lvrsatoru

[lvrsatoru]

i genuinely consider every new picture that drops from that fuckass movie psychological terrorism. what do you mean geto carried around a bear keychain and a tamagotchi? what do you mean gojo played the guitar? what do you mean nanami and haibara were also very much part of the trio? what do you mean they slept on the floor like a pile of kittens? they played pranks on their teachers, they had slumber parties, they invited each other to their families' homes. the soft looks and genuine big smiles and tender touches. they were all best friends! they were all just kids! god. they were just. kids. i'm sick to my stomach.

[lvrsatoru]

he knows you’re watching

[lvrsatoru]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch10. what if?

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency department, just got broken up with your boyfriend of 7 years, and have been taking care of your sick mother ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket to more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance plan in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation with him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity, mentions of cigarettes, depression/anxiety; btw slight age gap bc gojo in this fic is 34 n reader is 29

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 10/x

ᰔ words. 7.2k

a/n. helloooooooooo my ihm loves!!! tysm for tuning into this new chapter. sorry i am always an hour late to posting them LOL but anywho...as always...hope you enjoy...see ya at the bottom...

nav. masterlist

Your eyes flutter open at the early hours of the morning, chest feeling flush from the deep sleep that had just enveloped you, possibly the first time in months you’ve slept through multiple hours without waking up at the top of every hour in cold sweats of stress.

The satin sheets are soft against the skin of your thighs where your nightgown has ridden up, feeling silky and smooth, and when you twist your torso a little, you feel a heaviness in the divot of your waist. Your sleepy eyes glance down to see a strong arm laying over you.

You panic at first, tensing up immediately, before you recognize it as Gojo’s. His hand lays weakly on the sheets in front of you, thumb twitching slightly in his sleep, but even in its lax state, you can still see pulsing veins trailing up the back of it, lining into his bicep into his porcelain skin that’s illuminated by the light just outside the windows. Smooth and pretty, but masculine at the same time, and you just now see that his knuckles are slightly red and there’s a small cut over the third one.

You lay still, unsure of what to do, and as you blink at the wall across from you, your mind wanders back to last night. The feeling of rage in your blood, unsettling in the moonlight, only to be completely dissolved by the feeling of Gojo’s arms pulling you into him, and holding you tight to his chest. So warm and soft, his comforting scent, the nuzzle of his chin above your head… when you close your eyes, you remember the sight of him hovering over you, that conflicted look on his face that was almost delicate with vulnerability, before it disappeared as he fell to your side and suddenly he was holding you in bed and you fell asleep in his arms. The memories have your cheeks feeling hot, and the fabric of your nightgown becomes suffocating.

You turn your head a little to glance over your shoulder, and you see that somewhere along the night, Gojo took his hoodie off, and you realize he’s shirtless behind you. Your heart beats a little faster in your chest, the otherwise shallow cadence of your early morning breathing picking up in speed, rousing you from sleep, and now you were so wide awake you could feel every sensation of his body pressed up against you from behind.

When you squirm a little, he mumbles deeply behind you before his arm curls around your waist even tighter and he pulls you in closer to him. You gasp, feeling him nuzzle his nose into your hair and his thumb presses into your rib cage right beneath your breast.  

“Satoru,” you murmur, shifting more in his strong hold, and when you do, your butt wiggles against the front of him and—

Oh.

Oh.

He’s—

He’s hard.

And you’re almost entirely shocked still from the way it feels against your ass. 

Even through the thick fabric of his sweatpants, he feels heavy and imposing and hot and big—

You wiggle your butt against him a little bit more, curiously, because you can’t help it, and he groans near your ear.

“Mm,” he mumbles, deep and guttural. “Don’t.”

“Why are you hard right now?” you hiss at him.

“Huh.” Is the only noise he makes as he tries to drift off back to sleep.

“I asked you a question.”

He shifts with a sigh. “Morning wood. Testosterone is higher in the AM. You’re a nurse, you should know that.”

“Well make it go away. It’s uncomfy.”

“How?” he asks with amusement in his voice, like he’s hoping you’ll continue to feign innocence because it was the cute thing to do.

“I don’t know. Go tug on it in the bathroom.”

You feel him exhale an amused scoff, then he presses his lips to the nape of your neck lazily, making you gasp, and you feel his mouth stretching into a smile against your warm skin. “You’re funny.”

The intimacy was searing, it spreads a heat across your entire body, and god, his voice… that deep, groggy sound that rumbles in his throat with the slight drawl in his tone…and when he presses a kiss behind your ear, it was over for you.

“Hey,” he says softly, to get your attention, his chin nuzzling the crown of your head, “thank you.”

“For what?” you exhale, somewhat airy, as if trying to prove that you’re not entirely affected by his touch.

He kisses the side of your neck. “For last night.”

Your heart is beating fast, and you blink a few times before you say, “I’m still mad at you.”

He sighs. “I figured as much,” he says and then he drops his head back down onto the pillow in retreat.

Would it be so wrong?

Is the question you ask yourself.

You’ve already pushed his buttons before,

And maybe it wasn’t wise to do so again,

Given the emotionally charged and rather tender moment you two shared last night,

One that has your head swimming with what-ifs that were still left unanswered,

But you find yourself wanting him now more than ever.

A feeling you don’t want to confront in your head,

But one you feel coarse throughout your body.

You let out a shaky breath and push yourself back against his front, feeling his rigid erection press up against the flesh of your ass, and he lets out a choked groan, one that sounds both aroused and mostly confused, before his arm slides down from under your breasts to hold you around your lower torso instead, almost anchoring you to whatever grinding movements you were making against him.

“You keep this up,” he says, “and I can’t make any promises about what happens next.”

You shuffle your thighs, both because you were aroused but also to coyly deflect any responsibility in riling him up, despite the fact that your ass still brushes against his front from the motion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you quip, innocently. 

“You’re lucky that I play along,” he says, and it felt like a reference to all of the times he just chooses to deal with your sporadic attitudes like it was no big deal even though you’re sure it would frustrate the hell out of any other man. 

His arm suddenly releases hold of your waist, then his palm smooths over the hill of your hip and down the velvet skin of your thigh, the texture of his hand rough compared to the duvet half-laying over you right now. You clench your thighs together, any and all movements of yours coming to a halt from the violent reaction you have to his touch, and there’s a small little voice in your head that’s screaming bad bad bad bad bad bad BAD idea to let him touch you like this but when he kisses down the curve of your neck, it’s entirely drowned out.

“Waiting for you to slap me,” he mumbles, “aaaaaany second now.”

“I’ve sworn off violence,” you gasp when his fingers feather a touch near your inner thigh.

