Latest Posts by milk-tea-and-memories - Page 2

i do not have the strength to block all the bots. welcome ladies make yourselves at home i guess. im a feminist

Rich boy! gojo getting all pouty because some guy hits on you at an event he takes you to and now you have a 6 foot GIANT leaning all his weight over you as he whines about not getting attention

[ WOUNDED PRIDE ] GOJO SATORU.

“satoru, you’re still pouting,” you hum, poking his cheek as he huffs.

“‘m not,” gojo mumbles, bitterly turning his head away from you. you can hear geto’s amused chuckle from the distance, making your boyfriend growl out a shut up, suguru under his breath, and because you’re supportive, you hide your own laugh.

“baby, he’s gone,” you cup his cheeks, grinning as he stubbornly refuses to meet your eyes, “you don’t have to be jealous anymore.”

“jealous?” he pulls away from you like you’ve insulted him—like the idea is simply too crazy to hear out loud, “me? jealous? what gives you that idea?”

“toru,” you snort, “you couldn’t be anymore obvious.”

“neither could you,” he accuses, narrowing his eyes at you, “you were trying to make me mad.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say with faux innocence, making his arms cross.

and now his lips are even further jutted in a pout, though you know saying something will only make him more upset, so you choose to keep your mouth shut for now. but gojo can still sense your amusement, glaring at you before turning his head away with a petulant hmph.

“flirting with other men is considered cheating, you know.”

“i wasn’t flirting,” you giggle, “i was just making friends. like you told me to.”

“making friends doesn’t include zenin naoya,” gojo glares at you, prompting out a supportive yeah, he sucks from geto. gojo nods, pointing a thumb at geto in agreement, making you roll your eyes.

“you never told me you hated him,” you defend, “but i wasn’t trying to make you mad,” you add softly, cupping his cheeks again.

“yeah you were,” he mumbles bitterly. his cheeks are squeezed together by your palms, and his voice is slightly whiny—and suddenly, you think you fall in love all over again.

“i’m sorry, toru,” you smile gently, “i just thought you looked cute all pouty. i didn’t wanna make you mad.”

“i wasn’t pouting,” he grumbles, “i don’t pout. i’m a man.”

“you cry during movies,” geto points out—and you’re glad there’s no wine in your vicinity, otherwise you think gojo might splash it on his best friend’s crisp, white button down. and you don’t think his father would take kindly to the scene—which would only further complicate things.

“i’m a man with a heart,” gojo scowls, “that’s why i’m not single.”

“okay,” you break up the bickering, distracting gojo with a kiss to his cheek—he grins at the gesture, giving you one in return even though he’s still slightly upset with you (though he won’t admit it.)

satoru gojo is not a jealous man.

that’s what he’ll tell you, at least—but you know better. you can see it in the way his lips alternate back and forth from a tiny pout to an irritated scowl, in the way his eyebrows furrow with irritation, in the way he huffs and tries to act like he doesn’t care when suguru elbows him in amusement.

and it’s not as though you enjoy attention from…whoever it was you were talking to (apparently zenin naoya according to gojo), but there’s just a small part of you that’s lightly amused. gojo is like a magnet—the girls flock to him left and right like a slice of bread left out for the crows to fight for. you’re used to it by now, have learned to ignore the slight creep of doubt and simply ignore the jealous glares sent your way as you take his hand.

but that doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy the change of pace every once in a while—the rare turn of tables that have him irritated instead of you.

naoya is a little too entitled for your taste. there’s too much expensive cologne sprayed on and you’re sure if he could without seeming tacky, he’d have left the tag on his suit to show its brand new. that’s the case with all rich people, you think, too busy watering the roots to pull for the weeds.

you don’t particularly enjoy talking to him—but you amuse yourself all the same. he’s far too cocky when he asks are you an intern for the gojo’s? i haven’t seen you before—

and before you can answer, you hear a familiar voice spit: actually, they’re my date. you don’t even hear gojo come up behind you, and you know as soon as his arm wraps around your waist, your stuck to his side for the rest of the night whether you like it or not.

“don’t talk to naoya he sucks,” gojo mutters. you nod, agreeing with him to console the bitterly wounded pride he seems to be sporting.

“he’s the worst,” you agree, “and his cologne smells gross.”

“i have that cologne,” he gasps, “it’s my favorite. you hate it?”

