gojo satoru x reader | oneshot smut [18+]
luxury & lingerie. a retail au
“𝐀𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐝𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲’𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞. 𝐋𝐞𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈’𝐦 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤.”
ᰔ pairing. retail au - rolex salesman gojo x victoria's secret associate reader (f)
ᰔ summary. gojo is the rolex watch shop's pretty boy & you're the victoria's secret lingerie store's new hire that works across from him. let's just say he's determined to get inside your pants.
ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, porn with plot (seriously that's all it is), smut, casual sex, possibly comedic, lots of terrible flirting, tiny bit of fluff if you squint, gojo's got a daddy kink that you really have no interest in entertaining, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampie, blowjobs, oral sex, praise kink, some degradation, sort of cum play, banter, suguru & choso are in it too (the hot-boy sales trio)
ᰔ word count. 6.5k
a/n. hellooo this started with this concept idea i had of hot retail worker gojo who just wants to flirt with you instead of actually do his job lmfao. this was seriously just a stream of my consciousness. hope you enjoy! and thanks to everyone that wanted to be on taglist for this. creds to @quinnyundertow for the sephora lipstick idea.
The sound of Suguru’s voice was the last thing going through Gojo’s mind right now.
“Anyways, I put the car in reverse, she’s on aux. I’m thinking, she’s gotta have good taste, right? She’s the one that suggested the Maneskin concert in the first place. But you know what she starts playing? Country music. Fucking country music. And I’m not necessarily opposed to a good— dude, are you even listening?”
Choso leans over the polished display case of the mens’ latest Rolex models, staring at the two idiots in front of him. “No, he’s not. He’s been ogling the tits on that mannequin over there for the past five minutes.”
Gojo finally blinks out of his trance, irritated. “I’m not staring at the mannequin, I’m staring at—”
You. New hire. Over at the Victoria’s Secret that was across from his turf at the mall. You were standing on your tiptoes on a mini ladder, wobbling a little, reaching up for a mannequin at the display window to switch out the corny yellow sleeping mask on its face for one that was a more sleek, satin blue.
The fabric of your uniform slid up slightly, skin of your midriff exposed, and he has to suck a breath in through his teeth.
“I called dibs on that a week ago,” Suguru says from where he stood, lazily leaning on the counter.
“No fucking way. I’ve got dibs.”
“Dibs? Really? I work with a bunch of prepubescents,” Choso groans, tipping his head back to stare up at fluorescent mall lighting.
Suguru’s voice sounds like he’s lax at the jaw. “Is anyone gonna tell her that’s the ladder they use to prop the door open, and not the one to flash Satoru’s horny ass while changing out a mannequin?”
“I’ll be the one to tell her,” Gojo says.
At the display window, you slowly peel the panties off of the mannequin without a thought in the world to use the store’s modesty curtain, and Gojo, Suguru & Choso are all staring. And probably every other man within the store’s radius.
“Holy fuck,” Gojo says, strained.
“Holy fuck, indeed,” Suguru marvels.
“She’s clueless,” Choso sighs.
“You can have the mannequin, I get the girl,” Suguru offers, something just to get under Gojo’s skin.
“Shut up. I’m going over there.” He stands up onto his feet from the leather client chair he had been sprawled across up until this point of his shift.
“Can’t wait for you to royally fuck this up,” Choso muses with a smirk, arms crossing at his chest.
Gojo grumbles something under his breath when he hears Suguru’s coo of agreement, and then he’s making his way across to the Victoria’s Secret entrance. He unbuttons the top two buttons of his black dress shirt, as if he expects the sight of the skin at his collarbone to have you seduced like a victorian man seeing a lady’s ankle for the first time.
He makes it through the welcoming glass doors that lead into the sultry & dark ambience that you would expect of a lingerie store, and he rounds to the right, stopping a few feet away from you.
You were combing through a rack now, lips pursed in concentration until he clears his throat.
Glancing over, your shoulders tense and you pull your retail headset earpiece down, leaving it hanging by the wire that was clipped to the neckline of your shirt. His eyes flicker to the nametag pinned above the curve of your breast. You look at him with wide eyes. “Oh, hi sir. How can I help you?”
“Oh, no, I’m not a customer,” Gojo quickly corrects you, although he liked the sound of sir from your lips, “I work over there.” He points with a jerk of his chin towards the obnoxiously gaudy exterior of the Rolex watch store facing the two of you.
You blink at him. “Ah, I see.”
“You new here?” Gojo asks, taking a step forward and resting his elbow up on the metal bar of the rack just to get more into your space. “Haven’t seen you around.”
The corner of your lip turns up slightly at his words. “Why? Do you keep a roster?”
“I—no, not really,” he responds, already a little speechless, “wait, a roster of what?” He’d say he does if it’s a roster of pretty girls he’s been fantasizing about tit-fucking all day long, with you being at the top—no, the only one—on that list.
You shrug a little. It’s kind of meek and cute. “Of new hires?”
He breathes in deep. “Yes. Yes, I do. I just like to make sure the newbies feel welcome around here. Y’know, taken care of.”
You smile, turn to face him and relax your posture. “Oh. That’s sweet. Yeah, I feel pretty welcome here, thanks.”
“That’s good.”
“I mean, everyone’s been really nice to me so far.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm, and I really like the break room on this floor. The last place I worked at didn’t have a toaster oven.”
“No way.”
“I wish the clock-in machine was easier to use though…”
“For sure.”
You glance at him suspiciously in the middle of your rant. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Cause you’re real pretty, angel.”
Your brow raises, the keys hooked to the loop of your jeans jingling as you place a curled hand to your hip. “Angel? Really? Cause of— cause of Victoria’s Secret angels?”
Gojo’s stiff, his elbow still resting on the cool metal pole, and he glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. “Uhh…sure? Yes.”
“That’s not very original.”
