Sweet boyfriend Satoru who is so, so gentle with you.
(master list) part i. contains: size kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart), possessiveness, dacryphilia
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He lets you have your way with him, kneading at your hips and thighs with his too big palms, those same hands later coming up to your waist, thumbs just shy of grazing your chest. He doesn’t need to push you down onto his lap, not when you do it yourself, crying into his mouth and drowning out his own, cooing words against your lips.
.
“Go slow, baby….” Satoru bites back a groan when you sink into him, eyes rolling into the back of his head with each short, eager little thrust you make. He’s too big for you and you know it, asking anyway if you could take him doggy for the first time, and serving him with an unfairly disarming pout when he sputters some suggestions saying otherwise. Maybe it’ll be less painful if….We could try something else or…? But all it took were your best puppy eyes and his mouth had dried. Fuck it, he says, giving into that deeper part of him. It sates him to see you bend over, shifting subtly so that delicate line your back bows beautifully—in what he knows is just for him.
Yours, you mouth, looking back with your cheek pressed against his sheets.
.
Your sweet boyfriend Satoru, who already had too much of your unexpected mouthiness the entire day, now seethes at the restaurant as you smile a little too brightly at the server and hears a coyness in your voice that you usually reserve just for him.
He drags you home before the first course arrives, and there’s laughter in your eyes, a sort of vindication that makes something destructive coil in his gut.
You wanted this, he thinks to himself. When the third strike hits your cunt, he knows you’re close. “I want you to cum for me in two, okay? Can you count for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs as you nod pathetically, tears catching at his knuckles from where he grips your cheeks to pinch your swollen lips into a pout.
When the fifth strike hits, he kisses you harshly, humming approvingly when you scream, teeth against teeth. You’re so slick and wanting more, mumbling desperate wishes into his neck.
“‘Baby’ what, hmm?” he asks—a little mean, a little breathless. “You want me to fuck you?” He teases a finger over your hole, circling it slowly with the barest hint of pressure, and your mouth slackens in a silent cry, hips subconsciously trying to chase after his touch.
“I don’t think so,” he says, lazily stroking his finger over your clit. “I think I’ll keep you just like this.”
I’m sorry I might have the wrong person but did you have a short and sweet post abt sucking Nerdjo’s dick 😭😭 I swear I read something like that but I can’t find it in my likes so I’m wondering if it was deleted
I’m soooo sorry if that wasn’t you and you have no clue what im on about lmao
hello I have another blog @cantarcantar that has a nerdjo fic that kind of has the beginning of a blowjob (that doesn’t happen lol) you can find it under the tag cantarini writes
x reader should be (and, generally speaking, often is) the most accepting fanfiction space because its consistently, and almost exclusively an expression or fantasy of being desired or wanted or wanting—or in an even more basic sense, considered. even if you dont explicitly self-insert, even if there’s a an oc thats just you but better or a faceless insert u make - it starts with the same premise. which is wanting to be seen or desired by some extension of who you are. or wanting to fantasize explicitly about a life that isn’t yours, any life but yours. its admitting more openly than other mediums—i want someone to want some part of me. to take interest in me sexually or romantically or platonically. i want this element of myself to be considered or thought of. sometimes that is accomplished through writing, and sometimes that is accomplished through reading and seeking to bits of yourself in other peoples. the other half is having space to want and yearn for something else. how liberating it is to admit that you’d like to be somewhere else.
and it is hardly a flawless medium and im really, really simplifying it but i do think that there is something uniquely enjoyable and freeing about it. i want agency in the stories i love. i want my presence to haunt this fiction like a ghost. i want to be loved, i want to be interesting. i want to experience hundreds of lives that aren’t mine. i want i want i want. this a story of you. this is a story of me.
tags: NSFT, GN reader, lovesick gojo, so much pining, male masturbation, friends to lovers, reader works at jujutsu tech, finger sucking (where did that come from), copious amounts of sexual tension
wc: 4k
Satoru has dreams about you.
Some dreams are blissfully mundane. A world that doesn’t exist, another universe in which Gojo Satoru navigates his life without the burden of saving everyone or losing the ones he loves. A universe wherein he wakes up and is met only by your sleeping face, defined by the glow of the sunrise flooding through the gap in the curtains.
