uhhkims

[uhhkims]

getting fucked by both zhongli and neuvilette, who have something to prove to you and themselves. sucking idlly on neuvilette's cock as zhongli rams you from behind, and you're not sure if you're even cumming anymore, stuffed to the brim and put on display for the men who'd been vying for your affection. zhongli is rough, rougher than neuvillette— his millennia of experience gives him an edge. but neuvilette is softer, more tender with his touch, and the push and pull threw you over the edge a long time ago. you're so far gone, your moans are the only thing you register.

originally posted dec 30 2024.

[uhhkims]

y'all went a lil feral for satosugu fucking each other while thinking of you so i made you a lil smth

@muli-wam you asked to be tagged <33

“Fuck.��� Satoru hisses, fingers curling into the mattress beneath him as Suguru pushes inside again, thick and hot and relentless. It hurts, but he likes it that way. He’s desperate to feel something sharp tonight, something to distract from the empty space in the bed where you’re supposed to be.

He needs Suguru to fill it, to fill him until there’s nothing left to miss.

Suguru groans above him and digs his fingers into the sharp lines of Satoru’s hips.

“God, you’re tight tonight.” Suguru murmurs roughly, leaning forward to bite along the edge of Satoru’s shoulder blade, trailing up to the base of his neck. Satoru shudders and arches beneath him, pushing his hips back sharply to force Suguru deeper.

“You– ahh–  thinking about her too?” Satoru challenges breathlessly, turning his face so his flushed cheek presses into damp sheets.

His eyes are hooded, pupils blown wide, blue irises gleaming sharply in the dim room. He already knows the answer, it's obvious in the way Suguru fucks him like he’s angry. As if they both weren’t already drowning in thoughts of you.

Suguru’s hips snap forward, his next thrust hard enough to punch the breath out of Satoru’s lungs, cock driving deep and harsh, exactly what Satoru wants, sharp, biting, delicious pain laced with pleasure.

“You already know I am.” Suguru growls, mouth trailing up Satoru’s neck, teeth scraping along flushed skin. “Every fucking second.”

The images of you fills both their minds.

The way you looked last week in those little shorts that showed the curve of your ass when you leaned over the backseat of Suguru’s car. The gloss on your lips as you teased Satoru over lunch, that smug little smirk when you noticed him hard under the table. The sounds you make when you moan, about your thighs clenched around Satoru’s head while he digs into your cunt.

It’s driving them fucking feral.

“Wish she was here.” Satoru pants hoarsely, sweat shining down his spine. “Fuck–fuck–  wanna fuck her while you fuck me.”

Suguru’s grip is bruising-tight on Satoru’s hips as he pounds into him deeper. He’s lost all grace tonight, hips slamming forward with primal hunger.

“She’d love it.” Suguru groans. His voice is a dark purr, as if whispering directly into your ear, even though you’re miles away. “She’d sit there on her knees and take it, watching you shake and beg for me.”

The image burns hot behind their eyelids. They know exactly how you’d look between them, your head thrown back, spit-slick mouth swollen, eyes hazy and full of greedy lust.

“Shit, Suguru.” Satoru’s voice cracks, the sound beautifully wrecked.

He’s unravelling fast beneath the force of Suguru’s thrusts, the way each snap of his hips slams white-hot pleasure deep into him. Suguru can feel Satoru's legs trembling, thighs slick with sweat as he tries desperately to keep upright.

Suguru’s palm drags roughly up Satoru’s spine, fingers sliding into the damp hair at the nape of his neck and gripping tight. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

“Please– fuck, please.”

“Not yet.” Suguru rasps. His hand slides around, fingers closing teasingly around Satoru’s throat, pressing lightly. “You wait til I tell you.”

Satoru whimpers brokenly, hips bucking back helplessly. He’s dripping, aching for relief.

Suguru knows this but denies him anyway, makes him suffer beautifully as he drags their shared fantasy deeper.

“You want her so bad it hurts, don’t you, Satoru?” Suguru whispers huskily into the shell of his ear, the harsh slap of their skin echoing obscenely around them. “You miss her pussy wrapped around you, squeezing tight? You wanna see how desperate she’d get watching you beg beneath me?”

“Yes– god, yes–” Satoru moans shamelessly, eyes squeezed shut as he imagines your legs spread, your slick dripping down your inner thighs as you touch yourself watching them. He imagines your flushed face, the way you’d grind against your own fingers, needy and frustrated, dying to join.

Suguru fucks into Satoru brutally, the rhythm slipping into something wild and animalistic. He bites down on the tense muscles of Satoru’s shoulder, and Satoru cries out in sharp pleasure-pain, hips jerking helplessly beneath him.

“Fuuuuck.” Suguru groans thickly, voice strained with effort. “Need her right here, watching me take you apart. Fucking herself watching me ruin you.”

“Yeah–” Satoru sobs breathlessly, lost entirely. He’s so close he can feel himself trembling, hips stuttering weakly as Suguru’s cock drives relentlessly into that perfect spot deep inside him. “God, Suguru, please–”

He can hear the smirk in Suguru’s voice, arrogant and filthy.

“You think she’s touching herself right now too?” Suguru pants hotly against Satoru’s neck. “Thinking of us like this?”

“Yes– fuck, please let me–”

Suguru’s hand finally wraps around Satoru’s cock, strokes hard, once, twice, three times. “Then come.”

Satoru shatters instantly, crying out shamelessly into the mattress, hips bucking wildly as pleasure hits him hard enough to leave him shaking. He spills over Suguru’s fist, hot ropes of cum splattering over sticky fingers, vision flashing white as his whole body goes tight and shaking beneath Suguru’s weight.

Suguru fucks him through every last shudder, chasing his own release with violent, desperate thrusts, growling your name into Satoru’s skin like a prayer, until his hips jerk forward sharply and he comes deep inside with a guttural moan.

They collapse onto tangled sheets, both panting harshly, sweat slicking their exhausted bodies.

For a long while, the room is silent except for their harsh breathing, both dazed by the intensity of what just transpired.

Eventually, Suguru’s fingers brush gentle patterns along Satoru’s hip. And for a long moment, all they do is breathe.

Then Suguru asks, “We’re calling her tomorrow, right?”

“Tomorrow?” Satoru mutters, lifting his head. “I’m calling her now.”

[uhhkims]

Hope They Catch Us - G.S.

Synopsis. When you’re on-screen, it’s always a rivalry to see who’s best - you just never thought that it would be the same struggle in bed.

Pairing. Actor! Gojo Satoru x Co-Star! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rivals-to-lovers, co-stars to lovers, unprotected, oral (fem receiving) slight exhíbitionism (stuff with cameras), marking, praise, Satoru is actually down BAD, cúmplay, tabloids, lowkey fluffy at the end, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k

A/N. YA GIRL IS BACKKKK ;D Also happy belated three months to this blog hehehe.

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Enemies of The Century or Publicity Stunt? Recent Cast Outings Sets Fans Speculating!

---

You hated him. Oh, how you hated him. All because of a red-hot rivalry that had sparked ever since the two of you took the industry by storm. And everyone from Hollywood’s bigshots to your adoring fans knew that no matter where Gojo Satoru goes, you were sure to never be within a ten-mile radius. 

Well, usually. 

“I…shit- I’m in love with you.” 

Because avoiding Gojo like a plague really isn’t saying much when said plague was currently sitting right next to you. Eyes boring into yours, signature smirk plastered on his face while he rattles off a disgustingly sweet confession - all on the set of your latest movie. 

Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, your co-star. 

And to add insult to injury, this wasn’t just any movie - it was only set to be the biggest romance film of the summer. So not only did you hate to tolerate Gojo, you had to pretend to be in love with him. 

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. If only the check wasn’t as tempting as it was, you think he would’ve successfully driven you to an aneurysm already. Especially considering that the scene tomorrow was-

“CUT!” 

That snaps you out of your little reverie, bringing you back to the still very ongoing film shooting. You risk a glance at the disgruntled director, cheeks aching from the sappy fake smile you had to hold for this scene.

“Something wrong?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. You knew exactly what was wrong. And one look at Gojo - dressed to the nines and huffing sulkily at being interrupted in the middle of his monologue - told you that he did as well.

“It just doesn’t feel real.” The director shuffles his script, voice dropping to a sigh at your confused gazes. “The spark, it doesn't feel real.”

“What?” you silently thank your years of acting for keeping your voice steady. You squirm in your seat the longer the silence stretches. This cozy little café they rented out too tight, Gojo’s fingers intertwined with yours too hot. Too soft. 

“C’mon. You are in the perfect romantic set-up.” the other man gestures wearily at the café, at the dim-lighting and the proximity of your seats. “So why do you two look like you want to just- strangle each other?”

“Ooo kinky~”

It’s the first time Gojo’s spoken up since the scene was ended early and honestly that was enough to have you fulfilling the director’s suspicions. 

“That.” you give him a pointed stare. “That is probably why.”

And that just draws out such an infuriatingly light chuckle from Gojo, as he sprawls all over his chair with the audacity of someone that owned this entire set. “Lighten up. You’ve told us, n’ in the next take I’ll fix it. Easy peasy.”

If only it was that “easy peasy”. The director was anything but satisfied, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s not just me, even the public is worried whether your ‘feud’ will get in the way of such intimate scenes. You-” he jabs a finger your way. “-better pretend like you want to kiss him senseless and you-” whirling now to Gojo. “-better act like you’ve wanted nothing more for years- Not to mention tomorrow’s sex scene-”

Ah, right. The sex scene. 

How could you forget? It might not be a walk in the park to giggle and make heart-eyes at Gojo, but to actually pretend to have sex with him? All on camera? Curse whoever wrote this damn script. You could’ve almost laughed at the universe’s absolutely awful sense of humor if it hadn’t been for your paycheck - and the next words that tumble out of Gojo’s pretty mouth. 

“We’ll ace it, you just watch.” 

You hurriedly snap your eyes to meet Gojo’s, sending him a look that says “behave”, in a way that very much makes him not want to. Twinkling with such dangerous mischief that makes your stomach flip as he hums, “Or- I’ll ace it.”

God, was it a battle to remain professional. The only thing stopping you from snapping back being the way he squeezes your hand mockingly reassuringly - to which you send him a death grip back, of course. 

“Oh? Care to elaborate, Mr. Gojo?” the director asks, eyes flitting between the two of you. And you can’t even laugh at the rest of the staff for almost toppling out of their seats in an attempt to hear his answer - because you are, too. Mind whirling as you lean closer, wondering just what nonsense would come out of Gojo’s mouth. 

“Well, you could say…” he trails off suspensefully, like the smug bastard he is. Looking right in your eyes as he flashes an unfairly pretty smile your way. “I’m irresistible like that.”

Exactly the type of nonsense that would come out of Gojo Satoru, of course. And one glance at the director told you he was thinking the same thing. He was going to be the death of you. You can’t help but breathe out shrilly, “You fucking-”

“My apologies, director, but our leads have a scheduled interview soon. Rest assured, we will be early on set for filming tomorrow.”

You were definitely giving Nanami a raise after this. 

Because if looks could kill then Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on his grace already - and you let him know. A little over twenty times, actually, as the both of you are hastily escorted away from the set for an “emergency interview”. 

It was a flimsy excuse, you both knew, but Nanami hadn’t exactly felt like cleaning up a crime scene today. Instead, settling for a swift escape, the director calling out after you two to “Look like you’re gonna rip the clothes off each other tomorrow.”

Rip the clothes off each other, huh?

With the way things were going, you couldn’t be surprised if you ripped him a new-

“C’mon, sweetheart~” Gojo gets out through giggles, that familiar cackle echoing in the narrow hallway leading to your trailer. “Y’know I was just having a little fun with that ol’ man.”

He saunters unhurriedly behind your brisk pace, easily blocking the way you swing the door shut in his face. Letting it shut with such infuriatingly smooth nonchalance. 

“Fun?” you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger right in the middle of his sculpted chest.“Do you even realize the mess you could’ve made?”

“Easy there, m’not insured for these pecs just yet.” Gojo clasps your hands together. Some strange little part of your skin burning at the touch in- anger? Something else? But you don’t think too hard about it, because he’s plowing on, “Besides, a little teasing never hurt anyone.”

Such a shame he was so pretty with the stupidest mouth.

“A little teasing? You practically declared to everyone in that room that we’re gonna fuck this up.” you move to pull him down by the collar instead, clearly unimpressed.

But oh you shouldn’t have done that - because he’s so close now. Too close. Hot breath fanning your face, looking so smug as he murmurs unrepentantly, “Do you?” Chuckling lightly at your little head tilt, “Do you think we’ll fuck it up?”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep it all together. “...No.”

“Exactly. We’re good then.” he winks. 

“No. We’re not fucking ‘good’.” you grit out. Wondering exactly how difficult it might be to bother the director into completely recasting the male lead for the movie. Looking up at that million dollar smile and- yeah, it would be very difficult. “You’re so insufferable. I don’t know why they cast you.” 

“My good looks? My charisma? The way I’m the-” he trails off with a sigh at your glare. “Well, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine, sweetheart.”

“At least I can act and-.”

He whines dramatically, cutting off your rant. “Me too!” 

This conversation was so ridiculous - but, hey, the great Gojo Satoru always did bring out the worst parts of you. 

“Nuh uh.” 

“Yuh uh.” 

“Then why are you so stiff when acting like you’re in love with me?”

Somehow, that makes Gojo shut up. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - gasping out a strangled little, “B-because- well-” And if you didn’t know any better you’d say that was a light blush dusting his ears.

Only for a split-second, though, because he’s grabbing you gently by your shoulders, more seriously than you’d ever seen him. “Fine. Listen, we both want the same thing right? To have pretend-sex and ace this film to win like five Oscars?”

And maybe at the heat of his newfound proximity, maybe at the way he was looking at you so goddamn intensely - you feel something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach. Swallowing thickly, you manage to get out, “I’ll be the one winning the Oscars...but yes.”

Gojo’s gaze roams all over you - from the quirk of your eyebrow to the dress hugging you so sinfully tight. “Then we’ll do it. Ace the scene.”

Traitorously, a shiver runs down your spine. And because the universe loves to play jokes on you, Gojo notices - of course, he does. Eyes lighting up with amusement and something you really didn’t want to decipher as you blink up questioningly, “How?”

“Method acting, silly.” he rolls his eyes, as if he wasn’t implying something that wasn’t seen in even the cheesiest of romcoms. “Think of it as running lines.”

If there was ever a moment where your life flashed behind your eyes then this just might be it. 

“You-” you gulp, so hot all over. “You better shut the fuck up and pray your face is insured because-”

At this, Gojo throws his head back and laughs - loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say about keeping his voice down so as not to let anyone outside hear, but shit you were mesmerized. Damn, a weird little part of you kind of understood why directors loved him onscreen. 

“Feisty,” he muses. “But how can I shut the fuck up when they’re second-guessing the two best actors in the game?” 

“The best? Me, maybe.” you lean in closer, mouth as bitchy as ever - even when you’re so obviously crumbling bit by bit under his gaze. And he knew that. “But not you.”

“Well, only way to find out is with tomorrow’s scene, right, sweetheart?” 

He drove you mad - everything from his heady cologne, to the way that overpriced button-up clung to him like second skin. But, don’t pull away - how could you? Not when he inches closer ever-so-slightly. Not when he lets those overpriced glasses slide down his nose, eyes locked so heavily on you.

Fighting to keep your words steady, “There’s nothing special about that scene, just fake moan in front of the camera, right? We don’t need any…‘method acting’.”

Gojo only raises a brow in amusement, lips curling into a grin that really makes you too aware of his little dimple by the corner. “Then why…” His eyes flicker down from his hands, searing on your shoulders, to yours - still grabbing his collar, just grazing the soft skin of his neck. Not pulling away. “...can’t you let go of me, sweetheart?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you, you really don’t give a fuck. The only thing running through your mind being that shit this was Gojo bane-of-your-existence Satoru, and he tasted so…sweet. Like those cheap lollipops he often snuck on-set. Strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because suddenly he’s pulling away mere millimeters. Whispering hotly, absolutely dripping with something dangerous, “Sooo, is that a ‘yes’ to running lines?”

“Ugh, shut up.” your lips ghost his. “And just fucking kiss me.”

And, well, Gojo doesn’t have to be asked twice. Because it only takes a split second for his lips to find yours again. 

Yeah, definitely strawberry lollipops.

You hadn’t filmed any of the kissing scenes just yet, but damn you didn’t expect him to be so hot and messy - like he was drunk off of you. Licking at the seam of your candied lips, groaning softly like he wanted more more more-

“Sh-shit, Goj-” 

“Call me ‘Satoru’ when we’re fucking.” he cuts you off. “Or, my bad. When we’re ‘running lines’.” 

Shameless. Though, you guess you weren’t any better - not as you press yourself closer running your hands all over his sinfully thin shirt, feeling every bump and curve of his abs. “You talk too much, Toru.” you hiss, muffled against his lips. 

Oh that cute lil’ nickname had all the blood rushing to Satoru’s cock, you were so unfair. 

“You little minx.” Like a little punishment, he’s biting down on your bottom lip, tugging lightly at your surprised squeal. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Hmm, I doubt it.”

And then your back is hitting the couch before you can react, bouncing lightly at the sheer force. And you’re so swept up in him - the way he hovers over you, arms looping around your waist, his knee wedging between your legs - that it almost hurts for you to pull away.

“Patience.” you huff out a laugh at Satoru’s disappointed whine, eyeing those pretty pink lips mere inches away from you. You just wanted them on yours. So badly. But no, there was something more important you had to do right now. “Jus’ thought we should record our little rehearsal, whaddaya think?”

“Record it?”

“Record it.”

“Record it, hmmm?” he’s whispering, more to himself than you. Fumbling with the zipper of your dress. “So you’re sayin’ we tape it, let the camera see how pretty you look all fallin’ apart f’me.” Kissing down your neck, letting the flimsy fabric fall down, “N’ then we improve for the pretend sex. Shut all those snobby directors up by giving them the best fucking sex scene they’ve ever seen.”

“Y-yes?” you mutter, as he starts tweaking your hardened nipples through your bra, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Unless-”

“Fine by me.”

The fabric hits the floor before you even realize what’s happening. Head spinning too much from the idea of being fucked on camera - by Satoru of all people, it takes you a second to realize that this bastard fucking ripped your dress off. 

“You probably broke-” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” muffled, as he kisses down your navel, blindly fumbling with his phone. 

“It was expensive.”

With an impatient sigh, Satoru sets the camera up on the coffee table beside the couch. “Five new ones.” Angling it just right to perfectly capture you - in all your disheveled, horny glory, and Satoru, smugly seating himself between your thighs. 

“Ready?” he asks, finger hovering over that damn red button.

Well, it’s just for rehearsal, right? Right? 

“Do it.” you manage to get out, voice getting stuck in your throat at the faint ding! that rings throughout the heady room. “For my Oscars?”

“For my Oscars. N’the camera’s gonna know.”

And whatever retort on the tip of your tongue dies when he rocks his hip against yours, grinding his cock against your soaked panties. Rock-hard and so damp with precum already - so big that any and all rational thinking flies out the window.

Which is probably why you’re letting out such a pretty gasp, ‘S-Satoru, I want-“

“What?” And Satoru only flashes you a devilish grin, hands spreading your legs as far as they’d go on the couch. “This?”

He licks a long, long stripe up your inner thigh, all the way till he just meets the hem of your drenched panties. Teasing. So hot and depraved in the way he breathes in your scent. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.” Satoru grunts, looking down in awe at the damp fabric, so flimsy and see-through with your sweet juices. You slick beading through so sloppily, just a hint of the state you were in. “You don’t know how you drive me mad.”

Rip! 

