꩜ – FRAT PRESIDENT SATORU GOJO (and the shy girl he's obsessed with!)
(18+) HEADCANONS :: – frat!gojo x innocent!reader, college au, smut, dom!gojo, handjobs, praise, corruption kink, manipulative behavior, slight dub-con
frat president!satoru, who’s used to every type of girl at his party except you, all big eyes, wandering around his house like you didn’t know what to do. he’s asked suguru to offer you everything under the sun in the last thirty or so minutes — a drink, a smoke, a joint. you just politely decline, shaking your head so prettily.
frat president!satoru, who swears he’s just got an ego when he decides he’ll be the one to show you all of that and more. he could do it if suguru couldn’t, if no one else could.
he starts off all nice, walking you to all your classes, offering his sweaters in the lectures you had together (which he only started attending for you), buying you lunch and listening to your cute little rants about your worst profs.
frat president!satoru learns that you like being held when he’s the first one to find you after an exam you swear you’d failed. he doesn’t get it ‘til he’d realized your eyes are all glassy, so shiny as you peered up at him with wobbling lips, trying not to cry in front of him.
frat president!satoru loves the way you’d just melted into his arms after that. he calls you easy to his friends for it, but something inside him never wants to let go whenever you’re willing to press yourself into his chest, wherever you’re willing to do it.
frat president!satoru, who asks you what you’re wearing all the time and sends even prettier things to wear to your dorm when he thinks you can do better.
frat president!satoru, who’s spiraling at night, jerking off to your contact photo, wrapping his large hand around his dick and pretending like it’s that sweet mouth of yours engulfing his length. he imagines how shy you’d be, lips parted wide, smearing pre-cum and replacing your candy lip balm. he wants you tasting like him, those soft cheeks drenched in his cum, eyes screwed shut until he’s all you can think about.
frat president!satoru likes making you need him, doting on you and driving you around like a princess, spoiling you until you frown whenever his hand isn’t on your hip, or whenever he dodges your calls for fraternity meetings. he likes the idea that you might become obsessed with him (like he is with you).
frat president!satoru, who’s grinning cruelly the minute you finally tell him, “you know, you do so much for me, I feel like I’m not doing enough for you.” in that nervous voice of yours one day, while you’re tucked into his side at your apartment.
frat president!satoru, who’s never missed a meeting or a call until that day, when he’s finally got you whimpering shyly in his lap while he gently mouths at your neck, tasting that perfume he’s been searching online for for weeks, whispering about how he’s so grateful you wanna help him out, how sweet you are for making it up to him too even when you didn't have to.
but he’s been waiting for weeks, you’re all soft and impressionable on him, and he’s not letting a moment of your kindness go to waste.
frat president!satoru guides you with a husky voice when he teaches you to spit in your own palm and wrap your hand around his cock, nearly shivering at the contact — “make me feel good, pretty girl, it’s the least you can do.”
frat president!satoru, who just chuckles at the fact that you’re all nervous, looking up at him as if asking what to do next, just for him to wrap his palm around yours, engulfing it entirely. he groans lowly as he moves your palm up and down on his already-hard length, bottom lip catching between his teeth at how warm your hand feels against his dick.
“shit, just keep it like that, baby, up and down…”
frat president!satoru, who kisses you slow when you gasp at how he bucks up into your hand, keeping his own wrapped around it while desperately attempting not to just use you, jerk himself off with your tiny little fingers, maneuver you down and slam himself deep into your tight cunt. “hah — fuck, gorgeous, y— you’re good at this, huh? so good for me, so fucking cute…”
“i’ve never done this before,” you admit into frat president!satoru’s mouth, hushed and breathy like it’s a secret. he wants to fucking laugh, but he’s cut short by a low hiss as you thumb at his slit without him having to teach you, making him lose his mind piece by piece. shit, you’re just perfect, aren’t you?
“am — am I doing okay, satoru?”
frat president!satoru has nearly had enough of patience when you say that. shit, he bites down into your lip without even realizing, hand tightening around yours when you whimper. and it’s barely enough to notice at first, but he pumps your hand around him faster, growling into your mouth at the way your fingertips flex around his length, making a slick! sound that echoes across the room.
“you’re — shit, just like that — doing perfect, baby. so perfect.” frat president!satoru groans into your throat, even though he’s using your hand like a fuck toy now, smearing his own pre-cum mixed with your saliva all over his huge dick, bucking his hips up into your plush skin like a glorified fleshlight.
the only one he’s dreamed of in the past few weeks, at least.
frat president!satoru gets off on how eager you are to match his pace, his other hand cupping your cheeks to purse your pretty mouth open for him as he spits down your throat and relishes in your confused little whine. he doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s gripping your hand now, forcing you to jerk his cock faster.
“that’s it,” he pants into your lips, “just let me have you, okay? hah— so good, shit, you’ve been wanting this too, haven’t you?”
“satoru—” your voice is a wet dream, how it feathers off around the edges and breaks like you’re not sure.
frat president!satoru groans at the sound of your confusion. “been, fuck, thinking about this, baby. want you creaming on my cock next, yeah? or maybe it’s — haah! — too big for your first time. gotta — shit — prep you first.”
frat president!satoru spills into your hand with one last rough stroke of both your hands around his length, gasping low with his tongue down your throat as he finally lets your hand go. he watches the way your palm shakes, eyes dark, lifting your cum-covered fingertips to your mouth without thinking. and he thinks you won’t do it, until—
your sweet fucking tongue darts out to lick experimentally at your own fingers, and satoru thinks he’s gone to heaven.
frat president!satoru, who can’t help himself when he’s grabbing you by the waist now, laying you flat on your back and coming up to slot his knee between your thighs, committing the way your face scrunches up in both confusion and pleasure to memory. he thinks you’re the cutest fucking thing in the world, and he wants you broken in every way possible until you can’t fuck any other guy without imagining his dick.
“thank you, baby,” he grins against your neck. “can i make you feel good now?”
frat president!satoru, who decided he’d never let you fuck anyone else anyways the moment you'd nodded.
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𓂃 ⭒ gets possessed by sukuna while he's mid-fucking you.
who better to keep the king of curses at bay than the strongest?
it was a gamble. like most things that those bastard higher ups did. feed a finger to gojo satoru and let him hold ryomen sukuna in his body. only he could after all, right?
it worked fine. satoru's cursed energy kept the feral curse at bay. . . for the most part.
grappling with the fucker was one thing. but doing so while being in a committed relationship with the love of his life? that was a whole other hell.
sukuna popped out to give his two cents whenever he wished. when you spun around in a dress you'd hope to impress satoru with.
“the colour doesn't suit you.” he'd burst your bubble and watch as you struggled to keep expression.
satoru would shake him off. “don't listen to him, it's gorgeous.”
when you'd argue, he'd dig his claws in too. snapping a mouth below satoru's already frustrated eyes to hurl several insults that had you scurrying away—
“sweetheart— sweetheart wait!” leaving your poor boyfriend to try and fight off the menace while also comfort your shattered heart.
he interrupted kisses. ruined your cuddles. made just about every interaction insufferable. and you were getting sick of it.
but on a rare night. a quiet one where it was just you and your beloved satoru— you eased. allowed your bodies to tangle within one another in that familiar dance. lips parted in that soft song.
his mouth worshipped your skin, each kiss laced with an apology. his hands were a praise to every crevice of you, a plea for forgiveness for something he couldn't even control.
satoru was always tender when it came to your naked body beneath him. he couldn't fathom the idea of letting loose— no matter how his stomach twisted and his mind reeled when he sank into your warm cunt. no matter how badly every nerve within him begged him to just.
let go. to just fuck you.
no, he couldn't. what if he accidentally hurt you? what if his jujutsu went haywire?
that's why the bed only rocked in a hesitant sway. why his hands cupped your hips and traced patterns. why his lips kissed silken love all your neck— as he pumped into you languidly.
“feel so good, sweet girl. s'good for me. always so perfect,” that's why his mouth only uttered praises.
his thumb slid to your clit and rubbed a shaky circle. shaky. why were his hands shaky?
he tried to distract himself. on your gasping moans, on your quivering thighs, those loving eyes as you arched for him.
“toru. . .” you whines.
his chest ached.
“don't you see it?”
that grating voice rumbled through his mind. satoru's hips stuttered with his breath. he clung to your thighs like a lifeline. as if they could save him.
“don't you see that she wants more? she wants it harder.”
“shut up,” he strained a groan aloud.
muscled tensed. he desperately scrambled for control. breath shaky, pupils constricting as you peered up at him in confusion with those glossy, pretty, needy eyes— fuck.
“see?” sukuna's lull sent a shiver down his spine. “she wants more. wants you to fuck her. like this.”
before satoru could wrestle back his restraint— snap! his hips smacked into yours. balls slapping against your cunt once. twice. damn—
the air choked from his lungs and was knocked from yours. with frantic eyes he watched as you gaped with a surprised cry. back curving into a sinful arch and hands scrambling for the sheets.
“toru—” you broke.
and so did he.
heat flooded his being. blunt nails digging into the fat of your thighs as his hips were forced into a rough piston. slamming into yours and burying his cock deeper than he had before. grinding so filthy on a spot that sent your eyes rolling back.
“fuck—” he strangled a whine. “wait, wait, fuck.”
“wait?”
at last sukuna's voice tore through the room. satoru could only watch as you squeaked and zeroed in on the wickedly grinning mouth that formed on his palm. “don't you feel it? feel how that sweet pussy is suffocating you?”
god, he did. he felt every throb, every clench, how you squeezed every inch of his cock like you were trying to milk him.
still satoru fought. desperately. futily. as his control was shoved to the backseat and his strong hands hurled you further into the sheets. dragging your legs out and pinning you by the thighs as he fucked into you with a relentless vigor.
“I— ohgod— toru,” you croaked, hands raking down his back and digging nail masks he's never felt before. his resolve broke. body completely surrendering to the curse that made him fuck his girlfriend like a whore.
“I can't,” he gasped. “I can't, fuck, she's gonna cum, slow down,” but his quiver was only met with a chuckle.
his hand with that wretched mouth on the centre slid between your wrecked bodies. fingers delving into the slick splattering all over your thighs as he slammed repeatedly.
“think she's gonna do more than cum,” sukuna grinned. “think she's gonna. . .”
satoru could only grunt as his palm was forced over your clit. the mouth in his flesh— sukuna's mouth— eagerly locked around your throbbing nub and sucked on it rabidly until you keened.
“ah! s-satoru, there— fuck, right there.”
his eyes widened. fuck. he's never seen you like this before. a mess of tears and drool. pretty eyes rolled back and cunt squeezing him so filthy.
suddenly, it didn't feel like sukuna anymore. didn't feel like his thrusts were controlled. didn't feel like he was under influence.
satoru hunched over you, shoving the heel of his palm flush on your clit so sukuna feasted messier. hips taking a ruthless piston as fucked you through a clenching, squirting orgasm.
“yeah baby? like that?” he grinned. something you hadn't quite seen before. “that why you're squirtin'? fuck, wanted me to pound this pretty pussy all along?”
the mewl you strangled set it in stone. he jerked into you with a newfound feral want. no, need, to wreck your quivering cunt.
“could've just said,” his voice ragged, free hand clamped on your jaw to jerk your teary stare on his. he ignored sukuna's muffled chuckle.
those bright blues flickered darker. red.
