#with yearning gojo...

[arminsumi]

uhh... i think bff!gojo loves getting the last hug in after a group outing so that you go home smelling like him

[mynotetrash]

not even fanfics helping everything is smut nowadays like DAMN IM NOT IN THE DAMN MOOD

[boyimjustaloserforyourlove]

Snap Snap Snap

https://www.tumblr.com/boyimjustaloserforyourlove/767338606523301888/snap-snap-snap-pt-2?source=share part two!

LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED IN MY POSTS OR THE NEXT PART IN THE COMMENTS OR ANYWHERE ELSE!

me to their seminal vesicles because i wasn't raised to take shit from no man 💅🏻 also them to you in this smau✉️

my second request!!?! i hope this is to your standards. no Choso and Yuji because I can't see my babies snapping. it can't happen.

you like ? let me know! comments and reblogs and likes are appreciated and give me dopamine!

send requests, I'll probably do them all lol. i hope it is to your liking.

don't worry, both of these will be coming. your vote decides which one comes first

[yapithoughts]

One thing about you and your childhood friend—Satoru Gojo—is that people always mistook you for a couple. Not because there were secret feelings—at least—but because the way you moved together made it easy to assume.

He’s gay. You couldn’t stand men. That dynamic alone should’ve killed any romantic assumptions. You hated when guys stood too close or asked you for directions like they had a right to your time. But Satoru? He was the rare exception. Maybe because he was safely off-limits. Maybe because he never looked at you like someone he had to impress.

He flirted with guys, had flings that never lasted, kissed strangers at clubs like it meant nothing. You avoided emotional closeness like a virus. And yet, the two of you fit. No questions, no confusion. The comfort was absolute. Maybe that’s why the two of you were inseparable—there was never a threat, never any pressure to be anything more than exactly what you were to each other.

Late-night walks. Shopping trips. Sleepovers. No boundaries, no awkwardness. Waking up with his arm wrapped around your waist felt as natural as breathing. Picked outfits for each other, changed clothes in front of each other, never flinched. He wore sleek polos and tailored slacks like he was born for the runway. You wore baggy shirts and jorts.

And then… something shifted.

That early evening, you were getting ready for a party. Satoru had asked you to come along—partly because your mom had been nagging him to drag you out, and partly because he missed you. College made time feel like a luxury. These days, you were lucky to see each other twice a month.

Your mom had barged into your room holding a burgundy dress, elegant and clearly expensive. She begged you to wear it—guilt-tripping you with sore feet and credit card damage. You sighed, gave a half-promise.

Surprisingly, you did more than that. You wore it.

At 7 p.m., Satoru was at your door, dressed in a loose white polo tucked into tailored black slacks, collar unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly expensive. When you opened the door, his breath hitched—just for a second. The dress clung to you in a way that made his brain lag. It was simple, but it made you look like a stranger he couldn’t look away from.

He blinked, masked the pause with a teasing smirk, and said something snarky like always. But something in him had already tilted.

Together, you looked like a magazine spread. At the party, heads turned. People whispered. Some said you two made a perfect couple. Others outright assumed you already were.

You got drunk. And Satoru stayed beside you, even though he hated the smell of alcohol. He never let you out of his sight, holding your wrist when you swayed too much, catching you when you leaned into him for support. It wasn’t unusual—he always played the bodyguard when you drank.

By midnight, he made the call to take you home. But not your home—his. He didn’t want to risk waking your mom, though she’d probably greet him with open arms and feed him midnight snacks.

You could barely walk straight in the building hallway. He sighed, muttered something under his breath, then scooped you up in a bridal carry like it was the easiest thing in the world. You wrapped your arms around his neck, head against his shoulder. He stiffened. Just for a moment. Then continued walking, pretending the heat on his neck wasn’t from you.

His apartment screamed money without even trying. Sleek, modern, cold—but somehow still cozy. He placed you gently on the bed, wiped your makeup off, made you drink water, slipped off your shoes with a quiet patience. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

After washing up, he lay beside you like always.

And yet, it didn’t feel like always.

Everything was familiar—the bed, the silence, your breathing—but something was off inside him. A weight in his stomach he couldn’t name. He didn’t understand why you looked different tonight. Why he kept replaying the image of you in that dress, laughing, glowing.

Sleep came late and uneasy.

By the time sunlight crept through the curtains, he was already in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. when it was nearly noon, he peeked into the room and saw you still asleep. Makeup gone, hair messy, blanket pulled up to your shoulder.

He turned to grab a shirt and shorts for you. You stirred when he placed them on the bed. Groggy, slow-moving but as soon as you took the clothes, you started peeling the dress off like it meant nothing. He caught a glimpse of bare skin and turned on his heel so fast it was almost comedic.

He’d seen you in your underwear more times than he could count. So why did his chest suddenly feel tight? Why did he feel like he wasn’t supposed to look?

You eventually shuffled out to the kitchen, dressed in his clothes, hair damp from washing your face. You sat on the barstool, still blinking the sleep out of your eyes.

“I look like I came from a one-night stand,” you muttered, laughing to yourself.

He didn’t laugh. His face was turned, jaw a little too tense. His cheeks were warm again. Unreasonably warm.

You offered to do the dishes. Insisted, actually. Said it was the least you could do since he cooked.