“How convenient.” He pulls you in closer to him as he continues to tease you with his fleeting touch. “Your skin is so soft,” he says, pads of his fingers pressing into the plush of your thigh, his thumb hooking up the hem of your nightgown to gain more access. His nose brushes the hair away at the nape of your neck before he inhales indulgently. “Smells nice too.”

“Satoru.” Maybe it was a warning, or maybe it was just an acknowledgement of the man behind you that’s slowly touching parts of you that were unmapped by him before. Hell, it could’ve even come off as an encouraging moan of his name, for all you knew. You could hardly hear yourself think, let alone what you say.

When his lips press more firmly on the side of your neck, at that sensitive curve of supple skin, you’re unable to hide the reaction your body has to him anymore, a soft moan leaving your lips as you squirm with arousal and a borderline impatience. He pushes his front against your backside in response to the noise, and your eyes shut close to intensify the feeling.

He’s less chatty than usual, and you figure it’s because he’s sleepy and his brain’s not working, and maybe that’s why he’s tolerable to you right now, enough so to where you’re not too pissed off or annoyed at something he has said or done, hence why he has the opportunity to snake his hand up the front of your torso right now without you smacking him across the face for it. At least that’s the excuse you’ll tell yourself.

When his thumb brushes against your nipple, you let out an airy moan and press your entire body back against him with full desire.

“Fuck, you don’t wear anything underneath these?” he all but growls, his hand cupping your breast, gently kneading the softness that he finds and you swear you feel his cock jump in his boxers.

“W-Why would I wear a bra while I’m sleeping and at home?” you breathlessly manage to say.

“Well it’s hard for me to picture you braless underneath gowns that make you look like a 17th century pilgrim.”

Oh. Okay, yeah, there it was. That urge to smack him.

But the thought melts away when his thumb and index finger pinch your nipple, harsh in grip but gentle when he pulls on it, and you’re fully grinding your ass against him at this point, the arousal coiling tightly in your lower tummy, only barely relieved by the tight press of your thighs together.

The large span of his hand squeezes both your tits at the same time, making you moan against the pillow, a sound he reacts to by fully bucking his hips against your rear. “God, knowing that you don’t wear anything underneath these is gonna torture me whenever I see you around the house now,” he acknowledges with a sigh, forehead dropping to rest on your temple as his messy fringe falls against your eyelashes. 

The warmth of his hand leaves your chest as it finds its way smoothing down your midriff, and he briefly digs the heel of his palm into the soft plush of your lower belly, almost as if to experiment, and you completely jump and then writhe in his hold from the ache of pleasure that courses through you. He’s pressing open mouthed wet kisses against your neck now, more liberal with the groans and grunts that he leaves against the wake of your feverish skin as he grinds against you, and the tips of his fingers slip past the band of your panties but—

He can’t get any further than that.

His lips leave your neck and he lifts his head up a little to glance at the state of your thighs, and then he looks down at your face. “Spread your legs.”

You pull a pillow to your face so you can hide your flushed cheeks from him. You’re breathing fast and then sniffle a little against the cover. “Too much,” you muffle into it.

For fucks sake, you weren’t a virgin. You’ve had your fair share of sex in this life at your age, as you’re sure he has too. Yet for some reason the sensations, the touches, the sounds, everything he’s giving you feels so much more intense than anything else you’ve ever had in your life and you’re not sure you can handle it. At least not in any way where you can hide how deeply, deeply, deeply turned on you were right now.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice surprisingly reassuring, but that somehow makes you blush even more, and he gently nips at the lobe of your ear with his teeth while his thumb rubs soothing circles over your lower belly, “it’ll feel good. Promise. And if it’s too much, just elbow me in the ribs.”

“Thaf’s not a proffer (propper) safeword,” you muffle into the pillow.

“Baby. I don’t mean to sound rude, but do you really need a safeword just for me to touch your pussy?”

Oh.

Hearing him so casually call you baby right now did something to you…and there’s no way to even put it into words, just a feeling of visceral arousal that has you instantly melting and sweetly opening your legs for him, and he kisses the hill of your cheekbone before he settles his head back down on the pillow. He gives you his outstretched arm to rest on, your head falling on top of his warm muscled bicep, all your day-two salon blowout hair scattered across the pillow and tickling his skin, and you have to hold your breath when his hand slips right into your panties and his middle and ring fingers glide between your slick folds.

“Fuck,” he shakily exhales behind you, his touches moving with ease from the wetness, smearing it up to your clit where he rubs soft, teasing, agonizingly slow circles that match the lucidity of his sleepy state, “you’re so wet.” 

“N—” you gasp when he draws them faster. “I’m not,” you insist. 

“You’re gonna argue with me right now when I’ve got the proof all over my fingers?” he drawls near your ear, abandoning your clit in favor of slipping two of his thick fingers inside of you so suddenly that your entire body curls up in pleasure, thighs clenching together tightly but his hand is still strong enough to move between their pressure as he slowly pumps his fingers in and out, in and out, in and out of you, curled upwards to that spot inside that has you seeing white. 

You moan with no concern of the sound anymore, freely and whiny into the air, and he ruts his hips against your ass in response to the noise, which only elicits more from you. “Keep ‘em spread,” he tells you, voice strained through his own arousal, knuckles pushing up on your inner thigh to prod you open. 

Ten minutes ago, he’d have never even gotten close to seeing let alone touching the most intimate parts of you. And now, his fingers are knuckle deep inside of you. But it wasn’t enough, you’ve become greedy, and you want more.

“Satoru—” you whine, hand shooting out to grab his wrist, feeling the tilt of it towards your pussy as he continues to casually finger you while you struggle to listen to him—…struggle to keep your thighs open in the face of the desperate arousal that spreads across all your senses. “Mm, faster—”

“Would you kill me if I asked you to beg for it?” he huffs, but you can hear the grin in his voice, like he knew he was pushing it, that insufferably cocky side of him you’d usually despise if you didn’t feel his slick knuckles against your inner thigh every time he pushed his fingers all the way inside.

You turn your face into his outstretched arm, eyes shut close. “Just—” He cuts you off when his thumb finds your swollen clit, the coarse pad of it running over the bundle of nerves as he shallowly continues to fuck you with his fingers, “just do it faster—”

He slows down the pace, thumb entirely abandoning your clit all together, making you gasp, and you hear his voice near your ear when he says, “how about a ‘please’?”

“Oh my god, okay, please, you asshole!” you all but scream, nails digging into his wrist now, dangerously close to his pulse, and you make a mental note to kill him for this later, but you don’t get past the first few words in your head before you hear him say,

“Ehh I’ll take what I can get,” and then the pure pleasure of his fingers relentlessly slamming into you takes over anything else.

