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tonycries · 1 year ago

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AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father.

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close?

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was.

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you.

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you.

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting.

And oh was it interesting.

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion.

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second.

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was.

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought.

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were.

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh.

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often.

“Ah! Wha- Sato-”

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart.

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards.

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach.

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment.

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son.

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again.

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined.

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop.

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not.

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner.

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again.

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you.

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom.

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat.

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting.

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have.

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and-

Oh. Shit.

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door. Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily.

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously.

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins.

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.”

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing.

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way.

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.”

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb.

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.”

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him.

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full.

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that.

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming.

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again.

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed.

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father.

But that was exactly the problem.

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out.

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself.

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right?

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy.

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice.

Success.

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.”

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would.

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you.

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck.

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips.

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth.

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission.

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find.

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight.

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away.

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy. Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet.

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.” he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting.

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds.

And then it was like something snapped.

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams.

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue.

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before.

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him.

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it.

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls.

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face.

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him.

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high.

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do.

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip!

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one.

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you.

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed.

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin.

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.”

Shit had you said that out loud?

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you.

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs.

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh.

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need.

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now.

Of course, you were not one to be out-done.

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle.

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth.

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet.

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard.

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards.

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips.

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust.

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch.

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in.

“No.”

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.”

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing.

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all.

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you.

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life.

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high.

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you.

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough.

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams.

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven.

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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icarusignite · 2 months ago

Text

You’re on Your Own, Kid (p.1)

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Civilian!Reader

Summary: Amongst the glittering heights of Gotham's elite, you fight to build something of your own, only to watch it crumble under the weight of your father’s sins. And just when you need him most, Bruce Wayne vanishes, leaving you to weather scandal, betrayal, and ruin alone. Love turns to silence. Devotion becomes distance. Now, as the city tears you apart, he watches from the shadows, haunted by the truth, and by the pieces of you he left behind.

Tropes: childhood friends to lovers. Pre-established relationship. Possessive Bruce. Fluff and domesticity. Some angst and betrayal later on, and Bruce being emotionally constipated, hurt/comfort, angst to fluff. promise he'll grovel in part 2

Word Count: 6.9k

A/N: LOL the conglomerate shenanigans mentioned here are just to set the stage, so it may not be entirely accurate. We're just going for vibes once again. Also, I'm sorry I keep splitting these into parts, I just have a hard time keeping focus when it gets too long and then I'm not able to proofread it lol. Also, I had Dan Mora's Bruce in mind when I wrote this cuz he is scrumptious, but honestly feel free to imagine your fav, they're all hot af <3 As usual comments/reblogs/likes are all super appreciated, I love hearing yalls thoughts!

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

The room you were in was too cold and grey, full of men who thought salt-and-pepper hair and a Rolex gave them license to speak louder and listen less. You sat at the long conference table, posture straight, pen tapping an idle rhythm against the polished mahogany. Across from you, some relic of the financial world droned on about stock volatility and historical precedence, his words wrapped in condescension and misplaced self-importance.

You should've given him the respect his tenure demanded, but the way his eyes passed over you, like you were ornamental rather than integral, sent a rush of disdain crawling up your spine. Respect, as far as you were concerned, was earned, not assumed. And certainly not owed to anyone who looked at you like you were a misdelivered invitation.

Still, you'd been born into a world of masks and teeth, and you wore yours like fine silk. Your smile was patient, and you nodded politely through his tirade, letting him tire himself out like a dog barking at a closed door. Then, with poise as sharp as a stiletto heel, you stood.

"I appreciate your concerns," you said smoothly, the corners of your mouth curving into a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "But allow me to show you why they're unfounded."

You clicked your presentation open, and the sleek slides glowed behind you, casting your silhouette in authority. Your voice, when it rang out, was crisp and commanding. You outlined every metric, forecasted every outcome, and highlighted each strategic benefit of the partnership with the precision of a scalpel. Your delivery was not just persuasive, it was irrefutable.

"And with Wayne Enterprises' logistical strength paired with our R&D innovation, projected returns stand to exceed expectations by the second quarter. This isn't just a good move. It's a brilliant one."

A thoughtful silence followed. You saw it in the way heads tilted slightly, the furrow of brows that wasn't skepticism but grudging admiration. Most of the room wore expressions of reluctant respect, like they hadn't expected much and had gotten more than they bargained for.

