#ikr | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thatdesklamp · 7 months

Text

Spring, 2007

more intrinsic warmth + gojo pov. This one is a little more salacious. I feel like a heathen. (nsfw, if that wasn’t evident) La la la la la

Satoru was seventeen when he first dreamt of you.

It was a weird dream, which he decided later was because of the heat: it was a spring heatwave, a sweltering April night, the air thick and sticky. Satoru liked the spring usually, as the school year slid to an end, leaving him with with all the freedom and the long days and the excuses for laziness. But when it was hot, it was too hot; especially since, like you always told him, his body ran far too warm. He was great in the winter, when he never needed more than one layer whilst you were bundling up with three, but in any extreme heat he was useless.

He had stripped off in bed, thrown the blankets down to bundle at his ankles, but his bare back still stuck to the bedsheet. When he rolled over onto his stomach, the sheet was damp with his sweat. Suguru had told him to lie on the floor without the mattress, but Satoru thought that was something he only said because he’d never slept right in his life. Satoru was raised with absolute care, and he was also raised with air conditioning. He wasn’t going to sleep on the floor, whatever Suguru said. Satoru had standards.

That was why it didn’t count. When he had the weird dream, it didn’t count, because his room was so hot and he was feeling so tired and he wasn’t himself.

---

In the dream, Satoru was sat in the Chapel, his back propped up against the wall he would lean against when he used to play Pokémon. He was playing Pokémon on his Game Boy Colour—which should have been his first indication that this was a dream, because he hadn’t played on that old thing since he was an actual child—and he was moving his character through Blackthorn City. The Chapel looked like it had when you were younger and still went there every day; nowadays, now you two weren’t so childish, you went there less and less. He played the game for a few minutes, and then he realised that there was a weight on his shoulder, and he stopped. Satoru looked down, and there you were.

You had your head on his shoulder. Looking back, Satoru would note this as the second weird thing, in the long list of very weird things. The third weird thing was that, in the dream, Satoru didn’t think that this was weird at all.

He didn’t think about how, in real life, you wouldn’t want to touch anyone, or put your head on anyone’s shoulder. He also didn’t think about how, in real life, you also wouldn’t want to touch him. Not the way you were touching him in the dream, at least.

In the dream, Satoru smiled. He noticed that his arm was already around you, and that he could splay his fingers around your waist if he wanted to. You felt warm, and in the dream, the feeling was familiar. He entertained himself with that for a few seconds, and then moved his hand up, skirting higher than your waist, around your ribs.

Then, curious, he moved his hand back down to feel the curve of your side, and then further down, down to your hips. You felt different, he noted, to the way his own body felt. He knew that was because you weren’t him—you were a girl, or a woman, which he’d only really noticed a few years ago. When you were both kids, your respective genders hadn’t been a thought at all. But then you both got older, and he became aware of it, and now it was something he had to think about. And Satoru was aware of it, now. He had that thought in the dream, and later, he would realise what it had meant, because he’d thought the same in real life, too.

But it was nice, to feel. He liked touching you.

Your head moved on his shoulder. Satoru would remember this as a pivotal moment, not just in what happened, but how he had felt with your head resting on his shoulder. He had not felt guilty, then; not the way he later felt, when he woke, panting and sweaty and achingly hot. It had been normal, in the dream, for him to be touching you like that.

So, he hadn’t stopped. Satoru’s hand stayed lazily at your hip as you stirred. Then, he realised that you weren’t asleep at all: in fact, you were just as awake as he was, and you were watching his hand move on your body with a smile playing around your lips.

You looked up at him, eyes glinting. It was a smile he recognised: Satoru knew all of your smiles, each and every one. This was one of his favourites, and one of the rarest. You looked mischievous, slightly sly, and the expression sent heat coursing through him in a way that was both familiar and new.

“You could’ve just asked,” you said. You shifted from his side, and Satoru opened his mouth to protest. You clicked your tongue and placed one gloved finger against his lips. Satoru fell silent, and your lips curled up. There was anticipation, now: excitement. He knew what was coming, and he wanted it from you.

“Could I really?” Satoru asked, as he reached out to touch you again. His hands found your ass, and he grinned at you, tugging you closer.

You laughed at that, and he marvelled at how easily he could make you laugh, here. Satoru spent all of his days trying to make you laugh—it didn’t come easily, so he savoured each time like he’d never see it again.