When you were done, you returned to the couch and threw yourself next to him like a cat settling into a familiar spot. Your legs landed over his lap. Your arms curled around him. Your head rested on his chest.

Comfortable. So comfortable.

Your voice was soft, sleepy.

“Toru… are you sick?”

You cupped his cheeks, inspecting him with innocent concern. He was unusually quiet today—and even now, with you so close, you could feel the warmth radiating off him like a slow burning ember.

But he couldn’t speak.

Because he didn’t know what was wrong with him.

All he knew was… since last night, something had changed.

And god—you looked too pretty

Too soft.

Too close.

And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel immune to feelings he thought he’d never have.

Or if the distance between you was ever real to begin with.

[kurooh]

it’s so easy for roommate! gojo to get this desperate — slouched on his bed and staring through half lidded eyes at the phone he’s gripping in his hand.

one hand on the phone, scrolling through his hot roommate’s instagram, the other working his cock furiously.

sticky precum shimmers on his fingers, tip oozing more each time he runs his finger over the slit and wipes it away.

the second you’d left the house to go on a little date with someone you’d met, he’d started to feel a bit bothered. then the short skirt of your sundress kicked up as you’d turned to open the door, saying a sweet goodbye, satoru! over your shoulder.

the smile in your voice along with the glimpse he’d caught of your panties snug against your ass had him getting hot and bothered. so much so that gojo’s pants started to tighten, heart kicking in his chest as his mind ran wild.

he moans sweetly, eyes falling shut as his head tips back in pleasure. after a few huffs through bitten lips, gojo again focuses his attention on your instagram account and its photos — these were nothing new, he’d already gotten off to most of them before.

but then he notices something.

a new post? you must’ve gotten your date to take a picture or two. eagerly, gojo clicks, hand pausing its furious rhythm on his cock momentarily.

his dick throbs in his fist as he opens up the photos, zooming in to study your warm face and bright smile, along with the way the sundress hugs your body perfectly.

“oh, shit,” gojo chokes out, unable to tear his eyes away or stop himself from moaning as desperately as he is. immediately, he’s back to the same pace from earlier, cock thickening as every inch of his body grows hotter.

his heavy breaths become frantic as his orgasm rushes towards him, and everything becomes foggy. gojo pictures you in front of him, delighted as you jerk him off, controlling him in the best ways possible. you’d even take his tip into your mouth, wouldn’t you? sucking the cum out of him and gripping his hips to hold him in place as he tries to squirm away from overstimulation.

gojo’s hips thrash on the bed, tears gathering in his eyes as he jumps back and forth between picturing you and staring at his phone.

“you’re so fucking pretty,” gojo moans, cum spurting from his cock in globs that race down his fingers. “so, so pretty,” he sobs, too far gone.

he doesn’t even hear you get home over his dazed babbling, or the footsteps in the hallway as you approach his door that he left ajar in his frenzy.

he whimpers your name, shuddering as he squeezes the base of his overstimulated cock, clearly picturing you and rambling as though you’re there in front of him. unbeknownst to him, you’re in the doorway.

“satoru?”

[sqtorux]

man... every flashback of him makes me so sentimental it's like im yearning for my husband who's at war. oh wait.

[twstedfreak]

Not Even the Gods Can Keep Me from You

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵pairing !! : Odysseus! Gojo Satoru x Penelope! Y/n

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵Summary !! : What is perseverance, if not love? What is strength, if not the will to return? Satoru Gojo was never meant to be a man of peace. A warrior crowned in legend, a king bound by duty, a man who challenged the will of gods themselves. He had conquered battlefields, torn through myths, and stood unshaken before death. Yet, for all his victories, there was only one war that truly mattered—getting back to you. Ten years of war. Ten years of wandering. And still, his heart only knew one home. You. Always you.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵contains !! : heavily! epic the musical inspired. heavy angst with eventual comfort. yearning. war themes. divine intervention. unwavering devotion. Gojo being dramatic as always. poetic prose slow-burn but inevitable love. a decade of suffering. a reunion worth every second of it. forced separation/longing. implied captivity (calypso arc). enough pining to make even the gods weep. Greek mythology elements.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵word count !! : 2,095 words

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵playlist !! : here

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚꩜ ︵︵A/N !! : no beta reading we die like men. Okay, so hear me out! this idea grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go. I was just minding my business, vibing to EPIC: The Musical, and then suddenly my brain went, “What if Gojo Satoru was Odysseus?” And now I’m here, emotionally invested in a story where my baby is out here fighting gods, monsters, and curses all because he just wants to go home to you. Like, yes, he’s the untouchable but at the end of the day? He’s just Satoru. He’s fought wars, conquered empires, and defied death itself—but nothing, nothing compares to the battle of getting back to you. If that’s not peak romance, I don’t know what is. jkjk let’s be real, Gojo is exactly the kind of person to get cursed by the gods and just laugh in their faces. Zeus could strike him down and he’d be like, "Damn, that’s all you got?" And then proceed to survive out of sheer spite. ANYWAYS. This is just the beginning because, of course, I couldn’t stop at just one headcanon. This is a whole series now. I am deep in the trenches of this story, and I plan on taking you all down with me. If you want to be tagged for future parts, drop a comment! I love you all so much—thank you for the support, the reactions, and for indulging my unhinged brain 🫶💙

Odyssey? More Like Gojo-ssey. Now, let’s watch Gojo Satoru try (and probably suffer dramatically) to get home.  😌✨

⇢ read on ao3 here !!