Except him. The same fossil from earlier, with his cheap cologne and cheaper smirk, leaned forward and said, "That all sounds lovely, but are we to believe this isn't just a shiny little passion project? You paint a pretty picture, but partnerships with startups like yours are risky, even with your—" he paused, eyes sweeping you up and down in a gesture that wasn't even subtle, "—charisma."

Your responding smile was dangerous. From the corner of your eye, you saw your boyfriend's hand tighten just slightly where it rested near his coffee. There was a tick in his jaw, a silent flare of temper you knew too well. He sat at the head of the table, a quiet monolith in tailored charcoal, the very definition of controlled power. CEO of Wayne Enterprises, majority shareholder, your childhood best friend, and right now, a storm barely held at bay.

You cut him off with a single sharp glance. A silent don't you dare.

If you were going to navigate this brutal industry, you wouldn't do it in the shadow of Bruce Wayne, not even as the person who owned his heart.

You looked back at the man with the condescending tone and the fragile ego. "Well, if by 'passion project' you mean a venture backed by years of market research, two patents pending, and one multimillion-dollar seed round completed in half the time it takes most of your portfolio companies to launch a website—then yes. I suppose you could call it that."

A few sniggers rang around the room, but you kept going.

"As for risk, I would suggest you revisit our financials—slide seventeen if you missed it. The risk assessment is well within tolerance, and frankly, far lower than that synthetic textiles deal you pushed through last spring. Remember that? Didn't pan out so well."

You didn't blink as you said it, and the man's face darkened, but he didn't speak again. When you sat down, the room was quiet, save for the quiet shuffle of notes and murmurs of agreement. You felt it: the shift. You were the storm they hadn't seen coming.

And across the table, Bruce's eyes never left you. His expression was unreadable to the rest of them, but you saw the subtle lift of one brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. Pride, and something warmer.

The remainder of the meeting slipped by quickly, numbers tossed across the table like poker chips, and for once, most of them landed in your favour. A majority vote. A round of congratulations followed—handshakes, nods, and smiles with just enough sincerity to count. You took them all in stride, offering your own gratitude before ducking out hurriedly.

You didn't see the way Bruce's gaze followed you, how his tall frame lingered near the doorway a moment too long, as if willing you to turn back. As if he expected you to wait for him, to fall in step beside him the way you usually did.

But you didn't. You had people to meet. Calls to make. Updates to deliver. Your world moved fast, and you moved faster.

The rest of your day passed in a blur of boardrooms and breakout meetings, each conversation a continuation of the victory you'd carved out that morning. You wore your exhaustion like armour, hidden beneath crisp tailoring and a resolute gleam in your eye that warned anyone from suggesting you take a break.

By the time the last of your employees had filed out and the office corridors grew quiet with the hush of after-hours, you were at the end of your tether. You decided to take a short break, strolling the hallways of your headquarters and rolling your neck with a sigh, fingers kneading at the stiff knot beneath your collarbone.

Just then, a hand caught your wrist, pulling you gently into the shadow of an alcove. You inhaled sharply out of reflex, your spine going taut, until your gaze met a pair of broad shoulders you knew better than your own reflection.

The tension bled out from your body. "Bruce."

The man in front of you didn't let go. "Shouldn't you have gone home by now? What're you still doing here?"

"This is my workplace. I've still got work," you pointed out. "It's you who should've gone home by now. You're the guest here, after all."

"You can let your team handle the rest of it."

"You know I can't do that."

Bruce exhaled slowly, the sound edged with exasperation. His hands slid from your wrist to your shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscles there with surprising care. You almost groaned at the relief, but bit it back, refusing to show him that you were this close to melting under his touch.

"You've been staying up late for weeks trying to finalize this deal," he said softly, brows furrowing. "And now that you have, you should rest. It's not healthy for you to go on like this. Let me take you out to lunch."

"Not healthy? Says the man with an even worse sleep schedule than me?" You glanced at the elegant watch on your wrist and lamented. "And at this time, we should be grabbing dinner."

Bruce shrugged with that maddening nonchalance of his, as if time were merely a suggestion. "Sure. Dinner it is, then."

"Bruce...don't tell me you skipped lunch too."

He had the nerve to look unbothered. "Not my fault someone was too busy to accompany me."

You blinked, guilt nibbling at the edge of your resolve, but before you could offer any apologies, he spoke again.