But you just swatted him on the chest, playful, and he took the touch as encouragement. Satoru kept one hand on your ass—which he liked being able to touch, he realised, or he just knew, because in this dream he had clearly done this before—and moved the other to skirt the underside of your shirt. Your skin was burning hot, and so soft. He slipped his hand under your the fabric, and felt the dip of your back, how it arched under his touch, responsive, and then higher, to the material of your bra strap. Lace—

“Eager!” You laughed again—so easily! Satoru liked this, he definitely liked this—and gave him that cunning, knowing look again. And then you had swung one leg over his, and you were sitting in his lap, hard and directly on top of him. Satoru inhaled, sharp and surprised and aroused. Your hands had moved to his shoulders, resting there, steadying yourself. You let out a soft noise, like you had surprised yourself, but that blazing look was still in your eye, and Satoru was staring.

He could feel you: the insides of your thighs were pressing against him, and his pulse was starting to quicken. You shifted your weight, moving to the side just the smallest amount, but the movement was enough to make Satoru hiss.

“Did I do something?” you asked, eyes going wide. Your eyelashes looked long, and they fanned across your cheeks.

You knew what the answer was, and Satoru knew that you did. You moved again, this time deliberately grinding down on him, and Satoru tilted his head back against the Chapel wall and focused on breathing.

You knew what you were doing to him: it was another one of those moments you had, when he could read exactly what you were thinking, and when you could do the same for him. It usually made him nervous, that you could tell so much about what he was thinking without him even knowing it, but here he was just exhilarated.

“Hebi,” Satoru said, his voice half-choked. He heard what he said, and frowned—later, he would understand that he was on the cusp of breaking from the dream, and that saying your name had almost pushed him over the edge—but then, when your thumb moved to brush his bottom lip, he shook off any reservations.

You hummed, and dipped your head down to his neck. Your lips pressed there, burning hot, and Satoru groaned. He felt your tongue, how you kissed and licked up his throat, and he gripped tighter onto you. You moved your hips against him, and pleasure was growing there, exactly where he could feel you, where he wanted to feel you.

“Hebi,” he said again. This time, his voice was whispered, like a plea. “Hebi. Hebi.”

“I’m here,” you said back, your breath hot against his lips. “I’m right here, Satoru.”

A ragged moan was torn from his chest. His name. He loved it when you said his name—he loved it now, as he watched your lips move around it, the way your lips pursed at the end, like a kiss.

Like you knew what he was thinking, you said it again.

“Satoru. Satoru, touch me, Satoru.”

He wanted to: you wanted him to. He explored your bare skin, hand still underneath your shirt—that was his shirt, he realised. You were wearing his shirt! It was a t-shirt that fit normally on him, but it was too big for you, and it fell to just skim the tops of your thighs.

He loved it, the sight of you, of you on top of him, your lips round and soft, you wearing his shirt that was far too big for you. He wanted to take it off, but he also wanted to keep it like this: Satoru liked you wearing his clothes. He realised it in the moment, but of course he did! In the dream, you wore his clothes all the time.

Of course! The first time had been a few months ago: you had arrived at his house in the middle of the night, fresh from an incident with your family that you refused to go into detail about, and you had been blinking back tears when you had asked him if you could stay the night. You hadn’t had to ask: Satoru would have never turned you away, not ever. But Yahaba had been washing the pyjamas he kept at his house, and so you’d shrugged and walked into his room, so carefree, and picked out a t-shirt of his that had looked the biggest.

“I’ll wear this,” you had said, casual. Satoru hadn’t known what to say. He was too consumed with this new, fresh idea of you wearing his clothes, and what you would look like in them, and whether you would do it more, and he had just about managed to crack a smile and make some joke, passing it off like it was nothing.

Now, though, it wasn’t nothing. The shirt was large, and it hung low about the neckline, exposing your collarbone and the shadow of your breasts. You moved your hips down against him, this time even harder. Satoru’s fingers fisted in the bottom of the shirt, tugging you towards him.

The friction was good, and Satoru was certain that it was only made better that he got to feel you moving against him. He realised with a wave of arousal that your legs were bare, and that other than his clothes, the only thing separating your bodies was the thin strip of your underwear. And that you were doing this to him and that you wanted this, that this was good for you, too. Satoru wanted that desperately, and recognising it was staggering; Satoru wanted you to feel good, and he wanted to be the one to make you feel good.

He gripped your thighs, hard, and then almost lost control completely when you moaned against his neck. Your head dropped down to his shoulder, and he could feel your hot gasps right near his ear. It hit him that you were trying to say his name, just choked-off syllables, like the only thing you could think of was his name—his first name, Satoru. Encouraged, he pulled you down against him, controlling the movement of your hips, and both of you gasped together.

