BUSINESS // PLEASURE. GOJO SATORU / M!READER
summary. you are the best thief in the country and leave a trail of stolen hearts wherever you go. gojo satoru knows everything about you – you name, your face, your modus operandi. he refuses to become just another pretty face you kiss and don't miss.
wc. 11.7k
tags. smut | top reader, bottom gojo, thief/curse user!reader, flirty!reader who's implied to get around + have several casual fwbs, occasional 'sir' kink (r. receiving). gojo basically drugs himself (purposely) w a cursed tool that amplifies emotions; he's pathetic & obsessive ("job-related" stalking). blowjob (r. receiving), deepthroat + facefucking, come swallowing, slight corruption (idk reader's a criminal & he likes it), taking photos during the act, boot riding/humping, untouched orgasm, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise + degradation, crying, fingering, bent over the desk, almost getting caught, coming on his ass/back, no aftercare
notes. god i wanna make fun of him so bad its not even funny anymore
"We want you to steal a cursed tool from the Gojo estate."
At the familiar deadpan voice behind you, the suave, flirty smile on your face freezes. You turn your head slowly, your hand tightening around a bottle of whiskey and a woman's empty glass. The woman in front of you – dark-haired, smoky-eyed, an absolute bombshell in a tight navy dress and heels sharp enough to kill – simply raises an eyebrow, less than pleased at the sudden interruption.
"Pass. I am currently indisposed," you drawl, and the woman's pink lips curve up into a satisfied smile. She leans closer to you across the bar, trailing stiletto nails up your hand and under your folded white sleeves.
Behind you, your boss stands in a pristine white suit, mouth twisting with its usual scowl when it comes to dealing with you. While you are constantly employee-of-the-month in terms of the prizes you ferry back to him, you are less than ideal in every other aspect. Lazy, arrogant, and flirtatious towards anything with a pretty face, you are everything except reliable. Conditioned by your good looks, perfectly-suited cursed technique, and staggering ability to never get caught, you have become something of a local star in your boss' underground bar. Everyone wanted a piece of you, and you welcomed it with open arms.
"This request is different," he reveals. "The payout's more than your last four customers combined."
That gets your attention – and the attention of everyone in hearing radius. Everyone's looking at you now.
The woman you were chatting up leans closer, switching her crossed legs. "More than the last four?" she whispers to you, and you tilt your head towards her. "That's, what, twenty million yen – at least?"
"You're the one who's good with numbers, honey," you reply. With a casual motion, you pour her whiskey on the rocks, and her fingers brush yours as you slide the glass over the countertop. "Mm... Stealin' from the Gojo clan. Not sure how much I want to risk fucking god himself noticing me where I shouldn't be."
"Aw, baby," she trails her fingers over your hand, lifting her glass and smirking behind it, "you scared?"
"Healthily, I think."
"Maybe slightly more than necessary," she teases.
"That blue-eyed bitch can spot a rat twitch from across the city," a patron shouts, probably one too many drinks in. Your other bartender, however, looks completely checked out of her job, probably nursing her own hangover. The man slams his beer down, making it slosh. "Don't fuckin' take it, buddy! You're our best guy – 'thout you, what'll the rest of us schmucks do? Scrape by, stealing wallets and watches? Pah!"
"Agreed," another patron chimes in, lifting her fruity cocktail. "The other Big Families are a walk in the park compared to the Gojo clan. You can't rely on its head being elsewhere for a set amount of time, nor can you fight your way out if you get caught – and you will be caught, it's Gojo fucking Satoru. Anyone who accepts is downright suicidal."
You hum, bobbing your head from side to side indecisively. "Oh, but twenty million yen... that number's absurd. Who'd even have that kinda cash lyin' around? You sure this ain't a trap, boss?"
"It came from a verified client. They've always been generous and the money is clean. It's real."
You whistle lowly. "Twenty million... for some hokey little toy? I can't say I'm not interested."
"No!"
"Baby, I was joking. You're not serious."
"C'mon, man, you'll fuckin' die!"
"You all shut it!" you bark, though there's no real heat behind it. The woman with the cocktail gives you the finger. "Listen, I came from goddamn nothing. If someone says my life is worth twenty million yen, even a loss is a gain. I've already made it far above my station." You turn to face your boss and toss your towel onto the counter, giving him a firm nod and a sharp smile. "Alright, big man. Walk me through it."
—
When you warp onto the high walls of the Gojo estate, it is disturbingly silent. The Zen'ins and Kamos had servants for every little thing, constantly working throughout the night even if it was just to fix the caulking or patch a scratched shoji door. Here, however, the only movement is the wind through the lantern-dotted engawas and the only sound is the trees rustling gently over the eaves.
Dressed in tight, dark tactical gear that's more fashion than function, you jump short distances by warping through space, an utterly silent pop of cursed energy splitting the air itself whenever you land. Even as you venture deeper into the estate, closer to the personal quarters of the clan's esteemed head, the grounds remain conspicuously, suspiciously empty.
Along the outer rings of the family home, you felt the cursed energy signatures of dozens of servants and unimportant clan members, huddled together and tense as bricks inside buildings. With each warp, you leave more and more of them behind, until the inner circle is completely deserted, a ghost town lit with swaying paper lanterns. Completely deserted...
Except for one.
You find the slender figure of the Gojo clan head resting against the edge of his desk, wearing dress slacks and a crisp white shirt even at midnight. The scene is like something straight out of a noir movie. The only light is from a tall lamp in the far corner of the room behind the desk, draping everything in a soft golden glow – the panels of the lamp cast sharp shadows that stretch across the ceiling. There's a prism in his hands, casually tossed from hand to hand and spun between his thin fingers. It's a twenty-sided icosahedron, bright white, with spikes on every vertex gilded brassy-gold.
It's the exact cursed tool you had been sent to retrieve, and it is sitting in Gojo Satoru's palms.
He tosses it into the air and catches it. Spins it like a basketball. He tilts his head in your direction – not enough to look, just enough for his voice to carry. "Took you long enough."
His voice is high, airy, careless. Playful.
"I call it being fashionably late." You step through his open doors and shut it behind you, your smirk widening as you rake your gaze appreciatively over his figure. Broad shoulders, tiny waist, legs that go on for miles. Now all that's missing is a pretty face – but, to your disappointment, he wears that infamous blindfold.
You lean against the solid wood doorframe. His quarters are built differently to the rest of the estate – here, the wood is darker, the walls heavier, the shoji doors patterned with gilded paint. It looks regal, distinguished, and completely, utterly boring.
"So," you chuckle, voice thick with amusement and a dark, drawling accent that no high-born descendant should ever like to hear. It speaks of common roots with a criminal twang. "You're my mysterious benefactor. What a strange turn of events this is, hm?"
"Not strange at all, really." Satoru stops playing with the cursed tool, turning around for the first time and setting the prism in the centre of the desk. "You're YN, right? You break into the other Families' warehouses, bedrooms – even their bathrooms, so I've heard. But never mine. Why is that?"