He kisses the crown of your head, murmuring words of sweet praise into your hair, words you couldn’t even make out if you tried, because that dull ache of pleasure in your lower belly just builds and builds and builds, even further when you glance down at the sight of him pumping his fingers inside of you over and over. Your head plops down onto the pillow gently when his arm escapes from under, so that he can wrap it around your waist, trying his best to hold you still as you squirm from the pure pleasure, but he abandons the attempt to impatiently yank your gown up instead, your warm breasts becoming exposed to cold air and he squeezes them in his hand roughly before pinching your nipple, making you writhe and arch your back. The grip you had on the wrist of his pounding hand was now seethingly harsh, nails digging deep enough to draw blood, borderline trying to slow him down from just how seriously he took your request for him to go faster, because it was almost too much, but in the most blisteringly arousing way possible.

“Please, Satoru, I’m so close—” you whine, and the second he hears the hint of a plea in your voice, his other hand slips past the fabric of your panties and finds your clit, all four fingers relentlessly rubbing back and forth against the sensitive bud, making you scream, the heel of his palm placing a constant pressure on your lower belly, and when he curls his fingers inside of you, hitting that sweet spot that makes you see stars, you completely come undone, your orgasm washing over you as your walls flutter around his fingers that continue to coax you through every pulsating sensation, moans spilling from your lips, squirming from the pleasure, before you’re completely spent and your body slowly goes limp, relaxed, face halfway shoved into the pillow and teary eyes shut close in ecstasy, hand laying weakly in front of you on top of satin sheets as you try to regain your breath.

You hear Gojo huffing slightly behind you too. He pulls his fingers out of you and you can barely see over your shoulder that he brings them to his mouth. Fuck you need to see it. Need to see the sight of him licking them clean. But all you hear in time is the lewd pop sound when he pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he practically hisses, sucking a sharp breath in through his teeth, and he sounds desperate when he says, “let me eat you out, please—”

“No—” you gasp, a little too quickly and a little too sharp, perching yourself up onto your elbow slightly so you can turn your head to look at him. He’s looking at you with wide blue eyes, completely at halt, like whatever your next wish was would be his command. But he also looks like he wants to stuff his face between your thighs. The duality of man.

You’re still heaving from your orgasm, feeling misty in your chest, eyelashes fluttering with a slight hesitation to say what’s on your tongue because you know it’s only because you’re scared of the intimacy, and yet you want it all at the same time, too.

“Just fuck me,” you say, and to prevent sounding needy, “I have places to be.”

You briefly bite your tongue in regret over the addition, worrying it sounded pretentious and cunty and perhaps too princessy for his taste, but instead he loses his shit. Evident in the broken and desperate groan that leaves his lips, the way he immediately starts fumbling with his sweatpants then his boxers to pull himself out and press the hot tip of his erection against your ass, insanely relished in the fact that you just asked him to fuck you, which should sound like music to his ears at this point based on how strained and hard his boner’s been poking at your ass for the past twenty minutes. And it’s a strange concept, one that has you feeling delirious with confidence as you realize that one of the hottest men you know feels like he’s the lucky one here because he gets to stick his dick inside of you.

You fall back down onto your side in as casual of a way as you could manage, and his strong arm immediately wraps tight around your waist to pull all the softness of you against all the rigidity of him, into that same spooning position that got you into this arousing mess in the first place. You can feel him shifting quickly behind you, mattress dipping with hasty movements as he slides a palm between your thighs then lifts one up to spread you open for him, and then he’s pumping himself in his hand, once, twice, face buried in the crook of your neck as he indulges in a few broken groans, the sound making you point your knee high up towards the ceiling, cheeks flush and almost ashamed by how badly you need him to tear your open right now. There’s no teasing, or tormenting, or taunting from him like there usually is, all of that skipped on the basis of the sheer desperation that coats the shaky breaths he continues to exhale behind you. He lets you bite down on his hand as he yanks your soaked panties to the side and rubs his throbbing length between your slick folds, tip bumping against your clit, his precum smearing over it before he wraps a fist around his cock to position himself at your entrance and then slowly stretches you out, inch by inch, murmuring a deep and sleepy shhh it’s okay near your ear when he hears you whine and whimper from the heavy intrusion, before he’s buried to the hilt inside of you.

“Oh my god,” he sighs, almost at the same time that you do too, and you hear him swallow hard, his cock twitching inside of you. His arm wraps around you tighter, pulling you flush against his front as he presses sweet kisses behind your ear and you two just stay like this for what feels like eternity, his chest expanding in rugged and uneven breaths, like he’s savoring the sensation of being inside of you, before you just can’t take it anymore and wiggle your hips for him to just move already.

“Please, Satoru,” you whine, sniffling a little from the pure arousal, your nails digging into the skin of his forearm, “please—, move.”

He gently nibbles the lobe of your ear, withdrawing his hips back until he’s almost all the way out, save for the tip, before languidly pushing into you again, and your hand reaches out to grab the pillow in front of you to shove your face into to muffle your moan. 

“I must still be dreaming,” he groans, slowly fucking you now with no rhythm or pace, just pure instinct like this is what he was made for, “there’s just—fuck,” he grunts when you clench around him tightly, “there’s just no way you’re letting me do this right now.”

“Mmff,” you muffle into the pillow, pushing your ass against his hips as your form of charity, and he uncrosses one of his arms from your waist so that his hand can snake up to cup your breast in his palm, and all the words you could possibly come up with in your head dissolve into a moan of pleasure instead.

“So tight, god, you feel so good,” he mumbles, his nose nuzzling into your hair as he breathes in deep, and you feel like your cheeks are on fire.

As he continues to knead your breast in his palm, then the other, then squeezes both at the same time, you rock your hips back gently into his, your arm reaching behind yourself, fingertips grazing the short hair of his undercut before you find yourself gripping at the soft tufts above it. You hear him inhale sharply, then he kisses your temple in encouragement as his thrusts pick up in pace and you feel that simmering ache of pleasure in your lower belly grow fiercer. Like he can read your mind, his hand leaves your tits, smoothing down your torso to lay flat against your lower belly, and he sighs in content when he can feel how deep he is underneath his palm over your belly.

You sigh into the pillow, over and over again, as he minds his business in rutting his hips into yours and makes it clear to you that he’s more than enjoying himself from the guttural groans that leave his lips from the pleasure. And when you arch your back further, an invitation that he just can’t refuse, he’s suddenly turning over, making you roll onto your stomach, and he holds himself up on one arm with his chest pressed firmly to your back before he pulls your panties halfway down your thighs and slides a pillow under your tummy, your hips now raised higher for him to slip his cock right into you again, so smooth from how slick you are but you still feel that delicious stretch from the girth of him, and the angle that he gets on you like this, with your ass up in the air, paired by the feeling of his balls slapping against your skin with every thrust that he resumes on you, has you about ready to scream.