Closer, Satoru wanted. He wanted more, more of you. He felt your bra strap again and he undid it with one hand expertly, which of course he knew how to do, even though he had never been able to do that before.

The snap of your bra against your skin made you gasp, high and breathy. Satoru sucked in a breath. There was another noise he wanted to hear again: your laugh, and this. He moved his hand from your back, to the front of you, where he really wanted to touch now. When his fingers brushed your breasts, your eyes fluttered closed.

“Satoru,” you were saying, with every roll of your hips, with every rise and fall of your chest. He felt you breathing, he felt it as you shook against him when his thumb rubbed over your burning skin. “Satoru. Satoru, please… please, touch me more.”

“You want me to?” His voice was ragged: you had made his voice ragged.

“Please. Please, Satoru, it feels good, you make me feel so good—“

Satoru bit down on his lip, hard. You never spoke like this—he didn’t know that he wanted you to speak like this, but he was hard against you, painfully hard. It would have been embarrassing, but Satoru couldn’t feel that, could only focus on how much he wanted you to say that again.

Satoru spoke in a rasp, his head spinning. “I do?”

“So good.” Your hands were on his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, his chest, touching him everywhere. Every movement of your hand left searing impressions in its wake, and Satoru wanted you branded onto him.

“You—” Satoru shuddered, visceral, as he felt your hands tug at his shirt, try to pull it up. “You feel good too—“

Now he wanted your shirt off. He wanted to see, not just touch, and he wanted to put his mouth on you, the way your mouth was on him. He wanted to make you gasp like that again, and he wanted to feel you underneath him, and he wanted you, he wanted you to touch him, touch him harder, harder, harder until—

Satoru awoke, gasping.

His mattress cover was damp again, and when he looked down he realised it was uncomfortable and sticky. Satoru grimaced, and wiped his palms on the sheet. He stared up at the ceiling, and tried to will his heart to stop racing.

Satoru had had dreams like that before, obviously. But, shit, he’d never had them about you before. He had never dreamed about you so vividly, with his subconscious piecing so many half-moments together to make… whatever the hell that was.

Like the time you had borrowed his t-shirt a few months ago, or the time when you had fallen asleep on a pillow beside him and he had wondered what he could do to make you rest your head on his shoulder instead, or all those times you had called him by his first name.

He breathed in, but the air didn’t seem good enough. It was hot, and too humid, and Satoru decided that there wasn’t enough oxygen, what with all of that water floating about.

Yes: it was the heat. Besides, Satoru had heard stories of people going crazy when they got heatstroke, or whatever. It was probably something like that. It didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was just an unconscious side of his brain realising that he’d been spending so much of his time with a really, really pretty girl, and it had only just caught up to deliver the normal, maybe-weird reactions to it.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered you like that before—sure he had, kind of. Satoru was convinced that he’d be weirder to not have. You were his best friend, and he spent all of his time with you; there was one time before your big fight, and he’d not really known what to make of it, and then after, when it was like he hadn’t seen you in months, when he asked you to be his friend again. It was raining, that night, and he must have woken you up, because you were in your soft cotton pyjamas, and the shorts had ridden up on your thighs, and you hadn’t been wearing a bra, and of course Satoru had noticed. He was a guy. It didn’t mean anything, he’d known, but he also hadn’t told Suguru about it. Satoru didn’t know why he hadn’t. Something itched at him, uncomfortable.

But it hasn’t meant anything! Just how it didn’t mean anything now.

It was just the heat. It didn’t matter about anything else: he’d had a weird dream, but it wasn’t like he needed to tell you about it. You wouldn’t be able to guess, would you?

Guiltily, an image flickered across Satoru’s mind before he could stop it: the sight of you above him, your bare legs hardly covered by the long t-shirt, the purse of your lips as you said his name. Satoru pushed it away. What was he doing, thinking about you all weird like that?

This was the worst time for something like that to happen, too; it was almost a year since his and Suguru’s mission, and so it was almost a year since he had apologised, and since you had both been trying to be friends again. Friends.

Friends. It didn’t help, this. Satoru had thought you two were getting better, and even if it wasn’t exactly like it was before, it was close, really close. He wanted you in his life. He always had.

Satoru turned to the side, and then wrinkled his nose as he remembered that he needed to change his sheets.

