────⟢ falling asleep on facetime with 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 while he’s away seems pretty harmless, right? :: gn!reader + implied to be a sorcerer as well :: fluff, crack :: cursing :: satoru changes reader’s clothes but it’s not sexual/suggestive :: yeah he’s a menace to the society LMAO :: wc, 1K ::
you hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep on call.
it just sorta. . happened. between prowling about your unfinished, raging reports and wishing for even one of the lords above to spare you a glance, you’d forgotten about basic human anatomy. or maybe one specific part. y’know? the one that says that a typical human brain needs sleep to function.
but of course, what were you if not a stuck up rebel walking around sluggishly with the word ‘insufferable’ plastered to your forehead?
and so, when the sleep had dared to tiptoe at the cracks of your caffeinated fingertips— you’d pressed satoru’s contact on your phone without a second thought. or no thought whatsoever, given how blank your mind seemed to be— totally ignoring the fact that he was in another city, taking care of a special grade curse.
and of course he’d picked it up on the first ring (seriously, though, how does this guy have such an obnoxious amount of free time?) all lazy grins and half opened eyes whilst he wriggled his eyebrows at you through the lens— a dirty concrete wall behind him.
oh.
you hadn’t even realised that you’d pressed the video call button rather than the voice one.
eeeeh, whatever. it’s not like the world would end if you facetimed.
(loud incorrect buzzer.)
the world did, in fact, end during that call. your world, that is. your sunshiney and rainbowey world— full of red strings that were free from any coils or cocoons whatsoever, unravelled at the seams the moment someone else’s digital gaze caught you lacking on camera.
and god forbid is that someone turns out to be your disaster of a boyfriend.
you were aaaall sleepy eyed and small voiced, barely keeping up with satoru’s ramblings about his day, the curse whose ass he was currently whooping, how much he loved you, the mochi he had on the way, one of the higher ups’ scandalously cheap yukata, how much he loves you, the weather of hokkaido, how much he loves you— you get the gist.
the tiredness makes your brain crawl through your leftover sanity, totally numbing out the oh so very concerning details— like the random flashes of blue and red emanating from satoru’s free hand whilst he talked about how simply boring it was without you. a distorted scream erupts from the other side of whatever place he’s in— but he barely pays attention, and so do you.
satoru, because he doesn’t really give a fuck about a curse disintegrating right infront of him. you, because you’ve finally succumbed to your weary bones against the half done reports— cheek squished against the thin paper, eyes squeezed shut.
“anyway, sweetheart, think i’m gonna be back after a day or so since these old farts want me to check out kushiro as wel—” he’d paused, then, eyes narrowing behind his blindfold at the seemingly still image of you. “. . uh, baby? you there?”
no response.
except your sweet, sweet sleeping face— the lines around your eyes softened like liquid clouds, a hushed sort of tranquility lacing the edges of your skin, even through the static that seperated you two. you looked. . peaceful. unbearably so. satoru’s chest had done a weird little flip, and before he could help it— he tucks away the moment beneath his ribs before it could fade away into the digital nothingness.
you’d think the mortification would end right with the screenshot of you asleep that he’d made his homescreen wallpaper.
(loud incorrect buzzer.)
“. . sa—. . satoru?” you rub your eyes profusely, trying to make sense of whatever the hell is going on. the first thing you knew— that you’d been talking to satoru on call to keep yourself awake. and the next thing?
he’s standing right at the edge of your fucking bed.
not just standing. looming. like he can’t decide whether holding you would heal him or burn him. eyes wide in that thousand yard stare— except, that it’s focused onto just one destination in the distance— you. one hand gripping the phone by his sides in a phantom grip, the other holding a uniform.
your uniform.
your eyes trail towards yourself. somehow, just somehow— you’ve miraculously magical girlified yourself into one of his tshirts.
(or maybe it isn’t you.)
you narrow your eyes. “did you change me out of my uniform?”
he’s (not so) quick to perk up at the sound of your voice— blinking like he just snapped out of a daze. “oh,” a smile, that same damned smile again, “look who’s awake. my silly little overworked corporate employee.”
“satoru gojo.”
“pulling out the government name after i gave you such a sweet nickname?” satoru pouts, flopping down onto the bed to take your foot into his hands— thumbs absent mindedly working the tense muscles. “you’re no fair.”
“wha— nevermind,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, before heaving in a sigh that satoru relishes. “how did you even get in here?”
“i teleported,” he shrugs. too easily for your— or his own— liking.
“from sapporo?” your voice cracks the slightest bit— in disbelief or fondness, you can’t quite tell.
satoru looks at you like you’ve declared war over expired digimon cards. “you fell asleep,” he says, slowly, as if explaining things to a petulant child. “on call. on your desk. with no blanket. with your uniform on. and—” his voice drops to a conspirational whisper, “— with no satoru.”
(a pause.)
“you’re an idiot, y’know that?” you snort, not before letting out an oof! as he launches all six feet and three inches of himself at you— all muffled laughs and barely there kisses against your collarbone. you roll your eyes but relent— threading your hands through his snowy locks, and he eats up the offering like it’s his last meal.
“says the one who snored on facetime.”
“excuse me, i do not snore—”
“seriously, though,” satoru drawls against your skin, raising his head only for a moment to look at you straight in the eye with an equally insufferable glint, “if you wanted me to come home that badly, you could’ve just asked. no need to blackmail me by cuteness aggression.”
let’s just say, you make sure to never facetime satoru again.
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! gojo loves using the “i’m married” card whenever he gets approached, because in his mind you guys are married.
the thing about being satoru gojo is that people look at him.
he’s used to it by now— the double takes, the whispered gossip, the way strangers feel entitled to his attention just because he happens to be tall and white-haired and annoyingly beautiful(so he’s been told). it’s exhausting, honestly, but he’s learned to deal with it over the years.
the second her manicured fingers land on satoru’s forearm, he knows exactly what’s coming.
he’s seen this script a hundred times. the coy smile, the slight tilt of the head, the way her lashes flutter like she’s got something in her eye. he’s been fielding these approaches for years, long before you came along, and he’s got it down to a fine art now.
“sorry,” he says, before she can even get a word out. “i’m married.”
the lie rolls off his tongue as easily as breathing. it’s not even really a lie, not in his head. you’re his girlfriend, yes, but you’re also the one. the endgame. the person he’s going to annoy for the rest of his natural life and probably well beyond that if he figures out how. in his mind, you’ve already got the ring, the shared last name, the matching toothbrushes in the bathroom. the paperwork is just a formality.
the woman’s face falls slightly, but she’s persistent. he’ll give her that. “oh, i don’t see a ring—”
“left it at home,” he says smoothly, already starting to edge away. “wife’d kill me if i lost it.”
he does have a ring. it’s just that it’s still sitting in the expensive jewellery shop that you always stare at when you guys pass by. he’s been meaning to go in and custom-make one that’s been appearing in his mind lately, one that would be unique and fitting only for you, but there’s no rush and the right moment just hasn’t shown up yet, because every time he looks at you, his brain short-circuits and he forgets how words work.
but that’s a problem for future satoru.
right now, present satoru is trying to escape this conversation without being rude, because you’re waiting for him in the car, most likely dozing off against the window with that cute pout on your lips.
he’s reaching for the strawberry milk with the cute cow on it, when he hears the click of heels behind him.
“excuse me?”
satoru doesn’t even turn around. his hand closes around the bottle anyway. “married,” he says, tossing it into his basket.
“oh! i—i wasn’t—”
“very married. disgustingly married. my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world and i think about her constantly.” he finally glances over his shoulder, offering a bland smile. “sorry.”
the woman blinks at him, then laughs nervously and retreats toward the chips aisle.
satoru turns back to the fridge, satisfied. it’s not even a lie anymore, not really. you’ve been his girlfriend for two years, and somewhere along the way— maybe when he watched you fall asleep on his couch with your glasses askew, or when you sent him a photo of a cat you saw on the street with the caption him, or when you laughed so hard at your own joke that you choked on water— he stopped thinking of you as just a girlfriend.
you’re his wife. you just don’t know it yet. there’s paperwork to do, and a ring to buy, and a question to ask, but in his head? you signed the papers months ago.
he grabs another bottle of milk because you like the chocolate one too, and heads to the checkout, basket swinging from his wrist. the cashier gives him an interested look but he only looks at you through the transparent doors that open and close, smiling when he sees you rubbing your eyes through the window and looking around sleepily.
.
.
.
the first thing satoru notices is that the afternoon sun is hitting just right against your hair, making it look like something out of a painting. the second thing he notices is the woman approaching.
he clocks her immediately— the way her eyes flick to him, the subtle once-over, the way she angles her body toward his. he’s seen this movie a hundred times. hell, he’s starred in it a hundred times.
“excuse me,” she says, all polite smile and batted lashes. “i’m so sorry to bother you, but i just had to say—you have the most stunning eyes i’ve ever seen.”
satoru feels you stiffen slightly beside him. your hand, which had been loosely linked with his, tightens just a fraction. he wants to squeeze back, to reassure you, but he’s also kind of… curious. because usually, when this happens, he’s alone. he gets to play his little game where he flashes an imaginary wedding ring and says sorry, i’m married with a soft, stupidly fond smile that he practices exclusively for the version of you that lives in his head.
but you’re right there and he’s never had to play that card with you within earshot before.
“oh,” he says, tilting his head. his glasses slip down his nose just enough for him to peer over them. “thanks.”
the woman takes the lack of immediate rejection as encouragement. “i don’t usually do this, but i was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab a coffee sometime? there’s a great place just around the corner—”
“no can do,” satoru interrupts, his voice softening at the edges. he feels your hand twitch again. “i’m married.”
the word hangs in the air. married. he’s said it a thousand times to strangers, to cashiers, to that one persistent guy at the bookstore who wouldn’t take a hint. but never like this, never with you standing right there by his side.
you go very still.
the woman blinks, glances at your interlocked hands, then back at his face. “oh. i’m sorry, i didn’t see a ring—”
“don’t need one,” he says simply, he’s not even looking at her anymore. he’s looking at you, at the way your lips have parted slightly, at the confusion and tenderness flickering across your face. “some things you just know.”
there’s a beat of silence. the woman mutters an apology and retreats. satoru doesn’t watch her go. he’s too busy watching you stare up at him like he’s grown a second head.
