What Marcille Saw When Laios Was A Wolf In Her Dream

“I am only a shell where the ocean is still sounding.”

— Marina Tsvetaeva, excerpt of Insomnia (tr. by Elaine Feinstein)

THAT BOY IS MINE .ᐟ I CAN'T WAIT TO TRY HIM .ᐟ

*+:｡.｡ SUMMARY. yuuta's the shy, unassuming guy in your media and ethics class, the kind of moral and upstanding guy who's never seen the real world before up until coming to college. of course, he latches on to you and your drastically different world. wc: 5.3k

contents. 18+ mdni, yuuta okkotsu x female!reader, smut, porn with a dash of plot, overstimulation, body worship, oral fixation, a lil bit of a corruption kink, edging, unprotected sex, virginity loss (yuuta), praise kink, pet names, hair pulling, reader being a lil unfair, drunk sex

When Yuuta comes, it’s a sight to behold.

His eyes screwed shut, desperate and mindless pleas tumbling off the edge of his lips like a waterfall, begging for release. He can’t help but rock his hips faster into yours, a pace that sends you off to your third orgasm of the night, but you can’t linger on that for too long when Yuuta falls apart like it’s a revelation. Like he loses himself in the sensation of it all, all strangled gasps and whimpers as you praise him through it, giving him something tangible and steady to hold on to.

God, he gets so desperate, drunk off your pussy and doesn’t stop rutting into yours even though the aftershocks of his orgasm send tremors down his spine, completely and utterly spent but unwilling to give up on the high, and you feel so unbelievably warm.

"Can you give me another one, baby? Please?" Your hand's already snaking back down to his swollen, aching cock, a mischievous lilt to your voice. 'Cause you already know what he wants.

You can hardly believe that you only took his virginity just a couple hours ago. 

Yuuta has that baby deer lost in the woods look to him, the kind of moral, upstanding guy that seems to have been sheltered all the way up until college. You remember the first time you saw him, you accidentally mistook him as part of one of the college tour groups, raising a brow when he nervously asked you where the lecture hall for the media and ethics course was.

"I'm so, so sorry, I just—ihavenoideawherei'mgoing—and… and this professor has a ⅕ rating on ratemyprofessor.com and I'm going to be so screwed, how do I—"

He had shaken his phone with his schedule in front of you then, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and you could barely conceal the annoyance on your face. Still, you took pity on his poor soul, looking like he was on the brink of bursting into tears. "Yeah, fine, fine, just stop waving your phone in my face. Dude, how did you even get on this side of campus—god, you're hopeless, just follow me."

When Yuuta hesitates to follow you, already three feet away, you turn around with an exasperated look. "You comin' or what?"

"Y–Yes ma'am!" He's stumbling over his words again, embarrassed with the fact that he called you ma'am, thinks that you're definitely going to abandon him there and then, but to his and your surprise, you don't. You merely huff, motioning for him to keep following you. "I mean… sorry, yes, I'm right behind you!"

It's no wonder you walk with such purpose and intent. Wherever you went on campus, people naturally tend to carve out a path for you. It's an observation that does not go unnoticed by him, surprised at the easy way in which students on campus held a quiet respect for you. He thinks can understand why—he believes you're stunning in a way that's almost unfair, sharp eyes appraising him and elevating his heart rate with just a few words.

Can't focus on much else but stare at the way your hips sway from side to side as you march confidently through campus like it's a playground.

Yuuta would find out much, much later that he might've just accidentally fallen onto the devil's lap.

You look over your shoulder to check that he's still following you and you almost burst out chortling at the way he looks, giving you the world's largest puppy dog eyes and hanging on to your every step. He's taller than you, yet his pace barely matches yours. "You sure you're a college student?"

"Y–Yes! Of course!" His words come out quicker than expected, a little bit too defensive. He rubs his neck sheepishly. "I just transferred."

You hum, a small sign of acknowledgement, weaving past a large group of students also hustling to their next class. "So you got a name or what, transfer?"

"Yuuta! Yuuta Okkotsu. And yours?"

You tell him your name, and Yuuta makes a mental note and locks it away for later. He rolls the letters over in his mind until it's permanently engraved into his memory. It's pleasant, it's sweet, and it's you. God, he can't believe he's only just met you and he's already this down bad, like a puppy nipping at its owner's heels, desperate for any crumb of recognition. He seriously needs to pull himself together…

The walk around campus is pleasant enough, if not a bit quiet, as Yuuta struggles to maintain small talk and you struggle to really find a will to care, your steps hurrying just slightly as you glance at the time. You were already running slightly late, and then you picked up the stray rushing behind you.

"Well, here we are. Media and Ethics with Professor Yaga," When you finally arrive at the lecture hall, you whip around to face him, only to find his eyes trained to your ass. Yuuta almost instantly gets flushed, stumbling over his words in an attempt to explain himself. You can vaguely hear him trying to say there was just something, a bug, a stain, whatever, but catching Mr. Goody Two Shoes acting pervy is kind of entertaining. Huh, you wouldn't have expected that. 

Instead of humoring his little excuses as to why he was staring at your ass, you merely wave him off with a small smile. "Okay, weirdo. Just do me a favor and try not to get lost again, yeah?"

"Right! I'll try…" You're already walking away and heading off to your seat before he can finish his sentence. "Not to get lost again."

Gingerly, he finds a spot cramped in between two friends who glare at him as he sits down and he winces, mumbling soft apologies. You're a few rows down, chuckling and goofing around with who he assumes are your friends, a boy with platinum blonde hair and a girl with a blunt, black bob. You settle into a comfortable banter with them, and for a moment, Yuuta appreciates you at your most natural state, all smiles and unfiltered laughter. He can see the column of your throat as you laugh unabashedly, and instinctively, he licks his lips, dry and parched so suddenly.

As if you can feel the weight of his stare, you flip around in your seat to meet his tired, dark blue eyes. Your brow raises and a side of your lips curl, as if challenging him. 

If he was any other guy, a better guy, maybe someone who was more sure of himself, he would've risen to the occasion, meeting your eyes with just as much intensity. The kind of guy who meets you head on, who would have confidently asked for your number earlier, and maybe even a date.

But alas, he was only Yuuta Okkotsu, and Yuuta Okkotsu is unfortunately the kind of guy who goes red from head to toe and buries himself back into the crook of his textbook at the notion of being caught staring so openly. He gets too caught up in his own mind to notice the cheshire-like grin that creeps onto your face, turning back to face the board with something akin to trouble written all over your face.