“could've just said you wanted to be fucked by a curse.”
notes: the only warning i can really offer is that isaac is deranged and i have no idea what tag to use other than heart kink/play lmfaoo. also i know this fandom is slowly dying bcs season 2 is over but please comment + reblog anyway 🙏🏽 nervous about this fic because i only just finished s2
preview: "You can touch it," he offers, and there's a shrewd glint in his eyes that evinces that he can tell that you already want to.
The contraption emits its metronomic proclamation: tick, tick, tick; each mechanical hiccup slicing through the oppressive nocturnal silence like a blade announcing the presence of something that should not exist yet stubbornly insists upon it. Isaac Night's engineered precision, the clockwork heart he crafted to extend his own failing lifespan sits exposed beneath his crumpled dress shirt. Against your better judgement, your traitorous appendage reaches out and pulls one side of the shirt aside to reveal the open chest cavity like some antiquated music box.
You can't tell if your mind is playing tricks on you when you hear the device pulse a little faster, as though Isaac's mechanical heart has developed the inconvenient habit of responding to your rapacious gaze.
When you look up at his face, he's keenly scrutinizing you with the clinical interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen's reaction to his life's work made flesh, waiting to catalogue exactly how you process the sight of his heart. Then, when he feels sufficiently assured of your fascination rather than revulsion, his hand reaches into his chest with the casual intimacy of someone adjusting a pocket watch, carefully opening the metal latticework structured around each meticulously placed component like a jeweler displaying his finest work.
"You can touch it," he offers, and there's a shrewd glint in his eyes that evinces that he can tell that you already want to.
It's the only thing you need to hear. No need for any more sanctions, no further elaborate negotiations with propriety or the tedious social choreography that typically governs these moments. When you trail your finger over a thin gear, that delicate metallic component no thicker than a wafer yet infinitely more essential to Isaac's continued existence, it's with the temerity of someone who has been contemplating exactly this touch since the moment his shirt fell open. The gear yields beneath your fingertip with the surprising warmth of metal that has been conducting the heat of manufactured life, each microscopic tooth designed with the kind of precision that makes watchmakers weep. Your pulse pounds against your temples.
Isaac’s mouth parts at the touch and his breath hitches. Your pupils eclipse the rest of your eyes. He looks from one to the other, then lets his gaze fall to your lips.
“Fuck,” you breathe and you feel him stir to life beneath you, “how long were you waiting for this?”
His tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth and all he can provide is an open-mouthed smirk. He presses himself forward into your ministrations, that had started off so tentative and full of painstaking deliberation. Your fingers, which had moved with such assured precision moments before, suddenly slip. You jostle one of the cogs when your fingers disrupt it and your eyes widen in a brief panic but Isaac’s lashes give an avian-flutter and the grin that spreads across his face contains multitudes. Half blissful contentment, as if some long-jammed piece has finally clicked into place, and half pure hubris, the satisfaction of someone who has just proven that he is, in fact, more resilient than he originally thought.
The heat in your lower body intensifies and your pretty lips curl into a sneer. “You couldn’t just ask?”
His eyes gleam with lust-addled mirth, knowing fully well that you would have him beg before you allow him to come. "Now… where’s the fun in that?"
You roll your eyes and then shift back only to feel his hardness against you. “God, you’re such a freak.”
He appears unfazed by the remark. “You’re dripping, making a mess all over me so what does that make you?”
You narrow your eyes and then with a calculating intent that rivals his own and then you add another finger to his heart, and the effect is immediate: one of the mechanisms halts completely — not with the gradual winding-down of something running out of power, but with the firm stop of something deliberately interrupted. Isaac’s eyes roll to the back of his head, he messily grinds against your cunt before his movements culminate with a violent stutter and jerk of his hips, grunting while his hot, thick cum spurts out, dripping down your thighs and pussy.
Your disposition sours, mood curdling. “Already?” you bite out. “Jesus, you’re useless. Whatever, I’m gonna come on your dick either way. It’s only fair I make a mess out of you, too.”
Your other hand slips lower, greedy and deliberate. The one already braced around the rim of his open chest stays hooked there, fingers brushing dangerously close to the humming latticework. But your free hand is all ravenous hunger, sliding down between your thighs, you circle your clit, letting him watch as slick gathers across your hand.
The sight alone makes his cock twitch against you, a helpless spasm that betrays just how wrung-out he is.
“Didn’t even have to fuck you yet and you’ve already given up.” You roll your thumb harder against your clit, the moan that spills from your throat a cruel exhibition of pleasure made only to remind him what he isn’t giving you.
The combination of your words and your touch rouses him. A patchworked hand shoots out, gripping your wrist. His chest still heaves, his body still shakes, but there’s a spark of defiance in his hold. “Didn’t you know?” he starts, voice raw but imbued with pride. “The refractory period is a little… different when it comes to me.”
He shifts under you, angling his hips until the flared head of his cock presses insistently at your soaked entrance. You can feel the way he trembles with the effort. The moan that rips out of him as he pushes against you cracks into a strangled choke, his bravado immediately undercut by the sheer intensity of how your body greets him with an ease he had premeditated, but no amount of preparation would have helped against your hot, wet pulsating cunt.
Isaac’s face is covered with a veneer of sweat, chin tilted up and a frown marring his cadaver-like features, his nails bite into the soft, gentle swell of your hips before they lift you up. There’s a brief flicker of perspiration, of arousal, of need. There’s something intoxicating about watching his body betray the controlled precision of his mind. His Adam’s apple bobs, as he recalls the words back to him like a severed limb. “Which means,” he rasps, the words fractured by strain, “that I can fill you up as much as you want, my insatiable girl.” His voice vibrates against your skin like the low hum of the machinery inside him, each syllable a tremor that makes your chest ache. The promise is the only warning you get before his body jolts to life beneath you. His hips rise, hard and sudden, and the impact drives him impossibly deep, setting the gears in his chest to a violent staccato.
Tickticktick — too fast, too uneven, as though the device can’t decide whether to keep time with his body or with yours.
He doesn’t release your hand. His grip is fever-hot, his knuckles bone-white with the force of holding on. The other anchors you by the hip, nails biting crescents into your flesh as if he needs proof that you’re real, that you’re not some hallucination conjured by fever and obsession. Each upward thrust rattles through his frame: the clockwork inside him quivers, plates shifting against one another with a whisper of metal on metal, and you realize that every ravening movement risks unraveling the very mechanism that keeps him alive. The knowledge should alarm you. Instead it twists through your gut, sharp and intoxicating, until your breath catches on a half-strangled moan.
“Isaac!” Your hands scrabble at his chest, your throat feels ragged from gasping and crying out his litany of a name.
Only briefly does he still. It’s not the languid pause of a man in control but the jagged, involuntary falter of something fraying at the edges. His hips hang suspended, trembling with the effort of restraint, staving off his orgasm, and in that frozen instant you notice everything else: the way his thighs quiver under you, muscles jerking like misfiring wires; the sheen of sweat streaking down his chest to mingle with the faint shimmer of oil at the edge of his open cavity; the twitch in his jaw as though he’s biting down on a cry he refuses to give voice to.
He turns his head aside, as if looking at you directly would unmake him completely. His Adam’s apple bobbing with the violence of each swallowed breath, cords straining like stretched-out wires at the effort of denial. The machine inside him answers with its own faltering music, off-kilter and desperate.
Your hand is still caught in his, and suddenly you feel every tremor of his disseminated into you.
The realization sends a sharp pulse down your spine. Your clit throbs with a feverish thought that grips you: he could come undone just by looking at you.
Your lips unfurl into an amused smile.
Slowly, deliberately, you allow one hand to trail down the slope of your stomach, every inch a performance meant as much for him as for yourself. Your fingers slip lower, brushing against the swollen lips of your cunt, and the wet heat there is undeniable. You part your folds, fingers glistening obscenely with the mingled fluids of both of your bodies. “Isaac, open your mouth.”
It’s instant the way he hearkens to your command, he’s too fucked-out to even realize what’s happening, tongue out in an obscene exhibition. You bring your fingers to his mouth and he closes his mouth around them, eyes sliding shut.
“There you go,” you croon, “oh, that’s good.”
The sound that reverberates from him is a strangled moan, vibrating against your fingers, buzzing through your bones until it hits your clit like a live wire. You clench around him hard, and his whole body jerks beneath you.
Then he comes apart. His mouth falls open around your fingers, drool spilling from the corner, slicking your hand along with everything else. His hips snap upward wildly, no rhythm, no precision left, just raw need driving him into you over and over. His breath stutters against your palm, hot and broken, and then he’s spilling inside you again: sudden, violent, a rush of heat that has you gasping and grinding down to take every drop.
It’s messy. His cum leaks out around him almost as soon as he gives it to you, dripping down his cock, down your thighs, smeared into the sweat already covering both of you.
Your breathy exhale is one of relief and you allow him a brief moment of reprieve, angling your face to brush your lips against his. He parts his lips with a shaky tremble and you lick into his open mouth before your saliva-slick fingers brush against the sphere lodged in the center of his inorganic organ. It’s hot now, fevered with exertion, damp with a gloss of condensation. It’s ruinous, the effect in which Isaac’s whole body jerks like he’s been electrocuted, his mouth tears open beneath yours and he lets out an unrestrained whimper. He keens into your body which in turn causes your cunt to clench around him and he wails when he realizes he’s unbearably sensitive.
He thrashes against the overstimulation, hips bucking weakly into you even as every muscle in him trembles with exhaustion. His hand quakes in yours, clutching desperately, while the other claws at your waist as though he could anchor himself against the onslaught. The sound keeps coming, fractured and desperate, each note spilling out of him without his permission.
You hold him through it, breath hitching at the sheer sensitivity vibrating through his body, through the machine that flutters erratically under your touch.
The noise that emanates from him has your core aching, dripping with want and his spend. “Shh,” you whisper against the corner of his mouth, “as much as I want, remember?”
summary: caleb insists that your small chest is perfect (with his mouth... and more...)
cw/tags: boyfriend!caleb x small-chested f!reader, hurt/comfort, caleb x reader, canon divergence, dirty talk, titsucking/licking/worship, slight overstim, multiple orgasms implied, petnames including: princess (a lot) / baby / pretty girl, piv, cumshot, silly pillowtalk n i think that's all
notes: haha good morning 😭 i have had this in my drafts for a lil over a month but I finally finished it and am posting it bc jay encouraged me to ( =＾ω＾) i have been treated weirdly by ppl my whole life for having a small chest so here's another fic about my personal insecurities blegh I BARELY proofread this so be nice. Also why is this so long ( ´-｀) believe it or not this is the shortened version. 😭
Get added to my taglist(s) must have age in bio or pinned
"Caleb, if you were rich would you pay for my boobjob?"
The two of you are fresh from a walk, slightly sweaty as you wash your face and he sits on the countertop, drinking a bottle of water. He literally does a spit take, water spewing out from puffed cheeks.
"What." He blinks at you like you just asked if he'd shoot you in the head if you handed him the weapon.
"What?" You echo innocently, splashing cold water in your face. "It wouldn't be crazy just a size or two up... just like, hypothetically would you do it?"
He shakes his head like he can't believe you. "This is one of your trick questions again, isn't it."
You giggle at that, leaning your hands on his thighs, standing on your tip-toes to wordlessly ask for a kiss, which he happily plants onto your waiting lips.
When he pulls back and looks at you, his head is cocked to the side like a confused puppy.
You sigh, frustrated knowing your silly charade is already busted. Classic.
"I dunnoooo, they're just so... small. There's nothing special about them, they're just there. And barely. Forget finding my waist, someone please find my boobs! Quick! Before I need them for something important.”