“no,” you say quickly, “it smells nice on you. everything smells nice on you.” geto snorts, and you shoot him a warning glance before he can make the situation worse.

gojo doesn’t look convinced—eyes narrowed and lips curled in that soft pout of his when he doesn’t get his way. it’s a bit spoiled, just a little bratty in its own right, but makes you melt all the same, pinching his cheek gently as you chuckle.

“if i were you,” geto turns to you, “i’d talk to naoya more. it might humble satoru just a little—”

“if i were you, i’d shut up before getting punched—”

“you wouldn’t land a punch on me if you tried—”

“you don’t know that—”

“actually i do because you can’t fight for shit—”

“i’m an excellent fighter—”

“alright,” you hiss, glancing at the few heads that have turned to watch the bickering between gojo and geto, making you glare at them in slight embarrassment.

“baby,” gojo whines, “tell him i can fight.”

and because his ego has been wounded one too many times tonight, you let him slump onto you, ignoring the heavy weight as you sigh and wrap your arms around him. you’re sure quite a few people are staring by now—but you suppose people always stare when you date someone like gojo.

“you could totally fight naoya,” you agree. you think you’ve finally said something right—because he seems to brighten at your words.

“i could, couldn’t i?”

“yes,” you nod, “and you smell better. and you have better hair.”

“and i’m cuter.”

“of course,” you sigh, eyeing geto for help. but he grins, sends you a small wave with mischief in his expression as he wanders off—leaving you all alone to nurse gojo’s ego back to full health.

© hanmas do not plagiarize, repost, translate to other sites, or recommend on platforms outside tumblr such as tik tok

my kind of woman…

synopsis. you see a different side of gojo no one else has seen before

characters/pairings. highschool satoru gojo x highschool fem! reader

genre. fluffy fluff, angst

tw. none

a/n. this was actually supposed to be a whole diff concept but i accidentally shifted the story entirely 🧍🏻‍♀️/ inspired by mac demarco’s “my kind of woman” <33

satoru gojo.

who is gojo satoru? well it’s simple. gojo is your classmate at jujutsu tech. he is the strongest sorcerer in jujutsu history, baring the six eyes and limitless technique.

he is known as the mortal god amongst the jujutsu world. a man who is capable of wiping out the entire country, world even.

of course you knew that, it’s an obvious answer. but for some reason, there’s a feeling about him that’s lingered in the back of your mind.

you’ve been at jujutsu tech for awhile now. a second year along gojo, geto and shoko. you’ve gotten along with all of them surprisingly smooth. it shocked them how fast you adapted to gojos annoying quirky personality. he’s not the first rodeo you’ve dealt with.

but as time passed and you spend more and more time around gojo, you’ve noticed something about him.

currently, you and gojo had went out for some kikufuku after your mission. geto and shoko declined, saying they were exhausted. but you accepted cause…why not???

there wasn’t a clear answer but because of the people similar to gojos outgoing personality in your past, you immediately felt drawn to him. a nostalgic magnetic feeling that’s oddly comfortable??

if you said that out loud, everyone would definitely look at you like some kind of deformed curse.

after you both got your kikufuku, gojo suggested going back to the school.

you both arrived and he just plopped himself down the steps in front of the building that is the entrance for the dorms.

you crouched down next to him and plopped down as well — not as rough as him in an attempt to not ruin your uniform.

it was an odd moment of silence. he wasn’t speaking at all. the sounds of the night filling your ears instead of whatever annoying ramble he’d normally be going on about.

you don’t question it and continue to snack on your kikufuku. after a few minutes you get worried and turn to glance at him.

he wasn’t eating his kikufuku. he was just staring up at the star-littered sky with his forearms on his knees.

you try to take a better glance at him. but when you do, it’s nothing you would’ve expected.

his bright blue eyes are empty and vacant, with little to no emotion at all. suddenly a wave of sadness travels through your body.

he looks so…sad

satoru gojo…sad???

the worlds strongest sorcerer, sad??

you are hit with a hard realization. like you’ve seen his person for the first time. you turn to look at the ground and think about it more.

no, not satoru gojo.

you see satoru.

satoru. a boy, who is a human just as you are. an awkward teenage boy who is pervert like all teenage boys, who laughs, who has interests and tastes, who has thoughts. a human being, equal as you are.

the realization sets in and you feel like you’ve been introduced to a whole new world.

that realization shifts into sadness. you feel sadness for this poor boy who society has deemed into a god with no feelings to control. this poor boy didn’t ask for these powers.

you feel a stare on you as your mind in drowned in thoughts. then you feel a small poke on your shoulder.

you turn to see gojo staring at you with his eyebrows furrowed and a confused expression. you slowly bring your hand to touch his, testing if he has his infinity off.