"You know, I almost threw my coffee at him."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The man from earlier." The words left his mouth bitterly. "The way he looked at you. Talked to you. Like he thought he was clever, like he thought he could get under your skin."

"Oh? That's what got under your skin?"

Your boyfriend didn't flinch. Just looked at you with that heavy, unreadable intensity that made your heart beat a little too loud in your chest. "I don't like when other men look at you like that. Like they're entitled to even think about you."

"Bruce!" Your voice was half reprimand, half breathless laugh. "Are you seriously jealous of a man who couldn't even figure out how his PowerPoint slides worked?"

"I'm serious."

You sighed, reaching up to smooth your fingers along the lapels of his blazer. "So am I. And besides, I handled him just fine."

His expression didn't shift for a moment, but eventually, the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"Yes," he admitted almost reverently. "You did."

His gaze dropped to your lips for just a second before flicking back up. "You always do."

You grinned, triumphant. "Damn right, I do."

"But that doesn't mean I liked it. I know you can fight your own battles. That doesn't mean I want to watch someone else try to belittle you and get away with it."

You slipped your hands up, resting them on either side of his neck. "You don't have to protect me."

"I know. That's why I didn't step in."

"Good." You tapped his chest twice, firmly. "Because if you did, I'd have made you wait in the hallway like a schoolboy. You are in my territory after all."

That earned you a proper smirk. "Someone's bold today."

"You're impossible."

"And you're brilliant," he returned, brushing his knuckles against your cheek. "Which is why you deserve a dinner where no one interrupts you or calls your projections ambitious like it's an insult."

"Only if you promise to pick a place with no paparazzi. I am not dressed to be captured at unflattering angles."

Bruce pulled back in disbelief. "You're joking."

You stepped away and gestured to yourself with a dramatic flourish, as if unveiling a masterpiece gone awry. "Am I? Look at me. This blazer?" You plucked at the crumpled lapel. "Was an emergency grab after I spilled coffee on my blouse and had to scrub it out in the office bathroom like some tragic rom-com character." You pointed to the faintly darker patch near your waist. "Still damp."

His eyes followed your motions with the tenderness of a man who saw none of the chaos you were describing.

"And my hair looks like I lost a battle with a fan and a filing cabinet."

Bruce didn't even blink. "You look stunning."

"You're just saying that."

"No. I'm not. You look stunning. Like you always do."

You faltered, ever so slightly, and despite the frustration, the day-old coffee stains, and the ache in your spine from too many hours hunched over a screen, you believed him.

You glanced down at yourself again, then back at him. "You, on the other hand, are a walking PR campaign. How is it that after several hours and three crises, you still look like you just stepped out of a magazine cover shoot?"

He winked. "Genetics. And less coffee spillage, apparently."

You groaned, swatting at his chest again. "Unfair."

Bruce caught your hand mid-air and laced his fingers through yours. "Dinner," he insisted, gently tugging you forward again. "No cameras to capture your alluring charm. I'd rather keep that all to myself tonight."

You hesitated, the fight draining from your shoulders. "Alright. But if I see even one camera flash—"

"I'll tackle them myself," he promised, lips brushing the back of your hand with just enough gravity to make your breath hitch.

"How noble of you. Gotham's very own superhero."

"And you're still the most beautiful person in the room."

"Stop flirting with me. I might start thinking you like me."

He looked at you so intensely that your knees almost buckled. "I do."

And just like that, you melted.

It was ridiculous how quickly his words could undo you. There was no grand gesture, no dramatic speech, no orchestra swelling behind him, and yet the way he said it, low and certain and entirely unbothered by how much it affected you, made your heart stumble in its rhythm.

You suddenly understood why he'd been granted that moniker: Gotham's most eligible bachelor. The billionaire playboy. The man whose name was always paired with another woman's on gossip sites, his photo splashed across magazine covers, eyes smouldering, collar artfully undone.

Bruce Wayne knew how to be charming.

He wielded charisma the way other men wielded money or power. Elegantly. Effortlessly. And oh, hadn't you once mocked him for it? You'd teased him mercilessly, rolling your eyes at every tabloid article and every polished date-night photo he'd been caught in before the two of you became something real.

