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꒰ ᧔♡᧓ ꒱ catboy!gojo satoru x reader ꒰ ᧔♡᧓ ꒱

૮ ․ ․ ྀིა MDNI — roommate catboy gojo goes into heat and completely falls apart. clingy, needy, praise-drunk, and so dumb from it he can barely form sentences. you take care of him. ♡

author’s note. i love catboy gojo so bad. also this is like 7k words.. so enjoy teasing overstimulated catboy gojo

housecat.

Pairing: catboy!Gojo Satoru x Reader Tags: catboy!gojo, roommates to fwb, heat, clingy/needy gojo, praise kink, crying, drool, fingers in mouth, heavy dumbification, overstimulation, pleasure-drunk gojo, oral, penetrative sex, creampie, slapping, begging, multiple orgasms

You really should’ve known something was wrong with Satoru when he stopped barging into your room.

Because for someone who technically had his own bedroom—bigger than yours, actually, courtesy of the bastard insisting he needed all that extra closet space—Gojo Satoru had never understood the purpose of a closed door. Usually you’d barely hear the first obnoxious knock before he was already halfway inside, throwing himself across your bed to complain about his day or shoving freezing hands underneath your shirt just to hear you yell, all long limbs and snowy ears and that horrible grin of his like whatever belonged to you had somehow become communal property the second you agreed to live together.

But three days ago, he stopped.

Not completely, which somehow made it stranger. Satoru still appeared wherever you were; he just stopped announcing himself. Lingering in the kitchen while you cooked with some flimsy excuse about wanting water, hovering around the couch long after whatever movie you’d been watching ended, appearing in doorways without saying much of anything while those fluffy white ears twitched toward every sound you made. And fuck, more than once you’d felt his tail curl loosely around your ankle beneath the dinner table, warm fur tightening for half a second before Satoru seemed to realize what his own body was doing and yanked it back beneath his chair with enough force to rattle the silverware.

You’d let him pretend you hadn’t noticed.

Mostly because watching Gojo Satoru lose arguments against his own tail was funny enough without embarrassing him aloud, but also because there’d been something off beneath all that strange clinginess—something feverish softening the edges of him. He’d slept badly. You knew because you’d heard him pacing the hallway at stupid hours of the night, those slow footsteps passing your bedroom door over and over before stopping outside it for so long that you’d almost called his name. He’d been quieter during the day too, sprawled across furniture with his eyes half-lidded and his cheek propped against one hand, acting like nothing was wrong even while every bit of him looked wound too tight.

Still, you hadn’t expected to come home and find him curled up in your bed with his face buried in one of your shirts.

“Satoru…”

The bedroom door gives one final little creak behind you, and the idiot beneath your comforter doesn’t even bother pretending properly. One snowy ear jerks beneath the blankets before flattening right back down, followed by the faintest twitch of the white tail stretched shamelessly across your sheets, its fluffy tip making these nervous little movements every time your footsteps bring you closer.

He’s made a nest of the place.

Your comforter is bunched around his hips, your spare pillow trapped beneath one long arm, and the hoodie you’d spent the entire morning looking for is hanging oversized from his frame. Even the thin sleep shirt that disappeared yesterday has apparently found its purpose, crushed underneath Satoru’s cheek while his nose sits tucked almost embarrassingly close to the fabric. Maybe in it, judging by the slow breath he takes before you say his name again.

This time a muffled groan seeps into your pillow, followed by a sluggish little shift beneath the blankets. “What?” comes out rougher than you expect, nowhere near that bright, syrupy voice Satoru usually uses when he knows he’s irritating you, and your annoyance falters before it properly forms.

Because when he finally lifts his head, fuck, he looks miserable.

Still beautiful, obviously. Unfortunately. But there’s nothing polished about him right now, white hair crushed flat on one side and sticking damply near his temple on the other, cheeks warmed pink beneath pale skin while those ridiculous blue eyes blink at you through such a thick haze that the color almost looks melted around his pupils. His lips are parted slightly too, every sleepy breath slipping through them while one hand remains stubbornly fisted in your missing shirt as though he hasn’t quite remembered he’s supposed to be embarrassed yet.

“You look awful,” you murmur, and Satoru’s mouth manages the faintest offended twitch before his head sinks back down onto the shirt with a tired little, “Mean.”

Even that seems to cost him.

His eyes slip shut again, cheek settling heavily against the cotton, and you’re just about to ask whether he’s sick when his nose nudges deeper into the fabric. Barely. A tiny, absent movement that might’ve escaped you if you weren’t already staring, followed by another slow breath that has his expression softening in a way that makes your brows pull together.

“Satoru.” Your voice turns suspicious. “Are you smelling my shirt?”

Those lashes lift.

Not fully.

