naked and stroll through Tokyo Tech like he owns the place—to risk a fine for public fucking indecency—than to submit, mind and body, to you.

“Now, I may look the picture of youth, but if I’m sat on my knees any longer, we may have an issue when I finally fuck you.” He laughs, presumably imagining himself as a hobbled-sorcerer or something equally inane, hell-bent on clumsily thrusting into you. “And we can’t have that, can we? How will I satisfy that greedy cunt of yours?”

It’s an unconscious impulse as you kick hard at the centre of his chest, anger flaring at the hit to your own ego, only to be rebounded by Satoru’s Limitless. You never stood a chance.

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you snap. “I’ve never met anyone who loves the sound of their own voice as much as you do.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tuts, admonishment smeared over his face. “Ask nicely.”

Breathing out through your mouth, you try to summon the patience that seems to be rapidly eluding you the more Satoru talks.

“‘Ask nicely’,” you repeat blandly.

“Yep,” he says, emphasising the pop of the p at the end.

“Like how I ‘asked nicely’ for you to behave?”

“I wouldn’t say you ‘asked nicely’...” he trails off, looking askance as though he’s working hard to recall the memory from only five minutes prior. “More like demanded and expected that I, bearer of the Six Eyes, would obey.”

“Huh,” you tilt your head, “that’s funny. I’m pretty sure you’ve been demanding to fuck me.”

Satoru rolls his eyes, heaving a labouring sigh, as though you’d told him that his favourite coffee shop—the quaint, crumbling building a few blocks away from the school run by an elderly couple, that you’re near positive Satoru only frequents because he can bat his lashes and they will give him free coffee—has run out of the sugary atrocity he usually drinks.

“Did you miss,” he waves his arms down his body, presenting himself, “the bearer of the Six Eyes part of my sentence? That was pretty integral info.”

Wishing you were surprised at the lack of gravity he’s giving the situation doesn’t come easily. He’s always been like this, since as long as you’ve known him anyway; years of dropping ill-timed jokes and unbothered banter in the face of national threats and almost always imminent death. It’s illogical. And above that, it’s quite frankly insane. So why would you be the exception to his whims? Why would he afford you real concern when it proves no benefit to him? You could tear at those towering walls surrounding him, brick by brick, until your bare hands are broken and bloody and unrecognisable, yet there’d hardly be a dent big enough to warrant his attention.

Before you have a chance at spitting back any lacklustre rebuttal, he speaks over you.

“So let’s cut whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. Honestly. What are you trying to achieve with me down here and you up— wait.” He perks up, likely seeing you anew from behind his blindfold as he rambles. “Was this all an elaborate plot to get me to eat you out? Because baby, I do not have to be on my knees to have you on yours. Why didn’t you ask sooner?”

You launch forward, sinking a hand deep into his unpigmented hair—allowing yourself only a split-second of astonishment that he allowed you to make contact with the real him, not his Limitless—before yanking him forward to unbalance him. That’s all it takes. One slip-up, intentional or not, and you use the momentum to force his face down into the floor between your feet, pressing his cheek against the rough grain of the wood. The connecting thunk is the most satisfying sound you’ve heard from Satoru all evening.

Against the dark wood below him, Satoru’s alabaster skin is downright ghostly. Stark and obvious in every way that Satoru is himself. It’s fitting, really. You savour the colour rushing to his cheeks, the strands of hair fallen over his blindfold, the blood welling in his lip where he must have bitten himself on impact. You want to taste it. To draw more than just blood from his lips.

The bounds of his Limitless do not protect him from himself, you think. How ironic.

Satoru’s chest stutters where he’s bent over awkwardly, still kneeling. His hands are trapped underneath him like he meant to stop his fall. You know he could have. So why didn’t he? And why is he letting you hold him down, making no effort to brush your hand from his hair or sit up as you watch him try to regulate his breathing?

Hell, he’s not even said a word. Quiet as a field mouse where he’s pressed down between your heeled shoes.

“You want to eat me out?” you murmur, leaning over your lap to study the side of his face in interest.

