Your Heart is Spilling out, Babe
Pairing: Satoru Gojo/Reader
Summary: You and Satoru are friends with benefits. No feelings, that was the agreement from the start. Neither of you want anything more. Even if you did, it wouldn’t work out, anyways. Not that you care if it would.
Tags: fwb, smut, angst, YEARNING, requited unrequited feelings (or ARE they) but jk it’s totally no feelings, commitment/abandonment issues, not that it matters because you totally don’t have feelings anyways
“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”
“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” He asks, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”
A hum. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”
“What a coincidence,” he lays down next to you, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”
You don’t say anything more, eyes already closed.
Satoru’s arm presses your form against his, just barely.
When he wakes up, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.
At first, Satoru tries to tell himself it’s a happy coincidence.
After all, isn’t it? His problem has always been the women (and men) who give him a certain kind of look before he gets up to leave.
The ones who text him back first, who read everything instantly, who always want to meet up again. The ones who always, inevitably, start to want something more.
Like him giving them the fuck of a lifetime with someone who could be a real-life supermodel and happens to be the greatest sorcerer on earth wasn’t enough. Granted, they don’t know about the sorcerer thing, but still!
It always turns out like this:
Things are good for a while. Sex is good, he gets attention when he texts them, they both understand this is totally casual, no commitment.
Sometimes he even brings up another hookup he’s going to, just to drive the point home, and he cheers them on when they’re getting some somewhere else, too.
(He’s got no reason to be insecure, after all. He would be anyone’s first choice.)
From there, he can admit some of it is his fault. It’s hard, being as irresistible as he is. Being so devastatingly good-looking and even better in bed.
Having so much humor and personality in his amazing texts (never mind that most of them just react with an emoji or a short haha or an unrelated compliment – he drinks it all up just the same).
They start to text him first, which is impressive, considering what a spammer he is. He likes to text them to fill his time, to talk to someone, have his notifications filled with messages of people who want him.
So what if it’s an ego boost? Isn’t that what they’re using him for, too?
But when they start texting him themselves, when they return his style of badgering, it’s not random and rambling. It’s affectionate, personal. They’ve gotten attached, and they want him to be, too.
It’s all nonsense like Saw this and thought of you, and You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met, and I want to meet up again soon.
He has to stop spamming with memes or selfies or random observations throughout his day, stop talking about shops or cafes he’d like to visit. Sometimes he has to mute their notifications, because when he spams other people, they feel comfortable spamming him.
And then it’s just a matter of how long he spends lying to himself. Because as much of an ass as he is, it’s cruel to let them get attached to him when he can’t really open up entirely. When he doesn’t want anything serious.
In fairness, he had told them from the start. He usually breaks it off only after a few days. He always sends them a message and just blocks them – it’s cleaner that way.
Answering any desperate Please, we can still be friends or No, let’s just hook up again, would give them hope for things he can’t give them.
You text him You’re the most annoying man I’ve ever met, and leave him on read for two days.
Satoru thinks he’s in love.
Not literally, of course, but in love with the relationship he has with you, which is perfect.
Everything about it is perfect, except for that it’s not going on all the time.
You respond to his memes with your own. Chat with him about cafes and desserts and even keep a handful at your home to treat him with. You text him cat pictures, sometimes return selfies if he’s lucky.
Usually he gets those when he sends the thirst pics, sitting there with a grin that scares Ichiji, absolutely giddy as he watches you type, stop typing – he knows you’re looking for something special to send him back.
It’s surprising, how well he just knows things about you. Maybe that was to be expected, though, with your chemistry.
Sex with you is like nothing he’s ever felt before.
You have this way of tensing up, expression shifting as you’re right about to cum – he thinks by now he’s conditioned by it, that just seeing you make that face could get him over the edge.
He’s fucked hot people before but no one like you. Seeing the same clothes from your cute little selfies slip off, it’s like unwrapping a present he can’t wait to eat up. Makes him salivate like a box of chocolates, like the one truffle package you got one time and made him eat on his knees with his head in your lap, out of your hands.
Fucking you is one of his favorite things ever, right up there with kikufuku and making fun of his coworkers (and students!). You’re a beautiful bend of reactive and pliant, so fun to tease and edge and so rewarding to please.
God, fuck, he wants you. He wants you all the time. All his other hookups are silenced in favor of you, boring conversations abandoned in favor of debating tiramisu and tres leches, and all other sorts of inane things.
What your favorite school subjects are, oddly enough (he supposes he was asking for it, telling you he taught high schoolers).
You like literature, he likes math, and when he hears you talk about it, he almost wants to read some of those novels you like so much. Non-sorcerer politics has never meant anything to him but it matters when he hears you talk about it.