“married?” you repeat, your voice going breathy like it does when you’re trying not to laugh but also trying not to cry.
“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. he brings your joined hands up and presses a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “i mean, not legally. yet. but in my head? you’ve had the ring for like eight months now. it’s very sparkly. you look great in it.”
you blink at him once, twice, and then you make a sound that’s half-giggle, half-gasp, shoving at his chest with your free hand. “satoru! you can’t just tell strangers we’re married!”
“why not?” he grins, bright and boyish and entirely unrepentant. “it’s gonna happen eventually. i’m just saving time.”
“you’re insane.”
“insanely in love, maybe.”
you groan, burying your face in his shoulder, and he feels you smile against his shirt. your ears are pink. he wants to bite them.
“you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you mumble into his collarbone. “every time someone flirts with you?”
“every. single. time.” he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “you’re my wife in every way that matters. the government just doesn’t know it yet.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his chest ache— all shimmery and wondering, like you’re seeing him for the first time. you smile, small and private, and tug his sleeve. “c’mon, husband. my show starts in ten.”
he word husband hits him right in the stupid chest like a truck made of flowers.
he follows you out, already planning the ring. already knowing exactly what it’ll look like. already halfway down on one knee in his head.
you don’t know any of that, not yet. but you said it and now he’s never letting you go.
𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ even after two years of marriage, husband!gojo still enjoys indulging you whenever you 'fangirl' about him :: tags. wife!reader. fluff.
“and and and, his smile ‘s just so beautiful,” you sigh dreamily, resting your head on satoru’s lap. you’re both enjoying the cozy night in your shared apartment. with no one bothering you—with no regards for the world that’s continuing its cycle outside.
satoru chuckles as he pats your head slowly, taking his time to appreciate every feature of yours. from your pink-ish lips to your pretty eyes. he’s so in love with the creation the universe has gifted him. he nods attentively, “yeah? what else?”
you giggle as he indulges you. it’s a habit of yours, to fangirl over your husband like you’re not literally his wife. satoru finds it absolutely adorable. plus, it boosts his ego. in a very good way.
“aaaand, he’s caring. that’s the one thing i love most about him,” you continue to ramble about your little ‘crush’ on the so-called ‘mysterious white-haired sorcerer’. satoru wishes he could capture this moment and keep repeating it over and over in his head.
the way you talk about your crush—him—is filling his stomach with butterflies. your husband can’t deny the faint blush on his cheeks and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. you keep getting cuter and cuter the more time passes.
when he thinks you’ve reached a state of perfection in his eyes, you prove him wrong and go beyond that. “caring, hm? he must treat my princess real good then,” satoru hums and continues petting your head. his other hand rubs your stomach—fingers creeping under the material of your nightgown.
“he does,” you nod in agreement, “he treats me so well. i don’t know how i got so lucky to have met him.” you squirm a little as you feel satoru’s slender fingers graze your midriff, going back down to your belly and then back up your chest again. his touch is so intimate and loving. you’re spoiled. spoiled rotten by his affection.
satoru sighs. his white lashes flutter shut for a second. hearing you say such stuff makes him want to check if it’s reality he’s in. if it isn’t another too-good-to-be-true dream of his. no one had loved him as much as you did.
it feels good to know that he’s wanted. needed.
“no, i think he is the lucky one,” satoru continues. his hand petting your head stops and he moves it to rub your cheek tenderly. he leans his head down, the tips of your noses touching. he whispers, “having a pretty girl like you love him so dearly… yeah, he’s won the lottery.”
your heart skips a beat. satoru’s words leave you speechless. you don’t know if you can keep up the little silly act anymore. his flirting, the teasing and the genuineness behind his words—it’s all too much.
you grab the back of his head and push his lips down against yours. satoru’s breath hitches for a second before he gives in to you. he visibly melts, eyes closing and hands tightening their grip around your body.
“mmh,” satoru lets out a content moan. he loves you. he’s glad he’s met you and he’s glad he made you his wife two years back. you’re the only one for him. death won’t do you apart—no—he promised you on your wedding day that it wouldn’t.
you kiss him like it’s your last kiss on earth. the spark between you is still as warm and strong as it was when you met. the people who’ve warned you about the ‘honeymoon phase’ are clearly all wrong. they aren’t aware of the strength your bond with satoru has. you’re inseparable.
“i love you,” you sigh against satoru’s glossy lips and he deepens the kiss after that.
somebody loves him. somebody cares for him. that’s all he needs in life. his life is complete with you in it.
he smiles against your lips and says the three words back, with more passion than ever before, “i love you too, my angel.”
nothing will ever separate you. not fate. not anyone.
overview: frat!gojo has been a thorn in your side since freshman year. hooking up was supposed to make him finally lose interest and set his sights elsewhere. but unfortunately for you, that plan backfired. disastrously.
cw: mdni, fratjo x sorority president reader, womanizer/maneater, smut (act shocked everyone), both are switches, he’s mouthy asf, exhibitionism, sex in library, edging/denial, thigh job, unprotected sex, very light sacrilege, fluff if you squint hard enough, 3.7K words
first satoru fic, please go easy on me! art by @/thatsallitchief
frat bros always lose interest after sex.
the saying is hammered into women’s heads like an incessant mantra before they even consider entering the dating scene during their college years.
it was to be rehearsed like the composition of a play. the mastery of each page and stage cue vital…lest they wanted to get their hearts broken by expecting a lifetime from a guy who could only last 30 seconds at best.
and with each recital of this grand play, women were directed that these rowdy, immature college men would act out their parts the exact same way every time.
chase, catch, fuck, then cut you loose so they could move on to the next.
so why the hell is satoru gojo not following the script?
you’ve been shutting down his advances since that first day of orientation, not because you weren’t attracted to him—it was hard not to be—but men who knew they were handsome were usually revoltingly arrogant. this definitely applied to him too.
the first time he approached you, he flashed that dazzling smile and those gorgeous baby blues as he asked you for directions to a lecture hall. one you now know doesn’t even exist.
it was your first day too, but always one to lend a helping hand, your eyes scanned the length of the map you'd printed, searching for the room, and becoming increasingly worried when you couldn’t find it. with your head still bent, you froze when you felt a feather-light touch pass over your skin. your eyes lifted as he fixed a stray strand of hair back in place, murmuring that it would be better if the two of you went to “look” for it instead.
you stared at each other for a long time before it dawned on you. and ever since you slapped his hand away, hair smacking his face as you made an about turn and stormed off, the man has been hot on your heels like a desperate puppy.
you had a good run of making him beg at your feet and offering nothing in return, but by the time it got to senior year, you decided to put him out of his misery. he gave you that megawatt grin when you walked over to him at a random house party and whatever flirtatious quip that was about to pass through his lips was silenced when you pressed yours against them. satoru froze under you, then shuddered as a moan— which you later pulled out in higher pitch—slipped out.
that night was…enjoyable. you were pleasantly surprised that he actually picked up a few things from all his hookups seeing that the man had more notches in his bedpost than you ever cared to count. then again, you couldn't exactly judge because whatever the staggering figure amounted to, you knew you weren’t all that far behind either.
you used sex as a vice to combat the truckload of pressure your demanding degree and being the president of your sorority put you under. it wasn’t healthy by any means, but it worked when you needed it to.
satoru’s reasons for sleeping his way through half of greek row were unknown to you, but you reasoned that with how much he got around, he would at least know how to conduct himself after the deed.
he should have known that trying to cuddle you afterwards, having breakfast delivered to your sorority the morning of, even after you kicked him out, and sending batches of flowers every other week was a no-go.
at first, you kind of found it funny that he was so intent on pretending he liked you, but after he scared away the fourth man you were trying to destress with, every drop of amusement you thought you were feeling dried up like the sahara.
dry. yes, that’s one way to put what you’ve been going through for the last six months.
men who used to flock to you now stared like deer caught in headlights, then they would glance over your shoulder, eyes comically widening before making some lame excuse and fleeing. and every single time you turned, you’d be met with that evil blue-eyed cockblock, whose heavy-set scowl quickly morphed into a smile at having your attention once more.
annoyance and sexual frustration are a mismatched cocktail that clouded your temperament and made you moodier by the day. your replies to some pledges were a little more curt than they should have been, just shy of snapping. and when it got so bad your friends had to sit you down for a talk, you were horrified to find a brand-new vibrator lying on your bed the day after you came clean. the horror hardly stopped you from using it right away, but it did escalate when you realised the toy didn’t do much to help.
you needed the warm press of a body against you, hands to roam over your form and lips so sinful they’d make you dizzyingly desperate as they showered you with kisses. you needed—
your head shakes to dispel the thought that threatened to creep up. a suspiciously satoru gojo shaped outline started to form in your mind’s eye. what you need is to focus. you only have a paragraph left of the assignment that has been making you run around in circles, so you would throw yourself into it to keep distracted.
sitting in your usual secluded spot in the library, you find comfort in the fact that no one ever came this far.
“oh, there you are.”
and you spoke too soon.
“go away gojo. i’m trying to study.”
said man only falls into the chair next to you with an exasperated huff, long legs stretching out far in front of him as he reclined, “baby, you sound like one of my frat brothers when you use my surname. i told you to call me satoru.”
“and i told you not to call me baby, so i guess we both can’t get what we want.”
a deep chuckle graces your ears as your fingers fly over the keyboard and your traitorous eyes steal a glance at him.
seeing him dressed in a white fitted tee stretched tight over lean muscles and dark sweatpants only solidifies how much you hate when men know they're hot. satrou definitely knew, and the black baseball cap he has on backwards, with tufts of platinum blonde hair messily peeking out, only serves to make you angrier.
“i don’t have time for your shit today. i’m trying to finish my assignment,” you grumble once you’ve managed to force your eyes away from him and back to your laptop’s harsh screen.