Just enough for him to peer at you with the exhausted resentment of someone caught doing something profoundly humiliating, fingers curling tighter around the fabric beneath his cheek while he mutters a sleepy little, “No,” that would probably be more convincing if his entire face weren’t still buried in it.

“You’re literally laying on it.”

“M’sleeping.”

“With your nose in it.”

“Coincidence.”

There he is.

Or some half-functional version of him, anyway.

You almost smile, but before you can decide whether to torment him properly, that traitorous tail stretches itself across the mattress and curls loosely around your thigh. Satoru feels it at the same moment you do; his entire body goes suspiciously still, eyes opening just enough to flick toward the snowy length resting against you before darting anywhere else.

Neither of you says anything about it.

Not yet.

Instead, you reach down toward his forehead, intending to check whether all that heat in his cheeks is an actual fever, but your fingers never quite make it there. The side of your hand brushes through the soft fur gathered at the base of one ear and Satoru reacts so violently you stop mid-motion, a sharp inhale catching somewhere beneath his ribs while a full-body shiver tears through him hard enough to rustle the blankets.

His head tips into your palm before he can stop it.

And then the purring starts.

Low enough at first that you almost mistake it for some vibration beneath the mattress, except it thickens the second your fingers settle properly into his hair, rolling up through Satoru’s chest in one deep, shameless rumble that you can actually feel against your fingertips. His eyes widen. Yours probably do too. And for one horribly long moment neither of you moves, Satoru staring at you as though staying perfectly still might somehow convince you that the sound vibrating through his entire body isn’t coming from him.

“Satoru…”

“No.”

You haven’t even said anything yet.

A laugh threatens, but it dies when your nails accidentally graze that same warm patch of fur again and his entire expression folds around the feeling. Those heavy lashes flutter, mouth falling open around a soft, breathless “Ah—fuck,” while his snowy head tips farther into your touch instead of away from it, exposing more of that sensitive little spot before his pride has any chance of catching up.

Color rushes across his cheeks.

And then his tail moves.

Warm fur slips from your thigh and winds itself around your wrist instead, once and then tighter, tugging your hand flush against the side of his head as though whatever instinct has taken over him is already tired of waiting for Satoru to ask properly. His hazy eyes drop toward it, betrayal creeping slowly across his face before he mutters something suspiciously close to fucking traitor beneath his breath.

“You’ve been weird for three days,” you murmur, letting your fingers make one careful pass behind his ear just to feel another helpless tremor skate through him. “Stealing my clothes, following me everywhere, crawling into my bed—and now you’re purring because I touched you.”

“M’not following you,” Satoru tries, except his voice breaks embarrassingly around the words when your nails circle the base of his ear again. That stubborn little crease appears between his brows, jaw tightening as if he can physically force his body to stop betraying him, but all that determination lasts until the next slow stroke has his eyes squeezing shut and his cheek dragging unconsciously against your palm.

“M’not—hah, m’not needy…”

Not needy.

Right..

Not with his tail wrapped around your wrist, not with his face nuzzling into your hand in these slow, scent-dazed little movements he probably doesn’t even realize he’s making, not with that thick purr spilling louder every time your fingertips brush somewhere he likes. And when you stop moving altogether, Satoru doesn’t even manage to hide what happens next; his head nudges softly beneath your palm once, pauses as though waiting for you to understand, then pushes again with just a little more insistence when you don’t immediately give him what he wants.

Poor thing doesn’t even realize he’s begging yet.

Not with the way Satoru’s still got that stubborn little crease between his brows, anyway, eyes squeezed shut like sheer concentration might somehow disguise the fact that his head keeps chasing every tiny movement of your hand. And fuck, it’s almost worse when you stop moving altogether—because instead of asking, instead of admitting a single humiliating thing, he only noses farther beneath your palm with this soft, impatient push, snowy ears flattening while the purr trapped in his chest roughens into something needier. You let him do it once, then twice, watching the slow realization creep over him when those lashes finally crack open and he catches sight of his own cheek practically smushed against your hand, a hot flush blooming underneath his eyes before he can even think to hide it.

“Don’t,” he mutters, but you hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t needed to, really—not when that treacherous white tail was already tightening another loop around your wrist, tugging your palm right back whenever you threatened to lift away, and perhaps three days ago Gojo Satoru might’ve had some clever little excuse ready, some obnoxious grin to make this your problem instead of his, but right now all that brilliance seems to be drowning beneath the heat glazing his eyes.

You test him anyway, lifting your hand just one slow inch upward, and Satoru follows before his pride can catch up. That pretty face tips after your palm with his lips parting softly, one breath slipping warm across your wrist when your fingers hover just beyond reach, and the expression he makes when he realizes you haven’t touched him again is almost worse than the neediness itself—confused first, then faintly wounded, hazy blue gaze flickering over your hand as if he can’t understand why the affection disappeared when he was being so good about taking it. “Satoru…” His name alone has those sensitive ears twitching, every bit of him tuned too tightly toward your voice, your scent, your touch, and when he answers with a sleepy little “Mhm?” you can barely call it a word at all. More vibration than speech. More purr than anything properly human.

