GOJO SATORU / F!READER KEEP STILL (19+)

GOJO SATORU / F!READER KEEP STILL (19+)

SYNOPSIS

Internationally revered artist Y/N has been invited to paint the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru.

CONTAINS

explicit content [minors/ageless blogs do not interact], royal au, prince!satoru, artist!reader, (forced?) voyeurism, masturbation, multiple orgasms, face riding, oral (f+m), overstimulation, exhibitionism (?), cum play, choking, squirting, facial, degradation, ooc satoru is a brat…

word count: 12.4k+ note: satoru has ZERO shame. srry i kinda went overboard w this . okay enjoy / also i just changed the layout lol

“…you have been invited to paint the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru—” 

“Crown Prince?”

The trickles of liquid being poured into glasses ends with a foolish clatter, hands clambering to collect them as they tip over. Dusk arrives, a peaceful ambience accompanied with light crackles of your fireplace. With the belief that it would be a simple, quaint evening, you hadn’t prepared yourself for the news that would arrive at your doorstep. The sound of his name makes your ears scorch, overwhelming news that could put you in cardiac arrest if you weren’t so stubborn about appearing composed. The invitation sent in the form of a white card, sealed with a golden stamp, weighs heavy on your heart—a bizarre combination of stress and elation running through you, until your ears have finally made sense of your friend’s words.

You’ve painted many important individuals—internationally revered and demanded by numerous pretentious, rich assholes, so it should come across as a normal invitation to you, but it was anything but that. It felt more like a leap than a step forward, an endgame to your years of hard work, knowing that a royal had been eyeing your work, wanting you to perceive him. Ironically, you had just come back from exploring the world, attending the showiest parties and exhibitions, displaying yourself for demand and being invited by opulent guests that had implored you to paint them from across the sea.

Why wouldn’t they? Even your most unassuming subjects were enamoured with your work, posing to perfection, and keeping as still as they could because they know you can portray them the best.

From your work alone, you have a long list of subjects waiting to be painted by you, quietly observing in awe as you hone your craft. Painting the Crown Prince was long overdue. Though you had a problem—your passion wavered. The demand wore you out, how much time and passion you were willing to put into your work has kept you bed-ridden and drained of inspiration, mostly relying on commissions personally made by your clients. It’s noticeable by the lack of pieces you were putting out—the name you’ve made yourself hanging by a thin thread. Still, despite your insecurities, you couldn’t pass up on this opportunity because of a cluster of reasons—sitting on top laid one.

The Crown Prince is a sight to behold. His white hair resembling wispy clouds falls delicately on his forehead, smooth skin that anyone could mistake for porcelain if they’re not too careful, and blue eyes that held the seas and skies entirely.

You’ve only been able to observe him from afar; the mere sight of the prince being too much a phenomenon to let you get any closer. His presence alone is a rare occurrence. No one really knows why, but it only makes him the embodiment of mystery, trivial rumours are not good enough to gather what kind of person he might be, and it only makes you even more curious. Whenever he is seen, it’s only ever accompanied by some sort of ball or parade dedicated to him and his family. 

Merely visiting a friend, your first sighting had been on a balcony overlooking the marketplace, and the royal family’s return from their short retreat required an audience. The sizable fields were empty, but the streets were congregated with residents, white confetti falling dreamily on their carriages and horses.

You weren’t actually interested in the royals, forced to engage in the proprieties by your friend, staring into blank space and slumped against the balcony with your chin resting on your hand, sighing when the cheers became deafeningly louder.

Then you saw him peak through the obscurity of his carriage, nudging velvet curtains to the side to look at the crowd. No one could miss the collective gasps that fell from the mouths of the residents—a stunned silence took the section that was greeted by his face, staring in awe of the prince. He looked slightly taken aback by the reception, gazing upon the unmoving crowd with an unreadable expression, never gesturing with a smile or a wave.

You were guilty of it too—the grip of your fingers loosening from the balcony, your lips parting in discreet shock as you marvel at the sight of the prince, wondering how someone could even look like that. Almost engrossed, you fixated on remembering every feature, absorbing the memory so you could somehow translate it onto paper. 

It's unfortunately short-lived when he closes the curtain.

Now you’re going to see him again—no—paint him. Perhaps, in some dramatic, life-changing way, Gojo Satoru could revive your passion. In fact, you’re sure of it—the one sighting of him became a plethora of false memories you made up in your head, imagining the way he’d look in all of your pieces and that desire to make him the purpose of all your paintings was probably the reason beneath that void in your heart, it’d only make sense for him to fill it.

“The prince—I can’t believe it.” Your friend says in awe, nimbly taking one of the glasses you prepared for the both of you. She goes on to ramble about what you’ll wear, how you’ll greet him, and the most pressing question of them all: how on earth were you going to paint him? It only makes you anxious.

What if he hates it?

“I guess I’ll have to figure that out.” You sigh, the insistent thoughts sending a chill down on your spine. Self-doubt can't get the best of you just yet, reminding yourself that it’s your hard work that’s put you here, so to paint the Crown Prince, you couldn’t have imagined anything better.

The drawing room is clean—awfully clean, resembling every other royal room you came across as you toured around the palace, admiring the grandeur and spotlessness that brushed every corner of each room. There is some sort of expectancy to see messiness accompany the drawing room, knowing that the royals could not go a day without having their portraits painted and possibly spent most of their time sitting on that chair if they weren’t hosting some sort of inessential ball to showcase their endless opulence.

Your eyes first land on the wooden stool that sits in front of an easel holding a large blank canvas, beneath and beside it is art equipment meant for your usage—oil paint, palettes, and numerous paintbrushes, all ready for you.

As you saunter further into the drawing room, your eyes are greeted with a couch—one of splendour, encased in gold and embroidered floral patterns sewed onto the seats, cushions and backrest, a velvet sheet loosely falls on top of it. Oddly enough, you expected a simple chair.

Behind it is the Great painting, the regular backdrop used for most of the royals’ paintings, though there is nothing truly regular about it, having been made by one of your favourite artists. To see it in person has you gaping like a fool. Entranced by the large piece that spans across the entire wall, a sensation building up in a chest that awfully resembles the feeling of someone twisting your heart in their hand, promising yourself that you’d make something like this one day and it’ll be your backdrop that every snobbish individual of prestige will want.

So, when the faint chatter and shuffling footsteps progressively becomes louder, your ears unconsciously tune out the sound, engrossed so deeply in the painting that you’re unaware of the people that have entered the room. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” A gruff voice suddenly rips you from your reverie, causing you to stupidly stumble on your own feet, only just noticing the presence next to you. It’s not him—not the prince, but a man almost as intimidating as him (almost…just almost) and you waver under his stoic gaze.

“Yes, it’s really beautiful,” you mindlessly say, cursing under your breath as your wavering confidence makes itself obvious. Respectably gesturing at him, an urge to conceal your expression from him begins to hurt your cheeks, an eager smile itching to spread across your face. He awkwardly clears his throat when you perform such a profound gesture. The shadow of his figure keeps you grounded on your curling toes, pondering on the prince’s whereabouts. If he’s here, then the prince must close, right? 

When you look back up, your eyes suddenly peer at the white hair that peaks from the man’s shoulder, gradually making himself known when he finally stands beside him. 

Oh. 

Tall and broad, the prince towers over you, surpassing the man next to him in height, and looks down at you with the same unreadable look that started this voyage of curiosity. You hope he misses the way your breath hitches in your throat, the figure next to him becoming hazy when you stare at the prince, all of the admiration you have towards him washes over you tenfold, the closeness accentuating his features in ways you couldn’t have imagined. His eyes are so…blue.