Satoru exhales sharply, and at first you think you might finally have him snared—a hunter’s high when the bullet rings loud and sharp in the air, the elation when their prey drops to the ground like a stone. But then he angles his head further to the side, twisting as though to catch your eye through the blindfold, and he smiles.

Smiles.

A scoff bursts from your throat before you can help it—an ugly sound, perfectly complementary to the resentful look smudged across your face.

Well.

You tried, at least. But it’s beyond clear that Satoru Gojo is a lost cause—a fool’s errand—and you are no such thing, not for him. No matter how much you desire to see his pale skin painted with deep red want as he pleads for your touch, pent-up and desperate, an orgasm withheld tenfold until he’s panting and whining, bucking his hips up to knock his dick uselessly against your leg—how he would tip his head back, baring the smooth, unmarked column of his neck for your teeth to sink into and… god.

Your imagination is painting cruel washes of colour over the pallid picture before you, and you bite your lip in frustration, yearning for some kind of restraint to resist being his fool. Shifting his knees slightly, Satoru hums thoughtfully and shatters the illusion your mind has conjured. The sound fills you with dread. Nothing good comes from his premeditated words.

“I’m not sure anymore…” he trails off. Does he sound breathless? No—he can’t, right? No. You’re the one who wants this. He’s just messing with you. “You’re being kind of mean to me.”

And now he’s pouting. The revered six-eyed sorcerer is pouting against the floorboards. You tighten your fingers in his hair, relishing how it makes him hiss at the sharp pricks of pain. Again you wonder, why hasn’t he put his Limitless back up?

The harsh treatment doesn't, however, stop him from barrelling forward.

“I have feelings you know! I’m not some sex doll you can push around however you like—although you’d probably love that, thinking about it now… you know, I can probably find a guy for you. I’m talking someone real shady. Under-the-table type of deals. All I have to do is put up one ad on Craigslist—’hot single in urgent need of a man who won’t talk back’—and the offers will come swarming in. It’ll be uncomfortable, but for you…” he laughs. “Just for you, I’ll bite the bullet if you’ll consider shelving this stunt indefinitely!”

His mouth is moving a thousand miles a minute, like it’s replaced his heart and is running to keep him alive. To pump the very blood around his body. You know he has it. Blood, that is. Your eyes flicker to the beads of it that are shifting on his lips as he speaks, hardly taking a breath between each sentence.

“Satoru,” you say, interrupting him impatiently. “Please shut the fuck up.”

He grins, all teeth. There’s a smear of red on them.

You stare down at him. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Satoru breathes through the ugly smile. “Probably. That would explain why I’m still hard, even with a psycho bending me over.”

You can’t even wipe the indignant expression from your face if you try, because your brain latches onto the fact that Satoru is still hard, and runs with it despite your protests. You try to form some kind of barb, a cruel insult at least—but you’re fighting a losing, bloody battle of the highest dishonour with yourself. You know every offensive and defensive move in your arsenal, and so you are defeated, your traitorous brain attempting once more to make the man underneath you submit.

“I’m the psycho?” you prompt.

He hums, his cheek still against the floorboards. You wonder if you’d be able to feel the reverberations of it under the soles of your feet were you not wearing heels.

“Huh, maybe you’re right,” you say, levelling your eyebrows and veiling the trepidation buzzing behind your features. “Hands behind your back.”

Your words are plain, and you hold your breath as he mulls over the request. His fingers flexing and flagging on the floorboards where his hands are tucked beneath his torso.

Please.

One of his hands moves to brace himself on the floor and you can feel the heat pulse in your core, expectant and hopeful, only to be slaughtered as easily as a curse in the face of his boundless power when he slowly pushes himself upright. He doesn’t dislodge the tight grip you maintain on his hair and you don’t bother trying to keep him pinned. Satoru has evidently decided he’s done with your little display of dominance and you can’t overpower him. Even if you wish fervently to have the ability to do so.

“I’m good, actually,” he says. Matter-of-factly and in a tone so chipper you want to strangle him just to hear his words wobble and break from the sure path they’re on. “But thank you.”