Your nails graze the base of his ear again and whatever vague composure he’d managed to scrape together comes undone immediately, forehead sinking against your thigh while that rumbling sound stutters louder beneath his ribs. “Need me that bad?” you murmur, and the denial gets caught somewhere before his tongue can properly shape it; you feel the attempt in the tiny tension of his jaw, hear the first stubborn breath of an “M’not—” before another slow scratch tips his head helplessly after your fingers and melts the rest of the sentence into a thin, embarrassed whine. No smart ending this time, no smug little recovery waiting behind it—just Satoru breathing harder against you, tail curled possessively around your arm while every stroke seems to drag another useless piece of pride out of him before he can save it.

Your thumb brushes beneath one damp-looking eye and his lashes squeeze shut at the soft little “Poor baby” you let fall above him. “Don’t call me that,” Satoru manages, except he’s already rubbing his face back into your palm as he says it, giving himself away so completely that the protest barely survives the warmth of his breath against your skin. And when your fingers finally return to that aching-soft spot behind his ear, his purr spills out thick and shameless, loud enough to have color burning straight across his cheeks while he presses closer instead of pulling away—one long arm inching tighter around you, white tail refusing to loosen from your wrist, every instinct in his body apparently much more honest than the mouth still trying so hard to deny them.

By the time you murmur that soft little good boy against him again, Satoru doesn’t even seem capable of pretending it hasn’t gone straight through him, breath snagging wetly while his fingers tighten around your leg and another glassy tear swells beneath those already-damp lashes. “Again,” he whispers, so quietly you almost mistake it for another broken piece of his purring, and fuck, the fact that he’s actually asking now—without a joke, without trying to bury the need beneath some stupid little excuse—has your fingers slowing through his messy hair.

“Again what?” slips out softer than teasing, but apparently even that is enough to make the poor thing short-circuit. Asking what he wants you to say seems to make that overheated brain of his trip over itself completely, brows drawing together while his lips shape the beginning of an answer and then simply…fail to find the rest. “Say…” Satoru starts, swallowing around a tiny frustrated sound when your thumb skims beneath his eye. “Say I’m…” And there’s nothing after it, no word arriving to rescue him; only those syrupy blue eyes blinking up at you while his tail squeezes your wrist as if you’re somehow responsible for the thought disappearing halfway to his mouth.

You let him struggle for another second before mercy finally wins out, your thumb catching the tear threatening to spill while your other hand scratches slowly behind one drooping ear. “Good?” you supply, and the reaction is immediate enough to make your stomach twist—Satoru’s whole face softening with something dangerously close to relief, chin dipping in a tiny nod as his purr thickens into this uneven, trembling rumble. “Mhm,” he manages, and even that sounds difficult now, the word dragged thin around a breath that keeps catching every time your fingers move.

So you give him exactly what he’s asking for.

You tell him he’s good. Pretty too, because apparently that does something equally catastrophic to him, another little shudder tearing through those broad shoulders while his face presses farther into your palm. You tell him he’s doing so well for you, that there’s no point fighting every needy instinct his body keeps betraying him with, and Satoru—God—he just sinks beneath it, all that impossible confidence melting away until there’s nothing left but warm skin, damp lashes, a trembling tail wrapped stubbornly around you, and those helpless little sounds he keeps trying and failing to swallow.

You don’t make him wait much longer after that.

Your hand slides from the soft fur behind his ear, down the side of his throat, feeling the way his pulse jumps hot and fast under your fingers. Satoru’s whole body follows the contact like he’s been holding himself back for hours. The second your palm presses lower—over the flushed skin of his chest, the tense line of his stomach—he makes a soft, startled little sound and presses closer, tail tightening around your thigh hard enough that you can feel the tremor running through it.

“Satoru—”

“Please,” he breathes, already wrecked, eyes glassy when they find yours. “Please, I—need— hahh—”

You give it to him.

The first real touch between his legs has him jolting like he’s been shocked. His cock is already hard and leaking against his stomach, the head flushed dark and shiny, a thick bead of pre already sliding down the underside. The moment your fingers wrap around him properly a broken little cry punches out of his throat. His hips jerk up into your hand on pure instinct, ears pinned flat against his head, and the sound that follows is so high and helpless it almost doesn’t sound like him.

