“C’mon, baby…” Gojo murmured, voice loose and coaxing—too soft for someone who knew he always got what he wanted. “You’re being mean.”

He sounded almost sulky about it, like this was a personal betrayal rather than a boundary. Like you were the one misbehaving. Or maybe it was the gummy walls squeezing around him, just right, that made him act a fool.

The room felt warped around him—not from haze, but from him. Too close, too bright, too much. Gojo crowded your space the way he did everything else, leaning in until his presence pressed into your thoughts. He smelled clean, sharp—soap and something electric, like static before a storm.

Heat flared through his veins, sank into the marrow of his bones, urged him forward with each sloppy thrust. Your hands scrambled for purchase, bed sheets bunching and twisting beneath your fingers.

A grunt tore from him, raw and rough, as he hunched over your body. The position was far from comfortable, but the strongest sorcerer in history couldn’t give a fuck less.

“Gimme a kiss,” he damn near whined, chest heaving. “Just for me, yeah? Can you do that for me, baby?”

It wasn’t a request. Not really.

His fingers curled beneath your jaw, coaxing your head over your shoulder. And—God—you tried. But another rock of his hips knocked the effort clean from your mouth. Your face buried into the plush pillow, the pathetic sounds you made muffled into the fabric.

The way he clung there, impatient and undone, made it painfully clear—Gojo Satoru wasn’t in control of this.

You were.