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carniya has me thinking about casa boy! satoru who really should’ve been part of the original cast. he’s so perfect. all snowy hair, blinding smile, and the brightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. the hottest guy to step into the villa in love island history. but production knew exactly what they were doing when they saved him for casa amor. they knew no couple would stand a chance once he arrived.
your current connection is already in shambles. you’d watched your partner completely disrespect you during the live-streamed heart race challenge. he’d spent the majority of your time together making you feel small and forgotten.
in a single day, satoru’s made you feel more seen, more desired, than your partner has in weeks. and now you’re tucked away in say less, the mellow amber lights casting everything in a honeyed glow. he’s teaching you basic phrases in japanese, deep voice reverberating as he murmurs foreign words against your skin
“watashi no namae wa . . . desu” he says, his lips brushing your ear.
you echo the phrase back, stumbling a bit over the syllables, heart fluttering when he chuckles. “you’re a natural,” he praises, thumb stroking your jaw. “kirei desu”
“what does that mean ?” you ask, leaning into his touch as his gaze drops to your lips. you feel like you’re on cloud nine.
“it means you’re very pretty.” he murmurs. he closes the distance. lips fitting against yours like they were always meant to be there. you can taste the faint mint on his breath, feel his hand slide from your jaw to the nape of your neck. the kiss is so good it makes you completely forget about the cameras on you.
his other hand finds your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until you’re practically sitting in his lap. his hands are everywhere, tracing the curve of your spine, mapping the dip of your waist, resting on your hips. it makes your head spin. without so much as thinking, you’re swinging a leg over his to straddle him properly, gasping into his mouth. he takes the opportunity to sweep his tongue against yours. you’re melting, a syrupy puddle in his arms.
“fuck,” he breathes against your lips, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. “you’re so perfect”
you can only whimper in response, hands sliding up his chest to loop around his neck. pulling back slightly, you look down at him, his face is flushed, his lips are swollen and glistening. his pupils are dilated. and you know your original couple doesn’t stand a chance. “would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?” you ask, voice merely a whisper.
a grin quickly spreads across his face. “i thought you’d never ask.”
the air in the kyoto conservatory was thick with the smell of old incense and even older grudges. it was almost the third hour of the biannual clan summit; a grueling marathon of archaic politics, budget allocations and veiled threats from the conservative faction.
sitting to your immediate left, satoru gojo was the spitting image of agonizing boredom.
he was slouched back in the antique wooden chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, his chin resting lazily in his palm. the black blindfold stark against his pale skin; gave away nothing.
but the rhythmic, impatient tapping of his index finger against the armrest spoke volumes.
across the table; principal gakuganji was droning on about the proper protocol for registering special-grade cursed objects, his voice a dry, aggravating hum.
suddenly, the tapping stopped.
you felt it before you saw it - a subtle, heavy shift in the atmosphere; under the cover of the long, white tablecloth, satoru’s knee brushed against yours.
he didn't look at you - his head remained tilted toward the elders, a picture of absolute, obvious, mocking attention. but the space beneath the table began to warp.
it was a masterclass in cursed energy manipulation; using the six eyes, he flawlessly folded the space around your lower halves - he wasn't casting a standard curtain that would require a physical manifestation or an incantation that would alert the room. instead, he wove a compressed distortion of his limitless.
light bent seamlessly around the barrier; sound was swallowed into a vacuum. to the rest of the room, anyone glancing under the table would see nothing but shadows and stillness.
within that pocket he made of infinity, however, there were no rules.
his large hand then settled heavily onto your thigh, his thumb dragged slow, excruciating circles over the fabric of your clothes as if he’s mapping a territory with a predatory kind of patience.
you inhaled sharply, your spine going rigid - satoru simply tilted his head, resting his cheek on his knuckles. an infuriatingly arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
(he is out of his fucking mind, you realized, heart hammering against your ribs. you both are surrounded by elite sorcerers, powerful clan heads, and the entire conservative council.)
but that was exactly the point.
as his hand slid higher, the ambient cursed energy in the room began to spike. satoru was effortlessly maintaining the spatial illusion, but the sheer emotional and physical focus required for what he was doing beneath the table was causing his aura to bleed out into the room, everyone could feel it.
an elder midway down the table suddenly faltered, his sentence dying in his throat, sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead in small rivulets as the oppressive, suffocating weight of the strongest sorcerer alive began to press down on the room.
"gojo-san," gakuganji rasped, his grip tightening on his cane as he felt the erratic, thrumming surge in the air. "is there... a point at issue? your cursed energy - it’s fluctuating wildly."
satoru didn't miss a beat - his hand did something wicked under the table, forcing you to bite your lip hard enough to taste blood just to keep your face blank.
"oh, my sincerest apologies," satoru purred, his voice dripping with honeyed innocence. "i'm just finding this discussion incredibly stimulating - my cursed energy tends to act up when i'm this invested. please, don't let me interrupt. you were saying?"
the sheer audacity of it hung in the air; the elders exchanged nervous, paranoid glances, acutely aware of the massive, erratic spikes radiating from him, yet entirely unable to pierce the spatial anomaly to figure out why - why he was lying.
the droning of principal gakuganji's voice hit a wall of dead air the moment satoru's fingers breached your waistband.
inside the localized pocket of infinity, sound ceased to exist; no rustle of paper, no creak of chair, no distant traffic filtering through the open window.
there was only the wet, obscene slide of his fingers through your folds, the ragged catch of your breath, the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears - all of it contained, compressed, private in a bubble that might as well have been a soundproof coffin.
to the rest of the room, you were a statue. still-faced. eyes fixed on the presentation slide. hands folded neatly on the table. (you were screaming on the inside.)
satoru's fingers moved through your trousers as if the fabric didn't exist; the dense cotton of your slacks were pushed aside molecule by molecule, creating a vacuum channel for his hand to slide through without a single wrinkle disturbing your lap.
from the outside, your pants lay smooth and unremarkable. inside, his thumb had already found your clit.