“hm…y/n?” he questions. his calm expression soon turns into shock.

you turn your body to him entirely, sitting on your knees. you wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him as tightly and lovingly as you can.

you nuzzle your cheek in his soft messy hair and whisper, “I’m sorry…”

you felt his body shiver and tense as soon as you said that. he gulps, loud enough for you to hear it.

he slowly and hesitantly wraps his arms around your waist. hands on your hips, slowly traveling and resting on the middle of your back.

he feels so warm in contrast to the chilly night air. you can feel him squeezing you a little tighter. he leans his head against yours before gently letting you go. you let go and rest your palms on your knees.

“uh so…what was that for huh?” he says in a gentle voice you’ve never heard before.

“…mm…just felt like it,” you answer with a smile while shifting your legs back to the ground.

he huffs out a sarcastic giggle.

“you weirdo…”

you smile as well, unaware of the blushy thoughts flying across his mind.

little did you know. that moment marked the day he would start to fall completely and utterly in love with you.

(via reddit)

11. A ladybug is too small to operate a forklift.

the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” is actually not the full phrase it actually is “curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back” so don’t let anyone tell you not to be a curious little baby okay go and be interested in the world uwu

dawn instinct

|| satoru gojo x reader || E (18+) || foreplay, smut, & hurt/comfort || wc: 6.1k  || ao3 ||

Even sorcerers make time for 'simple' trysts— Satoru Gojo is no exception.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: oooh man it's the gojo smut 👀 i set out to write some pwp and it became this piece!!! oh to explore intimacy with such a guy!! thank you to the lovely cielo for beta reading 💕 enjoy!!! 💌

CW: soft smut, hurt/comfort, panic/anxiety attacks, intimacy issues/discussion around intimacy, a wittle angst if you squint, cheeky satoru

“Can I take this off?”

You tug at the elastic of his eye mask. It’s silken under your fingers and feels a little too tight under his ears.

Satoru sucks in a breath and chews his lip. You watch his expression shift, the skin of his cheeks drawing up to crinkle his hidden eyes. You draw shapes over his temple, trying to calm down his rabbit’s heart.

You know this is a lot for Satoru. You can feel it. Your fingertips are pressed to his skin, top. him. Satoru Gojo, strongest, is letting you touch him. The divine layer around him is gone and replaced by this. Warmth. From void to heat. 

There’s a subtle shift of his thighs under yours as he muses over your question.

“You don’t have to, “ You assure him, setting your arms over his shoulder. “This all must be… a lot.”

If he’s more comfortable covered, you’re content with that. The expectation to bear oneself in such a way is new for Satoru. Self-imposed expectations, you’re almost sure will crush him as they have before.

You truly want nothing but him, in whatever way he allows you close. If he lets you close.

It’s only the second time you’d been perched in his lap like this, the second time his infinity has been lowered for the sake of intimacy. You wonder, quietly, how long it’s been since he’s shared the heat of human touch. You consider yourself lucky to have the opportunity to know the feel and firmness of his skin. You get to be close to him. It’s such a novel thing, really, but it feels a bit sacred with him.

(The dance prior had been a rite. A ritual to open a space between the two of you, one that could be inhabited by both of you. It was a careful back and forth, smoldering embers and climbing flames that stretched with crooning words and easily seen through lies.)

(You are a good dancer, and you reap a god for it.)

“Nah, it’s fine,” Satoru’s pinched expression falls away. He’s still strained, feigning, as he pulls the silk away from his eyes and over the top of his head. Gossamer hair falls flat, laying gently over his forehead and just barely covering his undercut. You don’t meet his gaze yet. You instead inspect the curve of his jaw to his ear, tracing a fingertip over the bone.

He’s beautiful, you think.

Before you’d met Gojo, you’d heard him described as such. An earthen god with beauty to match it. Atrocious personality, but nice to look at. The rumors weren’t… wrong. Satoru found a way to be both cloying and avoidant while remaining one of the most breathtaking people you’d ever seen. The high praise he receives isn’t in jest.

You adore him, you think. You can’t ever let him know— not to your feeling’s true extent. He’d never let you live it down.

His palm, large and warm, cups your chin and turns you toward him. He knocks his forehead against yours. It’s a bit clammy.

(A spark of pride warms your belly. His infinity has only been off for a few minutes. The room is temperate. The sheen on his forehead is from him reacting to you. Getting a rise, even if only bodily, from Gojo Satoru is exhilarating.)

