your back arches off the bed as gojo sinks deeper into you with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every inch of your soaked pussy like it’s the first meal he’s had in days.
scratch that - like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to eat, as if he’s never learned moderation, never been taught restraint. and with the way he’s whining into your cunt, messy and open mouthed, there’s no mistaking the desperation in him.
“satoru - oh my god -” you choke out, fingers tangling in his hair, but all it does is make him moan, a low, trembling sound that vibrates straight through you.
he’s devouring you like a starved animal, like he needs you just to breathe. his tongue flicks, drags, circles your clit with wet, sloppy reverence - then sucks it into his mouth with a whimper, burying his face deeper into your pussy, as if this isn't close enough for him.
“i missed this,” he gasps, breaking away only to whisper it against your inner thigh, voice wrecked and panting. his breath is hot on your skin. “missed you, missed this pussy. i - i fuckin’ dream about this everyday.”
he’s grinding against the bed now, hips stuttering: he’s getting himself off just from the taste of you.
his hands - big, rough, trembling - tighten around your thighs to hold you open as he dives back in. he tongues into you, thirsty, nose pressed right up against your clit, groaning so loud it echoes off the walls.
saying "he’s messy" is an understatement: his chin is slick with spit and arousal, mouth wet and shining, his hair sticking to his forehead from how frantically he’s moving. every lap of his tongue is erratic, greedy, like he’s lost all rhythm and is just chasing need.
“don’t run, baby,” he slurs, breathless, eyes fluttering up to meet yours - and they’re wild, feverish. “let me - fuck - lemme stay here. i’ll be so good. just - just keep me here. right here.”
you try to pull away, hips jerking from the overstimulation, but he growls, locking you down with a force that has your head spinning. “no. no, don’t you fuckin’ run. you’re not going anywhere. not till i’m done. not till i’ve had my fill.”
then, he’s sobbing into your cunt - little gasps and whines breaking from his throat as he eats you like a man possessed. every noise he makes sends another wave of heat through you, every cry is another jolt to your core. he’s grinding himself down, humping the mattress, chasing friction like he can’t help it.
your thighs start to shake - your stomach coils. but he doesn’t let up - not even when your moans grow frantic, not even when your body bucks beneath him.
“please, please, please,” he babbles, almost incoherent, lost in it. “cum for me - baby, come on, give it to me - please, i need it - need to taste you, need to drink you - please, fuck -”
you shatter on his tongue, crying out as the orgasm tears through you, but he doesn’t stop. he whines, drinks it down, tongue flicking even faster as if he’s trying to milk it from you. you try to push him away, but he’s gripping your thighs like a lifeline, grinding his cock against the mattress like he’s about to lose his mind.
and through the haze of pleasure, you hear his voice - cracked, wrecked, worshipful:
“you’re gonna kill me, baby. gonna fuckin’ ruin me like this…”
-Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make's love known?
J.R.R. Tolkien
synopsis: you carry new life aboard a pirate ship where danger softens into care. the fearless captain becomes watchful, often scolded by a devoted crew. love lives in quiet gestures. when your son is born at sea, joy follows. amid playful arguments over his name, anchoring family, unity, and hope.
content: f!reader, fluff, pregnancy, romance, love, and so on
a/n: the plot may or may not follow the anime/manga. if you have any suggestions or recommendations feel free to dm me. also if there are any mistakes or or things you would like me to add, reach out to me.
The sea has always listened to Shanks.
You learned that early on, long before your body grew heavier with life, long before the ship’s deck creaked beneath careful footsteps and softer laughter. The waves always seemed to ease when he laughed, as if the ocean itself leaned closer, curious. Now, though, the sea listens to you too.
You sit on the shaded side of the deck, one hand resting over the gentle curve of your stomach. The breeze is warm, salted, and slow. Your breath matches the roll of the waves. Somewhere above, the sails murmur like they’re whispering secrets meant only for the sky.
Shanks notices everything.
He always has.
You feel him before you see him. The weight of his presence shifts the air, like the moment just before a storm decides to be kind instead. A shadow falls across you, broad and familiar, and then his voice follows.
“Hey,” he says softly, far quieter than the man the world knows.
You look up. His red hair is tied back loosely today, strands escaping and catching the sun. There’s a faint worry line between his brows that hasn’t been there long. You know why it exists.
You smile anyway.
“You’re hovering again,” you say gently.
He exhales, a small laugh slipping out, sheepish and unconvincing. “Just checking.”
“You checked five minutes ago.”
“And ten minutes before that,” he admits, kneeling beside you anyway. His hand hovers over your stomach before settling there, reverent, like he’s touching something sacred. His thumb brushes slow circles, grounding himself more than you.
The baby shifts.
You feel it first. Then Shanks does.
His eyes widen, every trace of the Emperor of the Sea vanishing in an instant. “Did you feel that?” he asks, voice cracking just a little.
You nod. “He’s awake.”