He’s so fucking starved that he’s just tearing your poor panties clean off. Throwing them behind him to God-knows-where before spreading your swollen folds with his thumb, showing off just how wet you were for him. 

“You’re a tease.”

“And you’re fucking addictive. Look how fuckin’ wet you are. For who, huh?” he slurs, breath hot against your cunt. Circling your entrance just barely with his fingertip, teasing you like he was addicted to those frustrated moans coming out of your pretty lips. 

“S’for you-” you whine, “All for you, Satoru.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

And that’s all that needs to be said before he’s burying himself nose-deep. Drunk off your pussy as he licks long, languid movements. And it wasn’t enough - never might be, actually, because only one taste and Satoru was like a man possessed. 

Bullying his tongue between your folds, just dipping into your sloppy hole in a way that had your slick smearing all over his pretty face. Letting out such deep groans that had you clenching around his hot tongue. 

Shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut up the great Gojo Satoru then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. Because for one in his life, Satoru’s too entranced with something else to run his mouth, so fucking satisfied between your thighs. 

“Fuck- hah- think I like you better w-when hngh- you’re like this, Toru.” you purr, breath hitching as he bullies his tongue between your folds. 

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius, because that only sets him off more. 

And suddenly Satoru’s pulling your body closer onto his hot mouth, like you were weighless. Pushing himself so impossibly closer while he makes out deeper with your wet cunt. 

“Ah! Hngh- Satoru-” you keen, tugging at his soft locks. As delirious as Satoru was pussydrunk. Drinking in all your cute lil’ whines of his name, angling your hips to lick all over like he couldn’t decide between fucking your sloppy hole or toying with your poor, ravaged clit. 

“Mhm?” he murmurs, the vibrations making you squeal.  Eyes rolling to the back of his head as lets your sweet juices slide down his throat. “Ya like this?” Stretching you out on his tongue, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Over and over- “Like when I tonguefuck your pretty pussy?”

“Ngh- love it- s’good. Ah fillin’ me up s’good.” you squeal, bucking your hips desperately into his pretty face, broken little whimpers leaving you at each rough push of Satoru’s tongue. 

And oh Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind being on his knees every day if it meant he got to taste you like this. “Tell the camera too, sweetheart. Practice how you’ll come around my tongue.”

Those words send a jolt up your spine - or maybe it was the way Satoru was sucking harshly on your clit. “F-fuck off.”

“Mhmmm, n’ this is why I’m the better actor..”

Ugh, this fucker. And with that you fight to turn your head - looking right in the camera. Feeling so fucking lewd as you let out such pornographic moans.

“Yeah- feel s’good.” you whimper, “Wanted this for so long, ever since I first saw- ngh- you-”

And shit were you so fucking evil - at least warn a guy! Because that has Satoru’s heart lurching, almost jumping up from between your legs before it hits him with a pang - ah, right, you were just quoting your character’s lines. Of course.

Well, two can play that game.

“Yeah?” he mutters into your folds. Two fingers plunging knuckle-deep in your pussy, massaging your plushy walls. Roaming around for that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so deliciously. “Can’t believe I waited s’fucking long. Y’know how hard it was to hold back? With you wearing all those slutty skirts f’me?”

Your body is jerking violently, both at his - practiced - words, and the way he was devouring you like you were his favorite meal. His favorite taste.

So eager and in-character with the way he was setting such a dizzying pace on your poor cunt. Slick trailing down from his fingers, all the way to his wrist. So sloppy and- Pressing down. Hard. “Found it.”

And you can only sit there and take it, such cute little whines of Satoru’s name leaving you as he leaves no mercy. Jaw grinding deeper and deeper, maddening. Aching as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over. And you were so-

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Truthfully, he didn’t even have to ask - if the way you were trembling and squeezing so fucking tightly around him was anything to go by. “Go on darling. scream my name. Show off f’the camera like you do best.”

“Sh-shit. Toru- fuck yes-” you’ve got an iron-tight grip on his hair now, pulling and angling him as you pleased for more. Barely able to let out those strained lil’ moans, definitely not with the way he’s dragging your sloppy pussy all over his face. Fingers cramping up from how rough he was going - but still not stopping. 

“Go on. Cum f’me.”

And then you are. Letting out such a teary, strangled moan of Satoru’s name as you cum all over his face. 

And it’s not just for the camera either - because this orgasm is probably the best one you’ve had in a while. So hard that you don’t even realize you’re arching and rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Using him. 

And he doesn’t stop you. Why would he? You were so pretty falling apart all because of him. He wishes he could see this more often…

“S-Satoru.” you mewl, overstimulated. Jolting with each flick of his tongue, trying to close your legs but you can’t - he won’t let you. Greedily lapping up all your sweet juices, everything that you give him. 

“Nope.” he drawls, finally pulling away, delicate strings of your slick snapping as he does. Looking so fucking drunk off of you that it makes your cunt quiver exhaustedly. “C’mon now, sweetheart, you were s’pposed to say my character’s name. S’how the scene goes.”

Oh. Shit, you got too caught up. But one look at Satoru - eyes half-lidded, hair disheveled, your juices glistening all over the bottom half of his face so prettily - tells you he was much the same. 

“Well…” you huff, voice shot. “According to the script you were supposed to stuff that-” pointedly eyeing the achingly hard cock straining his pants, “-in my mouth first before eating me out. So here we are.”

With a chuckle, he rises slowly. “Touché.” Looking you straight in the eyes - and probably into your very soul - as he pops his fingers into his mouth. One by one. Groaning at the taste of your sweet sweet juices while he sucks them clean. “But I don’t think I’d last one second with those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

And it almost makes you want to tease him for it - one of Hollywood’s biggest It Boys but you can’t handle a lil’ blowjob? But all of that gets stuck in your throat as Satoru starts peeling off his shirt ever-so-slowly. 

Shit, you think. All mouthwatering curves and dips, all the way from his toned, milky shoulders down, down, down to those neat tufts of white peeking out from the hem of his underwear. Sculpted like he was handcrafted so meticulously - a fucking masterpiece, you had to admit. 

One that made you wish you took a longer look at all those shirtless magazine covers instead of throwing them out. One that had your thighs squeezing in such anticipation.

And Satoru seemed to be admiring you just the same, eyes locked on your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing - so ready for him. Distinctly aware of how pathetically needy you were being in front of the blinking camera, you crane your head to glance at it. Was it really capturing-

“Now now, first rule is to never look at the camera during this scene.” Only for Satoru to squish your cheeks together, forcing you into an embarrassing little pout as he turns you back to face him. “Look at me.”

And oh you can’t not look at him. 

Especially when he tugs his pants down, just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, so fucking long and pretty. Smearing glossy precum all over his abs, flushed your favorite shade of pink, rock-hard and so so angry. Shit, he was so hard it looked like it hurt. 

“Satoru…” you breathe, legs wrapping around his slutty waist to pull him closer. Only needier despite that little nagging voice wondering how the fuck you’d take his sheer size.

“Sweetheart?”

“I remember he didn’t do a lot of waiting in the script.”

And God were you right - but Satoru doesn’t think he could’ve kept this act of restraint up any longer even if you weren’t. Too impatient, too starved, his sanity dancing away from him with each second his fat cock wasn’t stuffed inside your pretty cunt. 

“Mhm.” he purrs, one hand reaching down to drag his fat head up and down your slit. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the way your lip wobbles in frustration. Up and down up and up and- “You’re right.”

And then it’s like something snaps.

Because it only takes a split-second for Satoru to start splitting you apart on his massive cock. Big fat tears pricking at your eyes at the feeling that he was pushing all the way into your lungs. 

“Sh-shit, s’fuckin’ tight-” he lets out a low grunt at the slight resistance, taking everything in him to not just fuck into your snug pussy and use you like his little plaything. “You gotta hah- relax, pretty girl.”

You needed to relax more - to breathe maybe, just something. You weren’t even in the right state to wonder whether that little nickname was in the script - and God was Satoru thankful for that. Because all you can think of is how you never imagined what the bane of your existence would look with his cock stuffed in your dripping cunt - but now that you’ve seen it, you think you’ll imagine it for many lonely nights to come. 

“Hey, now. Don’t get camera-shy just yet.” Satoru gives your ass a playful smack. “After all, this is only the best- part-”

Each word is punctuated with shallow, mindless little thrust to fit himself inside your dripping pussy. Such cute lil’ whines leaving your swollen lips that he really can’t help but tease you a bit. Leering down at your fucked-out face with a smirk, “Or- my bad. Forgot such a scene would be hard for a rookie.”

Oh, did he know how to press your buttons just right. 

Because immediately, you’re blinking away the delirious haze in your eyes, voice so adorably shaky - but determined - as you grit out, “Bring it on, you B-list wonder.”

That’s all that has to be said before he’s finally bottoming out inside you, mercilessly. Inch by fucking inch. You gasp as his twitching balls smack your ass so lewdly, feeling his veins beat in such a slutty lil’ thump! thump! thump! against your heavenly walls. 

“T-Toru- big- ngh- too fuckin’ big. M’gonna break mpf-” his lips claim yours. Partially because it’s been way too long since he’s kissed your pretty lips, and partially because Satoru might just cum right then and there if he let you run your mouth. 

So he lets his hips do the talking instead. 

Cooing into your mouth at each little ah! ah! ah! every time he stuffed you full of his dick, quick, experimental thrusts to try and find that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so prettily.

“Sounds so beautiful, sweetheart.” rocking his hips faster into yours. So hard you were sure he’d leave marks. “No camera in the world can pick up how fuckin’ perfect ya are. Can’t ngh- pick up those cockdrunk lil’ heart eyes.” Angling your chin just so that your sinful expression is caught on camera, “Shit do ya even know you’re doing those? Might just make me lose it for real tomorrow. Might just make me sneak you off to the dressing rooms n’-” Manicured fingers digging into your hips while he fucks you in jagged, purposeful strokes. Hitting that one spot. Hard. “Fuck you all over again.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he smugly hits that magical spot over and over- 

And it was so sloppy - so filthy with the way Satoru still had remnants of your slick all over his lips, matching the way you were soaking his cock. Fingers moving down to draw erratic little patterns on your clit, making it even messier. 

Close - too close. 

So, so desperate and debauched.

“C’mon. Show the camera. Tell the camera how much you love it.” 

“Ngh- f-fuck you.”

“Oh? Who’s fucking who now?” he’s laughing at your absolutely wrecked state. You can feel Satoru twitch inside you as you mumble out such delirious little praises to the camera - were they coherent sentences? You’ll never know, because the next words that fall from his lips have your mind reeling. 

“God, m’addicted to you, my girl.”

“That’s not- ah- in the script, Toru.” you hiss. Close. 

“I know. And neither is that.” he leaves such uncharacteristically gentle kisses down your neck. Miles away from the relentless place on your poor, abused pussy, fucking you deeper and rougher every time despite already bottoming out. “Does it have to be?”

“Th-that doesn’t ngh- make sense.” you gasp into his open mouth. 

“Doesn’t have to.”

Maybe it’s the way Satoru’s panting those words against your lips. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking right in your eyes while he says them - like it would kill him to pull away. Maybe even that fleeting little kiss he leaves against your lips. 

Because before you know it, you’re cumming and cumming so hard that you wonder whether you’d make it out alive. The only thing you can do is throw your head back and take it, thighs quivering, Satoru’s names spilling from your lips in such broken little whines while he thrusts so sloppy. Once. Twice. 

“Ah- this is gonna have me fallin’, huh?” And then he’s letting out such a low, muffled moan of your name, filling you up with rope after rope of his cum. 

What? 

It’s so messy - his cum overfilling your poor pussy, spilling out and coating his twitching balls. Shit, you can’t even worry about whether it would stain that overpriced couch below you. Not when Satoru’s whispering out sweet- lines from the script?

“Fuckin’ beautiful underneath me. Always was.” Hips still fucking into you - not even thinking at this point. “Always will be. Such a vision onscreen, sweetheart.” So thick and hot, and dribbling all the way down your legs with every movement.

And then Satoru’s lips are finding yours again, tasting so unfairly sweet while he drinks in all your cute breathless gasps. “Such a vision f’me.”

Those weren’t from the script either.

Something soft. Something scary. Something that has you looping your legs tighter around his waist, letting him collapse onto you. Pulling him closer, in fact, because now that you know the weight of his body on yours, it just felt so right.

It takes a moment of silence for you two to catch your breaths, the still rolling camera being the last thing on your minds. Neither willing to speak first, because shit Satoru might’ve gone to countless red carpets and film sets but this - you are what strips him away from all the glamor and fame. Until he was just, well, embarrassingly Satoru.

The Satoru that was now shifting shyly in your arms, trying to get up. “Uh- Hell of a way to run lines, huh? Better check the camera n’ see where to impro-”

He might be one of the biggest actors in modern Hollywood, but Satoru didn’t fool you - not one bit. So without a word, you’re tugging him back to rest against you. Heart lurching just a little bit as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Like a little hideaway - from the camera, from the world, hell, maybe even from you.

“Y’know,” he flinches ever-so-slightly at your teasing tone, giving you a playful bite. “I have one area of suggestion and it might just be that you’re too good at ‘running lines’.”

“...Good enough to win those five Oscars?”

“No.”

“Then guess I better prove it to ya, huh? Is the camera still on, sweetheart?”

Just then, some weird little part of you thinks that, hell, maybe you don’t hate Gojo Satoru after all.

Not anymore, at least. 

---

The Enemies-To-Lovers Trope of The Century?! Hollywood’s Biggest Rivals Sport Matching Hickeys (And Smiles) On-Set of Upcoming Film.

Oops! Gojo Satoru's Phone Wallpaper Accidentally Exposed: Surprise, Surprise It’s His Leading Lady! More on Page 6.

“No Comment. Though, I Have Moved Trailers. Twice.” Anonymous Manager Speaks on Latest Movie Rumors.

Director Is All Smiles As He Raves About Upcoming Romance Movie. “Hell, If I Didn’t Know Any Better I’d Say They Were Really-”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[uhhkims]

A FLEXIBLE BIMBO’S GUIDE TO FINANCIAL RUIN, NAMASTEEE

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. thousand for pilates and your expensive juice while your boyfriend is working his ass off. is it acceptable? obviously not that’s why they’ll help you streeeeech.

warning(s). non-sorcerer, modern AU, reader is a spoiled college brat, age gap relationship (31yo man / 23yo reader), possessive behavior, manhandling, leg-on-shoulder sex position, power play, rough sex, standing sex, impact play (spanking), overstimulation, internal ejaculation / cum leaking, dirty talk, mild degradation, praise kink, pussy drunk characterization, full nelson position, handpinning, wall fucking, orgasm denial, delayed climax, size kink, wet and messy sex, nipple play (biting, sucking), overstretched pu$$y, cumplay, emotionally repressed men snapping sexually, physical restraint (arm pinning, leg holding), reader being folded like a pilates reformer machine, window fucking, public exposure risk (urban apartment), swearing / explicit language, casual misogyny with affection, mental breakdown via dick, all characters are consenting adults.

GOJO SATORU

you don’t even hear the front door slam. too busy lounging on the couch in his hoodie—oversized and smelling like his stupid expensive cologne, with your phone balanced against your knee, legs thrown up like a princess in exile. a cucumber mint smoothie sweating beside you. freshly blended. still cold. probably fourteen dollars.

you hear his footsteps instead. that deliberate, heavy stride of a man who’s either bringing you dinner or about to fuck up your entire life for sport.

you don’t look up.

but you feel it.

that vibration of a presence when gojo satoru walks into the room pissed and amused in equal measure. like he’s caught you stealing gold bars again. like he’s gonna make you beg for the next one. he tosses something. paper. it hits you in the chest and flutters down.

you blink.

“…did you just throw a receipt at me?”

his sunglasses are off. he never wears them at home unless he’s about to deliver bad news in a dramatic monologue. “that’s a pilates receipt,” he says. “for fifty-six thousand yen.” a beat. “for one month.”

you lift your eyes lazily. “that’s the introductory rate.”

his hands come to his hips. god. those fucking hips. “and what exactly are they teaching you in this luxury cult that justifies you spending my hard-earned salary on getting tied to a piece of wood and shoved around like a meat puzzle?”

you lick smoothie off your straw.

“they work my core. build length. alignment. it’s a holistic approach to mobility and flexibility.” he stares at you in silence for a full ten seconds. his nostrils flare. “…you think you’re flexible?” he says at last. you blink slowly. you can feel the grin starting before it curls into your mouth.

“i’ve seen what you do to me,” you say sweetly. “so yes. i think i’m very flexible. you’re lucky i don’t invoice you.”

a second passes. a long one.

then—he’s moving.

fast.

you let out a delighted yelp as he grabs you off the couch, your smoothie flying somewhere behind you like a casualty of war. your legs kick, flail, but his grip is iron. the hoodie rides up to your waist as he tosses you over his shoulder.

“satoru—satoru—”

“shut up,” he says, smacking your ass, “and show me how much i’m paying for.”

the first time he folds you in half, it’s on the kitchen counter.

his hand’s between your shoulders, pressing you flat to the cold marble. your knees are up beside your ears. your panties are gone. his sweats are halfway down his thighs. and his cock—god, his cock—is already inside you, thick and veiny and curved just enough to punch something inside you you’ve never had anyone reach before.

he’s not even moving. just holding you there. impaled.

your calves tremble. your toes curl.

“not bad,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers along your inner thigh. “but these pilates people… do they fold you like this, baby? get your knees touching your fucking shoulders like this?” you try to breathe but there’s no air. just the stretch. the deepness. the weight of him inside you, pulsing.

you nod, eyes fluttering.

“liar,” he breathes, and slams into you.

your scream echoes off tile. his thrusts are punishing. slow. like he’s testing your range of motion. pulling out almost entirely and then pushing back in with a controlled, maddening precision that leaves you shaking.

“look at you. soaking all over my counter. and you have the audacity to use my card for yoga class when you’ve got me right here? i should break your fucking spine.” you whine. moan. shudder. he’s so deep—you feel like you’re going to come just from the position. from how your body is folded under him, stretched wide, vulnerable.

he grabs your ankle. lifts it higher. you nearly scream again.

“god, look at this. baby. you’re literally bent in half. you wanna waste my money? make it worth it.”

round two is on the floor.

your legs are straddling his shoulders. your arms are pinned under his knees. and your entire torso is rolled up like he’s about to pile-drive you through the floorboards. “this one’s called happy baby,” he murmurs, licking your clit slow and messy. “except i don’t think there’s anything holy about what i’m doing to you right now.”

you can’t speak.

your thighs are shaking. your pussy’s swollen, wet, overstimulated from the last orgasm and being edged through two more. he keeps licking. slow and relentless. circling that tender spot just enough to make your stomach curl and twist, like you’re being stretched from the inside out.

“fuck,” he whispers. “your little hole’s fluttering. you gonna come again? just from my tongue?” you try to wiggle, but he tightens his grip. makes a noise against your clit that vibrates through your spine.

you break. completely. shuddering against his mouth, gushing against his chin as you come again, full-body, screaming his name. he groans, hips grinding into the floor, hungry for it. like he gets off just from wrecking you.

by the time he’s finally inside you again, this time from behind, kneeling over you with your arms pulled back into a stretch that arches your chest off the bed—he’s panting.

you’re soaked.

his cock slides in easy. and he just holds you there. hips flush. dick fully buried. sweat dripping down his chest onto your back. “jesus christ,” he groans. “this pussy—this fucking pussy—baby, i think you broke me.”

you make a sound. a weak, ruined whimper.

he chuckles.

softly.

leans down. kisses your shoulder. cheek. presses his chest to your back and rocks into you with slow, loving strokes, fucking you now like he means it. “you win,” he whispers against your ear. “fuck the pilates. i’ll stretch you every morning.”

a pause.

“but i’m charging you for the smoothies now.”

