IT'S A KINDNESS, HIGHNESS | gojo satoru + fem! reader | 4,500 words | mdni | royalty au, gojo is the most obnoxious, annoying, charming prince ever <3
⇥ summary: your betrothed is unlike anything you ever imagined. he's improper and brash and delights in embarrassing you - but he wants you. and he always gets whatever he wants.
⇥ warnings: corruption, oral (f! receiving), spit, pussy job, food play (just a tiny little bit), reader is a virgin, satoru is so impatient
for my most beloved char <3 thank you for being so patient and for this super cute request (and also for reading but shh)
You were bred to marry royalty. It’s what you’ve been told since you were old enough to know the meaning of it. You were raised to marry royalty. To sit with your legs flawlessly tilted. To sing like a delicate bird. To speak low and curtsey even lower still. A perfect daughter destined to become a perfect wife.
A resounding click as you close the locket once more. The intricate flowers are warm under your skin, worn out with how many times you’ve run your fingers over them. Clutching it to your chest, giddy with thoughts about the man who looks back at you through the heart-shaped frame. The many nights it has spent tucked under your pillow as you dream of chaste hand kisses and dancing with your betrothed as everyone else looks on.
“Do you think he’s as handsome as his portrait?” You peer down at the now opened heart again, sighing wistfully as you think of looking into those shining eyes.
“Keep your head straight.” A sharp reprimand before you feel another pin scrape at your scalp. And you do your best to swallow an audible wince. “It does not matter if he’s handsome, he’s a prince. And one day, he will be king and you will be queen.”
“But, mother —”
“And you will provide him with as many heirs as he wishes.” Her thumbs press into your bare shoulder blades as she regards you in the mirror. A familiar expression on her face, her mouth taut in a thin line, she levels you with steely eyes. “This will do.” You swallow your questions. “Now go.”
There is a whirlwind of kitchen maids and footmen carrying silver trays overflowing with food, dusting the railing, adding wood to the already roaring fireplace. It all comes to a sobering still at the sound of galloping horses and wheels rolling over gravel and the clamour turns into concealed whispers and feet scurrying away.
Two years since your betrothal. Two years of waiting and wondering. Two years worth of daydreams and fantasies of saccharine words and stolen glances and promises made tucked away behind secret corners. The air lodges in your lungs.
The silence in the room is so heavy that you can hear your heart thumping in your chest, faster and louder as the steps in front of the door grow nearer. A click. Then the thumping stops.
He is just as beautiful as his portrait. And yet, he looks nothing like it. There’s something so brazen about him, how strands of messy, white hair fall over his eyes. How his shirt is too loose and untied, the deep opening showing the pale skin of his chest.
You follow the contour of it. Wide eyes taking in the dip of his throat, the swell of muscle just underneath. It feels forbidden, something you shouldn’t be allowed to see. And still you cannot peel your eyes away. Watching as he draws closer with every long step. Your feet feel like lead sinking into the hardwood floors.
Curtsey. You’re supposed to curtsey, low and steady. You’re supposed to bow your head before the prince.
“Ah, my future wife.” It’s too late. “You look ravishing.”
Before you know it, your hand is in his hand and you can barely breathe. Your chest straining against the fabric of your dress. He looks at you in a way no one has before, like a predator who’s about to devour his prey. Then he brings your hand to his mouth, his lips warm against your skin.
And he looks at you. Impudent eyes burnt into yours for too long. It’s lewd. It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks heat in embarrassment.
Your head is reeling, hand clutched into fists as you follow the group into the dining hall. You had only read of such behaviour in forbidden books hidden in the depths of your family library. It was inappropriate, a stolen moment of intimacy. Still, you can feel the shape of his lips on the back of your hand, stinging like a brand. Thumb pressing into it as you sit on the table with your hands in your lap and head hanging low.
He sits with his chin propped on his fist, looking around with lidded eyes, the very picture of boredom painted on his fair face. Every word out of his mouth comes drawn out and lazy. But you can still feel his gaze following you, the bob of your throat as you swallow, the tiny drop of red wine sauce on your lips, the nervous fidgeting of your fingers.
The rest of the world feels like noise, blurs, falls away under the weight of his curious eyes until it’s just you and him. And there’s nothing else to feel but how he drinks you in, how he lingers in all the forbidden crooks of your body. Like you’re already his and his alone.