How on earth are you supposed to capture his beauty in a painting? You can’t even remotely describe what you’re looking at, overawed and overwhelmed, you almost forget to greet him. So, when you do, it’s in a state of a momentary panic, feeling as though you just committed treason for doing it a second later and your frantic actions earns a raised eyebrow, clearly amused by your uneasiness.

“Nanami, this is my painter for today?” He asks, tilting his head to the man now known as Nanami, who doesn’t seem fazed by the likes of Gojo Satoru. His voice is perfect too, you think. You wonder what he must be like behind closed doors, how Nanami must either endure or indulge in the prince’s company, what kind of conversations they might have, if he’s even likeable to begin with.

Nanami nods, the dullness in his facial expression making it hard to read the room, especially when a mischievous glint washes over the prince’s eyes as he turns his head, rendering you speechless once he unexpectedly closes the space between you. The exasperation from his shoulder only shows that the prince’s forwardness is something to expect, though you had never imagined that he’d be this… bold.

Satoru (…felt like you were committing treason for even saying his name in your head) leans forward, bending down to face you at eye-level, hovering so closely that it makes you even more nervous, so you briefly turn to Nanami in hopes that he could explain this unusual interaction. He doesn’t offer you comforting reassurance, so you look back at Satoru, taking a deep breath as you stare in his eyes.

It’s as if he holds the entire earth in them, an unusual pattern of various blue shades that swirled in his eyes, an instrument of hypnosis. He finally decides to break the silence, indulging well enough in your nervousness. His formalities are short and it’s obvious he doesn’t like wasting time. “I’m the Crown Prince, Gojo Satoru. Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are, I mean—” you stutter thoughtlessly, “…I’m Y/N L/N.”

“I would be surprised if you didn’t, Y/N.” He responds, a faux frown appearing on his face. It feels undeserving to have your name come out of his mouth, but it hails your ears like a symphony. But, despite his regal nature and otherworldly appearance, something about him cries bad news, a ball of uneasiness rising in the pit of your stomach telling you that he’s up to no good.

What an odd feeling—you’re not sure where it’s coming from. 

You almost forget to tell him how grateful you are, though it’s not quite like you to shower someone with such compliments, given your absence of care for the royal family. “I want to thank you for this opportunity. It’s an honour just being in your presence.”

“Of course, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s about time I met the revered painter.” He says, weighing you down with his gaze. You wonder how he’s heard about you, strangely caring about how he perceives you. 

Your heartbeat won’t slow down. “Well, I’m glad you think that of me. I’m certain that I can provide the best piece for you.”

His smirk grows, sensing your wavering confidence and relishing in your need to make the best impression. He’s practically anchoring you to the floor with his eyes. “I’m sure you will.”

Nanami sighs, breaking the odd tension that settles between the two of you, “…would you like me to oversee the first session?”

“No need.” Satoru quickly interjects, smiling passively as he continues to stare down at you. You could shrivel up into a ball right now with how intense his gaze is, an invisible force weighing you down as the fireplace crackles behind you. “The world’s renowned painter doesn’t need anyone breathing down her neck, right?”

Nanami sighs again, rolling his eyes. The two men await your response, and now you border between needing his presence because of Satoru’s peculiar nature and agreeing with Satoru because…he’s the Crown Prince. You mindfully choose the latter, fearing that you’d only make him unhappy by going against something that sounded more like his request, than your own. 

“Please leave, Nanami.” Satoru abruptly stresses, clearly bothered by your inability to quickly answer him. He hastily turns to Nanami, placing a lingering glance on him.

“The session will end at sundown. I’ll make preparations for your departure, so don’t worry about that.” Nanami concludes, slowly walking towards the door.

Luckily, it’s a summer afternoon, so while the skies were still bright, offering the room a mix of white and golden hues, you’d be able to pinpoint every single one of his features. Though, it means that you’re incredibly aware of Satoru’s expressions, who seems awfully eager to get Nanami out of the room and won’t stop staring at you.

When he leaves, the large doors softly shut with a thud and now the air suddenly feels tighter, the crackling of the fireplace gets louder and you’re sure Satoru can hear the force of your beating heart. “So, shall we begin?”

Your nerves keep you cemented to the floor, but his sudden suggestion snaps you out of your trance.

“Yes. Please, sit on the couch.” You faint-heartedly respond, gesturing for him to follow you to the couch. You’re suddenly immersed in finding the best position to put him in, wondering if the velvet sheet is a deliberate prop meant for you, but the initiative is taken by Satoru, who rests his back carelessly on the couch. Confused by his sudden action, he disrupts your train of thought.

“I’d like a painting where I’m lying down against this couch, something a little extravagant,” he says mockingly, savouring your surprised expression.

You’ve painted many things, a lot of them consisting of people with many poses and props, but you assumed that this regal painting would only entail of a simple portrait of him sitting up, and staring. You’re not sure if this idea was even approved by anyone. This is your first meeting with the prince and yet you can’t trust a single word that comes out of his mouth. Adorned by his face, you almost didn’t notice what he was wearing—a simple white blouse and black pants, something that would normally be used as an underdress for regal wearing. Suppose this is more of a personal painting.  

“Is that a problem, Y/N?” He asks, gouging out your expression.

“No, we can do that.” You respond, grimacing at the thought of this session already being controlled by him. There’s a reason why you never really cared for the royals—this is one of them. “Okay, you can rest your arm and back on the armrest, lift your legs up and look towards me.” When he follows your words, as you slowly walk backwards to envision the appropriateness of his pose, he gets it exactly right.

“Like this?”

“Yes, perfect,” you nod, adjusting the velvet sheet to loosely cover the opposite end of the couch. The vision was settling in, a perfect picturesque that truly showcased his allure and so you hurriedly make your way to the canvas, plopping down and begin observing his proportions. Your eyes scan his body, noticing his slender legs, broad chest and wide shoulders—even his proportions felt designed. 

Satoru surprisingly doesn’t speak when you’re firming his proportions and perception onto paper, letting you immerse yourself into work as his gaze never wavers. The canvas isn’t transparent but even in the split seconds when you’re hiding behind it, you can still feel his blue eyes pierce through the paper, turning your nimble fingers to trembling ones and even the open window can’t prevent your body from overheating. It’s not supposed to be intimate—you’ve never been compelled to feel anything for someone you’re painting, too engrossed in creation and much too concentrated on who they are on paper, than in real life. 

He’s jerking his leg against the couch, and it’s distracting. “Could you keep still, please?” You ask politely, hoping that he doesn’t take offence to it.

Thankfully, he doesn’t.

You’re not sure why you even asked—the slight movement shouldn’t be a cause for concern, but there’s something about this entire situation that’s pestering you. This is a strictly professional job that your precarious future depends on and yet it's far from that, it’s personal. He’s making it personal. Perhaps, it’s just overthinking—the prince is idolised by everyone, having a charm that only a few can attain, and he’s probably used it to his advantage many times.

This is all in your head, a momentary lapse of judgement that is clouded by your enduring admiration for him. Or at least, that’s what you try to tell yourself. Despite your inner conflict, you remain professional. Your concentrated expression never fluctuates, and you focus on getting his proportions right, hastily looking away whenever you accidentally meet his gaze. It’s unnerving, as if he’s refusing to blink, gradually breaking you down with his stare, until you turn to stone. When you finally finish the outline of your piece, your main focus is finding the right scenic feeling for him, slowly gazing upon the backdrop that accentuates his otherworldly features.

“So focused…” Satoru unexpectedly states, ending your trance and pressing you to pay attention to him. 

