gasp-hehe

[gasp-hehe]

aaaaaa @torusbbg thanks for the tag, i got kinda lazy and fucked over my eye colour but yeah.

if y'all wanna @sixeyesonathiel and @kunareads <3

ok starting a picrew thing bc its fun!!! make urself using this picrew ^__^

☆ tagging @tiranniesu @mortuarydolls @love2much @kirby6aero @motorvehiclecollision @prxincesxo @caramelsprout @cherubg1rl @bunnyheartsurgery @evilwizardgirl @mikitakawife @nivolumab000q ☆

[gasp-hehe]

you don't understand this account is everything i want to be. you are everything i must be.

i’m sorry but the mischaracterization of satoru gojo sometimes makes me wanna scream into the void. people really love to take one scene, one line, and twist it into a whole narrative that doesn’t even align with his core. like… are we even watching the same man??

HE DID NOT NEED A MORAL COMPASS. satoru’s been repressing his own desires since he was a child. a literal kid born with a power that could’ve destroyed everything around him—and yet, he didn’t. he never misused it. not once. not even out of spite. not even when he had every right to feel angry and lash out.

and people still act like he was this walking weapon on the verge of snapping if someone didn’t hold his leash. no. this is someone who’s been raised with expectations no one else could ever comprehend, who’s constantly chosen restraint, duty, and control even when it’s agonizing. and he makes those choices alone. over and over again.

i think people overlook how deeply internalized satoru’s moral compass already is. his “should we kill them?” moment wasn’t a breakdown of ethics. it was frustration, grief, anger. it was a TEENAGER who just saw someone he was protecting die in front of him, asking a friend for perspective. he wasn’t lost. he wasn’t about to burn the world. he was trying to process in real time. but people latch onto that line like it’s some confirmation that he needed someone to “save” him from becoming a monster.

no, actually. he saves himself. again. and again. and again.

he chooses to teach. he chooses to protect. he chooses to carry the weight of reforming a broken system—and yeah, he does fail sometimes. but that doesn’t make him any less righteous. if anything, it shows how much he shoulders on his own.

like idk. maybe it’s just me but i’m over people reducing him to “a time bomb that only didn’t go off because someone held his hand.” no. he’s the one who defuses himself. every single time. because he wants to do better. because he knows how powerful he is. because he cares.

satoru gojo isn’t dangerous. he’s the strongest—not just in power, but in how fiercely he holds himself together. he’s been alone at the top his whole life, forced to carry the weight of a world that only ever demanded from him, never asked how he was. he didn’t need saving because he was the safety net for everyone else. and even when it broke him, even when it hurt, he never turned cruel. never lost himself.

THAT’S WHAT MAKES HIM SO SPECIAL.

not just that he could’ve gone dark—but that he chose not to. again and again. that he stayed soft, and kind, and hopeful, even when he had every reason not to.

he deserves the world. and it kills me that he never got it 😔

[gasp-hehe]

remember when?

pairing — satoru gojo x reader

synopsis — while cleaning the attic, you stumble across photos of your husband from his school days.

wc — 5.2k

warnings — mentions of scars (au where satoru survives shinjuku showdown), angst but in the yearning way, so much fluff, husbandjo, domesticity, not proofread! i also made hc's behind some of the photos hehe

author's note — the new illustrations from the jjk movie completely broke me :( so i had to whip up a little something from the jjk fold of my brain.

It was just some random Tuesday, and your husband Satoru wasn’t due home until after six — something about looking over a pile of reports on rising cursed energy in the Kanto region. Even with Sukuna gone, chaos liked to linger.

The thought alone makes your stomach twist, like it always does when your mind drifts back to that winter two years ago. The Shinjuku showdown. You’d been convinced you’d lost him — his cursed energy disappeared, his body literally split in two. The moment still plays in your nightmares: the blood, the silence, your own voice screaming. You remember clutching his hand — or what was left of it — while Shoko fought to bring him back. And somehow, impossibly, she did.

He survived. Scarred, different, quieter in ways only you can read — but alive.

Sometimes you still wake up and run your fingers across the long scar that traces the soft skin of his abdomen, as if to confirm he’s really still here.

After that day, everything shifted. You left your role as a teacher at Jujutsu Tech — too much pain, too many memories, and honestly, too much peace. Not many cursed spirits dared show their faces anymore. These days, you exorcise a lingering curse here or there, but mostly? You spend your time being what Gojo Satoru once joked about during a late night walk back when you were still just colleagues: a housewife. A relaxed one at that — sans the apron clichés.

And truthfully? You don’t hate it.

Your house — the one Satoru picked out, of course — is enormous. It sits just outside of Tokyo, nestled high enough to offer sweeping views of the city skyline on one side and forested hills on the other. Wide windows. Sun-drenched walls. Room for both quiet and chaos. "A house that can hold all of our egos," he’d grinned when you moved in, but when he saw you spinning barefoot in the sunlit kitchen, he’d gone quiet. You’d looked over and seen it in his face: this is home.

You decide to clean the attic today. Partly because it’s been ages, partly because the place is a mess of dusty boxes and half-forgotten memories, and partly because you just want to surprise Satoru with something useful. Maybe you’ll find that old vinyl player he swears he didn’t lose.

You spend a solid hour sorting through stacks of cardboard — some labeled with scrawled handwriting (Nanami’s, definitely), others with faded Jujutsu Tech stickers. There’s a whole box of broken sunglasses you recognize immediately. Another of loose-grade mission reports that probably should’ve been shredded, like, a decade ago. You toss what you can into piles — keep, ask Satoru, burn before someone finds it — and you’re wiping sweat off your brow when you find it.

It's in a box labeled “JJT archives”, a thick, heavy book tucked beneath a pile of old uniforms and loose cursed tools wrapped in cloth. The cover is cracked leather, and there’s a faint, almost unreadable embossing on the spine.