“Man, you’re really making me work hard for this. Unfortunately, that only makes me want you more.” He leans down closer to you, to catch the scent on your skin, and he can’t tell if you’re amused or annoyed from the way your cheeks round as you narrow your eyes at him.
“This is you working hard for it? You haven’t even told me your name yet, watch boy.”
He sees your fingers wrap around the cold metal bar of the rack, and he tries hard not to picture them wrapped around something else, but to no avail. You jut your hip out to bump him, pushing him out of your way, before you start rolling the rack down the store.
He trails behind you. “My name. It’s Satoru. But to you, I can be dadd-”
You stop in your tracks, turning around to face him with a scowl, but he was too distracted by the shape of your backside to be reflexive enough to stop himself in time, and he ends up crashing right into you. The momentum has you falling back with a gasp, tripping over the foot of the rack, and his arm flies around your waist to keep you upright, and then pressed up against him too just for good measure.
His face is just inches away from yours. “Shit. Sorry.”
Your arms are squished between his chest and yours, pinky tickling the skin at his collarbone, and the contact has him reeling. “I-It’s fine,” you say, lashes fluttering, “now let go of me, before I file a harassment complaint.”
He instantly retreats, releasing you, watching you stumble a bit before gaining your balance again. “God, no, please,” he sighs, “I really need this job.”
“You don’t act like it,” you mumble. You fix your hair in front of him and tuck the fabric of your shirt that came loose back into your jeans. He doesn’t have to touch your cheeks to know they feel hot, he can tell from the purse of your lips and the way you won’t make eye contact with him.
The voices of a couple women are heard from down the aisle, as well as the plastic clinking of hangers on racks as they peruse the sheer bralettes dangling in color-coded fashion. Gojo sees you struggling to pull the rack you were working with away to the side to let them through, and he comes up behind you, gripping the metal bar to do it for you. He catches the fragrance of your hair at the crown of your head, and he inhales slowly.
The women walk by, throwing a few curious glances at the two of you, and Gojo doesn’t move from where he’s holding onto the rack and has his arm pressed against yours, his only lifeline to find some reason to touch you right now.
You start pushing the rack forward again, and he continues to follow you, keeping a more respectful following distance this time. He’s distracted by the pair of crotchless panties hung over your shoulder. He picks them up by the string. “Who the fuck actually wears these?” he asks, dangling them in front of his face and turning them around in the air to inspect it.
Your eyes are set forward for your destination. “Middle-aged women that are desperate to seduce their husbands before those men ride the high of buying a $100k watch by fucking a twenty-something-year-old instead.” You snatch the pair from his hand. “I’m rooting for those women. The men at your Rolex store? Not so much.”
He’s on your heel until you round to a smaller section of the store, wheeling the rack over to a corner near the collection of lace panties sprinkled across cubbies under dim purple lighting. He glances over his shoulder and takes note that this area’s tucked away from the eyesights of the cash registers and storefront.
He hears you sigh, then say “Why are you following me?”
He meanders closer to you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his slacks. “Because…y’know, like I said, I wanna make the new hire feel settled in.”
“I literally feel so very unsettled by you right now,” you say to him with a wry expression as you start sorting through lace underwear, referencing some chart in your hand to get it right.
He walks up to you and peers over your shoulder at the illustration, and notices the way you stiffen a bit but also lean back into him. “Huh…so the cheeky panties go in the left top & bottom cubes. And they’re the ones with medium coverage and…” he squints his eyes at the chart, dim lighting doing him no favors, “and they have an alarming fit.”
You scoff through your nose. “It says alluring fit. Can you read?”
“I— shut up. Yes I can read.”
You twirl around to face him, a hint of an amused smile to your lips. His eyes widen a bit at the sight of it, until he registers it’s a cheeky one, like those panties.
“Watch boy is illiterate. Must be why you still work in retail.”
“Yes, keep being mean to me, new hire. It’s hot,” he groans, hands still in his pockets as he leans towards you. You don’t shy away, just keep on looking up at him in this little corner he has you in, a twinkle in your pupils now that he wasn’t seeing earlier.
He’s surprised when your finger hooks the fabric in between two of the buttons on his shirt. You play with the material, pinching it, but never tug on it. “What’s a grown ass man like yourself doing still working for commission at a mall?”
“Okay, ouch, a little too mean,” he backtracks, watching your tongue briefly swipe across your lip, “let’s be a bit nicer.”
Now you’re tugging on the fabric, hooked finger pulling him closer to you until his hands have to fly out of his pockets and his palms press against the wall, caging you into it. “Illiterate and can’t take a dig. Pick a struggle,” you say to him with a sweet look up.
He’s getting the sense that you’re into him too. He grabs hold of your waist, thumbs rubbing your torso over the fabric of your uniform just to get a feel. “Well,” he starts, bringing your hips forward to his, pressing the erection he was building against you, “this illiterate retail worker could fuck you real good if you’d just give him the chance.”
A small gasp leaves your lips, eyes widening and you tuck your bottom lip under your teeth. Fuck, he wants to kiss you. Wants to be the one biting your lip right now. Your hand grabs his forearm, over the veins strained from his grip on you, your nails sinking into the skin left exposed by his rolled up sleeve. “It’s…It’s real well, watch boy. You’d fuck me real well.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’ll fuck you real well,” he tells you, as his head tips towards your cheek, lips brushing against it. It was just a tease, so he pulls away but still looks down at you in closeness. There’s voices around the corner, but he doesn’t really care.
“You’re awfully forward,” you breathe out, and he almost goes insane at the soft whimper that leaves your lips when he can’t help but jerk his hips forward a bit.
“Y’know what? Fuck it,” he grumbles, pulling the rack across behind him so he’s created a covered haven for the two of you against this wall, and then he kisses you.
