#fun fact the only reason this doesn't include sm.ut is because i got LAZY lmao

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   everything but talk it through

summary. it should raise questions, how you’re the first person he chooses to see before a trip abroad. but you’re too distracted by his hand slipping down your waistband. series. a night of dark trees. part one. part two. part three you’re here! pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. heavy ( non-explicit ) mentions of sex. word count. 2521.

Gojo arrives uninvited, unannounced, and at his leisure. Such is the way he arrives at most, if not all, functions. Except this is no function, and you had been hoping to just enjoy a quiet night in before the work week started. You’re so used to Gojo that you don’t even bother yelling at him for the intrusion anymore, instead rolling your eyes at his entirely too cheerful greeting.

“I’m going on a business trip,” he chirps, as though you had asked. “Want me to get you anything?”

He set himself up for this one. “I want you to get away from me.”

“Aw.” You are unmoved by his glossy pout, the protrusion of his lower lip instead making a vein throb in your forehead. “You’re so mean to me.”

But even as he says so, you’re reaching into the cupboard for his favorite purple mug, the kettle already on the stove. He’s hunched over your kitchen counter, legs looped around those of one of your stools like he’s some kind of cephalopod. He’s comfortable here, which flies directly into the face of your supposed inhospitable nature. Murmuring a thanks as he takes the steaming cup from you—”Coaster!” you snap, making him jump—Gojo dumps an inhuman amount of sugar into his tea and props his chin up with his left hand.

“So, not that I care or anything,” you drawl, nursing your own drink, “what exactly is this business trip for and how long will you be gone?”

“Why, you askin’ ‘cause you need to know whether to break the Hitachi out while I’m gone?” Gojo laughs blithely, his Infinity batting away the soggy teabag you lob at him. It lands on the counter with a wet plop, and he gets up to toss it in your wastebin. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks. Just a little something to do with your dear little friend.”

Ah. The less you know about Yuji’s legal status, the better. Your primary concern is the boy himself, and Gojo’s doing you a favor by giving you some level of plausible deniability. Not that it would stick much, given that you had direct contact with the child. The higher-ups may have scoffed at your line of work, but they never considered you disobedient. You’re not sure what the ultimate blowback in this situation will end up being. You appreciate the fact that he’s at least trying to lessen the blow.

“So?” prods Gojo, doing so with his bony elbow as well. “What’ll it be? Baobab seed? Wicker basket? Blood diamond?”

You just barely keep from shooting scalding liquid from your nostrils. The look on your face, bug-eyed as it must be, serves as a source of endless amusement for him. Hacking wetly into the cuff of your sleeve, you wag a disapproving finger at him.

“One, that is so incredibly inappropriate.” You then allow your hand to go limp to flash the ice on your ring finger. “Two, I already have all the diamonds I’ll ever need. And three, knowing how cheap you are, you’d definitely bring me back cubic zirconia and try to dupe me into believing they’re real diamonds.”

“Cheap?! The outfit I’m wearing right now is 800,000 yen! Including my underwear.”

“Sure.”

He scowls. “So mean. You know, just for that, I’m going to get you a voodoo doll.”

“Wouldn’t you be in the wrong part of the world for a voodoo doll if your first offering was a baobab seed?” You snicker at Gojo’s frustrated wail. “You’re just going to steal one from Kugisaki and lie about it, aren’t you? I know you, you damn scam artist!”

“I am feeling so very attacked right now. This is a hate crime against the protected class of attractive young men. You’ll go to jail for this.” Crossing his arms, Gojo harrumphs like a small child and makes a ninety-degree turn on the stool. He shrugs your hand off when you try to apologetically pat him on the shoulder. “No. I’m still mad at you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” You make a show of mockingly bowing at him, and when that proves ineffective, you round the counter to kowtow at his feet. That, at least, earns you a smile. “Ah! There it is, arising in the east, Satoru’s smile is the sun.”

Gojo huffs, unwinding his arms. “That’s not how the line goes.”

“And that’s why you’re the teacher, not me.” You hop up on the stool next to him, mirroring his posture as you prop your elbow on the granite. “But seriously, is that all you came to say? You’re leaving? Are you making the rounds to everyone or could you not have just sent that in an e-mail?”