“Ah— fuuck, that’s— s’hot, that’s—”

You stroke him once, slow and firm, thumb dragging through the wetness at the tip, and the first stronger wave of pleasure hits him faster than either of you expected. His head drops hard against your shoulder with a wet gasp, forehead pressing into your neck while his fingers fist in the back of your shirt hard enough to pull the fabric tight. His whole body is trembling. You can feel it under your palm, in the way his thighs shake around your hand, in the frantic little flicks of his tail against your leg. Every slow drag of your fist pulls another soft, broken sound out of him—mnh, hahh, little half-swallowed whimpers that keep catching in his throat.

“S-slow—” he tries, voice cracking, but when you ease up for half a second he makes a desperate sound and pushes into your touch again, chasing it. “No—don’t, don’t stop, I— wanna’— need—”

You stroke him properly this time. Firm. Steady. The wet sound of it fills the quiet room—schlick, schlick, schlick—as more pre spills over your fingers and makes everything messier. Satoru falls apart with embarrassing speed. His forehead stays pressed to your shoulder, breath coming in short, wet bursts against your neck. Every time your thumb drags over the wet head of his cock he whimpers, high and thin, hips twitching helplessly. Tears start gathering under his lashes almost immediately, spilling over when you twist your wrist just right and murmur, “Good boy.”

The effect is immediate.

His whole body arches. A full-body shudder rips through him and he sobs once, broken and open, into your skin. His tail lashes hard against your thigh before winding even tighter, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you. More pre spills hot over your fingers, stringing between them every time you stroke back up, the wet sounds getting filthier the more worked up he gets.

“P-pretty?” he manages, voice wrecked and small, like he’s already chasing the next word he needs. “Say—say I’m— hahh—”

“Pretty,” you give him, and his face crumples. “So pretty like this. Look at you. Falling apart just from my hand.”

He comes hard and sudden, with a sharp, punched-out cry that turns into a wet sob halfway through. His cock pulses in your fist, thick spurts of cum spilling hot across his stomach and your fingers, some of it stringing up onto his chest while the rest drips down over his balls in messy white trails. He clings to you like he’s drowning the whole time, face buried in your neck, shoulders shaking, soft broken little sounds still spilling out of him every time another pulse wracks through him. The wet sound of it is filthy—soft splats against his skin, the wet drag of your hand still moving slowly through the mess as he keeps twitching.

When it finally eases he doesn’t let go. If anything his grip tightens, face still hidden, breath hitching against your skin while fresh tears keep slipping down his cheeks. His cock is still twitching weakly in your hand, oversensitive and shiny with his own cum, and every tiny movement of your fingers pulls another soft, wrecked little sound out of him.

“Good boy,” you murmur again, slower this time, and he shudders hard, a soft broken whimper catching in his throat as he presses even closer.

By the time you slow down again, Satoru looks like he’s been dropped somewhere several feet behind his own eyes. Snowy hair sticking damply around his forehead, cheeks flushed deep enough to make the pale skin beneath look almost fever-bright, and that usually unbearable mouth left slightly open while he breathes through the aftermath like closing it would require more concentration than he has left. One arm has wound itself around your waist at some point, fist twisted stubbornly in the back of your shirt, while his tail has abandoned your wrist entirely in favor of curling around your thigh so tightly it feels less affectionate now and more like some primitive little guarantee that you aren’t going anywhere.

You smooth your thumb over one hot cheek and Satoru’s face turns into it before you even finish the motion, eyes lifting only after a noticeable delay when you murmur his name. “Still with me?” The question takes a second to land, you can see that much in the slow blink he gives you before a hazy little “Yeah…” finally slips free, and even then his gaze keeps drifting back toward your hand like whatever you’re saying matters less than the promise that you’ll keep touching him.

“Good boy.”

Those eyes flutter shut again.

his whole expression folded sweetly around the praise while a soft, wrecked whine catches in his throat and his tail tightens once more around your thigh. Whatever scraps of Gojo Satoru were still trying to insist he wasn’t needy are getting quieter now, drowned beneath the purring, the heat, and the humiliatingly obvious way he keeps melting every time you tell him exactly what he wants to hear.

Whatever the first round of attention had done to him, it apparently hadn’t worn off so much as settled somewhere deeper, because Satoru keeps attempting these little returns to himself that never quite make it all the way. His mouth will twitch with the beginning of something smart, brows pinching as though he’s already built the insult in his head, and then your fingers move through his hair or skim the sensitive fur beneath one ear and there goes the rest of it—lips still parted around a sentence that has simply ceased to exist, those watery blue eyes narrowing at absolutely nothing while he tries, visibly tries, to remember what the fuck he was about to say.