There’s a yelp that he muffles from you as his lips move against yours, slow, because you're new to him and he wants to savor it. His hand finds the small of your back, spreads across it, pushing you to arch towards him, and his teeth catch your bottom lip when he feels your breasts press against him. You’re pliant, opening your mouth for him, and he takes up the offer to taste you. Soft & warm pressed up against him, a subtle sweetness on your tongue, and he only pulls away because you squeeze his shoulder hard.
You’re breathing fast, cheeks shy, a little cutely cross-eyed from his proximity when you look up at him. “I-…okay, I’m a little mad that you’re a good kisser.”
He hums, tip of his nose brushing against yours slightly and you grip the collar of his shirt to keep him close. “I’ll kiss you nice in a lot of other places too.”
It doesn’t really take much convincing after that.
“Oh…oh my god—,” you mewl, back against the mirror of one of this fine lingerie establishment’s fitting room stalls, legs wrapped around his waist as he fucks you raw with the aim to please.
“Shit, knew you’d be tight,” he groans, pressing a kiss to your jaw when you tip your head back in pleasure, throat loose with a moan, “pretty little new hire. Just had to break you in.”
“S-Satoru,” you moan through a breath, the sound of his name on your tongue having his cock twitch inside your walls, mixed with the pain of the grip you had on the hair at the back of his head.
He has your shirt bunched up along with your bra, tits exposed for him. His head dips to pull a nipple through his teeth as he feeds you with a few slow, deep thrusts, and his eye catches the earpiece of your headset, still clipped to your shirt, bouncing around with every one of his movements inside you. “Really hope that thing’s off,” he mumbles against your skin, “but if it excites you to have it on, I—fuck, I wouldn’t really mind either way.”
Your hand flies to his bicep when he runs his thumb over your clit, legs wrapping around him even tighter. “More. Need more,” you say, head in a haze, and he really could’ve cum inside you right then and there but he holds out to enjoy some more time buried in the warm pleasure of your cunt.
“If you want something from me,” he grunts between thrusts, “you’re gonna have to beg me for it, love.”
“Fuck me harder,” you cry, eyes shut closed, and he almost feels sorry for you.
“That’s a demand,” he informs, pinching the flesh of your ass and enjoying the way you clench around him from the action, “I told you to beg.”
“Please, oh my god, please—,” you start, moving your hips against his now, and he hears the lewd sound of your flesh slapping more fervently against the mirror. “Please fuck me harder.”
“Good girl. Pretty girl,” he praises you, thumb finding your clit again as a reward, “see what you get for being so nice to me now.”
He bucks his hips harder, your arms wrapping around his neck in desperation, chin resting at the top of his head as his lips fall to your neck, and he kisses, nibbles, sucks, anything to get that sweet taste in his mouth while he draws stars over your sensitive bud, eliciting broken whimpers from you over and over again.
“Gonna let me cum inside?” he asks, feeling his balls jump at just the thought of filling you up, his thighs feeling hot from the anticipation of you giving him the permission. “All that shit talk earlier about me being a dumb mall worker, but you’d still let me finish in you, right?” His hips stutter slightly, vision starting to blur, and he feels your walls flutter tightly too, “cause I bet it turns you on that you’re letting this dumb retail man fuck you senseless in a flimsy little fitting room right now, regardless.”
“Satoru, please,” you’re begging, the crack in your voice hoarse like you’re about to cry from the pleasure.
“Answer me,” he demands, retreating the thumb that was toying with your clit. He pulls one of your arms from where it was wrapped around his neck to pin your wrist to the mirror. “You want me to cum inside you or not?”
Your hips press so harshly against his that he hardly has any leeway to thrust anymore, and it makes him hiss in protest, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass to let up. “I want—mhh, I want you to cum inside me, please, please,” you plead, desperate, grinding your clit against the skin above his cock, above the place he was buried to the hilt inside of you.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, the sweet words processing in his head, and he loses all sense of control, motions eager and desperate, chasing after his high and his thumb is barely considerate enough to chase after yours too as it rubs relentlessly over your puffed up clit. You shiver against him, walls clenching around his cock impossibly tight, legs wrapping around his waist possibly even tighter, and he feels every nerve as you come undone around him. The gripping sensation your orgasm had on him has him faltering with harsh thrusts forward, and he holds your hips flush to his as the first spurt of his cum spills into you, followed by more with repetitive juts of his hips until he’s emptied himself entirely into you, and you’re just pumped full of him.
You swat at his chest, squirming as he leaks the last drop from the tip of his dick, and he can tell you’re overstimulated.
“Sorry,” he says through a short exhale, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and he slowly pulls out of you, cock falling limp over his thigh, and he holds you until you find footing on the ground, albeit a bit wobbly.
“Oh no,” you mewl, clenching your thighs together when you feel his cum starting to drip out, and he quickly bends down to hook your panties up back into place. You give him a pointed look.
“What? The easiest clean-up is not letting it out,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to him so he gets to feel the plushness of your bare breasts against him and he kisses the top of your head. “You’re real good, new hire. Or whatever the fucking proper way to say it is.”
He can tell you’re rolling your eyes even though your face is buried in his chest.
“You’re a dumbass,” you say, sounding muffled.
—
Gojo spends about 90% of his shifts meandering across the shimmering tile floors of the mall to the Victoria’s Secret, and only spends about 10% of them actually being a watch salesman. His boss was starting to get real fuckin’ fed up with him, threatening to fire him yesterday for the two-hour lunch break he took because he was eating you out in a storage closet, but he really couldn’t be bothered to care. He was an addict, and he needed to get his fix. Not before annoying the shit out of you, though.
“Alright, daddy’s home. Let’s get to it. I’m on my lunch break,” he says, walking right up to you in the middle of your shift while you’re folding slip dresses onto a display table, his hand reaching for your waist but you retreat from him.
“For that, get the fuck away from me.”
