#cocky

god forbid a man is obsessed with his girlfriend...

content: mdni ˑ smut, pure smut ˑ cockybf!sunghoon x reader ˑ dom!sunghoon ˑ sub!reader ˑ sunghoon is condescending ˑ sunghoon is a freak ˑ established relationship ˑ idk you tell me

wc: 0.8k

a/n: my first post!! woohoo!! im nervous teehee (pls interact ill cry if u dont) - also forgive me if theres mistakes ive edited this like 67 times and i dont wanna read it again harhar

check out my ➺ masterlist! ˑ taglist!

cockybf!sunghoon, who loves coming up behind you when you’re in the midst of something (which he decides is unimportant), intentionally tracing his long fingers on the smooth skin of your waist just to distract you. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who is not at all affected by your unconvicing excuse for being busy. you could never possibly be busy enough to not want him.

cockybf!sunghoon, whose hands starts to wander in places they shouldn’t be, just to draw out those pretty little sounds you make when he teases you, which is exactly what he wants to hear.

cockybf!sunghoon, who brushes the pads of his fingers over your clothed nipples, moving in painfully slow circles as the point of his chin rests on your shoulder.

cockybf!sunghoon, whose weakness is seeing just how desperate you get for him when he barely even touches you. he loves watching you poorly attempt to act normal while the pressure beneath his fingertips lightly teases, knowing just when to pull away because you’re getting too needy. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who asks - “what's wrong, baby? don't let me distract you”, as one hand continues working your chest while the other simultaneously crawls down your stomach, inching toward the pool that has now successfully flooded your lacey pink panties.

cockybf!sunghoon who knows perfectly well that you're shivering against him because his hand, which has now slipped past the waistband of your pants, is your most obvious distraction.

cockybf!sunghoon, who plays with the band of your panties just to hear the snap against your flushed skin. his other hand makes its way up to your mouth so that he can shove those slender fingers past your glossy, parted lips. your tongue coats them with the slickness of your sweet saliva before he slides them between your shaking legs. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who insists that you continue what you were doing as his fingers are quite literally inside of you, egging you on with a sly “you okay?”, or a “does it feel good, baby?” in response to the whines and whimpers that have unconsciously slipped past your lips.  

cockybf!sunghoon, who deprives you of your orgasm because he's too busy flipping you over to press your face against the cold, glossy marble that is the kitchen counter. your wrists are pulled behind your back and bound to his left hand, while the other works quickly at the drawstring of his ashen grey sweatpants. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who doesn’t hide the smirk in his tone when he asks you just what it is that you want him to do to you. the words simply die in your throat, which prompts him to bend over your radiating body so that his voice is a low hum in your ear. “use your words, baby. i need to know what you want”. it’s only until he hears the smallness of your voice beneath him, begging him to ‘take you’, that he actually does something about it. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who laughs smugly at your words, echoing them with a “take me? what does that mean?” while his eyes are burning into your back, thumb tenderly stroking the soft curve of your waist. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who responds with a low “you mean like this?”, punctuating his words with a single, brutally deep thrust. his hand is still pulling gently at your wrists with each press, pushing your heated skin against the coolness of the counter's edge. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who can’t get enough of the sounds that you make because it just drives him that much further. his other hand, still coated with remnants of you, snakes down between your parted legs, only to find your clit, which has practically been begging for attention since he first laid his hands on you. 

cockybf!sunghoon, whose thrusts are so deep that the black marble beneath your burning cheek begins to look white, whose fingers move so precisely on your clit that your legs are struggling to hold you up any longer. 

cockybf!sunghoon, whose pearly white fangs flash an appearance as he talks you through it, with a groaned “you’re taking my cock so well,” or a panted “stay still for me, yeah?” as his thrusts continue in and out, in and out, in and out.

cockybf!sunghoon, who pulls about 3 orgasms out of you before he decides that he's finally done for the evening, and that your weak body deserves a tender kiss as he helps clean the cum (a mixture of you both) that is just about to drip down your legs. 

cockybf!sunghoon, who goes to sit on the couch, as if telling you that you can resume whatever it was that you were doing. like it was in any way important now.

ouuu yesss, when i do self concept work i just love to rant about myself and be as dramatic as possible with my words when doing it. or scripting about how great i am... listening to music and dancing in my room, dolling up and complimenting myself, just getting cocky asf

Contains: Implied physical violence / rough handling, power imbalance and domination dynamics, sexual tension with aggressive undertones, mature themes (control, consent implied but not clearly established yet), psychological manipulation / intensity, mafia/crime setting, use of restraints (handcuffs, force)

The white fox masterlist

Part 2

It had been six days since that night at LUX. Six days since you pressed Gojo Satoru against a wall, your hand clenched around his collar and your control dangerously fraying. And yet, every night since, you caught yourself thinking about his voice. His breath. That grin.

