cherbii

[cherbii]

writing smut and i could rlly go for some pasta rn

[cherbii]

warnings -> smut (go figure!)

No one would have ever suspected that your sweet innocent boyfriend!ChosoKamo, who’d never hurt a fly, who’s so sugary sweet like molasses, who wouldn’t even utter a PG curse word without stuttering out an apology, is actually a really mean and nasty person in the bedroom.

You don’t blame them. He’d hidden under the facade of the boy who helps little old grannies cross the street while carrying their groceries, picks snails up off the pavement to place them in a bush so no one stomps on them, whose mere presence can calm a crying baby.

Even his friends had no idea. They’d talk about how whipped he was, how soft he looked whenever you were around.

And you’d smile and nod, knowing full well that same sweet boy had you on your knees the night before, drooling around his cock while he told you how no one could fuck your throat like he can.

The first time you’d seen the switch, you didn’t even know how to react. He came home from work, kissed you on the cheek like usual, asked about your day, and then, without warning, had you on the bed.

“You’ve been a little mouthy today, huh?” he asked, tilting his head like he actually cared about your answer. His hands gripped your hips hard, thumbs digging in.

“I wasn’t—.”

“Oh, baby.” He chuckled softly, almost pitying. “Don’t lie. It’s cute when you try, but you’re bad at it.” He pulled your shorts down in one slow tug, his fingers brushing your skin just enough to make you shiver.

“I’m not—.”

“Shhh. I know.” He leaned down to kiss your shoulder, voice soft like he was comforting you. “You just need to get it out of your system. Let me help.”

That “help” was him spreading your legs and pushing his cock into you without much preamble, his mouth still murmuring sweet, patronising little comments in your ear.

“Poor thing, all worked up. Can’t behave. That’s alright. I’ll fuck it out of you.”

Another time, it happened in the kitchen. You were making dinner, humming to yourself, not even noticing him come in until his hands were on your hips.

“You wearing this little skirt for me?” he asked, voice playful but his hand already sliding under it.

“It’s just comfortable,” you replied, rolling your eyes.

“Sure it is.” He kissed your cheek, all sweet, then whispered, “Bend over the counter, baby.”

“Choso…”

“Come on. You’re acting shy now?” His tone stayed light, but his palm pressed between your shoulder blades until you bent. “That’s better. You can still stir the pot while I’m in you, yeah?”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he grinned.

“Good girl. Just keep cooking for me while I use this pretty pussy.”

Sometimes, he’d wait until you were out with friends to make a point.

One night, sitting together in a booth at a bar, he leaned close and said quietly, “You’ve been ignoring me all night. That’s not very nice.”

You scoffed. “I’m literally sitting next to you.”

“Uh-huh. Talking to everyone but me. Wearing this top so I’m distracted while you do it.” His hand slid up your thigh under the table, squeezing until you gasped.

“Stop,” you hissed, glancing around.

He smirked, fake sympathy in his voice. “Aww, you embarrassed? Poor baby. Bet you’re getting wet just from me touching you. Can’t help it, can you?”

“Choso.”

“Finish your drink. We’re going home. And you’re going to sit on my cock until you’ve said sorry properly.”

He didn’t just do it when you’d misbehaved. Sometimes, it was pure convenience. Like a Sunday morning when he rolled over, kissed your neck, and slid his hand between your legs.

“Mmm, you’re already warm,” he murmured. “Bet you’d feel perfect around me.”

“Choso, I just woke up.”

“I know, baby. You’re so cute when you’re groggy. Come here.” He pulled you onto his lap, cock already hard against you. “Just sink down for me. I’ll hold you.”

And he did, stroking your back like you were fragile, even as he kept you stuffed full and whining.

“Poor little thing. So sensitive in the mornings.”

Other times, he made you work for it. Not cruel, but just enough to have you squirming. He’d finger you slow, smiling when you whimpered.

“You wanna cum, dove?”

“Yes please?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. You’ve been kind of bratty.” His tone was almost thoughtful. “Might have to make you say please a few more times.”

“Please, Choso—!”

“That’s better. Keep talking like that, and maybe I’ll let you. But not yet. Gotta hear you beg for my cock first.”

The aftercare always came quick. No matter how much he teased or degraded, he still kissed you after, still brought water, still tucked you in.

“Good girl. Did so well for me,” he’d murmur, brushing your hair back.

One night, he came home late, hoodie half-zipped, his usual space buns were messier than usual.

He stood in the doorway, looking at you. “Clothes off.”

You raised a brow. “That’s your greeting?”

“Baby, don’t make me ask twice.” He smiled softly, almost apologetic. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Wanna feel you.”

When you were bare, he walked over slowly.

“Perfect. Now lie back for me.”

You did, and he climbed on top, kissing you slow before sliding into your cunt.

“God, I missed this pussy. Missed you. Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

Then there was the time you sent him a photo at work. You got one reply. You’re in trouble.

You’d laughed until he came home, shut the door, and grabbed your wrist. “Upstairs.”

“Choso, it was just a picture.”

“And now it’s gonna cost you.” His voice stayed light, almost amused, even as he pushed you onto the bed. “Gonna keep you full of my cock until you learn not to tease me when I can’t touch you.”

It wasn’t always punishment. Sometimes it was just him deciding he wanted you. Like doing laundry, he kissed you once, then again, then had you on top of the dryer.

“You’re impossible,” you laughed.

“Yeah, and you love it,” he said, pulling your jeans down. “Now spread for me, baby. Clothes can wait.”

And they did.

Because no matter how fake-sweet or softly patronising he acted, no matter how many times he told you you were poor or helpless or messy, you loved every second.

Because it was still your Choso. Sweet, polite, gentle in public, but behind closed doors?

A completely different man.

[cherbii]

geto, gojo and choso def went through the ‘2020-cavetown-indie filter-frogs and mushrooms-eyeliner on every part of their face’ phase

[cherbii]

matching clih and dih tih piercings with Sukuna

[cherbii]

toji is always going on about anal. wanting to try anal. come on, he can make it feel so good for you, just trust him on this! he's done it with others, and they've loooved it, so why wouldn't you?

anyways you're confused as to why he looks so shocked when he comes home one evening to find you on the bed with a bottle of lube and the biggest pink strap he's ever seen in his damn life

[cherbii]

im straight but is it not sooo #ally of me to write a shoko short fic

[cherbii]

my website I used to change the text colours shut down?!?! 😖😖😖

[cherbii]

is 2025 the year I do my first kinktober 😍 why yes it is

[cherbii]

warnings: sexual content (as always 🌝) mdni

Never in a millennia did DemonKing!RyomenSukuna think he, a man of guttural evil and no moral good, would find himself doting over a measly human being.

And yet here he was, crouched beside your sleeping form, brushing your hair back from your forehead with a clawed hand that had split thousands open but now moved with unexpected delicacy. His other mouth on his stomach growled low, irritated and amused by his silence. “Pathetic,” it muttered. Sukuna ignored it.

You didn’t even flinch in your sleep. You never did. Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe it was trust.

The first time he saw you, you were bleeding out under a collapsed shrine he’d torn through during a rampage. Half-dead, body twisted, blood soaking your clothes, and you smiled at him. Not a coy smile. Not a terrified one. Just…amused. He still remembered the rasp of your voice.

“You done tantruming, or should I die slower?”

He’d laughed. Loudly. Something cruel in his tone, because that was all he was. A curse. A demon.

You’d passed out before he decided what to do with you, and when you woke, you were in one of his temples, patched up, surrounded by bones, incense, and shadows with no clear shape. You should have screamed. You didn’t. You asked for water. Called him “horns” until he growled. And then “pretty eyes” when you caught him off guard.

He didn’t kill you. Didn’t even maim you. He threw you food, snarled when you called it “cold,” then fed you hot meat off his fingers the next night.

Somewhere along the line, he stopped letting anyone else near you.

He never told you what you were to him. He just took. Your time. Your attention. Your body, sometimes. Not like tonight. Tonight was calm. He didn't always fuck you senseless. Sometimes he just looked. Or tasted your mouth for no reason. Or held your hips tight in his lap until you stopped squirming, his fangs against your throat just enough to keep you still.

Once, you asked why he didn’t just kill you and be done with it.

“I will. One day. Probably when you stop amusing me.”

But his grip tightened on your leg that night. You didn’t believe him.

You’d started walking around his temple like you owned it. Tossing cloths over gore-stained altars, muttering about how he didn’t have an aesthetic. He let you. You stepped around dismembered corpses like they were laundry. He let you. One day he caught you humming while cleaning blood from a dagger he’d plunged through someone’s eye socket hours ago.

“Do you not understand what I am?” he snarled.

You blinked at him. “A demon. Yeah. A grumpy one.”

He nearly split you in half from rage and desire alone.

The first time he kissed you, he crushed you against the wall with both hands around your jaw, four eyes boring into yours like he could see your soul and if he could’ve ripped it out to devour, he might’ve. But he didn’t.

His tongue was sharp, greedy. Your breath hitched, nails digging into his biceps. He pushed harder. Your lips bruised. You moaned. He snarled against your teeth, something feral and confused tightening in his gut.

You called him “Suku” once. He shattered a stone pillar in response.

Now, you lay there, sleeping in one of his robes, limbs spread like you had the right. And maybe you did. Maybe he’d given it to you somewhere between dragging your broken body from rubble and fucking you up against temple walls until your voice was hoarse and your thighs shook for hours after.

You stirred. His four eyes snapped to you. One blink. Two. You rolled to your side, half-asleep, muttering something incoherent as you pushed your face into his thigh. You used him like a pillow.

“You’re drooling on me,” he said flatly.

“Mmhm. Love you too.” He stilled.

Then he grinned.

There was no word for the way he cared. No name for how he kept you from the nightmares that tried to creep in. No logic to the way he marked you with bite after bite and refused to let them fade.

Tonight, he wanted you sobbing.