“Was gonna…” Satoru mutters eventually, forehead heavy against your shoulder, and the miserable little pause afterward stretches long enough that you start stroking his hair again before he finally adds, “…say something.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek. Not because it’s particularly funny—well, maybe a little—but because the way he sounds genuinely betrayed by this development is doing something terrible to you, especially when he lifts his head just enough to glare in your general direction and doesn’t quite manage to land his eyes on yours. “I’m sure it was devastating,” you murmur, smoothing damp strands away from his temple, and the offended little noise he gives you would probably become an actual comeback if your thumb didn’t brush the edge of one warm ear halfway through it. Instead his lashes flutter, shoulders giving another involuntary shudder while whatever insult had been rebuilding itself behind that pretty face disappears just as quickly as the first.

“S’not…” he tries after a moment, stubbornness dragging the words out even while his body has already gone soft against you again. The rest never arrives. Satoru waits for it anyway, brows drawing tighter and tighter until the silence itself seems to piss him off, and by the time you finally press a kiss into his hair and murmur, “Not what?” there’s almost something wounded in the way he stares at you—like surely you should know what he meant if his own brain has decided it’s done participating.

“…Dunno.”

Satoru sinks deeper into your hold with a frustrated little huff while his tail curls tighter around your leg as though physically anchoring himself to you might keep the rest of his thoughts from floating off too. You tell him he’s all right, fingers slipping back into his hair, and the tension drains from his face so quickly that it makes something warm twist beneath your ribs.

You stroke beneath his jaw until his face lifts again, and Satoru follows the touch without even noticing anymore, throat stretching prettily while his lips fall open beneath your thumb. There’s already a faint shine there from how much he’s been licking them, and when you drag your fingertip slowly across his lower lip, his eyes follow the motion with this dazed, hungry sort of focus that makes it obvious his brain has found something much easier to think about.

There’s no teasing question this time, no making him struggle through an answer he clearly doesn’t have the pieces for. You only let your fingers linger there, watching the faint twitch of one snowy ear as his attention narrows further and further until the rest of the room might as well have disappeared. His lips brush your fingertips once almost experimentally, then again with a little more certainty, and something in his expression eases at the simple predictability of it—touch, warmth, you—none of the slippery words he keeps reaching for and losing.

Your fingers press gently past his lips and Satoru immediately settles around them, purring so hard the sound vibrates into your knuckles while his tongue moves in these lazy, instinctive strokes. A little drool gathers at the corner of his mouth almost immediately, but the reaction barely registers behind those half-lidded eyes; if anything, he looks calmer with something occupying him, all that frustrated effort to speak replaced by soft suction and the occasional tiny sound humming against your skin.

And God, maybe that should feel like winning something, finally finding a way to quiet the bastard who can normally talk himself through an apocalypse, but mostly it leaves you staring at him—at the damp lashes clumped delicately around those ruined blue eyes, the flush stretched high over his cheeks, the way one ear keeps flicking whenever you praise him even with his mouth otherwise occupied. “Pretty,” you murmur, almost experimentally, and his eyes close around the word before a stronger purr rolls through him. Satoru’s fingers bunch suddenly in your shirt while his tongue stills against your hand for one overwhelmed second before resuming, slower now, like the praise has settled somewhere deeper than language can reach.

Satoru is still pressed against you, face tucked under your jaw, one arm locked around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. His cock is still half-hard and shiny against his stomach, streaked with the mess from earlier, and every tiny shift of your body makes him twitch. When your hand slides back down between you, slow and deliberate, he makes a soft, distressed little sound and presses closer instead of pulling away.

“More,” he breathes, voice already thinner than it was. “Please—more—”

You give it to him.

The second the wet heat of your fist closes around him again, Satoru’s whole body jerks. His cock is oversensitive now, the skin flushed and slick, and the first slow stroke pulls a high, broken whimper out of him that turns into a wet gasp against your neck. The sound of it is filthy already—schlick—as the leftover cum and fresh pre mix under your palm and make everything messier.

You stroke him steady. Not fast. Just firm enough that every drag of your hand has him trembling harder.

He can’t keep quiet.

Soft, wrecked little noises keep spilling out of him—mnh, hahh, half-swallowed whimpers that catch every time your thumb drags over the wet head. Tears start slipping down his face almost immediately, and this time he doesn’t even try to hide them. His ears stay pinned flat. His tail is wound so tight around your thigh it almost hurts. When you lean in and murmur “good boy” against the side of one sensitive ear, he sobs out loud, hips jerking helplessly into your hand.

“G-good—” he tries, voice cracking. “Good…?”

“Good boy,” you give him again, slower. “You’re doing so well. So pretty like this.”

He can’t answer anything longer than that anymore. The best he manages is a wet, broken “Mhm—” or a tiny “please” that dissolves into another whimper the second your fist tightens. Spit gathers at the corner of his mouth and starts to drip; he forgets to swallow. A shiny trail slides down his chin and onto your shoulder, and he doesn’t even notice. All his attention is narrowed down to your hand and your voice and the way the praise keeps cutting through the haze every time he starts to float.