He sighs. “I’ve been wanting to touch you all day long. Do you purposefully walk your gorgeous self across the front of the store that many times just to tease the hell out of me? I’m suffering.”
“I walk across the storefront because I’m doing my job,” you mumble to him.
“No, I swear, you do it to—”
“Sweets,” one of your coworkers calls out to you from the other end of the store, the one with a pink buzzcut that acts kinda scary. “Is that man bothering you?” she asks through a smack of her gum, “want me to call security?”
“Yes.”
“What—”
After a couple of minutes of vindicating himself to mall security that he is not a threat to public safety, which you watch in amusement with no help at all, he’s shortly back at your side in a different section of the store to annoy you.
“When are you gonna wear one of these for me?” he asks, holding up a pair of jaguar-print panties.
“Never,” you say to him, scanning the tags on the underwear in a box of new arrivals, “those are ugly.”
“Okay, how about these,” he says, pulling a pair out of the box. “They’re see-through. I like that.”
“No,” you say, snatching it out of his hand.
“Oh c’mon,” he groans, doing a quick glance over his shoulder to check if the coast is clear before taking a step forward, pulling you to him by a finger hooked through the belt hoop of your jeans. “I’ll buy them for you. Ring me up.”
You look up at him, hand placed on his chest but you weren’t pushing him away just yet. “Really? You’re gonna buy me panties from the store I literally work at? At least have the decency to shoplift them for me.”
He has a smile on his face when he leans down closer to you, both hands now playing with the loops of your jeans. “Ohhh you’re into criminals. Will you tackle me to the ground if I do?”
“Yes, to arrest you. Not to fuck you.”
“Why not both?”
“Satoru,” you chastise him when you hear footsteps around the corner, and now you’re pushing him away and clearing your throat before busying yourself with the box again as a few customers walk by. Gojo shoves his hands in his pockets, and then his eyes widen a bit when his knuckles hit something.
“Oh yeah,” he says, “I got you this.” He pulls out a small, shimmering black tube and holds it out to you with an up facing palm.
You lean forward to glance at it. “Is that…lipstick?”
“Yeah,” he says, “the lady outside Sephora was giving out samples.”
You cross your arms at your chest. “The lady outside Sephora was giving out free samples of lipstick to you?”
“Can you just take it already? My arm’s starting to hurt.”
You swipe it from him and inspect it. Popping the cap open, you twist the cheap plastic adjuster so that the tip of the wax peaks out. It was a deep shade of red. “Did she try to talk to you?”
“Uhh, yeah. Something about how this new formula is smudge-proof or something. Was hoping we could test that out.”
You roll your eyes. “She probably wanted to test that out. With you.”
“What, are you jealous?”
“Not really, no,” you say and hand the lipstick back to him. He looks at you puzzled. “Lipstick isn’t really for me, sorry.”
“I literally saw you wear some the other day. That’s what gave me the idea,” he says, “of turning my dick into the shade of your lipstick.”
“Could you be any louder?” you hiss at him, glancing at a coworker who could’ve potentially been in earshot.
He shrugs and pinches the tube of lipstick between two of his fingers, holding it up between the two of you. “You sure you don’t wanna?”
Turns out you were not too opposed to the idea, but he had to earn it by making you cum a couple times in the janitor’s closet at the end of the floor. He likes having to earn the sight of you on your knees, it turned him on way more than he had expected.
“My jaw is so fucking sore,” he complains, opening and closing his mouth a few times to stretch it out, then runs a hand across his jawline. “You were a lot less sensitive today. Took way longer.”
“Maybe you’re just not as good as you think you are,” you say, pulling the buckle of his belt loose, sitting back down onto your heels to get more comfortable while you undress him.
“Bullshit. Should’ve used that insult maybe the first or second time I gave you head. It’s too late now, after the filthy things you’ve said to me in your desperation to cum.”
He watches you flutter your lashes a few times, fingers stopping their movements, and you shift a little from where you were seated on the ground. You were aroused, but still committed to the attitude. “I don’t have to do this for you, you know.”
He shudders a little. “Wait, you seriously don’t want to? You don’t have to.”
You sigh. “You were supposed to demand me to do it anyways. Would’ve been hot.” You pull his belt loose and your thumb and index finger pinch the button open with ease. “You don’t wanna fuck me, though?”
“Of course I want to fuck you, I will always want to fuck you. But the last time we got rowdy in here, I almost killed you when I knocked the shelf over.” A chill runs down his spine. “Not taking any more chances.”
You giggle a little at the memory while zipping down the front, then your fingers dig into the fabric of both his slacks and his boxers, pulling them down until he’s sprung free, fully thick and hard, courtesy of the cute sounds you were making earlier while his tongue was playing with your clit.
“Are you not gonna put the lipstick on?” he asks.
“No.” You grab a hold of him mid-way, giving an experimental tug, and raise from your seated position onto your knees.
“But—”
“I told you, lipstick isn’t my style,” you say, eyes flickering up to him when you kiss the tip. He sucks a breath in.
“Damn, okay. I was genuinely curious if it was smudge proof. The lady was really hyping it up,” he says and he sees your shoulders drop.
“Enough of the Sephora lady,” you mumble, pressing your lips against his tip again, but as less of a kiss.
There’s a sulk in your posture from where you look up at him on your knees. His heart does this weird thing where it aches a little, and he wants to get rid of the pout on your face with a few sweet words, but he settles for pushing the tip of his cock past your lips instead. Works all the same in the end. “Good girl,” he groans when you take him all the way to the back of your throat, and your fingernails dig into the skin of his thigh as you let out a muffled moan.
“Fuck…” He pulls his hips back slightly, allowing you to adjust, but when you swallow and his tip feels the roll of those muscles, he’s pushing into your mouth again. “C-Can you take more?”
You try your best to give him a nod and you bob your head once, tongue swiping over the vein that was throbbing the proof of his need for you right now.
