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Satoru never cared much for babies.

He thought they were sticky. Loud. Strange little creatures with too-big eyes and unpredictable emotions. “You can’t even do anything with them,” he used to say, half-laughing, always dismissive. He didn’t see the appeal. Not then.

But now, when those tiny, hiccuping cries echo through the house, it’s his hands that reach out first. His steps that are soft, practiced, sure, against the cool hardwood floors. He lifts them into his arms with a tenderness he didn’t know he had, whispering low and sweet as if the words alone might soothe them. “Shh… I got you, baby. You’re okay now. Daddy’s here."

The nursery is dim, painted in golden hues from the rising sun that spill in through gauzy curtains. And in the quiet of it all, Satoru rocks them slowly, heart twisting at the way such a tiny thing could cling so tightly to him.

Their little fingers curl instinctively around his, impossibly small and soft. The little fist moving to tug at his snow-white hair with an uncoordinated giggle, and Satoru laughs too - gentle and breathless and amazed. He leans in close and nuzzles their round belly, peppering noisy kisses between mock growls.

“The strongest needs a snack,” he murmurs against their skin, grinning as the baby squeals with delight.

And still, deep in his mind, something quiet aches.

I didn’t think I’d ever have this.

Didn’t think I’d survive long enough to want it.

Didn’t know I could be this soft, this full, this happy.

Later, you’ll find them sprawled together on the living room floor. Satoru still half bare chested and Hello Kitty pajama pants, hair a mess, baby asleep on his chest - both of them completely knocked out. His hand cradles their back protectively, even in sleep. His breath rises and falls in rhythm with theirs.

And as you stand there watching, heart full to the brim, Satoru stirs just enough to crack one sleepy, love-dazed eye open.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse with exhaustion and something tender, “look what we made.”

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Sweet boyfriend Satoru who is so, so gentle with you.

(master list) part i. contains: size kink, pet names (baby, sweetheart), possessiveness, dacryphilia

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He lets you have your way with him, kneading at your hips and thighs with his too big palms, those same hands later coming up to your waist, thumbs just shy of grazing your chest. He doesn’t need to push you down onto his lap, not when you do it yourself, crying into his mouth and drowning out his own, cooing words against your lips.

.

“Go slow, baby….” Satoru bites back a groan when you sink into him, eyes rolling into the back of his head with each short, eager little thrust you make. He’s too big for you and you know it, asking anyway if you could take him doggy for the first time, and serving him with an unfairly disarming pout when he sputters some suggestions saying otherwise. Maybe it’ll be less painful if….We could try something else or…? But all it took were your best puppy eyes and his mouth had dried. Fuck it, he says, giving into that deeper part of him. It sates him to see you bend over, shifting subtly so that delicate line your back bows beautifully—in what he knows is just for him.

Yours, you mouth, looking back with your cheek pressed against his sheets.

.

Your sweet boyfriend Satoru, who already had too much of your unexpected mouthiness the entire day, now seethes at the restaurant as you smile a little too brightly at the server and hears a coyness in your voice that you usually reserve just for him.

He drags you home before the first course arrives, and there’s laughter in your eyes, a sort of vindication that makes something destructive coil in his gut.

You wanted this, he thinks to himself. When the third strike hits your cunt, he knows you’re close. “I want you to cum for me in two, okay? Can you count for me, sweetheart?” he murmurs as you nod pathetically, tears catching at his knuckles from where he grips your cheeks to pinch your swollen lips into a pout.

When the fifth strike hits, he kisses you harshly, humming approvingly when you scream, teeth against teeth. You’re so slick and wanting more, mumbling desperate wishes into his neck.

“‘Baby’ what, hmm?” he asks—a little mean, a little breathless. “You want me to fuck you?” He teases a finger over your hole, circling it slowly with the barest hint of pressure, and your mouth slackens in a silent cry, hips subconsciously trying to chase after his touch.

“I don’t think so,” he says, lazily stroking his finger over your clit. “I think I’ll keep you just like this.”

