you finally call it quits on your boss and taboo lover, gojo satoru, fearing that the age gap will never work out. in your grief of missing him, however, you find yourself hooking up with less than savoury company. . . at least your new boyfriend is your age right? you could compensate for him. that is until, of course, you're reminded exactly why someone double your age did it so much better.
⌗ wc : 8.5k ( throat it to the base pretty pls )
♡ ₊˚‧ cws. age gap ( 40s/20s ) :: smut :: angst :: alcohol consumption :: protective!satoru :: reader's bf makes her super uncomfy :: yearning :: hurt/comfort :: makeup sex :: f.oral :: dry humping :: body worship :: praise :: slight degradation :: pussydrunk!satoru :: p in v :: riding :: mating press :: rough sex :: overstim :: multiple orgasms :: phone sex :: possessive!satoru :: creampie :: idiots in love
♡ ₊˚‧ sweetheart. this was commissioned by @chewiebee , thank you baby! art by the glorious @baobei-bu
꒰ guys my age info post ꒱
You always loved challenges. From academic rivalries. To exam duels. To contesting yourself against your previous record of how many hours straight you could study before your eyes got blurry and your brain shut down.
But this one did more than just physically exhaust you. It ached deeper: your heart.
You didn't even know you had a heart. Physically, scientifically, yes. From a young age you learnt that your brain outweighed the little organ pumping blood to it. That's simply how it was for a valedictorian. Studies first. Feelings later.
So why was your heart louder than your brain nowadays? Surely not because you called it quits with a certain white-haired, blue-eyed, genius chairman, right?
. . . Right?
It was for the best. That's what your brain said. Gojo Satoru, your infuriatingly charismatic boss and taboo lover had poisoned your mind like a neurotoxin. Shutting down all executive function and binding your logic. He was distracting you. Jumbling your goals. Making you feel.
Your heart told another story. Whispered the truth to your bitter mind. That it was scared. Scared that Satoru needed a woman that could keep up with him. Someone mature. Who he could settle down with. Not some college girl.
Not someone your age.
That day in his office, you let your brain speak. Told him that he was distracting you. Getting in the way of everything you were working so hard for. You didn't need his spoils, nor his favour. Didn't need him handing you the easy life on a silver platter when you wanted to meld the metal with your own hands.
He thought you were joking at first. You couldn't blame him. Just a week ago you were in his penthouse. Drinking from his coffee mugs and wrapped in his shirts. Just a week ago, you were in this same office. Sat in his lap. Held by his arms.
But you were always the cold type. The kind of crystal that froze rather than burned. And that day— you gave Satoru frostbite.
So why were you the one feeling the chills?
The following month was more than cold. Winter stole away Japan's long awaited spring in your heart. Shrouding it in frost and slowing it to a dull squeeze.
Whatever. You didn't need a heart anyway. Didn't have one. Your brain was all that mattered so it was what you put to work. Thrust it into overtime with your nose buried into books and your eyes drowning in equations.
This was your time to focus. Chase those dreams and leave the fantasies behind in the dirt. It wasn't easy, of course. Satoru was still your boss.
His eyes were still naturally drawn to you in meeting rooms. His tongue still remembered each endearment when he'd thank you for bringing him paperwork. You'd made it a mission to avoid him.
Because maybe then you could forget how the same hands that scribbled out theories on a glass whiteboard were the same hands that caressed you. Tender, rough and anything you wanted them to be. Maybe then you could pretend that the same voice giving announcements and directing orders was the same one that whispered to your ear. Lulled you to sleep or teased you to squirms.
Maybe. Just maybe. You could wrest all the memories into your palms and squash them with that same clinical coldness you've always known. But every time you tried— they bloomed. Like a flower through the cracks of snow. Warm. Taunting.
So you decided to uproot it. Force spring back since your heart was so insistent. Plant a new garden with new flowers. New memories. With someone new.
Hiroshi was right up your alley. Someone new. Loud, and boisterous and not chained by the academic curse. A little disorganised. A little everywhere. But he certainly was new. Younger.
Your age.
He was nice. Or at least, he tried to be. Probably just a little airheaded with a lust for life rather than the future. Live fast, die young. That's exactly what you needed, right? Someone to get your mind off of the ghost haunting it.
Sure, he was a little messy. But most guys were, weren't they?
Satoru wasn't.
Yeah, he made you split the bill every time you went out. But that's a fair expectation, isn't it?
Satoru wouldn't.
And sure, maybe he was a little inconsiderate when it came to your body. But you shouldn't expect him to put your pleasure first, right?
Satoru would.
Spring locked away in the depths of your heart and winter reigned supreme. No matter how hard you tried to wedge Hiroshi into the open wound left in that pesky organ, it was hopeless. He was but a peephole in the crater that Satoru's absence left within you.
Whatever. You were just making excuses. Of course being with someone your age after months in the bed of a man who was double it was going to be a whiplash.
You're overreacting. You just needed to adapt. Give Hiroshi a chance. You liked challenges after all, didn't you?
That's why you're here now. Florescent lights skittering like the thrilled bodies bouncing all around. Bumping and grinding. Drunkenly dancing to the beat blaring from vibrating speakers. The music crumbled with static at the corners. Too loud. Too bass heavy. Too everything.
Parties were hardly your scene. At the end of the semester most of your friends fled their homes for a night on the town— while you readied your markers and colour-coded the next semester's planner.
But instead of schedules and highlighters, your hand occupied a red solo cup. Still brimming. Barely touched. The very plastic itched your fingertips. You still reeled from the bitter taste of bear on the back of your tongue. Curled in when you remembered how much skin the shimmery mini dress exposed. Another thing Hiroshi insisted on.
Your eyes flitted through the sea of heated bodies and dazed dances. Feet glued to the floor and a weight strung on your tense shoulders. Relax, Hiroshi had told you. Let loose and enjoy the party life for once.
He had called you a hermit. Rolled his eyes and gave you the silent treatment when you first denied him. So here you were now, with your boyfriend one-too-many cheap drinks down and his arm heavily wrapped around you. Swaying to whatever beat of whatever song you couldn't even recognise as he chatted— or rather, shouted— to his equally as wasted friends.
