Imagine joining an online chatroom because you struggle meeting people in real life, but god do you want to lose your virginity, right?
Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.
Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.
The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.
But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.
You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?
You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.
Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.
You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—
...no. no way.
The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.
You swallow thickly, glance up at him.
The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."
ouuu i want to be talked down to... i want a man to be condescending towards me and bully me a little
"aww, you're so young and naive..." "look at you, so tiny and frail, i could snap you like a twig" "such a stupid little puppy, you're only good as a fleshlight"
ꗃ Summary: Every champion has its perks and gratuity, whether it'd be money, medals, trophies, fame, luxuries and other opulence you could ever name, but it's different for him. For him you are everything, you're his. Just imagine what would he feel seeing you getting touch by some insolent fan of his, that filthy and grubby fingers entangled in your hair, caressing the crown of your head, and you only let them do it? Are you aware of the consequences? You should.
ⓘ Warnings: porn with plot, description of boxing, blood and violence mentioned, possessive toji, marathon sex, bathtub sex, size kink, belly bulge, mating press, manhandling, degradation, fingering, creampie, overstimulation, breeding, cumflation, choking, dirty talk, dacryphilia, dumbification, missionary, body worship, slapping, spanking, fucking over a phone call, uses the term: cunt, pussy, somnophilia, not proofread.
Murmurs, gossips, rumors and half-baked claims. That's all you hear and all you see, whenever you go out for groceries, draped with long coats, a pair of masks and a black sunglasses, when you scroll throughout the media, hell you barely go out because of your relationship but still, it's all the same thing.
Your eyes scanned the screen of your phone, softened yet saddened, reading articles and headlines of your lover's success and immediate bad remarks,Toji Fushiguro.
In the care of his home as it was yours as well, spacious condominium and multiple rest houses, the comfortable humming of the air-conditioning set a cozy atmosphere within the room, there hanged and displayed his awards, medals, trophies and championship belts, but there was your picture with him sat beside of all his hard-earned opulences, glimmering brighter than any of it.
You met Toji even before he started to pursue boxing, you were his first. His beloved, The one that softened his brute and hardened heart. You remembered, no, you reminisced the times.
There you sat in the golden hour, sunset bleeds, seeping through the window as the curtain danced in the breeze, the crisp of the pages when anyone flips it, the incoherent murmurs of the students sets you to mood, though you pondered as you gently glided your pen on the paper. He stared at your form for hours, you felt it, the burning holes on your back. Toji Fushiguro.. he was a complex character in your book though harmless most especially to you, unconsciously you guys became friends, mutuals, the way his gaze dripped into your form like he's carving the every crevice of you into his memory, immortalizing you. even when the teachers are calling for him he wouldn't budge, he bugged you, the large pad of his palm pats your head tenderly, will tease you, he shares his lunch with you even when he's not that blessed financially, Toji noticed that you don't eat so he reminds you so, You were top of the class afterall, you kept studying until the sun is down, Someone that was definitely not on his level, You were classmates, high-school sweethearts if you may.
Toji's definitely not the one to start a fight.. well not until you came into his life. Not only that you were top of the class, you also get people to cling on you, and he didn't like it, not one bit.
Though he does understand why people would cling on you, you were smart, pretty, and handsome, that's literally it, what's there to not like? Though one thing that he didn't like about you is that you're too kind.
You let people touch the places that he caressed, you let people touch the every fiber of you ever so carelessly. Toji felt his stomach churned as his jaw locked, teeth gritting at the sight.
His patience finally ran out, he felt something inside of him ignited when he saw you, cornered at the corridor with some lousy student who reeked cigarettes and failed hook-ups, you look extremely uncomfortable and scared, pressing your textbooks in your chest, avoiding eye contact, pushing the man away as the he forced his way to kiss you as he slithered his hands on the small of your back.
Then it collided.
A clean punch, straight to the face.
The man flew to the ground with a thud, he was knocked-out.
OH MY GOD, HE KILLED HI—
You screamed internally as your mouth agape in shock, dropping your textbooks on the ground with a thud, eyes widening when you saw Toji clasps your wrist gently, telling you to follow him.
“ Calm down, pretty. He's not dead. ”
You heard his voice, deep and gravelly, you listened. You then noticed the texture of his hand gripping your wrist, it was large, the pad of his palm were rough, you also felt the line of his scars, yet they were warm and clean.
Toji led you to a place, part of the campus that you've never been to, It was quite hidden after all. It was full of wild flowers and grasses, trees standing tall, shielding the grassy pasture from the sunlight, the atmosphere were calming, as the cold wind greeted you.
“ How did you know of this place..? ”
You asked in wonder, as you saw Toji already sat down, leaning his back beneath a tree, patting to the ground beside him for you to sit.
“ Let's just say that I like to explore. ”
“ And go skip classes? How adventurous. ”
“ Wow. I just saved your ass and this is what you're going to pay me back? ”
You giggled at the dry sentiment, eyes crinkled into a crescent like shape, blinking only see Toji's gaze upon you, you breath hitched as you stayed silent.
Toji liked you, whether you believe it or not, he was smitten even. But the question is how? Yes your overwhelming good qualities is there but there's just something about you that he couldn't get enough. He never found it on anyone else he ever encountered.
Toji remembered the day he met you. He was utterly miserable and battered with gashes and bruises, his hair was a storm from the brutal training he experienced, he sat down on a swing at some random playground and there was you, who offered him some water and a towel with your name initials sewed, wafting the fabric conditioner and a light conversation, treated him like a human in need, the way your eyes held such gentle gaze, your fingers treading to his entangled inky black strands, Toji never felt so safe from someone who's your size.
He bit his lip, as he tasted the metallic taste of blood from his freshly opened scar on his lip. His family was quite famous when it comes to sports and enterprises, The reign of prodigies, The Zenin family, but he rebelled against them, changed his last name, he gained freedom, though under one condition, he'd pursue boxing and win championships.
You noticed the forming scar on his lips, it bled out, abruptly standing up to buy some medicine or antiseptic cream some of sorts only to feel a warm yet rough palm grasping your frigid arm from the temperature, looking down to see Toji's gunmetal irises, almost in a pleading way, pleading you to not leave him alone.
“ Stay. ”
The arena roared like thunder, while the broadcasters gossiped, and joked through the mic, echoing throughout the stadium, sharing their insights about the possible outcome of the fight.
The fans shouted his name, chanting it like some prayer, they cheered for him like he already won, he saw signs and a tons flirtatious messages and innuendos.
It is not a surprise that Toji has down bad fans and a few stalkers in the span of his boxing career, he's big, broad shoulders that can easily tower over someone, slender waist, rippling mounds of muscles across his arms and thighs down to his strong legs.
To be honest, Toji never really cared about some obsessive fans and stalkers bothering him, because in reality, they wouldn't even try to get close, because they can't, Toji is already capable of handling himself to some minor inconveniences and danger of the disrespectful fans, Yes they could post some of his thirst traps online for clout or something, they don't matter to him, they could dwell on his past for all he care, make insane headlines about him but one thing that the publicity could never touch is his lover, you.
Toji's refined and smooth skin glistened beneath the gleaming lights, his sweat dripping down his chin down to his chest, his dark strands sticking in to his forehead, sharp eyes, his pinkish, plump lips forming a thin line as his scar parted, smirking from the sight of his opponent, as he pounded his gloved fist together— bouncing off his feet, to warm up.
Whenever he was in a match, he would think of you, waiting for him at the backstage, sitting prettily as you watch him through the big screen, wearing his olympic jacket draping over your small figure, so when he wins, he would hang his gold medal adorning your neck as it shines.
He snapped out of his trance when heard his coach yell at him, signaling him and giving him instructions, Toji merely hummed as his adjusted his black mouth guard and head guard in place, answering his coach, muffled.
“ Do you hear me, Fushiguro? ”
“ Loud n’ clear, boss. ”
You shuffled at Toji's temporary quarters, fixing and tidying up his mess as you guys will go home together, stuffing his clothes and other necessities in his duffel bag, you hummed, hearing your lover's PR team scramble on their feet as the fight finally starts, leaving you alone, you were contemplating if you're going to the manager's office, there hanged the enormous screen to watch.
After you finished tidying up, you went to your own bag, prada. It was gifted by Toji on Valentine's Day, reaching inside to get your so called essentials, mask, sunglasses and a cap, to cover your image, unlike Toji, you would actually like to entertain fans though he never lets you, he never did, though you understand why.
You went your way to the manager's office room, the air conditioning hits your face gently, sitting down at some chair.
The match finally started as you sat down.
You watched Toji swung his fist with accuracy and impact, as it collided to his opponent's cheek, tilting his head guard to the side, you winced.
“ Yikes—! That will sent me to coma, immediately. . .”
After a few rounds, the tension is getting too high, hot even. Everything's on the flow until the bastard opponent purposely spat on Toji's foot, just to anger him, spoiling his mood, only for Toji to land a final blow on him that took a tooth from him in the process, knocking him out, he must've seen stars.
You barely contained yourself from laughing, remember.. you need to stay behaved, you watched through the screen as the referee finally took Toji's bulging arms up, declaring his victory, you squealed from your seat in glee.
You stood up from your seat, turning off the television, making your way out only to bump into someone.
“ Are you Toji Fushiguro's manager, can I please get his autograph? Is he here?! ”
Your eyes widened at the sight, you scanned his appearance, he was tall, his body was quite toned as well, greyish hair, tanned, lime eyes, he was wearing a backstage pass, though he might've got it wrong, it was a fan, you never met a fan before. Wait, why is he here..?
“ Oh.. I think you've mistaken me for someone else, though Toji isn't here yet, this is the manager room as you can see, kindly get out please. ”
You politely dismissed the fan, only for him to clasp your hand together, you gasp.
“ Uhm, Sir.. I think this is not a great ide— ”
“ Would you please accompany me to the backstage? ”
This. . .This man is really stubborn and quite irritating.
“But this is the back stage, you just got the specific venue wrong. Dumbass.”
You internally thought, as you retreat one of you arm from his grip, you gave him the look.
“ Fine, follow me. ”
“ Woah, you're really kind...”
“ Quiet. ”
You led him to backstage room, only to found the PR team already tidying up the place, some of the staff greeted you.
“ This is the backstage, you may sit right over there.. ”
You pointed at the chair beside the coffee table, only to feel a hand patting your head rather harshly, messing your hair in the process, with one hand pinching your cheek even with the mask on.
“ You're really kind y'know that, though what's your name and why are you wearing a mask, are you sick? You're quite cute too. ”
Once again your eyes widened as you mouth agape, as the staff froze on what they're doing and tried to warn the man as if he was asking for his early death (he is).
You tried to tell him to stop but your words only go into his ear and comes out to the other side, you also tried smack his hands away, the staff also tried to help, but it was too late, you felt it from a mile away.
He's here.
And he saw it, the way that the man is holding you.
Oh you fucked up.
Your legs felt like jelly, they're shaking as you take it, your chest heaved, whimpering as you drooled into his broad chest,
“ What'd I tell ya about meeting my fans, hmm. . .? You dumb boy. ”
His words slurred into your head as you felt his long and think fingers, pump in and out of you covered in slick, his other hand smacked the globe of your ass, watching it jiggled in friction as you let out a wonton moan.
“ Fuuck— look at you, clenching your cute little cunt on my fingers. ”
You merely buried your face into his neck, arms scratching his back, the cold surface of the gold medal pressed up against his broad chest, it was hanging on your neck, muffled whimpers was heard, feeling his long fingers curling inside your gummy walls.
“ Nghh— m'sorry. . . won't do it again! ”
You lift your head to apologize, tears filling your eyes, only to choke on your own saliva, you felt his fingers protruding and bullying your prostate dead on, rubbing against your walls, as you writhed and shake uncontrollably.
“ NGHH— ”
Toji pushed his thick fingers in and out of your creamy hole, slick dripping and coating the globe your ass, making obscene sounds, slippery and wet delicious noises, your thighs throbbed.
“ Such a greedy slut, aren't you, doll? ”
You bucked your hips, grinding down into his fingers, straddling his strong arm, locked, you felt Toji's hands gripping your legs together, lifting it up to your head, pulling his fingers out of your tight fucking hole, dipping his head down to suck your creamy hole, his slick tongue licking the stripe of your ass, slipping his long tongue in your warm walls, frothy spit dribbling down his chin down to his neck, glistening, your felt his plump lips ghosting just righton top of your tight ring, his scar, feeling heat in your tummy.
Toji pushed apart your legs, going for your lips, kissing you sloppily, you tasted the slick, feeling his large hand slithering in your neck choking you in the process, you whimpered.
“ I'm gonna fuck you so hard the only thing that your mouth will babble is my fat fucking cock. ”
His gravelly voice ranged through the heavy tension, the smell of sex reeked on the air, his pearly whites peaking, a quirk of his lips, smirking as he looked down at your form, his glimmering gunmetal irises stared sharply, helplessly.
You can't stop twitching and moaning uncontrollably, you bit your lips, almost bleeding out, pretty little tears rolling down your cheeks, as your eyebrows knitted together.
“ P-please you're too— deeeep. . .”
Toji held your wrist together, upwards, his other arm held down your hips, your weight dipping down into the mattress, he merely dismissed your complaints, angling his hips, hitting the bundle of nerves, his thick, veiny cock abusing your prostate, the creamy and bubbly loads of his cum made an obscene white ring on your rim, dripping down the globe of your ass.
“ Shut up and take it— you dumb boy. ”
You drool into your pillow, like some cheap whore, you yearn— no, chase for it, the coiling heat inside of your tummy, your consciousness almost blearing out from the sheer impact of Toji's thrust.
His thrust was brutal and passionate, he fucks it deeper inside, Toji watched his cock go in and out of your tight cunt, the creamy and frothy cum coating his shaft, deliciously.
Toji groaned, almost whimpering when he felt you clenched around his dick.
“ Are you trying to snap my dick in half, Doll? ”
Toji then gathered your legs together, your thighs collided, lifting your legs over your head, gripping it tightly, he sloooowly— pulled out his cock, the thick and veiny shaft, almost pulsing.
He then slip it back in a heartbeat almost knocking out the air out of you, you felt so full, so filled, you let out a silent scream.
“ Sooo big— too muchhh nghh. . .”