GETO SUGURU

it starts in the kitchen.

you’re wearing that outfit. leggings that cling to your ass like a second skin, high waistband hugging the curve of your hips. cropped tank top, no bra, just the hint of nipple pressing against the fabric like a test of his restraint. hair twisted up messily, neck exposed.

you’re blending something. bright green and expensive-smelling.

he walks in from work and drops his keys with a low clink, and for a moment, it’s quiet.

then, “you’ve been at that place again.”

your spine straightens.

“what place?” you don’t even turn around. voice all air and innocence, like you’ve already decided you’re going to lie through your teeth. “don’t fucking play with me,” he says, tone level, low, a blade unsheathed. “i saw the charge. that pilates studio. twenty-four thousand yen. again.”

you sip. “they added advanced core conditioning.”

“did they add a private fucking chef too? you spent more on smoothies this month than on textbooks.” you don’t flinch. just smirk into the glass. “i’m investing in my longevity.”

and that’s it.

the silence that follows is deep and weighted and final.

because he doesn’t argue when he’s past the point of talking. he acts. the next thing you feel are his hands on your waist, dragging you away from the counter with no warning, smoothie glass thunking to the floor, half-spilled. he spins you, lifts you—lifts you—and slams your back into the cool surface behind. you yelp, arms catching the edge behind you as he shoves his thigh between your legs and presses. hard.

“you want flexibility?” he growls, mouth hot on your jaw. “mobility? deep core engagement?”

his hands grip your thighs and spread them wide, pushing them up and open until you’re practically doing a split across the marble. the stretch burns—but it’s not enough to distract from the thick press of his thigh grinding up against your pussy through the leggings, damp already. “i’ll give you a fucking full-body workout.”

you moan, but it’s cut off when he grabs your jaw—tight—and forces your face toward him. “you think this ass is yours to flaunt on some reformer bed? think they stretch you like i do?” he’s furious. but there’s something underneath it. darker. hotter.

you’re being owned. corrected. and you love it.

“no one touches me,” you gasp.

he snorts. low and sharp. “except when you beg for it.”

he strips you bare in the living room.

throws your top to the floor. tears the leggings down your legs like they offended him. you squirm, bare now, flushed from neck to thigh. he doesn’t even bother undressing fully—just shoves his slacks and boxers down enough to free his cock, hard and thick and already leaking.

“get on the floor,” he says, voice gravel.

you obey.

he grabs your ankle and drags you to him, and it’s not gentle. your skin scrapes on the carpet. your breath hitches. but you’re soaked. he folds your knees to your chest, pushes both legs back until you’re open and exposed and trembling. “you think this position is in your class?” he growls, staring down at your cunt, glistening under the light. “you think they stretch you like this?”

you’re so open you can’t breathe. your thighs tremble from the pressure. your cunt pulses with need.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow at first. just enough to stretch your entrance wide. then he rams forward with no mercy, burying himself to the hilt in a single thrust that punches a sound out of your throat you’ve never made before.

your eyes roll back. your hands claw at the carpet. you’re full, painfully, impossibly full. he’s so deep it aches. “feel that?” he hisses through his teeth, dragging his cock out slow, letting your walls grip every ridge of him. “this is the only stretch that matters.”

he fucks you like a hammer. like he’s working out every ounce of frustration with the way your body folds around him. he bends your legs back until your knees press into your chest and your ass lifts off the ground. your pussy squelches, loud, raw, soaking. the slap of skin on skin echoes in the room.

he leans down, mouth to your ear.

“they stretch your pussy this deep?” he hisses.

“n—no,” you choke.

he grabs your throat—firm, not choking. just holding.

“say it again.”

“no one—no one does but you.”

he kisses you then—rough and filthy, tongue sliding into your mouth like it owns you. he doesn’t stop fucking you even as your moans catch in your throat. he wants it there. to feel it. to taste it. to make it real.

he flips you over onto your stomach without pulling out.

you gasp as your face hits the carpet, and then he’s grinding into you from behind, deeper now, weight heavy over your back, one hand fisted in your hair.

you sob into the floor.

“stay right there,” he growls. “arch your fucking back—good. that’s it. hold it.” he pistons into you from behind, his hand smacking your ass hard, again, again, until it burns. “legs shaking already?” he pants. “you’re such a spoiled little brat. wanna run your mouth, waste my money, act like your pussy isn’t mine.”

he pulls your head back by your hair and bites your neck—hard.

“say it.”

“it’s yours—fuck, suguru—i swear—”

he fucks you even harder.

and when you finally come—shaking, convulsing, sobbing into the carpet with your pussy gripping him like it’ll never let go—he groans, low and guttural, and spills inside you in thick, hot waves. he doesn’t pull out. he stays there. buried. deep. panting.

hours later—your face still mashed against the floor, limbs trembling, thighs bruised—he finally slides out. you feel the slow drip of his cum down your thigh. then his fingers. he pushes it back in with two of them. slow. possessive.

“no more pilates,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-slick hair off your temple. “you want to stretch, baby, you come to me.”

you blink up at him, broken and beaming.

“…can i still get the smoothies?”

he laughs once, low and sharp.

then grabs your ankle again.

“bend over the couch. you’re not done.”

NANAMI KENTO

you should’ve known something was wrong when he texted you at 4:41 p.m.

“i’ll be home by five. don’t go anywhere.”

no emoji. no dot dot dot. just those words. clean and dry like a corporate bullet.

you thought he was bluffing. he doesn’t leave the office early for anything. he eats his lunch standing up and answers emails with a frown so deep it might be surgical. but he walks through the door at 4:58 p.m. briefcase down. tie still on. and he doesn't kiss you. he sets a folded piece of paper on the counter. a receipt. you don’t even need to look at it.

you know what it is.

“you spent sixty-five thousand yen,” he says without looking at you, sliding off his watch. “in one week.” you chew your lip, standing in the kitchen like a caught rabbit in leggings that cling to your ass, sports bra sticking to your chest. “they had a stretch reformer bootcamp this week,” you offer weakly.

his brow twitches.

“that’s what you call it?” he asks, walking toward you, loosening his tie. “bootcamp? to lie on your back while some barely-trained teenager straps you into resistance bands and calls it exercise?”

“they do more than that—”

“i can see what they do. your little videos. those slow leg lifts. the air-humping. the stretching. you think that justifies the bill you sent me?” he’s standing close now. close enough that his cologne—clean cedar, leather, citrus undercut with heat—wraps around you like a noose. you smirk, defiant even as your heartbeat stutters. “i’m flexible now,” you say, voice light. “isn’t that worth something?”

he exhales slowly. closes his eyes.

and when he opens them again—

“strip.”

he doesn't let you undress yourself. he does it for you.

rips the waistband of your leggings down with one brutal tug, dragging them past your knees, your thighs, baring you inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something expensive he owns.

he peels your bra up, off, tossing it behind you with a flick of his wrist.

then his hands are on your hips, firm and possessive. he turns you. pushes your back against the cold wall of the hallway. one palm finds your throat. not choking—just there. heavy. dominant.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low as his other hand slips between your legs. “how flexible?” your breath catches. you’re soaked already. your thighs part on instinct, the pulse of need between them aching and slick. he pushes two fingers in. slow. precise. your body clenches.

his voice is a near-growl.

“pathetic,” he mutters. “you’re dripping just from me undressing you. and you spend my money so some stranger can put your legs in the air?” you moan. try to speak. he curls his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp, then pulls them out and shoves them into your mouth.

“taste it.”

you suck, eyes fluttering.

he grins, slow and mean.

“we’re doing this my way tonight.”

you don’t even understand what’s happening until you’re on the bed, face down, arms yanked back—hard—and your body is suddenly off the mattress. lifted. bent.

“nanami—?”

his hands are under your knees. your arms are over his, bent back. your entire body is suspended in the air, your back arched, your thighs spread wide. his chest is to your back. and you’re held in place by the cage of his arms and the brutal grip of his thighs against yours.

he growls into your neck, “you want flexibility? i’ll show you full extension.”

then he pushes into you.

you scream.

he’s thick. hard. ruthless. your pussy stretches around him so tight you think you might tear. he buries himself to the hilt in a single thrust, cock carving into you like he’s claiming space. you can’t even move. your legs are pinned wide. your arms pulled back. your back arched so deeply that your chest is jutting forward, helpless and trembling.

and he starts to fuck you.

deep. measured. powerful.

his hips slam into your ass with every thrust, every brutal grind of cock against your swollen, aching cunt. your body bounces in his grip, caught, dangling, used. “this what they teach you?” he hisses into your ear. “this angle? this depth? you feel that, baby?”

you sob. nod. can’t speak.

“say it.”

you struggle, mouth open, words choked out with every thrust.

“they—don’t—fuck—me—like—you—do—”

he groans, fucking harder.

“they better not.”

he adjusts his grip, pulling your knees higher. deeper angle. you choke on a scream as he hits something so deep your vision goes white. his mouth is on your shoulder now, teeth dragging over skin, lips slick with sweat and spit and need. he doesn’t stop. not when your pussy spasms around him, clenching like a fist. not when your orgasm crashes into you like a scream trapped inside bone.

he fucks you through it. never slowing. never relenting.

“you want a stretch? i’ll keep you bent like this until your muscles seize.” he groans. pants. and then—he comes. deep inside you. cock pulsing. his hands locked on your body like a cage. he holds you there, suspended, filled.

like a lesson.

after, he lowers you onto the bed like something delicate. ruined. you’re trembling. twitching. your thighs won’t close. his cum leaks out of you in slow, thick drips. his hand brushes your hair back. “next time you want to stretch,” he murmurs, voice rough and dark, “you ask me.”

you nod.

he leans down. kisses your temple. “and if i see one more charge from that place—” his hand slips back between your thighs. “—i’ll fuck you in the lobby.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the door slams behind him with enough force to shake the floorboards.

you’re mid-pose. stretched out over a yoga ball in front of the TV, leggings practically painted onto your ass, some workout influencer with a honeyed voice instructing you to breathe through the sacral engagement.

you turn your head, a smirk curling at your mouth.

“hey, babe—home early?”

toji doesn’t answer. he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and holds something up between two fingers. a receipt. long. curled at the edge. “three sessions in one day?” he asks, voice flat. “you training to be a contortionist now?”

you blink, innocent.

“they had a flexibility workshop.”

“flexibility,” he repeats, stepping forward. “you need them to teach you that?”

you open your mouth to retort—but it dies in your throat when he closes the distance. one hand goes straight to your throat. the other to the back of your head. he grips you—hard—drags you up off the yoga ball, and before you can breathe, he’s got you slammed flat over the kitchen counter. "you think i pay for you to stretch out that tight little pussy in some fancy-ass studio with floor-length mirrors and soy candles? huh?"

your hips writhe, but his hand slaps down hard on your ass.

“answer me.”

“n-no, toji—fuck—i—”

he grabs the waistband of your leggings and rips them. not tugs. not slides. tears. the elastic pops. your panties with them. you’re bare now, bent over the cold counter, pussy slick and already dripping because of course you're soaked from this.

he slides his fingers between your legs. hums.

“so wet just from me walking in. you like getting caught.” you gasp, biting your lip, and he shoves two fingers in. hard. fast. curls them until you cry out. "yeah. that’s what i thought. you fucking brat."

he takes you right there.

no prep. no warning.

one hand between your shoulders, the other pinning your wrists to the counter. he rips his belt open, pulls his cock out—already hard—and thrusts inside in one brutal, merciless motion.

you scream. your body bucks. your eyes roll back.

he’s thick. too big. stretching you wide with no time to adjust. it burns—but god, it’s good.

“this what you wanted?” he growls against your ear. “wanted to see if those yoga freaks could get you as deep as me?” he slams into you again. again. your pussy’s clenching, spasming, trying to take him. failing. it’s too much. and you’re shaking already. his grip moves to your hair. yanks your head back. you’re drooling, eyes unfocused.

he laughs.

“you’re so fucking dumb when i fuck you like this. i should film it. send it to your instructor. ‘here’s your little star pupil—can’t even spell her name with a cock in her.’”

then he really gets mean.

he flips you over like you weigh nothing. tosses you onto the floor in the living room—next to the yoga mat, your smoothie still sweating on the side table—and grabs you. pulls you into his lap. traps your arms. lifts you up, and suddenly—your knees are over his thighs, your legs spread, and your arms are pinned up under his.

full nelson.

you’ve got no leverage. no control. your whole body is open, suspended, split wide.

and then—

he sinks into you again.

hard.

you scream. back arching. vision blurring.

his cock hits everything from this angle. it's like he's splitting you in half. you can't even fight it—your arms are trapped, your legs forced wide, and he’s using your own weight to fuck you down onto his cock over and over again, bouncing you like a toy. “there’s your stretch,” he snarls. “you feel that? you’re so fucking open, i can see my cock through your stomach.”

you sob. try to nod. can't speak.

he’s relentless.

fucking up into you, holding you like a ragdoll, your pussy wrapped tight around him, spasming with every thrust. he’s groaning now—raw, rough, sweat slicking his chest. “you earned this,” he pants. “all that money you spent—now you’re gonna pay it off.” he slams up again. your moan is wrecked.

“with your fucking cunt.”

when you come, it’s violent.

your body seizes, twitching hard in his grip. your pussy milks him. chokes on him. you’re sobbing—babbling nonsense—legs trembling around his waist.

toji groans.

and comes.

deep inside you. thick and hot. filling you up so much you feel it dripping before he even stops. he doesn’t let you go. he just holds you there. cock still buried. chest heaving. “there,” he mutters. “that’s a real full-body workout.”

a beat.

“and baby?” he leans in, voice low and dark against your ear. “next time you spend my fucking money without asking—i’ll fold you backwards.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you’d been running your mouth all day.

legs sore from class, tank top sweat-slicked, face flushed with that post-workout glow like you’d actually worked for something.

“my hamstrings are tight,” you’d whined, flopping onto the couch, pushing your ankle onto his thigh like you wanted him to touch you. “we did these deep lunge extensions—my instructor said i’m really flexible now.”

sukuna didn’t say anything then.

just looked at you—eyeing the curve of your ass in those fucking leggings, the way you stretched like you knew he was watching. the bratty smile you gave him when you took the last of his cigarette and didn’t say thank you.

he waited.

waited until now—late evening, when the lights are low and the room smells like smoke and sex and skin—and you’re backed against the wall, your tank top riding high, your panties hanging by a thread, and your leg thrown over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

like you’re just that flexible.

he’s inside you already.

deep.

fucking inches deep.

his cock stretches you wide, thick and brutal, the kind of stretch that burns in your thighs and pulses in your cunt, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

his hands are gripping your hips hard—fingers bruising, rough, possessive—and your heel’s hooked over his shoulder, your other leg barely holding your weight as your back arches into the plaster.

and he just smiles. slow. dangerous.

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, hand sliding up the inside of your raised thigh, gripping the meat of it, squeezing. “this how they stretch you in those little classes of yours?”

you try to speak. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

he chuckles.

“nah,” he says. “they don’t stretch you like this, do they?”

he thrusts. once. deep.

your breath shatters.

he’s so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your ribs. your pussy clenches. your hips jerk. your fingers claw at his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop—just keeps you right there, leg hoisted high, body bent and trembling.

“fuck, baby,” he grins, cock sliding out slow before slamming back in. “you’re opening up so easy. maybe those classes are working.”

you moan. broken. breathless.

his hand wraps around your throat.

“you like this, huh? standing here, pussy stretched open, one fucking leg in the air like a good little slut on display?”

he rolls his hips, angling his thrusts to grind against your g-spot, relentless and deep.

you sob. your thighs tremble.

“fuck—sukuna—please—”

he groans, filthy and low, lips brushing the curve of your jaw.

“you feel that stretch in your hips, sweetheart? in your cunt?”

he thrusts again—hard—makes your whole body bounce against the wall.

“this is real flexibility,” he growls. “this is what i pay for.”

his mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, your tits—teeth grazing, lips sucking, tongue trailing fire down your throat. and the whole time, his cock keeps slamming into you, dragging moans from your chest you didn’t know you could make.

you’re babbling now. drunk on him. on how deep he is. on the burn in your thighs and the slick squelch of your soaked cunt every time he pulls out and drives back in. “so fucking tight,” he pants. “and still taking it all. you feel how wide i’ve got you open?” his thumb drops to your clit. rubs circles—mean, precise, perfect.

you cry out. jerk.

“uh-uh,” he hisses, pinning your hips. “don’t move. hold the leg. keep it up. you want to be flexible, brat? show me.” your muscles scream. your body shakes. but you obey. because he’s so deep. so rough. so fucking good.

he kisses your throat.

“attagirl.”

when you come—it’s violent. sudden. full-body.

your vision flares. you scream, cunt clenching around him so tight he groans, hips stuttering, face buried in your neck as he fucks you through it, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up.

and when he comes?

it’s deep.

a growl ripped from his chest, cock twitching inside you as he fills you up with so much cum it leaks out around him even before he pulls out. you’re shaking. leg still hoisted. mouth open. whole body limp. he finally lowers your leg.

lets you collapse against him, his arms wrapping around you, hand cradling the back of your head like you’re breakable. then, low against your ear: “that’s the only stretch that matters.”

SHIU KONG

he doesn’t say a word when he gets home. not when he finds your receipt on the bathroom counter—fifty-two thousand yen for a reformer stretch package. not when he sees you on the couch, barefoot, bare-legged, sipping an iced matcha like it wasn’t paid for with his blood money.

just drops his phone. loosens his tie. and walks over to you with that expression—tight mouth, heavy brow. all controlled violence. you glance up. blink.

“what?”

he sits beside you.

silent.

and grabs your jaw.

not roughly. not yet. just enough to tilt your face to his. “get on the floor,” he says, calm. cool. deadly. “face down. knees wide.”

you pause.

“…what?”

his hand slides to your throat. squeezes, just a little. eyes dark.

“you heard me.”

he doesn’t strip you all the way. just yanks your panties down and pushes your little workout shorts to the side, your tank top rucked up above your hips. he wants you dressed for this. dressed like the spoiled little slut you are.

“this is called frog pose, right?” he murmurs, gripping your ankles and dragging them wide. “hips open, knees bent. cute little ass in the air.” your face burns. the stretch in your thighs is deep, your cunt already throbbing from being so exposed, so vulnerable. your chest is flat to the rug, back arched, legs splayed.

and then you feel it.

his cock.

thick. hard. dragging along your slit, teasing. mean.

“you want mobility?” he mutters. “i’ll give you mobility.”

he pushes in—slow. thick. stretching you until your mouth opens around a gasp and your fingers clutch at the carpet. your pussy sucks him in, inch by inch, until he’s deep, hips flush against the meat of your ass.

and then he stays there.

hands on your lower back. holding you open.

"fuck," he breathes. "look at how deep i am in this position. you feel that?" you try to move—try to rock back onto him—but his palm lands hard across your ass, the smack echoing in the room. “don’t move,” he growls. “just stay open. let me fuck you like this.”

and then he starts.

his hips snap forward. hard. again. again.

each thrust punches a cry out of your chest, muffled against the carpet, your body rocking from the force of it. he grabs your wrists, yanks them behind your back, pins them with one hand, and uses the other to shove your hips down, locking you in place. “this what you pay them for?” he growls. “to stretch your hips? your back?”

he slams into you, balls slapping, breath hot over your spine.

“they fuck you like this, sweetheart?”

you shake your head, sobbing.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“say it.”