“I’ll finish fast, baby,” he tells you, voice husky, fingers combing through your hair gently, “just take it how I want it, and I promise I’ll be quick, okay?”
You nod again, thumb rubbing the skin near his groin in reassurance. You squirm a little and press your thighs together when he grips your hair tighter now, encouraging your head to bob up and down on him, and you do as he wants. Your cheeks hollow out, sucking on him, and he swears he’s already close to cumming.
“Yeah…fuck, yeah,” he grunts under his breath, “good. Just—just like that. You’re so good. Pretty girl,” he juts his hips forward to see if you can take it, and you do, “on her knees for me.”
Your throat vibrates with a moan, and he sees you squirm even more. You take him all the way in, to a place deeper than the back of your throat, so well without a gag but there’s a prickle of tears in your eyes, and he rubs your cheek softly while he feels the sweat collect at his temple. “Oh fuck, I’m— shit, baby. I’m close.”
You drag your lips across his length, retreating with a thorough hollow to your cheeks, and release him with a pop and your tongue stuck out connecting a string of your spit to his tip. Your hand immediately starts to rub him up and down as you look up, and the soft panting leaving your lips and fanning across his cock has him swallowing hard. “S-Sorry, needed a break.”
“That’s okay,” he says, swiping at some of the saliva pooled at the corner of your lip. “Take your time.”
You kiss his tip in acknowledgment, then take him in again, this time both hands working at the base as you bob up and down, more free with your moans and the sensation of them reverberating in the canal of your throat makes him grip your hair with both hands, desperate.
“Yes—fuck, yes,” he grunts, head tipping back and hitting the door. “Real close. Your mouth feels so good, you’re driving me insane.”
You suck on him, hard, taking him in to his favorite place that’s at the back of your throat, and when your hand reaches out to play with his balls, paired with the sensation of fast exhales through your nose onto the skin of his groin, his eyes close shut and strained and he’s jerking his hips forward to spill his cum down your throat. “Fuuuuck. Oh my god.” He exhales, watching you swallow over and over again as he pumps into your mouth, then he slowly pulls out when he feels that he’s done.
You sit back down on your heels, hands now neatly folded on your lap, looking up at him and his thumb prods at your bottom lip for you to open your mouth. You do as he wants, tongue hanging out in the process, and he sighs in satisfaction when he sees you’ve swallowed it all. “Beautiful, baby. Come here.”
With a hand wrapped around your arm, he gets you up on your feet and kisses you. You hold onto the fabric of his shirt for purchase, and he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. “Doing okay?”
“Mhm,” you nod, tightening your grip on his shirt, “I liked it. Liked it when you said I was good.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “More than good, angel. You’re perfect.”
—
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. You look like you could use a break,” Gojo says to you in Victoria’s Secret on a random Saturday morning. He usually always works on Saturday, but he’s never seen you here on a Saturday before. Apparently you were picking up extra shifts since you were going on vacation next week, something about a wedding in Spain. But you’d worked six consecutive shifts in a row, and the exhaustion was starting to show.
“I don’t know…your store scares me,” you respond back to him. You were behind the register, and he was pretending to buy forty-two pairs of panties just to talk to you.
“It’s not scary. I just want to show you around,” he says, standing up straight from where he had been leaning over the counter.
You eventually give in, toying with your name badge as you make your way around the counter to him, eyeing the smile on his face before he leads you through the aisles and eventually across the mall to the Rolex watch store.
It wasn’t horribly busy for a weekend, but there were still a few clients around. Choso was helping out a regular, a man who has bought four $200k watches within the past two months, and Choso’s been biting his nails worried he’s going to have to play witness in a tax evasion court case should that client eventually get caught by the IRS for fraud one of these days.
Suguru comes around the corner the second he sees you walk through the polished glass doors, and Gojo’s already annoyed.
“Hey, it’s the new hire,” he greets you, stretching his hand out and you accept it in a shake. “I’m Suguru.”
“Not really new here anymore,” you say to him after introducing yourself, “been here for a couple months now.”
“Oh really? Time flies. Thanks for all the shows, by the way,” he jerks his head off to the Victoria’s Secret store, “I’ve enjoyed watching the 101 ways you can remove a bra on a mannequin. Might have to incorporate some of them into my personal life.”
Gojo scoffs. “Yeah right, like a woman would let you within a hundred feet of her bra.”
Suguru raises an eyebrow with a sleazy smirk on his face, before leaning closer to you. “Should we prove him wrong about that, darling?”
Gojo hates the way he sees you blink your lashes at him and blush, so he’s grabbing your hand and walking you across the store, away from Suguru. He circles you around to the back near one of the display counters. Ladies’ new Datejust models, pretty classy and feminine. He walks to behind the counter, with you staying on the other side, like you were a genuine sale.
“See anything you like?” he asks, resting his elbow on the glass and peering down through it.
You blink at him. “Uh…of Rolex watches?”
“Yeah.”
“Mm…” you press your index finger to your chin and glance at a few. “I like that one.” You point with that same finger and he follows the line with his eyes.
“Hm,” he says, using his key to unlock the case, then slides the opening to the side to gently pull the watch out. “Oystersteel and yellow gold, 18 karat. Wanna try it on?”
“Sure.”
He releases the safety clasp, pulling apart the band, and slides it through your hand down to your wrist, then fastens the clasp until he hears a click. You immediately raise your wrist up into the air, twisting it to assess, and there’s a sparkle in your eyes.
“How much is it?” you ask.
“Thirty.”
“Thirty-what?”
“Thirty-thousand.”
Your jaw drops. “Oh my god. Get this thing off of me.”
He laughs and his hands find the clasp at your wrist, unfastening it and you’re trembling a bit as you shake it off before he catches it in his palm. “Not my fault you literally chose one of the most expensive watches we have in this section.”
“This is insane. How do people afford any of these?” you ask, feet wandering and now you’re clearly curious as you inspect the cases.