You think you're at least being a little funny, but by the way his eyes search your face like digging up a secret, Caleb does NOT agree. He's become so earnest, his lips slightly pouting as he tries to figure you out like a detective.
“Princess, are you insecure about the size of your chest?” He says the words slowly and gently, but you still can't look at him.
“I mean, I guess. Wouldn't you like them more if they were a little bigger? Guys like big boobs. You don't need to lie, I already know.”
“...Lie? What? Why… Why would you think that?” He sounds genuinely shocked and offended that you'd suggest such a thing.
His hand comes down and he grabs your jaw with two fingers, lifting your chin up to look at you. “Don't you know that I think you're flawless?”
“You have to say that you're my boyfriend, it's your job to reassure me.”
Caleb looks at you like you just stabbed him with those words. His mouth parts, breathless with disbelief, before snapping shut again. He leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, crowding into your space so close you can feel the cool condensation of the water bottle against your hip.
“No.” His voice is low, steady, but there’s an edge there—like he’s trying to swallow down something bigger, sharper. “I don’t ‘have to’ say that. You think I’d waste my time lying to you about something like this? About you?”
Your lips twitch into a nervous smile, but his expression is too intent to joke against. He sets the bottle aside with a clatter and cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing the still-damp corners of your cheeks. His touch is gentle, but there’s an urgency in the way he holds you.
“Princess… I need you to hear me, really hear me. Your chest is perfect. Not in a ‘I love you anyway’ kind of way. Not in a ‘good enough for me’ kind of way. Perfect. I love the way you look. I love you. And if you think I’d prefer some fake, plastic, not-you bs you—over what you already give me—you don’t know me at all.”
The earnestness in his voice makes your throat go dry. You try to glance away, but he tips your chin up again, insistent.
His eyes search your face before he kisses you, soft kisses followed by deeper ones, your hands moving to hold onto his waist.
Your hands cling to his waist, but Caleb doesn’t let the kiss stay light for long. He deepens it until your knees threaten to give, until your pulse feels like it’s trapped in his mouth. When he finally pulls back, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven.
“Perfect,” he repeats, almost like he’s trying to carve the word into you. “You think I haven’t memorized every single thing about you? You think I don’t notice how my shirts hang off you—how they hide everything except that little curve right here?” He lets one of his big hands slip between your bodies, palm covering the swell of your breast through your top. His thumb strokes in slow circles, reverent, not teasing. “You walk around like this, and I get to know I’m the only one who sees what’s underneath. Do you know what that does to me?”
You swallow hard, eyes darting down. He doesn’t let you. His hand on your jaw is firmer now, coaxing your gaze back up.
“Don’t look away,” he says, voice soft but commanding. “I want you to hear me. I love the size of your chest. I love that when you’re in my arms, they fit in my hands like they were made for me. I love how when you take off your shirt, it’s like a secret only I get to unwrap. And I love—God, I love—when you’re lying on your side and I see the curve of you, soft and perfect, like a painting.”
The words pour out of him like he’s been holding them in for years. He leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose—little punctuations to prove his point.
“Princess, there’s no upgrade in the world that could make me want you more than I already do. You walk into a room, and I’m ruined. You smile at me, and I forget how to breathe. You take your shirt off, and I lose my fucking mind.” His hand squeezes gently, deliberate, his other hand sliding down your back, urging you closer between his spread knees. “And you think I’d trade that for something fake? Not a chance.”
You let out a shaky laugh, but it dies in your throat when he suddenly shifts, strong arms wrapping around your thighs. With no warning, he hefts you up and over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, ignoring your squeak of protest.
“Caleb!” you yelp, hands smacking at his back as he strides toward the bedroom.
“Enough talking,” he says, voice low and rough. “If words aren’t enough to convince you, then I’ll show you.”
The door slams shut behind him, his grip iron around your legs as he tosses you down onto the bed with more care than force. He looms over you, breathless but steady, his eyes fixed on you like you’re something holy.
“You’re flawless, beautiful, mine,” he says, crawling over you, palms braced on either side of your shoulders.
His hands slide down, fingertips brushing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath. When he pulls the fabric up, slow and deliberate, his gaze doesn’t leave your face. The reverence there makes you shiver.
“Pretty,” he murmurs, like a prayer. “So fucking pretty.”
His mouth is on you before you can reply—hot, hungry kisses pressing along the swell of your breast, his tongue tracing circles, teeth scraping just enough to make you gasp. He moans against you, like just touching you is enough to undo him.
“Princess, you’re perfect,” he whispers between kisses, voice rough with devotion. “Perfect for me.”
Caleb’s mouth moves against you with steady, deliberate patience, worshipful but insistent. His lips close over the curve of your breast, small and soft in his hands, and the sensation makes your chest shiver. One hand cups it fully, palm cradling the weight he loves, while the other traces the side, pressing lightly against the skin that seems impossibly delicate.
Your nipples are tiny, just the way they always were, but he doesn’t treat them as small—they’re the center of his focus, and the size makes him more meticulous, more reverent. He licks slowly, teasing with the tip of his tongue before pressing his mouth firmly over the peak, sucking lightly. Each flick, each press of his lips sends a ripple of heat through your body.
His big hands make your chest feel impossibly cherished—like every inch of you is meant to fit under his touch. The curve from your collarbone down to your nipple fits perfectly against the arch of his palm, the way his thumb brushes the sensitive underside making your knees go weak. He doesn’t talk, but the low, soft hums he lets out vibrate through you, communicating devotion louder than any words could.
He shifts, tilting his head, alternating between sucking one side, then the other, giving each small breast equal attention. The subtle differences—how the skin quivers under his mouth, the way your tiny nipples harden at just the right pressure—seem to fascinate him. Every movement, slow and precise, is designed to make you melt into the bed beneath him.
Your fingers clutch the sheets as he leans closer, mouth covering the curve of your chest, nose brushing against your skin, hands molding and holding, almost protective in their firmness. The combination of heat, pressure, and the teasing slide of his tongue makes your body react uncontrollably. He hums against you again, this time a deeper, more urgent sound that vibrates through your entire torso, and you can’t stop the soft moan escaping your lips.
Caleb’s gaze lifts just enough to catch your eyes, a fleeting, possessive look, and then he buries his face again, showing you without words exactly how much he loves this—the smallness, the softness, the way everything fits perfectly in his hands and mouth. You’re lost in sensation, lost in him, and the world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the steady, worshipful weight of his touch.
Caleb doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath. His mouth stays glued to your chest, lips and tongue alternating between sucking, flicking, and dragging across the sensitive peaks of your small breasts. Every motion is deliberate, calculated to make you feel everything all at once. His fingers knead and press into the soft curve of your chest, thumbs brushing the underside with a pressure that makes your breath hitch every time.
The contrast between the gentle heat of his mouth and the firm, encompassing weight of his hands is almost unbearable. He tilts his head, angling his mouth to take more of you in, and the combination of suction and his skilled tongue tracing patterns across your skin sends a shudder through your entire body. Your hands clutch at the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as the sensations build impossibly fast, each movement of his lips pulling you higher.
He hums low, almost possessively, and the vibration travels through your chest, your stomach, your thighs, wrapping around you like a cocoon. The smallness of your breasts only seems to heighten his intensity—there’s less to focus on, but he makes every inch count, worshiping them with meticulous care. The side profile when he shifts slightly, pressing his cheek to the curve while letting his hand cup the other, leaves you gasping. Every little flick of his tongue, every soft nibble along the edge, drives sparks of pleasure straight to your core.
Your breath comes in shallow pants, moans catching in your throat as the warmth pooling between your legs grows sharp and urgent. He notices without a word, his hand tracing a slow line from your ribcage down toward your hip, teasing, pressing lightly just enough to make your body coil against his touch.
Your chest is already trembling under his lips, your nipples hard and slick from his worship, and the teasing slide of his fingers near your core—only to tempt—pushes you closer to the edge.
Then he changes rhythm, circling with his tongue faster, sucking a nipple just enough to make you cry out, fingers tracing delicate patterns along the curve of your small breast as if memorizing every contour, while his other hand presses fingers to your clothed mound rubbing slow pressing circles. The sensations: mouth, hands, teasing pressure, combine and twist inside you, electric and impossible to resist. Your hips jerk reflexively, thighs parting slightly on their own, and heat blooms explosively in your lower body.
Your moans grow louder, breaking into gasps as your body clenches involuntarily, your chest heaving under his mouth. Caleb hums against you, deep and satisfied, fingers kneading and pressing with unwavering attention, and your core shatters under the exquisite overload. Every small flick, suck, and touch from him drives you higher until your body trembles, back arching, chest rising and falling rapidly, and you’re clinging to the sheets and him at once.
He doesn’t stop, even as your high washes over you, letting you ride the pleasure, licking, sucking, and caressing, coaxing out every last quiver of release. His hands hold you steady, mouth and tongue tracing the curve of your small breasts again and again, murmuring nothing but soft, possessive hums. When at last your body finally eases, trembling and spent beneath him, he lifts his head, lips glistening, eyes dark with devotion.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers again, voice low and full of awe, as if simply touching and loving you like this proves it beyond any doubt. “So fucking perfect, baby.”
Your fingers clutch his shoulders, chest still heaving, every nerve alight from how completely he’s made you his, small breasts and all. The heat between your legs lingers, and even the aftershocks feel like they belong entirely to him.
Caleb pulls back just enough to let his eyes rake over you, dark and smoldering, heat pooling in every glance. His hand slips down his shorts, freeing himself, and you see the evidence of exactly what he’s feeling: thick, pulsing, leaking precum over the tip. The sight makes your stomach flutter, the combination of desire and possessiveness making your chest rise and fall faster.
“Look what you’ve done to me,” he rasps, voice low, husky, charged with need. His big hands grip himself, stroking the length slowly at first, just enough to show you how completely undone he is. The head glistens, pressing against the fabric of your shorts, teasing, rubbing in time with the tremor of his hips. “Look at my big cock,” he continues, voice thick with heat, “messy, hard, and dumb… all because I got to taste your pretty tits. All because you’re mine.”
He leans forward slightly, the weight of his chest nearly pressing you back into the mattress, and presses the tip more insistently against your soaked shorts. The friction, the heat, the smell of him combined with the lingering sweetness of your skin from his mouth—it’s dizzying. You can feel the length of him pulsing, the veined shaft straining, every movement deliberate to make you watch, to show you the consequences of letting him worship you.
His other hand stays on your body, one palm cupping your jaw, the thumb brushing your lips to keep your gaze locked with his. He doesn’t need to say much; every stroke, every press of the head against the sensitive fabric, every slow grind of his hips tells you how desperate he is for you. He moans low, almost reverent, as if your small breasts were enough to unravel him entirely, and in this moment, they are—every curve, every peak, every soft weight of you in his hands has him undone.
He tilts his head to watch your reaction, eyes hooded with hunger, breathing hot against your temple. “God, princess… look at me,” he murmurs, voice thick and uneven, “look at what you make me do, yeah?” Each stroke of his hand glides up and down the length, the head rubbing over the wet fabric of your shorts, and you can feel the slick, teasing pressure against your core through the thin material. Your thighs twitch on their own, responding, heart hammering.
The room fills with the sounds of him—low groans, the slick drag of skin on fabric, his ragged breaths mixing with your own gasps. His fingers tighten slightly as he strokes, veins pulsing under the firm weight of his hand, the tip sliding and pressing as if he’s trying to mark you with the memory of this moment. You can’t look away; the sight of him undone, so obsessed, so affected by just having had your chest in his mouth, makes your body hum with need and anticipation.