You’re almost afraid to look at him. The way he stretches in the chair, legs spread wide and slouching over the armrests. Every attempt of your father’s to make polite conversation is thwarted with a disinterest that is almost insulting. Current affairs, politics, and tomorrow’s hunt pale in comparison to the way your hands trembles around the fork. How it clatters against your plate when you feel his hand brush the side of your thigh under the table.
“Are you feeling unwell, My Lady?” The conversation halts when the prince speaks, heads turn to focus their attention on you.
“I — I am quite alright.” You feel as though you might choke on the very air you breathe. “You are kind to ask, Your Highness.”
It must have been an accident. You try to reason with yourself that it was an accident. But you suspect it wasn’t. Not when his companion turns to glare at him. Not when his mouth quirks up ever so slightly in satisfaction.
Not when he looks at you as a child looks at a new toy. His new toy. There for his amusement.
Feet patter softly against the floor as you pace around your chambers, watching the sky turn black then lighten again. The pillows feel too warm and your bedding is scratching against the skin of your legs. And every time you close your eyes, you see him, you feel the warmth of his hand on yours, his plush lips on your knuckles.
You press your mouth to the patch of your skin he kissed, you wonder what it would feel like if he kissed you. Would he be loving and tender? Or would he simply take and take some more, leaving you breathless and trembling?
It is your duty to give, give him whatever he asks for. That’s the purpose of a wife. You had heard the same lecture nearly daily for over two decades of your life. But there was never an explanation. What must you give? Which part of you would he want for himself?
There’s a fluttering feeling in your belly. Like a sense of frustration that builds and grows with each new thought. Spreads lower still and your whole body comes alight. Like you might not mind giving as many parts of yourself to him as he may want, even if it’s all of you. It makes your chest heave and sweat bead at your hairline. Persists until you succumb to the mercy of exhaustion.
You spend the next morning avoiding anyone with a pulse — the gossiping servants, your mother, and especially him. Walking softly and peeking around corners until you find refuge in the library. The tips of your fingers grazing across dusty books as you read the titles. None of them particularly exciting. And either way, none of them have answers to the questions swirling through your mind. So you resign yourself to your thoughts, fingers dancing over the spines of dusty tomes.
“There.” Before you even know you are no longer alone, your body is pressed forward into the shelves, a chest flush against your back. “Just what I was I was searching for.”
The sound of his melodic voice makes the blood simmer in your veins. He’s toying with you. You know he has no interest in any book your library could offer. And you’re angry. Angry because you know none of it is an accident. Angry because he is not the man you had imagined.
And all that rage turns to ice in your veins when you turn around to face him, neck craned upwards only to be met with his bare chest peeking out of the crisp white shirt and a wolfish grin.
“Your Highness, you —”
“Did you like my portrait?” His fingers inch towards you, rest on your collar bone as he examines the little silver heart that hangs around your neck. “I sat for it just for you.”
“It is in your likeness.”
“You wound me.” His face is much too close to yours, so close that his breath fans over your skin when he breathes out a laugh. You’ve never felt smaller. “Do you think I’m handsome?”
“Your Highness —”
“Satoru.” He interrupts you again. His lips brushing against your ear. “If you are to be my wife I want to hear you say my name.” Your skin prickles up as he whispers, raw where his words fall over your neck.
There’s an eerie quiet wrapping you together. Like anything beyond those towering shelves falls away. And all that’s left is the sound of his calm breaths and your heart pummelling against your ribs.
“Satoru.” It feels foreign in your mouth, fills it up. Sits heavy on your tongue.
“Good girl.”
Then he leaves you. He walks out of the grand room with a spring in his step and a wave. And you’re gasping for air, one hand splayed over your chest where he had touched you, the other digging into the wooden shelves as a means to keep you upright.
You feel watched, his shining eyes follow your every step. He finds you in the library again even when you’ve tucked yourself away in the most private of nooks. He finds you in the kitchens late at night, sneaking a few bites of cake and milk before bed. He finds you in the garden too as you sit on a bench overlooking the pond, tucked in the thick shade of a weeping willow.
You’ve grown used to his presence in a way. Used to the quickening of your heart at the mere sight of him, at the sound of his voice. Used to the way your tummy coils when he touches you with near unbearable familiarity.
Satoru sits next to you and puts the tray of lemon cakes on his lap. He’s too close again, his knee touching yours. And you allow it. Again.
He shuffles in his seat, taps his fingers on the bench, then sighs deeply — making his presence known, waiting for you to acknowledge it.
You don’t.
The silence only lasts for one brief moment. “Have a taste.” He brings the sweet to your mouth and nudges your hand away when you try to take it. “No, no. Open wide for me.”