He leans closer, ankle brushing against yours. His glasses slip just a bit down the tip of his nose as he smirks—leers, really—at you. “Maybe I came here looking for a going away present. Maybe… something like a kiss?”

Ah, and there it is. You tilt your head, brushing the tip of your nose against his. You’re so close you can feel the warm puff of his breath against your lips. It’s like Gojo’s a black hole, slowly reeling you in. “Just a kiss?”

“Something to remember you by.” And then he closes the gap between the two of you.

Gojo’s an amazing kisser, and he knows it—just one of the many reasons that you find it increasingly difficult to say no to him. As self-absorbed as he can be, Satoru’s a generous lover. You have a feeling he gets an ego boost from driving his partners wild with pleasure. Not as unselfish a motive as you would prefer from a lover, but who are you to look a gift horse (or snake, according to his entirely too apt lunar zodiac) in the mouth? Your tongue’s the only thing that should be going in it.

His hands catch at your hips as you part, the sensation of air against your kiss-swollen lips breaking you out of your reverie. He tucks his head into your neck, leaving sharp little nips down the column of your throat as he pulls you against him. You can feel the pitter-patter of his heartbeat. It’s nearly as fast as yours. Winding your fingers through his hair, you tilt your head back with a sigh. He’s hot—a blazing inferno against your body, threatening to consume you whole. Your eyes fly open when he hoists you into the air abruptly. Instinctually, you lock your legs around Satoru’s waist as he lays a palm just above the curve of your ass to support your lower back.

“A little warning would have been nice,” you hiss, batting him lightly on the shoulder.

“We’re way past the time for talking,” says Satoru, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. His glasses have slipped almost all the way down his nose, the all-encompassing blue of his eyes almost invisible with how dilated his pupils are. You did this to him, you think triumphantly. You’re why his breath runs ragged, why his mouth is a ravaged red, why his pulse pounds with want.

Satoru is very familiar with the layout of your apartment, his gaze never leaving yours as he guides you both to your bedroom. You trust him not to walk you into a wall, though the brief weightlessness of being thrown onto your bed punches a startled “Eep!” out of you. “Mattress wasn’t soft enough for that—!”

Satoru tugs his shirt off instead of apologizing out loud. Your hand flies to his exposed chest without permission, fingers tracing squiggly lines down the planes of muscle. The pad of your thumb ghosts above a nipple, making Satoru tremble, and you catch it between your teeth. It—and the flash of tongue against the stiffening peak—draws a cry from Satoru, his back arching. You soothe the sting with gentle laps of your tongue as your free hand toys with the other side of his chest. Your right hand gropes at his ass. When you draw your fingers into his back pocket, you hear the crinkle of foil and tug at the packet—gold, with the English word MAGNUM written across it.

“You smug bastard,” you laugh. “You came here with a plan—’going away present,’ my ass.”

“Your ass is the present,” Satoru snorts. “You got a problem with that?”

“No. Not at all.”

Both of you are left breathless in the end, all thoughts of taking your time flying out the window when the opportunity to rut like animals presents itself. You’ll never get enough of it, the way Satoru groans low in his throat when he presses into you for the first time, or the way he folds himself over you no matter which position you’re in, skin against skin from head to toe.

It’s always amazing with him. That’s why you keep him around, after all. You’re up for another round, or three, if he’s able. Satoru catches his breath next to you, swatting your hand away with a hiss as your fingers crawl over his hip in a spider-like motion.

A laugh bubbles out of you, delirious and just barely more than a wheeze. You’re still breathless and warm, your heartbeat a frenetic rabbit’s pace in your ribcage. “Do you ever get tired?” you ask, itching to brush snowy locks away from his forehead.

“What do you mean?” Satoru props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at you inquisitively.

“Well.” It’s a strange topic to broach; neither of you has ever spoken at length about this… partnership of yours. There’s always been an unspoken rule about preserving its sanctity this way—no need to make it complicated.