You woke to his mouth between your legs, one of his tongues dragging slow, brutal strokes through your folds, the other teasing your clit until your hips bucked up into his mouth. His arms pinned your thighs, claws biting skin but not breaking it. Your eyes shot open, breath caught in your throat as you writhed under him.

“S-Sukuna…”

“King,” he growled. “Say it right.”

“K-King… Sukuna—fuck!”

He didn’t smile. His lower mouth opened, tongue from there flicking your clit as the other two continued, one pressing deep, too thick, making you stretch open around it. You were soaked. He growled approval, the vibration making your thighs jerk in his grip.

You tried to twist, to grind, to move, but he kept you pinned, one massive hand pressing down over your stomach, keeping you from arching too far. Your moans bounced off temple walls. The shadows danced.

“S-sensitive…” you choked.

“Good.”

He pulled back only to spit, wetting you more, his saliva hot, then pushed two fingers inside, curling them just right while the tongue from his stomach took over your clit. Your scream cracked. He pumped faster. You clenched around him, thighs trembling, belly twitching.

“Gonna cum—oh fuck—!”

He didn’t let you. Pulled out just as you were about to fall apart. You sobbed.

“Sukuna!”

“King,” he corrected coldly, dragging you down the altar and flipping you over with one hand on your spine, pushing you face down into the stone.

Then he slid in. One cock, thick and brutal, bottoming out in a single thrust. You gasped. He groaned.

He pulled out and slammed back in, pace merciless, hips slapping yours, the second cock hard and rubbing up against your ass, leaking against your skin.

You babbled nonsense, tears dripping down your face as he pounded into you, stretching you to the brink, both cocks eventually claiming you, one in your cunt, the other sliding into your ass with sickening ease, forcing you open.

You screamed his name. He laughed. Filthy. Cruel. Drunk on the feel of you.

His hands dug into your hips. “You were made for me,” he growled.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your legs gave out but he kept going, holding you up like a ragdoll, your body wrecked and bouncing with every thrust. Your cunt was clenching again. You were going to cum whether you liked it or not.

“Too much!” you sobbed.

“Take it.”

You did. You always did. For him.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your body locked. Screams poured from your throat. You were still cumming when he came, cocks throbbing, thick spurts filling both holes, leaking out as he kept grinding through it, as if determined to push it deeper, ruin you further.

He pulled out slow. Watched the mess drip. Dragged a claw down your spine, possessive.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” he said.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t argue. You slumped, boneless and used.

He gathered you up like you weighed nothing. Carried you to the back of the temple. Laid you on furs. Let your head fall onto his arm.

You whimpered. “Suku…”

He exhaled. Then kissed your forehead.

“Sleep, little mortal.”

[cherbii]

Hear me out. Reader and Sukuna:

[cherbii]

my professor asked my class if tumblr still existed and i said way to passionately ‘YES!’

[cherbii]

warnings -> sexual content. mdni

No one would’ve ever thought you of all people, would end up dating Goth!SuguruGeto

Not the girl in hot pink jelly platforms and a Swarovski phone case. Not the girl who’s casual clothes was still so out of anyone’s tax bracket and made teachers cry when they mispronounced her name.

But somehow, against every logical social law the school lived by, you were his.

And he was yours.

He looked like he’d walked out of an 80s deathrock concert, backcombed hair sprayed to hell, black lipstick, combat boots with dried mud still caked on the soles, a leather trench even in hot weather. His eyeliner was always perfect. His smirk? Worse.

“I feel like if I touch you, I’ll get lead poisoning,” you’d said the first time he leaned on the locker next to yours.

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’d still come back for more.”

God, he was annoying.

You’d ended up in detention together. Some dumb history class argument about whether capitalism was a necessary evil or just plain evil. You said necessary, he said plain. The teacher said both of you could “discuss economic systems after school in silence.” You texted your best friend: ughhh I’m stuck with count fucking Dracula.

Meanwhile, Geto sketched on the back of the detention slip, a skull with roses coming out of its eye socket.

“I thought you pink girls only liked drawing hearts and fake little signatures,” he said, not looking up.

“I thought your people only liked drawing pentagrams and hanging out at the morgue.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. “What’s your name again?”

“You already know it.”

He smiled like you’d passed some invisible test. You hated that it made your stomach do something weird. After that, things spiraled.

He started walking you to class. You started stealing his rings. He’d show up to your house reeking of incense and clove cigarettes, eyeliner half-smudged, with some weirdly romantic gesture like a burned CD with your name written in dripping red Sharpie. You’d paint his nails bubblegum pink when he came over. He let you. You called him your little doll in public just to piss him off. He didn’t even blink.

When you kissed him for the first time (behind the gym, after school, because neither of you wanted to admit you’d been thinking about it for weeks), he tasted like black coffee and cinnamon gum.

It was gross.

You kissed him again anyway.

People didn’t get it. Not even a little.

Her?

Him?

What the fuck?

Your friends swore you were faking. His friends, if you could call that sad trio of art kids and one quiet burnout a “squad” just stared at you like you were a glitch in the Matrix. Even the teachers noticed.

“Interesting pairing,” Mr. Kurosaki muttered during roll call once.

You’d flipped your hair. “We like to challenge social norms, sir.”

Geto snorted and grabbed your thigh under the desk.

You didn’t let anyone talk shit for too long. “He treats me better than any of you ever did,” you said loud enough for the whole hallway to hear one day after someone made a snide comment about Emo STDs.

You made sure the bitch’s locker was mysteriously filled with glitter and glue the next morning. No one questioned it.

You learned to love the weird shit he was into. He played you The Sisters of Mercy during a sleepover. You rolled your eyes at first. “This guy sounds like his vocal cords are fucking gone.”

But you left the night with three new songs saved. He watched your silly little romance ‘girly’ shows with you even though he called it “consumerist sludge,” but he got mad when you skipped ahead without him.

He called you “doll.” You called him “Suguru” when you wanted something and “bitch boy” when you didn’t.

He left hickeys on your thighs just to see you squirm during class. You scratched his back until he hissed.

He once said, “You’re the only person mean enough to scare me and hot enough to make it worth it.”

You said, “Shut up before I make you cry.”

It had started slow, the physical stuff.

Despite the way he looked, Suguru didn’t rush anything. He touched you like he was thinking about it too much, like he didn’t wanna break you. That lasted exactly until you yanked his belt open one night during a movie and said, “Are you gonna keep pretending you’re shy or are you gonna fucking do something?”

And do something he did.

It was a Friday. His room smelled like sandalwood, patchouli, and something deeper, maybe candle smoke, maybe sweat. You sat on his bed in your little pink skirt, one of his mesh shirts hanging off your shoulder.

He kneeled between your thighs like you were an altar.

“Keep your eyes open,” he’d muttered, voice low and ruined.

You leaned back on your elbows, watching him through heavy lashes. His black lipstick was still perfect when he started, slow licks, teasing sucks, breath hot and deliberate. He kissed your clit.

Lapped at it until your thighs shook. His tongue was firm and slow at first, then faster, harder, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you spread.

You gasped his name when he flattened his tongue and dragged it all the way up your slit. When he sucked on you again, it was mean. Like he wanted to own it.

Two of his fingers pushed inside you and curled just right, just deep enough to make your stomach tense and your hands claw at his shoulders.

The rings were cold. His pace was filthy. He pumped them in and out while he kept sucking, faster, sloppier, like he was actually trying to ruin you.

You looked down and nearly moaned again at the sight of his black lipstick smeared all over your inner thighs, like warpaint. His eyeliner was streaking too, his pretty face a mess, pupils black as hell and locked onto you.

“Messy,” you panted, voice high and wrecked.

He licked a thick stripe up your slit, smirked with his chin still glistening. “You taste better than you talk.”

You’d almost slapped him but then he shoved his tongue back in and made you cum hard, legs shaking, jaw slack, throat letting out a sound you’d never made before. He didn’t stop until you shoved his head back.

“You’re obsessed with me,” you breathed.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Shut up and let me eat.”

Another time, weeks later, your parents weren’t home. He’d come over wearing that ripped Bauhaus shirt you liked, the one that hung just right on his frame, tight across the chest, loose at the bottom. You’d pulled him into your room before he even finished closing the door.

The playlist you’d had on was background noise, until that guitar solo hit. Pierce the Veil’s “So Far, So Fake.”

His cock slide in and out of you with every smooth glide of a note

He had you bent over your pink desk, face pressed into the velvet pad you used for your nail art. You were naked from the waist down, one leg half-shaky, the other already up on the chair for balance.

Your underwear were flung across the room. His belt hung undone around his hips. You could feel the bass in your ribs.

Suguru slammed into you from behind, deep, steady, a little too rough to be sweet but just right to make you moan loud and needy. His hand gripped your waist so tight you knew there’d be a bruise. The other hand slid up your back to twist into your hair.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, hips snapping against your ass in time with the solo. “You’re so tight like this. Always so wet for me.”

You tried to curse, but all that came out was a breathy “Shit—Suguru!”

Your desk creaked with every thrust. His cock hit deep, unforgiving, but perfect. You could feel every vein on his cock, every twitch of his hips, every tiny shift of angle when he leaned in closer and grabbed your throat from behind just to tilt your head back.

“Yeah?” he panted. “You want me to fuck you to music now? Gonna let me break you in?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you gasped, voice cracked, body already giving in.

He fucked you harder. Not messier, just worse. Deep and deliberate. Like he knew your weak spots and was drilling into them on purpose.

Your orgasm hit fast, almost violently. You squeezed around him and tried to pull away from how sensitive you were, but he didn’t stop. His hands held you still, and he groaned through gritted teeth as he chased his own.

“I told you not to skip ahead on our shows,” he growled into your ear, still moving. “This is what you get.”

“Fuck you.”

“You wish.”

He came inside you with a broken moan, staying deep as you both trembled, your skin sticky and hot, the guitar solo still ringing through the speakers.

Now, months in, people had adjusted. Kinda.