But Gojo knows exhilarating, doesn’t he? He knows combat and strife, but it’s tenderness that's foreign to him.

If you were in his place, you may have broken a sweat too.

You keep your eyes lowered. You can feel him, looking into and through you. You’re still fully clothed, not bare in the slightest, but Satoru still strips you in a way beyond cloth. The only skin-to-skin contact you have is through your light touches around his neck and the point where your foreheads meet. 

It still feels like a lot.

“You can touch me more, ‘ya know,” Satoru prods you, grabbing your wrist and placing your hand on the back of his neck. “I like when you do. Have you done this before?”

You stifle a snort, “You’re toying with me now? Getting impatient?” 

Satoru hums, and shrugs, “With you? I always am.”

Oh, god, what an admission. To be wanted in such a way by anyone, let alone Gojo. It makes your gut twist with something equally sweet and sour. There’s something to it— you’re not used to it. You’re not used to it. You’re not used to accepting someone’s desire for you. To be perched in someone’s lap, someone you equally desire? Feels like a new experience, even if you had been in this position at some other point.

“Needy,” You grin, and finally look at him.

Satoru, you realize, hasn’t taken his eyes off you. You’re not sure what he’s seeing (the way your cursed energy is melting in pools, the rapid beat of your heart, the tremor in your hands—), but you assume it’s all. You’re at his mercy, in that way. There’s nothing you can hide from him and it's daunting. You’re at such a disadvantage in knowing, but it’s familiar. 

Satoru’s pretty. Especially pretty in his face. Everyone talks about Gojo Satoru’s fabled crystalline eyes, but they really don’t do it justice. You don’t want to stare too much, but it’s the first up-close look you’ve gotten at him, and you’re enraptured. For most of your trysts, Gojo kept his blindfold on for ease. You were never afforded the chance to ogle. His eyes cut, blue topaz, set in a human skull. You swear they refract light from the inside. 

“Go on, stare some more,” Satoru grins, sitting back against the cushions. “I’ve got all day.”

You raise an eyebrow, sitting back on your haunches in his lap, balancing with a hand on his chest, “I’m happy to. You’re beautiful.”

Satoru whistles, “Buttering me up? You’re sweet.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” You say with no edge. You flash him a smile. “You knew that already. You couldn’t keep your size ego without knowing you’re stunning.”

Satoru doesn’t reply for a moment. He licks his lips, chews on the bottom one for a moment. You almost open your mouth to redact a word or two. You are being presumptuous, and perhaps a bit mean. Who knows, maybe Satoru actually has no idea—

“It’s different, since it’s you,” Satoru says, settling his big hand on one of your hips. 

There’s a wealth of unspoken secrets in such a phrase. Satoru’s built too guarded to show you them, and you half-doubt he ever will. You’ll have to settle for your own conjecture. You’ll have to settle for the way such admission makes your heart pound. You’ll have to settle for how his words are followed by a soft squeeze of your ribs in his warm palm. 

To be special to someone, someone who seems so above such connections— it makes your insides melt down your spine.

You kiss him, to let him know you heard him. You lean forward suddenly, half-tipping over into his lap. It brings you chest to chest, where Satoru easily wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you close, holding you there without give. 

And you kiss him like you’ve wanted to for god knows how long. 

It’s not like the chaste touches you’ve had in the past. It’s nothing like the hungry looks you’ve caught Gojo flashing you from across campus. It’s neither entirely carnal, nor pure. It makes your insides, from your brain to your toes, turn to mush.

You press into him, winding a hand into his hair.

Satoru holds you steadfast. The grip he has around your waist is unwavering and keeps you chest to chest. You can feel his expand against your own, even the pounding of his heart in an earthly rhythm.

(As much as you claim to know Satoru, it still shocks you, occasionally, how human he is. His heart beats, thumps and thuds when touched like something fragile and precious. It’s endearing, in a way.)

You cup a hand over his chin and stroke your thumb against the sharp line of his jaw. You curl your nails behind his ear, and nearly die when you feel Satoru shudder beneath you. The half-moan he hums into your mouth has your thighs clenching around his own.

Satoru is nothing if not competitive, even knowing he will always win. A loss is a feint with him, and you forget this in the moment.

He breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips down your neck, deftly unbuttoning your top and sliding it down your shoulders. It settles against your biceps as Satoru lays kiss after kiss against your skin.