“I’m just really passionate,” you respond, practically lying through your teeth—it’s a partial lie, somewhat regaining some of the passion you lost in these few lingering moments. 

“Hm. Do you normally shake your legs that fast when you lie?” He observes, gazing down at the way you subconsciously shake your knee in a frantic manner, jittering against the wooden stool. You don’t realise how much noise you’re making, abruptly stopping your legs when he points it out. It unnerves you but Satoru is still a stranger—how could he even come to that conclusion?

“I’m not lying.” You mutter.

“I don’t know, do you always look at your subjects like that?” He asks, a playful smile etching across his face as you shuffle uncomfortably against his gaze. You decide to play dumb, feigning confusion and hoping he’d take your silence as an answer. He doesn’t, sighing heavily as his head slumps against the armrest.

What exactly are you supposed to say? How are you looking at him? The silence becomes unbearable, every millisecond becomes a long list of possible ways that you could be seeing him—how he sees you.

Your curiosity breaks your resolve, asking the poised man coyly. “How do I look at you?”

When you ask, he turns his head towards you, a smile insinuating that he’s won something—the next few words that come out of his mouth are much more definitive in that case. “Like you want to undress me.”

A moment of surprise stills on you, the forwardness of his accusation making you uncomfortable. “That’s quite the assumption.”

“Is it?” He persists, raising an eyebrow at your statement. “Don’t be shy, I don’t mind.”

You don’t know how to respond, he’s flirting with you—intentionally making you flustered, and there’s an urge to just pack your things and leave. You couldn’t find yourself tied with someone worlds apart from you. Though, only twenty minutes have passed, and you still have much longer to go. You can’t deal with him crossing numerous lines like this, especially when he’ll always have the upper hand. 

“I’d like to continue this painting.” You respond, attempting to change the topic. 

Amused, he huffs, suddenly sitting up. “Do you? I’ll undress if you’d like.”

You breathe heavily. Perhaps, in a completely different setting, you wouldn’t be so willing to deny him but you’re in his home, a place you don’t belong—it doesn’t make sense to let yourself go so easily. “That’s not really appropriate.”

“What’s inappropriate is your gaze.” He retorts. How can a stranger read you so easily?

“I’m painting you, that's kind of the point.” You retort.

Satoru is a charming man, but he’s also someone that gets easily impatient. He admires your composure, understanding that you’re harder to deal with than all of his other toys.

“I’ve been painted enough to know the difference between concentration and desire. Do you want to fuck me?” He bluntly asks, looking bothered by your ignorance. Maybe he was making it up. Maybe, just maybe, it was true. 

You’re speechless. The audacity of this man. “We should continue the session, please lie back down.”

“You’re not denying it.” He says playfully, standing up.

“I don’t. There, I denied it. Please lie back down.”

“Your knees are shaking again.”

You lie again. “I do this all the time.”

“Admit it.” He says, slowly walking towards you. A blockage sits in your throat, gazing upon the towering man devouring you with his eyes. When he finally closes the space, he bends down, just as he did earlier, except his lips are almost brushing against yours—close, but not close enough to kiss you. Your eyes momentarily flick to the pink of his lips, almost feeding into your subdued desire and yearning for what his lips might feel like against yours.

“I don’t.” You whisper, trying to resolve your harboured breathing. It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself now.

“Will you tell the truth if I admit that I like it?”

Fuck. 

An ache builds up between your legs. He’s just teasing you—why are you feeling like this? “I—…I can’t.” He almost breaks when he hears you stutter.

“So, it’s I don’t first, now it’s I can’t…which is it, Y/N? Sounds like you’re fighting with yourself.” He asks, the tilt of his head implying that he’s sympathetic and it’s annoying, making a mockery of your nervousness. “Say what’s on your mind.” 

You recover your composure, straightening your back and your nonchalant expression refuses to falter. Though, your voice almost gives you away. “Lie down.”

“Only if you’ll follow me.”

Now, you’re visibly annoyed, glowering at him. “Then this session cannot continue.”

“Why? Am I too out of reach?” He says, relishing in teasing you. A moment passes, Satoru realising that you’re not backing down. 

“Let me guess. You like to play with unassuming visitors like little toys right? Do you fuck anyone that walks through this palace?” You say vehemently, trying to dimmer your heavy heart from controlling your feelings. His eyes widen, the glint in his eye is almost…playful, elated that you’d say such a thing to a man like him—it terrifies you. He’s insane. 

“I don’t know, do they all have such wandering eyes?” He teases, hooking his hands to the underside of the stool, closely hovering over you with comfort. It startles you, and your mind doesn’t process the backless nature of the stool when you try to create some distance. You almost fall back but the prince is hasty enough to catch you. He roughly brings you closer to him. 

“I wouldn’t know.” You faintly whisper, falling into his eyes again. “Please—let’s not do this right now.”

“Then, I’ll lie back down.”

“Thank you.” For a few moments, he stares into your eyes, observing carefully. He doesn’t really plan on listening to you. 

“Only if you promise to watch me.” He says, a wave of inspiration washing over him. 

He really is up to no good. 

“What?”

He sends another ingenuine smile before walking back to the couch. Briefly, hiding into the large canvas to pick up your paintbrush again, you tune into the loud shuffling, a relaxed groan escaping his lips when he slumps against the couch again. As you revert to your old task, you look back up to see his shirt is gone. Your eyes subconsciously scan his body, in awe, but utterly shocked at the turn of events. Your shock worsens when he unzips his pants, causing you to hide behind the canvas again. 

You don’t peek from the canvas, refusing to believe the possible sight in front of you but there’s some more shuffling, and then faint lewd noises that reverberate in the drawing room. Was he? As if you couldn’t be any more surprised, you overhear the impossible, a noise you never thought you’d live to see, even if you wanted to—he’s moaning. The ache returns, and it washes over you tenfold, like a wave compared to a tsunami and no matter how hard you try to tune out his lewd moans, it only gets louder, until he’s ringing in your ears. The Crown Prince is touching himself and he wants you to watch.

You muster up the courage, continually convincing yourself that this is just a dream—you’re not actually hearing the prince moan, he’s not actually touching himself right—no, no, none of this is real, it’s just a figment of your imagination. That curiosity, the persistent one solely dedicated to Gojo Satoru returns, and now the ache speaks for you, telling you to look, to confirm your lingering thoughts. It’s an impulsive thought and while a part of you is convinced that nothing about this is right, the other part…well, she wants to look. Just one look. So, when you eventually peak to the side, a sight beholds you.

He is. The obscene sight of Satoru relishing in his own pleasure, eyes fluttering closed while he fists his cock in his hand, arching against the pillows. Your drifting eyes can’t help but follow his movement, the lewd sounds that come with it and how pretty he looks. He doesn’t notice you looking, completely and utterly immersed in bringing himself to his own climax, and when you finally come down from your state of disbelief, realising what you’re watching, you get an even more indecent response.

“My Prince…”

A faint, beautiful groan falls from his moist lips and his eyes flutter open, gazing lustfully at yours, “…say that again.”

The paintbrushes clutter when you loosen your grip on it, a heavy gasp cemented in your chest when he squeezes the tip of his cock harder, and his back arches further into the cushions until his head falls back against the gold arm of the couch. Your fingers have lost purpose under the weight of your thoughts, turning to the cuffs of your dress, and fiddling anxiously as you hide your frame behind the canvas. The ache between your legs feels like your heartbeat has fallen into your pelvis, and the restricted gasps you fail to let out has completely disrupted your breathing.