Caleb leans closer again, lips brushing your ear, whispering only fragments, his voice full of worship and heat: “All for you… all because of you… mine, baby… mine.”
Each word, each stroke, each press of the hot head against your shorts is a symphony of sensation, making your skin tingle, your chest rise and fall, your legs quiver. You’re dizzy with the raw, intense adoration, and the combination of watching him and feeling his desperate hardness pressed to you pushes you closer and closer to a trembling, gasping edge. It's teasing.
Caleb’s hands are everywhere at once. One grips your hip, holding you steady, while the other is sliding the fabric of your underwear aside with record speed. The moment your sensitive heat is exposed to him, he groans low in his throat, eyes dark with lust. Without hesitation, he plunges deep inside you, filling you completely in one hard, deliberate thrust. The sensation is dizzying and your small chest is still tingling from his worship, your core now stretched and taken in a way that makes every nerve scream with need.
“Mm… you’re so wet, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your ear, voice husky and thick with hunger. He tilts his head, brushing his lips along your jaw as his hips roll slowly, measuring, teasing. “You must believe me~” he teases, sliding just deep enough to let you feel the stretch, the fullness, his cock perfectly aligned with your small frame.
The way you feel around him—the slick heat, the tightness—makes him groan, pressing closer until his chest is flush with yours.
His hands roam possessively, one gripping the curve of your waist, fingers digging slightly as he pulls you impossibly closer with each thrust. “Practically pulling me in,” he whispers, voice low, awe-filled, almost as if your body’s response is a spell holding him captive. He moves with slow, deliberate precision, hips tilting just enough to brush that sensitive spot that makes your back arch involuntarily. Each thrust is a mixture of dominance and worship—he’s demanding, but every movement is tuned to the perfect way your body feels around him.
You gasp, clinging to him, nails pressing into his shoulders as he sets a rhythm, each movement pushing you higher, stretching the pleasure until your mind feels like it might spin. The slick, hot friction combined with the lingering aftershocks from his mouth on your chest is overwhelming; every nerve is alive, every heartbeat pounding in tandem with his thrusts, your small chest moving with the pounds of his cock.
Caleb leans down, forehead against yours, lips brushing yours in fleeting, heated kisses while he continues, each one grounding you in the delirious pleasure. He hums low, throat vibrating against your skin as his hips roll, each thrust deep and full, filling you completely. “So perfect for me… you feel so perfect,” he groans, his words punctuated by the friction and the way your body molds perfectly to his large frame.
He starts to increase the pace, still controlled, each plunge bringing a wave of heat and tension that builds through your stomach, into your chest, down to your core. His big hands and thick arms hold you tight, never letting you pull away, every movement designed to make you melt under him, to feel how completely he’s undone by just having you.
The combination of heat, tightness, slick friction, and the lingering worship from before sends shivers racing over your skin, building to a dizzying, inevitable climax that has your body trembling, back arching, and breath shattering with every thrust he drives deep inside you.
Every groan, every whisper, every low hum from him is like a tether, pulling you further into the exquisite, consuming pleasure of being completely his, small breasts worshiped, core filled, and utterly undone by his touch. You feel foolish to ever doubt him and his adoration for your body as it is.
Caleb’s body presses into yours, weight heavy but warm, grounding you as he moves. His large hands slide up your sides, finally cupping your breasts again, thumbs brushing your small, sensitive peaks with slow, deliberate circles. The slick friction of his cock inside you combined with the gentle, teasing fondling of your chest makes your body shiver uncontrollably. Each flick of his thumbs, each press of his palms against the soft swell of your breasts, sends ripples of heat straight through your core.
He leans down closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, whispering nothing coherent—just low, broken groans and whiny sounds of need that match the rhythm of his thrusts. His hips roll with precision, each plunge deep and consuming, perfectly timed with the teasing strokes of his fingers on your nipples. The combination is dizzying: chest alight with sensitivity, core stretched and slick, body entirely at his mercy.
“Fuck… princess, you feel so good,” he moans, voice breaking between groans as his chest presses against yours, big arms bracing over your shoulders. The sound of his pleasure mingles with yours, each whine and gasp a tether that pulls you further into the overwhelming sensations. You arch into him instinctively, nails digging into his shoulders as your small breasts rise and fall under his hands.
His fingers knead and pinch gently, circling your peaks while his thumbs roll teasingly over the sensitive flesh, and the way your body reacts—nipples hardening, chest trembling, hips jerking—only seems to push him further over the edge. Each whiny, breathless moan he lets out vibrates through you, the reverberation making your stomach clench and pulse in tandem with him.
He presses closer, forehead to yours, mouth brushing along your jaw, sometimes biting lightly in frustration and need, letting his hands linger possessively. Every thrust is powerful yet careful, letting your slick, tight body wrap perfectly around him, every fondle, pinch, and squeeze on your small breasts amplifying the pleasure until it feels like your senses could shatter.
“You’re mine… all mine, pretty girl,” he groans, voice breaking with every thrust. The way he moves—thick hips slamming, hands worshiping, moans spilling out like he can’t contain himself—drives you higher and higher. Each touch, each press of his body, each desperate whine leaves you gasping, trembling, riding the waves of pleasure that seem to come faster and hotter with every stroke.
Your chest heaves under his palms, your back arches, and every small, perfect curve he cups seems to ignite him further. He’s lost in you as much as you are in him, each fondle of your sensitive peaks synchronized with the deep, unrelenting thrusts that have your entire body melting into the mattress. His whiny, desperate pleasure and the sensation of his fingers on your breasts overwhelm you completely, driving you to tremble and gasp, letting go into another shuddering climax, slick and helpless beneath him.
Your walls clench around him, tight and insistent, and the reaction has Caleb groaning sharply, head falling back as he whines, “Fuck… Baby, I’m gonna cum...”
His hips stutter against yours, the desperate, broken rhythm making every nerve in your body tingle. He slows just enough, trying to drag it out, stuttering with each thrust, trying to savor every second of being inside you, of feeling your small, slick body gripping him so perfectly. His hands dig into your hips and sides, knuckles white, as if holding on will somehow keep him from falling over the edge too soon.
His lips brush against your shoulder, low, wet kisses, murmuring your name in ragged, breathless whispers, as if you’re both tethered in this heat, this tension, this shared climax. You can feel the tremor running through him, thick veins pulsing along the length of his cock as he fights to last just a little longer, trying to bury himself deeper into the tight, slick walls that pull him in so effortlessly. Every time he shudders, every stuttered thrust, it sends a fresh wave of heat spiraling through your own core, making your thighs quake and chest heave under the weight of him.
And then, just as suddenly, he pulls out. The loss of pressure, the empty, hollow space where he had been filling you, makes you cry out, a long, needy moan of frustration and longing. Before you can even catch your breath, he releases over you, warm, thick droplets splattering across your chest. The peaks of your small breasts are swallowed in the sight and sensation, slick and shiny with his load, painting your skin in a way that feels intimate, possessive, and utterly overwhelming.
You can feel the heat of him lingering on your skin, every drop soaking into your soft curves, each bead glistening against your sensitive peaks, and it makes your stomach flutter in a dizzying mixture of pleasure and awe. The sheer volume, the force of him letting go like this, combined with the sight of his flushed, heaving body above yours, makes your chest tighten, heart hammering. You’ve never seen him like this—so unguarded, so undone, so entirely consumed by you—and the sight alone is enough to make your knees weak. This might be the most he ever came.
He pants above you, forehead damp with sweat against yours, chest rising and falling heavily, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, eyes dark and hooded with the aftershocks of his release. Every groan, every shiver running through him, every lingering pulse of his cock has left a mark—on your skin, on your senses, on your mind. Your fingers trace the slick path over your breasts, smearing the warm droplets slightly, marveling at the reality of it, the way he’s left you covered in his worship.
Caleb collapses partially beside you, arm draped over your waist, thumb brushing along the curve of your side as he murmurs your name softly, his chest heaving, lips parted in shallow, ragged breaths. The afterglow of the experience wraps around both of you like a heady fog and the sight, the sensation, the raw intimacy of him like this makes it feel like you’re still trembling long after the last shiver passes through his body.
Every time your gaze meets his, eyes glazed with heat and sweat, you can feel the silent promise in them: that this—your small breasts, your body, every inch of you—is more than enough to leave him undone, more than enough to make him yours completely, and the intensity of that knowledge has your chest rising and falling with shivering, breathless awe.
“Don't ask me what you asked me in the bathroom ever again. Unless you like breaking my heart. I love you.”
“Love you.” You hold on the urge to say that if it'll make him fuck you like this, you'll say whatever you want. Instead you kiss his freckled shoulder softly. “Will you fuck me like this if I feel bad every time?”
He snorts. “You are such a brat. Yes. Of course. And then some.” He turns on his side, to face you pinching your cheek before his eyes go to your painted chest. He runs his finger through the center of the mess on your chest like an artist admiring his work.
“C’mon beautiful, shower time. I'll clean you off, Caleb's treat,” he kisses your nose on the last word. Sealing the end of this with tenderness.
You crinkle your nose as you suppress a grin. “Hmm… for some reason, I believe Caleb… has ulterior motives…”
“Hm. Beautiful and clever, that's my girl. C’mon let's get you cleaned up, my hands yearn for the soapy fondling of your perfect tits—”
You blush your palm over his lips in an instant.
“Ugh… okay, okay, just shut up now, please. You're making me cringe!~”
sylus found you... quite amusing. he didn't know if it was because you were inexperienced with drugs, and only seem to buy them for your little friends. or if it was the fact you never brought money, every. single. time.
it was definitely the second reason.
every time sylus got a text from you, it was like he could predict what you were going to say next.
fav customer: need something for my friends again, do u have some left?
sylus: Yes.
fav customer: alright. same spot? promise ill bring money this time <3
he knew you weren't going to stay true to your promise. but thats where the fun comes at.
plug!sylus leans against the walls of a secluded dark alleyway you both would always meet at. the air tonight felt thick and dull. trash was scattered around everywhere, ranging from soda cans, to chip wrappers, to used cigarettes, you name it.
sylus shuffled his feet on the ground, scattering the leaves and garbage together as he patiently waited for the familiar footsteps, humming a soothing rhythm. and as time patiently passed, footsteps echoed towards him, and he knew exactly who it was.
"hey, sweetie." sylus mused, lifting himself off the wall as he nonchalantly walked towards you, slipping the bag of weed out of his pocket, waving it at your face. you waved back, muttering a little greeting before reaching for the small bag. but before you could grab it, sylus pulled back. he wanted to play around for a bit.
"what-"
"money first, or none of this stuff."
"seriously? my friends need this now, please just give it."
“oh? then they could wait a bit longer, no?”
you huff and cross your arms. the tight shirt you were wearing, which was hugging your figure, showing off every curve, and revealing the wrong parts of your skin, was enough for sylus to know you didn’t bring anything.
"just say you didn't bring money." sylus muttered.
you gave him a side eye and considered saying the words. but when you stayed silent, sylus only sighed before throwing the bag in your hands.
-
"hngh- s-sylus- few more minutes, okay?"
sylus growled in response to your question, sinking himself deeper in your sweet cunt he's used to by now. without giving you a proper answer, his large fingers curled around your sides as he rapidly rolled his hips against yours with no rhythm.
the sounds of your skins slapping against each other echoed through the room, your skirt hiking up your thighs at every thrust, making sylus' eyes roll back. small droplets of drool trickled down his lips as he savoured the moment, almost forgetting you had to go in a few minutes.
but he wanted you to stay longer.