“You’re so,” He says, suddenly. “So—”

He cuts himself off and smothers his face into your neck. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pouting. His grip on you gets tighter, and there’s not a smidge of space between you two.

It’s overwhelming, maybe.

You’re not used to this. Your mutual lifestyle rarely left time for things like this, and when they were shared, it was quick and quiet. There simply isn’t enough time of respite for a sorcerer to be so indulgent. There are lives, people— souls left out in the cold if you’re too selfish about this. 

For that reason, you wonder if Satoru has much experience at all.

You know his history, his place, his status (even in this position, the miasmatic knowledge of such things will not leave you.) You can’t decipher whether such things would make him more or less likely to experience physical intimacy. You’ve heard rumors, sure, but you don’t think Satoru has the room in his schedule to be as much of a slut as whispers would have you believe. 

Regardless, you feel special, getting to be so close to him. You covet him too much, probably. It’s been drilled into your head since birth, so you can’t fault yourself too much. 

“You’re thinking so hard,” Satoru kisses your neck again. “Your cursed energy’s going crazy. What’s on your mind?”

You pause. 

“... You.” You answer honestly.

“Oh, wow, me? I’m flattered.” He noses up to your jaw and nips, before grabbing your face in one large hand and dragging you together again. “But, I’d prefer if you were here with me, right now. Think you can manage? I’ll make it easy.”

“I’ll try,” You say, letting Satoru kiss over cheeks. 

Satoru hums, “You will. You’ll stay here, with me.”

...

He does make it easy, notably. 

Satoru drags you close as can be and devours you— there’s no other word for it. He kisses and kisses and kisses until you feel saliva dribble from the corners of your lips. He nips at your bottom lip and tugs more than once. It hurts in a good way. It’s the kind of pain that you want more of. 

Satoru must understand, because he bites your lip and you swear he must bust it to bleeding. You nearly thank him as sparks of pain mix with heat and pleasure like its own heady drug. 

Your grapple onto his shoulders, encouraging him to shrug off his uniform top. It’s shed easily, quickly and he’s down to a tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination. You run your hands up and down his chest, unabashedly feeling him up. Who knew Satoru was so broad? (tits) Shoulders too. Satoru towered over nearly everyone he met, but he never struck you as anything other than a beanpole.

But now? You can feel the muscle on him. You can feel it tensing and relaxing in rhythm as he massages the meat above your hips. You can feel him and how strong he is. 

It’s exhilarating. You want to drown in him.

“You’re excited,” Satoru breaks away to tease. 

You hum, kissing the corner of his mouth, “So are you.”

That much is obvious. You’ve skillfully been ignoring how hard Satoru is against your inner thigh, even through his trousers. It’s taken a fair amount of willpower to not grind in his lap senselessly. 

Satoru’s grip slips lower, cupping your ass and dragging you down against his clothed cock. He nips at your jaw, up to your ear, and dares to whisper, “I want to feel you.”

You swallow, thick and hard, and Satoru belts out a laugh. You slap his chest for it, hoping the dark of the room distracts from the heat in your cheeks. You know Satoru must notice how your hands tremble as you grab his shoulders and grind down into his lap. You bow your head, hiding in the crook of his neck and fucking take.

It’s shameless, really. 

There are still several layers of clothing between you, yet it feels like so much. Maybe you’re touch-starved, maybe you’re enthralled with the idea of Satoru Gojo and his cock being interested in you, maybe— it just feels good and you’re chasing the feelings. 

Satoru bucks his hips up while holding yours down, letting your circle and grind on him to your heart’s content. Little whines drip from his lips, huffs of breath barely loud enough for you to hear but god, you feel weak for them. The sounds meld with your own. You scratch at his shoulders, cursing under your breath.

Satoru drags you up by your scruff to kiss you, mumbling against your lips, “‘Think you soaked through your panties.”

He confirms this by slipping a hand down your front. Satoru cups your cunt, feels you, and curses under his breath. You don’t have time to process how he’s touching you more gently than you imagined, more carefully, maybe even tenderly— before he’s winding a hand in the hair at the base of your skull and hauling you back.

You’re forced to keep your back arched. You’re bare. Your shirt pools around your waist and one of the straps of your bra slips down your shoulder. It’s obscene, you feel filthy despite being covered to some degree. You’ve probably got the front of Satoru’s trousers filthy—

Satoru pulls you from your thoughts.

He cups your jaw with his free hand and runs his fingers up and down the planes of your face. Cheeks, jaw— down the bridge of your nose before pressing his thumb to your lips. 