You can’t bring yourself look again—the worst-case scenarios running through your head to convince you that if you entertained his impulsive actions, you’d be punished severely. Fuck—he’s so annoying. The prince you saw that day was nothing like the one that’s in front of you now. Perhaps he’s a clone? A twin? Or maybe it was just your false perception that made you believe the prince could be somewhat normal. Instead, he’s standing in the way of your future. The prince, the reason behind your possible future, is now standing in front of it.

He’s infuriating.

Completely flustered and almost riled up by his action, you occasionally glance at the door, terrified that someone will walk in. He probably wouldn’t care—he’s shameless enough to do this in front of a complete stranger. An odd thought pops up, telling you that this is somewhat something you should be grateful for. He’s passing his madness onto you. So, you contemplate simply leaving but before your toes can even touch the floor, he stops you.

 “I never said you could leave, Miss L/N.” Satoru demands.

Your actions falter and freeze under his command, wondering if either choice—running away or keep painting—is the right one. Your eyes flutter ridiculously, slowly picking up the paintbrush, noticing how your hands still tremble. “Could you cover up, please?” 

He’s insane. Literally insane. 

The faint sounds of lewdness trickle through your ears—he’s still touching himself amid this conversation. “You don’t want that, do you?” 

You let the silence take the lead again, unable to come up with a comeback for his bold words. He’s right, but you didn't want him to know that—he’d win. He’s completely moved from his original position too. “Don’t…”

“Don’t… what?” Satoru teases, openly letting out moans whenever he could, shuffling messily against the sheets. You adjust the collar of your dress, inconveniently feeling feverish against the heat of the room. There is a cold breeze that seeps through the window, slightly open to let the fumes of the oil paint escape but it doesn’t help. It definitely isn’t the room that’s making you feel this hot, or prickly… or nervous. He interrupts the silence again, and this time with a favour that makes your blood run cold, “…could you look at me, Y/N, please?” 

Does he crave attention? Why did he need your eyes? Hesitantly, you place the paintbrush down against the canvas brush holder, shuffling your seat to the left so you could slightly peek past the canvas without revealing yourself too much. His swirling eyes caught yours far too quickly, and it caught the way you briefly watched his large hand smoothly motion up and down his cock. Hastily, you move behind the canvas again, hands covering your face in embarrassment and there’s a faint laugh that escapes his mouth. A pretty laugh, it’d be prettier if you weren’t so puzzled right now.

“Fuck—look at me,” he demands more sternly, his voice becoming hoarser as he continues to pleasure himself. You’d break too fast if you take another look. The same bizarre thought that this sight alone is another blessing placed upon you appears again. He looked so pretty, stroking himself and you were cowering behind your canvas. You shake your head—despite his titles and otherworldly appearance, he isn’t someone you’d ever see again. “Y/N.” 

But does your name need to sound that beautiful coming out of his mouth? 

The ache between your legs throbs even more, and you subconsciously clench your thighs as if your body is no longer in your control. Hesitatingly, once again, you shuffle to the side to behold the sight of him almost nearing his orgasm. His cheeks flushed red, eyes fluttered closed and his back arching against the cushions. His cock, pretty and sensitive, leaking and hard against his hand is a sight that you want to memorise desperately.

His chest, long and firm, moves so fluidly and you want nothing more than to run your hand across it. You breathe heavily, almost as heavily as he is, and when he looks down to stroke faster—he catches your stare. Despite his flushed state, he still manages to smile smugly when he notices you haven’t looked away. 

Your head immediately falls, at your fiddling hands, unsure what to do when he’s caught you doing such a blatant thing. This is humiliating. 

“I’m close—… fuck—”

You look up as if he urged you to, but this time you feel the eagerness run through your veins when he proclaims his imminent orgasm. The way his back arches, a beautiful groan falling from his lips and cum spurting out against his stomach, lewdly slathering it against his cock. Your hand subconsciously presses against your chest, a poor attempt at trying to control your heartbeat and Satoru lazily smiles when he notices that. 

“Can you clean me up?” Satoru suddenly asks, resting one of his arms behind his head as he waits for you to follow his words. The luxuries of being a Crown Prince. Slightly irritated that he would command such a thing after making you watch—you get up to find tissues laying around. As you walk towards one of the many tables that greets you with a golden tissue box (…everything was golden in here), avoiding the filthy sight of his pose, Satoru interrupts your actions. “Uh, uh.”

The tissues are barely in your grasp when he tuts in disapproval—your choice is to look at him. When you do, his eyes are wide and blue and they’re staring at you with faux innocence.

He’s truly something else. 

Satoru points to the mess on his stomach, “…not with tissues. Come here,” he commands, with one of his hands motioning you towards him, gesturing how close he wants you. Your mind can’t fathom what he means, not until he says it so brazenly. When you’re close—he tugs you down on top of him, legs on either side of his thighs and there’s a certain proximity that worsens the ache between your legs and the irregular beat of your heart. You’re sitting on top of the prince. “You have a mouth don’t you?” 

For some reason, you can’t use it. He’s surpassing all your expectations and laying down completely new ones. You can’t believe what he’s trying to hint at. Though, his gaze penetrates you and when you try to look away, you notice the cum sitting on his stomach and it’s calling to your tongue. The request makes you feel lesser than him and yet, you want to. “Are you serious? You want me to use my mouth?” 

“That’s what I said, didn’t I?” Satoru responds, staring at you in disbelief. You almost scoff, but hold back, not knowing what he could do if you were to disobey him with such confidence. You don’t know how many lines you’ve crossed just to create some sort of boundary, but you fear that he’ll only tolerate so much.

Still hesitant, you rest your hand against the backrest of the couch before your tongue peaks out to lightly lick against his stomach. Satoru doesn’t say a word, so when you look at him to wonder why, you realise how intensely he’s staring at you. The palm of his hand finds the back of your head, brushing your hair as you lick with prolonged kisses. With a flat tongue, you lick a long stripe against his stomach, eliciting a throaty moan from Satoru.

For some reason, there’s a passion behind your actions—the way you kiss after you lick, or the way your eyes meet his when you stick out your tongue. Just to hear more from him. Satoru aches again and he wants nothing more than to put his cock in your mouth.

“You can touch me if you want,” Satoru breathes out, leaning forward to firm the press on your head. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen at his request. Does he know you want to? Do you know that you want to? You were just resenting him moments ago—so what makes him think that you wanted to touch him? That resentment fades when you look at how flushed out he looks, as if roses have been painted all over him and there’s an urge to keep them there. “I’ll stay still after—paint me all you want…just touch me.”

The way he begs—it’s a sound you’d never expect to hear from someone who demands so often. But your hand suddenly wraps around his wet cock, causing his head to softly crash against the cushions. You motion up and down, slowly releasing a long string of spit that lands on his tip, before spreading such fluids all over his length. He curses under his breath, hips faintly rising to chase your touch and your fingers press against his nipple. You marvel at the way he responds to your touch, and you feel like you’ve barely done anything. You’re not necessarily experienced, but he makes you feel like you are. 

When your mouth finally wraps around his cock, the strain of his moan worsens and the press of his hand sends you further down—so far down that your eyes begin to water. A brief, terrifying thought of being caught like this strikes a fear in your heart, but Satoru looks so heavenly when he chases the vulgar sounds of his cock hitting the back of your throat. Your hands boldly brushes against his chest, pinching and tugging at his nipples.

Satoru probably foresighted your desperation, he knew that you’d break like this. Humming against the way he tries to gag you, your fingers fondle him, massaging his nipples in a circular motion and it sends him further down your throat when his back dramatically arches against the couch.