It’s not labeled.

Curious, you tug it out, brush the dust from its cover, and flip it open.

Instantly, you realize what it is.

Photos. Dozens of them. Smiling, chaotic, deeply youthful energy practically radiating off the pages. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Shoko Ieiri. Haibara Yu. Kento Nanami. Their classmates, their mentors, the Tokyo branch in all its raw, messy, golden-era glory.

You blink, and your throat tightens. There’s a warmth in your chest — fond and aching all at once.

You close the book gently, your fingertips resting on the worn leather for a moment longer. This isn’t something you want to rush through alone.

You set it aside carefully, ready to go through it together when he gets home.

He always said he wanted to show you what he was like back then.

–

The front door clicks open at exactly 6:14 p.m.

You hear the familiar jangle of keys, the rustle of his coat as it hits the entryway hook, and then—

“Honeyyyyy,” Satoru’s voice calls out in that signature sing-song tone, the one you always say makes him sound like a bored housewife in a drama. “I’m hooooome and emotionally exhausted!”

You can’t help the smile that breaks over your face. “Kitchen,” you call back.

A beat later, you hear his footsteps pad across the wooden floor — not quite heavy, but still loud enough to announce his presence. He never really learned how to walk quietly. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.

He leans into the doorway like he’s posing for a magazine shoot, white hair tousled from the wind, shirt wrinkled from too many hours slouched at a desk. His jacket’s half-off one shoulder, and his blindfold’s gone — replaced by tinted glasses that slide slightly down his nose as he tilts his head at you.

“Whoa,” he says, deadpan. “Who’s that absolute beauty in my kitchen?”

You snort, stirring the sauce on the stove. “She’s married.”

“Lucky bastard,” he murmurs, crossing the room and slipping his arms around your waist from behind.

His body is warm — always — and it fits against yours like muscle memory. You feel the hard line of his chest, the loose way he rests his chin on your shoulder, the way his breath ghosts against your neck when he exhales like he’s finally safe again.

“Hey,” he says more quietly this time. “Missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“Yeah,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “but that was twelve hours ago and I almost died again from boredom.”

You turn around and press a soft kiss to the spot just below his jaw. “You hungry?”

“Starving. For food and love. In that order, but barely.”

You flick his forehead and he pouts, but he lets go so you can plate the food.

Dinner is nothing fancy — rice, grilled fish, the sauce you were working on, a couple of side dishes you whipped up out of boredom. But Satoru reacts like you’ve served him a five-star meal, moaning dramatically with every bite.

“My beautiful, talented wife,” he groans, flopping sideways in his chair like he’s been slain by deliciousness. “You’re always spoiling me.”

“You spoil yourself,” you mutter, pouring him tea with the practiced grace of someone who’s done this a hundred times. “I saw your UberEats bill last week.”

“Hey,” he says, mouth still full of rice, “those were all emotionally necessary. There was a lot of paperwork. Such labor requires tiramisu.”

“Three separate orders in one day?”

“They were from different places. Variety is key to mental wellness.”

You shoot him a flat look as you sit back down. “Pretty sure buying four desserts doesn’t count as a balanced diet.”

“I got one of them for you.”

“No, you got it for you and said, ‘you can have half if you want.’”

“And you didn’t want it,” he points out smugly. “Which means it became mine by universal law.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You always sit across from him — it’s become a quiet habit over time, a way to read his expressions even when he’s being dramatic. Like now, when he’s chewing with exaggerated slowness, eyes half-lidded like he’s in some kind of blissful trance.

Sometimes he nudges your foot under the table, tapping his toes against yours like a child trying to get attention without using words.

Other times, like tonight, you catch him staring mid-bite — not in a silly way, but in that strange, still quietness he gets sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. Like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe this is his life now: a warm dinner, soft light, your voice in the kitchen, no curses waiting around the corner.

“What?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you set down your chopsticks.

“Hmm?” He blinks, then smiles, and it’s all teeth and softness. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He kicks your shin lightly under the table. “Thinking about how I tricked the prettiest person in the world into marrying me.”

You scoff. “Yeah, still trying to figure that out myself.”

“Oh come on,” he groans, laughing, “at least let me pretend I’m a catch.”

“You are a catch,” you say, voice softer now, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “Just… a really expensive one with terrible food delivery habits. And you hog the bathroom a lot.”

He grins and laces his fingers with yours. “I’ll take it.”

After dinner, he insists on helping with the cleanup, which mostly means he dries dishes while doing an elaborate stand-up routine with a tea towel slung over his shoulder like a bartender. You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you feel a cold splash hit your back.

You pause. Slowly turn.

He’s holding the sink hose, blinking innocently.

“…Did you just—?”

“Oh my god,” he gasps, “did someone get wet? That must’ve been a malfunction. Tragic, really.”

You squirt him back instantly. He lets out a squawk like a wet cat, and before long, the floor is a mess, one of you is definitely going to slip and die, and he’s trying to use his body as a shield while cackling like a maniac.

“I live with you,” you mutter, wiping water off your face.

“And what a gift that is,” he says grandly, leaning in to kiss your damp cheek, water droplets still clinging to his ivory eyelashes. “Totally worth the near-death experience.”

You shake your head, but let the moment linger, let him hold you there by the sink, his lips brushing against yours like a silent thanks.

Eventually, he drags you to the bathroom.

The shower is big — another Gojo-specific choice when you built the house. He said he needed “space to dance dramatically during hair-washing.” You hadn’t realized he meant it literally until you walked in one day to find him swaying under the water, humming some ballad with shampoo running down his face.

Tonight, though, it’s quiet.

You both strip down without fanfare. He steps in first, holding out a hand like a gentleman even though he’s already dripping wet. The steam fills the air as you join him, the water warm and soft as it runs over your skin.