“We have more affordable watches available for lingerie store workers,” he tells you, clicking his tongue to get your attention and you turn around then follow him to the other end of the counter. He points at the glass. “These are all under three-thousand.”
“Oh…” you peer at them with interest, and he watches you. His eyes fall to your wrist.
“Here,” he says, sliding the display case door open, and pulls out another watch, “I think you’d look nice in this.”
He shows it to you for a second before releasing the clasp and holding onto your hand to slide the watch through it. After fastening it, he looks up at your expression, and his heart’s beating a bit faster. You turn your wrist in the air to marvel at the watch, and he thinks your eyes look stunning from the way the shimmer of the watch reflects off of them.
“Wow,” you say.
“I knew you’d look good in anything rose gold,” he says, both elbows on the counter as he watches you, “this one’s only a couple thousand.”
You’re still a little speechless as you look at it, right index finger tracing the dial. He wants to buy it for you. He could, it’s not much of an issue, he’d just have to kiss goodbye to that used gaming PC he’s been eyeing on craigslist for the past couple of months, but something in his gut tells him it’d be worth it. Something in the soft look in your eyes right now tells him it’d be worth it.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“That it’s beautiful,” you say to him, swallowing and then extending your wrist out to him. “Sorry, wearing it for too long. Probably lost a few hundred bucks in value just from the two minutes it was on my wrist.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll buy it for you.”
Your mouth gapes. “W-What?”
“I mean—if you actually like it. Then, I don’t mind,” he says, suddenly a bit flustered.
“Satoru. That’s insane. This is a two-thousand dollar watch.”
He shrugs. “I know, but it looks good on you. I can’t shoplift this one for you, though. But I’ll buy it if you actually want it. And if you lie and say you don’t like it, just to be nice, I’ll read right through it. So be honest.”
“I…” you start, “I really can’t accept that.”
His eyes are level with yours, and something about your persistence in your refusal just makes him want to buy it for you even more. But he’s not gonna push it anymore. He’ll just try to work towards a day where you’ll accept it from him. Where it won’t even be a question to want to decorate you in something as pretty as you are.
“Alright. Then give it back, it’s probably only worth a couple hundred now.”
a/n. hope you enjoyed!! this was fun to write. it was supposed to be longer but i cut it short so maybe part two lol?? i also wanna write versions for choso & suguru in this au lol maybe like a multi in one verse kinda thing haha i like the idea of a hot watch salesman trio. thank you for reading 💕
taglist: @ohsehuniiee @lost-resonance @whereflowerswenttodie @horisdope @therealestpussyeater @satorminniett @tobaccosunbxrst @alekssashka7 @ritsatoru @angrychinchillanoises @shleepyking @crimsonmarabou @mxlktae @bloopsstuff @slut-4-gojo @lil-cinn @wateronlyhaha @strawberiicreme @wintertoru @mo0nforme @whispersofbeskar @who-can-touch-my-boob @quinnyundertow @ramluvr @anthastudios @sabokunsmalia @ninjaturtletoes @rylierev @dvarlinggg @heyitsmirae @sleepyyammy @lofasofabread @lolthatsnice @tetsuski @bakuhoethotski @sureconfused
3K notes
·
View notes
I saw @theshadowrealmitself's post the other day about what if a supervillain outed their secret identity becuase they infodumped to the cashier (who happens to be the hero) and you know I had to do a DP oneshot for it. It's a few different kinds of AU, so you just have to roll with me here.
Without further ado:
THE CUSTOMER'S ALWAYS RIGHT (EXCEPT WHEN THEY'RE AN EGOMANIACAL SUPERVILLAIN)
Automatic doors slide apart with a woosh as Danny bursts through the entrance of Hattie's Haunted Hardware Emporium, unzipped backpack barely caught in the crook of his elbow, one arm stuffed through the armhole of the gaudy yellow vest of his uniform.
He's out of breath as he scrambles past the customer service desk, gives a frantic, “I'm here, I'm here!” to the startled employee behind the computer as hops the counter. He’s sprinting past stacked boxes of returns for the door with a STAFF ONLY sign slapped askew across the chipping green paint when a voice stops him in his tracks.
“Danny Fenton.” The words drip cool disapproval, and Danny's shoulders immediately hunch toward his ears, his fingers uncurling from around the door handle.
So close.
“Y-yes?” He slowly turns around, his expression sheepish as he comes to face Hattie herself.
She stands, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed, a MANAGER tag pinned to the chest of her tucked in shirt. The polo is the same hideous yellow as Danny's vest but has the Hattie's Hardware logo—a floating hammer surrounded by a ghostly glow—sewn onto the breast pocket. A funny gag, no doubt, when the place decided to open in the heart of haunted AF Amity Park. Less funny, probably, now that the store room is in disarray every other day because some low-level specter keeps casting stock haphazardly about and flinging empty boxes everywhere.
“You're late,” manager Hattie says, expression pinching. “Again.”
“Aha. Yeah. About that.” Danny scrubs the back of his neck with a palm, teeth bared on something that's more a grimace than a smile. “The bus was behind schedule?”
She doesn't look particularly like she believes him, which is entirely valid, since it's a bald-faced lie. But what is he supposed to say? That he got sidetracked by his new archnemesis, that freaking Plasmius ghost, because the guy somehow managed to compel an entire doggie daycare to do his bidding? What that crackpot needed a canine army for, Danny didn't even want to know, but he wasn't about to just let it go down. Stopping ghosts is kind of his whole shtick as town hero, after all.
He’s just lucky the whole thing didn’t take that long—once Danny managed to snap his fluffy foes out of their trance, they kind of took care of Plasmius for him. Guess they weren't too happy about being mind controlled. Go figure.
