JJK men and their favorite parts of your body: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Higuruma, Toji, Naoya. (I wrote this at night, so I apologize in advance if something is written illogically or with mistakes 😭)
Gojo Satoru — your thighs.
Gojo is visually obsessed with your thighs. The first time he saw you in a skirt, he literally stopped mid-sentence. His Six Eyes were working overtime.
“Fine. Perfect. Never been better.”
He thinks about them constantly. The way they look. The way they feel. The way they squeeze around him.
In private, he's shameless. His hands are always on them. Squeezing, gripping, stroking.
He loves when you sit on his lap. Those plump, soft thighs draped over his, your weight pressing down on him. He can feel everything.
He'll push your skirt up slowly, deliberately, watching your face as he trails his fingers up your inner thigh.
“Don't move. Let me look at you.”
He kisses them. All over. Inner thighs, outer thighs, the soft spot behind your knees. He's thorough. He's reverent and hungry.
He has you on the bed, legs spread, his head between them. He's kissing your inner thighs, leaving marks, making you squirm.
He bites down gently, soothes it with his tongue.
“I want to taste every inch of you. And then I want you to wrap these beautiful thighs around my head and hold on.”
He doesn't stop until you're trembling, until you're begging. And when you finally come, he's still kissing your thighs, murmuring,
“That's it. That's my good girl. I could do this forever.”
Later, he's between your thighs again, this time with his cock sliding against them, slick with your wetness.
“Look at that,” he breathes. “They're perfect. Made for me. Made to hold me.”
He fucks your thighs, using your wetness as lube, watching himself slide between them. It's so intimate. So filthy. He comes all over your skin, then cleans it with his tongue. And after, he's still touching them. Tracing patterns on your skin.
Suguru loves the contrast—his hands, stained with blood and sacrifice, against your delicate skin. Your pulse beneath his fingertips. Your trust in him.
He leaves marks. Not because he's possessive (though he is), but because he wants to see evidence of his devotion on your skin. He loves when you tilt your head back in submission. The way you offer yourself to him completely turns him on.
His hands are always on your neck. Not gripping. Just resting. His thumb tracing your jaw. His fingers tangled in your hair at the base of your skull.
The temple is quiet. The cult members have retired to their quarters. The candles are burning low, casting flickering shadows across the room. Geto is standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders, his lips pressed against your pulse point. You feel his breath, warm and steady. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your head to the side. He has access. He takes it.
His mouth is slow. Deliberate. He kisses your neck like he has all the time in the world. His tongue traces the curve of your throat. He sucks gently, then soothes with his tongue. You're trembling.
“Shh.” His voice is quiet. “I'm not done.”
He spins you around and leans down. He kisses the base of your throat, his teeth graze your skin while you gasp.
“You're so beautiful,” he breathes. “And you don't even know what you do to me.”
He lifts you, carries you to the futon and lays you down gently. His body covers yours.
He starts at your collarbone. His lips trail up. Slowly and deliberately. He kisses your throat. He feels your pulse beneath his lips.
“Your heart is racing,” he observes.
“Because you're overwhelming.”
He smiles. It's not a kind smile. It's hungry.
“Good. That's what I want.”
He continues. His mouth travels up your neck. He bites gently—just enough to make you gasp, just enough to leave a mark. He soothes it with his tongue.
“Shh. I told you. I'm not done.”
He works his way up to your jaw. He kisses the spot behind your ear. You shiver. He smiles against your skin. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hand comes up to your neck again. He holds it gently, his thumb strokes your pulse. Then he kisses your forehead, your nose. Then your lips. Then his mouth returns to your neck.
“I want to hear you,” he says against your skin. “I want to hear every sound you make. I want to know exactly what I do to you.”
He bites down. Harder this time. You gasp, arching beneath him. He soothes the mark with his tongue.
“That's it,” he breathes. “That's exactly what I wanted.”
His hand slides down your body. His fingers find your heat. You're already wet. He groans against your neck.
“You're so ready for me. So perfect.”
He pushes inside you. One finger. Then two. His mouth never leaves your neck. He's kissing, biting, sucking while his fingers work you quickly, expertly. You're close. Your hands grip his shoulders. Your nails dig into his skin.
“That's it,” he says. “Let go. I've got you.”
You come with a cry, your back arching, your head tilting back. His mouth is still on your neck. He feels your pulse racing beneath his lips and he groans, satisfied. Then, pulling his fingers out of you, he brings them to your mouth.
“Come on, sweetheart. Taste yourself for me.”
Nanami Kento — your hands.
He's reverent. He kisses each finger individually. The pads. The knuckles. The palm. He knows every line, every freckle, every tiny scar.