"mmnngh-" the moan vibrated against your teeth, trapped, swallowed by the barrier. no cough, no excuse needed to cover it. nothing.
nanami, seated two chairs away, didn't even blink, satoru's other hand remained on the table, fingers drumming lazily against the surface.
under the table, his middle finger curled into your entrance with annoying precision, you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted iron.
your hips twitched - a fraction of an inch, invisible to anyone watching - but the movement was enough to let his finger push deeper, he rewarded you by crooking it, pressing against that rough, swollen patch of nerves that made your vision white out for a second.
"satoru-" you breathed, a whisper that only he could hear.
his thumb pressed down on your clit in reply.
the pressure built with excruciating slowness; he added a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you open while his thumb drew snug, frantic circles.
your inner walls clenched around him, greedy - greedy for more.
you could feel the wetness pooling, seeping through your underwear, his fingers slipping slick and hot through your arousal, your breathing came in shallow, controlled pants; each exhale carried a whimper that vanished inches from your lips.
on the surface, you were collected - underneath? you were unraveling.
satoru's cursed energy flared even more - not a massive pulse, but rather - a slow, simmering rise. it lapped against the edges of the barrier, contained, although definitely intense.
gakuganji paused mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the white-haired sorcerer across the table.
"your cursed energy is… agitated. is there a concern with the proposal?" the old man said, voice sharp with suspicion.
satoru's smile widened. his fingers inside you never stopped moving, buried to the knuckle now.
"concern?" he echoed, tone light and melodic. "not at all, just thinking about a particularly interesting variable in the data. you know how my mind wanders."
his thumb pressed harder against your clit - a single pulse of pressure, you felt your climax lurch forward; a wave cresting at the edge of breaking.
however, satoru's cursed energy surged in response, a spike so sudden and violent that gakuganji's cane clattered to the floor, the old man's face went pale, mei mei's phone slipped from her fingers and nanami's hand flew to his weapon.
"what the-" someone started.
satoru didn't move an inch, his fingers curled inside you and the barrier held perfectly as you crumbled; you came in total silence.
your mouth opened wide, a scream tearing from your throat, yet no sound escaped - swallowed, kept it caged in the dark pocket of space around your body.
your back arched, your thighs trembled, your hands clawed at the table's edge as waves of white - hot pleasure crashed through you, rippling outward from your core, making your muscles twitch and your breath catch in wet, broken sobs.
satoru watched you fall apart with a satisfied smile - he didn't move his fingers, he let you ride out every pulse, every tremor, every desperate clench of your cunt around his digits.
in the silence of your private bubble, you heard the wet sound of him licking his fingers clean.
satoru simply popped his knuckles smoothly. "relax, everyone. just a little excess energy. i'll dial it back."
by the time the meeting was mercifully adjourned, the atmosphere in the room was suffocating.
the elders hastily gathered their scrolls, desperate to escape the crushing, erratic aura that had plagued the room for the last hour; none of them could look satoru in the eye, and you couldn't - either.
satoru finally withdrew his hand, the distortion snapping flawlessly out of existence as if it had never been there, the heavy compression in the room disappeared in an instant, leaving the air feeling strangely thin.
he stood up, stretching his long arms above his head with a dramatic, exaggerated yawn.
he looked completely immaculate. you, on the contrary, felt completely unraveled, legs trembling as you forced yourself to stand up.
"well! that was productive," satoru announced brightly to the retreating backs of the council members.
then, he turned to you, dipping his head slightly so that only you could see the wicked, satisfied gleam in his eyes - partially visible beneath his blindfold.
"don't you think?" he whispered, his voice dark and thoroughly pleased.
i actually do not care if theres a mistake anymore i want this out of my drafts goodbye @hanaegoaway @justiceforkira @cassiee444 @pegginggojo @satoruslvut @starzbrii @mspinkpanties @swirlybunni @honeybunny4808 @brrreign @miy0risworld
I kind of miss the impulsivity that certain spaces used to allow. oh you want a hair cut today? hairdresser in the corner can fit you in before her 2 o’clock. tattoo of a cobra… sure leg or arm? even concerts, back when you could go to the box office thirty mins before any show. not saying these things don’t exist at all, but everything feels booked five months in advance and 10x more expensive
I actually do think we should discourage women from becoming housewives. Do not become financially dependent on a man. That's how a lot of women ended up dead over the years. A man gets violent suddenly and you have to choose between homelessness or potentially dying at his hand because you have an enormous gap in your resume and no degrees or certifications or anything that will help you pursue a career that will allow you to be financially independent. He owns your bank account. His name is probably the one on the car. Try and leave and he can report it stolen. Where will you go then?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
sorry but once you notice how often ppl use a southern accent as shorthand for being unintelligent you can never unsee it. classism is baked so deeply and why are you acting like anyone who talks the way my grandfather talks is stupid.
the air in the kyoto conservatory was thick with the smell of old incense and even older grudges. it was almost the third hour of the biannual clan summit; a grueling marathon of archaic politics, budget allocations and veiled threats from the conservative faction.
sitting to your immediate left, satoru gojo was the spitting image of agonizing boredom.
he was slouched back in the antique wooden chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, his chin resting lazily in his palm. the black blindfold stark against his pale skin; gave away nothing.
but the rhythmic, impatient tapping of his index finger against the armrest spoke volumes.
across the table; principal gakuganji was droning on about the proper protocol for registering special-grade cursed objects, his voice a dry, aggravating hum.
suddenly, the tapping stopped.
you felt it before you saw it - a subtle, heavy shift in the atmosphere; under the cover of the long, white tablecloth, satoru’s knee brushed against yours.
he didn't look at you - his head remained tilted toward the elders, a picture of absolute, obvious, mocking attention. but the space beneath the table began to warp.
it was a masterclass in cursed energy manipulation; using the six eyes, he flawlessly folded the space around your lower halves - he wasn't casting a standard curtain that would require a physical manifestation or an incantation that would alert the room. instead, he wove a compressed distortion of his limitless.
light bent seamlessly around the barrier; sound was swallowed into a vacuum. to the rest of the room, anyone glancing under the table would see nothing but shadows and stillness.
within that pocket he made of infinity, however, there were no rules.
his large hand then settled heavily onto your thigh, his thumb dragged slow, excruciating circles over the fabric of your clothes as if he’s mapping a territory with a predatory kind of patience.
you inhaled sharply, your spine going rigid - satoru simply tilted his head, resting his cheek on his knuckles. an infuriatingly arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
(he is out of his fucking mind, you realized, heart hammering against your ribs. you both are surrounded by elite sorcerers, powerful clan heads, and the entire conservative council.)
but that was exactly the point.
as his hand slid higher, the ambient cursed energy in the room began to spike. satoru was effortlessly maintaining the spatial illusion, but the sheer emotional and physical focus required for what he was doing beneath the table was causing his aura to bleed out into the room, everyone could feel it.
an elder midway down the table suddenly faltered, his sentence dying in his throat, sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead in small rivulets as the oppressive, suffocating weight of the strongest sorcerer alive began to press down on the room.