Shanks laughs under his breath, awed every single time, like the miracle refuses to become ordinary. “That’s my boy,” he murmurs, leaning closer.
From across the deck, a loud throat clears.
Benn Beckman stands near the mast, rifle resting against his shoulder, cigarette unlit between his fingers. His sharp eyes flick from Shanks’s hand to your stomach, unimpressed.
“Captain,” Benn says flatly, “you’re kneeling.”
“So?” Shanks replies without looking up.
“So you promised you wouldn’t do anything reckless today.”
Lucky Roux, chewing loudly on a piece of meat the size of his forearm, snorts. “Yeah, boss. Last time you ‘just checked,’ you nearly tripped over a coil of rope.”
“I caught myself,” Shanks protests.
“You caught her,” Yasopp adds from the railing, arms crossed, grin wide but eyes serious. “Which is the problem.”
You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I’m fine. Truly.”
The crew does not believe you.
They haven’t since the moment your pregnancy became impossible to hide.
Shanks stands slowly, like every movement has been re-learned. He helps you up even though you don’t need it, his hand steady at your back. The deck is suddenly full of eyes. Limejuice pauses mid-stride. Bonk Punch lowers his instrument. Monster chitters from his perch, tilting his head at you with curious intelligence.
Rockstar, still young and wide-eyed, whispers, “She looks tired.”
“I am not tired,” you say kindly.
“You’re glowing,” Lucky Roux says around another bite.
“That’s not helpful,” Benn mutters.
Shanks glares at all of them. “She’s fine. I said she’s fine.”
“Captain,” Benn replies coolly, “with all due respect, you said that before walking into a Sea King’s territory with a smile.”
“That was different.”
“How?” Yasopp asks.
“She wasn’t pregnant,” Shanks snaps, then immediately softens, turning to you. “Sorry.”
You squeeze his hand. “It’s alright.”
Benn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is exactly what we’re talking about.”
They don’t scold you. Never you.
They scold him.
Constantly.
“You shouldn’t have been sparring yesterday,” Limejuice says.
“You shouldn’t have lifted that crate,” Bonk Punch adds.
“You definitely shouldn’t have jumped off the rail to catch her teacup,” Yasopp finishes.
“It was falling,” Shanks argues weakly.
“And she could have bent down herself,” Benn says.
You smile, warmth blooming in your chest. “I dropped it on purpose.”
Every head snaps toward you.
Shanks blinks. “You what?”
“I wanted to see if you’d catch it,” you admit, gentle amusement in your voice.
Lucky Roux bursts out laughing. Yasopp howls. Even Benn’s mouth twitches.
Shanks groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“No,” you whisper, touching his cheek. “I’m going to be your life.”
Silence settles over the deck, heavy and tender.
---
Later, the sky darkens.
Not with storm clouds, but with the deepening blue of evening. Lanterns are lit. The ship rocks lazily. You sit in Shanks’s cabin now, the space smelling faintly of wood, sea, and him.
He kneels in front of you, fastening the buttons of your coat with exaggerated care.
“You don’t have to do that,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “I want to.”
His hands linger. His touch is warm, steady. There’s no fear in it now, only devotion sharpened by responsibility. He looks up at you, eyes soft but fierce.
“I swear,” he says quietly, “nothing will ever happen to you.”
You cup his face. “Shanks… you can’t control the world.”
“I can try,” he says, and for once, it isn’t a joke.
When the pain comes, it comes like the tide.
Slow at first.
Then undeniable.
The crew knows immediately.
There is chaos, but the careful kind.
Benn takes charge without raising his voice. Lucky Roux runs for supplies. Hongo prepares clean cloths. Yasopp stands guard outside the door, expression uncharacteristically solemn. Monster sits near you, quiet and watchful.
Shanks never leaves your side.
Not once.
He holds your hand through every breath, every wave of pain, murmuring reassurance like a prayer only the two of you know. His voice never shakes, even when yours does.
“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, over and over. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
When your strength falters, he gives you his.
When fear creeps in, he chases it away with warmth and certainty.
And then—
A cry.
Small. Sharp. Alive.
The world changes.
You are crying before you realize it, tears sliding down your temples, breath hitching with relief and disbelief. Shanks looks frozen, eyes wide, like he’s afraid to move and break something fragile and holy.
The baby is placed in your arms.
Your son.
He’s warm and real and impossibly small. His fist curls instinctively, and when Shanks finally dares to touch him, the baby’s fingers wrap around his thumb.
Shanks makes a sound you’ve never heard before.
It’s broken. Soft. Full.
“That’s… that’s him,” Shanks whispers.
“Our boy,” you say.
He laughs through tears, pressing his forehead to yours again. “He’s perfect.”
The crew crowds the doorway, awkward and reverent.
Lucky Roux sniffles loudly. “He’s got the captain’s features.”
Yasopp grins. “And your eyes.”
Benn crosses his arms, nodding once.
---
Naming him becomes a battlefield.
Suggestions fly like cannon fire.
“Something bold,” Bonk Punch insists.