The flush you can feel creeping up your cheeks is humiliating, degrading you impossibly further when Satoru simply watches you. His face is an expressionless mask. Frustration wraps itself around you, coiling until you can’t breathe and you use your hold in his hair to shove him. Your palm forces his head to the side like it may give you a reprieve, but when you hand drops, his head simply swings back to face you a moment later. Bright eyes stare at you impassively, as though he’s watching a bug crawling by his stupid, shiny shoes. Too small to care about. Not worth the effort to catch, nor kill.

“Fuck you,” you say. But there is no anger in it, not anymore. You’re deflated, and the level tone you try to uphold barely masks the hurt you feel trembling through your words.

You’ve been a fool, after all.

Months spent convincing yourself 'one day’, while deluding yourself over scenarios that could never be—because you’re, well… you’re you, and Gojo Satoru is the Six Eyes. You’ve been kicking up circles of dust running from that very notion since the first time you slept with him.

“Come on,” he broaches, voice light as he shifts back to sit on his haunches more comfortably. “You still going to let me hit?”

You are nothing to him. You know that now—the ember is glowing bright and burning through you, sacrificial in every right—and you will only be saved if you are cleansed of Satoru.

“I’m done,” you mumble, eyes shifting to drink in the Tokyo skyline from your apartment. Thousands of minuscule lights flicker, each a person tangled in their cobweb of life as insignificant as your own. “I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

It’s ironic, really, that now seems to be the moment you’ve finally stunned Satoru. His mouth opens but no quick quip or joking response comes forth. He closes it again. You can see it in your periphery—the blinking lights call your name as you let your gaze drift over each building, every life, and the sun dipping slowly behind them.

“Hey,” he starts, voice guarded. “I thought this was all part of our give and take.”

An apology? No. An excuse? Hardly.

Of course he wouldn’t debase himself with atonement; you aren’t worth that. In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever heard Satoru apologise to anyone—not when he decimates acres of land fighting a curse, nor when he bumps into someone and knocks the coffee they held from their hand. Perhaps this should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. You inhale a deep breath.

“You take and take and take. There is no give with you— no—” you pause, eyes flitting over to Satoru but not lingering long enough to examine his expression before they drift back to the sunset. “I have nothing left to offer. You have wrung me dry.”

You don’t expect an immediate response. After all, when have you ever rejected his advances? When have you before had the courage to sever those threads trapping you both together? He may have a silver-tongue, but that does not mean he cannot falter.

“Okay.”

…okay?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you drag your attention to the man kneeling before you.

“Okay,” he repeats. “You want me to give or you leave.”

His tone is blunt, no trace of a question to be found where it should be. He’s got it wrong—as though reading the lines of your reaction backwards. Has Satoru ever tried to understand you?

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you say tiredly. “We’re done.”

We’re done.

You’ve never referred to what was going on between you and Satoru as we, and even as it rolls off your tongue, it feels strange; like an ill-fitting sheet with its seams stretched beyond repair just so that it may barely clutch onto the mattress. It feels fraudulent. But the words have been spoken and you cannot swallow them back.

“I can give.” Satoru implores, his large hands rest on his thighs, painting the very picture of composure.

“I don’t want what you offer.”

I want your submission.

You can’t say it, even now. Even with this goodbye between you forming the perfect stage for one last hurrah—an act he won’t forget. That he may even care about.

It won’t matter, you remind yourself.

The silence branches between you, pushing you further and further and further from Satoru with each passing second.

He won’t reply.

You have been his fool, through and through—played the part well enough one might think you’d been bred for such a role. Perhaps you do not want him to reply, because if he speaks, if he pushes, you don’t know what you will do—for better or worse. So, bringing your hands to the sofa underneath your thighs, you tense and begin to push yourself to stand—to leave—when Satoru moves all at once. Clumsy and disorganised in a way you’ve never seen from him before. Urgent in a way he never is. You pause.

Satoru shuffles forward on his knees, closer and closer, until he’s a hair’s breadth from your crossed legs. The peculiar twist of his mouth has your gut swooping, a foreboding feeling rising within you at the serious expression. The distrust must be plain across your face, but when you open your mouth to protest, he leans forward. Cautious, like the possibility of you striking him is a real one—like he wouldn’t just block you with his Limitless—and gently, he places his chin on your crossed knee.