Maki turns around to glance back at what you were looking at earlier, and sees nothing but an unimpressive ball of white fabric and dark black hair trying desperately to avoid eye contact with your row. She snorts, and you roll your eyes. "Looks like you got a new admirer again."

"Hm, something like that," You think about his wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights, and it's decided. "Call it my new project."

And you suppose that's where your little cat and mouse game began.

You quickly discover that yours and Yuuta's schedules conveniently align. He's rushing through the doors of your next class almost every time, perpetually late and flustered and embarrassed about barging into whatever classroom or hall and garnering dozens of speculative eyes. And every time, he meets yours somewhere in the crowd, but never fully returns it, just rushes down to a seat and pushes his head down.

Such a shame. He's a pretty boy, and you like the way he goes pink all over. 

Sometimes when lectures get a little too dull, you allow your mind to wander, thinking about how overwhelmed and discomposed Yuuta could become if you just sank down to your knees in front of him, eyes never leaving his as you pull those pants down, give him a little kiss here and there, then leave a hot, wet stripe down the length of him, watch as those hands, those surprisingly strong and veiny hands try to push you down entirely. How delicious he would taste—

This time, it's him who catches you staring, but your mother did not raise a coward. You stare back more openly, bottom lip catching between your teeth and gaze darkening. Just the slightest bit of reactions sends him spiraling, and you delight in the way he seems to get just a little bit lost, his lips parting slightly and leaning in slightly, wanting to close the distance between you despite being several feet apart. 

That's when you break your little staring contest with him, facing back towards the board with barely concealed satisfaction. It's like Yuuta just had a bucket of ice cold water splashed on him then, blinking rapidly and forcing himself to concentrate once again as if nothing ever happened.

After class, you see him fiddling with his waistband at the corner of the hallway, and you crack up.

You know that you're just being so mean, at this point, but when Yuuta hears you, all dazed and feverish, it's worth it. So you get a little bit more bold, a little bit more open with your game. 

Forgoing leggings and sweatpants for jeans and tight, little skirts, shorts that hike up a little bit too far and shows off the expanse of your soft belly when you reach over and hand Inumaki a pencil or a pen, tank tops that should, quite frankly, be outlawed in your city, exposing soft skin and your plush chest. You keep your distance, however, never quite allowing him the satisfaction of going past a few words with you or polite interactions.

Yuuta's a gentleman, even if his eyes betrays his actions. Taking only what you give him, opening doors for you when he sees you coming down the hallway, obeying so sweetly when you ask him to throw your trash away for you, the only times he can drink your full figure in and capture your full attention.

He's different, you realize, from other people you've previously fooled around with. You can see how much he's trying so hard to remain composed, never letting his eyes linger for too long, never once touching you. Other guys would've broken by now, but not your Yuuta. He's a good boy.

You make your move one Friday after lecture, and it's a familiar dance you and him have come to recognize. Yuuta's already at the door waiting to push it open for you and you beam, positively radiant, lips wrapped around a cherry red lollipop. There's a light smack! as you pull it away from your mouth, tongue peeking out just slightly to cherish the taste. 

As always, he's watching intently, as if committing the sight to memory. You absolutely love the idea, of Yuuta making himself cum over and over again at mere thoughts of you. 

To be quite honest, you've spent hours pondering if he's the type to torture himself through it, pulling away just when he's about to finish, chest heaving and panting with need before letting himself cum after a long session, or if he would rather push himself through orgasm after orgasm until he's shedding tears, begging for no one but himself to stop.

"Say, Yuuta, you got any plans for tonight?" The question is anything but innocent, and there's that pink glow that radiates from him once again, surprised at just how open you are. "Don't get any silly ideas. I'm throwing a little party tonight."

You let your tongue swipe across the shimmering head of the lollipop, delighting in the way his Adam's Apple bobs. "You should come."

For a moment, Yuuta doesn't say anything until he realizes he's just been standing there, staring at you slack-jawed. "O–Oh! Yeah, for sure, I can go! Uh… where is it? And when?" Instead of responding to his questions, you grin excitedly, like a shark who's just successfully lured its prey into the belly of the beast. "Perfect! I'll text you the details. See ya later, Yuuta!"

He nods furiously, flabbergasted more than anything, until he realizes he's never given you his number before. "W–Wait! But my number—" Too late, you were already off to your next destination. "I never… gave it to you…?"

His phone buzzes suddenly, startling him and amassing a few stares from passersby. Sure enough, there's an address, a time, and a winky face emoji from you that makes him rub his eyes to make sure that what he was seeing was right. Fuck. If the address was right, he was definitely going to get lost. He still has no idea where left and right were on campus.

Another buzz on his phone with detailed instructions on how to get to your place. Just in case. No excuses, Yuuta, you typed.

God, you were going to be the death of him.

But sure enough, he arrives at the designated place and time (not that you ever had any actual, real doubt that he would show, absolutely not), and is met with a house party at full steam, smoke radiating from some of the windows and a few people alternating through rounds of beer pong. There's some heavy R&B blasting from the basement that thrums through his spine as he tries to navigate his way through the crowd, searching for the illustrious host.

Just when he's about to give up hope, he finds you on a worn leather couch in a room off to the side of the house, surrounded by a haze of smoke and purple neon lights, looking so dangerous and gorgeous that it forces the ability to vocalize his thoughts right out of him. At the same time, you spot him, and it's silence between you two for a second. 

You smirk, and his heart skips several beats.

With one pretty manicured finger, you're gesturing him to the spot next to you. Wordlessly and hopelessly, he follows.

"You made it," He falls down next to you with a plop, sinking down on the leather and sitting so nicely, hands properly situated in his lap. He turns to look at you with a sheepish nod and you laugh, because you don't know what else you should've expected. It's the closest that you've ever been to him, and it's like he's already going into overdrive. "Did you get lost on the way or did you find me okay?"

"It's quite a party," Yuuta's distracted by your shimmering stockings, adorned with glitter and tiny little rhinestones. He normally loves when you're all exposed for him, bare legs crossed during lecture, but he thinks he likes this a lot more. "Your directions were super helpful," he murmurs.

"What ever would you do without me, hm?" You're suddenly so close, he can feel your breaths mingling in the air, and you're looking at him with those dark, dark eyes like you want to devour him. For a split second, your gaze flicks down to where his heart is pounding so loudly in his jugular, and there's another sharp spike between his legs.