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to be a man of peace. From the moment he first gripped a sword, fate carved his path in blood and war. He was the strongest, the untouchable, the king who could not fall.

Odysseus! Satoru who was never meant to stay in one place. His soul was made of storms, his heart set to the rhythm of conquest. 

Odysseus! Satoru who was the strongest warrior, the sharpest mind, the man who could bend the world to his will. But for all his power, truly one thing he longed for. Home. However, home had never been a place. Home was you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never feared the gods, not even when they whispered warnings of fate and ruin. He laughed in the face of destiny, dared to challenge the will of Olympus itself. He mocked them, defied them, dared them to strike him down. But the moment he met you, the moment he saw a future beyond war in your eyes, he knew he had something far more terrifying than divine wrath—something to lose. The moment he took your hand, the moment he called you his wife, he realized that strength was not in defying the gods, it was in having something worth defying them for.

Odysseus! Satoru, who was not a patient man, but love, had taught him patience. This man fell in love like a storm crashing against the shore. sudden, unstoppable, inevitable. You were not just another prize, another conquest. You were the one who saw him, saw past the whispers, saw past the power, saw past the arrogance that kept the world at a distance. As in return, he swore to be yours in a way he never truly belonged to anyone else. In this lifetime and futures to come. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would sit in the gardens with you, listening to the way you spoke, memorizing every shift in your expression, every lilt in your voice. He who had faced death countless times, but nothing unnerved him more than the way you could bring him down to his knees with a just a single look. The strongest man in the world, utterly undone by you.

Odysseus! Satoru who was a force of nature in battle, and yet, he was the softest thing when he was with you. He could split mountains with a strike, command armies with a word, yet he would abandon it all just to press a kiss to your temple in the quiet hours of the night. The world could call him untouchable, unstoppable—but you had always known the truth. He was only human in your arms.

Odysseus! Satoru who swore he would never leave you. He never wanted to leave you. But war does not care for love, and kings do not get to choose their fate. When duty called him to Troy, he kissed you one last time and vowed, “I’ll come back to you, my love.” A promise whispered against your skin, a prayer uttered to gods he never truly believed in, but for you, he prayed. But war does not wait for love, and kings do not get to choose peace. The moment he stepped onto that ship, the moment he sailed toward a war he had no choice but to fight, he made a silent promise.

Odysseus! Satoru would come back. No matter the cost.

Odysseus! Satoru who had faced monsters before, but nothing compared to the beasts that awaited him on his journey home. The sea churned with curses, the land crawled with creatures that wanted nothing more than to tear him apart. But he did not waver. He did not fear. Because what was pain, what was suffering, if it meant holding you again? And so, he fought through curses, blood, and suffering, but the only thing stronger than the wrath of the gods was his will to get back to you.

Odysseus! Satoru who had never known helplessness. He was a man who bent the world to his will, who carved his own fate with bloodied hands and an indomitable heart. He had faced gods and monsters, defied curses and storms, and laughed in the face of death itself. But for seven years, he was caged. Seven years stolen from his hands, wasted in the embrace of a goddess who was not you.

Odysseus! Satoru, who had washed up on her shores broken along with his wrecked ship, his men lost, his body battered by the sea’s wrath. She found him like that, defeated in a way he had never been before, and she took him in. Nursed his wounds. Promised him peace. Promised him eternity. However, eternity meant nothing if you were not in it.

Odysseus! Satoru who was worshipped as a god on that island. She adorned him in silk, kissed the battle scars on his skin, whispers of forever in his ear. She called him hers. She swore to love him, to keep him, to give him a kingdom untouched by war and pain.

However, Odysseus! Satoru who was already yours. No matter how soft the sheets, how gentle the hands that held him, the weight of you never left him. Your absence clawed at his chest, a dull, aching wound that never healed. He was fed the sweetest fruits, given the finest wines, and yet, everything tasted bitter.

Because you were waiting. Because he had sworn to come back. Because seven years was too long to be away from home.

Odysseus! Satoru who was given the choice to stay. to be immortal, to be unburdened, to be worshipped as he had been all his life. But gods, if there was one thing he had learned after all these years, it was that peace was nothing without you. So he demanded to leave. He raged against the walls of paradise, cursed the heavens, swore that nothing, not gods, not time, not fate itself, would keep him from you.

And in the end, the gods relented. the moment he stepped back onto the sea, the moment the wind carried his ship forward once more, he whispered a vow “I’m coming back to you, my love.”

Odysseus! Satoru who after 10 yeras of war and 10 years of isolation in a gilded cage. After all the temptation, after all the stolen time. Nothing had changed. You were still his home and he was still yours.Odysseus! Satoru had always been told that the greatest glory was in war. That men like him were meant to be remembered for their victories, for the blood they spilled, for the kingdoms they claimed. But as he carved his way through gods and monsters, as he fought tooth and nail to return to you, he realized—glory was meaningless if you were not there to share it.  He was a man who had something worth fighting for. Each island, each battle, each moment of agony was a step closer to you. 