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Hc that Satoru likes to kiss the bulge on your stomach from Sugurus cock being inside of you

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exclusive picture

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The small gathering took place at the veranda of the western garden at the Gojo estate. Satoru was speaking to one of his first years, Hakari, when you see it. A slither of cake remained, the dusting of powdered sugar perfectly untouched. It’s cute, you think, while carefully plating, how well this is all going. Even Yaga dropped by, ushering along a growing Panda by his side.

The way he looks at his former student says it all: that they’re all a little relieved to have him here. Lately, it has also meant this: more and more missions piling up, late nights in the office, and the worst consequence of all—the prodigal son’s gnawing, obsessive urge to find the newest talents. Satoru, if anything, even with his easy-going smiles and frivolous veneer, is an unerring perfectionist. It’s the kind that lets you through his infinity rather than letting his guard down, the tell-tale rippling of his technique is subtle as your palm greets his back when you press against his side.

“Hey,” you say, smiling softly. He glances at you and responds just as affectionately.

“Is this for me?” Satoru excuses himself from the conversation, a lone finger pointing at your plate.

You hum an affirmative, leaning forward and off your heels, wanting to steal a quick kiss. But your boyfriend has other ideas. His palm cups your jaw open, the ghost of his smirk heavy on your lips as his tongue slips in. Heat creeps up your chest quickly and you pull away, barely resisting the urge to nip at him. Satoru, the big baby that he is, pouts.

“Satoru…you have guests,” you justify, swatting him away.

“But it’s my birthday,” he says, “and I haven’t gotten anything sweet yet…” He leans in this time, peppering small kisses along your face—incessant and overwhelming and sweet. You can’t help but laugh; you’ve missed him—missed his touch, his teasing.

You pull away again, though not to chastise him this time. You hold up the plate and promptly dig into the cake. The piece hovers just beneath his mouth.

“Here,” you start, eyeing him almost challengingly, “take it.”

The love of your life savors the last piece slowly, lips enclosing on the fork with feigned nonchalance while his eyes say otherwise. You pull back and take the fork with you, smearing the leftover residue on his cheek—

The closest thing to a scar marring his beautiful face.

“Catch ya later, old man,” you say teasingly. “Might just let you earn your gift later, baby.”

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Red Bull Suguru Geto and Ferrari Satoru Gojo!

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You never meant to fall for the tall, sweet, hot, nerd like this—mouthing at his bulge from beneath his desk, your pussy ruined from the thought of a blowjob alone.

You couldn’t help it: the way he would flush when he looked at you, all the nice things he’s said before and after your breakup with your loser ex, not to mention all the ways he encouraged you, somehow conveying the sentiments beyond the class you both shared.

So what if you wanted to reward him a little? Against all odds, Gojo Satoru made you shy, made you rethink your usual strategy with men that led to a coy, too slow, and indirect of a courting to go beyond stolen cuddles and kisses that teased just short of his lips.

It was time to get your point across.

“Sweetheart—you don’t—fuck—“ he bucked into your mouth when you breathed over the tip, tongue laving over his boxers lovingly.

“Hmm?” you blinked prettily up at him, absentmindedly nipping over his clothed erection.

“You don’t have to…I mean…I wanted to get you flowers at least,” Satoru groaned. “Fuck, baby, let me take you on a date first, please.”

“But you’re so hard,” you emphasized. And yummy.

“Because you’re beautiful and I like you so much, and fuck, let me do this right, okay?” He clasped your smaller hand in his, the other coming up to card through your hair, palm gently resting against your cheek.

“I like you so much,” he repeated. “C’mere, please.”

You pouted. You smoothed over your skirt before rising. Despite the circumstances, you felt his heated gaze trail over your form. Good.

You bent over, offering a teasing view of the silk between your legs. Your panties landed innocently on his lap.

"Fine," you relented. "But you get to fuck me how you like after."

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you: satoru. darling. sweetheart. light of my life. gojo with a nervous chuckle: you're angry with me, aren't you? you, smiling sweetly: livid.

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Cain by José Saramago translation by Margaret Jull Costa

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— Yves Olade, from “Belovéd.”