You babbled, trembling, knees weak, you felt him in your tummy, Toji noticed, as he pressed down the forming bulge below your bellybutton, rubbing it, you moaned and whimpered loudly, you tried to remove his palm, your tongue lolling out like a slut.
“ Look honey, Daddy's sooo— deep inside of your boy pussy. . .”
Toji's brutal thrust was consistent, the bed kept creaking, hitting the headboard on rhythm, he trained for endurance, plenty of stamina, he wasn't close to done, even after multiple orgasms, he could go for days— weeks, even.
Plap, Plap, Plap!
But you can't, you weren't built for it, but he was willing to shape your body, he will train you to take his dick, to take his heavy loads, he wanted to breed you until you're so full of his creamy cum, his seed, he wanted to see his hole full of hot cum, dripping down your ass, plugging it back in with his fingers.
Your stomach was covered in cum and slick, your cock ached from so much cumming, your chest heaved, your body was covered in sweat, the bed was also covered in slick, sweat and cum that dripped out of you.
Toji then glided his fingers, combing his hair into a slick back, few of his inky dark strands sticked onto his forehead, huffing gently, he then slipped his strong arms on your back, lifting you, as your head lulled down into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him for support, straddling his waist with your legs.
Toji immediately got the memo, securing your form against his warm body, he leaned in to kiss the crown of your head softly.
“ Doing so good for me, aren't you my angel? ”
You melted, burying your head deeply into his neck, your arms slithering around his neck, lifting your head to kiss his jaw, tenderly, in return.
Toji's eyes widened, as it softened, grinning softly, kissing the tip of your nose down to your swollen lips.
“ Two can play that game. . . ”
His rough voice ranged throughout your ears, you felt his steady heartbeat with yours, your smooth and soft tummy against his toned stomach.
He then walked his way into the bathroom, there sat a pristine bathtub, the shower was surrounded with glass, the light, almost dimmed, illuminated with serenity, Toji sat you down on the stool, as he prepared the bathtub, turning on the warm water combined with cold.
Your legs were still wobbly, the aching feeling in your back was still lingering, you almost winced.
Toji lifted you once again, dipping his foot first to test the water's temperature, now dipping his whole body in with you in his arms, the water sloshing and engulfing your tired body, his strong thick thighs down to his legs surrounding your sides, you leaned onto his chest.
Toji grabbed the bottle of shampoo, pouring it into his palm, lavender.
He glided the liquid into your scalp, meticulous fingers entangling the knots of your hair, he also got your favorite body wash, gliding it over your supple skin, the foamy and bubbly soap, glistening all over your body, you massaged your neck, shoulders, arms, down to your back, and stomach, grabbing the shower head and rinsing you.
After a while, you decided.
“ Baby, can I wash you as well. . ? ”
You timidly asked your lover, playing with the water beneath you.
Toji's eyes widened, as he grinned, his hand slithering up to your jaw, tilting it to face him, he kissed your jaw to your lips, his tender gaze drowning you, sweetly.
“ Aren't you a sweetheart? ”
Your eyes softened at his gesture, you made your way, facing him, you knelt down, it was wobbly, you tried to grip onto the sides of the tub for balance, you almost slipped, yelping until you felt warm hands kneading and pressing up to your hips.
“ Careful now, wouldn't want you to drown and hit your head, angel. ”
“ Shut it. . .”
His rough and gravelly voice was heard, you blushed profusely, you took the bottle of shampoo, gliding it to his scalp, pulling his dark hair into a slick back, you stole a sweet kiss on his forehead, you also used your favorite body wash, gliding it over his refined arms, and his toned body, his scars, you felt his gunmetal irises stared at you, he's gorgeous.
Toji merely stared at your form, taking good care of him, the tender touches, the way you kissed his forehead, tracing his scars that he once hated, you loved them, and he learned to love it as well, he felt the coiling heat on his stomach, he didn't flinch, when he felt your fingertips ghosted above his tip, he felt blood rushed to his cock, fuck.
Once you were done, you leaned onto his broad chest, until you felt it.
He was still hard.
“ You think we're done yet? Nuh uh. . . ”
Your eyes widened, looking beneath the water, only to see the crown of his bulbous tip poking between your thighs.
Toji then slipped his hands to caress your stomach down to your neglected cock, his other hand fingering your creamy and warm cunt, you mewled into your palm.
He lined himself up, guiding his cock to your entrance. Thick, hard, veined— he thrusted upwards, hitting your sweet spot, you drooled, pushing it deeper.
He knelt down in the tub, standing up, lifting you up, with your knees up to your head, folding you in half, as he lined up his shaft to your slick hole, thrusting inside, hitting your prostate, you moaned and whimpered profusely, your toes curled.
He fucked you in long, steady strokes, pushing deep with each thrust, making sure you felt every inch, every vein of his dick. The girth of him inside you was torment, your cock spurt out thin sheen of cum. head tipped back, neck full of fresh bruises, mouth drooling, his shaft was coated in creamy cum from the previous loads of cum he fucked into you earlier, it dripped out, making wet squelching noises when he thrusted in and out, he filled you to the brim just like a creampie.
“ Fuuuck— you're so fucking tight. ”
Toji cursed, buried himself deep, and came inside you—hot, thick spurts of his creamy load that made your thighs spasmed.
“ No matter how many times I fucked this pussy, it's still so fucking tight. ”
He pulled out only to thrust back in with a deep, filthy squelch, and you moaned—a raw, high-pitched moan that echoed in the room, he gripped your thighs tighter, he pushed you down to his shaft pushing the cum deeper, fast, you saw the tip of his cock bulging in your tummy.
“ NGHH— s-slow down. . ! ”
You whine. He grabs your hips and slams in again, fucking you with the weight of his cock, his heat, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.
“Fuuuck— fuck— take it— ”
He snarls, his rough and gravelly voice gets you intoxicated, you're too cock-drunk to even comprehend, slamming in and staying there as his cock throbs. And pulses, his every vein dragging along your velvety walls, he painted it white.
Toji’s voice is low, his breath hot against your ear, and his cock is buried deep inside you, pulsing with each heavy and fast grind of his hips, clinging to him as he starts to thrust, brutal and deep, it hits your prostate, making your cock spurt out loads of smooth cum dripping down your shaft, you moaned loudly, the remaining energy in your body leaving.
You passed out after you came, consciousness leaving your system, you felt your ears ringing, and Toji's inaudible voice.
You woke up, in your room, it was dimmed, dark curtains surrounded the glass windows, the coldness of the room hits your body, your hair and body was warm and dry, except your hole.
Your bleary sight is finally vivid, your eyes widened, you saw Toji still thrusting inside of you, you whimpered when your mind finally functions.
“ Well look who's finally awake. . . ”
He kissed your lips, with your mouth open, almost in instinct, slipping his warm pink tongue inside, he grips your thighs, pushing them up, folding you until you’re fully exposed under him. His cock hits that spot that makes you gurgle in the process, choking in your saliva, your hole feels so raw.
“ Did you sleep well, angel? You passed out. ”
“ Ngh— how long was I asleep. . ? ”
You barely nodded as you asked, your voice was hoarse and gravelly, with your swollen lips and eyes.
“ Almost for five hours. . .”
Your mouth agape, your eyes widened in fraction, you gripped onto his biceps.
“ Baby, what about your training. . ! Mr. Shiu w-would be so livid! ”
Toji merely dismissed you, thrusting his cock in and out of you, the cum is overflowing from the amount of loads that he dumped inside of your boycunt, he pressed down the bulge in your tummy, his canines peaking once again.
“ Training can wait, angel, I'm not done breeding you yet. . . ”
He starts thrusting harder, faster. His heavy balls still filled with his seed, he's so pent up from the days that he didn't get to fuck you because of those stupid trainings, from the times that he'd get so horny, wet dreams about you bouncing up and down his dick with his cum dripping down his shaft from your sopping wet cunt, his balls slap your ass with every thrust, creamy squelches, looong deliberate thrust dragged along your hole, like some cheap fleshlight, his personal cum dump.
Plap, Plap, Plap!
You can only moan and whimper as you take it all, you felt something vibrate on the bed, it was Toji's phone with an unfamiliar number displayed on the screen, Toji noticed as he smirked,he accepted the call and put it on speaker, you stared curiously at him, he stared at you with his phone on his ear, you heard a quite familiar voice, annoying even.
“ Hello, Mr. Fushiguro? Again I apologize for what happened yesterday, It wasn't my intention to discover your lover, and harass him at that, your management told me to apologize to you and your lover, I signed the contract that I wouldn't reveal these events on the public eye, may I please apologize to him, If I may. . ? ”
“ Why of course? here he is. . . ”
Your eyes widened as you finally get what he was planning, you frowned at him, Toji merely smiled at you, mocking you, you flushed when he put the phone beside your ear, your hands weren't exactly available right now as it was restrained by his vice grip.
“ Ah, hello, I would like to apologize to you as well, as I said, it wasn't my intention to harass you, I was just so excited to see Mr. Fushiguro, and I didn't know that he has a lover, you were quite a beauty, I can see why he's so protective of you. . . ”
Toji gritted his teeth and jaw, he felt something inside of him, possessiveness and jealousy, his eyebrows knitted in irritation, that made him thrust upward inside of you, deep and hard, you tried to muffle your noises as you bit your lips, he gripped your hips down with his other hand onto the mattress, but you still tried to answer.
“ Y-yes. . . It's a-all good now— mhnghh— ”
“You like this. You like being used and stuffed full to the brim while that bastard hears us, don’t you? What a whore. . . ”
Toji leaned in to your other ear, he whispered with his hot breath fanning in the surface of your ear, every time his hips slam into yours, you feel the slap of his skin, the obscene slick of his cock grinding inside you, you really tried to muffle your moans but the heavy and squelching noises says it anyways.
“ O-oh, Is that so? I'm glad then. . . Though are you alright? you seem to be distracted. ”
“ No worries, I-i just pulled a muscle—! ”
He pressed his hips flush to yours, his cock still twitching inside your soaked hole, he then grabbed the phone back to him.
“ Alright, that's enough. bye, sayonara or whatever. ”
“ Ah— Goodbye— ”
Turning off the phone and tossed it on the side, he stared down at you, watching his thick shaft still piercing you for almost a day now.
“ Haaaah. . .ngh—Tojiiiii—”
He thrust in, hard, You jolted, a delicious moan spilling from your lips as he grinds his hips deeper, refusing to pull out, you’re shifted on your back, legs trembling while you're folded in half, gripping the sheets, while his cock pulses deep inside you—raw, hot, wet and creamy.
“ Such a good boy you are. ”
He breathes, and panted, his voice rough and almost hoarse, while he caressed your hips tenderly.
“ Took me so well and letting me fuck you dumb and fill you up just like you deserve. . .”
You merely nodded profusely, accepting your fate, because you're so sure that he wasn't done yet.
ꗃ Inspired by: @dabisbratz, check out their works! they're actually the holy grail for male readers omggg ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) !!
testosterone is fucking awesome. wdym im hard AND wet rn. i can hump things like a mutt til my cunt gets wet n then use that as lube to jerk off my dick ??? transsexuals are angels.
𝓲𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 ♰ satoru’s been obsessed with you for years, but when another model tries to steal your attention, he finally decides to make you his.
✿ ◞◟) gojo satoru 𝓍 male!reader
𝓬𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁 18+ [ MDNI! ], explicit sexual content, obsessive behavior, makeup artist!male reader, model!satoru, one-sided pining (not for long), handjob, blowjob, multiple orgasms, cum eating, jealous & possessive!satoru, heavy overstimulation, softdom!satoru, creampie, body worship, praise + dirty talk, semi-public sex, marking / biting, big dick!satoru, power play, satoru is really freaky, unprotected sex (p in a), lots of kisses everywhere, yearning, orgasm control / edging, aftercare.
you don't notice the way satoru looks at you.
that's the thing; that's always been the thing. you, with your steady hands and your calm, focused expression, never once look up from your work long enough to catch the sheer, undiluted want burning in gojo satoru's eyes. you've been his makeup artist since the very beginning, back when he was just a lanky, too-pretty teenager with a dream and a portfolio full of half-blurry polaroids, back when his name didn't open doors and his face wasn't plastered on every other billboard in tokyo.
you remember those days; you remember the cramped shared studio apartments and the hustle, the frantic panic before castings, the way satoru would sometimes fall asleep in your chair after a fourteen-hour shoot and you'd let him, because he was just a kid, really, and you've always had a soft spot for him. you remember thinking satoru had something special, something that would carry him far.
and it did. god, it did.
now, gojo satoru is a household name — he is the highest-paid male model in asia, the face of three major luxury brands, a man whose cheekbones could cut glass and whose smile could sell ice to an inuit. but satoru is still the same person underneath all the designer clothes and the flashing cameras. at least, that's what you tell yourself; he's still the same person who sends you ridiculous memes at three in the morning and who always, always sneaks you expensive snacks from the craft services table. satoru is still your friend.
satoru is still your very good, very famous, very straight (you assume) friend.
so when you lean in close to his face, brush in hand, dabbing a precise line of highlighter along the sharp bridge of his nose, you don't think anything of it. you're way too focused on the task; the photoshoot for today is for a high-end fragrance campaign — something moody and black-and-white, all shadow and suggestion, which means satoru's makeup needs to be flawless, poreless, and almost inhumanly perfect.
you hum a little under your breath, a random tune you heard on the radio this morning, and you don't notice the way satoru’s breath catches. you don't notice how his long, pale fingers curl around the armrests of the chair, knuckles going white. you don't notice the way his ice-blue eyes, usually so aloof and unreadable in front of the camera, have softened into something dangerously close to adoration, tracking every micro-movement of your face.
you're beautiful. you have no idea you're beautiful. that's the second thing about you that drives him absolutely insane.
you're not model-pretty. god, no. model-pretty is sharp and angular and intimidating. you're something else entirely; you're warm, your skin has a healthy glow that doesn't come from highlighter, your hands are veined and strong but impossibly gentle, and when you're concentrating, you bite the inside of your cheek. it makes you look a little younger, softer, and satoru wants to kiss that little spot on your cheek so badly it's a physical ache in his chest.
"hold still," you murmur, not looking at him. "you're twitching."
your breath fans across satoru’s cheek, smelling faintly of coffee and mint.