“S-Satoru—” you whimper, arms stretching out in front of you as you push your ass back into him, forehead plopping down onto the pillow in front of you, soft hair covering your face as he pounds into you. “Mm—…oh…oh my god.”

“Fuck,” he grunts in between heavy thrusts, hips stuttering briefly from the sound of your moans, “y’know, I always pictured you’d be kinda prissy in bed,” he huffs, leaning over to pull the short sleeve of your flimsy nightgown down your arm to expose bare shoulder so he can kiss you there, “but you’re actually kinda cute.”

“That’s not—ah!” you gasp when he picks up the speed, like he already knows you’re about to argue with him over it, “Satoru!” You yelp, half in frustration, half in pure ecstasy, and you can feel his annoying grin against the curve of your shoulder as he kisses his way up to the side of your neck.

“C’mon baby, just leave it at that, yeah?” he purrs near your ear, his hand coming up to lightly pinch your nipple, “not everything has to be an argument.”

“Mm,” you muffle your irritation into the pillow, high pitched and whiny which he seems to find arousingly amusing given the huff of a laugh he exhales on the nape of your neck and the way you feel his cock jump inside of you, and then he’s nuzzling his nose into your hair again, freely, messily, rubbing his cheek against soft, tousled strands as he sighs with content, and then suddenly, he’s wrapping an arm around your ribcage just under your breasts, and pulling you upright with him so that you’re effectively leaning back against his chest with an arch to your back as he continues to fuck you from behind.

“Seriously, I mean it,” he lowly murmurs near your ear as you tilt your head back onto his shoulder in pure pleasure, and he rubs his cheek affectionately against your hair at the crown of your head while you dig your nails into the skin of his forearm tucked underneath your breasts, “you look so pretty with your hair like this,” he breathes out, almost broken, and it nearly makes you cry when he kisses your cheekbone over the splayed strands of bangs that sit over the curve, “so insanely pretty.”

You were gone, you just didn’t care anymore. With exactly sixteen sweet words, you were done for. You didn’t even realize a man worshiping your hair in the middle of sex was ever something that would have you so down bad on your knees, but you had never felt more deliriously hazy in your life. And you almost want to tell him to just pull on it, then, if he likes it so much, but there’s a simmering feeling at the base of your heart that just wants him to keep being gentle with you instead.

“Satoru, please—” you moan, throat loose and airy, thighs desperately clenching together with need, which only makes you squeeze around him even tighter and the effects of it shows in the way he drops his forehead to your shoulder, his fringe tickling your skin as he breathes heavily.

“God you’re squeezing me so tight you’re gonna cut the circulation off of my dick,” he scoffs, poorly containing just how turned on it makes him feel, and he gently leans over to lay you back down on your stomach so that your cheek is pressed into the pillow and he’s back to fucking you from behind while your ass is up in the air.

“That’s not how that—mm, works, you idiot—“ You struggle to say as heat spreads across your chest, and that tight coil in your tummy pulls more taut with each thrust, to where you feel your vision start to spot, and like he can tell you’re on the edge, his hand snakes down between your thighs and the rough pads of his fingers start to draw circles over your clit, making you gasp so sharply it feels like your throat has gone hoarse.

“C’mon, baby,” he groans, his thrusts picking up in speed along with everything else. He’s panting and heaving, and you feel a droplet of sweat fall from his face onto the back of your neck.

With one more pass of his fingers over your clit, you shut your eyes close, your entire body curls inwards and your orgasm washes over you in pleasureful waves, making you scream out a moan as you squeeze around Gojo’s cock over and over, and you feel his thrusts grow erratic, insane, all loss of tempo and rhythm, his grunts above you sounding so sonically desperate and it’s only when you feel the stutter of his hips, that you barely gain enough sane conscience in the whirlwind of pleasure swimming in your head to remember you have to tell him—

“Wait, Satoru—” you gasp, entirely sober from the delirium, “n-not inside, you can’t.”

“Huh?” he breathes out, in caution, like he had just been on the verge of cumming inside of you, then exhales a breathy—“fuck,” at the implication, and he stays inside of you until the very end of his composure, like he didn’t want to waste a single second of being inside of you, to where you could physically feel his balls jump against your clit with the last thrust he makes right before he pulls out and quickly replaces the squeeze of your cunt with the squeeze of his hand instead, and although you can barely see it over your shoulder, you can just picture it— how hot he looks as he pumps himself over your back with a fucked out groggy expression all over his handsome face. 

“Shit, shit, shit— I’m gonna—” He fumbles with your nightgown to try to pull it up so he doesn’t completely soil it with his cum, but he only succeeds in pulling it up halfway before you feel hot spurts land on the fabric, sporadically painted across the exposed skin of your back, over your ass, your thighs, hell you’re even sure some of it landed in your hair as you hear him groan over and over behind you, a sound so lost in pleasure it has you reeling thinking about how you’re the one that’s causing it, and even after just having had an orgasm, your walls still clench around nothing from the thought.

When he has no more to give, he lets out a shaky breath, one that could constitute as a satisfied sigh, before he flops down onto his back next to you, chest heaving heavily, lips parted with deep breaths, eyes wide as he stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head like he’s in shock before he turns his neck to look at you.

You’re breathing heavily, then shove your face into the pillow, chest laying over your balled up fists you have kept near your rapidly beating heart, and you hear the heaviness in his breathing as well beside you, the sound intensified by the tight shut of your eyes, and you finally feel the horny haze in your head clearing slightly from the early hours of the morning.

The mattress shifts underneath you with Gojo’s weight as you feel him turn onto his side, and he curls an arm around your waist, pulling you in towards him.

And it occurs to you,

It finally occurs to you,

That you two just had sex.

He presses his lips lightly to the top of your head in nothing less than a kiss, before murmuring in a soft voice, “c’mon, let’s go clean you up–”

You slip out from under his arm, from out of the bed, and BOOK it to the bathroom like your life depended on it, shutting the door behind you, and then twisting the lock before you place your palms flat on the surface, huffing and puffing panicked breaths.

It only takes Gojo about five seconds to attempt to open the door, have a moment of brief confusion when he finds that it’s locked, and then knocks. “Wha—…y/n? The fuck? Is everything okay?”

“No! I mean–...yes! I mean–...I don’t know!” you yell.

Even through the wooden barrier of the door, you swear you can see him blink as his face twists with confusion, entirely perplexed by your behavior.

You breathe in deep, and exhale slowly, then rest your forehead on the surface of the door, glancing down at your feet over the cool tile of the bathroom. You shut your eyes close as you still feel the ghostly sensations of his arms handling you in bed, hands roaming across your skin, the feeling of him inside of you–

You shake your head to push the memories away, an almost visceral reaction to them, and it’s mostly silence for what feels like forever but was most likely only a minute, when you hear Gojo say on the other side of the door–

“Just come out here. Let me see you.”

