𝒢𑄺 — satoru gojo placing stickers on your stomach for every inch of his dick you take.
── inspired by this lovely artist on x ᨧֵᰍ.
satoru’s always been a guy with a mischievous streak, never knowing when to quit playing. always finding different ways to keep things interesting, whether that was for the love of the game, or for himself — but there was one thing about those questionable tactics of his. satoru almost never failed to make you the victim of his dumb, silly games.
and maybe, that’s why you’re in this position now. your knees buried into the foamy mattress, caging satoru in with your thighs as your soft palms pressed against his hard abs.
“c’mon ‘toru what are we waiting for my legs are shaking.” you practically whine, feeling the ache in your hips grow with each second as you keep them raised. your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance as you watch satoru rummage through the pillow underneath his head.
“juuust onee sec—” the corners of his lips curl into that knowing grin of his, before he’s pulling out a full pack of unopened stickers wrapped in plastic. your eyes follow the patterns and colors of each sticker through the translucent film reading nothing but words consisting of good job!’s, great, that’s it — and seeing a few silver and gold star designed by size as you deadpan satoru in response.
“whaaatttt?!” satoru feigns a little pout with his glossy lips, as if your gaze were slowly killing him, but he knew the real reason why.
you shift your weight forwards, more downward towards your knees leaning closer to satoru. “toruuu!” you drag out with a sigh, sliding your hands from his abs to his shoulders as you stretch against his body like a downwards cat. “wanna tell me why in the world, do you have stickers hidden behind your pillow?” your gaze is locked onto his, before your eyes flicker to that shit-eating grin of his that indicates he’s up to absolutely no good.
satoru raises the packaged stickers towards mouth, before catching the film between his canines and ripping the plastic as he lets the loose papers fall on his chest. “i wanna grade ya’!” he tilts his head, scanning your body pressed flush against his. “wanna grade every, single, inch, you take.” he grins, flashing a tooth as he snakes a hand down to give your ass a few taps.
you’re pulling your body back up, hips raising above his. your heat slightly grazing against the beading head of satoru’s dick as you’re straddling him. “are you serious?” you’re rhetorically asking, adjusting yourself as satoru replies with an overly excited “super!”
and before you know it, your hips are lowering right down onto satoru’s dick. the tip of his flush cock prodding open your entrance, moaning at the stretch that you can quite, never get used too.
“mmmh, that’s one!” satoru hums, one of his hands peeling off a silver star to press into your skin. starting an inch away from the bottom of your bladder as you’re still sinking down, slowly but surely. “thaaat’s two.” he hums, reaching out his free hand to hold at your waist while he presses another sticker onto you.
you can feel his length begin to involuntarily twitch inside you as your feeding his dick into you. “t-that’s definitely three…” you bite down on your bottom lip, feeling satoru slowly breach your walls as you point to where the next sticker should be placed, earning a low — pathetic groan from satoru as he presses a pink ‘great!’ sticker just above your bladder area.
his pupils are practically blown wide, watching the way your pussy swallows him inch by inch. “that’s four, yeah?” the corners of his lips are curled into a stupid grin. he presses a kitten memed-sticker against you, which you didn’t see within the stack of stickers before.
“you’re doing s’ fuckin’ good, baby.” he praises, as you throb around his words with a soft moan in response.
“how much more do ya’ think is left?” he lets out a breathless laugh, his eyes flickering down to what’s left.
and this is the part where you know you’re fucked — your insides starting to squeeze tighter around his length as you take him. your finger digging into his flesh as your hips tremble at the slightest graze against your sweet spot, making you moan his name like it’s his fault — which it is.
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