“no—fuck—no one does but you—”

he groans. thrusts harder. his cock hits so deep it feels like your guts rearrange every time. your knees tremble. thighs ache. the stretch is insane—but you can’t stop coming, pussy clenching, walls fluttering, drooling around his cock with every filthy grind of his hips. "jesus," he pants, “this cunt was made to stay open like this.”

and when he comes?

he stays inside. grinds deep. dumps every drop into your spasming cunt and keeps it in you with a hard slap to your ass and a hand dragging down your spine.

after?

you’re still face-down, body limp, legs aching from the stretch. shiu pulls your panties back up. kisses your thigh. smooths your hair. and murmurs, low and serious: “next time you want to stretch—” his hand cups your sore, slick cunt. “—you ask.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

it starts with the door clicking shut.

you’re home before him, sprawled on his couch in one of his button-down shirts—open, loose, your tank top tight underneath, your bare legs tucked up beneath you. the TV is on. you’re sipping kombucha like you pay for it.

he enters in silence.

shoes off. briefcase down. suit jacket hung neatly over the hook. tie loosened. he doesn’t speak. not until he stands in the doorway between living room and hall, holding a piece of paper like a verdict. long receipt. high total. you glance over. sip.

“…that from the studio?”

he lifts one brow. folds it. sets it on the table.

"forty-seven thousand,” he says calmly. “for one week.”

you blink. “it's—private sessions.”

“i can see that.” he steps closer. “what exactly do they do to you in these sessions?” you tilt your head, smirk already crawling to your mouth. “stretch me out.” he breathes in. slow. nostrils flare. you can feel the temperature shift.

“get up.”

he doesn’t speak again until you’re backed into the bedroom, his hand wrapped gently—too gently—around your wrist, and his voice low.

“take your clothes off.”

you blink.

he leans in. kisses your cheek. “slowly.”

you do. piece by piece. he watches. the shirt slides down your arms. your tank top peels over your head. your sports bra falls away—no noise, no rush. panties next. his eyes stay on you the entire time. and when you’re finally bare, standing quiet, naked and still in front of him—

he moves.

you don’t realize what he’s doing until your back hits the window. one hand cups your thigh, pulls it up. higher. higher—until your knee’s nearly pressed to your chest, the other foot flat on the floor, your heel hooked over his shoulder. he adjusts his grip—one hand under your thigh, the other on your waist, thumb brushing just under your breast.

and then—

he pushes in.

slow. deliberate. devastating.

your eyes roll. your mouth opens in a gasp you don’t finish, because he’s deep—so fucking deep in this angle, cock hitting every spot you didn’t know you had. your pussy flutters, clenching around him already. “you’re silent now,” he murmurs. you try to breathe. try to speak. “what happened to that mouth?” he rocks his hips forward. not fast. not brutal. just deep. intentional.

in control.

“they stretch you like this?” he says softly, tone clinical. “push your leg up here, keep your pussy open while they slide inside?” you whimper. shake your head.

his voice stays level. “answer.”

“n-no—fuck, hiromi—just you—only you—”

his mouth presses to your neck. he still doesn’t speed up. just keeps your body exactly where he wants it—your leg over his shoulder, your hips tilted perfectly, his cock dragging deep and slow inside your cunt, every motion pressing you harder against the glass.

you’re dripping.

he feels it.

your slick is painting his cock, soaking the front of his slacks, your inner thigh shining in the low light.

“flexible,” he murmurs, dragging his hand up to your ribs, thumb brushing under your breast again. “but not enough.” he pulls out—slow—until just the tip remains. and slams back in. your scream shatters the quiet. his fingers grip your throat—not tight, just there, grounding. a point of contact. “you’ll hold this position,” he says. “until i finish.”

he fucks you like that for what feels like hours. never too fast. never losing rhythm. just deep, hard strokes. your leg high. trembling. your foot still braced on the floor, trying to hold balance while he uses you against the window like a study in anatomy.

your orgasm comes without warning—tight, sharp, full-body. your cunt clenches, spasming, walls squeezing so tight he groans. but he doesn’t stop. just fucks you through it, even deeper. “you’ll give me another,” he murmurs. “legs this flexible, you can take two.”

you sob.

“three.”

his hand dips between your legs. finds your clit.

“four.”

he finishes inside you.

still holding your leg high, cock buried deep, cum leaking down your thigh. your head lolls against the window. the city lights blur. he lowers your leg slowly. kisses your forehead. adjusts your hair with one hand. straightens your back. then murmurs— “next time you want a stretch, you’ll do it here. for free.”

[uhhkims]

something, somehow, someday

series masterlist

series summary: you know you will love satoru for the rest of your life, but when you wake with his cursed energy in your navel there is no option but to flee. what future is there for a child of a god? at 18 satoru is without you, and you make off with a piece of him you hoped he'd never meet.

pairing: secret baby daddy!gojo x reader

tags: secret child trope, angst (lots), eventual fluff, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

main masterlist

18+! minors dni <3

~~~~~~~

prologue: aurora borealis

chapter 1: your takara

chapter 2: near miss

chapter 3: sun stall

chapter 4: close to you

chapter 5: glory of the snow

chapter 6: in the stinging green (coming 7.18 at 9pm PST!)

epilogue: brand new eyes

~~~~~~~

let me know if you'd like to be tagged :3<3

[uhhkims]

LAY DOWN THE LAW — 五条悟 GOJO SATORU

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo Satoru is the city's hottest attorney and your maddeningly smug boss. Ten years of will-they-won’t-they office tension come to a head when a late night at the firm finally pushes you both over the edge, right onto his desk, and then some. You might be the secretary, but tonight? You’re the one running the court, with your hand shafted around a very big . . . gavel.

FEATURING Gojo Satoru x Reader

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, MDNI, Workplace AU, Boss x Secretary, Suits!AU, Lawyer!Gojo, power plays, possessive language, desk séx, couch séx, semi-public, oràl (f), cowgírl, swítch!Gojo, líght restraínts, praisé kínk, bíting/màrking, mànhandling, unprotected séx, GOJO IS A YEARNER

WC 𐙚 5.1k

NOTE 𐙚 one of my friends started watching suits for the first time and it got me thinking of the good old days...

The firm's office was quiet. Eerily so. The sterile kind of silence that only settled after sunset, when the junior associates had scurried off and the city skyline outside blurred into a sea of flickering lights and taxi horns.

Nights like this always felt heavier somehow, thick in your chest like an aching, hungry fog. Not because of the overtime, hell, you practically lived in this building and wore your stellar competence like a badge of honour, but because after hours meant only one thing.

You were alone. With him.

Satoru Gojo.

Senior partner. The best closer in the city, a hotshot lawyer snug in designer suits. A certified dream and nightmare wrapped into one tall, toned package.

And the worst part? You didn't even mind craving his presence, like a moth to a sparkling, blue flame.

Your gaze always lingered past the edge of your desk when Gojo strolled by in the mornings, leaving you with that casual wink as though gravity bent around him, and you just happened to be in its pull. His stupidly expensive Armani suits, his smug, whiny quips and that sharp-fanged grin that made you want to slap and straddle him in the same breath.

Which is exactly why your heart stuttered when the intercom crackled to life, and his voice slid through, smooth as a neat pour of whiskey, "Doll, can you come in here for a second?"

You knew the drill. Some last-minute filing. A deposition draft he suddenly had to review. Gojo would pour you a crystal glass of scotch, pretend to talk business, and shiver when you leaned in far too close behind his oaken desk, eyes lingering on the swan-curve of your neck.

And like always, you would pretend not to notice, pressing your thighs together to relieve the wayward tension he wrought in you.

But tonight? You were in no mood to play the pretty secretary as diligently as you had been for the past few years. You grit the tips of your heels into the soft carpet to heave open the heavy glass door to his office, not bothering to knock.

Gojo glances up from a stack of clean paper, leaning back in his pristine chair with the ease of a man who brought in millions upon millions of dollars in merger deals each year for the firm. His navy tie was loosened, top button of his starch-white shirt undone.

White hair tousled as though he had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times, and judging by the way his blue eyes greedily dragged up your frame and snagged on your collarbone, you were the reason.

"Late night?" You ask, tone clipped as you watch how the city lights spilled through the high-rise windows behind him, painting him in gold, and blue, and deep, dangerous shadow.

"Thought you could help me with something," Gojo tosses a crisp folder your way, and your nails snag into the thin cardboard without blinking, "Couple of items that needed sorting."

"You couldn't have done this tomorrow? This is just copy-room administration."

Gojo tilts his head, lashes pale as snow, and unfairly long, "You were still here," he shrugs with a casual indifference that doesn't match the tension gnawing at his jaw, "Figured I'd make use of your talents."

The bob of his Adam's apple clearly gave away the flimsy excuse, for Gojo Satoru has always been hungry for the sight of you, even when he was pretending otherwise.

Tonight, though, that smug smile and velvet tone hits different, like a match dragged too slowly across the box, and your jaw clenches.

Gojo had always hovered right there, just shy of indecent in the silent hours of the night. Just enough innuendo to make your thighs clench, but never enough to tip over.

Like he got off dragging the two of you to the edge, and then walking away.

No more.

You step forward, scuffing your heel into the soft weave of the floor, and slapping the folder flat on his desk, "You always do this."

Gojo blinks, jewel-blue eyes owlish and flicking innocently, "Do what?"

"Treat me like I'm yours. Flirt with me. Buy me expensive shit, –" You lean in, meeting the defensive scowl in his eyes, "You took me shopping privately for a Hermès bag this morning, apparently just because."

You know Gojo Satoru enough to recognise the twitch in his expression, the flicker of something real and not cloaked in his endless bravado.

You refuse to let up, "So tell me, Gojo. Are you ever actually going to do something about it?"

"I thought you were seeing that investment banker from the 46th floor," Gojo mutters, jaw tight as his eyes tear themselves away from you, the swell of your chest with considerable effort.

Ah. Nanami Kento.

That fling was brief, for while you liked your men strong, you didn't quite like them silent.

No hard feelings, of course.

"That ended six months ago," you say coolly, "And when I first told you about him, you didn't speak to me for a week. What was that about?"

Silence. You can't hear anything else but the hard, pounding beat of your pulse, and the faint hum of electricity running in the background, keeping parts of the office lit.

Gojo stands, not abruptly nor angrily. Just deliberately, like a man who already made up his mind long ago.

You inch back automatically, the edge of the desk pressing against the small of your back, below the crux of your spine. Gojo follows, close, too close. Heat radiates off your boss like static, and his scent, mint and cedar, curls in your lungs.

A large hand cups your jaw, and his touch isn't rough. Gojo uses just enough pressure to make you tilt your chin up to meet those storm-blue eyes. Darker now, dilated and devouring.

"Say the word," Gojo murmurs, voice thick with something you could even mistake as longing, "And I'll show you that I'm yours right here."

Your throat bobs, a hot flush beginning to kiss the tips of your ears, "What? Here, Gojo, –" You're hissing, even though you knew the building was entirely empty, and it was well past midnight.

Gojo's index finger is pressed to your lips, "You want me to be an honest man?" A wicked but almost bashful smile ghosting over the mouth of the most confident and self-assured man that you know, "Fine. I want to kiss you."

You don't give him the chance to ask again.

Grabbing the finely tailored lapels of his suit, and pulling the attorney down into you, kissing him hard. Tasting mint, coffee and the ghost of lemon candy on his tongue as his hand slams back against the desk, and you can swear he whimpers.

Gojo chases after you like a man starved. The press of his lips both hot and urgent, his clever tongue teasing until you groan, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste the tell-tale tang of iron.

That earns you another sound from deep in his throat, something that sounds almost grateful, and he pulls you closer. Looping a strong around your waist, already tugging at the hem of your top.

You think that the only downside of having Gojo Satoru like this, is the human need to pull back for oxygen.

But he seems almost magnetically drawn to you, eyes lingering on the glossy sheen coating your mouth, his breath shallow as he heaves a sharp breath, "Always wanted to know what you would taste like."

"Oh, yeah? Got your answer?"

"Well, one part of my answer," Gojo's large hands are running along the silky seam of your stockings, and you involuntarily shiver as you push against the firm planes of his chest, snaking your manicured hand lower.

"You're already hard."

Gojo gives you a faintly embarrassed, dull look, but it's true enough. There's a rock solid tent in his dark slacks, aching for friction against your thigh, as he murmurs against your jaw, "What, you think if I put my hands up your skirt, you're not gonna' be wet?"

What use is there in denying cold, hard facts?

Gojo's hands run down to your waist, spinning you around so fast that your palms slam against the hard surface of his desk for balance.

The wood is cold beneath your skin, spotless and severe, and each pen on his desk is lined up with military precision, not a page out of place.

For now.

You can feel the white-haired man behind you, his body heat pressing into your back as he leans over, pink lips brushing the delicate shell of your ear, "This desk's seen a lot of action," he murmurs, "But nothin' like this."

Your heart is thudding as soft, suckled marks are bruised gently into your neck, "You ever bend a client over it?"

"No," Gojo scoffs, dragging his hands up your sides once more, slow and reverent as though he wants to commit your form to memory, "Only ever thought about my favourite secretary."

You're gasping, lips slack, as he kicks your legs slightly apart at the knee, and then, fuck — his fingers are sliding up your inner thigh. Bold, skilled and confident.

When he find the wet heat, slick and searing between your legs, Gojo groans against your neck, "God, you really are mine, huh?"

"Check the paperwork, then, S-Satoru," You're hissing, trying to stay snide, even as your hips hungrily rock into his touch. Ensuring that you grind your dripping, plump folds against his fingers, coating his knuckles with your arousal.

"Oh, I will," Gojo purrs, "In fact –"

Gojo keeps a solid arm snug around you, holding you up as his other hand reaches for something on the desk, and before you can question what on earth he's doing now, you hear the rustle of paper.

He's got your file, that faded résumé that you had dropped in his lap when you had first demanded he hire you. You twist your head to blearily glare at him just as he flips it open.

"You had excellent references," Gojo muses, as though he's reading aloud to a jury. Meanwhile, two long fingers are filthily sliding into you, slow and deep, curling just right in pursuit for a sweet spot, "Punctual. Detail-oriented. Loyal. Mhm, tight too. Didn't see that in the résumé."

"S-Satoru," You choke out, nails already curling half-crescents into the polished wood. His palm now roughly angled so you can drag your throbbing cunt over his hand, and still catch enough friction to soothe your aching clit.

"Ah-ah," The white-haired man clicks his tongue, hooking his middle finger so a fresh wave of slick clings to the fine dusting of pale, white hair on his hand, "That's Gojo during business hours."

"It's past m-midnight."

"Heh, you're right," Gojo snickers, battering his fingers against that roughened, sweet spot, "In that case, call me whatever ya' want, doll."

You arch into his tender touch, breath hitcing as his fingers fuck you with the kind of steady rhythm that says he's had this moment planned, fantasised and rehearsed.

His other hand warmly slips under your top, pushing the fabric side just enough to tug your bra down, and palm your breast, thumb brushing your pebbled nipple as you whimper.

"You like this?" Gojo asks, the liquid-smooth tone of his voice now tinged with a hungry rasp, and his lips continue to delicately press kisses over the nape of your neck, "Letting your boss finger you over his quarterly earnings report?"

You try to respond, but your pleas come out more as a garbled moan, stifled as he probes his fingers against the elastic walls of your cunt.

Gojo grins, "Didn't catch that, sweet girl. You're gonna' have to say it like you mean it."

"F-fuck, yes, yes," you gasp, back arching as your thighs strain with the most delicious ache, "Want more, p-please."

Gojo stills, not all the way, just enough to make you squirm, hips rolling helplessly into the hand that no longer moves, breath catching in your throat as the heat and rhythm disappear.

His touch lingers, taunting, maddening, and you whine before you can stop yourself, the sound slipping past your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

He huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that curls down your spine like smoke, "More?" he echoes, faux-innocent and infuriating, his voice that same low, slick tone he uses when convincing clients to sign over the promise of ten million dollars, "You think I just give it away, doll?"

Your response is instant, breathy and heated, punctuated by the steady drip of your slick against his desk, "I earned it, didn't I?"

And that, that does something to Gojo. You feel the change. Like a muscle coiled too tight finally snapping loose.

It's in the way his warm grip tightens on your hips, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, the guttural sound he lets out as he drops to his knees with a heavy thud, slacks creased, like a man possessed.

In one fluid motion, your translucent, sopping panties are around your ankles, torn down so fast the elastic snaps, and Gojo's murmuring a kiss of apology against your thigh, and his broad hands are dragging your thighs apart like he's carving out space for worship.

"Consider this your bonus," Gojo murmurs, voice dark with promise, ruined at the mere sight of your glossy, winking pussy, and then his mouth is on you.

Your gasp punches out of you like it's been yanked from the base of your spine. His tongue is hot and wet and obscene, sliding through your folds with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes you tremble. He licks you like he's determined to learn you, like he's done the theory, read the case notes, and now it's time for oral arguments.

And God, he's good at it. Gojo is really good at it.

He flicks his tongue over your swollen clit with practiced ease, teasing little circles that send white-hot pulses of pleasure through your gut. Every time your hips buck, he anchors you tighter, one arm locking around your thigh while the other drags you closer by the small of your back, forcing you to stay still and take it so perfectly for him.

"You're so w-wet," Gojo groans into your cunt, lips slick and voice reverent, like he’s drunk off the taste of your sweet pussy, "What's the matter, baby? Can't focus when someone's actually giving you what you need?"

Your fingers scramble for purchase on the desk’s edge as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling against it with maddening rhythm. Your eyes flutter, head tipping back, your entire body buzzing with pleasure.

Your knees nearly buckle when he hums, hums, as though he's tasting vintage wine.

When Gojo pulls back at last, his mouth is shining, and he looks positively wrecked in the best way. Flushed cheeks, jaw damp, pupils blown wide. The front of his suit is creased, rumpled beyond salvation. His deep-blue tie's hanging off one shoulder. And his blinding grin is nothing short of smug.

"Gonna' bend you over this desk now,” Gojo says casually, like he's scheduling a client call, "Heels on. Hands flat. Keep your voice down unless you want HR to catch the encore on security footage."

You barely hear the rest of the sentence, you're already moving, limbs moving on instinct, spine arching as you brace yourself against the desk.

And you don’t even realise you're obeying until your palms hit the polished wood and you feel the weight of Gojo behind you again, hot and solid and absolutely unrelenting.

And when he finally pushes into you, all thick, hot, and utterly unforgiving inches upon inches, it knocks the breath straight from your lungs.

There's no teasing now, no soft wind-up or slow drag. Just the blunt, overwhelming stretch of his fat mushroom-tip probing and filling you in one deliberate thrust that has your back arching and your mouth falling open in a wordless moan.

You gasp, the sound stuttering against your forearm as you brace yourself on the desk, eyes squeezing shut from the sheer intensity of it.

Gojo's big. Oh, he knows it's big, and he fucks like he's trying to remind you of it with every single stroke. Ensuring that you never forget the sticky slap! of his thighs tacking against your own, dribbling with arousal and the prelude to his seed.

The white-haired man's hands clamp down on your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there with a bruising grip as he snaps his hips into yours, relentless and smooth, like he’s been waiting years for this.

The desk jerks with every thrust, drawers rattling. Loose pages scatter to the floor. Gojo's gilded nameplate goes flying with a clatter, landing somewhere near your pricey heels, and the coffee mug you brought him earlier tips over, soaking a stack of contracts you'd spent the whole afternoon organising.

Neither of you care.

"Fuck," Gojo groans, whiny voice fraying at the edges, rough and low and needy, "Look at you. Taking it so f-fucking well. Like this pretty pussy was made to be bent over my desk."

You let out a strangled moan, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick wood surface, the edge biting into your hips with every push forward. Your legs are trembling, heels still on, body taut with sensation, overstimulated already and aching for more. And you try to speak, to respond, but the words break apart in your dry throat, "Y-you are so –"

"Charming?" Gojo grits out, breath hot against the back of your neck as he leans forward to press his chest to your spine, one hand leaving your hip to curl around your throat, not tight, just enough to tilt your head up, "Devastatingly handsome? Ridiculously good at fillin' you up? You're gonna' have to be more specific, doll."