You'd called them all fools—the ones who let themselves be swayed by a well-timed smirk. Now you knew yourself to be the biggest fool of all. Despite how fiercely you'd resisted, despite how determined you'd been to never lose yourself to his charm, you had failed. You'd been dating for nearly a year now. Long enough that you should be used to him, to the casual intimacy, and the way he always found you at the end of the day like a tether pulling him home.

But you weren't used to it. Not even close. Somehow, it never stopped feeling surreal, that you were the person he looked at like this. Like you hung the stars.

"You're dangerous," you remarked, swallowing thickly.

Bruce grinned. "Only to the people who would hurt you."

"No. To me."

His expression shifted, but you turned away before he could say anything more and you let yourself fall deeper. You tugged him down the hallway by the hand still clasped in yours.

"Come on, then." You cast a look over your shoulder. "You promised me dinner."

He followed obediently as if there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. "Of course. Just you and me, and hopefully someplace with real silverware."

"And dessert?"

"Only if you behave."

Your grin was wicked. "So... no dessert then."

"Now whose the one being impossible?" Bruce chuckled, that rare, warm sound that started deep in his chest and made your insides glow.

"For the record," you added, "if anyone should be jealous, it's me."

"Oh?"

"Nearly half my staff looked ready to faint the moment you loosened your tie during your introduction."

"Guess I'll have to keep my tie on, then."

"Hmm, we'll revisit that decision later."

Behind you, Bruce Wayne smiled like a man who knew exactly how lucky he was.

Bruce insisted on driving, and you didn't protest. It was late, your feet ached from running around in pinching shoes all day, and the thought of slipping into the cocoon of his ridiculously luxurious car made the decision an easy one. Besides, he offered with that maddeningly smooth baritone of his, "You can pick up your car from here tomorrow morning. I'll drive you myself if you have to."

"I already have a chauffeur, Bruce," you teased. "I don't need another one."

You sank into the plush leather of the passenger seat with a sigh, the door shutting out the world behind you. The subtle scent of his cologne clung to the air—sandalwood, bergamot, and something inherently him. It wrapped around you like a second skin, comforting and just a little dizzying.

When you turned your head lazily toward the driver's seat, you found Bruce already watching you with that unnerving intensity. A thousand thoughts cycloned behind those stormy blue eyes, none of which he'd voice until he was ready.

You opened your mouth to say something teasing—probably about the dramatics of being stared at like a particularly compelling oil painting—but then he shifted, reaching into the inside pocket of his tailored coat to draw out a small velvet box.

Your body tensed before your mind had time to catch up. It was absurd. You'd been dating for almost a year, not nearly long enough to expect anything that serious. Right? Nonetheless, the sight of the box alone made your pulse quicken. It would not be entirely unwelcome.

"Bruce—"

He opened it before you could spiral further, and nestled inside was not a ring, but a necklace. It was platinum, by the look of it, with a slender, almost imperceptible inlay of black diamonds. Refined and sleek, just like him.

"To mark the deal," he clarified. "The start of another successful venture."

"You couldn't have possibly known the deal would go through."

He looked at you like you'd just insulted Alfred's biscuits. "Of course I did. You always accomplish what you set your mind to."

When he motioned for you to turn in your seat, you obeyed without a word. Warm fingers brushed your hair gently to one side, lingering just a moment too long against your skin before he reached around to fasten the clasp. The metal was cool against your collarbone, but his kiss to the back of your neck made you forget that detail entirely.

It wasn't just the kiss. It was the reverence in it. As if he were grounding you, silently telling you that in a world so ruthlessly fast, so relentlessly sharp, you were the one thing he wanted to slow down for.

You turned back to face him, feeling more seen than you had all day, but then something caught your eye. There was a faint bruise along his right cheekbone. Barely visible under the glow of the dashboard lights, but unmistakably there.

You frowned. You'd been too busy these past few weeks to pay proper attention, but now that you looked, he seemed worn. There was a touch of stiffness in the way he moved, the slight tightness around his eyes that didn't come from fatigue alone.

You had known Bruce Wayne since you were kids. You had seen him fall from trees and scrape his knees, heard him lie his way out of trouble with that disarming charisma. You knew the man behind the socialite mask better than most, so you knew this wasn't new.

You didn't know exactly what he did during the weeks he disappeared—off the grid, unreachable, returning with faint limps and fresh bruises he never explained. But you had a suspicion. You hadn't confronted him yet, of course. Not because you didn't care, but because you cared too much. You knew that if you pulled too hard on that thread, it would unravel something neither of you were quite ready to face.