“That’s enough,” Satoru suddenly says, pulling you back by your hair and the lecherous sight of you catching your breath makes him effortlessly aroused again. Your eyes can’t seem to focus on a single thing, watching your tremulous fingers, glancing at him every now and then and eventually, you close them to avoid his gaze from your peripheral vision. You nimbly wipe the corner of your mouth before he demands again. “Stand up.” 

You stand up from the couch, doe-eyed and confused to what his intentions are. The fact that he’s almost naked still makes you nervous, and now you’re hazy from such an intimate situation. You’ve truly gone insane. “I should finish the painting.”

“Hm,” he barely mutters as he spryly fiddles with the cuffs of your dress. You feel as if someone fixed your feet to the ground because Satoru’s wandering hands are doing so much more than just fiddling. 

“Wait—I,”

“Y/N,” Satoru sighs, looking up at you with a clear stern look. He looks genuinely bothered by your hesitance, as if you owed him the virtue of standing still for him. “I’d really like you to serve your prince.”

“I need to finish this painting,” you attempt to say confidently, but your words dry out when his hands don’t stop moving. “You promised you’d keep still if I…”

“If you…?” 

“Just stay still,” you huff, removing yourself from his proximity and walking towards the canvas again. When you turn around, he’s tilting his head, clearly vexed and still very much aroused but you remain true to your words—picking up your paintbrush and waiting for him to return to his position. “Please—let’s finish this.”

He’s completely ruined you. Why does he have to be so shameless? Satoru rolls his eyes, amid taking his pants off and laying against the cushions, earning a sigh from you. He looks like a painting in motion now. He takes his pose in clear annoyance but doesn’t speak another word. Though his pose is not at all similar to what you were creating and he’s now completely naked—he’s completely and defiantly ignoring you.

Your patience thins, wondering how the prince ended up being such an immature subject and you unexpectedly stand up—following his gaze and standing in front of him. Anger builds up against his defiance, and you’re still heavily flustered and aroused, not sure if you can leave this place feeling satisfied that you didn’t let him touch you.

Your hand grabs his chin and forces him to look at the side that he was originally looking at. “Just keep still, okay?” 

His hand suddenly grabs yours, dragging you down so that you sit on the space that he’s left for you but his eyes are blazing with fury and fear runs through your own. “I could get your hand cut off for that.” 

Noting his influence—you nod slowly, hoping he’d loosen the grip on your wrist. “I’ll be sure to remember that.” 

“I don’t know,” Satoru sighs, “…why should I let you off now?” 

The tension thickens, even a saw couldn’t wedge its way through it and Satoru still doesn’t release the grip on your hand, instead he marvels at it, playing with your fingers until he does the unthinkable. His mouth slowly envelops your middle finger, eyes daring to keep staring at yours as he motions back and forth, adding another finger and another … and your heart is back at your throat, fingers resting in the heat of his mouth. Completely frozen, you succumb to the feeling of his tongue swirling around your fingers. “I…”

He lets go of your hand, causing it to fall to his chest just slightly and an abrupt move disrupts your inner afflictions. His hand grabs the back of your head, pulling you much closer and he doesn’t let you think before he’s licking your lips, urging you to open your mouth. You do—eyes wide open, refusing to melt into his kiss, but his tongue is carefully pressing against yours and it’s making every part of your body throb.

He presses even harder, to a point where saliva coats your lips, and there’s a brief moment before you’re reciprocating, almost pushing him back with the way you press against him. It only excites him further, leaning back to pull you further down and now you’re hovering over him, kissing him like you’ve been craving it for eternity.

He briefly parts from you, tugging at your hair softly and it only makes your desperation known when you struggle to pull apart from him, breaths mingling as you try to catch his lips between yours again. “To think you were just going to continue painting,” he says, grinning smugly against your lips—your eyes closed in embarrassment, “…I didn’t even have to do much to make you do it. It’s a bit pathetic, don’t you think?” 

What the hell can you say to that? Why on earth did you succumb to his orders so easily? You’re barely showing you had a mind of your own but fuck—you can’t deny how badly you want him. 

“I think you’re crazy.” You mutter honestly, and he senses the tribulation behind your words, his grin widening.

“I’m crazy?” Satoru responds, suddenly getting up and pulling you up with him—this time, he sits you on top of him. He hunches your dress up to give himself room for his hands to glide across your bare thighs, until he reaches the outline of your panties—just at your hips. It’s futile to convince him that the painting needs to be done, because his fingers were so delicate when they brush against your underwear and rough when they’re hooked underneath, to yank them to the side. A gasp escapes your lips. His fingers trail along your slit, revealing your wetness with the utmost satisfaction. “Says the one who’s already fucking filthy.” 

The vulgar words only send shocks of arousal down to your pussy, clenching around nothing when two fingers begin circling on your clit, soaking in your wetness but it’s so much that it coats his fingers to his knuckles. Your voice shakily responds to his touch. “This is a really bad idea.” 

Satoru flippantly laughs, burying his head into the crook of your neck, softly puncturing his teeth before he sucks against your skin. “Then who’s going to clean you all up?” He says, lifting his fingers to suck the arousal off of them, a plop sounding noise erupting when he finishes indulging at the taste of you. You don’t stop looking, shocked and overwhelmed, and frankly unsure on what to do. 

When he nudges your dress down, your eyes flutter closed, slightly flustered that he’s seeing you bare. When he doesn’t make another move, an eerie silence taking the room and its ambience, you slowly look down, wondering if this majestic being isn’t satisfied by your vulnerability. It scares you. But his fingers resemble the same way you touched him, softly tugging at your nipples, ogling as they harden under his fingertips. He plays with them in circles, intently cupping them with his large hands and letting you sink into them, making you press your chest into the warmth he’s offering you. 

“Cute.” He murmurs, flickering his gaze from your breasts to your eyes, then he leans down, his mouth gently closing around your nipple. It’s an immediate reaction, the way you arch your back against his mouth, relishing in the way he flicks his tongue against your nipple. As his tongue moves devotedly against your nipples, two fingers return to your pussy, rubbing languidly against your clit. “...and needy.” 

“This isn’t right.” You absentmindedly mutter to yourself, refusing to believe that the prince was between your legs, touching you like this. 

“Oh, but it is.” He mocks. It’s right for him. It’s right for someone as desperate as you. “Did you like watching me that much?” He asks, continuing to brush two fingers against your sodden slit, parting your lips before bringing them up again, observing his damp fingers. This is beyond humiliating but your hips can’t help but raise to find more of his touch. 

You did—a bit too much for your own liking. 

“It’s only fair that I get a taste too, right?” He amusingly whispers, falling back into the backrest as his large hands tightly grip your hips, nudging you to sit up properly. Satoru relishes in your dishevelled state, barely comprehending his words without being on the brink of a single orgasm—he has you wrapped around his finger. You couldn’t deny him the opportunity, enamoured by his pink lips, wondering how it’d look completely worshipping you in the filthiest way. “Take it off.” 

You hastily nod, listening to him when he tugs at you to remove your underwear, which you hurriedly do, letting it slip down before you sit on him again. Nervously waiting for his next move, you brace yourself as he slides down, disappearing between your legs as the entirety of your dress hunches around your waist. 

Worried that someone might walk in, you hold back from removing your dress. But the urge is there, solely for the sake of seeing Satoru resting between your thighs, running his hands across your quivering thighs. You wonder if he can breathe. Your eyes deliberately glance up at the grand painting, barely immersed, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the man heavily breathing beneath you—tightly gripping the couch, noticing odd details, wondering how the hell you ended up here.

Then he grabs your hips and presses you down against his face, and licks.

