The Painter's Secret | Gojo Satoru X Reader | Inspired by Painter of the Night
Gojo Satoru is an infamous degenerate known for his wild orgies with men and women willing to do anything for his attention. But what would he do upon discovering that his favorite erotic painter is actually a woman?
author's note: Ladies and gentlemen, this is my first work ever, I am half-asleep as I post this, still healing from my wisdom tooth removal. This chapter is not totally proofread, but I have a pure heart and vow to get better and better with each chapter. BTW, ENGLISH! IS! NOT! MY! FIRST! LANGUAGE! So, sorry for any mistakes, I'll fix it tomorrow. And in the first chapter, we'll have more answers for things. Good night!
content warnings: female!reader, dom!satoru, sub!reader, explicit sexual content, kinda dub-con situations, light bondage, spanking & hair pulling, dacryphilia, praise kink, dirty talk, size difference, marking (love bites/bruises), orgasm control, sensory play, voyeurism (as in painting sex), mirror sex, mutual masturbation, oral sex, vaginal sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare, possessiveness, dark romance, power imbalance, possessive gojo satoru, kinda slow burn, kinda angst, jealousy, mature themes, historical setting (edo period), brothel setting, references to prostitution, debt bondage, period-typical misogyny (not from satoru), violence (not towards the reader), alcohol consumption, gambling, age-appropriate characters (18+).
You were on all fours on the floor; flushed, sweating, and breathing heavily, your back arched. Your wrists and knees burned and ached from the position, yet you ignored them, for the pleasure you felt in that moment was far greater.
The position hit all the right spots: spine in an elegant curve, waist dipped and gripped by large, firm hands. The man possessed a commanding stature, built to dominate any space he entered, strands of hair falling over his broad shoulders as bodies were joined by a member that was large, thick, veiny, and dripping with pre-cum. Bodies intertwined, mouths parted, hands eager, gazes heavy with desire. A lustful scene unfolded before your eyes.
You knew every one of those gestures by heart.
It was strange. After all, you had never taken part in any such scenes, yet you could imagine them with almost indecent precision. You knew exactly where a flush should appear and how a muscle would tense before a touch.
Perhaps because you had grown up surrounded by them. Perhaps because the smell of paint, charcoal, and freshly stretched paper stirred an anticipation in you as familiar as home. Or perhaps because there was something deeply intoxicating about transforming the most secret and hidden desires into art.
You preferred not to think about it too much. It was easier to just keep painting.
The rough paper slid beneath your fingertips, absorbing the ink. The brush obeyed your hand’s every movement, spreading charcoal shadows, delicate outlines, and rosy hues across naked skin that had never existed outside your own mind.
You had finished your latest work—your best work—and could only dream that it would fetch enough to cover the crushing weight of your debt. But it wouldn't be enough, and you knew it.
You would be lying if you said you weren't disappointed about no longer being allowed to paint. But it was a promise—a promise to someone very special—that you intended to keep, even if it meant that, from now on, you would be entirely at the mercy of the brothel owner; perhaps he'd be kind and remember the good times you had shared during your childhood, as well as the comradeship of recent years, when he acted as an intermediary to sell your artworks.
As you came down from the attic, you smelled sandalwood incense burning, gently filling the room with its rich, woody smoke, mingling with the natural scent of wood rising from the tatami mats. The air carried the warm, sweet scents of freshly brewed green tea, warm sake, and appetizing meals. Courtesans used heavy powder cosmetics on their faces and camellia oils in their hair to maintain their intricate hairstyles while they played and entertained clients.
The entire atmosphere was designed to make every customer feel like a king—encouraging them to spend—and, of course, to mask the smell of sex wafting from the rooms.
You made every effort to ignore the lustful thoughts racing through your mind until you finally reached the brothel owner's office—behind that heavy, ornate green door, your destiny awaited you.
Upon opening the door, you found an elderly man with his pale blue eyes and hair to match; he wore a look of intense concentration as he sat hunched over the table, likely working on financial calculations—his favorite pastime.
His furrowed brows softened as he raised his gaze to meet you.