You reached up without thinking, fingers ghosting just beneath the bruise. "You've been busy too," you murmured. "Are you alright?"

Bruce felt the guilt settle in his chest the moment your lips brushed his cheek, just above the fading bruise. It was a small gesture, but so full of love, that it tore through him like a bullet. You kissed him like he was something precious. Like he wasn't a man slowly weaving a noose around the neck of your world.

He'd lied to you.

No, not lied, just omitted. The difference was razor-thin, but he felt the sting regardless. The necklace hadn't just been a gift to celebrate your business deal. It was an apology for the truth he was keeping from you.

You thought he was there to support you today. And he was. He had been watching you with pride blooming in his chest as you stood your ground, fielded every question, and held your own like the veteran you were, but that wasn't the only reason he'd been in the building.

He hadn't told you about all his meetings later, and the real reason he had been at your office so late. He hadn't told you about your father.

Bruce knew too well that power often wore its virtue like a mask, and now, whispers were swirling—accounts of shady dealings, money funnelled through offshore accounts, associations with criminal networks that had never seen daylight. Whispers he couldn't ignore.

And your father had never been a man who left loose ends. Which meant that this building—your building—was a mausoleum of secrets waiting to be cracked open. And you, his only child, were the heir to it all.

You chattered beside him in the car, unaware of the war waging inside his head. You flitted between stories about team dynamics, upcoming plans, and the assistant you were mentoring, while all he could do was scrutinize you.

Did you know? Were you wearing a mask, just like him? Had you always been pretending, too?

He hated the thoughts as soon as they surfaced. Hated that his instinct was to doubt you, but that was the curse of the cowl. Every time he got too close to something good, his mind reached for the cracks in it. He lived his life trying to peel back facades, so what right did he have to pretend your smile wasn't another mask?

And yet, you had been the one and only real thing in his life. He glanced at you, noting the way you absentmindedly toyed with the chain he had clasped around your neck. The little frown you gave your phone when the screen lit up with emails. The way you never took your eyes off him, even while talking, as if making sure he was still there.

If it was a mask, it was the most convincing one he'd ever seen, and that scared him more than anything.

If you were indeed hiding something, if you had known what heinous crimes your father was involved in, if you'd lied to him just as he was lying to you now, Bruce wasn't sure what he'd do. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to separate the man from the mission. If he could still do what he had to do when the time came.

The fall of your father's legacy was inevitable, and when it did come—when it came by his own hand—he prayed to every god he didn't believe in that he'd be able to extract his heart from it all. Because right now, it was tangled up in you.

Hopelessly. Irrevocably.

And the part that terrified him most? He wasn't sure he even wanted to untangle it.

Bruce let your voice wash over him, tugging him gently away from the grim spiral of his thoughts.

"...and of course, I had to step in before they nearly came to blows over who gets to run point on outreach," you were saying, exasperated but amused. "I had to remind them we're running a corporation, not a reality TV show."

"Sounds like you're running a daycare."

"You're not wrong." You leaned your head back against the seat, stretching your arms forward with a tired groan. "Except they're all in their fifties and think an Excel spreadsheet is a form of advanced sorcery."

He chuckled, eyes wandering across the empty parking lot around him, willing himself to put an end to your rambles and start the car. But he liked it when you talked like this, unguarded and loose-limbed with the ease of being with someone who knew you too well to be impressed. You didn't try to dazzle him. You never had to.

You sighed, the air in your lungs leaving you in a huff. "Now that my father's stepping back from everything, it means I have to do all of this myself."

Bruce's hands flexed ever so slightly on the wheel, but you didn't notice. "You never have to do anything by yourself."

Another lie.

You shot him a grateful look. "Thanks, but I mean, he says he's taking time off to prioritize 'other things,' but won't tell me what those things are. Knowing him, it's either an obscure island retreat with no cell reception or another one of his mysterious hobbies that he refuses to elaborate on. Meanwhile, I'm playing heir, HR manager, and brand strategist all at once."

He hummed in acknowledgment.

"I had to sit down with one of our interns yesterday because she thought responding to emails with reaction memes was acceptable workplace etiquette."

Bruce raised a brow. "You're rather involved, aren't you? I'm sure someone else could have handled it in your stead. Give you time to decompress."

You shrugged. "That's what Father says, but I like doing things my way. You get to know your employees better like this."

