♡Jill♡

The silence that rang loudest, however? Their sovereignty. Unlike the other clans—the ones who flaunted their power in an effort to gain others’ favor, such as the Zen’in Clan—, the Gojo Clan ruled over the Jujutsu world with quiet control, holding everyone by a leash.

It was uncommon for Gojo Clan’s leaders to lose their tempers. They wouldn’t engage in extreme political battles until they deemed the situation necessary, which was very unlikely. They had a habit of letting a situation simmer until they could swoop in and take what they wanted; they’d release curses and their strongest sorcerers—their strongest. No one wanted to waste their time for a futile thing. No one wanted to waste their time trying to rebel against them. Why would they? Even the most vile of humanity valued their lives far too much for any brutal death the clan could offer.

It was concerning, to say the least. The idea that a single clan could hold so much authority over those who considered themselves on the same level wasn’t one people could easily wrap their heads around. Being treated like animals wasn’t something those fools could comprehend.

You were only a kid when you entered the clan; to them, you had the potential to be a lovely, devoteful servant. To be led along like a lamb to the slaughter and serve.

Maybe that’s what made you easy. You were a child: naive and ignorant. You didn’t know what it meant when they dragged you by a chain into the melancholy clan. You just obeyed, and the clan liked that. If only…

Oh, well. Your compliance is what led you here—a simple servant among the Gojo family—, and you’d rather have a purpose here than none. The Gojo Clan didn’t take lightly to slackers working for them. You carried your weight and then some.

You were a servant. A lesser-being in the presence of deities.

And you were content with that.

It was monotonous, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? You woke up, got dressed, groomed yourself (and bathed yourself, if you were lucky), and went along with your daily chores. You’d occasionally chat with your colleagues about mundane things such as the weather before the conversation slowly fizzled out. But this life was better than nothing. They told you that. You believed it. They gave you no reason to believe otherwise.

As much as you’d hate to admit it, the clan probably saved you from a mundane, agonizing life filled with sorrow. At least here, you were worth something.

You are worth something.

Years went by. You weren’t the same naive seven-year-old boy who never questioned why all the ‘games’ you played with the adults were bowing to the elders and sweeping floors. Now, you are aware of your purpose. You are okay with it.

You are.

“Servant.”

You perked up at the call. No one knows the names of the servants, so why would they know yours? It was always the people beckoning ‘servant’, and the nearest one would respond.

You’re alone here.

Politely, oh-so-politely, you bowed in the direction of the voice, your hands tucked down. Looking up isn’t allowed, as it’s disrespectful. “Yes?” You question, your voice laced with an exhaustion that was noticed in every servant.

“The audience hall needs attending,” they respond. The voice was stern and gravelly, yet weary and stoic. It’s definitely Nakano. Only his voice is so distinct and defined. “Second floor.”

“Right away.” You don’t lift your body from the bow until you hear him walk past you, his footsteps thudding against the wooden floorboards until you can’t distinguish them with the occasional creaks of the walls.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted yourself with a straight back.

Your steps were even and measured as you walked to the audience hall. This hall was a small one, though you heard from murmurs that there was a gathering occurring in that room. You weren’t too concerned, however. If you blend into the background, then no one would care for your presence.

Your hands adjusted the mask on your head, ensuring it wouldn’t slip off as you went through with your duties. All servants adorned them on their faces to keep anonymity. You never questioned why the servants would need to retain their anonymous personas as servants. It’s not like they were ever needed. Still, you wore it without complaints. It was a standard protocol, you told yourself. Part of the uniform.

The masks of all the servants were wooden and painted white. From a distance, one could mistake a servant for a cryptid under the guise of a human. You couldn’t blame them. You thought so, too. When you were younger, the other servants who took care of you also wore them. Their masks made them appear sickly and pale. You imagined their faces underneath to be the same: hollowed cheeks with drooping eyes and no emotion. With the masks, you could never read how they were feeling. Their body language was limited except for the stiff bow and polite nod given to authority figures as they passed through the halls.

How ironic that you do the same. Maybe that’s why they wore them.

So no one would know what they were thinking. Why would they need to know?

You reached the audience hall.

With tentative hands, you opened the doors with intricate designs, slipping inside and closing it behind you. You took in your surroundings immediately. It’s a habit you’ve gained over the years. You wouldn’t want to interrupt something important, would you? That’s not befitting of a servant. Especially one of your status amongst them.

A few important figures of the clan’s leadership were standing in an organized manner around the elevated portion of the stage. A figure was on the elevated floor, speaking while sitting languidly on a pillow. You didn’t spare him a second glance, but his voice was loud and clear. He sounds arrogant, you thought, though you quickly pushed the thought away. You can’t think of such things towards people above you. It’s rude and, frankly, out of character for you.

Still, you couldn’t deny how… demeaning he was. You were barely listening, as you didn’t have any right to, but occasional words and phrases slipped through your wooden mask. Trashy, he said. Stupid, old, idiots, selfish, weak…

He was right, of course. Most of the people here are manipulative for their own personal gain, but why would everyone bother listening to someone like him? He’s just insulting everyone.

You decided you didn’t care enough to think about it any longer.

‘Attending,’ Nakano said. Honestly, you didn’t know what that entailed. But by the looks of the few other servants offering snacks to the crowd, you had a feeling ‘attending’ was synonymous with ‘serve’.

Or ‘deal with’.

Being as calm as you could be, you walked to the back of the room. The sound of the man talking was muffled. Your mask blocked out a majority of the noise around you except for the sound of your soft breathing hitting the wood. You were calm. There were trays of food in the back, each placed with intent. Too perfect and symmetrical. Mimicking a few of the other servants, you gathered a tray with a few appetizers.

Your footsteps felt heavy. You were unsure as to why you felt so nervous. You’ve done this before. But the atmosphere was too tense and heavy for a regular meeting. The way the figure on the stage was talking, the way the nobles in the crowd looked angry yet refused to do anything, simply clutching their fists…

You were calm.

You maneuvered through different people in the crowd, arms stretched out to offer with your head bowed to display your humility. You’d occasionally stop by a person. Either they’d pluck a morsel from the tray and eat it without sparing a glance, or they’d pretend like they didn’t see you, focusing on the figure on stage, leaving you to wait like a dog for their attention before walking away when realizing it was futile, your tail tucked between your legs.

How embarrassing.

You continued this until the man on the stage stopped talking. When he sighed dramatically, everyone took it as a sign to leave. Some muttered curses under their breath, others blatantly insulted the speaker’s crass language. Maybe they didn’t want to be here.

The moment the last person left, the servants—you included—relaxed their arms, letting the trays drop to their waist-level. Everyone felt limp and dead.

The other servants walked back to set the trays down and clear everything out. It was time to clear the room for its next use. The tablecloths needed to be folded, the tables needed to be moved and rearranged to their proper spots. Some were already clearing off empty trays with only crumbles.

You took a step, ready to do the same. After all, you’ve spent years climbing the ranks to become head servant. It’s best to set a good example for the new people who only joined—

“Hey, servant.”

The voice was casual. Teasing, almost, if you really strained your ear.

A few of the other servants turned to the call. You did, too. Instinct. Like dogs trained for years. How pathetic.

Through the holes of your white mask, you could see him: the speaker.

White hair was the first thing you noticed. It was stark against the rich brown takamakura he rested his head on—white hair was an unnatural color, even in a place as marvelous as the Gojo Clan. He was sprawled flat on his back, one leg propped up.

His teeth were bared in a smile. Lazy and sly like a fox.

“Yeah, you. C’mere.” He barely lifted his hand from the ground to beckon you forward.

Oh, he was referring to you specifically. How interesting.

You were nothing but obedient. Rearranging the tray on your body, you stepped closer. Your shadow cast against his pale, smooth skin. He had no blemishes, which wasn’t entirely uncommon among people the Gojo Clan considered worth protecting more than others. While some of the sorcerers had prominent scarring on their bodies, a testament to their power, others looked like porcelain dolls without a crack. Shielded more than others, you supposed. Important.

“Feed me,” he commanded, his eyes narrowing. His smile never wavered. “I want those sweet tarts on your tray.”

He was just as impolite as before.

But oh, his eyes.

They held the ocean inside of them. You were grateful for the mask resting upon your face. You looked foolish, with your own eyes wide in awe, your lips pulled apart in a quiet gasp that was a disgrace to your station.

They were vibrant and full of a life you wish you could’ve had. The waves of the East Sea crashed against his pupils like the tide giving the shore a fleeting kiss before receding with haunting memories of something far too important. The clouds swirled like watercolor’s white; an angel’s wings glowing uncomfortably bright, overwhelming yet not nearly enough.

He was beautiful.

And you just openly stared.

Foolish.

“I ain’t got all day. I get it, I’m pretty, but multitask.”

You blinked and shook your head slightly. Ah, he was still waiting. Right. You need to do your job. As intended. As your purpose. Despite how weird the request was. Especially despite how weird his request was.

He was definitely around your age, perhaps a bit older. You’ve only fed children, not arrogant brats like him.

You sighed internally. You really needed to get yourself together.

Gently, you set the tray down next to his head and crouched down, your knees popping. Your body ached, and your muscles were sore, but you’d be able to rest soon. Or so you’ve been told many times before. You let yourself believe it like an idiot every time.

Your legs relaxed against the wooden floor when they finally had support. You don’t sit on the elevated part of the floor; that’s forbidden for servants. You’re beneath him, and you should show it in every way possible, when possible. (Not if possible, because it’s always possible.)

You plucked a tart from the tray and held it out, letting it hover over his mouth. He didn’t open it at first, just stared at the sweet treat above him, observing it. Then he opened his mouth wide.

You placed the tart into his mouth and pulled it away.

He closed. Chewed deliberately. Paused, as if contemplating whether or not the tarts were worth his time. Then opened his mouth again. I want another one, he seemed to say silently, looking at you expectantly. Like hesitating for a second was outrageous behavior when it came to feeding him like a cat.

How rude.

Both of you continued this for a while. It was a peculiar scene. You’d grab a treat, hold it above his mouth, and he’d eventually open his mouth and let you plop it in. He’d chew—this time with more haste, as now he knew they were to his liking—and open his mouth wide again.

His eyes were always on you. It was unnerving to say the least, but you did your job nonetheless until the tray was empty.

He didn’t notice at first, just staring at you without blinking. Then he processed that you weren’t feeding him and glanced at the now-empty tray, his head lifting barely.

“Get more,” he ordered, his neck relaxing again.

You looked around. The other servants from earlier were still there, cleaning the room. They hadn’t glanced towards the two of you: the head servant feeding an important figure of the Gojo Clan. But the tension felt high for some reason. It always was in the clan.

Some more platters were still on the table, but there weren’t any of the same sweets you fed him earlier. They were already cleared out by the other servants, and this was the last tray you grabbed.

You turned back to the figure and shook your head.

He huffed. “Hah?” His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you could tell he was starting to get annoyed. “I said get more, or are ya’ pretending to be deaf?” His lips jutted out slightly in a pout, and you couldn’t keep a grin from creeping onto your face. You caught yourself and pursed them. What are you doing, smiling at his reaction?

You weren’t permitted to speak. You haven’t spoken more than a few words in three days. So you just shook your head again, pointed to the tray, pointed to the table at the far end of the room, and shook your head again.

He still didn’t get it. You could tell with the way his head angled more towards you, the way he squinted as if that’d help him figure out your signals. He muttered, “god, do I still have to do this?” under his breath, agitated. He cleared his throat too loudly. “Speak,” he commanded, but it sounded more like a request. Like you were given a choice. But you know better.

“There aren’t any of the same sweets you wanted at the table,” you answered immediately, clearing your throat as well. You needed water. Your voice was hoarse. “Would you like me to request the kitchen to make you more?” you offered. It was a common rule in the daimyo castle: don’t refuse without offering an alternative solution.

He stuck his tongue out childishly and made a “blah” sound as he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. ‘S too much effort.” You already felt like you had an idea on what this guy was like. Lazy, arrogant, cocky, and got everything in life on a platter. Sweets included.

Just like everyone else here.

You nodded. You were finished talking.

Now you just need him to dismiss—

“You a guy?”

You focused on him again. Huh?

“Most of the servants here are girls,” he commented casually, his eyes still on you. How long has he been staring? Has he even blinked? “Not many guys, considering the patriarchy.”

“Oh.” You hummed. He was making conversation? “Yes, I’m a guy.”

“Weird.”

No shame.

“You’re pretty lame,” he observed, his eyes travelling up and down your body with a calculating gaze, yet his mouth kept that lazy grin. “And quiet.”

You didn’t respond. You weren’t allowed to. You were earlier, but not now.

He waited a few seconds, the quiet enveloping the two of you before he groaned, lifting his arms to rub his face. “You can talk, geez. I don’t want to keep repeating that command over and over again like some record.”

This was… new.

“Forgive me.” You bowed your head.

He groaned again. “Stop apologizing. It’s making you more lame.”

You opened your mouth to apologize. Then closed it. Hm.

Sighing dramatically, he used his arms to push himself upright. Your gaze followed his face, which was contorted into what can only be described as boredom. “How boring…” he mumbled, proving your earlier thought. His slender hands reached and rubbed his eyes. He looked agitated.

You were still sitting on the floor, your knees aching against the wood, waiting for him to dismiss you.

“Massage my head.”

You didn’t sigh. You wished you could. But you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t.

Instead of pondering on what you would do later, your thoughts traveled to how to approach the command given to you. You’re not permitted on the elevated portion of the room, yet that’s where he is.

Perhaps you were thinking too long, because he groaned, albeit this time louder in a way meant to grab attention. He liked attention, you assumed, even if you knew you weren’t supposed to assume. “Are you slow? What’s the holdup?”

“I’m not allowed on that portion of the room—“

“I don’t care. Get up here and massage my head.”