"gojo-san," gakuganji rasped, his grip tightening on his cane as he felt the erratic, thrumming surge in the air. "is there... a point at issue? your cursed energy - it’s fluctuating wildly."
satoru didn't miss a beat - his hand did something wicked under the table, forcing you to bite your lip hard enough to taste blood just to keep your face blank.
"oh, my sincerest apologies," satoru purred, his voice dripping with honeyed innocence. "i'm just finding this discussion incredibly stimulating - my cursed energy tends to act up when i'm this invested. please, don't let me interrupt. you were saying?"
the sheer audacity of it hung in the air; the elders exchanged nervous, paranoid glances, acutely aware of the massive, erratic spikes radiating from him, yet entirely unable to pierce the spatial anomaly to figure out why - why he was lying.
the droning of principal gakuganji's voice hit a wall of dead air the moment satoru's fingers breached your waistband.
inside the localized pocket of infinity, sound ceased to exist; no rustle of paper, no creak of chair, no distant traffic filtering through the open window.
there was only the wet, obscene slide of his fingers through your folds, the ragged catch of your breath, the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears - all of it contained, compressed, private in a bubble that might as well have been a soundproof coffin.
to the rest of the room, you were a statue. still-faced. eyes fixed on the presentation slide. hands folded neatly on the table. (you were screaming on the inside.)
satoru's fingers moved through your trousers as if the fabric didn't exist; the dense cotton of your slacks were pushed aside molecule by molecule, creating a vacuum channel for his hand to slide through without a single wrinkle disturbing your lap.
from the outside, your pants lay smooth and unremarkable. inside, his thumb had already found your clit.
"mmnngh-" the moan vibrated against your teeth, trapped, swallowed by the barrier. no cough, no excuse needed to cover it. nothing.
nanami, seated two chairs away, didn't even blink, satoru's other hand remained on the table, fingers drumming lazily against the surface.
under the table, his middle finger curled into your entrance with annoying precision, you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted iron.
your hips twitched - a fraction of an inch, invisible to anyone watching - but the movement was enough to let his finger push deeper, he rewarded you by crooking it, pressing against that rough, swollen patch of nerves that made your vision white out for a second.
"satoru-" you breathed, a whisper that only he could hear.
his thumb pressed down on your clit in reply.
the pressure built with excruciating slowness; he added a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you open while his thumb drew snug, frantic circles.
your inner walls clenched around him, greedy - greedy for more.
you could feel the wetness pooling, seeping through your underwear, his fingers slipping slick and hot through your arousal, your breathing came in shallow, controlled pants; each exhale carried a whimper that vanished inches from your lips.
on the surface, you were collected - underneath? you were unraveling.
satoru's cursed energy flared even more - not a massive pulse, but rather - a slow, simmering rise. it lapped against the edges of the barrier, contained, although definitely intense.
gakuganji paused mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the white-haired sorcerer across the table.
"your cursed energy is… agitated. is there a concern with the proposal?" the old man said, voice sharp with suspicion.
satoru's smile widened. his fingers inside you never stopped moving, buried to the knuckle now.
"concern?" he echoed, tone light and melodic. "not at all, just thinking about a particularly interesting variable in the data. you know how my mind wanders."
his thumb pressed harder against your clit - a single pulse of pressure, you felt your climax lurch forward; a wave cresting at the edge of breaking.
however, satoru's cursed energy surged in response, a spike so sudden and violent that gakuganji's cane clattered to the floor, the old man's face went pale, mei mei's phone slipped from her fingers and nanami's hand flew to his weapon.
"what the-" someone started.
satoru didn't move an inch, his fingers curled inside you and the barrier held perfectly as you crumbled; you came in total silence.
your mouth opened wide, a scream tearing from your throat, yet no sound escaped - swallowed, kept it caged in the dark pocket of space around your body.
your back arched, your thighs trembled, your hands clawed at the table's edge as waves of white - hot pleasure crashed through you, rippling outward from your core, making your muscles twitch and your breath catch in wet, broken sobs.
satoru watched you fall apart with a satisfied smile - he didn't move his fingers, he let you ride out every pulse, every tremor, every desperate clench of your cunt around his digits.
in the silence of your private bubble, you heard the wet sound of him licking his fingers clean.
satoru simply popped his knuckles smoothly. "relax, everyone. just a little excess energy. i'll dial it back."
by the time the meeting was mercifully adjourned, the atmosphere in the room was suffocating.
the elders hastily gathered their scrolls, desperate to escape the crushing, erratic aura that had plagued the room for the last hour; none of them could look satoru in the eye, and you couldn't - either.
satoru finally withdrew his hand, the distortion snapping flawlessly out of existence as if it had never been there, the heavy compression in the room disappeared in an instant, leaving the air feeling strangely thin.
he stood up, stretching his long arms above his head with a dramatic, exaggerated yawn.
he looked completely immaculate. you, on the contrary, felt completely unraveled, legs trembling as you forced yourself to stand up.
"well! that was productive," satoru announced brightly to the retreating backs of the council members.
then, he turned to you, dipping his head slightly so that only you could see the wicked, satisfied gleam in his eyes - partially visible beneath his blindfold.