You wash his hair, carefully, gently, nails scraping his scalp in slow circles. His eyes are closed the whole time, a rare expression of serenity on his face.

Next up is washing his body — an act you love a bit too much.

His hands are by his sides, water cascading down the large expanse of sinewed muscle and scarred skin. There's a glimpse of a jagged scar that runs diagonally across his collarbone — one of the many pale remnants of the battle that nearly ended everything.

Your fingers brush against it absently, and Satoru doesn’t flinch.

He never hides them anymore — the scars. They scatter across his body now: fine lines, brutal gashes, faded burns. A slash across his abdomen from where Sukuna’s curse split him in two. A jagged cut down his spine that he jokes looks like a zipper. An old puncture near his hip that Shoko sewed shut with her own hands, mumbling curses the whole time.

You’ve memorized each one. Some days you trace them like constellations. Some days he lets you.

He doesn’t talk, not much. Just stands there and lets you take care of him.

Later, he returns the favor — fingers combing through your hair, rinsing soap from your back, holding you steady with his large hands reverently roving across your body when you lean into him just a little too much.

When you’re both towelled off and dressed in pajamas (his: old Jujutsu Tech sweats and a faded tee; yours: one of his shirts and soft shorts), you crawl into bed.

He flops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, limbs sprawling everywhere. You make a sound of protest when his knee knocks into yours, and he just grins at you lazily.

“Can we watch that dumb baking show?” he asks, already pulling the blanket over the two of you.

“The one where they all sabotage each other?”

“Yes. It’s healing. Sorry that I said it was boring before.”

You roll your eyes but grab the remote anyway.

He shifts closer as the episode starts, arm sliding under your neck to pull you in. Your head rests against his chest, and you listen to the steady thrum of his heart, strong and sure beneath old wounds.

“Comfy?” he murmurs.

“Mhm.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Good. Stay right there. I had a long day of being the strongest and I need my beautiful wife.”

You laugh into his shirt.

This — the warmth, the closeness, the scent of his skin mixed with soap — this is the part no one sees. Not the world, not his students, not the remnants of the Jujutsu world that still whisper his name like a myth. Just you. Just him.

The baking show is halfway through an episode. Some poor contestant has just dropped their chiffon cake while another is sabotaging the whipped cream station. You’re tucked under the covers, your head resting on Satoru’s shoulder while his arm holds you close, fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair. The glow of the TV casts soft light over the room, flickering across the ceiling in pale pastel hues.

You’re warm. Safe. Your husband smells like your shampoo, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest is starting to lull you into that lovely, sleepy post-dinner haze.

But then — like a light flicking on in your brain — you remember.

“Oh!” you sit up suddenly, disrupting the blankets and causing Satoru to yelp, “I almost forgot. I cleaned the attic today.”

He groans like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Babe… why would you voluntarily enter the attic. That’s the one part of this house I refuse to enter.”

You ignore him, already swinging your legs off the bed. “No, listen — I found something. I think you’ll really like it.”

He props himself up on one elbow, squinting through his glasses. “Oh? What is it? Old love letters from your angsty high school boyfriend?”

“You mean the one who cried when he found out I liked Gojo Satoru more than him?” you smirk, heading toward the walk-in closet. “Yeah, no.”

You pad barefoot across the room and slide open the double doors. The closet is huge — because of course it is. Satoru insisted on custom shelving, backlighting, and enough hanging space for what he called his “seasonal drip.” But your things have taken over half of it by now, neatly folded sweaters, coats, your woven baskets for accessories. You had tucked the book on the upper shelf earlier after finishing the attic, too tired to sort through it just yet.

It takes a second of rummaging, but you find it: a thick, heavy photo album with a fabric cover that’s fraying slightly at the edges. You had found it in a box labeled with faded marker: JJT Archives.

As you walk back into the bedroom, Satoru’s sprawled on the bed like a lazy cat, hair wild, blanket pushed down to his waist. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the album.

“Oh? What’s this, a cursed object?”

You roll your eyes, climbing back in beside him.

He smacks your butt lightly as you settle under the covers again.

“Satoru!”

“What?” he grins. “You turned your back on me. That’s an invitation.”

You elbow him in the ribs, but you're smiling. “Figured we could look at it together. I think it’s a photo album of sorts.”

His expression softens instantly. “Yeah? Alright. Let’s see what kind of damage my past self got up to.”

You flip the cover open.

The first photo is grainy and a little off-center — a picture of him and Suguru pulling exaggerated faces at the camera, their expressions wild, faces contorted in a weird expression. Satoru snorts.

“Oh, wow,” he says. “Look at us. I told him I’d look better than him if we both pulled a dumb face.”

You study the image closely. Suguru’s hair is tied up, not unlike most of the photos you’ve seen of him, which were during his time as a wanted criminal. 

Satoru’s laugh fades into something quieter.

“That was my old phone. Shoko looked at this picture and said we looked ‘ugly enough to preserve for future generations.’”

The next is a selfie — Satoru smiling into the camera in his black sunglasses, unlike the round ones he wears to protect his sensitive eyes. Suguru is beside him with sunglasses, and Nanami just barely in frame, scowling at the lens like he’s half being forced at gunpoint to participate and half wanting to do it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, amused. “Kento looks so cute. His hairstyle… He definitely had an emo phase.”

“Because he was,” Satoru grins. “And he did have an emo phase. The amount of Visual Kei he listened to… We made him go shopping with us in Harajuku that day. Got the sunnies as a treat for doing well on the mission. And because they were on sale.”

You both laugh, the warmth lingering even as the sound fades. You flip the page.

This one’s softer: Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, and Satoru sitting at a dinner table at someone’s house, a dinner spread between them — looks very much like homemade food. It’s candid. Suguru’s laughing at something and posing with a peace sign. Shoko’s mid-clap, mouth open in laughter. Nanami looks slightly more relaxed than usual, a peace sign on his fingers too. Satoru’s grinning widely, and your heart melts at how lively his smile used to be when he was a teen.