"i'm not twitching," he lies, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. he's got a good voice for voiceovers, deep and honeyed, and he knows it. he uses it like a weapon. "you're just being fussy."
"i'm being thorough," you correct, dabbing a tiny bit of concealer under his eye.
the dark circles are almost nonexistent — the man sleeps like the dead when he's not working — but the photographer wanted a specific kind of hollowed-out, tortured-artist look. you think it's silly, but you're not paid to think; you're paid to make satoru look good.
you're also, secretly, paid to be close to him.
not in a weird way, not in the way a fan would be, but satoru has had four other makeup artists in the past two years, each hired by agencies or magazines when you weren't available. all of them were pretty good; technically proficient, efficient, professional, and all of them lasted exactly one day before satoru threw a tantrum that would make a toddler really proud, insisting that only you could do his makeup, that only you understood his face.
his manager, ijichi, had called you, sounding frazzled;
"he says your 'energy is non-negotiable'," ijichi had relayed, looking pained. "whatever that means."
you'd laughed it off, of course.
satoru is dramatic. satoru is a diva. but you'd shown up, packed your kit, and gotten back to work. because honestly… you missed him too. the other models are fine, but they're not satoru; they don't make you laugh between touch-ups, they don't bring you hot chocolate from the coffee cart without you asking, they don't look at you like you're the only person in the room, in the universe, who matters.
( well, you don't notice that last part. )
today's shoot is in a huge warehouse studio in shibuya, all exposed brick and polished concrete floors.
satoru's private dressing room is a small annex off the main floor, with a large mirror, a comfortable leather chair, and terrible overhead lighting that you've learned to work around. you've got your rolling cart of products next to you — brushes of every shape and size, powders, foundations — and you're so focused on perfecting the contour on satoru’s jawline that you don't hear the soft knock on the door.
satoru does, though. his eyes flick towards the door, and something in his expression hardens for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into pleasant neutrality.
the door opens, and a head pokes in; it's fushiguro toji.
toji is another model, a competitor in the same tier as satoru, though with a rougher, more masculine edge. where satoru is ethereal and untouchable, toji is all muscle and swagger, a little scar at the corner of his mouth that makes him look more dangerous. toji is also, unfortunately for satoru's blood pressure, an unrepentant flirt.
"hey," toji says, his voice a low drawl. he's not looking at satoru, he's looking at you. "didn't know you were working today."
you glance up, brush pausing, and you offer toji a small, friendly smile.
"oh, toji. hey. yeah, it’s just a quick gig. satoru's got the fragrance campaign."
"right, right."
toji steps further into the room, invading the space with his presence. he's wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, his usual off-duty attire, and his hair is a little messy, like he just rolled out of bed. it looks good on him.
"you free after this? i'm doing a test shoot down the hall, and the makeup artist they booked is a nightmare. i could use someone who actually knows what they're doing."
your cheeks flush a little at the compliment.
"oh, i don't know. i'd have to check my schedule—"
"he's not free," satoru cuts in, his voice light, almost airy, but there's a thread of steel underneath.
satoru hasn't moved from his chair, he hasn't even opened his eyes fully, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago.
"he's with me all day. exclusivity clause."
you frown, turning to look at satoru.
"i don't have an exclusivity clause with you, satoru."
"you should," he says, finally opening his eyes. that brilliant, piercing blue fixes on toji, and for a moment, the room feels a little colder. "i pay better."
toji snorts, unimpressed.
"i'm sure you do."
toji looks back at you, and his gaze is appreciative, lingering on the curve of your neck, the line of your jaw. you're wearing a simple cream-colored sweater, sleeves pushed up to your elbows, and you're completely unaware of how the soft fabric drapes over your frame.
"think about it, yeah? i'll make it worth your while."
toji winks at you, and then he's gone, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
you simply shake your head, a little bewildered by what just happened, and turn back to satoru.
"weird guy," you comment, picking up your foundation brush again. "he's not usually that friendly."
satoru doesn't answer.
he's staring at the closed door, his jaw tight, his hands now gripping the armrests so hard the leather creaks. you notice the tension, finally, because it's impossible to miss; his whole body is rigid, coiled, like a spring about to snap.
"hey," you say, frowning. "you okay? you're all tense. i need you to relax your jaw or the contour will look weird."
satoru's gaze snaps to you, and for a second, just a second, you see something raw and hungry in the man’s expression, something that makes your stomach flip, a strange, unfamiliar heat pooling low in your belly. but then it's gone, smoothed over by that familiar, dazzling smile.
"sorry," satoru says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all; he sounds off. "just thinking."
"about what?" you ask, leaning in to blend the contour along his cheekbone.
you're close again, close enough to see the individual lashes framing satoru’s beautiful eyes, close enough to smell his cologne — something sweet and expensive, mixed with the clean scent of his shampoo.
"about how long i've been wanting to do something," satoru murmurs, so quietly you almost don't hear it.
your brush pauses. "what?"
satoru slowly reaches up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. it's not a harsh grip, it's almost tender, but it still stops you completely and holds you in place. satoru’s thumb brushes over the thin skin on the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse jump.
"do you have any idea," he says, his voice low and deliberate, each word dropping like a stone into still water. "how hard it is to sit here, day after day, while you touch my face like it's nothing? while you smile at other men like fushiguro toji and offer them your time?"
your heart is doing something weird in your chest, a staccato rhythm that has nothing to do with caffeine.
"satoru, what are you talking about? i'm your makeup artist."
"exactly," he breathes, and the word is almost a sigh. his thumb is still stroking your wrist, slow and hypnotic. "you're my makeup artist. not his. not anyone else's. only mine."
satoru pulls you gently, guiding you to stand between his widely spread legs. you go, because you're too stunned to resist, your mind a blank slate of confusion and something else, something you don't want to name.
you're now face-to-face with him, close enough that your knees are brushing his thighs.
"i've been patient," satoru continues, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip, a warm and solid weight. "so fucking patient, you have no idea. i've dropped hints. i've flirted. i've literally sent you memes with the caption 'us' and you just sent back a thumbs-up emoji. a thumbs up, baby. do you know what that did to me?"
"i thought you were joking," you whisper, your voice coming out embarrassingly small. "you're always joking."
"i'm not joking now."
satoru’s blue eyes are so dark, no longer the bright, icy hue you're used to. they're the color of a deep winter sky, heavy with unshed snow.
"look at me. really look at me. and tell me you don't feel this."
he presses your palm flat against his chest, right over his heart; it's pounding a hard, frantic rhythm that matches your own. you can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, the firm muscle beneath. he's not just a pretty face. he's solid, real, and he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
"i—" you start, but your voice cracks.
you don't know what to say. you've never thought of him this way. you've never allowed yourself to think of him this way. he's satoru. your client. your friend. the boy who fell asleep in your chair all those years ago.
"you're beautiful," he says, and the word is reverent. "you don't even know. you walk around with your pretty face and your kind hands, and you have no idea what you do to me. every time you lean in, every time you bite your lip, every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes—i fall a little more. and i am so. fucking. tired. of falling alone."
satoru’s hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you're standing flush between his thighs. you can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell his cologne more strongly now, can see the slight flush high on his cheekbones that you didn't put there with your brushes.
"satoru, you're a model," you manage, your voice a shaky whisper. "you could have anyone. why would you want—"
"don't," he interrupts, sharp and sudden. his fingers tighten on your wrist, just a fraction. "don't do that. don't pretend you're not exactly what i want. don't make this about anyone else."
satoru leans in, his forehead resting against yours. his breath fans across your parted lips, warm and sweet, and your eyes flutter closed instinctively.
"i've been good," he murmurs, the words a soft, desperate confession. "i've been so good. i've watched you. i've waited. i've let you be professional and friendly and completely oblivious. but then he came in here and looked at you like that, and i realized—i'm done waiting."
satoru’s lips brush the corner of your mouth, barely a touch, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
"i need you to understand," satoru slowly whispers against your skin, "that you belong to me. you have for years. you just didn't know it yet."
you open your mouth to reply — and to say what? you have no idea — but he doesn't give you the chance.
satoru kisses you.
satoru kisses you, and it's the kiss of a man who has been starving for years and has finally been given permission to eat. his mouth is so hot and so demanding, slanting over yours, and his warm tongue sweeps along the seam of your lips, asking, begging, taking.
you gasp, and he swallows the sound, pulling you closer, one hand fisting in the soft fabric of your sweater at your back.
oh, you should push him away. you should remind him of professional boundaries, of the shoot in an hour, of the fact that you're employees, not lovers. but your body isn't listening to your brain. your hands, traitors that they are, come up to grip satoru’s shoulders, and you kiss him back.
it's clumsy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues sliding. he tastes like mint gum and something uniquely him, something so addictive. satoru groans into your mouth when your fingers curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, and the sound vibrates through you, settling low in your groin.
satoru pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead still pressed to yours, his lips swollen and wet. his eyes are blown wide, pupils completely dilated, the blue almost completely swallowed by pure black.
"fuck," he breathes, and it sounds like a prayer. "fuck, i've wanted to do that for so long."
you're trembling, and it’s an actual, full-body trembling; your knees feel embarrassingly weak, and if satoru weren't holding you, you might just slide to the floor.
"satoru, we can't—"
"we can," he insists, and there's no room for argument in his voice. it's a command, a decree. "we can, and we're going to. i'm going to take care of you. i'm going to show you exactly what you mean to me. and then, when i'm done, you're going to look in the mirror and see the marks i left on you, and you're never going to forget who you belong to."
satoru stands up, and because you're still pressed against him, you stumble back a step. he steadies you with hands on your hips, then guides you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the makeup table. the metal legs scrape against the concrete floor, and a few brushes clatter to the ground, but neither of you pays them any attention.
"lie back," satoru says, and it's not a request.
you hesitate for half a second, your mind screaming at you to stop, to think rationally, to remember the shoot. but then he looks at you — with that raw, desperate hunger — and all your resistance crumbles.
you lie back on the table.
it's cold and hard against your spine, but you barely notice; your entire awareness is focused on satoru, on the way he looms over you, all six-foot-something of lean muscle and sharp angles. he's beautiful. achingly, impossibly beautiful. and he's looking at you like he wants to devour all of you.
satoru brackets your body with his strong arms, leaning down to kiss you again.
this time, the kiss is slower, more deliberate; satoru takes his time, learning the shape of your mouth, the give of your lower lip between his teeth. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear, and you gasp, your back arching off the table.
"so responsive," satoru murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "i wondered if you'd be like this. i've imagined it so many times. you, underneath me, falling apart because of me."
satoru’s huge hands are everywhere; one slides under your sweater, palm flat against your stomach, and his long fingers are cold, making your muscles jump. the other works at the button of your jeans, deft and impatient.
"is this okay?" satoru asks, pausing with his fingers hooked in your waistband.
his voice is still low, still so hungry to devour you completely, but there's a thread of genuine concern there, a check-in that makes your chest ache.
"yes," you breathe, because it's the truth.
it's terrifying and overwhelming and probably a terrible idea, but god, you want it. you want him.
satoru's whole body goes rigid above you — not with tension this time, but with something that feels like relief. his eyes, those ethereal deep blue eyes that have stared down cameras and conquered runways, are wide and almost vulnerable for a split second. then satoru’s mouth is on yours once again, and vulnerability burns away into something ravenous.
he kisses you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your lips by touch alone, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he doesn't hold on tight enough. satoru’s tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you taste the faint bitterness of the coffee he drank this morning mixed with the sweetness of the lip balm you applied an hour ago.
it's dizzying; it's too much and not enough all at once.
your hands, still gripping his shoulders, feel the coiled strength in his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt. he's not just lean and pretty — there's power there, the kind that comes from hours in the gym because his agency demands it, and you feel that power now in the way he cages you against the cold makeup table, in the way his thighs press against the outside of your legs, trapping you in place.
satoru pulls back just far enough to break the kiss, and a thin string of saliva connects both of your lips for a little moment before it slowly breaks. satoru stares down at you, chest heaving, and you watch his gaze travel across your face like he's seeing you for the first time.
"look at you," he murmurs, and his voice has dropped an octave, rougher now, almost gravelly. "already a mess and i've barely touched you."
you want to say something clever, something that proves you're not completely undone, but then satoru’s hand — the one that was resting on your stomach under your sweater — slides upward, dragging the fabric with it.
his fingers are cold against your heated skin, and you gasp as they brush over your nipple, not quite touching, just passing close enough to make you shiver.
"sensitive," satoru observes, and there's a smile in his voice now, something dark and pleased. "god, you're sensitive everywhere, aren't you? i've watched you for years, you know. i watched the way you shiver when someone touches your neck, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. i've imagined what sounds you'd make."
satoru’s hand keeps moving, pushing your sweater up until it bunches under your armpits, exposing your chest to the cool air of the dressing room. you're not built like him — you're softer, less sculpted — but the way satoru looks at you makes you feel like you're the one on the cover of a magazine.
"beautiful," he breathes, and the word is so sincere it makes your chest ache. "so fucking beautiful."
then satoru ducks his head and takes your nipple into his mouth, and coherent thought evaporates.
his tongue is hot and wet, circling the sensitive peak with a precision that speaks to experience, and his teeth graze the flesh just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain straight to your groin. you cry out — yeah, you actually cry out, a sound too loud for a semi-public space — and your back arches off the table, pressing yourself further into his mouth.
satoru hums against your skin, the vibration making you whimper, and his free hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans.
"shh," satoru murmurs against your chest, switching to the other nipple with the same devastating attention. "you have to be quiet, sweetheart. unless you want the whole studio to hear what i'm doing to you."
you bite your lip, hard enough to taste copper, and satoru looks up at you through his lashes.
his lips are wet, swollen from kissing and sucking, and his eyes are almost completely black now, the blue reduced to a thin ring around blown pupils.
"there you go," satoru says softly, and his long fingers start working at the button of your jeans. "such a good boy for me. always have been."
the button easily comes undone with a soft pop, and then the zipper, and satoru doesn't hesitate — he shoves his hand past the denim, past the elastic of your boxers, and wraps his fingers around your cock.
you gasp sharply, hips jerking upward into his grip, and satoru groans like he's the one being touched.