You’re both attractive people, and you want each other. Simple, transactional, and way better than therapy (which is funny, coming from you). You’re not foolish enough to believe someone like Satoru would limit himself. Those who know him probably wouldn’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole, but strangers wouldn’t resist the temptation of his long legs and sculpted torso, his soft lips and brilliant eyes. “If this is how you put out for everyone you’ve ever been with, I don’t know how you do it. I know you’ve got boundless cursed energy, but I didn’t think that extend to regular—”

“I’m…” He looks puzzled. Almost hurt. An uncomfortable weight settles in your gut. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else. Are… are you…?”

“No.” You’re not as embarrassed by the admission as you are at his expression when you speak. Satoru’s cheeks puff slightly as he exhales, his brows drifting upward in what you can only describe as relief. He smiles, and it’s more gentle than predatory. You’re not used to him being this open. You’re not used to him being this nice. “What’s that face for?”

“My face is just my face,” laughs Satoru. He traces a gentle line down your jaw with a knuckle. You think he’s about to kiss you, shutting your eyes in anticipation as you feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. This leaves you wholly unprepared for the actual curve of his mouth, around words rather than a silent gesture.

“I love you.”

Your eyes fly open. It is no comfort to see he’s just as surprised as you are that he’d said it. All you can do is gape at him, a violent stabbing feeling in your chest as the bed seemingly falls away from underneath you. You must be dreaming. You pinch yourself. You’re not. And Satoru—Gojo, God, when did you get so familiar with him?—stares at you in anguish, hurt pouring out of him like a flood.

Not a single part of this situation makes sense to you. Not why he blurted it out. Not why he meant it. Not why he would ever expose his soft underbelly like this, practically holding up a neon sign denoting one of his few weaknesses.

Not why you rush to console him when heartbreak etches itself into the lines of his face. Not how you choose to offer your support with a highly unwelcome and unhelpful, “Thanks.”

You’ve not had to respond to those three words in a long time. You’re out of practice. But even you know that wasn’t the right thing to say.

Gojo doesn’t even call you out on it, instead reeling away from you as though he’s been shot. He stumbles free of the sheets, all ungainly limbs askew. His fringe shields his eyes from you as he hastily dresses himself. Stonily silent, he crams his shades on and he’s lost to you forever.

The situation is unsalvageable, a lost cause. Some could rightfully accuse you of being a pessimist, but there’s really no greater example than this. In the face of Gojo’s hurt, actual heartbreak—something you had never once thought him capable of—you’re powerless. You’re the one who hurt him, after all. How could anything you say be a balm to the pain you’ve caused?

“Wait,” you say weakly, but of course he doesn’t.

“I have to go,” is all Gojo says, punctuated by heavy footfalls and followed by the slamming of your front door. He hadn’t even found it in himself to crack a joke as he fled.

Pulling yourself up into a sitting position, you put your head in your hands. Part of you wants to be angry at him for taking a perfectly good thing and screwing it all up. But that’s not fair. He couldn’t help falling for you any more than you could help falling in love with your only classmate when you were fifteen. No, it’s the guilt that infuriates you—that Gojo’s gone and made you feel bad for hurting his feelings.

(And there’s another secret thing that you refuse to acknowledge.)

You can freely admit that your reaction was poor and hurtful. You will apologize for that, if Gojo will allow you to. He hadn’t said when he would be leaving for his trip, but it would be in poor taste to wait for longer than a week—especially if you want to sleep with him ever again. And you do. But would that be a good idea? And is that the only reason you want to apologize?

Trust Gojo to go and make everything this complicated. You sigh mournfully for the status quo. You’ll give him the rest of the night to lick his wounds. You have some of your own to nurse, a yawning gaping void in your chest that frays at the edges and brings tears unbidden to your eyes. Squeezing them shut, you beg for blissful sleep to take you, so you don’t have to think or feel or do much of anything anymore.

(The truth of it is, when Gojo said it, you felt happy. That was your immediate reaction. And that frightens you. Try as you might to move on, as your long lost beloved—so good and kind and sweet—would have wanted for you, you’re terrified of it actually happening.

It’s deliciously pathetic. Between a mass murderer and… you, Gojo Satoru needs better taste.)