Odysseus! Satoru who would fight for eternity if it meant getting back to you. Because the world could take his crown, his titles, his power—but they would never take his love for you. He knew that time would change things. That Ithaca would move on, that suitors would circle you like vultures, that the world might convince you to forget him. But he never doubted you. Not once. Because if there was one thing in this world stronger than him, stronger than war, stronger than the gods. it was your love.

Gojo Satoru was a man of great renown. A warrior who had never lost, a king who stood above all, a force so untouchable that even the gods whispered his name with caution. He was myth and legend, conqueror and survivor, the man who had defied death itself. And yet, in your eyes he was just Satoru. Not a king. Not a warrior. Not a name etched into history. Just a man. A man who laughed too loudly at his own jokes, a man who pressed kisses to your temple when no one was looking, a man who smirked like a child when he won an argument. A man who made himself at home beside you, tangled in linen sheets and lazy mornings, whispering secrets only meant for your ears. The world called him untouchable. You knew better. You knew the warmth of his hands, the softness of his voice when he murmured your name in the quiet of the night. You knew the weight of his heart, the way he carried the burden of war, of loss, of the endless battle between duty and desire. You knew the boy beneath the legend, the fool who fell in love like it was the only battle worth losing. And he had lost. To you. Because for all his victories, for all his power, the greatest thing he had ever done was love you. Not war, not glory, not the sea of men he had left in ruin. You. Always you. It had taken years, lifetimes, an odyssey of gods and monsters and curses. In the end, he had won the only war that ever truly mattered. Because after everything, after all the pain, after all the years stolen from him. He came home and when he looked at you, and you looked at him, he knew. You had never stopped waiting.

The moment he stepped across the threshold, the weight of a decade settled onto his shoulders. The war, the gods, the monsters—all of it had been nothing compared to the torment of being away from you. And now, as he stood before you, a man worn down by time and trials, he found himself breathless.

You stared at him, silent, unmoving. As if blinking would make him disappear. As if you had seen him in your dreams so often that you weren’t sure if this was another cruel trick.

“Satoru…” Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it shattered something inside him.

He inhaled sharply, as if he had been holding his breath for years. Maybe he had. “I’m home.”

A silence stretched between you. It wasn’t empty. it was full. Full of lost time, of unspoken words, of all the things the universe had tried to take away.

Your fingers twitched at your side, hesitant, trembling, before you reached out. The moment your hand brushed against his face, tracing the lines that time had carved into his skin, something in him broke. He leaned into your touch as if it was the first warmth he had felt in years. His hands found your waist, hesitant at first, as if he feared you would disappear. But when you didn’t, when you only gripped him tighter, his restraint crumbled. He pulled you against him, arms wrapping around you so tightly it was almost desperate.

"You took your time," you murmured against his chest, voice thick with something between relief and sorrow.

He huffed a quiet laugh, though it was weak, exhausted. “I had to make it dramatic.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers curling into his tunic. There were so many questions, so many things you wanted to say. But in the end, you only whispered, “This time… will you stay?”

His grip on you tightened. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

You let out a breathless, a broken soundhalf a laugh, half a sob. “You idiot… You think after all this time I’d want anyone else?”

Satoru gave a smirk, but his voice was quiet, almost fragile. “I don’t know… figured you might’ve realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

You shook your head, a real, genuine smile breaking through the tears in your eyes. “You always were.” Your hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through his silver hair like a lifeline. “But you’re my trouble.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his thumb brushing against your cheek as if memorizing you all over again. “And you’re my home.”

A sob escaped before you could stop it, and that was all it took for him to press his forehead against yours, closing the last remaining distance.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “No more wars. No more running. No more losing time.” His voice softened, turning into a promise. “Just us.”

Your fingers curled tighter around him. “Just us.”

The words settled between you like an unshaken vow. And for the first time in forever, there were no battles left to fight.

No gods to defy.

No time to lose.

Only him. Only you.

Only home.

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[bxnfire]

✮ yearner!satoru looks at a picture on the wall. it’s back from your graduation, when you didn’t know what the future held for you, but your smiles were so bright it was like y’all did not care at all. he smiles softly, thinking about how he took for granted that sight, having no idea he would lose it soon after.

you are all adults now, and it’s been harder and harder to catch up. and while it was to be expected, it surely wouldn’t sting so fucking hard if satoru did not love you nearly as much as he did.

it’s like he sees you everywhere. in the quiet mornings, where you’d listen to music and lend him an earplug. in the loud cars at night, knowing that was the only way you’d get in one at all. in the smell of coffee, the kind he could only drink when it was more of sugar with coffee and not the other way around. in the restaurants on the street, knowing you’d spend your money on food far more than on anything else, and remembering how cute you looked after getting sweet little treats. the hot summer nights, where you’d dance your worries away on the sidewalk like nobody’s business. anything and everything reminded him of you and it was sickening.

although, the one thing more sickening than missing you the way he does is the thought of losing you. he’s so helplessly in love with you, he’s kept all of your silly drawings, even those in the margins of notebooks with notes he’d never use again, never washed a hoodie that now smelled more like fabric than you, but that faintness is enough for satoru. all of your movie and fair tickets are still safe in his drawer, and let’s not get started on all the birthday gifts from you: they’re his most sacred treasures, which was quite funny without context, knowing how he’s always had the world at his feet and yet any little trinket from you would have a higher value to him than any diamond. it is absolutely dehumanizing really, and the fact that it’s been going on for so long makes it worse, but he’s incapable of seeing a future in which you’re not, one way or another.

so no, distance doesn’t help his aching heart, not when you’re everywhere. he doesn’t need you, but he fucking misses you so much. if only he could express all of it to you, but he’s such a sucker, to the point where all of this comes more naturally to him than even any thought of making his love, the genuine type of love he has for you.

if only he knew you were just as helpless as him.