When you slow down for even a second he gets distressed immediately. His fingers tighten in the back of your shirt, a soft panicked sound catching in his throat, and he noses harder against your neck like he’s trying to make sure you’re still there.

“Don’t—” he manages, voice tiny and wet. “Don’t stop—please— hahh—”

You don’t.

You stroke him through another orgasm that leaves him shaking and crying openly, face wet against your skin, cock pulsing weakly in your hand while soft broken sounds keep spilling out of him. Thick spurts of cum spill over your fingers and onto his stomach again, mixing with the earlier mess until his skin is shiny and streaked, some of it stringing between your hand and his cock every time you move. The wet sounds are constant—schlick, splat—as more of it drips down over his balls and onto the sheets. He stays pressed against you the entire time, clinging hard enough that you have to hold him steady.

By the time the worst of the shaking eases he’s barely verbal. Just soft, wrecked little sounds and the occasional wet “please” or “more” mumbled against your skin, face still buried, drool and tears making a mess of both of you while his tail stays locked tight around your thigh.

Afterward, there’s no neat little moment where Satoru comes back to himself.

If anything, he seems to sink farther away from it, folded heavily against you with his face tucked somewhere beneath your jaw and every uneven breath warming your skin. His grip keeps loosening and tightening in the back of your shirt without any obvious rhythm, tail tangled around your legs like he’s forgotten it belongs to him, and when you smooth your hand through his hair the purr that answers is weak and broken around the occasional hiccup.

Satoru’s mouth finds your fingers again without any prompting this time.

There’s no startled pause afterward, no embarrassed little excuse about instinct; he simply catches your hand when it passes too close, lips parting with this hazy certainty that makes your stomach twist, and settles the moment you let him have what he’s been looking for. His tongue moves lazily against your fingertips while another broken purr rolls through him, drool gathering warm at the corner of his mouth and slipping toward his chin before you swipe it away with your thumb. Even that earns a tiny sound, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they follow you, attention narrowed down to touch and praise and the reassurance that you’re still right here.

“Messy boy,” you murmur, fond enough that it barely counts as teasing, and Satoru’s lashes flutter.

No protest.

That might be the part that really gets you.

Because earlier he would’ve fought you over it purely on principle, found enough strength somewhere to insist he wasn’t messy, wasn’t needy, wasn’t anything you accused him of being. Now the words only seem to wash warmly over him, one snowy ear twitching toward your voice while he presses his cheek deeper into your palm and sucks absently at your fingers like he’s forgotten there was ever anything embarrassing about needing somewhere to put all that restless heat.

He doesn’t let the quiet last.

Even while he’s still trembling, still wet-faced and shiny with the mess of the last orgasm, Satoru is already pressing closer, nosing under your jaw, soft broken sounds spilling out of him every time he tries to form words. His cock is oversensitive now—flushed dark, twitching against his stomach, streaked with drying cum—and every tiny shift of your body makes him shudder. But he still seeks your hand. Still pushes into any contact you give him.

“More,” he breathes, voice completely wrecked. “Please—more—”

You tip his face up carefully. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, pupils blown so wide the blue looks almost swallowed. When you ask if he’s sure—he nods so hard it looks like it hurts, ears flicking, tail tightening around your thigh like a vice.

“Yes,” he manages. “Y-yes—please—want it—”

You don’t use your hand this time.

You shift him back against the pillows, gentle but firm, and settle between his long legs. The second he realizes what you’re about to do his whole body jerks, a high broken sound catching in his throat. His cock twitches hard against his stomach, another thick bead of pre already sliding down the underside, mixing with the sticky mess from earlier.

“Oh— fuuck—”

You lean down and take him into your mouth.

The sound he makes is almost a sob.

He’s so wet and oversensitive that the first slow slide of your lips down his cock has him crying out, hips jerking, hands flying to fist in the sheets. The taste of him is filthy—salt and cum and the heat of his skin—and the wet sound of your mouth taking him is loud in the quiet room. Schlick. You sink lower, tongue pressing against the underside, and Satoru’s head drops back against the pillow with a wrecked little wail.

“P-please—” he gasps. “More—please—good— hahh—”

You give it to him.

You suck him slow at first, then deeper, letting the head nudge the back of your throat while your hand stays wrapped around the base so you can stroke what your mouth doesn’t reach. Every wet drag of your lips pulls another broken sound out of him. Tears keep slipping down his face. Spit and pre mix and drip down his shaft in shiny strings, some of it sliding over your fingers, some of it dripping onto his balls and the sheets. The sounds are constant and filthy—schlick, glk, wet little smacks—every time you pull up and sink back down.

He’s not forming full sentences anymore. Just your name, please, more, good, the words tumbling out messy and unfinished whenever the pleasure spikes too hard. When you pull off for a second to catch your breath, a thick string of spit and pre connects your lip to the flushed head of his cock before it breaks and lands against his stomach. The second the contact disappears he gets distressed immediately—fingers tightening in the sheets, a soft panicked sound catching in his throat as he tries to lift his hips toward your mouth again.