That made him smile despite himself. Your ability to find humour in every situation, to lead without being cold, to carry the weight of an empire and yet talk about it like it was just another Tuesday impressed him more than anything.

All the while, he sat beside you, nodding along without giving you an inkling of what he was hiding. If he told you—if he said your father wasn't just retreating to some hidden beach or vague spiritual journey but was instead being investigated for laundering money through shell companies tied to mob interests—you might stop looking so at peace. You might stop trusting him, and he wasn't quite ready for that.

Eventually, you turned to face him, a lopsided smile pulling at your lips. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"

He shook his head. "No. You never bore me."

Your grin deepened, and you leaned forward to press your cheek against his shoulder affectionately. "You're sweet when you're tired."

Bruce didn't answer. Didn't tell you that sweetness had nothing to do with it. He was simply hanging on to this moment because it might be the last.

When he pressed his lips to the top of your head, you closed your eyes and tilted your face upward, waiting. You were bathed in moonlight where it streamed through the windshield, casting silver onto your cheekbones—beautiful in a way that made something twinge in Bruce's chest.

God, how was he supposed to let this go?

The following week would no doubt bring chaos. Warrants. Arrests. Headlines. And your last name and company would be at the center of it all.

You hadn't done anything. He tried to believe it with every fibre of his being. Nevertheless, innocence wouldn't shield you from collateral damage, and your father's sins had already rooted themselves deep into the legacy you were expected to carry. Bruce knew what it was like, to wear the weight of someone else's mistakes.

He moved before he could talk himself out of it, drinking in the sight of you under the cool glow of Gotham's night. Your eyes were half-lidded with burnout, lips slightly parted as you caught your breath after a long day, and he thought that this might be the last time he'd get to see you like this.

Peaceful. Unburdened. His.

With one hand cradling your jaw, and the other threading through your hair, he kissed you—suddenly, feverishly—as if trying to drink in every second of you before the world tore it away.

You made a sound of surprise against his mouth but didn't pull away, and your lips moved instinctively, the weariness dissipating from your frame as you gripped his lapel.

It was a desperate kiss. Apologetic. Fiercely tender in the way sorrow often was. His mouth moved with urgency as if he could etch himself into your bones through the press of his lips, and his thumb brushed the high point of your cheek, memorizing the shape.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, eyes dark and searching as he pressed his forehead to yours. You whispered something he didn't quite catch, dazed from the intensity of it all, your fingers curling loosely at his chest.

He wanted to tell you everything. He wanted to tell you nothing.

You were the one to break the silence first. "If that's your way of saying congratulations, I approve."

Bruce snickered, still studying you like he hadn't convinced himself you were real. "Not exactly what I had planned."

"Well, if you're going to keep kissing me like the world's ending, you'd better at least feed me first."

"Is that your subtle way of saying you're hungry?"

"No, Bruce. That was me very unsubtly saying I'm starving."

"Right. Dinner."

"Drive, Wayne," you teased, pointing toward the steering wheel. "Or I swear, I'll ditch you for the nearest taco truck."

"Tempting offer," he mused as he shifted the car into gear. "But I had something a little nicer in mind."

"As long as it has fries and something chocolate, I won't be picky."

He nodded. "Fries, chocolate... and anything else you want. Tonight's yours."

You gave him a lazy smile. "Careful. I'll hold you to that."

The following week passed in silence. Not the gentle, comforting kind, but the kind that came before a storm, stretching over your days like a veil. That should have been your first warning.

Your father, without so much as a word of preparation, had flown out of the city on an impromptu vacation. You'd laughed about it on the phone, but you didn't question him. You didn't ask what, exactly, he was vacationing from, simply assuring him that you'd keep everything running in his absence.

Bruce had disappeared too. Vanished into the shadows of whatever double life he lived so deftly. That, you didn't question either. You were used to his absences and loved him despite them.

But this time you had promised yourself it would be different. When he returned, you would confront him. No more pretending not to notice the bruises blooming on his skin like violets in winter. No more silent glances or pretending he was just clumsy. You would ask. Demand. Insist that if he wanted to carry darkness in his marrow, he could at least allow you to help him shoulder the burden. No one should have to endure on their own, least of all him.

Mercifully, the week was uneventful, allowing you to throw yourself headfirst into work, burying yourself beneath spreadsheets, projections, and meetings that bled into late nights. It was exhausting, yes, but it was yours. This new partnership was more than a win. It was the first real step toward something you had built with your own hands, separate from the empire your family name carried. This startup bore your vision. Your effort. Your name.