[mw00nie]

i found you again g. satoru

A/N: okay so usually don't write notes. this isn't a note this is a warning. i cried writing this. so read at your own risk :)

w.c: 2.5k

warnings: reincarnation, vague smut, emotional hurt/comfort, yearning

gojo satoru has lived more lifetimes than there are stars in the sky. hundreds, maybe thousands. time bleeds between them now, thin and threadbare like gauze soaked in old blood. he is tired in a way that no amount of sleep can fix, in a way that’s ancient, mythic, cursed.

and yet, he wakes up in every life with one purpose: to find you.

he doesn’t always know how. sometimes it’s instant. the moment his eyes meet yours, it’s like the world shifts back into place. like he’s been out of breath for years and finally gets to breathe again. other times, it takes a while. you’re a passing stranger on a train, or a coworker in an office where he wears glasses. sometimes you’re older than him, sometimes younger. sometimes you love him immediately, sometimes you hate his guts and he has to earn it (which he always does.)

but you never remember.

you don’t remember the time you were a nurse in the 1800s and stitched up a bloody version of him under candlelight. you don’t remember the version of yourself that wore red lipstick and sang in jazz bars, where he sat in the back in a tailored suit and admired you. you don’t remember the lifetime where he was a war general and you were a spy and he risked everything to get you out. you don’t remember the time you were a jujutsu sorcerer too, and you died before he did.

he remembers all of it.

you never remember the thousand promises. never remember the vows whispered into the curve of your neck, or the way your body knew his like it was written into the code of the universe. you never remember the final moments, the deaths, the heartbreaks. you only ever look at him for the first time, again and again, and say:

“do i know you?”

And it shatters him. Every single time.

────────────────────

this time, you're a girl in tokyo who works in a quiet bookstore. you wear soft sweaters and tie your hair in lazy half-knots. you hum under your breath while shelving books and forget your tea on the counter while helping customers. and when you look up that day, eyes brushing over his frame in the entrance, he knows. immediately. It hits him like gravity, like a long-awaited breath finally exhaled. there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

it’s you.

but you don’t know him.

“can i help you find something?” you ask, smiling like it’s just any other tuesday. like your soul hasn’t been haunting his through centuries.

he swallows everything down. every ache, every memory, every "please remember me" and nods. “yeah,” he murmurs. “been looking a while, actually.”

you laugh, soft and oblivious, and he lets himself live in that sound for a little while. it's the first moment again. the moment before everything.

he visits you again. and again. he buys books he won’t read and drinks tea he doesn’t like, just to see you smile. you recognize something in him, maybe not the memories, but the tether. the gravity. the way your breath stutters sometimes when he says your name. you begin to wonder about him. you ask him questions. you lean in closer. he watches you tilt your head and squint at him as though trying to place him from a dream you can’t quite remember.

“you’re so familiar,” you murmur once, tilting your head as he walks you home. his heart cracks. he smiles anyway. “déjà vu, maybe.”

you don’t know he said that same line to you in 1847.

he knows the moment you start falling for him. you always do, eventually. it’s written in your soul.

but every time, it’s new for you.

────────────────────

weeks pass.

he dreams of you every night. some dreams are soft; a memory of you brushing snow out of his hair, or telling him your favorite song on the radio. some are awful; visions of you dying in his arms, blood on your lips, curses howling in the dark.

he wakes up sweating.

this life is peaceful. too peaceful. he’s retired from jujutsu. no more cursed energy. no more students. no more killing. but the price is you not knowing him. not really. not fully.

“what are you thinking about?” you ask one night, on his couch, legs over his lap.

you always ask him that. every life.

he says what he always says. “you.”

────────────────────

he kisses you the first time on your couch, your legs over his lap, your cardigan falling off one shoulder. you taste like strawberry tea and innocence, and he swallows the urge to sob into your mouth. his hands tremble against your waist. yours find his cheeks, fingers splayed like you’re trying to read something hidden underneath his skin.

that night, you tell him you want more, and god, he gives it to you.

it’s slow, at first. gentle. worshipful. he undresses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, lips trailing reverent paths down skin he’s kissed a thousand times before. he kisses the inside of your wrist, your stomach, your thighs, remembering every life your body once held. you arch for him like you always do, instinctual, breathy, the way you’ve moved for him since the beginning of time.

“toru,” you whisper, voice shaking, nails in his shoulders.

he groans like your name hurts. like it undoes him. “you always say it like that,” he says, breathless. “every time.”

you blink, dazed. “what?”

he doesn’t answer. just sinks into you slowly, deeply, like coming home. and as you clutch him to you, legs wrapped around his hips, gasping against his mouth like your soul remembers even if your mind doesn’t. he breaks all over again.

he makes love to you like he’s begging the universe not to take you away again. and maybe, just maybe, for a few minutes, it listens.