"tell me," he said, inching closer to your face before capturing your lips with his, tasting your sugared flesh like it was candy, sucking on your bottom lip like it was a lollipop, not caring if it was actually your lipgloss he was tasting. either way, he was addicted to your taste.
"..why do you not bring money on purpose?"
you quiver and spew random words, clearly unable to speak from how eager he was going with you. he was only rushing because you said you had to go. if you didn't have to leave, you and him would be here for hours.
"I don't- ngh- w-wait!" you suck in a breath as you tried to hold back your orgasm, but the feeling of sylus' cock twitching inside you, pounding faster and faster, his tip kissing your cervix rhythmically, made it harder to hold back.
"I swear- didn't I b-bring it the first time we met?" you shudder, throwing your head back as sylus started to slow down. "you seem to like when I dont bring money, anyway." you continued.
a beat of silence echoed through the room for a moment, and then a low menacing chuckle left sylus' lips. he laughed at your awful attempt at a joke, also ignoring the second thing you said and leaned in, cradling your face in his hands.
"you only brought it the first time because you had to." the energy in his hips regained speed and he started to go at the same brutal pace again. " and you're right, I don't mind, now."
"see? then why am I still your customer- hck! please!"
sylus only chuckled at your reaction before continuing, "after you seduced me the second time, I was just a bit interested to not let you- ungh- go." he confessed, muttering the words 'just like right now' after that, hoping you heard.
"so please, just say with me for a little longer, your friends can wait. and in the future, you don't need to pay with money..." sylus' fingers snaked down your body as he sucked in a breath, feeling himself reaching closer and closer to release.
"just with this." he says as his hands stopped at your heart.
xavier is still learning to love shamelessly; he’s still learning how to be adorned with adoration.
while he’s always grateful to have your arms tightly clasped around him, hugging him with all your might, he still struggles to accept all your loving gestures fully and readily.
despite how much he wants to feel loved by you, despite how much he aches to feel safe in your softness, he can’t help but shy away from its frequency, from the pride you exude when you slip your hand into his.
but you’ve made it your mission to break down his apprehension.
exposure therapy.
whenever you can, you press a kiss to his temple. when he’s least expecting it, your small hands cup his unsuspecting cheeks, your fingertips tingling as his face flushes and warms beneath them. your thumbs stroke his soft skin, taking in a towering man turning timid for you.
now is no different.
you notice he’s keeping his distance again, and that simply can’t be sustained. not while you’re around, not while your endeavor is ardency, not while you’re teeming with all the fondness you’re desperate to display for him.
“come on, let’s take a nap together.” you suggest, pulling on his hand until you’re dragging him along.
despite roseate cheeks giving away timidity, xavier’s rejection attempts to persist. “baby, listen. i have a few things to do.”
he protests softly, weakly, and with little effort to stand by it, but allows himself to be tugged by you because the truth is he doesn’t want to do anything else except be yours. he wants nothing more than to be all for you. he doesn’t want you to let him go; he just wants to hear you say you want to love him instead.
a soft smile and a shake of the head from you. “nope, the only thing you have to do is treat me like a tree and become my koala. let me hug and rub on you.”
“me, a koala?” he raises a brow, looking away from you as if it would reduce the pressure and heat in his face. “eh, you’re not really an adequate tree.”
pouting, you huff at his comment and grip his shirt, pulling him down until his face hovers just over yours. his lips anticipate the softness and adoration of your kiss, and as his eyes flutter closed to brace for arduous impact, he hears your amused giggle instead.
there’s a sinking feeling in his gut then that begs him not to ever let you slip from his devoted grasp.
when he feels your lips plant firmly against the center of his forehead, he freezes in place, eyes shooting open wide.
your warm-blooded murmur follows. “well, i’m the best tree you’ve got so you better cling to me well, okay?”
so of course, his lips clamp shut and he nods without argument or protest, gulping with a mousy expression. you draw him in for a hug then, an all-consuming one, one that makes him melt into your arms and surrender to his willingness to reciprocate.
you don’t see the amused and moony smile he gives you; you never do. you don’t feel the way his heart skips a beat in his chest at the thought of crawling on top of you, being caressed and embosomed by you.
even if he does suck it up and say it aloud, there won’t be enough emotion in his voice to convey it befittingly: his heart is not with him anymore.
his heart has a new chasm to dwell and meander around in.
on a plot of your tenderness with a foundation of your holiness, that’s where he builds his new life and his new will. right there with you.
when you lay in his bed on your back, arms expectant and open, you just look at him blankly. he tries not to smile so triumphantly knowing you’re about to wrap him up and he’s going to be laying with his head on your chest, your soft fingers raking through his hair, an endearing palm rubbing along his spine.
finally, he lays down with you, sinks right into your patient and waiting embrace, nuzzling his head into the indentation of your collarbone, claiming your signature scent of cashmere and peonies for himself. it clings to you as closely as he does.
“all i needed,” he sighs against your skin, a little hidden smile you don’t need to see to know is there for you. “you always make it better. every time.”
there’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you. where he belongs is securely attached to you. there’s no future without you by his side, without you loving him so much it makes him move.
there’s no such thing as ‘in love’ if it’s not you and him, in the end.
dating you is, frankly, an uphill battle. suguru admires your independence, but he hates the way it makes him feel useless sometimes. like you’re so accustomed to handling everything on your own that it doesn’t even occur to you someone else—namely your boyfriend—might want to help.
case in point: he finds you perched precariously on the kitchen counter, arm straining toward the top shelf. he reaches his hand, and the cereal box is retrieved with insulting ease and set beside you. before you can protest, he’s got an arm around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the counter and onto the floor.
“dramatic.” you say, rolling your eyes but smiling.
“hm.” nonchalant as ever, as he leans in to steal a kiss. “call it what you want. i like taking care of you.”
and, of course, suguru redeems that noble sentiment his preferred brand of caretaking: namely, folding you into a tight mating press. with his cock driving so deep you swear you feel him in your tummy, all that vaunted self-sufficiency gets bulldozed in real time. so much for #girlpower.
“look at that,” he observes cheerfully, watching the slight bulge in your belly every time he bottoms out. “bet you think you can make yourself cum better than me, too.” his fingers rub expertly at your puffy clit, eliciting shivers and helpless mewls. losing himself in the warmth of your cunt, suguru’s smile softens, though his thrusts remain unsparing.
“don’t worry, i’ll take care of you. since you won’t let me take care of anything else.”
summary - you've got the opportunity of a lifetime for an audition for Julliard, your dream, but there's just one problem, the hotel in New York has booked your room and has nothing available. Good news, your dad's best friend Satoru Gojo shows up and offers you to stay in his suite since he's in town on business. But there's two big problems - one, you've wanted him since you can remember, and two, he can't stand how fucking pretty you are. He can't want you - and nothing can come from it - imagine what your dad Suguru would do if anything ever happened between you!? So nothing will happen - right?
warnings- MDNI- taboo tropes, age gap (Satoru is 41, reader is 22) reader is Suguru's daughter, forbidden relationships, obsessive Satoru, mutual pining, sexual tension, explicit smut and light angst- this chap - masturbation (Satoru) a fuck ton of tension, reader having a lifelong crush on him, mentions of past relationships, self loathing as they both want each other, drinking and kissing -WC- 8.3k
This will be Four parts! comments/rbs appreciated if you enjoy!
part two>>>
part one
Satoru Gojo has never had his cock twitch from just looking at someone's back, not even your ass - though fuck that was nice - but something about the bare back in the slinky little dress was fucking him mentally. The gentle curve of your spine, a little birth mark along your shoulder blades has him - a man who's in his early forties and very experienced - leaking precum.
The fuck was that?
He clears his mind, blinking a bit then, he's checking into his favorite suite as he does every couple of months for various business events that he has to attend. Running the Gojo corporation is a never ending list of bullshit he's got to do, and events and speeches were just one of the many.
He sighs as he takes in the immaculate bustling lobby, trying to divert his attention from this girl's back and look like some creep when he's literally Satoru Gojo. He brushes his silken white locks back, walking up to the tall counter then with an easy smile, as the three receptionists rush to him, and leave the girl with the pretty spine behind.
"I can wait my turn, no worries ladies." He winks and they all swoon, and when you hear that voice, you know it's him.
"Gojo?" Satoru blinks at the familiar voice, turning to his side to look down at -
Suguru Geto's only daughter.
Fuck.
He swallows just a bit nervous, how does he explain he just leaked pre looking at his best friend's daughter's spine exactly!? About the ways he would have to explain how your instagram photos haunt him at night, and how he can't help but have glimpses of you in your bikini when he cums.
There's a big reason he's avoided Suguru as of late, and that's because he can't handle how beautiful you are - it's like you fucking just do something, and he refuses to accept it or acknowledge it consciously. Now you're smiling up at him, before you come over and hug him tightly around the waist, your breasts pressed against him.
It takes everything not to either shove you off or give in and pick you up and prop you right on this fucking counter. It's some miracle he just pats your back instead - your bare pretty back that he shouldn't touch because it makes it worse.
"Hey sweetheart, what're you doing in town?" He manages to act normal, putting on an easy smile as he sees now your eyes glimmering with tears. "What's wrong?"
"They gave my room away, and I have the audition for Julliard this week! Everything is booked except shit way out of my price range. I don't wanna bug dad about it." He sighs then, remembering Suguru telling him about your opportunity, he'd been so proud every time he watched you play piano.
It's originally why he followed your IG, but whatever happened your junior year of college made you start posting those damn pictures in your bikini or slutty little outfits. He shoves that all back, focusing on your worry, and then eyes one of the receptionists, backing away from you just a bit.
Not like your scent hasn't already filled his senses.
You're important to him, just like Suguru is, and he'll not let his dumb fucking thoughts ruin your opportunities. "Surely there's a room available, I'll pay."
"You can't do that! It's too much." You're a flustered mess, as he flashes that pretty smile of his that makes your tummy clench.
"It's nothing," he pats your head and smiles down at you, and you try to ignore just how fucking good Satoru Gojo looks then. Try to ignore his cologne in your senses, ignore how the man just gets more attractive every fucking year, a little crinkle on the sides of each eye the only lines on his face.
You have been trying to ignore your crush on your dad's best friend for as long as you can remember - fuck they're so close too, and you hoped it was some childhood idolization. But as a twenty two year old woman, it's as bad as fucking day one - worse maybe, when you study the way his hands move as he speaks, long fingers that give you the worst thoughts you wish would go away.
"Nothing at all open but the presidential suite you said?" He asks softly, you're still too close to him, fucking up his senses, as the receptionist frowns, clacking away at her keyboard.
"They just booked the last one online, Mr. Gojo."
"Shit, then..." He eyes you, blue eyes glinting as he takes in your distraught, pretty little face.
He can compose himself, can't he, hasn't he always?
"She'll stay with me, give her a key card," you hug him once more, he's chuckling and pecking a kiss on your head. "You're clingy still, remember you always were."
"Maybe, oh Gojo, thank you! I didn't wanna have to ask dad for money..." You're independent, Satoru loves that about you, Suguru is well to do - not rich like Satoru, but well off. But he's mentioned you never ask for a thing.
"No worries, the room is huge, we won't even be near each other much." He's pressing the button to the elevator soon once you all get checked in, and the silver automatic doors close, leaving you two alone, nothing but the soft sounds of your breaths and stupid elevator music.