"fuck," satoru hisses, his forehead dropping pathetically to your shoulder. "you're so hard. you're—god, you're dripping, baby. is this all for me?"
you can't answer.
your brain has short-circuited, overwhelmed by the sensation of satoru’s hand — those long, elegant fingers that you've watched hold champagne glasses and sign autographs — wrapped around your most intimate part. his palm is warm and slightly rough, calloused in a way you didn't expect, and when he strokes slowly from base to tip, spreading the wetness that's already gathered there, you see constellations.
"answer me," satoru says, and his voice is soft but there's an edge to it, a command wrapped in honey.
he squeezes gently, just this side of too tight, and you moan.
"y-yes," you gasp, the word cracking in the middle. "yes, yes, it's—it's always been—"
you don't finish the sentence because you're not sure what you were going to say.
it's always been him? it's always been like this? both are true and neither captures the enormity of what you're feeling.
satoru lifts his head and kisses you once again, swallowing whatever sounds you were about to make. his warm tongue slides into your mouth at the same time his hand starts moving in earnest, stroking you with a steady, unforgiving rhythm that has you clawing at his shoulders, leaving red marks on his skin through his shirt.
he's everywhere — his mouth on yours, his hand on your cock, his body pressed against you from chest to hip, the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against your bare thighs. you're pinned to the makeup table, completely at his mercy, and the helplessness of it makes you even harder.
"that's it," satoru whispers against your lips, his strokes never once faltering. "let me hear you. i want to hear every single sound you make."
you're already embarrassingly close, the pleasure building low in your belly like a coiled spring.
it's been sooo long since anyone touched you like this, and never — never like this, never with someone who looks at you like you're the center of their universe.
"satoru," you whimper, and his name has never sounded like this before; raw and desperate. "satoru, i'm going to—"
but satoru stops.
his hand goes still, still wrapped around you but no longer moving, and the sudden absence of friction is almost painful. you whine, high and needy, and your hips try to chase his hand, but he pulls back just enough to deny you.
"not yet," satoru says, and his voice is strained, like denying you is costing him something aswell. "not yet, sweetheart. i'm not done with you."
you want to cry. you want to beg.
but satoru is already shifting, sliding off the table and lowering himself to his knees between your spread legs, and the sight of him there — gojo satoru, the highest-paid model in asia, kneeling on a dirty concrete floor in his designer clothes — steals the breath from your lungs.
he looks up at you with those dark, hungry eyes, and then he pulls your jeans and boxers down your hips in one rough movement, freeing you completely. the cool air hits your flushed, leaking cock and you shudder.
"so pretty," satoru murmurs, and his voice is reverent now, almost worshipful.
he wraps his hand around you again, but satoru doesn't stroke; he simply holds you, watching the way your cock twitches desperately in his grip.
"i knew you'd be pretty. i knew it."
then he leans forward and licks a broad stripe from the base of your cock to the tip, and you lose the ability to form words.
satoru’s tongue is so hot and wet and impossibly soft, and when he reaches the head, he swirls around it, collecting the bead of precum that's gathered there. he hums, low in his throat, and the vibration makes your thighs tremble.
"you taste good," satoru says, like he's commenting on the weather, like this is completely normal. "sweet. i could get addicted to this."
then he takes you into his mouth, and the world narrows to nothing but heat and pressure and the obscene, wet sounds of satoru sucking your cock.
oh, and he's not gentle with it — he's eager, desperate, like he's been starving for this for years. satoru’s cheeks hollow as he sucks, and his tongue presses against the underside of your cock, and his hand cups your balls, rolling them gently in his palm. you're making sounds you've never heard yourself make before, high and broken, and your fingers tangle in his white hair, pulling without meaning to.
satoru moans around you, and the vibration shoots straight up your spine.
he pulls off with a wet pop, and a string of saliva connects his lips to the tip of your cock. satoru’s face is completely flushed, his lips swollen and slick, and there's a smear of your balm on his chin from earlier.
"look at me," satoru commands, and when you force your eyes open, he's staring at you with an intensity that pins you in place. "i want you to watch. i want you to see exactly who's making you fall apart."
then satoru takes you back into his mouth, deeper this time, until the tip of your cock hits the back of his throat. he doesn't gag — he just swallows around you, and the sensation is so overwhelming that you actually sob, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
satoru's hands grip your hips, holding you down against the table when your body tries to buck upward.
he sets a rhythm — deep, slow strokes of his mouth, his tongue curling around you on every retreat — and you can't look away. you watch satoru’s lips stretch around you, you watch his eyes flutter half-closed in pleasure, you watch the way his throat works when he swallows.
you're not going to last.
"s-satoru," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "satoru, p-please, i can't—i'm going to—"
he pulls off just enough to speak, his lips brushing the head of your cock with every word.
"do it," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "cum for me, baby. i want to taste you."
then satoru takes you deep again, and that's it.
your orgasm crashes over you, violent and all-consuming. your back bows off the table, your mouth opens in a silent scream, and you spill down satoru's throat in hot, pulsing bursts. he doesn't pull away — he swallows everything, moaning around you, his throat working to take every drop, and his hands grip your hips so hard you know there will be bruises tomorrow.
the pleasure goes on and on, drawn out by the way satoru keeps sucking your cock gently, coaxing every last bit from you until you're twitching and oversensitive, whining and pushing weakly at his head.
finally, finally, satoru pulls off.
his face is flushed, his lips are swollen, and there's a smear of your release on the corner of his mouth. he wipes it with his thumb and sucks it clean, his eyes never leaving yours.
"fuck," satoru breathes, and then he laughs — a breathless, disbelieving sound. "fuck, you're perfect."
you can't move, and you can barely breathe; your entire body is trembling, and the makeup table is cold against your sweaty back, and you're pretty sure you just came harder than you have in your entire life.
satoru rises to his feet, his joints popping from kneeling too long, and he leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head. his weight settles over you, so warm and so solid, and the supermodel boy kisses you deeply, lazily, like you have all the time in the world.
you taste yourself on his tongue — salty and sharp — and the intimacy of it makes your head spin.
"we're not done," satoru murmurs against your lips, and your heart stutters. "i told you. i've been waiting years. one time isn't going to be enough."
his hips roll against yours, and you feel him — hard and thick through his jeans, pressing against your thigh — and a fresh wave of want curls through your exhausted body.
"i'm going to fuck you," satoru says, and the words are soft, almost gentle, which honestly makes them infinitely more dangerous. "i'm going to fuck you on this table, and then i'm going to carry you to that chair and fuck you there, and then maybe — if you're good — i'll let you rest before i take you home and fuck you in a real bed."
satoru’s hungry mouth trails down your jaw, your neck, biting and sucking marks into your sensitive skin that you'll have to cover with concealer later.
"but first," he says, pulling back to look at you with those dark, possessive eyes, "i need to hear you say it."
"say what?" you manage, your voice hoarse.
"that you're mine."
your heart pounds, your body aches, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you know that this is the point of no return; that once you say these words, you'll never be able to pretend this was just a mistake, just a moment of weakness.
but looking up at satoru — at his completely ruined makeup and his oh so desperate blue eyes and the way his huge hands shake slightly even as he tries to seem in control — you realize you simply don't want to pretend.
"i'm yours," you whisper.
satoru's smile is blinding.
"such a good boy," he says, and kisses you again.
you're still trembling when satoru's mouth claims yours once more, and this time the kiss is different — slower, deeper, less like a starving man finally being fed and more like someone savoring a meal they've waited years to taste. his lips are soft and insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your head swim, and his tongue slides along your lower lip before dipping inside, tasting every corner of your mouth like he's memorizing the shape of you from the inside out.
your hands, shaky and uncertain at first, slowly find their way to satoru’s chest.
the fabric of his designer tshirt is really soft under your palms — some expensive blend you couldn't name if you tried — and you can feel the warmth of his skin through it, the firmness of the muscle beneath. satoru has always looked lean in photographs, all sharp angles and graceful lines, but up close like this, with him pressed against you from hip to chest, you realize how solid he actually is. his shoulders are broad under your hands, his pectorals defined in a way that isn't showy but definitely exists, and when your fingers curl into the fabric, bunching it around his collarbones, he makes a sound.
it's a small sound at first, a quiet exhale that ghosts across your cheek, but then you pull the shirt upward, exposing the smooth skin of satoru’s stomach, and the exhale becomes something else entirely.
satoru moans, low and almost embarrassing, and the sound vibrates against your lips and sends a shiver straight down your spine, because gojo satoru, the man who has millions of people screaming his name, is pathetically whimpering into your mouth simply because you're taking off his shirt.
"please," satoru breathes, and the word is so unexpected, so naked in its desperation, that your hands actually pause.
satoru never says please; satoru demands, satoru teases, satoru acts like the whole world exists to serve him. but here, with his designer shirt bunched around his neck and your palms flat against his bare ribs, the man is begging.
"please, baby, keep going. i need—i need you to touch me. i've wanted you to touch me for so long."
oh, well, you don't make him wait.
you push the shirt up over his chest, over his shoulders, and satoru has to break the kiss to pull it over his head, which means you get to watch him — the way his arms flex, the way his hair falls messily back into place, the way his chest rises and falls with quick, shallow breaths.
satoru is beautiful, of course he's beautiful, but it's a different kind of beautiful now, stripped of the carefully curated styling and the professional lighting.
there's a faint line across his stomach where the waistband of his jeans sits, and a small mole just below his left collarbone that you've never noticed before despite spending hours in his face every day. his skin is pale and smooth, dotted with barely-there freckles that you want to trace with your tongue.
so you do.
you lean forward, still on the cold makeup table, and press your mouth to that little mole. satoru shudders above you, his hands flying to your shoulders to steady himself, and when you drag your lips across his collarbone to the base of his throat, his fingers tighten almost painfully.
"fuck," he whispers, and his voice cracks in the middle of the word. "fuck, that's—your mouth, god—"
you don't really know what you're doing. you've never been with someone like satoru, someone who looks at you like you're the one doing him a favor by letting him touch you. but satoru’s reactions are so honest, so unfiltered, that you feel bolder than you have any right to feel.
your hands slide down his sides, feeling the dip of his waist, the flare of his hips, and every inch of skin you touch makes him shiver. when your thumbs brush against satoru’s nipples — soft, unpierced, surprisingly sensitive from the way he gasps — he makes a sound that's almost a whine.
"sensitive?" you ask, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended, hoarse from the way he kissed you.
satoru laughs, breathless and a little unsteady.
"shut up."
but satoru doesn't pull away when you do it again, dragging your thumbs in slow circles around the peaked buds, and his hips jerk forward instinctively, pressing his hardness against your thigh. even through the thick denim of his jeans, you can feel how much he wants this — the heat of him, the length of him, and your stomach does a slow, anxious flip because you're going to have to take that inside you.
well, not yet, though.
satoru pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are almost completely black now, reduced to a ring around pupils that have swallowed everything else. his chest is heaving, his lips are swollen and slick, and there's a flush creeping down his neck that you've never seen on him before.
he looks wrecked, and you've barely done anything.
"you're so fucking beautiful," satoru says, and the words are rough, scraped raw. "lying there on the makeup table, looking at me like that. you have no idea what you do to me."
before you can respond — not that you have any words left — satoru hooks his hands behind your knees and pulls.
you slide across the table with a startled gasp, the cold surface shocking against your bare thighs, and then he's spreading your legs wide, stepping between them so there's nowhere for you to go. satoru’s hips press against the backs of your thighs, and even through both layers of clothing, you can feel how hard he is, and how desperate he is.
"i want to prep you properly," satoru says, and his voice is lower now, almost clinical despite the hunger in his eyes. "i'm not going to hurt you. i need you to tell me if anything feels wrong, okay? promise me."
you nod, because your throat feels too tight for words, but satoru shakes his head and cups your face with one warm palm, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"words, sweetheart. i need words."
"yes," you manage, and it comes out as barely a whisper. "yes, i promise. i'll tell you."
satoru's expression softens for just a moment, something tender flickering across his ethereal features before it's swallowed by want again.
he leans down and kisses you once more — quick, reassuring, a promise rather than a demand — and then he pulls back and looks down at where your bodies are pressed together.
"you already came once," he murmurs, almost to himself. "but i think you've got more for me, don't you, sweetheart? you've been so good, letting me touch you, letting me taste you. i want to use what you gave me to open you up. do you understand what i'm saying?"
your breath catches.
you understand, all right — the idea of your own release, still cooling on your stomach and smeared across satoru's chin, being used to prepare you for him — and it's so dirty, so intimate, that you feel heat rushing to your face.
"yeah," you say, and the word comes out strangled. "okay."
satoru smiles, slow and satisfied, and then he reaches down between your bodies.
his fingers find the mess you made earlier — the sticky, cooling evidence of your orgasm that's pooled in the hollow of your stomach and dripped down your hip — and he scoops it up with two long fingers, holding them up so you can both see the way it glistens in the dim dressing room light.
"look at that," satoru murmurs, almost reverent. "look what you gave me."
then… he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, slowly and deliberately, his hungry eyes never leaving yours. the sight makes something hot curl low in your belly, a fresh pulse of want that you didn't think you were capable of after coming as hard as you did.
"still tastes like you," satoru says, pulling his fingers out with a soft pop. "but i need more. i need your mouth to help me."
he doesn't wait for you to ask what the hell he means.
satoru brings his hand to your lips, pressing those two long fingers against your mouth, and you understand directly; you open obediently for him, letting him push his fingers past your lips, and you taste yourself again — salty and a little bitter, mixed with the lingering mint of satoru's gum and the faint metallic taste of your own skin.
you suck, because it seems like what satoru wants, and the moan he lets out is downright filthy.
"that's it," satoru breathes, watching your lips close around his fingers. "get them nice and wet for me, sweetheart. i'm going to use them to open you up, and i need you to be ready. i need you to be so ready for me."
so you suck harder, swirling your tongue around his knuckles, trying to coat every single inch of satoru’s hot skin with as much saliva as you can.
satoru watches with heavy-lidded eyes, his hips pressing against your thighs in involuntary thrusts, and you can feel the way his whole body trembles with the effort of holding back.
"enough," he finally says, pulling his fingers from your mouth.
they're slick and shining, coated in a mixture of your saliva and the remnants of your release, and satoru brings them down between your legs without hesitation.
you flinch when you feel satoru’s long fingers brush against your needy entrance — not from pain, just from the strangeness of it, the vulnerability of being touched there by someone else for the first time.
satoru notices immediately, his free hand coming up to rest on your hip, thumb stroking small circles against the bone.