It's honestly so unfair, this effect you have on him. Barely even a minute, and you've got him panting at your feet like a dog. 

He inhales and chuckles shakily. "I don't know," I don't want to know. Don't think I can ever stand a day without seeing you, without hearing you, God, please I just want you so bad—He allows himself to be bold, to see if what he's feeling is true, impossibly long lashes drifting to the floor as he lets his next words escape him quietly. "Let's hope I don't find out."

"Hope not," Your smile's all pearly teeth and he can see your canines glinting even in the low lights. The party really gets in full swing all around you, and he can vaguely hear the shallow whoops and screams of his cohort having the time of their lives. "Say, Yuuta, you wanna have some fun?"

It's a blur of bodies and pounding music from that point on, the only times when he really feels lucid is when you're holding onto his hand, taking him from one part of the party to the next with that same, sly smile like you're taking him down the rabbit hole. He doesn't drink that much, intoxicated off of your presence alone, and it's addicting. The rush gets to his head and you convince him to play a round of beer pong with you, relishing in the way you embrace him after he sinks a ball into one of the cups and feeling the shape of your breasts against his chest, hot and sweaty, and he just wants to taste you, wants to lick up your shoulder up to your jaw and wrench beautiful noises out of your pouty lips.

It's a silly, stupid game, shooting balls into cups, but when he wins the game for the two of you, you're looking at him so ecstatically, overjoyed and nearly falling into his lap. "Yuuta, Yuuta, baby, holy shit—didn't think you had it in you. Good job!"

Your praises set something on fire inside him. "I can win another," His voice is hoarse, pleading, and he knows he can win another. "Watch me."

All night, he's glued to your side, fetching drinks for you, holding your purse, winning more and more games just to see you happy, just to hear you praise him a little bit more, harmless words that you don't even know carry so much weight for him.

It's almost 4 AM when the party really starts to wind down, and that buzz of alcohol's just starting to really get you flushed, and you motion to your friends to wrap it up, to get going. But not Yuuta.

Yuuta helps you up the stairs and into your room, and he takes a moment to soak it all in, your room and all of its treasures. It's filled to the brim with mementos, photos, and clutter that's been specifically tailored for your taste, and his head's swimming, overwhelmed from being wrapped up in you. "Yuuta?" Your voice is soft and inviting, looking back at his form by the door as you fiddle with the zipper of your dress. You know you can reach it by yourself, but the tension you've felt all night goes taut, string suspended after months of pushing and pulling, and it makes you bolde, more confident. "Wanna help me?"

"S–Sure, yeah," He murmurs, never quite fully meeting your eyes. His hands work diligently, undoing the zipper, and watching as it descends to your lower back, exposing your spine. "There… there you go."

"Thank you," To his surprise, you shuck the whole fabric entirely, leaving you exposed in just your underwear. His eyes widen, trying to avert his eyes from your figure, but you reach for his hands, willing them to stay at his sides. "It's okay, Yuuta. You can take a look."

Yuuta surges forward in an instant. It starts as a chaste, innocent kiss, fast and spurred by the rush of alcohol and desire in your veins, and in a mere second he's pulling away. "Sorry, I don't know what came over me—"

But you're even faster, pulling him back in by his waist and kissing him deeper, with more ferocity. When you lets him up for air, you see just how much he needs you, how much he wants it, and you sober up rapidly, pushing him up aggressively against the bathroom wall and making him give in.

You may be a little too aggressive, but you can't find it in you to care, when Yuuta's squirming against you, unabashed hands sneaking to grab at the globes of your ass and press himself closer to you. You nip and nibble at his lips, tongue swiping over to soften the blow as your Yuuta slowly loses his mind.

When he gasps, you're probing your tongue into his mouth, hot and filthy, drawing moans out of him when you suck on his bottom lip, exploring him for all his worth. You kiss like you're parched and he's your oasis, unrelenting and unforgiving with the way you wrench him even closer by his hair, and he moans, a depraved and nasty sound that only serves to satisfy you further.

The wall's nice, but your bed's even nicer, grabbing him and forcing him down on the downy mattress to climb up on his lap, rocking into his hardness and dragging your clothed pussy over the rough material of his jeans, never leaving his grasp  only to mutter praises you know he likes. "Mmmmm, Yuuta, you're so—"

You gasp when he pulls you down even further, his hips involuntarily griiiinding you down in a way that sends shivers down your spine. "Don't stop. More, more, more." And who were you to refuse your baby?

Yuuta's so needy and demanding, and his actions are sometimes rapid and unrefined, but he makes up for it with sheer enthusiasm, in disbelief that he's finally got you in this position. You also find out that he's eager to leave marks all over your pristine skin, sucking marks that will surely bloom purple on your collarbone and the highest peaks of your breasts. He's running on instinct, you realize.

He paws at your underwear, desperate to get the flimsy fabric off as you giggle and finally shuck them off your legs. "Slow down, Yuuta!" But he can't pay any mind to that, 'cause in seconds, he's mouthing at your sweet, sweet cunt, until his jaw's drenched, mindlessly flicking his tongue back and forth, finally getting the taste of you imprinted onto his tongue, his body, his mind.

"Such a pretty baby," You coo, a hand coming down to grab at his hair and press him closer to your cunt, sighing delightfully when his nose brushes your pubic bone and his tongue slides up and down, up and down, setting a pace that makes you rock against his face. "So good for me, baby, so sweet. Always takin' care 'f me."

Diligent, obedient, wrapped in the palm of your hand as he eats you out like you're his last meal, and you swear you see the glimmer of tears in his eyes. "God, you taste so good, holy shit—" obscene, graphic words that you would've never imagined Yuuta saying.

Your back arches when he forces you to grind even closer down the bottom of his face, thighs wrapped securely around his head and nails scratching at your ass, intensifying the feeling of falling down this slippery slope with him. There's lewd sounds all around you and it's all you can hear, eyes closed shut as you soak the bedsheets underneath you.

Yuuta's tongue scrapes against your clit and you jolt, helpless whines tumbling out as he takes note, wraps his lips around the bundle of muscles and sucks, harshly and unforgivingly. There's stars behind your eyes, and you're gripping onto the sheets, waiting for that string to snap and it does—cursing and mouth parting in a silent scream.