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, even as your eyes roll back at the next thrust. And Gojo's voice lowers to a murmur, but there's nothing soft in it, just heat, possession, a hint of desperation bleeding through the snark, "C'mon, baby. Say it. Say you're mine. Please."

You manage it on a gasp, voice wrecked, pleasure-drenched, "I'm —f-fuck, I'm yours."

That does it. Gojo groans like you just handed him a verdict in his favor, like your words scratched some raw, aching itch inside him that nothing else could reach, "Y-yeah, you are,” he growls, "All f-fucking mine."

He fucks you harder after that, messy, frantic, a little feral. One hand back on your hip, the other dragging down your back to press between your shoulder blades, holding you down, keeping you right there as he takes you like a man who’s been dreaming about this for far too long.

You can feel every solid, veined inch of him. The way he stretches you open, the obscene slick sounds between your thighs, the way his cock hits deep and perfect on every roll of his hips. His pace is devastating, measured and punishing and so fucking good it sends white sparks bursting behind your eyelids.

You must be drooling into the desk, heat curling in your belly, orgasm building again, fast and dangerous and unstoppable. And behind you, Gojo's voice breaks on a groan as he mutters against your ear, "You gonna' come for me again, pretty girl? Wanna feel you s-squeeze me while I fill you up. You gonna' let me, yeah?"

Your answer is a breathless, wrecked moan, because yes, fuck, yes —

And that’s all he needs. You barely manage to stay standing.

Your legs are jelly, trembling under the weight of overstimulation and everything he's just done to you, your thighs slick with him, your blouse clinging to sweat-damp skin, buttons half-torn and collar askew. Your breath comes in short, uneven pants, chest heaving against the edge of the desk like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Gojo's still behind you, spurting cock slowly being dragged out of your puffy, twitching folds, not touching, but there, looming, panting, shirt untucked, white hair wild and matted with sweat. He looks ruined. Flushed. Like he’s just sprinted all sixty floors of the high-rise with you on his mind.

And then Gojo sees it.

The faint red imprint of his hand blooming across your hip. The angry mark his Prada belt buckle left above the curve of your ass. The glimmer of your slick smeared across his cock, still hard, twitching against his abdomen, and soaking into the fine dusting of white hair crawling over his groin, glistening like proof of what he just did to you.

Gojo's pupils dilate, and whatever blue was left in his eyes vanishes beneath the darker, more reverent hunger, "Mine," he murmurs, half to himself, voice hushed and hoarse, like he has to say it out loud to believe you're real, "You're mine."

You twist to look at him, wobbly on your heels but a faint ghost of a smile paints your lips all the same, "Yeah, Satoru?" you say, voice still a little wrecked, "Then sit down."

Gojo blinks, stunned for just a second, the most in-demand lawyer in the city whipped into flushed silence from the command. But you just jut your chin toward the couch, charcoal-grey leather, sleek and smooth.

"I said sit."

There's a pause. A flicker of something wild in Gojo's incredulous expression, like he wants to fight it. But then his lips part into a grin that borders on worshipping, like he's never been bossed around in his life and is so damn into it, "Yes, ma'am."

Gojo drops onto the couch, milky and muscular thighs spread wide, weeping cock hard and glistening and flushed an angry red from base to tip. White-haired head lolling back against the cushions as he exhales like a man undone. His tie is half-off, collar loose, suit beyond salvation.

You straddle him before he can get cocky again, knees pressed into the cushions, ruined skirt hitched around your waist, heat still pulsing between your legs as you slide over his broad lap. Gojo's hands fly to your hips automatically, gripping tight, like his body's already memorised every inch of your skin like a precious canvas already.

"I'm still ya' boss, you know," Gojo says, looking up at you through those sinfully pale lashes, trying for cocky and failing, it comes out breathless and wanting.

You roll your hips down slowly, grinding against Gojo's lap, until the head of his spurting cock slips against your entrance, snagging against your walls, and his head thunks back with a guttural groan and a raspy, "Fuck."

"Don't think so, 'Toru," you murmur, voice low, syrupy, and you can feel his cock twitch against your inner thigh, jumping at the abbreviated name, "Right now? I wanna' be in charge."

That does it. Whatever minuscule control Gojo had snaps.

He grips the plush flesh of your ass, and yanks you down as he thrusts up into you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, perfect stroke that leaves you gasping and mewling at the tip of his cock swabbing deeply within you.

It's so utterly messy and wet, and filthy, your bodies crashing together with the raw sound of sex, of urgency, of months, no, years of restraint finally shattered.

Gojo's hungry mouth finds your neck, open and greedy, licking and biting like he wants to leave a roadmap behind, a pattern he wants to follow forevermore. You gasp, manicured nails clawing down his chest, raking through the remnants of his tailored dress shirt.

"You like that?" You're whining, voice catching as your hips start to rock once more, adjusted to the sheer girth of him, pace steady and punishing, "Getting m-marked?"

"Fuck, yeah," Gojo groans, snapping his hips up so hard your breath stutters, and a steady plap! plap! plap! echoes in the empty office. "Want you to w-wreck me, doll. Wan' the whole d-damn firm to see I belong to you."

You're certainly not gentle when you kiss him again. You slam your mouth to his, teeth and tongue and something that tastes like vengeance and victory. He kisses back like he's still starving, like he hasn't eaten in weeks and you're his last meal, what he's been craving the most.

Somehow, somewhere in the chaos, his silky tie ends up wrapped loosely around your wrists, a makeshift restraint anchoring your hand to the back of his neck, keeping you steady as you bounce in Gojo's lap, feeling him sway the thick bulge of his cock in and out of you. You can feel the thrum of his pulse there, frantic and wild, syncing with yours.

"I dream about this, you know?" Gojo mutters against your mouth, nibbling on your glossy lower lip. "Y-you. Riding me and using m-me. Fuck, I wake up hard just thinking about your voice."

Your pussy must be drooling all over his lap, and your walls tighten around him and Gojo chokes, his blue eyes rolling back for a second as his chest flushes a pale shade of strawberry red.

"Then wake u-up, 'Toru," you whisper, lips brushing his jaw, gently nipping at the soft skin, "And t-take it."

And Gojo does. He thrusts his cock up into you, hard and deep, pace brutal and beautiful all at once. His hands are everywhere, gripping your hips, palming your breasts, fingers sliding down your spine to hold you in place while he slams into you with the rhythm of a man unhinged.

Gojo's mouth latches onto your collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise, and when you do the same to his shoulder, he whines, "More," he begs, "Give me more. F-fucking ruin me. Leave your teeth in me, I'm yours."

His hand slips between your bodies, calloused thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit as you ride him, and the pleasure builds fast, white-hot and sharp, until you're shaking with it, your moans dissolving into ragged gasps.

"Gojo, –" you breathe, barely above a strangled whisper as his cock carves out loud squelches and leaves you both boneless and breathless. Jewel-blue eyes snap up to yours like you’re divine.

"That's it," Gojo growls, lower lip slack as he watches the sticky, gluey strands of your arousal cling to his thighs, "C-come for me. Come allll over my cock n' be a good girl and fall apart, my girl."

And you do.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, sudden and seismic, your whole body spasming, thighs locking around him as you cry out his name. Gojo watches, utterly spellbound, as you unravel, sweat-slick and stunning and trembling on his lap.

"F-fuck, fuck, sweetheart," Gojo gasps, hips stuttering, and soft strands of white hair falling over his eyes, "Holy shit, gonna come, fuck, I'm c-coming, –"

He spills inside you with a ragged moan, all thick, pearly seed and the rhythmic pulse of his cock's release as he thrusts deep, clinging to you like he never wants to let go. The aftershocks roll through both of you, sticky and breathless and all-consuming.

You collapse against his chest, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon. Gojo's arms wrap around your back immediately, hands splayed across your spine, holding you like something sacred.

"Don't you dare quit on me," Gojo murmurs, voice hoarse and broken, "Swear to god, if you hand in your resignation, I'll follow you into retirement and eat you out every morning like it’s my full-time job. We can get a nice, shiny penthouse and, –"

You snort, still dazed, chin tucked into his shoulder, enveloped by the sheer, searing exertion rolling off him, intertwined with his signature, smoky scent, "You're insane."

"What?" Gojo breathes, that indignant tone creeping back up into his voice, as he trails long fingers up and down your back with slow, reverent strokes, "I'd make a hot trophy wife."

[uhhkims]

POWER PLAY - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru’s used to getting everything he wants—until his company hires you, the shy assistant who’s all glitter, gloss and charm. But the more he tries to stay professional, the harder it gets… in more ways than one.

word count. 9.3k (not 10k wow)

content. mdni fem!bimbo! reader, ceo! gojo, gojo crashing out for multiple reasons, down bad simp gojo, heavy tension, teasing, jealousy, pet names, smut, multiple scenes, fingering, oral (m and f rec.), p in v, office sex, desk sex, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. inspired by this by my leslover @cairoverse i'm sorry this took so long ml </3

The wine’s expensive, but not because he’s trying to impress her.

He just likes the taste.

The restaurant is sleek, candlelit, with soft jazz humming in the background. It’s the kind of place that whispers luxury, not screams it — understated elegance, a lot like his watch. Or his suit. Or the car he pulled up in.

The girl across from him is… nice. Pretty in that polished, social-media kind of way. Knows which fork to use, laughs at the right moments, has a thousand-watt smile and legs he noticed the second she slid into the booth.

For the first time in a long time, Gojo thinks: maybe.

Maybe this could go somewhere.

She sips her wine, sets the glass down, and leans in just enough for the scent of vanilla to drift his way. Her voice is smooth, easy. “So, what’s it like, running an empire?”

He smiles, a little self-deprecating. “Exhausting.”

She laughs. “Bet it pays well, though.”

A harmless joke, maybe. But something cold flickers at the edge of his ribs.

He hums, brushing it off.

But then she tilts her head, lashes fluttering just so. “I mean… you must be, like, what? Eight figures? Nine?”

There it is.

His smile doesn’t falter, but something in his chest withers.

He takes a slow sip of his wine. Lets the silence stretch for a beat too long.

Eight figures. Nine.

She’s still looking at him, expectant. Playful.

He should be used to this by now. Hell, he is. But it still stings. Every damn time.

“I stopped counting,” he says lightly, setting his glass down.

She laughs again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “That’s such a rich guy answer.”

And just like that, the candlelight feels too warm, the wine too bitter. The space between them grows miles wide.

Gojo leans back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly on the tablecloth. He already knows there won’t be a second date. No nightcap. No exchanged texts or cheeky goodnights.

And when he finally slips into the backseat of his car an hour later, staring blankly out the tinted window at the blur of city lights, a single thought loops in his head like a broken record:

Maybe this just isn’t in the cards for me.

Not the connection. Not the late-night calls. Not the stupid domestic shit he secretly wants — tangled legs on a couch, coffee in chipped mugs, someone who sees him.

He huffs a soft laugh, more bitter than amused.

Gojo Satoru has everything.

And somehow, he feels like he has nothing.

-

“What did you just say?”

Gojo doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The sheer weight behind the words is enough to make the room still.

Nanami adjusts his glasses, like he hasn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of Gojo’s morning.

“The quarterly reports,” he repeats flatly, “were emailed to Zenin Holdings.”

A pause.

“And the Osaka merger documents,” he adds. “Along with internal notes referring to their CEO as—” he consults his tablet, “—‘an off-brand Ken doll.’”

Gojo presses a hand to his temple, like he’s physically holding in the migraine.

“Who?” he grits out.

Nanami doesn’t blink. “The new recruit.”

Another silence stretches.

Then Gojo lowers his hand. “Bring them to my office.”

Nanami nods once, and without another word, leaves the room.

-

You’re not sure why you were summoned.

You clutch your little pastel folder to your chest like it might protect you, knees squeezed together as you sit—perch, really—on the plush chair outside the glass doors of the executive office.

The receptionist gave you a look. You’re not sure what kind of look. It felt kind of judge-y. Or maybe pitying?

Then, the doors open.

“You can go in,” Nanami says, voice flat as ever.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Oh! Okay. Um. Am I—” You pause, then smile nervously. “Am I in trouble?”

He doesn’t answer.

That’s fine. Totally fine.

You step into the office with careful little steps, the kind of walk that says please don’t fire me before I finish paying off my student loans.

Inside, the man behind the desk looks up.

White hair. Stupidly pretty face. Cerulean eyes that flick over you like you’re a puzzle that somehow assembled itself upside-down.

He’s not smiling.

You don’t meet his eyes—not for more than a second—just dip your head as you approach his desk.

“I—um. I was told to… to report here?”

Your voice is so quiet he almost misses it.

He leans back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, thumb brushing his jaw. “You’re the new recruit?”

You nod once, too fast. “Y-Yes. I mean, I think so. That’s what Mr. Nanami said, at least. He said—um, he said this is my new position now.”

You step fully into the office, holding a pink folder like it might bite you. You’re wearing a cream sweater that looks two sizes too soft and a plaid skirt that’s about four inches too short for HR standards. Your ID badge is flipped backward. Your heels click awkwardly against the tile.

And he suddenly understands how people end up doing very, very stupid things for women.

You stand there, shifting your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your folder like it’s a lifeline.

“And you are…?”

You whisper your name so faintly he has to repeat it aloud just to be sure.

“Right.” He pauses. “Well, take a seat.”

You hesitate for a second too long before perching on the very edge of the chair across from him—back stiff, eyes focused on the edge of his desk.

Gojo leans back in his chair. He’s quiet for a beat too long.

Then “So,” he says, tone deceptively mild. “Tell me. Why did Zenin Holdings get our quarterly reports?”

You freeze.

“I—I didn’t know they weren’t supposed to?” you offer, blinking up at him.

He blinks back. Slowly.

You chew your lip in thought. “They were in the CC list… and I thought that meant they were part of the, um… quarterly club?”

“The what.”

“The quarterly club?” you repeat, voice smaller now. “Y’know. People who… get quarter stuff.”

You trail off, wilting under the weight of his silence.

Gojo stares at you. Hard. Trying—trying—to remember that you are a human being. With feelings. With softness. With a little clip shaped like a bunny holding back your hair. His eye twitches.

“And the Osaka merger notes?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word like it might hurt.

Your expression brightens slightly, like you've just remembered something important. “Oh! Yeah, I added a couple of personal notes to that file! Like, color commentary. For context.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Color commentary.”

He almost sighs. This is who HR sent? The one who forwarded classified financial statements to a competitor because their logo “looked kind of familiar”?

But then you shift slightly, fidgeting with the hem of your skirt, and he catches a glimpse of that anxious expression. The way you bite the inside of your cheek. Like you're waiting to be yelled at. Like you already know you’ve messed up and can’t even figure out how to explain yourself.

And, god help him, something about that makes his chest ache.

Gojo closes his eyes briefly. He’s going to need to do breathing exercises. Maybe call Shoko and have her prescribe something illegal.

You smile again. It’s like watching sunlight struggle through a stormcloud. “Was that bad?”

He exhales.

He should fire you. Realistically, that’s the correct response. A sane man would do it.

But when he opens his eyes, you're still standing there—wide-eyed, a little nervous, but so terribly, painfully earnest.

And his heart does that stupid little lurch again.

“No,” he mutters finally. “Not bad.”

You brighten instantly. “Oh, yay! I was worried—”

“But,” he cuts in, holding up a hand, “you’re going to be working directly under me from now on.”

Your brows lift. “Really? Oh my gosh, that sounds so fancy!”

“It’s not,” he lies smoothly.

He’s already planning which desk you’ll sit at in his office. Already making a mental note to have HR triple-check your email access. Already dreading what happens when you accidentally reply-all to a company-wide memo.

You give a delighted little bounce, clearly thrilled by the promotion.

Gojo’s not even mad anymore.

He’s confused. He’s concerned. He’s possibly having a stroke.

And he’s completely, utterly fucked.

-

It starts with the printer.

You stand in front of it for ten minutes straight, staring like it personally wronged you. Gojo passes by, slows, then stops entirely when he sees you poking the touchscreen with a single perfectly-manicured finger.

“…Need help?”

You turn, lip caught between your teeth. “I think it’s jammed.”

He crouches down, opens the tray, and immediately pulls out a crumpled sheet that’s very clearly been inserted upside down.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes wide with awe. “You’re so smart.”

He straightens slowly. “Right.”

Then there’s the time he catches you on your way to send a very important file.

You wave at him, cheerful. “Hi, Mr. Gojo! I’m going to fax that thing you said.”

“Email,” he corrects gently, already bracing himself.

“Oh—right! Email. I meant that.”

(You did not.)

Still, when you do manage to send the right file—to the correct company this time—he gives you an exaggerated look of impressed approval.

“Nice job,” he says. “Look at you.”

You beam. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he says, completely serious. “You’re crushing it.”

He swears your cheeks actually flush. Like you’re the one who just got complimented for launching a satellite into orbit instead of… attaching a PDF.

Another time, he asks you to bring him a hard copy of the quarterly budget report.

You come back ten minutes later with a full-color printout of a Pinterest banana bread recipe.

You fidget when he just blinks down at the paper, eyes wide. “I, um… I might’ve labeled it wrong on my desktop.”

He hands it back. “Looks delicious.”

Despite everything—everything—he just can’t seem to get frustrated with you. Your voice is always soft when you speak to him, full of tentative politeness like you’re worried he might bite (he won’t—unless asked). You apologize earnestly for every tiny mistake, so genuinely mortified each time that he ends up reassuring you.

And when you do get something right—God help him—he reacts like you’ve cured polio.

“That’s perfect,” he tells you one afternoon, glancing at a neatly stapled stack of documents you’ve triple-checked for typos. “You nailed it.”

You blink up at him, mouth parted just a little. “…Really?”

“Mmhm. Proud of you.”

You go quiet. Blush furiously. Practically flee the room.

Gojo grins at the door after it clicks shut behind you.

He’s doomed.

Absolutely doomed.

-

“Do you need to stand there like that?” the exec snaps, arms crossed. “That machine isn’t rocket science.”

You blink, startled. “O-oh… I’m just— I’m trying to find the—um, the collate button?”

“It’s literally right there,” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at the screen. “God, how did you even get hired?”

You flinch like you’ve been struck. Eyes down, voice small. “I—I’m sorry…”

And that’s exactly when Gojo shows up.

You don’t even see him coming. One second the air is stiff with tension, the next it’s cut clean by the sound of his voice—smooth, pleasant, deceptively light:

“Everything okay over here?”

The exec stiffens. “Sir. I was just—”

“I saw,” Gojo says simply, stepping in beside you. He doesn’t even look at the guy—his gaze is already on you, sharp and assessing.

“You alright?”

You nod quickly. “Mhm. Sorry. I was just confused—”

“No need to apologize,” he says, almost too softly. “That’s what training is for.”

Then he finally looks up—at the exec—and there’s something in his eyes that wipes the smug off the latter’s face immediately.

“Unless,” he adds with a tilted smile, “you’re suggesting I made a mistake hiring her?”

Silence.

The exec stammers. “Of course not, sir. I—”

“Good,” Gojo says. “Then don’t talk to her like that again.”

The exec makes a quick, flustered exit. Gojo turns back to you, and his whole demeanor changes—softening.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You nod again, a little stunned. “…I didn’t mean to make trouble.”

“You didn’t,” he assures you. “Some people just forget how to be decent.”

And then—because you’re fidgeting and biting your lip and looking far too much like you’re going to cry—he gently takes the stack of papers from your arms.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

You trail after him, still pink in the cheeks, still utterly confused by the way his hand just barely grazes the small of your back as he guides you to his office.

(You don’t know it yet, but Gojo has already scheduled a little "chat" with HR.)