"hey," he says softly, and his voice has lost some of its urgency, replaced by something gentler. "hey, look at me. we don't have to do anything you don't want to. we can stop right now, and i'll still be happy just because i got to kiss you. okay? you're in control here. not me."
the words settle something in your chest, some anxiety you didn't even know you were holding. satoru — commanding, possessive, i-belong-to-you satoru — is giving you an out, and the fact that he's offering makes you want this even more.
"i want to," you say, and your voice is steadier than you expected. "i want you to. just... go slow?"
satoru's answering smile is soft, almost boyish, so different from the sharp, smoldering looks he gives the camera.
"always slow. i've got you, baby. i'm not going to hurt you."
his finger — just one, just the tip — presses against your entrance, circling gently, spreading the slickness around the tight ring of muscle. the sensation is strange, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant; it's just wet and warm and present, a new kind of touch that makes your thighs tense involuntarily.
"relax for me," satoru murmurs, his thumb still stroking your hip. "breathe, baby. you're doing so good. just breathe."
you try. you take a shaky breath and force your muscles to unclench, and satoru rewards you by pressing a little deeper, the first knuckle of his finger slipping inside.
the feeling is — woah, it's a lot. it's pressure and fullness and something almost invasive, but satoru's hand on your hip is grounding, and his voice is a steady murmur of praise that keeps you from panicking.
"that's it," satoru says, his finger still, giving you the time to adjust. "see? you can take it. you're doing so good for me, sweetheart. so fucking good."
satoru waits until your breathing evens out, until your hips stop trying to squirm away, and then he pushes deeper. his finger slides all the way in, slow and careful, and you feel yourself clench around him involuntarily, your body unsure whether to push him out or pull him in.
"feel that?" satoru asks, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't believe he's actually inside you. "feel how tight you are? god, baby, you're gonna feel so good around my cock."
the dirty words should make you uncomfortable, but instead they send a bolt of heat through you, and you feel yourself relax further, your body accepting the intrusion. satoru notices immediately — he notices everything, the little bastard — and he starts to move, pulling his finger almost all the way out before pushing it back in, slow and deep.
"t-toru," you gasp, and his name comes out broken, fractured.
"i know," he says, and there's something almost smug in his voice now, hidden under the tenderness. "i know, baby. just wait. wait until i add another one."
satoru does, eventually, once your body has stopped fighting the first finger.
he pulls out completely, coats his fingers again — this time with a fresh layer of saliva, leaning down to spit on them because the slickness from before has started to dry — and then he presses two fingers against your entrance.
this time, the stretch is real.
even with the preparation, even with the saliva and the remnants of your release, two fingers feel like so much more than one. you hiss through your teeth, your hands gripping the edges of the makeup table, and satoru pauses immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"breathe," satoru reminds you, his voice muffled against your skin. "breathe through it, sweetheart. i've got you. i'm not going anywhere."
you breathe. you breathe and you focus on the weight of satoru's body above you, the warmth of his breath on your neck, the way his thumb is still stroking your hip in that steady, grounding rhythm.
slowly, the too-full feeling starts to fade, replaced by something that might be pleasure, if you let it.
"okay," you whisper. "okay, you can move."
satoru lifts his head and looks at you, and the expression on his face is so raw, so full of want and relief and something that looks terrifyingly like devoted love, that you have to look away. but satoru doesn't let you — he catches your chin with his free hand and turns your face back toward him, holding your gaze as he starts to move his fingers.
he goes slow at first, just shallow thrusts that barely push past the tight ring of muscle, but each time he goes a little deeper, a little faster, until he's fucking you open on his fingers with a steady, relentless rhythm.
the sound is truly obscene — wet and squelching, mingling with your breathless gasps and satoru's quiet groans — and the feeling is like nothing you've ever experienced in your whole life. it's pressure and fullness and heat, and somewhere deep inside, satoru's fingers brush against something that makes your whole body jolt.
"there," satoru says, and his voice is triumphant. "found it."
he presses against that spot again, deliberately this time, and you cry out — loud, too loud, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls of the dressing room. satoru shushes you with a kiss, swallowing your moans, but he doesn't stop pressing against that spot, he doesn't stop curling his fingers just right until you're seeing stars behind your closed eyelids.
"that's it," he murmurs against your lips. "that's it, sweetheart. let go for me. let me take care of you."
you're hard again — you don't even remember getting hard, but you're achingly erect, leaking against your stomach, and every thrust of satoru's fingers sends sparks of pleasure straight to your cock. you're babbling, saying things you don't remember thinking, begging for more, begging for him, and satoru just shushes you and keeps fingering you open with that steady, devastating rhythm.
"please," you hear yourself say, and you don't even know what you're begging for. "please, satoru, please, i need—"
"i know what you need," satoru says, and his voice is dark now, possessive. "you need me inside you. you need my cock stretching you open, filling you up. don't you, baby?"
"yes," you sob, because it's true, and you're too far gone to be embarrassed about it. "yes, please, i want—i want you to fuck me, satoru, please—"
satoru pulls his fingers out, and the sudden emptiness makes you whimper. but he's already moving, fumbling with the button of his jeans, and the sound of his zipper lowering is the loudest thing you've ever heard.
"you're sure?" he asks, pausing with his jeans open, his cock straining against his boxers. "last chance to say no, baby. after this, i don't think i'm going to be able to stop."
you look at him — at his flushed face and his swollen lips and the desperate, hungry way he's looking at you — and you know, with absolute certainty, that you want this.
"i'm sure," you say. "fuck me, satoru. please."
the words barely leave your mouth before satoru is moving, and there's something almost frantic in the way he shoves his jeans down his hips. the denim catches on his thighs for a moment, and he makes a frustrated sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a groan, before he kicks them off the rest of the way. satoru’s boxers go with them, a tangle of black fabric pooling around his ankles, and then the man is standing between your spread legs, completely bare from the waist down, and you forget how to breathe.
because gojo satoru is beautiful everywhere, apparently. of course he is. why wouldn't he be?
his cock is — god, it's a lot.
it's long and thick, curving slightly upward, flushed a deep pink at the tip where a bead of precum has already gathered, glistening in the dim light of the dressing room.
you'd been so focused on the impossibility of this whole situation, on the weight of his fingers inside you and the heat of his mouth on your skin, that you hadn't really let yourself think about this moment. but now it's here, and satoru is stroking himself slowly, almost absently, spreading the slickness along his length, and you can't look away.
"see what you do to me?" satoru asks, and his voice is rough, scraped raw at the edges.
his eyes are fixed on your face, watching your reaction, and there's something vulnerable beneath the hunger, something that looks almost like fear.
"i've never—i don't—this is just you, baby. only you."
you want to say something reassuring, something that tells him you're not scared, that you want this just as much as he does, but your throat feels tight, and all that comes out is a shaky exhale, your hips shifting on the cold makeup table, an unconscious invitation.
satoru steps closer, his thighs pressing against the edge of the table, and the heat of him radiates against your bare skin.
he's so close now that you can easily feel satoru’s cock brushing against your inner thigh, so hot and so velvety soft despite how insanely hard he is, and the contrast makes your head spin. satoru’s hands find your hips again, those long fingers curling around the bone with a grip that's firm but not painful, and he pulls you toward him until the curve of your ass is flush against the edge of the table.
"i'm going to go slow," satoru says, and it sounds like he's reminding himself as much as he's telling you. his forehead drops to yours, and his breath is warm and uneven against your lips. "so slow, baby. i need you to tell me if it's too much. i need you to be honest with me, okay?"
you nod, because words still feel impossible, but satoru shakes his head slightly, his nose brushing against yours.
"words, sweetheart."
"okay," you manage, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears; breathless and high, stripped of any pretense. "okay, i'll tell you. i promise."
satoru kisses you then, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the way his hips are pressing forward, lining himself up against your entrance. you feel the head of his cock — huge, impossibly huge — nudging against that tight ring of muscle, and your whole body tenses in anticipation.
"shh," satoru murmurs against your lips, and one of his huge hands leaves your hip to softly cup your face, his thumb stroking along your cheekbone. "just breathe, baby. i've got you. i'm not going to hurt you."
he doesn't push inside yet.
instead, satoru rocks his hips gently, sliding his cock along your crack, letting the head catch against your entrance before slipping past, over and over, coating himself in the slickness that's still there from his fingers.
the sensation is maddening — the heat of him, the weight of him, the way he's so close but not quite there — and you find yourself pushing back against him, trying to take him inside.
"awh, so eager," satoru says, and there's a smile in his voice now, something fond and almost teasing. "you want it that bad, sweetheart?"
"yes," you gasp, because there's no point in lying, not when you're spread out on a makeup table with his cock sliding against your hole. "yes, please, satoru, i want—i need—"
"mhh. i already told you; i know what you need."
and then satoru pushes.
just the tip at first — just the very head of his cock, breaching that tight ring of muscle with a pressure that instantly makes your eyes water. it's been years since you've done this, and even then, you'd never taken anything this big. the stretch is immediate and overwhelming, a burning fullness that steals the breath from your lungs.
satoru stops forthwith, his whole body going rigid above you.
"breathe," satoru says, and his voice is so strained, like holding himself back is taking him every single ounce of his self-control. "breathe, baby. just breathe through it. you're doing so good. you're taking me so well."
you try to focus on satoru’s soft voice, on the warmth of his hand still gently cupping your face, on the way his thumb is stroking your cheek in slow, steady rhythms. you breathe — in through your nose, out through your mouth — and slowly, gradually, the burning starts to fade, replaced by something that feels almost like pleasure.
"okay," you whisper. "okay, you can—you can move."
satoru pushes deeper, another inch disappearing inside you, and this time the stretch is more manageable, still intense but no longer unbearable.
he's watching your face with an intensity that makes you feel seen in a way you've never felt before, his blue eyes searching for any sign of discomfort, any reason to stop.
"that's it," satoru murmurs, his hips pressing forward again, another inch. "that's it, sweetheart. you're taking me so well. you feel so good—god, you feel incredible—so tight and so warm, i could stay inside you forever."
you want to tell satoru that he feels incredible too, that the weight of him inside you is like nothing you've ever experienced, but the words simply won't come. instead, you just lie there, gasping, as satoru continues his slow, inexorable push, filling you inch by inch.
satoru pauses halfway, his forehead pressed to yours, both of them breathing hard.
you can feel him trembling, his muscles shaking with the effort of holding back, and something about that, about the fact that gojo satoru is barely keeping himself together, makes you feel powerful in a way you didn't expect.
"satoru—more," you say, and your voice is steadier now. "i can take more."
satoru groans, a low, desperate sound, and then he's pushing again, the last few inches of his huge cock sliding home until he's buried completely inside you, his hips flush against the backs of your thighs.
the feeling is… well, there aren't words for it.
it's fullness and heat and pressure, and you're so achingly full, stretched around satoru in a way that feels almost too much but also exactly right. you can feel every inch of him, you can feel the way his cock pulses inside you, you can feel the slight curve of it pressing against your walls.
satoru isn't moving yet; he's just lying there, his body covering yours, his face buried in the curve of your neck. his breath is hot against your skin, each exhale a shaky, uneven thing, and his hands are gripping your hips so hard you know there will be bruises there tomorrow.
"look at me," satoru says, and his voice is muffled against your neck. "please, baby. look at me."
you tilt your head back, and satoru lifts his face, and the expression you see there immediately makes your heart stutter in your chest.
satoru is looking at you like you're the most precious thing in the entire world; like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked, the solution to every problem he's ever had. there's no trace of the cocky, untouchable supermodel in his gaze — just a man, just satoru, looking at you with an adoration so raw and so real that it makes your chest ache.
"i've got you," satoru says softly, and his voice cracks in the middle of the words. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're mine. you're finally mine."
then he starts to move.
slow at first, just a gentle rocking of his hips, barely pulling out before pushing back in. the sensation is overwhelming, your body still adjusting to the size of him, and every small movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
satoru watches your face like he's cataloging every expression, every twitch, every bitten-off moan, and he adjusts his angle based on what he sees, tilting his hips just slightly until—
"there," you gasp, your back arching off the table. "right there, satoru, please—"
"yeah?" he asks, and there's a note of triumph in his voice, buried under the tenderness. "that the spot, sweetheart? that where you need me?"
he thrusts again, hitting that same spot, and you cry out, your fingers scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. he's still going slow, still careful, but each thrust is a little deeper, a little harder, and you can feel yourself opening up for him, your body finally accepting what it had been resisting.
"you're doing so good," satoru murmurs, punctuating each word with a thrust. "taking me so well, sweetheart. feels like you were made for this. made for me."
satoru leans down and kisses you, and it's so messy and so desperate and so perfect. his tongue slides against yours as his hips pick up speed, the thrusts becoming longer, smoother, the initial resistance gone. the makeup table creaks beneath you, the metal legs scraping against the concrete floor, but neither of you cares.
all that matters is the heat of his body and the weight of his cock and the way he's looking at you like you're everything.
"faster," you beg, because you're past caring about pride or dignity or any of it. "p-please, satoru, i need—i need you to —"
"faster?" he asks, and there's a smirk in his voice now, even as his eyes remain soft. "you want me to fuck you faster, baby? you think you can take it?"
"yes," you gasp. "yes, please, i can take it, i want it, i want—"
satoru doesn't make you wait.
he pulls back until just the tip is inside you, and then he slams forward, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp, brutal thrust. the sound you make is something between a scream and a sob, and your whole body convulses around him, your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
"there you go," satoru groans, and his composure is cracking, his voice rough and dark. "there you go, sweetheart. that's what you wanted, isn't it? you wanted me to fuck you properly. to stop being so careful and just take what's mine."
he sets a rhythm then; deep, hard, punishing thrusts that drive the breath from your lungs.
the makeup table is sliding across the floor with every impact, and you can hear things falling off it — brushes, palettes, a glass bottle of setting spray that shatters somewhere behind you — but you can't bring yourself to care. all you can do is hold on, your legs wrapped around satoru's waist, your hands fisted in his hair, as he pounds into you like he's trying to carve out a space inside you that belongs only to him.