He bunched them into a ball, and then chucked them into the laundry basket he kept in the corner of his room. He looked back at his mattress, and decided that, fuck it. Suguru was probably right. With a grunt, Satoru managed to pull it off the bedframe and onto the floor. Then, deciding that the heat wouldn’t win against him, he lay down on the mattress and tried to get to sleep.

1-1 to me, he thought, to the heat. Fresh slate. We can forget about everything, then.

You were knocking at his door.

“Hnrggh—“ Satoru blinked in the light, everything blinding and bright as it usually was. He patted on his bedside table for his glasses, then remembered he was lying on the floor. Satoru rolled out of bed and bumped his forehead on the floor, shoved his glasses onto his face, then rooted around the ground and pulled on some boxers. If it was Suguru, he’d be fine like this, because who cares? But it was you, he recognised the way you knock, and so he’d got to find a shirt—where was his shirt?—shit, last night. Shit.

Satoru stumbled to a halt. He couldn’t see you like this, after last night.

What if—and it wouldn’t be him, it would just be his body, which wouldn’t be him at all, just normal teenage instincts—he saw you and started remembering the dream? And if he remembered the dream, he’d get a hard-on way too fast, and then he’d be standing in front of you like that, and Satoru couldn’t deal with it. You were friends. That would be fucking weird, for friends to do.

Again, it was weird for friends to dream about having doing some strange dry-humping-slash-groping sex, but he had already rationalised that it was just the heat and normal teenage instincts, so that dream didn’t count.

“Gojo,” you called. “Gojo! Wake up.”

Satoru, his brain supplied, unhelpfully.

“Ah—one second, Hebi-Hebi!”

He pulled on some jogging bottoms, threw on a scruffy shirt, and then, scrapped for time, used Blue to make the door fly open.

“Finally. You’re impossible to wake—”

“Good morning!” Satoru said, taking a theatrical bow. “Good morning, everyone!”

You stared at him, blankly. “What?”

“It’s my audience. I’m saying thank you and good morning.”

“You don’t have an audience.”

“Sure I do. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“Not for long.” You sent him a glower, and Satoru felt his stomach flip. “You forgot to give me those worksheets for class today.”

“Oh!” Satoru did, actually, forget. You’d wanted them in yesterday, but then he had been hanging out with Suguru in the evening when you went off to chat with Shoko, and by the time he’d gotten back it was too late to do anything. “Why didn’t you remind me, Hebi-Hebi?”

Your nose crinkled. Satoru had to admit that it was pretty cute, objectively.

“I did remind you,” you said. “All of yesterday. C’mon, Gojo, how are you so irresponsible?”

“I’m not! I’m the most responsible person you’ve ever met.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

Would you? he thought, traitorously. Would you laugh for me, again?

You tutted, pretending to be unimpressed, and then you glanced down at the floor. You frowned. “Why isn’t your mattress on the bed?”

“It—was hot.” Satoru knew he blurted it out too quickly, and that you noticed, because you always did, with him.

There was a torturous moment of silence where Satoru was convinced you had figured it all out and that he was ruined and you would never want to speak to him ever again, but then you said: “I thought you had that superiority complex thing. You know. With Geto, and the mattresses.”

“You heard about that?”

You hummed. “You must’ve told me.”

Satoru didn’t think he had. He was too focused on inconspicuously wiping his hands on the backs of his jogging bottoms without you noticing.

You noticed. Your eyebrows furrowed, and then your gaze slipped from his hands, to his backwards shirt, then to the balled-up bedsheet by the wall, and finally landing on the half-empty bottle of hand lotion Satoru had bought a few months ago, because he kept thinking that his then-girlfriend didn’t want to hold his hand because the skin was so rough.

You looked back up at him, and Satoru was certain you could see the flicker of panic on his face. You groaned, loudly and in disgust, and covered your eyes with your gloved hands.

Satoru��s heart skipped with fear. No, he couldn’t ruin it with you, not when he’d barely even—

“Gojo!” You peered back at him through your fingers, and Satoru realised with a jolt that you weren’t disgusted, you were embarrassed. “Just tell me not to come in if you’re—oh, eugh!”

Satoru’s lips parted in confusion. What? And then—

Oh! Satoru felt a heavy weight slide right off his chest, and suddenly he was light as a bird! You just thought he was jerking off! Yes—what a win!

Satoru could deal with this. He could even turn this in his favour, the way he always was trying to with you.

He grinned at you and leaned forward, bending at the hips with his hands still behind him. “What, you embarrassed?”

Your lips pinched tight together. “Shut up.”