That feeling that sits low in your belly comes back, twists your insides. But you do as you’re told and part your lips. You’ve learned by now that he enjoys watching your face twist with embarrassment. Just loves that you will disregard every lesson in proper behaviour you’ve been taught for him.
The pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, lingers there too long. The cake crumbles on your tongue, tangy and sweet. And his mouth hangs slightly open as he watches the way the cream sticks to your teeth, his lithe fingers resting on your chin. It’s suffocating, like the air has thickened in the space between you. Like you cannot breathe until he tells you to.
“Why are you squirming?”
The question catches you off guard. “I’m not.”
“Do you like it when I touch you? Does it make you feel strange between your legs?” He leans into you as he speaks. “Is your cunt all wet?”
Your eyes widen in shock. He’s not supposed to say that word. So filthy and unbecoming. And it makes you feel all… wrong. Too aware of how your body preens for him.
“That is not an appropriate way to speak to a lady.” It takes every drop of strength you possess to not trample over your words. To ignore how he looks at you, barely surpassing his amusement. To stand on your feet and stomp away from him.
But still, when you slam the heavy doors to your chambers closed, all you can hear is his voice, deep and sanguine. And all you can think about is how it feels to be so close to him, to breathe in his scent and feel the warmth of his skin on yours. How you sink into every touch and every brush of his knuckles. How you feel dazed and light-headed when he speaks words he shouldn’t.
How you wish to know more.
He finds you again that same night. Walks into your bedchambers wearing a shirt pulled further apart than usual. Feigns innocence as you regard him with stern eyes and your mouth pressed into a disapproving line.
“You really cannot be here.” You fold into yourself, suddenly aware of how he can see you, see all parts of you through the nightgown that’s turned translucent in the candlelight.
“I must have lost my way.” His voice hushed, but you can still hear the insincerity in it. “It’s a big house.”
“I’m certain you’re used to bigger.” You pull your arms closer to your chest. “Now go.”
He doesn’t. You can feel how his eyes rake over you, take in every detail as you stand almost bare before him — how your hair looks when it’s not neatly arranged and adorned with pearls, how your fingers dip into your shoulders, how the tops of your breasts peek from behind your forearms with every heavy breath.
“You’re beautiful.” He takes a step toward you, long fingers brushing over your hair. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Satoru, please.”
“Tell me you want me to leave.”
You swallow thickly, throat tight around your words, swallowing them. Your eyes dart away from him as embarrassment climbs up your legs, warms your cheeks.
He reaches out, holds your chin between his thumb and index finger. Tilts your head so that you have to look at his face, so that he can see up close the quiver of your lips as you succumb to him. “I’m waiting.” Because you will succumb to him.
The air between you feels suffocating, sticks to you. You turn your head, desperate to breathe, to escape what feels inevitable. But you’re met with the palm of his hand, searing in its tenderness as it pulls you closer to him.
His lips hover above your own, impatient but still waiting for your resolve to fracture and crumble in his grip. The flicker of your eyes brimming with anticipation is enough of an answer. A shared breath and the distance between you dissipates as he kisses you.
You’re standing on the tips of your toes, your body extending to dissolve into his. Like it knows its place. He’s gentle, his lips plush and soft and oh so warm as they press on yours. And you feel like you might lose yourself to this feeling, to his touch, consumed by his hunger. And when he pulls away you chase after him.
But he stops you with a hand around your jaw. “Don’t be greedy, now.” His thumb swipes across your lips. “You’re such a good girl, yes?” A dazed nod and his finger pushes inside your mouth, runs over your teeth and pushes onto your tongue. He stakes his claim on you. You’re his. Every last part of you. All of you. His to touch as he pleases. To have as he pleases. His and his alone. “And did they teach you what husbands and wives do together?”
You shake your head.
He swipes over the plump of your lips again, coating them in warm spit as you struggle to keep upright, light-headed, feet tingling with trepidation and something unfamiliar. “Would you like me to show you?”
“Y-yes.” It comes out shaky and breathless, like it should have remained in your throat, died there. Like you should have said no. But there’s that feeling in your belly again, starved and growing, and it wants him. And everything that may entail.
He kisses you again. This time it’s different, firmer, he forces you to open yourself up to him, his tongue licking inside your mouth. Holds you in place with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Devours you. Your every sense is alight with the feeling of him, forbidden and yet there in between your eager fingers.