— Oh, my dear, what are you doing here? And bringing a painting with you, have you finally given up on that crazy idea of quitting painting? — His exaggeratedly open body language fostered a relaxed, family-like atmosphere—well, the closest thing to a “family atmosphere” you knew.
— You wish. Actually, I'm here to hand over my last erotic painting. I hope it pays well enough for you to pity me — You pouted as you handed over the painting.
While he examined it with serious concentration, your heart pounded against your ribs, each breath becoming increasingly difficult.
— I thought you were deliberately exaggerating in an attempt to reduce the debt when you said this was your best work, but you really weren't lying — A sly smile began to form on your face — But a mere erotic painting, however incredible, couldn't pay off a lifelong debt like yours — You celebrated too soon; you should be used to it by now, but you always fell for his sweet words.
— Mr. Kashimo, please! For the sake of our long years as coworkers, at least give up part of the interest — You clasped your hands in prayer and tapped your feet rapidly against the floor, just so he would know you weren't exaggerating your desperation.
— I'll think about it, but even so, you'll still have to work for me. We'll discuss your position tomorrow — Your mouth opened and closed, trying to find pleas and promises, yet you knew that when Mr. Kashimo said "tomorrow," he wouldn't listen to another word — For today, let's end on a high note, and answer me this question: where did you see such a man to paint him?
— In the place where I find only beautiful people — You paused long enough for Mr. Kashimo to make the "in here?" gesture — In the realm of dreams, of course.
— Oh God, I’ve lived long enough to see the little girl I raised talk about her lustful dreams — You rolled your eyes at the comment and thought, "Then release the little girl you raised from the debt." — Well, now I can only suggest that you go up to your attic and head off to the land of dreams; you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.
A busy day? What could that possibly mean? In any case, it was best to follow his advice; he wouldn't answer a thing even if you asked him a dozen questions. Besides, you hated spending time at the brothel at night; there were still customers during the day, but nothing compared to the atmosphere of that place after dark.
That night, while you rested, you dreamed you were as free as a bird.
Freedom, right? Yeah, freedom, my ass—you thought as the hot water, infused with herbs and aromatic oils, purified your body. After all, why did the gods fill you with fantasies, hopes, and dreams of freedom, only to strip everything away the very next morning? You couldn't help but think about the answer while the apprentice courtesans scrubbed your skin, as if they wanted to cleanse you of all your sins and give you a new layer of skin.
As your skin turned red and hot, you had an epiphany: you shouldn't blame the gods—you should blame that wretched, greedy bastard, Kashimo Hajime. And to think you used to call him "Grandpa" when you were younger—disgusting nonsense!
Everyone at the brothel knew your stance on becoming a courtesan—absolutely not—yet here you were, being groomed for your "glorious" debut.
You had been taught everything a courtesan-in-training ought to know. Your calligraphy was above average, though your poetry was mediocre; you had a grasp of musical instruments but two left feet when it came to dancing; you enjoyed parlor games but were terrible at the tea ceremony; you understood etiquette but loathed the demands of hospitality. For every courtesan skill you possessed, there was a corresponding weakness.
Now, why did Mr. Kashimo decide you had to do this? You understood that you were beautiful enough for some clients to ask about you now and then, but a courtesan's work relies heavily on personality—and everyone knew yours: outrageously proud, as if you’d been born with a silver spoon in your mouth, even though you were raised in a brothel. There was nothing you could do; it wasn't entirely your fault. After all, it was Mr. Kashimo who gave you every toy you asked for, knowing full well it would add to the debt you didn't even know existed at the time; and it was your older sisters who filled your head with nonsense, telling you never to be like them, never to sell your body for a living, and to be free.
— Girls, please have mercy; you're about to tear my skin off. — You murmured.
— Maybe you do need a new one — said Mimiko with a giggle.
— You definitely need a new one — said Nanako, putting emphasis on “definitely.”
The teasing continued as your “older sisters” helped you with your makeup, covering your back, neck, and face with a thick white paste.
— You know, little sister, I thought you’d be better at makeup, seeing as you’re such a good painter — Meimei said playfully as she finished painting your lips a brilliant red.