The teachers still avoided putting you two in group projects. Other girls still stared at him like he was their dark prince. You didn’t care.

He kept showing up to school with hearts drawn on his cheeks. You kept showing up wearing his rings stacked to your knuckles. He got better at wearing pink. You got better at understanding why he needed black.

Sometimes you’d lean against his chest in the middle of the courtyard, chewing gum, nails tapping his boot as he read some depressing book. And someone would walk by and whisper, “Still don’t get it.”

And Geto would glance up, smirk, and say, “Good. It’s not for you.”

You’d just smile and spit your gum at their shoes.

uhhh is this not literally them (kinda)

[cherbii]

FREAK OUT | Gojo Satoru

summary -> no one ever thought that someone could out freak the freak himself, that’s why you, his sweet girlfriend has to give him a run for his money

warnings -> switch!Gojo x switch!reader, language, smut! p in v, degradation kink (mutual), praise kink, rough sex, overstimulation (both parties), balls worship, breathplay, choking, orgasm control, orgasm denial, hair pulling, slapping (non-abusive), ass play with toy (F), cockwarming, multiple creampies, size kink, reader fights back, fake sweetness, manipulative dirty talk, possessive Gojo, Gojo being a freak, reader being freakier, multiple rounds, full-night fuckathon, Gojo gets ruined, handcuffs. mdni

an -> this was gonna be a short story but whoopsies & the warnings 🌝 bye. Also it’s just 🌽 with minimal plot

Gojo is terrified of you.


Not in a you-have-a-knife-to-his-throat kind of way, more in a you-might-handcuff-him-in-his-sleep-and-make-him-like-it way. Which, to be fair, you’ve joked about at least twice this week.

Three if you count the time you leaned over during brunch and whispered into his ear, “Would you let me peg you if I was nice about it?” then bit into your croissant like nothing had happened.

He swears his soul left his body.

But you’re not malicious. Not cruel. You don’t act like you’re trying to dominate the walking enigma that is Satoru Gojo. You just exist with an energy that makes him feel like he is the prey. The hunted. The one in the relationship who might just be out of his depth.

It’s not what he expected.

You’re just sitting across from him on the couch right now, scrolling on your phone, one sock on and one sock half-off like you’re innocent. You're wearing a massive hoodie that he’s pretty sure is his, and your legs are pulled up, knees bent in a way that makes his brain stall out for a second. But that’s not new.

“Babe,” you say without looking up, “Would you fuck me in a church?”

He chokes. Fully. Like audibly. Eyes wide.

There’s a full three seconds of silence before you lift your head, raise your brows and say, “So... no?”

“I didn’t say no,” he coughs. “I just wasn’t emotionally prepared.”

“Good,” you grin. “Because I found one we can rent by the hour.”

“What?”

“Not for sex, obviously,” you lie. “It’s for an art installation.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is this why you were Googling ‘how many public indecency charges until jail time’?”

“You peeked?”

“You left it open on my phone. I tried to check the weather and found myself reading about maximum fines for mooning a priest.”

You laughed, your whole body moved when you laugh, and for a moment he forgets he’s supposed to be on guard. You do that to him. It’s not even about the sex stuff. It’s everything. You look at him like he’s not invincible. You say things like “relax” and “you’re not special” and “you can moan louder than that.”

He swears he’s aging backwards and forwards at once.

You toss your phone aside, curling deeper into the couch and rest your cheek on your fist. “You ever done anything really weird during sex?”

He blinks. “Define weird.”

“Like…spit in someone’s mouth. Or called someone mommy, or daddy by accident. Or used a toothbrush.”

Gojo’s expression twists. “I mean, I’ve done the spit thing. Never the toothbrush.”

“I have.”

“You what?”

You shrug. “The back side. The rubbery tongue bit. I was curious.”

He pauses. The image enters his brain like an uninvited guest and stays there. “I don’t know if I’m horrified or impressed.”

You look smug. “Both. You’re both.”

He presses a palm to his chest. “I just think… maybe I should be taking notes.”

“I already know you take notes,” you say, grinning. “You’re a slutty little overachiever. It’s why you kept track of how many times I came that one time. And ranked them.”

“That was scientific inquiry,” he deadpans. “It was for posterity.”

You roll your eyes. “You gave them star ratings, Gojo.”

He shrugs. “I’m a visual learner.”

There’s a pause. The tension between you both isn’t thick or obvious, it’s teasing. Teetering on the edge. You haven’t slept together yet. Not because either of you are shy, but because you’re both sick little freaks who want to see who breaks first.

It might be him.

He’s starting to think it’ll be him.

“Anyway,” you say suddenly, sitting up straight, “Wanna come to this adult store with me?”

He blinks. “Why.”

“Just wanna get a vibe. Maybe buy something. You can come.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“You’re so annoying,” you snort.

“Thank you.”

He’s still thinking about it half an hour later while he walks next to you, the two of you approaching a building that looks deceptively like a vape shop from the outside. He’s seen many things in his life. Fought many metaphorical battles. But he’s never followed a girl into a place with a neon sign that reads “Chains & Charms.”

The bell above the door jingles.

A cashier with pink eyebrows and a sleeve tattoo greets you both with a nod, clearly unfazed. You’re already striding towards the back, like you own the place. Gojo trails after you, not embarrassed, just… overwhelmed.

You turn, hold up a pair of fuzzy handcuffs and ask, “Pink or red?”

“I—I don’t even know what mood we’re setting here,” he says helplessly.

You toss both into the basket anyway.

He watches you browse like it’s a Sunday market. You pick up a blindfold, a crop, a strap-on (just holding it up, give him a once-over, and snicker). He sees the look on your face. Knows you’re not bluffing. But you’re not pushing. Not trying to make him squirm.

That’s the scariest part. You’re genuine.

“You’re really calm about all this,” he says.

You glance up. “It’s sex, Gojo. Not rocket science.”

“But the equipment, babe.”

You lean in. “It’s only intimidating if you pretend you have to know everything before you try it. That’s loser energy.”

He laughs. Genuinely. “God, you’re intense.”

“You like that I’m intense.”

“I do. I just didn’t think you’d out-freak me.”

“Aw,” you coo. “Want a hug?”

“No, I want you to stop looking at me like you’re gonna make me cry from something other than emotional intimacy.”

You give him a sweet, sugary smile. He physically flinches.

By the time you leave the store, you’ve somehow convinced him to carry the basket like it’s a baby stroller. He does it. No one’s forcing him. And as much as he groans and rolls his eyes and mutters about being “trapped,” he hasn’t let go of your hand once.

He’s not scared of you. He’s scared of how much he likes you. How much he wants to let you have your way.

He just didn’t expect you to be the wildcard in this relationship. And he definitely didn’t expect to find it this hot.

Later that night, when you're on his bed flipping through the toy box like it’s a snack sampler, he watches you in silence. You shoot him a look. He raises a brow. You toss him a bottle of lube like it’s no big deal and go, “Catch.”

He doesn’t catch the bottle. It hits his chest and rolls onto the bed.

“You ready?”

You don’t give him a chance. Not in a cruel way, more like it’s never even occurred to you that he might need convincing. Like you already know he’ll fold, already know that if you sit on his lap and look him in the eye and spit in your palm, he won’t say no. So you do exactly that.

Your knee slide up over the bed between his legs, your weight following a second later, and you settle into his lap with a kind of nonchalance that makes him stupid.

You take the bottle you tossed him, pop the cap, spit into your hand without breaking eye contact, and wrap your fingers around him through his sweats like it’s no big deal.

And it should be a big deal. It is a big deal.

You’re not even naked and he already feels like he’s about to short-circuit. But you’re calm. Like he’s just another thing to try. Another toy to unwrap. It’s not demeaning. It’s worse. It’s personal. Focused. Like you’ve been waiting for him, specifically him, and now that you’ve got your hands on him, you’re gonna ruin him slow.

“You good?” you ask casually, your thumb dragging just under the waistband, where he’s already getting hard.

Gojo exhales slowly. “Define good.”

You push his hoodie up with one hand. He raises his arms to help you take it off, but it catches on his head for a second, and you don’t wait, you slide your hand into his pants while he’s stuck like that, gripping him proper, skin to skin. He jolts like you tased him.

“Holy shit—” he pulls the hoodie the rest of the way off with a thud, eyes wide. “Warn a guy next time.”

He’s solid in your hand. Long. Thick. Not cocky about it, but definitely cursed with the kind of size that makes guys pretend it’s a burden.

You don’t go fast. You just get him fully hard, nice and slow, like you’re getting familiar with him. Like you want to memorize what he feels like before things escalate. You’re watching his reactions, taking stock of every twitch, every breath, every time his mouth opens like he’s about to say something but doesn’t.

“I should’ve known,” you mutter. “Of course you’re huge. Of course your dick is pretty.”

He stares at you, flushed and still letting you stroke him. “Are you complimenting me or threatening me?”

You shrug. “Little of both.”

His hips twitch. He’s already leaking, tip flushed pink, precum gathering on your fingers with every pass of your palm. You dip your head and lick it off him without saying anything, just one slow drag of your tongue over the slit before pulling back. He makes an actual noise. Like a sound.

“Oh my God—”

You grin. “Sensitive?”

“No, just spiritually ascending.”

You spit into your hand again and jerk him a little harder this time, letting your wrist twist with each stroke, your other hand braced on his thigh to keep your balance. You’re still fully clothed, and he’s half-undressed, pants pulled down just far enough for his cock to hang out, the waistband cutting into his hips. He looks fucked-out already and you haven’t even taken your shirt off.

“Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, “you wanna cum in my hand or my mouth?”

He stares at you like you’ve just proposed marriage and arson in the same breath.

“I—I don’t even—what kind of question is that?”

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw. “You’re not cumming yet either way. Just curious.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Hand.”

“Good boy.���

He almost chokes. “Fuck, don’t say that—”

You keep stroking him, picking up the pace just enough to build that tension, and he goes from joking to speechless real quick. His chest rises and falls under you, and his hand slides up to grip your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You don’t stop.