"Oh, you can call me whatever you like, pretty." You smile with an edge like a blade. "I never got paid for anything Gojo-related. Don't take it personally, sweetheart. You bought me for twenty million yen a few days ago and I accepted within ten minutes of hearing the offer. Not my fault nobody's brave enough to even ask about what you might have squirrelled away in this place."
You cross your arms over your chest, the black long-sleeve making your arms look huge. Same thing with those tactical pants and your thighs. His eyes are obscured by his blindfold, but by the way you snicker and lean back against the wall with a smug grin, something else must be showing.
"So, sweetheart, what was your plan? To let me steal that little toy and give it back to you later? I'm all for the easy money, don't get me wrong, but this just feels a little..." You waver a gloved hand mid-air. "You feel me?"
Satoru shrugs with an unreadable smile, idly pushing the cursed tool back and forth with the tip of his finger. "Word along the grapevine is that LN YN is handsome and debonair, with a strong moral compass. You don't kill anyone. The 'gentleman thief' made real."
You get the impression that he's watching your every move in razor-sharp clarity. His attention is almost suffocating, even through the blindfold. He tracks you like a wolf tracks a deer, every step you take measured and catalogued with a tiny twitch of his head.
You tilt your head and chuckle. "No, no. Ain't a gentleman, sir. I don't even think I have a birth certificate. And I certainly steal for myself, rather than for the thrill or with a Robin-Hood flair. Money makes the world go 'round, you know? Still..." You push off the wall and approach him with a lazy, cat-silent swagger. You hook your thumbs into your belt when you're directly next to him – on his side of the desk. "I like the rest of what you said. Now that you've seen me in the flesh, do I measure up to your dreams, Gojo Satoru?"
"Never said I believed what they said. Just that your reputation precedes you." He stiffens slightly at your proximity. He hadn't expected you to cross the implied boundary of the desk with such ease – now you are just a few inches away, smiling crookedly at him with a glint in your eye that promises trouble.
"You don't seem particularly worried about how you, as a curse user, are standing right next to me," he says, black blindfold giving nothing away. "You're not concerned about how I know your real name, either."
"Curse user, schmurse user. I like taking things that aren't mine – I'd be doing the same thing regardless of which side of the political world I'm on. If all I want is money, they give it far more generously than your side does, and without all the bureaucratic nonsense. Neither do they care for my history, which tends to be a bit of a job-stopper in polite society. " You wave a dismissive hand. "Anyway, I like it when you say my name – sounds much better coming from a mouth like that." Your smile widens as your eyes trail down his slender throat and his exposed, pale collarbone. "Mm. Closer up, you're a pretty little thing, aren't you? I could just eat you up."
His cheeks flush pink. He crosses his arms over his chest – protection, you realise with a grin. The golden light shimmers and bends around his figure, so it's not like you could genuinely do anything to him, but you realise with delight that you've made him self-conscious. What a brag this will be!
You decide to push a little more.
"Need a hand with something, clan leader? My skillset goes beyond petty theft, but I'm sure you already know that," you purr, playfully leaning closer. You reach out, as if to touch his waist, but all you do is roll the cursed tool beside him back and forth, spinning it like a top. "I would be a wonderful trophy husband – dashing, clever, appropriately egotistical. Plus, I'm great with kids. If you need an heir at your big age, I could help with that, too."
Satoru's mouth twitches – up, almost. "You steal kids?"
"Only if the kid commissions it. But that's only happened once." You pluck the white prism off the desk and inspect it casually, noting all the glowing runes etched into each bone-white face. You've never seen them before. "Now, if I take this, will you resist? My actions will change depending on your answer, so choose wisely, pretty."
His smile takes on a cocky edge. "What, you wanna fight me? You'll lose, you know."
"Maybe," you reply, tracing one of the runes. Your sharp gaze notices the way Satoru immediately shifts, as if jolted but playing it cool. "But not many can say they've seen Gojo Satoru fight and live to tell the tale."
"Who said you'd live?"
"Well, you've commissioned me in particular several times, according to my boss. You've never met me at any of the locations except this one, which, incidentally, is the one you've paid the most for." You step closer and continue:
"I don't think you want to intercept me or bring me in, or you'd have done that somewhere more... low-key, where I'd be both more likely to accept and less likely to suspect foul play. Showin' up in your estate's personal wing, offering me a number I can't refuse... Well, I feel a proposition incoming. One that is, perhaps..." You press your hand against the desk near his hip, twirling the cursed tool in your other hand and brushing the strange, glowing runes. He shifts his weight and his knuckles tense. "Related less to my professional expertise, and more to something personal."
You lift your gaze from the prism to his obscured features, a sharp smile spreading across your features. "Am I right, Satoru?"
He stares back at you, unreadable. You press harder against the runes, making them glow brighter, and you watch, fascinated, as he stiffens visibly, catching himself on the edge of the desk before his legs give out.
"Maybe you should take a seat, sweetheart. You don't look too good." You reach out, and you are absolutely delighted when your fingers touch the smooth cotton blend of his high-quality dress shirt. With a pointed shove, he collapses into the chair, jumping slightly as you slam your boot down on the seat in the space between his thighs. His legs jolt apart and he lifts his head quickly.
Your smile widens into something wicked. You lean down, bracing against your knee. "Wanna tell me what this cursed tool does, baby? You seem... very sensitive."
He stays silent, his chest rising and falling shallowly. His lower lip pushes out into a pink pout. "Don't call me 'baby'."
"Why not? Not your style?"
"You call everyone that." He pauses regretfully, then, as your amusement grows and reveals itself in your smile.
"Oh?" you say lowly, squeezing the prism and adjusting your boot closer until the steel toe presses against his crotch. He jerks and grabs your ankle, grip tightening as you lean down and intrude on his space. Your gaze flickers down to his parted lips. "Now… how do you know that, sweetheart?"
He swallows. You hum.
"Has someone been watching me?" you lilt. "What a surprise. The untouchable golden boy has a dark secret. The strongest of our time, the peak of sorcery... dabbles in stalking."
His teeth grit together. "It's not stalking," he argues. "I was – I was watching your whole group of curse users. Reconnaissance."
"Oh, I'm not one to laugh, so don't get so defensive. You can call it what it is without lying. A man's gotta have hobbies." You take his chin in your hand, lifting his face. His pronounced Adam's apple bobs, and you gently press your thumb against it, feeling it shift. "Reconnaissance... for the man who could erase half of Tokyo with a yawn. Sweetheart, you're not subtle at all."
Your grip tightens and you tug him closer until your lips nearly touch. You know where his eyes are – you can see his brow furrowing under the blindfold. You stare into the deep black cloth with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smirk.
"You want me, don't you?" you whisper, shifting your boot to dig into the front of his slacks. He sucks in a breath and your hand moves to the back of his head, stroking the short shaven hairs of his white undercut. His hair is silky. "You orchestrated all this over months, gave millions of yen to the criminals you're supposed to eradicate, all to get my attention... Maybe I should have worked at a host club," you tease, sliding your fingers through his cloud-white hair. "Pity I'm too set in my ways to change professions now."
