i’m the devil’s advocate

But he won’t. Not for a good while yet.

You arch under him, hips bucking with a gasp. He makes this soft, wounded sound, smoothing a thumb over your hipbone. His ministrations never falter, a wide thumb wedged right between your petal-soft lips, rubbing insistent circles against your clit.

“Not yet,” he whines, all drawn out and plaintive— like you have a choice in this. “Too pretty like this. Wanna -ngh, fuck- wanna keep you like this.”

And so he does it again. And again. He draws you right to the edge, until your breathing pauses and your stomach tenses. And then he removes his hand completely, licking his fingers clean with a weak moan— as if this makes him throb just as much as it does you.

By the fifth edging, you’re crying earnestly. Your cheeks are wet, your chest shuddering with every inhale. Choso’s muttering softly, his face nestled against your neck as he begs for ‘just one more, sweet girl.’

The sixth is always your downfall. Choso knows it. He watches in real time as your eyes glaze over, those kiss bitten lips parted around a ragged breath as you turn, chin jutting out when you search for him through half lidded eyes.

You’re still crying, but it’s more subdued now. You try to curl into him and he coos softly, a wide palm pressing right beneath your belly button to trap you against the mattress.

“Cho-” you fuss, arms curling around the hard sinew of his bicep.

“I know.” He smears a kiss along your jaw placatingly. “Soon, angel.”

Your brow crinkles as you shake your head, nose digging against the inside of his arm. “Hurts. Wanna-wanna cum.”

He barely has to move at all when he finally decides to give it to you. He lowers himself until you’re chest to chest; he’s all hard muscle and warmth and familiarity, and that, combined with the way he readjusts the angle of his fingers just so, has you going taut like a bowstring within seconds.

You go still. His fingers are insistent against that spot that makes your eyes roll back, and that tension snaps all at once. That first wave of pleasure steals your breath. You soak through two towels and the top sheet of the mattress, legs kicking weakly, cunt still sucking his fingers further in like a vise, sweet and sticky.

He’s just as wrecked as you are, cock leaking, purpling with every second he remains untouched, grinding against the seam of your thigh. His nose scrunches, chest shuddering as his arms give way and he presses himself above you, trapping you as you jerk with the aftershocks.

“So pretty,” he babbles. “So good f’me - hah - gonna cum.”

You feel the way he spasms and then goes still, the rivulets that run over the curve of your hip. You turn into it as he smears his cum over your bare skin like a brand.

You couldn’t speak if you wanted to, blinking slowly as he shudders and moans and pets your head with sticky fingers, glistening fingerprints smudging over your sweat slicked brow.

This is his favourite game. It always has been.

He murmurs nonsense against the corner of your mouth, nose pressing to your cheek. You’re already settling, letting him gather you up and press open mouthed kisses to every inch of bare skin he can reach.

You mumble something entirely unintelligible and tuck yourself into his arms. He mouths at your neck affectionately.

You’ve got ten minutes before his cock kicks back up and he wants to go another round.

“Is that perfume on your ankles, baby? That’s— fuck — that’s a nice touch. You wanted this to happen, didn’t you?” He grinds down into you, slow and filthy, his nose nudging your ankle bone. “Attagirl. You can take more than that.”

The second he bends at the waist, your fingers are curling into that crisp white shirt, indenting the pristine fabric.

“Toru-” you gasp, breathless. “Too-too much.”

He only laughs, a lithe hand slipping out of sight, between the heat of your bodies and part your pussy lips with a gentleness that contradicts the way he’s fucking you.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, low and filthy, voice like velvet wrapped granite. And when he finally settles inside you completely, pubic bone flush with your cunt, it takes a minute before you can breathe again.

You should have guessed that Satoru Gojo has a ridiculously big cock.

He crowds you against the leather seats, fingers wrapping over the nape of your neck to drag you up for a messy kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue and desperation— like maybe he’s been aching for this just as much as you have.

You go soft and pliant like putty. He slides an arm down and under your back, lifting your chest flush to his as his hips start rocking again. The filthy praise never lets up, a low muttering against the shell of your ear that has you tilting into him like a flower towards sunlight.

“There’s a good girl. Fuck, that’s my pretty girl,” he rasps. “Go on, now. Make those pretty noises f’me.”

Your cunt throbs. Your eyes roll back.

He coaxes you through three orgasms before he lets you breathe. You feel the exact moment he goes boneless himself, his own orgasm torturously dragged out as his hips stutter and he moans into your ear.

And Christ, you think you might die if you never hear that sound again.

He gathers you up, smears a kiss that is far too intimate for a one night stand across the corner of your mouth, and sends you back towards the bar with a pat on the ass and a phone number lazily scrawled on the inside of your thigh for you to decipher later.

You’ll be calling that fucking number.

ᢉ𐭩 a/n; babe you actually fucking ate with this, I need him biblically…