You don’t slow down. You just watch him unravel. It takes a while, he’s stubborn like that, fighting the way his body wants to give in, but eventually, his thighs tense, his stomach tightens, and his cock jerks in your hand.

“I—wait—”

Too late.

He cums hard, his jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut, hand squeezing your hip like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You stroke him through it, milking every drop, not stopping until he jerks and grabs your wrist.

“Too much,” he pants.

You slow down, then pull back, wiping your hand with the towel you brought from the nightstand. He’s a mess. Breathing hard. Hair sticking to his forehead. Eyes barely open.

You’re still fully clothed.

“You’re evil,” he croaks.

“You’re easy.”

He drags a hand over his face, still catching his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You pull your hoodie off slowly. Then your top. No ceremony. Just a clean, confident strip. You’re not trying to be sexy. You are sexy. You always have been, but now he’s painfully aware of how many layers you’ve been hiding under.

“Take your pants off,” you say, already reaching for your own.

His hands fumble. “Already?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think I’m done with you?”

He freezes. “You’re serious.”

You toss your pants to the floor. “You came. That’s cute. You think I’m done because you came.”

Gojo swallows hard.

You crawl back into his lap, now bare from the waist down, your thighs sliding over his. You drag your fingers through the mess on his stomach, sticky and warm, then lick it off them without blinking. He makes another pained noise.

“You’re not real.”

“I’m real,” you mutter, aligning your hips with his. “You’ll feel it in a second.”

He’s still half-hard. You stroke him again, slow, patient. He watches you like you’re a threat and a reward at once. The lube bottle’s still nearby. You grab it again, pour more over your hand, and get him slick and ready while his cock twitches back to life under your touch.

“You good?” you ask again.

He nods. Doesn’t trust himself to speak.

You guide him to your entrance, one hand steady on his cock, the other braced on his chest. Then you sink down. Slowly. Inch by inch. No rush. You watch his face the whole time. He watches yours, like he needs to see the moment you take him all the way.

He’s breathing like he just ran a mile. “Fuck,” he whispers.

You don’t move yet. You just let him sit inside you. Let him feel how wet you are. How tight you are around him.

Then you rock your hips.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just slow, steady movement, enough to make him groan low in his throat and grab your thighs again.

“I’m gonna die,” he mutters.

“You’re gonna cum again.”

“I just did.”

“You’ll do it again.”

You start riding him properly now. Smooth, practiced thrusts. Your thighs burn a little, but you don’t stop. His eyes are fixed on where you’re joined, watching the way you move like it’s hypnotic. His hands slide up to your waist, then your ribs, then cupping your tits like he needs something to hold onto.

“Touch me,” you say.

He does, like it’s instinct. His thumbs brush over your nipples, not rough, not shy. Just hungry. You moan, barely, just enough to make him twitch again inside you.

You bounce faster. The slap of skin picks up. His grip tightens. You’re close, he’s close, but you’re holding back. You want it to last. You want to see him try to keep up.

And he’s trying. God, he’s trying. But he’s too far gone, too sensitive, too deep inside you, and you’re too good at this.

He’s going to cum again.

You feel it before he says anything, his legs start to tremble, his thrusts get shorter, messier. He’s looking up at you like you’re something holy and dangerous.

“Please,” he breathes.

You let him.

He spills inside you with a broken moan, his whole body jerking beneath yours, hands desperate on your hips.

You slow down. Ride him through it again. Let him feel every pulse of it. When it’s over, he collapses back against the bed, spent, dazed, legs shaking.

You’re still not done.

But you let him breathe for now.

“Round three later?” you ask.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just mutters, “If I survive.”

It’s been two days and Gojo still can’t make eye contact with your laundry basket. Not because of what’s inside it, he’s seen your underwear, he’s torn some of it, but because every time he catches sight of that plain white towel with the faint dried patch of cum on it, he has a full-body memory of what happened.

Twice. Back to back.

He swears he’s still sore.

Which is why you’re surprised when he walks into your apartment without knocking, throws a duffel bag onto your couch, and says, “Get naked.”

You raise an eyebrow from where you’re perched in the kitchen, half-dressed, drinking from a glass like nothing in the world needs to move faster than your sip.

“That how you greet all your friends?”

“I’m not here to be friendly.”

“No,” you say, setting the glass down. “You’re here because your ego’s bruised.”

His jaw twitches. “I’m here because I don’t lose.”

“You already did. Twice. Remember?”

He ignores that. “Your bedroom?”

You cross your arms. “Say please.”

“No.”

“Then strip.”

He blinks.

You take a slow step forward. “You want to play this game? Fine. But you’re not walking in here barking orders like I didn’t make you cum in your own hoodie three minutes apart.”

He watches you, quiet, jaw clenched, and there’s something different in his stare this time. Not just the usual chaos you bring out in him, something focused. Calculated. Like he spent those forty-eight hours plotting.

You take one more step and lift your shirt over your head. He doesn’t move. You kick your shorts off next. Still nothing. Just that stare.

Then he’s moving. Quick. He’s dragging you to your bedroom, storming into the room.

Fast hands, pinning you back against the wall with more force than you expect, both wrists caught above your head in one of his. You’re fully naked. He’s fully clothed. His mouth brushes yours but doesn’t kiss. Not yet.

“You think I’m scared of you?” he asks, voice low.

You smile. “Yes.”

He exhales through his nose. “Not tonight.”

“Big talk for someone still dressed.”

“I wanted to make an entrance.”

“You wanted to psych yourself up in the mirror for twenty minutes and then hope I didn’t laugh.”

He glares. Tightens his grip on your wrists. “Say something smug again.”

“What are you gonna do?” you ask sweetly. “Slap me?”

His other hand grabs your jaw. Not rough, but firm. He tilts your face up. Thumb drags across your bottom lip. He leans in, breath hot.

“I’ll do more than slap you.”

You smile against his mouth. “Good.”

Then you kiss him. Not soft. Not teasing. It’s sharp and hot and wet, teeth clicking, breath shared. He growls into it like he’s got something to prove, tongue sliding over yours, his free hand already dragging down your neck, down between your tits, pinching one nipple hard enough to make you gasp into him.

He lets go of your wrists.

You shove him backward by the collar of his shirt. Not angry. Just done playing.

“Strip.”

He yanks his hoodie off, shirt following fast. You’ve seen his body before, but he still looks even better now, tense, flustered, veins popping on his forearms as he pulls his sweats down. No underwear. He’s already hard.

You sit on the edge of the couch, legs parted, and motion for him to come closer.

You grab his thighs and pull him to stand in front of you. Then you spit on his cock and stroke him once, twice, watching the way he stifles a twitch. He’s hard enough to ache already.

You lean in. He thinks you’re going to suck him off. You don’t.

You lick his balls instead. Long and wet, your mouth warm, tongue dragging deliberately slow. He actually bucks.

“Holy—fuck—okay.”

You hum against him, nuzzle into the base of his cock, and suck one ball into your mouth while your hand pumps him lazily. He grabs the wall for balance.

“Jesus. Okay. Alright. You—fuck.”

You alternate. Lick. Suck. Spit. Play with him like it’s a game you never get tired of winning. His thighs are trembling, abs tensing every time your tongue flicks a new spot.

He doesn’t ask you to stop. He can’t. He’s gripping your hair with one hand now, guiding, not forcing. You let him have that.

Then you finally take him in.

Mouth open, tongue pressed flat, lips wrapping around his tip and sinking lower. He chokes. Tries not to thrust. You take it slow. Sucking hard once you reach the middle.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasps, “you’re—shit—”

You let him go with a pop and look up at him.

“You wanted to be in charge?” you ask.

His jaw’s slack. “I—I do.”

“So do something.”

You’re on your back a second later, hair yanked, ass scooped up and dragged to the edge of the couch. You’re still wet from just the buildup, but he sinks two fingers into your mouth to get them soaked before pushing them into you.

He crooks them just right. Watches your face the whole time. “Still smug?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

He pulls them out. Spits on your cunt, fingers you again with the same rhythm, but rougher. “Talk,” he says.

You gasp. “You’re learning.”

He chuckles, low. “I’ve had a very educational week.”

Then he flips you onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades. You lift your hips without needing direction. He slaps your ass once. Not soft. The sound is loud and sharp.

You hiss. “That all you got?”

He slaps the other cheek. Harder.

You moan into the couch cushions.

He lines up, cock dragging through your folds, still teasing, still slow.

“Beg.”

You grin into the cushion. “No.”

He pushes in halfway. Holds. “Now?”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. Please.”

“All of it.”

“Please, fuck me, Satoru.”

He slams in the rest of the way.

You both groan. He’s fucking you harder than before, rhythm relentless, one hand gripping your hip and the other wrapped in your hair. He yanks your head back with it, forces your back to arch, then leans over you, chest against your spine.

“You gonna call me soft now?” he pants.

You laugh, breathless. “Still freakier than you.”

He growls. Then he really starts to move.

Like he wants to knock the defiance out of you one stroke at a time. You’re not fighting it anymore. You’re meeting him thrust for thrust, your hands gripping the cushions, your voice starting to break with every bounce.

His hand slips around your throat, not tight, just enough pressure to ground you, hold you still while he fucks you stupid.

“You still cocky?” he mutters.

You moan. “Little bit.”

His hand tightens. “Say you’re mine.”

“No.”

He spanks you again. Hard.

You gasp.

“Say it.”

“Fuck—fine. I’m yours.”

“You’re gonna let me do whatever I want?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“You can do whatever you want.”

He fucks you harder at that. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t slow. You can feel how close he is by the way his rhythm stutters, the way his grip turns bruising. You’re close too, legs shaking, heat coiling tight in your stomach.

You try to pull your hand between your legs to finish yourself off, but he grabs your wrist.

“No,” he pants. “I got it.”