You shake your head, as if he would have any way of seeing your refusal, before you say, “no, I’m–...I’m going to take a shower.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and you don’t wait to hear whatever response he does give before you’re turning the hot water on in the shower, to drown out any noise, including the sound of your own pestering thoughts.

You pull your nightgown up over your head, tossing it into a corner of the bathroom along with your panties, open the mosaic glass door to the shower, and walk underneath the overhead shower head, the water trickling down your now tousled, soiled hair, whatever style or curl that it had been smoothed into the day before now falling from the strands, until it’s flatly soaked with water, and you run your hand through your hair, still letting go of soft, remnant huffs of air from your lips to try and come down from the intense feelings that sit in your chest.

What did this mean, now? You two crossed a line that was quite literally never supposed to be crossed. Not according to your rules, or your silly contract, or any notion of this fake marriage. Will this make things awkward? Will this make things feel more real? Will this sort of thing happen again? Would you be able to stop yourself from letting it happen again? 

And will this just further complicate the confusing feelings that you seem to have for Gojo?

What were the possibilities after this, if any?

You’re surprised to find that there’s a small part of you inside, give or take once any of the awkwardness passes, that is for once not afraid to explore the what-ifs.

You step out of the shower, the steam feeling sticky on your skin as you wrap a towel around yourself and then wipe a hand across the foggy mirror to see your reflection. You look fresh, clean, no longer sleepy or dazed, but you blink at the sight of you as you still feel flushed at the chest, and sad that the hair he likes so much is now gone.

How can a person feel so sure and yet so conflicted about one single thing?

Once you finish freshening up, you open the door to get back into the room, but not without peeking your head around to see if Gojo’s still there, only to see that he’s not. And so you apprehensively step out into the room, quickly get dressed, try to dry your hair off the best you can in a hurry, and then—

Your stomach growls.

“Ah,” the soft sound leaves your lips.

You didn’t even do any of the work and you’re hungry?

Your own green sickens you.

You waft across the floors of the loft in your fresh nightgown, then peek your head over the railing of the stairs to see if you hear any noises, but you don’t.

“Mm?” you hum in confusion, then slowly make your way down the stairs.

Having successfully evaded all the creaky wood, you turn the post at the bottom, making your way towards the kitchen but quietly, stealthily, the Pink Panther theme song playing in your head as you tread the wooden floors like a spy.

Your heart was beating fast in your chest, and when you made it to the kitchen, it’s empty. You round the kitchen island, trace the marbled surface with the pad of your index finger.

Where did he go?

And then you realize— it smells like fresh coffee.

You turn around near the pantry, and just at that moment, Gojo comes walking out of it and nearly collides with you in his stride.

“Oh shit—” he says, hand darting out to hold your elbow so you don’t fall backwards onto your butt, and just from that contact alone, you’re searing.

You yank your arm out of his grip and stare at him with a panic. He’s still shirtless, wearing his loosely hung black sweatpants, but his face looks freshened up and his hair is flattened down in an attempt to tame it, and he’s squinting at you like he doesn’t have his contacts in and is struggling to make out what kind of expression you’re offering him.

“Hey,” he says, “can we talk—”

You weren’t ready to talk about it yet. 

Didn’t have enough time to have an existential crisis over it.

And as if God was on your side, the doorbell rings.

“Ah!! Gotta get that!!” you chirp before turning on your heel towards the main entrance, but he reaches out to grab your wrist, making your breath hitch.

“Just hold on one sec—”

“I can’t,” you say, and you both hear the doorbell ring again, “it’s probably the highschoolers I shoo’d off yesterday because I didn’t have any cash to give for their fundraiser. I promised I’d go to the ATM.” You yank out of his hold. “Highschoolers are scary. Don’t wanna make ‘em wait!!! Or they’ll…egg…your house?” You say, blinking at him, the same way he’s blinking at you, because you’re just as confused about what you said as much as he probably is. “Ah…ahahah,” you let out some forced laughter, which most definitely just sounds awkward. You take two steps forward towards the hall, but then turn around to face him again. “Um. Also. If you have any cash on you, that’d be great. I forgot to go to the ATM.”

His expression suggests that he is just so entirely confused by you, and then he watches as you beeline to the door.

You breathe in deep, then exhale slow, tuck some damp strands behind your ear, and just try your best to calm down your beating heart before you yank open the door, fully prepared to see some obnoxious teenagers, when—

You’re met with a wide-eyed, surprised-looking Sylvie standing at the front door instead.

“Ah?” you softly exclaim.

She blinks blankly, her mouth that had been slightly agape at the sight of you closing as if she found it to be too improper of a reaction for her standards, and she smooths down the fabric of the bright blue denim waistcoat she was wearing, her palms gliding down to the matching dress pants, and then tucks her neat hair behind her ear.

“Sylvie?” you blink in surprise, “w-what are you doing here?”

She creases her brow at you, then leans back to check the house number to the side of the doorframe to check if she’s got the right house, and then her gaze shifts back to you. “What are you doing here, y/n?”

“Oh, that’s—” Your voice trails off gently, suddenly unsure, but then you find it again. “That’s what I asked you.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks again, eye contact unwavering, and somewhat impatient.

“Is a ten dollar bill enough? Or do you need a twenty?” You hear Gojo’s voice as he approaches from the side in your periphery while fishing through bills in his wallet, still gloriously shirtless and somewhat disheveled from sex and sleep, and he runs a hand through his hair before he walks right up to you, hands you a couple of bills and says, “ehhh just give ‘em a couple of twenties.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary anymo—” you start, but then his face lifts and he’s glancing towards outside of the door.

It was like something out of a movie, the way you would describe it. The way his face twists from relaxed, somewhat disinterested, into full-blown, unadulterated shock. The way his shoulders stiffen, he’s rendered still, chest decompressing with the exhale he huffs out. You’ve never seen the blue in his eyes so clearly before, not with the way they’ve never been so wide in all the time that you’ve known him, and it breaks your heart—how pretty they are.

“S—” he starts, but the syllable gets caught in his throat.

Your gaze slowly pans from him to Sylvie, who stands just outside the door, and you find that, as her eyes shift between the two of you, her expression is the exact same as his. Wide, shocked, but there was something else in there too. But just the idea of deciphering what it could be, what it could mean, makes you feel so entirely discouraged, like a stranger in your own skin, and it makes your shoulders sulk, same with the sink of your heart towards the center of the Earth.

With eyes flicking back to Gojo, you blink at him once slowly, then twice, feeling like you were out of breath from just standing alone.

You didn’t even need to ask who she was to him. You can tell by the way he’s looking at her.

