꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › gojo swears your püssy talks to him. mdni
fïngering. öral sėx ( f receiving ) unprotected piv. dirty talk. dacryphilia. brat taming. gojo’s annoying asf in this. ✶
satoru’s return ritual consists of a sacred trinity. first, the litany of complaints about the higher ups as he pushes food around his plate. second, the steam that melts away the scent of cursed energy and death — a baptism he prefers you witness. and last but not least, infinite hours spent becoming more proficient in his favorite language. the one that exists solely between your legs.
after a week of debris, blood, and the weight of his infinity. he finds you curled in bed, wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of silk panties that do a poor job of containing the slick anticipation that’s been building since you got his text: ‘be home soon.’
his eyes, six-pointed stars, are transfixed by you. the mattress dips under his weight and his dexterous fingers trace the damp spot seeping through the fabric
“poor baby,” he murmurs, words vibrating against your thigh as he leans down. “so suffocated in there.” he hooks his fingers into the delicate silk and slides them down your legs
“hmm?” he coos, his breath ghosting against your bare skin. “you hate it when she hides you in ‘em? me too, baby. me too.”
“not this again” you groan, pulsing already. a hollow beat against the cool air. he notices, of course he does, his six eyes notice everything.
“aww, look at her, she’s waving at me” he breathes, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “hey pretty girl, you happy to see me?”
he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, closer to your core. his tongue laps at your folds. wholly immersed —tasting, feeling, listening — soft motions that have your back arching off your shared bed.
“fuuuck, ‘toru,” you whimper, hands tangling in his soft white hair. his huge hands are curled beneath your thighs, holding you open, holding you still
when he pulls away, it’s only to admire his work. a glistening string of saliva and your saccharine juices connects his lips to your folds
“mhh you always taste so good” he sighs, “can’t get enough.”
you part your lips to respond, but you know he’s already lost to you, to the conversation he’s having with the most intimate part of your body. he presses sweet kisses to your other thigh, blue eyes never leaving your weeping cunt.
“talk to me, sweets,” he murmurs against your skin. “what d’you want? my fingers? hmm? or do you want my—”
“you’re such a nuisance,” you snap, though the intended effect is ruined by the way your hips chase his “keep that up and i swear on everything, satoru—” you’re still pulsing around nothing. a desperate ache, glaring down at him.
“aht, aht,” he scolds, wagging a finger. “it’s very rude to interrupt important conversations.” his index finger circles your clit, a feather-light touch that has you gasping. “i’m tryna hear what she’s saying.”
his middle and ring fingers curl into your heat, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. his thumb resumes its maddening circles on your clit. each pump of his fingers is a word, each graze against your walls a sentence in a language only he understands.
“toru, mhh, right there,” you moan, head thrown back against fluffed pillows.
“right where?” he teases, his voice a low hum against your thigh. “here?” his thumb nudges into the corner of your pussy, a sensitive, neglected spot. “here?” he’s toying with you now, fingers crooking just so. “here?” he rubs down hard on your clit and you can’t stop the wanton sound that tears from your throat.
he’s well versed in every twitch, every flutter. in the way your breath hitches and your moans change pitch. in the way your walls start to clamp down on him, in the frantic pulse of your clit against his thumb.
when you cum, you clamp down so hard on his fingers, he feels it in his bones. he murmurs to your pussy, to you, vulgar words dripping from his tongue like honey
“want more, baby? yeah?” he prompts, fingers still drawing out your pleasure. “you’re so greedy. love it. love you”
you spasm as he eases his thick fingers out of you. bringing them to his lips, tasting your release with pure satisfaction. then he’s freeing himself from his calvin kleins. satoru is perfect. long, thick, flushed a pretty pink. his aching tip leaks so much pre-cum, you feel heat rise to your cheeks
“oh, this?” he smiles, pumping himself a few times, his grip firm, before dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds. you buck desperately in response, “is this what you want? this what she needs fr’me?”
“can you stop talking and just put it in, oh my—” you groan, exasperated beyond words. he taps the broad head of his cock against your entrance.
“shhh,” he frowns, though his eyes are sparkling. “don’t interrupt my reunion with my favorite conversation partner.” he leans down, ear close to your core as if he can actually hear it saying something. he’s insane. “what’s that? you missed me soooo much? hmm? i missed you too, pretty girl. so, so much.”