Go with the flow. That's all you did nowadays.
Their laughter pierced your ears and jostled you back to the overstimulating reality as one of Hiroshi's friends pointed his almost-finished cup at you clumsily.
"She's a pretty one huh 'hiro?"
For the fourth, disgusting time that night, your boyfriend hauled you in and smashed his lips to yours haphazardly. Smearing the bitter taste on your mouth and sludgingly sucking on your tongue until you'd shove him off again.
"Mhhm, she sure is," he slurred. Carelessly squeezing your ass in spite of his tittering friends. You squeaked. Shot him a small glare, but still tried to smile.
Hiroshi only tugged you further. Grinning with glossed-out eyes to his friend. "Wanna try?"
You thought it was joke. Hiroshi always cracked terrible ones. But when he nudged your side and gestured to the guy's eyes who lit up— your hand braced his shoulder.
The protests died on your tongue. So you shook your head. Hoping the little gesture would usher them both off, or at the very least get one of the other guys to tell them to knock it off.
But Hiroshi only huffed. Wrung you closer and snatched your jaw. "C'mon babe don't be like that. 's jus' a kiss."
You shook your head again. This time with some violence. "Hiro I don't wann—"
"Don't be a bitch."
He wrest you forward. Squishing your face hard between his fingers. Your hip cramped under the hand of his friend who stumbled forward. Mouth opened. Heavy for yours.
The surge of panic took hold. Your foot slammed on his. Elbow jammed into Hiroshi's side. You utilised the nails you had to manicure with your own damn money after the bastard went back on his promise and clawed until you shoved them both off.
"What the— fuck!" You hissed at Hiroshi whose face went red.
Crack!
You stained it redder.
Smacked your hand straight across it and shoved one more time until you were stumbling on your heels. Ignoring his slurred hollers and the jackal laughter of his friends as you pushed through the crowd.
Ears ringing. Heart racing. You scampered into the thick sea of heat and pungent booze. Flashing lights blinding. Music deafening. But you managed to stumble out of the blasted place.
The crisp night air slapped you in the face. Was that spring's lingering chills or the winter inside of you that spilled out?
Heart hammering. Maybe your mind— nope. Scrambled too. Fuck. Not a good combo.
You're not sure which of the two made you snatch your phone despite shaky hands. Heart, mind— brain, soul— who fucking cared anymore. Your thumb jerked through your contacts and jammed the bottom of the list.
Against the curtly renamed Mister Gojo.
You barely heard the call's ringing with the cotton stuffed in your ears. Once. Twice. Thrice. He usually picked up on the second ring. Now you're on the forth.
You should hang up. What were you thinking? It's been months—
"Hey."
The night air had nothing on the way that voice rasped with tiredness froze you to the pavement. Drawled with ungodly hours in his lab, you're sure. He was probably on his way out. You could picture him. Still in his lab coat. Rimless glasses shoved in his tousled hair.
"Been awhile since you called me, sweeth—" his caught the slip of his tongue. Cleared his throat. Maybe rubbed the tiredness from those heavy blue eyes. "Need something?"
"Satoru."
Miles apart and still, you felt him go stiff over the line. His name was a tremble on your lips. No last name, no titles, no honorifics. Just a shaky, raw, Satoru.
"What's wrong?" He asked quick. Wide awake.
"Please come get me." You bit back tears. Sucked in a sob and locked eyes with the concrete. "I— I'm sorry. I just need you to come get me pl—"
"Sweetheart, where are you?"
The gentleness of his voice, the seriousness of his question and the tenderness of the nickname strummed a deep ache in your chest. A sob finally cracked into the line. "Sent you the location. Please come get me."
"Sshh, it's okay. Coming to get you right now okay? Stay where you are."
You yearned to stay on the line. You're sure he wanted you to as well. But your shame swiped the end call button and you stuffed the phone back into your purse. Hands clinging to your elbows as you slumped back into the bricks.
The minutes droned on in your spiralling mind. Replays of tonight's events and several other offences tallied. A miserable repeat of the last few months and all the bullshit you endured with Hiroshi. All for what? Your insecurities?
While your heart was put to some ease, shivers still crawled goosebumps up your arms. You shuddered. Hugged yourself closer as your dress shimmered in the moonlight. What the hell were you even doing in an outfit like this in the middle of spring?
Ah, right. Your boyfriend— soon to be ex— told you to ditch the jacket. And of course you fucking listened to him.
You attempted to rub the goosebumps away as you leaned against the bricks. Limbs pressed into each other as you contemplated the ridiculousness of it all. You're here, in a dress that barely covered your ass, with cheap booze on your tongue and your disgusting boyfriend's kisses on your lips. Haunted by the incessant replay of whatever happened back there with the cold biting into your—
Warmth chased the winter. Wrapped around your shivering body in leather and the scent of familiar cologne that eased your muscles. Your fingers instinctively clamped around the dark jacket as you huddled into its comfort and the strong, embracing arms that came with it.
"You okay?" A voice murmured against your temple.
Your gaze snapped up. Tears flooding the second you met those soft blues behind rimless glasses. Satoru stood before you. His height and shadow shielded you from the horrors inside. Brows knitted and mouth pulled in a frown. His jacket hugged around your quivering form and his arms as your refuge.
You choked on his name. Melted into his warmth. Knees ready to give out as you shook your head and tried to stifle a response.
"I just—"
"Hey! The hell you doin' with m'ah girlfriend?"
The drunken slur stiffened you in Satoru's embrace. Your hands gripped on his biceps as Hiroshi staggered over. Eyes glazed and hands balled. Sporting the nasty hand mark you left on his face.
Satoru didn't need any explanations.
Soft blues sharpened into ice. Cut over his glasses and struck Hiroshi where he stood. His arms tightened. Voice steeled.
"Get lost."