But again, Danny can’t exactly just come out and tell his manager, well, any of this. As far as everyone knows, Danny Fenton is a very normal, very human kid—one who maybe isn’t great at the whole being punctual thing and has a penchant for running to the bathroom when ghosts show up—but otherwise exhibits no symptoms of being undead. He’s hoping to keep it that way.
Manager Hattie’s eyes narrow, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, but she just gives a curt jerk of her chin in the direction of the staff room.
“Don’t let it happen again,” she says, and he gives an overzealous nod of assent as he lets out the breath trapped in his chest.
“You got it, boss!” he says, giving her a two-fingered salute and throwing himself into the back before she can change her mind.
***
“That’ll be eight twenty-two. How will you be paying for that?” It comes out a bored drawl as Danny shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
“It’ll be cash—just—give me a sec. I know I had change in here somewhere.”
“Sure, no problem.”
Danny crosses his arms over the chest of his garish vest and tips his gaze toward the industrial ceiling, trying to find literally anywhere to look so he’s not the overly intense cashier staring at the woman across the counter as she rummages through her oversized, bubblegum purse for a couple of nickels.
He hadn’t even wanted to get a job—staying on top of school, protecting the town from ghosts, and keeping his secret identity from everyone in his life was enough of a struggle, nevermind trying to fit his weekend sentences at Hattie’s Hardware into the mix. But turns out if you break your phone (in a ghost fight), lose a couple of backpacks (after dumping them in an alley so you can go stop a bank robbery), mysteriously misplace articles of clothing (AKA, throw them away because ectoplasm apparently doesn’t come out in the wash), or otherwise ask your parents to replace your crap enough times without a decent explanation, they’ll stop paying for it.
So, as much as he’d love to not be watching stacks of nickels, pennies, and dimes grow on his counter—the bottle-blonde slapping each coin down with a decisive clack before thrusting her arm back into the depths of her bag—he really can’t get fired. Not only does he desperately need a new pair of shoes after stepping in a suspicious puddle Cujo left behind (please just let it have been radioactive drool), but he has to prove to his parents that he’s responsible, even if he’s going through a bit of a “destructive phase” with his belongings.
“Eight twenty-two!” the woman declares proudly, hiking her purse up onto her shoulder and beaming down at the skyscraper diorama of coins piled up on his counter. “I told you I had change.”
“Yes. You did,” Danny says with a defeated breath, scooping the first stack of nickels into his hand, and spreading them out across his palm.
Five, ten, fifteen…
“It’s eight twenty-two. Trust me.”
“Sorry, policy. I have to double check,” Danny says with his best apologetic grimace before turning his gaze back down to the coins in his hand.
Five, ten, fifteen…
“Well, that’s kind of unfair, don’t you think? Isn’t the customer always right?”
“Right, of course.”
Twenty, twenty-five, thirty…
“This is a bad look. It makes it feel like you don’t trust your clientele.”
Danny gives a half-hearted shrug, not lifting his eyes from the coins. “Sorry. Not my policy.”
Thirty-five, forty, forty-five…
“Well, I never.”
Danny makes the mistake of looking up as the woman tsks, gripping the strap of her bag and giving him a scandalized glower.
“Sorry,” he says again, shoulders slumping as he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling back to the mess of nickels in his hand.
Five, ten, fifteen…
***
Danny’s fellow cashier heads up for their lunch during the mid-afternoon lull, leaving Danny up front alone, standing at his till, pretending to be busy in case Hattie wanders past. He types random SKU numbers into the computer to see if it’ll bring up anything, he flips through the binder of faded lumber codes, he sprays his counter down with a bottle of something that smells like death and wipes it away with paper towels that come away gray with grime, he sorts the air fresheners that hang on a display beside his counter. And after all that is done, he’s managed to kill about seven minutes.
It’s almost a relief when a customer finally wanders up to his till. Almost.
The man wordlessly plops a length of cord, a roll of duct tape, and a box of garbage bags down on the counter—doesn’t even bother to glance up at Danny, just rolls up the cuff of his dark suit jacket and checks his watch as though the point five seconds he’s been waiting is already too long.
Danny manages to plaster on his best customer-service smile, hoping his eyes don’t give away the “not this asshole again” that he’s thinking.
Nearly once a week, buddy here shows up—way overdressed, with his smarmy ponytail and his suit—acts put out that he has to breathe the same air as the rest of Amity Park’s peons, then proceeds to purchase some of the sketchiest shit Hattie’s Hardware has to offer. Danny’s always left wondering if he should be calling the police instead of ringing up the serial killer’s checklist of supplies on his counter.
But, honestly, he does not get paid enough to keep tabs on Hannibal Lector over there, so he lets it slide.
“Find everything you were looking for today?” Danny asks as he tips the garbage bags on their side and scans the code on the bottom with a beep.
The man gives the vaguest grunt of acknowledgement, and just before his sleeve falls back in place over the face of his Rolex, Danny notices the fresh scratches marking the man’s pale forearm.
His brow furrows, but instead of prying, he just plucks up the duct tape and cracks a friendly joke as he twists the roll to find the barcode. “Already got the shovel and axe at home, hunh? Good for you.”
The beep is the only thing to split the silence, and when Danny glances up, it’s to find the man’s dark gaze pinned on him, lips pursed on a thin line. He is very much not laughing.
“Just ah—a joke.” Danny blanches as he gestures weakly at the items on the counter. “Because uhm. You know. If you had a shovel and axe, this would look kind of like you were, ah…”
“I get it,” the man answers frostily.
“Okay,” Danny answers, chastened as he drops his head and picks up the rope.
Immediately, he can tell Sketchy McBillionaire completely ignored the sign in the hardware aisle asking customers to get an employee’s assistance with the custom lengths of cord—there’s absolutely no SKU or length written anywhere, but Danny makes a show of turning the rope in his hand anyway.
“Shoot. It looks like your label must have fallen off?” he says, doing his very best not to sound too accusatory, just in case the guy really isn’t above murder.