“No, meaningful,” Limejuice argues.
“Red-themed,” Lucky Roux says.
“Absolutely not,” Benn snaps.
"Red parro-", Hongo get smacked by Bonk Punch.
Shanks listens, amused, holding the baby close, protective to the point of absurdity. Anyone who gets too close earns a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
Finally, you speak.
The room quiets.
“I already know his name,” you say softly.
Shanks looks at you. “You do?”
You nod, touching your son’s cheek. “I’ve known for a while.”
You say the name.
It fits.
Like the sea fits the shore.
Like love fits the heart.
The crew accepts it instantly, arguments dissolving into smiles.
Shanks kisses your temple. “Best name in the world.”
That night, the ship sails on, carrying something far greater than treasure.
It carries a family.
And for the first time, the sea listens, not to a pirate king, but to a child learning how to breathe.
he’s already a mess before you even touch his cock.
long legs spread wide on the bed, chest flushed and rising in quick, uneven breaths, his silver hair is tousled into a halo against the pillows, sticking slightly to his damp temples.
he looks utterly undone - and the only thing you’ve done is kneel between his thighs and watch him.
"you're so mean baby," he breathes, voice barely more than a tremble, as if pouting any harder would get your mouth where he wants it. "don't tease me like this, please - i can’t take it."
but of course, you don’t give in, not yet it was only the beginning after all.
"you’ve been rutting against my thigh for the last ten minutes like a desperate mutt,” you murmur, kissing the inside of his thigh, slow and wet, lips dragging along the sensitive skin until he shivers. "you’re already leaking. what would you even do if i sucked you off?"
he chokes out a noise - halfway between a moan and a sob - as you lick higher, leaving a warm trail with your tongue but deliberately avoiding the one place he needs you most. his cock twitches helplessly, flushed dark pink and leaking from the tip, leaving glossy streaks across his lower stomach.
"i’d cum," he admits, voice cracking, so wrecked already. “fuck - i’d cum so fast, baby, i swear i’m so close, i’ve been hard since you looked at me like that - please, just your mouth, a little, just for a second -”
you let your fingers trail up the underside of his shaft, feather light touches, teasing that prominent vein with the back of your nails. he shudders violently, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from thrusting up into your hand so quickly.
"you’re shaking," you murmur with mock sympathy, curling your hand just around the base - loose, but definitely not enough for hum. his hips twitch anyway. "aww, are you gonna cry, toru?"
“i - fuck - i might,” he whines, breath catching when your thumb brushes across the head. his pre-cum is so thick and sticky it strings between your touch and his flushed tip. “please - please, i’ll do anything, just don’t leave me like this-”
he sounds so pathetic yet so pretty. beautiful.
you finally lean forward, letting your tongue flatten against the underside of his cock, and you drag it up, slow, until you’re tasting the mess he’s been leaking onto himself.
satoru howls.
his head falls back, thighs tense on either side of your shoulders, and he makes the most broken, beautiful sound - high, ragged and absolutely wrecked. his cock jumps in your hand, throbbing like it might explode from just one more touch.
“fuck, baby - oh my god, please -” he gasps, both hands clutching the sheets above his head as if he’s praying. “don’t stop, don’t stop - more, more, please, please, i’ll be good, so good -”
you suck the head into your mouth with obscene slowness for more effect, swirling your tongue over the slit. the taste of him is already thick and heavy on your tongue - salty and hot, leaking more with every suck. his whole body twitches like he’s going to fall apart just from that.
you pull off with a wet pop and smile.
he sobs, actually sobs.
“no - no, why’d you stop - fuck, baby, please -” his eyes are glassy, his cock twitching furiously in the air, his whole abdomen is taut, flexing with every ruined breath. "i need to be inside you - i need it - just the tip, i swear, please, i won’t move, just let me feel you -"
you don’t speak. you just climb into his lap, straddle his waist, and let your soaked pussy drag up the length of his shaft.
he whimpers.
you're dripping on him. your slick clings to his cock, smearing over his skin in glossy wet streaks as you grind down - your folds swallowing the thick head, sliding him through your heat without letting him in.
he grabs your hips as if he’s begging for life. “you’re so wet - oh god, you’re soaking me - please, baby, just the tip, i’m losing my goddamn mind-”
you raise your hips just enough to line him up.
"only the tip, don't be greedy." you say sweetly.
"i’ll take it - i’ll be good - i’ll be so fucking good for you, please -"
and when you finally sink down, just an inch, just that swollen tip pressing into your soaked heat - the way he moans is filthy.
a full body tremor shakes him, his hands gripping your thighs like he might float away if he doesn’t hold on.