────────────────────

it began the way most fragile things do. 

you couldn’t sleep. you never said the words out loud, but he could feel it in the way you curled too tightly against yourself beneath the covers, how your eyes stayed open long after your breath had evened, always pretending to have drifted off when he turned to check. satoru never called you out on it. he only opened his arms and let you fall into them, wrapping around you like a promise he couldn’t keep.

“want me to tell you a story?” he asked once, one hand cradling the base of your skull, the other tracing soft circles into your back.

you gave a sleepy laugh, the sound half-buried in his chest. “i’m not a child.”

“you’re not. but your body needs rest and your mind keeps chasing shadows. i know the feeling.” he waited a beat. “let me help.”

you didn’t say yes. you just exhaled into his throat, a breath that sounded like surrender.

so he told you one. his voice dipped low, slower than usual, threading through the stillness like smoke curling in candlelight.

“there was a girl,” he began, “in a city made of stone. she had ink on her fingers and a book always in her lap. she didn’t speak much to anyone, except to the man who kept finding excuses to walk by her table.”

you smiled into his shirt, already fading toward sleep. “was he in love with her?”

“he’d already loved her for a dozen lifetimes.”

that made your head tilt slightly. you didn’t speak again, but he could feel the way your body stilled, the way something delicate shifted in the quiet space between his ribs and yours, like your soul had paused to listen, even if your mind couldn’t understand why.

the stories became your nighttime ritual. in every version, the details changed, different settings, different tragedies, different kinds of impossible love. but there were always two constants: a man with winter eyes and a woman who never remembered him.

he told you about a girl who smuggled letters across enemy lines, passing paper hearts into the hands of a soldier with white hair and a secret. about a prince who gave up royalty to live a simple life with the village weaver. about a queen who knelt before a man in chains and fed him pieces of bread until the world burned for them both.

you laughed sometimes. other times you curled into him with something heavy in your silence, your fingers drifting absently over his chest like you were searching for something familiar, something just out of reach.

“they’re beautiful,” you whispered once, long after the story ended. “but they always die.”

he kissed your temple, his voice caught in the back of his throat. “love doesn’t need to survive the body to be real.”

that night, your nails pressed faint crescents into his side as you fell asleep.

────────────────────

one night, you asked him to tell the story of the garden again.

you were curled up beside him on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, your head on his shoulder, the rain whispering against the windows like an old friend. the world outside was slow and soft and soaked in silver.

“the one where she keeps trying to grow tomatoes,” you murmured, “but he always ruins them and she forgives him anyway.”

he blinked. “you remember that one?”

your voice was thick with exhaustion, barely there. “i think so. feels like i do. i don’t know why.”

he tucked you closer, lips brushing your temple. “she planted them in a field once. in a lifetime that smelled like honey and sunburn. he couldn’t keep his hands off her. she laughed like it was the only thing that could keep the earth turning.”

you smiled, eyes fluttering closed. “you always make them sound like love songs.”

“they are.”

“even the sad ones?”

“especially the sad ones.”

you fell asleep like that, warm and folded into him, his hand stroking through your hair in lazy, reverent loops. he stayed awake long after, staring at the rain, wondering if the story had reached somewhere deeper this time. if some part of you, the part that lived in dreams and blood and memory, had begun to stir.

you didn’t wake when he carried you to bed. but you curled toward him in your sleep and whispered his name like it was older than language.

────────────────────

he starts dreaming of the first time he found you.

before you were ever born. before you had a name. you were light in a void. a soul that gravitated to his.

he remembers the promise he made to you then. “i’ll always find you. no matter how many lives.” you said you’d try to find him too.

but he’s always the one who remembers. you never do.

and he wonders what he did to deserve this. to carry the weight of every version of you alone.

────────────────────

this life lasts longer than most.

you say you love him on accident. he says it back like he’s been holding it in for lifetimes (he has).

you move in. you paint the walls. he teaches you how to cook. but deep down, he’s waiting.

because something always comes. a sickness. a curse. a war. something that takes you.

he thinks maybe, this time, it won’t.

until it does.

you’re hit by a car.

no cursed spirits. no revenge. no evil. just a car. just a slick road. just stupid, awful, human randomness.

he sees it happen from across the street.

he’s too slow.

and it’s just like before. he holds you in his arms. your blood seeps into his shirt. you’re blinking up at him like you don’t want to go.

he’s shaking.

“don’t- don’t leave me,” he begs. “not again, please. please.”

you’re crying.

“toru,” you whisper. “i don’t… i don’t want to forget…”

he presses his forehead to yours. he’s sobbing now. you’ve never said that before. not once.

maybe you remember. maybe you don’t.

he kisses you. you die in his arms.

again.

he lives another life.

and another.

and another.

each time, he finds you.

in a garden. on a battlefield. in a subway station. in a storm. you always look different. but your soul is the same.

he’s tired. so tired.

but he keeps looking. keeps waiting. keeps finding you.

he wakes in a body that doesn’t belong to the name on the mail by the door. he’s in his thirties. again. new life, new skin. but he remembers.

and he knows, without needing to be told. this is the last one.

there’s something irreversible about it. sharp. infinite. a full stop at the end of a sentence centuries long. there are no curses here. no clans, no talismans, no death wrapped in duty. just cities that hum gently in the distance, and skies that bleed peach-orange at dusk.

the world is normal. he’s just a man now. and for the first time in hundreds of years... that’s enough.

he sees you on a thursday. you’re in his building. you live one floor down. he finds you in the shared laundry room, sleeves pushed up, your fingers flipping through a book while the machine hums behind you.

you look up when he steps in. and for a moment, it’s nothing. just the blink of a stranger seeing another stranger.

but then...

your eyes change. your lips part. your fingers go still on the page. and you say his name.

soft. uncertain. like a question carved from every lifetime you never got to finish asking.