Your hands fell to his shoulders as he crouched down. Fingers unclasping your heels and slipping them off of your aching feet. He paid no mind to Hiroshi who wobbled forward with his finger pointing and face flared.
"The fuck are you?" His slurred voice raised. Satoru hardly flinched. Hooking an index into your heels while his forearm braced around your waist.
Hiroshi shouted.
"D'you have any idea who the fuck yer talking to?"
Not a wince. Not even a blink. Satoru scooped you up into a princess-carry and jerked his head to the drunkard. Staring down his anger with a cold warning and hard glare.
"Do you?"
Maybe it was the way in which he didn't have to raise his voice. Or the blizzard that brewed in his pale eyes. More than a threat. A dare. A dare for Hiroshi to put his money where his mouth was while Satoru's got your teary face tucked in his chest.
"I won't tell you again. Fuck off if you know what's good for you." Cold and crisp. Satoru held you closer and turned heel on the gobsmacked Hiroshi. Leaving him a statue in the winter while you were tucked into the warmth of a car you missed so dearly.
He set your shoes down and clicked in your seatbelt, before shutting the door and rounding into the driver's seat. Not a word. Not even a glance. As the engine stirred and for the first time in months— you actually felt safe.
The car ride stewed in silence. Street lights glinting through the window you fixed your stare to. Despite the warmth that both protected and caressed you, winter peskily crept on your forearms and tugged at your heart again as the adrenaline faded.
You were here again. In his car. In his jacket. Next to him. You called, and he came. Your mind tried to face it with logic. You were a young woman and Satoru, for all his theatrics, had morals. Of course he'd come for you.
But once more your whispering heart, damn her, told another tale. Repeating the reality that he was here. Not for obligation or ethics. Satoru was here. He came because you called.
Your mind scrambled while your heart sung. Some hopelessly romantic lyric about how she knew he'd never forget her.
After forever and half, he didn't shatter the silence, but nudged it.
"What did he do?"
You steeled it. Tucking further into the seat and hiding your stiff shoulders in the jacket. His jacket.
"It's fine."
No tongue clicks nor breath hitches. Just the small flex of his fingers on the steering wheel. A tiny crack in the cool display he held. Yet not a single followup.
Your shoulders eased again. Satoru left you be for the time being, but you knew that wouldn't last. Not with the way he stared unblinking at the windshield. You'd deal with it when it came. For now, you sunk into the familiar seats and let him drive you home.
For someone who would poke and prod as to why he needed such a lavish penthouse if he lived alone— you missed the marble floor and grand glass wall that overlooked Tokyo's neon city.
His home wrapped around you the second he carried you in. Lights turning on as he stepped into the living room and plopped you onto the large, comfy L-shaped couch. You almost reached back for him as he withdrew.
He rounded over to the open kitchen and filtered a glass of water before returning. Placing it in your shaky hands as his eyes scanned your curling form.
"Want something to eat?" He asked.
You shook your head. Not that it mattered as he still ventured back to the kitchen and opened his pantry. Pulling out ingredients for a ramen your slowly rumbling tummy remembered well.
Classic Satoru. Always so insistent that you take care of yourself or he'd do it for you.
The familiarity of it all ached your chest. Just a few months ago this would have been routine. Him taking you home after a busy day at the institution to cook you a warm meal. You, in his arms or his lap. Snuggled up on the couch or his bed. Comfortable. Safe. His.
Now? The walls felt like they were staring through your soul. Chastising you. Why did you ever leave?
Because you had no other choice.
That's what your mind said. Your heart promptly rolled her eyes. You ignored them both in favour of the water. Sipping on the rim and chasing the memories of his fingers brushing against yours when he'd handed you the glass.
You drank— more like gulped— the water down quicker than expected. Was that the adrenaline residuals or your rattling nerves? You weren't sure.
As the rich aroma of crushed garlic and simmering chicken broth caressed your senses, your tense shoulders sagged. Reminded you that you were safe. What were you doing? Hiding from a man who probably got three speeding tickets just to get to you?
Steeling your resolve and shoving the nerves deep within your gut, you stood to your feet. A tremble still in your knees as you cast a hesitant glance over your shoulder.
Satoru was focused on the rhythmic dicing of his knife. A few strands of his white hair dangling before glasses that slipped down the bridge of his nose. He didn't exchange looks. But his rigid shoulders told you that he was acutely aware of every move you made. Including your glance-turned-stare on him.
Drawing a breath and ushering your anxiety, you stepped into the kitchen. Just like old times. Walked right past him and set the glass in the dishwasher. Like it was normal. As if it hasn't been months since your bare feet felt the cold marble while he cooked for you.
As if it hasn't been since forever and a half that you felt his stare between your shoulder blades.
You thought you'd grown accustomed to being his eyes' favourite. Satoru was never one to curtain the windows to his soul. Now, they felt like a conviction rather than a comfort. Condemning you to this prison of tension you subjected the both of you to.
"So, are you gonna answer my question?"
His mouth was more of a prosecutor than his gaze was.
"I told you I'm fine."
And your tongue, ever the defendant. Sharp and quick from years of academic debates. Unfortunately for you, Satoru loved a challenge just as much. He wasn't Hiroshi. But he was your mirror. A part of you hated him for it.
Hated yourself for the way your heart stuttered as he set the knife down. Cleaned his hands and turned to you. Hated your knees for their wobbles as he observed the far cry of your usual demeanour.
Those convicting blues dragged their judgement down your body. Tracing every tremble, every jitter, every terrible attempt to assure that you were fine and not a quiver away from shattering like porcelain on his dark marble floors.
"You're shaking."
Damn scientists. Their very livelihood was to be observant. Look for patterns. Determine conclusions. And your physicist was expertly experienced in every formula of your body.
You couldn't meet his eyes. Frightened of the theories you might find swimming in the blue. So instead you cowered your stare to the counter. Clenched your shaky fingers and fell back on the only thing you had when your pride had been crushed.
Defence.
"You weren't supposed to bring me here. I have a home."
"Deflecting doesn't look good on you."
"I'm not deflecting."
"Could have fooled me."