You did as you were told. You always do.

As you crawled onto the higher floor, he sat up and swatted the takamakura away, letting it slide and clatter before bumping into a wall. It was expensive; he doesn’t have to worry about money, you concluded.

You sat behind him, your legs pressed together neatly. He was tall, even when he leaned back with his arms propping himself upright. Just massage him even if it’s weird, you told yourself. Just massage—

He pulled his arms back and plopped his head into your lap.

Well.

“Mm…” he whined and nuzzled into your thigh, and for the second time, your breathing hitched, and you let yourself freeze instead of listening to the commands given to you. “You’re oddly warm. It’s usually freezing here.”

“U-Uhm…” you stammered. Actually stammered instead of giving a straight answer. You hesitated. You’re not supposed to hesitate.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the mask’s old wood. “I have been told I have a naturally warm body temperature.” You spoke without adding anything meaningful to the exchange. It’s unlike you. It’s strange. It’s not normal. Why are you talking?

But he just laughed and sighed with content. Too comfortable, resting his head on a servant’s lap in the Gojo Clan—a man, no less. “Massage, please,” he asked again, but he didn’t sound upset with having to repeat himself. “Scalp,” he clarified.

Your hands, rough with calluses—all from chores and housework—began to work themselves through his hair, scratching the crown before working downwards. His hair felt like the silk many adorned themselves with. The position was awkward for your hands, but you could work with it. You always do.

He sighed, a faint smile slowly growing on his face. It was a bit embarrassing, actually. A few of the remaining servants barely glanced at the scene; the masks made it hard to tell, thank goodness. But if they were looking, you know they’d be uncomfortable with the situation. Not that they’d voice it out loud.

“Your hands’re… good at this,” he slurred. His eyes that held the sky closed. He was relaxed. His speech was still informal, you noticed. It’s been like that throughout the entire interaction, but you found yourself focusing on it more than you should’ve. More than what was appropriate.

“More,” he begged. Begged. Maybe he was begging. But why would anyone beg for something from you? Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe his words were just getting to you.

The heat underneath the mask was unbearable. Were you seriously this flushed over a man finding your massage good?

You’ve massaged others before when you were still training under the other servants. They were considered lower-class assignments, often given to the inexperienced ones; seniority still applied among servants (because the irony was bitter, how unimportant figures could continue to divide themselves). You shouldn’t be this affected by someone saying your massage was good, not mentioning the fact that he shouldn’t be complimenting you in the first place.

Maybe he wanted you to be offended because this task was supposed to be given to new servants. Maybe that’s why.

But god, you really didn’t feel offended. That’s probably worse.

His eyes snapped open, yanking you out of your curiosity regarding his demeanor, and he seemed to stare through your mask. He grinned, like he could see how flustered you were through the pale wood that concealed everything it was meant to conceal. “Why don’t you do this more often?” He questioned. “Your hands are great for this.”

You didn’t respond. Not because you weren’t told to. He said you could talk whenever.

No, you just didn’t know how.

At your prolonged silence—that was entirely out of character, considering all servants should respond when spoken to—, he laughed again. It was unguarded and unfiltered: just a light chuckle that sounded like the clouds. “So good… perfect.” The way he purred the last word was filthy.

Your hands never stopped moving. You wouldn’t let them. Because you were ordered to, you told yourself. No ulterior motive. Not because the praise made you feel something you haven’t felt in years.

It was strange how the world seemed to have come to this. First, Nakano ordered you to serve small platters to a few people. Now you were massaging a man’s head while he whined and furrowed his head into your lap. He was definitely messing with you.

“You can stop now.”

You pulled away like his snow-white hair burned you.

He didn’t get off your lap, though. Just stared at your mask. He was observing you. “You should take it off,” he said, a slender finger pointing to your mask, and you could’ve sworn his fingertips brushed the grainy texture. “I don’t like it.”

You faltered. “That’s not allowed,” you said calmly. Your heart rang like a caged dove. “I would be punished.” You instinctively reached and adjusted your mask against your face.

“Are you ugly?” Too blunt.

“That’s an opinion; I don’t know.”

“That is—“ he finally poked the mask, right where your forehead would be— “what an ugly person would say.” No one’s ever touched you so brazenly before, even if it was just your mask.

Then again, this guy is resting his head on your lap.

“I suppose so,” you replied. What else was there to say?

The man pouted, and suddenly his beauty evaporated once more into a sort of cute childishness. Cute. Him. Man, you must’ve been losing your mind. But his lips looked so… soft. Fragile.

But he didn’t get the chance to respond, as the doors to the audience hall opened abruptly.

Speak of the devil, it’s Nakano.

“Satoru,” he snapped, walking over to the stage with a presence that every servant in the vicinity noticed. They bowed.

You couldn’t stand up and do the same. You felt ashamed.

The man on your lap huffed, rolling his eyes with disrespect staining his skin. Nakano pretended not to notice, but his eyes twitched with irritation. “The elders have been looking for you. They wanted to… discuss the attitude you gave during your meeting.”

“More like scold me for being honest,” the man complained. Or Satoru, apparently. “I already know what they’ll say, so can I skip it?”

Nanako didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze traveled to you. You immediately bowed your head to ensure your eyes didn’t meet his. In an instant, you were aware of everything: the way Satoru’s head rested upon your lap—to intimately—, the way you were on the stage reserved for those of higher status, the way—

“And you, servant,” Nanako announced, his gaze pinning you to the wall like knives, “are bold to be sitting there, touching him so intimately.” It’s as if he knew what you were thinking. “Know your place, and get the hell—“

“Leave him,” Satoru said leisurely, his voice too calm for the tension. “I asked him to be here.”

“The servants shouldn’t touch you unless they’re bathing or grooming you.”

“He was massaging my hair,” Satoru argued, though the smile on his face showed that he didn’t really care about defending your actions. “That’s grooming, right?”

“It’s inappropriate,” Nanako continued, ignoring Satoru’s refute. “Especially in public where anyone could enter and see. The elders are already irritated with your behavior today; they’ll be furious.” For a second, you could’ve sworn Nanako’s voice softened at the end.

“Cease this immediately,” Nanako finished. “You’re already on thin ice.”

“Whatever,” Satoru grumbled, though he didn’t get off of you. It’s surprising to you that this Satoru hasn’t lost his head with his attitude.

“Get off.” Nanako’s definitely referring to you. “Leave to your quarters.”

You scrambled back to your feet, wincing when Satoru’s head hit the floor suddenly. He sat up and rubbed his head, but you were already scurrying out of the room in a hurry; an apology was the last thing you had in mind. The other servants could manage clearing the room. You just needed to leave.

You felt hot.

And all you could’ve focused on was the way he shifted on your lap.

God, you were fucked.

You pushed the memory out.

It was the safer option. You didn’t want to think about it.

Praise was a luxury. You don’t need it. You didn’t need it right now.

You want it, but you don’t need it.

It doesn’t mean much to you, anyways. Satoru probably forgot about you at this point. There’s no point in dwelling on the subject.

…How pitiful.

But despite what you told yourself, you put it upon yourself to do research. Not because you cared, heavens no—why would you care? The praise was nothing to you—, but because the whole interaction was too strange to ignore, even if you were above such things: a man so cocky and arrogant being allowed to give a speech saying how worthless everyone was? And they were forced to listen without complaining midway? Not only that, but he was clearly important. With the way he spoke to Nakano as if he were beneath him. And you weren’t punished on a whim when you got on the elevated floor and touched Satoru. If it were a regular day, you would’ve been struck immediately and left with bruises for days. Such instances have happened before when you were still learning. Yet Nakano left you unharmed. You had a feeling it was because of him, but you didn’t have proof.

You’d find proof.

Because you were curious. Nothing else at all. It was not because of the way he talked to you, his voice grating, yet the way he spoke—his praise—was like water against the shore. It wasn’t because his eyes were warm yet mirrored the ice that froze on rooftops during winter, a living paradox of the soul.

Of course not.

Curiosity. That’s it.

Being the head servant, you had a few privileges. That included cleaning places others can’t. ‘An honor,’ they said, but you knew what it was. Just another way to make you quiet while cleaning. Still, you never complained. You never complained when they showed you the vast library in the daimyo castle, ordering you to clean ‘every last bookshelf until this place is brand new’. Or when they led you to the basement full of rotting bodies and mold to polish up, as the smell was starting to become unbearable above.

You never complained. Not once.

In fact, right now? You were grateful.

The Archives were a series of rooms that were interconnected between themselves. Each section contained varying information, whether it be mundane objects or cursed artifacts, whether it be figures from previous bloodlines that have then since vanished, including those who have served and those who have killed. It even contained those from the Heian Era, which most considered overkill. Why would a clan as powerful as the Gojo Clan need records on members from eons ago? It was simple, really.

This is why the Gojo Clan was so powerful: one could compare different bloodlines and branches of the clan and trace lineages back before their time. It was for tactics, for strategy, for safety.

But it was restricted to everyone except for the elders of the clan.

And except you.

Lucky boy.

You waited patiently over the next few weeks. You did your duties as you were told, you bowed for three seconds before standing up when elders and nobility passed you, you washed your hands every other hour, so no one would have the right to say you were too disgusting to touch them. You did your job as you were always expected to. From the moment you were brought into the clan. You’re nothing but obedient.

Then someone asked you to clean.

You’re nothing but obedient.

Your hands trailed along the dusty paper, feeling the edges graze the pad of your fingers, as if teasing you with the mockery of a paper cut against your skin. The shelves towered over you, casting blocky shadows against the wooden floorboards. You took it all in.

The earth outside was raging in agony. The clouds’ tears plummeted down against the daimyo castle’s roofs, each echoing in the large room. Your breath was hot as it hit your face—a courtesy of the mask—, making the already stuffy room a bit hotter than before. But you’d have to bear with it.

Despite being in use for generations, they were arranged methodically to this day. The elders refused to let anything out of order, including files from before their great-grandparents were born. The top of the shelves held names lost to the passage of time from previous eras, and the names near the bottom were more recent. Left to right they were arranged alphabetically, down to the last letter.

Judging how Satoru’s name was constantly said with irritation, it was safe to assume his name wasn’t lost to the passage of time.

Walking along the edges of the shelves, you occasionally checked the first file in the row, peeling back the stained paper until you reached the ‘S’ section.

You were lucky his name started with ‘Sa’: those were in the front few, so it was an easy search from there.

You plucked his pages out. There were a lot more than you’d think. By the time you fished them all out, there were a good twenty pages. They seemed quite recent in updates compared to the others, whose papers were already starting to gain foxing stains from their old age. No doubt the elders kept track of his whereabouts more methodically, as the paper was organized with dates and notes scrawled in the margins.

You merely skimmed the pages, really, confirming that this was, in fact, Satoru Gojo.

You didn’t think he’d be much.

But, oh, he was so much more.

Full Name: Satoru Gojo

Title: Heir to Gojo Clan

Cursed Technique[s]: Six Eyes, Limitless, Lapse—

You dropped the pages, letting them scatter across the floorboards in a terrible mess like waves over the ocean’s surface; order had been broken.

First, your brain was silent, processing everything. Slowly and carefully, not missing a single detail. Letting them sink into your veins.

Then it hit you.

Oh, dear. You thought the heir to the Gojo Clan was a brat. Multiple times.

It made a lot more sense now, annoyingly so. The way everyone bowed to him out of obligation rather than respect? The way they sat through meetings and took every insult?

He was the first Six Eyes user in centuries. His presence demanded respect. He was glory sculpted from flesh and marble.

He was god.

Swallowing back your fear (and saliva), you gained enough courage to crouch—your legs were shaky, and you almost collapsed right there in the middle of the Archives—and picked the first page you could see in your view. With your trembling hands, you grasped it and held it to the dim candlelight on the walls. The light made everything clear. You needed to know.

Unable to find suitable maiden, seems uninterested

Has voiced recent intrigue in servant #19—

“Hah? Isn’t this place restricted?”

You swiveled around.

Hair as white as snow.

You stood up and bowed.

“Forgive me,” you said, feeling out of breath. The adrenaline was getting to you. He was getting to you. “I was ordered to clean this area.” He was getting into your head.

“More like snoop,” he retorted, chuckling. You could picture his irritating smile. Though, he didn’t sound upset despite you obviously looking through things you shouldn’t have been. “Those’re my files,” he commented, and you knew his gaze was taking in the scattered papers across the wooden floorboards.

Your grip on the single paper tightened. The crinkles from its weariness drowned out the patter of rain outside, awfully loud in the claustrophobic atmosphere. “Yes,” you muttered. Your mask was suffocating. “I was curious of who you were.” You cleared your throat. “Forgive me,” you begged again.

“Could’ve asked me ‘bout who I am.” Satoru smiled. You could hear it in his voice. “Instead, you’re sneaking around like a mouse.”

You didn’t argue and say you were told to clean, which was the truth, albeit stretched. You didn’t let an easy lie slip from between your cracked lips, saying the papers fell onto the floor, and you were picking them up. You’ve spoken too much. You’ve done too much.

He walked closer. His footsteps were soft against the wood. Only their creaking signaled his movement towards you. Towards you.

“I don’t know much about you, though,” he mused. “Seems unfair, huh, stalker?”

Stalker?

You broke your bow and stood up straight again. He loomed over you, just as the shelves that beckoned you closer with every wisp of paper. “I’m not a stalker,” you whispered. Trying to convince yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he purred. “Especially with how you're looking at me right now.” And now you knew he could see you. All of you.

“It’s polite to make eye contact while talking to someone.” The excuse falls flat to even your ears. Because you both know servants aren’t supposed to stare, they aren’t supposed to look, they aren’t supposed to think. But here you are, staring at the sky in his eyes, looking at all of him, thinking about him.

He could’ve called out your deflection right then and there, could’ve punished you severely.