In others you are a hot, panting body beneath him. Your eyes are struggling to stay open, fluttering against the waves of pleasure, your mouth hangs agape and invites in his tongue. He fits against you, inside of you, perfectly. Amidst the desperation your hips roll against one another, your breathing synchronized, chests rising and falling with the tides. When you cum around him he presses his forehead to yours and sears the image into his mind, blindfold torn off and cast away. He lifts his body from yours only to be met with resistance, your arms locked around his neck and expression coyly pleading
“Satoru, stay with me,” you’ll murmur, and then he’ll wake up with shamefully tight boxers and damp hair stuck to his forehead.
Like now, for example.
He groans, mostly out of inconvenience and frustration. With an arm thrown over his eyes, he slides his hand down his bare stomach to slip beneath the material of his briefs. When he wraps himself around his cock he’s met with relief, hissing against the drag of his palm along the underside of his length. He can’t help but think about how much bigger his hand is compared to your own and wonder how you’d touch him.
He would gladly show you what he liked. Here, with eyes squeezed shut, he can picture you kneeling at the end of the bed as you watch him slowly fuck his hand. You want it to be good for him, so you’ll watch closely.
A drawn out exhale, a soft and breathless moan pulled from his chest, he thumbs over the head of his cock and imagines you using your mouth to touch what your hand can’t reach. His stomach clenches, head tilted back and pressing into the plush of his pillow, he cums with a strained whine into the crook of his arm.
His chest rises and falls with each laboured inhale as he catches his breath, arm falling heavily to the side and hitting his bedsheets with a thud. The smell of petrichor blows into his room with the draft and entices him, pulling his attention to the darkened window. Judging by the faint light leaking out onto the distant landscape it would soon be daybreak and you’d be starting your day.
He rolls out of bed, grimacing at his now soiled hand. If he wanted to make it on time to ‘run into you’ at the gates he would need to leave soon.
See, there are two things alone that make Satoru feel close to human, the first thing being sex. The trust and companionship it afforded even in casual encounters was something he found himself entirely addicted to.
The second thing to make him feel that way is you.
The little intimacies you shared together were a fix of his. Mundane tasks that you might not think twice about, things that you might not give any importance to had him wrapped snuggly around your finger. The way you would reach to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose like invading his space was the easiest thing in the world, how your nimble fingers would clasp around a button on his shirt or how they might graze along his throat as you straightened his collar.
You had a set routine of doing things that he found unbearably endearing and he was drawn into it like a moth to a flame — the normalcy, the stability. Every morning he would join you in your walk to the school grounds, always early like it’d kill him to miss it, and you’d long since stopped throwing him odd looks about it. He was, perhaps, a little obsessed with you.
“Are you stalking me, Satoru?” You ask with a playful glare, though he can sense how suspicious you are of him trailing after you like a lost creature again. He’d been getting more desperate as of late, desperate to be near you, and it felt like a sickness.
“Define stalking,” he replies with a cocksure grin, practically a confirmation, but then again what could you do about it? You click your tongue against the roof of your mouth to verbalise your distaste.
“Is it not enough that I see you during missions and training?”
“No,” he breathes, the words ringing true. It wasn’t, but Satoru himself didn’t know a scale he could use to measure what ‘enough’ would entail. Frankly he wanted you with him all the time. His sudden sincerity both surprises and embarrasses you, it’s apparent in the way your eyes widen before flickering toward the floor, how you stand awkwardly wringing your hands together.
“I guess if you’re with me at least someone will have their eye on you,” you mutter under your breath, avoiding the subject impressively.
“Are you worried about me?” He asks wryly, long strides carrying him in front of you and bending until you’re face to face. You straighten your back defiantly, and he finds it amusing how you try to maintain eye contact even while he has his blindfold on.
“I’m not worried. Even if something happened to you, death would send you right back because you talk too much,” you huff, attempting to move past him with a push against his chest. You’re momentarily started by the warmth radiating through the material of his shirt, your palm resting over where his heart sits. That was a common occurrence — your surprise that he lets you touch him. Even after all this time you expect to be met with a barrier and yet you reach out to do so anyway, as if he were any other person, like it slips your mind. You treat him as if he’s normal. You scold him for being reckless and cry when he’s self-sacrificing. To you he’s just Satoru.
His hand rises up to circle around your wrist, keeping your palm held against the beat of his heart. Can you feel that? He wants to ask, but doesn’t. There is a tense moment wherein neither of you speak in fear of breaking the tension, watching each other and waiting.
“We should go,” you finally say with a small voice, “we’re going to be late to supervise their training”.
No we aren’t, he wants to laugh. He could get you both there in seconds and it isn’t like the kids care to wait for your arrival before starting. Still he loosens his grip on your wrist, expecting you to step away immediately, but your hand lingers against his chest for a few seconds before you move, and he follows behind you diligently on foot with his hands pushed deeply into his pant pockets.