Your back instantly arches, a sharp gasp escaping you when his tongue softly swirls around your clit, sucking noisily before his mouth desperately moves against your slit. The lewd sound of his huffing reverberates from the confinements of your dress, accompanied with filthy sucking and the stickiness that makes a mess of your thighs. His hands are kneading your ass, forcing you to sit further down to a point of near suffocation. But he keeps sucking and licking and kissing all the right places, and it doesn’t help that you’re doing a poor job at keeping your moans in, dispersing with the ambience of the evening. 

You can’t deny it—he’s good. Really good. Fucking amazing. The cleanliness of this room doesn’t amount to the filth that’s occurring between your legs, and he resorts to shamelessly moaning again, consuming you like you’re meant to be devoured. It sends shudders down your spine and the epitome of mystery is no longer mysterious, but a cruel, charming being with a drive to get what he wants. His hands are tightly keeping you in place, seamlessly telling that you were no longer the sole owner of your body. You have to see, to see how you’re making a mess of his perfect face, but your body shrinks into the couch, face buried in your arms as you try to level your heartbeat with his motions. 

“How are you so good at this, fuck—” His tongue prods at your entrance, eagerly raising himself to twirl his tongue inside of you, prompting you to ride his face. Absentmindedly, you do—chasing the sensation of his wandering tongue, feeling it rise at the bottom of your stomach, rushing over that heat that complements your prickly goosebumps. While your head lolls back, you wither against the odd vibrations accompanying his fluid motions, losing grip of the couch. 

“Off—take—mph—it off,” Satoru mutters, never once slowing down, switching from sucking your clit with the utmost desperation to letting you ride his tongue. You so badly want to ignore him, terrified that you won’t have time to compose yourself if someone were to walk in but it’s getting so hot—so suffocating, and he must look so delectable right now, a sight you needed to see. Desperately, you take your dress off, throwing it across the backrest and letting your bare body succumb to his touches because he’s immediately sliding his hands upwards, kneading your breasts, and pinching your nipples as he hastily slurps at you. Your hands finds his, holding it as he works at your chest.  

His tongue flattens against your slit, moaning lustfully as you glide across it, making such a mess of his face. Slick messily coats his lips and chin, sliding down the corners of his mouth when you lose control, using him to chase your high. Satoru senses it—the way your thighs are trembling next to him, grabbing you to halt your frantic movement, sucking your clit unrelentingly. “Oh shit—shit—!” 

When you finally look down, you peer at the unabashed prince between your legs, whose lidded eyes return your gaze and you’re convinced you’re done. He looks divine. So divine that the feeling of his tongue washes over you tenfold, until your hand instantaneously grips his fluffy hair, wincing when the sensation reaches its peak—a long, shuddered whine escaping when you finally come, which he desperately chases with his tongue, slurping and sucking with no intention of stopping. You try to relax, slumping against the backrest when you twitch around his face, but he’s still relentlessly going at it.

“That’s—that’s enough,” you manage to breathe out, withering uncontrollably over his overstimulating motions, thighs tightly closing around his head. Satoru merely hums, grabbing your thighs to keep you pressed against him. “Please—fuck!”

Your pleas run on deafened ears, twitching wildly against the rapid tongue flicks to your clit, the feeling of a second orgasm rising, bordering on discomfort because he doesn’t want to stop. This time, Satoru momentarily removes his mouth, slipping a finger inside until he’s nudging towards your spot, uttering breathlessly. “I don’t know…seems like you want more.” 

Satoru laughs when he notices you sniffling against tears that seemed to have conjured up, shuffling from under you to remove himself from your thighs. He hovers over you from the back, slapping your ass before burying his hand in your hair, forcing you to press against his front. His lips brush your ear, while his hand nimbly massages your breast, the other sliding down to find your clit again. He languidly rubs when you try to catch your breath, holding onto him as he presses prolonged, wet kisses on your neck. 

“I’ll give you more,” he whispers, creeping the hand on your clit behind you. One of his fingers prods at your entrance, a light wet noise eliciting from the way he teased you, so deeply enamoured by your state that he doesn’t bother taking in your desperation.

When he finally slips a finger inside, he looks at you, observing the way you wither and freeze up at the slenderness, immediately sinking knuckle deep.

He mimics the sharp gasp that falls from your lips, loving the way you succumb to his movements. “I’ll give it to you again, and again, and again, until you’re too fucked out to even blink. So, don’t tell me to stop.”

And you wouldn’t dare to. How could you? You've never been touched like this in your life, unfortunately known for having a tedious love life for two reasons: one, you were always working, and two, every single romantic partner of yours had really poor lovemaking skills. Your first orgasm with him feels more like a revelation than a simple sensation, opening your eyes to new scopes of pleasure and pain—if Satoru wasn’t so unattainable, you’d do anything to keep him around.

No matter how badly he tries to hide his lustful desperation, he can’t help but settle comfortably behind you, immediately accompanying his finger with another, stretching you out and nudging towards a spot that makes your legs close around him again. Your lidded eyes can’t open, it can’t witness the obscene sight of him shoving his fingers inside of you, relentlessly smacking as his other hand continues to massage your nipples. 

His fingers stretch you out, curving to hit that sensitive spot until you’re crawling to slump against the backrest. But he’s already dragging you back by your hair, keeping you fixed against his chest, adoring the way your damp skin presses against his. He warns you. “You’ve been really rude—don’t think you can start running now.”

The hand on your hair trails down to your sensitive clit, simultaneously moving with his fingers to draw your orgasm. It almost hurts, still recovering from his unyielding tongue. 

The sun is setting, and you’re not sure how much time has passed since you walked in. What if Nanami walks in? Is it time to leave? So many questions running through your mind, anxiety and arousal concurrently rushing through you. You tiredly voice your concern. “S—someone could walk in.” 

“So?” He retorts, accelerating his pace when he rubs your clit. “What are they going to do? Every single person in the palace belongs to me. That includes you.”

You want to agree, perhaps convincing him that you believe it would make him a consistent figure in your life but news of this would do irreversible damage to your name—clients would see nothing but someone who uses people in power to get what she wants. They’ll probably assume you accepted the invitation just to fuck him. If you’re caught—you would be ruined.

You absentmindedly whisper. “But my reputation…” 

“You should be honoured,” he utters, “Don’t assume such things about me… I don’t just fuck anyone.” 

He’s driving you insane. 

The filthy sounds of his fingers inside of you resound the room, heavy breathing from the both of you lingering in the air and there’s no time to even think before he’s speeding up. He wants another. Satoru messily licks and sucks your neck, cheek until he’s momentarily forcing your chin to the side, overlapping his tongue over yours and muffling your loud moans. Unsure on where to put your hands, you settle with holding his cheek, keeping his lips pressed against yours—treasuring a moment you’re not sure you want to get out of.

“The moment you walked in, you belonged to me.” He whispers against your lips.

A sensible part of you wants to believe that he’s speaking too soon about you belonging to him, but as every moment passes, you start to believe he’s right. No one is safe from the wonders of his character. 

“Oh fuck—wait—!” 

“Don’t be shy, you can come again.” He mutters, slipping his fingers out of you to wrap his hand around your throat, rubbing your clit with the utmost swiftness. Your hand desperately reaches out for him, tightly holding his wrist as he rubs relentlessly. Deliberately tightening his grip, he lowly curses at the lewd sounds of your wetness squelching under his fingertips. He doesn’t want to stop—melting in the way you wither against him, shaking fervently when you come, clamping your thighs together to try to stop him from continuing. His sodden fingers trail across your abdomen, your chest until he clasps your chin in his hand, slipping them through your parted lips. 

