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Cosimo Galluzzi

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Claire Keane
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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

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@satorus-mochi
side to reblog you guys' masterpieces 🫶🏽
main blog
contains both nsfw and sfw jujutsu kaisen works (minors please respect authors' dni rules).
────⟢ 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?
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! 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.
🏷️ taglist: @ethezreal @astutetwilight @unforgivemn @sunnydayqq @lalawlrd @koral-pink @secretsofchance @raendarkfaerie @kingraspberry12-blog @xznyana @leftrightgn @indom-itus @ihatemynewbangs @eilishsgf @satorukitsunee @chewiebee
guitarist gojo
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.
baby gojo pouting after his shower because he got scolded for playing with water
୨୧ — INFATUATION
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?
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?”
˖ ࣪ 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.
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.”
leaving these cutie patooties here while I finish this week’s comms :3 feed them or else...
sunshine
@ysaefinn (I DONT FORGET YOU) @sugurusladyknightt @d3cay1ngst4tic hehe
five stars, would marry again. ⋆✴︎˚。⋆
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.
hear me out… arranged marriage with clanhead!gojo
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.”
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.”
“if you do, i’m returning you.”
he kisses your cheek. “too late. no refunds.”
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.”
and with that, satoru ducks back under the desk.