|| ⟡ 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠. gojo satoru x reader
𝐜𝐰. clingy satoru gojo, gn!reader | long-distance yearning, desperation, masturbation, phone sex, mutual masturbation, voyeuristic themes (recorded content), emotional dependency (mutual), explicit language, sexual frustration
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 2.5k
𝐀/𝐍. frothing at the mouth w/ this fic.
Everyone on campus knows you.
You’re the campus sweetheart—the one people adore without trying to. Professors smile when you speak, classmates gravitate toward you naturally, strangers remember your name after one conversation. You’re warmth and familiarity wrapped into one person.
And Satoru Gojo, your boyfriend?
Satoru Gojo is always with you.
He’s leaned over your shoulder when you study, tugging your chair closer with his foot. He’s walking you to class even when he’s late himself. He’s waiting outside buildings just to walk you back across campus because he doesn’t trust the world enough with something so delicate.
If he’s not physically beside you, he’s close enough that people assume you’re together.
And when you’re not around?
He hates it.
⸻
That’s why the away game already pisses him off.
Nine hours. More, technically—but who’s counting?
Satoru slouches across the bus seat, knee bouncing, phone glued to his hand. He scrolls through photos, old messages, anything that reminds him of you. His teammates notice immediately.
“Dude,” Geto laughs, “you’re acting like you’re being deployed.”
Satoru groans. “I might as well be.”
They joke. He sulks. He stares out the window, daydreaming about how he could’ve been better off spending his time with you.
⸻
By the time they get to the hotel, it’s late.
Like 1 a.m. late.
Satoru drops his bag and flops onto the bed, phone already in his hand. He checks the time—past midnight. You’re most likely asleep. He knows that.
He texts you anyway.
Miss you.
Then: Got here safe.
Then, after a pause: Wish you were here. °՞(ᗒᗣᗕ)՞°
No response.
He exhales slowly, chest tight. Being away from you always feels wrong, like something essential got left behind. Like he’s half a person trying to pass as whole.
If he were home, he would’ve already kissed you hello by now. Might’ve stolen a few more if you let him. Might’ve even gotten lucky and be in between your thighs right now.
Instead, he’s miles away. Alone. Horny. Desperate.
That’s when he opens his hidden folder.
Your face fills the screen, familiar enough to make his throat tighten. He groans softly, rolling onto his side, phone held close like it might disappear if he doesn’t keep it there.
“This is pathetic,” he mutters, already losing the argument with himself.
He lowers his hand onto his already leaking cock, stifling a whimper as he does. He scrolls through the photos and videos—there aren’t many, but enough that Satoru knows he could satisfy himself.
He selects a specific video. In this one, he has you on your stomach, borderline screaming into the pillow as he stuffs you. He doesn’t know what gets him so turned on whenever he has you like that.
Maybe it’s the fact that it’s his cock making you sound like that.
He strokes himself faster, tightening his grip. A groan slips out as he listens for a specific moan—his favorite one, right when he hits your g-spot.
“F-fuck… so good… sound so good…” he whispers, to no one really, unable to contain it.
He opens his eyes, not even realizing he’d closed them, too lost in the pleasure. On the screen, your back arches sinfully, pushing back onto his cock. That’s when he gives it to you, making you howl.
Satoru swears you’re a siren with the way your voice has control over him. He tenses as his orgasm takes over, dropping his phone and groaning into his palm so he doesn’t alert anyone nearby.
Cum is everywhere—on his t-shirt, the hotel bedsheets, the blanket. He’d never come that hard from just jerking off.
Satoru comes to terms with the fact that you’re either a siren or a succubus. Either way, he still loves you.
When it’s over and everything is cleaned up, Satoru lies there staring at the ceiling, phone facedown on his bed, heart still racing. Relief fades fast, replaced by that same ache.
It’s never enough when it isn’t really you.
⸻
Game day comes fast.
Basketball is the only thing that reliably shuts his brain up, and even then, you linger at the edges of his thoughts. During warm-ups, he rolls his shoulders loose, fingers flexing, breath steadying as the court lights blaze overhead.
Once the game starts, though—he locks in.
Satoru moves fast and aggressive, cutting through defenders with ease. He drives hard to the hoop, sinks shot after shot, grin sharp every time the ball swishes clean through the net. The crowd’s loud, his teammates feed off him, and by the final buzzer, the win is undeniable.
He barely celebrates.
He’s already checking his phone.
A message from you waits.
Go kill it today. I love you. 🤍
His smile softens immediately.
⸻
That night stretches long again.
That night, after dinner with the team, he returns to the hotel late again. The room feels just as empty as it did before.
So he calls you.
Your voice fills his ear, familiar and warm, and Satoru melts into the mattress. You talk about your day—how your professor did something dumb, how it made you laugh, how campus feels quieter without him.
He listens.
At least, he tries to.
But his focus slips fast. Your voice does that to him. Smooths out his thoughts until all he can really hear is you. The way you ramble. The way you say his name like it belongs to you.
His hand moves without hesitation this time. Slow, deliberate. Shameless—but quiet. He keeps it careful, not because he’s guilty, but because he wants to hear you better.
That’s the point.
You pause mid-sentence.
“…Satoru.”
He stills.
“Are you jerking off?”
There’s no use lying. He exhales softly, almost amused.
“Yes.”
You laugh. “You’re disgusting. Getting off to my voice like that?”
Then, teasingly: “That desperate, huh?”
He swallows hard. Always.
There’s movement on your end—fabric shifting, a soft rustle.
“…Are you,” he asks quietly, voice betraying him just a little, “touching yourself too?”
You laugh again. You don’t deny it.
Satoru tightens his grip, just knowing you’re touching yourself too, making him leak like a broken faucet.
“Babe, you’re killing me over here…” he whispers, choking on a moan as he presses just beneath the head of his tip.
“Baby? Baby…? Please talk to me. Say something,” Satoru begs, needing to hear your voice to soothe him. He swears he hears a small whimper in the background.
“You can be so noisy, Satoru… y’know that, right?” you say breathlessly, bite clear beneath the teasing tone. “Just whine and whine. I should hang up and not let you get any satisfaction from my voice.”
You aren’t shy about what you’re doing. The rustling on your end is loud enough to make it obvious you’re riding a pillow.
Legs trembling, you spit out more words at Gojo, not missing the way he mewls at every one of them, moaning desperately in response.
Satoru jerks himself off with tight, fast strokes.
“Oh, baby… I wish I was there right now. I’d fuck you so good—f-fuck.”
“Yeah? I wish you were here too… ngh.”
Satoru loses all sense as you slip deeper into pleasure, mumbling sweet nothings while you moan your heart out.
He keens, tightening his grip as he imagines it’s you torturing him like this. Then he tenses, spilling all over himself at the sound of you reaching your peak.
When it’s over, Satoru exhales shakily, phone still pressed to his ear like it’s keeping him grounded.
“I’m serious,” he murmurs, voice rough but fond.
“When I get home… I’m not letting you out of bed.”
You laugh softly and tell him you’ll be waiting.
And suddenly, the distance feels manageable.
⪩. .⪨ - desperate gojo supremacy!!
do not feed my work into ai nor plagiarize.
@uzmacchiato w/ the dividers <33