"look at you," satoru says, and his voice is wrecked, broken into pieces. "look at you, taking all of me. you're so beautiful like this. so fucking beautiful. i've dreamed about this—about you—every single night for years."
satoru is not exaggerating.
you can see it in his eyes, you can feel it in the way his hands are shaking even as they grip your hips, you can hear it in the desperate edge of his voice. this isn't just sex for him — it never was. this is something deeper, something that's been building since the very beginning, and now that it's finally happening, he's barely holding himself together.
you lean up and kiss him, and it's clumsy and off-rhythm because he's still thrusting into you, but neither of you cares. you kiss satoru and you taste salt — tears, maybe yours, maybe his — and you hold him as close as you can, your arms wrapped around his neck.
"i'm yours," you whisper against his lips. "i'm yours, satoru. i'm not going anywhere."
satoru makes a sound — a broken, desperate sound that's almost a sob — and then he's kissing you again, harder this time, and his hips are slamming into yours with a ferocity that borders on desperate.
the pleasure is building now, coiling low in your belly, and you know you're not going to last much longer.
"m’close," you gasp, pulling your mouth from his. "satoru, i'm close—"
"not yet," he says, and the words are a command, even as his voice shakes. "not yet, baby. hold on for me. i want you to cum when i tell you to."
you whimper, because it feels impossible, the pressure building inside you with every thrust, but you try; you try to hold back, to focus on anything other than the way his cock is hitting that spot inside you with every stroke.
satoru's hand wraps around your cock — you didn't even notice him reaching down — and he starts stroking you in time with his desperate thrusts, and that's it.; that's the very end of your resistance.
"please," you beg, your voice cracking. "p-please, satoru, i can't—i can't hold it—"
"look at me," he says, and his voice is soft now, gentle, even as his hips keep moving. "look at me, sweetheart. i want to see your face when you cum."
you force your eyes open, and satoru is staring down at you with that expression again; that terrifying adoring, reverent, i-would-burn-down-the-world-for-you expression, and it's too much. it's all way too much.
"now," satoru says, and his voice is barely a whisper. "cum for me, sweetheart."
oh, you certainly do.
your orgasm overtakes you completely, violent and all-consuming, and you don't even have the breath to scream. your mouth opens, but no sound comes out, just a silent, gasping sob as you spill over satoru's hand, your release painting both of your stomachs in hot, pulsing stripes.
your body clenches around satoru's cock — once, twice, three times — and that's what pushes him over the edge.
he groans, low and guttural, and you feel him pulse inside you, feel the heat of his release filling you up, deep and hot and seemingly endless. his hips stutter against yours, grinding in small circles as he rides out his orgasm, and he's saying something — your name, over and over, mixed with words that might be i love you or might be just sounds, you can't tell.
for a long moment, neither of you moves.
satoru is still buried inside you, his body completely covering yours, his pretty face pressed into the curve of your neck. his breath is warm and uneven against your skin, and you can feel his heart pounding against your chest, a frantic rhythm that slowly, slowly begins to steady.
the makeup table is cold beneath you, the shattered glass from the setting spray digging into your back, and you're going to be sore tomorrow in ways you can't even imagine. but right now, with satoru's weight on top of you and his warmth seeping into your bones, you can't bring yourself to care.
satoru lifts his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed, his lashes wet. his makeup is completely ruined by now — highlighter wiped away, lipstick kissed off entirely. he looks wrecked, and beautiful, and so unbearably drunk that your heart aches.
"holy fucking shit," satoru says, and his voice is hoarse and rough and perfect.
you laugh.
it's a small, breathless thing at first, more exhale than sound, but then it grows, bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest, because yeah — holy fucking shit.
what else is there to say? your body is still trembling, still pulsing around him in tiny aftershocks, and satoru’s cock is still buried inside you, softening slowly but not gone yet. the cold of the makeup table is seeping through your back, and there's shattered glass somewhere behind your shoulder, and gojo satoru — the gojo satoru, the one whose face launches a thousand magazine covers — is looking at you like you've hung the moon with your own two bare hands.
so you laugh, and it's shaky and disbelieving and maybe a little hysterical, but it's real.
satoru's eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his own mouth curves into something soft and wondering, like he's never heard you laugh before even though he's heard it a thousand times over the past years. but this is different, and you both know it; this is after.
"there you are," satoru whispers, and his thumb traces along your cheekbone, softly wiping away a tear you didn't know you'd shed. "there's my boy."
satoru leans in and kisses you again, and this kiss is nothing like the desperate, hungry ones from before; this one is slow and savoring, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache all over again.
his tongue slips past your teeth lazily, like he has all the time in the world, like there isn't a photoshoot waiting and a shattered bottle of setting spray drying sticky on the floor. you melt into him, your fingers curling into the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and you feel him smile against your mouth.
"i'm not done with you," satoru murmurs, and the words vibrate against your lips. "i told you. i'm going to fuck you on that chair, remember?"
you do remember.
you remember him saying it, his voice soft and dangerous, and you'd thought it was just talk, just the heat of the moment. but satoru is already pulling back, already wrapping your legs around his hips, and the movement shifts his cock inside you, still half-hard, and you gasp at the sensation.
"hold on," satoru says, and then he's standing.
he lifts you like you weigh nothing — and you're not small, you're not light, but satoru is all lean muscle and core strength from years of posing and gym routines, and he handles you like you're made of feathers. your legs lock around his waist automatically, your arms tightening around his neck, and his cock slips out of you as he stands, leaving you suddenly completely empty and aching.
you whine at the loss, high and needy, and satoru shushes you with a kiss to your temple.
"patience, sweetheart. i've got you."
the walk to the makeup chair is only a few steps, but it feels like an eternity. satoru's hands are splayed across your bare ass, fingers dimpling the flesh, and every step jostles you against him, his half-hard cock pressing against your thigh.
you can feel satoru’s release — yours too, probably — sliding down the inside of your leg, warm and sticky, and the sheer filth of it makes your face burn.
satoru lowers himself into the chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and you settle onto his lap without needing to be told. your knees bracket satoru’s hips, your hands rest on his shoulders, and you're face to face again, close enough to count the individual lashes framing those ethereal blue eyes.
the chair is much more comfortable than the table, but that's not why you sigh. you sigh because satoru's hands are running up and down your sides, warm and grounding, and because satoru is once again looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that exists.
"there," he says softly. "that's better, isn't it?"
you nod, because words still feel heavy and clumsy. but satoru wants words — he's made that clear many times — so you clear your throat and try.
"yeah," you manage. "yeah, it's—it's better."
satoru's smile is slow and satisfied, and his hips shift beneath you, his cock twitching against your stomach.
he's getting hard again, you realize, or maybe he never really went soft. maybe he's just been waiting, patient and wanting, for you to catch your breath.
"remember what i said?" satoru asks, and his voice has dropped back into that low, honeyed register, the one he uses when he's about to get exactly what he wants. "i said i was going to fuck you on this chair. but i think—" he pauses, his hands sliding from your sides to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. "i think i want you to do all the work this time, sweetheart."
your heart stutters.
"what do you mean?"
satoru's grin is sharp and bright and just a little bit wicked.
"i mean you're going to ride me, sweetheart. you're going to sink down on my cock and fuck yourself on it until you can't move anymore. and then—" satoru leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp. "and then i'm going to take over and finish us both."
a shiver runs down your spine, settling low in your belly, and your cock, which had only just started to soften a little , gives an interested twitch.
"i—i don't know if i can," you admit, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "you're so—satoru, you're so big, and i'm already—"
"you can," satoru interrupts, and his voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "you already took all of me once, sweetheart. you can do it again. and i'll help you. i'm not going to let you fall."
satoru’s hands guide your hips, shifting you forward until his cock — fully hard now, thick and flushed and curving up toward his stomach — presses against your entrance. the head nudges teasingly against you, still slick from before, and you softly gasp at the contact.
"there you go," satoru murmurs, his eyes fixed on where your bodies are about to meet once again. "just like that. take your time. i've waited years for this, remember? i can wait a few more minutes."
you want to tell him that you're not sure you can wait, that the ache inside you is already building again, that the pressure of him against your hole is driving you slowly insane, but instead of speaking, you just bite your lip and sink down.
just the tip at first, because even after everything, even after satoru’s fingers and satoru’s cock stretching you open on the makeup table, the initial breach still steals your breath. his hands are steady on your hips, not pushing, just holding, and his eyes are soft with encouragement.
"that's it," he breathes. "that's it, sweetheart. you're doing so good. just a little more."
you take another inch, then another, the stretch burning in a way that's already starting to blur into pleasure. your thighs are shaking with the effort of lowering yourself slowly, and your hands grip satoru's shoulders like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
"fuck," you whisper, and the word comes out strangled. "fuck, satoru, you're so—you're so deep—"
"not yet," he says, and there's a smile in his voice. "not all the way. but you're getting there, baby. you're taking me so well."
you sink down another inch, and another, until finally your ass meets satoru’s thighs and you're seated fully on his lap, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming, just like before, but different too. on the table, you'd been lying down, passive, letting him take control. here, straddling him, you feel every inch of him in a new way, the angle different, the weight of your own body pressing down and driving him even deeper.
satoru's head falls back against the chair, his eyes fluttering closed, and a pathetic sound escapes his lips — low and guttural, almost pained.
"oh my god," he says, and his voice cracks. "oh my god, you feel—you're so tight, baby, i can't—"
satoru can't finish the sentence, and somehow that's the hottest thing you've ever heard. gojo satoru, pathetically reduced to fragments, because of you.
you start to move.
it's tentative at first, just a small rise and fall of your hips, an experimental lift that pulls satoru almost all the way out before you sink back down. the drag of him against your sensitive walls makes you moan, loud and obscene, and satoru's hands fly to your waist, gripping tight.
"yes," satoru hisses. "yes, just like that. fuck yourself on me, sweetheart. show me how much you want it."
so you do.
you find a rhythm, slow and deep, rising until just the head of satoru’s cock remains inside before dropping back down, taking all of him in one smooth movement. it's not graceful; your thighs are already burning, and your movements are a little unsteady, but satoru doesn't seem to care.
his eyes are open now, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle, and his mouth is parted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"look at you," satoru murmurs, and his voice is thick with wonder. "look at you riding me like you were made for it. you're so beautiful, baby. so fucking beautiful."
his praise wraps around you like a second skin, warm and encouraging, and you find yourself moving faster, chasing the pleasure that's building low in your belly.
each time you sink down, satoru’s cock hits that spot inside you — that perfect, devastating spot — and you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.
"there," satoru says, and his voice is darker now, edged with something far more hungry. "there it is. keep going, sweetheart. don't fucking stop."
you don't stop. you can't stop. your body is moving on its own now, rising and falling, rising and falling, again and again, and the sound of it — the wet, slick sound of you taking him over and over — fills the small dressing room.
satoru's hands are all over you, sliding up your chest, pinching your nipples, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. his mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, biting and sucking marks into your skin that you'll have to hide later.
"you're mine," satoru says against your throat, the words vibrating through you. "everyone's going to see these marks and know you're mine."
you want to tell him that you don't care who sees, that you'd walk out of this room right now with his bruises painted across your skin and dare anyone to say a word. but you can't form sentences anymore, can't do anything but feel the heat of him inside you, the drag of his cock, the press of his mouth, the way his hands are shaking even as they hold you steady.
but then your thighs start to burn in earnest, the muscles screaming with fatigue, and your rhythm falters.
you try to keep going, you try to push through, but your body simply won't cooperate; your movements become more jerky, uneven, and you whine in frustration, your forehead dropping to satoru's shoulder.
"c-can't," you gasp. "satoru, i can't—i can't move anymore, it's too much—"
satoru's hands tighten on your hips, stilling you.
"shh," he says softly, and his lips press against your temple. "i've got you, baby. i told you, didn't i? i said i'd let you ride me until you couldn't move anymore, and then i'd take over."
you nod against satoru’s shoulder, way too tired to speak, way too overwhelmed to do anything but cling to him.
"look at me," satoru says, and you lift your head, meeting satoru’s blue eyes.
they're dark again, the blue almost swallowed by black, and there's something in them that makes your stomach flip — not hunger, exactly, or not just hunger. but something deeper, something that looks like reverence.
"hold on," he says, and then he moves.
satoru plants his feet on the floor, braces his hands on the armrests of the chair, and thrusts up into you.
the force of it punches the air from your lungs, your body bouncing on his lap, and you would have fallen backwards if satoru’s hands weren't already there, one on your lower back, one cupping the back of your head. satoru holds you close, your chest pressed against his, as he fucks up into you with deep, punishing strokes.
"yes," you hear yourself sob, the word torn from somewhere raw and primal. "yes, yes, yes—"
satoru doesn't answer with words. he answers with his body, with the relentless rhythm of his hips, with the way he drives into you again and again and again. the chair creaks beneath them, the leather squeaking in protest, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're vaguely aware that someone might hear, that someone might come knocking, but right now, you can't bring yourself to give a fuck.
all that matters is him. all that matters is the way he fills you, the way his cock stretches you open, the way his breath is hot and uneven against your cheek.
"you feel so good," satoru grunts, and his voice is wrecked, shattered. "so fucking good, baby. i'm never going to get enough of you. never."
you're crying, you realize distantly. tears are streaming down your cheeks, not from sadness but from sheer overwhelming sensation — the pleasure so intense it's crossed over into something almost painful, something that makes your whole body shake and your vision blur.
satoru notices immediately.
"hey," he says softly, and his thrusts slow, but don't stop. "hey, sweetheart, look at me. are you okay?"
you nod, because you are, you're more than okay, you're flying apart and he's the only thing holding you together.
"it's just—" you try to explain, but the words won't come. "it's so much, satoru. it's so good, i can't—"
"awh, i know," satoru says, and he kisses the tears from your cheeks, his lips warm and gentle despite the way his hips are still moving, still driving into you. "i know, sweetheart. you're doing so well. you're taking me so well. just a little more, okay? can you give me a little more?"
you nod again, because you'd give him anything. you'd give him anything at all.
satoru's hand slides between your bodies, wrapping around your cock, and you sob at the contact. you're already so close, the pressure building and building, and his hand on you is going to push you over the edge.