“satoru?”

his breath punches out of him.

he stares at you. older, softer, utterly unfamiliar in every way that doesn’t matter. and somehow you know.

you drop the book. it hits the floor with a thump. your hands cover your mouth and you’re already crying. no hesitation, just recognition. grief, love, memory. spilling all at once like a dam giving way.

he crosses the room in a heartbeat. he’s holding you like you’ll vanish if he blinks too hard. and you bury yourself into him like you’ve done a hundred times before, in a hundred different forms, a hundred different deaths.

“you remember,” he whispers, stunned. cracked. “you remember.”

your fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt. you nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “i remember everything,” you choke out. “every life. every time. i always loved you.”

and he breaks. completely.

because for lifetimes, he carried it all alone. every death, every kiss, every time you smiled without knowing why, every time you died without remembering him. but now... now, in a quiet building with humming machines and coffee-stained paperbacks— you do.

“you found me,” you whisper, tears caught on your lashes.

he laughs. it’s hoarse. broken. joyous. “of course i did,” he breathes. “i always do.”

your smile is wrecked. radiant. you touch his face like you’ve done it a thousand times. and this time. this one time. you say: “this time, i found you too.”

he kisses you in the hallway, beneath flickering fluorescent lights. it doesn’t matter. nothing matters except the feel of your mouth against his, the weight of your memories pressed between your chests.

this life is quiet. unmagical. miraculous.

there are no curses here. no fates to outrun. no knives between ribs or lives left unlived. just two people who’ve burned through eternity to get here.

and this time— you remember. you both do.

in this life, you begin again. not from scratch. but from everything you carried here.

together. fully. finally. forever.

[ohimsummer]

Opinions on guiding a sub puppy satoru through heat cuz... 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂

— minors dni, suggestive/smut :3, blowjob/handjob, creampies, breeding kink, one mention of getting pregnant but gn! reader otherwise, puppyboy! satoru brain worms 💔 and sort of word vomit HGHDJDM also not proofread <3

i think I interpreted this right but if nawt LMKKK

SO I IMAGINE PUPPYBOY! SATORU GETS THIS INTENSE YEARNING TO BREED AT TIMES…..kind of like rutting season for deers?👀 AND IF HE CAN’T HE GETS VERY FRUSTRATED OKAY HEAR ME OUT >:3

at FIRSTT satoru tries to handle it by himself because he thinks it’s SO embarrassing…his dick is painfully hard and leaking everywhere and even though he’d usually ask you for help, he thinks you’ll laugh at him (you won’t. okay maybe a giggle but it’s because he looks so cute) and he tries to jack himself off in secret—when you’re out of the house, or in the bathroom while you’re busy, sometimes even when you're asleep in bed next to him because he’s hurting so bad <333 even with all the times he’s came in a tissue or his own boxers it’s just not the same, poor boy needs something better than his own hand 😗

so now he’s come to YOU, who satoru knows will be his savior!! approaches you one night before bed when his blue balls are literally unbearable and he can’t fathom this agony another second, he HAS to breed someone and it has to be his beloved you <3 you watch him approach with a rock-hard erection, dick a bright red and he’s leaving a trail of precum droplets behind him :<< satoru’s eyes are teary and his brows are furrowed and he has the cutest pout because he’s just so frustrated. he’s been jerking off for days now and nothing seems to be working, why does he not feel any relief??

“can you help me, please?” and he asks you in such a cute whine, ears twitching, tail wagging tentatively…you would have to be a devil to say no to him ☹️

he's a light tint of red from his ears and all the way down his neck…hands grasping and pulling at the sheets and he's squriming and wiggling and satoru is trying Extremely Hard not to buck up into your hand and mouth as you get him off. it’s almost the same thing he’s been doing but it’s your hand and your warm, wet mouth so it feels sooo SOOO much better, there are tears running down his cheeks <3 your hand is sticky with his pre and loads worth of cum, and even after all this time he’s still not satisfied. he needs to breed someone YOU and it has to be asap‼️

so you give him permission and woah you do not know how he can hold so much cum. like at this point he should be going on empty but it’s like it just keeps on coming. satoru fucks into you like this will be his very last day on earth and he’s trying to ensure you’re getting pregnant. his thrusts are fast and rough and hard and his balls slap loudly against your ass every time, and he’s moaning and whimpering so much because this is the best relief he’s felt in days. he cums in you over and over and over, again and again until you’re gushing it down your thighs and ass and onto the bed and he literally can’t move anymore. the redness of his cock has gone down by a lot and satoru doesn’t feel nearly as horny as before. seeing you stuffed so full eases the yearning desire that’s been burning within him recently, and so he can finally rest <333

hi some of my fav puppyboy! satoru enthusiasts <3 @staryukis @teddybeartoji @lxnarphase okay luv u byeee 💛

[symphonyofsilence]

Gojo stop info dumping on Yuta of all people about your failed love life, your broken heart, and your one and only, entirely unprompted. He's probably not as enthusiastic as you are about your Ex.