“Why are you always seeking me out, anyway?” You keep your eyes forward in the direction you’re walking, purposefully not meeting his gaze as you ask. The path begins to steepen the closer you both get to the school, the archway to the grounds coming into view.
“Is it really so hard to believe that I enjoy being with you?”
You glance over your shoulder and observe him intently, eyebrows furrowed into a thoughtful frown. He stares back, sight locked onto your mouth as you take your bottom lip between your teeth.
“See something you like?” he beams, arrogant and skillful in his deflection, cocking his head slightly to the right. Whatever it is you were going to say vanishes, replaced by the familiar veil of annoyance he finds so endearing. With a roll of your eyes you leave him standing listlessly in the middle of the gardens.
He curls his hands into fists and watches after you as you approach Inumaki waiting on the edge of the grounds with intent to train, recalling the tentative look in your eyes only a moment ago.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they got a restraining order against you at this rate,” Fushiguro sounds bluntly from behind him, standing beneath the stone archway with his arms folded loosely over his chest.
“Like that could stop me,” Satoru replies, laughing loudly at the aghast look painted across his young student’s expression. How anyone could think the boy was cold he didn’t know, Megumi always wore his thoughts plainly on his face for everyone to see.
“Didn’t take you for a coward,” Megumi mutters, narrowed eyes drifting to you, and Satoru turns just in time to catch you mid-laugh, head thrown back and hand to your chest. He aches.
Satoru pretends not to have heard what the other boy said. Regardless of his often immature disposition he knew it wasn’t an adult's place to discuss their personal issues with children, and talking about it wouldn’t change anything.
“Let's get to work,” he says instead.
The day ends as quickly as it begins, and he doesn’t get to see you again until the evening. Excitement blooms once he realises you’re approaching, even without the six eyes he would know your footfalls anywhere.
“Satoru?” You call to him carefully, gently, from the doorway to the meeting room he’d hidden himself away in. His name never sounded sweeter than when it came from your mouth.
“What you said this morning… what did you mean by that?”
He peers at you over the rim of his black tinted glasses, having swapped his mask for them as the afternoon progressed. You’re fidgeting in place like your body is being puppeted by your anxiety, but still you hold his gaze determinedly.
With a condescending hum and a raised brow he turns his body to face you, stretching his arm along the back of the sofa, fingers drumming rhythmically against the top of the cushions.
“Been thinking about me all day, have you?”
“Drop the act,” you sigh, exasperated, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. The dull thud of his fingertips coming to a halt.
“I care about you too, you know,” you continue delicately, eyes soft and staring back into his own.
I care about you. For some reason your wording left a bitter taste in his mouth. Something about it was understated, invalidating. He didn’t just care about you. “We can’t keep doing this stupid back and forth,” you try again, a little more desperate this time.
It’s nice having you plead for his attention for once.
“What would you have me do instead?” He finally speaks, his tone completely level and furtive.
“Just be honest with me, Satoru,” you reply, pushing yourself off from the door frame and walking towards him, cautiously seating yourself beside him. He leans his head back over the edge of the sofa, his glasses sliding slightly up the bridge of his nose as he does.
“I like it when you say my name”.
“Is that why you keep giving me reasons to?”
He answers you with a long, sideways glance. A part of him simply refused to put his feelings into words, like it would flay him to do so, but your exhausted expression leaves him scrambling to string together a sentence. The teasing banter was fun, a harmless way of placating his urges, but he doesn’t know what he’d do if you tired of him.
“I like it when you say my name because when I’m with you that’s all I am,” he relents, the hand resting heavily against the top of the cushions moving to hesitantly cup your cheek, lithe fingers slipping into your hair. Relief washes over him once you turn into the touch, a little glimmer of understanding settling in your eyes.
“You don’t need anything from me,” – he brushes his thumb across your lower lip – “infuriatingly, I need more from you”.
Your breathing hitches, lips parting only slightly with the temptation to lick them. “That’s not entirely true,” you mumble, the softness in the words shrouds him like a blanket and the implication behind them sparking heat in the pit of his stomach.
“Is that right?” the pressure of his thumb on your bottom lip slightly increases as he coaxes your mouth open for him. You do so without resistance and he feels his cock twitch against his inner thigh at your obedience.