He loves when you touch his face. Your hands cradling his jaw, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones. It makes him feel seen in a way nothing else does.
He loves the feeling of your nails raking down his back. The proof that you want him just as much as he wants you.
He always holds your hands when you walk. Intertwines his fingers with yours. Presses your palms to his chest so you can feel his heartbeat.
He also loves when you grip his hair. When you're desperate and you grab fistfuls of it, pulling him closer. He groans at the sensation every time.
He may not be vocal about his obsession, but he shows it. He'd rather demonstrate his devotion than speak it. Actions over words, always. You can tell by the way his pupils dilate when you pull him by the tie for a kiss.
Your apartment is quiet. He's just come home from work—exhausted, tie undone, glasses off. He finds you in the kitchen, cooking dinner. You're stirring something on the stove, your fingers wrapped around the wooden spoon.
He watches you for a moment. Then he's behind you, his hands on your hips, his lips brushing your shoulder.
“Leave it,” he murmurs. “I need you.”
He takes your hand. Leads you to the bedroom. He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls you between his legs. Takes your hand in his. He examines it—turns it over, traces the lines on your palm with his thumb. And in just a second your fingers find his belt. You unbuckle it slowly. Then his button. His zipper. He lifts his hips so you can slide his slacks down, just enough. He's already hard. Straining against his boxers. You palm him through the fabric and he groans, his head falling back.
“God,” he breathes. “Yes. That's—”
You free him. Wrap your fingers around his length. He's warm. Thick. You stroke him slowly, watching his face. His eyes are closed, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the edge of the bed.
“Look at me,” you say softly.
He opens his eyes. Meets your gaze. There's something raw there. Something unguarded.
“Don't stop,” he whispers. “Please. I need—”
You increase your pace. Your thumb circles the tip, spreading the bead of moisture there. He shudders. His hips buck involuntarily into your hand.
It's rare for him to curse. It's rare for him to lose control like this. But he's so tired. So spent. So desperate for you.
Your other hand joins the first. You stroke him with both, one hand working his shaft, the other cupping his balls. He's already close—you can feel it in the way his muscles tense, the way his breathing quickens.
He comes with a strangled moan, his release spilling over your fingers, his body trembling.
You stroke him through it, gentle now, soothing. When he's done, he falls backwards onto the mattress.
Higuruma Hiromi — your shoulders.
Higuruma is a man of burdens. He carries the weight of the law, of justice. Your shoulders represent release for him. They're where he rests his head. Where he finds comfort. There's something grounding about them. They're steady and reliable.
He drapes himself over you from behind. His chin on your shoulder. His arms around your waist. He just breathes.
He kisses your shoulders constantly. While you're cooking. While you're reading. While you're doing anything. If you're stressed, he massages them.
“Breathe. I've got you. I've got you.”
He kisses your shoulder every time he passes behind your chair. A habit born of pure love.
The courtroom is empty. Higuruma is still in his crisp suit, tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up. He's been working late again—reviewing case files, trying to find justice in a system that rarely offers it.
You find him at his desk, head in his hands. He looks up when you enter, and his expression softens.
“I'm sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I lost track of time.”
You walk to his chair, and he pulls you onto his lap without a word.
“You're stressed,” you observe.
“Always.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “But less when you're here.”
His hands slide under the collar of your shirt, pushing it down. He bares your shoulder, pressing his lips to the curve. His fingers trace the line of your collarbone. He kisses a path up your neck, teeth grazing your skin. His hands are firm on your shoulders, holding you steady.
“I want you,” he says, voice low. “Right here. Right now.”
He stands, turning you to face the desk. Then he's unzipping his pants, his free hand gently gripping your shoulder like a lifeline.
“I've been thinking about this all day…” he admits, voice strained. “Need to be inside you. Need to feel close to you.”
He enters you with a desperate groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. His pace starts slow, almost reverent, but builds quickly. He thrusts deeper, his grip on your shoulder tightening.
He finishes with a shudder, collapsing against you, his face pressed to your spine.
Fushiguro Toji — your ass.
Toji is a simple man. He likes what he likes. And what he likes is you. Specifically, your ass.
He's not poetic about it. He's not romantic. He's just... honest. Brutally, unapologetically honest.
“You got a great ass,” he says the first time he sees you in tight clothes.
He's a man of action, not words. And his actions make it very, very clear what he's obsessed with.
He's always touching it. Always. Hand on your ass when you're walking. Slap when you pass him. Grip when you're standing in the kitchen.
He'll watch you bend over to pick something up. Just... watch. Doesn't even try to hide it.
“Don't mind me,” he says, grinning. “Just appreciating the view.”
He likes when you wear tight pants. Or a skirt. Or a dress. Or anything that shows off your shape. He's not picky.