"cum with me," satoru says, and his voice is desperate now, pleading. "please, baby, cum with me. i want to feel you—i want to feel you around me when i—"
he doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.
you can feel satoru getting close, his thrusts becoming erratic, his cock swelling deep inside you. your own orgasm is right there, hovering just out of reach, and satoru's hand strokes you once, twice, three times—
and then you're falling.
your orgasm crashes over you, violent and consuming, and you cry out again — a broken, ragged sound that echoes off the concrete walls. you spill over satoru's hand, over his stomach, over your own chest, and your body clenches around him, gripping him tight.
that's all it takes.
satoru groans, low and guttural, and you feel him pulse inside you, you feel the hot rush of his seed filling you up. his hips stutter against yours, grinding deep, and he holds you there, buried to the hilt, as he empties himself into you.
it seems to go on forever, wave after wave, and by the time he finally stills, you're both trembling, both gasping for air, both completely undone.
satoru's forehead is pressed to yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips. his hands are still on you — one on your hip, one cupping the back of your neck — and his thumbs are stroking small, absent circles against your skin. you can feel satoru’s heart pounding against yours, a frantic rhythm that matches your own, and you can feel the evidence of what you've just done leaking out of you, so warm and wet, dripping down onto his thighs.
"woah," satoru whispers, and his voice is soft, almost shy.
satoru smiles — not the sharp, camera-ready smile, but something smaller and way more vulnerable, something that crinkles the corners of his beautiful eyes and makes him look so freaking prepossessing.
for a long moment, neither of you moves.
satoru is still inside you, softening now but not gone, and the weight of him is warm and grounding in a way you didn't expect. his forehead is pressed against yours, and every time he exhales, his breath fans across your lips, smelling faintly of mint and something sweeter underneath.
your legs are still shakily wrapped around satoru’s waist, your arms still looped around his neck, and you're acutely aware of every single place where your bodies touch — his chest against yours, his hands splayed across your lower back, his thighs warm beneath your own.
the dressing room is quiet now, save for the sound of both of you breathing, slowly returning to something that resembles normal. somewhere behind you, the shattered glass from the setting spray bottle crunches softly as satoru shifts in the chair, and you make a mental note to apologize to whoever has to clean that up later.
but later feels impossibly far away right now.
right now, there's only this; satoru's heartbeat against your chest, the stickiness cooling on your stomach, the way his thumb is tracing small, absent patterns on your hip.
"hey," satoru says after a while, and his voice is still soft, still a little wonderstruck. "you're crying."
you slowly blink, and sure enough, your cheeks are damp. you hadn't even noticed.
"i'm not crying," you say, but it comes out thick, and satoru's smile widens, fond and a little teasing.
"okay," satoru says, easily, like the man is humoring you right now. "you're not crying. you're just... leaking from your eyes. very different thing."
you laugh despite yourself, a wet, shaky sound, and satoru's hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer even though there's no space left to close.
satoru’s swollen lips find the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the spot just below your eye where a tear has escaped. he kisses it away, soft and deliberate, and the tenderness of the gesture makes your chest ache in a completely different way than before.
"you're so stupid," you whisper, but there's no heat in it; just exhaustion and something that feels terrifyingly close to love.
"mmh," satoru agrees, kissing your other cheek, then the tip of your nose, then your forehead. "your stupid, though. that's the very important part."
he keeps kissing you — little pecks, soft and unhurried, scattered across your face like he's trying to memorize the topography of you; the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. none of these kisses are demanding or hungry. they're just so... gentle. reverent, almost. like satoru is trying to tell you something he doesn't have the words for yet.
you let him.
you sit there in his lap, still connected in the most intimate way possible, and you let satoru cover your face with soft, sweet kisses until your tears have dried and your breathing has evened out and the trembling in your limbs has finally completely stopped.
"we're a complete mess," you observe eventually, looking down at both of you.
and it's true — satoru's chest is streaked with your release, and there's a smudge of ruined highlighter on his collarbone, and his white hair looks like someone stuck a finger in an electrical socket. you're not much better; your sweater is bunched around your armpits, your jeans are somewhere on the floor, and you can feel satoru's release leaking out of you, warm and slick against your thighs.
satoru follows your gaze and snorts.
"yeah. a hot mess, though. important distinction."
he shifts beneath you, and you both wince slightly as his softening cock slips out of you. the sudden emptiness makes you feel strangely hollow, and you can't quite suppress the small, unhappy sound that escapes your throat.
satoru notices, and his hands immediately start rubbing slow circles on your lower back.
"i know," he murmurs. "i know, baby. hold on. let me take care of you, okay? just stay there. don't move."
as if you could move.
your legs feel like jelly, and your entire body is humming with a bone-deep exhaustion that makes the idea of standing up feel genuinely impossible. so you stay put, draped across satoru's lap like a very content, very ruined cat, while he looks around the dressing room with an expression of mild consternation.
"okay," satoru says slowly, cataloging his surroundings. "okay. towels. there should be towels somewhere. or wipes. or—no, wait, i have a thing."
he shifts you carefully, one arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you from toppling off his lap, and leans over to rummage through the drawer of the makeup table. you cling to satoru instinctively, your face buried in the crook of his neck, and you feel him press a quick kiss to your hair before returning his attention to the drawer.
"haha!" satoru says triumphantly, and pulls out a package of makeup remover wipes.
they're not exactly designed for... this. but they're wet and they're clean, and right now, that's all that matters.
satoru pulls one out and immediately starts cleaning his own chest, wiping away the streaks of your release with efficient, practiced movements. but after a few seconds, he pauses, looks down at you, and seems to reconsider his priorities.
"actually," he says, balling up the used wipe and tossing it vaguely in the direction of the trash can (he misses). "you first. you're more important."
satoru pulls out a fresh wipe and gently, so gently, starts cleaning your stomach.
the wipe is cold against your overheated skin, and you flinch slightly at the contact. satoru notices immediately, his hand stilling, his eyes flicking up to your face.
"cold?" he asks.
"a little," you admit.
satoru makes a sympathetic noise and presses a kiss to your shoulder before continuing, but this time he's more careful, dabbing rather than wiping, letting the fabric warm against your skin before he moves it. he cleans the mess from your stomach first — your own release, tacky and cooling — and then works his way down, shifting you slightly so he can reach the mess between your thighs.
this part is more intimate than the sex was, somehow.
satoru is so careful, so focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he cleans the evidence of their joining from your skin. his touch is gentle and clinical, but also tender, and every few seconds he pauses to press a kiss to your knee or your hip or the inside of your thigh.
"you're being so good," satoru murmurs, more to himself than to you. "so still. so patient."
you want to tell him that you're not being patient, you're just too tired to move, but the words won't come.
instead, you just watch him — you watch the way satoru’s long fingers move, you watch the way his lips twitch into a small smile every time you shiver, you watch the way his eyes soften every time they meet yours.
when he's finished cleaning you, satoru carefully sets the wipe aside and reaches for another one.
this time, satoru cleans himself — his thighs, his stomach, the softening curve of his cock — with quick efficient movements. but even then, satoru keeps one hand on you, a steady warmth against your hip, like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go completely.
"okay," satoru says when he's done, surveying his work. "not my best cleanup, but it'll do until we can get you home and into an actual shower."
home. satoru said home. like it's a given that you're going home together. like there's no question of you leaving, of this being a one-time thing.
your heart does something complicated in your chest.
satoru must see something shift in your expression, because his teasing smile fades into something softer, more uncertain. his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, and he tilts your head up so he can look you directly in the eyes.
"hey," satoru says quietly. "talk to me. what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"
you swallow hard.
"you said home."
satoru blinks. "yeah. my place. i mean, unless you want to go to yours? but my bed is bigger, and i have that fancy shower with the multiple heads, and—"
"no, i mean—" you pause, trying to find the words. "you said home like it was obvious. like i'm coming with you."
satoru stares at you for a long moment, and then, slowly, incredulously, he laughs.
"baby," he says, and the word is so fond it almost hurts. "baby, i just spent the better part of an hour making love to you on my makeup table and then on my chair. i've been in love with you for years. where else would you be going?"
you open your mouth, close it, and open it again.
"wait," you say. "in love with me? for years?"
satoru's expression shifts into something almost shy, which is a look you've never seen on him since he was a teenagers. his ears go pink, and he ducks his head slightly, his thumbs still stroking your cheeks.
"yeah," he admits, his voice smaller than you've ever heard it. "i know. it's pathetic. i'm pathetic. i've had photo shoots in paris and milan and new york, and all i could think about was coming back to tokyo so i could sit in your chair and have you touch my face. i've turned down other makeup artists — good ones — because no one else's hands feel like yours. no one else looks at me like i'm just a person instead of... instead of whatever the world thinks i am."
your throat feels tight. "satoru—"
"please, let me finish," he says softly, and there's something vulnerable in his voice, something raw and unguarded. "i'm in love with you. i have been for so long i don't remember what it felt like before. and i know this is fast, and i know we just—i mean, we literally just—but i couldn't let you leave this room without knowing. i couldn't go back to pretending that you're just my makeup artist, that i don't spend every second you're near me trying not to stare at your mouth."
you're crying again. you didn't realize it, but you're crying, and satoru is wiping your tears away with his thumbs, his expression a mix of concern and tenderness.
"hey," he says, his voice gentle. "hey, it's okay. you don't have to say it back. i just needed you to know."
"you're an idiot," you manage, your voice cracking. "you're such an idiot, satoru."
his smile wavers slightly.
"that's... not the reaction i was hoping for, but okay."
"no, i mean—" you grab his wrists, holding his hands against your face. "i thought you were straight. i thought you were straight this whole time. i've been doing your makeup for years and i never—i didn't let myself think about you that way because i assumed you weren't—"
satoru's expression shifts from vulnerable to bewildered to absolutely incredulous in the span of about two seconds.
"you thought i was straight?" he repeats, his voice climbing an octave. "you thought i was straight?"
"you've never said otherwise!" you protest. "you've had girlfriends before! there were magazine covers with models hanging off you!"
"those were for publicity!" satoru's hands drop from your face to gesture wildly, narrowly missing your head. "those were contracts! do you know how many times i've tried to ask you out? how many hints i've dropped? i sent you a meme of two guys holding hands with the caption 'us' and you sent back a thumbs up! a thumbs up!"
"i thought you were joking!"
"i literally bought you flowers once! roses! red roses!"
"you said they were from a brand deal!"
"they were not from a brand deal!" satoru looks genuinely aggrieved now, his mouth hanging open. "i went to a florist and everything. i stood there for twenty minutes trying to pick out the perfect bouquet. the florist asked if they were for my girlfriend and i said no, for a boy i've been in love with for years, and she literally gave me a discount because she felt bad for me!"
you stare at him. satoru stares back, chest heaving slightly, his hair a complete disaster and his face still flushed from everything that just happened.
"you're serious," you say slowly.
"i have never been more serious about anything in my entire life," satoru says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "i am so serious it's embarrassing. i am so serious that ijichi knows. my manager knows i'm in love with you, and he's never even met you properly. he just knows because i won't shut up about you. because i literally cannot shut up about you."
you don't know what to say.
your brain feels like it's short-circuited, trying to reconcile the satoru in front of you — rumpled and wrecked and so painfully earnest — with the satoru you've known for long years, the one who always seemed untouchable, unattainable, fundamentally out of your league.
"i thought you were just being nice," you finally say, and your voice is small. "i thought you were just... friendly. models are friendly. it's part of the job."
satoru makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and he pulls you forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your neck.
"i am not that good of an actor," satoru says, muffled against your skin. "i am literally the worst actor. have you seen my commercials? i'm terrible. the only reason i book jobs is because of my face. my face and my absolute inability to pretend i don't want to climb you like a tree every time you walk into the room."
you laugh despite yourself, your hands coming up to card through his messy white hair.
"you're so dramatic."
"i'm in love," he corrects, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes are so blue, even now. "there's a difference."
something warm blooms in your chest, something that feels like hope and terror and joy all tangled together.
"i'm in love with you too," you admit, and the words come out shaky but true. "i didn't know i was. or maybe i did and i just wouldn't let myself think about it. but i am. i'm in love with you, you ridiculous, beautiful, emotionally constipated man."
satoru's smile is blinding. he kisses you again, soft and sweet, and when he pulls back, his eyes are suspiciously bright.
"say it again," he whispers.
"i'm in love with you."
"again."
"you're going to get insufferable, aren't you?"
"absolutely," satoru says, grinning. "i'm going to be the most insufferable person you've ever met. i'm going to tell everyone. i'm going to post about it on instagram. i'm going to—"
whatever else satoru was going to say is interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
both of you freeze.
"gojo-san?" ijichi's voice comes through the door, muffled but unmistakable. "you need to be on set in five minutes. the photographer is asking for you."
your eyes meet satoru's. his eyes meet yours.
and then, simultaneously, the both of you look down at yourselves — at satoru's ruined makeup and disastrous hair and the love bites blooming on his neck, at your own disheveled state and the fact that you're still half-naked in his lap, at the shattered glass on the floor and the makeup wipes scattered across the table.
"oh no," you whisper.
"oh no," satoru agrees, and then, because he's gojo satoru, he starts laughing.
and it's not a quiet laugh — it's loud and slightly hysterical, the kind of laugh that comes from sheer overwhelming absurdity, and despite the panic rapidly rising in your chest, you find yourself laughing too.
"five minutes?" you hiss, scrambling off his lap.
your legs nearly give out, and satoru has to catch you, one arm around your waist, still laughing.
"five minutes," he confirms, and there's absolutely no urgency in his voice whatsoever. "ijichi, tell them ten!"
"gojo-san, i really don't think—"
"fifteen!" satoru calls, already reaching for your jeans and tossing them at you. "you can simply tell them there was a wardrobe malfunction!"
"there was no wardrobe—" ijichi starts, but satoru has already turned back to you, his expression torn between pure panic and giddy joy.
"okay," satoru says, grabbing a makeup wipe and scrubbing at his own face with absolutely no technique. "okay, okay, okay. we can fix this. we can totally fix this. i've looked worse. probably. maybe."
you pull your jeans on with shaking hands, wincing at the tenderness between your legs.
"your hair looks like you've been electrocuted."
"charming," satoru shoots back, trying to flatten it with his palms. it immediately springs back up. "your neck looks like i tried to eat you."
your hand flies to your throat, and sure enough, you can feel the raised marks of satoru's hungry mouth, the slight tackiness of dried saliva.
"oh my god."