“Don’t—” he manages, voice tiny and wet. “Don’t stop—please—”

You take him back into your mouth and he sobs with relief.

When you slap him lightly across one flushed cheek—testing—he moans brokenly around nothing and leans into it, eyes fluttering, another tear slipping free.

“Again,” he whispers, almost desperate. “Please—again—”

You give him another soft slap while your mouth is still on him and he comes hard, with a sharp, punched out cry that turns into a wet sob halfway through. His cock pulses against your tongue, thick spurts of cum flooding your mouth and spilling out around your lips in messy white trails that drip down his shaft and onto your hand. You keep sucking him through it, slower now, and he shakes the entire time, clinging to the sheets, soft broken little sounds still spilling out of him every time another pulse wracks through him.

By the time the worst of the shaking eases he’s barely holding on to language at all. Just soft, wrecked little sounds and the occasional wet “please” or “more” mumbled into the air, face wet, drool and tears and cum making a mess of him while his tail stays locked tight around your arm like he’s afraid you’ll leave.

Whatever happens in that stretch of time leaves him different afterward.

Not asleep. Not even close, judging by the restless little tremors that still run through him whenever you move, but somewhere softer than awake, Satoru folded around you with the boneless devotion of something that has finally stopped pretending it could survive without being held. His face is damp when he lifts it from your shoulder, lashes stuck together and mouth shining messily, and when he tries to speak there’s such obvious confidence at first that you almost expect an actual sentence.

“Need…”

His brows pinch.

You wait without rescuing him.

“Need you…”

A shaky breath slips out, frustration already creeping back in when the rest refuses to assemble, but this time Satoru doesn’t fight it for long. His fingers tighten against you, tail drawing itself firmly around your leg while those ruined blue eyes lift toward yours with the simplest sort of desperation.

“Please.”

There it is—no explanation of what he means, no cleverness left to dress the need up with, only that one tiny word carrying everything his mouth can’t seem to organize anymore. And Satoru must realize it too, because there’s this brief, almost wounded flicker across his face when nothing else follows, watery eyes narrowing with the effort of finding more somewhere inside himself before his forehead drops heavily against yours and all that frustration melts into another trembling purr.

He keeps trying anyway.

God, of course he does.

Gojo Satoru, who can normally fill an entire room by himself without ever running out of things to say, apparently cannot accept that his vocabulary has dwindled down to a handful of miserable little scraps, so every few breaths his lips move again with the beginning of something ambitious. “I wanna…” makes it farther than most, his fingers flexing against your waist while he stares at you with such painful concentration that for a second you actually think he’s going to finish it, but then your hand slides through his hair and one sensitive ear folds beneath your palm and the thought simply caves in. His eyes flutter. His mouth stays open. A warm little breath slips between you before whatever he’d been reaching for disappears completely.

“Wanna…” he tries again, quieter.

You don’t ask him to finish.

That seems important now.

Instead you smooth the wetness beneath one eye with your thumb and tell him you know, tell him he doesn’t have to force the words out when they’re obviously hurting more than helping, and the relief that washes over Satoru is almost humiliating in its sweetness. His shoulders sag. His tail, which had been wound around your thigh with enough tension to make its agitation obvious, loosens just enough to curl there instead, and those pretty eyes close when you praise him for trying anyway.

“Good boy.”

A shudder.

“Mm…”

“Such a good boy.”

His mouth trembles.

That one reaches deep.

Satoru makes this tiny, wet sound somewhere between a whine and your name, and when he looks back at you there’s almost nothing guarded left in his expression. No smugness waiting around the edges. No embarrassment sharp enough to make him hide. Just heat and exhaustion and this frighteningly open sort of want, tears caught in his lashes while his attention clings to your face as though you’ve become the only thing in the room that still makes immediate sense.

He doesn’t let you stop.

Even while he’s still trembling through the last orgasm, Satoru is already pressing closer, nosing at your jaw, soft broken sounds spilling out of him every time he tries to form words. His face is a mess—tears and spit and the shiny streak of cum from earlier. His cock is flushed dark and oversensitive against his stomach, still twitching, still leaking little pulses of white that drip down over his balls and onto the sheets. But the second the contact disappears he gets distressed. His fingers tighten in the sheets, a soft panicked sound catching in his throat, and he tries to lift his hips toward you again like he can’t stand the empty space.

“Please—” he manages, voice completely ruined. “More—please— hahh—”

You tip his face up. His eyes are unfocused, glassy, pupils blown so wide there’s almost no blue left.

You shift up, straddle his hips, and sink down onto his cock in one slow, wet slide.