“That was Shoko’s family house,” Satoru murmurs. “She invited us over after a mission. She lived nearby. We just… stayed. Slept in her living room. Talked until like, three in the morning.”

“She really was part of your trio, wasn’t she?” you say softly.

He nods. “Yeah. People always think it was just me and Suguru. But Shoko was there too. She was always there. Holding us together.”

You flip to the next: the entrance ceremony.

A selfie again — this time it looks like Shoko’s doing. They're all grinning like idiots. Principal Yaga is in a corner. Suguru is holding up a peace sign. Shoko’s teeth are out as she grins. Satoru, front and center, is glowing with the kind of cocky, pure-hearted energy only youth can give you, throwing a thumbs up, rounded glasses slipping down his nose.

“Your smile is so big in these, sweetheart. You look beautiful when you smile,” you say softly.

Satoru presses a kiss to your neck in quiet thanks, arm coming around your waist as you both continue flipping through the album.

The next photo is pure chaos: Satoru, Suguru, Nanami, and Haibara standing in the bathroom mirror, toothbrushes in their mouths. Looks like they were having a sleepover of some sort.

You let out a startled laugh.

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute. Was it a sleepover?”

“It was,” Satoru says. “Haibara had to practically force Nanami to come. Too bad Shoko and Utahime couldn’t come. For some reason, dorm restrictions were actually quite strict — not that we’d ever do anything like that. We were like a family.”

You laugh, squeezing his knee under the blankets.

You keep going.

A photo of Suguru with his hair mussed, smiling into the camera like he doesn’t know it’s pointed at him. It's intimate — the angle low, soft light filtering in.

Satoru's voice drops. “I took that. We’d just woken up from a nap in the common room. He hated being caught without brushing his hair, but… he let me keep it. He never had a bad hair day, you know? Was always so particular about it. Only used a specific shampoo that he said his mother would buy for him in the countryside.”

He goes quiet for a long moment, hand flexing slightly on the luminescent film of the album page.

“He really loved his mom.”

You rest your cheek against his arm.

There’s a photo of Shoko tying her Converse, crouched down, her fingers deft and focused. It's an ordinary moment — a cute smile on her face — but something about it feels lived-in. Real.

“Shoko loved this pair,” he chuckles. “She wore them to annoy the elders. They claimed proper shoes were needed if we were to go on missions.”

You grin. “Respect.”

The next is crowded: all of them standing outside a classroom door. Nanami, Shoko, Suguru, Haibara, and Satoru — shoulder to shoulder, smiling like they’re just normal teenagers, not the weapons the Jujutsu world molded them into.

The key highlight of the photo is Satoru’s arms are around Suguru and he has this big, goofy smile on his lips.

“I can’t believe they’re all…” you trail off.

Satoru doesn’t respond right away.

You glance up.

His jaw is tight. His eyes are wet.

“They were… good. All of them,” he says at last, voice barely above a whisper. “They should’ve had more time.”

You nod, curling into his side.

Another photo makes you both pause. It's taken from behind: Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko in matching red soccer jerseys, standing on a field. They're holding up peace signs with their backs to the camera. You can almost hear their laughter, imagine the mud on their shoes, the heat of the sun.

You run your hand down the page.

You flip through more: snapshots of their friend group — sleeping, on trips, in classrooms, in ceremonies. Candid, fleeting, young.

And then — the final ones: close-ups of Suguru.

Photos taken with quiet intention. One where he's clearly caught off guard. One where he's looking out from the bridge. Another where his back is to the camera and he has a small bear keychain on his bag. The sight makes your stomach clench.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does Satoru.

The weight of the past settles thick in the room, like dust stirred from an old shelf. The baking show continues on in the background — a contestant shouting about a collapsed ganache — but it feels distant. Muted. Like it belongs to someone else’s life.

Your hand finds his where it’s resting on the bedspread. His fingers twitch, then curl slowly around yours.

You glance at him.

He’s quiet in that particular way he gets when he’s fighting to stay intact — jaw locked, mouth set, shoulders wound tight with grief. His eyes are glassy, tracking the same photo over and over, like he’s trying to memorize it before it disappears.

Nanami with his dumb emo haircut. His peace signs. Haibara’s joy, how young he looked when he laughed. Suguru’s sleepy, messy hair. That crooked smile. The ghost of laughter in his eyes.

It’s rare to see Satoru this still. Not just physically — but inside. No quip. No grin. Just silence, and the slow breathing of someone on the edge of something sharp.

“I used to think,” he says eventually, voice hoarse, “that we’d grow old together.”

You don’t interrupt. You let the words come, raw and aching.

“Me, Suguru, Shoko,” he murmurs. “Nanami and Haibara. I pictured it sometimes. Thought we’d be old and bitter and still calling each other dumbasses over desserts. Thought maybe… maybe we’d all be able to come back from the shit we did. Thought we’d last”.

He pauses, taking in a deep breath.

“Thought I could save him.”

Your thumb strokes his knuckles.

He blinks fast. Swallows hard.

“I see these pictures and I—I forget he’s gone. Just for a second. And then it hits me all over again. Every fucking time.”

You press your forehead gently to his shoulder. “He was your best friend.”

A hollow laugh escapes him. It sounds like it hurts. “He was everything. The only person who ever really… got me. Not the strongest. Not Gojo Satoru. Just… me.”

You wait.

You let the silence stretch — thick, aching, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

“I hate that I still miss him,” Satoru finally says, voice raw. “I hate that he left. I hate that I couldn’t stop him. But I miss him. Every day. Like an ache in my ribs I forget about until I breathe too deep.”

You turn toward him, hand still wrapped in his. He looks like he’s trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower — a man who’s used to keeping the world up with one hand, now struggling just to hold his own heart in place.