"here." satoru tosses you a bottle of concealer — the expensive kind, the one that's supposed to cover anything. "do your magic. you're the professional."
you catch it easily, and for a little second, you just stand there, looking at him.
satoru in all his disaster glory; makeup smeared, hair wild, lipstick trace around his mouth, shirt still missing, chest still slightly damp from the wipes. he looks like he just got hit by a truck made of sex, and you're supposed to make him camera-ready in less than fifteen minutes.
"i hate you," you say, but you're smiling.
satoru grins back, bright and beautiful and so full of love it makes your chest ache.
"no you don't."
and he's right, you don't.
you cross the room to him, pull his head down, and kiss him one more time — quick, fierce, a promise — before you grab your brushes and get to work.
outside the door, ijichi sighs heavily and starts making calls to stall the photographer.
somewhere in the distance, a production assistant is probably having a panic attack.
but in the private dressing room, with satoru's hands on your hips and his eyes on your face and the remnants of your love still cooling on your skin, none of that matters.
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
Almost every day, he trains with an almost religious discipline. Not for others. Not for recognition. For himself… and especially for you.
“If I’m not strong enough, who’s going to carry the grocery bags when they’re too heavy?” he often says with that arrogant smile.
“Who’s going to carry you when your heels make your feet hurt?” he adds.
“And who’s going to lift you effortlessly and fuck you exactly the way you deserve, my beautiful girl?” he says in a tone that makes you wet without admitting it.
That evening, the living room is quiet. The light of the setting sun comes through the large windows. Sukuna is on the floor, shirtless, doing push-ups with impressive consistency.
Every movement makes his muscles roll beneath the black lines of his tattoos. His thick arms tense, his broad back contracts, and sweat begins to bead at the nape of his neck and down along his spine.
You’re sitting on the couch, watching him. You can’t help it. Your teeth nibble at your lower lip while a soft, slightly mischievous smile stretches across your face.
Without a sound, you stand up and walk over to him. With almost teasing delicacy, you slowly lower yourself onto his back, settling onto his sweaty but firm body.
Sukuna lets out a rough groan, followed by a muffled curse. “What the hell are you doing, woman?” he growls, his voice strained with effort.
You smile, your hands resting on his broad shoulders, and lean forward slightly. “I’m adding weight. It seems too easy when you do it with nothing on you.”
He does another push-up, slower this time, and you feel all his muscles working beneath you. Another groan escapes him.“Oh, baby… you have no idea how hard this already is. If you get on me, I might die.”
You pretend to be offended and lightly pinch his skin. “Am I heavy?”
Sukuna pauses for a fraction of a second, then resumes his push-ups with even more determination, as if he refuses to show the slightest weakness.
“No! No, damn it, no,” he answers quickly, almost panicked at the idea of hurting you. “Your weight is perfect. Everything about you is perfect. You’re as light as a feather to me.”
A soft little laugh escapes you. You lean in even closer, your lips right near his ear. “Then deal with it.”
Sukuna groans again, but this time there’s a hint of pride and amusement in his rough voice. “Fine… whatever you want, princess. It’s easy for me anyway.”
He continues his push-ups, slower, more controlled, with impressive strength and endurance. Every rise and fall works every muscle in his back and arms. You feel the heat of his skin through your clothes, the sweat running over him, and that raw power he’s exerting just for you.
With each push-up, he breathes harder, but he doesn’t stop. On the contrary, he seems even more determined, as if he wants to prove he can handle it, that he’s strong and that he deserves you even if you’re too perfect for him.
After about ten more push-ups, he finally stops, his body trembling slightly from the effort. He turns his head to the side to look at you, an arrogant, breathless smile on his lips.
“Happy now?” he asks, his voice rough. “Or do you want me to do squats with you on my shoulders?”
You lean down and place a tender kiss on his damp neck. “I’m very happy. My man is strong, very very strong,” you say with a smile and a soft laugh.
Sukuna lets out a deep laugh, then in one fluid, powerful motion, he pushes himself up, lifting you with him as if you weigh nothing. He pulls you into his arms and holds you against his sweaty, tattooed chest.
“You know what’s going to happen now?” he murmurs against your ear, his voice carrying a possessive, amused edge.
You smile, your arms around his neck. “Tell me. I’m not really sure,” you say, pretending to be innocent about his intentions.
He carries you effortlessly to the couch, sets you down gently, then leans over you, his muscles still pumped from the effort. “I’m going to show you how strong I am… when I lift you and fuck my pretty girl.”
You laugh softly, your heart racing, and slide your fingers into his damp hair. “Then show me, baby?”
Sukuna smiles, both predatory and tender, before kissing you with that possessive hunger that belongs only to him.
a/n: I was asleep and dreamed about this, so I had to write it 😭 ˖ (🐋) mlist _
For Sukuna, it’s clearly his favorite time of the year.
He’s sitting on the small bench in the fitting room, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his broad chest. His red eyes follow your every movement with an almost animalistic intensity.
The cabin is narrow, the air already thick with tension. He insisted on coming in with you “so no one sees you when you open the door.” In reality, he simply refuses to let anyone else lay eyes on you in these outfits.
You turn slowly in front of the mirror, wearing the first pink bikini he picked out. The top is a tiny triangle that barely contains your breasts, and the bottom is a thong.
You shift slightly, making a little movement to test how the bra sits, then flash him a smile over your shoulder while arching your back to show off your pretty ass.
“Do you like this one, Kuna?”
Sukuna lets out a low, deep growl, jaw clenched. His cock hardens instantly in his pants, straining painfully against the fabric. He hates the idea of other men seeing you like this, but fuck, he loves seeing you wear it for him.
“Yeah… a lot, baby,” he replies in a low, rough voice, trying to keep his tone neutral. His red eyes slowly drag over your curves, lingering on your barely covered ass.
You laugh softly, a light, teasing sound, then start removing the pink bikini. Sukuna doesn’t take his eyes off you for even a second.
You slip into the second one: a bright orange-yellow bikini. It’s pretty much the same as the pink one, except the bottom is a string thong that leaves most of your ass exposed. The vivid color contrasts beautifully with your skin.
You turn to face the mirror, adjust the top slightly so your breasts sit properly, then slowly pivot to show him the result.
Sukuna stays silent for a few seconds. He just watches you, pupils dilated, breathing a little heavier. His cock is now fully hard, forming a very obvious bulge in his pants.
You make a small movement, arching your back to push your ass out, and throw him a playful look over your shoulder.
“What about this one?”
He stands up slowly, towering and imposing, and steps right behind you. His broad chest brushes against your bare back. One of his large hands slides onto your hip, the other goes straight to your ass, firmly grabbing the soft, round flesh.
“This one…” he growls against your ear, voice deep and thick with desire, “…makes me want to fuck you right here in this fitting room.”
His fingers slip under the thin string of the orange thong, tugging on it lightly before letting it snap softly against your skin.
“You know I hate the idea of anyone else seeing you like this,” he murmurs, nibbling on your earlobe. “But fuck… you look so beautiful. So mine.”
He presses his hard erection against your ass, making you feel just how affected he is. His free hand moves up to your breast, kneading it through the thin fabric of the top.
“Turn around,” he orders softly.
You obey. The moment you face him, he pins you against the cold mirror of the cabin. His lips crash onto yours in a possessive, hungry kiss. His tongue invades your mouth while his hands slide down to your ass, gripping and spreading your cheeks slightly.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips:
“Take it off. Right now.”
You smile, breathing hard.
“Here?”
“Yes. Here.”
His fingers are already sliding under the strings of the orange bikini, tugging at them impatiently.
“I want to see you naked. And then… I’m going to fuck you against this mirror so you remember who this body belongs to.”
He doesn’t even give you time to do it himself. His impatient fingers yank sharply on the strings of the orange bikini. The knot comes undone easily and the tiny piece of fabric falls to your feet, leaving you completely naked in front of him in the narrow cabin.
He takes a step back, red eyes burning, and shamelessly looks you up and down. His thick cock strains obscenely against his pants. “Fuck… look at you,” he growls, voice rough. “Naked just for me.”
He steps close again, pressing you against the cold mirror. The contrast between the icy glass on your back and the heat of his body against your front makes you shiver.
His large hands grab your ass, spreading your cheeks, and he presses his erection against your bare pussy.
“You feel how hard I am?” he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you fiercely. His tongue claims yours as he slowly grinds his thick cock against your soaked folds, spreading your arousal over the fabric of his pants.
You moan into his mouth, hands gripping his broad shoulders. He’s so big, so dominant in this tiny space.
Sukuna breaks the kiss, panting, and slides a hand between your bodies. Two thick fingers slip between your lips, stroking you slowly before pushing deep inside you.
“Already so wet…” he growls with satisfaction. “You get this soaked just from me staring at you in that bikini?”
His fingers fuck you slowly and deeply, curling to rub your G-spot with every thrust. His thumb finds your swollen clit and starts circling it fast.
You arch your back against the mirror, a sharp moan escaping you. “Kuna… someone might hear us…”
“Let them hear,” he answers in a dark voice. “Let them know I’m fucking my wife in the fitting room.”
He pulls his fingers out, quickly lowers his pants and frees his thick, veined cock. It’s hard, curved, the head already glistening with precum.
Without another word, he grabs your thighs, lifts you like you weigh nothing and pins you against the mirror. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
With one powerful thrust, he buries himself completely inside you.
You cry out, head falling back against the glass. He’s so big, so deep in this position. Sukuna groans against your neck, teeth clenched, and starts fucking you with slow but brutal strokes.
Every thrust makes you slam against the mirror. The wet sound of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy echoes in the small cabin.
“Look at you,” he pants as he pounds into you. “Legs spread wide, getting fucked in a store… You really are my little slut, aren’t you?”
He speeds up, fucking you harder and deeper. One hand slides between you to rub your clit mercilessly while the other supports your ass.
“Kuna- harder please! Ugh-” you beg, voice broken.
He smiles against your neck, arrogant and satisfied, and gives you exactly what you want: wild, deep thrusts that make you see stars with every stroke.
The mirror shakes behind you. Your moans grow higher, harder to contain.
Sukuna bites your shoulder to muffle his own groan. “You’re going to come for me, baby like the good girl you are.”
His fingers on your clit move faster. His thrusts turn frantic. Your orgasm hits you brutally. Your body clenches violently around him, walls spasming as you come hard, a muffled cry against his shoulder. Your legs tremble around his waist.
Sukuna lets out a deep growl and buries himself to the hilt. He comes inside you with force, hot, thick jets of cum filling you completely. He stays buried deep for a long moment, pulsing, emptying every last drop.
When he finally pulls out slowly, a thick white stream of cum immediately leaks from your pussy and slides down your thighs.
Sukuna sets you gently back on your feet, holding you up because your legs are still weak. He looks at you with a possessive, satisfied smile, then slides two fingers between your folds to collect some of his cum that’s dripping out.
He brings them to your mouth.
“Open.”
You obediently lick his fingers, eyes locked on his. He leans in and kisses you slowly, tasting himself on your tongue. He gives your ass a light smack with an arrogant smirk.
“Get dressed before I decide to fuck you a second time in this cabin.”
if you're not getting me the BIGGEST!! FATTEST!!! JUICIEST!!!! burger after making me cum on your cock you are a mean evil person and you should compensate me in happy meals
"quiet, pretty girl." gojo tuts, his calloused hand finding it's place on your mouth. "you don't want your daddy finding out that his precious girl is a dirty slut for this cock— right?"
you shake your head, sopping cunt milking his girthy dick. out of all the people you're fucking, you're fucking satoru gojo— your father's best friend. you should be ashamed, really. getting your pussy wrecked while your father's sleeping soundly down the hall.
but that's the last thing on your mind when his best friend is stuffing your cunt with his cum.
at least once month, gojo will pop in your home and to stay for a few days. when geto— your father is home, they'll enjoy a few drinks, watch sports, and chat about whatever. but when geto's at work, gojo uses the time as an opportunity to prey on you.
he's a fucking tease. lounging around the house like it's his own with nothing but a pair of skin-tight boxers. gojo has you as a writhing little mess with his flirty smirks, swooning words, and the occasional sensual touches. and not that you're looking, but you've seen the bulge down there… grow a bit when he's staring at you.
about two months ago, you decided to test your little "hypothesis" by wearing nothing but your favorite lacey panties and t-shirt. you caught the way gojo's eyes grew when he saw you bend over the kitchen counter to grab a condiment or two. he even licked his lips with zero shame when he saw the growing wet spot on your panties.
that night marked the beginning of a dirty little secret.
"fuck, look at me." gojo hisses, cupping your cheeks to make you face him. his other hand traces nonsensical patterns on your thigh, eventually gripping it to help establish a rough pace.
"your daddy still thinks that you're his sweet, innocent little girl," he taunts, hand moving from your face to squeeze your breast. "but he doesn't need to know that you're such a horny mess for me every night, does he?"
gojo's cruel words cause you to whimper needily as you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him in even closer. he groans at this new angle which allows him to plummet even deeper into your tight pussy.
"stop t-teasing, toruuu!" you whine, hands finding refuge around his neck. "jus' want you t-to fuck me—!"
"is that not what i'm doing?" gojo coos, the hands on your body becoming more bruising every second. "did those incompetent college boys ruin not fuck you properly? am i the first to ever dick you down right, angel?"
you nod, cunt squeezing his cock for all it's worth. "y-you're the only… one—!" you squeal when gojo delivers a rather deep thrust into your pussy, tip prodding against your cervix.
"atta girl." he murmurs, lowering himself to press a passionate kiss to your lips. your tongue doesn't put up a fight, surrendering yourself to him. "fuckfuckfuck, i'm close— tell me where you want it, baby."
"i-inside, toruuu!"
he visibly shudders when you say his name. "fuck— you're perfect, baby."
you can barely think when gojo's rigid cock is grinding itself right against your sensitive g-spot. your tight hole is practically milking his pulsing member for all it's worth. from up where he is, gojo feels like he's practically swimming in heaven.
your lover releases a deep sigh when your fluttering cunt signals your impending orgasm. "i can feel it, fuck— i feel it." gojo's thrusts become sloppier by the second, his unruly pubes grinding against your perky clit.
"i-i'm close, toru!" you mewl, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his cock grazes against your most sensitive regions. it's all so much— so much that you don't realize how loud you are.
"you can cum, baby." he shushes, hand finding your mouth once again to keep your pretty noises in. "just keep it quiet."