You freeze, and the breath you were inhaling lodges in your throat.

A long, slender finger hooks under one side of his blindfold and lifts the corner up to reveal a wide, beseeching eye staring up at you. Your own widen in response. You’ve never seen him look like this before. He looks…

Harmless. Almost innocent. 

And then, as if you’re not preoccupied worrying over whether in the time you were looking out the window, Satoru had been somehow possessed, he speaks.

“This is what you want, right?” His voice is so soft. “You want control.”

He’s demented. There’s no other explanation. Not as to why he’s kneeling in front of you like an entirely different person. Not as to why his tone and his stupidly big eyes have heat rushing to meet you like it never left. How does he know? All this time you believed him to be oblivious, he’s—

You have underestimated him. Again. He knew.

“You want me to beg,” he continues, his eye glued to yours. “To ask to touch you. To come.”

The leather sofa creaks underneath your fingers, where they curl nervously into the material.

“I…” you trail off, unsure as to what you’re even trying to say—what you even want to say.

The heat from his chin is leaching through your trousers, penetrating the layer of fabric and you fear it may scald your skin, marring it permanently. You can smell his cologne. He doesn’t let you breathe before uprooting your entire world—destroying the threads woven through you both that have kept you safe, that have kept him happy. 

“Please,” he breathes. Breathes, not whines, because if Satoru Gojo just propped his chin on your knee, looked up at you with his pleading, blue eyes, and whined, you really would be convinced he’d been possessed.

The wave of heat that washes over you is so filthy you barely have the forethought to worry if Satoru can feel it radiating from you as you screw your eyes shut against it. Against his exposed eye and its analysing stare.

“Please.”

You choke on a sound at the back of your throat, scrabbling to keep it inside you. To not allow him to stoke the burgeoning fire threatening to engulf you. The smoke is thick and blinding. Why it has taken you near leaving for him to play along with a desire he’s clearly known about for god only knows how long baffles you.

You can’t think straight.

It’s like any semblance of logical, rational thought has fled you to safer grounds, abandoning you to deal with the consequences of your desires alone as though it’s what you deserve. Perhaps you do. Wanting to grind Satoru, a man who holds Six Eyes and the most powerful sorcerer the Earth has ever encountered, into mere dust beneath your heel cannot possibly be normal.

Gradually, as unassuming as the approaching tide, a sick curiosity calls out: would he let you? The urge to answer that question commandeers your mind, screaming and hollering for attention that you can’t help but grant it because… what if he does? Months of yearning for this very scenario are ploughing through your defences like they are no more than reeds swaying in a breeze. Is Satoru offering you a chance for the control you have been desperate for? What if this is it? Your one and only opportunity. A test.

Take the leap or never know.

Perhaps by permitting yourself to finally release the perverted desire—that which has simmered higher and higher each time you slept together—you may develop an addiction with no prospect of your next fix. But the screaming is reaching its peak—loud and distracting and you can’t think around the blaring curiosity to taste it regardless; to ruin your palette once and for all; to at least know. So you open your eyes again and unclench one of your fists from the leather sofa, raising it slowly, cautiously, to cup the side of his face and stroke your thumb over his cheekbone. Only then do you look into his eye.

“Okay,” you say, voice soft. Re-emboldened, you test the boundaries again. “Are you going to behave?”

Satoru leans his weight into your hand, so lightly you may not have noticed if your world hadn’t narrowed down to the sorcerer before you. He swallows before he speaks.

“Yes,” he breathes, shifting on his knees and pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before he lets it pop back out, slick and shiny with his spit. You can feel your heart thundering like a brewing storm in your chest. “I’ll behave for you.”

A switch has flipped. Satory hasn’t been this agreeable in any of the long years you’ve suffered his acquaintance, and you feel lightheaded knowing you may be the first person to see him like this. You nod, trying to disguise the way you shiver at the realisation.

“Hands behind your back.”