He slips his fingers between your thighs, finds your clit fast, starts rubbing hard circles that push you over the edge in seconds.

You cum with a cry, cunt pulsing around him, knees nearly giving out. He groans behind you and follows, hips jerking one final time before he spills inside, loud and messy and shaky.

He slumps forward against your back, breathing heavy.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

You don’t say anything. Can’t yet.

He stays buried in you, forehead against your shoulder.

Then, very quietly, “Did I win?”

You turn your head. “Round two says no.”

He didn’t let you get up this time. Didn’t tease or joke or delay. Just shoved you down by the shoulders until your back hit the mattress, eyes blown out like a man deranged.

You barely caught a glimpse of him dragging the drawer open and fishing through it before his hand came back with something you hadn’t even used on him yet. The lube was familiar. The toy was not.

“That mine?” you muttered, and he only grinned, meanly.

“Guess I snooped.”

“Guess you’re desperate.”

“Guess I’m gonna make you sob.”

It wasn’t big, but the implication hit just right, Gojo didn’t care how impressive it was, just what it would do to you with his hand on your cunt at the same time. He flicked it on with a casual twist of his wrist, and the vibration buzzed up the sheets. Then his hand wrapped around your thigh and yanked.

“Go on then,” you said. “Show me how hard you can try.”

He didn’t answer. He just pressed the toy against your clit, and the lube was cold and the sound of it obscene, slick catching air and suctioning onto skin like it belonged there. You twitched. Bucked. He barely even reacted, just smiled.

“Freaky enough yet?” he asked.

You laughed. “You’re a baby.”

The pressure changed. He shifted it just a little, adjusted the angle, and the sound you made might’ve embarrassed you two days ago.

Now? Now you were gritting your teeth through it, legs tensing, body trying to shift but his grip on your hip was bruising and cruel.

“You’re louder than you were last time.”

“You didn’t earn it yet.”

He reached between your legs with his free hand, slid two fingers in like it was nothing, and curled them just so.

You choked. Your legs spasmed and your mouth dropped open and he leaned close to your face to watch it happen, to see the moment your whole body betrayed you.

“C’mon,” he said, like he was goading a dog. “Thought you were freakier.”

You smacked his arm. He grinned wider. The toy dropped to the mattress and his hand took over everything, rubbing your clit with a slow, tight pressure while his fingers dragged inside you like he’d trained for this. Like it wasn’t even about getting you off anymore. Just humiliation.

“You’re gonna cum like this?”

“Fuck you.”

“Louder.”

You dug your nails into his bicep. Your hips lifted off the bed and he only shoved them back down, keeping his rhythm. You came with a cracked moan and his name spat from your mouth like it meant something bitter, back arched, breath stuck.

He didn’t stop after that.

You grabbed at him. “I said round two—”

He flipped you.

You hit the mattress with a thud and a grunt and his hand came down on your ass a second later, loud and deliberate.

“Wrong,” he said. “This is still round one.”

Another slap. Sharp, stinging, and followed with both his hands spreading you wide, your cunt dripping down your thighs.

“You look disgusting.”

“Good,” you panted. “You’re finally catching up.”

He fucked into you with no warning. No lead-up. You heard the squelch, felt the stretch, the burn. Felt his pelvis crash against you as he bottomed out, then again, and again.

You couldn’t think straight. You grabbed a pillow and bit it. He took it from you.

“Use your words.”

You tried to push up and he shoved you down.

“No tapping out now.”

Your cheek was on the sheets, drool slipping down your chin, his pace merciless behind you. One hand pinned your arms behind your back and the other reached forward to grab your hair, yanking your head up.

“What happened to all that shit you talked?” he hissed.

“Shut—fuck—up.”

“Oh, so now you don’t like the talking?”

He let go of your arms. His fingers came back between your legs, played with your clit like it was just another game controller. Your legs gave out under you. He laughed.

You were panting now, your cunt aching, stuffed full. “You’re... using my own toy.”

“Should’ve hid it better.”

“You’re cheating.”

He pulled out. You gasped. Before you could say anything, he pushed back in, slower now, grinding deep like he was trying to make it last.

“Call it cheating when I finish in you.”

“You’re not—”

“Yeah I am.”

Your cunt clenched. He felt it.

His mouth dropped to your ear. “Gonna make you beg for it this time.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He pulled out again and flipped you back over, hand under your knees, folding you in half. His cock pushed back in with one stroke and you arched, your hands gripping his biceps like you were going to climb him just to get more.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Wanna get bred so bad.”

“I said no.”

“You meant yes.”

His thumb found your clit again. You couldn’t lie anymore.

He kissed your throat. Not sweet. Messy. Teeth dragging. “Say it.” You stared at him, furious. He stared back, waiting.

“Cum in me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck off.”

“Say please.”

You didn’t.

So he slowed down. His thumb left your clit. His cock stayed in you but the thrusts softened, lazily grinding instead of pounding. You writhed. He raised his brows.

“Stubborn.”

“Asshole.”

“Say please.”

Your head fell back. He started pulling out. “Please,” you snapped. “Fucking please.”

He slammed back in.

You choked.

“Say it right.”

“Please come in my cunt.”

He moaned. You dragged your nails down his back and wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him in harder. He met you stroke for stroke. It was sloppy, fast, deep, his mouth catching yours between thrusts, your gasps mixing.

“Good girl,” he breathed.

You didn’t have time to answer. He bit your shoulder and groaned, hips jerking hard as he came. You felt the heat flood inside and clenched around him again, your own orgasm crashing right after.

You laid there under him, legs twitching, skin flushed and sticky and raw.

He didn’t pull out for a long time. When he did, it was slow and messy and you hissed.

He dropped beside you and stared at the ceiling. Then he said, casually, “So… round three?”

You didn’t answer him. Just stared at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling, your heart thudding hard in your ears. You slapped his chest again, harder this time.

He grunted. “Ow. What the hell was that for?”

“You didn’t pull out right. You dragged it like an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he turned on his side, propped up on one elbow. “Didn’t realise I was fucking you wrong. You seemed pretty into it thirty seconds ago.”

You didn’t look at him. “Yeah, well. I came. Doesn’t mean you didn’t act like a dickhead.”

Gojo’s laugh was lazy, smug. “You’re cute when you’re sore.”

“I’ll rearrange your teeth.”

“You say that like it’s a threat.”

Finally, you turned your head toward him. His hair was a wreck. You could still see sweat shining on his collarbone, his lips were red and swollen. You both looked wrecked.

“You can’t possibly be serious about round three,” you muttered. “Your dick’s probably cramping.”

“It’s not.”

“Gross.”

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “We both know I could go again. You’re just scared I’ll make you cry this time.”

You sat up, ignoring the way your thighs trembled. “You really think I’m scared of you?”

He licked his lips. “I think you’re scared of liking it.”

You reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and chugged it while staring him down. He watched every swallow like it was a threat. When you tossed the bottle back down, you leaned in close, face an inch from his.

“I’m not scared of anything you can do to me,” you said flat. “But you? You’re scared of what I’ll do to you once you stop pretending you’re in control.”

Gojo’s grin faltered, just for a second.

Then, “Oh?”

You didn’t wait. You stood, completely naked, not caring that he was staring, cock already twitching again like it was waiting for orders. You stretched, letting him see every inch, then turned toward the bathroom.

“Take a nap, Satoru,” you called over your shoulder. “You’re gonna need the rest.”

It started again a week later.

You’d both gone back to normal for a while. Or what passed for normal when you were sleeping with someone like Gojo Satoru.

He was still the cocky asshole who walked around like he owned the world. Still touched you in public like he forgot anyone else was watching. Still whispered disgusting things to you at the worst times just to watch you squirm.

But now, he was also watching you more.

Watching the way you watched him. Clocking your moods. Testing your reactions. Like he couldn’t stop thinking about what you said that night.

You’re scared of what I’ll do to you once you stop pretending you’re in control.

He’d repeated it under his breath once, while he was inside you. You pretended not to hear.

Tonight, though, he didn’t want to pretend.

You came over late, past midnight. You didn’t say why. Just showed up in a hoodie and slides, hair messy, eyes unreadable.

He opened the door shirtless. “Thought you ghosted me.”

You stepped inside without a word, brushed past him like you lived there. He shut the door, turned.

“You good?”

You dropped your bag on the couch and turned to face him. Your hoodie was just long enough to cover your ass. Bare legs. No pants.

He blinked.

You didn’t smile. “Strip.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Clothes. Off. Now.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Is this… am I being punished?”

You walked toward him. “You’ve been dying to see what I meant. Right?”

He didn’t answer. Just swallowed.

You stopped in front of him, reached out, hooked your finger in the waistband of his sweats. “Strip. Or I stop playing.”

He stepped back and yanked his sweats off in one motion. No boxers. Half-hard already. Show-off.

You grabbed his wrist and shoved him toward the bedroom.

“No warm-up?” he joked.

You pushed him onto the bed.

“Jesus. Alright.”

He sprawled back, arms behind his head, pretending not to care. But his eyes were watching.

You crawled on top, straddled his waist “Remember what you said?” you whispered. “That you could go again? That I’d cry this time?”

He nodded once.

You leaned closer. “I’m going to fuck you until you beg. You won’t know what time it is. You won’t know what hole I’m using. You’ll only know that you’re not allowed to finish until I say so.”

He made a sound, part exhale, part groan.

“You’re gonna let me?” you asked. “Or are you scared?”

That did it. The way he flipped you over, dragged you under him, pressed his mouth to your neck.

“I’m not scared of anything.”

“Then shut up,” you said. “And let me ruin you.”

You grabbed his jaw and shoved him back, hard. He landed flat on his back, blinking up at you with those icy blue eyes, strands of white hair falling into his face. He was already hard—of course he was—and you hadn’t even started. You swung a leg over him and sat on his chest, pinning him there, your bare heat hovering just above his sternum.

“Hands above your head,” you said.

He raised an eyebrow. “What if I don’t?”