“I miss him too,” you whisper. “I never even met him — but with the way you talk about him, I miss him too. I miss him for what he meant to you. For who he must’ve been, to leave this much of a mark.”

His breath falters. A quiet shudder works through him. You lean up and kiss his cheek, slow and steady, then press another to his temple, just where his hair is growing back in, short and soft. He leans into it, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — like he’s been brittle for a while now and you’re the only thing keeping him from cracking open.

“He would’ve loved this house,” he murmurs, voice thick. “He’d pretend it was too flashy. Say I was compensating for something. But then he’d steal all the good tea and claim it was just to humble me.”

You smile gently, warm against the side of his face. “Well. You do have terrible spending habits.”

That gets a sound out of him — a real laugh, shaky and low in his chest. He presses his forehead to yours.

“He’d have hated the mirror in our bathroom.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, the faintest curve to his lips. “Would’ve said it makes me look even more insufferable than usual.”

You laugh. “To be fair, you are insufferable.”

“Mm. Don’t forget stunning.”

“Of course,” you breathe. “That’s a given. My beautiful, insufferable husband.”

You kiss away some of the tears that have fallen down his pale, scared face, wiping away the tracks as you pull back.

The silence settles again, softer this time. You tug the blanket higher over both of you. His thumb is rubbing slow circles against the back of your hand now — absent, but insistent. Like he’s anchoring himself to you, to this moment, to anything that won’t vanish like the rest.

You watch his face, watch the way his expression drifts somewhere far away and comes back a little more worn every time. A man standing in the ruins of his past, trying to build something worth living in.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He turns, only slightly. But it’s enough. His eyes find yours — wide, blue, shining a little too much even in the low light. You see everything there. The love, the grief, the guilt, the ache. The part of him that never really left that bridge. That battlefield. That moment.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you say, your voice barely above a breath.

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. Like he’s seeing the future and the past crash into each other in the shape of your smile.

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

His hand lifts — trembling just faintly — and he cups your cheek. His thumb swipes gently across your skin, reverent. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, slow and careful, like he’s sealing something sacred inside you. A promise. A memory. A hope.

The baking show buzzes quietly in the background, someone yelling about a collapsed meringue, the absurdity of it all somehow making it feel more real — more here. More now.

Grief still sits in the room, thick like fog, but it no longer feels unbearable. It lingers, yes, but it’s softened at the edges by something gentler. Something like love. Something like healing.

You curl back into him, resting your head against his chest. His hand comes up to cradle your back without thinking. His heartbeat drums steadily beneath your ear — a rhythm that tells you he’s still here. Still trying. Still holding on.

You hold each other in that silence. In that ache. And in the quiet miracle of still being able to love, even when it hurts.

You close the album gently, smoothing your hand over the cover like it’s sacred. And maybe it is. The only reliquary you have left of those years — of who he was, of who they all were, when the world was still a little less cruel.

Satoru shifts a little closer, nosing into the crook of your neck like he’s trying to burrow into the safest place he knows. His hand finds your waist beneath the covers and rests there, thumb absently stroking small circles against your skin.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Mm?”

“Do you think we’ll still be like this when we’re old? All wrinkly and stubborn and falling asleep at nine?”

You smile into the dark. “We already fall asleep at nine.”

He laughs — a soft, sleepy sound. “Okay, fair. But I mean like… old-old. Like, arguing about soup and forgetting where we put our keys kind of old.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks, hair messy and soft and just barely starting to silver at the edges. You think about him with deeper lines around his eyes, laugh lines etched into his skin from years of grinning too wide.

“I think we’ll be annoying,” you say.

“Hell yeah.”

“Annoying and still obsessed with each other.”

“Obviously.”

“Still holding hands in public and making waiters uncomfortable.”

“I plan on kissing you in every checkout line we ever stand in,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to your shoulder to prove it.

You laugh softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love that about me.”

You turn in his arms until you’re face to face. His eyes are warm in the dim light, and you can feel his breath on your lips.

“I do,” you murmur. “I love everything about you.”

He leans in, kisses you — slow and unhurried. Not out of need, but out of affection. Out of something deeper. His hand cradles your jaw as he does it again, then again, softer each time, like he’s trying to say things he doesn’t have words for.

You kiss him back, just as slow.

He pulls back only slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“I want it all with you,” he says. “The boring parts. The little arguments. Taxes. Grocery lists and laundry days and late-night walks when we can’t sleep. All of it. I want to grow old with you.”

Your throat tightens, but not from grief this time. From something tender. Something whole.

“You have me,” you whisper. “For as long as we both get.”

He kisses you again, this time on your nose. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then your lips again, just because he can.

Eventually, you settle into the silence, warm and safe under the covers, his arm around your waist and your head tucked beneath his chin. His breathing evens out first, deep and steady, but his hold on you never loosens.

You stay awake a little longer, just watching him. Memorizing the curve of his mouth, the softness in his face, the way he looks at peace when he’s finally, finally allowed to rest.

And before you let yourself drift too, you whisper it one last time, just to be sure he hears it — even if he’s already asleep.

“I’ll love you when we’re old. And after that, too.”

And in his sleep, Satoru smiles.

u guys i'm genuinely sooo devastated over jjk it isnt funny i cried to sleep the other night thinking abt satoru :)

[gasp-hehe]

I was shot 57 times.