You lift your other hand, and his luxury silver watch gleams in it, unlatched. The mechanisms within are silent, and the face is a deep, opulent emerald green. It's the sort of watch that's styled like a bracelet, with a rectangular face in line with the edge of the band and an understated logo. Only rich-rich people wear this sort of thing – most, when buying a high-end watch, want to show it off as a high-end watch, not let it vanish into their silhouettes.
You lick your lips. You just love it when wealthy people become infatuated with you.
You tuck the watch into your pocket and Satoru doesn't even fight. He noticed, of course, as a press on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't tear his gaze from your face to even acknowledge it consciously.
His head spins. You're looking at him. You're finally looking at him.
His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. "You don't need to work. Steal. I can... I can sponsor you."
"Hm?"
"If you only align yourself with curse users for the money," he repeats, "I can sponsor you. Pay you more. As much as you want."
"Really? As much as I want...?" You trail off, and your eyes gleam wickedly. You don't stay quiet for long. "Thirty million yen instead of twenty. Then I'll think about it."
"Done," he replies instantly, and you reward him with a firmer press of your boot. He gasps, hips jerking. "Mmh—"
You chuckle and rock the toe of your boot against his clothed cock, leaning back slightly. "Good boy."
Satoru's grip tightens on your ankle – not pulling, just holding. His face flushes dark at the pet name, his lips parting, and he slides his hand up your calf, clutching your trousers. "Yes, fuck," he whispers, and it descends into a pathetic, whining keen as you step harder on his visible bulge, his knuckles going white. "Yeah..."
Oh, how adorable. The cutie has a thing for praise.
It's also hilarious. This guy is the one all your co-workers are deathly afraid of? The one you were afraid of? He's just a man. A man with a strange, misplaced obsession over little old you.
You feel like laughing, so you do. It's sharp, mocking. He looks up at you, teeth sinking into his lower lip, and you remove your foot from the chair, standing in front of him with folded arms. He sucks in a sharp breath when you relieve the friction on his cock.
"No, wait," he gasps, digging the heel of his palm into his bulge to mimic your boot. "I was—"
"What, close? Already? I didn't know Gojo Satoru was so fuckin' easy. Go on, then," you chuckle. "Take your cock out. Let me see if it's even worth my shoe."
Biting his lip hard, he fumbles with his belt, slipping his hand in his fly and wrapping his fingers around himself. He's stiff as rock, arousal and desire creating a wet spot inside his underwear, and he pauses with a sudden clarity of his actions, hesitantly glancing up. What is he doing...?
You just arch a brow at him. "Well? I don't have all night."
Biting his lip, he pulls himself out with a sharp breath as the cool air hits his hot skin. His loose fist bobs instinctively up and down his length.
He's slender here, too, though decently long, and his length is a sweet, dusky pink. The vein on the underside is the most visible, but he's otherwise quite smooth. His white curls are neatly trimmed, and as he tugs his dress shirt out of his waistband, you catch sight of a lovely white happy trail disappearing under the hem of his shirt.
"Ah," you purr, dropping your arms and grabbing the back of his chair, leaning down to inspect him. You're close enough that he can count your eyelashes, the press of your presence against his own like a physical, radiating heat. He's sharply aware of every move he makes. "How pretty. You're just so pretty, Satoru."
He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. His cock trembles, a thick white bead bubbling at his slit and sliding down the underside. "Th-Thank you..."
And he's awkward. You laugh aloud again. His throat bobs. You reach up and clamp the edge of your glove between your teeth, tugging it off and tossing it onto the desk. You wrap your bare hand around his cock, your palm rougher than his, and he nearly knees you in the back of the leg with how hard he jolts.
"Easy, tiger," you murmur, beginning to stroke him slowly. His hand falls away and you take over, sliding teasingly from base to tip and back again. He gasps, sounding winded. "There we go. Like that, sweetheart?"
He bobs his head, gripping the edges of the chair. You rest a knee on the outer edge of the seat and he reaches automatically for it, hand gliding up your thigh and twisting in the tactical straps wrapped around your leg. These straps actually have a function – they hold up the sheath to a dagger, also clipped to your belt to spread the weight.
Is he trying to ground himself? Cute. You lean in and press your lips against his, relishing the sharp gasp he lets out as your lips meet. He grips your thigh tighter.
His hips jerk as you nip his lower lip, hard enough to snatch an involuntary noise out of his throat. You soothe over the spot with your tongue and push it between his teeth, smiling as he willingly lets you in with a wrecked moan. Your tongues slide together, wet and dirty. Your lips smack. He leans up into you, chasing you.
"Ever gonna tell me what this cursed tool is?" you murmur, pulling back slightly to glance down at his cock in your hand. It twitches under your attention, already slick and dripping. "I'd love to know how it makes you so... responsive to my touch."
He swallows, tongue darting out over his pink pout. His chest rises and falls quickly, and you can see the furrow of his brows in the shadows of his blindfold. "Why'd you stop...?"
"C'mon, tell me. I can keep a secret." You peck his lips. "I'll keep moving if you tell me."
He gulps, gnawing his lower lip as you press your thumb into his leaky slit. "I-It's, um..."
Hesitantly, he reaches up and yanks the mouth of his shirt open, unbuttoning it down the centre. He pulls it apart and stares up at you, his lips bitten and parted.
Seared into his chest is a circular sigil. Strange ancient kanji line the inside, three layers of them, and each old-fashioned stroke glows with a supernatural golden light. They're written in the sort of calligraphy you'd see in museum pieces where the dynasty gets progressively more and more 'artistic' until the ink strokes resemble black rivers more than anything else.
You stare at the characters etched into him, fascinated, as the glow ebbs and flows with his breaths.
Below the markings, he's lean – muscular the way a dancer is, a gymnast. Strength in motion, the kind that never stops until it meets an equal and opposite force. You trace the character for 'heaven' with a finger and his breath hitches violently, his cock jolting in your fist.
"Oh, you're naughty," you whisper, playful and dangerous all at once. "Emotion enhancer, huh? The Prism. I looked it up some three years ago when it still belonged to the Kamo clan. It's meant for manipulation, good for politics the same way poisons are. You, though... you're using it wrong."
"I-It's not wrong if it doesn't come with a stated purpose—"
You grab his cheeks, yanking his head to look at you and not the floor. Your eyes trace his pretty features, a smile spreading uncontrollably across your face. "You're using it to make yourself fuckin' horny. Ha! Its creator must be rolling in the grave right now – to think their magnum opus of political control is being used to overload your brain with pleasure." You shake him slightly by the jaw, fingers digging in until his lips are forced into a cute fishy pout. "Slut."
He whimpers.
Honest-to-god, he whimpers.
"Oh?" You coo, endeared. "You like it when I'm mean to you, sweetheart? How sweet..."
Your cock twitches in your pants. You lean back, palming your bulge, and Satoru tries to follow you. You shift, straddling him on the chair while standing. He slides his hands up your thighs, staring up at you, watching your every move.
He hooks a finger into your belt loops. "Hnn..."
You chuckle. "Yes? What do you want, sweet thing?"
He exhales harshly, reaching down to stroke his throbbing cock. His head rests against your stomach. His body twitches. "I want... I-It's not fair that I'm undressed and you're not."