There’s drool dripping down the sides of your chin, so unbecoming, so embarrassing. Yet it doesn’t compare to the sting that spreads to your cheeks when his tongue darts out to lap it up, lick you clean. Then he kisses you once more, even deeper than before and no drop of himself he has so graciously given you goes to waste.
You can’t escape the scrutiny of his crystal eyes, shining with pride at the result of his efforts as they take in the sight of you. From your swollen lips, down your neck, to your chest heaving with every laboured breath, and your arms folded together in a feeble attempt to protect your modesty.
“Let me see you.” His voice trembles just for a moment. As if he, too, is being held together by delicate seams, bursting with want, with the need to have you.
His fingers snake around your wrists and your breath hitches. But you still let him peel your arms off your body, let his knuckles ghost over the thin material, let him undo the bow that holds your nightgown together.
You can hear how hard he swallows, see how his throat bobs with the effort, how his mouth goes slack at the sight of your perky nipples peeking out from underneath the white cotton. “Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
Knuckles ghost over your clavicle as he hooks a finger around each strap of your nightgown. He looks into your eyes as he pulls them over your shoulder. “Don’t be.” And the dress falls around your feet in a rustle.
The look on his face is unlike anything you have ever seen before. Something primal and fierce. Like a starved animal, a wolf about to devour the lamb caught in his paws. He will take everything, carve it out of your core and grind it between his molars. And you will let him. And you will ask for more.
Feverish lips leave a trail down the column of your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. You hold onto him, nails digging into the base of his neck as he moves further down, watching in awe as he licks a stripe in between your breasts. He’s watching you too, eager to see how your eyes squeeze shut in pleasure, how you try to bite back the moans that tumble out anyways.
His hands move to cup your tits and he takes his time watching how the fat spills from in between his fingers. Touches your nipples so lightly it tickles, then latches his mouth onto one. It’s obscene, the prince on his knees, your skin glistening with a thin layer of his spit. And oh the noises he makes, whining as he sucks on the hardened buds, the pop as he releases one, only to move to the other side and do it all over again.
The blissful smile on his face as he looks at you coming undone in his arms.
But it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to fill the emptiness that’s spreading inside out you. “Please, Satoru —” Your voice weak and desperate, begging for something, anything that will make you feel whole again.
“What’s wrong, My Lady?” He stands to his feet, curving into you. “What do you want?”
“Satoru…” You say his name like a prayer, like it’s your only salvation.
“Do you want me to touch you —” His fingers dip between the fat of your thighs “— here?”
And you gasp oh so sweetly as his middle finger presses into your folds. Your legs buckle, nails digging deeper into his skin. You want more. And you squeeze around his hand like your body knows what you need when even you don’t. But it’s too late. He’s already holding his finger in between you, dripping with your slick. Then he pops it in his mouth, looks into your eyes as he swirls his tongue around it.
“Mmm, sweet.” It’s like he delights in embarrassing you even now. “I want more.”
He carries you to the bed, sets you down gently before pulling the shirt off his back. He can see you and, at last, you can see him too. The peaks of his chest, drops of sweat running down between the ripples of his abdomen. So broad. Not even marble statues, perfectly carved works of art, can compare to him.
His hands are smoothing over your legs, firm, like he’s trying to commit every dip and curve of them to memory. His kisses start chaste, airy over the bone of your ankles, tickle the back of your knee. Slowly, they turn hungry, demanding as he buries his head between your thighs. He sucks on your soft flesh there, his mouth hot and needy. Then his tongue laves over the teeth marks imprinted into your skin, soothing the sting of it.
He stops for a moment. Desperate eyes taking in the sight of your pussy, wet and sticky with arousal. He runs his fingers over the sensitive skin, listens to you sharply inhale at the contact.
“You’re mine.” The world stops. “Say it.”
You can only manage a strangled whisper. “I’m yours.”
Then you feel it, the warmth of his breath as his mouth hangs just above your core, how wet and thick and hot his tongue is when it licks between your folds. How it curls around that spot that makes you whimper and call out his name. And he wraps his lips around it, sucks on it and you cannot stop the cry that erupts out of your mouth.
Your belly tightens. And you have to hide your face behind trembling hands, hide your panting and the way your cheeks could burst with shame. But you cannot stop how your body leans into him, how your legs wrap tightly around his head, pulling him closer still.
“You’re doing so well.” His voice vibrates against your centre and you moan, high-pitched and strained. “Just let go for me.”
You can feel the sheets grow wetter beneath you, him cursing under his breath about how perfect you are, his tongue all over you, lapping up your slick and dipping into all the perfect places. And that feeling snaps, spreads until your legs are shaking and you can do nothing but wail and scratch your nails across his scalp.