It takes a second for you to become lucid again, but you come back to awareness with Yuuta still licking off your juices, hot tongue lazily cleaning you off so generously and with so much care, a thumb stroking the smooth skin of your thigh, like he didn't just make you ascend to heaven a few minutes before. 

He only pulls off of you with a slight push, and he looks up at you like you've just deprived him of oxygen. Yuuta's sprawled over your pink comforters so innocently and you lick your lips, eyeing his jeans with desire. "Mind if I return the favor, Yuuta?"

When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Yuuta?"

"I'm sorry, I've never—I've never done that before," It's that familiar flush again, painting a brilliant blush onto his cheeks.  "Or any of this before, really, um—I got a little… excited, I'm sorry." Oh. Well, that's a first. "But–But give me a second! I can go again, I swear, I promise, it just takes me a little bit of time—" "Yuuta," You reach forward to cup his face, and he slumps onto your touch so easily, inky blue eyes encircled with exhaustion going softer at your touch. Slowly, you drag yourself back onto his lap, excitement rushing through you at the prospect of taking every single one of his firsts. Hell, you'll wait all week if you have to. "I can wait. We've got until sunrise, yeah?"

To pass the time, you strip off the rest of his clothes and lay him down on the bed, content to just lick and nibble at the milky expanse of his neck, captivated by his soft sighs and little whines. Something stirs you to play with his nipples, pinching and squeezing the bud until Yuuta's breathless, begging you to stop and keep going at the same time. "Hm, you like that?"

"Y–Yes! Don't stop," He whimpers when the pad of your finger swipes across the sensitive skin, hips raising to the air. "Don't stop, please, please, I need it, I need—"

"Needy, needy, needy," You tut, but you keep going anyway, and you feel dizzy from the amount of power he's just placed on your hands. "What do you think about putting some clamps on these, huh? Maybe for next time. Think you'd look so pretty, don't you think?"

You lick a soft, velvety stripe up his neck to nibble on the outer lobe of his ear, thrilled with the way he gasps, leaning further into your touch. "Just picture it. Some sparkly little clamps on these, while I jerk you off nice and slow, force you to feel it all. Pulling away just when you reach the edge. Think you might actually lose your mind." Your laugh is piercing, and he gets hard once again at the thought of being completely and utterly at your mercy. "You ready for round two, Yuuta?"

He's at a loss of words, only able to nod uselessly and watch as you climb back on top of him, groaning when he feels to heat of your pussy on top of his cock, ramrod hard again and already leaking pre-cum. He swallows the lump of his throat, unable to tear his eyes away, but he regains his sanity for a moment. "C–Condom?"

"Nah, Yuuta, we don't need it," You giggle, aligning the angry and red, leaking tip of him to your entrance, rubbing it around sloppily to lubricate yourself with his and your juices. You moan quietly at the sensation, trying to regain your composure. "I'm on the pill and I'm clean. Besides, you're a virgin, right?"

"Uh…Uh–huh," Yuuta can't stop looking at where you're almost connected, mesmerized. "You're my first." Your grin gets even wider. He was putty in your hands, he would do anything if you asked him to.

"Hm, 'f you play your cards right, maybe I can be your last," You see the glint of hope in his eyes just before you sink down, delighted with the way his lips fall slightly open, heart beat elevating. The stretch is harder than you expected, groaning lowly as you force yourself to descend fully down until you meet his pelvis, resisting the urge to start bouncing right then and there, not when Yuuta looks fully ready to combust. "Y–You alright? Heh, lookin' a bit pale."

You're a bit nervous, yourself, but you're not gonna admit that and betray this nonchalant image you've curated. When you move even slightly, hips readjusting for your comfort, Yuuta squirms. Patience, patience. You huff. He's big. "Give… give me a second to adjust. I'm—mmmf!"

Yuuta can't help it, he can't stop the way he pounds up into you and causes you to yelp, desperate to feel your velvety walls clench around him. He looks at you with restraint that's very quickly fading. "S–Sorry! nghhh—" He grabs onto your hips, subjecting you to another brutal thrust that wrenches helpless moans from you in turn. "I'm—I need, just let me—"

"I'll be good, promise, swear, fuck, just need to fuck you so bad!"

He's babbling even as he starts fucking up into you with a renewed vigor, the picture of depravity, eyes rolling back as he takes his pleasure for his own. You're on top, and yet he's the one controlling the pace, veiny hands forcing you to meet every single one of his thrusts as if you were nothing more than a doll. "Oh god, oh god, oh god, feels so good!"

Your second orgasm of the night surprises you with a jolt, tongue lolling out and lost in an orgasm-fueled haze, and Yuuta's capturing your mouth with his, tasting you, drinking in your moans and mindless pleas. How the tables have turned, boneless in his lap now, as he keeps murmuring praises for you. 

And yet, he doesn't stop. He's insatiable, you realize. You've unlocked a complete fucking monster, a monster that keeps fucking you through your orgasm.

"Ugggh, Yuutaaaaa—" You don't even know what you're begging for at this point, tears involuntarily pulling at the corners of your eyes. It just feels so good. Your previous partners have never made you feel this good, to the point that your toes are cooling and there's a string of drool connecting the two of you together. Yuuta pays you no mind, eyes closed shut as he chases his own high.

His pace grows ragged and uncontrolled, and his voice is hoarse, murmuring wanton pleas that makes you ache with need. Your beautiful, beautiful boy. "Can I cum? Oh please, let me cum, fuck, going to be s'good for you, mmm, 'll fuck you every day, be your last," He moans, low and long, like he can barely contain himself any longer. "Let me cum, please."

"Yes, yes, yes, cum for me, Yuuta, mmf! Mm—let me see you fall apart, cum inside me," Your words are what brings him over the edge, and he's collapsing into your touch, nothing but your name and your pretty face carrying him through.

When he slowly returns to lucidity, it's a familiar sight as he encounters your devilish smile. "Can you give me another one, baby? Please?"

Sunlight's streaming through the window by the time you get through with him, true to your word, fucking him every which way until you've lost track of time. He's so eager to learn, so eager to memorize every way to pleasure you, until he's nothing but a boneless heap on your bed, reduced to soft moans and whimpers.

The air's thick with sex and your sheets are soaked, but it doesn't matter, not when the prettiest boy in the world's panting and heaving, in a daze after cumming over and over and over. It fills you with a sweet sense of satisfaction, and you're not even close to being done.