“i don’t remember you owning the library. i’m here to study too.”
the laugh that erupts from you is purely accidental, and before you can say you don’t believe him, he pulls out a small notebook and pencil from god knows where. you’re glaring at the side of his head as he begins writing, doodling really, and accepting you won’t be able to get rid of him that easily, you go back to your work.
surprisingly, you’re able to finish the rest of your assignment with little to no interruptions from the usually chatty man beside you.
it shocked you enough to make you glance over at him again and when you do, you realise his book isn’t a notebook at all. it’s more like a sketch pad, weathered with age and frequent use, and the longer you take in the drawing he shaded over one of the wilted pages, the more it begins to look like you.
the sight of the portrait, the casual reverence and admiration behind it, somehow perfectly drawn from memory as he didn’t look over at you once while making it, are enough to make you break the silence.
“what are you doing?”
finally, oceanic eyes meet yours, then they drift down to his book when he sees your attention there. satoru smirks, turning the page towards you.
“drawing you. ‘s not as pretty as you, but i’m still learning.”
your lip purses, “no, i mean, what are you really doing? you’ve been at this for four years already, surely you’re getting bored with this game?”
powdery white brows furrow, “game?”
“following me around, sending flowers every week, chasing away every guy who shows interest in me, pretending to like me, all of it.”
“i’m not pretending to do anything. i do like you.”
you don’t like the pressure that bubbles in your chest at how earnest he sounds, so you scoff, hoping it would will it to dissipate.
“no you don’t.”
an emotion you can’t make sense of settles over satoru’s face, and it makes him look the most serious you’ve ever seen him.
“look, you don’t have to accept my feelings, but you sure as hell don’t get to invalidate them and tell me they aren’t there either.”
you blink at him, and he turns from you, for the first time seeming angry at you. the man took your public rejections on the chin. sometimes, he would flush a deep shade of red, but he would be back at it again days later. this time, however, feels different. feels like you might have actually hurt him.
not knowing what to say, you just go back to your work. you’re halfway through editing when your phone rings and since, present company excluded, no one else was around, you answer it.
“don’t kill me,” is the first thing yuki says, and you know you aren’t going to like what comes next.
“what’s wrong?” you ask, sitting up straighter in your seat, and satoru shoots you a passing look.
“the legacy, the one we dropped from rush? yeah, she reported us to the dean.”
“what? why?”
“she said we were singling her out and hazing her.”
“oh bullshit!” the man beside you snickers at your curse, so you reel it in a little. “she was bad mouthing all the other pledges because she thought she had a spot guaranteed.”
“i know.”
“we cant have girls like that around.” the words are half-whispered, half gritted out.
“i know.”
“today just keeps going from bad to worse.”
“even with me here to cheer you up, babe?” satoru says that a little too loudly, and you make the mistake of pinching his thigh, which only makes him yelp louder.
there’s a beat. then…
“you’re with gojo, aren’t you?” the smile in yuki’s voice is unmistakable, and it makes your eyes narrow.
“no,” you deflected, “we’ll deal with this later. I’m still busy.”
“yeah, i bet you are.” you end the call with yuki’s witch-like cackle sounding over the phone. you set it down with a little more force than necessary, fingers going into your hair to tug at it.
satoru’s cool hand covers yours, and he pulls it out from between the mussed tresses.
“what’s up with you? you’ve been pulling at your hair a lot recently. keep it up and you’ll be balding before you know it.”
you mean to tell him that he, among other things, is the one causing you all this distress, but the words falter when his thumb strokes over your inner wrist. you barely stifle a shiver, but of course, satoru notices the poor attempt.
saying you were touch-starved would be the understatement of the century.
and never one to let things be, his lips curled into a knowing smirk. “oh,” his eyes remain fixated on your face, all while you avoid eye contact like your life depends on it. “I see.”
“you see nothing,” you spat a little too quickly for it to be convincing, and his chuckle tells you as much.
“you’re a little pent up, huh, baby?”
you hated him, and you hated yourself more for not pulling away when his slender fingers laced between yours.
“it’s your fault.”
the sneer billowed out as naturally as all your other snarks did these days. with no outlet, everything was being bottled up inside of you, trapped in the gas chamber that was your repressed body, and the heavy metallic door rattled as more toxins angrily rolled about with no place to go. inflating like it would explode sooner or later.
satoru nods with faux empathy as he moves your joined hands to rest on your lap, then he murmurs, “want me to make it better?”
no.
absolutely not. hooking up with him is what caused this in the first place. if you took it there again, who knows what else his infatuation may make him do? or god forbid if your steadily crumbling defences fully delude you into thinking he was being sincere.
a finger grazes over the denim of your jeans, so suasive it may as well been on your bare skin, and your brain short-circuits. the touch isn’t sexual in the slightest; it’s only done to bring you back to the present, bring you back to him, but the effect it has on you is still tragic.
“or do you want me to stop?” he finishes in his huskily melodic voice, blue eyes boring into you so intensely, it’s like they were promising to pull you under their brimming waves and lure you into their endless depths.
you take too long to answer, so satoru’s hand loosens in your grip, about to draw back until you clamp your thighs around it and squeeze. your sharp nails cut into him, trying to tell him through the bite of pain what your lips couldn’t seem to form.
he tilts his head at you, and the small pieces of his hair sticking out follow the movement. satoru waits until he sees the imperceptible shake of your head, and only then does he allow his hand to leave your clutches. it slithers to the crotch of your jeans, easily spanning over it as he cups your cunt with a low groan.
“missed her so fucking much.” the words are snarled out behind clenched teeth, then his mouth covers yours.
your hips buck into his hand, worried about someone walking up to this level of the library, but not enough to make him stop. your teeth skim over the glossy softness of his lips before biting down, and he lets out a wrecked sound that you swallow whole.
nimble fingers don’t even bother to unbutton your jeans as they slide right past the waistband and into underwear. they tease over your fluttering clit, and once again, your thighs close around his hand like a vice.
the sound you make is a little loud, even to your ears, and satoru leaves pecks around your jaw until he gets to the shell of your ear.
“shhh, you need to keep it down, baby.”
he sounds so satisfied with himself that it has you desperate to make him eat the words. so, your hand skates over his muscled thighs, nails brushing a barely there touch over his erection.
“fuck, yes.” the croaked curse makes you deliver a soft slap to the length, more of a pat, but it makes his body jerk nonetheless and his chair scrapes across the floor with the movement.
“you keep it down,” you retort as you pull his waistband back enough to let his cock bop out and smack against his abdomen.
“always need to make it a competition, don’t you?” satoru goes to kiss you, but you turn at the last second, letting his lips land on your cheek, and unfazed, his tongue peeks out to lick a wet line up its smoothness. sometimes he really did act like a mutt.
“hardly a competition if i win every time.”
an amused huff is breathed against your skin, “we’ll see.”
that’s the only warning you get before long fingers plunge into your cunt. and a gasp escapes as slick wetness makes their entry effortless, but your walls spasm around them regardless. you recline in your chair, pleased hum escaping as your hand wraps around his thick girth to repay him.
“tighter,” satoru pleas as his free hand covers your smaller one and pumps over his cock harder. your grip loosens, thumb passing over the flushed tip, and he pulses hard. it felt like you were punishing him, and maybe you were because he knew what was missing.
thankfully, he has never been above begging, especially when it came to you, so the words tumbled out easily, “please, baby,” his hips lift as he thrusts himself into your hand and pushes his fingers deeper in your cunt. “need you. please?”
could anyone refuse him when he sounded so beautifully broken? you certainly couldn’t. hand tightening around him, your own hips unabashedly buck up as you grind your clit onto his palm.
teeth catch your lower lip when pleasure shoots up your spine, and you’re too busy glancing down the hallway to make sure you don’t miss someone coming by, you don’t notice his other hand sneaking under your shirt until it’s too late.
hands that were usually languid grow hurried as he paws at your tit over the thick material of your bra, and you feel each squeeze as a resounding pull deep in your pussy. you’re forced to cover your mouth to stifle the sound you make as you cum all over his dexterous fingers.
“there’s my pretty girl. go on, make a mess.”
more creamy beads of precum spill over your fingers as satoru chases his own release, and by how growly he sounded, you reckon he isn’t too far away. but, no, you couldn’t have him cumming early and nosily whining with overstimulation as you stroked him to get hard again. you needed to be quiet, so you had no choice but to let go of the weeping length.
“shit—don’t stop.” he begs but it’s too late as you pull his hand out of your jeans and stand up. and even though your body instantly misses the warmth of his, you back away from him and walk closer to the stacks.
satoru’s eyes turn glacial as he watches you, irises cooling to freezing temp as he rises from his chair with fluid swiftness that would have been alarming if you didn’t get wetter with each step he took closer.
he corners you between the darker shelves and hands come up to rest at the sides of your head as he braces himself.
“you enjoy getting a rise out of me, don’t you?”
you take stock of him, and linger a little too long on how his dick strains in sweatpants that do nothing to hide it.
“only fair with the emotional warfare you’ve been putting me through all these years.”
he backs you into the hard wooden surface of the bookcase behind you, name coming out in a probing croon as his nose brushes over yours.
“you and i both know that if you really wanted me gone, it wouldn’t take much.” his hair tickles the tops of your cheeks as he gets impossibly closer. “you’d only have to say the words, and you never have.”
you bristle, something akin to embarrassment heating your cheeks as his arm curls around you. satrou draws you to him, minty breaths hot and coaxing as they puff over your lips, and the only reason you don’t kiss him is because you refuse to prove him right.
“so why don’t you say it, huh?”
there’s a bite of anger in his tone as his arm grows taut around you, and his body is so tense it feels more like you’re pressed against a brick wall.
“say you want me gone, and i’ll leave.”
your thighs clench. breasts pushing out against his chest as the threat forgoes your ears and shoots straight down instead. you refused to dwell on why his words were turning you on so much, because it would mean you would have to accept being just as much of a deviant as he was.
