#is it really a fic of mine if i dont add in breeding/creampies

[angry-geese]

rises the moon

Gojo Satoru x F!Reader

Warnings: angst and smut with a happy ending. makeup sex, toxic relationships, mentions of a breakup. fingering, oral (fem receiving), breeding mention, creampies, dirty talk (reader calls gojo a slut like once), slightly dubious consent (reader is into it but tagging that just in case), afab reader. not beta read so i apologize in advance for any spelling/grammar errors lol

synopsis: you and your boyfriend need to have a chat - a breakup turned makeup sex when the strongest can't quite communicate how he really feels about you

a/n: i was in the mood to write some angst so my victim of choice this time was gojo

Word count: 2.7k

jjk masterlist

It's never a good thing when someone starts a conversation with 'we need to talk'. It's one of those things that's fine in theory, but not in practice. It always has a double meaning. A darker one.

Really, you had no clue he was back in town. Gojo was on a trip. Work. It's always work. He’s always gone on some job, only to come home in the dead of night. You never understood how he stomachs so much of it. In the past it was tolerable, but as of late his jobs grow longer, and he spends fewer days at home.

He usually texts when he gets back. Or calls. Usually. This isn't the first time he;s forgotten to do such a thing.

In a split-second decision he asks you out to coffee. He’ll pay, he said. His treat.

He makes a lot of those. Rash decisions. Ones without much thought paid to the consequences. Why would Satoru Gojo ever have to worry about consequences for his actions?

You’re wearing one of his shirts. A white button up. You didn't mean to. It wound up in your laundry from the last time he stayed the night. You’ve been meaning to give it back to him, but haven't had the chance.

It still smells like him.

And the earrings he bought you- a birthday gift. Along with other things. Your anniversary must be coming up soon. One year? It's hard to believe it's been that long.

That was one of the things you always argued over. Your anniversary. Really, it was deciding what day it really was. Gojo says that it's days before you do. But you say it doesn't count if only he knew you two were dating.

It's hard to stop your thoughts from getting away from you. That was always a bad habit of yours. You assumed the worst. Because then you had time to prepare yourself for it. You always let your thoughts run wild, doing little to rein them back in.

Satoru has never been a bad boyfriend, but it's hard to call him a good one. When he is around, things are fine. But he’s almost never around anymore. He never left the honeymoon phase of the relationship. You did. He's not cheating on you. He never would. He’s not unfaithful, or stupid. Even if he had to deal with not fucking you—or anyone, for that matter—for weeks at a time.

You can't find it in you to understand. But you know things are inherently wrong.

You aren't happy anymore.

You’re not sure when it happened. But dating Satoru hurts more than it feels good. The few times you’ve tried to talk to him about it only end up in arguments. Or one sided conversations. Or makeup sex that only serves to avoid the one topic worth talking about.

You don't blame him. Not anymore. The strongest was never given the option to talk about feelings. Who was going to bother with that? He's the strongest. His entire life has always been about other people. Protecting other people. Fighting for goals he doesn't believe in.

He knows. Gojo doesn't want to say anything about it. But he knows.

"Satoru," you say, "we need to talk.”

Your lipstick leaves a small red ring around the straw of your drink. He remembers that lipstick. The one that left stains on his shirt- stains that refused to come out. The one he seemed to like you leaving marks on him with. He’d always parade around with those pretty red marks smeared across his neck, and the collar of his shirt.

“What's the matter, Mochi?” He asks. “Missed me?”

Your teeth leave small marks on your straw. Unknowingly, you’ve bitten into it. “I think we should take a break,” you say.

“Huh? You want something to eat?” He asks.

“No-” you say with a sigh, “I’m not hungry- I just wanted to talk. You’ve been so busy with work. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

Nine days. He’s been away for nine days.

“‘M sorry Mochi,” he says, “I’ll make it up to you.” You watch as his tongue runs across his glossy bottom lip. He moves to push his glasses further up on his nose.

“You don't have to. It's okay,” you say, “really. I think we’d both feel better with some time apart.”

You’re on your feet, pushing away from the table. Under your arm you gather your bag. Gojo is quick to rise after you. One strong arm wraps around your waist. But instead of leaning into his touch, you pull away. You don't want to make a scene. Not here. That's the whole point of breaking up with him in a public place!

The bells above the door jingle as it's pushed open, and the two of you spill onto the empty street.

His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with your much colder ones. When he spins you around to face him, his forehead presses against yours. On instinct your eyes screw shut. From any other angle you’re two lovers sharing a moment. It's only the harsh tones of your conversation that point to anything otherwise.