You'll take care of him for now, wash off the musky headiness of sex and all your juices, press innocent kisses on all the marks you've left, shower him with praise and comforting words, let him rest for a bit, but it's only Saturday.

By the time you're done with him, you'll truly be the only thing left on his mind.

© ROSESAINTS ᐟ — do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own. requests are OPEN .ᐟ

ever since i was a little girl i knew i wanted to be infertile

lets love the flowering trees with papa

any advice for the faggots?

Make some noise

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。i know you still think about the times we had

synopsis. satoru will always comes when you call him, he just never thought you’d stop calling

— word count. 5.2k (where did i go wrong)

— contents. college au, rich boy! gojo, break ups and make ups <3, it’s the cliche trope where the rich guy’s parent forces you to leave him aka gojo’s father is the villain, angst with a happy ending—i don’t want my cause of death to be angry rb! gojo stans, emo gojo ft. marvin’s room (iykyk), cliche rain scene—this fic is so cliche i’m sorry, reader is gn! but gojo is mentioned to like pics of girls on instagram (he was being petty)

— notes. well, it finally happened. the long awaited break up. this one’s for you niku 🤞🏽 AND DABITEE ANON

you open the door when satoru knocks—just barely, though. it’s just enough to hand him the bag with the remaining things he’s left at your apartment. it feels familiar, being here, but it feels so different too. it’s always been happy knocking on your door—he never thought he’d dread letting his knuckles meet the cool wood. it’s like taking the last bite of something sweet when you’re too full. when the sugar is too decadent on your tongue and your head spins and your stomach twists and it’s too much even though it used to be so good.

it’s too much being here. it’s too much trying to meet your gaze and get nothing in return. it’s too much being handed back that sweater he basically let you keep. and yet, it’s good to see you. he wants nothing more than to be here with you, wherever you are, even if you don’t want him to stay.

“that should be everything,” you murmur, still looking down. “let me know if there’s anything missing.”

satoru would never tell you if there’s something missing. he’d never come back and demand back something he gave you, he doesn’t think he could ever take back something he gave you—being handed back his heart after pressing it to your palms is hard enough. but then again, maybe he should look for small things you probably missed. just so he can come back. just so he can see you—how else will he see you now?

“no, it’s alright,” he says quietly. he doesn’t miss the way you quickly let go as soon as his hands grab the bag, almost like you’re being careful enough not to let your fingers meet each other. “you can uh…you can just keep them. or…throw them out if you don’t want them,” he mumbles.

you nod, standing there silently. it’s quiet, and then it’s quiet some more. and finally, you look up at him for the first time since he got here, staring at him a little expectantly. oh, right. now would be the part where he leaves.

“can i…can i just know why?” he croaks. fuck. he’s not supposed to cry. you ripped his heart out and threw it at his feet, you didn’t even care to hand it to him even after you tore every artery apart. but he sniffles anyway, lips wobbling as he stares at you. “why are you leaving me?”

your fingers twitch, like you itch to reach over and wipe that tear that rolls down his cheek. in the end, you cross your arms instead. “i already told you, satoru—”

“that’s bullshit,” he clicks his teeth, shaking his head as he stares at you frustratedly, “you gave me some bullshit reason.”

satoru has worked so hard to be here—to be with you. hadn’t he done enough? hadn’t he told you about himself, things he didn’t want to? hadn’t he tried to become something, someone more than just a guy swimming in trust funds? hadn’t he worked for your attention, waited outside classes and walked opposite directions in the hall with you just to seem dedicated? fuck, he even burned his hand trying to learn how to make pancakes to impress you, let the maids laugh at him as he twisted the stove the wrong way to try and turn it on. 

why wasn’t it enough? what more could he give you than everything? how can the guy who has everything not have enough to give? he doesn’t understand.

“satoru, we weren’t gonna work,” you pinch your nose—it’s like you’re the one who doesn’t understand why he’s being like this. “the sooner you accept that the more hurt you’re saving the both of us—”

“we were working just fine,” he says exasperatedly. it’s like you insist he’s crazy when he’s nothing but sane. like he’s trying to tell you the sky is blue, and you’re refusing to believe it’s anything other than green. it’s clear. it’s practically a fact. you were doing just fine—why don’t you see that? “we were happy,” he takes a step forward and cups your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours, “was it someone? did they tell you something? just tell me who, baby—i’ll fix it. i’ll put them in their place, okay? no one can bother you if i get them to leave you alone—”

“then you leave me alone,” you whisper. he stills. you pull away from his hands. “sator—gojo. please just leave me alone. it’s better that way.”

you close the door, and he stands there. numb. maybe a little shocked. entirely ruined.

gojo. he laughs quietly after a moment at that—it’s a laugh meant for men who’ve lost the last thread to sanity. gojo. it’s like a slap in the face, being called the name he worked so hard to get you to drop. it took him weeks—months, even, to convince you to call him satoru. then he upgraded to toru. then it was baby. sometimes you teased him and called him pumpkin—he called you peaches in return. when you introduced him, you called him your boyfriend. 

not anymore. now he’s back to gojo—that god-forsaken name with everything but what he really wants attached to it. his grandfather’s legacy. his future. business deals. fancy invites. more money than he knows what to do with. the name gojo comes with everything but you.

but he had you for a bit, didn’t he? when he was just satoru—but now he’s gojo again, and you’re gone. the only sign of you left is in the faint traces of your perfume in the sweaters you’ve returned. 

and satoru still isn’t sure what brought the break up on. he thinks it’s the part that stings the most—when everything seems perfect one second, and then it’s not. had he not tried enough? maybe he was too much. maybe he didn’t understand you the way you needed him to. maybe he was too overbearing. maybe he asked for too much too fast. 

he’s not sure. he tried asking when you broke it off—you only shook your head and said it wasn’t going to work out between the two of you, that it was a mistake to try at all. mistake? how could you call this a mistake? things were so perfect, weren’t they?

satoru doesn’t think there was even one second he wasn’t smiling when he was with you, and he used to think the same was true for you too. had you been faking it this long? or was it real at one point—had he really failed you so badly, seen past you so blindly that he didn’t notice when your smiles stopped reaching your eyes?

it’s too late, he figures. you and satoru are broken up. 

you ask him to come over one morning, and he does—because he always comes when you call. he brings your coffee order from that cafe you like, the one you don’t go to often because the coffee is more overpriced than any other coffee shop you’ve ever seen. he’s grinning when you open the door, leans in to kiss your lips excitedly. you turn your head then, and his lips meet your cheeks instead—he supposes he should’ve known it at that moment. he should’ve seen that your lips weren’t smiling. your eyes were tired, a little red. you were hugging yourself in that way you do when you’re nervous. you didn’t let him kiss your lips, you made him kiss your cheek. 

and then you sat him down on that worn-down couch of yours, took off that bracelet his mother gave him to gift you on your anniversary, and pressed it to his palm as you said we should break up. break up. you wanted to leave him—and satoru didn’t understand, still doesn’t understand. 

he’s tried for so long, replayed the last month of your relationship in his head over and over and fucking over. you always smiled. you kissed him first. you held his hand, and even squeezed. you asked to see him. you laughed when he was around. you said i love you. you were happy. but then you weren’t—when did you stop being happy? and how could you have stopped feeling it with him?