*𝗚𝗼𝗷𝗼 𝘄𝗶𝗻𝘀.*

[gasp-hehe]

"Please, do not ignore my story. Your donation and sharing this message is a part of your humanity and support for us. Every help, no matter how small, makes a huge difference in my life and my children's lives. Be our voice, be the hope for those who have lost everything." 🇵🇸🍉🙏🏼

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #521 )✅️

Share, donate, help us survive. 🕊️❤️

In a corner of Gaza, my family and I are drowning in destruction, with the echoes of suffering surrounding us. I sat beside my modest tent, hastily erected after losing my home in the latest bombing. The faces of my family tell stories of patience and resilience, with lines of time etched upon them, as if they were records of unforgettable events. 🇵🇸⏳🍉

I once lived in a small home, filled with the laughter and voices of my children. Today, I have become a witness to the agony of displacement. The bombing forced me to flee with my children after a shell struck our home, leaving behind years of memories and simple belongings I never imagined would become unreachable. 🏚️💨

Every morning, I leave my tent and go to work, using a clay oven to provide food for my children. Meanwhile, my youngest son heads to the charity kitchens that offer aid, waiting for long hours under Gaza’s scorching sun. Despite the exhaustion that weighs down his frail body, he carries the food mixed with his tears and returns with a fake smile, hiding behind it the burdens of his struggles. 🍞🥀

At night, when everyone else is asleep, I remain seated at the entrance of my tent, gazing at the dark sky, reminiscing about days gone by… about my home that was once filled with warmth. Yet, I still find remnants of hope in my heart—a hope that one day peace will return, and my children and I will live in a new home, filled with joy. 🌙🏡✨

In moments of solitude, I find peace in prayer and supplication. I plead to God to protect Gaza and its people, to wipe away the dust of sorrow from our hearts. I always repeat🇵🇸🍉🌿

"We are here to remind the world that we are stronger than war, and we will rebuild our lives anew, no matter the cost!" 🙏

[gasp-hehe]

I'm in this cycle all the goddamn time, opening tumblr just to witness this.

when i think of post-canon Ijichi i think of him turning thirty and thinking “i’m older than Gojo ever got to be” watching the students graduate and thinking “i wish Gojo was here to see them” seeing new students come in and thinking “Gojo would’ve loved them” seeing a new dessert shop opening up and thinking “Gojo would be so excited about this” getting a phone call in the middle of the night and no matter how many years pass he still expects to hear Gojo on the other end of the phone asking him to run errands with him. maybe i’m wrong but i don’t think Ijichi ever gets over it.

[gasp-hehe]

MY SHAYLASSSS

omg i just watched a reel (by the excellent joshsvoid) and fuck fuck FUCK. Satoru has been ostracised because of his strength, one of the reasons Suguru understood him so well is because he could partake in that strength, they were equals. It's why even in his students he fostered the strong. He's had doubts about protecting the weak, after all they're so far removed from him, but they control every aspect of his life. Jujutsu society is so peculiar and out of sights to a normal human being, but to him it was everything he knew. Children dying, being sacrificed, put to work, that was his normal. Yuta having that insurmountable strength and choosing to be good was so important to him. Yuji being a human regardless of the curse inside of him was essential to him. They could understand him to some extent, the same way someone moving to a foreign country would still prefer their home country's food or culture. It's not the same but it'll do. But nobody could've understood him better than Riko, their birth had specific purposes, they died for those purposes, their entire life revolved around that purpose. Personality wise, situation wise, all of it. Honestly for the first time I understand just how much her death impacted the story. Suguru, Satoru, Toji, all of them in-turn ended up fucked up beyond measure. To see an alternate version of his life play out right in front of him, and then again through Suguru. Every single time it must've cracked and broke his fucking soul. Maybe he was even jealous of others. I have so many more thoughts about this, but I wanna end by reflecting on something my mother always told me. "Your school days are the best times of your life. You might not know it or agree now, but you will in the future." I remember hating this when I was 7 and wanted to drive a car. I remember hating this when I was 11 and had no friends. I remember hating this when I was 14 and starting high school. I remember hating this throughout, regretting what could've been, never living in the moment, blaming everything. But I hated it because I understood it. A big part is definitely how society around us is structured, we can't do anything about that, but we could hangout with our friends and bitch about our problems. We could be dramatic over fallen friendships and petty betrayals. We could do anything, and we could be secure and loved and broken and alive. I think Satoru understood that too, that's why in his happiest he's in his uniform. That's why he lets Yaga scold him. That's why he teases Utahime. That's why he fights so hard for the next generation. And that's why in the airport, that's how he was. In his last blue spring of youth.

[gasp-hehe]

I haven't been checking most of my notifications for days but this is too important to ignore. If anyone can help please do.

No safety. No food. No aid. No water. No healthcare. No education. Is this what it means to live? Is this what world accept as life?

If a group of animals were trapped, starved, and cut off from the world like this, people would be outraged. But because it's us—human beings—somehow, the world looks away.

These are unbearable days. Everything feels heavy. Each hour presses on my chest like I’m being suffocated.

My family needs urgent help.

Basic survival has become nearly impossible. Bread—just bread—now costs over $25 a day to make.

We are not asking for luxury. We are begging for life.

Please, if you’re reading this: help. Reblog this post. Talk about us. Donate if you can. Even a small act can mean everything right now.

#crisis #humanrights #emergency #donate #pleasehelp #tumblrcommunity #survivestories #reblogtohelp #signalboost

[gasp-hehe]

This is gorgeous, went through all the reblogs and comments and the insights. Lord the human brain and it's capabilities. Bloody spectacular please show the artist as much love as possible.

Gallery of violence

2024 art series representing acts of violence of Kenjaku, Gojo, Sukuna, Yuji and Mahito

[gasp-hehe]

After work with Gojo Satoru

cw: satoru gojo x female!reader, consensual-somnophilia, edging, fingering, oral (f and m receiving), p in v, doggy style/face down ass up, just some rough love makin' honestly

W.C: 1.9k

MDNI

Satoru gets home late, as usual. He's got little to no will to do anything regardless of his infinite energy, sometimes he wonders what his limit would be without RCT. He doesn't dwell on it too much, a glass of water, a shower, and a new pair of clothes later he's in front of you.