It’s like hearing about a whole separate world with its own struggles. Your opinions are so well-thought out, he can tell just how much you care, and something hums along aside him as he asks questions, nods his head, really listens to what you have to say. It feels so surreal to hear someone whose goals are not so unlike his, when he thinks about it.
Maybe that’s where some of this fondness comes from. Maybe it’s humbling, thinking you want to change your world just as much as he wants to change his, and the only difference is how much people listen.
He can’t imagine not wanting to listen to you. People should listen more. You should run everything, he jokes.
(He’s joking. He’s joking. You don’t know enough to get why he says that twice.)
And then it’s not serious again – when was it ever, really? You talk about your favorite manga and anime and tease each other for your tastes. Maybe talk about episodes or movies you’ve seen together.
He’s admittedly a bit of a movie buff – it’s a real victory when he convinces you to watch one of his old favorites. When he finds out you watched it, he’s excited the whole day to hear what you thought.
You debate what animals you would be; you are definitely a cat – aloof and independent – and you’re quite insistent that he’d be a husky, energetic and annoying and – probably other words you say before he sends you a picture of his dick and you facetime him with some more interesting conversation.
Your days – weeks, months, really – they go on like that, they’re great. Everything is perfect, really.
So when he hears you casually mention you’ve got other dinner plans – when his mind instantly supplies we’re just casual, tease her and hope she gets lucky – the wretched, dark twist in his gut is wholly unexpected.
And he knows instantly. Immediately, really, because he’s just too smart not to.
He knows he doesn’t want you going out with other people. Touching them. Showing them the same faces you show him.
But if he wants you to be his, then he has to ask. And you – you make him wait to hear back.
You never reach out to him first. You open the door with a cool expression, like your heart doesn’t race at the sight of him like his does (he can see it is, he can see it, but his soul is withering at your look like you couldn’t care less).
Satoru doesn’t usually have to ask, not for anything.
People beg to be able to fuck him. They spam when he ghosts them, begging for scraps. He doesn’t have to ask for attention, people shower him in it.
Everyone wants him. They love him. They don’t abandon him along with all their morals and tell him to kill them if he doesn’t like it.
They beg him to stay, and he is the one who leaves.
He’s too much for them. Too much for anyone. You wouldn’t be able to hand him, anyways.
And he can leave any time he wants, he just… doesn’t want to.
(He never wants to leave. He wants it to stay like this, forever. But when does it ever turn out like that?)
Besides, you’re – you also want it to stay casual. Like he told you from the beginning. Probably trying to save your feelings from getting hurt – and can he blame you? Really, with his looks, anyone would be scared to lose him.
So this was just… a happy coincidence. You didn’t want it serious, he didn’t want it, either.
“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight. You can shower before you leave, if you want.”
Satoru’s lip twitches, but it doesn’t manage a smile. It almost feels like you’re kicking him out.
But he knows you’re not, because even if you were the one person on earth who could resist his irresistible charm, he just gave you some absolutely mind-blowing sex.
“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru teases, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”
He says it playfully, casually, because it is casual. It wouldn’t bother him if you told him to fuck off right then and there. It wouldn’t.
You hum noncommittally. “Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”
If he’s relieved that he can stay, it’s because he’s as exhausted as you are. Because you make him feel good, so fucking good, like he’s on top of the world. Having to leave would just be a mood killer.
“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”
He is not and never has been. He sleeps three hours a night wakes up by 5am.
It’s never bothered him before. His dreams are not a place he wants to be. But they’ve never hurt him when you were there.
He wraps an arm around you, holding you against him, just barely. Not too tight.
You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.
When he wakes, you’re still laying there beside him, unmoving.
The thing is, you’re awake. He knows that. You’re a light sleeper. Always have been.
He knows you hate morning showers yourself, and always do it at night. Knows what you like for breakfast, how to make it. That you like to sleep in because you have trouble sleeping.
He knows what you think about late at night because you text him about it, because he’s always there texting you, because neither of you can sleep and someone ends up calling and whispering secret scattered thoughts in hushed tones and –
And he honestly doesn’t know, if it’s you or him that slips in the I want to touch you right now, or Want me to kiss it better. Who turns it into sex so things can’t get to be too much.
Satoru would really, really like to think that it’s him, but the truth is that he’s reaching the limit of how believable his lies are, even to himself.
He knows, he knows he knows he knows that if he stayed, you would let him –
(If he repeats it enough it will surely become true.)
– but you both agreed no feelings.
Besides, it’s not like he wants to stay, anyways.
(Why won’t you ask him to come back?)
You know what Satoru is the moment you meet him. It’s not like he’s made any secret of it, either.
A whore. A man-whore, if you will. A player. Whatever it is. He slept with people, drank in all the sex and attention and then went on his merry way.