“I’m sorry?” the man asks pointedly, brow arching, and it is so very clearly not an apology.
“Uhm. Well. Since you grabbed a custom length of rope instead of a pre-measured spool, there should be a tag on here somewhere. I need that to ring you up,” Danny tries, gesturing uselessly at the cord.
“Are you serious?” the man asks, teeth gritting. “This is just what I need right now.”
“I can, uh, page someone from hardware to get us the number?”
“No need. I’ll go get a pre-measure spool.” The words drip with derision, as if this is somehow Danny’s fault, as the man snaps up the rope and twists on his heel.
“Actually—” Danny cuts in, withering under the man’s icy gaze as he snaps his head back around. Sheepishly, he continues, “Once the length has been cut, we can’t really keep it…”
The man’s shoulders heave with a deep breath, his grip curling tight around the cord between his fingers.
“Fine,” he snaps, tossing the looped rope back onto the counter with a thud. “But make it quick. I’ve already been significantly delayed today.”
Danny gives a curt nod, picking up the receiver beside his register and paging for a hardware employee, his crackly, amplified voice sounding weak as it reverberates through the store. Which is so stupid. He’s a literal superhero—can punch a ghost three ways into next Thursday—so why is he cowed by some guy strutting around the hardware store in a suit?
Maybe because he knows punching this dude isn't an option unless he wants to get fired.
Ugh, why do bad things always happen to him?
Danny tries to play nice—determining not to piss the guy off or lose his job—and schools his features into an affable smile.
“It’ll just be a couple minutes,” he says.
The man gives a tight “hmmm,” crossing his arms over his chest, brows dropped low over cold blue eyes.
As the silence stretches between them, Danny awkwardly drumming his fingers against the metal till top, the urge to claw out of his skin grows unbearable. Against all better judgment, he finally blurts, “how’s your day going so far?”
“You want to know how my day is going?” The man’s tone drips vitriol, teeth bared as he steps in closer to the till. There’s something hysteric in the twist of the words as he repeats himself. “You want to know how my day is going?”
Danny tries to backpedal, jerkily shakes his head no, but it’s too late. The man gives a laugh somewhere just left of unhinged (why does it almost sound familiar?) and is off on a tangent before Danny can stop him.
“My day started with a very unwelcome intrusion, weeks of hard work thrown out the window because of some insolent boy and his need to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. My day found me bitter and behind schedule, interrupted at a crucial moment because someone has decided to treat my work like some blasted video game. My day”—the man’s eyes dart to the nametag on Danny’s vest, heedless of the way he’s stiffened, heart beating hard in his throat—“Daniel, has left me thwarted, again, an extension of a dismal several months in this wretched town, a string of one disappointment after another. And now I’m delayed once more, stuck waiting here with you, for someone to perform a menial task on my behalf since you can’t identify a length of rope. So tell me, boy. How do you think my day has been going?”
It’s how he spits the word boy, the cadence of the diatribe, the implication behind the words.
Danny just stares at the man, wide-eyed, any kind of response at all sticking in his throat as his palms brace against the back of the till.
It's then the employee from hardware comes bounding over, her cheery, freckled face split on a smile, oblivious to the weighted silence. “How can I help y'all?”
“I need a price on this.” The man practically snarls the words, snatching the cord and thrusting it at Poppy or Penny or…Genevieve?
Crap. Danny has got to get better at remembering his coworkers’ names.
“O-oh,” she stammers.
“The SKU actually,” Danny manages, and her expression softens with relief—that that’s all he needs, that she doesn't have to put up with this nightmare of a man before them.
She pulls free a small notebook from a pocket in her ugly vest. Thwipping through the pages, she drops a glance to the rope in her hands, flips a little further, then reads off some digits from her hand-scrawled notes. Danny taps them in obediently as Poppy/Penny/Genevieve turns the rope forward and back.
“Probably about twelve feet,” she guesstimates.
“Awesome, thank you,” Danny says, the price coming up on screen as he taps in a one-two and thumbs enter.
The man has barely moved, his expression all hard, sharp, unimpressed lines as he stands back and watches them with crossed arms. Poppy/Penny/Genevieve flickers a glance in his direction, then away.
“Noproblemhereyougotalktoyoulater,” she says, the sentence coming out in one hurried breath as she drops the cord on Danny's counter and bolts.
With her gone, it's just Danny, the silver-haired man, and the suffocating tension between them once again.
Danny knows he should focus on getting the purchase rung through and getting the guy out of here, but can't help the beat too long he stares at the man.
He's about the right height, the same goatee, the graying stripe parting his long hair.
“I don’t have all day.”
“Right!” Danny starts, shifting his attention back to his till’s screen, his pulse fluttering in his chest. Could it be? “Uhm. That comes to—”
“Yes, yes, it’ll be on credit,” the man interrupts, thrusting a black card at him.
Danny catches the card against his chest, holds it there as he mashes the man’s total into the debit machine. Before swiping the card, he turns a glance down to the plastic in his hand, his eyes roving past the long string of numbers and the expiration date to find the raised silver lettering beneath.
Vlad Masters.
His gaze lifts, and he finds the man—Vlad—watching him impatiently. Danny jerks his eyes away as he swipes the card, hands it back, places the printed receipt on the counter to be signed.
Vlad huffs—doesn't say a word as he fishes a pen from his inside pocket and scrawls a quick, jagged signature.
The arch of his brow, the condescending weight of his gaze, the impatient snap of his movements...
As the man gathers up his supplies, scowling, and pushes through the exit, Danny picks up the merchant copy of the receipt left on his counter. His gaze fixes on the V. Masters on the till paper, his lips twisted on a frown.
He doesn't know how it's possible, but he thinks that man—Vlad Masters—is his archrival.
Which means…Plasmius is a half-ghost?
23 notes
·
View notes