It had to succeed.

Then came the end. Or, rather, the beginning of it.

It started with the warrants. Then the headlines, the seizure of your childhood home, and the freezing of accounts. Accusations poured in like stormwater, each one a colder betrayal than the last. Investigations sullied every stitch of your life. Your father's name—once gilded in social circles and whispered with respect—now flashed across every screen, tangled in scandal, corruption, and crime.

The man himself was gone without explanation, and you were left to face it alone. The questions you didn't have the answers to, decisions made without your knowledge, strings pulled behind closed doors while you played puppet in boardrooms now turned battlegrounds. Stocks plummeted. Investors withdrew. The empire teetered.

All the while, you sat in sterile rooms with lawyers and crisis managers, trading sleep for strategy, tears for resolve. You plastered on poise like it was armour, but it cracked in the quiet moments.

And Bruce Wayne? He had abandoned you too.

At first, you offered him the benefit of the doubt. Missed calls, unread texts. You told yourself he was somewhere remote and unreachable. Busy. You even whispered forgiveness into the night air, fingers curling around your phone, willing him to call back.

Then came the sightings. He made appearances at galas, the high-rises of Wayne Enterprises, and in glossy society pages, polished as ever. Gotham's prince, untouched by the ruin that had devoured you.

Yet still no call or text. He'd cut you out of his life as easily as removing a puzzle piece that no longer fit.

And God, how you needed someone. Someone who wasn't paid by the hour to listen. Someone who would hold your shaking hands without judgment. Someone who knew the person behind the company. Behind the name. Behind the press statements and tight smiles.

Foolishly, you had once thought that it would be him, but now, with everything crumbling and no one left in the wreckage but you, it seemed even Bruce had abandoned you to the dumpster fire of your life.

Today had been particularly brutal, another day of chasing explanations in courtrooms, of being expected to defend decisions you hadn't made, of trying to hold together the crumbling legacy that now tasted like rust on your tongue. You'd been forced to put your startup on indefinite pause just to keep your family's empire from imploding in real-time.

And still, you were losing.

A part of you wanted to let it burn. Let the headlines win. Let the stockholders protest.

But you couldn't. You owed it to your heritage. To the people who'd built this long before you.

To your father.

Your father who, despite the horrors unveiled in the past week, had once held your hand and told you the stars would bow to you. That you were his pride and joy. The memory of that version of him still clung to you, and though part of you hated him now—for vanishing without explanation, for forcing you to carry the shame of his choices—you still loved him. Loved him enough to wish for his return.

The resentment boiled beneath your skin, nonetheless. For all the speeches about sacrifice and honour, he had vanished. Fled the city without a word. Left you to face the vultures and the wolves.

The media painted him a monster. The government labelled him a criminal. And you, his only child, had been left trying to convince yourself that he'd come back. But you feared it too because if he returned, he would be arrested. If he returned, there would be no more ambiguity to shield you. No more room for hope.

You couldn't even return to the one place in the world that had once made you feel safe.

Your childhood home had been stripped from you like everything else. Ousted, cast out by court orders and federal warrants, as agents and investigators swarmed the grounds in search of evidence. Evidence of what, you still weren't even sure. Your manor was no longer yours to enter, and the home you'd grown up in now belonged to suspicion and strangers.

So instead, you found shelter where the flashbulbs couldn't find you.

A run-down motel on the ragged edge of Gotham. Where the carpets smelled like mildew and the windows didn't lock right. Where the wallpaper peeled like old scabs and the silence could be bought by the hour. No one here cared who you were as long as you could pay them, and that anonymity was the closest thing to peace you could find.

You paced the floor in your socks, a worn patch in the carpet bearing witness to your anxiety.

Outside the door, a drunkard was making a commotion and you didn't have the energy to deal with it. Legal jargon. Press releases. Budget deficits. The ever-climbing mountain of debt. You had enough to deal with.

You cracked open another energy drink—your fourth? Fifth? You'd lost count—and downed it with the mechanical rhythm of survival. The empty can hit the trash with a hollow clang, joining its crumpled kin in the overflowing bin. Evidence of all the nights you'd tried to fix what was no longer fixable.