Messily, his tongue joins you, meshing your coated lips together while his fingers continue to layer yours with your cum. He shares the thrill of sucking his fingers with you, having no intention of keeping anything remotely clean between the two of you, relishing in all of your flavours. He loves making a mess of you, and it’s the last detail that destroys everything you thought you knew of him. That same man you saw in that carriage is not the same man touching you like this. The messiness of this scene only worsens the unyielding throbbing in your body, craving more and more of him until you pass out. You can’t let him know—terrified that he’ll cruelly test your limits. 

He notices your apprehension, laughing again when he loosens his grip on your neck, letting you fall drowsily against the couch. “What?”

“Too…–tired…” You mutter incoherently.

“Too tired?” Satoru repeats, a hint of shock underlying his words. He doesn’t bother bringing you up again, following you onto the couch and sitting comfortably on his knees behind you. Lewd sounds return but you don’t sense it coming from your body, so you tiredly turn around to see him stroking himself, gazing on your pussy with such determination. Despite your fatigue, you can’t help but stare in awe as he preps himself. He smiles lazily at you when he notices your stare, then he slowly rubs his tip against your slit, lathering all of your wetness. “Too tired to take me?” 

Your mind doesn’t register what he’s saying, shuddering at the sensation of his tip slightly stretching you out, a curious urge to just push back into him. But you’re a mess, embarrassingly cowering into the embroidered cushions, dried tears settling on your cheeks and there’s no care for the smell of oil paint drying up.

Satoru tuts at your lack of response, pushing further in with no intention of letting you adjust, and your shuddering gasps repeat one after the other, until he’s pushing you back into him entirely. The cushions slightly tear when you grip tightly, scratching against the material as he finally sinks as far as he can without hurting you just yet—paying great attention to the way you react. “Satoru…”

“Satoru?” He repeats, chuckling at the informality. You’re too wrecked to even understand why he’s amused but you mindfully tell yourself to never repeat his name out loud, scared that he’ll draw a line, despite jumping over every single line you’ve drawn for yourself. He doesn’t move any faster, sinuously fucking into you with a slow, agonising pace and leans forward to rest his chin on your shoulder, placing an enduring kiss that stings. “You can say my name all you want, only if you promise to scream it for me.”

When he abruptly slams into you, those shuddered gasps turn into croaked moans, hands clambering to the cushions to balance yourself as he relentlessly fucks into you. He feeds off of your responses, but he’s losing himself in the warmth of your walls, chasing the filthy, lewd noises that reverberate when he pounds his cock into you. Satoru is lost—in a world of his own, murmuring how he fits into you perfectly, how your pussy creams around him and calls you all sorts of names, playing with every part of your body as you attempt to stifle your own moans with the cushion. “Satoru—fuck—!”

“Louder,” he groans, bracing himself against the couch for a better angle, shuffling you so that he can place his foot on the floor. His pace fastens mercilessly, the resonances of his hips smacking into yours gets louder, consistently ending with an obscene squelch and he’s fucking you so good that you’re senselessly crying into the cushions.

Unimpressed by your attempt at muffling your moans, his hand slides up your back until it’s slipping around your neck, forcing your head up and he thrusts in—hard. 

“Satoru!” You embarrassingly moan—nearly screaming the palace down and he couldn’t be any more satisfied. 

“That’s right. Let them know who’s fucking you like this.” He responds, leaning forward to lick your neck–an inhumane sense of stamina he has, never slowing down to even let you recoup, tightening his hand around your neck to earn choked gasps from you while his tongue licks a strip against your cheek, tasting the saltiness of your tears. Completely and utterly destroyed, you turn to face him, surprised with a wet kiss being placed on your lips, tongue playing your parted lips as he continues to draw out your orgasm.

The fullness of his cock pounds into all of your clenching, the tip slowly—just slowly sinking in further, until he’s brushing into corners that edge towards a soreness you strangely like. He keeps teasing you, making fun of your reactions, enjoying the way you wince and give into him. Mockingly, he asks. “Am I really fucking you that good?” 

He knows he is.

“Ye— yes, so good,” you stupidly murmur, lapsing into the way his hand on your hips slips in front of your clit. You want more—so much more. “Fuck—it’s so good.”

 Then the door opens. 

“Oh—”

A loud gasp escapes you, briefly looking up to see an unfamiliar man holding beverages standing by the door, completely horrified by the sight. Satoru’s momentarily distracted, slackening his grip on your neck, allowing you to cower into the cushions again, and you try to move away from him. He only pauses, unmoving—his cock twitching inside of your clenching walls, causing him to groan when you lose control around him and pulls your hips back. The random individual stills, unsure of what to do and the silence irritates Satoru.

“Can I help you?”

“I have some beverages for you,” the servant nervously utters. Satoru instills a fear in him—it seemed like his character is nothing like you imagined. You also never imagined you’d be caught with his cock inside of you. 

“You can place it on the table.” Satoru nonchalantly responds, running his large hand across your sweaty back. Amused by your embarrassed state, he begins playing with your clit, eliciting muffled moans from you again, with no care that the servant is still in the room. The servant attempts to hurriedly walk out of the room, but an incoherent noise escapes you, utterly horrified that he’ll tell everyone about what he’s seen. Satoru oddly senses your apprehension again. “What’s wrong?”

“What if he tells everyone?” You softly whisper, refusing to show your face. 

“He won't say anything…will you?” He says, slowly motioning his hips until he’s so far deep. 

“No—no, of— of course not.”

“Good. If I hear even a whisper within this palace, I’ll know who to blame.” He says, sternly. He’s insane. Everything you hate—using his power to get whatever he wants.

Gojo Satoru always gets what he wants. 

“Unless you plan on watching like a pervert, get out of my sight.” 

The door quickly thuds, and you’re too humiliated to even understand what just happened. You wonder how Satoru must’ve looked, if he looked stern and almost murderous, but you’re too busy recoiling into the sheets, overstimulated and embarrassed that he has you like this. 

“Now…where were we?” He says, stretching out your cheeks to watch you clench against his cock. “Oh right—” 

His hand returns to your neck but this time he’s pressing your head into the cushions and his thumb carelessly slips into your mouth, making you drool against it, resuming his unremittingly fast pace. Your incoherent moans are muffled by his thumb pressing on your tongue, almost blubbering against your excessive drooling and he falls back into his mean words, slamming his hips into you so hard that it hurts.

You can feel it—it’s coming, his cock is fucking into you so good and you want nothing more than to come all over him, but he won’t let you breathe. You’re so embarrassed, succumbing to the way he fills you up even when you were just caught. 

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How quickly people lose themselves.” He rambles on, frequently groaning when you tighten around him. “I really thought you had some self-control, but you’ve ended up right here, drooling over my cock like a whore—”

“Satoru—” you manage to muffle.

“I knew from the moment I saw you,” he utters, insistently rubbing your clit to draw your orgasm. “Do you want to be my whore? I’ll keep you. Use me all you want for your little projects, and I’ll use you too.”

You must be going insane, but the idea doesn’t sound remotely bad to you at all—if it means having him fuck you like this, you’ll take it, you’ll take it all. Then he slips out of you, yanking you back by your hair to make you fall against the backrest and you gape upon his fucked-out state, watching as he strokes his cock, but it’s nothing compared to the mess he’s made of you. Your legs are still spread out for him, aching as he momentarily rips your orgasm away from you. 

“Please…”

Satoru smirks, leaning his arm next to your head as he continues to stroke himself. He brushes his tip along your clit again, in awe of all the excessive cum that you’ve produced for him. “Please fuck you? I’m not usually this nice, but I suppose you’ve finally realised your place.”