But he just smiled his aggravating smile. “Maybe.” He leaned down close. Closer than what should’ve been. His eyes glowed in the dim light of the room, grabbing everything’s attention. Your attention. “But maybe not.”

The mask was suffocating. Your breath was too hot. Too hot for comfort in this stuffy, stupid—

“Concentrate on me.”

Satoru was a bold, bold man.

He took another step closer, pushing you farther and farther backwards until—

Thud!

Your back was up against the shelf. The wood groaned in protest, threatening to fall onto you. You wish it would. The shelves pushed back at you.

The devil danced in his gorgeous eyes. “For a fan, you’re a bit too scared.”

You didn’t trust yourself to say anything. You’re definitely scared.

“I-I’m not a fan—“

“Wanna massage my hair again?” He asked abruptly, changing the subject just like that. Because he controlled this conversation. He leaned down closer. Closer, closer, and closer. “I’m afraid my hair’s a bit greasy, and it could use some help.” He paused for a second. “Maybe you could bathe me?” Closer. Like he wanted to see your eyes through the holes of your mask. “Dry my hair?”

“I-I don’t—“

It’s too hot down here in the Archives.

“Your fingers were just so good on me,” he drawled. Then he laughed. Mischievous. “I couldn’t stop thinking about them.”

You swallowed. Your face is hot.

“Oh, you like it when I say that?”

Damn him and his Six Eyes. Damn every Six Eyes user there was.

His arms were pinning you against the shelf. When did they get there?

“This is…” you trailed off. You didn’t know what else to say. “…wrong,” you finally finished. You didn't know what was wrong. Only that this was wrong. It was wrong, and you told him that. Even if you were just a servant to him.

His eyes narrowed. Not angrily, like you were something he needed to break. With something else in his eyes, like you were something he wanted to break up and observe. You tilted your head down to stare at the ground rather than his illuminating irises, noting the color of his kimono in the poor lighting: a color that reminded you of the moon.

His arms enclosed around you before gently resting his elbows on your shoulders, wrapped loosely around your neck. Forcing you closer to him.

Closer, closer, closer.

It was lazy, almost. The way his fingers played with your hair, mock-twirling it around his finger before grasping onto a lock and tugging it. You squeaked—embarrassingly so—before he tugged harder and forced you to look at him.

Bright eyes, you thought. That was always your first thought, even through the mask’s limited gaze. The next was beautiful.

“Do you like it when I tug here?” He questioned, his breath hitting the top of your head. He tugged again.

You whined. It was breathy against your mask.

“Good.”

THUD!

The shelves screamed again, full of torment.

You pried your eyes away from his eyes and looked up. Through the holes on your mask, you could see boxes and boxes of files tumbling down. They descended closer and closer and——

You closed your eyes and looked down, your arms—which were earlier stagnant—wrapping around your head as if to protect yourself. Satoru’s file, earlier gripped in your hand, glided across the floor to reunite with the others.

The boxes clattered around aimlessly, the sound echoing through the room.

They never hit you.

The warmth of arms was around you. It enveloped you. You felt lighter, even. Like you could feel everything and nothing at the same time. Like you were being pulled apart yet pushed together.

Satoru’s arms were warm. They enveloped you.

He snickered. “Wow, things just fall around you, huh?” His arms fell away from you, and the pulled-pushed feeling drifted with him. “You cursed or something?”

Oh god, you messed up badly. This was a violation in every sense, every rule book, every statement.

The patter of footsteps finally hit you, and barged in a few servants, no doubt drawn in by the noise. “What happened?!” one screamed, seemingly out of breath. They ran, you concluded, though you did notice their lack of respect.

You couldn’t be talking.

Satoru smiled so charmingly, you could’ve sworn they almost ignored the state of the Archives. “Just a small accident,” he declared. “We’re okay.”

You were breathing heavily, and the awful dread was slowly settling on your shoulders, just like his arms earlier. You didn’t have words that could describe all you’ve done. You lied, you snooped, and you’ve made a total mess of the—

“What happened to the Archives?!”

—the Archives.

Satoru chuckled, his teeth bared out in a way that felt comforting yet threatening. Like he was taking up too much space with his charisma. “I just said what it was: an accident.” He didn’t even bother facing the servants; that’s beneath him. However, he faced you the entire time, his eyes narrowing in your direction—a silent ‘shut up’ left unspoken between you two. His hand reached and grasped your shoulder, making you flinch, standing straighter despite the pain in your back. “He was just cleaning, and a bunch of boxes fell.” The lie was easy from his lips. You wished you did that earlier. “I came and checked if he was okay.” If you lied, you wouldn’t be here right now.

But you were here. So you nodded. You didn’t speak.

Satoru’s hand stayed on your shoulder.

The servants surveyed the damage to its full extent: there were boxes everywhere, papers everywhere, and both you and Satoru were in the center of it all like a symbolic ritual. It was hard to believe Satoru, really.

“Well…” the servant trailed off. But could they really afford to not believe him?

“Clean it up,” Satoru ordered, cutting off any chance the servants had of disobeying. The servants didn’t hesitate. Their doubt wouldn’t lead to their demise, they wouldn’t allow it.

It was pure instinct that you went to do the same—that you pulled away from Satoru with the intent of crouching to pick up the papers, to organize them in the fallen boxes, to fix your mistake from your insolence—, as that’s how you were raised since the beginning of your pitiful life, but the Six Eyes user tightened his grasp on your shoulder, his fingers wrinkling your smoothed kimono.

“Not you,” he drawled out, grinning. Sharp teeth, you noticed. “No, you still seem a bit… shaken.”

You swallowed. “Forgive me for—“

“Ah-ah-ah,” he tutted, though adjustment danced in his gaze. “What’d I say about the apologizing?” His tone was mocking, yet playful. Too informal. You’re not used to this.

And God, you hated how he mentioned that apologizing. You wished he would never mention that day. That’s why you’re in this situation.

“Let’s go elsewhere,” Satoru suggested, his hand falling from your shoulder for his finger to trail down your arm, tracing the faint patterns in the fabric. When his hand reached your wrist, his fingers encircled it. Not harshly like the other members of the Gojo clan when you disobeyed as a child. No, this was a loose grasp of only two fingers, the kind that lovers used when begging the other to stay. The kind that was clearly not intended to make you stay, but to make you want to stay.

But you felt more trapped than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

“You still look so stressed,” he noted. He leaned down, his face too close to yours. “That must’ve been scary, right?” Great, now he was baby-talking to you.

“I-I’m fine, sir,” you choked out. The mask was still too hot, too suffocating. “I’d like to help after my mistakes.” You bow stiffly; your hand is raised because he’s still holding it. You shouldn’t move your hand away because that’s not what servants do. Servants take it.

There’s the crinkle and rustle of paper that echoed in the room. The servants were cleaning up. You should’ve been cleaning up. But you weren’t.

Because Satoru wouldn’t let you leave. He just smiled at you while you remained bowing, waiting for a dismissal that would never arrive.

“I said let’s go,” he repeated, and you had a feeling he hated saying something twice. You weren’t even looking at him through your mask’s holes, but you felt afraid. Fear was a normal emotion in the Gojo Clan, but this time felt different. Like your stomach was being ripped out and torn to bits, leaving a vacant hole filled with dread.

You’re a servant; you obey.

“Of course.”

“You can rise.”

You looked up. He was still smiling. Satoru’s one hand still kept a grip on your wrist. His other hand traced along your jaw before grabbing your chin.

“My hair’s greasy. Let’s go wash it.” It was strange for him to say, as he looked at you with such endearing eyes—there was no way he meant it. You weren’t that naive.

“Let’s go.” He tugged you along, and you didn’t resist. When you and him exited the Archives, Satoru closed the doors behind him, leaving the other servants in the dark.

The bathing chambers weren’t rooms you entered often.

On the rare occasions that you were assigned to the bathing chambers, it was always for mundane things: gather items for those that refused to leave the calming water, cater to their very needs and desires before they had to ask you twice, ensure that the area was clean afterwards when everyone retired for the day.

Not to mention you’ve never even entered private bathing chambers, as they were reserved for those of the highest levels in the hierarchy and, therefore, not seen as often in the daimyo castle. Not only that, but many who did have private bath chambers in the first place had their own bathing attendants to take care of their every need. The attendants would wash their skin with the utmost care, would ensure the water was just right, and would ensure everything was perfect for someone of their status.

Head servants such as yourself did more of the organizing, the ordering, the catering and fulfilling of less personal tasks. You ensured that the servants under your section were where they were meant to be, when they were meant to be there. You took attendance of everyone, you reported servants who disobeyed and didn’t flinch when they were punished in front of you—how ironic, considering your current situation, entangled with a Six Eyes user.

You weren’t a bathing attendant. You did not wash anyone’s skin.

You weren’t Satoru’s bathing attendant. You did not wash Satoru’s skin.

You shouldn’t even be in his presence.

Yet…

After the episode in the Archives, he led you to his private bathing chamber as requested, his hand still grasping your wrist lightly like it was a leash—which it practically was, as he’d tug on it every once in a while as you both wandered the hallways, like urging you to focus on him silently. He told you to sit near the door and wait patiently. “Like a good boy,” he said before he changed into his robe and gathered his favorite oils for his bath that you would be attending. Because you had to wash his hair specifically. According to who, exactly? To him. And you were okay with it you’re nothing but obedient.

You complained internally that he was always in your head before the Archives. Now? You preferred it when he was just in your head. He was making things too complicated, making you feel things you never thought you’d be able to feel before. He was making you feel too much. That was a problem

That was a problem.

And when he called for you to enter—there was a cheerful glint to his voice, almost like he won something—, he was already seated in the tub, his body on display and surrounded by steam and water: something meant to be worshipped.

You cursed yourself for the thought. But you let it linger like a parasite.

Your footsteps were soft against the cedar floors as you made your way to the table residing beside the tub, which was already filled with varying bottles that many would kill to have a waft of.

You’ve massaged people in the past, yes, but you’ve never bathed anyone; this was unfamiliar territory for you. Your eyes moved between different vials and containers with a sense of urgency, as Satoru was waiting for you, trying to analyze each shape and color, trying to figure out which was which and what was what. Some had labels that did little to help—they had extravagant names, like “sweet sunshine” and whatnot, making you question where they were from—, others had none at all, and some that did were engraved in its glass (and only visible when the light hit just right).

“Use that purple one for my hair,” Satoru said, noting how long your hand would hover over each vial with indecision. “The others are for the water to smell nice. There are some soaps there, too: bars and liquid.”

You looked at him. Nervous. You never had anyone correct you without there being a physical punishment. Or at the very least, a scolding. Your hands shook, as if preparing to cover your face from a slap. “I—”

“Apo—logizing,” he drawled, looking at you intently. The grin wasn’t there. That scared you. You wouldn’t tell him that because your emotions were none of his concern.

You cleared your throat before turning back to the vials. You grabbed a pink vial and a purple bottle. “Thank you,” you settled on.

He chuckled. His eyes crinkled at the corners. You looked away. Why were you noticing such simple characteristics? Since when did you?

When has anyone looked at you like that?

You stood behind him, his fluffy hair facing you. You set the vials down carefully on a small stool at your feet before untying your kimono to let it pool onto the floor, leaving you in your cream hadajuban. You spent so much money to get a good kimono, and you wouldn’t want any residue on it, would you? That would be a shame.

Satoru turned his head back to look at you once more, his gaze running up and down your body. You felt exposed. “What’re you doing? This is my bath.”

You squeaked and adjusted your mask. It was a simple habit you’ve gained over the years: adjusting your mask under the scrutiny of others. You did your best to refrain from doing so, but old habits die harder than others. “I, um… didn’t want to get my kimono wet.” You spoke informally. What’s wrong with you?

But he smiled. “It was a joke.” He shouldn’t be joking with you.

You didn’t respond.

He faced in front of him once more, and you let yourself listen to the noises around you, as many as you could focus on: servants moving outside of the doors, the sloshing of water against his skin and tub, and wood against wood as you moved a chair behind him.

It was always too quiet, eerily so.

You grabbed a bucket from the floor and filled it halfway with water from the constant stream leading into the tub. Were you doing this right? You didn’t know. But Satoru leaned forward with his eyes closed as you gently poured the water to drench his hair, so you must be doing something right.

The water cascaded down his body, contouring his skin with the rain’s gentle kiss. Why did you notice such a thing? You were losing your mind.

You were losing your fucking mind.

After setting the bucket down, you perched onto the chair and reached down to grasp the purple vial. You opened and poured it onto your hand, watching intensely as it slathered over your palm. You set the glass bottle onto the stool with a clink! before rubbing your hands together, letting it spread evenly across your skin. You hesitated—you shouldn’t make this a habit, seriously—before reaching to touch his hair.

Tentatively, you began to work through the locks. His hair was a shock against your skin, making the world around you seem suddenly colorful when put against the colorless-color of Satoru’s hair.

His shoulders, defined with muscles that spoke of intense training as a weapon, relaxed under your touch. He let out a breathy sigh before chuckling, the sound sweet and smooth.

“Your fingers are so good.” He sighed again. He paused. Then turned his head slightly; it wasn’t enough to face you, but it was enough to show he was talking to you directly. “Why aren’t you anyone’s personal attendant, huh? Surely they’d want you, right?”

You swallowed. Why did he always say that about your fingers?

“I am the head servant of the—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that.” Satoru leaned back. You never stopped moving your fingers.

Fingers.

For some reason that you’d rather not know, Satoru loved your fingers.

You didn’t wonder why. It’s safer.

“It was a rhetorical question.”

The water sloshed onto the floor as he stretched his legs out in front of him, propping them up on the wooden edges of the tub. “Do you know what a rhetorical question is?”

“Yes,” you responded. “I did have a basic education. I understand concepts.”