You get it. This wasn’t the first time you’d met a pretty boy who fucked around, not by a long shot.
He says all casual, no feelings, you smile and nod, and you go back to his place fully expecting to be disappointed because pretty boys usually suck in bed.
And then he fucks you within an inch of your life.
He eats you like a man staved. Hands roving over your skin, groping and squeezing in a way that would be violating, if his beautiful eyes weren’t wild and desperate.
His body is toned and smooth and perfect, unmarred skin that he presses to yours like he’s trying to staunch the bleeding of some invisible wound.
You’ve never felt like this before. Sex has never been this amazing. He props his stupid pretty face up on his elbow and he gives you that stupid charming boyish smirk and asks you if you want to go another round, red-faced and eager. It’s overwhelming and exciting and amazing –
And it’s terrifying, because it’s always like this for him, isn’t it? He just came in and gave you the fuck of a lifetime, but this is just another lay for him.
(But he’s having fun. It’s good for him, too. So why don’t you take what you can get?)
So when he saves his number in your phone, That was awesome, babe, we should do this again sometime, you don’t put a lot of weight into his words. You roll his eyes when he blows you a kiss goodbye, but you don’t delete his number.
Even when he wakes you up with some silly cat meme (god, you hate morning people), somehow you find yourself smiling. You let him know he can get his dick sucked any time if he meows cute enough and woah, maybe you’re coming on too strong –
He sends you an attachment of himself wearing cat ears, striking an obnoxious pose, with a fake tail that he holds by the end in his mouth.
Satoru Gojo, that’s the name. And you do suck his dick, like you promised, but he comes to you determined to get in character, meowing at you, pressing his face into your hands, rubbing into your side, nuzzling your panties while he looks up into your face with a smirk.
It’s a fight to get him on his back and his legs open wide enough for you to settle in. He meows again like a kitty, and purrs like one too when you take his cock into your mouth, hands threading through your hair. Giggling at his own antics.
Your eyes water when you take him, deep, moaning and feeling him shudder at the feeling, long legs squirming on either side of you. He pulls away suddenly, with a pop, laughing when his dick hits the side of your face and you glare at him. Sticking out his tongue.
He looks so young. So heartbreakingly sweet and charming. He pulls you in to settle you on his cock, face-to-face this time, his smile melting into something soft and tacky, sticking to your lips as he kisses his precum away. Infectious delight.
Satoru holds your hands in his, palm to palm, as you ride him in his lap. Face tilted up to look at you with a blush on his cheeks. Blue eyes wide like they have to be, to take you in, as if they aren’t themselves oceans you have to stop yourself from falling into.
You can’t look into his eyes when you cum, when he cums. You’re not sure if he’s looking either.
But you feel him, oh, do you feel him – hands squeezing yours as if in warning, face buried into your neck, a moan that vibrates throughout the both of you.
When you wake up, the next morning, you don’t even mind the fact that he’s still next to you, cuddled up, right beside you. You don’t mind, until you feel him stiffen suddenly, like he’s realized you’re awake, immediately pulling away.
That’s… you’re not sure what it is, since cuddling was obviously okay, so why does he not want to do it while you’re awake? It is too close? Too intimate?
He’d held your hands while he stared deep into your eyes and rocked gently into you last night, but cuddling would be too intimate?
But he smiles that smile before he leaves, stumbling a little bit while he gets dressed, in that goofy way that lanky tall men sometimes do. You even overlook the fact that he’s renamed himself in your contacts. ~ Satoru ~ My Kitten.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid (you’re smiling already), unbearable man. You want to hit him in the face, with your face. Very hard.
Casually, of course. It’s casual between you. No feelings at all.
But then he starts texting you all the time. He double, triple, quadruple texts, with the infuriating shamelessness of someone who’s never been ignored in his life.
Like he’s never worried that the other person is losing interest. He carries himself like it, too, like he knows everyone wants him, and unfortunately, he’s right.
So you tell him he’s annoying and you don’t look at your phone again. Not until he shows up on your doorstep with that pout on his impossibly pretty face.
And you don’t turn him away. Why would you? If he’s going to offer himself on a platter, why not eat up?
You’re just being realistic here. If you fucked him once and never heard from it again, it would still hurt almost as much as it will now. You’ll just be a little lonelier without your texting partner, but you’ll get over it.
There’s other fish in the sea. Even if none of them are as pretty as him, none of them make them laugh like you do. You’re not exclusive. He can see other people, so can you. You’ve made it a point not to ask.
You don’t like what he’s doing now. How he pauses long, makes you wait before telling you to have fun on your date.