Without preamble and entirely borne of self indulgence, he smooths the pad of his thumb over the flat of your tongue before mapping out the grooves of your bottom teeth. The soft wet sounds of your spit pooling into your cheeks ringing in his ears as he pulls his hand back to replace the digit with his middle and index finger, splitting them so they frame your tongue and widen your mouth for him.
“So beautiful,” he praises in earnest, the defiant embarrassment shining in your eyes only making the atmosphere all the more arousing.
“I don’t want you to do this with anyone but me,” he breathes, pushing his fingers further along the wall of your teeth, leaving no room for argument. You nod while holding his gaze, your resolve reflected back at him. As if to prove it to him you bring your hand up to circle his wrist and wrap your lips around his second knuckles, cheeks hallowing while you lightly suck his fingers.
Distantly he can feel someone approaching, their energy familiar. With a shuddered breath and all of his willpower he pulls away from you, his fingers coated in your saliva, followed by thin strings of spit that bow and snap the further away his hand moves. You pout.
“What—”
A knock interrupts your complaint, the person behind the door not even waiting for permission before opening it and stepping into the room.
“Am I interrupting?” Nanami asks coolly, his stare settling on your dishevelled appearance and pointedly ignoring the pillow that has found its way onto Satoru’s lap.
“I came to discuss Itadori’s improvements with you but it seems you’re busy—”
“Not at all!” You choke on the lie.
“You should at the very least lock the doors before you decide to have sex on school grounds,” he firmly reprimands the two of you before taking his leave. Satoru laughs, clapping his hands together in approval, basking in your embarrassment.
“It’s not funny,” you hiss angrily, turning your cheek to him as he leans into your space. With his heart like a hummingbird in his chest he leans his weight onto you until you’re laid on your back, his arms caging you in, the laughter still present in his voice.
“You’re so cute,” he presses his nose to the underside of your jaw and smiles into the crook of your neck, “stop sulking and let me kiss you”.
A moment later you tilt your chin to meet his mouth and his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. With a subtle breath of laughter you’re reaching to gently take them off, setting them on the floor before cupping the back of his head to kiss him.
He kisses you eagerly, tongue sliding between your parted lips to coax you into his mouth, committing every little sound you make to memory and swallowing your whimper as he sucks on your tongue.
He shifts his knees to support himself over you so he can get his hands on you. You’re warm and soft and real, he notes with eyes half lidded watching you struggle to catch your breath. He kisses you desperately again and again and again like this might be his last chance.
“Satoru,” you whine into his mouth and when he hums happily it reverberates deep in his chest like a purr. He pulls away from your lips and your hand slides down the back of his neck.
“Stay with me” you murmur. He inhales, his hand tightening on your hip. He waits to startle awake in his bed, alone, but it never comes.
He grins and rests his forehead against yours, overwhelmed with giddiness, “m’not going anywhere”.
satoru, who uses his cursed technique to hold his phone up to film a nut video, and he genuinely loses it when he cums—you at the forefront of his mind, the last time he had you on his tongue—
the phone falls flat on his face.
later, you laugh at the squawk he let out when that happened, teasing him in your own way from the other side of the world: lifting his white Digimon tee off your body, bending over your shared bathroom sink to tease open your folds.
you touch yourself like this, knowing he fucked you here last before he had to leave.
fem gojo satoru with short hair, an undercut, and perpetual beach waves—the slightest curls that her girlfriend suguru loves to run her manicured hand through
“Do you maybe wanna be with me?” he asks coquettishly, as if—
“You’re in my father’s clothes, Satoru,” she says lowly, then straightens in her seat, opening her chest to breathe out the next barrage of words: For god’s sake, I took you home. You were in my sheets.
“I’ve tasted only you the past eighteen hours,” she finishes, nearly hissing, and flicks a piece of rice in his direction. He deflects it without effort, grabbing her wrist in the process.
“I like hearing it from you.” Like silk, he weaves his words smoothly with an unwavering playfulness that led her to all this trouble in the first place. Trouble being infatuated. Trouble being enamored.
She looks at him in that well-worn long sleeve meant for winter, dark dark blue against porcelain skin—sees his mussed hair and the bruises along his collar that he hadn’t bothered with yet, and is struck again with the inevitability she’d accepted long ago.
Gojo deserves a trophy for winning his fight against Sukuna. You’re happy to deliver.
wc — 3.5k
tags — mdni, oral (m receiving), praise, possessive Gojo, vaguely inspired by fight club, violence (not towards reader), this is the result of me seeing the leaks so potential spoilers, banner art from Jen Mazza’s incredible Peripety collection, title from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
You never get used to Getou’s lavish den of iniquity, no matter how long it’s been since you were first indoctrinated. Indoctrination is the right word, because it’s less club than cult. Once you’re in, you never get out.
