#my writing ණ⃛(ᵒ͈̑ᴗ̂ᵒ͈̑ )

[honeydewsblue]

( gojo and paparazzi ) — alternatively: this with gojo 💀…

╰┄➤ 1.1 k wc, reader n gojo are obsessed and in love with each other, jealousy, not proofread i’m too incapacitated (sleep deprived)

satoru has a sort of unearthly beauty to him, you think that much is a sort of fundamental truth. an axiom. he's a frustratingly attractive man, in spite of his piss poor personality and the uncanny features he possesses. he’s got white hair and blue eyes and height that makes him almost as tall as his ego; there is nothing about him that is anything short of unnatural.

satoru is unnaturally pretty—and unfairly so, too. he knows it. how could he not, when anyone who has the ability to see makes a point of acknowledging it? whether it's through envious glares or wanting stares, or by being awestruck at the sight of someone who doesn't look like he belongs amongst humans (if only they knew how right they were), people notice him. not as if he needs that to know his worth. in the back of your head, you can hear his raucous laugh at the prospect of being in any way dependent on something so insignificant; on anything at all. you think i give a shit about them?

(still, you know he thrives off of it, off of the attention—being the attention whore that he is.)

the point is, it’s obvious that people can see satoru’s beauty.

especially now, you think, when you watch women your age fawn and giggle to each other over him—watch as they snap pictures and take videos of him. it’s almost pious, the way they try to capture him in film.

yes, an agreeing hum rolls in your throat, it is a universal truth that he is beautiful. unnaturally so. but you really wish people could just be normal, and refrain from being so indecent as to film strangers on the street.

it's not the first time it's happened—the farthest thing from it. unfortunately, you know it's even farther from being the last time, too. satoru's always been a sort of spectacle, one way or the other; in his power, his skills, his looks... he's watched by everyone. he is someone to serve witness to. that, too, is a fundamental truth.

though you know this, an ugly little feeling crawls in your gut while you watch the scene play out in front of you. most of it a sense of disgust, given the impression of how out of touch people are—but, a smaller, yet even uglier, part of it is a little possessive.

that smaller, uglier part feels a little offended at the fact that they’re being so blatantly disrespectful in front of you. that smaller, uglier part feels a little humiliated.

it’s a familiar sight, something you’ve seen happen time and time again, but this is the first time you’ve taken it as an insult—the first time you’ve taken it so personally, the first time you’ve felt it. the first time you’ve felt your dignity being prodded at, like there’s a blazed red rod poking and poking, urging that burning feeling in your gut to grow hotter and hotter. it’s an invasive thing, this hot, rushing feeling.

it isn’t personal. you know that. it shouldn’t be personal, but…

when you meet satoru in the middle, your fingers slip under the collar of his dress shirt. your nails drag taut at the crisp linen like an assertion and you pull him towards you, swift as you press your lips against his. you can feel the hesitation, the fleeting shock against them—that sharp, nearly imperceptible gasp skipping across teeth—but it barely lasts half a second before he’s the one kissing you. that small, uglier little part of you hopes that their little camera captured the picture of you kissing him.

you keep your heavy eyes cracked open, capturing it for yourself.

his hand finds its way to your lower back easily, like a puzzle piece fitting into its slots, holding you close to him; securing you. his hand is weighted on your back in a way that grounds you, but gentle as his fingers skim across your the fabric of your shirt. heavy and gentle like he’s trying to get to the skin underneath. heavy and gentle, like the way he looks at you, eyes skimming across your face—your eyes, to your lips, your cheeks, your eyes again. heavy and gentle, like worship. he wets his lips, swallows. “what was that about?”

he likes the look you have in your eyes, likes the way they mirror his own.

(you see him like how he sees the world, like something all encompassing. he likes that he can see you, only you, with this overwhelming sort of clarity. he likes that he sees you the way you see the world—the tunnel vision of it all. your attention is the only one he really wants for. the only one really he needs.

if you told him he was dependent on you, he’s not sure he’d have it in him to laugh it off.)

you cast a dirty, sidelong glance at where you feel two pairs of eyes burning holes at the both of you; poking and poking.

(and satoru thinks you look awfully pretty right now, your eyes glaring and lidded, your lashes contouring the sharp and narrowed look you bear. awfully, unearthly pretty, and so very familiar in a way that makes him crave you, makes him want to immortalize you in his skin. it’s instinctual, the way he gravitates to you, minty breath ghosting your cheek.)

they’re borderline gawking at the two of you until one of them smacks at the other's arm not-so-inconspicuously, and they shuffle off to the sidewalk, whispering to each other yet again. it’s only then that satoru follows your line of sight. when it clicks, he looks back at you far too eagerly for your comfort.