“do you want to leave?” you probe instead of answering the question, and his lip curls into a deep frown.
hands grope your hips, turning you around to press you against the tall bookcase, and your breath comes out in a surprised huff when his cock nudges your ass.
he grinds into you, “no, and until you can give me a definitive answer, you’re stuck with me.”
oh the horror.
your hands rest against the shelves to steady yourself as his fingers make quick work of unzipping your jeans and he pushes them down, just past the curve of your ass. your panties are still on and they stick to your soaked pussy as he moves behind you.
the slimy trail his leaking tip leaves over your skin makes your breath hitch and you still don't catch it as he slots himself between your thighs, thick length dragging teasingly along your clothed clit.
“oh my god,” you moan as his mushroom tip snags over the twitchy bud, hips trying to back into him but failing as he grips them tighter to keep you still.
“uh—uh, don’t bring him up when he's not the one making you feel this good. say my name.”
your mouth hangs open, and his name comes out in a soft pant as so much wetness pools out of you and coats your thighs, he might as well be in a slip and slide. satoru moans against your dewy skin, hips becoming shaky, and arms banded around you like steel.
it takes a lot, but he forces himself to draw back and roll the ruined lace fabric of your panties down over your ass. a breath turns into a squeal as he drives into you. your back bows in a deep arch that he meets with the smothering hardness of his body, blabbering at how tight your pussy clenches around him.
satoru pulses hard inside your heat, one hand kneading your covered breast and the other groping the fleshy globes of your ass a little too roughly. his choppy breaths fall over your skin, forcing goosebumps to prick to the surface and fuck if all of it doesn’t spur you closer to the edge again.
“close,” you warn with something resembling a hiccup fused in the word.
“me too,” he rasps with his face buried in the plush curve of your neck and you feel him kiss along your skin before he comes up for air. “can i cum?”
he’s asking for permission? oh fuck, you were done for. you nod a little frantically as your own body seizes up.
“mhm, i-inside.”
satoru whimpers before his sharp teeth bite down on your neck in an effort to keep quite and moments later, warmth spreads low in your belly. he spills every drop of his cum, and makes sure to push it deeper with a shuttering snap of his hips when it tries to drip out.
you’re still breathless when he pulls out of you, and he quickly hikes your panties up to keep as much of his seed inside. jeans are hauled to their rightful place, and you hear him shuffling behind you as he fixes himself too.
turning to face him, you feel a glimmer of pride at the light sheen of sweat beading over his skin, and he readjusts his cap as his eyes look you up and down. then hesitantly, almost shyly, he leans in to give you a chaste kiss.
it lingers for a while, and just this once, you allow it.
satoru pulls away to meet your eyes again, and just when you thought he couldn’t shock you anymore, he says the last thing you were expecting.
“let me take you on a date.”
you think you misheard him, but when he repeats himself, you’re at a loss. your lips part to make up an excuse, but he shakes his head to stop you.
“one date. and if you don’t like it, i won’t ask again.”
relationships and dating weren’t your thing. you never had the time or the capacity to deal with all its complexities. and surely people grew bored of each other after the first couple months doing the same thing over and over again?
sex has always been the only exciting part of it.
and yet, satoru’s cool blue eyes peering down and brimming with playfulness and warmth, promised that you’d never get bored with him. and perhaps on days that the spark dimmed due to familiarity or routine, the strength of his resolve in his pursuit of making you his would curb you over whatever doubts you had.
“fine.”
and the man smiled like he had just won the lottery. he could work with that.
౨ৎ — after you let it slip that the vibrator you just bought can’t get you off, bsf satoru gojo is more than happy to help || MDNI, smut. 1.6K words
inspo from this post by @blkkizzat. love her sexy brain.
there’s nothing quite as thrilling as having the man you told your exes not to worry about perched right between your legs.
you lie on your bed, naked from the waist down while your best friend sits fully clothed and examines your vibrator like he wishes he had a microscope to give him a better look.
he moves it from one hand to the next, the very picture of indifference when he switches it on.
satoru shakes his head when the toy quickly spurs to life and fills the room with it’s constant hum, “there’s no way wanted to throw this away,” he starts “seems perfectly fine to me.”
your eyes narrow the tiniest bit.
“well, you're not the one who has to use it.” you grouse defensively.
and maybe you were a little more pent up than you thought, because the image of him doing just that starts to take shape. the man practically lives in sweats, so you’ve caught the print of his dick more times than you’d ever care to admit.
and in your mind’s eye, you can picture him rubbing the vibrator against his tip then all the down the thick veiny length. white lashes fluttering and neck muscles bulging as the vibrations made him twitch in need—
cerulean eyes flicker to yours, and satoru smiles like he knows exactly what you're thinking. slow, full of teeth and boyishly sexy.
“you’re totally thinking about me using it, aren’t you?”
you forcibly expel the image away with a shake of your head.
“you wish,” you smack his arm a little too hard, and it has him groaning between a chuckle. ignoring the flush in your cheeks, you raise an eyebrow at him, “i still can't believe you offered to do this by the way.”
“i can’t believe you agreed,” he quips just as quickly and well…fair enough. because you couldn’t either.
satoru readjusts so he’s on his knees and dips his head, his eyes following the length of your body until they land right between your legs.
you watch them dilate until only a thin ring of blue remains, and the longer he stares, the more heat rushes south. cool air feathers over your cunt and the achy tease of it, coupled with the weight of his rapt attention, have your legs trying to close again.
satoru doesn't let you get far though. he grumbles his disapproval, freehand spanning over the plush flesh of your thigh and spreading you open again.
“don’t go shy on me now.”
your hips shift a little. “you’re staring.”
he huffs out a laugh, hand spasming over soft skin, “can you blame me?” he asks with a good helping of reverence and not a lick of denial in the question.
his eyes never stray away and fuck, you don’t even think he’s blinking.
“almost want to take my time with how pretty she is,” his chest rises with a deep inhale, like he’s trying to breathe you in. “wet too.”
one look at your face lets him know that you would walk out if he tried, and he has to stifle a grin.
“maybe next time,” he decides, and when he sees you about to tell him there won't be a “next time”, he lifts the vibrator and presses the tip of it against your clit.
and for someone who claimed it didn’t work, the effect it has on you is intense. your breath hitches, body bucking up, and he groans at the sight of your tits bouncing under your shirt.
he nearly dropped to his knees in anguish when you refused to take it off, but the way your nipples stiffen under the fabric almost makes it worth it.
“oh shit,” the moan draws his attention away from your chest, and he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth at the fucked-out look on your face.
satoru drags the silicone toy along your slit, and while glittery wetness immediately drenches it, it’s not nearly enough.
so he rears back and draws his cheeks in. when his lips part, a fat blob of spit splatters onto your clit. your hips pitch and the mess drips all the way down to your ass.
satoru watches your head roll against your pillow. hair splaying out messily and eyes a little too glassy, “toru,”
“too pretty for your own good, ” he husks quietly. as if it was only meant for his ears.
he presses himself against your thigh. cock thick and hard as it strains under his jeans, and you clench around nothing. suddenly painfully empty.
with how easy it is for satoru to map your reactions, someone would think this wasn’t the first time the two of you were doing this. it's like he can sense what you need long before you do. so, when your lips part to beg him for something your mind can barely string together, he's already nudging the vibrator against your entrance and slowly pushing it inside.
he pumps it in and out of you in deep, teasingly slow strokes that make it impossible to bite back your moans.
they sound embarrassing to your ears. all too high some moments and wavering into soundless gasps in others, but satoru clearly doesn't share the sentiment. he grinds his cock against your thigh harder, and it pulses with each sound that pours out your mouth. he feels them wash over his back and light up the base of his spine in a white-hot beam.
“you’re so fucking hot,” the vibrator is turned up a couple notches, and you freeze when you feel it.
you’re close.
a broken gasp escapes, then you react how you always do.
you run from it.
panicked and restless when your hips shift back and each pulse has you squirming.
you only get far enough to make an inch of the dildo slip out before a hand curls around your waist and holds you in place.
“where are you going?” gojo tilts his head at you and you think his eyes are the brightest you’ve ever seen them.
slowly, something clicks into place behind them, and a huff of laughter bubbles out.
“wait…don’t tell me you're a runner,” he's so tickled you're tempted to hit him again. but it's impossible to do anything but jerk when he plunges the toy to the hilt again. “well shit, baby, no wonder you thought it was broken.”
his eyes crinkle at the corners, and you would’ve found his wide grin cute if he didn't turn the intensity all the way up.
he lets the toy buzz inside of you and when you recoil, both hands grip your hips and swiftly tug you back.
“nuh uh, we can’t have you running away when you’re so close.”
“f-fuck, i can’t,” you whine. head shaking from side to side, and he coos.
“of course you can, pretty,” satoru drapes his body over yours, one burly thigh snug between your legs to keep the toy in place. and to keep grinding against your soft thighs.
“you’re doing so much better already,” he murmurs quietly, hips already moving against you. “just need me to hold you down and make you take it, hm?”
he phrases that like a question but slants his lips over yours to muffle your answer. satoru groans into your mouth, tongue swirling around yours and teeth sinking into your bottom lip.
your fingers twist into the sheets, clutching at them as if they would ground you. it proves useless because the filth coming out satoru’s mouth is clearly trying to leave you wrecked by the end of this.
“god, the sounds you make around fake cock,” he grunts against your jaw, hips shuttering for a moment before rutting harder. “should’ve—shit—just offered you the real thing.”
arousal pools around the vibrator to drip down onto the sheets below and it takes everything to keep your eyes from rolling backwards.
“oh my god,” you whimper, and he licks up the seam of your lips.
“be a good girl and stop holding back. let yourself feel it,” your hips roll upwards and his chest rumbles with a sound that doesn’t even sound human anymore. “yeah, there you go, fuck yourself on it.”
he was delirious. blabbering almost as much as you were, but at least he was halfway coherent. your limbs seal around him. legs coiling tight around his trim waist and hands sneaking under his shirt to scratch at his back.
your nails must dig in a little too deeply because a hiss is punctured against your lips. you draw back, scared you hurt him, and he shakes his head.
“do it again,” he pleads. palming your clothed tit. “like you mean it this time.”
a shocked huff leaves you, “jesus, you’re insane.”
the unhinged laugh that echoes through your room only proves your point, but you oblige. your nails rake over his muscled back, and the sound he makes makes your clit pulse.