“Wow.” Satoru hummed. “I didn’t know they gave servants an education.”

“They don’t,” you replied.

Satoru was quiet. Then he hummed. “Alright,” he said, and the conversation was finished, you assumed. And servants never start conversations.

The bathing chamber grew quiet, filled only with the sound of you scrubbing down Satoru’s hair. Your mind eventually tuned out everything, your hands moving on autopilot as your mind wandered.

It shouldn’t have wandered in the first place. You were meant to be focused on the current situation. You were meant to give your master all of your attention to ensure they were cared for with the utmost detail. Being distracted wasn’t something you could afford to do, not when you’ve spent so long climbing the ranks. Not when it cost you years of your life to get where you were today.

Everything went haywire the moment Nanako ordered you to attend that damned audience hall. If you were anywhere else in the building, you never would’ve met Satoru Gojo. You would’ve been doing your duties with no hesitation. There would’ve been no confusion.

But his praise.

Your saliva felt too thick to swallow.

When your fingers started to prune, it was only then, with the uncomfortable texture of your fingertips, that you realized how long you’ve been sitting, doing nothing but massaging Satoru’s hair like before.

Right. You were washing Satoru’s hair.

“May you lift your head? I need to wash the soap out of your hair.”

“Why can’t you massage it more?”

Your hands left his hair. His head leaned back to chase them, and you indulged. Your hands went back to his hair, not massaging, but present. “I am… done. Your hair is washed.” Water slid down your wrists and down your forearms.

“But why can’t you massage it more?”

“It isn’t good to overwash hair. I don’t want to damage it.”

“I work out a lot.” He leaned forward, slightly hunched, and turned his head to the side to look at you. Your hands hovered where he used to be before you let them rest against the edge of the tub. “I’m sure you could wash it more.” He was adamant.

“I still need to—”

“I don’t care.” He didn’t look angry at you per se, rather annoyed at your attempted refusals.

Refusals.

Refusals? Since when did you start refusing?

You didn’t respond immediately. “I still need to bathe the rest of you.”

He paused. His eyes flicked down at the tub, then to you. Then he grinned. That seemed to do the trick, as he didn’t argue any longer.

“Right,” he acknowledged. “I almost forgot about that.”

He turned back around. He leaned back. His hair almost grazed your mask. But you didn’t lean away from him; he didn’t permit it.

You grabbed the pink vial from the stool and popped it open. You let it pour out into the water before it disappeared with the steam.

“Please lean forward slightly,” you said, and he listened like it mattered. You grabbed the same bucket from before and filled it with water. You stood up and let it pour out, watching—with a rapt attention that you’d rather die than admit—how the water cascaded down his back.

The droplets slid down his fair skin like sweat, clinging onto him as they glided down to the water drowning the bottom portion of his body.

You tensed and set the bucket down with more force than necessary, the noise too loud to be comfortable. Get it together.

“Please wait here,” you said, as if he’d stand up and leave because he felt like it, dripping with water and not properly bathed. You were stupid, but you couldn’t shove words back into your mouth.

Along the walls were long tables, each with drawers and cabinets containing everything an attendant would require to bathe a member of the clan. There were more oils (with oddly specific names), tools for scrubbing dead skin and making it smooth, stones meant to be heated for the water, pastes and rice to whiten the skin. You didn’t know what the rest of the tools were meant for, but at least you weren’t entirely clueless.

Still, you weren’t aware of Satoru’s preferences when it came to bathing. You didn’t have the chance to ask his real attendants for advice, as Satoru made a beeline when dragging you here after the two of you left the Archives in the care of the other servants. Like he wanted you for himself only.

You hated that thought. You hated that you didn’t mind the thought.

You reached under your mask to rub your face, trying to wipe off steam and sweat that caught itself underneath. The hot water basins littered around were getting to you. That must’ve been the reason.

Your nimble fingers grasped and pulled open a drawer, revealing itself to your limited gaze. They landed on a tenugui: a flat cloth of cotton, good for absorbing water, perfect for drying up. You swung it over your shoulder; you’d use this when drying Satoru’s hair after the bath.

You closed the drawer, letting the echo fill the room. It was awfully loud. It filled the space between you and Satoru like a barrier he was desperate to claw at, to tease you with the thought of letting him close to you.

You walked along the edge, and you had a sense of deja vu—this was just like when you were walking along the shelves of the Archives. Both times you were doing it for Satoru. You walked into the Archives and risked everything you worked for out of curiosity regarding him. You were walking along the edges of a private bathing hall to find the appropriate tools for Satoru, to serve him.

Satoru.

Satoru Satoru Satoru.

He was already in your head. It was too late to debate it. You needed to get him out.

You didn’t want his praise. You didn’t want his sultry words. You didn’t want them. You swore under your breath. Nauseous.

You grabbed the nearest clean tawashi that lingered on the edges of the table. You returned to Satoru’s side.

“You took forever,” he groaned, slumping back in the water so he was almost submerged. Not that it would work, considering he was huge and barely fit in the tub while sitting upright, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You bit your tongue. He didn’t want you apologizing. He reiterated that many times, and you’d rather stay on his good side.

“Which soap would you prefer?” you asked, your fingers grazing over the many assorted bottles on the cart. You tried and kept your language formal, even if his was… less than formal.

“Whichever smells the best.”

You hated it when people did this.

“I trust your judgement, stalker.”

You didn’t make decisions for others. You executed their orders with precision. You listened and obeyed.

You didn’t think. You’re a servant.

“Forgive me, but I cannot smell these without taking off my mask.” You grabbed a few bottles and shook them, gauging how much product was really inside. “I could hold them out to you, perhaps, and you could tell me which you prefer.” You always provided and offered alternative options.

“Take off your mask, then.” Satoru turned to you. Lazily, with his arms slung off the wooden tub. “I don’t want to smell them.”

Your grip tightened. You needed to control yourself. You couldn’t be having this conversation again. It was inappropriate between a servant and their ward. “I am not permitted—”

“You said the same thing ‘bout being on the stage,” he reminded. “When I asked you to feed me.” He laughed heartily at the memory, then he looked up at you for once. Like the hierarchy of the Gojo Clan was beneath him, like looking up at a servant wasn’t an issue. “But you did it when I asked.” Amusement was the ocean-blue of his eyes, and you were drowning. “I think you enjoyed it, too.”

You quickly averted your gaze, ashamed of yourself. Just like you were when you scurried out of the audience hall, your breath warm and wet against your mask.

Just like you were after you ran to your quarters and took off your clothes because of the heat his words ignited inside of you. Just like you were when your hand drifted lower, even if you didn’t know what you were doing.

Just like you were when you were murmuring praises out loud against your arm.

You were only human when you touched yourself. Now you felt like something less than man because you couldn’t control yourself.

His praise.

“And—” he continued— “you know you’re not allowed in here. But here you are.”

“You ordered me to do both.” I’m not arguing, you told yourself. I’m above that. “I’m meant to serve.”

“I’m giving you the chance to refuse. I’m not forcing you to do anything.” He was lying. He had to have been. Because if you could refuse, then you would—you were. “I’m offering you a solution. Unless you WANT me to order you: take off your mask. Would that be better?” He pouted like this conversation was hurting him more than it was making you uncomfortable. “Don’t make me the bad guy.”

Vulnerable.

That’s what you felt.

Exposed.

In a way you haven’t felt until he rested his head on your lap with no such innocence.

And Satoru? He was not vulnerable. He wasn’t exposed in a way that made him feel anything but pleasure from your torment.

“I would be punished.”

“I won’t let them.”

“I don’t trust that.” You were disobeying. Refusing. Trying to find a flaw in his logic.

“I’m Satoru Gojo.” He announced his name like it held meaning—it did. “I can do whatever the hell I want.” He tilted his head like a puppy, but you felt like the inferior mutt under his penetrating gaze. “Even protect cute servants like you.”

“You don’t know what I look like,” you whispered. Since when have you talked so informally? No, you shouldn’t have. You should’ve been referring to him as ‘sir’. As ‘Gojo-Sama’ or not using his name at all, as his title shouldn’t bless your lips. You shouldn’t have been arguing with his very demands. He was above you.

“Then show me by taking off your mask.”

Your fingers twitched. What if you did want to show him your face?

The tawashi dropped to the floor a long time ago, and it barely made a sound through the tense air.

You didn’t respond, even when you lifted your gaze to meet his own once more through the holes of your mask. You didn’t respond, even when he looked at you with his piercing gaze that consumed you from the inside.

“I think you’re confused,” he commented. He thought you were stupid, no doubt about it. “I have the Six Eyes. I already know what you look like.” He leaned against the tub, his arms hanging out carelessly. Water was dripping off of him and onto the floorboards, but all of his attention was on you.

You weren’t used to this feeling. You weren’t sure if you hated it. You should’ve hated it.

“I just want to know what you look like without a piece of wood between us.” His teeth were bared out in a smirk. It was hideously-beautiful. “Skin looks different to me with materials between. There’s nothing for you to hide at this point, servant.”

You didn’t respond.

He raised his hand. His fingers were long and slender, foul and gorgeous. Pale as the rest of him with faint red.

He beckoned you towards him with a single finger.

Your feet moved on their own. There was no point in him using his cursed technique. Your feet moved on their own.

Your legs—shaky, weak, unsure, and hesitant—collapsed onto the floor. You caught yourself in such an unrefined position and mentally cursed yourself out; your discomfort shouldn’t cause your standards for yourself to lower. You pushed your knees together in a proper seiza with your hands in your lap. You were numb, but you were a servant.

His face was right in front of you, yet you couldn’t see him at all. He could see all of you.

The water from his hands dripped onto your hadajuban, darkening the cloth. Thank goodness you removed your kimono earlier.

His finger, earlier alluring as they pulled you towards him, reached to touch your mask. He didn’t remove it from your face, not yet.

Not yet.

No, his finger hooked underneath the mask before tracing its edges, contouring your face in the process. His skin brushed yours ever so slightly—a fleeting kiss of the body’s barrier—, and you gasped lightly. He was touching you. Not the other way around, where you’d massage him or wash him. He was touching you.

His infinity was off. And he knew you wouldn’t dare try anything.

The look in his eyes made it seem like he wanted you to try something, but that would be absurd.

“You’re such a good boy,” he murmured, his gaze remaining on you. You squeezed your legs tighter together; you felt hot. “I can see your eyes from here. It’s good, right?” You’re hot. You could see his sharp teeth. “Not being at a distance.”

You should’ve remained at a distance.

“I’m asking you to speak.”

He was asking you. He wasn’t demanding you. He was asking you. He was making you feel safe. Safer than you should’ve felt.

He didn’t bother waiting for you to answer. “You’re so soft.” Yet he was barely touching you. Just tracing your mask as if it were your face. As if he could pretend and imagine what your face felt like. As if he could dig his fingers in and feel your flesh before he tore it out. “So utterly beautiful.”

“Th—thank you,” you stammered, feeling compelled to respond after your prolonged silence. And he gave you permission earlier.

“You’re so much prettier on your knees.”

Your throat dried up.

“I was tempted to shove you down there in the Archives when I saw you.” He snickered. “Would’ve been funny, huh? Especially when the servants ran in.”

“I—“

“Would you like that? Or are you not into that type of stuff?”

“No.” You were too direct. Everything was wrong.

His finger trailed down the mask, his nail tracing the grooves of wood before he grasped your chin. “Good boy, answering me properly.” He wasn’t upset with your answer. You didn’t know someone like him could be so… okay with someone like you. Someone just like everyone else.

He hummed. “You like being called that, huh? Stop trying to hide it.”

You tensed.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

“Go—Gojo-Sama—“

“You got something to hide?” His grip on you tightened as he looked shamelessly at your legs. “You’re this turned on?”

Your hands didn’t move to cover yourself. The stayed rested against your thighs, even if your fingers were itching to claw at the thin fabric of your hadajuban.

You cleared your throat. “I…” you trailed off immediately, your mouth zipping shut. It was pointless to respond, as your arousal was clearly noticeable.

Damn it.

“No, no.” His fingers—once around your chin—slipped under the mask. You didn’t dare to move a muscle under his touch, to flinch from the smooth skin that dared to defy the hierarchy and kiss your face. “I wanted you to answer me.”

His fingertips grazed your lips, and you grew subconscious about their current state: chapped and cracked with a lack of moisture. Water was a luxury for servants, even those with a high sub-status among their class.

He didn’t say anything, though. He just leaned over the tub, water dripping down his body and onto the floor—as if mocking you with moisture—as his fingers slowly wiggled into the expanse of your mouth.

At first, you resisted, pressing your lips together tightly, but then he laughed.

“Don’t be shy, baby. Open wide.” His voice.

You obeyed.

His fingers shoved forward, and you choked. Coughed as his fingers coated themselves in your saliva.

“Daw, don’t choke,” he cooed. You were clearly an adorable sight to him, and that confused you.

What confused you more is that you were liking this; you wouldn’t say it out loud. He already knew.

“Suck,” he commanded.

You obeyed.

Best you could; you were too eager.

You whined against his fingers. When you heard yourself—your voice echoed against the mask and vibrated around his fingers—, you jerked back out of sheer mortification. But his fingers followed you back, never letting you retreat from your service. “Don’t back out now,” he said. “You can moan. I won’t judge.” He paused, his lips pursed while thinking. Then he smiled again. “I like hearing you.”

You were wary, but you continued to suck his fingers, your whimpers slowly growing louder each time. You were getting bolder. You let your eyes droop. Why did you enjoy this? You have no idea.

But throughout everything, you didn’t dare touch yourself.

Satoru, however, had no problems with that.

First you heard the muffled moans. They were drowned out by the squelching of your saliva coating his digits, the way you slobbered like a dog just because he ordered you to. But then your eyes snapped open when a surge of water cascaded out of the wooden tub: an immediate reaction to the jerk of his hips.