Satoru can't help himself from stopping to just admire you, you're glowing with a thin sheen of sweat on you and he's positive you're fucking perfect. There's nothing he needs more when he comes home from a long day of dealing with sick old fucks than to see you all sweetly splayed out for him laying in bed soundly asleep, wearing his shirt. He thought he was burnt-out, guess you always surprise him huh? Fuck if he can't help himself from stuffing you full right there. Buuttt, he's a gentleman, which is why he's gonna prep you first.

"Need ya t'a be all nice and wet f'me first." He mumbles before kneeling in front of you, lightly tracing the outer edges of his shirt before he slips his hands under your thighs to pull you right where he wants you.

He notices you stirring, debating about waking you up. But when he spreads your thighs, he sees it. You're wearing no panties, your heat seeping past and staining your inner thighs.

"Oh. Ohhh baby, miss me that much huh? I'mma make up for all that lost time love, promise." He whispers, more to himself or your pussy than you.

Satoru wastes no time diving right in. He starts borderline making out with your cunt. It has you whining and bucking in your sleep, not that he cared, because your hole was rewarding him with globs of sickly sweet nectar, just coating his lips. He might just cum from this, he starts humping the bed as he eats you out, flicking his nose on your clit and thrusting his tongue into your pulsing pussy. He's just about gone when he feels your hand reach for his hair and pulll.

Satoru glances up at you with dilated eyes and heaving breaths, almost like he's the one getting eaten out. In your half-delirious and definitely sleepy stupor you don't even understand what you did, but you see little drops of you dripping down his chin to his shirt like condensation and you can't help but moan.

You all but leap into him for a kiss, but he holds you back, "Sorry babe, I uh, I've got some prior commitments."

Satoru pins his weight on you, physically restraining you, then he goes back in, this time straight to your clit. He wraps his lips around your nub, looking straight at you before he sucks. You almost scream, locking your legs around his head and tugging at his hair. Eyes instantly screwed shut in pleasure.

"Look at me." Satoru says, but you know him well enough to know it was more of an order. You glance down at him, his eyes almost glowing in the dark. He maintains eye contact as he spits straight into your core, watching it wink around his saliva.

You can't help but whimper as he starts pushing his spit in with his middle finger, playing you like an instrument. Your brain's riddled with pleasure, making your body comply exactly how he wants, making all your thoughts scream Satoru, making you drool as you look at him.

"Aww love, don't worry I'll take care of ya." He snickers, you barely register it because in the next second, his finger is buried to the hilt inside of you. And instead of moving, he just stays there, inside your cunt.

"S'toru please, baby please."

"Wat'cha want darling? Y'know 'm a kind man, you just gotta ask."

"Wan', want more, no need y'to"

"Need me to what? Hit this spot?" Satoru curves his finger, accurately ramming your g-spot. And once he starts? Oh he doesn't relent. Mercilessly ramming it until you just about cum. Which he takes as his cue to stop all movement and sheath his finger into you.

You sit up, "Huh, no Satoru I was gonna cum why'd you stop?" you can't help your body from the wreaking sob. Mind so foggy that there's only one thing on it, and this fucker right here took it from you.

"Now now, if it was g'nna be this easy it's not fair darling. I just worked my ass off, how 'bout you work a 'lil for this orgasm huh? Satoru tsks, smirking like a little bitch.

You're grumbling, hands balled in anger while your tears of frustration hang right on your lashes.

"You're crying so pretty f'me huh?" Satoru glances down at you as he says this, taking in the sight of your glistening pussy lips, practically speaking to him.

You roll your eyes at him, shifting on wobbly knees 'til you're in front of him and his arrogant face.

"What do you want?"

He strokes his chin, feigning thought. "Hmm, while I would appreciate food, I think I had my fill right there." And he even has the audacity to wink down at you while licking the remnants of your juices of his lips.

Then he glances down at yours, and it's like a lightbulb went off in his head with how bright he's grinning. "Yours look a little chapped there though darling, think they could use some gloss?"

You'd laugh at this in any other situation, but with the ache between your legs growing and the wet spot in his sweats, all you care about is giving Satoru what he needs.

With slightly shaky hands you pull down both his sweats and boxers in one go, having no patience for teasing. His cock springs up and practically bounces against his chest, leaving a small dribble of pre along the way.

There's quite a few titles Satoru holds, 'The Strongest', 'The Hottest' (self-proclaimed), 'Yours', but his cock? They share those titles. The light blush dusting his cheek, which in due time will go to his ears and neck adorning the tip of his cock in the very same colour. The little jerks it does, mimicking his breathing pattern. You could see his pulse quicken with how he begins to flush more, all the way down to the very tip. Your memory could rival a photograph's accuracy on this, because one thing you do not play about? How pretty Satoru and his cock are.

You're broken out of your fantasy with Satoru's giggle, "If I didn't know any better I'd guess you have a crush on me~" he manages to squeak out through another fit of giggles.

You can't help the quirk of your lips, amusement in your eyes when you decide to use this to catch him off-guard. While Satoru is still going on like some child, you envelope his head into your mouth.

His eyes scrunch up as he grabs your hair, holding you at bay before making you sink deeper. Your head bobs along as you suck him further, tonguing at the vein on the underside of his dick that has him groaning like such a slut.

"Yeahh thaaaat's it. Missed this, missed you, shit I love-fuck!" You don't let him finish as he hits the back of your throat, cheeks hollowed out to put more pressure. You gently caress his balls as he starts slowly thrusting into you. Trying to gauge your limits.

He's outright moaning now, not bashfully, but proudly. Using your mouth like a toy. And when you tongue the underside of his head? He's gone, he tenses up and whimpers.

"Shit, I- fuck." He keeps babbling nonsense as he slowly eases out of you. You don't make it any easier, prodding at his slit, kissing up and down his shaft, you both were a match made in hell.