The blindfold slips back over his eye when he lets go of it, and you would mourn the loss of eye contact if not for how he immediately obeys. The pliancy sends you reeling. You want to see. Are his hands clenched? Relaxed? Fidgeting? But you stay. The novelty of your situation isn’t lost on you—the things you want to do to him are so great in number that it’s overwhelming. You’ve had practice, however; you’ve imagined Satoru like this enough times you may well have thought through every possibility as to how this night could go. You don’t hesitate.

“Good.”

He swallows.

Feeling suspicious would probably be a smart idea, one that would prepare you for the rug he may pull out from under your feet. Because the possibility that his actions are a means to an end or a new opportunity to laugh in your face before he flips you over and ploughs into you—like his submission was a mere hallucination—is real. But you can’t quite bring yourself to commit to the feeling for more than a few seconds before there’s an itch under your skin telling you to touch. Your other hand joins to cup his face, and you tilt his head away from your knee until his throat is entirely bared. His blindfolded eyes study the drab ceiling above you both.

“So pretty,” you mumble, eyes tracing the long line of his pale neck.

You want to lean forward and bite, but the night is young. There will be time. You do not have to rush something so precious. You must savour this like a woman on death row with her final meal.

Satoru’s mouth drops open slightly, baring his teeth, and you can see his chest rising and falling fast. Intrigued to test a hypothesis you’ve held close to your heart for months, you dip your thumbs down below his jaw and dig them into the soft skin there. He releases a breathy sort of ‘hah’ at the sensation, shifting again on his knees. You press harder, the skin turning white beneath your thumbs. His pulse is pounding, but it’s not enough—you want to hear him. Releasing the pressure, you study the irritated pink that frames two deep nail marks on either edge of his jaw.

Ever so slowly, your palms cup his nape and you drag your thumb nails down either side of his windpipe, hard enough to leave two trailing scratch marks. Satoru muffles a surprised noise that tapers off when your thumbs come to rest at the base of his throat, your hands collaring him.

Squeezing your hands against the base of his throat, you listen to how his breath chokes off at the pressure. The tip of his ears begin to redden as you hold his breath between two states. His mouth drops open further, desperate. You let go and listen to how he heaves in a deep breath before releasing it, controlled in an attempt to level his breathing. To keep the spots dotting his vision at bay. You can see the tears clumping at his lash line—a response no one can control in the face of being choked—but fuck, the power rush you feel as you study the tears threatening to spill over is hedonistic.

Slipping your fingers back up the sides of his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, you hook your thumbs underneath his blindfold and tug it off, dropping it on the ground by your feet. He doesn’t protest, eyes fluttering open. Leaning back in your chair, you sever the contact between you. After a few seconds, he drops his head down and looks at you, making a confused sound in the back of his throat.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Is his voice hoarse, or is that your imagination?

No.

His voice is hoarse—rough with a desire you’ve instilled into him.

You quirk an eyebrow and Satoru flushes in response, eyes darting around where you sit. Wordlessly, you uncross your legs, stretching one out until your foot rests against his thigh.

“You don’t want something…” You drag the toe of your shoe up the inseam of his slacks, voice low. “More?”

“I…” Satoru swallows. “Yes.”

Lifting your foot, you press the point of your heel into the meat of his thigh, hard enough you’re sure the pressure must be uncomfortable. He doesn’t do more than clench his jaw. Your lips purse and you nod silently, content to wait.

The lull stretches between you, thick and sticky like sap gathering at the wound of a tree.

“Uhm,” he starts warily, “please?”

The corner of your lip twitches.

“Can you touch me?” he asks, voice firmer now at your reaction. “Please?”

Satoru sighs in relief when you remove your heel from his thigh, but the calm is quickly shattered when your leg extends further, the ball of your heeled-foot coming to rest on his cock as you press gently against it.

“Ow,” he gasps, but he doesn’t sound very pained at all. In fact, the red flush creeping across his nose bridge is all-too incriminating. You smile.

Running your fingers through your hair, you push it back from your face before straightening your barely-wrinkled clothes, steadfastly focusing your attention on anything but the man in front of you. It doesn’t take long for Satoru to squirm, and you only increase the pressure of your foot in response. He makes a strangled noise through his clenched jaw.