-

He checks his watch for the third time that morning.

9:47 AM.

You were supposed to be here by 9:00.

Gojo exhales, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair, irritation simmering just beneath his skin. Meetings have been pushed, calls delayed. He’s not even sure why he’s this impatient—he has other assistants, more capable ones at that. But none of them stumble into his office with sleepy eyes and whispered apologies like you do.

And like clockwork, the door swings open with a quiet creak.

You enter in a flurry—breathless, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with panic. The top two buttons of your blouse are undone, likely forgotten in the rush, and your skirt is just slightly askew. Your chest rises and falls in frantic rhythm, lips parted as you gasp, “I’m so, so sorry I’m late—”

Satoru turns in his chair, ready to scold. Ready to lecture you into next week.

But the words die in his throat.

His gaze drops.

The loose fabric of your blouse shifts with each heavy breath, revealing just enough skin to make his jaw tighten. The delicate slope of your collarbone, the curve of your breasts pressing faintly against the silk. One deep breath away from completely derailing his morning.

You don’t notice the way his posture stiffens. Or the way his grip on the armrest turns white-knuckled.

He stands slowly.

Silent.

You freeze when he starts walking toward you, every step measured. His voice, when it comes, is quieter than you expect. Lower.

“Why are you late?”

You blink up at him, confused by the shift in tone. The air around him feels… heavier somehow. You fidget, your voice soft, guilty. “I—I overslept. My alarm didn’t go off and then the train was late and I didn’t mean to—”

He stops in front of you, towering over you. Close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm, expensive, intoxicating.

You glance up nervously, throat bobbing.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper again, lips trembling in the tiniest pout. You’re not even aware of how you sound, how you look. Not aware of the storm building behind his gaze.

And that is the worst part.

Because you don’t know what you’re doing to him.

You never do.

Gojo inhales sharply, jaw clenched. He watches the way your fingers twist in the hem of your cardigan like you’re expecting to be punished.

But instead of snapping, instead of chastising you like he knows he should, he closes his eyes for a second, forcing down the heat licking at his spine.

“...Don’t let it happen again,” he says at last, voice hoarse.

You nod quickly—eager to please, still breathless, completely unaware that he’s already running through several very unprofessional thoughts involving those undone buttons and his desk.

He turns away before he can say something stupid. Or worse—do something worse.

“Go grab your coffee,” he mutters. “You’ll need it.”

Because he sure as hell does.

-

Gojo thinks he’s composed. Polished. Unshakeable. He built an empire from the ground up, commands boardrooms with a single glance, and has executives stuttering when they see his name on a meeting invite. And yet—you.

You waltz into his office in pink heels, with a notepad that’s more doodles than notes and a voice so breathy it makes his vision blur. You don’t even mean to drive him insane, he knows that. That’s the worst part. You’re just sweet. Oblivious. Soft in ways that make his dick ache.

Like today. You’re sitting on the edge of his desk, babbling on the phone about a nail appointment while absentmindedly reapplying your lip gloss—shiny, sticky, strawberry-scented. He watches the wand glide over your bottom lip like it's a slow-motion scene from a movie no one else gets to see. He’s staring. Unblinking. Dying.

And when you leave, heels clicking, skirt swaying, you forget the gloss. He doesn’t even hesitate. Just picks it up and rolls it between his fingers, stares at it. It smells like strawberries. You smell like strawberries. His head hits the back of his chair. He’s so fucked.

It happens again and again. You lean over his desk to show him your “cute calendar” for the month—full of glittery stickers and hearts—and your cleavage is right there. Right. There. He knocks his coffee into his lap and doesn’t even flinch. Just stares at you while it soaks through his slacks, wondering if this is how men go insane.

And then in the elevator. Five minutes. Just the two of you. You don’t even notice the silence thick with tension. You’re talking about your new lip liner. He’s clutching the railing behind him like it’s keeping him tethered to Earth. If you’d looked at him, you’d have seen the vein in his neck pulsing like a warning sign.

But nothing—nothing—compares to the time you shyly step into his office and whisper, “I finished typing the reports, sir.”

He doesn’t breathe for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you like you just moaned it instead of murmured it. Sir. Sir.

He shifts in his seat. Crosses his legs. Forces a smile. “Good,” he manages to say, voice tight.

You beam, oblivious. “Thank you, sir!”

He books a week off.

For “stress.”

-

His voice is calm. Measured. Smooth as silk over the phone speaker as he discusses quarterly projections with someone powerful on the other end. It should be just another meeting—another conversation where he dazzles and dominates, where the board eats out of the palm of his hand.

But you're sitting beside him. So it’s not just another meeting.

You’re perched on the edge of his long leather couch, notepad in hand, eyes wide and glossy with focus—or something like it. You’re wearing that tight little pastel skirt again, the one that always hikes up when you sit, riding dangerously high on your thighs. He’s not looking. He’s not. He can’t.

You chew on the tip of your pen. Take little notes in bubbly handwriting that looks more like diary scribbles than minutes. Your perfume curls around him like sugar—sweet and sticky and heavy.

He swallows thickly and forces his voice to stay even.

“Yes, I saw the numbers from Q1. I’m more concerned about the international—”

Your pen clatters to the ground.

You let out a tiny “Oops!” and bend down to retrieve it.

And he sees it.

The hem of your skirt lifts, slow and innocent. And beneath? A delicate peek of pink lace. Just a flash. Barely anything. But enough. Far too much.

His throat goes dry mid-sentence.

“—international… ah—i-interest projections,” he chokes, dragging a hand down his face like that’ll fix the heat flooding it. On the other end of the call, someone asks a question. He doesn’t hear it.

You sit back up like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just flash your lace panties in front of a man on the verge of damnation.

You turn to him with a soft, clueless smile. “Did you want me to jot that last part down, sir?”

He makes a sound. It's somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

“…Y-Yeah,” he rasps, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles go white. “Write it down, sweetheart.”

He ends the call early. Tells them he has a migraine.

And when you leave, swaying your hips and humming under your breath, he sits there in silence. Staring at the door.

He needs a second. Maybe a sedative. Maybe a priest.

-

The next few days are… strange.

You don’t do anything differently. Not really. You still show up on time, still take notes in pink ink and heart your i’s. Still trail after him in those little skirts and heels that click sweetly on the marble floors. But now?

Now you catch him looking.

At first, you thought it was your imagination—just a trick of the lights in his big glass-walled office. But then there was that meeting where you leaned over to grab a file from across the table, and his pen slipped right out of his hand.

The way he stared at it on the floor for a solid five seconds before muttering, “I’ll grab it later,” like it had personally wronged him.

Or how his jaw flexes every time you call him “sir.”

And maybe, maybe you're not as airheaded as everyone thinks. Maybe you notice the way his breath stutters when you get a little too close. The way his fingers twitch when yours brush his as you hand him his coffee. The way he clears his throat, sharp and low, whenever you pout a little at the copier machine and ask, “Sir, can you help me? I think I broke it again…”

He’s unraveling. Quietly, pathetically. And now you know it.

So one afternoon, when it’s just you two in the office, you decide to test a theory. You're by his desk, sorting through a stack of documents, when your pen slips from your fingers. Again.

This time, you don't rush to pick it up. This time, you bend at the waist slowly, keeping your knees straight, skirt riding up with every inch.

You hear it—barely—a sharp inhale through his teeth. The creak of leather as he shifts in his chair.

And when you straighten up, all innocent, pen in hand and a small “Got it!” on your lips, you glance back at him.

His eyes are locked on his screen. His jaw is tense. His ears are red.

“Something wrong, sir?” you ask softly.

His hand flexes on the mouse. “No,” he says, too quickly. “Just… keep working.”

You turn back around, letting a little smile play on your lips as you resume sorting. And behind you, you swear you hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

-

The office is quiet. Still.

It’s late—past nine—and everyone’s gone home. The usual buzz of ringing phones and fast-clicking heels has faded into silence, replaced by the distant hum of the city through the tinted glass.

You zip your purse, your reflection faint in the darkened windows, and start toward the elevators when you pass by his office.

There's a light. A thin sliver glowing beneath the heavy door.

You pause. He usually leaves before you—always gone in a blur of cologne and tailored coats, muttering about dinner meetings or conference calls. But tonight?

You don’t even think to knock. You just twist the handle gently and step inside.

He’s on the couch. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie loosened. His head’s tipped back, long legs spread lazily, one arm resting across the back of the couch. But it’s his face that stops you—brows knit, lips parted slightly, tension carved into every sharp line of his expression.

“Sir?” you ask, voice soft.

His eyes snap open instantly.

He blinks once. Twice. Like he’s still anchoring himself to the present. Then he straightens slightly, clearing his throat. “You’re still here?” His voice is rough—raspy, like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Like maybe he’s been sitting there, alone in the dark, trying to exhale something that refuses to leave his chest.

“I was just leaving,” you say, stepping in hesitantly. “I saw the light. Thought something was wrong…”

His gaze drags over you, slow and unreadable. You’re still in your little work outfit—tight pencil skirt, soft pink cardigan buttoned just enough, gloss fading but still catching the light.

Something shifts behind his eyes. Not predatory, not quite. Just tired. Tightly wound. Like he's been holding his breath for days and didn't realize it until now.

You take another step in, voice gentler. “Are you okay?”

He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and humorless. “That’s a loaded question.”

You offer a tiny smile, unsure. “Can I… get you anything? Water?”

He leans back again, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “I’m alright. Just… stressed.”

You take a small step closer. Your heels click against the floor, the sound delicate and deliberate in the thick silence of his office. “Stressed?” you echo, like it’s a foreign concept. “Is it work stuff?”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “It’s always work stuff.”

You hesitate. Then, softly—“I could help you.”

His head tilts just slightly. “Help me?”

“Mhm,” you nod, all sweet sincerity. “Like, if there’s something that’d make you feel better…” You give him a soft little shrug, voice light. “I’m good at taking direction. And I always try my best. Especially for you, sir.”

It cuts to silence.

Except it isn’t really silent—just muffled. Wet sounds echo low between your bodies, broken only by the soft catch of your breath and the rougher gasps he keeps trying—and failing—to hold in.

You’re on your knees in front of him.

The carpet’s rough under your skin, but you barely notice. All your attention is on him—on the way he looks half-wrecked, head tipped up like he’s praying for strength he doesn’t have.

His shirt’s half-open, wrinkled and clinging to his chest. His tie’s slung loose around his neck. His belt is unbuckled, slacks shoved just low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy against your tongue. You’ve got one hand wrapped gently around the base, just to keep him steady, and the rest of him is disappearing into your mouth—slow and warm and dripping with spit.

He’s so hard it hurts. His thighs are tensed under your palms, twitching every time you suck just a little deeper, every time you swirl your tongue just right. His knuckles have gone white where he’s gripping the edge of the desk behind him, and the only reason he hasn’t fucked into your throat yet is because he’s too stunned to move.

One hand’s in your hair. Not tight—barely there, fingers trembling where they tangle in your strands. Like he’s scared to hold you too hard. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to snap.

Because you look up at him with those pretty, shiny eyes—sweet and obedient, mouth stretched around his cock like it’s nothing, like you were made to take it. Every time your lips slide down, you hum like it makes you happy. Like you’re just trying to make him feel good. Like you really think this is helping.

But it’s not just good. It’s fucking devastating.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out, voice thick and raw, eyes squeezing shut like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips twitch and he immediately pulls back, like he’s punishing himself for even thinking about pushing deeper. “You—god, you have no idea what you’re doing to me…”

You pull back with a soft, wet pop. Your lips are swollen and slick, gloss long gone, spit clinging to your chin. And still—you look up at him like you don’t understand why he’s shaking. Why his voice is breaking. Why his jaw’s so tight.

You blink slowly, lashes fluttering. Your voice comes out light. “But… I thought I was helping, sir.”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Gojo knows he’s fucked.

Because you’re too sweet, too soft, too good—kneeling on the floor with your mouth still open like you're waiting for permission to keep going. And he doesn’t want to just ruin you.

He wants to worship you while he does it.

His whole body goes still.

Like that last sentence knocked the breath out of him. Like the sight of you—so sweet, so sincere, kneeling between his spread legs with spit on your lips—is too much.

Gojo’s chest heaves, one hand still barely resting in your hair. The other drapes uselessly over the back of the couch, knuckles twitching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks down at you. Really looks—at your flushed cheeks, your glassy eyes, the gloss long gone from your lips. You’re still stroking him, slow and gentle, mouth parted just enough like you’re ready to take him again the second he says so.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

You tilt your head, blinking up at him. “I was just trying to make you feel better…”

And that’s what shatters him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hand tightening slightly in your hair. Not rough. Just… grounded. Like he needs you now—needs the feel of you to keep from falling apart.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he admits, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “This exact thing. You. On your knees. Pretty little mouth full of me. Acting like you don’t even realize what it’s doing to me.”

When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy. Wild.

“I think about it all the time, you know? In meetings. At dinner. Late at night in my apartment—fucking my fist wishing it was you.”

Your breath hitches at that. He notices.

And when he strokes your cheek—soft, reverent, thumb brushing over your spit-slick lower lip—you don’t flinch. You just lean into it, eyes wide, mouth still open a little.

“God, baby…” he whispers. “Look at you. You don’t even realize how fucking perfect you are, do you?”

Then, low and commanding, “C’mon. Open up again for me.”

You do. Instantly. No hesitation.

He groans, head falling back against the couch cushion, hips lifting just slightly as you take him back into your mouth—slow, deliberate, deeper this time.

He’s panting now. One hand in your hair, the other gripping the couch so hard the leather creaks under his fingers.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice broken. “Just like that. Let me use your mouth, sweetheart. Let me fuckin’—” He cuts himself off with a ragged gasp when your tongue flicks along the underside of his cock just right.

He tries not to buck his hips.

Tries not to grab your head.

Tries not to lose it completely.

But it’s no use. Not when you look so soft. So obedient. So eager to take everything he gives you.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this isn’t just a one-time thing. Not after this. He’s never letting you go.

You can feel it in the way his thighs tense under your palms. In how his hand tightens just a little too much in your hair, like he’s trying not to pull you down—trying to be good.

But his self-control’s shot to hell.

You hollow your cheeks and ease forward just an inch more. His head snaps back. A long, broken moan spills out of him, and his other hand—still clinging to the edge of the couch—moves to cradle your cheek, palm shaking.

“Wait—baby, I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You look up at him. Eyes wide. Unfazed. Lips stretched around him, spit running down your chin. You hum softly—sweet and encouraging, like you want it.

That’s what does it.

Gojo groans deep in his chest, hips twitching once before he locks them still, his hand trembling where it cups your face. He comes hard, spilling onto your tongue, body shuddering like he’s been pulled out of orbit. And you don’t move—don’t flinch—just swallow quietly, blinking up at him like you’ve never done anything so natural in your life.

He’s panting when it’s over. Gasping like he ran a mile, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand slips from your hair and drags gently down the side of your neck, tender and dazed.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re unreal.”

You pull back slowly, mouth slick, lips swollen and pink. There's still a bit of him clinging to your bottom lip—and when you wipe it away with your thumb and suck it off absentmindedly, he makes a soft, wrecked sound in the back of his throat.

“Did I help?” you ask softly, like you’re not already his religion.

And suddenly he’s moving.

In one smooth, needy motion, Gojo leans forward, grabs you under your arms, and pulls you right into his lap. The whole shift is effortless—like you weigh nothing, like you belong there. Your knees settle on either side of his thighs, your hands instinctively resting on his chest.

He’s still breathing hard. Hair messy, tie hanging askew. But his hands are steady now, warm as they cup your hips and hold you close. His head rests against your shoulder for a second, like he just needs to feel you.

“Too well,” he murmurs. “You helped too fucking well.”

One hand lifts to cup the side of your face again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, gaze softening like he’s trying to memorize everything—your flushed skin, your shiny lips, the way you’re still straddling him like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“You’re so good for me,” he says. Quiet. Honest.

You smile, just barely. “I like being good for you.”

And it clicks for him then. That he’s completely gone. That he’d do anything to keep you like this—sweet, soft, his.

“Let me take care of you now,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You were perfect.”

His mouth brushes your jaw, your cheek, your lips—soft, reverent kisses. Nothing rushed. Just quiet, lingering gratitude, like he’s trying to say everything he doesn’t have words for yet.

He holds you there, warm in his lap, and for once in his life, Gojo Satoru feels like he has nothing else to run to.

-

It starts small.

A glance that lingers too long. The way his eyes flick down to your mouth whenever you talk. The way his voice goes soft—low and fond—when he calls you into his office now.

“Got a minute, sweetheart?”

He always says it like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t skipping a beat every time you look up at him with wide eyes.

But then there’s the night he catches you frowning at the copier.

Your arms are crossed, bottom lip caught between your teeth, standing in front of the machine like it just insulted your entire bloodline.

He rounds the corner, sees the blinking error light, and immediately slows his steps.

“Need help?” he asks, lips twitching.

You huff. “It keeps saying ‘paper jam,’ but there’s no paper. I looked!”

Gojo steps in without hesitation, one hand brushing your back as he leans close—so close—to peer into the machine with you.

“Let me help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice warm.

You freeze a little when he says it like that. Soft. Patient. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to come untangle your messes.

He opens the side panel, reaches in, and—sure enough—pulls out a crumpled little piece of paper stuck way in the back. You blink.

“Oh.”

He grins, glancing down at you. “You’re cute when you try to problem-solve.”

You open your mouth to protest, but before you can say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Soft, slow, sure. Right there in the hallway, lights buzzing faintly overhead.

It doesn’t last long—just a breathless few seconds—but when he pulls back, he’s smiling like you hung the stars.

“See? You do your best,” he says. “And I take care of the rest.”

Another day, another meeting.

You're seated beside him, nervously flipping through a stack of documents. The printouts don’t make much sense—some budget chart you barely understand—but you try to follow along, nodding like you get it.

Gojo notices. Of course he does.

He leans over, voice low near your ear. “That page’s upside down, baby.”

You blink down. Oh. It is.

Your face goes hot instantly. But he just grins, tugs it gently from your hands, and flips it around before setting it neatly back on the table.

Then he grabs your pen and starts jotting little notes in the margins to help. Bullet points. Simplified terms. Asterisks with arrows pointing to key numbers.

You stare at the page.

He nudges your knee under the table, gentle. “I got you.”

Sometimes he kisses you without warning. When you bring him coffee. When you trip over your words in a meeting and look at him like you’re going to cry. When you smile too hard at something stupid and he just can’t help himself.

There’s a moment in the break room—mid-laugh, holding a napkin in your hand—when he walks in, sees you like that, and kisses you so suddenly the coffee cup almost falls from your fingers.

He just pulls you in. Mouth hot and insistent. One hand curling around your waist like he needs you closer.

You gasp against him, wide-eyed, but don’t pull away. You never do.

When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Eyes glassy.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “Couldn’t help it.”

But he’s not sorry. Not even a little.

And when he walks you out at the end of the night—past the quiet desks, the dark windows—he always makes sure your purse is zipped, your coat is buttoned, your phone’s in your hand.

“You good?” he asks, gentle. “Need me to call you a car?”

“I’m okay,” you say every time, small and sweet.

But he still walks you to the elevator, still touches your back as the doors close, still watches them until the numbers tick down and you're out of sight.

Because Gojo Satoru is in love. So in love.

And it’s getting harder every day to pretend he’s not.

-

You hand him the report in silence, nervous fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper. He takes it, brows lifted—expecting to have to fix something, as usual.

But he doesn’t say a word. Just scans the first page, then the second.

Then stillness.

He looks up, something unreadable in his eyes. “You did this?”

You nod slowly. “I… think I got it right.”

He flips back to the beginning. Reads again. His lips part, and he exhales a quiet laugh—disbelieving.