They had a rather memorable encounter that one time they met.

[henrychengtual]

satosugu in jujutsu kaisen chapter 78.

"in a dream you saw a way to survive" by clementine von radics / "armed cavalier" by richie hofmann / "the worm king's lullaby" by richard siken / unknown

[boyimjustaloserforyourlove]

they apologise

GUYS IF YOU LIKE IT OR HAVE ANY SUGGESTIONS PLEASE COMMENT I'D LOVE TO HEAR YOUR OPINIONS!!!!!! and please send like requests because I don't have any ideas😭

[jjk4isen]

ex gojo who doesn't want to be friends with you. you're here thinking it was because he hated you after everything that happened but it's actually because he's still so in love with you and he doesn't trust himself to be 'just friends' with you. how the hell are you supposed to be friends with someone you want to hold and give all your heart to anyway?

[plasterdrain]

was it casual when the last time you met your best friend you were trying to kill him, you really killed him years later and now you met him once again, but this is not him (just his body), this time his soul was trying to save you.

isn't it ironically beautiful.

[cckaisen]

i have some thoughts when it comes to satoru x older woman!reader . this is one of them . feast ur eyes !!!! suggestive . satoru is 20 years old in this , reader is whatever age u like but 10+ years older probs .

Satoru remembers that moment clearly. Tangibly. A reflection in a mirror, a photograph, a still-frame from his favorite movie. Warm amber light and cedar wood. Resins and shadows, black velvet spread out and rubbed the wrong way, red lace and dark wine, blood and desire thrumming hot under the skin and the promise of teeth in the dark.

See? It’s as real to him as life. He can see it. Think it. Feel it. 

But he can not breathe life back into it. 

And yet, he can still see you there. That face. That beautiful, open face. The flaring of your nostrils as they fill with air. The liberated sprawl of hair across the pillow, the curl of your fingers into the plush surface. The undulating curves of your body. He yearns to rove his fingers along each one, repeatedly, until he can remember the shape of you without effort. Without having to reach back into his memory. The darkest corners of his mind. 

Gojo hardly recalls his own position. He supposes his head must’ve been resting on his palm, since there’s vague remnants of pins and needles in said delicate recollection. He remembers not caring; or noticing, perhaps. 

Eyes of otherworldly blue drink you in. Your rest-riddled form, so true, so uncontrived. His to see, to hold, to keep. 

Rich, supple skin, beautifully bared, gilt-bitten. Your legs are one of his favorite parts of you, layered like cake, another one of his favorite things. He wants to sink his teeth into them, in the most humane, domestic way possible. To savor you; he’s sure taste will satiate him even in his next life. And the next. And the next. Selfishly. But he can be that here. Here, he can be anything at all. 

Anything, or nothing. Both. Neither.

Like a virgin, his lungs turn to jelly when he lowers his gaze to your breasts. The soft swell of them, nipples rounded, the eternal sensation of them suckled into his mouth temporarily stilting his train of thought. Satoru scruples, the inner corners of his brows twitching. 

His mouth waters, prompting him to swallow, as if somehow in your unconscious state you might notice and send him one of those simpering smirks where he might question if you can read his mind. 

Call it perverse, but Satoru lets his gaze linger there some more—perhaps in pure spite of your reaction should you be awake—before returning to the rest of you. 

Even in his petulance, Gojo cannot find one thing, one flaw in what he sees. It gnaws at him. He wrestles with the thought of waking you up to go again, as if the answer could be carved inside, as if he can somehow dissect his decrepit obsession, the golden idle that has taken over his every waking moment. 

Ah, who the fuck is he kidding?

You begin to stir. Gojo stumbles into a claggy-tongued state, his gaze unreadable. 

As if anticipating his presence from the bottom of the bed, you blink out the sleep from your eyes and speak huskily, “I thought you said you set an alarm?”

“Nah, I lied,” Satoru shrugs, smiling boyishly as you meet his gaze. The dust of pink along his cheeks isn’t lost on you. 

“I have a class to teach,” you remind him, adjusting onto your back. 

Satoru quietly appreciates the new view, laying his head on folded arms. “So? Cancel.”

“I should hope that’s the ex-student half of your brain talking and not the teacher-in-training side, Gojo-sensei,” you suspect, those older-wiser instincts kicking up internally. 

“Gojo-sensei, huh?” Gojo grins and drops his head to the side, “Write that one down.”

“In your dreams, kid,” you snort, throwing the blanket over his face and shooing out of bed. Gojo casts a pout under the blanket that you can’t see, yet it somehow doesn’t go detected. 

“Satoru,” you say in warning. 

The man groans excessively, petulance flaring up like the spitting of oil in a pan as he pushes himself off the bed, a familiar white shock of hair appearing in your peripheral. 

At this new turning point in his life, he’s finding it hard to adjust. This role of teacher feels like a part in a play. He’s not nurturing, and he really couldn’t care much for rules, nevermind the ones he would now have to enforce. 

Which was why he’s more than glad to have you. 

Without warning, Satoru lugs himself around your shoulders like a pet monkey. 

You hum, content, pulling off a loose tie from the mirror post, and throw it over his bite-littered neck. 

Satoru glouts at the mirror. 

“See?” you smile in tasteful jest, “Responsibility becomes you, Satoru.”