“oh, c’mon baby harder,” you cut into skin, and he chokes. “ah—fuck yes!”
satoru doesn’t bother holding himself up anymore. he just lets all his weight bear down on you, basically trapping you under him.
he drops his head to the swell of your breast, and your back bows when he latches onto your nipple through your shirt, sucking it into his mouth and wetting the fabric.
“cum for me,” he hums against the peak when you tense under him.
you have a brief moment of panic when your breath gets stuck somewhere in your chest. it wracks with a broken sob, and even when you go limp with your release, the vibrations between your legs don’t stop.
satoru shudders not long after you. moaning between your breasts while his cum makes a mess of his briefs. it spurts onto material in thick pulses and you swear you feel it on your skin. warm, sticky and sleek.
he stays on you for a second longer, then lifts himself onto his elbows so he doesn’t accidentally smother you.
it’s only when he slides the vibrator out that air returns to your lungs. tension leaves your body and your spine loosens again.
your eyes flit over to him and they bulge when you see him raise the toy to his mouth. glossy lips wrapping around the silicone, as he sucks your arousal and cum off of it.
the slurping noise he makes while he keeps his eyes on yours has liquid heat building up in your belly again, so intense it’s like you didn’t cum seconds ago. he releases it from his mouth with a pop and grins widely.
“see? works perfectly.”
you had a total psycho for a best friend, and whatever craze that infected him had to be spreading. because when he parts your legs again, murmuring something about making you squirt with round two…
note: hi this is a scheduled post. period cramps currently have me on my ass but i’ll be back online as soon as i can. lmk if you saw any errors okay? okay.
ps: @rambld see what other best friends are doing? lock in.
˖ ࣪ 𑣲 ❤︎ 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𓂃 ⊹ eats out his pretty higher-up situationship in a meeting room. . . even though you're twice his age.
♡. you always saw satoru as a boisterous brat. but what happens when your usual bickers start feeling a little more heated? :: higher up!reader :: age gap ( 40s/20s ):: alcohol consumption :: semi-public sex :: f.oral :: clit play :: pussy spanking :: praise :: degradation :: toru being a fucking brat
♡. higher up reader :: who sees satoru just like everyone else did. the brash, boastful and brazenly strong honoured one who was more of a brat than anything else.
♡. higher up reader :: often chastises him the most. your voice never raised, but sharp. like a sheathed steel sword. and him? a daggered grin, every time.
♡. higher up reader :: bickers with him. at every chance you get cause he's just so infuriating. he loves driving you up the wall, hoping to see you tick. wanting to see you finally lose it. to drop that stoic and serene act.
♡. higher up reader :: doesn't bat an eye at satoru when he slipped an innuendo into the latest bicker. something coy. too frustratingly confident.
“you should learn some respect for authority.” you spoke, flat.
his smile festered as he crooked his head. “what? want me to bark for you?”
♡. higher up reader :: pretends not to notice the subtle shift in the blue-eyed menace. still brash, still brazen, but now with an added boldness in his stare. you notice the way he looks at you. like he's trying to crawl into your very soul. you also noticed two things you never thought he was capable of.
control. and hunger.
♡. higher up reader :: doesn't think anything of it when satoru approaches at one of the jujutsu formals. he lingers by you, offers to buy you a drink, claims he's only there to push your blood pressure up cause it's bad for the alcohol. but it's the way he stares at others that get to close. the way his arm brushes against yours. the way he looks at you— the way someone his age shouldn't look at someone yours.
♡. higher up reader :: was pressed up into him in the car ride back home. he insisted that you let him and his assistant manager take you back home since it was late. now you're here, in a car, with heat pooling in your tummy and the side of your thigh pressed up into his. his arm hooked around you in a less than appropriate manner. his murmur on your ear and his long fingers tracing patterns just below the hem of your dress.
"and here I thought an old woman like you would be a prude," his croon was low, deep. threading the idea that he didn't mind that you were an 'old woman' one bit.
in fact, by that looks in his eye. . . he seemed to love the idea.
♡. higher up reader :: could only shudder. his lips traced down the side of your neck. cold breath fanning your pulse as a hand crept up your hip. you told yourself it was the sake. you'd both drank. that's what it was. just the sake.
“want me to stop?” he danced his touch on the edge of your dress. slipping under just slightly.
when the last hint of sobriety within you nodded at him— he pulled away.
♡. higher up reader :: tried to rid the thoughts. of him, and his infuriating grin and annoying defiance. the brat who's been driving you up the wall since he first stood before the council. now? you were here, laying on your bed, thinking about how his hands dared to map all over you. how his lips ghosted your neck. how, without a shadow of a doubt: he wanted you.
♡. higher up reader :: didn't flinch. you were still the same old stuck-up. poised, perfect, porcelain. you still bickered with him, still held his stare. even when it brimmed with something deeper. carnal. even when it wondered down your curves when you weren't looking. when you caught the slightest curl to his lips that told you he knew you were watching him watch you.
♡. higher up reader :: doesn't know how it happened. how you found yourself here. your back against one of the pillars in the council halls. a white shadow cast over you with devil blue eyes sliced over shades and a smile that's irritated you from start— now, it fluttered your heart.
“what do you think you're doing?” even your hiss is even, perfect.
“you're not pushing me off,” he mused, forearm above your head as he leaned in. close. too close. dangerously close. “y'know. I like this game of ours.”
“what game?”
“the one where you pretend to not want me.”
“gojo. I'm twice your age—”
“oh,”
the groan that rumbled from his chest festered butterflies in your tummy that you thought had died years ago.
“fuck,” he craned closer. “already talking dirty, are we?”
you left him with a red mark slapped across his pale face. a growing heat pooling between your thighs.
and with a glance over your shoulder at his feral little grin and his tongue poking at his cheek.
♡. higher up reader :: knew it was only a matter of time. to your absolute horror, you realised with comedic certainty: you were attracted to that brat of an honoured one.
♡. higher up reader :: tried. you tried to get him off of your mind. tried to hold face. tried not to feel these. . . things for a man who was half your age.
but it was the way he spoke to you, in that velvet tone that hinted more. the way he looked at you, with those cunning, baby blues that wanted more.
you couldn't. you couldn't.
and yet.
♡. higher up reader :: couldn't help it. you were tired of the innuendos, the flirts, the subtle touches that made you feel as if you were young again. the winks, the bickers. so after yet another pointless debate, you did what any rational woman your age would do. . .
you kissed him.
hard. against the same pillar he had pushed you into. gripping on his blindfold draped around his neck and twisting tight. just to hear him gasp. hear him weak, for once.
his large hands clambered on your hips. squeezing on your soft curves and dragging you in so your bodies flushed. his groan on your mouth and gasps slipping between kisses as you squeezed the blindfold tighter.
“mm. told ya,” he still laughed into your mouth, breathless. “better to just accept it, yeah? you want some young dick.”
you parted from his lips, a glare stoned in your stare. even with dilated pupils. you hissed.
“brat.”
“that what you want me to be?”
he grinned with kiss-bitten lips before he dragged you back in. squished you into him and kissed like he was trying to make up for his years.
♡. higher up reader :: lost track. one moment you were making out with the frustration of a lifetime called gojo satoru— the next? you were on your back in one of the empty meetings rooms. trapped on a table by his towering height and his eager hands.
♡. higher up reader :: almost whimpered. almost. your eyes fluttered as his touch traced your inner thigh. deft fingers slipping to the button of your pants and popping it open as his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses down your throat. circling your racing pulse. sucking. you couldn't believe you were doing this. letting someone so young— letting him. the jujutsu world's disappointment— touch you.
♡. higher up reader :: nearly smacked him. when his hand slipped to your panties as he nudged your pants down. middle and forefinger stroking featherlight on your clothed-slit. it was when he grinned, quirking a cocky brow with that audaciously velvet voice.
“been awhile, huh?”
the rebuttal died on your tongue as he pressed. a little firmer. a little closer. tracing up to circle your clit that throbbed against the fabric.
“oh yeah, sure seems like it,“ his deep chuckle seeped heat into your veins as the heel of his palm flushed to the pulsing nub. grinding in rough, round intervals. “what? don't have the time to treat this pretty pussy?”
“you dirty—” the grunt between your clenched teeth melted into a whimper as he landed a sharp spank on your cunt. smearing its drool into your panties and dragging the soaked spot against your sensitive flesh.
“me?” white lashes batted at you. “I'm the dirty one? and yet you're riding my hand like some needy lil' cougar.”
the name had you gasping. had you bucking. and of course, the fucker laughed. a mocking lilt that bled into those cruel fingers of his that peeled your panties to the side.
♡. higher up reader :: gripped his white tuffs between trembling fingers. your head tipped back on the table and your thighs quivering around his head. eyes teary and facing those arrogant blues that stared at you from below your puffy folds.
his tongue was flat. filthy. pressed to the bottom of your slit and dragging it to your clit.
he ate you out as if you weren't his superior. as if you weren't his senior. sucking on the throbbing nub and pressing messy kisses down your pussy until your knees shook.
“mngh— sweetest fucking pussy, 'nd you're such a stuck up?”
your hips bucked as he sucked your clit between his teeth. stroking a finger on your slit so that you squirmed.
“not now though, huh?” he yanked back, huffed on your velvet walls and then strung his tongue back up in a long, lewd stroke. “now you're just. . . a slut.”
“shut up—”
“want me to shut up? yeah? make me.”
the glare in your eyes shattered into something pitiful as his tongue shoved into your slit. fucking into your slick while his thumb harassed your clit. grinding his infuriatingly handsome face into your cunt to completely wreck anything left of your resolve.
guess that's the thing about younger guys. they're robust. relentless.
♡. higher up reader :: was squirming. clinging onto his hair and shoulder. bucking into his face. whining into the heated air as his mouth ravaged you from below.
spit and slick smeared in a filthy mix between your legs. pooling on the table. a stain. evidence. that you're grinding on the honoured one's month as a higher up who hated him.
he yanked back, palm swatting on your swollen pussy. stringing messy, sticky slick all over your thighs and his callouses. jolting your body that chased after his hand.