“Yeah. You did.” A pause. “You got everything right.”

Your breath catches.

He pushes back from his desk, legs spreading slightly in his chair, eyes still locked on you. “C’mere.”

You walk around the desk slowly. His chair rolls back a little, his hands landing on your hips to guide you between his legs. His voice is low, almost amused.

“You’ve been trying to get this right for weeks.”

“I know,” you say quietly, blinking up at him.

“You’ve been trying so hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin. “And I’ve been so fucking patient.”

Before you can ask what that means, he pulls you in, kissing you soft and deep, tongue sliding into your mouth with slow intent. It’s not rushed. It’s not demanding. It’s like he’s savoring you.

Then, a whisper against your lips, “Up on the desk, sweetheart.”

You hesitate. His hands lift you easily, setting you on the polished edge, your skirt already sliding up as he nudges your knees apart.

You breathe his name, quiet. He smiles, eyes flicking to your thighs, then back to your face.

“You always try so hard for me,” he murmurs, fingers brushing up your bare leg. “I should’ve done this sooner.”

He leans in and kisses your inner thigh. Just once. Then again, higher this time, warm breath brushing close. You’re already squirming when his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging it down slow.

His hands hold your thighs open, firm but not rough. And when he leans in and finally licks—flat and slow, from bottom to top—you gasp.

He hums against you, like you taste better than he imagined.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your clit as he speaks. “Wearing that little skirt. Acting all innocent.”

His tongue moves again—firmer now, more focused, mouth wet and hot, tongue dragging circles around your clit until your back’s arching off the desk.

One of his hands drifts to your stomach, holding you down gently while he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop. Just sucks your clit slow and deep, then flicks it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

“Oh my god—sir—”

He groans at the sound of your voice, fingers digging just slightly into your skin. He licks deeper, messier now, tongue dipping into you before dragging back up, mouth slick with you.

You grip his hair, eyes fluttering. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he groans when you do it—low and hungry, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you.

Every time your hips jerk, he steadies you with a quiet, “Shh, I got you.”

And when you finally come—quiet but shaking, breath punched out of your lungs—he holds you still and keeps licking until your thighs are trembling from the aftershocks.

Only then does he pull back, mouth shiny, pupils blown.

When you finally go still, he stays there a beat longer. Just breathing against your skin. Then he leans up, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you.

No smirk. No smug comment.

Just “You did good.”

Then a pause, before he adds, softer—

“So good I might keep you here for a while.”

-

The conference room is all glass and polish, afternoon sunlight spilling over the sleek table, casting reflections on every chrome edge. You’re seated near the far end, soft blouse tucked neatly into your skirt, lips glossed, notebook open—trying to look like you understand the graphs being passed around.

You’re perched between two other departments. People you don’t usually work with.

That’s when one of them—a guy from Finance, tall, tan, and way too smug—leans toward you with a charming little grin.

“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he says low, like this meeting is a cocktail hour. “You new?”

You glance up, a little startled. “Oh—kinda. I’ve been here a couple months…”

He looks you up and down, eyes lingering a second too long. “They must’ve been keeping you hidden.”

You laugh nervously. Just a tiny sound. Then glance across the table.

Gojo’s already watching you.

Expression unreadable. Elbow propped on the armrest, long fingers brushing his lips, like he’s bored but you know better. His other hand is clenched in his lap, the silver of his ring glinting as it curls tighter.

He says nothing.

Just tracks the way that guy keeps leaning closer. The way his shoulder nearly brushes yours. The way you keep tucking your hair behind your ear.

“You work directly under Gojo?” the guy asks, lips quirking.

“Mhm,” you nod, keeping your tone light. “Just admin stuff.”

“Admin,” he echoes with a smirk. “You sure don’t look like admin.”

Gojo’s head tilts, slowly. “Something you’d like to say about my assistant?” His voice is calm. Light.

But something sharp lives underneath it.

The guy laughs, brushing it off. “Just saying, sir. You’ve got an eye for talent.”

A few people chuckle under their breath.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking back to your notes, burning with embarrassment.

Gojo doesn’t laugh.

He just smiles. That small, dangerous kind of smile. “Mm. That I do.”

The meeting moves on—but he doesn’t.

You can feel the weight of his stare for the rest of it. Every time you fidget, every time you speak up with that soft, hesitant voice of yours, his eyes flick to you like he’s trying to memorize the sound.

It’s late afternoon when your desk phone rings.

You jump a little. The office is quiet now—most people wrapping up their day, the halls thinning out.

You pick it up. “H-Hello?”

“Come to my office.”

That’s all he says. No tone. No explanation. Just that low, clipped command—and then the line clicks dead.

Your heart stutters.

You smooth your skirt nervously, touch up your gloss with shaking fingers, then knock on his office door.

No answer.

So you step inside.

The room’s dim, lit only by the golden wash of the setting sun through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Gojo’s at his desk, sprawled back in his leather chair.

Jacket tossed aside, sleeves rolled. His tie’s hanging loose around his neck, top buttons undone. Hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

He looks you over slowly. Not speaking. Just dragging his gaze down your body and back up again, the tension crawling up your spine with every second of silence.

You shift, swallowing. “You… asked for me, sir?”

A slow smirk touches his lips.

“Mm. I did.”

He doesn’t invite you to sit.

He just watches you stand there—nervous and fidgety, wringing your hands in front of his desk.

“I wanted to ask,” he says lazily, “how that meeting went for you.”

You blink. “It was… okay?”

“‘Okay’,” he echoes, still smirking. “That guy from Finance seemed real interested in you.”

Your stomach flips.

“Oh, um—he was just being friendly—”

Gojo hums. Stands up.

You freeze as he rounds the desk, walking toward you slowly. Unhurried. Like he already knows you won’t run.

“He called you pretty,” he says, voice softer now. “Right in front of me.”

You look down. “I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t flirt back or anything—”

“I know you didn’t, sweetheart,” he murmurs, reaching you at last.

His fingers find your chin, tilting it up gently.

“I saw you. Saw how good you were. All polite and quiet. Just letting him talk like that.”

You nod, lips parted, breath catching.

His thumb strokes along your jaw.

You barely have time to ask what this is about before he crowds in, gently guiding you backward until your hips bump the edge of his desk. He doesn’t push—he never has to. Just waits, hands resting on your waist, thumbs stroking small circles until you sit for him.

The silence stretches as he steps between your legs. He’s still for a moment, eyes drifting down your body—slow and thoughtful, like he’s mentally tracing every place he’s already touched.

“Didn’t like that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

His hands slide up your thighs. “The way he looked at you.”

You swallow. “I didn’t flirt with him or anything, I swear—”

“I know,” he says simply.

His thumbs reach the edge of your skirt, bunching the fabric higher. The room’s quiet except for the rustle of clothes and the faint hum of the city outside the glass.

“You were good,” he murmurs. “You always are.”

You don’t know what to say. Your heart’s racing. You’re too aware of the warmth of his palms against your skin.

Then he sinks to his knees.

Your breath catches.

“Sir—”

He looks up at you. Calm. Steady. “Just let me, angel.”

You nod.

He leans in, pressing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. His hands slide further up, coaxing your legs open—thumbs stroking the soft skin of your inner thighs like he’s in no rush. Like he’s savoring it.

You try not to squirm.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he murmurs.

He hooks his fingers under your panties and drags them down slow. No fanfare. No teasing smirk. Just quiet focus. When he presses his mouth to you, it’s unhurried. He licks into you like he’s tasting you for the first time—soft, deliberate strokes of his tongue that have your breath stuttering.

You grip the edge of the desk. He hums softly when you twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs. “How long have you been like this?”

You shake your head, too breathless to answer.

His thumb strokes your thigh while he eats you out like it’s something to be taken seriously—like he’s tuning the rest of the world out just for this. Just for you.

Every now and then, he pauses. Kisses the inside of your thigh. Lets you breathe.

“Say it.”

You blink, dazed. “Say…?”

“You know what I want.”

Your mouth parts. “I’m yours.”

He groans softly, going right back in—tongue slow, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you open.

“Again.”

You moan, hips jerking. “I’m yours, Gojo—fuck—only yours—”

“Yeah,” he mutters against you, voice low and wrecked. “That’s right.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you start trembling, thighs shaking around his head. He keeps working you through it—tongue steady, hands warm, mouth dragging out every pulse of it until you're gasping his name, half-crying into the sleeve of your blouse.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is slick and his breath is shallow. 

You're already wet—he drags his fingers through it once, slow and deliberate, before circling your clit with maddening patience. You try to keep quiet, but the sounds come anyway—tiny, breathy, embarrassing things.

He slips one finger inside, then another. It’s not rushed—it’s focused. Careful. Testing what you can take.

His free hand wraps around the back of your thigh, pulling you a little closer to the edge. His fingers work you open slowly, curling just right, his thumb brushing up top in quiet, steady strokes.

“You can take it,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You grip the edge of the desk, gasping when he shifts just slightly and hits something deeper.

“There,” he says, like he’s memorizing it. “Right there, huh?”

You nod quickly, eyes fluttering, hips starting to roll with him.

“Yeah… that’s it. Just like that.” He watches you the whole time—so attentive, so fucking into it—like he’s trying to catch every twitch of your mouth, every time your lashes flutter.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “I want to feel you.”

You come quiet, but it shakes through you all the same—hips jerking, thighs trembling, mouth falling open around a sound you didn’t mean to make. His fingers don’t stop. He fucks you through it—just enough pressure, just enough praise, dragging it out until you're oversensitive and shaking.

When he finally pulls his hand away, he brings it to his mouth, licking his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink at him, dazed. “Gojo—”

He stands, reaches out, and drags you up to your feet with zero effort.

“We’re not done yet,” he murmurs, already turning you gently around.

And then he presses you forward over the desk—his hand on your back, firm but not rough, guiding you down. You feel the heat of him behind you, his belt already unfastening.

His belt slides open with a quiet snick, slow and deliberate, like he’s giving you time to brace.

But you don’t. Can’t. You’re still bent over his desk, legs trembling from the second orgasm he pulled out of you like it was nothing.

Behind you, you hear the soft zzzp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric as he lowers just enough to free himself. You start to shift—maybe to stand, maybe to turn—but his palm finds the small of your back again, holding you down gently.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

You freeze.

“‘M not done with you yet.”

You gasp when you feel the blunt heat of him, hard and already dripping, sliding between your folds. He’s not pushing in—yet—but he’s there, heavy against you, teasing, dragging slow and wet between your folds while he stares down like he’s watching something sacred.

“Still so fucking warm,” he says under his breath. “You gonna let me fuck you now, sweetheart?”

You nod quickly, the word yes catching in your throat.

“Need you to say it,” he breathes, leaning forward, his chest brushing your back. “C’mon. Tell me.”

“I want you to,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Please—”

He groans, low and ragged, and then—finally—he pushes in.

You gasp—he’s big, thick and slow as he sinks in inch by inch. Your hands scramble for purchase on the desk, gripping the edge as he fills you.

“F-fuck,” he grits out, jaw clenched tight. “You feel—Jesus, precious, you’re perfect.”

He bottoms out with a slow roll of his hips, then stays there. Doesn’t move. Just breathes heavy against your back, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says softly. “So long. Can’t even count how many fucking times I looked at you and wanted this.”

You whimper as he pulls out a little, then thrusts back in—just once, sharp and deep. You jolt against the desk, your cheek pressing to the cool wood.

He sets a pace then—not fast, not rough. Just deep. Controlled. Like every thrust is meant to remind you who you belong to. He fills you so fully, going deeper with every thrust as if trying to rid any thought from your brain that isn’t him.

The rhythm of it—his hips rolling into you, his hand tight on your waist, the obscene sound of skin meeting skin and your own slick soaking every movement—drives you closer and closer until you’re nearly crying with it.

“Satoru—please—” you pant, arching back against him, trying to take more.

“I know, precious. I know,” he murmurs, dragging his hand back to your hip so he can fuck you harder now, a little deeper. “You’re takin’ it so good.”

His thick head kisses your cervix with every relentless snap of his hips and one of his hands reaches down to dip between your thighs, rubbing tight, precise circles onto your clit.

“Mmm—sir,” you whine into the polished mahogany table, fingers digging into the edges of the fine wood. “I’m so—fuck—close!”

“Yeah? You’re gonna come for me, precious?”

Your orgasm builds sharp and fast and you nod, your toes curling, jaw slack, eyes squeezed shut.

“Let go,” he whispers, voice low and frayed. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Be good for me, yeah?”

You do—god, you do—legs shaking, breath catching, body going tight around him as the orgasm hits, rolling through you in waves.

Gojo swears under his breath, fingers gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release. And then he groans deep and spills into you with a shudder.

He stays there for a moment, slumped over you, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence of the office. Then, slowly, he pulls out, gentle as ever, hands skimming over your hips to smooth your skirt back down.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice still rough, a rasp of heat and concern wrapped in silk.

You nod, lips parted, lungs trying to catch up. His gaze doesn’t move from your face.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your shoulder then another just beneath your ear. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he coaxes, hands tracing soothing lines down your sides. “You were perfect.”

He shifts, not pulling away from you, but adjusting and cradling you with too much care for a man who had you begging a few minutes ago. He gently flips you over onto your back, strong hands finding your hips and then your thighs, his thumbs kneading slow, soft circles into the sore muscle like he’s memorizing your skin.

A content sigh escapes you, and he smiles, eyes half-lidded and reverent.

“Good girl,” he says lowly, his forehead pressing to yours. “You did so good for me, angel. So fucking good.”

His mouth finds yours, and the kiss he gives you is nothing like the ones before. It’s not rushed, not wild. It’s deep, slow, and indulgent. Like he’s trying to pour all the unspoken things into it.

Your arms loop around his neck, and your fingers find his hair, tugging gently. He groans quietly against your lips, like the sound is meant just for you.

You sigh into his mouth, full, and wrecked in the best way.

He pulls back only slightly, nose brushing yours. 

“Remind me to give you another bonus.”

author's note. yeah i got real lazy at the smut. i'm so done with writing smut i quit icl ts pmo gng

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

taglist. @raendarkfaerie

[uhhkims]

⋆˚ ✿ ˖ ࣪ satoru is so whiny in bed

“f-fuck.. don’t stop, please don’t stop..”, satoru whines as you flick your hips on his sensitive cock, bouncing up and down until you hear the clapping noises of collision with satoru’s face contorting in pleasure.

your hand gently wraps around his throat, applying a light pressure until he’s rolling his eyes back with parted lips, his cock throbbing against your velvet walls as you continue to apply pressure while your ass bounces on his cock over and over. you’re sinking down until he’s bottoming out inside of you and turning into a whimpering mess where he can barely keep his mouth closed and you can’t help but giggle at him.

satoru feels so close like this, whimpering out to you through his shallow breaths and whines, “please, m’so close..”

it’s got you cooing in awe at how pathetic he can be, bucking your hips that chokes out another moan as he bites on the bottom on his lip, looking up at you with those soft eyes that gloss over with pleasure.

“hold it for me, baby.”, you whisper against his ear, forcing him to hold out as your gummy walls flutter around his cock. he can barely take it, whining out again when his cock pulsates against your walls like he’s in the verge of cumming. he wants it so bad, even if he’s nodding at your soft words with broken moans despite it.

you know he secretly loves it when he’s listening to your every word, smiling down at him and his teary eyes of denial. he just loves being tortured by you until he’s such a mess, whining and begging for his release.

[uhhkims]

gojo loves sweets… including pies!

his cock throbs. he’s so hard, hitting you in your deepest crevasses, his flushed tip gushing inside of you. he just can’t resist it, especially the way you clamp down on him after insisting he fill you up.

his hips come to a halt. his vision narrowing in on your fucked out face. he knows you can feel his hot cum inside of you, and he’s relishing in the way your tongue sits on your parted lips, panting like you’re in heat.

pulling out, he anticipated the way he’s seed will roll out, how it’ll ooze out of you, painting your folds, pooling around your ass. and as much as he wants to see it with his own two eyes, he can’t let it go to waste— after all you were begging him for it.

he stuffs his fingers into your pulsing hole, fucking his cum back into you.

“hmm!” you whine, words slurring together. “‘toru ‘s too much” gojo doesn’t care. not when he can feel his warm liquid on his fingers, blending with your own arousal while still deep in your pussy. his fingers curl, causing you to scream.

and even though you were overstimulated, you sniffled when he finally removed his thick digits. staring at his index and middle finger, he observed the glistening cum that was still lingering.

he smiled sadistically, eyes flickering back to you.

“say ‘awh.’” you barely have a second to react before tasting him in your mouth, “tastes so sweet, doesn’t it baby?”

[uhhkims]

gojo satoru survived — first thing he does? finds you, fucks you like you're the only thing keeping him alive, as if dying didn’t take, but coming back might.

<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , mlist ,

cw: angst and smut, trauma recovery via sex, intense + emotional , breeding kink implied , post-shibuya , reader is grounding him , not proofread .

gojo satoru stumbles into your space like a collapsing moon, sweat soaked and trembling.

half here, half somewhere else. he doesn't knock. just appears. the air thickened around for a second before it settled with a dull thud, the universe shuddering to spit him back out.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink much either;

his eyes aren’t the same. they look too bright — off somehow, shaky, burnt-out from seeing something probably no man should, scorched from trying to hold the strongest image.

he’s breathing as if he clawed his way through hell barefoot, chest heaving under torn tight black fabric, collarbone glistening, a ssmear of blood clinging to the side of his neck, and not all of it is his. some sort of — divine wrath clinging to his skin.

you say his name. once. twice. he doesn’t answer.

he stares, checking if you’re real or just another hallucination from the edge of death. then he touches you — trembling fingers, clumsy, desperate, afraid you’ll vanish.

no words. just breathing. just need. but not the needy toru you're used to.

he kisses you wrong. too hard. too much teeth. it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel unfamiliar — not passion, but a tether to reality.

he’s trying to stay here, with you. grounding himself through you.

you try to pull back, to say something, anything, but he follows, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild with something you still can’t name.

“...’s over,” he mumbles eventually.

you’re not sure if he means the fight, the world, or himself, but he keeps touching you like you're the only thing left that’s real.

he doesn’t give you a chance to ask what he means. doesn’t give himself the chance to fall apart.

his hands slip under your shirt, rough and shaking — tugging, clawing, desperate. his breath stutters over your cheek as he mouths at your skin, messy and raw, teeth grazing your pulse like he needs to feel it jump to prove he made it out alive.

he moans at the beat beneath your skin. it’s proof. your back hits the nearest surface — wall, table, floor — it doesn’t matter.

he groans when your legs open for him, a low, guttural sound torn from somewhere deep and wounded. starving, frantic.

his hands push your clothes away with no rhythm, no patience — almost furious at the fabric separating you.

“fuck,” he chokes out, voice cracked and breaking at the edges.

his fingers find your cunt, and there's no tenderness — just a desperate press between your thighs, his middle finger dragging over your clit too hard, too fast, panic woven into every movement.

your hips jolt, a startled moan slipping free from your mouth, and he groans again — raw, unfiltered — at the sound.

“fuck—warm,” he breathes, thumb sliding through your slick like salvation. “still warm, you're real.”

he repeats it, barely a whisper. real. real. afraid it might stop being true.

then he’s fumbling his pants down — cock heavy, flushed, the head already wet and twitching. painfully hard. he lines up in one breathless motion. you barely inhale—

and then he’s inside. not slow. not careful. just in.

one brutal thrust, thick cock stretching you wide, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your back arches. your pussy clenches around him, fluttering from the sudden fullness, and he shudders, eyes half shut.