You saw the crease of his eyebrows, the way his dazed, cloudy eyes were focused on you—even with the mask concealing you, his Six Eyes was ignorant to the idea of privacy.

“Fuck—“ he muttered.

His other hand was below the water. He was fucking into his fist.

Because of you.

That made you feel good.

Freak.

Your nails dug into your skin through the fabric. You needed to touch yourself, you needed to be good. He didn’t give you permission yet. Squeezing your thighs together did nothing. You needed friction.

“So good—“ he whispered, breathy and broken with grunts, his eyes half-lidded and focused on you. Water sloshed out of the tub, dampening the wooden floors, but no one could pay attention. He certainly couldn’t, and your mouth was too busy.

“Good boy, such a good boy,” he praised, and you moaned again, your eyes rolling back. “So pretty sucking on these. You wanna suck on something else, huh?”

Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes; you felt disgusting, getting off on from a superior’s words. It’s all because of the praise, you told yourself. The praise—

“If you stay this good, I’ll give you such a good treat,” he offered, panting with a lazy grin on his face. “Because your mouth is just as good as your fingers. Need it on s’mthin’ else.”

You needed to please him. You were pleasing him. It felt great—amazing.

“Such a pretty mouth. You need to talk more.”

His fingers pulled out, saliva coating them in a thin layer, a string connecting them and your mouth before it broke.

Your hands moved up to wipe your mouth. He felt good.

“P-please—“

“Shit, just keep talking—“ he was getting off on your voice.”

You stared at your thighs. “I-I want to please you,” you choked out. “Please, let me serve you—” you let out a sob. Disgusting. But you loved it so much, it was killing you. You’ve never wanted something this much before; you felt loved.

And painfully horny.

“I—I’ll be a good boy, Gojo-Sama,” you whispered, the nickname unfamiliar on your hung tongue. “I’ll be good, I swear—”

Satoru let out a drawled moan, and you looked up: the most beautiful noise you’ve ever heard, the way he looked picturesque when he reached his climax, his eyes closed in bliss with his back arched.

Silence except for the water.

He panted, his tongue sticking out as he caught his breath. He slumped over the tub’s side, hair still damp from the water.

His gaze trailed up your knees to your… noticeable problem.

He smirked. But other than that, he didn’t acknowledge it. But he acknowledged it nonetheless.

“You were so cute,” he said, slowly recovering his breath. He reached out—the same hand that touched his cock—and poked your mask. Then gently traced the contour of your face with the back of his hand. So gently that you almost didn’t notice or care for his fingers grasping the edge of your mask and slowly peeling it off—

You snatched it and held it in place despite knowing his strength was superior. “Sir—“

“I jerked off to you,” he recalled bluntly, his eyes narrowing. “You got off to this. My fingers were in your mouth.”

Your hands shook. He was right, of course. The whole time you’ve been trying to convince yourself that you were still the ‘good servant’ who obeyed and never questioned. That ‘one head servant’ who executed his tasks with precision and never faltered.

Yet here you were. In a bathroom with Satoru. And the dread—the realization that you were in an intimate situation with the heir of the clan—began to settle in your chest.

“I think I’ve earned the right to see you WITHOUT the whole…” he gestured to his face, referring to the mask with a hint of disgust. “…mask.”

“I—I can’t do that.”

“Again. I jerked off to you.” You flinched at his crass wording despite his honesty.

You could feel the judgement radiating off of his wet skin. He was dissecting every part of you, every layer of flesh until he reached your core.

He sighed wearily. It was tired. Exasperated, even.

Dramatic.

“Listen, baby boy,” he started. Good, that nickname itself was making you so—

“You don’t like this whole… intimate thing because you like the idea of yourself being good.” He looked you over once before glancing up to your eyes through the mask—the thing he wanted to rip off.

“But I don’t care, and really, you shouldn’t either. You already fucked up so many times: you snuck into the Archives, you’re bathing me, you’re…” he trailed off, pondering for a moment. Then he smiled. “Well, you essentially helped me jerk off.”

You squeaked. God, could he be any more shameless?

You started to stammer a protest—to deny, deny, deny—, but he kept talking. “Truth is, you’re a pretty shitty person who gets off on this praise.”

Your mouth slammed shut.

“That’s the only reason you haven’t left yet: you like this. You like being what I’m thinking about when I’m fisting my cock, right?” His laugh echoed in your mask.

“Do you really care if I see what you look like?” he wondered out loud. “Or are you just scared to reveal how much you want this, too?”

Your ragged breathing slowly drowned out his words. Tears were spilling from your face; you liked this too much. You freak.

You loved this too much.

You freak.

You were hard. You were untouched. You wanted to be touched.

But he didn’t give you permission yet.

You were listening to him. Even after anything. Why were you doing that?

“Such a pretty boy,” he whispered adoringly.

You freak.

You finished bathing him in silence.

You finished drying him in silence.

Both times, you focused on your breathing. On the smell of the mask pressed against your face. On the singular grooves carved into the wooden planks by nature herself.

Not on your bare skin on his wet body. Not on the dips of his body, on the muscles of his defined back, on the strength in his legs.

Not at all. You were right in the head.

Painfully hard while caressing his hands, scrubbing off dirt, wondering what he would feel like on you.

As if he read your mind—after he was dressed in robes and you dried his hair (which is softer than you thought)—, he offered to take you somewhere.

Stupidly, you didn’t think much of it. If anything, you thought this was your punishment. Maybe he’d report you for sexual harassment, and he’d get away with it despite initiating it—though, you should’ve refused him harder, yet it’s not in your nature. The situation was a living paradox. Were you meant to refuse him and go against the unspoken motto of servants, or were you to obey him and fracture every code of conduct in the Gojo Clan? Hard to say at this point, but the damage has already been done.

Maybe you’d be demoted for good, and all those years you spent training would be futile. Maybe they’d execute you. Or worse, banish you without a name for yourself, leaving you to rot until the maggots had their way with you.

He saw right through you. He saw how you reacted to his praise with that look in his eyes. He saw how you reacted to anything positive, every degrading nickname that made you feel too much.

But no, there was no meeting with the elders. There wasn’t a chamber full of decaying bodies waiting for you. There weren’t clan members restraining you before they killed you in front of everyone as a lesson.

He led you to his private chambers.

Out of the hundred head servants. Out of the thousands of servants as a whole.

He led you to his private chambers.

He led you to his private chambers.

The doors were irritatingly extravagant. Dyed colors, soft and muted, bleeding on the door’s material as they slid open at Satoru’s push.

His hand was on your kimono. He tugged, and you followed his lead.

He shoved you inside and closed the doors behind him, letting you scramble to recompose yourself. Your hands, pruned from the water in the bathing chambers, shakily smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in your kimono—Satoru insisted on helping you put on because you seemed “too out of it” to dress yourself. Whatever that meant, though you believed him anyway. It didn’t matter how you shivered from his cold touch.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he reassured, though his gaze on you was anything but. “It’ll be torn off, anyways.”

You gasped. Huh?

He took a step closer to you before his hands grazed your waist, encircling around your body. You tensed when he pulled you close.

You were still… awfully hard.

The bastard knew it, too. The way he was rolling his hips against yours, watching with a lidded gaze as you arched your back. Watching the way you threw your head back with a slight hitch in your breathing, revealing a sliver of your real face and a tantalizing view of your throat.

“G-Gojo—“

“It’s Satoru, baby boy.” Satoru fell into temptation, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the column of your throat. You choked and tried to pull away, your hands pushing at his chest, but he kissed again… and again…

It felt good. Better than that. You’ve never been kissed before.

When did you stop resisting?

More importantly, when did the hands pushing him away slowly grip onto his hair? Almost like you wanted to keep him close. How absurd.

His lips were cold and delicate, but warmth blossomed against your neck. It was a God’s kiss; there was nothing human in the way the opposing temperatures clashed.

The sheer wrongness of it—the difference in status, the intimacy shared before and in the present—melted away, embarrassingly easy. Like it never mattered in the first place.

He never stopped grinding against you, and you never stopped whining.

You’ve only touched yourself a few times before; you never had time to indulge in such pleasures, doing so when the emotions clouding your head were too strong and bothersome. And, well, including the time after you massaged Satoru. It was simply a lapse in judgment.

You’ve never had someone to do it with. Was Satoru… going to be your first?

You couldn’t think of anything else, because Satoru nibbled on your throat, moaning against the skin—the vibrations were, strangely enough, soft and gentle—as he sucked on it, cherishing your skin as he slowly worked his way down. The movement of his hips slowed, his attention strictly on your body underneath his lips. His hair teased your neck, caressing while his fingers trailed up the side of your body to your kimono. He peeled it back, then your hadajuban, and your bare skin met the room’s soft light.

A startled gasp strangled past your lips when Satoru’s teeth clamped down on your shoulder. Pearly white and sharp as bones.

His hands grasped your waist again, tighter as his teeth stayed on that spot. You winced and tried to pull him off, but his hands remained.

He slowly started to grind his clothed cock against yours once more, drawing the moment out.

“Agh—.. fuck—“ you mumbled before letting out an embarrassing, cracked moan. Why was he going faster?

Satoru didn’t care when your hands started to tighten their grasp on his hair; he seemed to enjoy it, letting his eyes roll back as his jaw released its hold on your skin. He licked it with care before sealing it with a kiss: a bow to a gift.

His head furrowed in your shoulder as he just rutted into you, letting your voice ring out in the room while he let his own vibrate against your body, quiet prayers of lust. His arms hugged you close, pulling you deeper into the abyss of desire.

“God,” he mumbled, “you’re perfect.”

You didn’t respond; you were too busy trying to grind against him in time with his own.

“You like that?” He nuzzled against your cheek before letting go of your waist and grabbing your hair. “I think you liked this last time, too.” He tugged lightly, smiling against your shoulder when your movements faltered. “I got permission, baby?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“It’ll be like a fucking leash, huh?” He chuckled.

When he yanked your head back, your mouth slipped out a strangle moan of pain. Satoru—he wasn’t just in your head; he was in front of you, teasing you—laughed with a glint of adoration in his eyes.

Adoration? Couldn’t be.

“Get on your knees, pretty?”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

It was stupid, how fast you fell to your knees with your kimono mostly undone. A servant shouldn’t have been doing this with someone like him, shouldn’t have been so messy and unrefined in the presence of a superior, but you were so eager. And duty was thrown out the window the moment you touched yourself with his image in mind.

Clearly, Satoru enjoyed this just as much as you did.

His hands cupped your face best he could with the mask, slipping underneath it. “You’ll pleasure me.” He didn’t ask you, yet the command was sweet. You nodded dumbly. “Good boy.”

You need to cum. You need to cum so bad.

Satoru’s fingers were slender and long, teasing your covered face with another glimpse of his body. You needed to worship him like a statue.

You let yourself think something sacrilegious: you hated the mask right now, and you wanted to see Satoru without it. You wanted to see his true beauty despite everything.

His body, now dry and clean, was revealed to be more on display until it slipped down entirely. His undergarments were peeled off with little haste, but you pushed back the impatience. Your eyes were blown wide with curiosity and arousal as he teased you with unhurried motions. Until his slender hands pulled everything down, and…

He was… big.

You didn’t know what defined a big cock. You’ve only ever seen yours.

But he was big.

God… were you drooling? So stupid.

“Ever jerked off?” Satoru asked, tilting his head down at you. You looked up, and felt like he enjoyed the view of looking down on you. He was before, considering his status was much higher than yours, but something about the look in his eyes said he preferred this much more.

You nodded despite your embarrassment concealed by the mask, and he laughed. It was dangerous and low. “I doubt you’ve done it with anyone else.” You shook your head. “Ever had sex at all?” You paused, hesitant. You shook your head.

He hummed and pondered, though you doubted he was thinking anything meaningful. “Well, virgins are always cuter,” he commented; you were right. It wasn’t anything meaningful.

You were still turned on nonetheless.

It was a bit lithe with a few veins. It was a bit hard, but not too much considering that he jerked off not too long ago. It was hardening—because of you? Ha, you love that thought. The color: a bit pink, a bit pale. Pretty with a bit of cum spilling out.

“You’ve jerked yourself off,” he said. “Just do the same with me.”

It sounded simple enough, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like a daunting task you didn’t know how to approach.

You’d do it the same way you did with yourself. And you’d pray it was good enough to please him, because that’s your job as his personal…

…servant?

Your hands raised until they brushed against his cock. You could feel Satoru shiver from your feathery touch, and the idea that you were pleasuring him made you feel accomplished. You were being good. Good for him.

You took a deep breath before wrapping your hands around it entirely. He shuddered and let his back arch slightly, his hips pushing towards your touch. If his body wanted more, then at least you were doing something right at least.

It felt cold from the shower, uncomfortable. But you didn’t mind; you wouldn’t mind.

“Ha…” you breathed out softly, in awe of how he was reacting to you. You leaned closer, your hands tightening before sliding down to his base. He grunted, and his hips thrusted in your hands. This was dirty of you.

Doesn’t mean you would stop. You would serve him.

Without really noticing, as all your attention was on worshiping his body and cock like he wanted you to, you started rolling your hips on the ground. You were chasing the same pleasure you were giving him—how scandalous! As you’re a servant, and servants aren’t meant to get the same treatment they give their superiors. Then again, you’re currently—

Let’s not think about it.

Satoru’s moans didn’t echo in the room, yet the undeniable pleasure and lust coming from his mouth was trapped in your mask. Your hands never stopped moving against the skin; when they did, Satoru’s hands would cover your own and force them to move.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice cracked. You obeyed, your hands resuming their movements eagerly.

You let him thrust into your hands, and you let yourself grope and worship his cock with your hands. You let yourself forget about your status just for a moment.