Sylvie is his ex-wife.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of ch10. 'what if?']

[end of in holy matriphony: season 1]

song of the chapter: 'boyish' by japanese breakfast

a/n. mann i would hate to be gojo rn LOL anywho, thank you sm for readinggg <33 aaaaaaa i'm so nervous to kick off all the DRAMA and angst but............ i'm also very excited 🤭 i am once again shitting bricks posting this chapter bc i just get so nervous posting smut, idk maybe cuz i hardly post it but idk it just is so nervewracking??? and feels so vulnerable??? ahaha i imagine it gets easier the more you post it but like DAMN idk how the jjk smut authors do it. i feel more vulnerable posting this than any other chapter 🤣🤣 buuuuuut i also enjoyed writing it 🤭hehe. apologies for any typos i wrote it w one handKSDJFH im joking i just love this whole two steps forward one step back dynamic btwn reader n gojo like it's the stuff i LIVEEE for in slowburns...i'm so excited to write all the complicated emotions that come w sleeping w a man n then his EX WIFE SHOWS UP AT THE DOOR NOT EVEN AN HOUR AFTER...hell yea huuuuge and i mean BIG and i meannnn COLLOSAL shout out to my lovely beta reader leni, who held my hand as i edited this chapter lol. i had an absolute blast running this one by you 🤣🤣 tysm to all my readers who support this story <3 i was so blown away by the love w ch9, it was a behemoth to edit, and SO challenging to write. i wanted to write a lengthier author's note for that chapter bc i had SO much to say about my writing process for it but i lowkey got lazy LOL but yea it definitely tested my writing abilities the most i think of anything i've put out so far. so i really am so glad it was well received! as you may have seen, this marks the end of ihm season 1!!! sort of a cliffhanger i'm sorryyy i don't usually enjoy leaving chapters on cliffhangers but i just love the open endedness of this scene :'') ihm will be going on a bit of a break after this, both because i actually want to spend a little bit of time hashing out some of the details for the next part of the story, but alsooo so that i can officially take my story 'kickoff' off it's hiatus n release some new work for it :'') i'm so scared to jump back into the world of college soccer player gojo bc i've spent like the past eight months being soooo immersed into fake husband realtor gojo HAHAH but i will say...i miss kickoff gojo sm n i am excited to write for him again...its ok ihm gojo my beloved... i'll be back soon... lol i sound like i'm going fucking mental. anyways. once again thanks so much for all the likes, comments, reblogs, asks etc <3 interacting w you guys is a great part of my joy these days. hope you all have a lovely day/night! ah also!!! ihm playlist!!! finally debuting it!! still a tiny bit of a work in progress but you can find it here: playlist. i name it herbal seedlings bc idk all i could think about was reader’s herb garden - ellie 🧚‍♀️✨

➸ you're all caught up!

taglist is open || please comment under this post to be added. if you're unsure if you're already on the taglist or will be tagged in future chapters, feel free to comment here n i'll make sure to add you! also please make sure you adjust your settings if needed so that i can tag you. let me know whenever your taglist preferences change.

note. i'd recommend subscribing to the fic on my ao3 so you can get email notifs as well if you'd like! ; please do not ask me for updates or ask me when i am going to next update (read rules)! thank you!

🏷️: @hvarts4satoru @tetsuski @septemberctdfics @hemmosfear @a-trashbag

@shoruio @susususukanana @fushiguroooozzz @getosugurume @ehcilhc

@kaisenkalogathia @manhattanstrawberry @disappointedpeaches @aldebrana @chich1ookie

@gojodickbig @um-no-ok @chiyokoemilia @pickuptruck01 @cactisjuice

@sorilyae @bloopsstuff @fwgojos @tw0fvced @suguruslovedoll

@fanficgirlboss @ariasnoodles @astrokenny @coolwitchtree @fiftyfeetstrawberryparfait

@anujah9 @asimpinamillion @satorugirlie @ilovebeansyay @mymoonisgrey

@4y3sh4 @aldebrana @electrckchild @userbananababes @jaegersity

@sashisuslover @akariro @mya1112 @lavender-hvze @joemama-2

@jab8mi @soupkuna @suotoru @kakarikhoe @luvmaples

[lvrsatoru]

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.” 

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly. 

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him. 

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid. 

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet. 

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?” 

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name. 

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles. 

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left. 

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

[lvrsatoru]

​when you’re mad and he send you this as an apology because Satoru knew you love cats and Megumi

Oh, I’m too soft for this 🥺

@nagseo524

[lvrsatoru]

Drunk Nerdjo

[lvrsatoru]

first year satoru sketchy ;33

[lvrsatoru]

★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

“oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

[lvrsatoru]

“you know,” yaga started slowly, side-eyeing the sea of alumini surrounding him. covered in wounds and scratches alike. yet all eyes fix to the scene only a few metres away.

the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, bent and observing every inch of your being. you, his wife. his large hands cupping your face once he's assured no fatal harm has come onto you.

some eyes soften as you're dragged into satoru's strong arms. some hitch their breaths at the look of softness in bright blue eyes that boasted utmost feralness but a moment ago. when your life was on the line. when the sea of opponents thought it a grand idea to target you — the honoured one's beloved.

“if anything happens to that woman," yaga continued, blank, despite the small throat clear.

“we're all done for.”

[lvrsatoru]

Spark.

Satoru Gojo x Reader Masterlist:

AO3 LINK

Main series:

You’re blessed with immense amounts of cursed energy, a pretty cool lightning based innate technique, and yet all he does is call you dumb nicknames and make fun of your height. Set during 2006-2009.

Rest. (Gojo does this, sometimes. Just hang out and exist in your space.)

Morning. (You wake up after Gojo spends the night.)

School Trip. (Jujutsu High’s Monster Trio are out on a mission.)

Crush. (Gojo has come to a realization. He makes this Geto’s problem.)

Not A Crush. (Shoko confronts you, you’re not sure what about.)

Late Night. (Konbini run leads to small reveals.)

Preliminary Events.(Tokyo Jujutsu High gets an unexpected visitor.)

Exchange Event. (It’s time for the Kyoto Sister School Exchange Event.)

Jealousy. (Exchange Event. Day two.)

Right time. Right one. (Gojo has to cope with his decisions.)

Calm. (Gojo and Sparky’s fun day out.)

After Hours. (It all started to go wrong about a week ago.)