His audacity willed your stare. You snapped your head back to him. Daggered your glare and so desperately tried to gulp down the venom. But it was a lost cause. Satoru and you were two sides of the same coin. Him the mirror and you the cracks. You the gasoline and him the match.
"What's your problem?" You hissed.
"You're asking me that?"
"I called you cause I needed help. Not a lecture."
"And I'm not trying to give you one." He closed space. Leaving just a gap, but towering over you all the same. He stared at you over his glasses. "So drop the attitude won't you?"
You taut. Festering a retort on your tongue. Burying your heart for the sake of your scrambling mind— only to stop once you saw his eyes. Really saw them.
There was no conviction. Only concern. Deep, drowning worry as they softened at the corners and he drew a long breath, then exhaled. His shoulders sunk.
"Just. . . tell me."
You shouldn't.
You really shouldn't.
But the soft warmth of his eyes unclenched your heart and eased your vocal chords. There was no helping it.
"He. . ." you started. Sighed. "I wasn't even supposed to be at that stupid party. He got drunk. Tried to get me to kiss his friends. I didn't wanna so he—"
You should have stopped. The second you saw frost creeping back into his stare.
"He. . . tried to force me. So I hit them. Ran off. And now we're here— completely fine. Absolutely fine."
You huffed out the last part and clung to his jacket. Fine. Sure. Fine didn't search for comfort in leather. Or quiver in the knees just from recounting the night. Fine didn't sound shaky like you. Nor did it look like damp lashes and pursed lips.
Fine. You were anything but fine.
The softness cracked into a blistering winter. Satoru's gaze frosted over. But then, he chuckled. Nothing warm. Nothing humoured. He shook his head and pushed his glasses into his hair.
"You really know how to pick 'em, huh?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
You retorted instinctively. Bristling as he turned back to the counter. Snatching the knife and taking his frustration out on the cutting board. Muttering a string of boys and your generation.
You weren't sure what it was. Probably the overwhelm. Probably your mind reeling and your heart squeezing. Probably the disapproval that flickered in his stare. But you spun to him. Irritation wrinkling your face and tongue sharp with accusation.
"Yeah, well. At least he's in my generation, huh?"
Satoru was always fast. For some unfair reason he was blessed with both brains and brawn.
The small of your back pressed to the counter's edge. His body trapped yours. Cornered, but not uncomfortable. Even as his brows narrowed and his jaw set tight as his face invaded yours. Frustration etched in the lines of his eyes and the strain on his mouth.
"He wouldn't know how to treat a good girl if she was standing right in front of him."
He grunted.
"I'm not a good girl."
You gritted.
"You were mine."
His achingly tender retort stopped your heart and mind. Focused on the sharp softness of his voice and the gentleness of his knuckle that brushed your cheek.
He was your mirror. It was only natural that your gaze mimicked his. Even if all logic urged you to stand firm. Logic. You didn't need logic right now. All you needed was. . .
"Gojo." You hesitated.
He hitched. "Don't."
As he pressed a thumb to your cheekbone. Not a demand. Not a scold. But a plea. A soft, breathless beg.
"Don't do that to me. Please."
"We can't."
"Because I'm holding you back?"
"Because I'm too young for you."
You spilled. He stiffened. Thumb stopped on your cheek as he stared into your eyes. Your mind reeled. Pulled and tried to lock away that pesky organ. But your heart burst at the seams. Heavy. Hurt.
"You need someone your age—" she wept. Clenching your chest and choking your words. "Someone you can settle down with. Someone that can understand you. Someone that's not—"
He cupped your face. Stifled your whimpers as his forehead pressed to yours. Firm. Tender.
"Don't you dare." He quaked.
You quivered. "It's true."
And so his kiss silenced you.
But surged you all the same.
Months of beer-riddled and lazy smooches steered you to kiss him back. Lips eager to feel the softness and sureness of his. That guiding force that left a sore in your heart. Now comforted by the tilt of his head. The cradle of his hand at the back of your neck.
You melted. Unravelled. Into his strong arms that always caught you. Drowning in the delicate kiss simmering into a passionate caress. Your arms looped around his neck. Dragged him closer. Begged him not to leave. One of his hooked on your waist. Drew you in. Promised you he wouldn't.
You cursed air. And every biological function that needed it. That resulted in both of you having to part from the suffocating need of your lips on his.
For a moment your eyes locked. Breaths bated. Hearts synched.
And then he yanked you back in. Just like you tugged at him. Air be damned. The mere atoms of space between your lips too. Your mouths crashed into that familiar, raw wreck. That collision of white, hot stars.
The shatter of galaxies. That's how he always described it. You'd laughed at him back then. But now you understood it. Deep in your fluttering heart as his fingers threaded into the milkyway that was silky hair.
The arm on your waist slipped down to scoop you up into it. Settle you on the counter as his hand dropped from the back of your head to switch off the stove. Muscle memory, much like the way he mouthed down your neck and smoothed his palms to your waist.
A tremble in his fingers. A fear in his touch. He breathed.
"Tell me what I can do."
And you bled. Oh, you bled.
"Everything."
He groaned into your pulse. Bundled you against his chest and stepped over to the couch. Splaying you out like his sweet treat and object of his worship. The jacket fell from your shoulders. His lips traced over them while certain hands hiked up your dress.
Spaghetti straps gave out to his sharp teeth. Dragging them down to reveal more of your skin to him. To appreciative eyes that awed like you were his idol. The entity of his every desire and very devotion. His mouth made sure to praise. Hot and heavy on your breasts. He savoured their warmth beneath his lips. Caressed the undersides. Stroked and kissed on your firming nipples.
The shudders rocked your hips up against his. Bare thighs kissing his pelvis and drawing another groan from the depths of his chest. A large hand found your hip. Cupping the bone and guiding you, as he always did. Steering your needy grinds into him.
"God, sweet girl." He panted in his pathway to your stomach. "You're shaking."
His hands slipped between your thighs. Spread them apart with shivering strokes. His lips joined them in mellowed kisses.