"Fair? Hey, you lured me here with the promise of lifechanging money. That's not fair. Why should I be nice to you in return?"
He swallows, another finger hooking into your belt and tugging ineffectually. "C'mon, 'm paying you..."
"So I should do everything you say because you're desperate enough to pay me for my body?" You continue to lazily palm yourself, and Satoru gasps as you twist your hand in his hair and pull him forward into it. His fingers stutter up your body, gripping your hips. He strokes himself faster, to your amusement.
"No, I just—"
"If you want me to do something, beg for it." You pet his hair. "Maybe I'll go easy on you."
Gulping, burning with equal parts shame and desire, Satoru opens his mouth. He squeezes his length in his fist. "Please. Please let me see you. I-I'll suck your cock if you let me," he whispers. "Please."
Fuck, it's a thrill to have Gojo Satoru actively begging for you. He's a far cry from the untouchable god everyone makes him out to be. He actually seems more touch-starved than anything – he leans heavily into your palm as you stroke his hair, gripping your leg to keep you close. His pout is pink and glossy, often trapped between his teeth, and his cheeks redden when you look at him, even more visible on him than any other person.
Man. You've always been a sucker for pretty criers. You have a gut feeling Gojo Satoru is one of them.
"Alright," you agree, kind. "Go on, sweetheart."
His hands shoot up and he fumbles with your belt and tugs open your fly. His throat bobs roughly as he glances up at you, his palm pressed against the heat of your bulge. You offer an encouraging nod and his teeth sink into his lower lip as he reaches in and fishes you out.
His face is so close it almost smacks him in the cheek. He stares at it for a long moment – lips parted, throat bobbing repeatedly. Carefully, reverently, he wraps his fingers around your base, his other hand around his own.
His head spins. You're bigger. Heavier.
"Does it measure up to your fantasies, Satoru?" you ask, smirking. He nods, small and embarrassed, and you pet his hair before gripping it tight, tugging his head to slide your cock under his blindfold. He gasps, whimpering softly as your cock glides back and forth against his cheekbone, pinned by the blindfold.
"H-Hey...!" he stutters, voice pitching higher. "F-Fuck, oh, shit – mmh..."
"Got a dirty mouth on you." You drag his face towards you, your fat cockhead dripping into his pristine white hair as it pops out the top of his blindfold. You hold him there for a moment, letting him squirm and gasp at the heft and heat of you pressed firmly to his skin, before pulling back and reaching down, tapping your tip against his parted lips. "Open."
Obediently, he opens up. You feel him tense as you push your thick cock into his warm, wet mouth, filling all the space from behind his teeth to the back of his throat – he gags slightly when it brushes his uvula, but he quickly swallows to suppress the reflex, choking more of you down. You groan lowly at the feeling of his throat closing around you, letting him bob his head at his own pace.
His soft tongue swirls around your length, and saliva gathers in his mouth as he moans and squirms in the chair. He sits in this chair when his clan's elders come in to ask things of him or update him on family politics. But now, after three months of learning your name and... and monitoring you at a distance, he finally has you, and he's sucking you off in the same chair where he is formally petitioned for aid like some king.
A shudder runs through him. The thought bounces around in his head. He's sucking off a thief – he's touching himself while being used by a criminal. He nearly comes early.
He pops off with a wet slurp and a shaky exhale. Before you can say a word, he slides off the chair and kneels at your feet, grabbing your cock and opening his mouth to take it in again. You stop him with a slight tug of his hair.
"Aw, cute – I like your initiative. But if you're not going to sit in your fancy chair..." You step around him and drop into it as if it's a throne, a gleeful smile stretching across your face. You settle down and curl a finger in the air, beckoning. "Hm. Comfy."
His cheeks darken and he shuffles between your thighs, reaching for your glistening length, and lowers his head.
His lips, warm and soft, envelope your dick with more urgency. He savours the taste, masking the pause with needing time to adjust, and the salt of your skin tastes even better than he could have imagined. You're warm and hard and real and the joy almost makes him delirious.
He licks your shaft from base to tip and swallows it down again, two-thirds of your cock disappearing in one smooth motion. You groan in pleasure and tilt your head back, combing your fingers through his hair and widening your legs. Greedily, he takes advantage of the extra room to shift closer, bobbing his head and determinedly choking down your cock.
The sound is loud in his large room, though muffled by the woven tatami mats and natural wood that make up the larger part of it. In a more modern room of a similar size and layout, the hard surfaces would only make his sounds clearer.
You keep yourself relatively quiet just to hear Satoru's breathy noises whenever he lifts his head and rests your thick tip behind his lips. One of his hands is curled in your open fly, and the other shallowly strokes the base of your cock which he cannot fit. His pink tongue curls around your tip, sliding along the leaking slit with a wanton moan.
Shit, you never want to forget a sight like this.
"Hold still, sweetheart." You reach into a pouch strapped to your chest and pull out your phone, smirking as you unlock it and swipe to the camera app. You lift it. "Smile, pretty."
To your immense amusement, he does – he pops off your tip and presses your length to his cheek with a flushed, shaky grin, pink tongue peeking out.
The camera flashes.
You let out a low whistle as you lower your phone onto the desk, a smirk on your lips. "Worthy of a lockscreen, I think."
He lets out a sharp, shaky moan at the idea your fellow curse users might take a cursory glance at your phone and see him like this. He wraps his lips around your tip again. He balls his fists in your pants and bobs his head faster, deeper, desperately. One hand disappears between his legs, and you laugh at him as he jerks himself off like something piteous.
But you are nothing if not magnanimous.
You shift your leg between his thighs, slotting your boot under his weeping cock. He pops off with a stuttered breath, squeezing your ankle.
"Hump it," you order, voice low with husky amusement. "Don't touch yourself."
Muscles taut with desire, the restraint to hold himself back, Satoru gingerly shuffles closer, pressing his tip to the smooth leather of your shoe. It glides back and forth, the leather smooth and cold, and he lets out a trembling noise as his cock drags against the laces, catching and pulling. Shamelessly, he watches his pre drip into the rough cords, soaking into them. Unless you swap your laces you'll be carrying him around everywhere you go.
That thought makes him so fucking horny he gets dizzy. The markings on his chest gleam cruelly.
He rocks his hips messily against your combat boots, quick and needy. His moans hum on his tongue, making you groan at the vibration. In response, his sounds only pitch higher, more frequently, as if getting off on your unabashed groans alone.
You comb your fingers through his hair and pull him down firmly, swiftly, to the base of your cock. His bottom lip presses against your hot, heavy balls as he gags wetly, choking slightly. His shoulders tremble as his nails sink into your thighs, shoving his hips forward against your rough laces.
Your head tips back with a low, pleased rumble, slightly breathier than the previous ones. You shift, legs widening an inch, and your fingers tighten in his hair as his hot, tight throat convulses around you each time he swallows you down. Saliva drips from the corner of his lips, stretched white around your length.
He's basically limp when you grip his hair with both hands and begin to fuck his throat, one hand curled around the back of his neck.