"don't you think?" he whispered, his voice dark and thoroughly pleased.
i actually do not care if theres a mistake anymore i want this out of my drafts goodbye @hanaegoaway @justiceforkira @cassiee444 @pegginggojo @satoruslvut @starzbrii @mspinkpanties @swirlybunni @honeybunny4808 @brrreign @miy0risworld
the air in the kyoto conservatory was thick with the smell of old incense and even older grudges. it was almost the third hour of the biannual clan summit; a grueling marathon of archaic politics, budget allocations and veiled threats from the conservative faction.
sitting to your immediate left, satoru gojo was the spitting image of agonizing boredom.
he was slouched back in the antique wooden chair, his long legs stretched out under the table, his chin resting lazily in his palm. the black blindfold stark against his pale skin; gave away nothing.
but the rhythmic, impatient tapping of his index finger against the armrest spoke volumes.
across the table; principal gakuganji was droning on about the proper protocol for registering special-grade cursed objects, his voice a dry, aggravating hum.
suddenly, the tapping stopped.
you felt it before you saw it - a subtle, heavy shift in the atmosphere; under the cover of the long, white tablecloth, satoru’s knee brushed against yours.
he didn't look at you - his head remained tilted toward the elders, a picture of absolute, obvious, mocking attention. but the space beneath the table began to warp.
it was a masterclass in cursed energy manipulation; using the six eyes, he flawlessly folded the space around your lower halves - he wasn't casting a standard curtain that would require a physical manifestation or an incantation that would alert the room. instead, he wove a compressed distortion of his limitless.
light bent seamlessly around the barrier; sound was swallowed into a vacuum. to the rest of the room, anyone glancing under the table would see nothing but shadows and stillness.
within that pocket he made of infinity, however, there were no rules.
his large hand then settled heavily onto your thigh, his thumb dragged slow, excruciating circles over the fabric of your clothes as if he’s mapping a territory with a predatory kind of patience.
you inhaled sharply, your spine going rigid - satoru simply tilted his head, resting his cheek on his knuckles. an infuriatingly arrogant smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
(he is out of his fucking mind, you realized, heart hammering against your ribs. you both are surrounded by elite sorcerers, powerful clan heads, and the entire conservative council.)
but that was exactly the point.
as his hand slid higher, the ambient cursed energy in the room began to spike. satoru was effortlessly maintaining the spatial illusion, but the sheer emotional and physical focus required for what he was doing beneath the table was causing his aura to bleed out into the room, everyone could feel it.
an elder midway down the table suddenly faltered, his sentence dying in his throat, sweat beaded on his wrinkled forehead in small rivulets as the oppressive, suffocating weight of the strongest sorcerer alive began to press down on the room.
"gojo-san," gakuganji rasped, his grip tightening on his cane as he felt the erratic, thrumming surge in the air. "is there... a point at issue? your cursed energy - it’s fluctuating wildly."
satoru didn't miss a beat - his hand did something wicked under the table, forcing you to bite your lip hard enough to taste blood just to keep your face blank.
"oh, my sincerest apologies," satoru purred, his voice dripping with honeyed innocence. "i'm just finding this discussion incredibly stimulating - my cursed energy tends to act up when i'm this invested. please, don't let me interrupt. you were saying?"
the sheer audacity of it hung in the air; the elders exchanged nervous, paranoid glances, acutely aware of the massive, erratic spikes radiating from him, yet entirely unable to pierce the spatial anomaly to figure out why - why he was lying.
the droning of principal gakuganji's voice hit a wall of dead air the moment satoru's fingers breached your waistband.
inside the localized pocket of infinity, sound ceased to exist; no rustle of paper, no creak of chair, no distant traffic filtering through the open window.
there was only the wet, obscene slide of his fingers through your folds, the ragged catch of your breath, the thundering of your own heartbeat in your ears - all of it contained, compressed, private in a bubble that might as well have been a soundproof coffin.
to the rest of the room, you were a statue. still-faced. eyes fixed on the presentation slide. hands folded neatly on the table. (you were screaming on the inside.)
satoru's fingers moved through your trousers as if the fabric didn't exist; the dense cotton of your slacks were pushed aside molecule by molecule, creating a vacuum channel for his hand to slide through without a single wrinkle disturbing your lap.
from the outside, your pants lay smooth and unremarkable. inside, his thumb had already found your clit.
"mmnngh-" the moan vibrated against your teeth, trapped, swallowed by the barrier. no cough, no excuse needed to cover it. nothing.
nanami, seated two chairs away, didn't even blink, satoru's other hand remained on the table, fingers drumming lazily against the surface.
under the table, his middle finger curled into your entrance with annoying precision, you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted iron.
your hips twitched - a fraction of an inch, invisible to anyone watching - but the movement was enough to let his finger push deeper, he rewarded you by crooking it, pressing against that rough, swollen patch of nerves that made your vision white out for a second.
"satoru-" you breathed, a whisper that only he could hear.
his thumb pressed down on your clit in reply.
the pressure built with excruciating slowness; he added a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you open while his thumb drew snug, frantic circles.
your inner walls clenched around him, greedy - greedy for more.
you could feel the wetness pooling, seeping through your underwear, his fingers slipping slick and hot through your arousal, your breathing came in shallow, controlled pants; each exhale carried a whimper that vanished inches from your lips.
on the surface, you were collected - underneath? you were unraveling.
satoru's cursed energy flared even more - not a massive pulse, but rather - a slow, simmering rise. it lapped against the edges of the barrier, contained, although definitely intense.
gakuganji paused mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he glanced at the white-haired sorcerer across the table.
"your cursed energy is… agitated. is there a concern with the proposal?" the old man said, voice sharp with suspicion.
satoru's smile widened. his fingers inside you never stopped moving, buried to the knuckle now.
"concern?" he echoed, tone light and melodic. "not at all, just thinking about a particularly interesting variable in the data. you know how my mind wanders."
his thumb pressed harder against your clit - a single pulse of pressure, you felt your climax lurch forward; a wave cresting at the edge of breaking.
however, satoru's cursed energy surged in response, a spike so sudden and violent that gakuganji's cane clattered to the floor, the old man's face went pale, mei mei's phone slipped from her fingers and nanami's hand flew to his weapon.