You hated it.

You hated that he still hadn’t left your district.

And you hated that part of you didn’t want him to.

⸻

You got the call at 1:14 a.m.

Your men had caught an intruder on your property.

“I’m going to guess it’s not just any intruder,” you muttered, already pulling on your coat.

The safehouse was an old, repurposed industrial site on the docks. Quiet. Private. Only accessible to trusted members of your organization. Or, apparently, to men with a blindfold and zero self-preservation instinct.

The air reeked of concrete, metal, and arrogance.

Gojo Satoru sat cuffed to a steel chair in the middle of the room, lit by a single bare bulb swinging faintly above him. His white hair caught the dim light, and despite the restraints, his posture was damn near regal—one leg draped over the other, like he'd come here by choice.

He looked up as you entered, lips already curling.

“Finally. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

You didn’t respond. Not at first. You just stared at him—long, slow, calculating. There was dried blood on the corner of his mouth. Probably from one of your guards. He didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looked like he enjoyed it.

“You broke into my safehouse,” you said, voice low and steady. “That’s not something I let people walk away from.”

Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Yet here I am. Sitting, breathing… and very curious what you plan to do next.”

You stepped forward, boots echoing against the concrete. Stopped just in front of him. His grin didn’t fade. Not even when you leaned down and grabbed his jaw, forcing his face upward.

You came close—closer than you should have. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, close enough to hear the subtle shift in it.

“You want to die, Satoru?” you murmured. “Because walking into my home like this is suicide.”

“Maybe I trust you more than I should,” he said, voice light, but something in it was strung tight. “Or maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do if I put myself in your hands.”

You stared at him. At the pulse beating steadily in his throat, just beneath your fingers.

Gojo’s smirk wavered.

Your hand moved from his jaw to his neck. Thumb brushing lightly over the skin—no pressure, just intent.

“Is that what you want?” your voice dropped. “To be at my mercy?”

His breath hitched.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You leaned closer, lips brushing just shy of his cheek, voice so low it trembled against him.

“I don’t need to like it,” you said. “I just need to know you’d beg for it.”

The tension rolled off his body like heat from coals—tight, restrained, expectant. He didn’t speak right away. Then, quietly, just for you:

“Maybe I would.”

It broke something in you. Not desire—something darker. Something that recognized itself in him.

You gripped his chin again, tilting his head so he had no choice but to face you. His lips were parted, his breath uneven, blindfolded eyes locked on where you were.

“You want me to break you,” you muttered. “You’re not here to negotiate or provoke. You want someone who’ll take the decisions away from you. Am I right?”

Gojo’s throat flexed under your grip. Still smiling—but it wasn’t the same smile. There was heat in it now. Something real. Something dangerous.

“You’re the only one I wouldn’t mind losing control to,” he said.

Silence fell.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t let go.

“Keep testing me like this,” you murmured, “and you’ll find out what happens when I stop holding back.”

He didn’t argue.

You stepped back—but not far. Not really. The space between you vibrated with tension, heavy and sharp, like it could snap or ignite at any second.

“You break into my district,” you said, voice cold now, “you trespass in my house, and you sit here like you want to be chained up.”

Gojo’s lips parted. This time, he didn’t smirk. He just looked at you, still and deliberate, like the tension itself was holding him together.

“Maybe I did,” he said, just above a whisper. “Maybe I wanted to see what you'd do when no one was watching.”

You leaned down again, your hand resting on the back of the chair near his shoulder—close enough to remind him that the only thing holding you back was choice.

“Is this a game to you?” you asked, your voice low and cutting. “Get caught. Get cuffed. Get dragged into my space. Or is it something else you’re chasing?”

Gojo swallowed. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d break first.”

Your eyes narrowed. You gripped the chain of his cuffs, letting the metal slip through your fingers like a blade you could use any moment.

“I don’t break,” you said. “I bend others.”

You saw the shift in him then—like your words sank into something deep. His shoulders drew tighter. His breath was sharp. You didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was watching you with intensity that burned.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you murmured.

Gojo tilted his head slowly. “Good,” he said, smiling again—this time darker. “So are you.”

The air crackled. Like static. Like fire held barely in check. A silence thick enough to choke on.

But you didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, you loosened your grip on the chain and leaned down one last time. Close enough to make it count.

“Think very hard about what you’re doing, Satoru,” you said. “Because next time you walk into my home uninvited, I won’t chain you to a chair.”

Gojo’s lips parted slightly. “No?”

You gave him a ghost of a smile. One that promised nothing but danger.

“No. I’ll chain you to my bed.”

And then you turned and walked out.

You didn’t look back.

But you felt it—the way the room held your absence like a breath that couldn’t quite exhale.

And for once, Gojo didn’t say anything.