Once he's finally all out, he draaags his cock slowly across your cheeks. Painting your face in his rich and buttery pre, giving your lips the gloss and shine just like he promised. And you? You take it, sat there like a doll for him as you're both catching your breaths.

"Turn around, all 4's."

"What?"

"All 4's, now."

You scramble to get into position, your focus on one thing and one thing only. Satoru peels back the fabric sticking to you, then holding you still as he almost inspects you. He drags his eyes over your dripping slit, guaranteed to make a mess of the sheets. He spreads your folds apart and has a looong sniff.

"Satoru."

He just chuckles, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't as desperate as you, but he just can't help himself from playing with you a bit more.He sinks two fingers into you, watching the way you're hips jerk, as if asking him to hurry up. The second he's buried to the hilt you're finished.

"Please-" He twists his fingers to interrupt you, successfully shutting down your train of thought as it's occupied by his long fingers burning into your soft spots.

"Fuuck, please jus' shit please keep going" You beg him, repeating the same scene over again while looking at him with a dazed look in your glossy eyes.

Satoru coos at you with honeyed words, luring you further in. He makes such a slick mess out of you, the squelching wetness echoing in the silent room. And then suddenly, he sinks another finger, while using his thumb to draw messy circles on your clit. He's going so fast your hands collapse under you, leaving you writhing into the pillow.

"S'too much please wait jus'-"

"Nah. First it wasn't enough, now 's 'too much'? Make up your mind baby."

He has you seeing stars in no time, leaving your legs quivering because he just doesn't stop. Your poor pussy leaking and making a mess as you're forced to just lay there and take it. By the time you come down from your high, your thighs, Satoru's hand, and the sheets are soaked. While you're still reeling in oversensitivity, you feel Satoru line himself up with you, his tip leaving small pecks along your pussy lips.

"Nghh- S'sensitive, 'toru wait-"

"Come on baby, you can take it yeah? I know you're a good girl f'me ain'tcha?"

You wanna say no, you wanna cry and insist you can't take it, but instead you obediently arch your back and your pussy opens up invitingly for him. There's only one brain cell at use currently in your body, and it's located in your pussy.

Satoru hammers into you like a man possessed, you wouldn't be surprised if he was. He's hitting you everywhere, and he doesn't plan on stopping anytime soon.

"This is what I want. None of that curses bullshit, none of those clanhead bitches. Jus' my favourite girl and her cunt."

He can't stop himself, Satoru is notoriously bad with his words, and often his actions can't convey the depth of his feelings. But when he's fucking you? He's taking all that he has, feels, has ever been and will ever be and stuffing it so deep in you that your body understands. It understands his love, it understands his pain, and it understands him.

So no you won't blame Satoru when he wrings another orgasm out of you, leaving you shaking. You won't blame him when he stuffs you so full, reaching places you didn't even know existed and makes you walk with a limp. You won't blame him when he's rendered you useless and turned you into mush, because that's who Satoru is and how he loves.

And he knows you love him because you're ready to do it all over again in a heartbeat.

A.N: this man has possessed me like a vice and made me pump this out in two hours. I'm posting this on my fucking phone because my laptop is glitching, I'm hella mad. The things I do for you Satoru. Regardless, opinions, discussion, even criticism is appreciated, thank you.

[gasp-hehe]

my glorious blue-eyed king it's fine, plot moment or not. you are my human and i will never find another like you. it ain't the looks or the powers, it's just you.

With love, always and forever.

[gasp-hehe]

OIKAWA TOORU IS TOM HOLLAND WHEN HE PERFORMED 'UMBRELLA' FOR THE LIP SYNC BATTLE. Lemme explain the vision; post!timeskip Oikawa with all that athleticism and muscle and dance skills he picked up in Brazil. Combined with his love for promo, absolute banger media training and stellar fucking charm + charisma.

This man would go extra, he'd be a diva and proud and do it all over again. Fuck ego and fragile masculinity, he'd damn well do the fucking WAP. So yes, the very fucking least he'd be doing is creating THE iconic moment in the lip sync battle or go down trying because this man (mine) comes to win.

[gasp-hehe]

my man is my man with a pot belly and receding hairline!!!

Gentle reminder that if you don’t like every version of Satoru Gojo u are a fake ass Gojo fan. Cause I’ve seen too much shit about this on twitter today. Bye!

Also thank you MAPPA and Gege Akutami (unfortunately)!

[gasp-hehe]

suguru in love is riptide. he might be indie and rock and punk and goth but he's just a regular guy, that's what he truly is.

[gasp-hehe]

OMG I JUST GOT MY FIRST MUTUAL EEEEEEEE

[gasp-hehe]

omegaverse

so a/b/o usually has an m/m audience, but it's based off of the biology of a f/m like mammal reproduction. now what if in a new word where it's mainly just betas, some people present during puberty. instead of male omegas having vaginas or cloacas or absurdly small penises, they're just guys who go through heat and are ig more submissive and shit. and instead of female alphas just ceasing to exist they could be your average woman just with 'alpha traits'.

i think this gives some really interesting opportunities to explore like maybe a male omega's precum practically makes sure that it sorta grips or suctions so that like it'll take in terms of heat. or hell a female alpha being able to idk physically enable her womb to be fucked while she's in a rut. we could finish off with an omega never being able to get off while they're in heat until they have an alpha and alphas fighting other alphas (like death matches) during their rut.

this gives us some more logical and fun ways to explore some lesser-focused on things like omega-omega relationships, alpha-alpha relationships, female alpha representation, male omega with a female alpha, and this fits into the whole secondary sex is unknown until you present thing. idk i haven't explained my thoughts well but idc because i'm sleepy.

[gasp-hehe]

i love love love this account so much like haikyuu in 2025 GIMME

talent is something you make bloom