You slapped him. Fast. Clean. Across the cheek.

His smile twitched.

“Cute,” he muttered, lifting his arms.

You leaned forward and wrapped the cuffs around his wrists. Leather. Tight. He tugged once and looked surprised you’d actually locked him in.

“Okay,” he said, voice husky. “Didn’t realize we were doing real restraint tonight.”

“You have no idea what we’re doing tonight.”

You leaned in and kissed him—deep, messy, all tongue and spit and teeth—then moved down and bit his chest, hard. He groaned, hips arching up, and you slapped his thigh.

“Keep still,” you warned.

“Fuck.”

You grabbed the blindfold from the drawer and slipped it over his eyes. He didn’t resist. You adjusted his arms above his head, legs spread out beneath you, completely at your mercy.

Gojo Satoru, strongest, cockiest, loudest man you knew—tied down and blindfolded and already twitching like he couldn’t stand not being touched.

You climbed off and walked away. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t touch him.

A few seconds passed. Then: “You still there?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re quiet.”

Still nothing.

He tensed. His toes curled. His head lifted like he was trying to listen for you.

You watched him suffer for a full minute before coming back and dragging the Wartenberg wheel down his stomach.

He jerked. “The fuck was that?”

You dragged it lower. The tiny spikes ran over his pelvis, the inside of his thighs. You stopped just short of his cock.

“Tease,” he muttered.

You went lower, dragging it between his legs, over the sensitive skin behind his balls, not touching them, just close enough to make him twitch.

He exhaled hard.

“You okay?” you asked sweetly.

His voice was strained. “I’m good. Keep going.”

You used your mouth next. Licked up his length once, slow and wet, then didn’t touch him again for a full two minutes.

He cursed under his breath.

“You said you weren’t scared,” you whispered.

“I’m not.”

“Then stop flinching.”

You grabbed a clamp. Just one. He couldn’t see it coming. You clipped it to his left nipple. He jolted.

“Shit—what the hell was that?”

“You’ll live.”

Another one on the right. He bit his lip. Didn’t speak.

You left them on, left him squirming, then sat on his chest again.

“I haven’t even made you cum once yet,” you said. “And look at you.”

He was flushed. Pale hair sticking to his forehead. Cock red and angry, twitching against his stomach.

“Don’t touch yourself,” you said.

“My hands are cuffed, babe.”

“You’ve got a mouth, don’t you?”

He laughed. “You want me to beg already?”

You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth, bit his lip again.

“No,” you whispered. “I want you to break.”

You moved down and finally—finally—took him in your mouth. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to get him bucking into the air like a desperate dog.

You licked the slit. Let drool drip down his shaft. You wrapped your hand around the base and squeezed, tight, choking the base just as he started to shudder.

Then you let go.

He gasped. “No—fuck—come on—”

“No cumming,” you said. “Not until I say.”

You reached under the bed. Pulled out the vibe.

“Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Scared now?”

“Little bit.”

You turned it on and dragged it up the inside of his thigh. His hips jumped. You didn’t stop. You dragged it right to the underside of his cock and pressed it there, holding him down as he twitched.

His head was tilted back. Blindfold soaked with sweat. Mouth open.

You let the vibe buzz against the base of his cock, then suddenly—off.

He made a sound like he was about to cry.

“You wanna cum?”

“Yes.”

“You wanna cum that bad already?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, please—”

You smacked his thigh again.

“Beg better.”

He groaned. “Please let me cum, please, you fucking tease, I can’t—I need it—I need it—”

You turned the vibe back on. Pressed it harder.

“Not yet.”

His whole body arched, veins straining in his neck.

You leaned in and whispered, “You’re gonna give me six loads tonight.”

He choked on his breath. “Six—?”

“You heard me.”

You reached back and pulled your hoodie over your head, then leaned over him again, letting your tits drag across his chest, right over the clamps. He hissed.

“Six,” you repeated. “Or I edge you until you pass out.”

He didn’t argue.

He just whimpered.

You let the vibe buzz against the base of his cock while your hand worked the head, twisting slow and tight, watching every reaction under the blindfold. Gojo’s jaw clenched. His mouth dropped open again. He was breathing hard through his nose, chest rising and falling, pale skin flushed pink all the way to his ears. You could see the tension rippling through him.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you warned.

“Fuck—please—”

You moved the vibe higher, pressing it right under the tip. His whole body jerked.

“I said don’t.”

“I’m trying—shit—I’m—”

You pulled back just as he hit the edge.

He let out a noise you’d never heard from him before. Not a moan. Not a whimper. A full-on broken gasp like his soul left his body.

You grinned.

“Thought you were stronger than this, Satoru.”

His thighs were shaking. His abs were clenched. The clamps were digging into his nipples, and he still hadn’t gotten a single orgasm.

“I can’t take six,” he breathed.

“You can.”

He shook his head, hair clinging to his sweaty face under the blindfold. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned in, kissed the hollow of his throat, let your teeth scrape over his Adam’s apple. “I haven’t even started yet.”

You climbed off the bed and opened the drawer again. He couldn’t see what you were doing.

“What is that?”

You didn’t answer.

“Hey. What—what are you grabbing?”

You came back with the vibrating cock ring.

“Wait—wait, fuck, wait, what is that?”

“You’re gonna wear this while I ride you,” you said calmly. “You’re not allowed to cum. I’ll edge you the entire time.”

“I…”

You slipped it on before he could protest.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god.”

It buzzed to life, and he immediately bucked up, gasping. You climbed onto him again, grabbed the base of his cock, lined yourself up, and slowly sank down until he was all the way in.

His head snapped back. “Oh fuuuuck.”

You didn’t move.

Just let the ring do the work while you squeezed around him, still not letting him cum.

He was breathing like he’d just run a mile. His wrists strained against the cuffs.

You started moving. Every thrust made him twitch. The ring buzzed nonstop.

He was inside you, throbbing hard, trying not to cum, panting your name like a prayer.

You leaned down and bit his earlobe.“This is just load one.”

“I—fuck—I’m gonna cum, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I can’t—”

You grabbed his throat, hard.

He gasped. “Please—please—please?”

You squeezed harder.

And that was it. He came. Violently. You felt it. Hot pulses inside you.

But you didn’t let up. You kept moving. He whimpered.

“Did I say you could cum?”

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I couldn’t—”

You reached down and twisted one of the clamps. He yelped.

“Bad boy.”

His whole body shuddered. He was still hard. Still twitching inside you. The ring hadn’t turned off.

You smiled.

“Now we start again.”

He groaned. “You’re gonna break me.”

“That’s the plan.”

You fucked him through it.

And didn’t stop.

You barely had time to blink.

One second you were grinding down on him, squeezing his cock inside you while he trembled from the aftershocks of that ruined orgasm, and the next, your back was flat on the mattress, wrists pinned above your head.

The cuffs clattered somewhere off the bed, tossed aside like nothing. Gojo Satoru was on top of you, eyes wide open now. His hair was damp, a white, sweaty mess. His skin flushed all the way down his chest. His cock still hard, somehow. He stared down at you with a look that made your breath catch, something feral, hungry, wild. His lips curled into a slow grin.

“You really thought I was gonna let you win?” he said, voice low, rough. “That I was just gonna lie there and take it?”

You smirked, even though your arms were still pinned and your legs were still spread beneath him. “Took you long enough, old man.”

He leaned down and bit your jaw, not soft. His teeth scraped, then pressed in. You felt the sting. He didn’t let up.

“You made me cum without permission,” he growled against your skin. “You made me fucking beg.”

You felt his cock twitch inside you. He hadn’t pulled out. He was still hard, still buried, and somehow still in control now. He thrusted once. Your whole body arched.

“You liked it,” you said through clenched teeth.

He bit your collarbone. “I liked watching you act like you were in charge.”

He sat up on his knees, grabbed your hips, and flipped you over like you weighed nothing. Your cheek hit the sheets. You tried to push up and he shoved your face back down with one hand, the other yanking your ass up high. He was behind you now, no warm-up, no teasing, just spat on your hole and shoved his cock back inside in one brutal stroke.

You cried out. Not from pain. From shock. From how fucking deep he went.

“That’s better,” he muttered, dragging his hand down your spine. “You can’t talk back with your face in the pillow.”

You tried to lift your head. He grabbed your hair and pulled. Hard.

“Try me,” you hissed, voice muffled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you’re gonna regret saying that.”

He fucked you like he was punishing you. No rhythm. No care. Just hard, rough thrusts that punched the air out of your lungs. He slapped your ass once. Then again. You felt the heat bloom under your skin, raw and stinging.

“You think clamps and a vibe are kinky?” he said. “You think tying me up makes you in charge? You don’t know what the fuck I’m into.”

You felt his hand between your legs again. He was rubbing your clit now, fast and unforgiving, forcing you toward a second orgasm when your body was still shaking from the last. He leaned down and bit your shoulder. This one broke skin.

“Cum,” he said. “Right fucking now.”

You tried to hold back. You didn’t want to give him the win. But it was no use. You came with a gasp, legs shaking, whole body going limp under him. You were too raw to fake anything, too gone to hide it. You’d edged him. Broken him. But now he was fucking you like he was going to destroy you just to prove he still could.

He pulled out just long enough to flip you onto your back again. Your thighs were slick with cum. His eyes dropped down, staring at the mess between your legs, then looked back up at you. His pupils were blown wide. His hands gripped your knees and shoved them apart, wide enough that you felt stretched open, exposed.

“You’re gonna take it,” he said. “Again. And again. Until I say you’re done.”

You smirked, even as your breath came short. “I can take more than you can give.”

“Oh yeah?” He pushed back in with no warning. You cried out.

He didn’t stop. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t stop moving even after you came again. Your whole body jolted with every thrust, nerves lit up like fire, and Gojo was holding your thighs apart like he owned your body, like every inch was his to use. His hair was soaked now, sticking to his forehead and temples, strands clinging to his flushed cheeks. Those bright blue eyes were locked on you, wild and vicious and shining.