“c'mon baby,” he slotted your clit between two knuckles. rutting it in a pressure-clamp. “say my name. say it pretty.”
he leaned back down, eyes fixed on you the entire time. “sa—” his tongue set below your clit.
“to—” his knuckles gripped tighter. stroker slower.
“ru.” he flicked his tongue. impossibly fast. spasming the sensitive nub.
“satoru!”
you strangled, whined as your head tossed back and your spine thrown into an arch. hips rolling up into his lips that sucked down on your clit squished between his knuckles. your orgasm rattled your body into a quivering fervour. choking on his name and rolling your eyes back.
all while the fucker grinned. withdrew to spit on your spasming cunt and spanking it through its shivers. shooting you further into your high and spurring you into a whimpering frenzy.
“there you go, that's it.” he crooned, spreading your thighs open to slurp up the mess dripping out of you. his groan rumbling into you throbbing sensitivity. you still felt his fucking grin. his boastful stare that struck at you from between your thighs.
“feels better when you've got a brat's tongue on ya, huh?” he laved one more time, just for good measure. swirling the tip of his tongue on your pulsating clit in slow, dirty drags as his eyes drawled on yours. “mmm. keep cummin' for me like that and I might just have to get you breakin' a few more rules, hm?”
and then, the bastard winked.
♡. higher up reader :: was left quivering. a puddle on the table as satoru pulled your panties up. fixed your pants. while your hands reached for his shoulders. raked your nails down his arms with trembling begs.
“ah?” he hummed, head crooked and eyes slithered. “want something, sweetheart?”
“please— please just. . .”
this was beneath you. begging for him. desperate for something more.
and he knew that. of course he did. it's why you dreaded that glint in his smile as he hovered over you. dressed you back up and smoothed out your clothes.
“oh,” satoru cooed, mockery dripping from his tongue as he trailed patterns atop your thighs. “could it be that my senior and superior actually wants me to. . .” his mouth leaned down, brushed on your heated ear.
“fuck her lil' pent up pussy?”
you hated the way that you drooled into your panties. hated that he was right. you were pent up. high from your first orgasm in months and now begging for the infuriation that was the six eyes. the honoured one.
gojo. fucking. satoru.
“please. . .” you quivered.
his lips quirked. “unfortunately, we have a meeting.”
his large hand patted over your crotch. taunting. “wouldn't wanna be late, eh? it'd be sooo improper.”
his mouth ghosted yours. your slick still glossing his lips. his breathing still thinned. to remind you what he'd done. what you'd just let happen.
and then?
he left you there. wet. throbbing. and needy for a man half your age.
your revenge plan of spending all of husband!gojo’s money doesn’t work if he’s secretly into it. mdni ⟢
APPROVED. AUTHORIZED. SALE SUCCESSFUL.
you’ve completely abandoned reason when it comes to financial responsibility.
store after store, purchase after purchase. you walk around like the world itself could bend to the whims of the little rectangular piece of plastic you’re clutching in your hand. at this point, you’ve treated entire starbucks capacities to a drink, bought extravagant dresses you know you’ll never wear, and a hideous bag that was so ridiculously expensive you almost laughed when you saw the price tag.
each time you slide his card across the chip reader, the little burst of dopamine you feel at the replying green ding makes his impending bank statement worth it.
he deserves this, after all. if he could be so aloof as to let your dinner reservation slip his mind, then surely he wouldn't be keen enough to notice a few extra zeroes trailing every purchase, right?
“would you like a receipt?” the cashier asks politely.
you smile sweetly, “an e-receipt will do, thank you.”
--
back at the apartment, satoru’s laying back against the sectional, his phone rests loosely in his hand, thumb lazily flicking through thread after thread. “how to apologize to your wife,” “how to make it up after standing someone up,” “best apology gifts”— he’s opened so many tabs that at this point they’ve all started blending together into a pitiful reddit concoction within his brain.
he’s just about to click onto another subreddit chain about “apology flowers and their meanings,” when the first notification pops onto the top of his screen.
“a transaction in the amount of $108,923.67 has been detected on your card ending in 8686…”
“huh..” he scoffs, clicking into the message.
“...this is an automated alert for your awareness. no action is required if you recognize this activity. if you do not recognize this transaction, please contact your financial institution immediately using the number on the back of your card...”
a little inkling tells him that it wasn't exactly a thief attempting to drain his card. unless the thief in question was an infuriatingly sexy woman who gets off on raising his blood pressure. he laxly enters his face ID to authorize his access into the bank app. the purchases, he quickly realizes, are flowing in as fast as a live chat. his blue eyes sharpen slightly as the numbers begin to flow in.
oh.
oh, is this what you’re doing now?
10:53 AM POS purchase - stine goya -22,193.67
11:12 AM POS purchase - bottega veneta -19,843.43
11:32 AM POS purchase - loro piana -28,931.41
11:38 AM POS purchase - starbucks -6,784.98
his lip quirks up at that last one, leave it up to his girl to manage to drop 7 racks at a coffee shop. more and more purchases are flowing in by the second, some are couple-hundred purchases at cafes, and others ten-grand payments to random ass brands he’s never even heard of. nonetheless, each one sends a little thrill of pleasure up his spine.
the next warning text comes in, claiming that he's dropped over a million by this point. the message warns that the card has locked, requiring his verification to prove it wasn't stolen and to therefore unlock it. he clicks onto that message and verifies his identity anyway, because he knows this isn't fraud. no, he knows exactly who’s behind this, and what kind of husband would he be if he didn’t enable his wife’s unhealthy spending habits?
he leans his head back against the couch, exhaling through his nose as something warm, and dangerously pleased coils in his chest. much to your impending annoyance, each petty charge has served more to arouse him than irritate him.
11:55 AM POS purchase - balenciaga -47,165.90
“spend it all,” he murmurs to the screen, irregularly pleased for someone actively being robbed. “c’mon babe. don’t go soft on me now.”
his hands slowly inch lower into his sweatpants, freeing his cock from the stiff material. he's mindlessly refreshing the page every few seconds, praying for a new purchase statement to come up. every time a new proof of your financial recklessness updates, his dick twitches in his hand.
louis. throb. gucci. throb.
he leans his head back, his breath coming in short gasps as he brings himself closer to the edge. he can feel the heat building up in his core, the familiar tingle in his spine. he's close, so so close, and all it takes is one more purchase to send him over.
12:00 PM POS purchase - tiffany & co. -136,456.23
his back arches, a low intelligible groan along the lines of that’s my girl escaping his lips as he comes undone. ropes of his translucent cum string over his fist. he’s feeling the tension leave his body after the high, replaced by a warm, satisfied glow. he takes a moment to catch his breath, his eyes still on his phone, then he pulls up your contact.
satoru: hey princess
satoru: don't forget to hit up the bank on the way home, they probably need a massage from all the stress you’ve put them through today;)
drunk satoru can’t drive, and can’t shut up about how much he loves you. wc ᯓ 2.5k.
the second the taxi door clicks shut, it's over for you. satoru is already half on top of you. not in a subtle, polite, let’s-just-snuggle-a-bit kind of way—no. he’s sprawled sideways, long legs tangled with yours, one arm draped heavy around your shoulders like he’s afraid you might get stolen if he lets go for even a second.
you can smell the gin on his breath, sweetened by the syrupy cocktails you warned him about, and under it, citrusy perfume and whatever magic his cologne is made of— warm and clean, even if his hair’s a little messy from the wind outside. It’s a sensory crime.
“mm,” he hums into your hair, sounding both smug and sleepy, “you’re my favorite person.”
you snort. “you’ve told me that four times since we left the restaurant.”
“yeah, and? it's been true four times.”
the driver glances at you in the mirror, the kind of quick, look that look that says, please don’t fuck in my car. you try to smile an apology, but satoru chooses that exact moment to pull back and point—actually point—at you like he’s presenting a trophy.
“isn’t she gorgeous? look at her. my wife.”
he turns, a full-body lurch, and grins at you with the inexhaustible confidence of a man who has never once experienced embarrassment.
you slide down in your seat, resisting the urge to crawl under his jacket. his laugh rumbles through his whole body, so you feel it even where his shirt is soft against your arm.
the driver glances in the mirror, clearly unwilling to be dragged into marital drunk nonsense, and gives a polite nod. “uh, yeah. very.”
“see?” satoru drops his head back onto your shoulder with a satisfied hum. his hair brushing your jaw as if he’s trying to tickle you on purpose. his palm gives your knee a slow, absentminded squeeze, thumb rubbing lazy circles like he’s been doing it for years—which he has. “told you. consensus reached. democracy works.”
you stifle a laugh, patting his thigh, your manicured nails tapping lightly against the thick muscle before curling there. “sit properly.”
he gasps like you’ve just told him you don’t believe in love. “properly? what am i, a stranger to you?”
before you can so much as roll your eyes, he's already leaning forward to clap the man on the shoulder.
“my wife,” satoru says, as if revealing a secret of cosmic importance. “smartest woman in the room. any room. she’s got this thing—like, she just knows what i’m thinking before i even think it. probably a witch, not gonna lie.” he squints at you, then at the driver, as if expecting applause.
“she can hear you,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. the heat of your cheeks feels like a sunburn.
“she’s the reason i’m alive, y’know.”
you groan. “don’t—”
“no, listen, this is important.” he leans forward between the seats, pointing toward the driver with all the sincerity of a man confessing to a priest. “you wanna know what’s tragic? to be the strongest, the most powerful, the most—” he lets his teeth snap together for emphasis, “—dangerous, and still be the stupidest man in tokyo, because you fell for someone who keeps you on your knees.”
you let your head thunk against the window. why did you let him drink so much? the city rolls past, smeared and gorgeous. you try to imagine yourself as a normal person, someone who can go out for drinks and not end up in an taxi with a clingy husband and a splitting headache. you can’t. “you’re embarrassing yourself,” you say, but it comes out softer than you mean.
“impossible,” satoru declares, and suddenly he’s pressed so close that his breath pools warmth into your ear. “you’re the only thing i’m good at ruining.” he squeezes you tighter, pressing a kiss to your temple so loud you can hear it.
you elbow him. gently. you’re not that mad. “stop bothering the driver.”