“fuuuck,” he groans, hips twitching under you, cock throbbing inside. “you feel - baby, you feel so good - i can’t - please let me in, more, just a little more - don’t stop now, i need it, i’ll lose it, i swear -”
you clench around him and watch him suffer: watched his eyes roll back, watched his mouth fall open with drool spilling out as he falls apart under you, so wrecked from just the tip.
div cafekitsune, art by sakimichanmale on twt , not proofread
a door closed gently in the morning, an excuse at lunch that even you didn’t believe. you drifted through your home like mist, choreographing your disappearance with practiced steps - ducking around corners, shrinking into silence each time you caught the rustle of his newspaper or the soft clink of his watch as he adjusted it for the third time.
you wore invisibility like a cloak, moving as a ghost through the rooms you used to share with ease.
because your skin had betrayed you again - four angry blemishes rising red and bright across your cheek and jaw, blooming like a constellation born to shame you.
it wasn’t the worst you’d had, sure. but it was enough to make you recoil from the mirror, to keep your face turned away, to lower your face when nanami passed too close.
you couldn’t bear to let him see you like this.
not with the wedding two weeks away, not when the final fitting was tomorrow. not when he was the nanami kento - precise, composed, impossibly, effortlessly elegant - and you felt like a child masquerading in grown woman skin, unraveling just when you should have been most beautiful.
you braced for the change, waited for it like rain preparing to ripple through the clouds, for the shift in his gaze, the falter in his tone, for the quiet moment where his warmth would begin to dim as the fading sunset, and the words you’d feared might surface:
this isn’t working, i didn’t sign up for this, maybe we rushed things.
but of course, he never said any of that - instead, he let you vanish until dinner, when you padded back to the bedroom with a bowl of noodles and a bruised kind of shame, closing the door like it could keep your insecurities contained.
half an hour later, it opened.
you were curled cross legged on the bed, hoodie drawn up over your mouth like a veil, the ceramic bowl empty on the nightstand.
nanami stepped inside with the quiet certainty of a man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard, to be seen. he closed the door behind him. the silence shifted.
you stilled, your eyes stayed low: fixed on the wall in front of you. your shame flared redder than your skin.
“i’m only going to ask once,” he said, voice calm accompanied by the kind of steadiness that cuts through any lie you could form. “are you avoiding me because of a breakout?”
your heart stuttered.
you didn’t answer, just sank deeper into the hoodie, into the fabric, into yourself. the sting behind your eyes crept closer to the surface.
he sighed - not with anger, but with weariness. the kind born not of frustration with you, but with the invisible wall you’d built between you both. with the absurd, aching notion that a few angry patches on your skin could shift the foundation of his love for you.
“darling,” he said, the word felt like gravity sucking you into him.
you heard his steps, slow and deliberate, as he crossed the room. felt the bed dip beneath his weight, his hand reached up and gently tugged the hoodie from your face. you turned away of course, instinct as sharp as breath.
but his palm found your jaw, and turned you back, “no,” he murmured. “let me see you.”
you hesitated, then lifted your eyes.
he saw everything - the irritated pink, the heat of humiliation, the unshed tears clinging to your lashes like dew. and in return, gave you no wince. no judgment. just his gaze - gentle, grounded - and his thumb, brushing reverently over the most inflamed of the blemishes.
“i’ve seen you exhausted,” he said. “in pain. crying. afraid. do you really think something as small as this would ever make me hesitate?”
you tried to laugh. it came out watery, brittle.
“kento… don’t say that. it’s not just a breakout. it’s me, i always fall apart before big things happen, and you’re… you. i thought maybe you’d-”
“call it off?” he offered, a brow lifting, eyes calm, you nodded, breath catching, gaze falling.
for a moment, he was quiet.
then, softly, he muttered, “unbelievable.”
you flinched - when he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek, to the angriest mark on your face. a kiss - comforting, “kento-”
“again,” he said, kissing the blemish near your jaw. “and again.”
you squirmed, laughter startled and sharp, pushing at his chest. your face burned now for a different reason, “stop-”
“no,” he said, finally brushing his lips against yours. “i’ll stop when you understand this: i didn’t choose you because you were flawless. i chose you because you’re you. skin and all. hormones and all. all of it.”
your heart ached. the kind of ache that cracked you open just enough to breathe as if a weight has been lifted off your chest.
he exhaled, softer now, and pulled you into his arms. folded you beneath his chin, like something precious, something sacred.
“you’re marrying me in two weeks,” he murmured into your hair. “don’t run from me again, sweetheart. i’m not going anywhere.”
you nodded, a sound caught in your throat, small and raw, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like roots into earth.
you thought you’d get under his skin with a little flirting — too bad gojo’s got his reversed cursed technique ready to steal every orgasm and keep you begging for more. how far would you go to reclaim what’s yours?
<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , divider->@/cafekitsune
cw: feral unhinged gojo , orgasm denial using supernatural powers, rough revenge sex , overstimulation , size kink (implied) , oral sex (f. receiving) , emotional vulnerability including crying and begging , degradation , mention of naoya zenin .
not proofread , art by sakimenz on insta
you’d done it on purpose.
a gentle laugh, a hand on Naoya Zenin's arm, the way your voice softened — just a little — when you said his name.