“oh,” he drawls, his stupid pretty teeth bearing themselves in the stupid, obnoxious grin that spreads across his lips. “that’s what it was?”

the idea of you being so possessive makes his stomach flip.

“baby, are you jealous?” he looks awfully happy about it, blue eyes gleaming at you with an unabashed sort of mirth. even when he finds himself being on other end of that glare of yours, his dimples only get deeper.

“you’re worse than me,” you hum. you don’t admit it, but you don’t deny it—you can’t. maybe you’re spending too much time with him.

oh. goosebumps break out against your skin at the thought of picking up his behavior, a little horrified at the thought of coming off as obtrusive as him. you shrug it off, shaking your head. “doesn’t matter,” you say airily, glancing at him, “you’re mine.”

you definitely spend too much time with him, if your aloof nonanswers and attitude attest to anything.

when your eyes meet his, you think that he sees it too. there’s a certain look in his eyes, the way they widen a fraction like he’s trying to commit you to memory—as if he hasn’t already. you know it’s probably just from the dark of night, but his pupils are wide and that revered and blessed blue he bears is reduced to a ring. right now, his eyes are consuming. you think you can see yourself in them.

(and, he does—he does see it. with his eyes, he sees little bits of himself transfused with you and it’s the most satisfying feeling he’s ever gotten in his life.)

he only smiles at you, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to your temple, his words spoken against your skin. “that’s right, baby.”

thank you for reading, feedback and reblogs are much appreciated 🤍!!

a/n. i haven’t posted anything in so long so i cranked this out… i really wanted to post something and that video thankfully gave me a lil idea hehe :’-) i hope it doesn’t seem too rushed <3

[honeydewsblue]

april 2005

prelude ; second & first impressions

gojo satoru has the skies and ocean in his eyes—the heavens and the earth. the light and clouds and seas, everything and the void, they all show themselves in the celestite carved and polished to make up his iris. he has that impossible hue the gods mixed themselves with sanctity and their creation. nothing less for their little god. nothing more in fear that he will reach too close. you hear he’s getting real close to it, though—to godhood.

a god amongst men, and he’s only fifteen.

that is your second-hand impression of him.

your first-hand impression: he is a fucking dick, and whatever religious symbolism the color of his eyes hold means jack shit to you. they’re all too complicated and controversial on their own, anyway.

he is a god, he is holy, he is responsible (ha!). that’s what white and blue say he is.

when he walks into class on the first day, well over 45 minutes late and acting like he owns the whole damn school, you know you’ve both been lied to and given a plain, distasteful truth. he is not holy, but he’s the closest thing to a god on earth. if his ego is anything to go by.

it takes all of 5 minutes for a fight to break out between him and the only other special grade in class. you share a look with ieiri, who’s already pulled her phone out.

geto suguru and gojo satoru are both given detention for the rest of the day.

the next day, he barely regards you. you hear him get scolded by geto, something about his manners, and you subtly scoot away in case of emergency. to your surprise, all you hear is a scoff and in place of a brawl, there is banter. the scolding doesn’t do much. he doesn’t deign to apologize to you. you could care less—he doesn’t owe you any attention.

it’s when he calls you weak during a mission that ticks you off.

the next couple of weeks go like that. he ignores you and only acknowledges you to dig at your strength. you think he forgets you exist at any other time; out of sight out of mind. so much for having all encompassing eyes.

to you, he is arrogant, and he is egotistical, and he is god-awful.

being a god amongst men must do that to a person. when you are truly, undeniably above all others, it’s almost reasonable to be all those things: egotistical, arrogant, and god-awful. it’s all he’d known.

his title—young master, the boy-god, the strongest, et cetera, ad nauseam—demands the worship of his subordinates without him having to say a word. worship feeds into ego, and he’s been worshipped since the day he was born.

people have hated him since the day he was born, too. they’ve wanted to knock him right off the stairs of heaven he was born climbing up. bounties and assassination attempts have been tacked on his head ever since the world tipped on it’s axis.

gojo satoru has it all, silver spoon fed to him and served on a shining silver platter. there are people hungry for his head to drop clean onto it with a matching silver blade.

godhood doesn’t mix well with man. people are not meant to be as benevolent, as selfless as their deities are. they aren’t capable of it. that’s why they pray.

it’s all bull. gojo is the closest thing to a god and the farthest thing from a man. he is a teenage boy.