Satoru gojo

The call came in at 12:03 a.m.

Satoru was already sprawled across his massive bed, room dark except for the faint neon bleed from Tokyo outside the floor to ceiling windows. Blindfold on not because he needed it right now, but because the total black made every other sense sharper.

Your name lit up the screen. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He answered on the second ring, voice low and dripping with that signature lazy confidence.

“Well, well… look who’s calling the strongest at this hour. Miss me already, or did the world just get too boring without me in it?”

You started talking. Something about a shitty higher up who micromanaged you into the ground, a low grade curse that still managed to ruin your favorite jacket, the endless Tokyo rain turning every street into a slip n slide. Normal cursed energy life complaints.

Normally Satoru would’ve cut in with a smug “I could’ve handled that in three seconds flat” or a teasing “Next time call me sooner, baby, I’ll teleport over and make them regret existing.

But tonight?

Tonight your voice hit different.

It came through rough at first gravelly from yelling at someone earlier, maybe. Then it softened when you got to the embarrassing parts, dropped low when you admitted how pissed off you really were. Every little hitch in your breath, every frustrated laugh… it sank straight into his bloodstream.

He shifted, propping himself higher against the pillows. Blindfold secure. Left hand idly twirling the edge of the black fabric while he gave you the bare-minimum responses.

“Mmh… yeah… that guy sounds like a real piece of work… uh-huh…”

But he wasn’t listening to the words.

He was listening to you.

God, that voice.

When you got mad it turned rough, almost growly, and it sent electricity racing down his spine. When you laughed it felt like warm honey pouring over him. Excited? That bright, alive edge to certain sentences made his stomach flip. He loved every single version. Every. Single. One.

Without thinking, his right hand started drifting.

First it grazed his throat, feeling the pulse already kicking harder than it should. Then down the center of his chest, fingers splaying wide, brushing over a nipple that pebbled instantly under the cotton.

Lower. Past the hem of the shirt.

Over the fine trail of white hair disappearing into his waistband.

And there it was: the unmistakable swell pressing insistently against the front of his boxers. Already half-hard just from the sound of you complaining about your day.

He let out a quiet, amused huffhalf laugh, half groan and bit the inside of his cheek.

Pathetic, he thought. The honored one, hard as a rock because someone’s whining about traffic. Get it together, Satoru.

But he didn’t.

He dragged the phone closer, practically pressing the speaker to his ear like he could crawl through the line and taste your voice. His hand slipped under the elastic. Fingers wrapped around the base slow, confident, testing. A thick throb answered immediately.

“Keep going,” he murmured, voice a little rougher now. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out the juicy details.”

You kept talking, oblivious (or maybe not).

His grip tightened. Slow strokes now up, down, thumb circling the head on every pass, spreading the slick already leaking.

His breathing turned uneven. He tried to mask it with lazy hums of agreement, but every time your voice cracked with frustration or you let out a low “fuck this day,” his hips rolled up into his fist on instinct.

“Keep talking. Please.” The last word came out softer almost pleading though he tried to cover it with his usual cocky drawl.

His pace picked up without permission. Wet sounds filled the quiet room quiet enough that the phone mic probably wouldn’t catch them, but loud enough in his own ears to drive him insane. The blindfold kept everything dark, focused. Heat coiled tight in his lower stomach. Thighs tensed.Balls drawing up.