—————

breaking up with satoru is the hardest thing you’ve ever done. how long can people live without the sun? you think not longer than a few minutes—that’s what it feels like without satoru’s warmth, anyway. 

gojo satoru has always smiled as long as he’s been with you. he smiled smugly on your first meet, smiled bitterly after every rejection, smiled in pure glee when you finally said yes, and smiled like his fingertips could touch the sky every time he saw you after that. 

satoru has never looked sad for long in your presence—you have that effect on him, you make his lips curl and his eyes brighten in that way that they deserve to shine. but for the first time ever, his eyes dim with you around, his lips curl into a frown at your words, and he cries for you. his eyes glisten with tears instead of wonder, and you think for a moment that you might be making a mistake. 

but then you remember that this is for the best—that if you really love gojo satoru, you’ll let him go instead of clipping his wings.

“he’s picked up his things,” you speak quietly into the phone. you don’t sniffle even as you desperately need to—it’s the last bit of control you have left, and you intend to keep it. “i won’t be seeing him again.”

“good,” his father speaks, “that’s good to hear.” 

satoru’s father is a cold man, you learn that on the first meet. he doesn’t look at his wife with a soft look that tells you there’s any love built between the decades of marriage, and he doesn’t look at his only son with any affection for the boy he raised. instead, he stares at satoru like any businessman would an opportunity—with a calculating gaze that tries to work out the best course of action for the most profit. 

satoru is young, but he’s charming and conniving and knows how to get what he wants when he wants—he’s quick on his feet and rarely lets himself get cornered into a wall. in the last three generations of the family business, no heir has shown as much promise as gojo satoru. that’s what his father tells you, anyway. you believe him—satoru is smart and knows how to play his cards right, you won’t deny that. his future is set to be comfortable, and he’s never known anything outside of that, never built any other plans for himself. 

you can’t rip that away from him—not for your own sake, not for your own happiness. 

“you promised you wouldn’t freeze his trust funds once i ended things,” you remind him, “and that he’d keep his inheritance.” somehow, because the world grants you this one favor, your voice doesn’t shake—it’s steady and firm as it reminds the stone-cold man at the end of the line of your agreement—and he offers a slow chuckle that makes your jaw clench. 

“yes, i do recall,” he hums, “i’m glad we could come to agree. you understand, don’t you? it is my job as his father to do what’s best for him.”

you know what he’s saying—what that means. you’re not what’s best for him. maybe he’s right—maybe satoru needs someone who’s equally as promising to build a successful company into even more success. maybe he needs someone who can take him out for a change to those fancy places he takes you every few weeks. maybe he needs someone who’s heard of half the brands he wears and doesn’t scold him to turn the lights off so the electricity bill isn’t high. maybe he needs someone who can keep up with everything that gojo satoru is—and that someone is not you, no matter how deeply you love him. 

“—the offer still stands, should you change your mind. i’m willing to compensate you for the trouble this must all be.” 

your lips curl into a scowl at his words. that’s the thing about rich people, you think—money is always enough to sugarcoat everything. why worry about the dead grass in your lawn when you can paint it green? but you don’t leave satoru for extra cash on your hands—nothing can be worth auctioning off the only man who’s ever made you feel anything. you leave satoru because he deserves to continue living comfortably, to make a name for himself that isn’t just a ghost of his father’s. if that means being cut from the corner of the picture, you’re willing to pick up the scissors yourself. 

“no thanks,” you hiss, “i don’t need the money.”

“i would disagree,” his father sneers, “but suit yourself.”

the line ends, and for good this time, satoru is no longer yours. was he ever to begin with? 

—————

you try to forget your ex-boyfriend—keyword, try. every hour of your life consists of you using your burner account to refresh his instagram page to see if he’s posted anything new. you unfollow satoru from every social media platform the same day he picks up his belongings—you know he’s noticed within the first thirty minutes because all of his pictures with you are gone, just like all your pictures with him. 

in what you assume is an attempt to be petty, he likes every picture of every girl he sees, and he even blocks you on twitter—you know he picks twitter because twitter is the only social media that blatantly states you’re blocked. but then you’re unblocked in two days, and you know he must be missing you now that the initial anger is faded. 

it makes you laugh a little, even through your tears. satoru is not satoru without petty fits of emotion, and you can’t bring yourself to be mad, not when it’s your fault he’s hurting like this. he’s extra sad today, you gather—if the way marvin’s room is posted to his instagram story on a blank screen is of any hint. it makes you scoff in amusement that in true gojo satoru fashion, he’s effectively told all eight-thousand-something of his followers he’s pathetically in his feelings. 

you scroll through suguru’s story, too—he didn’t unfollow you even after satoru temporarily blocked you, but you figure suguru is the only person satoru really has. you shouldn’t keep yourself close to him, not when it could hurt satoru more, so you remove him too. 

suguru is, as always, drinking at some fancy party with obnoxiously rich college students who have not a care in the world for midterms around the corner. who needs to pass when you’re swimming in money whether or not you have a degree? the first thing you learn about the rich is that most of them are only at college for the experience—they don’t see college as the stepping stone to better opportunities, there’s nothing education could offer that trust funds already don’t. but satoru attends college for himself—he enjoys business classes, you learn, and especially finance ones. for someone who spends money so carelessly, he understands it particularly well. 