"what the-" someone started.
satoru didn't move an inch, his fingers curled inside you and the barrier held perfectly as you crumbled; you came in total silence.
your mouth opened wide, a scream tearing from your throat, yet no sound escaped - swallowed, kept it caged in the dark pocket of space around your body.
your back arched, your thighs trembled, your hands clawed at the table's edge as waves of white - hot pleasure crashed through you, rippling outward from your core, making your muscles twitch and your breath catch in wet, broken sobs.
satoru watched you fall apart with a satisfied smile - he didn't move his fingers, he let you ride out every pulse, every tremor, every desperate clench of your cunt around his digits.
in the silence of your private bubble, you heard the wet sound of him licking his fingers clean.
satoru simply popped his knuckles smoothly. "relax, everyone. just a little excess energy. i'll dial it back."
by the time the meeting was mercifully adjourned, the atmosphere in the room was suffocating.
the elders hastily gathered their scrolls, desperate to escape the crushing, erratic aura that had plagued the room for the last hour; none of them could look satoru in the eye, and you couldn't - either.
satoru finally withdrew his hand, the distortion snapping flawlessly out of existence as if it had never been there, the heavy compression in the room disappeared in an instant, leaving the air feeling strangely thin.
he stood up, stretching his long arms above his head with a dramatic, exaggerated yawn.
he looked completely immaculate. you, on the contrary, felt completely unraveled, legs trembling as you forced yourself to stand up.
"well! that was productive," satoru announced brightly to the retreating backs of the council members.
then, he turned to you, dipping his head slightly so that only you could see the wicked, satisfied gleam in his eyes - partially visible beneath his blindfold.
"don't you think?" he whispered, his voice dark and thoroughly pleased.
i actually do not care if theres a mistake anymore i want this out of my drafts goodbye @hanaegoaway @justiceforkira @cassiee444 @pegginggojo @satoruslvut @starzbrii @mspinkpanties @swirlybunni @honeybunny4808 @brrreign @miy0risworld
the kitchen is loud in that soft, lived in way - rice steaming on the stove, a window cracked open to let in the late afternoon breeze, the low hum of the city outside.
you’re at the counter, sleeves rolled, trying to finish cutting vegetables before the timer goes off again.
behind you - absolute chaos.
“why do we have to clean our room now?” your son whines, dragging the words like they physically hurt him.
your daughter slumps dramatically over the table. “you said later, you're insufferable - always changing your mind.”
you close your eyes for half a second, breathe in, and turn around. “i said after homework. homework is done. rooms next.”
they groan in unison.
“ugh, you’re so unfair,” your son mutters, just loud enough to sting. “you don’t even know how boring it is.”
the words land deeper than they should - not because they’re cruel, but because you’re tired, because it’s been a long day. because you’ve been holding everything together with quiet patience and the unspoken understanding that is just a part of you.
before you can respond, the air behind you shifts.
satoru had been leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that lazy, half-amused expression he wears when he’s pretending not to pay attention.
his blindfold is gone; his piercing blue eyes in full view, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. when he straightens, the room subtly reorients itself around him - like gravity remembered where it belongs.
his voice is calm. low and definitely not playful.
“hey.” he starts - both kids freeze as if caught in the middle of a crime scene.
they turn toward him instinctively. gojo steps forward just enough to be unavoidable, hands sliding into his pockets. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t smile.
“don’t talk to my wife like that.”
the words hit the room - and you.
something in your chest tightens, then warms, then aches. "wife" - fuck - not corrective, not casual. possessive in the quietest, surest way. like a line drawn, no - carved in stone.
the kids go silent.
“she asked you to do something reasonable,” gojo continues, tone steady, unshakable. “and you don’t get to take your frustration out on her just because you’re bored.”
your son opens his mouth, then thinks better of it when gojo tilts his head slightly.
“you can be tired,” gojo says. “you can be annoyed. that’s fine.” his gaze sharpens - not cruel, just firm. “but you will be respectful.”
your heartbeat stutters from something else entirely. from being seen. backed. claimed without spectacle. it stirs something deep and private, something grounding and dizzying all at once.
“i’m sorry,” your daughter says quietly.
your son nods. “yeah. sorry, mom.”
you hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until they finally drop.
gojo glances at you then - just briefly. the edge in his expression softens in a way only you ever see. a silent i’ve got you.
“alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, the mood loosening just enough. “rooms. ten minutes. i’ll check.”
they scatter down the hall - the kitchen settles again.
you lean back against the counter, exhaling. gojo steps closer, lowering his voice. “you okay?”
you nod, but the way your pulse is still racing gives you away.
he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering just a second longer. “you don’t have to carry everything alone,” he murmurs. “that’s my job too.”
your throat tightens but you smile anyway.
from the hallway, a voice calls, “dad - does shoving everything under the bed count?”
and as the noise resumes, your hand finds his wrist for just a moment - steadying yourself, grounding that stirred, glowing thing in your chest - because you know now, more than ever, that you’re not standing alone.
Hi everyone, I’ve seen the speculation going around and I’d just like to make it clear that I am not, nor have I ever been Tojioffline2 or any burn book accounts.
I know that these gossip pages have caused a great deal of harm, and understandably, people are looking for someone to blame. However, the accusations against me are based on assumptions and coincidences, not facts.
Tojioffline2 claims that I am British. Firstly, I am not British. I use UK spelling conventions because my country is a former British colony – I’m not even in the Northern Hemisphere. They were also aware that the OG Tojioffline2 is Palestinian – I am not Palestinian, and I’ve actually never shared my ethnicity on my blog, though I am a person of colour.
Many writers are currently taking a break right now and/or their activity has decreased because it is exam season. Personally, I’ve been pretty inactive since early April (when my last fic was posted), because my schedule has been dotted with tests and assessments. This wasn’t a recent change nor was it my first days-long break, and I went offline earlier this week as my first exam is literally next Wednesday.
‘Lola’ and ‘Lolalied’ were names and users I chose on a whim simply because I liked the name and the alliteration. They have no connection to my identity. From what I’ve heard, Tojioffline2 was adamant on not sharing their main blog name – if I was Tojioffline2, why would I deliberately link a gossip blog and writing blog through a shared alias?