“bothering?” he gasps, theatric. “no, baby, i’m sharing joy. big difference.” then, he whispers because he’s about to tell the man state secrets “she makes eggs. the best eggs. like—perfectly runny yolk, toast just right. and she lets me have the crusts, ‘cause she knows i like ‘em.”
you groan, but your thumb still strokes over his knuckles. “you’re ridiculous.”
he rests his chin on top of your head, humming along. “you ever think about how wild it is that we get to do this?” he says quietly, as if waking from a sugar coma. “just—be here, together, in a car full of snacks, going home.”
there are no snacks. there’s only satoru, whose idea of a snack is you—words, attention, banter. he’s a one-man hunger strike against silence. still, you play along. “yeah,” you say, “real lucky.”
he nods solemnly, satisfied, and falls quiet for maybe four seconds before slumping down so far his knees collide with the seat ahead. dignity is a rumor with him.
his hand snakes slyly down your side and hunts for yours. he finds it, of course, and laces your fingers between his with a deliberate snugness, then sets your hands right in the open, atop your knee, as if the driver needs to witness the hard evidence of domestication.
every few seconds, he’s back at it—scattering tiny kisses across your face, nipping at your cheek or the tip of your nose before nuzzling into your ear with a happy little hum, like you’re his favorite place to be. you can’t stop giggling, cheeks aching, silently praying it’s dark enough that the driver can’t see how flushed you are.
the car ride ticks on, the windows weaving neon and murk into abstract painting. satoru’s head is heavy against your shoulder and for a rare few seconds he grows quiet, as if the movement of the city outside has hypnotized him into stillness.
then, just when you dare believe he might actually drift off and let you pretend to meditate, satoru squeezes your hand and murmurs, “baby, you’re not mad, right?”
you could say, “of course not,” or go for the easy lie, but the words won’t come. you watch buildings blurring in the window, each sign a burst of jagged color.
he shifts, wary in his own lopsided way. “is it because i told the story about the omelet?” he says it low, maybe worried the memory will make you bolt. “because you can’t take that from me. it’s a core part of my personality now.”
you snort, then pull yourself together with a practiced exhale. “i’m not mad about the eggs, idiot.”
“then what?”
you have to think about it, and that almost makes you laugh, because most people just get mad by reflex—like flicking a light switch. for you, it’s more like plugging in a lamp, finding the socket, being careful not to electrocute yourself.
“nothing,” you finally say, but his smile is skeptical.
“liar.” he sounds fond, and a little proud that he’s caught you in something.
you roll your head until your forehead thumps his cheekbone. “i just wish you’d stop embarrassing me in front of strangers.”
“strangers don’t count,” he says, automatic. “that’s the best time to embarrass you. judgment is temporary.”
that makes you laugh, and when it fades, you let your head rest against his. it doesn’t matter, really, what the driver thinks. satoru is impossible, and you love him for it. maybe because of it.
he squirms, one hand braced on your waist as his lips graze your ear, breath warm and teasing. “can i kiss you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, but you manage to intercept his mouth with your palm, feeling the curve of his grin press against it.
“you want me to humiliate myself in front of the driver even more?” you hiss, voice low, but he just blinks, every ounce a pouty six-year-old denied a treat.
“it’s not humiliation. it’s romance.”
you nod toward the silent man up front. “he’s literally staring at us.”
satoru tilts his head, grinning. “not right now. he’s focusing on the road.”
“absolutely not,” you say, shifting away as much as the seat belt allows, which is about four centimeters. “i’ve still got lipstick on.”
he brightens. “i could ruin it for you.”
you pinch the bridge of your nose, but the image—your mouth smeared red, satoru’s lips stained—nearly makes you squirm. “that’s not the incentive you think it is.”
satoru pulls a mock-offended face, then seizes your free hand and tries to steer it toward his own mouth. “just one kiss. i’ll be careful. i won’t even use tongue.”
“that is absolutely a lie,” you say, fighting a smile.
he grins, unrepentant. “i mean, you’d have to find out.”
“no.”
you press your hand to his face, holding it at a safe distance. he looks at you with such open, expectant delight, you almost cave, but dignity demands at least a gesture of resistance. “you’re like a dog who sees an open door and immediately bolts,” you hiss.
he just shrugs. “i like open doors. and you.”
“not happening,” you say, but there’s no heat in it. “sit still.”
he considers this, brows drawn in mock concentration, then abruptly straightens up. “fine. new idea.” he unsnaps his seatbelt—instant seatbelt chime, instant scowl from the driver—and pats his own lap, grinning. “climb up,” he invites, “it’ll be like a throne. you deserve the best.”
you groan so hard the sound practically curls around the headrest. “oh my god.”
“c’mon, just for a second. it’s not even illegal if we’re parked.”
“we're at a red light!”
he slumps dramatically, nearly melting off the seat. his head lands in your lap before you can dodge, face up, staring at you with those beautiful, blue eyes.
he waits, a human question mark.
you stare back.
he’s not moving. he has, in fact, gone limp as a puppet with cut strings.
you poke his cheek, your fingertip sinking into the soft skin. “what are you doing?”
“resting,” he mumbles, voice muffled by the fabric of your skirt. his arms tighten around your waist, holding you there as if you might move. “your lap is the best pillow.” he turns his face just enough to brush his nose against your stomach, testing how far he can push it before you swat him.
as a child, you’d always wondered at the women in love stories who let their men sleep in their laps without ever worrying about their legs falling asleep or a sudden need to pee. now, you understand. with satoru’s head in your lap, the awkwardness evaporates. you thread your fingers through his hair and scratch gently at his scalp.
he makes a noise so contented it almost embarrasses you.
the driver, professional as ever, doesn’t comment. but you don’t care anymore. you let your hand drift from satoru’s hair to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint pulse at his jaw. he looks so peaceful, eyes half-closed, mouth barely curved up.
“i love you,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
you just smile softly, then stroke his hair, letting the city sweep past in blurred, electric silence, and try not to think about how much you need him.
the car slows, the gentle brake almost rocking satoru off your lap. he grips your thighs, holding on like a child refusing to be peeled away from a favorite toy.
“i’ll be quick,” he tries again with all the optimism of a drunk man convinced he can charm his way through a locked door. that door being your mouth. he’s already angling in closer, the top of his hair brushing your chin. “you can fix your lipstick when we get home. or just leave it. i’ll say it’s a new trend—”
you slap a hand over his mouth. “stop it.”
his mouth curves into a smirk against your hand, and then his tongue drags slowly across your palm—warm, damp, shameless—leaving a tingling trail in its wake. you yank your hand back with a yelp, and he’s grinning like a menace, leaning back against the seat. “you love me,” he sing-songs.
you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the little smile tugging at your mouth. “unfortunately.”
by the time you’re halfway home, he’s leaned forward again, befriending the driver. “you married?”
“no, sir,” the man says cautiously.
“ohh, you gotta get you a her. best thing ever. ten outta ten. five stars. would marry again.”
you hide your laugh in his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your head like he’s sealing some unspoken vow. he’s warm and heavy and clinging to you like he could fall through the seat if he lets go. and when the driver confirms the address, he just murmurs, “don't care where we’re going. home's wherever you are,” you feel it all the way down to your bones.
by the last ten minutes of the ride, he’s convinced the driver to share his name (“takashi! that’s a strong name. we’re friends now.”) and is offering him life advice about love.
“listen, takashi, the trick is—just find someone whose laugh makes you feel like you’re cheating death. and then annoy them until they marry you.”
you give the driver a sheepish nod as satoru straightens up, wild hair waving at odd angles. he looks adorably dumbfounded, blinking like a baby owl. you reach up, tame the worst of his cowlick, and hope he can’t see the smile stuck to your face.
you tip the driver extra at drop-off—half as thanks, half as apology—because god knows he earned it, and haul your drunk, clingy husband out of the car. you thank him one last time while satoru waves like takashi’s driving him off to war.
“thank you, takashi! hope you have great luck at the horse races or whatever.”
the driver grunts—maybe in amusement, maybe in prayer for a better next fare—and peels off before you’ve started up the stairs.
you’ve barely made it through the apartment vestibule when satoru corners you against the elevator wall, hands bracketing your head. the click of your heels echoes up the shaft.
“you’re really not mad?” he asks, lips inches from yours, his hand still warm at the small of your back.
you shake your head. “just mortified.”
he grins, tipping his head to kiss your cheek, lingering just enough for the feeling to settle. “you’re cute when you’re mortified. it’s basically foreplay.” his thumb brushes over your hip as he leans back, eyes flicking down. “your heels aren’t killing you, right?”
you huff a little laugh. “not yet.”
“good,” he says, voice soft but smug, he’d carry you the rest of the way if you’d said otherwise.
you’re too tired to argue, too drunk on him and probably the residual cocktails in your bloodstream to resist. the elevator doors open with a soft ding, and satoru tugs you into the hallway, half-carrying, half-dragging you by the hand.
you barely make it inside before he’s hooking an arm under your knees and scooping you up, grinning at your squeak of surprise. “what? saves time,” he says, already heading for the bedroom because this man never heard of personal space.
you’re still holding the ceremonial fan they handed you, edges crinkled where your grip hasn’t relaxed since the ritual began. everything feels surreal in that post-event quiet: your hands still trembling slightly, your pulse belatedly catching up to the realisation that something irreversible has just taken place. standing a few steps away, your new husband is stuffing his face with higashi, looking strikingly composed in black silk. his montsuki bears the white crests of the gojo clan, which you are now a part of.
“it’s so weird,” you say after a while. “we’re actually married.”
he turns his head immediately, hand over his chest as though you just stabbed through his infinity and into his heart. “weird? wow. that’s cold. we’ve practically known each other since birth, and that’s what i get?”
“precisely.”
“well, for me personally, this is the romantic peak of my life.”
“you are so annoying.”
satoru crouches in front of you then, the hem of his hakama brushing the tatami. his hand balances loosely on one knee, the other still holding a pastel pink confection. he looks up at you from there, eyes level with yours.