When his tip falls upon your entrance again, his arms rest under your knees, placing your legs in the air, and slams into you with a loud, lewd squelch. His damp forehead, white strands sticking to it, lightly thuds against yours, hot breaths mingling as he thrusts so profoundly that it completely ruins you. This angle, that strains your legs, lets him sink as deep as he can and he moves so fluidly that he repeatedly hits against your spot just right.

You can’t help but observe his concentrated look, focusing on fucking you so good that your thighs shake fervently against his arms. He notices, flashing you another lazy smile, and the sight hurts your heart, almost overriding the feeling of him pounding into you rigorously.  

“Has anyone told you how good you fucking feel? It’s like you’re sucking me in,” he says, panting as moments go by, utterly losing his mind. You’re too delirious to even respond, but he takes your silence as an answer. “Maybe you’re just meant for me, hm? All for me.” 

“Oh…—!” 

The sensation creeps up on you like an unwanted guest, an odd cry within you that doesn’t want any of this to end, because every now and then, he’ll slow down to keep you from coming.

“Won’t you wait for your prince?” He teases breathlessly, slipping out to play with your cum, making a mess before thrusting into your pulsating walls again. He decides teasing you is enough, feeling his own orgasm creep up on him too and as much he wants to come inside of you—he can’t risk such a careless action. His hands anchor your legs to the backrest, propelling into you as fast as he can.

The obscenity could be heard from the servants walking around outside—slapping, squelching, blatant moans and the couch, no matter how finely anchored it is to the floor, creaks against his fluid motions. 

“Hold your legs up.” He softly orders, and you listen, replacing his hands and uncomfortably holding your legs up, much to Satoru’s content. He slows down, intensely observing the cum that leaks out of your entrance, gradually slipping back inside, eliciting an intense shudder from you when his hand glides across your neck, tightening his grip. 

“Satoru!” You embarrassingly choke through his hand squeezing your neck, eyes squeezing shut as your orgasm cruelly washes over you and he’s using his free hand to messily rub your clit, little spurts of cum splashing over his stomach when you come.

“So messy…” He tuts, but you both know, he loves it. The way you frantically tremble against him, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and your constant clenching doesn’t save you from the way he bullies your sensitive spot, forcing you to spill over him excessively. You fear his urge to keep going as he fucks you through your orgasm, clambering to grab at his hand that tightly grasps your neck, voicelessly urging him to stop. 

Your voice fails you, unintelligible moans leaving you until he finally slows down, slipping out and caressing himself again. Looking at you with the greatest intention of devouring you. He looks ethereal staring down at you as you convulse against the most overwhelming orgasm you’ve ever had. 

Then he coarsely speaks. “Open your mouth.” 

You thoughtlessly listen, parting your lips as he buries his hand in your hair, bringing your mouth to his tip as he continues to lewdly lather all of your cum on his cock. You’re embarrassingly eager, but you lay out your tongue when he taps his tip against your bottom lip, staring as he readily chases his own orgasm.

Cursing under his breath, he stares in awe of your unkempt state, so eager to take all of his cum and he does so, all over your tongue, and your face, and chest—until he’s spilled all of him over you, noisily groaning. You mindlessly curse at the messiness, but you’re too gone to even complain, still twitching from your orgasm.

“Huh, the sun’s gone.” He nonchalantly mutters. You don’t even notice the dark skies, the quiet chirping and the odd shuffling that occurs outside of this room. Satoru suddenly kneels down, letting your head rest on his shoulder while your fatigued state tries to recover, running his large hands across your back. 

“Have to… finish…– painting.” You mumble against his shoulder. 

“You’ve done enough.” He responds, grabbing your chin to make you look at him. You never fail to fall into his eyes, wondering what it would be like to actually drown in them—you wouldn’t mind at all. He collects the tissue box that you previously tried to give to him, placing it on your lap. “Clean yourself up.” 

“What… you won’t lick this off me?” You manage to muster sarcastically, earning an amused chuckle from Satoru. “I guess chivalry really is dead.” 

A knock disrupts the comfortable silence. It must be Nanami, drawing a long sigh from you, tiredly wiping all of the mess that’s on you. “Same thing tomorrow then?” 

You look at him in disbelief, momentarily forgetting that this is just the first of several sessions. “Will you promise to stay still this time?” 

He doesn’t answer, an impish grin etching across his face. 

extra

It had been months since those sessions. You remembered less of the actual painting because the mere sensation of his cock had clouded all of your memories. So, when your several guests are asking you about your piece, besotted by the details and the interpretative messages, you can’t help but observe the man in it.

Was it odd to miss him? Or was it his touch that had completely shackled him to your memory? You don’t know, but looking at this piece over and over again, constantly reminded of his character and his touch was taking its toll on you, unable to explain the process or the meaning to your engrossed guests. 

The sensible chatter among the guests in the royal exhibition suddenly ends, turning into hushed whispers as they collectively turn towards the large entrance. 

You follow their gaze, after being so stupidly absorbed in your own piece. The royal family walk through the cleared-out path elegantly, gesturing towards the guests that are so entranced by them, but your eyes are already trying to look for Satoru, whose white hair effortlessly peaks through the numerous guards momentarily surrounding them.

He’s so grand, tall and alluring that the sight of the royal family immediately blurs when he steps into your line of your vision, he doesn’t notice you just yet, clearly bored by the entire ordeal. His drifting gaze looks among the crowd, a clear hint of disdain directed towards them until his eyes land on the painting.

Your painting. 

Following the details, a small smile creeps on his lips, and slowly his gaze falls upon you, a delicious smirk etched across his face. 

Your breath senselessly hitches at his gaze, cowering and fretfully making sure that no one could notice the way he was looking at you. You immediately turn away, not allowing yourself to repeat the same thoughts that landed you under him on several occasions in the first place—focusing your attention on the interested guests when the family disperses.

Satoru doesn’t waste a second before he’s creeping up behind you, mindfully listening to the way you explain the piece to the observers, but his appearance alone is enough to distract everyone, causing them to direct their attention towards him. Slowly, you turn to face him, greeting him calmly and hoping he doesn’t sense your uneasiness. 

He does. 

“It’s quite the piece, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. I think it’s beautiful.” A random observer quickly responds, clearly keen on getting his attention. You have to remind yourself that you’re not the only one he has wrapped around his finger. 

“All thanks to Y/N.” He says, staring playfully at you. 

“Thank you.” You reply timidly, shrinking at the fact that you’ve reverted back to forming boundaries. Though, it has been months and you’re mindfully hoping he’ll cross that line again. 

“I’d like to discuss something with you,” he asks, cutting the discussion short way too early, almost suspiciously even—feigning interest over the topic of art, but really, he just wants to get you alone, so he looks up in contempt at the group of guests still weirdly staring at him.  “—in private.” 

The guests silently disperse, leaving the both of you alone. His stare, no matter how familiar, still manages to make you uneasy so you turn to the painting, Satoru shortly following your action. He’s amused at your attempt to look as discreet as possible, but his hand is already trying to tug at your fingers, craving some form of contact after such long, tedious months. You’re both still quite immersed in the piece, pretending that there’s nothing strange going on.

“Have you explored the rest of the museum? It’s beautiful.” He says, feigning ignorance to his suggestive tone. 

“Is it?” You reply casually, pretending that your heart isn’t about to jump out of your chest. 

“Yeah, I could show you around.” He says cheekily, looking down at you but you refuse to part your gaze from the painting, afraid you’ll raise suspicion among the guests. 

Biting your lip, you momentarily give it a thought. You eventually muster up the confidence to look at him again. “Only if you let me use you again—for my little projects of course.” 

His grin widens. “I can’t say no to that, can I?” 

a/n: ending things r like the hardest part lol . thank u for reading <3