Long Drive. (In progress. Coming soon)

One Offs:

Home. (Gojo’s back from a long mission and all he wants is some alone time with you. 2018)

Feral. (Something has happened to Satoru Gojo, and the longer it goes for the more concerned you’re becoming. ~2006-2007)

Firsts. (Explicit. Minors DNI. The tension that had been simmering between the both of you for the past couple years finally boils over. ~2008-2009)

Scars. (Explicit. Minors DNI. You lean up on your elbow, unable to hold yourself back, pressing your lips to the small scar by his hairline. Silently thanking him for coming back from the dead.~2017)

Three-part Prey series:(~2016)

Prey. (Reader encounters her natural enemy. Gojo saves the day.)

Recovery. (Shoko’s very long, very tiring, very bad week.)

Reunion. (Gojo is back from his mission. Him and reader catch up.)

Drabbles and Headcanons

[lvrsatoru]

synopsis. you’d always wait for satoru.

tags. JJK CHAP 236 SPOILERS, it’s like fluff and angst but neither at the same time yk

"took you long enough."

satoru blinked twice, those icy lashes fluttering as his blurry gaze focused on the figure next to him. he hadn't heard that voice in so long that it barely felt real, a fragment in his memories.

"i thought you'd be at least a little bit happy to see me," your lips were tilted up in a grin that easily met your eyes. you're eighteen: white blouse tucked into a long skirt and your hair twisted up away from your face. there's a sliver of silver peeking up from below your collar and he didn't need to see the necklace fully to know that the characters on the bottom spelt his name.

you were gorgeous.

"i'm always happy to see you," it was unnatural for satoru's voice to be so quiet and gentle and your laugh created a symphony he'd long forgotten. it had been six excruciating years since he'd last been blessed with your joy.

the last time he had seen you you were twenty-two, a white cloth covering your body. a mission gone wrong. that was what shoko had told him and he just had to accept it, because what else could he do?

he was the strongest until it mattered.

"smile a little for me toru, i've missed you," you were bubbly but there was a tenderness in your tone. you were dead, and now so was he, it wasn't something someone could acknowledge lightly.

but he was here, with you, and so despite it all he did as you wished, the smile he reserved only for you. there was a brief moment, the two of you staring lovingly into the other's eyes as you adjusted to this new reality: one where curses didn't exist and gojo satoru was just gojo satoru.

"you waited for me?" satoru asked, his glasses dropping further down his nose as his blue eyes flicked to your lips - the lips that had once been so familiar to him.

"we all did," you nudged his shoulder lightly and pointed in the direction of a vending machine where haibara and geto were arguing whilst nanami watched in eternal disappointment.

satoru swallowed thickly, blinking quickly like that could stop the tears that wanted to spill down his cheeks.

the gentle touch of your hands against his face redirected his attention back to your pretty face. `'you're safe now, pretty boy. you've done all that you could for them, you can have peace now."

them. megumi, yuji, nobara, yuta, all of his students past and present. it hurt him to know that they were now facing kenjaku and sukuna without him, but death offered him a freedom he'd never had before. the peace you spoke of; not having to constantly be on alert for the next assignment or worry that he would be seeing his students in the morgue, it was a bliss he wanted more than he'd care to admit.

so he wouldn't admit it.

instead, he kissed you, his dead heart beating loudly in his ears as he remembered what it felt like to truly be alive.

a/n. no one talk to me ever again unless you’re saying sike this was all a big practical joke your hubby is alive

[lvrsatoru]

IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE! — GOJO SATORU

SYNOPSIS...you and gojo get into a fight after realizing that he’s been hiding something about your relationship the entire time

INFO...gojo x fem!reader, angsty, arguing, breaking up(?), not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

You slam the door to the penthouse, your heels clicking against the mahogany floors with each step. You toss your purse on the couch, hearing Gojo opening the front door and shutting it quickly. “Baby, please just listen to me.” He pleads, following after you.

“I don’t wanna hear your bullshit excuse, Satoru.” You roll your eyes, plopping down on the edge of the bed to relieve your sore feet of the heels you’ve been wearing all night to your boyfriends opening event he’s been planning for months now.

“I’m not trying to make excuses. Please.” He walks over towards you and toss your heel at him. “Stop throwing shit and just talk to me!”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do!” You stand to your feet, glaring daggers at him. “Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? God, you’re a fucking asshole.” You seethe, narrowing your eyes. “I sat there all alone, while you let some woman feel up on you the entire night? Are you out your fucking mind?” You scoff.

“She’s just an old friend, y/n. I swear I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.” He shakes his head at you, grabbing onto your arms tightly.

“Oh, yeah? So I when I came up and introduced myself as your girlfriend none of your friends were looking at me like I was crazy? I know we’ve been only together for a year, Satoru, but that’s fucking low.” You pull away from him. “They didn’t even know who I was. Then you got miss prissy bitch clearly flirting with you in front of me and you didn’t do a damn thing to stop it!” You brush past him, stomping over towards the bathroom.

“Slow down, y/n! Baby—”

“I’m not your fucking ‘baby’, Satoru.” You gather all of your products from the bathroom, from your makeup and skincare to your clothes and shampoo.

“Stop for just one second.” He spins you around so you’re facing him. “Don’t leave. I swear you’re the only girl for me. I know I fucked up, I know I did. I embarrassed you, made you look stupid and I am so fucking sorry. But please do not leave.” He cups your face gently and his touch feels so inviting, but you can’t forgive him that easily. “I only want you. I only need you.”

You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing thickly as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Should’ve thought about that when you let her kiss your cheek and you smiled at her. Right in front of me. Get the fuck off of me.” You push him, rushing to grab your bag from the closet.

Gojo lets out a tired sigh, following you. He wasn’t going to let you go. Not like this. “I shouldn’t have let her near me.”

“Why was she so comfortable with being that close to you, huh?” You question, furrowing your brows as you turn to look at him. “Now that I think about it. Let me guess, you two were more than just friends.” You stand to your feet, snatching your clothes off the hangers and shoving them into your bag. He looks at you, opening his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. And from the look in his eyes, you already knew the truth. A bitter laugh leaves your lips, shaking your head in disappointment.

“It was before you! Before us! We never dated it was just a small thing between me and her!” He tried to explain. “Baby, I swear! Once I met you, everything changed. I cut her off and focused all my attention on you. You’re the only who has my heart.” He grabbed your wrist only for you to pull away.

“Clearly I ain’t the only who who’s got your dick, though.” You slam the closet door shut, turning your back towards him.

“Don’t say that, y/n. That’s the first time I’ve seen her in years!”

“Yeah? Well all your friends sure know about her. She must’ve been great in bed, Satoru. Me? Well, they looked at me like I was a fucking ghost!” You scoff. “Like I was some delusional bitch who came up to you and said I was your girlfriend!” You throw your hands up in disbelief. “You must take me for fucking joke. It must be written on my forehead or something!”

“I don’t take you for a joke! You’re my goddamn girlfriend. You live with me. You have my initial around your fucking neck! I love you and you know that!” He takes a step towards you.