Lips move across your tummy, sloppy wet kisses mix withe the damp of your skin. He kisses you again, cradles your neck, holds you in place. It’s forceful and his mouth is so hot on yours, dripping, covers you in a taste that’s salty and sweet and intoxicating.
His hair is tussled, face shiny with you. And he looks at you with some kind of twisted pride in his eyes. “Have I won My Lady’s favour?”
A weak nod.
“Then —” He starts as nimble hands undo the ties on his breeches, “— I should show you what you have done to me.”
It’s a sight unlike any other. His cock, with soft white tufts of hair at the base, thin veins curving around his length and a blush pink tip leaking something clear and thick. And when he rests it on top of your tummy it feels heavy and it goes all the way up to your belly button.
“When we’re married I intend to have you like this every day.” His eyes are glued to where your bodies connect. “Perhaps more than once. We need heirs, don’t we?” Excitement tingles in your fingertips.
He runs the fleshy tip over your slit so agonisingly slowly. Follows every little movement with such intensity. And he feels like velvet against you, warm and throbbing over your core. Each buck oh his hips catches that sensitive peak between your folds and you feel your insides coil again. Writhe with want, with need to feel that release again.
You reach out to touch him, feel how he ruts into you. And he moans at the contact, a little choked out and whiny. You run your hand over his length, encouraged by how his lips part so prettily. And he feels so thick, so firm in your grasp.
“You’re a fast learner.” His mouth stretches, a picture of satisfaction.
But his tip catches against your entrance, and his eyebrows knot uncomfortably and he grinds his teeth. Knuckles white around the crumpled sheets as he tries to ground himself. Resist. Just for now. But never again.
His thrusts become more erratic, reckless as he surrenders to the tenderness of your flesh. And you follow closely along, hips bucking into him, looking for more friction, more of him. Your name falling from his lips, and his from yours. Like a sacred choir chant, or a cry for mercy, or something no words could ever convey.
He finds his release with his head hung and a low grunt. Spilling all over your belly, white and sticky and hot. He’s spent, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest heaving. You like the way he looks at you, bright eyes dimmed and hazy. Softer. And you think you must have taken a part out of him too.
He clings to you, lets you lay your head on his chest, your ear just above his heart. Its steady beat is oddly soothing. And so is the way he gently rubs little circles into your back, grounds you, binds you to him. Unexpected but not unwanted.
“Do you want to marry me?” He looks so different. Vulnerable and entirely too human, gaze locked onto the carved wood of your ceiling. As if he’s afraid of your answer, the truth in your eyes.
“Hm.”
“Hm?” His chest tightens.
“Only if you promise to sleep in my bed for as long as we both shall live.”
He turns to you with a click of his tongue. “I think they will have to drag me out by my arms and legs.” A wistful sigh. “There might even be casualties.”
thank you for reading! interaction is very much appreciated! ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
No but YOU don't understand. Peeta, who's never been anyone's priority being Katniss’ first choice in all three books is something very important to me.
In The Hunger Games, when Peeta's name was called in the reaping, no one volunteered for him including his older brother who is not only old enough to participate but also a better wrestler than him. Even in the arena, Haymitch chose to keep Katniss alive over him. And the only person who prioritised him was Katniss herself. She chose to keep him alive when he was dying. She chose to die with him by eating the poisonous berries. She chose to go as far as defying the Capitol and President Snow to protect him.
In Catching Fire, once again, we heard his family would mourn if he died but they'll eventually move on. Other victors only keep him alive to form an alliance with Katniss. And Peeta still got captured by the Capitol in the end. But Katniss’ first priority was keeping Peeta alive. She made a pact with Haymitch to protect him. She was ready to kill Finnick or anyone on the spot if they dared to hurt him. She clawed Haymitch for not rescuing him over her. She became suicidal when he was captured.
In Mockingjay, Peeta lost his family. Then President Coin and other rebels didn't want to keep him (and other captured tributes) alive. And the only person who was visibly devastated over his capturing and hijacking was Katniss, again. And in the end, she finally chose him over Gale. And ultimately chose to be with him for the rest of her life. She gave him the family he lost and he became the family she lost.
“No one really needs me,” he says, and there's no self pity in his voice. It's true his family doesn't need him. They will mourn him, as will a handful of friends. But they will get on. Even Haymitch, with the help of a lot of white liquor, will get on. I realise only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.