“you’re so weird,” you scoff, but it dissolves into a breathy whimper as his tip nudges into you
“don’t think she’s saying that” he tuts, pressing in another inch. “i think my pretty girl’s telling me she wants me to make love to her.”
“this ‘pretty girl’ wants you to shut the f—mpff” your words are stolen as his lips crash against yours. all teeth, tongue, and feelings. his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, trying to draw him in deeper.
“let me have this,” he pleads against your lips, “talking is—hck— essential for learning a language, baby.”
and then he’s bottoming out. a single, deep thrust that has his hips flush against yours. emptiness replaced by a fullness that takes your breath away. you’ll never get used to how big he is
“i think you’re fluent enough,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulders. leaving crimson crescents in their wake
“there’s always — shiiit — room for improvement” his voice is ragged against your skin, words barely coherent as your walls clamp down on him. he gives a shallow rock of his hips. the sound you make is half-sob, half-moan.
he drags his cock against your clenching walls, pulling out until just the tip remains nestled at your entrance before sinking back in, inch by inch. he’s gazing at where you’re connected, mouth slightly agape, lost in the pretty sight of your core swallowing him whole.
“feel that?” he coos, rocking his hips against yours. “feel how deep i am?” his hand finds yours, fingers laced and pinning it to the bed beside your head. the other hand presses yours flat against your lower stomach.
“what’s she saying now, baby?” he asks, finally lifting his gaze to yours. blue irises consumed by the black of his pupils. “is she telling me to go faster? harder? c’mon, want you to translate f’me.”
he punctuates his sentences with particularly sharp thrusts that steal the air from your lungs.
“hmm? use your words. tell me what she wants.”
you can’t. the words are stuck in your throat, choked off by the way he’s grinding into you, coarse ivory hair at his base rubbing against your swollen clit with each shift of his hips. all you can do is whimper
“no?” he taunts, grin widening. “guess i’ll have to keep asking her myself then.” he leans down, lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “want me to fill you up, don’t you? ‘s that so? ‘cause — mghh fuuck—that’s what she’s telling me”
“toru,” you sigh, the syllable a breathless plea. “toru, please—”
“please what?” he murmurs, his hips never ceasing their relentless pace. “tell me. c’mon talk to me, baby.”
“please,” you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “don’t stop. please don’t ever stop.”
“ohh? but i thought you wanted me to stop talking,” he grins cruelly. his hips stutter for a moment, a pause that leaves you writhing beneath him, desperate for the friction he’s denying you.
“you’re the worst” you frown, the words barely coherent as you instinctively try to arch closer to him.
“‘s not very nice, is it?” he hums, “first you interrupted our conversation and now you’re insulting me.” he’s still buried to the hilt inside you. twitching with every beat of his heart and every breath you take
“still want me to shut up?” he’s enjoying this wayyy too much. enjoying the way you’ve completely melted into him, the way wanton pleas have replaced sarcastic jabs.
“no” you shake your head frantically, “want you to keep going”
“aww that’s so vague, you’ve gotta be more specific baby,” he whispers, “you want me to talk or you want me to fuck?”
“both,” you keen, “i want both ‘toru”
“i know baby, that’s exactly what she wants too” he groans, pulling out and slamming back in even harder this time. his hand leaves your stomach, sliding down to grip your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist.
the new angle allowing him to sink even deeper, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust.
“so perfect” he marvels, gaze dropping to where your bodies are joined. “she’s cryin’ for me, isn’t she? so fucking messy.” he leans down, swiping his tongue across the tears staining your cheek
you can’t tell if he’s talking about your pussy or you now. not when he gets like this. his cerulean eyes are glazed over, practically glowing in the dim light. completely lost in the conversation between your entwined bodies.
From the Neil Gaiman: Dream Dangerously 🥺❤ (you can watch it here in US or with US vpn :) <3) (or just this bit on youtube here :))
Neil Gaiman: I miss him most when I get stuck. You know, I'll just be
working on something and I'll go, "Oh, this isn't quite it," and all I want to do is just call Terry, tell him what's going on and have him say, "Ah, grasshopper, the answer is there in the question." And I'd go, "Oh, for fuck's sake, Terry, just tell me."