The only factual claims that they made were that I’m 19, going to university, and previously went by Lola. If you genuinely believe that is enough to prove that I am Tojioffline2, I don’t know what else to tell you.
At the end of the day, I’m here to share my writing and interact with people who are into JJK too. My philosophy for online interaction has always been to block and move on. I stand with those who have been victims of hate trains, and they will always have my support.
Please don’t drag me into discourse. If you believe you have any actual, concrete proof, please contact me directly – otherwise, stop with the baseless speculations.
I will also not be sharing any more personal details, as I prioritise my safety and privacy.
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you figured satoru, the guy who dedicated his entire life to dealing with monsters, would be the most perfect date.
right, of course - you were wrong.
barely ten minutes into the film, a screeching violin note signaled an upcoming jump scare, and satoru practically vaulted out of his seat.
he didn't just flinch; he let out a sharp undignified "hey!" and gripped your arm so hard you briefly wondered if you’d need an ice pack later. you could feel it bruising.
“satoru. chill. you're going to get us kicked out.” you whisper-shouted, mortified as the people in the row behind you began to audibly huff and groan.
“i am chilled!” he hissed back, though he was currently hunched over, using his candy flavoured popcorn bucket as a makeshift shield against the screen.
“it's just - the killer - he's incredibly stealthy for an amateur, it’s annoyingly interesting.”
every time a floorboard creaked in the movie, he would twitch. whenever the music swelled, he’d lean over to whisper (loudly) "he's going to jump out now, it's very predictable - bad writing, if you were to ask for my professional opinion, honestly."
“satoru, shut. up. please.” you pleaded, your face burning from embarrassment.
“i can’t help it! he’s being so reckless!” he leaned even closer, his voice booming across the quiet theater. “oh, look! he’s going into the dark basement isn't he? who does that? it’s a death wish! hey, idiot! check your corners! peripheral vision, man!”
the breaking point arrived when the killer finally lunged from the dark looming shadows that's when satoru let out a genuine, startled shout and reflexively tossed his entire bucket of popcorn into the air.
it hit one person in the row in front of you with a loud thwack, sending candied kernels raining down on everyone in a five-seat radius.
the movie screen was still playing, but the focus of the room had shifted entirely to the shower of popcorn and satoru’s indignant, "i was defending myself! it’s justified!"
an usher appeared at the end of the aisle within seconds, looking like a man who doesn't get paid enough to deal with this.
he didn't even say anything at first; he just pointed a flashlight toward the exit while looking at you both, "out."
"right. my bad," satoru said, standing up with a shrug and pulling you up with him forcefully.
he didn't look the least bit embarrassed; if anything, he looked relieved to be away from the gore scene playing now.
as you walked out of the lobby, surrounded by the annoyed glares of people, satoru slung an arm around your shoulders with a sheepish grin.
"well," he said, beaming down at you as if the night had been a blast. "that was fun, i give it a solid b-minus. the killer had no potential, and the pacing was atrocious. hey, at least we don't have to finish it. hungry? i know a place that sells really good mochi nearby."
you just sighed and let him drag you toward the exit, already regretting your life choices.
yes, satoru gojo is a prime example of why people don't go to the cinema anymore.
you thought you’d get under his skin with a little flirting — too bad gojo’s got his reversed cursed technique ready to steal every orgasm and keep you begging for more. how far would you go to reclaim what’s yours?
<𝟑 .ᐟ gojo satoru x f!reader , mdni , divider->@/cafekitsune
cw: feral unhinged gojo , orgasm denial using supernatural powers, rough revenge sex , overstimulation , size kink (implied) , oral sex (f. receiving) , emotional vulnerability including crying and begging , degradation , mention of naoya zenin .
not proofread , art by sakimenz on insta
you’d done it on purpose.
a gentle laugh, a hand on Naoya Zenin's arm, the way your voice softened — just a little — when you said his name.
Gojo had watched from across the room, eyes hidden behind his blindfold, a smile on his lips that didn’t reach his voice.
it was petty. you’d wanted to sting him. to get a reaction, but Gojo Satoru doesn’t do jealousy.
he does revenge.
which is why you’re here now — naked and trembling on his bed, your body wrung out from being dragged to the edge and back again, each high meticulously stolen by the brush of his cursed energy, each orgasm erased with the clinical precision of a man who could do this forever, his blindfold and clothes now discarded on the floor too.
but first — he’d made you feel it.
he had dragged your knees apart and spread you open with the reverence of a priest and the cruelty of a god.
his tongue was devastating. slow, languid strokes at first — deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of your folds with the flat of it, as if the taste of you was something to savor rather than devour.
his breath fanned out over your slick skin, humid and maddening. every pass of his tongue sent your hips twitching, but he didn’t let you move — not even a little.
he moaned against you, low and indulgent, as if your pussy fed something primal in him.
your hands fisted in his hair. your thighs tried to close around his head, trembling, but he shoved them back open — firm, unhurried, unbothered. one hand gripped your inner thigh tight enough to bruise, the other slid underneath you, palm pressing flat to your lower belly — pinning you down, anchoring you like he knew you were about to come undone.
his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking slow, torturous pulls that made you choke on your own breath. then the tip of his tongue flicked — quick and rhythmic, teasing the bundle of nerves with surgical precision.
he alternated between flattening his tongue and curling it against you, dragging the wet muscle over every swollen, sensitive spot like he was testing how far he could push you without letting you fall.
and when you began to shake — legs tensing, voice gone — he shifted slightly, lips slippery with your slick, then whispered against your cunt like a secret, “that’s it, baby… give it to me.”
you came... or tried to.
snap, gone.
the orgasm vanished like a phantom breath, ripped from your nerves before it could detonate. your mouth opened in a soundless cry, the pleasure caught in your chest like a sob that wouldn’t release.
that was the beginning of your unraveling.
now, an hour later, he kneels between your legs, sleeves rolled up, mouth glistening, fingers stroking idly at your folds. you twitch under his touch.