Gojo had watched from across the room, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his voice.
it was petty. you’d wanted to sting him. to get a reaction, but Gojo Satoru doesn’t do jealousy.
he does revenge.
which is why you’re here now — naked and trembling on his bed, your body wrung out from being dragged to the edge and back again, each high meticulously stolen by the brush of his cursed energy, each orgasm erased with the clinical precision of a man who could do this forever, his blindfold and clothes now discarded on the floor too.
but first — he’d made you feel it.
he had dragged your knees apart and spread you open with the reverence of a priest and the cruelty of a god.
his tongue was devastating. slow, languid strokes at first — deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of your folds with the flat of it, as if the taste of you was something to savor rather than devour.
his breath fanned out over your slick skin, humid and maddening. every pass of his tongue sent your hips twitching, but he didn’t let you move — not even a little.
he moaned against you, low and indulgent, as if your pussy fed something primal in him.
your hands fisted in his hair. your thighs tried to close around his head, trembling, but he shoved them back open — firm, unhurried, unbothered. one hand gripped your inner thigh tight enough to bruise, the other slid underneath you, palm pressing flat to your lower belly — pinning you down, anchoring you like he knew you were about to come undone.
his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking slow, torturous pulls that made you choke on your own breath. then the tip of his tongue flicked — quick and rhythmic, teasing the bundle of nerves with surgical precision.
he alternated between flattening his tongue and curling it against you, dragging the wet muscle over every swollen, sensitive spot like he was testing how far he could push you without letting you fall.
and when you began to shake — legs tensing, voice gone — he shifted slightly, lips slippery with your slick, then whispered against your cunt like a secret, “that’s it, baby… give it to me.”
you came... or tried to.
snap, gone.
the orgasm vanished like a phantom breath, ripped from your nerves before it could detonate. your mouth opened in a soundless cry, the pleasure caught in your chest like a sob that wouldn’t release.
that was the beginning of your unraveling.
now, an hour later, he kneels between your legs, sleeves rolled up, mouth glistening, fingers stroking idly at your folds. you twitch under his touch.
“still feeling flirty?” he hums, mock curious, tilting his head like he doesn’t already know. “or are we learning how to behave now?”
you glare at him, but it’s pathetic. you’re flushed and panting, thighs spread wide, unable to even close them with how sore you are. you’ve already cum — what, three times? four?
no. you haven’t. that’s the sick joke of it.
your body has. screamed and clenched and convulsed. but every single time, just as you came — he’d used reversed cursed technique on your nerves, wiping away the peak as if it never happened.
leaving you empty. ruined. needing.
he was never angry. never cold. just... calmly vindictive, “you’re insane,” you croak out.
he hums again, amused, like you’ve said something sweet. “you knew that when you chose me, you're just as bad.”
you try to sit up. he presses your hips back down instantly, one handed, with terrifying ease.
“toru—”
he leans in, licks a slow stripe up your inner thigh. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it, baby.”
your whole body jerks. “i do,” you pant. “please—let me cum this time. i won’t flirt with him ever again.”
he smiles. but it’s not kindness — it’s confirmation. “there it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “took you long enough.”
the fourth orgasm hits like a freight train, or it would’ve.
you feel it build in your gut — tight, volcanic, desperate. his fingers are perfect, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit, his mouth whispering filth you can barely process. and just as your breath catches — just as your body tries to surrender again—
gone.
you scream into your own hand. he sighs, mock sympathetic. “awww. almost.” you writhe, tears slipping from your eyes.
he leans in close, licking one off your cheek, his voice silky. “you know how precise i have to be to catch it right as you tip over? it’s hard work.”
“sadist,” you whisper, “mmhmm,” he nods like you’ve complimented him. “try again?”
you shake your head. “no. i—I can’t.” he kisses your stomach, soft. “you will.”
by the time he’s undone your sixth orgasm, you’ve forgotten why you flirted with anyone in the first place.
you’re incoherent. your body is oversensitized to the point of pain, nerves frayed, thighs shaking every time he exhales near your cunt. your fists clench the sheets. you hate him. you need him so bad that it hurts.
he’s humming a tune. casual. barely sweaty, even though he’s been at this for over an hour.
“i’m honestly impressed,” he says, pressing two fingers back inside you. “i thought you’d safeword by now.”
you blink up at him, barely. “i want to cum.”
he smiles, slow. “you want that, but you also knew what you were doing, baby. you knew what would happen the moment you put your hands on him.”
your breath catches.
“you did it for this.” he kisses your inner thigh. “you wanted me to snap. to fuck you stupid. to ruin you.”
he bites, just enough to make you gasp, “i’m only obliging.” you sob — half laughter, half broken plea. “then fucking ruin me, gojo satoru.”
he freezes for a second.
then — something changes.
when he slides into you, with no warning. just heat and stretch and a low, animal growl torn from his throat.
your cunt, swollen and hypersensitive, welcomes him in with an obscene squelch. you’re soaked — slippery and pulsing — and yet the thickness of him still steals the breath from your lungs. he sinks in slowly, grinding deeper with every inch until his hips press flush to yours and his cock is nestled so far inside, you feel him in your ribs.
your walls spasm around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper, as if it’ll never be enough.
you cry out, legs instinctively hooking around his waist despite the ache. he grabs under your knees and bends them up and out — folding you open, exposing everything, letting you feel every inch of stretch and friction as he rocks his hips forward again.