The sound he makes is almost a scream.

He’s so oversensitive that the first stretch of you taking him has him crying out, hips jerking, hands flying to fist in the sheets. For you the stretch is perfect—thick and hot and twitching inside you the second you’re fully seated, the wet heat of him filling you so completely that a soft, shaky sound slips out of your own mouth. The mess from earlier makes the slide filthy and easy; slick and leftover cum spill out around his cock in shiny white strings the moment you bottom out. You stay there for a second, just feeling him pulse inside you, and the pressure of it has your thighs already trembling.

“P-please—” he gasps. “More— hahh—”

You start to ride him. Slow at first, then deeper, longer rolls of your hips that drag every inch of him against the spot that makes your thighs shake. The wet sounds are constant and filthy—schlick, squelch, plap—every time you drop down. Slick and cum spill out around his cock in shiny white strings that stretch between your bodies before breaking and pooling against his hips and the soft white fur at the base of his tail. Every thrust pulls another broken sound out of him—and every time the head of his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you, a soft, shaky moan slips out of your own mouth too. The stretch is so good it makes your stomach tighten. You’re dripping around him, the wet heat of it making every slide messier, every plap of your hips against his louder.

He’s not forming sentences anymore.

Just your name. Please. More. Yes. Good. The words tumble out messy and unfinished, half-swallowed, broken by gasps and wet little whimpers every time you sink down harder or grind against him. When you slow for even a second he panics. His fingers tighten on your thighs, a soft broken sound catching in his throat as he tries to lift his hips up into you again.

“Don’t—” he gasps, voice tiny and wet. “Don’t stop—God, please—”

You ride him harder and he sobs with relief.

The pleasure builds heavy and slow for you too. Every time you drop down the thick stretch of him forces another soft sound out of you. Your slick is dripping steadily now, mixing with the cum already spilling out of him, making the wet sounds even filthier. Your thighs are starting to shake. The heat of him inside you is so good it makes your head tip back for a second, a low, shaky moan slipping out before you can stop it.

You slap him lightly across one flushed cheek—testing—and he moans brokenly, eyes fluttering, another tear slipping free. His whole body leans into it.

“Again,” he whispers, almost desperate. “Please—again—”

You give him another soft slap while you’re still moving on him and he comes hard, with a sharp, punched-out cry that turns into a wet sob halfway through. His cock pulses inside you, thick spurts of cum flooding you and spilling out around his cock in messy white trails that drip down over his balls and onto the sheets. The sudden heat of it inside you pushes your own pleasure higher; you keep riding him through it, slower now, feeling every pulse, every wet overflow, and the stretch of him still twitching inside you makes your thighs tremble harder. Soft, shaky sounds keep slipping out of your own mouth every time you sink down and feel another weak spurt of cum spill out of him.

Every time you lean down and murmur “good boy” against his mouth he sobs and melts at the same time, hips twitching, another weak pulse of cum spilling out of him inside you. “Pretty” has him nodding frantically, chasing your mouth, chasing your hips, chasing any contact he can get. He comes again with almost no warning, a high broken cry tearing out of him while his whole body seizes and shakes—and the way he clamps down and pulses inside you pulls your own orgasm out of you hard. You come around him with a low, shaky moan, cunt clenching tight and wet, more slick spilling out to mix with the thick white mess already leaking from him. The pleasure rolls through you in long, heavy waves, and every pulse of it makes him whimper and twitch harder inside you.

Cum and spit and tears have made a complete mess of him: shiny streaks across his stomach, dripping down his balls, stringing between your bodies every time you lift up, pooling in little wet patches on the sheets beneath you. You’re just as messy—thighs shiny, slick and cum dripping down onto him every time you shift, the wet heat of it still pulsing softly around his cock.

When you finally slow down for real he doesn’t protest.

He just presses as close as he can get, face buried against your neck, and holds on—soft, broken little sounds still spilling out of him every few breaths, body still trembling, completely pleasure-drunk and ruined—while you stay seated on him, catching your own breath, feeling the last little twitches of him inside you.

Your hand cups his jaw, thumb brushing slowly across the damp corner of his mouth, and Satoru turns into the touch with such immediate trust that something in your chest goes painfully soft. His lips part beneath your fingers almost on instinct now, but there’s barely any urgency left in it; he simply wants the contact, wants something familiar to occupy him while his thoughts continue drifting uselessly around somewhere beyond reach.

“More,” he whispers eventually.

One of the few words that still comes easily.

Then, after a long pause in which his brows pinch as though he’s searching for something terribly important, Satoru manages another tiny, “Please.”

You tell him yes.

And the relief on his face is so immediate, so devastatingly complete, that it becomes obvious he doesn’t need much else from language anymore.

Not when he has you.

tagzzz ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა

@caanabis @alligator18 ♡

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