“still feeling flirty?” he hums, mock curious, tilting his head like he doesn’t already know. “or are we learning how to behave now?”
you glare at him, but it’s pathetic. you’re flushed and panting, thighs spread wide, unable to even close them with how sore you are. you’ve already cum — what, three times? four?
no. you haven’t. that’s the sick joke of it.
your body has. screamed and clenched and convulsed. but every single time, just as you came — he’d used reversed cursed technique on your nerves, wiping away the peak as if it never happened.
leaving you empty. ruined. needing.
he was never angry. never cold. just... calmly vindictive, “you’re insane,” you croak out.
he hums again, amused, like you’ve said something sweet. “you knew that when you chose me, you're just as bad.”
you try to sit up. he presses your hips back down instantly, one handed, with terrifying ease.
“toru—”
he leans in, licks a slow stripe up your inner thigh. “don’t say my name like that unless you mean it, baby.”
your whole body jerks. “i do,” you pant. “please—let me cum this time. i won’t flirt with him ever again.”
he smiles. but it’s not kindness — it’s confirmation. “there it is,” he murmurs, pleased. “took you long enough.”
the fourth orgasm hits like a freight train, or it would’ve.
you feel it build in your gut — tight, volcanic, desperate. his fingers are perfect, curling inside you, thumb circling your clit, his mouth whispering filth you can barely process. and just as your breath catches — just as your body tries to surrender again—
gone.
you scream into your own hand. he sighs, mock sympathetic. “awww. almost.” you writhe, tears slipping from your eyes.
he leans in close, licking one off your cheek, his voice silky. “you know how precise i have to be to catch it right as you tip over? it’s hard work.”
“sadist,” you whisper, “mmhmm,” he nods like you’ve complimented him. “try again?”
you shake your head. “no. i—I can’t.” he kisses your stomach, soft. “you will.”
by the time he’s undone your sixth orgasm, you’ve forgotten why you flirted with anyone in the first place.
you’re incoherent. your body is oversensitized to the point of pain, nerves frayed, thighs shaking every time he exhales near your cunt. your fists clench the sheets. you hate him. you need him so bad that it hurts.
he’s humming a tune. casual. barely sweaty, even though he’s been at this for over an hour.
“i’m honestly impressed,” he says, pressing two fingers back inside you. “i thought you’d safeword by now.”
you blink up at him, barely. “i want to cum.”
he smiles, slow. “you want that, but you also knew what you were doing, baby. you knew what would happen the moment you put your hands on him.”
your breath catches.
“you did it for this.” he kisses your inner thigh. “you wanted me to snap. to fuck you stupid. to ruin you.”
he bites, just enough to make you gasp, “i’m only obliging.” you sob — half laughter, half broken plea. “then fucking ruin me, gojo satoru.”
he freezes for a second.
then — something changes.
when he slides into you, with no warning. just heat and stretch and a low, animal growl torn from his throat.
your cunt, swollen and hypersensitive, welcomes him in with an obscene squelch. you’re soaked — slippery and pulsing — and yet the thickness of him still steals the breath from your lungs. he sinks in slowly, grinding deeper with every inch until his hips press flush to yours and his cock is nestled so far inside, you feel him in your ribs.
your walls spasm around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper, as if it’ll never be enough.
you cry out, legs instinctively hooking around his waist despite the ache. he grabs under your knees and bends them up and out — folding you open, exposing everything, letting you feel every inch of stretch and friction as he rocks his hips forward again.
“fuck—still this tight after all that?” he groans against your neck, voice rough and disbelieving.
you can’t answer. your brain is static.
he draws out slow — so slow — and your pussy clings to him, velvety and drenched, unwilling to let go. you feel everything: the ridge of his head, the drag along your walls, the pressure curling low in your gut again like a threat.
and then he slams back in.
you scream. your body jolts under his weight, the bed creaking beneath you. he does it again — snapping his hips with brutal accuracy, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over until your back arches and your fingers seize against his scalp.
his rhythm is devastating. perfectly cruel. he fucks you like he’s driving something out of you — like he wants to brand himself into your bones.
your chest drags against his with every thrust, your breasts bouncing between your bodies, slick skin slapping slick skin. every inhale tastes like him — his sweat, his breath, the faint trace of your arousal still slick on his lips, making them glossy and so fucking kissable.
your arms wrap around his shoulders as if on instinct, fingers trembling where they knot into his snowy hair. your chest presses flush to his, nipples stiff against him, and as he fucks you, you kiss him — anywhere you can reach. his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his collarbone — each frantic, sloppy kiss smeared with desperation, a string of saliva clinging to your parted lips every time you gasp against him.
“please,” you whisper into his throat, voice cracked and close to crying. “don’t take this one. please—please—”
he doesn’t answer, he just fucks you harder.
you’re close, closer than ever.
his hands are everywhere — one gripping your hip like a vice, the other cradling the back of your head as your face tucks against his neck. his cock drives into you with merciless intent, stroking deep, thick, hot. it’s too much, too perfect, too right.
your whole body tenses, the orgasm barreling toward you like an avalanche. every nerve is wired. every inch of you feels electric, ignited, seconds from collapse.
he feels it.
his pace quickens, rhythm ruthless, breath ragged in your ear, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t taunt. doesn’t move to take it away.
his face is focused.
you break with a scream — loud, raw, wet —and for a moment, for a terrifying breathless second, you think he’s stolen it again.
but he doesn’t, you finally cum.
it explodes out of you, violent and endless — your back arching clean off the bed as your cunt clamps down around him, pulsing, spasming, flooding. the pleasure hits in brutal, dizzying waves, white hot and relentless, until your vision swims and your body bucks and jerks uncontrollably beneath him.
you’re crying. sobbing from the release, from the ache, from everything.
he fucks you through it, his hips stuttering at the way you squeeze him.
and then he groans — loud, hoarse, guttural — as he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you.
his cock twitches with every pump of cum he pours into your cunt. he shakes against you, his body trembling with the force of it, and finally — finally — he collapses onto your chest, gasping into your neck.
you both pant into the silence.
you lie there for a long time, twitching with aftershocks, muscles limp. he doesn’t move. just wraps his arms around you, face buried in your neck.
eventually, you manage, hoarsely, “you let me…” “mmhmm.”