Your fingers delved back into his hair. Drawing him up against your pelvis with a shaky: "Please."
"Shouldn't have to beg for anything baby. Where'd you learn that from?" His kisses flared. Hot against your panties. Mouthing on your slit to indulge on the whines from the back of your throat. That's right. Satoru never let you beg. Pretty girls don't have to beg, they simply deserve, he'd tell you.
Deserved to have his face stuffed against your sweet cunt. Deserved his wrecked inhale on your scent and his deep groan rattling into the fabric. As he tongues on the damp spot in the cotton. Sucking on your slick through your panties as if not even a smear of your sweetness could be wasted.
He dragged the waistband down. Eyes dilating as your glistening cunt glimmered in the reflection of his pupils. Tender, yet eager thumbs brushed your folds back with a low, drawled:
"Hi there, sweetheart."
And then suffocating smooches down your slit. Spilling some of your wetness that he caught on his tongue. He licked his lips and groaned. Deep and throaty into your quivering cunt. "I know baby, I know."
He crooned. Like he was shushing your pussy and assuring her with strokes. His warm hands splayed on your thighs and squished them between his finger gaps. Heaving you into his hot, awaiting mouth.
His tongue flattened at the bottom of your slit. Dragging a long, filthy trail up to your clit. White lashes flitting with his fluttering eyes. Like he was high as he suckled on the trembling nub.
"So sensitive. Fuck. You been neglecting her?" He slurred.
"Not me." You whimpered.
Satoru huffed through his nose. Squeezing your thighs as he tucked his mouth closer. "Guys your age just don't know how to treat her right." He grunted as his tongue swished on your throbbing clit. Circling and laving while his chin ground into your slit.
You spilled for him, and he relented on the blushing bundle. Chasing kisses down your cunt and stuffing his face back into it. Hands clamping on your ass and squishing as you squeezed around his head with pitching moans. Grinding on his rabid mouth that worked on you wildly. Hungrily.
Filthy slurps and wet squelches be damned. He feasted on your sweet pussy with sucks, and suckles, licks and laves. Drunk on the sweetness you'd deprived him of. Addicted to the velvet.
He groaned. Loud and wrecked. "Fuuuckk. Missed this sweet pussy. Missed her s'much." He drooled. Parting to watch you quiver as his firm fingers tapped meanly on your clit. Buzzing the bud and shivering your slit into more spills. Probably soaking the couch in a puddle of your slick and his saliva.
You broke into whimpers. Bucking into the friction and choking on his name in the hot air riddled with the smell of sex.
"Mmm. And it looks like she missed me just as much." He husked a chuckle. Shooting you a wink as he tucked his head back between your thighs and lathered another long lick to your drenched pussy.
Once more, his face buried. Flushed into your gushing centre and working his tongue and mouth frantically. From sucking on you folds, to fucking you on the pink muscle. He shook his head. Nuzzled into your wetness. Slurped and suckled and spat all over. Wringing that knot tight and hot in your gut as he gulped on your musk.
You clung to his hair like a lifeline. Fingers tight on the white strands as you steered your hips into his face. Smearing your mess all over it. Not that he minded— not with the way he groaned pistoned his tongue into your dripping pussy.
"Cumming—" you gasped. You couldn't remember when last you'd said that. When last release had been in clear sight.
Your grip tightened. Fear trembling your fingers. Fear that he'd pull away. Leave you stranded. Fear that it was all just some yearning dream to begin with and you'd wake up in the brutal reality in which you were still not his.
"Cumming— S'toru. . . fuck," you whined. Praying to the stars and whatever divine being that science proved otherwise. For this to be real. For you to be here. Cumming on Satoru's face after months apart.
His thumbs dug into your thighs. Fingers latching you closer. His mouth smushed against your cunt as he drove you through the release. Evert messy tongue flick on your clit like a filthy declaration: I'm here. I'm here I'm here I'm here, just cum for me.
Your nerves flared. Tummy clenching with your cunt. Tight and trembling until the knot finally snapped— and you wept. Shaking in the flood of heat and toe-curling pleasure. Shivers surging up your spine and tossing your head back.
"Satoru," you moaned. Raw, weak, wrecked. Clutching his hair and riding his face that ground into your spasming cunt. Tongue working overtime to gulp down your sweetness and ensure not a trace of your cum was wasted.
Whining. He was whining. Nuzzling into the mess as your body flopped back on the couch. Tears pricked at your eyes, and still, you tried to watch him. As he rode out your high and eased the pleasure into a tender simmer.
"Atta girl," he groaned, throat bobbing. He lapped up the stickiness and traced its strings back up our thighs. To your tummy, chest, until he finally crashed back to your lips.
His tongue shoved in. Clumsy for someone as experienced as him. You weren't the only one brought to your knees in these few months, and it showed in the urgency of his kiss. In the mumbles and groans. One taste of your pussy was the only hit he needed to be addicted all over again.
Your mouths moulded. Tongues tangled. His glasses fell back over his face and fogged with your heated breaths as he kissed you into the couch. Hands groping and squeezing whatever he could while yours slipped down.
Despite your high and shaky thighs, your hips bucked up. Grinding your sopping, oversensitive cunt against his bulge. His cock hot against the fabric and throbbing into the way you smeared all over his crotch.
A groan caught on your lips together with his teeth. Hands clamped on your waist to guide you into a heated hump. A needy rhythm of his clothed cock against your little clit.
You had always been impatient. And he always urged that you took what you wanted. Your fingers fumbled with his belt. Haste in your hands as you ripped it open and shoved his pants down. Eager to pull his cock from his briefs without a second to waste.
It felt bigger as you palmed him. Heavier. Or maybe you had gotten too used to whatever Hiroshi was. He didn't have veins like Satoru. Didn't crook to the side from the sheer weight and size. Didn't blush all pretty on the tip as you rubbed your hand up and down its long length.
He kissed you harder. Sucking on your lower lip as he pressed your head back into the cushions.
"Greedy girl."
He groaned.
"Thought I was your good girl?"
You giggled.
"Always my good girl."