And there's just one problem.
Satoru Gojo can't help but picture pressing you against those elevator walls, sinking to his knees and slipping up your slutty black dress, the one where he can so clearly see your breasts rise and fall, a nipple daring to slip out. Can't help but picture fucking you better than surely any of your dumb little college boys could.
He can't think that way.
He hastily tugs off his jacket, laying it over your shoulders as the elevator dings on each floor.
"Thanks, it's a little chilly." You say softly, tugging his jacket close on you, he exhales in a mix of relief and hot desire at how good you look in his armani suit jacket. "You're a life saver, really."
"It's nothing, kid."
"Kid! I'm not a kid." Your pout earns his chuckle, the two of you walk through the halls, decked with cream colored walls and fancy paintings, it's fancier than even you were used to. He presses the card against the hotel door and it opens, and that's when you both realize just how alone you were.
Satoru had been a part of your life for all you can remember, him and your dad would go off on the silliest adventures, and your dad’s other best friend Shoko would watch you at times. You don’t remember your mom that much anymore, she has been gone since you were young, and Satoru and Suguru had always been inseparable, especially since she left.
Satoru had taught you how to swim, Suguru had taught you how to shoot a gun, Satoru taught you how to throw a ball into a hoop, and Suguru taught you how to hit one with a bat. Every time he came to visit during the summers, you’d be so excited, he always had some new gift and an easy smile.
Until you got older.
You remember the first time he brought over one of his girlfriends, she was beautiful, and you’d still been young, hopelessly staring in the mirror at yourself after, wondering if you’d ever be pretty like that. And when he came for your high school graduation with another girl on his arm, when he told you that you looked beautiful and bought you the necklace you still wear today?
You’d been insanely jealous.
You try to explain it away as being eighteen, you were still a baby then, and the crush had been raging. So badly you found yourself comparing every boy you dated to the man Satoru was, and every single one fell hopelessly short. You both get settled, taking in the opulent surroundings, it’s surely big enough he’s right, there’s an entire other room, a kitchen, spacious furniture and beds.
Satoru sets down the luggage, as he eyes you in his suit, and you start taking some of your things out. It’s quiet, the sense of unease filling the two of you as you both busy yourselves, little friendly smiles are the only passages between you as you two live in your own minds.
“You can take a shower first,” he offers softly a bit later, slipping that tie down just a bit to loosen it, and then rolling up his sleeves, revealing those muscled forearms, light blue veins wrapping up them from his wrists. Your mouth goes dry as you look at them, while he slips off his silver rolex, smiling at you a bit. “Do you want me to hog all the hot water instead?”
“Huh? Oh…” you blink a bit, it’s not like you’ve never been with anyone, never seen a man naked, but Satoru’s forearms were taking you the fuck out.
He is effortless with his little movements, he must do this almost every day, freeing himself from the confines of his perfect facade, the buttoned up business man who you’ve never seen in the same suit twice. You’re sure he wears them again, it’s just you haven’t seen him enough to have ever caught it, the only thing you’ve noticed is he wears the same cufflinks.
The ones you saved to buy him when you were in high school, storing up all your extra funds where you worked as a waitress to purchase them for his birthday. You eye them now as you still hold the jacket close, fingers brushing along the bright blue sapphire of one of them. You’d walked by a jeweler in the mall with your friends and thought they matched just one shade of his eyes.
“You still wear these?” You ask softly, his attention goes to your little fingers brushing over the gem carefully, and he nods a bit. “Why? Aren’t they kind of not up to your… standard?”
“They’re my favorite, and they weren’t cheap either,” he walks up then, touching the other one, his nearness fucking your senses. “I remember you buying them, I think it was my thirty-sixth birthday. I was having some existential crisis and they really cheered me up.”
“You, a crisis? No way,” he hums a bit, gently tugging the cuff links out now, one by one, setting them next to his Rolex on a little black glass tray he’d brought along with him, the lights catch them and make them glimmer prismatically. “You were young though, still are.”
“Yeah no, I’ll be forty one in December, yuck.” You laugh with him, shaking your head then.
“That is not ‘yuck’ or old, you and dad are super young. Dad was always like the youngest at any parent event, shit usually the only dad altogether. I remember him going to Moms and Muffins.”
“Yes, you put bows in his hair, he showed me.” You both laugh then, Satoru stands against the dresser, his mind racing then.
He can’t want you like this, and it has to stop, the way he keeps thinking of having you naked and his jacket splayed under you, if you could stop looking at him like that!? Your lips parted, your pretty eyes lidded, making him tortured by the thoughts of fucking you so good they roll back, so good you drool. He’s clenching his hands into fists at the thought, almost twenty years between you.
Maybe if he keeps saying the number, it’ll fucking matter, the fact that he’s never even been with a girl ten years younger, Satoru just wasn’t a man to do that. He enjoyed intellect, experience, someone who got his references and shitty jokes - but the problem was you did check all those boxes. You’ve been kicking his ass at chess since he could remember, you laughed at all his dumb jokes.
You were a brilliant girl with your life ahead of you, you’re right, he’s not ‘old’ but he just is ‘older’ than you. Having already had a divorce and two broken engagements, he also was tired of trying, he’d settled on some regular girls for sex and focused on business fully now. Something a young Satoru who hated his parents and the Gojo name altogether would gasp at.
“You’re not old, you look my age you know.” You break his thoughts up, he chuckles a bit at that, before sucking in a breath, when you walk closer, slipping his jacket off to hand it to him.
“Yeah, genetics and Korean skincare products.” You giggle, as he keeps his eyes affixed on your face, not the strap that’s fallen down the gentle slope of your shoulder, he takes the jacket instead, your fingers brushing against each other for the briefest moment.
“Well, they work, I don’t think you’ve ever changed. I hope I look super hot when I’m your age.”
“You will, you already are beautiful…” He trails off, your eyes meet then, as he realizes what he said, and the tone he said it. He smiles to break the tension. “Thank god you don’t look like your dad.”
“Oh whatever! He’s pretty, you know.”
“Psh, okay.” He rolls his blue eyes, and you both laugh then.
“Thank you, that’s nice of you Satoru.” When you say his first name it’s like testing it, you’ve always called him Gojo, aside from when you made him birthday cards, and you’d write Satoru on them.
“Not being nice, you know you’re a gorgeous girl.” He’s clearing his throat now, looking away as he hangs his jacket up, next to the other suits he’d brought, smoothing it out.
“It’s kinda nice to hear from the Satoru Gojo.”
“Uh huh, flattery will get you everywhere.” He pats your head then, ruffling up your hair, you blow a thick strand off your brow. “You go take a shower.”
“Yeah, thank you again.” You smile and head into the bathroom, finally leaving Satoru to exhale in relief after he glimpses your back again, like pure torture, he’s curious just how the fuck he’ll handle a week alone with you.
Hopefully a room would open up or something by then.
The sounds of hot water pounding on the tiles below fills the room now, mixed with some light singing echoing from the bathroom, he can’t help but smile a bit at how pretty your voice is. If anyone should get into Julliard, it’s surely you, talented and just a natural at everything, the sound fills the room and ignites something in him he’d rather not think of.
Comfy, homey, it’s how you make him feel, and maybe that’s worse than wanting to bend you over the bed, worse than wanting to lift you and slip you against that shower wall. Much, much scarier than the thoughts of filling you up with so much cum your tummy is full of him, watching his fucking cock bulge that tummy as he’d make sure your cunt was ruined for anyone.
No, homey and comfy were worse by far, they were things he absolutely never thought before, even during his marriage - and what a disaster that was. Women all wanted him for his looks, his money, what he could do for them, but no one really knew him deep down, just the facade he’s tired of putting on.
Picturing you naked in the shower is his fucking downfall, picturing your pretty body with water dripping down it, his cock is hard by the mental images, he scowls down at it. He’s just in his slacks now, putting up his dress shirt, luckily this suite always had good hot water and pressure, it’s why it was one of his favorites, and he could surely use a shower.
Jerk off in there to act normal.
He’s like some pathetic teenager around you rather than a grown man, and it irritates him to no end. He hears your singing stop after a bit, as he is typing some notes for tomorrow’s presentation on his laptop, slipping on his glasses to see the screen just a little better, when he sees you from the corner of his eye, wrapped in a soft terry cloth towel.
He almost whimpers at the sight, clenching his teeth together to focus on the screen as you walk out. “Okay I feel a million times better.”
He looks up then, and it’s his downfall, as he has to see the way the towel is tied right at your breasts, pushed up and glistening, skin dewy and flushed from the shower, making him want to kiss every inch. “I bet, the plane ride was a long one.”
“It was, for sure, and then to get a ride to the hotel was hard, I’m not used to a city this big,” you’re adorable with your little pout, your own gaze taking in his bare chest then, like a caress. “I failed my drivers test again by the way.”
“Again? Shit,” he’s snorting in laughter, even as you cross your arms and glare just a bit, you play along with the motions, but your gaze can’t rip itself away from his chiseled body. “Do I gotta teach you?”
“Do you drive anywhere, Gojo?”
“Hush.” You giggle at his own glare, he looks too fucking hot in those glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his body shifting a bit to face you now.
It’s not like you haven’t seen him shirtless constantly, Satoru had helped you swim after all, and Gojo and your dad were always taking you to the beach. You’d always known how perfect he was, sculpted within an inch of his life, lean defined muscles that begged for your fingertips to brush across them, lines and shadows cast as the bathroom light filters into the now dim room.
You wish you felt bad about how badly you want him, but you only feel bad it can never happen, feel bad he couldn’t have been your first, like you’d dreamed over and over, until you knew it couldn’t happen. It wasn’t like Gojo ever saw you that way, the times you think he looked at you as more than a ‘kid’ you feel it was just your imagination.
You feel this man could fuck, you just feel it.
But no, stuck with losers who couldn’t care less if you cum - in fact, the last guy you fucked asked if you did after not touching you more than a minute and cumming pathetically quick in a condom. You’d smiled and said ‘of course’, making him grin and kiss you all happy, and that’s about the time you just gave up on ever liking sex either, too far in your fucking delusions.
It wasn’t a healthy desire, or okay, but usually with Gojo not seeing you much, and you having moved out of your dad’s, it was better. It was just elusive memories and fantasies that you could lose sight of, you could focus on school and your music, focus on your dream — but part of you wanted him in the front row.
“You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t dry your hair,” he teases, standing then, you watch how his muscles flex as he moves, with ease, his long legs making strides so close to you now, when he touches your damp strands with a sigh. “Wasn’t there a blow dryer in there?”
“There is, but I needed to grab some clothes first- ah!” Your towel threatens to fall then, you gasp, but Satoru’s got it bunched together in a fist quicker than you can blink, bringing you right against him.
The only sounds in that moment are your breaths, and your heart pounding in your ears, when your eyes lock together, and you see the way they dilate, almost black in that moment. Your own hand comes over his balled fist, when he leans down, and for some insane fucking moment you picture it - a kiss from him, from Satoru Gojo, his glossy lips and how they’d feel.
Something you wrote about in endless diaries, it can never happen, it would never happen, he’s making sure you’re not naked if anything, you have to remember it, have to hold back. You smile nervously then, hoping the shower will explain away the flush of your cheeks in front of him, as you take the towel from his hold, holding it together now.
“Thanks, I’m so sorry…”
“No, it’s fine,” his voice is darker, huskier than you’ve ever heard it, making your thighs press together, still slick from the water, in need. “I’ll go take one now.”