“fuck—still this tight after all that?” he groans against your neck, voice rough and disbelieving.
you can’t answer. your brain is static.
he draws out slow — so slow — and your pussy clings to him, velvety and drenched, unwilling to let go. you feel everything: the ridge of his head, the drag along your walls, the pressure curling low in your gut again like a threat.
and then he slams back in.
you scream. your body jolts under his weight, the bed creaking beneath you. he does it again — snapping his hips with brutal accuracy, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over until your back arches and your fingers seize against his scalp.
his rhythm is devastating. perfectly cruel. he fucks you like he’s driving something out of you — like he wants to brand himself into your bones.
your chest drags against his with every thrust, your breasts bouncing between your bodies, slick skin slapping slick skin. every inhale tastes like him — his sweat, his breath, the faint trace of your arousal still slick on his lips, making them glossy and so fucking kissable.
your arms wrap around his shoulders as if on instinct, fingers trembling where they knot into his snowy hair. your chest presses flush to his, nipples stiff against him, and as he fucks you, you kiss him — anywhere you can reach. his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his collarbone — each frantic, sloppy kiss smeared with desperation, a string of saliva clinging to your parted lips every time you gasp against him.
“please,” you whisper into his throat, voice cracked and close to crying. “don’t take this one. please—please—”
he doesn’t answer, he just fucks you harder.
you’re close, closer than ever.
his hands are everywhere — one gripping your hip like a vice, the other cradling the back of your head as your face tucks against his neck. his cock drives into you with merciless intent, stroking deep, thick, hot. it’s too much, too perfect, too right.
your whole body tenses, the orgasm barreling toward you like an avalanche. every nerve is wired. every inch of you feels electric, ignited, seconds from collapse.
he feels it.
his pace quickens, rhythm ruthless, breath ragged in your ear, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt. doesn’t move to take it away.
his face is focused.
you break with a scream — loud, raw, wet —and for a moment, for a terrifying breathless second, you think he’s stolen it again.
but he doesn’t, you finally cum.
it explodes out of you, violent and endless — your back arching clean off the bed as your cunt clamps down around him, pulsing, spasming, flooding. the pleasure hits in brutal, dizzying waves, white hot and relentless, until your vision swims and your body bucks and jerks uncontrollably beneath him.
you’re crying. sobbing from the release, from the ache, from everything.
he fucks you through it, his hips stuttering at the way you squeeze him.
and then he groans — loud, hoarse, guttural — as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you.
his cock twitches with every pump of cum he pours into your cunt. he shakes against you, his body trembling with the force of it, and finally — finally — he collapses onto your chest, gasping into your neck.
you both pant into the silence.
you lie there for a long time, twitching with aftershocks, muscles limp. he doesn’t move. just wraps his arms around you, face buried in your neck.
eventually, you manage, hoarsely, “you let me…” “mmhmm.”
“why?”
his voice is tired and smug and terribly fond.
he lifts his head from the crook of your neck, strands of white hair sticking to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath.
and when he looks at you — really looks at you — it’s with those piercing eyes: crystalline blue, glassy from the aftershocks of pleasure, half lidded but sharp, like they’re cutting straight through you.
he looks ruined, sweaty, glowing, a little unhinged, and still utterly in control, so fucking beautiful — you thought.
“you finally begged pretty.” you punch his shoulder. weakly.
he laughs. kisses your cheek. then cups your jaw and whispers, voice low and warm: “next time you touch someone else — I’m taking your memory of the orgasm too.”
you don't answer. just lie there, breathing him in, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist where it holds your jaw.
you’re too spent to speak.
too full of him to care.
and when he kisses your temple — gentle, almost apologetic — you think you might forgive him for everything.
a/n: wtf this is the first time i wrote smut i actually liked
gojo satoru survived — first thing he does? finds you, fucks you like you're the only thing keeping him alive, as if dying didn’t take, but coming back might.
<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , mlist .
cw: angst and smut, trauma recovery via sex, intense + emotional , breeding kink implied , post-shibuya , reader is grounding him , not proofread .
gojo satoru stumbles into your space like a collapsing moon, sweat soaked and trembling.
half here, half somewhere else. he doesn't knock. just appears. the air thickened around for a second before it settled with a dull thud, the universe shuddering to spit him back out.
he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink much either;
his eyes aren’t the same. they look too bright — off somehow, shaky, burnt-out from seeing something probably no man should, scorched from trying to hold the strongest image.
he’s breathing as if he clawed his way through hell barefoot, chest heaving under torn tight black fabric, collarbone glistening, a ssmear of blood clinging to the side of his neck, and not all of it is his. some sort of — divine wrath clinging to his skin.
you say his name. once. twice. he doesn’t answer.
he stares, checking if you’re real or just another hallucination from the edge of death. then he touches you — trembling fingers, clumsy, desperate, afraid you’ll vanish.
no words. just breathing. just need. but not the needy toru you're used to.
he kisses you wrong. too hard. too much teeth. it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel unfamiliar — not passion, but a tether to reality.
he’s trying to stay here, with you. grounding himself through you.
you try to pull back, to say something, anything, but he follows, forehead pressed to yours, eyes wild with something you still can’t name.