He braced your hips and effortlessly hauled you up. Flopped you into his chest while he fell back into the couch. Your thighs naturally straddled his lap. Like magnetic poles with an intense force buzzing between you both.
You flushed into him. Hopelessly rubbing your sticky slick all over his pulsing veins. He grunted. Grabbed your thighs and angled just right so that his cock could wedge between your folds. Dwarfing your little cunt and reminding her how she struggled and stretched whenever he was balls deep.
Shivers poured into your kisses as he glided between your soaked folds. Mouths meshing and teeth catching as you both familiarised your heats. Rubbing all over in some sort of lewd greeting as he caught your clit and you throbbed against that prominent underside vein.
"Still remember how to ride it?" He mumbled as he forced himself to part from your lips. Blue eyes shaped in hearts with the clear want to chase after the string of saliva strung between your panting mouths.
It snapped as you chewed your lips. Hands steadied on his broad shoulders and re-familiarising the toned muscle. You flushed into his tip. Pussy pulsing on his pre-cum.
You managed a nod. Locking eyes with him as your nails scratched on his skin. It was a moment of heat. Tension. A hundred words sparking in the gap, but only one action needed.
Satoru guided your hips. As he always did. Squeezed assurances into them as his tip prodded through the first ring of resistance. Then the second. Third—
You clenched. Cunt and jaw. Sucking air between your teeth and curling tight on his arms. He mirrored your hiss. Brows pinched as you pulsed around him hard. He groaned from the back of his throat.
"So fucking tight."
His thumb fell to your clit. Rubbing slow circles under callouses he developed from years in the lab. "My poor girl. Look what you did to her. She's so neglected."
His tongue clicked. Before his lips pursed and he spat. Aimed for your clit as his thumb swirled to the beat of its throbs.
You whined at the friction. Hooked your arms around his neck again and sunk your hips further. Focused on the deep thrum of his cock and the strain of your poor, spasming pussy. Eager, or rather impatient, to feel him in his entirety at last.
But it seemed Satoru had other plans.
He clasped your hips tight. Squeezing them in his big hands and locking them from dropping any further. The protest died on your tongue when his deep drawl caressed your ear.
"Eaasyyy baby." Another squeeze. Another breath.
He guided you down. Bit by bit. Inch by inch, with his hips slowly nudging into yours. Dragging you down gradually. Agonisingly. Until you were fully seated on him.
At last, you felt it. Every thrumming vein. Every twitch. Hitch. The bumps and curves of his cock that you woke up in cold sweat over. Now surging heat deep into the hum of your quivering pussy.
You hid into his shoulder. Muffling your whines and whimpers as your arms sagged down his back. Fuck. You felt so full. So terribly stuffed as you desperately tried to adjust to his size again.
Maybe rutting would help. That's what your impatient hips told you as they rocked against him. Needy and grating. A pitiful hump into his lap.
You knew better. So did he. So he steeled your hips again and pressed a comforting kiss to your temple as you whined. It simmered your patience. But not the heat. Deep and swirling in your tummy.
Your breaths became his for the moment. Pants and huffs exchanged. As if you both needed a second to check reality. Understand that this was real. Two scientists, frightened that your meshing atoms would melt away into a cruel dream.
Satoru made the first move to prove otherwise. Rocking your hips into strokes. Long and slow. As he pulled you up his cock and sunk you back down. Dragging the sticky strings and snapping them round his base with each drawl.
"Gotta teach this pussy how to take me all over again," he huffed. Leaning back into the couch so that his eyes could drown in yours. But the blue was indecisive. Flitting between your heated face and your spilling cunt.
He watched you. Adored you. The way he stuffed you to the brim until your pussy trickled round his girth. The way your thighs quivered in his hands. How your lips festered his name and breathed it into the thick air.
The sway became familiar. Your muscles moving in memory as your rocked with his hands. That gradually loosened as you fell back into step.
Even with the struggle, it was no use. Your body was hopelessly his as his was yours. The rhythm came naturally. Just like how your cunt thrummed on that underside vein and milked it perfectly each time you sank back down and swirled your hips on his balls.
His head fell back. Silky strands spread out on the backrest of the couch as he his deep groans spilled. "There's my girl." His touch roamed. Cupping your ass and squishing it as his hips finally joined yours in fervid rolls.
You found solace in his hair once more. Gripping the back of it as you both matched the rhythm. Pace desperate and moderate as the couch creaked beneath the consistency.
The fire returned. Hot and burning between your exchange of movements. Satoru's face limped into your chest. Burying into your bouncing breasts and sucked hickies around your nipples.
Your cunt poured. Slicking up your laps and slipping him easily in and out of you now. Diving him deep, deep, deeper— so that his cockhead smooched your cervix and his balls flushed your folds. Your clit caught on his pelvis each time. Grinding it into quivers. Into pitiful little moans as your mouth fell open.
"It's so deep," you whimpered. "So good."
"Yeah? Better than that loser?"
Abruptly, his hips snapped. Hands yanking you down and humping on the tight muscle. Frustration bleeding into every filthy grind as your nerves bristled.
Head tossed back. Spine thrown into an arch from the sudden intensity. Maybe it was the neglect. Or the sheer need for him. But white clouded your vision and your voice pitched in that slutty tone as you crumbled into yet another orgasm.
Quicker than the first. Messier too. You limped into his chest as you fell back onto your pathetic attempts of ruts into his lap. Whining and babbling his name incoherently as you spasmed in the flood of heat.
In your delirium you hadn't perceived the chord of Satoru's control. Wound tight and thin, until it— snapped! with your warm release drowning him.
"Fuck." He sneered.
It was quick. Brutal. He wrest you into the couch until your back hit the seats and your sweaty skin stuck to the leather. He shoved deep inside of you as strong hands seized your knees and yanked them with him. "Can't believe you let some fucking punk touch this."
A kiss seethed to your knee. Before he tossed both over his broad shoulders.
"Can't believe you let him neglect it."