“A—Am I doing this right, Gojo-Sama?” You asked tentatively, barely raising your voice above the squelching noise of Satoru’s cock and his cum slowly coating it.

“Fu—uck,” he drawled out, his head tossed back just like earlier. “You’re being so good,” he muttered. “Just like that…” he trailed off, then laughed lightly. “You’re such a fast learner.”

You whined and stroked harder. You were being good for him. You were being so good.

One hand of yours let go of him, letting you put it on your own torturously clothed cock. Your hips stuttered their own movement at your sudden contact; even you were surprised at your own motion. Especially since Satoru didn’t give you permission. But he was right. You’ve already broken so many rules, there was no harm in pleasuring yourself when you were doing so for Satoru! Right?

But you were meant to put all of your attention on him, and him alone.

But you needed to cum so badly.

Maybe Satoru noticed and pretended not to care. Maybe that’s why you could’ve sworn he laughed lightly under his moans and grunts. But you didn’t bother trying to distinguish between what was your fault and what was his. You were just palming yourself through your kimono while the hand around Satoru’s cock stuttered. Your servant-mind wanted to do two things at once: pleasure yourself and pleasure Satoru.

You could feel his hand on your wrist, guiding your motions along his length. It was a calming presence, the firm grasp he held on you. “Don’t falter,” he murmured between his delicious moans. You didn’t listen, your movements stiff when your other hand squeezed at your erection. You needed to cum; you would die if you waited a second longer. You threw your head back when you felt you were close.

He groaned before his hands trailed up your arms. Then your shoulders…

You squeaked when his fingers tousled your hair.

The gesture was out of character, even more so for the intimate situation you found yourself in with him. Still, regardless of what was going on in his head, you leaned into his touch. It reminded you of when the elder servants would praise you for your accomplishments when you were younger, their touch cold. Satoru was warm with heat.

“So cute,” he cooed. “Baby.”

Your hands slowly stroked his cock, caught up in the sensation of his touch and your own pleasure. Too slow for him, apparently, because—

YANK!

You let out a strangled moan of pleasure swirled with pain. “I never said stop, did I?” He asked sweetly, pulling your hair back, forcing you to confront his gaze. It was cold; it was attention.

You stammered. “I-I’m so sorry—“

“We need to get rid of that habit of yours, baby.”

Fuck. You apologized.

He sighed before his hands came to the one on his cock and pulled them off. You whined, letting both of your hands meet at your own hard length. It felt so good; his gaze made you feel terrible.

“You’re so disappointing,” he said, and you let out a choked sob. Your hands never stopped moving against yourself. Maybe it was because you were so painfully hard that you needed to release yourself. Maybe it was because Satoru looked at you with a hunger that made you feel seen and a distaste that you needed to fix. That was your job. You needed to please him, you needed to please yourself.

He crouched down, and the rest of his undone kimono fell to the ground around him like a shadow. His irritation faded into a soft look of—you don’t know. His hand, still in your hair, slithered down to cup your chin underneath your mask. “Here’s a deal. Make me cum, then we can deal with that…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to your own hands before darting back to the holes of your mask, seeing right through it and into your eyes. “...problem of yours.”

You’re a servant.

You’re nothing but obedient.

I am so sorry if the smut wasn't to your standard! this is my first time writing content like that, and I had nowhere to start except for looking at other writers (ᵕ—ᴗ—). i'm also sorry it took me so long to update this! I had a really busy month- nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed!

I will probably make this a series thing. i'm not too sure about how that will go, but I will definitely try! and I will DEFINITELY make a better smut scene! if you... have any tips on how to write smut scenes, it will be greatly appreciated-

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.

you have fifteen minutes.

and then, after that, you have forever.

To be completely, unfiltered, absolutely and a hundred percent truthful,

Yuuji can be kind of scary like this.

Scary-- scary when he's focused, and calculated, and so insanely devoted and concentrated on something that nothing can stop him. In any other scenario you would've been less afraid, maybe more-so-appalled, giggle, and give him some sort of sweet treat or maybe simple affection as a reward later on for working so diligently on something.

But in this scenario, with Yuuji between your spread legs, thick, callused fingers dragging against the gummy slick walls of your hole, with his free hand expertly stroking up and down and up and down the shaft of your cock, it's a bit hard (no pun intended) not to be scared.

"Yu-uji, s'-- knock it off, s'not g-gonna... nuthin's gunna..."

"Shhh,"

Yuuji gently kisses the tips of his fingers against your swollen sweet spot, a small groan fluttering from his lips as he watches your spine bow and your toes curl.

"I got this. Y'don't believe me, baby?" His words come out slurred and hot, mingling with the sounds of your moans and whines. "Have I ever failed you when it comes t'..."

Yuuji presses a warm, sloppy, wet kiss to the sensitive tip of your cock, practically making out with the poor swollen thing before sucking hard, then pulling off with a filthy slurp followed by a loud 'pop!'.

"...makin' you feel good? Hm? Baby? My baby?"

All you can do in response is whine. Yuuji isn't wrong, and you both know this. It's just...

A few hours ago, everything was perfectly fine. You guys hadn't had sex in a few days, and besides getting handsy here and there, Yuuji seemed fine. In absolute mint condition, if anything. And then, miraculously, he just happened to scroll across some stupid reddit post talking about men squirting. And instead of behaving like any rational person, and just continuing to read through the strings of posts and comments, he just immediately decides that using you as his personal guinea pig is the best course of action.

So, you've been sitting here, legs forced open over the width of Yuuji's shoulders, fluttering hole stuffed with fingers with your poor cock forced to come for what's been maybe the fourth time tonight. in the past hour and a half.

You've tried everything just to try and get a break. You've squirmed, you've kicked, you've cried, you've tried to physically get up off the bed and crawl away, but nothing seems to work. It's just... nothing seemed to get through that thick skull of his.

You can't say you'd like to completely stop, but a break... a break would be nice.

While he's so dead set on making you squirt, you're adamant nothing is going to happen.

You let your head drop back, hips jerking and rolling uncontrollably when he angles his fingers and thrusts right into your prostate, his other hand wrapped around the base of your cock-- rough thumbpad gently petting the seam of your balls.

"Hm."

You let your eyes flutter shut, letting out a little moan of relief when Yuuji's free hand gently releases your cock. Your hips buck at the loss of stimulation, but ultimately, you're relieved. You let your thighs open wide and fall lax, unbothered to how absolutely debauched and utterly lewd you might look from Yuuji's point of view. Not that he'd care, anyways.

Lidded eyes watch the way your puffy rim swallows up the thick of his fingers, drooling and soft and oh-so-warm-- and, suddenly,

Yuuji gets an idea.

"Baby... baby," Yuuji practically purrs. Hesitantly, you lift your head to look down at him.

"'Need y'to be really, really good for me, okay? yeah?"

Yuuji tuts and coos when you drop your head back with a whine, thighs trembling and beginning to shut before he wrenches them open again.

"Oh, don't be like that, babe. S'just... just sit still, and I'll make you feel really good, okay? really good. Jus'..."

Yuuji doesn't wait for a reply-- instead, he spreads your thighs wide for easier access, slips his digits in just right and angles them so they dip against the soft of your sweet spot, and settles the thumb of his free hand against the silky skin of your perineum. Your cock twitches and jerks, dribbles of precome swelling at the tip in little pretty pearls.

He starts with light little taps, then small, tight circles-- then lastly, progresses to firm but gentle up and down petting motions against your perineum-- a weird, indescribably good feeling coiling deep in your gut and causing you to squirm. Meanwhile, his fingers lavish attention on your sweet spot from the inside as well, causing that same delicious feeling to intensify what feels like a thousand times more.

it feels so weird.

You try to buck away from the feeling but Yuuji just shushes you and applies a fraction more of pressure, not letting you escape the onslaught of weird, weird, so fucking weird but undeniably good sensation.

... Suddenly, another odd... but new sensation settles. Not in your tummy this time, but in your bladder.

"Yuu-- Yuuji, Yuuji--"

"Hmm?"

"G-Get it out-- get them o-out, need'ta, need t'pee, I th-ink, need--"

"No, no, sweetheart. You don't need to pee. S'not pee. It's working, you're close. S'okay, jus' let it happen, 'kay?"

Yuuji leans forwards to kiss you, his eyes fluttering shut, but you crane your neck away before he can land a successful kiss-- which, he grumbles at.

"I'm s-serious Yuuji, I ne-ed to pee, m'not fuckin' a-around--"

"Shut up n' listen to me, baby,"

And you do. Save for the occasional incoherent whines and cries.

So you sit there and take it. Just... just take it, despite this overwhelming pressure in your bladder, despite the waves of pleasure rolling off your spine, despite the over sensitivity of your hole and your cock and your body just begging for a break.

And you're so distracted by your own thoughts that when you do (finally fucking) squirt, it hits you hard. Really hard.

With a mangled shout your body curls in on itself, hands scrambling for Yuuji's shoulders as you try to force him away from you-- yet, he keeps up his gentle ministrations alllll the way through your orgasm.

It's like-- It's like that pressure in your bladder releases itself in a way that feels so fucking good, your sloppy, messy hole fluttering and clenching tight around his still pumping fingers, the muscles in your tummy tightening and contracting in such a satisfying way as you experience what doesn't feel... quite like an orgasm, but something different, and just as intense.

Something wet, something clear, but not quite as thick and sticky as come, but not pee-- shoots from your cock in messy spurts, soaking Yuuji's wrist and the sheets and leaving a little puddle on your tummy.

"O-Oh fuck, fu-uck--"

"Told you that'd feel good, hm?"

Gasping and heaving, you barely manage the beginnings of a sentence before your eyes flutter shut and you immediately pass out.

You really shouldn’t be surprised anymore. But you still nearly drop your iced coffee when you spot him standing like a brick wall among the flow of students trickling through the university gates.

Toji Fushiguro is impossible to miss. He’s taller than half your professors, broader than any linebacker on the school team, and meaner-looking than the security guards who stalk the parking lots at night. There’s something about him that says don’t even try me — the scar over his lip, maybe, or the way he’s never quite relaxed unless he’s got you underneath him or Megumi snoring against his chest.

You don’t mean to stare, but how could you not? He’s a force of nature against a backdrop of backpacks and chatter. Some students glance up, startled, most keep walking, but you hear it in their whispers.

“Is he a cop?” “No way. Look at his arms. He’s gotta be like, ex-military or something.” “Wait, is that a baby?”

It’s kind of hilarious. Toji’s eyes flick around lazily, ignoring the double-takes. He looks more like a bodyguard than someone’s dad — except for the tiny boy curled against his chest, socked feet peeking out from the sling Toji grudgingly lets you use when you scold him for carrying Megumi like a grocery bag.

You spot the security guard hovering by the front desk inside the gatehouse, half-hiding behind the glass door and pretending not to stare. He must be wondering if he needs to call campus police.

You pause at the top of the steps leading down to the main quad, blinking at the sight of your big, terrifying boyfriend standing under the shade of an old oak, cradling his tiny son like the world’s softest threat. Megumi is knocked out cold, cheeks pink, a small hand bunched in the front of Toji’s black tee.

A girl next to you sighs dreamily. “Oh my god, he’s so hot. Is that his baby? That’s so cute…”

You bite back a laugh and press your straw to your lips to hide the grin creeping up your cheeks. Yeah. He is hot. And that is his baby. And, god help you, that big man is yours, too. The same one who kisses you stupid in your shoebox apartment, who sometimes stays awake just to watch you study until 2AM, who tries and fails to keep Megumi’s sticky fingers out of your notebooks.

He catches you staring before you can school your face. His eyes flick up, sharp at first, then softening so fast it knocks the air out of your lungs.

You hurry down the steps, ignoring the way a few heads turn. It’s broad daylight and you’re not supposed to do this here, but he’s here, and you haven’t seen him since you left his bed this morning, late for class.

“Toji,” you hiss, but it comes out embarrassingly happy. He raises an eyebrow, smirk curling the corner of his mouth.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

When you reach him, Toji clocks your flushed cheeks immediately. “What’s with the face? You sick or somethin’?”

You jab him in the ribs carefully, so you don’t jostle Megumi. “People are staring, Toji. You couldn’t text me first?”

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I texted. You didn’t answer.”

“Because I was in class—!”

You cut off when a pair of girls you recognize from your bio lab walk past. They both slow down, eyes widening as they take in the entire picture: you, college boy in a hoodie with your backpack half-zipped; Toji, six foot something and built like a nightmare; and the small lump of a baby snoozing obliviously in a carrier against all that muscle.

One of the girls nudges the other. “Hey, Y/N! Who’s this?”

You clear your throat. “Uh, this is...um…”

Before you can finish, Toji’s mouth twitches into a grin that never means anything good. “Older brother,” he drawls, leaning closer to you on purpose. His breath ghosts your ear: Play along.

“Oh! Wow, I didn’t know you had family visiting!” The second girl giggles, covering her mouth. “Your nephew is so cute!” Toji’s eyes glitter with mischief. He bounces Megumi slightly, just to make him sigh in his sleep, and the girls all but melt on the spot.

“Cute, huh?” Toji murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I’m cute too, sweetheart?”

Your ears burn so bad you’re certain they’re red. “Haha, okay, we’re gonna go! Bye!” you say, grabbing Toji’s arm and dragging him toward the parking lot.

The girls giggle behind you, whispering too loud for comfort, “He’s so hot, oh my god, your friend’s brother is so hot—”

When you round the corner away from sight, you shove his arm, careful not to wake Megumi. “Brother? Seriously?”

Toji’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. He dips his head so his forehead bumps yours for just a second. “Shoulda said daddy, huh?”

You slap a hand over his mouth, horrified, and hiss, “We are on campus.”