“...’s over,” he mumbles eventually.
you’re not sure if he means the fight, the world, or himself, but he keeps touching you like you're the only thing left that’s real.
he doesn’t give you a chance to ask what he means. doesn’t give himself the chance to fall apart.
his hands slip under your shirt, rough and shaking — tugging, clawing, desperate. his breath stutters over your cheek as he mouths at your skin, messy and raw, teeth grazing your pulse like he needs to feel it jump to prove he made it out alive.
he moans at the beat beneath your skin. it’s proof. your back hits the nearest surface — wall, table, floor — it doesn’t matter.
he groans when your legs open for him, a low, guttural sound torn from somewhere deep and wounded. starving, frantic.
his hands push your clothes away with no rhythm, no patience — almost furious at the fabric separating you.
“fuck,” he chokes out, voice cracked and breaking at the edges.
his fingers find your cunt, and there's no tenderness — just a desperate press between your thighs, his middle finger dragging over your clit too hard, too fast, panic woven into every movement.
your hips jolt, a startled moan slipping free from your mouth, and he groans again — raw, unfiltered — at the sound.
“fuck—warm,” he breathes, thumb sliding through your slick like salvation. “still warm, you're real.”
he repeats it, barely a whisper. real. real. afraid it might stop being true.
then he’s fumbling his pants down — cock heavy, flushed, the head already wet and twitching. painfully hard. he lines up in one breathless motion. you barely inhale—
and then he’s inside. not slow. not careful. just in.
one brutal thrust, thick cock stretching you wide, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your back arches. your pussy clenches around him, fluttering from the sudden fullness, and he shudders, eyes half shut.
“shit,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. “satoru—”
he pulls back only halfway before slamming in again, deep and messy, hips grinding against yours like he’s chasing something he’s already losing. every drag of his cock scrapes your walls just right, each thrust making your legs tremble around him.
his pelvis grinds your clit with every stroke, heat blooming into something sharp. your head knocks the wall, rhythm caught in the wet slap of flesh.
“can’t—fuck, can’t stop,” he pants, forehead pressed hard to yours. “you feel so—so good—holy shit—” his voice sounds close to breaking.
his cock drives into you with a desperate rhythm, thick and relentless, your slick making it too easy to fuck you deeper, harder. your cunt squeezes around him, soaking, tight, pulling him back in every time he bottoms out.
the air is thick with wet sounds — your pussy squelching, your bodies colliding — as he uses you like you’re the only thing keeping him here.
you feel every inch of him. the way he fills you, stretches you, the blunt head of his cock battering your cervix with each thrust that lands too deep, makes your voice crack.
“fuck—oh my god—satoru—slower—please—”
but you don’t mean it. not when his hand grabs your thigh and hikes it higher, not when his other hand climbs from your stomach to your chest, rough and greedy, thumbs brushing your nipples until they harden under his touch.
“you’re gonna take it,” he growls, voice low and slurred. “gonna take all of it—let me fuck it in deeper—fuck it in good—”
he sounds half possessed, half begging.
your walls clench down, moans spilling louder, wetter, each one driving him to thrust harder. deeper. more. his pace brutalizes the space between you, tries to leave you shaped around him.
you don’t know what the hell happened out there, but this — this feels right. this feels alive.
his cock throbs inside you. you feel it — hips snapping faster, the wet drag of him inside you echoing off the walls.
he buries himself deep, chasing something final.
“you’re mine, you're real,” he groans into your mouth, voice cracking. “mine—fuck—don’t go—don’t go—”
as if he’s already watched you disappear once.
your body’s clenching around him, pussy tightening with each desperate thrust, milking him closer to the edge. your own orgasm builds in heavy waves, still out of reach — but it’s coming.
you can’t breathe. can’t think. just feel. his cock driving into your soaked cunt, clit dragging against his pelvis with every slam, heat building under your skin—
“gonna cum—” he gasps, frantic, hand gripping your ass as he slams in one last time, deep and wrecking —“fuck, i’m cummin'—”
and he spills inside you. hot. thick. endless.
his hips stutter as he fills you up, cock twitching deep, and you feel it flood your insides, dripping between your thighs before he even pulls out. your cunt clenches, still twitching, your own orgasm shuddering behind it.
“fuck—look at me,” you breathe, grabbing his face, and his dazed eyes lock with yours as your pussy spasms around him, squeezing his still hard cock.