His hiss merged with a feral, wet shmack! as his hips snapped into yours. Driving his cock in a precise, sharp fury. Skin smacking against skin as wetness strung and snapped in strings between your soaking thighs.
He fucked a pitched cry from your bobbing throat. Your hands shot out to tug at the tuffs of his white hair as he shoved you into the sofa and chased the spasms of your cunt in hasty, heavy thrusts.
Mouth hot and filthy, Satoru spilled a mixture of degradation and praise. Calling you his pretty slut and whorish good girl in husked pants and deep groans.
The couch joined the wrecked symphony. Creaking loud and pitched. Nothing compared to the whines caught at the back of your throat as his hips made it their mission to leave bruises on your thighs. Leave a dull, satisfied ache in every nook of your cunt so that you woke up feeling him. Remembering him. Him.
Haughty hands hot with hostility snatched your ass. Squeezing the fat between the gaps as he hauled you in and fucked you at just the right angle. Just the right crook. So that he ground and hit a devastatin bundle that sent your glossy eyes and damp lashes fluttering back.
"Sat—toru!" You croaked.
"That's it. Mngh. Don't you ever forget it again."
A feral fever rumbled in his voice. Deep and throaty as he dragged his teeth into your shoulder. Egged on by your choked whines and strangled gasps. Eager to remind you that you didn't need some young jerk when a guy twice your age could pummel your pretty pussy into his expensive couch.
His balls slapped on your puffy folds. Round and throbbing as he grunted into your pulse through the pitiful clenches of your cunt. He chased another orgasm. Yours. You were always first. He'd make you cum twice, even thrice, before he decided to stuff you full.
"You're gonna fuckin' cum again," he ragged, lungs burning as he spilled that fire into your ear. Trapping it between his teeth as his thrusts grew cruel. Drawn-out and deep. Hammering into gooey bundle until your toes curled and your cunt splashed around him.
"You're gonna cum again. Cum on this cock. Show me it's still yours." He huffed. Pistoning from the tip to the base so that you felt every inch of that same cock that was gonna have you creaming.
And then, in the haze of pleasure and the peak of highs— your ringtone cut through the musky air.
Satoru barely slowed. But he tossed his head to the side and stared at your phone vibrating on the coffee table.
The name Hiroshi with a little red heart nearly had the same effect on him as it would a bull. Swirling his mind hot with anger and throbbing the back of his eyes.
But through the glare and grunt, he grinned. "Well. Look who it is."
Voice still drawled even when it deepened. Cooed like the fucking devil as he easily snatched the device and swiped the answer button before your bugged eyes could so much as clear. He gripped your face. Squishing it into his knuckles as he pressed his panting mouth to your ear.
"Show him whose good girl you are, yeah?"
Your mind hazed. Heart hammering. You could barely process what Satoru was even talking about. Even after that grating voice crackled over the line.
"Babe? Where the hell did y—"
"Angh!"
Satoru slammed. All the way. Heavy and hot and oh so suffocatingly deep. Pounding your poor pussy into the soaked couch and pummeling you to weeps and whines. Shallow and hard as his thumb wretched to your clit. Shattering your conscious and throwing both your head and back into a filthy arch.
"There ya go baby," he grinned, feral. "Sing it for me. Whose pussy 's this?"
"Satoru— S-Satoru—! Toru, toru hngh, 's yours!"
He jerked back. Hands clambering on your waist. Steeling them with his strong fingers and yanking you down onto each thrust. Every brutal fuck into your squelching pussy. Loud and clear down the line, he's sure.
He didn't care. You didn't have the capacity to.
All you could was whine. Toss your head back and claw on the slippery leather as Satoru made sure the loud, wet claps battered down the line. Made sure your boyfriend—
No.
Made sure that your fucking ex knew that it was Satoru stuffing this sweet cunt. Him drowning in your cum. Him hammering on a spot Hiroshi couldn't even dream of. Until your eyes rolled back and you tongue drooled. Until your body cramped and your voice sobbed oh so prettily for him. Until—
Your walls squeezed and spasmed. Your mind numb and heart soaring as your body locked up. Higher— and higher— until your nerves burst into a blistering heat and your head swam with white, feverish pleasure.
A filthy squirt sprayed all over him. Cunt squelching and squealing as his balls slapped it messy and his pelvis ground your clit until it spasmed.
"Fuuckk, so my girl still remembers how to squirt for me?" He laughed. Loud, boisterous and breathy.
He threw a grin to the phone. Heard cyrstal clear like your sopping pussy over the line. "You hear that? Her pussy's finally gettin' it good. So just fuck off already."
Bink.
The line died. Not that Satoru was paying attention. Not that he cared. His blue eyes were blown out and focused on one thing and one thing only— his pretty sweetheart gone limp and whining beneath him.
His gaze glossed over. Jaw slack like some animal as his thrusts pounded on autopilot. Like it was simply engraved into every muscle to know how to fuck you into a trembling, teary mess.
Satoru knew your tells. Knew the shakes and the quivers. Knew that your poor little body was frazzled with overstimulation and still reeling from the nasty squirt you messed him with.
"Can't," you croaked. "I-I can't, I can't toru!"
"Of course you can," he grit. "You're my girl. Course you fuckin' can."
His hand tucked beneath your hair. Not to tug it. But to cradle. Holding the back of your head as his hips ached into your shaky ones. He nudged you to look up at him. Meet his panting huffs and whiney breaths as he fucked himself dumb on you too.
"So perfect—" he strained, eyes fluttering with yours as he pushed you both higher. Devastatingly. Agonisingly. "So perfect. So mine. Cum—" his throat bobbed.
"Cum for me. Cum with me. Hah."
All babbled and broken as he smashed his lips back into yours. Colliding those hot and heavy stars as you tugged on his hair and he tethered to your waist. Drowning and strangling on each other's moans until the collision cracked into a ruinous wreck and your orgasms crashed like nebula.
Your heats crushed. Merged. Your pussy gave out in pitiful, milky bubbles. His cock spurted and frothed. Spraying deep and hot as he lathered up your cervix the same way you did his balls.
