fuck buddies don't act like this (Gojo x Reader)

Chapter 68

The small little divots fight against the tug-of-war currently happening between the steel strength of the lead mechanical pencil with another glide that redefines the sketch paper and layers over the rough images. They transfigure into something better, more refined. Just then a heavy sigh crosses the room brushing upon your fixed grip on the pencil as the tip chips ruining the page and scuffing it with your smeared palm with smudges. A frustrated sigh escapes you just as much as it did him, your flitting gaze crosses the narrow sea of messily strewn mood boards. Further besides your canvases and disorderly paints lies the uncharacteristically quiet nature of Gojo Satoru. Lazily clasping his hand around one of his bent knees whilst the other clasps and unclasps the bottle lid to one of your many paint canisters.

It was a lovely request on his part to be here as you begin to quickly refine your sketches for the upcoming art expo yet it's becoming rather painful to comfortably sit in this drowning silence as you wage war between yourself. Your brain is telling you to focus, 'you have less than a month to get this done!'. Whilst your heart gnaws on the threads keeping you together whispering in your ear like the conniving seductress that she is 'Come on you know you want to... you remember that kiss, his hands all over your body, don't you want to feel them again?'. And your body, well, better things could be said than your traitorous lips soddening your panties as each press of your thighs pushes and spreads your excitement all over your vulva.

Shaking your head, you lean forwards trying for a better angle to finally comfort yourself from this agony.

CLICK

The continuing sound of smacking lips echoes throughout the desolate room still only the faint scratch of your pencil overrides the fidgeting click of the lid clipping back into place. Gnawing at your cheek almost scarring them into submission with the indentation of your molars as you continue to hate everything that's forming unto the page. The design itself is roughly coming together after being plucked from one of your dreamy fantasies that have been attacking you lately. But something feels off... feels wrong. You've been overrun with fever, again, as you desperately cling to the celibacy that you've conjured up for yourself in the period Gojo has reappeared back into your life.

Yet this doesn't even come close to what tears you apart.

CLICK

Twitching as if you're shaking off a sudden unexpected chill that you begin to decline further into the pages of your book becoming one with lead and parchment. Gojo's a persistent bastard, you know him too well at this point to not be surprised at his immature antics and this constant clicking. Hunching further into your work with your cheek pressed against your sketchbook and your palm shading the absent white corners. Your ideas look blurry, yet you try to find the glimmer of inner peace still alluding you. It's annoying how in your own home you can't find comfort from your own lustrous thoughts while mind numbingly trying *not* to scratch or tear apart at your precious sketchbook.

You have nothing.

The opportunity is fan-bloody-tastic but... are you spreading yourself too thin? No of course not, it's not like you have a salaryman's job, doing nine to five hours before going home to the nagging wife and chaotic kids. It's not exactly like you have a boss harassing you over your shoulder about the lost documents that you were meant to submit last Friday nor clean up the spew from one of your gremlin children.

You were a student but now you're a modern art undergraduate, upstarting your own small business and have been given such a rare opportunity by a high-end gallery to showcase the best of yourself. The best and the brightest will be there and what you're scared of is the skeleton in the closet? Come on get a grip, you're a sexual being that just likes – loves – painting your sexual escapades.