“You shaking already?” he said, voice low. “You were real fucking loud a few minutes ago. Got real quiet all of a sudden.”

“Still not tapping out,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Good. I’d be disappointed if you did.”

He reached up, grabbed your jaw and squeezed your cheeks together, forcing your mouth open. Then he leaned down and spit into it. You didn’t flinch. Just let it drip down your tongue and swallowed.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You really are disgusting.”

You licked your lips. “You love it.”

He slapped your face. Just once. Your head turned with the force. Then he grabbed your chin again and made you look at him.

“I fucking adore it.”

He pulled out again and shoved three fingers in you without warning. You gasped.

“You want another load?”

“Yes.”

He curled them deep. “You want it in your pussy?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out. “Too bad.”

You barely had time to register before he pushed back in, not with his cock, with the vibrator. Pressed it deep, turned it on full blast. Your hips jolted. He held it in place, watching you writhe under him.

You grabbed at his wrist. “Wait—wait, fuck!”

“You said you could take more.”

You were cumming again. It hit you so fast you couldn’t even say his name. Your body locked up, thighs trembling, stomach twitching.

He waited for it to finish. Waited for your back to drop down to the bed. Then pulled the vibe out and shoved his cock back in, still hard, still thick, still fucking relentless.

“No breaks,” he said. “You set the rules. You wanted six loads.”

“Then give me one,” you hissed.

He fucked into you hard enough that the bed frame creaked. His fingers tangled in your hair, dragging your head back.

“I’m gonna cum down your throat first,” he said. “Then your pussy. Then your tits. Then your mouth again. Then your pussy again. And the last one’s gonna be wherever I fucking feel like it.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re trying.”

He pulled out and crawled up your body, straddled your chest and grabbed your jaw again.

“Open.”

You did.

He slid his cock past your lips with no hesitation, no rhythm, just deep and rough. You choked. He didn’t stop.

“You took control for what? Ten minutes?”

He shoved in deeper. You gagged around him. Your hands clawed at his thighs, not to stop him, but just to hold on.

“You can edge me. You can cuff me. But the second I’m on top—”

He pulled out, slapped your face again, then shoved back in.

“You’re done.”

He grabbed your hair, twisted tight, fucked your throat like it owed him money. You felt your eyes water. He held you there until his hips stuttered. Then you felt it, hot and thick, right down your throat. You swallowed around him and he groaned.

“Fucking hell.”

He pulled out, spit dripping from your lips, and crawled back down your body.

“One down,” he said. “Five to go.”

You were shaking. You smiled anyway.

“Bring it, Satoru.”

“Oh, I will.”

And he slammed back in.

He eased back, fingers trailing over your flushed skin like he was thinking, but you knew better. That look in his eyes wasn’t sympathy, it was pure, calculated control.

“You’re such a fucking mess already,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth, like he was talking to a scared kitten instead of the wreck he’d made of you. “I’m gonna take care of you… don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

His fingers ghosted over your jaw, tilting your face up just enough so you could see those icy blue eyes glinting with something dark and playful.

“You think you’re tough, huh? Pretty little thing all wrapped up in pain and desperation. You’re pathetic, and I love it.”

His hand slid down your neck, light but firm, and then suddenly tightened just enough to catch your breath. You gasped, eyes fluttering, heart hammering.

He watched you struggle under that tiny pressure, lips twitching in a smile, then eased off, cooing, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re doing so well. Just breathe for me, baby.”

He shifted, pulling something slick from beside the bed, a curved, black toy with smooth edges. “I’m gonna fuck you proper now,” he said, voice dangerously soft. “You’re gonna feel every inch of this, and I want you to beg me for more even though you’re dying inside.”

He slicked it up, fingers tracing over your aching folds before sliding it slowly to your asshole. You bit your lip, breath hitching, hips pressing down even though you knew better.

“You’re so tight for me,” he whispered, thumb brushing over your clit, keeping you close to the edge but never letting you fall. “So fucking delicious. I swear, if you weren’t so broken, I’d be gentle with you. But you want this. You need me to push you.”

His breath was warm on your neck as he slipped the toy inside you, slow and deliberate. You cried out, voice raw, and he chuckled low.

“You’re gonna be my good fucking girl tonight. I’m gonna ruin you with this, with my hands, my mouth, my cock. You’re not allowed to forget whose you are.”

He kissed the shell of your ear, then tightened his grip on your throat just enough to remind you who was really in control. Your breath hitched again, and he smiled softly, rubbing slow circles on your chest.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, voice all silk, “I’m right here. I’ll take care of you, baby. Just stay still and let me do what I do best.”

He pressed the toy deeper and your hips jerked, the stretch sharp and tight. You clenched around it instinctively, gasping, but he just cooed, running his hand up your thigh like he was soothing a child.

“There you go… that’s it. You’re okay. Such a good girl letting me in like that.”

“Don’t call me that,” you hissed, breath shaky.

He grinned, leaned in and kissed your cheek so softly it made your skin crawl.

“Aw, what’s wrong? You don’t like being praised now that your ass is full and your pussy’s dripping all over the sheets?”

You slapped his chest. He barely flinched. His grip on your throat tightened again, just a little, and he tilted your chin up so he could see your face.

“You hit me again and I’ll tie your arms down too.”

“Try it.”

He laughed, really laughed. Then kissed you hard, tongue sliding in like he owned your mouth. You tried to bite him. He pulled back just in time and laughed again, eyes gleaming.

“You’re a little demon tonight. That’s fine. I’ll break it out of you.”

You spat on his cheek. “You couldn’t break me if you tried.”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it got calmer.

“Sweetheart. I already am.”

He shoved the toy in deeper and your back arched. He wrapped his hand around your throat again, thumb stroking your jaw, eyes locked on yours like he was watching a storm roll in.

“You’re so tight back there,” he said, voice dropping to something too soft, too fake-sweet. “I should leave it in while I fuck you again. Let you try to keep it in while I make you cum over and over until you forget your own name.”

“You think this scares me?”

He leaned closer, lips brushing yours. “No. I think it gets you wet.”

Then he pulled the toy halfway out and shoved it back in while his other hand slipped between your legs. He didn’t stroke your clit. He didn’t tease. He just held his palm there, pressed against it, applying pressure while your whole body writhed.

You gritted your teeth. “I’m not your good girl.”

He smiled, eyes locked on your face. “No. You’re my bad one. My filthy, mean, desperate mess. That’s why I like you.”

He pressed down harder with his palm. You jerked.

“Gojo—”

His hand moved from your neck to your jaw again. He gripped it tight. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to hold you there.

“Say my name again.”

You swallowed. “Satoru.”

He groaned like you’d touched a nerve. “Fuck. Say it like that again and I might forgive you for spitting on me.”

You shoved at his chest, but it was useless. He pinned you with one hand, the other pulling the toy in and out in slow, torturous movements while you twitched beneath him.

“You want to cum again?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

“I said—”

“I’ll cum when I fucking want to,” you snapped.

“Oh? That right?”

He yanked the toy out and shoved his cock in, deep and raw, and you gasped so loud your voice broke.

“You want control back?” he growled, thrusting hard, not giving you time to adjust. “Earn it.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist and rolled your hips to meet every stroke. Your hands clawed at his back, dragging down over the sweat-slicked muscles. His silver-white hair was a wild mess, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he was drunk on you.

“You’re gonna beg me to stop,” you panted.

He laughed, thrusting harder. “I want you to try.”

And you did.

Your cunt clenched around him so tight he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering just for a second. You didn’t miss it.

“Oh?” you said, breathless, smirking through the ache. “That a twitch I felt, Satoru?”

He narrowed his eyes and grabbed your face, fingers digging into your cheeks again. “Careful.”

“Why?” You licked his thumb. “You scared?”

His mouth crashed into yours, sloppy, brutal, tongue invading. You bit him this time, harder than before. He jerked back, lips wet, blood on the corner of his mouth.

“You’re really trying me tonight.”

You twisted your hips under him, grinding up while squeezing around him again. He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder.

“I said six loads,” you breathed. “I didn’t say you’d be in charge for all of them.”

He sat back on his knees, pulling your hips with him so you ended up bent halfway over his thighs. His cock still buried inside. He stared down at where you connected, breathing heavy.

“You’re starting to think you’re a threat,” he said. “That’s adorable.”

You hooked a hand behind your knee and pulled your leg back farther, opening yourself up more just to make a point. His eyes flicked up to your face. You smiled.

“I’m not thinking it.”

He slammed into you so hard the air left your lungs. But this time, you met him. You gripped his wrists and rolled your hips to match, letting the pain shoot through you and riding it out.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re gonna make me break something.”

“Better make sure it’s not yourself.”

He flipped you again, fast and rough, and you landed on top, straddling him. He didn’t stop thrusting, just used the angle to fuck up into you while you fought to get your balance. You grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

He smirked. “Think you can hold me down?”

“You let me up here,” you panted. “That’s your mistake.”

You clenched again, hard and deep, and he let out a noise that was way too close to a whimper. You rolled your hips once, slow and grinding, pressing his cock into every nerve inside you.

“You’re gonna cum again soon, aren’t you?” you said, leaning down, lips brushing his. “What’s that now? Load number two?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“You love it.”

You reached down between your legs and rubbed your clit while still moving on him, moaning in his ear.

“Fuck, fuck—” he hissed. “You’re seriously gonna make me—”

“Do it.”

“No—fuck, no, you’re not winning this round—”

“Then cum and try again, Satoru.”

His whole body tensed. You felt it. That deep pulse. He came hard, biting down on your shoulder so loud you could hear the groan echo off the walls.

You didn’t stop moving. You chased your own high right through it, grinding down while his cock twitched inside you, while his fingers dug into your hips, breath coming fast like he couldn’t handle the overstim.

You came with your head thrown back, clenching around him so tight he cursed again, hands flying up to grip your waist like he needed to anchor himself.