His blush disappears under his blindfold. That thing is such a pain... You can't even tell where he's looking. You want to be able to look him in the eyes while he unravels.
Hey, aren't you're the best damn thief in the country? You always take what you want. This should be no different.
You tuck a finger beneath his blindfold and pull.
His hands fly up a second too late.
His eyes are blue – as blue as they say, though speckled with silver when the light catches just right on his thick white lashes. They are also slightly red and puffy, and his blush goes all the way up to his temples – the colour makes his eyes stand even more from proximity alone.
He covers his face with square yet slender hands, a loud whimper vibrating up and out of his chest. He's still got your cock in his mouth and you hiss in pleasure, dick throbbing hotly as he grips your hand holding his blindfold. You can feel him trembling in shock, his palms warm and soft.
"Aw, don't want me to look?" you coo sweetly, and he just moans. "You gonna cry, pretty thing?"
He shakes his head as well as he can with your fat tip stuffed in his mouth. His tongue presses against the underside, licking and tracing your veins with his tongue. Discreetly, he hooks his finger over the top of his blindfold and tries to slip it back down.
You grab his wrist. "Trying to distract me? You know, I'm disappointed you even thought that would work. What's so scary about showing me that pretty face, hm? Or are you just shy?"
He sniffles, pressing his hand lower over his eyes. Your brows shoot up and the laughter that escapes you is loud and mean. He curls into himself.
"Shit! Are you actually crying?"
He can't say anything with your cock in his mouth, and you feel him shuffle closer to your leg, rubbing against your boot with renewed vigour. Every stroke is long and lingers against its peak. It's desperate, and you can feel his hips jolting short and shallow like he's trembling. You can't help but coo at him as you twist your hands back into his hair.
"C'mon, sweetheart. I'll fuck you properly if you let me see your face." You lean closer to his ear, lips curved into a mischievous smile, and pet his hair like a puppy. "I'll make you come as many times as you want, however you want."
His hips jerk against your leg. A hitched breath, a staggered pause.
He lowers his hands.
It takes your breath away. His face flushes an even darker shade of red, and his eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He fists your pants tightly, his soft little moans travelling up your cock and settling in your lower stomach.
"Oh, Satoru."
What a fucking view. He blinks up at you, trembling, trying to make himself look small, and his eyes widen slightly as you twitch in his mouth and pull him all the way to the base of your cock in one sudden, ruthless motion.
His eyelashes flutter and the whites of his eyes show as he chokes on your cock, gagging and twitching as he nuzzles slightly deeper into the front of your pants, trying to fit more in even when there's very little left. Eager thing.
You begin to fuck his face again – or use him to fuck yourself, more like. You drag him back and forth, hands twisted firmly in his hair, and his moans grow louder, more desperate, as saliva drips from the corner of his stretched-white lips and sweat gathers at his temples and the small of his back. Your touch is electrifying, your low groans and muttered praise only serving as a positive feedback loop that makes him need more, more, more.
He struggles to think. Your cock just fills his throat so well, as if you're made for him! How can you be more perfect? You couldn't if you tried.
His saliva drips down your hot, thick cock and soaks into your clothes. He's so wet. He can't control it anymore. He can't control anything anymore.
You twitch in his mouth. "Gonna come, baby," you husk, voice low and rumbly. It's rougher than your usual syrupy purr, perhaps closer to your real voice, and Satoru's heart and cock throb so hard it hurts. "You're going to swallow it all."
He nods fervently, leaning in, relaxing his jaw even more. His dick is soaked in his own pre, and another spurt spatters your laces as you thrust up into his mouth. You grunt, sharp and hungry, and Satoru feels you twitch as you stuff his throat with your fat cock one last time.
Hot come bursts down his gullet. He lets out a loud, high-pitched moan, almost a cry, that's cut short as he works on gulping it down, gasping between each swallow. His throat convulses greedily, sucking you down, and his nails dig painfully into your thighs. You pull him close, his nose brushing against your stomach, and the tears finally begin to roll down his cheeks.
He's shaking so hard you can feel his tremors in your own bones. The markings on his chest glow in central, rapidly-pulsing patterns. His thighs clamp around your calf, grinding messily.
When you finally exhale, leaning back, Satoru stays put with your cock between his lips. He swallows, bobbing his head dazedly, and thick white come trickles from the corner of his slick mouth, glazing his lips with it. Tears track down his high, aristocratic cheekbones.
With a wicked smile, you pick up your phone again. You whistle and snap your fingers, and like clockwork, Satoru's glossy eyes trail up to the dark eye of the phone.
You don't have to say anything. He does it all himself, even lifting his hand in a shaky peace sign in a motion that seems thoughtless, automatic. Probably his go-to pose in front of a camera.
The camera flashes. He suckles on your cock slowly.
You look at the picture with a laugh, turning it around to show him with a smirk. "Shit, you look like a fuckin' slut, Gojo Satoru."
His hair is a mess, bangs pinned back by his blindfold. His face is deep pink, eyes dazed and pupils blown so wide there's only a sliver of blue left ringing them. There are tears on his cheeks and creamy come smeared on his lips – lips wrapped tight around a thick cock that looks pornographically big when contrasted against his fine, pretty features.
And the peace sign... Fucking hell. Satoru whimpers softly.
You pat your thigh lazily, turning away to lock your phone and pop it back into its little pouch. You don't even look at him when you speak, careless and casually cruel. "Pants off, then come here."
He obeys as if he was waiting for your order. He scrambles to shimmy out of his dress slacks and sit in your lap. After making sure your phone is secure, you finally raise your gaze to Satoru, who actually quivers when your eyes meet his. It makes you smile.
"Look at you," you murmur almost affectionately, reaching down to wrap your fingers around his cock. He jolts with a whimper. It's swollen and rubbed raw and red, almost painfully so, and coated in sticky warmth. You tilt your head with a growing smirk and pull him closer as you lean forward to look over his shoulder at your boot, almost hugging him.
Your boot is covered in come. The black leather gleams under the light, streaked with milky white. Your eyes gleam when you pull back to laugh in his flushed face. The sudden proximity of your bodies, the lack of space between them, had his head spinning, the indulgent scent of your cologne invading his brain. He presses his nose into your neck, gasping breaths inhaling your scent of leather oil and rich, almost chocolatey cologne.
You tug his hair playfully, making him moan. "You came from sucking me off, huh? Shit, you're even more pathetic than I thought! You can't get much lower than paying your enemy to spend time with you, but somehow, you managed to do it. Aren't you embarrassed, Satoru? Aren't you going to apologise for ruining my shoes like a fucking whore?"
He makes a choked sound like he's about to cry. You pull his hair warningly and he gasps sharply, pressing his hot face into the crook of your neck.
"'M sorry," he whines, voice high and shuddery, "I'm sorry! C-Couldn't help it, jus' felt too good—"
You slap him across the thigh with a sound like a gunshot. He flinches and moans your name. "Did I ask for excuses?"
"No," he blubbers, grinding his cock pathetically against yours. It leaks so much. "No, 'm sorry, 'm sorry..."
"Good," you praise, and Satoru shivers, fingers curling in your shirt. "Want me to make you feel even better?"