“why?”
his voice is tired and smug and terribly fond.
he lifts his head from the crook of your neck, strands of white hair sticking to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed, lips parted like he’s still catching his breath.
and when he looks at you — really looks at you — it’s with those piercing eyes: crystalline blue, glassy from the aftershocks of pleasure, half lidded but sharp, like they’re cutting straight through you.
he looks ruined, sweaty, glowing, a little unhinged, and still utterly in control, so fucking beautiful — you thought.
“you finally begged pretty.” you punch his shoulder. weakly.
he laughs. kisses your cheek. then cups your jaw and whispers, voice low and warm: “next time you touch someone else — I’m taking your memory of the orgasm too.”
you don't answer. just lie there, breathing him in, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist where it holds your jaw.
you’re too spent to speak.
too full of him to care.
and when he kisses your temple — gentle, almost apologetic — you think you might forgive him for everything.
a/n: wtf this is the first time i wrote smut i actually liked
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
you figured satoru, the guy who dedicated his entire life to dealing with monsters, would be the most perfect date.
right, of course - you were wrong.
barely ten minutes into the film, a screeching violin note signaled an upcoming jump scare, and satoru practically vaulted out of his seat.
he didn't just flinch; he let out a sharp undignified "hey!" and gripped your arm so hard you briefly wondered if you’d need an ice pack later. you could feel it bruising.
“satoru. chill. you're going to get us kicked out.” you whisper-shouted, mortified as the people in the row behind you began to audibly huff and groan.
“i am chilled!” he hissed back, though he was currently hunched over, using his candy flavoured popcorn bucket as a makeshift shield against the screen.
“it's just - the killer - he's incredibly stealthy for an amateur, it’s annoyingly interesting.”
every time a floorboard creaked in the movie, he would twitch. whenever the music swelled, he’d lean over to whisper (loudly) "he's going to jump out now, it's very predictable - bad writing, if you were to ask for my professional opinion, honestly."
“satoru, shut. up. please.” you pleaded, your face burning from embarrassment.
“i can’t help it! he’s being so reckless!” he leaned even closer, his voice booming across the quiet theater. “oh, look! he’s going into the dark basement isn't he? who does that? it’s a death wish! hey, idiot! check your corners! peripheral vision, man!”
the breaking point arrived when the killer finally lunged from the dark looming shadows that's when satoru let out a genuine, startled shout and reflexively tossed his entire bucket of popcorn into the air.
it hit one person in the row in front of you with a loud thwack, sending candied kernels raining down on everyone in a five-seat radius.
the movie screen was still playing, but the focus of the room had shifted entirely to the shower of popcorn and satoru’s indignant, "i was defending myself! it’s justified!"
an usher appeared at the end of the aisle within seconds, looking like a man who doesn't get paid enough to deal with this.
he didn't even say anything at first; he just pointed a flashlight toward the exit while looking at you both, "out."
"right. my bad," satoru said, standing up with a shrug and pulling you up with him forcefully.
he didn't look the least bit embarrassed; if anything, he looked relieved to be away from the gore scene playing now.
as you walked out of the lobby, surrounded by the annoyed glares of people, satoru slung an arm around your shoulders with a sheepish grin.
"well," he said, beaming down at you as if the night had been a blast. "that was fun, i give it a solid b-minus. the killer had no potential, and the pacing was atrocious. hey, at least we don't have to finish it. hungry? i know a place that sells really good mochi nearby."
you just sighed and let him drag you toward the exit, already regretting your life choices.
yes, satoru gojo is a prime example of why people don't go to the cinema anymore.
you figured satoru, the guy who dedicated his entire life to dealing with monsters, would be the most perfect date.
right, of course - you were wrong.
barely ten minutes into the film, a screeching violin note signaled an upcoming jump scare, and satoru practically vaulted out of his seat.
he didn't just flinch; he let out a sharp undignified "hey!" and gripped your arm so hard you briefly wondered if you’d need an ice pack later. you could feel it bruising.
“satoru. chill. you're going to get us kicked out.” you whisper-shouted, mortified as the people in the row behind you began to audibly huff and groan.
“i am chilled!” he hissed back, though he was currently hunched over, using his candy flavoured popcorn bucket as a makeshift shield against the screen.
“it's just - the killer - he's incredibly stealthy for an amateur, it’s annoyingly interesting.”
every time a floorboard creaked in the movie, he would twitch. whenever the music swelled, he’d lean over to whisper (loudly) "he's going to jump out now, it's very predictable - bad writing, if you were to ask for my professional opinion, honestly."
“satoru, shut. up. please.” you pleaded, your face burning from embarrassment.
“i can’t help it! he’s being so reckless!” he leaned even closer, his voice booming across the quiet theater. “oh, look! he’s going into the dark basement isn't he? who does that? it’s a death wish! hey, idiot! check your corners! peripheral vision, man!”
the breaking point arrived when the killer finally lunged from the dark looming shadows that's when satoru let out a genuine, startled shout and reflexively tossed his entire bucket of popcorn into the air.
it hit one person in the row in front of you with a loud thwack, sending candied kernels raining down on everyone in a five-seat radius.
the movie screen was still playing, but the focus of the room had shifted entirely to the shower of popcorn and satoru’s indignant, "i was defending myself! it’s justified!"
an usher appeared at the end of the aisle within seconds, looking like a man who doesn't get paid enough to deal with this.
he didn't even say anything at first; he just pointed a flashlight toward the exit while looking at you both, "out."
"right. my bad," satoru said, standing up with a shrug and pulling you up with him forcefully.
he didn't look the least bit embarrassed; if anything, he looked relieved to be away from the gore scene playing now.
as you walked out of the lobby, surrounded by the annoyed glares of people, satoru slung an arm around your shoulders with a sheepish grin.
"well," he said, beaming down at you as if the night had been a blast. "that was fun, i give it a solid b-minus. the killer had no potential, and the pacing was atrocious. hey, at least we don't have to finish it. hungry? i know a place that sells really good mochi nearby."
you just sighed and let him drag you toward the exit, already regretting your life choices.
yes, satoru gojo is a prime example of why people don't go to the cinema anymore.
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