“It’s a normal bodily response, Hebi-Hebi,” he said, delighting at your growing mortification. “I’m seventeen! And, hey, it’s not just guys who would enjoy—”

“Oh my god—”

“—so you should we congratulating me!”

Satoru beamed at you, enjoying himself a lot now.

You glowered. “I hate you.”

“Self-pleasure—”

“Don’t call it that!”

“—isn’t something that—”

“Stop talking.”

“Stop interrupting me!” Satoru couldn’t help but laugh at your expression. “I’m trying to give you a biology lesson. Just because you’re a priss—”

“I’m not—”

“And I’m sure you’re no stranger to it! After all, I’m sure you’ve…” Satoru’s brain caught up to wnat he was saying, and his voice faltered, and then trailed off.

Your eyes widened. You looked away from him, folding your arms right across your chest.

Satoru felt just as out of place. Just as he’d said it, the actual image of what he was saying had forced itself into his head. You: you, touching yourself, gasping and moaning in that same way you had in your dream. Would you sound the same as your had in his imagination? What you would look like—Satoru had not seen you naked in his dream, but he had wanted to, there.

But he could imagine. Your soft thighs, clenching around your bare hand, buried between your legs, your fingers—your fingers inside you, moving inside yourself, or rubbing circles on your clit, and Satoru’d had a girlfriend a few months ago who had liked it when he watched her masturbate, and he remembered how it had felt to be in the room with her.

It had almost been painful how hard he’d been, how much he’d wanted to touch her and be able to make her come himself—and there was a flash, just a split-second image, of Satoru’s lips on yours and his fingers curling inside you and your neck bared for him instead, and making you come. He didn’t know what it would be like, and Satoru felt his curiosity like a hunger, something that ached to be sated. Satoru swallowed.

Touching yourself, what would you think of?

Who would you think of?

You cleared your throat. “Anyway.”

Yes! Anyway!

Satoru forced out a laugh. Anyway! He pushed all those thoughts from his head—just remnants of his dream, coming to haunt him, everything perfectly normal—and grinned at you, feeling slightly delirious. He noticed that you didn’t look all that right either; you were blinking in that way you did when you were nervous or off-guard, and you still weren’t making eye contact with him. You didn’t know, did you? Was he—Satoru tried to subtly glance down—no, he was okay. You couldn’t know. Sure, you could figure out pretty much anything about him most of the time, but you weren’t a literal mind reader. You were just embarrassed for… whatever reason. Satoru didn’t know.

But he was moving on! He wasn’t thinking about it.

The silence stretched. Satoru felt awkward—he never used to feel awkward around you, but you’re still learning each other after your fight, and it’s harder than it was before.

“We good?” he asked, in a way that he realised a second later was much too vulnerable for his liking. He fixed it with a wink, and a casual stretch of his back.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. You cleared your throat again, and then nodded. “Yeah. Anyway.”

“The worksheets!” Satoru clicked his fingers in the air and hurried over to his desk. He rifled through the mess of papers, humming loudly and on purpose, and then shouted out: “Ha-ha! I’m amazing—here, look, I printed it out.”

“Good,” you said, tucking some hair behind your ear. “Hopefully Yaga won’t kill me in first period.”

“I’d have defended you from him.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! I appreciate the appreciation, Hebi-Hebi. Being this kind and generous is a thankless job sometimes.”

“Oh, you’re such an idiot.”

But your lips were curling, and Satoru was floating on the air again, overjoyed that the awkwardness had fallen away. Success! A perfect deflection, and he’d coaxed the first half-smile of the morning from you.

Satoru laughed. And then you were just looking up at him, with that standard way you do, slightly heavy-lidded and bored, and it felt like a normal day again. It didn’t feel like anything had changed: even though it had, for him. It had changed. But between you two… it was just normal.

He hoped you couldn’t do your psychic magic trick on him, and figure out that he was feeling awkward. But why should he? After all, he was Satoru Gojo: it was him, now, him and Suguru. Both of them together, the world’s strongest. He didn’t need to feel awkward about anything! And especially not something that could be so easily explained, by the heat and by his normal teenage reactions to normal teenage stuff.

So, nothing had changed. Satoru’s face broke into a grin. That was good. You were just as close as you always were. No stress. He should just forget about it.

And he did.

And then it happened again.

#intrinsic warmth #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo smut #ikr #who am I #gojo fluff #everyone say thank you drunk maggie #she was a different girl to me I’ll tell you

270 notes · View notes