there’s no sign of satoru at whatever party it is suguru is at, there’s no trace of strikingly bright white strands anywhere in any corners—you do see naoya in a corner, though, and you crinkle your nose in distaste. if satoru were here, he’d say something bitterly under his breath about the asshole, and you would giggle. but satoru is not here, and even naoya the women-hating jackass makes you miss your obnoxiously whiny ex-boyfriend. 

everything reminds you of satoru. that bear he won you at the fair (after maybe six tries) by your pillows, those polaroids at your desk that you can’t bring yourself to take down, that sticky note on your fridge he left promising to replace the creamer he finished (he’s replaced it more times than he’s needed to by now), that extra big blanket you keep on the couch because the old one barely covered his legs, that pair of silly matching mugs you both had for coffee in the mornings. 

every corner of your apartment has something that reminds you that satoru was here, that he was yours, that for a short while, he was the best thing you ever had. it’s your fault, you think—that satoru and you are here in this mess in the first place. he’s always looked at life through a hopeful lens. having everything does that to you, makes you ignorant to the misfortunes of the world, makes you think everything is within the realm of your reach. you, on the other hand, knew this was bound to happen. the two of you together is like hot oil and cool water—what feels like sparks is just the oil shooting out to burn you. you should’ve known this would have never lasted. 

in a way, you think you did. it’s why you hated him so fiercely at first—maybe deep down, you always knew you wanted him, that he would never be yours. maybe that’s why you were so adamant about rejecting him, that even when he was clearly trying, it would never be enough. satoru has always been enough, has always been what everyone has wanted—you’re not so sure you can say the same for yourself. 

you love gojo satoru. he loves you too—he falls first, and you think maybe, he might have fallen harder too. no one loves like satoru. they say if you press coal hard enough, it turns to diamonds—you think if you gave satoru coal, he would hand you back the sun and all of her stars. it’s just the kind of guy he is, the one that turns everything dull into something bright and warm and worth it. you wish you didn’t have to break his heart, you wish you could’ve walked out of this the only one hurt. but maybe, at the very least, if you break him good enough that he hates you, he’ll move on quicker, maybe have something to look forward to while you continue to work your way up and cheer him on. 

before you can refresh suguru’s page one more time to stalk his story, you’re pulled from your thoughts as someone knocks on your door—correction: pounds on your door. you jolt on your couch, standing up and making your way to the front door quickly and looking through the peephole. 

satoru. of course.

he’s soaked to the bone—it’s raining outside, and of course, just as on brand as always, he must’ve rushed here without an umbrella.

you shouldn’t open it.

but you can’t just leave him in the rain, can you? but he’s not your problem anymore, you agreed to leave him, didn’t you? but how could he not be your problem when he’s all you think about? but this could cause him trouble if his father found out he was here, right? but can you really leave someone, ex-boyfriend or not, in the pouring rain? you can’t be that cruel can you?

before you can make up your mind, he speaks up, “i know you’re standing there. open the door,” he demands. 

“satoru, go home,” you sigh, head pressing against the surface that separates you, “don’t make this anymore difficult than it has to be.”

“if it’s difficult, that means you don’t really want to do this,” he argues. he’s still as good as ever at sweet talk, still as persistent and charming as ever at getting what he wants. “please,” he croaks, “just let me in.”

you know it means more than one thing. you know it means more than just your home. but you shouldn’t, you can’t let him know why you did all this—how can you protect someone from something if they don’t let you? satoru would never let you if he knew, and that’s why you can’t let him know. 

“satoru, if you don’t leave…i’ll…i’ll call the cops,” you warn. 

“no you won’t,” he says instantly. “i’m not leaving until you open the door. and if i get sick, i’ll send you my bill for the emergency room visit.”

“you’re not going to the emergency room for a common cold, you idiot,” you scoff. 

the rain doesn’t slow—in fact, you can hear thunder. satoru is still stubbornly outside, knocking away. 

“i’ll start screaming,” he insists, “your neighbors will complain for noise again. do you want to be kicked out of this apartment? just let your cold, wet, heartbroken ex-boyfriend in if you have a heart.”

and because you are, and always will be, weak to the charms of gojo satoru, you open that damned door—even though you shouldn’t, even though you can’t, even though you said you would never again. but you do. because it’s satoru, and he always comes when you call, and you’ll always let him in when he’s here. 

“you don’t come to your ex’s house less than one week after the break up,” you sigh once you open the door. he takes a step in, shutting the door behind him. 

“why did you leave me?” he asks. 

“satoru, you can’t keep bringing this up—”

“why? just tell me why.”

“i don’t have to—”

“tell me why and i’ll stop bothering you. i just need to know why,” he insists. 

and then you break.

you’re only human. you’ve lost the man you’ve given everything to for over a year in the span of one week. you’ll never see his lovely mother again who spoiled you rotten, you’ll never hang out out with his funny best friend who treats you like family, and you’ll never be enough for gojo satoru, the rich, loud, sheltered, obnoxious, handsome jackass you met and had to do a project with and accidentally fucked over and over again until you fell in love. 

so you shove his chest, once, then twice, then a third time, each time getting weaker and weaker than the last as tears slip down your cheeks as you simply break down. “just leave, satoru,” you sob, “why can’t you just leave? why do you keep coming back?”

you hate seeing him here. you want him gone. you never want to see him again. you hope he never leaves. you’re glad to see him. you hope this isn’t the last time. you hate that he seems to not be getting enough sleep. his eyes are hollow. he must not be eating properly. he probably hasn’t attended class. he has a quiz next week. he most likely forgot about that. his clothes are wrinkly. he definitely hasn’t showered in days. 

“last month you said i was it for you,” he glares at you, his eyes red and swollen and every shade of heartbreak. you miss when they were blue—that beautiful, bright, perfect shade of blue. “last week you said we were a mistake. what the fuck do you mean, huh? what are you playing at?”

“you can realize a lot in a month—”

“not enough to erase over a year,” his voice booms. it makes you flinch and hug yourself tightly. tears slide down your cheeks, your vision is blurry. this might be the last time you see satoru, and even if he’s angry, you want to remember the curves of his features. so you wipe them away. they keep coming back. “so tell me,” he clenches his jaw, “did you string me along for a year or did something happen last week that you’re not telling me?”

“i realized you were bad for me,” you say quietly. 

satoru stares at you. it’s a piercing gaze—his eyes are electrically blue and his lashes are unfairly long and every time he stares at you, you think he almost sees into your soul. they’re tired—there are purplish bags under them on that pale skin of his, and the whites of his eyes are concerningly bloodshot. he stares, and stares, and for a second, you think you’ll die like this. watching him stare at you as your heart bleeds out. 