He grins behind your palm, all teeth and that same dangerous warmth you love too much. He lets you cover his mouth until your hand slides away, then catches your fingers and kisses your knuckles instead. Rough lips, gentle promise. “You gonna say hi to your favorite boy, or just stand there droolin’ over me?”

You don’t bother answering. You slip close, brushing your hand over Megumi’s soft hair first, he makes a sleepy noise but doesn’t wake, and then you let your knuckles linger on Toji’s forearm. He feels warm under your fingers, solid and real and safe in a way you wish you could wear openly.

“He wouldn’t nap at home,” Toji says, pretending he’s annoyed, but the way his arm shifts so Megumi’s head stays tucked under his chin betrays him. “Thought you’d do the trick.”

“Oh, I see how it is. I’m the emergency pacifier.” “You said it, not me.”

You flick his side lightly, but he catches your wrist before you can retreat. He holds it for a second longer than he should, just enough to feel your pulse flutter. Then he lets go with a grunt, as if you’re the one making this harder than it has to be.

You can feel eyes on you, a couple students are definitely whispering. No one here knows. You like it that way. Better for your grades, better for his peace of mind, better for Megumi’s future. But there’s a small, traitorous part of you that aches to drop your bag, press your mouth to Toji’s throat, and say yes, he’s mine. He tilts his head at the parking lot. “C’mon. He’ll wake up if you keep standin’ around lookin’ pretty and getting attention.“

Your heart does a flip at pretty especially in that rough voice, but you roll your eyes and let him steer you toward his battered old car.

In the car, Megumi stays asleep through the soft click of his car seat straps. Toji watches you adjust the buckles, pretending he doesn’t melt a little every time you brush the kid’s hair out of his eyes.

You settle into the passenger seat, backpack stuffed between your knees. The cab smells like him: faint cologne, clean sweat, the lingering scent of the gas station coffee he lives on. He leans over to tug your seatbelt across your chest, an excuse, really, to bury his nose in your neck for half a second.

“Toji—” “Shut up. Missed you.”

It’s so quiet, so casual, and yet it punches you right in the ribs. He pulls back before you can respond, palm sliding up your throat just once before he grips the wheel instead.

He drives with one hand, other arm resting out the open window. You watch him more than the passing traffic. You’re pretty sure he knows.

“You gonna tell me why you really came?” you ask when he pulls into a quieter street, lined with trees and old houses.

Toji snorts. “Kid wouldn’t sleep. And I figured you’d be hungry by now.”

You groan, you are hungry. He always knows.

“Could’ve just called.” “Yeah. But then I wouldn’t get to see that dumb look on your face when you see me, huh?”

You glare, but he’s right. He’s always right. You swallow the warmth blooming in your chest and reach over the console to squeeze his thigh in retaliation.

“Jerk,” you mumble. “Mmhm. Yours though, ain’t I?”

He parks outside your tiny apartment. You juggle your bag and Toji’s huge palm resting on the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs like he’s done a hundred times.

Inside, he kicks the door shut with his boot and sighs when you pull him down for a kiss. Megumi snuffling softly between you both, oblivious. Your textbooks are scattered across the couch, but Toji ignores them. He sinks into your cushions with Megumi nestled in his lap, eyes drifting shut the moment he feels your fingers comb through his hair.

“Nap with us,” he murmurs against your palm.

You do. Books forgotten, coffee gone watery on the table. There’s only warm skin, the soft baby breaths of Megumi curled against his father’s chest, and Toji’s big hand curved possessively around the back of your neck like he’s daring the world to take this away.

No one would ever guess. But you know. And you’re never giving it up.

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.

you have fifteen minutes.

and then, after that, you have forever.

he was resting on the railing, across deck from you, and made it to your side in the blink of an eye. he lifted you with ease, still hoisting you to his side as he turned to glare at usopp. he was sheathing his sword on his hip, glaring menacingly at the sniper.

“watch it, usopp,” he practically growls out, “almost hit him right in the head,”

usopp sweat drops, apologizing profusely, “i’m sorry, [name]! it was the wind that blew it towards you, you know i’d never do it on purpose, right?” thne in a quieter voice he meekly says, “please tell zoro to stop glaring at me…”

“it’s alright usopp! i know you didn’t do it on purpose,” your words were kind and delivered with a smile as you were still being pressed to zoro’s side. you slapped his chest, forcing him to look at you. his gaze softened immediately, “stop glaring, you big baby, usopp didn’t mean it,”

“still-“

“no “still”, just get over it, zo,” despite it being you who almost got nailed in the forehead with the dart, zoro seemed to be the one who was most personally offended by it. he was still pouting as he carried you off to the railing he was previously napping on. his pout goes away when you peck his cheek and mutter a quick "thank you."

and now he's blushing and hiding his face behind his palm.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

a very endearing way that zoro enjoys using his strength on you is whenever he needs to pick you up, outside of his working out and teasing moments. if you ever fall asleep on deck, with usopp, luffy, and chopper surrounding you two, he’ll scoop you up into his arms with ease and take you to the actual beds in the dormitory. since he knows you’re sleeping, he doesn’t bother hiding his fond, soft smile on his face as he effortlessly carries you.

“hmm?” you’re so sleepy you can’t even will yourself to open your mouth properly to say zoro’s name. just leaning closer into his warm chest and whining for a proper bed.

“i know, baby, we’re almost there,” he softly assures you, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, “should’ve just fallen asleep in your bed,”

“hm.”

“mhmm,” he hums back at you, smirking as he hears you mimic him in your sleepy state.

he places you into your bed, discarding his shirt and pants before joining you. the skin to skin contact makes you melt further into him, taking in as much warmth as you can. he feels you guide his hands to your shirt as well before lifting it over your head. with no cloth in between you two, it’s just you two pressing into each other for the rest of the night. when you wake up, luffy and chopper are both complaining about the ultimate betrayal zoro did to them by not carrying them to bed. zoro ignores their pestering, hanging off of your side and ruffling your hair as you yawn.

“can you two quiet down? some of us are still half awake,”

“he hates us,” the two cry in unison, comical tears flowing down their cheeks.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

an aspect of your relationship with zoro that many on board, and assumedly the general population if they knew about this, found…interesting (to say the least) was how you two enjoyed fighting with each other. play fighting and seriously sparring, the activities helped you pass time with one another while also testing your guys’ strength.

it was usually done in the crow’s nest since that was zoro’s gym area and was away from prying eyes.

the sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, gleaming through the windows as you two were heavily panting. the sun made your guys’ skin shine even more from the thin coat of sweat on both of you. zoro’s lips have been upturned in a smirk ever since you two started while you were just breathing heavily, glaring at him.

“get that stupid face off your face,” you scowl, going forward to try taking him down.

he side steps you and catches your body against his, dropping you both down onto the floor to keep you pinned. it all happens too fast and you don’t even bother fighting against him and his iron grip.

“this stupid face you love so much?” he teases, tangling his legs with yours to prevent you from moving, “give up?”

“no!” in one last push of strength, you muster up everything within you to push off of the ground and flip the positions. however, the amount of force you conjured did little to nothing in even budging zoro’s frame pinning you down, “okay, i give up,”

you go limp in his hold, making him release you from his snake-like constraint. he doesn’t move from on top of you though, leaning down to briefly kiss you.

“good lessons today?” he asks against your lips, pecking you quickly before pulling away and looking down at you.

"maybe good for you since you got to just manhandle me around, like some doll," he smirks, hands squeezing your cheeks.

"just how i like you," he teases, going in for another kiss. when the crew isn't around, zoro loves to indulge in your affection. it's obvious with how you two are now passionately making out on the wooden floor. his legs move in between yours, pushing them open so he can slot himself right against you.

his hair is slightly damp due to the sweat of your training session, but you don't mind, pulling at the strands in need. his thick forearms now rest on either side of your head, keeping him propped up to not crush you entirely. as for your lower half, he's shamelessly moving his hips against your own.

"zoro!!! [name]!!! it's time for your monthly check up- AGH!!" chopper's high pitched scream echoes in the crow's nest as well as the sudden slamming of the door. "i didn't see anything!"

"that idiot..." zoro rasps, pulling away from you and resting his forehead against yours as he catches his breath. "fuck, what the hell is his timing?"

you don't say anything in return, simply letting your eyes do the talking. they dart to his pelvis and his cheeks go ablaze, seeing your quirked eyebrow and tilt of your head. wordlessly, you're asking him, "seriously?"

"shut the hell up!! whose fault is that?!"

"yours, you fucking pervert! getting hard from tossing me around and a small makeout session? what are you, a hormonal teenager?"

"shut the fuck up!" he pushes you down onto the wood when you try getting back up, making you laugh at his immature behavior.

"you're such a baby."

"i said, shut up!"

his ears are ruby red as he goes to change into a shirt, glaring at you when his head pops out of the neckline.

"tch, asshole."

"the asshole you got hard for, by the way,"

"stop talking about it!"

you laugh at his flustered state, walking over and kissing him once more, despite the frown on his lips, "let's go and get checked up! you should probably take care of that problem of yours, don't wanna scar chopper even more."

"with your shit attitude, i'm already soft," he spits out with a shove to your shoulder before he himself steadies you again. "why the hell aren't you hard? you think i'm unattractive or something?"

you don't bother hiding your laughter at that question, only making him more mad.

"seriously! that must be the only explanation!" he shouts once more, following you down the ladder of the crow's nest.

"you really want me to air out my business in front of the whole crew, idiot?"

"no, but this conversation is far from over,"

"and i'm the brat..." you murmur under your breath, but his sharp ears somehow pick up on it.

"hah?!" he questions, but you just shake your head and ignore him.

"chopper, we're sorry! we're ready for our check up now!" you say in a sing song voice, "zoro's going to apologize to you properly, he's just sooooo embarassed because he's a horm-"

zoro's big hand clamps over your mouth before you can finish embarrassing him further, "shut the hell up, boy," he grunts in your ear, pressing your backside to his front as he controls your walk to the infirmary.

your slapping his hand, trying to free yourself from his clutches, but he just catches your hand in his other. now you're completely immobilized and forced into silence.

"you gonna behave now?" you nod your head and he finally releases you.

"zoro is-AHH!" he swoops you off of your feet and throws you over his shoulder so you now have an up close view of his back. a sharp smack is delivered to your ass and you're shocked into silence.

"that's what i thought," is his final comment before he's pushing open the door to the infirmary.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Being his assistant for five years, it was almost impossible not to notice him. You noticed everything.

The way he walks into a room the confidence in his voice during meetings.

The way he leans back in his chair his long legs stretched out as if the entire company exists just to orbit around him. And his eyes.

Those bright eyes that somehow always catch yours from across the room.

You hate how easily he does it.

Because every single time he looks at you like that, you remember one very important thing.

You're attracted to your boss.

Unfortunately.

You adjust the files in your hands as you walk into his office.

Gojo is already there, leaning back in his chair with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His white hair is slightly messy like he’s been running his fingers through it all afternoon.

He glances up the moment you step inside.

“Ah, my favorite employee"

You place the documents on his desk. 

“You only have one assistant.”

“Still counts.”

You let out a sigh. 

“You called me here for something important, right?”

Gojo hums as he flips through the papers, but you can tell he isn’t really reading them. His attention drifts back to you, that familiar amused smile tugging at his lips.

“You look tired"

“I stayed late finishing the reports you asked for.”

“And yet" 

Gojo tilts his head slightly, carefully studying you.

“You’re still handsome..”

You choke on your own breath.

“Sir–”

“Satoru”

Gojo corrects immediately with a pout.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning.

“We’re at work.”

Hearing your firm voice Gojo just shrugged.

“So? You’ve known me for five years.”

Yes.

Five years of this.

Yet 2 years of pretending your heart doesn’t jump whenever he casually throws an arm around your shoulders after work.

Inside the company building, both of you are strictly professional.

You manage his schedule, attend meetings with him, and help maintain the company’s reputation. 

But the moment the clock hits six,

everything changes, outside the office, Gojo becomes an entirely different person.

The same man who dominates meetings now drapes himself over you like an oversized cat.

The same boss who terrifies other executives casually drags you to late night oden shops.

He even attended your wedding 3 years ago, you remember that day clearly.

Your fingers unconsciously twist the ring on your hand now.

The small band feels heavier than it should.

Then Gojo notices.

Of course he does.

The worst part is that he probably already knows.

You’ve spent two years holding yourself back.

Because if that ring wasn’t on your finger…god.

You would have already dragged him into the nearest empty room and–

You quickly stop that train of thought.

Gojo suddenly stands from his chair.

You stiffen when he walks around the desk and stops directly in front of you.

'So tall...'

You have to tilt your head slightly to meet his gaze.

Gojo smirked down his eyes turning crescent.

“Still staring at me like that" 

“Like what?”

“Like you want something.”

Your heartbeat stutters.

“You’re imagining things.”

Gojo let out a deep chuckle.

“Maybe"

He finished but Gojo didn't move away.

Instead, his eyes flick down to the ring on your finger again before returning to your face.

For a moment, something dark passes through his expression.

“Hey.”

You raised your brow at him.

“Yeah?”

There’s a small smile on his face when you glance back.

“Oden after work?”

You stare at him, lips pressed tightly.

“You ask me that every week.”

“And you still come every time.”

Then you sigh.

“…Fine.”

Gojo’s grin widens.

“See? Five years and you still can’t resist me.”

You roll your eyes and walk out of the office before he can see the faint heat rising to your face.

Behind you, Gojo leans against his desk, quietly watching the door you just walked through.

His gaze drifted down once more.

“Five years" 

--------------------

The restaurant was nearly empty by the time the two of you arrived.

A small oden shop tucked between narrow streets, the kind that stayed open late for office workers who missed dinner hours. 

Gojo slipped into the booth first, stretching his long legs under the table with a relieved sigh.

“Finally, I thought the old man was going to close before we got here.”