His eyes widen. He nods hard, swallowing and leaning closer as if to kiss you again. You indulge him, meeting him halfway, and he lets out a happy little moan that's so cute you almost squish his cheeks. You satisfy yourself with squeezing two handfuls of his smooth, firm ass.
You slide a hand lower, your middle finger gliding against his rim. You feel him clench around nothing as you circle his hole, letting him whine into your mouth as you tease him lazily.
He pulls back with a sharp gasp as your fingertip dips past his rim. Your finger pushes into him, slick with his own come, and he arches his back and presses down against your body, trying to get that perfect arch to get your fingers against that sensitive bundle of nerves.
Knowing what he's doing takes away much of the secrecy, though. You pull back when he arches, follow him when he grinds against you, and it isn't long before he dissolves into pitiful whines that go straight into your ear.
"No, no, c'mon, please," he whimpers, trembling when your stroke the markings glowing on his chest. Each line is hotter than the rest of him, as if heat had split him open along every brush stroke and oozed from him. It was so raw, so beautifully vulnerable. You like this version of Satoru a lot more.
You hum. "Why should I listen to you? Convince me."
He bites the inside of his cheek to mask his growing frustration. His dick is so hard it arcs up towards his stomach, drooling from the tip with every beat of his heart. Every time your thumb brushes his rim, it twitches.
"You need to s-stretch me for your cock," he whispers, the words foreign in his mouth and so sweetly humiliating. "You're too big. You need to... You need to prep me so you can fuck me as hard as you want. Please put your fingers in me. I won't come, I promise, sir, I won't – o-oh..."
His voice falls abruptly off a cliff as two fingers slide into his ass. His eyes roll back as they curl and push into him, stroking his hot, gummy walls experimentally. He clamps around them, his jerking, trying to fuck himself on them.
You grin, sleazy. "'Sir'? Oh, I like the sound of that. I'm not usually important enough to have a title like that."
You like it. You like it. Satoru files it away in the hot mush of his brain for later. For now, he tries to concentrate on not bursting early. It's easier said than done when you begin to grind against him, pushing your cocks together until his drooling tip leaks against yours, wet strings of pre joining his to yours.
He's so much wetter than you – not for your lack of arousal, but anything even close to normal pales in comparison to whatever he's going through. He's trembling on just two of your fingers, and when you add a third, he nearly sobs. His lower lip quivers and he gnaws on it to focus on the pain and not the pleasure of the burn, the stretch. You kiss his tears away and his head spins with syrupy desire.
"More," he croaks, gasping shakily as you pump your fingers in and out of him steadily. His hole squelches. "Please, more, more, gimme more so I can fit your cock inside me already," he nearly cries, fists bunching in the leather holster across your chest. He wiggles his hips messily against your thick cock, smacking them together. "I want it, I need it, please—"
"Yeah? How bad?" you tease in a low, husky voice, moaning as he slides his cock between your balls. It's delightfully filthy, and his tip spurts threateningly as you slap his pale thigh. "Answer me, slut."
"So bad!" he hiccups, body shaking as you tease your pinky finger against his tight hole. He pushes desperately against your knuckles. "I want it so bad, I want your cock, I want you – I've wanted it for months, please, I can't control it anymore, jus' need you to fuck me already," he moans, and his breath hitches violently as you press the first joint of your pinky inside him. He buries his face in your shoulder, hips rocking against you. It's like once he's started talking, he can't stop. "Yes, yes, yes, stretch me open for your cock, I-I'll make you come, you can come inside, i-if you want! Please, oh, fuck, y-you're stretching me...!" he gasps, hips jolting as you press four fingers inside him, curling and uncurling. Your fingers scrape his sensitive walls.
"You're so chatty," you chuckle, pressing your fingers in deep. He lets out a choked moan as you avoid that swollen button inside him that makes him come apart. His cock is throbbing hard, and you don't want him coming just yet. "And you talk like you're in a bad porno. You don't sleep around much, do you?"
Satoru whimpers. He doesn't respond, which is just as much of an answer as words would be.
You work him open steadily, though your hand quickens in the middle of your next sentence and leaves him gasping for air as his hole squelches loudly in the open bedroom. "That's okay – you must be a busy man, right? Not a lot of time to spend looking for connection." You curl your fingers, your palm slapping his skin with each gunshot-rapid pump of your wrist. He shoves his face into your neck, arms tightening around you.
You kiss his cheek absently, curling a hand in his hair. "That's the reason you're mixing business with pleasure, isn't it? You can't mingle with non-sorcerers 'cause of your Six Eyes. 'Babe, why do you wear sunglasses inside? Why do you wear a blindfold?' And that's not even mentioning exorcisms and your day job. 'If you're rich, you must have a good job, what do you do? Oh, it's old money? What's the family business, what's their name so I can google them, how'd they strike it rich?' If you can't answer all that, you'll just look like a yakuza with sensory deprivation and exhibitionist kinks."
He can't keep up with your words plus the hot sensation of your fingers pumping in and out of him. He moans.
"Funny that you chose me out of all people," you muse, relishing in the way he claws at your clothes like a desperate little puppy. "You could have your pick of sorcerers… yet you've decided the one you'll have is the criminal. Tsk-tsk-tsk. Naughty little thing."
"'S not my fault," he whines, hips jerking up with a stutter. He shifts higher on his knees and his hand flies to the nape of your neck as you dip your head and kiss his pink-flushed chest. You chuckle against his skin and run the flat of your tongue over his hardened nipple. His grip tightens. "Wait, n-not there—!"
You trace part of the sigil carved into his chest with your hot tongue. He drops his hips sharply and turns his face into his forearm as he bites down on it, muffling the cry that shakes through his frame. His body aches with a marrow-deep need, and he blinks back stinging tears. His chest heaves, every exhale punctuated by a breathy, pathetic noise.
You pull away from his nipple with a soft pop, licking your lips. You trail kisses up his collarbone and neck, ending up underneath his ear and making him shiver and lean into your embrace. He holds you close, cradling your head against his neck to keep you kissing right there. His skin tingles, and the harsh scrape of your teeth so close to his jugular vein turns his thoughts into static.
He barely reacts when you stand and lay him instead on his desk, pushing folders and unsigned reports aside. He parts his thighs and stares dazedly up at you as you lean down to kiss him – he props himself up on an elbow and wraps his legs around your waist, hooking his ankles over your ass. He whimpers, head tipping back, as you press your thick tip against his puckered hole.
"Please," he gasps against your lips, leaning up to chase your lips whenever you part for breath. His breathing is heavy, growing uneven when you tease his entrance with your tip – you never push in deep enough for it to pop past his rim, and his wet cock throbs with need, jerking against his stomach. "Please, I need it, sir, need it so bad, fuck me—"
In one firm motion, you slide your cock all the way inside him. Your balls press against his ass with a soft smack.
His lashes flutter. His lips part. His legs lock tightly around your hips.
His whole body jolts – once, twice, and then the first sound escapes him. It's tiny, broken – more of a hiccup than anything else. He buries his face in your shoulder.
He comes.