When it finally slowed, you stayed there, sitting on him, both of you wrecked and panting.

You leaned forward, lips on his ear. “Told you I could take more than you can give.”

He turned his head, jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes wild. “Round four’s mine.”

You didn’t argue. You just smiled.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Gojo’s hands were on you again. One gripped the back of your neck, the other dug into your hip, dragging you off him like your body belonged to him.

You were still shaking from your last orgasm, cunt soaked and stretched and twitching around nothing, and he moved like he didn’t care.

He shoved you onto your stomach, grabbed your waist, and pulled your ass up, forcing you to stay there with his palm flat on your spine.

“Stay down,” he rasped, voice thick, broken. “I’m not playing anymore.”

“You never were.”

“Yeah?” His cock slid back inside you without warning, and you screamed into the sheets. “Then shut up and take it.”

He fucked into you like he was losing his rhythm, like his own body was shaking, but he didn’t stop. The pace wasn’t clean, it was frantic. Sloppy. His hips were hitting the backs of your thighs with wet, slick slaps that echoed off the walls. You couldn’t tell if it was sweat or spit or cum dripping down your legs anymore. Probably all three. You felt disgusting. You felt feral. You felt fucking alive.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head up so your mouth wasn’t in the pillow anymore. You were gasping now, drooling, lips parted and wet, and he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and panting against your ear.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “You hear how loud you’re dripping for me?”

You choked on a laugh. “That’s not you. That’s me breaking you.”

He pulled out again and smacked your ass, hard enough to make you flinch. Then shoved the toy back into your ass with one hand and slid his cock back into your pussy with the other. You screamed, body arching, walls clenching down hard as you writhed under him.

“Oh fuck—fuck—Satoru!”

“That’s right,” he panted. “Say it. Cry it. I wanna hear it while I wreck you from both sides.”

You clawed at the sheets. He was hitting every nerve you had left. You couldn’t keep up anymore. Your thighs were trembling, stomach slick with sweat, muscles locking up and releasing in turns. Every thrust pushed the toy deeper, making your breath catch.

He was grunting above you now, not even trying to hide the strain. His rhythm faltered again, and he caught himself with a hand beside your head.

“You getting tired?” you rasped, voice wrecked.

“Never,” he lied.

He sounded fucked. His hair was stuck to his forehead, jaw clenched, skin flushed down to his chest. His hips were still moving but not clean anymore, each thrust messier than the last, like he was losing track of where he ended and you began.

You pushed back against him suddenly, grinding into both the toy and his cock at once, and he lost it. Let out this deep, low sound like he was choking on his own control. You took advantage, rolled your hips again and clamped down around him, every muscle in your body squeezing him like a trap.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

You felt the heat burst inside you again, thick and deep and messy. His whole body shook, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath shallow.

“Number five,” you panted. “Getting sloppy, Satoru.”

He didn’t answer for a second. Just breathed against your neck, still twitching inside you.

Then, slowly, he reached around, grabbed your throat again, and pulled you back up into his lap, keeping himself inside you the whole time. Your legs shook as you tried to stay upright, body slick and trembling, the toy still buried deep and his cock softening slightly inside your oversensitive cunt.

“You wanna keep score?” he whispered. “Fine. But I’m not stopping.”

He bit your shoulder again, this time hard enough to leave a deep, dark mark. You whimpered, head falling back against his shoulder.

You were dizzy now. Exhausted.

Your legs didn’t want to move anymore. You were trembling so hard your muscles kept giving out under you, and Gojo was still behind you, cock still inside, hips barely moving now but never fully stopping. His arms were wrapped around your body, one across your ribs, the other around your throat, not squeezing yet, just holding.

You were in his lap, leaned back against his sweat-slick chest, the toy still snug inside your ass, the air thick with heat, spit, and sex. Your eyes fluttered.

“I know,” he whispered against your neck. “I know it’s too much. But you’re gonna take it for me, right?”

You gritted your teeth. “Fuck off.”

He laughed, voice hoarse. “That’s my girl.”

He lifted your hips, slow and shaky, then dropped you down again. You let out a half-sob, half-moan, head falling forward. His cock slid in deeper than before. You could feel how raw your cunt was, could feel how swollen he was from the inside. And he didn’t stop. He lifted you again, slower this time, and brought you back down like he was savoring it.

“See?” he murmured. “Still so greedy for it. Still sucking me in like you’re begging for more.”

You twisted in his arms, just enough to get your hand around his throat. You squeezed not hard enough to choke, just enough to make his smile twitch. His eyes flicked to yours, pupils blown wide, chest rising fast.

“Shut the fuck up,” you breathed. “I’m not done yet.”

He growled, rolled you forward, and shoved you down into the mattress again, flipping you face-down with one hand on your back and one around your waist. You clawed at the sheets as he started to fuck you again, harder now, sloppy thrusts that made your body jerk with every one. The toy shifted with each movement, pressing deeper every time he slammed in. You were soaked. Loud. Filthy.

“I’m gonna cum again,” he panted. “You feel that? How fucking close I am?”

“Hold it,” you gasped.

“Beg me.”

“Hold. It.”

He shoved deeper, and you screamed. “You don’t get to cum until I say.”

“You’re not in charge.”

“You’re gonna fucking wait.”

He groaned, forehead falling between your shoulder blades, and you felt his hips stutter just for a second before he steadied himself again. You were both shaking now. Both holding on by threads.

He leaned in close, mouth right by your ear. “You think you can control me when you’re this fucked-out?”

“I’m not done,” you whispered. “You don’t get to stop until I’ve ridden your cock dry.”

He chuckled, breath hot. “You want it that bad?”

You reached back and slapped his thigh. “Take the hint.”

He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head again, chest crushing down over your back, and started pounding into you with no rhythm at all, just fast, sloppy, desperate thrusts that made your mouth fall open and drool onto the sheets. The toy inside you pulsed with every stroke. You could feel your body clenching, your nerves short-circuiting, your thoughts blurring out.

“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me I’m better.”

“No.”

He thrust harder. “Say it.”

You moaned, but didn’t give him what he wanted. He pulled your hair. You gasped.

“Say it.”

“Make me.”

He bit your shoulder again, and you clenched down on him, hips jerking, toes curling. He cursed under his breath and lost it, slammed into you once, twice, then froze.

You felt it. Hot, thick, deep.

He was gasping now, voice barely holding shape. “Fuck. Fuck—”

You collapsed under him, too exhausted to move, but grinning.

“One more,” you breathed.

He kissed the back of your neck, then whispered through grit teeth, “Don’t think you’re gonna be walking after this.”

You didn’t let him pull out.

He was still inside you, twitching, softening, drained, but you locked your thighs and shoved him over, rolling onto his chest and straddling him like you were born to do it. His eyes barely opened.

Silver-white hair plastered to his forehead, lips parted, red and swollen, skin glistening with sweat. His arms didn’t even move. He blinked up at you like he couldn’t figure out what year it was.

“I didn’t say we were done,” you said, breathless.

He groaned. “Baby—fuck—I just came.”

“I know.” You shifted your hips, grinding down slowly, squeezing around his cock. “That’s the point.”

He cursed, hands flying to your thighs like he might try to slow you down, but you smacked them away and shoved his wrists down beside his head.

“Not your turn,” you said, sweetly. “I told you I’d ride you dry.”

He groaned again, head falling back into the pillow. “You’re fucking evil.”

“You like it.”

You rolled your hips again, slow and deep, dragging his oversensitive cock against every twitching nerve inside you. His whole body jerked.

“Shit, don’t—fuck, stop, I can’t—”

“You can.” You leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then his jaw. “You’re Gojo Satoru, right? The strongest? You can handle one more.”

“You’re—” He groaned. “You’re squeezing so fucking tight.”

“I know.”

You leaned up, planting your hands on his chest for balance, and started to ride him slow and cruel, grinding more than bouncing, never letting him pull away, never giving him room to breathe.

You could feel every twitch, every tiny spasm, every muscle in his legs trying to lock up and fight back. He looked wrecked. Beautiful. Skin flushed all the way down his neck, sweat dripping from his temples, throat bobbing with every gasp.

“You wanna cum again?” you asked, breath catching as you rocked harder, deeper. “One last time?”

“Fuck—I already—”

You tightened around him and moved faster, harder. He cried out. You slapped his chest. “You don’t get to decide when you’re done.”

His hands grabbed your hips again, but not to stop you. Just to hold on. You were fucking him so deep now he couldn’t fight it. Couldn’t fake control. Couldn’t pretend he had anything left to give except what you were dragging out of him.

He was panting under you, sweat slicking both your bodies, cock twitching back to full hardness against his will.

“You’re gonna cum again,” you said. “And you’re gonna do it inside me.”

“I’m gonna pass out—”

“You won’t.” You grabbed his face, forced his eyes open. “Look at me.”

He blinked, dazed. His chest heaved.

“You’re mine right now. Every inch. Every fucking drop. So cum when I tell you. Not before.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. His fingers dug into your thighs. His whole body trembled like a live wire.

You leaned in and kissed him, soft this time. Like reward. Like ownership. And while his mouth opened under yours, while he tried to breathe, you ground down and clenched around him, squeezing with everything you had.

He broke.

You felt it in the way he jerked beneath you, the way his hips bucked up, the way his voice caught in his throat when he came inside you for the last time, loud, desperate. His eyes fluttered shut. His hands fell off your hips. His body went still.

You stayed there, cockwarming him, his cum leaking out of you, chest pressed to his, both of you soaked, broken, and breathless.

You brushed his hair off his forehead, kissed him again, then whispered against his mouth

“Mine.”

So yeah. You terrified Gojo

[cherbii]

busy listening to p.t.v and it made me think. GOTH STYLE GETO???? HELLO??

[cherbii]

i js need to know if there’s any arcane fans ? 😖 mainly ones who find silco hot

[cherbii]

going fishing or something

[cherbii]

one more week until im free