“Mind telling me where you’re going?” He asks.

“I've gotta stop by your apartment to get some of my stuff,” you say, “I won't be long.”

“Slow down there,” he says, “what's gotten into you?”

He tries to kiss you, but you turn your head, and his lips find the corner of your mouth instead. Those same lips attack your neck, sucking a dark mark into your soft skin. The scent of his cologne is heavy on you.

“Satoru stop!” You scold, giving him a weak shove.

How cruel. You’re practically laid out in front of him as a full course meal; dressed in his clothes, wearing that lipstick of yours, smelling like him.

“I’m just not happy anymore.” You say. “And I don't blame you. But I really shouldn't stay. I’ll only make us more miserable.”

He's silent as his eyes find yours. You're quick to avert your gaze.

But you’re his girlfriend. His partner! The one person he feels truly protected by! Satoru Gojo’s one and only.

"You're… serious," he says.

You're serious. You really mean all this?

“I want someone I can hold. I want someone who will be there to fall asleep next to me. I can't stay with someone who will just waltz in and out of my life as he pleases!" You say. "Is it so wrong for me to not want to be alone?!"

“If you don't want to be alone, then don't do this. Please," he says, "please don't do this.

You take a step back, head turning towards the empty bus stop. You don't want to walk home. Not anymore. He's stumbling towards you, trying to wrap his arms around you.

“Hey, it's not like it's all been bad,” you say, “I did have fun with you. And it's not like I didn't know what I was getting into when I agreed to this—you warned me—but I should have listened to you when you said it was a bad idea.”

"Please I'll make it up to you," he says, "I'll buy you anything. What would you like? Dinner? A handbag? New makeup?"

Peach tinted lips find your neck, pressing a soft kiss to the junction where your shoulder and neck meet. Harsh stubble grazes across your skin. It's been a few days since he last shaved.

"Please, I'll make it up to you," he says, "please. Just give me a few days."

"No." You say. "I can't do that. You know that."

His lips find yours—again—pulling you into a soft kiss. Needy. Desperate. Begging without words. One where he’s pressing his tongue into your mouth. Where he’s sucking on the tip of the strong muscle that resides between your teeth. Where he’s memorizing the taste of your lips, and the feeling of your tongue against his.

"Satoru, stop!" Your hands plant on his chest as you give him a good shove. He's sturdier than he looks, and this is something he takes in stride, shrugging off.

Gojo only pulls you closer; arms looping around your waist, tugging you flush to his chest. The sudden swell of his cursed energy proceeds a wave of nausea. Your heartbeat drops off suddenly, before picking up in pace.

The air shimmers like heat reflecting off a highway. You’re no longer on the street outside the coffee shop, but your—his—apartment.

He fucking teleported you? The sleazy bastard!

Close your eyes and you’ll be hundreds of feet in the air, completely at his mercy. Or he’ll steal you away into his domain. Just you, him, and infinity.

But he won't. Gojo can, but he doesn't want to upset you further.

Your knees hit the edge of the bed and you fall. The mattress dips under you as you sit, then lay back, nudged by him. He climbs on after you, caging you under him.

His head rests in the valley between your breasts. Not in a sexual manner. There's just something so intimate about listening to the beating of your heart. Most nights you’d coax him in close, letting him lay there, head nestled against your chest. Your fingers would comb through his hair, repetitively brushing it from his eyes.

Your hands find his shoulders, planting on them like you’re about to shove him again.

His hands work their way under your—his—shirt. Gojo is shameless in the way he grinds against you, humping your leg like a horny virgin. He’s already hard, painfully so, cock leaking against his thigh in his expensive pants.

There's the sound of his jacket hitting the ground as he shrugs it off. His lips are on your neck again. Lingering. Sucking a dark mark into your pulse point. Gojo can almost taste the way your pulse races. Soft “pleases” are spilling past his lips, as he grinds against you with desperation you’ve never seen from him before.

“Please,” he says, lips pressed against your neck, “please don't go.”

And you can only comply, hands finding his white tufts of hair and burying in them.

“We shouldn't do this,” you say.

“I know,” he says.

With one swift motion he slips your shirt over your head, tossing it in the way of his jacket. Your belt is next. Then the buttons on your pants. You lift your hips enough for him to slide them—along with your panties—down your legs.

His hands find your breasts, palming them through the padding of your bra. His fingers hook under the band, pushing it up—and over—your breasts.