“i spent weeks,” his voice shakes, “i waited outside your class. i followed you to the next one. i memorized your fucking schedule.”

“satoru, you need to leave—”

“and then you fucked me and left every morning like i was nothing,” he glares, sniffling. you don’t know where the rain drops on his face start and where the teardrops end. “and then i begged you for a chance—begged. i burned my hand, got laughed at by the maids to learn how to make those stupid fucking pancakes for you.”

“i didn’t ask you to—”

“it took you two months to call me baby for the first time. did you know that? i waited two months to hear that. i thought it was the best two months i ever waited.”

“satoru,” you plead. 

you’ve given up on trying to wipe away the tears—he’s given up on crying altogether. you’ve never seen him so hollow, so dead in the eyes and so, so tired.

satoru has never gotten tired—not when he’s fighting for you.

“and then you kept pushing me away, acting like i was some shallow guy who wanted to get in your pants and leave cause i had some money to my name. i took you everywhere, introduced you proudly, let everyone say what they wanted to say about me because i loved you, and…and i thought you loved me too,” he shakes his head. 

his voice breaks, and god, so does your heart right along with it.

“i do love you,” you admit it before you realize what you’re saying. 

“then why did you fucking leave me?” his voice is loud.

satoru never yells, not at you. his voice is always gentle, patient, like he worships the ground you walk on, like he’ll get on his knees if you ask him too. satoru never yells—but he does tonight. 

“because i had to,” you sob, fingers digging into your temples as you shake. the words spill from your lips faster than the tears, like a swarm of angry bees, one following after the other. “or you’d lose everything. the trust funds, the inheritance, the company. i couldn’t let that happen to you—not for me,” you whisper. 

it feels like defeat—in the end, you couldn’t keep satoru, and you couldn’t leave him either. you couldn’t love him like you wanted, and you couldn’t let him go like you should have. what else is there left to fuck up? what more can you ruin in less than a week? the bees feel like maggots in your mouth, swarming a dead carcass.  

“so you left me because my old man threatened you with my trust funds?” he asks in disbelief. you think something in satoru dies at that—something in his shoulders falls and his eyes almost seem gray. 

satoru gets his blue eyes from his mother—they’re bright and kind and deeper than the ocean. but unlike the ocean, they’re not scary to fall into, to lose yourself in no matter how far you are from shore. his father’s eyes are gray—cold and blank and not laced with a single hint of emotion. 

you can’t help but think that blue suits satoru so much better than gray ever could. 

“it wasn’t just that,” you shake your head, “that’s not fair, satoru. what was i supposed to do? know you were about to lose everything and stay?”

“you could have talked to me before you decided for me,” he hisses, “what do you want me to say? thank you? thank you for breaking my heart? thank you for making me feel like a worthless piece of shit who wasted a year for someone who didn’t seem to care? thank you for walking out on me?”

“you know i’d have stayed if i could,” you argue, voice breaking.

“then why didn’t you? why the fuck didn’t you?”

“because i couldn’t!”

“you could!” he screams—you realize, for the first time in your life, you hate when satoru screams. he never screams. “all my life, that old man has been making decisions for me. satoru, wear this. satoru, go here. satoru, don’t do that. satoru, put that away. satoru, stay away from them. satoru, come with me. that’s all he’s ever fucking done—make every choice for me. and now…now you’re just like him,” he breathes, lips wobbling as he stares at you with hurt. 

it’s like that for a bit—you stare at him as he crumbles, and he stares at you like he doesn't know you anymore. you don’t know who leans in first, if it’s your hand or his face, but one second you’re feet apart, and the next second his face is cradled in your hands, thumbs swiping away at his tears. you catch them, one by one, waiting to wipe them away no matter how fast they come. because satoru always comes when you call, and you’ll always be there for him to find you. 

“i don’t want to leave,” you mumble, “i never do. you are it for me, i meant that, you know. who else will melt extra chocolate in my hot chocolate?”

“then don’t leave,” he begs, voice cracking, “i don’t want you to. i’ll handle that old geezer—my grandfather will knock some sense into him. fuck, suguru and i can even hide his body, it’s fine. just don’t leave, okay?”

you let out a watery chuckle, pinching his cheek as you shake your head. “i don’t know if i’m worth homicide, satoru.”

“i think you’re wrong,” he huffs, “you’re wrong about a lot of things, you know. so wrong.”

“i never said i was perfect,” you pout.

he buries his head into your neck, clinging to you tightly—you cling back, because nothing is as safe as satoru’s arms. you’d melt into his skin if you could, live in that spot right where his heart is so you can make sure it’s always beating. 

“you’re still perfect,” he mumbles, “but you’re always mean to me. this was the worst you’ve ever been.”

“i’m sorry,” you murmur, slipping your fingers into his hair—it’s still wet, you realize. he’s soaked, and he could catch a cold but you don’t care. satoru is back. he’s here in your run-down apartment with the mugs and the blanket and that toothbrush you forgot to return and that pair of socks you found in your drawer. satoru is finally home. “i’ll never leave you again.”

“promise?”

“yeah. as long as you don’t block me on twitter again.”

“you deserved that.”

“and for the love of god, toru, delete that marvin’s room story. that was so dumb.”

“are you stalking me?” he pulls away with a grin, making you glare with a huff. he chuckles, kisses your forehead as he murmurs, “missed me that bad, huh? yeah, i would too.”

“well, obviously not enough to post marvin’s room on my story.”

“you can’t be mean to me after you broke my heart!” he whines.

yeah, you think, satoru is home. he’s still that loud, obnoxious, pestering brat that he always was—and he’s still the only love you’ve ever known. 

“i love you,” you press your forehead to his, kissing him slowly. you want to kiss him harder, you want to kiss him desperately like you’ll never kiss him again. like you lost him and miraculously got him back. like you’ll never see the sun again without him. 

but there’s time for that—lots of it, in fact. because satoru is home.

“i love you too,” he whispers, “wanna shower with me? if you really love me, you would.”

if this fic was a person i would want it dead.

[Gollum voice] they hates our pussy they hates it!!!!!!!

Oh nooooooo my boobs are soo soft and squishy haha it would be such a shame if someone gently massaged them and left kisses all over them haha and sucked them and left hickeys all over that would be soooo bad