From the simple act of pushing your cock into him, he comes. You support the arch of his back, cooing condescendingly over him as his cock jerks and splatters thick ropes of white over his stomach, dripping down his sides in thick rivulets. It soaks into his white happy trail and he can barely speak, every inch of his brain imprinted with nothing but pleasure. It's like it's being carved into him.
"Oh my god," he whimpers, breathless as he presses his hand to his mouth. His legs tighten around you as you start to move, his leaky half-hard cock flopping onto his stomach. You flick the tip and his teeth nearly bite straight through his lip. "God! Fuck!"
"You can cry if you like," you chuckle, fucking him lazily. You shift your hands to rest on his hips, hiking his thighs higher whenever they slip. "I won't tell anyone. Promise."
The pictures are more damning than whispers that Gojo Satoru might cry during sex. Without proof it just sounds like jealousy or petty rumours, because why on earth would the big, strong, capable Gojo clan head cry at all? He's blessed.
Fuck, he can't imagine everyone's faces if they ever saw those photos. Him on his knees, happily sucking the dick of the criminal he's supposed to bring to justice. 'Justice' for curse users usually takes the form of immediate death, and Satoru is distraught at the idea that a cock like yours would go away just because you stole the elders' toys once or twice... a day.
Staring into your eyes, looking at those perfect kissable lips curved into a smirk, he promises himself that this is just to satiate his curiosity – and his need. One and done. With the addition of his little Prism, this single event could, theoretically, satisfy him for the next ten years – his memory's damn near perfect, so the mere recall of it would be like reliving a porno he starred in. Great!
Less great, however, is the fact that you're fucking him so deep that it's melting his brain, and he can't exactly remember something if there's nothing to put the memory in. He struggles to retain it all, the overstimulation even worse for someone like him. He's panting hard, clutching your shoulders, as you angle your hips and drag your cock against his prostate.
He makes an inhuman noise and his arm buckles under him. He slumps against his desk, arms swinging wide, scrambling for grip – and an ornate porcelain pen cup – probably a gift from some event he can't be bothered remembering – tips off the edge and shatters with a sound that cracks the sex-thick air like a whip. You cock plunges into him and he squeezes the edge of his desk, knuckles white as your thighs smack rhythmically against his ass.
"Why'd you go and do that, huh?" you pout, dragging your hands down his chest and stomach, caressing him. You run your hands down his thighs and hook them smoothly over your elbows, leaning forward. He moans sharply as you press into him at the new angle. "What a mess you've made."
You run a finger through the creamy glaze splattering his stomach. His cock jumps.
"Guess it just means I'm doing a good job, then," you hum, and he nods emphatically, his head feeling heavy and dumb. He whines, sniffling, as his body begins to feel the burn. When you glance down, leaning back, his rim is puffy and red, thoroughly fucked open. If he wasn't able to heal himself, he'd be walking funny for days.
"Feels good," he gasps, "feels so good..."
You look delighted. You lean down and kiss him deeply, and his moans grow louder, like wounded little whines, when you nibble a trail of hickeys down the side of his neck. His nails scratch stinging lines into your back as you grind your hips into him, letting him feel the entire length of you filling him up.
"Doing so well for me, sweetheart," you murmur as your cock twitches inside him, pressing against his slick, gummy walls. "Yeah, just relax. If you wanted pleasure, I can give you that."
Suddenly, Satoru's head lifts and he tries to prop himself up on an elbow, pushing at your chest. He tries to speak, but all that escapes are gasped little moans.
A knock at the door.
"Gojo-sama? Do you need anything?"
A servant. They must have heard the cup shatter.
Satoru nearly bites through his lip. He presses a shaking hand to his mouth, pushing more insistently at your chest, but you do not give – you slow your movements into something torturous, leaning down to whisper in his ear.
"Answer them, baby."
His brow furrows in adorable dissatisfaction at the petname – what he considers your 'default', if you will. He opens his mouth to refuse, but you knock his voice from his lungs and he instead lets out a tiny, swallowed squeak, legs tightening briefly before trying to get you to pull out.
He swallows roughly, nails digging into your skin as he meets your amused gaze, his face burning with heat.
"I'm fine," he calls back, his voice breathy but otherwise shockingly steady. "You can leave."
You lower your head back to his throat, pleased by his farce. You kiss along his jaw, beginning to move your hips again. His breath stutters in your ear.
"Are you certain...? I thought I heard something break."
You grab him by the waist and turn him over, bending him over the desk. He stares back at you, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, as you slip your cock back in with a silent exhale. Relishing in each tight, silky stroke, you fuck into his ass slowly, making him slap a hand over his mouth and his grip turn white-knuckled on the edge of his big desk.
Another knock. "Gojo-sama?"
You pick up the pace, huffing softly as you press your palm to the small of his back – his pale, flushed skin shines with sweat. Life is so unfair – you would love to lick it off him, but you can't if you want to remain buried in his hot, tight hole.
"D-Don't worry about it!" he bites out, blue eyes fluttering shut when you kiss the nape of his damp neck. His thighs quiver as you use your body and press him into the wood, your dick sinking deep into his eager hole with a soft squelch. "I'll clean it up. Just go!"
You grab his wrists and pin them beside his head, making his eyes widen further. He shakes his head fervently, unable to swallow his sharp gasps each time your cock kisses his swollen prostate. He presses his thighs together and squirms, bucking back onto your cock. You chuckle quietly into the crook of his neck, nipping dark bruises into the thin skin.
"I can send for someone to clear it for you. Such a menial task does not befit you."
Tightening your grip on his wrists, you slam your cock in with a startling wet plap of skin-on-skin. You press him into the desk and he lets out a choked gasp, eyes rolling back as his knees buckle – he tries to catch himself but only manages to push himself deeper on your cock. His heart pounds like a war drum as his weak knees knock together with your thrusts, all too rough and hard when someone is right by the door.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
The floorboards creak as if they're stepping forward to open the door. Satoru flails slightly, hands groping for purchase – he only manages to make you bite his shoulder in punishment. He whimpers through kiss-swollen, pressed-together lips.
"Don't come in!" he shouts, panicked. "I – I have a migraine! Just leave."
"Gojo-sama—"
"Now!"
A pause, then hurried footsteps receding down the hall. As soon as they turn the corner at the end of the hall, Satoru lets out a cry and jolts forward, releasing a string of pained, relieved moans as copious amounts of come splatters the desk below him. His moans turn high and whiny as you pick up the pace, fucking him hard enough to shove his dick into the hard desk surface and smearing his spend all over himself.
"Y-You asshole," he sobs out as his bliss peaks, trembling as his eyes well up. He sniffles, hair bouncing with every thrust. "Oh, oh, oh – no, stop, 's too muh-much...!"
"The view from up here says it's not enough," you tease, and he moans in distress. "You did so well, sweetheart. Such a good boy f'me... so good at being pretty and quiet, hm?"
The praise goes straight to his dick. It spurts again, one thick distinct rope of white, and he starts to sniffle, quivering every time your cock bullies his prostate, your thick tip punching it relentlessly.
He can barely moan, let alone think. Your hot, velvety balls press against his skin, and he feels them twitch as you grind against the curve of his ass.