“you’re not done,” you whisper, breathless. still trembling. aching. “don’t you dare pull out.”
and he listens. he can’t do anything else. not when your cunt refuses to let him go. not when he’s still buried to the hilt, still leaking into you, still throbbing. not when this is the only place he remembers how to be human.
he doesn’t say a word.
just rocks his hips again, slower now, cock sliding through the mess he left behind — your body soaked, dripping, greedy for more.
and he clings to you, the way only a man who’s died and come back can. desperate, shaken, driven by something deeper than lust — he missed you.
𖹭.ᐟ Gojo Satoru doesn't handle the silent treatment well.
If you ever decided to give Gojo Satoru the silent treatment — be it over a misunderstanding, an argument, or even a fleeting spark of jealousy — you’d quickly realize you may have underestimated just how relentless he could be.
He’d be on you like a curse on cursed energy. Clingy? You thought he was clingy before? No, now he wouldn't let you out of his sight for even a second.
Bathroom breaks? forget peace. A note would slide under the door within two minutes — starting off with a ridiculously detailed doodle of a penis (complete with shading), followed by a little face beside it: “:3”.
Then came in the scribbled apologies:
“Forgive me baby.”
“We’re too pretty to fight like this.”
“Silence hurts me more than your worst words, babe :(”
You tried — really tried — to stay mad. But it was hard when every note got more ridiculous. You found yourself smiling at the crude drawing. You muffled a laugh into a towel.
And though sometimes you sat pretending to read on the couch in order to ignore his presence, your eyes had skimmed the same sentence on that page fifteen times now.
He wasn't giving up. Not Gojo Satoru.
When notes and apologies didn’t work, he escalated. You’d be cooking and suddenly he’d snake his arms around you, pick you up effortlessly, and bury his face in your neck.
“Baby,” he’d whisper, voice low and teasing, “say something. Even a cuss word. I’ll take it.”
Later in the relationship, you got better at resisting. So he got sillier, more persistent. One day you came home to him dressed in an absolutely ridiculous frilly pink dress, poorly applied eyeliner smudged around his eyes.
“Rate my look outta ten, babe.” he'd say with that ridiculous grin all over his face.
But even you had your breaking point. Your ultimate weakness.
And Gojo? ohhh, he knew it.
Like now — you were trying so hard not to give in, standing there with your arms crossed and your mouth a thin, stubborn line. He slipped behind you silently, like the phantom menace he is, and nuzzled his face into your neck. His cologne — soft, clean, expensive and most importantly your favourite, would fill your senses.
His breath tickled your ear.
“I love you,” he whispered, voice gentle this time.
And that was it. The silent treatment died a silent death.
Ace in love with you, wasn’t exactly what you expected. But somehow, you grew used to it anyway.
You got used to the love letters he left when you were going to be apart for a while.
Or rather — the pile of half charred confessions that always smelled like smoke.
That’s what made them very Ace letters. He’d get so excited writing down how much he loved you that he’d accidentally set the paper on fire. And honestly, you never had the heart to complain.
You got used to him eating and talking at the same time, food stuffed in his mouth as he rambled.
“Ace! Chew with your mouth closed — talk after you swallow!”
He’d just grin, scratching the back of his head sheepishly, go quiet for a second… then shove more food into his mouth and continue just as loudly.
It became no surprise that after clearing his plate, he’d glance at yours with those hopeful eyes, silently begging you to say you were full.
And sometimes — even when you weren’t —you’d lie. You’d push the plate toward him just to see that excited, childlike joy light up his face again. Watching him eat like that warmed your heart more than any meal ever could.
You got used to the late night talks when it was cold. You’d curl up beside him, letting his hands warm your body as you spoke excitedly about your plans for the next island you’d dock at, your dream date, your little ideas and stories.
Only to glance over and realize he’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.
You were always this close to shaking him awake. But one look at that peaceful, soft smile — and the frustration melted.
His excuse?
“I just feel so comfortable with you… my eyes get heavy,” he’d say with a lazy grin.
You got used to how competitive he was. How stubborn he could get. Even over playfights.
A pillow fight? He’d swing like it was a final battle, feathers flying until the pillows became more stuffing than fabric.
Tickling? He’d keep going until you were breathless, clutching your stomach and crying from laughter while he shouted some ridiculous victory line.
You got used to how he flirted with you —constantly, shamelessly — but the second you flirted back more boldly, he’d go redder than his flames.
Ears flushed, eyes wide, trying so hard to play it cool as he muttered a flustered, “Shut up…” whenever you teased him for it.
But what you could never quite get used to?
The casual touches.
How he’d drape an arm around you while talking to someone else. How he’d absentmindedly stroke your hair while zoning out, completely unaware of how much it made your heart flutter. It was second nature to him — but for you, it was utterly distracting. Every single time.
You got used to it all. Every side of Ace. Every little quirk. Every flame, every fault, every fire sparked affection.
And most importantly — You fell in love with every single detail of him.