Just as you were about to reply, you were interrupted by your other sister. — Please, Meimei, can't you see how stressed our little sister is? If you keep teasing her, she's going to get so cranky that all my clients will want her.
— Don't ever say that again; I don't even want to breathe the same air as your crazy clients who are into women who hate them — You said, feeling Takako pull your hair even tighter—probably a way to make you shut up.
The Wisteria House is one of the most famous and renowned brothels in Yoshiwara, the pleasure district. For high-ranking Lords, idle heirs, and wealthy merchants, it is a place of amusement featuring gambling and the finest liquor—the perfect setting for extramarital affairs with the most beautiful women, adorned with the finest accessories and dressed in the loveliest silk kimonos with intricate patterns.
And tonight, that young woman would be you.
As you paraded through the streets of Yoshiwara in 30-centimeter clogs, accompanied by dozens of assistants, musicians, and apprentices, all you could think about was what a feast of fresh flesh you were to those perverts: if you let your nervousness show, you’d attract the attention of weird old merchants; if you let your anger show, bizarre men like Takako’s clients would ask for you—either way, it was like bleeding in shark-infested waters.
So, with your chin held high and looking down on everyone, you decided to act cold and aloof, intending to make it clear that you were a terrible choice. But of course, even that attracted the attention of men—probably the weirdest kind imaginable.
Besides, what’s the point of trying to drive customers away? It would be easier for Mr. Kashimo to demote you from your rank as an Oiran. Which would mean that before long you’d become a cheap prostitute wandering the streets—and that wasn't what you wanted.
Your eyes wandered the streets as you tried to shake off those thoughts, eventually meeting your sisters' gazes; their eyes were welling up—perhaps from the sadness of being unable to help you in this situation, or maybe from holding back laughter. But that didn't matter now; what mattered was that you couldn't see Mr. Kashimo anywhere. It was impossible that the disgusting old man really lacked the courage to show his face to you all day long.
You only found him after the parade ended. He had a wide grin and a disgustingly happy look on his face, and before you had the chance to curse him out and vow never to forgive him, he shoved you into the room where you were to host your Ageya banquet—with who knows how many clients vying for your attention that day.
To your surprise, upon entering the room, only one client was waiting for you; you barely even noticed his features, as thoughts flooded your mind while you sat down and prepared for the banquet: Why only one client? Were you really that unpopular? Why did Mr. Kashimo look so cheerful when he had likely taken a financial loss on all the preparations and the parade, only to end up with a single client? Was he so heartless that he would be happy when someone's debt to him increased? And then it hit you: the possibility of never being able to pay off your debt…
— You know, I had to pay a fortune to be the only one with the chance to speak to you today, and you won't even look at me.
It was only a moment later that you realized your look of alarm would likely be noticed by your client. You wondered to yourself: how could a man who claims to have a fortune to spend be unfamiliar with the etiquette of high-end Oiran? You could do nothing; you weren't supposed to look at or speak to him.
— You’re a gorgeous woman, but that distant attitude isn't going to appeal to many men. Tell me, if you're subjecting yourself to this, you must be in debt with the owner, right? How do you expect to pay it off with that attitude? — After that provocation, you finally looked at him, the comeback stuck in your throat as you saw the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on.
His snow-white hair was tied neatly back into a thick, high bun. A few loose strands fell in disarray along the sides of his face, framing his sculpted yet provocative features that radiated confidence. His sky-blue eyes gleamed with an almost supernatural intensity in the candlelight, holding you spellbound.
The spell only broke when you laid eyes on those full lips forming a smug, self-satisfied half-smile.
— I know who you are, Mitsunaga Akari-sensei.
While you were thinking about the theatrical performance and the lies you would have to tell, as those words you dreaded hearing fell from his lips, he broke the silence again.
— I want you to be my painter.
author's note again: Don't worry, this is a X Reader work, Mitsunaga Akari is just her male pseudonym to sign her works, bye.
©gojo404 | Do not plagiarise or feed AI with my works. Dividers by @/pixopix.