"C-Can't breathe," he whimpers, his cock drooling a puddle onto his desk. "'S too big – oh fuck, oh, fuck—! Sir!"
"What, am I gonna fuck you to death?" you laugh, groaning as he tightens around you. You grab the meat of his ass, slapping it cruelly, and curl a fist in his white hair to yank his head back. You wrap your hand around his bared throat, making his body arch prettily against you, his ass pressing higher. "Think you can come again?"
"No," he cries. "Ah, ah... Too much..."
You kiss him over his shoulder. His white lashes flutter as you pound him into the desk, his ass rippling obscenely. His back is a broad, flushed, sweat-slick canvas, defined muscles flexing beneath the skin. Blank – for now, you think, amused.
You slide your hand up his throat, gripping his jaw, forcing his spine to arch further. Every time your cock slams into him, his cock leaks and his glowing markings pulsate so deep it burns in his marrow. His moans are constant, breathy, hiccupped.
"I think you've got one more in you, sweetheart," you murmur as you lean down, voice rough with lust. His hand grasps blindly at your hip, nails digging into you. "I want you to come for me."
"I can't," he moans, creamy pale thighs shaking with every jolt of white-hot bliss you send up his spine. "'M done, nnh, I can't anymore—!"
"Aw. Your pretty little cock's running empty? You can do one more. Just one more," You pout and reach down to grab it, making him sob as you tighten your fist and begin to stroke it – up and down, up and down. He's a mess of precome and his creamy spend, splattered on his tummy and the grand desk below him. Tears glitter along his lashes as you pump his throbbing dick and fuck him deep at the same time, leaving him nowhere to run to escape. Forward into your fist, backwards onto your cock, and your warm lips on his. He squirms helplessly, the muscles of his defined back rippling with the effort to keep himself up.
His lips are swollen and sticky like a summer dream. He makes even this debauchery look pretty. When your finger slides down his slick slit and presses into the hole, he starts to cry.
It's not loud, like you'd expected. His shoulders shake as he gasps and moans your name, greedily pushing back onto your length and whining through his tears when his skin meets yours with a filthy obscene clapping. He's cute – trying to muffle his sobs, pressing his hand to his mouth as he blinks glassily up at you, brows furrowed in the sweetest little teary expression. You shift your hips and ram into his slick hole, and the way his slender fingers slip and part over his pink lips is something straight out of an art gallery. Tears run down his blazing cheeks.
You smirk. You were right. He is a pretty crier.
When your pace grows heavier, hungrier, he realises through a distant haze that you're close. His hole is raw and achy, so deliciously sensitive, and you groan against his skin, dipping your head to bruise the shape of your teeth into his red-flushed neck. The pleasure is pain, and the pain is pleasure. He sniffles weakly, punched-out little gasps and moans all that he can manage as the feeling engraves and buries itself directly across his snap-firing neurons.
His voice is slurred. "Mmgh – c-c'mming—"
He jolts against you as he spurts over your palm, fucking the wet hole of your fist. He's messy, greedy, dizzy, and you whisper husky praise into his ears that soothes the white-hot burn of overstimulation behind his teary eyes.
Those blue eyes roll back as you slam him into the table, letting out ragged groans that carve themselves a home in his consciousness. His arms buckle, and his fine wood desk is cold against his fiery cheek. Your panting is hot and sharp against his ear. He won't be forgetting these any time soon.
With a sharp, heavy succession of thrusts, he feels you pour inside him, thick and creamy and searing-hot. He can barely whimper before you pull out abruptly and spurt thick ropes over his ass and back, fisting your cock with the hand dirtied with his come. His puffy, abused hole winks up at you, his hips weakly canted up to display the stretch of him. A thin line of white dribbles from his rim, and he grips the edge of his desk to keep himself from collapsing as his knees give out without your hands to keep his hips up.
A wide, blissed-out smile stretches across Satoru's flushed, tear-streaked pretty face. Loose, lazy moans slip from his silky pink lips with every spurt of your cock across his ass and back, claiming him as yours. His chest heaves, his expression almost giddy as he lays his head on the cool wood, his body aching adoringly with the remnants of your affection.
He hears you rustle around behind him, fixing up your clothes. He lies there, spent, shaking, trying to remember how his tongue works in his mouth. He presses a trembling hand to his chest and smears the pine-soot ink off his chest, breaking the seal – with just a few rubs, the circle breaks and its entire molten-gold appearance sputters and flickers out like a snuffed candle. What remains is simple black ink, the sort used for calligraphy, painted onto his toned torso in the shape of each circle and rune.
"Fuck," he whispers hoarsely, every gasping inhale making his muscles tense. "Holy fuck…"
"Was it?" you tease, pressing yourself over the line of his body. You curl your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up to roll back against your shoulder, and Satoru's eyes glitter as you extend your phone in front of you. You kiss him deeply, making him let out a ragged moan as his tongue runs along the line of your teeth, and the phone camera lets out a cheerful snap. You let the kiss linger for a moment longer before you pull away, lips smacking with a wet, pornographic sound.
"You're just perfect, aren't you?" you whisper with a growing, fascinated smile, admiring him. He lets out a raspy laugh and kisses you again with a lovesick smile, reaching out to personally take a burst shot of photos on your phone.
"For posterity," he whispers, stroking your cheek. You kiss his neck with a chuckle and he lets you slide out of his grasp, his raised hand falling gently to the desk with a soft thump. He watches through half-lidded eyes as you fix your harness and slide your gloves back on, and you step into his blind spot, passing over his other side.
"Wait."
You pause a few steps away with the Prism in hand, almost perfectly composed except for your untucked shirt and kissed lips. "Yes, sweetheart?"
He pushes himself up, lazily draped over his desk. "Where are you taking that?"
You flash him a sharp smile. "Out. Quick vacation never hurt anything." You tap it gently with your knuckles. "I still have a contract to fulfill. It needs to travel from the Gojo estate into the hands of my client… and I do so love a personal hand-off." You wink and step backwards away from him, tossing the Prism over your shoulder and not bothering to catch it. A large violet portal opens up directly behind you on the floor and swallows it whole, vanishing with a soft burbling murmur.
You offer a lazy two-fingered salute, continuing to walk backwards until the heel of your boot tips over the abrupt ledge of the portal. "So don't worry, darling. I'll be seeing you around far sooner than you think."
With that, you tip backwards into your portal, and you vanish from sight with nary a whisper. The portal closes without so much as a ripple of cursed energy, and Satoru is left alone and naked in his quarters, another man's seed dripping from his hole and down the curve of his ass. Lazily, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip as he pulls his phone out of a drawer, turning it on to see a red dot residing in a downtown area of Tokyo, blinking slowly.
A soft, breathy laugh echoes in the traditional room. His eyes gleam with a silvered infatuation, his lashes fluttering as he presses the nail of his thumb against his rosy, kiss-swollen lower lip in a caricature of shyness. "Yes," he murmurs, his tender gaze sharpening into something like obsession as the dot blips four blocks over to a bar and restaurant street in a single pulse. "You will be."
