#satorusms

[curseswithin]

"daddy~" / satoru to suguru.　一　 @satorusms

 back  home  from  kyoto,  suguru  stands  in  the  doorway  of  their  bedroom,  still  in  his  undershirt  and  dress  pants,  souvenir  bag  in  tow.  he  has  the  rest  of  the  night  free,  so  he's  not  above  some  shameless  flaunting  ;  satoru  is  free  to  admire  how  well  the  business  wear  fits  the  curse-eater,  the  second-strongest  sorcerer,  just  a  little  tight  at  all  the  right  places,  well-built  silhouette  backlit  by  the  hallway.

 suguru's  chuckle  is  just  a  little  husky.  "  I  missed  you  too,  satoru.  "

 the  words  are  spoken  perhaps  needlessly,  told  abundantly  in  the  dark  way  he  eyes  his  lover.  a  very  specific  hue  of  red  ghosts  over  his  cheekbones,  one  married  with  a  chest-heaving  anticipation  in  dim  lit  places  shared  only  by  the  two  of  them.

 "  how  was  your  mission  today?  "

 suguru's  genuine  delight  to  be  back  vies  with  his  desire,  neither  winning  decisively,  and  what  satoru  gets  is  an  endearing  mixture  of  both.  it's  entirely  the  strongest  sorcerer's  fault,  or  perhaps  his  intent,  either  for  his  own  ends  or  to  bane  his  lover  --  sending  titillating  texts  and  imagery  along  the  week  they've  spent  apart,  each  piling  up  in  suguru's  mind,  steering  his  thoughts  and  desires  all  the  way  until  this  moment.  the  chase  is  over  now  and  his  lover  may  reap  what  he  has  sown,  may  witness  the  transfiguration  of  what  he  has  so  thoughtlessly  (  or  cunningly  )  sent  out.  

 suguru's  hands  descend  to  unbuckle  his  belt,  souvenir  bag  dangling  by  his  arm,  all  the  while  his  gaze  never  strays  from  satoru.  clack  and  he  pulls,  slow  and  deliberate,  in  no  hurry  now  that  nothing  else  remains  on  his  agenda  for  the  day,  his  plans  for  the  remainder  of  it  clear.  the  belt  clatters  to  the  floor  without  ceremony,  and  his  gaze  never  wavers  from  what  he  desires.

 "  by  the  way,  i  got  the  mochi  you  asked  for,  "  he  informs,  and  he  might  be  playing  satoru's  game  now  too,  or  getting  some  tatter  of  retaliation  by  pretending  not  to  address  the  tension  building  up  between  them.

 his  hands  remain  by  the  button  of  his  pants,  fingers  graze  over  the  zipper  --  only  to  retract  and  slide  into  his  pockets.  it  might  be  a  special  kind  of  curse that  he  has  the  power  to  inflict,  doing  something  so  teasing  while  smiling  so  sweetly.

[dreadbornesaint-moved]

˚ʚ starter for @satorusms ɞ˚

She’d just finished submitting the report for the assignment she’d recently completed. She’s not sure what’s worse, staring down a powerful cursed spirit or the bureaucracy associated with a completed job. They’re both terrible, she concludes, a sigh passing through her lips. It seems that great strength is its own great burden. But it cannot be helped, she supposes.  

More importantly, since she’d worked hard, it stands to reason she should take a break before duty inevitably calls her away. Work hard, play hard, as they say; how unfortunate that the former is her strong suit. She’s far too serious to know what to do in her free time other than practicing swordsmanship or driving herself mad regarding her more personal matters. Surely, she can figure something out if she wanders around, idling the time away until she finds something that catches her eye.

And indeed she does wander and lo and behold, something, or rather someone, has caught her attention.

Ah, is that…? No, there’s no question about it. Any sorcerer would be able to recognize him. But… What was his name again? 

“It was… Sa…? Sa something….” Leave it to Beryl to be distracted by a matter that isn’t terribly important in the grand scheme of things. But now that she’s thinking of it, it bothers her that she can’t clearly recall the name of the supposedly greatest sorcerer of the present time.

The better thing to do is move on and disregard him for now, but alas, she pauses, wondering aloud.  “Was it… Satoshi? No…”

[cursedfell]

As obnoxious as he is, Satoru opts for not tormenting his son on the boy's birthday. It's a special day, isn't it?

→ Gumi 🐶🖤 : Hi bday boy ;)

→ Gumi 🐶🖤 : What are we doing today 👀

By texting him Gojō gives Megumi freedom of choice of how he wants to spend his birthday (most importantly however, if he wants to spend it with Satoru at all).

he  doesn’t  know  when  it  started  exactly—maybe  when  gojo  insisted  on  walking  him  home  from  school  that  first  year  after  the  zen’in  clan  debacle,  or  maybe  when  he  began  leaving  handwritten  notes  about  appointments  and  meals  on  the  fridge  like  some  kind  of  chaotic  guardian.  it’s  not  like  megumi  chose  this  relationship.  it  was  something  he  tolerated  at  first,  like  an  unavoidable  force  of  nature.  but  over  time,  there  was  a  shift.  gojo  became  less  of  an  overwhelming  presence  and  more...  dependable,  in  his  own  weird  way.

he  doesn’t  like  thinking  about  it  too  much—it’s  uncomfortable,  thinking  of  someone  like  gojo  as  a  father  figure.  gojo  is  obnoxious,  loud,  and  the  furthest  thing  from  “responsible”  that  megumi  can  imagine.  yet,  when  he  showed  up  to  parent-teacher  conferences,  or  when  he  stuck  up  for  megumi  during  the  occasional  jujutsu  high  politics  nonsense,  there  was  no  denying  it.

still,  megumi  doesn’t  have  to  admit  it  out  loud,  right?

with  another  sigh,  he  adjusts  the  message  before  sending.