“I don’t know what you’re waiting for,” you say, tapping your nails on your thigh impatiently.

Satoru’s bright eyes flick between your own curiously. When you don’t say anything further, he lifts his hips into your foot slowly, watching you. A breath escapes him at the pressure. His eyebrows scrunch up in concentration and he reaches out a big hand to wrap around the back of your calf, forcing your foot forward as he begins to gently roll his hips. You let him—the effort is not yours to expend.

“Surely you can do better than this?” you ask when he continues his cautious, slow thrusts, voice bored.

He huffs, eyes flitting up to meet yours before focusing back on where the bright lacquer of your heel meets his dark slacks, and the arousal slowly bleeding through. The hand clutching your calf is uncomfortably warm, yet the tightening fingers and low moans on every thrust command your attention.

“To think that I’ve let you fuck me,” you say through a sigh. 

Satoru bristles beneath you but the stutter of his hips gives him away. These cruel words you spill are a means of catharsis, months of bitterness rotted down to pure acidity—never would you have guessed he’d enjoy the taste. 

“This is as humiliating for you as it is for me, Satoru.” 

You’re lying—of course you’re lying. You would wear Satoru’s humiliation like a second skin if such a scientific feat were possible; something so intrinsically tied to your body it may never be taken from you. Satoru huffs a strained laugh, feigning indifference as though it could fool you.

“I’d hope— it is—” he says between pants.

Leaning further back on the chair, you spread your other leg, tracking how Satoru’s other hand is curled tight into a fist atop his thigh. Blood pools in his cheeks, infecting his face like a virus he can’t fight. 

“Bearer of the Six Eyes,” you drawl, letting the words hang in the air between his pants before you continue, “humping my foot like a dog.”

“Haah— shut— up—” he spits between each sticky press of his crotch against your shoe, fingers digging into your calf painfully in punishment.

It’s filthy—the way his thighs strain in his slacks as he moves; the way his baby hairs stick to his forehead; the way Satoru bites his lip to contain his noises.

“Why have you resisted this for so long?”

Satoru doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to acknowledge that you’ve asked him a question and your ego bruises. He’s too caught up in the chase of his high to bear you a second thought. You dig your foot into his cock cruelly.

Ignore me now.

“Oh fuck—” he gasps, his movements stuttering underneath you. “Ah— you’re— mean—”

You take in his reaction, humming. A moment passes before you deign to reply.

“I’m being mean?” you pout. “You seem to be enjoying it, though.”

Satoru moans aloud, harsh and tortured. You dig your foot in again just to hear his voice catch in his throat. The pace of his hips is frantic now, and he uncurls his fist, splaying it out on the wooden floor behind him so that he can roll into your foot faster, harder. Satoru’s head tips back at the new angle and he pants, open-mouthed, into the air. Barely-there moans escape on every exhale. You watch with fascination.

“You’re close, huh?” you tease, all-too pleased when Satoru nods his head rapidly.

“Yes— ah— yes.” His voice is thin and torn. Glassy eyes watch you carefully when he tips his head back down and you hum in recognition.

“I want you to say ‘thank you’ when you come.”

Satoru’s eyes flare wide, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, the roll of his hips grows unforgiving, his pace quick and punishing as he drives himself to the edge he’s so desperate for—the one that you’ve granted him. Enraptured, you increase the pressure on his cock, trapping it harder against his pelvis. Satoru groans as he ruts against your foot. The trembling wracking his body worsens, and he squeezes his eyes shut when his back bows towards you.

“Thank you,” he keens, mouth dropping open as he comes, hips still quietly rolling against your foot as he rides it out. “Thank you, thank you, haah— thank you, oh— thank—”

Leaning forward, you press your finger into his open mouth and pet it across his tongue to quiet him. His eyes flutter open to take in your dangerous grin. 

Satoru is finally human like this. Mortal, even. Skin flushed and damp. Breaths coming short and fast. At last, you can reach him. Hooking your finger into his cheek, you drag him closer before he has a chance to calm, until you can feel the warmth of his feverish-panting on your chin.

“You’re welcome, Satoru.”

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