Finally, you collapsed backward onto the narrow bed, letting the stiff mattress and cheap sheets catch you. The springs groaned under your weight, and the ceiling stared down, stained like everything else in your life.

You turned your head to look at the crooked curtain. The window behind it gave a partial view of the street, where headlights passed like ghosts and neon signs flickered like dying stars. Anyone could look in. You knew that. The first-floor room had been a reckless decision, but what did it matter?

The loneliness returned to coil around your ribs like barbed wire, because you hadn't expected to go through this alone. All you could wish for was that someone—anyone—would tell you what the hell you were supposed to do next.

Bruce Wayne had messed up. He'd messed up big time, and no plan or contingency could protect him from the aftermath of this. Not from the bone-deep ache of knowing he had done the one thing he swore never to do.

He had hurt you. No, worse, he had abandoned you.

The decision to disappear had felt strategic at first, necessary even. A merciful amputation. He had convinced himself that radio silence was a kindness. If he ghosted out of your life completely, then at least you could hate him instead of waiting for him. It was easier. You deserved better. And if he could just stay away, maybe you'd find something like peace again.

But it hurt more than he'd expected it to.

In the bitter hours between midnight and dawn, Bruce sat in the cold of the Batcave, surrounded by monitors and case files and the hum of silence. Your name remained unspoken, but your absence was carved into the air like a phantom. You haunted every inch of him.

In his most delusional moments, he tried to tell himself that you were just a fling. A casual dalliance. A distraction. But the lie always collapsed under the weight of memory.

You weren't some convenient warmth in the dark. You were the kid who used to curl up beside him in the library of Wayne Manor, huddled under the same blanket with a flashlight between you, whispering stories and pretending the world beyond those four walls didn't exist. You were the one who used to help Alfred bake cookies and sneak extras into his coat pockets like a co-conspirator. You were the one who had dragged him out to the gardens to stargaze after his parents' funeral, because you knew he couldn't sleep, and didn't ask why.

Every hallway of his manor remembered you. The way you used to peek around corners before sneaking up behind him. The faded marks on the billiards table from that time you got frustrated and slammed your cue stick in half. The sketch you left framed in the guest room. His home was no longer a home, because you had stopped existing in it.

He'd tried to remove all the signs of you, but each act of erasure only made your absence more apparent.

Worst of all was Afred's disapproval. The old butler didn't say anything directly, but the glances lingered longer, the tea was brewed with a touch too much bitterness, and sometimes Bruce would find the framed picture of the two of you—taken at a gala last year—mysteriously returned to the shelf no matter how many times he tucked it away.

Then there were the galas themselves. Pretending. Performing. Wearing the mask of Gotham's untouchable bachelor again.

Every night without you on his arm was agony. The flash of cameras, the flirtations, the empty laughter, it all made his skin crawl. The socialites gathered to him like moths to a flame, and the tabloids declared him single and so very available again.

But the truth was, he hadn't forgotten you.

He made sure every patrol began and ended outside the dingy motel you'd taken refuge in. A place that made his blood boil with its peeling paint and faulty locks and the creaking sign out front that buzzed half-lit neon into the darkness. He was furious with you for choosing a place so unsafe, but he was even more furious with himself for forcing you into it.

You should have been safe in your own home. Or even in his home, if nowhere else. But he had stripped you of everything and offered you nothing in return.

He did what he could anonymously. He paid off the worst of the paparazzi who managed to tail you. Made sure they didn't get too close, didn't publish the more invasive photos, didn't shout cruel questions in your face. He had them warned—some less gently than others.

He arranged for the more dangerous elements around the motel to disappear. Muggers. Stalkers. Dealers. Drunks. The ones who caused noise in the middle of the night. The ones who might scare you. He made sure they never came back.

He made anonymous contributions to your legal team, to fund the best defence lawyers in Gotham. He whispered into the right ears at the right firms to slow the hemorrhaging of your company stock. And when certain contracts came under scrutiny, he pulled strings to have Wayne Enterprises temporarily shoulder some of the burden without naming you directly.

He was helping from the shadows because he couldn't face you. He couldn't stand the thought of looking you in the eyes and seeing disappointment. Or worse—hatred.

You were the strongest person he knew. You would survive this, but you would not survive him and the ruin that he brought with him everywhere he went. He was poison, and everything he touched eventually soured.

Your life was already on fire, and he had no idea how to put it out without reducing you to charcoal ruin along with everything else had had ever loved and lost.

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