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poetry and van gogh

Anaïs Nin, Shane Neilson, Marin Sorescu, Ocean Vuong, Anzhelina Polonskaya, Vincent van Gogh

buy me a coffee

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from "scent of orange blossoms: haiku/senryu" by Teresa Mei Chuc

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— Susan Sontag, from “Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963”

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kate bush behind the scenes of the experiment iv music video (1986)

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only one of you is going to make it and you’re afraid it’s going to be you, or, alternatively: you are standing by the tragic hero and it is looking rough out there-

( @lasilhouetteinbianco i did it there’s moby. whoo)

A History of My Brief Body, Billy-Ray Belcourt | Antigonick, Sophokles trans. Anne Carson | The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry | Doña Juana “la Loca” (1877), Francisco Pradilla | Giovanni’s Room, James Baldwin | THE TRAGIC HERO UPON REACHING THE END OF THE SCRIPT REALIZES HE HAS BEEN DEAD THIS WHOLE TIME, Joan Tierney | Wishbone, Richard Siken | Orpheus and Eurydice, George Frederic Watts | Bitter Water, The Oh Hellos | Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare | YOUR LOVE FINDS ITS WAY BACK, Sierra Mulder | Nymphs Finding the Head of Orpheus (detail, 1905), John William Waterhouse |  Wishbone, Richard Siken | Richard Siken, in an interview with James Hall | Moby Dick, Herman Melville | Weeping Nude (1913-14), Edvard Munch | Love and Pain (1895), Edvard Munch | Metamorphoses, Ovid

[ID: An assortment of various quotes, lyrics, and paintings from a variety of sources.

1. To love someone / is firstly to confess: I’m prepared / to be devastated by you.

2. Ismene: I can help you suffer. // Antigone: No. // Ismene: I can give you reasons not to die. //  Antigone: No.

3. And he took me by the hand. But he was still worrying. “It was wrong of you to come. You will suffer. I shall look like I was dead, and that will not be true…” I said nothing.

4. A painting of a young woman dressed in black. She stands in blank despair beside a casket in an open field. She is surrounded by a procession of numerous mourners, as smoke from a behind her rises into the air.

5. What are we staying here for? How long do you / want to sit in this house, eating your heart out?

6. You are kneeling at the water’s throne / When preparing for an ending scene / It’s important that / Swords drop like anchors / Yours will never rise again / I am watching from the cowberries, or / From your mother’s curtains, as if / Through a burial shroud, or

7. And it’s another wrong-man-dies scenario / and we keep doing it, Henry, / keep saying until we get it right… but we / always win and we never quit.

8. A painting of Orpheus and Eurydice at the entrance to Hades. Orpheus, in a toga, reaches out to catch Eurydice as she goes limp and pale, soul having returned to the Underworld. In the background a dead tree trunk can be seen.

9. I am not a fool entire / No, I know what is coming / You will bury me beneath the tree / I climbed when I was a child

10. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, / But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

11. My throat is a beehive pitched into the river. Look! / Look how long my love can hold it’s breath.

12. A painting of Orpheus’ head floating down a river after being torn apart by the Maenads. His face is turned upward, with pale skin and long red hair. His lyre floats beside him, alongside numerous lily pads and lilies.

13. See, we’ve won again / here we are at the place where I get to beg / for it where I get to say, Please,

14. Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, “I am falling to the floor crying,” but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.

15. “…Sleeping? Aye, toil how we may, we all sleep on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amidst greenness; as last years scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swathes — Starbuck!” But blanched to a corpse’s hue with despair, the Mate had stolen away. 

16. A painting of a nude woman sitting upon her bed, hunched over with her head in her hands and legs sprawled. She appears to be weeping. Her long, dark hair, spills around her shoulders and into her lap.

17. A painting of a woman and a man embracing each other. The woman has warm skin and long red hair, which spills over and contrasts with the man’s pale, grey skin. She buries her face into his nape, and he into her arms.

18. But when she saw him in his hapless plight, / though angry at his scorn, she only grieved. End ID.]

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― Ivan Bunin, The Collected Stories

[text ID: In October I confessed my love for her, and she allowed me to kiss her.]

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