“Yes,” he stomps away quickly, leaving you to catch your breath, looking in the mirror over the dresser at how badly his nearness affected you. Your own eyes are so dilated you can’t see your iris anymore.
Soon, Satoru’s leaning against the tile wall, stroking his cock in the hot shower, his eyes fluttering shut in a mix of self loathing and need. He has had you pop up in his mind the past couple years, when he’s hitting a girl from the back with your hair color, when he’s fucking one in a spoon position, and her tits are about your size, he’s shoved them all away though.
He’s never jerked off to you specifically, but there’s no denying it, he’s jerking his thick, veiny cock to his best friend’s daughter in the other room. He feels filthy, as filthy as the sick thoughts he has, of making sure he fucked you so good you’d never even look at one of your stupid college boys again. Showing you what cumming really is, because he’s sure no one has done it right.
You’d be so pretty full of him, leaking his cum for him to shove it back inside your cunt, fuck he’d stock up on plan bs if he could do it every night, if he could watch it pour from your perfect pussy. He hasn’t even seen it, but he just knows it’s as beautiful as the rest of you is, god even your thighs in that towel had him leaking more pre, so hard it hurts.
His tip, usually a blushing pink, is now a mean red with how badly it’s been stuck in this fucking state, he hisses a bit as he runs his fingers along it. He’s picturing it all, that towel falling at your feet, and him slipping his hands across that dewy skin, sucking on that delicate neck he’d like his hand around. It’s pathetic, really, he is better than this surely, but he can’t not touch it.
He’s jerking it faster, fisting his long, curved cock, when the fucking door opens, and he tenses, glaring into the shower curtain that thankfully covered him. “I forgot my phone in here, sorry Gojo.”
“Ah, no, it’s f-fine…” he’s sick, he’s sure of it, jerking it even while you’re in there, in fact knowing you’re there has him feeling closer to cumming, hoping you don’t notice the sounds of his fist on his cock.
“Is there still hot water?” You tease, swiping a little bit of the condensation left on your phone with a towel, already wearing your little shorts and a crop top.
“Yeah, plenty, you didn’t hog too much.”
“See!”
“You left strands of your hair on the wall though.”
“Shit, it fell out!” He laughs softly, as if he’s not still stroking it, and you sigh a little bit then. “All right, I’ll leave you to it.”
Why do you fucking think of offering to jump right back in there? Why do you hesitate, wondering just how perfect he looks under that spray? You shut the door gently with a click that echoes, resting your back against it and shutting your eyes, sighing.
You’re already so stressed about the Julliard audition, the last thing you need is this pounding in your head, an impossible fantasy.
When you’re snuggled up in the main bed out in the entryway, Satoru comes out with a towel slung on his hips to grab his clothes, you can’t help but eye the white happy trail, the little v cuts on either side of his hips begging for your tongue on them. You tug your blanket up a little bit, avoiding the sight of the tenting in his towel, and how badly you’re curious about it.
“Feel better?” You tease, he smiles and nods a bit, grabbing his boxers then, hesitating as he realizes he didn’t bring shit else to sleep in.
“Much better.” He’s gone back to the bathroom, you’re exhaling and leaned back, head on the plush leather headboard, fingers tapping in the rhythm you’ll practice tomorrow, focusing.
He finds you like that when he’s back out, sitting down on one of the chairs to tap back at his keyboard once more, and your lips are pursed, fingers tapping along the red silk comforters. You’re beautiful like that, lost in your own world, surely composing some masterpiece only you can hear, a beauty that tugs at his chest.
It’d be one thing if you were just hot, but to be truly beautiful seemed one of life's meanest jokes to him.
Your phone rings, your eyes open and you catch sight of him. “Shit, you saw me like that?”
“Don’t worry, it’s fine, ya gonna get that?” You look at your phone on the nightstand, tugging off the covers just to make him hard again.
Do you wear clothes!? Or just scraps?
“It’s dad!” You’re giggling, picking up the phone, legs dangling high off the floor as he tries not to imagine slipping his fingers across them. “Hey dad!”
“Hey sweetie, you didn’t check in with me, how’s my girl?” Your dads voice instantly makes you miss him, you two are as close as you can be, and you wish he could be here, but he’s out of the country stuck right now because of some stupid customs issue with a pet he and his new girlfriend bought.
She was actually cool as fuck, but you don’t know if your dad really will ever get over mom, though you’d love to see him happy.
“Wishing you were here,” you say, hearing him sigh over the phone.
“I know, shit, I think we should be able to fly out in the next couple days but I’ll miss the audition for sure.”
“Ugh! I’m okay though, actually… Satoru is here.”
“Satoru? Shit, put me on speaker,” you bounce up then, making your tits jiggle as you hop down, Satoru almost chokes when you run up and stand right next to him, popping on the speaker. “He’s here!”
“Satoru, what’re you doing there?” Suguru’s voice is friendly, relieved even. Thank god he can’t sense the dumb fucking thoughts in his head.
“I was actually staying here for business, when the hotel booked her room, so I offered her to just stay in the suite with me.”
“He saved me!”
“Psh.” He’s chuckling as you smile, leaning across his table a bit, tank top slipping off your fucking shoulder, as if the straps were mocking him.
He sure couldn’t stare at your tits while he talks to your dad!?
“Thank you, Satoru, I feel so much better that you’re there with her,” he almost laughs at that, because he sure the fuck wouldn’t want himself around, with what’s brewing in his mind. “I worried about her alone in the city.”
“Dad, I'm a big girl now, you know.” You’re pouting too fucking cute, Satoru can’t drag his mind off your plush lips for a moment as Suguru speaks.
“You’re still my little girl, anyway I am glad it worked out. By the time I even get back you’ll be in Julliard!”
“You have too much faith in me,” your voice is quiet now, and Satoru puts his hand over yours, smiling at you, earning your little smile back.
“She’ll kill it.”
“Exactly, see we both believe in you.” You tear up a bit, sniffling now, it’s been months since you saw either of them.
“I miss you so much.”
“Aw, me too baby, I’ll be home soon okay?” You sniffle as Satoru caresses the back of your hand. “Take good care of her for me, Satoru.”
“I will.” You hang up the phone then, the exhaustion of the flight and your self doubt creeping in, Satoru tugs you close then, hugging you gently as you’re between his thighs, and your arms wrap his neck.
“Hey, hey, you’ll do great. He’ll be back soon,” you’re taking several breaths, burying your face against his neck as the tears fall, and his big hand splays the small of your back, so warm and soothing. “It’s okay.”
“I missed you too.” You say it softly, like a secret, making Satoru pause, his hand still gently running up and down your back.
“Missed me, why?” You just shake your head, hugging him tighter, as his blood rushes to places he wishes it fucking wouldn’t. “Miss me teasing you?”
“Maybe I do,” you pull back, and Satoru swipes your tears, streaking down your pretty cheeks. “You haven’t visited in a long time.”
“Yeah, I know…” He can’t admit why, he eyes your tears still falling, your glassy eyes, it’s too intimate then, too close, your lips a breath away. “I guess work got the best of me, and my nasty break up.”
“She was a bitch.” He snorts in laughter then, swiping more tears as you stand there between his long legs, like you belong there. “I didn’t like her.”
“You didn’t, huh? She was pretty bitchy, it took a lot for me to get her out of the house. I think I considered an exterminator.” You both laugh then, before he realizes he’s still cupping your face. “Why didn’t you like her? She played nice pretty well to others.”
“She wasn’t in love with you enough,” he pauses at your observation, tilting his head, the lights catch the lavender hue on his hair that falls over his brow, still a little damp, the scent of shampoo filling your nostrils. “She didn’t look at you enough, notice you enough. So I decided I didn’t like her.”
“I see, you’re pretty observant huh?” You shrug a shoulder, hand on his wrist now, your thumb brushing over the veins that dance along it. “She wasn’t in love with me, more the idea of being a Gojo I suppose.”
“Well I’m glad she’s gone. I haven’t liked any of your girlfriends.” He laughs now, but you’re dead serious.
“None of them? Now that’s silly, some of them weren’t that bad.”
“Hmm, nope they all sucked.” He’s laughing harder, his hands finally falling, but one of them remains in yours, he looks down at it then, at how small your hand is compared to his. “You deserve someone that really loves you.”
“Yeah, well, I think I give up.”
“What now?”
“Yeah, I’m ancient.”
“Shut up!” You shove at him, he’s chuckling more but you’re very serious. “Stop saying that. I won’t be old at forty.”
“No, you won’t be able to drive then either.”
“Excuse me!?” He’s grinning as you smack playfully, until you smile and sniffle a bit. “You’re such a jerk!”
“Thought I deserve all this love, what now?” His hands found their way to your hips, as he leans forward, before he can think about it, and you suck in your breath, your heart hammering as he pulls back, realizing how natural it felt.
“You do, but you also deserve a few smacks.” You stop his hands before they leave your waist, and he stares right at them, before the gaze drifts to your nipples, glaringly apparent in your top. “Satoru…”
“You should get some sleep,” he barely manages to speak, standing then, towering over you. Your head falls back when he brushes a strand back behind your ear, leaning over to press a friendly kiss on your head, the one that you’d die if it slipped lower. “I’ll have a car ready to bring you in the morning, okay?”
“You’re the best, Satoru, thank you.”
You keep saying it - Satoru - like you’re testing it on your tongue, and it’s never ending hell to hear it, but he plasters on a smile, patting your head like he always does and walking into the room off to the side. Thankful for the privacy and distance, he shuts the heavy cream door and rests his head against it.
He can barely handle looking at you, inhaling your scent, feeling your skin against him, but you saying he deserved love fucked him up completely. He swallows that down, grabbing a water out of the little fridge in there, swallowing it in needy gulps, before finally laying in the bed, forcing himself to fall asleep.
*****
“Good morning, sweets,” Satoru’s bright and cheery as he comes inside the room with two bags full of donuts, muffins and treats, along with two cups of coffee in a carrier. He’s already fully dressed in his suit, looking like a million bucks, so pretty with his smile as bright light filters in the floor to ceiling windows. “You need to eat.”
“Oh, thank you so much.” You yawn and stand, stretching just a bit, when he sees your tit is precariously close to falling out. He flushes and averts his eyes, when you bounce over to him. “You’re so sweet!”
“It’s nothing, all included. You need something in your system so you don’t get shaky,” his thoughtfulness chokes you up for a moment, you just stare at him with a muffin hovering in your hand. “Want a different flavor? I can go grab more.”
“No, no it’s… you remember me getting shaky?”
“Yeah, you were shaking insane at that pool party last year because you were silly and didn’t eat, knowing we were out in the sun all day.” He taps your nose, as you giggle and peel the wrapper. “Bad girl.”
Jesus fuck, does he not know what that does!?
You stare at him, he’s smirking just a bit like maybe he does fucking know, but then he gets to sipping on his sweet coffee, sighing as it hits his tastebuds. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I remember a lot of shit I guess,” he shrugs a broad shoulder, taking a donut and starting to devour the sweets, you can’t help but smile as you nibble on your muffin, and he’s sucking on his thumb to lap up icing. “What is it, brat?”
“Brat!? Hey now,” he’s licking his other finger, your body responds almost violently at the sight, picturing the most obscene fucking things. Like him licking you off him instead. You hastily look away, blushing, god is that all you do around this man now? “No, just how you keep that body perfect and eat more than Goku.”
“No one eats more than Goku,” you giggle again at that, as he laughs softly, now tearing into a chocolate chip muffin. “Genetics and working out I guess.”