“shit,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “satoru—”

he pulls back only halfway before slamming in again, deep and messy, hips grinding against yours like he’s chasing something he’s already losing. every drag of his cock scrapes your walls just right, each thrust making your legs tremble around him.

his pelvis grinds your clit with every stroke, heat blooming into something sharp. your head knocks the wall, rhythm caught in the wet slap of flesh.

“can’t—fuck, can’t stop,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours. “you feel so—so good—holy shit—” his voice sounds close to breaking.

his cock drives into you with a desperate rhythm, thick and relentless, your slick making it too easy to fuck you deeper, harder. your cunt squeezes around him, soaking, tight, pulling him back in every time he bottoms out.

the air is thick with wet sounds — your pussy squelching, your bodies colliding — as he uses you like you’re the only thing keeping him here.

you feel every inch of him. the way he fills you, stretches you, the blunt head of his cock battering your cervix with each thrust that lands too deep, makes your voice crack.

“fuck—oh my god—satoru—slower—please—”

but you don’t mean it. not when his hand grabs your thigh and hikes it higher, not when his other hand climbs from your stomach to your chest, rough and greedy, thumbs brushing your nipples until they harden under his touch.

“you’re gonna take it,” he growls, voice low and slurred. “gonna take all of it—let me fuck it in deeper—fuck it in good—”

he sounds half possessed, half begging.

your walls clench down, moans spilling louder, wetter, each one driving him to thrust harder. deeper. more. his pace brutalizes the space between you, tries to leave you shaped around him.

you don’t know what the hell happened out there, but this — this feels right. this feels alive.

his cock throbs inside you. you feel it — hips snapping faster, the wet drag of him inside you echoing off the walls.

he buries himself deep, chasing something final.

“you’re mine, you're real,” he groans into your mouth, voice cracking. “mine—fuck—don’t go—don’t go—”

as if he’s already watched you disappear once.

your body’s clenching around him, pussy tightening with each desperate thrust, milking him closer to the edge. your own orgasm builds in heavy waves, still out of reach — but it’s coming.

you can’t breathe. can’t think. just feel. his cock driving into your soaked cunt, clit dragging against his pelvis with every slam, heat building under your skin—

“gonna cum—” he gasps, frantic, hand gripping your ass as he slams in one last time, deep and wrecking —“fuck, i’m cummin'—”

and he spills inside you. hot. thick. endless.

his hips stutter as he fills you up, cock twitching deep, and you feel it flood your insides, dripping between your thighs before he even pulls out. your cunt clenches, still twitching, your own orgasm shuddering behind it.

“fuck—look at me,” you breathe, grabbing his face, and his dazed eyes lock with yours as your pussy spasms around him, squeezing his still hard cock.

“you’re not done,” you whisper, breathless. still trembling. aching. “don’t you dare pull out.”

and he listens. he can’t do anything else. not when your cunt refuses to let him go. not when he’s still buried to the hilt, still leaking into you, still throbbing. not when this is the only place he remembers how to be human.

he doesn’t say a word.

just rocks his hips again, slower now, cock sliding through the mess he left behind — your body soaked, dripping, greedy for more.

and he clings to you, the way only a man who’s died and come back can. desperate, shaken, driven by something deeper than lust — he missed you.

divider by @/cafekitsune // art by HON100_ on twt

[uhhkims]

satoru is absolutely the type to get horny during aftercare.

like, violently.

and he knows how much he just wrecked you. how he folded you into the mattress like he owned it, like he had a point to prove and your body was the only canvas that mattered. the room still hums with heat, shadows curling along the soft sheen of sweat on your skin. your chest heaves as you try to remember how to breathe, legs limp and slightly parted, the plush of your lower lip caught between your teeth as your lashes flutter with exhaustion. your fingers twitch, still faintly curled into the sheets, and your skin is glowing—flushed and warm, painted in shades of him.

and satoru—your menace of a husband, long limbs sprawled like he belongs there, sprawled across your body—has the nerve to look sweet. his lashes fan out over flushed cheeks, the silver-white strands of his hair plastered messily to his temple, glinting faintly in the ambient lamplight. those eyes, sharp and crystal-cut, bright as glacier melt under sunlight, roam your body with open worship. he’s crouched between your thighs now, running a warm cloth over your skin in gentle, loving strokes, trailing kisses like apologies along the inside of your thigh, your hipbone, your knee.

“my pretty girl did so good,” he murmurs, voice thick with affection and that undercurrent of reverence that always makes your chest ache.

he hums while he works. fucking hums. like this isn’t the fifth time he’s split you open tonight.

his neck glistens with sweat, the slope of it flushed, veins subtly visible beneath the surface. the scent of his cologne—the one you picked, subtle and fresh with a little citrus and something smoky—still clings to him beneath the musk of skin and sex and something uniquely his. and that alone would be enough to leave you dizzy. but then—then—you feel it.

his cock, twitching against your thigh. heavy, hot, no longer just interested—eager. you don’t even need to look to know his brows are twitching in that self-satisfied way, that his mouth is curved up in a smile just shy of smug.

“…satoru.”

he blinks at you. innocent. as if he isn’t rock hard again less than ten minutes after he nearly made you sob. he presses a kiss just above your mound, lips dragging slowly.

“yeah?”

his hands are slow as they slide over your hips. one squeezes, grounding. the other strokes the soft inside of your thigh, thumbs sweeping in soothing circles that border on teasing. you see the way his eyes flick up—watching for every twitch in your face, every breath you forget to take, the way your jaw tenses then slackens when he brushes over a particularly sensitive spot.

“you feeling okay, sweetheart?” he asks, almost too gently.

you squint at him. that tone always spells trouble.

he tucks the sheets around you like he’s being helpful. like he’s not also letting his fingers slip under your waistband. “nothing else you need?”

your jaw drops slightly. then you squeak when his mouth descends to your breast, tongue dragging over your nipple with slow, devoted strokes, the kind that make your spine arch despite yourself, your hand flying up to thread through his messy hair.

“satoru,” you say, warning sharp—but shaky.

“‘m trying to behave,” he mumbles into your chest, clearly lying. his fingers dip lower, parting you with an ease born of how well he knows you. your hips jerk when his thumb finds your clit, lazy, slow circles that make your lashes flutter and your thighs twitch. “but baby, you’re just so soft. so warm. i need to be inside you again.”

he rolls his hips against your thigh and the weight of him—all of him—presses into you like a brand. he lifts his head to look at you, pouty and flushed and ridiculously pretty, his wild hair sticking out in tufts, strands fanned out across his forehead. “just a little? i’ll go slow.”

you try to glare. you really do. but your mouth betrays you with the tiniest whimper, your thighs parting without conscious thought.

his grin is instant. too bright. too boyish. he’s already shifting closer, one big hand hooking behind your knee to open you wider. his other hand cradles your face like you’re something holy, while he leans down to kiss your jaw, your temple, nose brushing against yours.

“you still smell like me,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “d’you have any idea what that does to me?”

and instead of pushing in, he teases—rubs the swollen tip of his cock along your folds, slow and languid. back and forth. not enough. never enough. his hand cups your breast again, thumb flicking your nipple in rhythm with his motions below, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. you shiver, thighs instinctively twitching.

“look at you. god, i don’t even deserve you. but i’m gonna make you feel good again. promise.”

you turn your head away, whimper caught in your throat, and that’s when he shifts—pressing a kiss to your nape, brushing your hair aside like it’s a veil. he rests his forehead there, warm and damp and trembling, breath shuddering as his hand tilts your hips upward.

he doesn’t warn you. doesn’t count. he knows better. he waits until your breath catches—until your nails dig into his arm just slightly—and that’s when he presses in.

slow. stretching. the full length of him inching deeper and deeper until his pelvis meets yours.

he shudders, nose buried in your hair. kisses the nape of your neck once. twice.

then he starts to move.

not frantic. not harsh. worshipful. slow, grinding rolls of his hips that knock the air from your lungs. every thrust has intention, angled to press deep, to feel every inch of you squeezing around him again. your body trembles with overstimulation, jaw slack, breath catching every time he nudges against the spot that makes your toes curl.

he whispers your name like a hymn, his thumb slipping back between your legs to circle your clit again. slow. patient. like he’s building you up on purpose.

“can’t stop,” he breathes. “can’t help it. you’re perfect. mine.”

and every time you start to plead—every time your walls flutter around him like it’s the end—he whispers, “just one more.”

he lies. over and over again. but god, you let him.

because he doesn’t slow. doesn’t stop. not when your legs tremble. not when your fingers claw at the sheets. not when your voice is hoarse from moaning. he just keeps going. another round. and another. and another. until your body forgets what empty feels like.

until you’re soaked and aching and delirious, and he’s still above you, kissing your damp cheeks, murmuring against your skin.

“so good. you’re so good. just one more, baby.”

his thrusts stay slow, but there’s something ravenous behind them now. he’s desperate. trembling. voice cracking with every word he mutters into your neck. his hands are everywhere—your waist, your chest, your jaw. his mouth worships every inch of skin he can reach.

and when you break again, voice barely a whisper of his name, he spills with you—hips stuttering, arms locked around you, face buried in your neck as he breathes you in.

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t move. he just stays there, pressed deep, body curved over yours like a shield.

“just one more,” he whispers again, breathless.

(you both know better.)

[uhhkims]

“DID YOU JUST…?”

— when you squirt for the first time, and they’re the reason why

i tried something.... don't know if it's up to the mark or not... enjoy if you can :p

KENTO NANAMI

He had you in his lap — full weight, cock deep, legs spread open over his thighs as he fucked up into you with slow, brutal control. One arm around your waist, the other gripping your chin to keep your eyes on him.

"No squirming. You take it like a big girl."

And you tried. You really did.

But the angle, the pressure, the growling in your ear — it built until your body snapped without warning, a slick, helpless burst gushing down his thighs as your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

He froze.

Then looked down. Then up.

And grinned.

"Oh… that’s new." His voice dropped lower. "Did I just make you squirt?"

You nodded, dazed. He pulled you down hard on his cock again.

"We’re not stopping until I feel that again. Twice. Maybe three."

SATORU GOJO

You were sobbing, face-down in the mattress, arms shaking, ass up, Satoru behind you — shirt still on, cock pounding mercilessly into your soaked cunt.

"That’s it, baby. Cry into the sheets. You wanted this rough, didn’t you?"

But you didn’t expect the wave of pressure building so deep it hurt — until you gasped, clenched, and suddenly—

You exploded.

Not a climax. Not just a moan.

A full-body release, soaking the bed, spraying across his abs and thighs as your legs buckled.

He stopped.

Stared.

Then broke into a full-on, breathless laugh.

"Holy shit—" He slapped your ass. "You squirted. From me? God, I’m a fuckin’ legend."

You whimpered, still twitching.

"C’mere. Let’s see how many more times we can get that messy little pussy to gush for me."

SUGURU GETO

He had you bent over the couch. Face down. Hair in his fist. His cock buried to the base, dragging that spot deep inside with every grinding thrust.

"One more, baby. Give me one more. I can feel it in the way you’re clenching."

You opened your mouth to tell him you couldn’t—

But it hit you like lightning.

A raw cry escaped your lips as your body jerked, and suddenly you were soaking the cushions, slick pouring down your thighs, walls spasming around him.

He froze.

Blinking. Breathing hard.

"You’ve never done that before."

It wasn’t a question.

He turned you around, stared down at the mess between your legs, then kissed you rough.

"I want to see that again. Right now. No excuses."

TOJI FUSHIGURO

He was ruining you.

One leg over his shoulder, one hand on your throat, his cock hammering into your soaked cunt like he was angry — deep, brutal, relentless.

"Fucked you dumb already, haven’t I? Thought you could handle it."

And then—something inside snapped.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. You just burst, hot slick gushing from your cunt like it had a mind of its own.

Toji stopped mid-thrust.

Looked down.

Then laughed darkly.

"Oh. You dirty fuckin’ girl." He grinned like a devil.

"No one else gets to see this. You hear me? This mess is mine."

CHOSO KAMO

It was supposed to be slow. Soft. He wanted to take care of you.

But the way your hips rolled? The way your thighs clenched?

He snapped.

Now he had you on your back, knees pushed to your chest, cock sliding deep and hard, forehead pressed to yours.

"Aughhhh.... can’t stop," he gasped. "Feels too good. Mmhhhh..."

You both cried out at the same time.

You clenched, twitched — and soaked him.

A messy, wet burst that covered his abs, his cock, the sheets beneath you.

Choso froze. Eyes wide.Breathing heavy.

"Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head, breathless.

His cheeks went red, and then his lips parted, completely awed.

"You squirted… for me?"

He kissed your forehead, then slowly slid back in, whispering, "Let me try again."

RYOMEN SUKUNA

He had you tied up. Ankles to the bedposts. Wrists above your head.

His cock? Already buried deep.

"I know you can take it woman."

And he fucked you hard. Fast. With every ounce of aggression he could muster. Your tears, your begging — they only spurred him on.

Then suddenly—

You screamed. And gushed.

A thick, hot spurt soaked the sheets under you.

He paused. For once, speechless.

Then— a grin. A growl.

"You desperate little thing."

He slapped your thigh and fucked back in hard, making it wetter, sloppier, filthier.

"That was mine. You’ll do it again, or I’ll fuck it out of you."

[uhhkims]

୨୧ — Gojo's hands shake like he's eighteen again, gripping your hips with white knuckled desperation, "Fuck, fuck, fuck-" his vocabulary reduced to caveman like grunts when you're under him like this, years of experience apparently meaning jack shit when your legs wrap around his waist.

He's all stuttering rhythm and graceless hunger, like he forgot how bodies work. One second he's jackhammering into you with supernatural speed, the next he's frozen completely, forehead pressed to your collarbone, panting like he just ran a marathon because your warmth threatens to undo him entirely... "Jesus, you’re…" He breaks off with a choked laugh, hips jerking erratically. "Fuck, been too long since I- shit, do that thing again. With your tongue again, please. Right there."

His demand is adorably needy, punctuated by a sharp, sloppy thrust as you scrape your teeth against the tendon of his neck, just how he likes it~.

Everything about his technique is pure chaos. No finesse, just raw need and that stupid boyish grin even when he's buried deep enough to kiss your cervix with the tip of his dick.

When you arch beneath him, a low moan tearing from your throat, your cunt clamps down hard around his cock. It’s a vice grip, a sudden, violent spasms that rippled through your entire body… Satoru’s eyes go wide, pupils blown. And for a moment, he forgets his name, yours, and any word that isn’t an expletive as you completely come undone.

It’s not just a flutter, not just a wetness, but a gush. Hot, sudden. A flood of your release soaking his entire cock, his balls, the thick thatch of white hair at his base. It rushes out of you in thick, uncontrollable waves, splattering onto his sheets beneath your ass with an audible wet splssh. The sound is obscene. Juices slicking his length, dripping down him, making his thrusts messy- obscenely wet.

"Did you just-? His voice is thick with pure awe, breathless. The stupid grin returns as he drives into that soaked cunt of yours, feeling the slick mess coating him. "Whoa! Youre like a little Squirtle." The ridiculous Pokémon joke tumbles out mid thrust… He’s so fucking pleased with himself, he almost fumbles his rhythm entirely,"Get it? 'Cause you just squir—"

"Satoru, I swear to God-" you gasp, but the protest is cut off as he angles his hips sharply, burying himself impossibly deeper.

"Yeah, yeah, less talking, more-"

The new angle hits that spongy spot inside you dead on, hard. A choked cry rips from you, followed instantly by another gush, soaking him further, the sheets beneath you now a dark, soaked circle.

But there’s something beautiful about how he fucks when he's like this- like he's afraid you'll disappear- like if he doesn't fill you up immediately you'll change your mind. Like he wants to leave a piece of himself with you, so you won't forget him.

[uhhkims]

pretty ✨

[uhhkims]

This Gojo Satoru who pounds away the stress from fighting by putting you through the headboard. 

This Gojo Satoru who’s just so big that every muscle presses on top of you until you’re damn near sinking into the mattress. 

This Gojo Satoru who won’t stop until you can’t remember your own name- no name but his, the exact same one he rubs over and over on your cIit. 

[uhhkims]

9:48 pm

18+ nsfw, mdni. sakusa x gn!reader. handjobs.

“feel good, baby?” your hand slides up and down kiyoomi’s hard cock, your fingers squeezing lightly at the base.

“y-yes,” he affirms, his back arching slightly into your chest, his eyes fluttering shut when you move your hand up, your finger thumbing at his tip.

he sits between your legs in the tub, his back against your chest as his head leans against your shoulder. the pale, sensitive skin of his throat is exposed to you.

you tilt your head, kissing at his jaw before your lips glide down to his neck, brushing softly over his skin. you see him bite down on his lip at the contact, his hips shifting to get more of his cock into your hand.

your other hand snakes between his legs, pushing at his thigh so he can spread himself more, and he does; your fingers find his balls, and begin to rub at them, your fingers applying pressure off and on.

“right there,” he moans when your finger swipes at his slit, his leg jerking a little when you repeat the action again. “i’m about to cum.”

“go ahead,” you tell him, placing a kiss to his neck before you move your head away from his to watch his cock twitch in your grasp. he groans when he cums, turning to bury his nose in your neck when he sees you watching his cum coat your fingers.

“you’re obscene,” he pouts, looking up at you.

“but you love it,” you reply, pressing a clumsy kiss to his lips.

[uhhkims]

"matter fact i want your friend im allowed to switch."

when it came to sex, satoru was really good at it; he was slow when you wanted it and rough as well. he always listened to you and knew how to move his hips to hit that spot you liked, but...

his pussy-eating skills were not good.

satoru tries; he really does, but it doesn't hit the same way, not like suguru does it.

suguru does it so well you can't even think afterwards; it leaves you speechless and wanting more.

the way suguru can eat you up like no other is what keeps taking you back to him.

he takes his time, but he’s desperate with it; he moans into it and makes eye contact that feels way too intimate. that’s what you like.

he knows you from front to back and how to keep you finishing all over his tongue to the point it was slipping out his mouth and rolling down his chin.

the sheets were wet, your heart beating so fast that’s the only thing you hear, but you still want orgasms on top of orgasms when it comes to him.

satoru can hit all your spots with his dick; you’ll take that, you love it, but sometimes you just need suguru to do the job with his tongue, and he does without fail.

when you wanted someone to hit spots inside of you, no one could, and for you to be clutching the sheets, balking your fists, satoru was who you were going to.

if you wanted someone to overstimulate you with their tongue and have you gushing with the sheets damp and wet beneath you, suguru was your guy.

it all came down to preference and what you were feeling, and most days it was suguru because he paid attention; he knew secret spots that you didn’t even know or could get to.

pussy eating was his specialty, and you couldn’t ask for easier access. it was a lucky strike. he was your man’s best friend, and he was down with whatever, so when it came time for you to want actual good head, he was right down the street.

satoru was unfortunately a lost cause, and that was okay—just another great excuse to go see suguru.

"oooo, look who came to see me again. should I lay down a towel?"

suguru was always excited to see you; you always made it worth his while. when going down on you, he could eat you for hours. there was something about the way you tasted that made him want more.

he would even purposefully give satoru bad tips on eating you out because he wants your taste all to himself. it was shitty, yeah, but suguru never proclaimed to be a good or the better person.

it was comfortable in between your thighs, and all he wanted was you and that sweet taste that slipped in his mouth and down his throat any chance he got.

there was something about the way you gripped and pulled his hair from the ends, balling it in your fists, and squirmed around when you got overstimulated; it only made him want you more, like a bad habit he couldn't put down.

talking to you while his nose was pressed against your clit and his tongue moved around and then back to it again, all in a good rotation and rhythm.

"there you go, let it out." while slipping two fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out to make you go even more crazy, your toes curling and your back arching while crying for him while you finished.

suguru didn't stop either; he did it again and again until your eyes were glazed over and tired.

no one could compare; you knew that, and he knew that.