In bed, he's obsessed. He's always gripping it. Spreading it. Slapping it. He wants to bury himself in you, just to feel it.
He loves doggy style. Loves watching your ass in the air, the way it looks when he's behind you.
“God, you're perfect,” he grunts.
He'll slap it while he's thrusting. Hard. Leaves red handprints that he admires afterward.
He loves eating you out from behind. Buries his face in you, grips your ass with both hands, pulls you closer. He could do it for hours.
When you ride him, he holds your ass. Guides you. Squeezes you.
“Look at you,” he says. “So fucking beautiful. Love watching you move on me.”
“Stay still,” he commands. His voice is low, rough. “I'm not done.”
He licks into you, tongue sliding against your entrance, making you moan. His hands grip your cheeks, spreading you wider, pulling you closer to his face.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he groans. “Could do this all day. Eat you out until you can't remember your own name.”
You're already trembling, already losing yourself in the sensation of his tongue, his teeth, his hands gripping you like he'll never let go.
He pulls back, just for a moment, and you whimper at the loss. He chuckles darkly.
“Patience, sweetheart. I told you I'm not done.”
He flips you over, positions you on your stomach, and grabs your ass with both hands. He kneads the soft flesh, squeezing, admiring the way it fits perfectly in his palms.
“Look at this,” he says, almost to himself. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.”
He spreads you open again, exposing you to his gaze. He spits—actually spits—on your ass, watching it slide down your crack, his thumb following the trail.
He slaps your ass. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp. Another slap. Another. He's watching the red handprints bloom on your skin, and his eyes are dark, hungry.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “You're so fucking beautiful.”
He leans down and kisses each handprint. Soothes the sting with his tongue. Then he's spreading you again, licking into you from behind, his nose pressing against your skin as he devours you.
Naoya is a man of appetite. He takes what he wants. He doesn't ask. He doesn't wait.
He's obsessed with your tits. Completely. Utterly. Irrevocably.
He thinks about them constantly—in meetings, in battles, in the middle of clan politics. He loves the way they look. The way they move. The way they fill his hands perfectly. The way they respond to his touch.
He loves the way they look in traditional kimonos—the way the fabric drapes, the hint of cleavage, the promise of more. It drives him insane. He loves the way they feel against his chest. The way you arch into him when he touches them.
The sounds you make when he pays them proper attention.
He's possessive about them. No one else gets to see them. No one else gets to want them. They're his.
His weight pins you firmly to the futon, his thighs spread out on either side of your body as he pushes his cock between your breasts. The sensation is immediate—warm, soft, perfect. He groans, head falling back.
He grips your tits, pressing them together around his shaft. The feeling is obscene. Perfect. He starts to move, thrusting slowly at first, watching his cock slide between the soft flesh of your chest.
“Look at that,” he breathes. “Look at how perfect you are. Made for this. Made for me.”
He thrusts again. Harder. The head of his cock is slick with precum, leaving a wet trail across your skin.
“Open your mouth,” he commands. “I want to see you. I want to see your tongue.”
You obey, sticking out your tongue. He leans forward, pressing the tip of his cock to your tongue with each thrust. The sight of you—mouth open, tongue out, eyes locked on his—sends a jolt of electricity straight through him. His rhythm falters for just a second. He's not used to being this undone.
“That's it,” he growls. “Just like that. Look at me. Don't you dare look away.”
His thrusts grow faster. Rougher. The wet sound of his cock sliding between your tits fills the room, obscene and relentless. He's losing control. He can feel it slipping away, and for once, he doesn't care.
“Your mouth. Open wider. I want to feel your tongue.”
You obey. His cock slides across your tongue, tasting of salt and him. He groans—low, guttural, desperate.
“Fuck. Yes. Just like that. Lick it. Use your tongue.”
His hand comes up to grip your hair.
He's close. You can feel it in the way his thighs tremble against your shoulders.
“I'm going to—fuck—I'm going to come all over you. All over these perfect tits. And you're going to watch. You're going to watch every single second.”
He pulls out, gripping his cock in his fist. He strokes himself furiously, eyes locked on your face, your chest, the mess he's already made of you.
“Look at me,” he commands. “Look at me when I—!”
His release hits you in hot, white stripes across your chest. Across your tits. Across your neck.
Some of it lands on your chin, your lips. He watches, mesmerized, as his cum paints you in evidence of his possession.
He collapses forward, catching himself on his hands above you. He's breathing hard. His eyes are wild. He stares at the mess he's made.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Look at you. Look at what I did to you.”
He reaches down. Traces a finger through the cum on your chest. Brings it to your lips.
You do. He slides his finger into your mouth. You taste him. Salt and heat and ownership.
“Swallow,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “Every drop.”