→  [Sensei.]  don’t  call  me  that. →  [Sensei.]  i’m  not  doing  anything  today.  you  can  come  over  if  you  want.

he  doesn’t  even  know  why  he  adds  the  last  part.  it’s  not  like  gojo  needs  an  invitation—he  never  has—but...  maybe  it’s  because  a  small,  selfish  part  of  him  wants  to  spend  the  day  with  gojo.  the  man  may  be  insufferable,  but  he’s  also  always  been  there,  in  his  own  frustrating,  unwavering  way.

megumi  sets  the  phone  down,  already  regretting  the  text  but  knowing,  deep  down,  that  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do.  gojo  may  drive  him  insane,  but  if  anyone  deserves  to  celebrate  his  birthday  with  him,  it’s  the  person  who’s  been  trying  to  look  out  for  him—no  matter  how  poorly—since  day  one.

[yalldved-a]

“What’s up, shorty?” ;)

HEIGHT MEMES aka trevor getting roasted. // @satorusms.

' I don' think this is gonna get ya the response yer hopin fer. ' cowboy chimes in response, followed by a playful roll of golden eyes. They've stopped what they were doing in the moment - finishing tying up the ropes by the stable, they put a hand on their hip, glancing up at the other. God, what was it like to be over six feet. They wonder.

More like they wished they were six feet in order to wipe that smug look off the blue eyed male's face, smirking down on him - they're tempted to kick the back of his knee and watch him go down, but then they'd risk spooking the horses, and then they really would never hear the end of it. So instead, they'll huff, and cheeks will puff out in an adorably irritated manner, waiting a response.

' If this is yer idea of flirtin, try again. '

[yalldved-a]

I can always pick you up 😎

Looks around once, than twice, before turning back to themselves, pointing at their own chest. ' Are.... ya talkin ta me? ' @satorusms

[cursedfell]

Huh? Did I hear that right? You need me? :)

to  megumi,  family  isn’t  defined  by  blood—it’s  the  steady,  unwavering  presence  of  someone  who  remains,  even  when  the  world  crumbles.  despite  all  his  infuriating  antics,  satoru  gojo  is  exactly  that:  an  anchor,  a  protector,  and  the  closest  thing  megumi  has  ever  known  to  home.  he  pauses,  his  usual  deadpan  glare  settling  across  his  face,  but  a  faint  flush  creeps  up  his  cheeks,  betraying  the  irritation—and  something  softer—just  beneath  the  surface.  arms  crossed  in  a  feigned  act  of  indifference,  he  exhales  sharply  through  his  nose,  as  if  willing  away  the  warmth  threatening  to  crack  his  composed  facade.

"don’t  get  ahead  of  yourself,"  he  mutters,  his  tone  clipped  but  laced  with  begrudging  acknowledgment.  "i  said  i  needed  something,  not  you.  there's  a  difference."

his  gaze  flickers  to  the  side,  refusing  to  meet  gojo’s  eyes,  as  though  the  sheer  weight  of  the  older  sorcerer’s  teasing  grin  is  too  much.  "just...  stop  grinning  like  that  and  help  already,"  he  adds,  voice  quieter,  almost  as  if  he’s  admitting  defeat.  of  course,  he  knows  full  well  that  his  denial  only  fuels  gojo's  antics  further,  and  yet,  some  part  of  him  doesn’t  entirely  hate  it.  not  that  he’d  ever  admit  it.

[inverteds]

"DON'T KNOW WHAT THE JUJUTSU BRASS EXPECTS, sending teenagers out for grown-up jobs," toji says, leafing through a report with one hand, less attention on the crisply-formatted pages than he has on the small cathode ray television as akiyama shogo comes up to bat. refreshing, to see a real professional at work, unlike the suits that shuffle around the tokyo school complex with clipboards and earpieces, running errands for lazy old men with fewer talents than they have opinions. "barely any experience under their belts, too young to drink or gamble. what else is there to do 'cept die or go off the deep end?"

and then toji remembers, absently, like one might recall dinner plans. "oh, yeah. same thing happened to that buddy of yours, right, @satorusms?" he's not smiling or sneering. how little he cares is its own insult to injury, truly. "the one with the curse manipulation."

[untoldwithin]

Satoru Gojo and Nanami Kento / unprompted　一　 @satorusms Draws a penis in Nanami's notebook. Teenage arc. :>

　　There's but a deep silence, punctuated by the fact that both of them can see the doodle in full clarity. Gojo -- the prodigious upperclassman -- has taken it upon himself to impose this crude, penile produce of penmanship upon him. A show of profound disrespect, clearly, but that perfectly aligns with his reputation. What doesn't align is the shape he drew onto his page ; it is neither graphically balanced nor realistic, failing both avenues of depiction.

Kento reaches for one of his gel pens, and in precise, controlled motions corrects the drawing. He rips the page, folds it up and hands it to Gojo. " Practice more. "