Hakari’s just finished throwing some stranger out on his ass when he spots you. He jogs a little to get to the warehouse doors before you can and pulls them open, grinning when you thank him and slip inside. There’s a certain level of respect afforded you as someone who runs in the right circles.
It’s Getou’s name, of course. Yuuji and Maki and all of them, too. But mostly, it’s being known as Gojo’s girl that gives you the reputation you have. No one touches you without consequences. No one even looks at you the wrong way without consequences. Gojo’s the reason you can sail into this cage of violence and immorality without a care in the world.
“Over here,” Getou shouts over the din as soon as you walk in.
As the manager of this, whatever this is (half fight club, half business frat, full of the depraved elite), he likes to keep an eye on who’s in and who’s out. Both of the doors, and of consequence. You’re, of course, in.
landing a hit on suguru for the first time and he gets a boner
satoru is laughing in the background bc you don’t see the way his sweats tent while you hover over his chest, asking him if he’s okay with the way he’s suddenly avoiding your gaze. all quiet and shit
he rolls over and tells you to leave him alone lol
Satoru has never gotten into your bed gently; has never sunk into the mattress without a bounce, without jostling the plush surface with an audible oof and pulling you from the depths of sleep. Never. Not once.
And tonight is no different.
It’s an impossible task for him, it seems. Like trying to breathe underwater or pick something to watch on TV. And the worst part of it all is that you know he’s doing it on purpose. No matter how hard you may try to will yourself to sleep through it or how much you may complain when he finally settles beside you, the man is unrelenting. A pain in the ass, even at one in the morning. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so damn annoying.
“Satoru,” you warn, though it’s not as threatening as you hope it would be. You blink over at him with heavy lids, tone dripping with exhaustion. “Must you do that every time you get into bed late?”
He has the audacity to think about it. “Mm, well I suppose I don’t have to,” he coos, voice low like he’s trying to lull you back to sleep. “But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t wake up my little sweetheart to give them a goodnight kiss when I got home?”
“A better one?”
Your eyes slip closed as if shutting them will make him disappear (or shut up). It doesn’t. Instead, it only serves to spur the sorcerer on. Now, Satoru crowds your space, wrapping you into a tight bundle and pulling you so close your nose squishes against his cheek.
He’s entirely scandalized by your rebuttal, gasping in your ear as if you’ve just told him the most offensive insult imaginable. “I can’t believe you’d say that about your dashing boyfriend.” As if to prove his point, Satoru pulls you away only to drag you back in to plant multiple exaggerated pecks against your cheek, a sappy muah sound accompanying each one.
They leave wet lip prints in their wake that you’re too tired to rub away. Eyes still closed, you furrow your brows, accepting your fate as you cuddle into the curve of his throat – right beneath his chin.
“My dashing boyfriend who can’t do anything quietly to save his life.”
“Hey,” he whines into your hair. “I can be quiet!”
“Oh yeah? Then let’s play the quiet game.”
You can feel him hum somewhere deep in his chest as he thinks it over. “What do I get if I win?”
Your limbs feel heavy as you rest your arm across his stomach, curling your hand around the hem of his shirt. You can only muster enough energy to mumble, “Winner gets breakfast in bed tomorrow.”
“Ooo, okay,” Satoru presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Be prepared to make me a huge stack of pancakes tomorrow, baby.”
“Mhm, fine.
“With extra chocolate chips.”
“’kay.”
“And,” A hand ruffles your hair. “A lil extra love, maybe?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Without opening your eyes, you can tell there’s a retort brewing in Satoru’s, and you stop it before it has the chance to fill the air. “Quiet game starts now.”
The room immediately falls into silence, only broken by the soft sound of your combined breathing. Satoru’s warmth and the steady movement of his chest as he breathes — up, down, up, down — bring you right back to sleep’s door, as if Satoru hadn’t woken you up at all. Maybe the quiet game had been the answer this whole time. You kick yourself for not thinking of it sooner.
You nuzzle closer, nose brushing against his collar bone as you feel yourself drift off, but right before you completely fall into the clutches of exhaustion, you hear a tiny voice mumble, “Love you.”
It’s punctuated with another kiss to the crown of your head and a warm palm gliding up and down your back, and you can only bring yourself to tighten your hold on his shirt before you fall asleep.
The next morning, you awake to an empty bed and the sweet smell of pancakes and freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.