“You have won the gene pool, this will go to my hips.”
“Nice hips,” he trails off then, clearing his throat, and your tummy clenches as his eyes dart across your body. “I mean to say… you can eat a muffin, you look great, okay?”
“Thank you, Satoru.” You smile and do just that, taking another bite, as the tension in the suite grows with every fucking breath, until you can’t breathe, not with how he looked at you just now.
It has to be your fantasy brain again, he was probably being nice, he’s always been supportive and sweet, someone you could come to. It’s you who is the problem, who can’t stop thinking of fucking your dad’s best friend, something he would never forgive either of you for. Something that will never happen.
You have a huge opportunity, you have to focus.
“Tell me you brought something like… not as… revealing for this? Or do I need to buy you an outfit?” You laugh a bit then, and his thin brows lower. “I’m serious.”
“Are you saying I dress slutty!?”
“What!? No… just very revealing.”
“Maybe you are old.”
“What now!?” You’re biting your lip to stop laughing as he stands up, and you find your back pressed against the table, his arms on either side of you. “Do I look old to you?”
“No, you’re the one that says it silly! You’re old fashioned.” You shove at his chest and he smirks a bit.
“I am not old fashioned, but you do have something professional, yes? I don’t mind taking you shopping.”
The visions flash then, shopping with Satoru, on his fucking arm, god it’s too much, you look down a bit nervously, at his neck, the tie just a bit askew. You fix it carefully, watching his adam’s apple bob up and down. “I have something professional, I’ll put it on and show you.”
He eases back and you come out a few minutes later, a pretty white dress shirt and a cute little bow tie, along with a black little skirt and suspenders, you look fucking adorable. He can’t help but melt a bit as he sees you do a little twirl, black tights and pretty black heels finishing it off.
“Now that’s perfect, you look…” Beautiful, fucking beautiful. “You look like you’re going to nail this.”
“Yay! Thank you!” You kiss his cheek and smile against it, on your tiptoes, a hand over his jacket, burning his skin. “I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be, you’re going to do amazing. Are you ready to get going? I have to leave a little early for this meeting and the traffic is terrible here.”
“I’m ready!”
Satoru’s in the back with you on his phone, talking to this person and then that person, negotiating a multi million dollar deal while you’re tapping your fingers, an ear bud in with the three songs on rotation that you’ll be performing. You keep tapping them, shutting your eyes, lips murmuring the notes silently. You don’t realize your thigh is shaking until his huge hand covers it.
“You’re a nervous wreck,” his fingers press gently right above your knee, you’re taking several breaths, eyes locking with his as the car stalls through the heavy traffic, slowing to a crawl. “How much are you gonna jiggle it?”
“A lot,” he’s rolling his eyes now, hand falling off, and you instantly miss its warmth, its presence. “I’m gonna fail it.”
“Don’t go in with that attitude, stop that.” He frowns at you, eyes hiding behind those dark shades, just a hint of blue shimmering as they slip down his straight nose a bit. “You’ll do great.”
“Right…”
You wish Satoru was right.
You’re so nervous, so stuck on your insane desires and thoughts, that you keep missing keys you would never. You’re such a fucking mess, every time you hit a sharp key the sickness sinks in deeper, until you’re fucking it all up. You try to save face, the judges are shocked considering all the references on your lists, all the videos that have gone viral of you.
You can’t perform for shit today, and you’re shaking and sobbing by the end of it, heart sinking as you realize what has happened. Instead of waiting for Satoru, you’re walking blocks until you find the nearest bar, and drinking until you’re a mess, all while you picture the disappointment.
All your life living for this dream, for what. What was any of it for?
A few guys are hitting on you as you sit alone at the bar, you let them buy you drinks, but you don’t speak to them, hardly notice as one of them whispers something in your ear and hands you his info, as another touches your back. You barely remember texting Satoru where you are later on, when he was heading to get you from his meeting.
He’s furious when he does walk into the bar, it’s filled with college people probably partying for the summer, he walks through hoards of them when he sees you, two men on either side of you as you down a shot. You’re not smiling or enjoying yourself, he feels the upset from across the bar, your shoulders slumped when one of them dares to touch your back.
He loses any control he’s had, losing it all for the frustration you’ve just put him through, an enigmatic - ‘i’m getting drunk’ and nothing the fuck else at five pm. He’s stomping right over, clearing his throat and getting the two men’s attention, both trying to shoot their shot at a girl who shouldn’t give them the time of fucking day.
He says your name, and you turn to him, skin flushed and eyes glassy, clearly drunk as fuck. He just hopes you had the good sense to only take drinks from the bartender rather than these creeps, as he snatches you right off the barstool, and you almost lose your balance.
“Who’s this, baby?” One asks, Satoru narrows his eyes at the fuck boy.
“It’s Satoru,” you’re hiccuping then, swaying even though you’re not even moving, about to fall if he doesn’t catch you. “Satoru Gojo.”
“Come have another, we can hit a party,” the other says, and you just bury your face against Satoru’s chest, as he carefully holds you.
“She’s going home.” Satoru’s words ring through your drunk ass brain, he lays a tip for you on the table, snatching up your bag and wrapping an arm around your waist, leading you out into the cool night air.
You’re sobbing when he gets to the sidewalk, concerning him to no fucking end, the sun is setting as he guides you gently into the back of the sleek black car, isntantly grabbing a bottle of water from the cooler installed. He twists it open and tilts your chin up gently.
“Drink some water, yeah?” You shake your head, and he scowls. “I said drink some fucking water.”
“Okay, dad.”
“I’m not your fucking dad,” his voice is clipped and harsh then, your eyes try to focus on his angry, handsome face, he swirls just a bit as you let him put the water to your lips. “Drink.”
You do as he says, swallowing greedily then, body craving anything other than the endless shots you’ve just fed it - nothing but a muffin this morning in your body to soak it up. He sighs as he eyes you, unreadable in his gaze, slipping a thumb over your chin as a little bit falls along your chin, before snapping the cap back on.
“Celebrating like this is dangerous, you could have been taken advantage of by those douche bags.”
“Celebrating!” You’re laughing then, until you’re crying, a whole fucking mess as he watches you, swallowing the tightness in his throat. Celebrating, what a joke that was, he looks at you in concern, brows lowering now, the sky is dimming outside, darkening the seat as you try to breathe, try to focus.
“Will you just tell me what’s wrong, what’s going on?” He asks quietly, you sigh then, looking at him, as he gently cups your face.
“I fucking failed, Satoru.”
“What now!?”
“I fucked up, I ruined it.” You’re sobbing again, he holds you against him, as your hands ball his jacket into your fists, tears soaking the expensive material, he exhales and shakes his head. “I did, I did all of this to just fuck it up, dad’s gonna be so d-dissapointed… and you are…”
“Fuck this, I’ll go demand a redo.”
“You can’t!” You pull back and look up at him, the alcohol warming your body, spreading as he’s right near you. “Satoru they will never.”
“The fuck they won’t, you’ve never seen me negotiate shit, have you?” He raises a brow, you swipe at your tears, lip trembling.
“You can’t just fix it for me.”
“I can give you another chance, okay? I’ll meet with them tomorrow, you’ll find I can be very convincing, yeah?” You sigh then, nodding as he brushes back some of your hair. “You’re a mess, ya know?”
“I know.” He frowns contemplatively, as you lean closer, he can taste the liquor on your breath, as your eyes dart to his lips, and the tension coils in your tummy. “You think you can really talk to them?”
“Of course I can, but you better be ready this time. I’ll come watch you, would that help?” You nod then, so quickly it makes you just a little dizzy. “All right then, just let me work my magic.”
You love him.
Fuck you almost say it, the alcohol threatening to loosen your tongue, but you swallow instead, a hand on his chest, and his own eyes lower, snowy lashes casting shadows over those baby blues, the proximity making you both heat up in that moment. He pulls back just a bit, realizing how precarious the moment is, he needs to comfort you, not fucking kiss you, or worse.
Especially drunk off your ass.
“You need more water-” You’ve pressed your lips on his before he can finish his sentence, too far gone to hold back, to stop the motion, pulling back just a bit to look up at him.
He says nothing, eyes wide, and you would apologize if you cared enough to, if you felt bad enough about it, but in that moment it’s all you want, to kiss him, even if it’s only once. You lean back a bit, you want to form the apology you don’t mean on your lips, form it into words, as it’s so silent in the back of that car, all you can hear is your blood rushing in your ears.
“Sorry,” he scoffs then, eyes narrowing, hand slipping into the nape of your neck, tugging your hair just enough to make your head fall back.
“You’re not sorry, are you?” You smile, you can’t help it, you’re too drunk to lie to him.
“Kind of sorry,” he tightens his hand, tugging at the delicate strands of hair, you’re whining out, the sound fucking him completely. “Satoru…”
“You’re forgetting this, okay?” You nod then, understanding him, when he slams his lips on yours, the release so fucking good he can’t stand it, drinking in your cries as your arms wrap his neck.
He’s lost then, letting himself have one moment, where he devours your mouth with his practiced tongue, where his other hand slips up your thigh, up your hip, to your ribcage, brushing right under your breasts. You’re clinging to him, closer and closer, until you’re straddling him, even as he shoves at your hips, you roll them, whining out when you feel him.
“Fuck, you’re a brat…” he’s huffing, biting back a moan as he feels your heat, soaking wet even against your tights, pressing you down for just a moment to torture himself, kissing you deeper, hungrier. It’s messy and desperate, you’re kissing him sloppy, saliva dripping, as you roll your hips against him.
“Please…” He wants to give you it, fuck he wants you to have all of him, but he yanks you off him, holding you up by your hips, kissing you one more time.
“No more, you’re drunk and… this is a terrible fucking idea.” He sits you right next to him, you’re dizzy and breathless. “Forget that happened.”
“Right, sure Satoru.” You glare at him, he glares right back, leaning over and hating himself, he wanted to rip your fucking tights at the crotch, slip his fingers inside your wet cunt, stretch you out on him.
Shit that can never, ever happen.
“You’re upset and drunk, and I’m fucking stupid.”
“You’re not-”
“Drink.” He orders, and you do just that, he’s back to being caring and distant, as you ache for him, more and more as the water sobers you up just a bit.
He’s helping you up into bed later, he puts your hair up off your neck carefully in a pony tail, he makes you eat food that he orders. The alcohol has lost its effects mostly as you lay in bed, and he’s typing over on his laptop, the glasses looking unfairly handsome on his face as you study him.
“Will you really help me get another chance?” You ask softly, his eyes catch you across the room.
“Of course I will, but it’ll be up to you to show them what you can do, show them how good you are. Okay?” You nod then, snuggling against the pillow, eyes drifting shut, neither of you mention the kiss, neither of you breathe a word even close to insinuating it happened.
“Thank you, Satoru. Good night.” You murmur, he sighs, nodding then.
“Good night.” His clicking of the keys drifts you off to sleep, the vivid images behind your eyes of him overtaking your mind, wondering if it was all some fucking drunk fever dream.
But it wasn’t.
When later he closes the laptop and brushes your hair back, studying you for a moment, he tries to make a promise to himself - that it will never happen again, he’ll never let his control slip like that. Even if all he can think of now is slipping into bed next to you and holding you against him, he shoves it all down, going back to his room, and staring at the ceiling.
What had he been thinking?
He can’t feel this way.
He shuts his eyes, failing to sleep as he knows you’re in the next room, while you dream the filthiest things about your dad’s best friend.
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