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lovly-q · 14 days ago

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FASHIONABLY FUCKED UP ; satoru gojo .

synopsis ⁀ . ❛ you’re a model, and it’s ten minutes before the runway show. most people wouldn’t think that’s enough time to fuck—satoru’s not most people ❜

content⁀ . +18. 1.4k word count. finger fucking. reader doesn’t release (i knowww). since this is a model!reader au, it also means this is in a modern!au.

authors note⁀ . thought of this while listening to that one the weekend song. god someone help me

the bass from the catwalk vibrates so hard through the walls of your dressing room, that you could practically feel in your chest. it wasn’t until the cue song—the one that plays less than 15 minutes before your entrance—that the nerves finally hit. by now, slowly but surely your assistants have slipped out, leaving you alone for these last moments. you’d spent the past hour perfecting your makeup, and now, it was flawless. your outfit hugged your body like a second skin, the fabric tracing every curve of your hips, the neckline cut down just low enough enough to tease the crowd.

ten minutes to curtain.

you take a deep breath, and study yourself in the mirror of your vanity. you turn left, then right—and only then, you notice the figure in the doorway.

startled, you swift around in your chair. “toru—?”

and there he was. leaning against the doorframe as if he owned the damn building. he had his signature sunglasses perched up top of his white hair, shirt half-unbuttoned, black slacks all sleek and ironed.

“what are you doing here?” you hiss. “you can’t be in here—”

“oh please,” he rolls his eyes. “no one saw me.” with his next words, his voice shifts into something low. “plus—who cares? i missed you.”

you stand up from your chair, and lean against the corner of your vanity. crossing your arms, you frown.

“satoru,” you warn, but it’s a useless attempt. he’s already moving across the room—unhurried, almost described as lazy. he does this as if he has all the time in the world. which he didn’t. hell, you didn’t.

“look at my sweet girl. you look gorgeous,” he murmurs, stopping in front of you. his fingers skim the curve of your waist, then they dip even lower. they trace along the plush of your thighs. “really good. y’know i can’t believe they don’t let you take these outfits home. i’d love for you to sit and give me a personal show.”

you narrow your eyes. “i have ten minutes.”

“eight, actually,” he grins, glancing at the clock on the wall above you. “but i’d say that’s plenty of time, yeah?”

“satoru—“

he’s quick to tuck his hand between your thighs. the fabric of your panties is so paper thin that he can easily feel the dampness of your heat.

“fuck,” you groan. your breath catches somewhere in your throat, every muscle tensing.

“huh, you’re already wet,” he hums, voice laced with nothing but amusement. “how rude of you to not to tell me.”

you try to step back, forgetting there was nowhere to go. your actions only make the vanity press closer against your spine. satoru presses between your legs, his free hand firm on your thigh to hold you still.

“don’t start something you can’t finish,” you warn—or atleast try to. it doesn’t help that your voice shakes.

“hm, me?” he comes close to your ear, as he whispers, “i won’t be the one begging to finish.”

abruptly, he tugs your panties aside.

you gasp. the cold air hits you first. then his fingers—warm and fucking agonizingly slow—slip through your folds. he circles your clit once, twice, and you nearly buckle.

“this is cruel,” you manage to get out, voice barely above a whisper.

he gives you a look over before leaning in once more, lips brushing against you ear. “cruel would be making you walk out there dripping and not letting you come.”

“are you not trying to do that already—” your breath hitches as he presses two fingers inside.

he moves slowly, too slowly, curling them just enough to make you whimper. your nails dig into his forearm, teeth clenched as he starts to finally get a rhythm. it’s disappointing, really. too gentle. just shy of what you really needed.

fuck, why does he have to be such a tease?

you whine, “more.”

he lets out a low laugh. “more? you sure?”

“can you just fuckin’ do it,” you groan.

despite your pleas, he doesn’t change his pace. if anything, he slows. his thumb circles your clit again while your fingers side even deeper. dragging against that sweet, aching spot that he knew made your legs tremble.

“still five minutes left,” he murmurs. “don’t act like you’re in a rush.”

“you’re so annoying. i am in a rush.”

“yeah? then say please.”

through hooded eyes, you glare at him, “you’re—”

your insult dissolves into a strangled moan as he curls his fingers more tightly—a quick, repetitive opening and closing gesture. your head falls back, and your thigh begin to shake. his open hand stays steady with its job of pinning you in place. it builds just enough pressure to make your need grow tighter, sharper—until you’re sure you’re finally about to fucking release—

and then he stops.

you voice is broken as you whine, “‘m no—toru, don’t you fuckin’ dare—”

“y’know, baby, at first you said you didn’t even want this,” he murmurs with a slow, teasing smirk. “got such an attitude about it—your mouth’s so filthy, always switchin’ between yes and no…”

his palm lands firm against your clit. it brings a heat that makes you jolt. then, as if to soothe it, his slick fingers slide back up, circling your clit in a slow, lazy swirl.

“but this,” he continues, voice low, “this says yes.”

you bite your lip, “who’s to say you always know what i want? you don’t really think you’ve got me all figured out… do you?”

his gaze darkens, “why wouldn’t i?”

he leans in, and your instantly lips move against one another. it’s slow at first, similar to the way his fingers kept working you over. but gradually the kiss gets deeper, slower.

you were soaked. writhing against his hand.

you really didn’t want to give in.

y’know what?

fuck it.

“toru, baby,” you breathe, forehead resting softly against his. “please.”

he grins so hard its sickening. “ask and you shall receive.”

his fingers speed up, just enough to make you cry out again. your nails rake down his shoulder, and your other hand tightly grips the vanity behind you.

you’re seconds away. so close.

and then—he stops. again.

“no—!” you choke. desperate, dizzy. “please, i’ll do anything—”

“you will,” he says, sucking the slick off his fingers. “but not now.”

you stare dead at him. legs shaking. panties ruined. body filled with so much frustration that it hurt.

“you’re a monster,” you whisper.

“i’m your biggest fan.” he says, and this time his voice is softer than before.

he crosses the room to grab a piece of tissue, then comes back to you with a soft smile. “you’re sweating…don’t worry, it’s jus’ a little,” he murmurs. “don’t worry, as much as i would like to, i wouldn’t let you go out there jus’ lookin’ like anything. i kept an eye on it.”

gently, he dabs the sweat from your forehead. then he leans in and presses a kiss right where he wiped.

“now,” he says, full of pride, “go show ‘em who you belong to.”

a knock came at the door.

“one minute!”

you barely manage to stand, pulling your panties back into place with trembling fingers. your legs were sore. your mind was everywhere other than where it needed to be: the runway show. even stepping toward the hallway was a hassle.

and through all of this stress he has the nerve to smack your ass on the way out.

it’s not hard for the circle of light to find you. immediately, cheers and compliments erupt around the stage.

you got this, you think to yourself.

you take one step forward.

and stumble.

not mortifyingly. not so visibly. not to the cameras or the crowd. but you could feel the imbalance in your walk. your thighs brushed together and heat began to pulse between them with every single step. you couldn’t help but be so aware of everything that was indifferent from your other runway walks. you especially couldn’t help but be aware of the slick that was still coating your folds, soaking the delicate fabric.

when you get to the tip of the runway point, you catch satoru in the front row. his shirt is buttoned now—a attempt at him trying to look less like the bad influence he is.

and…what the fuck? is he…smirking?

he folds his arms, tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip as his eyes raked over you.

you try to clear your mind as you finalize your performance. you walk. you pose. you turn.

every flash of the camera reminded you that you were still wet, still aching, still one touch away from falling apart completely.

and satoru knew it.