How the next time you see him there’s something strange in his eyes, something that leaves him with clawing hands, hungry mouth, eager to leave his marks all over you.
Satoru doesn’t stop texting you, doesn’t stop selfies, thirst traps, prodding little questions and jokes, doesn’t stop obnoxiously demanding (begging?) for your attention.
At first it was an ego boost. Now, it’s terrifying.
Because now he likes you, doesn’t he? He’s interested now. Having fun. Making you feel like he’s jealous, acting like he’s on withdrawal if he goes too long without you, making you feel like someone as beautiful and rich and funny as him could possibly be in love with you.
But he told you in the beginning. Something casual.
Maybe these feelings are real in the moment. But one day they’ll fade, and everything will be yanked right out from under you.
You’ll wonder why he’s getting distant these days. You’ll remember that you never made it official, and sweat over the possibility that he’s seeing someone else. At the end of the day that’s all you’ll be able to do; worry and worry while you’re too afraid to ask.
You’ll wonder what you did wrong. What you did to lose him. How you could go from someone so fascinating, someone he so thoroughly adored and fucked like he was making love, to an afterthought and a stranger, unless you did something wrong? Unless you made a mistake, somewhere along the line?
The mistake of getting attached to him in the first place.
Fuck that. Satoru can develop feelings on his own fucking time. He’ll lose them just as quickly, you can tell.
This isn’t anything more than a hookup to him. He’s an attention whore who likes to hear himself talk, and you’re dumb enough to entertain him because you’re lonely and easily amused, at least when it comes to him.
There’s nothing real here.
You still don’t know where he actually works, outside of some nebulous high school teaching situation. Where he lives. What he does most of the day, what his parents are like. Where he’s from, even. You don’t know if he’s seeing anyone else. He could be married with kids, for all you know.
Not – not that you care. Not that you give a fuck what he’s doing, who he’s fucking, where he is when he’s not with you. You don’t care about him past his dick and what it does to you.
If you did care, you’d only suffer for it. So you draw the line.
You don’t need him, and you want to keep it that way. You don’t want to get attached, and neither does he. So you try to keep him at arm’s length.
Close enough to touch but not so close that your foolish, eager heart can leap out of your chest and into his hands.
Would he still give you that boyish grin when he rejected you? Laugh and let you down gently? Would he say yes and hold your hand while you walked together to the guillotine, the painful end to a relationship that wasn’t supposed to happen anyways? Would he skip away while your heart seized and trembled on the executioner’s block?
He’d look pretty even with blood on his face, you’re sure. But you wouldn’t come out so nicely.
So you don’t ask him to stay. You don’t ask him for anything. You take what you’re given and you savor it, but you try – oh, god, do you fucking try – to find someone else, something else to occupy your time.
But he’s just too good. You want him. And you don’t get to have him if you ignore his texts and don’t answer when he’s at the door. You don’t get to fuck him if you won’t even let him see you.
So even if you look away, even if your answers are short, even if you don’t let him stay (not that he even wants to) – you have to let him in.
And unlike you, he’s got self-respect. He’s got other options. If he can’t have you, he’ll just fuck other people, so you can’t push him away too much. You have to make him want to come back. You have to make him want to give you more.
But you can’t control what Satoru wants, and that is the problem.
It’s out of your hands, locked securely in his ribcage where you can never get to it.
He doesn’t talk about his life, his history, doesn’t even complain about work during off hours.
Really, it’s already over, isn’t it? Has been, ever since the beginning. You’re just waiting for the inevitable end.
“Mmmh… that’s it for me tonight.” You say, tired. So tired, and warm. Satoru always leaves you like this; loose-limbed and floaty, high enough to feel the drop. “You can shower before you leave, if you want.”
“Oh? I can’t stay the night?” Satoru asks, teasing, “Just gonna pump and dump me? So mean~”
You close your eyes, trying not to think of what his face must look like.
“Knock yourself out. But you can’t shower in the morning, you’ll wake me up.”
“What a coincidence,” He purrs, laying next to you on the bed, “I’m a late sleeper, too.”
Satoru’s arm around your form presses you against him, just barely. Not too close. Never too close.
You don’t say anything more. You lay there and let him hold you while you fall asleep.
You can feel it when he wakes up. How his breathing changes, how he stiffens and tenses against you, you tumble out of sleep instantly, lashes fluttering.
You shut them closed again. Relax yourself. You don’t have to get up. You don’t want to get up.
Why isn’t he leaving yet? What’s taking him so long?
There’s this tension that creeps into your chest. Like you can feel each individual breath he takes. Waiting for him to say something, shake you awake – but why would he? And why would you want him to?
You know what this is. You’ve always known.
So you lay there, still, breathing calm and even, until he leaves.
(…Come back. Please come back.)