“Do I know that?” You ask aloud, cocking your head to the side.

“What—of course I love you. What the fuck are you saying?” He looked at you with pure confusion.

“You’re a joke. One of your friends, Shoko, pulled me aside and told me the only reason you got with me is because your little fling ended up getting a boyfriend herself around the time we started dating. You’re a piece of shit.” You revealed the truth to him, watching him stare at you blankly, lost for words. “Think I wouldn’t find out?” You ripped off the necklace with his initial, tossing it at him.

“Yes, I was upset that she got a boyfriend but—”

“So you had feelings for her. And just to cover them up, you got with me as a distraction.” You step closer towards him. “Listen to me, Satoru, don’t ever try and contact me again, keep whatever fucking gifts you bought me and return them, sell them, do whatever because I am done,” you spoke through gritted teeth.

“No, no, no, baby. You can’t leave me. Yea I liked her before, but so fucking what? I was never in love with her, not like I am with you. I was too fucking stupid. I still am! Just give me another chance to fix this. I don’t want us to end this way.” He grabs your packed bag from your hands and tosses it on the bed.

“Let me go, Satoru.”

“No,” he shakes his head, “I can’t. You’re everything to me. She’s nothing compared to you.” He sniffles, holding your hands in his. “I love you so much and I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry I embarrassed you. And I’m sorry for entertaining the idea that she could even come close to you. She can’t.” His hands cupped your face, his heart pounding in anticipation as he waited to hear any words from you.

You reached up, pulling his hands away from your face. “Bye, Satoru.” You walked past him, grabbing your bag off of the bed. As much as it hurt to leave, you knew you had to respect yourself. Time and space was what you needed to think. With each step out the door, you could hear Gojo’s sobs, something you’ve never heard before in the year you’ve been with him. For the strong, flashily and confident man he is, you never once thought you’d see or him break down. Especially not for you.

[lvrsatoru]

hidden inventory shoko my darling honey angel you deserve everything good and pure in this world i want you to know this

[lvrsatoru]

Having boyfriend Nerdjo teach you physics. Because you kind of suck at it. And he is really your last hope.

But when he gets really invested into the lesson, and you get really bored out of your mind. Only way to distract him is to get on his lap and demand kisses.

Which leads to the the text books and papers and the laptop being set down on the floor, off the bed and him forgetting he needs to teach you the entire syllabus before your exam the very next day. All because he is too busy eating you out.

Well. He'll figure out a way to help you cheat.

[lvrsatoru]

Okay, Satoru. It’s just a thought. Just a tiny little passing thought that’s totally not turning his insides into goo. You should move in with me.

He thinks it once. Then again. Then another twelve times before lunch. Tossing and turning in bed, kicking the sheets off in frustration because the thought keeps trickling back.

He’s lying flat on his back in bed, hair a mess, blindfold askew, thumb mindlessly scrolling his phone while you hum in the kitchen. And it hits him again - soft and sudden - how nice this is. How perfect. How stupidly, heart-warmingly good it feels to have you here.

You’re wearing his shirt. His biggest one. It swallows you whole, slipping off one shoulder, sleeves dragging past your fingers. And you look so at home like that. Humming and barefoot and sleepy-eyed, stealing strawberries from his fridge like you belong here.

And maybe you do.

He makes a list in his notes app again. Title: Reasons you should move in Beneath it:

No more goodbyes

No more packing bags

No more waiting for a “made it home safe” text (even though he loves them. But he’d rather hear you say it in person. Whispered, sleepily, into his chest.)

No more having to wait when he has missions to come see you

No more nights without you

And then, after a pause:

I love you.

He stares at it too long. Taps the screen a few times. Doesn’t delete it.

Then, Shoko. Of course it’s Shoko. At the worst possible moment, over coffee, just sips and goes, “Most couples break up when they move in together, y’know.”

And now Satoru is spiraling. What if you hate his weird dish organization system? What if you think he takes up too much of the closet? What if you want to split rent even though he just wants to spoil you rotten and give you everything? What if you get tired of him? What if he says the wrong thing and ruins it?

He’s big. He’s loud. He forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste sometimes. He talks too much when he’s nervous (which is always, around you). He’s him.

But then - you’re here again, on his couch, laptop propped on a pillow, mumbling at apartment listings with the cutest frown on your face.

“This one’s tiny.” “Why is there carpet in the bathroom?” “Three stars and one said ‘roach army.’ I can’t do roach armies.”

And something in his heart just snaps - in a soft, trembling, full-body kind of way.

He watches the way your nose scrunches. The way you tuck your feet under you. The way his hoodie dwarfs you completely. With the throw blanket you always leave thrown across your lap. You belong here. He wants you here. Desperately.

So he says it. Barely above a whisper. Practically choking on his own heartbeat.

“…You could just move in with me.”

And then he’s frozen. Stiff as a board. Sweat prickling at his neck. His pretty mouth parted like he wants to suck the words back in.

You blink up at him. And then that smile. Bright. Full of surprise and something sweeter, something soft and glowing and yes.

“Are you sure?”

His heart stutters. Then melts. Then does something violent and romantic in his ribcage.

God, you’re so pretty. Why are you so pretty? He swears the sun could retire, you’re smiling so bright.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “I mean - only if you want to. I just thought... it’d be nice. Y’know. To have you here. All the time. With me.”

And then you’re in his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, giggling into his hair, and he’s pretty sure his soul just left his body.

He clutches you, hands slightly trembling, grip lacking because he's scared this is some dream. Hides his face in your shoulder. Mumbles something pathetic like, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh. “In a good way?”

He nods into the hoodie you stole. “The best way.”

He doesn’t let go for a long time. Anytime you move away, he brings you back. Hopefully so you don't see the mess he's become. He's the strongest. Yet you make him weak.

Later that night, you’re lying in his bed again - your bed now too, maybe - and you’re talking about what corner your books would go in and whether he has space for your desk, and he’s just watching you, glassy-eyed and stupid in love.

Your fingers graze his jaw, after tracing a few scars on his body, brush his snowy hair from his lashes. And he just… melts. Turns into a puddle right there.

“I can’t believe you said yes,” he whispers. Slow and full of disbelief.

You giggle, a soft gentle noise that somehow still makes his heart stop, brushing your nose against his. “I can’t believe it took you this long to ask.”

Satoru smiles, wide and sleepy and helpless. He’s flushed pink all the way to his ears. He wants to bottle this feeling. Keep it forever. Because for once, everything is quiet. Safe. Full of love. That this is what forever feels like. New list: The proposal.

[lvrsatoru]

good luck kiss 💋

[bingo prompt ‘kissing’ for @jjkrarepairfest ]

[lvrsatoru]

started hyper fixating on p&p …. anypony save me