“‘Toru-”

“Sorry, Mochi,” he says, “I just can't help myself when you’re splayed out under me like this.”

With one hand he clumsily undoes his belt. His movements are rushed. Eager. His arms hook around your bare legs, pulling your hips flush to his.

Two long fingers work you open. Pressing against the entrance of your soaked cunt, curling against the spot that makes your toes curl. Gojo groans when you clench around his fingers. Your hips buck, your clit grazing against his open palm in a way that has you seeing stars.

He leaves a train of kisses down the valley between your breasts, free hand groping at the mounds of flesh. Greedy. Needy. Gojo can't get enough of you. He never could.

“Fuck-” his tongue finds the bundle of nerves between your legs and you jolt. The feeling of wrongness behind this only adds to its appeal. Only igniting a fire that burns low in your stomach.

“Almost forgot how you tasted,” he says, lifting his head just enough that his slick-coated chin is visible, “can't believe it.”

Your hand finds the back of his head, shoving his face back into your cunt. This is followed by a muffled sound of approval. Your touch sends a shock of pleasure up his spine.

Gojo laps and sucks like a man starved. He might as well have been. He can't remember the last time he’s done something like this. Satoru may not be the best with his words—not when it comes to you—but he’s certainly good with his mouth. The way he’s moaning nearly—if not as loud as—you would have you embarrassed if the circumstances were any different. Any semblance of shame has flown out the window. You shouldn't be doing this. You know that. The whole plan was to cut things off. To end them there.

But he knows what he’s doing. Gojo knows just what he needs to do to have you melting under his touch.

When you finally cum, you cum hard, your thighs clamping around his head as your cunt twitches around his fingers. Gojo makes a show of licking his fingers; popping the digits into his mouth with a groan, eyes rolling back. Like you’re water after he’s been trekking through a desert for days.

“Now be a good boy and finish what you’ve started.” You say.

It's as if a switch has been flipped in his mind. Gojo’s brain practically short-circuits upon hearing your words. His pupils are blown; pretty blue eyes fixed on your face.

“Hrng- yes,” he says, “yes, I’ll be your good boy.”

His cock springs free from his boxers, slapping against his toned stomach. He may not be the biggest, but he sure is pretty. The carpet matches the drapes; the neatly-trimmed hairs towards the base of his cock are white. The head is a ruddy color, and leaking precum all over his hand as he strokes himself.

There's no stopping the groan that leaves him as he sheathes himself in your cunt. Your warm, velvety walls clench around him as he bottoms out entirely. He can't help himself. Or that's what he tells himself. Really, he wants the entire apartment complex to know how good you feel.

His hips snap against yours in a tentative thrust. Testing the waters, as usual. Seeing how far he can push the envelope before you realize.

"Fuck-" he says, face buried in your neck, "fuck I love you. I love you and I want you so much. Please call me your good boy- I’ll be good, I promise!"

Your arms find his neck, wrapping around him, pulling him close. He sighs, contentedly.

“Really?” You ask. “You’re going to be a good boy?”

“Yes,” he says, voice trembling.

He’s a whining, whimpering mess, rutting into you like his life depends on it. Your legs lock around his waist, forcing him to thrust deeper. Quiet “I love you”s are falling past his lips as his face pressed against your neck.

“Then cum inside me.” You say. “Breed me like the little slut you are.”

Gojo makes a noise like he’s been choked. The boldness of your words catches you both off guard, but you’re hellbent on not taking them back. Whether or not you want to; you mean it. A dark, possessive nature of yours won't allow him to mark you anywhere but inside.

He’s practically on cloud nine. The elders won't be too happy that he’s not more careful with his precious ‘seed’, but Gojo could hardly care what those old crones think.

“Shit-” he says, and it's as if the floodgates have been opened. His cum paints your fertile womb white and he groans, sinking his teeth into the crease where your neck and shoulder meet. He doesn't pull out, choosing instead to cage your body under his. You could throw him off if you wanted to—his body isn't that heavy—but you don't. So you allow him to stay.

“I love you,” he says, softly, “I love you.”

Your fingers comb through his hair, brushing it out of his eyes. His lips press against your collarbone—not in a kiss—he’s savoring your closeness. The heat of your skin. The smell of sweat and his cologne mixing with your perfume.

His breathing evens out to the point where you’re certain he’s fallen asleep. Gojo’s eyes close too much, and a bit too frequently for someone who says he isn't tired.

“Please,” he says, “just talk with me. There's nothing we can't work out.”

And despite your better judgement, you do answer him.

“Fine,” you say, “we’ll talk.”