You loosened your tie as you sat across from him. 

“You were the one who kept talking to that client for an extra thirty minutes.”

“That’s called networking.”

“That’s called you showing off.”

A moment later two mugs of cold beer were placed on the table along with small plates of grilled meat and side dishes.

The condensation rolled down the glass as you picked it up.

Gojo raised his mug.

“To survive another day with incompetent executives.”

You clinked your mug against his. 

“I’ll drink that.”

The cold beer went down smoothly, easing the tension sitting on your shoulders.

For a while the two of you simply ate and drank, the comfortable silence of long familiarity settling between you.

Then Gojo suddenly looked at his watch, his brows lifted slightly.

“You know, it’s already pretty late.”

You hummed, chewing another bite of grilled chicken.

Gojo rested his chin in his palm, watching you.

“Your wife won’t be worried?”

You shrugged without much thought.

“We should just eat.”

Gojo blinked.

“…That’s it?”

You lifted your beer again. 

“What, you want me to run home?”

He chuckled under his breath.

“Cold.”

The conversation drifted again as another round of drinks arrived.

By the second mug, the warmth of alcohol started settling in your chest.

Gojo swirled the beer in his glass before speaking again.

“So, how’s married life?"

You immediately groaned.

Hearing that Gojo burst out laughing.

“That bad?”

“It’s...yeah"

“Mhm."

You leaned back, rubbing your face tiredly.

Gojo's aware of how your marriage has been doing, and it's not doing well. 

Falling out of love, and your wife being infertile. It will ruin the whole mood, even during sex.

You two had been trying for a baby even forcing the two of you to have sex just a week ago.

Divorce isn’t really an option either, In Japan, being divorced ruins your reputation. Your wife's family would be embarrassed. And yours too.

Gojo lifted his mug and took a slow drink.

The cold glass pressed against his lips, his eyes half-lidded as he swallowed.

But he wasn’t looking at the beer.

He was looking at you.

Something inside him had changed the moment you said the words.

He set the mug down slowly.

For three years, Gojo had watched you from across desks, across meeting rooms, across crowded company halls.

Always just a little out of reach.

Because of that ring.

Because of that invisible wall.

But now…

You sat across from him with your collar loosened, your tie slightly crooked, shoulders relaxed in a way he rarely saw at the office.

Gojo had never liked your wife.

Not even from the beginning.

The two of you sat there for a while longer, finishing the food and beer.

By the time the two of you stepped out of the izakaya, the streets were mostly quiet.

Both of you had walked to where Gojo parked his car. 

You were very drunk, that much was obvious.

Your steps weren’t exactly straight, and your mind felt heavy and hazy, like everything around you was slightly delayed.

Gojo walked beside you, hands in his pockets. His face was lightly flushed from the alcohol, but he was walking fine.

He had a higher tolerance than you, which meant he was very aware of how drunk you were.

“You good?” 

He asked, glancing sideways towards your form.

“Mm"

You suddenly stopped walking. Gojo halted beside you.

“What?”

You pointed lazily across the street.

“Convenience store.”

“And?”

“Cigarettes.”

Gojo sighed through a small laugh. 

“Of course.”

A moment later the two of you stepped inside the brightly lit store. 

Gojo leaned casually against a shelf while you moved toward the counter area.

You grabbed a pack of cigarettes, then you paused.

Gojo watched from behind as you stared at the small display near the register.

Your drunk brain seemed to process something then your hand reached out.

Gojo eyes squinted, but he froze on his spot

Wait.

You picked up a box of condoms.

Gojo’s brain took a second to catch up, he walked over to you immediately.

“Hey.”

You turned slightly, still looking dazed.

Gojo pointed at the box in your hand.

“Those for your wife?”

You stared at him blankly, blinking as if processing his words.

Gojo frowned slightly.

“…Or a girlfriend?”

The question slipped out before he could stop himself.

You blinked again.

Your eyes looked unfocused the alcohol dulling you.

Then suddenly you tilted your head.

Your gaze slowly drifted up and down Gojo’s tall figure.

Gojo felt something excitement crawl up his spine.

You stepped a little closer, squinting at him like you were studying something complicated. 

Then you spoke.

“Hey.”

Your voice was slow and slurred.

You lifted the condom box close to your cheek, face flushed and your eyes were unfocused.

“…What’s your size, Satoru?”

“...”

For a moment Gojo’s brain completely stopped working.

Silence filled the convenience store.

Before Gojo broke it with a seductive smirk.

"Want to find out?"

--------------------

“Ahn–! Ngh… so big!”

A raw, thick cock plunged deep inside you, pressing insistently against your prostate.

“Hngh!”

Your eyes rolled back almost instantly as the tip brushed that sensitive spot again, sending sharp waves of electricity through your entire body. 

Your limbs trembled, your hips stuttering as pleasure wracked through you.

Fowp fwop!

Your hips didn’t stop, they kept moving, greedily taking him in, swallowing his cock over and over again.

The condoms you had bought earlier had already torn from his size and now discarded somewhere on the floor, completely useless.

Below you, the man you were riding, Gojo Satoru, had his face flushed, the corners of his eyes damp with forming tears. Yet he was smirking, utterly pleased.

Finally, he had you like this bouncing helplessly on his cock.

Flap! Flap!

The love hotel room reeked of sex, filled with the wet sounds of skin slapping against skin, your sweaty bodies grinding together without restraint.

Gojo’s hands squeezed your thighs tightly, fingers digging into your skin as your hole clenched around him. 

A soft whimper escaped his lips at your tightness before he leaned closer, voice low and breathless.

“Hnn Y/N you feel so good…”

You nodded dumbly, completely lost, your mind hazy from the overwhelming sensation.

“Toru! Mhm! Good ahhn! More!”

Flop! Flop!

You lowered yourself further, your chest pressing against his, your tongue lolling out slightly as you chased his lips, desperate.

“P-please… kiss me Toru♡”

Your hot breath fanned across his face, your needy expression so close, and something inside Gojo snapped.

In one swift motion, he flipped you onto your back. Now he hovered above you, a dark smirk curling on his lips. 

He pushed his hair back, revealing blown out eyes and a flushed face filled with something far more intense.

“I hope your wife doesn’t mind me breaking you.”

You let out a needy whine when his hips stilled, the sudden lack of movement making you ache.

“I don’t care I wan you m-move!”

Gojo lowered his head and started to move his hips.

Fwop fwop!

The same electrifying feeling returned, making you arch your back. The pleasure overwhelmed your body, pushing you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“Shit–nhhn! Good more, Toru!”

FWOP FWOP!

Hearing your moans and whines, Gojo’s hips rutted harder against you.

Every time the leaking tip brushed your abused prostate, your toes curled in satisfaction.

“Y/N I love it so good…”

Just a little more… he's so close.

Just one more kiss to your lips.

One more squeeze from your hips.

And one more bite to your sensitive neck–

and then Gojo would finally–

“Cumming!”

Gojo’s tip thrust harshly into the deepest part inside you.

“Too deep–! Toru!!”

As you arched your back, you felt his cock bulge, warmth spreading as he released inside you.

The way it hit the deepest part of you made your body jolt, pleasure spilling over as you came, your stomach messily coated with your semen.

Your body twitched from the overwhelming sensation, both inside you and along your cock.

“Huff huff…”

Both of you tried to catch your breath.

As your senses slowly returned, you lifted yourself up on your elbows.

Gojo leaned in to look at you.

Gulp.

You swallowed hard when you saw the hearts in his pupils and drool trailing down his mouth.

You opened your mouth to speak.

“Wanna suck you off”

The way you whimpered, looking at him with pleading, needy eyes.

How could he possibly say no to that?

Gojo nodded just as dumbly before he lay down on the bed, excitement rushing through his veins, making him hard again.

But you did something unexpected.

“Huh? hmff!”

You buried your ass in his face.

A chuckle escaped you before you spoke,

“Better clean it for me, sir.”

Gojo wasn’t complaining he was in heaven.

He had always fantasized about this, about eating you out, about having you like this.

and now it was finally happening.

He could die right here, between your thighs, and he wouldn’t mind at all.

As he started, teasing your rim with slow, deliberate movements with his tounge, you glanced back at his dick.

And oh.

It was big. Thick. Leaking pre, twitching just from the taste of you.

You drooled at the sight, breathing heavily like a starving man who had finally found food after days of hunger.

It was so big… maybe taking him like this could satisfy your craving for a week.

Without another thought, you pushed forward and took him into your mouth.

You tried to deepthroat him.

It was a struggle at first his size was overwhelming, forcing soft, muffled moans from your throat as your lips stretched around him.

“Mhmm…”

The sensation shot straight to Gojo’s brain, making his hips buck instinctively into your mouth.

Tears formed in your eyes as he hit the back of your throat again and again.

‘So thick…’

Gojo’s tongue continued working against you, licking, tasting, but his focus was slipping.

Because your mouth was working on him just as relentlessly.

‘Unfair, so unfair’

How could he concentrate when your tongue kept lapping at him like that?

When your throat tightened around his dick.

When you gagged on his thickness, your body trembling every time the tip pressed deep into your throat.

If he could only see your face right now.

It was a good thing he had started recording everything on his phone.

The camera lens glinted, capturing every bit of debauchery happening in the love hotel.

And just the thought of it, Gojo couldn’t hold back anymore.

His hips stuttered as he let out another load.

“Ngh~ mmm!! ♡♡”

Gojo whimpered, his eyes rolling back from the overwhelming pleasure.

Thick cum spurted from his tip, forcing you to swallow everything.

You finished by cleaning him thoroughly, your tongue tracing along his length until he was spotless.

Your hazy eyes then focused on the phone camera in front of you.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you grabbed Gojo’s softened cock only for it to harden again at your touch.

The head of his cock brushed against your cheek as you spoke breathlessly,

“Mine, this big dick is mine♡”

--------------------

When you returned home the next day, something just as surprising from fucking your boss happened 

“I’m pregnant.”

Everything around you stops.

Your breath catches and your mind going blank for a split second before everything crashes back all at once.

“…What?”

“I’m pregnant” 

Your wife repeats, laughing softly with her eyes glistening. 

“You’re going to be a dad.”

Immediately, you pull her into an embrace, tighter this time, like if you hold on hard enough, everything else will disappear.

“I’ll do better” 

You don’t say at what.

You don’t need to.

Because in your mind, it’s already decided.

You’ll be a good husband.

A good father.

“Quit pulling him like that! He’s not your toy, Satoru!”

“He doesn’t mind! Right, babe?”

“‘Babe’? Since when was he your ‘babe’? Y/N, don’t tell me you agreed to date this moron.”

“Well, I—“

“He didn’t need to! I already know he’d pick me over you~.”

Since second year, your two friends— Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo —have been playing a game of tug-of-war with you as the rope. The only person in your class of four who wasn’t pulling you in every other direction was Shoko Ieri.

There wasn’t really a start to this madness, it just gradually got there.

You all went from acquaintances to new friends by first year, to best friends by the beginning of second year, and then love triangle by the end of second year.

The two bickered like they wanted you to choose one of them and yet they never asked you to or even seemed bothered that you didn’t. Honestly, you believed they preferred this mess, and you probably did too. You didn’t want to choose either because you liked them both. So, if they weren’t upset by it, you just wouldn’t choose.

It was more to tease the other when they’d fight over who sat next to you at lunch or who would eventually take your first kiss.

Sometimes they’d get so caught up in their bickering, you could walk away and they wouldn’t notice until they turn to ask your opinion and you’re gone. Honestly, they more than likely had just as much of a crush on each other as they had on you.

It would get worse when you were all adults.

In the canon world, where they’re both on two different sides of the war:

The possessiveness would set in. For both.

If you’re still with the sorcerers, Satoru would be terrified at the idea of Suguru coming back for you, taking you from him and losing one more person he loves. He’d cling to you so tightly, always calling, always holding you when he has you. Anything to make sure you wouldn’t leave.

Suguru would miss you greatly, sending people to watch you and see how you are. Maybe he would even approach you when you’re alone in a public place (no fighting ensured). He would ask how you are but he wouldn’t bother to ask you to join him anymore. He knows you’ve made your choice. He just wants to see you sometimes.

If you’d left with Suguru, he’s not as afraid of you leaving but he’s always making sure you’re not thinking of Satoru. He knows you loved him too, and while he doesn’t think you’ll go back (because the higher ups would kill you), he doesn’t want you depressed because you miss him. Not the way he is when things get too quiet.

Satoru would think about you and Suguru all the time, sitting in the betrayal. If he saw you out in public he wouldn’t be able to hold back, he’d chase you down to confront you. Maybe he wouldn’t fight you but he also knew you were too far gone to safely return to his arms. He wasn’t like Suguru, he wouldn’t respect your choice, but he’d know better than to try begging for you to come back and pay for your crimes against the Jujutsu world. He’d be so hurt.

In an AU where Suguru stayed:

They both took a while to realize grown men can’t fight over a crush like children, but when they did they had to figure out the compromise because neither of them wanted to end it with a choice either.

So it ended with no choice at all. They both officially confessed to you (even though they didn’t need to) and suggested the idea that you all just date in the end. No choice, just the way you’ve all always been but more official.

Now, this didn’t stop the bickering for your attention. In fact, it was far more intense now.

Suguru always made out with you in front of Satoru, peeking an eye open to taunt him.

Satoru always marks you up (in literally any way possible) to watch Suguru pout at the reminder it wasn’t him.

This may also be when you realize you can play too. You can make them jealous OF YOU.

Playing with Suguru’s hair in front of Gojo and watching him pout as he confronts a new feeling. Being jealous that it wasn’t him getting his hair played with AND that he wasn’t playing with Suguru’s hair.

Pulling Satoru into your lap as Suguru rolls his eyes but notices he kind of wants Satoru in his lap too.