“and yet, you chose little ol’ me.”
“i didn’t have much of a choice, did i?”
you flinch inwardly at how unkind it sounded, though that wasn’t your intent. it was merely the truth: it had been either satoru or the insufferable naoya zen’in, and you weren’t inclined to put yourself through avoidable misery. at that, the humour drains from satoru’s expression, replaced by a most uncharacteristic solemnity. he sighs, gaze flicking toward the shōji doors. somewhere beyond them, attendants whisper, but their voices fade to background noise.
“hey, for what it’s worth,” he smiles faintly, “from today onward, you don’t have to keep living to placate them. any of them.”
“them?”
“your clan. all that crap. whatever expectations they dumped on you,” his voice carries none of the usual levity. “that’s over. you’re under my protection now. and before you say anything—no, that doesn’t mean you owe me. you don’t have to love me. you don’t even have to like me. i just want you to have the freedom to live however you damn well please.”
without the blindfold or sunglasses, his crystalline blue eyes are phosphorescent behind the dense lattice of his pale lashes. platinum diluted into twin pools of crushed sapphire, shot through with hues that shouldn’t exist in any living creature.
“…you’re actually being serious.”
“unfortunately, yeah. don’t spread it around; it’ll ruin my rep.”
you can’t help the small smile that slips through. “noted.”
“though, if you do fall for me somewhere along the way…” his head tilts, that familiar grin finally resurfacing, “i won’t hold it against ya.”
you roll your eyes. “you were doing so well.”
“what can i say,” he shrugs, popping the wagashi into his mouth. “growth takes time.”
gojo wraps himself up as your christmas gift. /ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\
you should’ve known he was planning something the moment he told you, very seriously, “don’t go in the living room for twenty minutes. or maybe an hour. actually — just don’t go in there until i say so.”
whenever satoru gojo uses that tone — the ‘i’m about to do something catastrophically stupid’ tone — it’s never good for your blood pressure.
so you wait. and wait. and wait.
and finally, after hours, from behind the sliding door, you hear him yell.
“okay baby, come in, but i warn you — be careful. i’m fragile.”
which is already insane, because he’s the least fragile man alive. he’s over six feet of unfiltered menace with too much confidence.
you slide the door open. . . and immediately pinch the bridge of your nose.
because satoru gojo — the strongest sorcerer alive — is sitting in the middle of the carpet, wrapped like an actual christmas gift. and not even well.
he’s basically mummified in wrapping paper, legs sticking straight out like a cursed holiday doll, with sloppy red ribbon taped around his torso and a giant bow on his head. a tag taped to his forehead says: to: my girl ❤️ from: the best present you’ll ever get.
he wiggles his fingers. “surprise.”
you stare at him for a long moment, then sigh. “satoru. why are you like this?”
“because you deserve something special,” he says, beaming so proudly you almost feel bad for wanting to dropkick him. “and because everything else i ordered online got delayed till the end of the month and couldn’t arrive in time for christmas. this was plan b.”
“this was plan b?” you repeat, stepping closer and poking the loose flap of wrapping paper at his shoulder. “what was plan a?”
“a massage chair,” he says immediately. “the really nice one you wanted and. . .some other stuff.”
your heart softens a little. until he adds, “but then i thought — what does my beautiful girlfriend need a massage chair for when she can just sit on me?”
you groan. “satoru—”
“tell me i’m wrong tho!” he argues.
“you’re wrong.”
“but baby—”
“you’re literally taped to the floor.”
he pauses. “okay, yeah, that part wasn’t supposed to happen. i ran out of ribbon and panicked.”
you crouch down and flick the bow on his head. “you know normal people buy their partners jewelry.”
“i am jewelry,” he insists. “look at me. look how shiny i am.”
you actually laugh — a soft, unwilling thing — because he’s ridiculous and stupid and so painfully your satoru that you can’t even pretend to be mad.
“help me open you,” you say.
“oh?” he wiggles his eyebrows under the bow. “eager, are we?”
you slap his knee. “shut up. i’m freeing you before you suffocate in glitter paper.”
“okay, but be careful . . . i told you i’m fragile.”
“shut up.”
“i could die beautifully,” he adds, fluttering his eyelashes. “imagine the headlines.”
“i’m imagining the funeral,” you mutter, carefully peeling more tape. “i’d put this exact bow on your casket.”
he snorts, laughing so hard the paper crinkles. “i love you.”
“yeah, well, i loved peace and quiet,” you say, tugging another chunk of tape. “then i met you.”
he leans his head forward so the bow bumps your forehead. “best thing that ever happened to you though.”
you pretend to disagree, but the stupid little smile tugging your lips ruins it.
you finally rip away enough paper for him to move and he immediately throws his newly freed arms around you, dragging you into his lap despite the shreds of wrapping still clinging to him.
“ta-daaa,” he whispers dramatically. “your present.”
you rest your hands on his shoulders, giving him the flat, unimpressed stare he always pretends hurts his feelings. “you could’ve just waited for the actual gifts, y’know?”
he shakes his head. “nope. this was funnier.”
“was it worth getting taped to the floor?”
“absolutely. you should’ve seen your face.”
you roll your eyes but lean into his chest anyway, letting him wrap his arms fully around you.
“you’re an idiot,” you murmur.
“and you love me,” he sings.
unfortunately — and annoyingly — you do.
you tuck your face into his neck and sigh. “if it happens again next year, please, ’toru, just tell me the gifts got delayed. i’m begging.”
“no promises,” he says brightly. “i might wrap myself again.”
thinking about play fighting your childhood best friend gojo satoru, because he took your phone after you got a message from another boy. you tackle and wrestle and somehow end up on the bed with you straddled on top of him, attempting to clasp both of his wrists and retrieve your phone. that is, until you feel something hot and hard pressed against you.
you pause.
“oh—“, your mouth hangs open and your face burns hot after a few seconds of inactivity and silence on your end, and the realization finally hits — that thing is his thing. “oh!”, you gasp.
the phone falls off satoru’s hand and lands on the bed. his empty hand now covering his eyes, the other one on top of it.
“uh, huh”, a muffled sigh makes it past his lips, relief and embarrassment sort of mixed and soaked in his timbre. the friction caused by you sitting on it basically makes it hard for him to hide the pleasure it’s giving him, but he’s also caught off guard — he didn’t want you to find out this way, that you excite him as more than just friends. “you often forget that we are not kids anymore, and that i am a man”
silence.
you need to say something, anything. but the words don’t come to you. you turn your head to the side, embarrassed too, while you keep sitting there, on his lap. brilliant logic, you think as you look back to this moment later on.
“it must be just a physical reaction because i am—“
he cuts you off, “because you’re sitting on it?”
“don’t put it like that!”
“i didn’t put it anywhere, sadly”
you roll your eyes.
“block that guy’s number and don’t talk to him, ever”
“and why would i do that?”
“because this”, his hips go up and down once, his hard-on stabbing against you more prominently, “is not just a simple physical reaction — and it’s been taking you ages to notice”
he moves his hands away. his big blue eyes out in the open again, staring at you. “look at me”, he grabs you softly by the chin and turns your head to face him. his other hand cupping yours and guiding it to the left of his chest. where his heart is, where it beats — fast.
“what i’m trying to say is, aside from that thing down there — this is also your fault”
𓂃 𝜗℘ olderbf!gojo eats you out while you try to focus on your studies. mlist.
the cursor blinks accusingly on the half-finished paragraph. your fingers hover over the keys, wrists aching from thirty straight minutes of typing. the desk lamp casts a warm pool of light over your notes.
you’re trying—really trying—to focus on the conclusion of this literature analysis when you feel the slow slide of large hands up the insides of your thighs. “satoru,” you warn under your breath, not daring to look down.
a low and amused hum vibrates against your skin. “shhh. you’re working so hard, baby. just keep going.”
satoru’s already wedged himself beneath the narrow kneehole of your desk. you can picture it without looking: white hair mussed, sunglasses pushed up into his hair like a headband, that infuriatingly pretty mouth curved in a lazy grin as he noses along the seam of your cotton panties.
your breath hitches when he hooks two fingers into the waistband and tugs them down just enough. “‘toru, i have to submit this by midnight—”
“then submit it,” your boyfriend murmurs, his voice muffled against your inner thigh. hot breath ghosts over your clit and your hips twitch subconsciously, “i’m not stopping ya.”
liar.
the first slow drag of his tongue makes your pen clatter against the desk. you bite your lip hard, forcing your eyes back to the screen. the words swim. something about narrative framing and postmodern irony. you type one shaky sentence, delete it and try again.
satoru flattens his tongue and licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, then seals his lips around the swollen bud and sucks. softly at first, then firmer and rhythmic, like he’s trying to pull the coherence straight out of your brain.
your thighs tremble. you grip the edge of the desk so tightly your knuckles bleach, “fuck, please—”
“language, baby,” the older man teases, the word vibrating right against you.
two long fingers slowly slide inside you without warning, curling upward in that devastating way he knows will make your vision white at the edges. he pumps them lazily while his tongue works tight circles over your clit. the wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room—louder than your ragged breathing, louder than the faint tap-tap of your keyboard as you pretend to type.
you manage three whole sentences before your head drops forward, forehead thunking against your forearm.
“i can’t think… ngh!”
“good,” satoru purrs and you feel the smirk against your wet cunt. “y’ think too much anyway.”
he crooks his fingers harder, presses the flat of his tongue firm and steady, and suddenly the coil in your belly snaps like a taut string. you cum with a choked sob, hips jerking against his mouth and thighs clamping around his head. he doesn’t stop though. he keeps licking you through it until you’re whimpering from overstimulation and shoving weakly at his hair.
when satoru finally pulls back, lips glossy and smug, he rests his cheek on your thigh like it’s a pillow and looks up at you with those stupidly beautiful eyes, “finished y’r assignment yet, pretty?”
you glare down at him with your chest heaving and face burning.
“…i hate you.”
he laughs softly and presses a chaste kiss to your still-throbbing clit. “liar. now finish the paper. you’ve only got—” he glances at your laptop clock, “—forty minutes.”
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