Whining. Gasping. His bit on your lip and you gulped down his noises. Desperate and clumsy in fumbling rocks and grinds of your hips. Riding out your highs until the heat simmered into an aching warmth and all you could do was hump uselessly.
Hazed, Satoru sucked on your tongue. Panting hard as he spluttered whispers into smudged kisses.
"I missed you. Missed you. I missed you— I love you. Love you. I fuckin' love you."
His weight collapsed into yours. Trapping you into the sofa and melting into your warmth. His chest heaving with yours as the adrenaline sizzled off into a calm stir.
You were stiff. Mind still. Heart frozen. As you contemplated his babbles.
I love you.
Your breath thinned. Had you heard wrong? No. You didn't. He'd never said that before. Never spluttered it out no matter how hazy he fucked the both of you.
You stewed on his words. That familiar, aching fear climbing up your gut and wrapping around your heart as his hammered into your chest. It beat for you. It loved you. This was bad. So very bad.
But it was your mind that eased the storm. That steered your arms to wrap shakily around his neck. That urged your heart to bring your lips to his temple in a kiss.
In a tender whisper.
"I love you."
As your face buried into his shoulder. And your heart mirrored his.
As you allowed yourself to want. To dream. Of you and him— him and you. Even if just for the moment.
୨୧ frat!sukuna finally found out who’s been bothering his shy girl at work
you didn’t tell sukuna at first.
it didn’t seem like a big deal, not really—just one of those gross, persistent things you learn to brush off when you work customer-facing. you sit at the front desk of the campus library three days a week. quiet shifts, gentle lighting, cute little name tag. it’s your favorite job you’ve ever had. until he started showing up.
naoya zenin. third-year. entitled. smug. and annoying in that specific way that makes your stomach twist. he doesn’t do anything—not really. not enough to report. but every time he leans over the counter and asks if you “moan like you read,” or offers to help you “stretch out those tight little legs,” you feel your skin crawl. you tell him you have a boyfriend. he laughs. says, “you’re too sweet for a guy like that.”
you still don’t tell sukuna.
not until he notices the way you keep your voice soft when someone walks in behind you. the way you keep glancing toward the doors. the way your hands tremble just a little when your phone lights up and you ignore it instead of smiling.
“who is it?” he asks.
and when you finally whisper it—when you finally tell him, cheeks burning, lashes lowered, voice barely audible over the hum of your apartment—he goes quiet.
the next day, he shows up at the library. not subtle. not discreet. he’s in a black hoodie, chain glinting at his throat, hair messy like he’s fresh out of bed, and a permanent scowl carved into his face. he doesn’t even glance at you when he walks in—just stalks straight to the desk where naoya is leaned over too far, too close, like always.
“you the fucker who’s been talking to my girl?” sukuna asks.
naoya blinks. laughs. “who’re you—”
sukuna doesn’t wait.
he grabs him by the collar and slams him into the desk so hard a stack of paperbacks crashes to the floor. your heart stops. the other students go silent. naoya curses, struggling under the grip, but sukuna doesn’t budge.
“listen real close,” he snarls, voice low. “you look at her again, you breathe in her direction, you so much as think about her when you’re alone in your little twin xl—I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
“jesus—alright, fuck, chill—”
“say that shit again,” sukuna snaps, dragging him an inch closer. “go ahead. see what happens.”
naoya stumbles when sukuna lets him go. stutters something pathetic. grabs his bag and leaves like a coward, face pale, lips pressed tight.
and sukuna finally turns to you.
his expression softens—just a little. like he’s still buzzing with adrenaline, but he’s already back in your corner, already sliding his arm around your waist and muttering, “you should’ve told me, baby.”
you’re still half-frozen behind the desk, your chest tight and your fingers curled into the sleeves of your cardigan, when he finally turns around and walks back to you. no blood. no yelling. but his knuckles are flexing, jaw still locked like it wasn’t enough.
“you good?” he asks, voice low. softer now. just for you.
you nod, barely. and he sees it—how shaken you are, how small you look behind the counter, cheeks flushed and lashes lowered. he breathes out once through his nose like he’s trying to keep it together.
“move over.”
you blink. “what?”
“i said—” he wraps a hand around your waist and lifts you—like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a thought—settling you right onto his lap as he drops into your chair behind the desk. “you’re not sitting here by yourself the rest of your shift. scoot.”
your knees press together instinctively, hands flailing a little as you try to adjust yourself without exposing anything. he doesn’t help. just tugs you tighter into his chest until you’re practically straddling one of his thighs, warm and flushed and hiding your face in his hoodie.
“sukuna—”
“nah,” he mutters, voice low against your ear. “you’ve been sitting here alone with creeps like that? mm-mm. not happening again.”
you try to argue, but his hand finds your knee and slides just a little higher. not inappropriate, but protective. like he needs to keep skin-to-skin contact just to breathe.
“how many times he come in here?” sukuna asks quietly, mouth brushing your temple. “did he touch you?”
you shake your head, fingers fisting his hoodie tighter. “just… said stuff. all the time.”
he exhales sharp through his teeth. “fuckin’ knew it. knew something was off.”
you sit there for the next hour like that. curled in his lap, legs tucked to the side, his arm draped around your waist like a warning sign to anyone who dares look twice. students come and go. the quiet clack of keyboards hums around you. but no one says anything. no one dares.
and when you reach for your little library clipboard to check someone’s hold status, sukuna takes it from your hand, squints at the name, and grumbles: “this guy borrowed a copy of the art of seduction last month. denied.”
you slap his chest. “you can’t do that—!”
“i can, actually. i’m dating the librarian. she’s very sweet. very hot. very off-limits.”
you bury your face in his neck. and when he presses a kiss to your hair, still holding you close, you can’t help but smile.
you do love him mean.
but you love him soft, too.
and this is why sukuna's banned from the library smh
When you find an x reader fic with your favorite characters but "Reader" is biologically related to a canon white character,has pink folds and pink nipples,has blonde hair and green eyes halfway into the story and is actually named Olivia or Jessica this whole time.