He’s a difficult person to make eye contact with. He’s infamous for it. It’s rare anyone actually has the opportunity to meet his gaze, but even when folks do, it’s hard to meet him on his level. Satoru doesn’t need to look at you in such a way to really see you. For him, you imagine direct eye contact must be like a dance, a challenge, and a way to make people squirm under the weight of an immeasurably powerful being. 

You force yourself to look at him and find Satoru looking back at you. He’s tracing your features, up and down, taking you in a way that looks more human than any other way you’ve seen him look. 

“... You okay?” You ask, softly, words slurred by the thumb Satoru has yet to remove from your lips.

He hums, musing, before fully pressing into your mouth, down onto your tongue. You let him, and suck and nip at his thumb. 

“I’m great,” Satoru says. “Basking, a little bit.”

He has a dopey smile on his face as he switches from his thumb to his ring and forefinger. You stay relaxed as he presses further and further back to your throat. He only stops when the tips of his fingers meet soft flesh and your gag around him. 

“You’re so good,” Satoru preens, nearly pulling his fingers from your mouth, before pressing them forward once more. “You’re precious.”

He says ‘precious’ like it's endearing and demeaning, and for some reason, it turns you on even more. You whine around his fingers and struggle for friction against his lap. Satoru clicks his tongue. 

“So needy,” He grins, letting go of your hair in favor of undoing the buckle and zipper of his trouser, rubbing himself over his boxer briefs. He continues to fuck your mouth, smile getting wider when spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and slips down your chin.

You slowly sink closer, holding yourself up by your thighs and sheer willpower. You are needy— you desperately want to be in Satoru’s lap. You want to be sitting on his cock until the sun rises and sets again. You can see in the dim light that Satoru’s bulge is not small, rather large perhaps, even against his hand. 

You swallow. The thought of stretching around Satoru’s cock’s girth has you clenching around nothing and moaning around his fingers. You get impatient.

You fumble your grip against Satoru’s chest and reach downward. You get as far as his waistband before Satoru shoos you with a laugh, giving you a particularly hard thrust to the back of your throat. You choke.

“Let me take my time,” Satoru hums. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, letting tendrils of thick drool connect from your lips to his fingers. “I want to savor this.”

And the fucking bastard shamelessly pressing his fingers into his own mouth, sucking your saliva from them while not breaking from your gaze. 

“Y-You’re a menace,” Your voice lacks any bite as you speak.

“I’m sure I am,” Satoru looks so smitten as he palms his cock, pulling at the zipper of your uniform skirt with his free hand. You wriggle out of it and it's discarded somewhere beyond your comprehension. 

Satoru uses one deft hand to finish off the buttons of your shirt, peeling it away until you’re skin and heat in his lap. You hold onto a shred of modesty in just panties and a bra. Satoru ogles you all the same, chewing his lip as he traces your figure up and down, and up and down once more. 

Despite your last two garments, you feel naked. 

You can’t help it— you feel shy, even. You wrap your arms around your middle and avert your eyes down to his chest. You can feel that Satoru’s going to say something about it, prod you for being bashful when you’re going to be open for him in moments, more than likely. You distract him by grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, tugging until he peels it off. 

“I can’t tell if you’re eager or dreading this,” Satoru laughs, but the end of the sound is rotten. It makes something in you shrivel and twitch. “Enlighten me?”

“I...” Your voice dies in your chest and you take a shaky breath.

You grab his hands and hold them in your own.

For someone whose hands never actually touch their opponent, Satoru’s are worn. There are calluses around his fingernails. Worn, dry skin on his palms and knuckles that you run your own scarred flesh against. His hands are warm and a bit clammy, which makes him feel a little more human.

“It’s been a while,” You murmur. “It’s scary to be so bare around someone.”

You refuse to look at him for a moment. 

Satoru hums, adjusting his grip so his palms cup your own, “It is.”

Of course, Satoru gets it. 

“I want it. You—” You hiss out a breath between your teeth as Satoru’s grip trails higher, squeezing on his way. “But, I can’t shake the feeling that being so close to someone won’t result in some tragedy.”

Satoru is silent after you speak. His eyes shine glassy and glazed, fixed somewhere else beyond the room. You don’t attempt to pull him back, not yet. He keeps massaging you, hands finding purchase on your hips. 

You suppose Satoru must be familiar with this distinct feeling as well. You both deal in tragedies. Your profession demands it, and so it is. You must purge away that which is addled in suffering, you must go hand-to-hand with grime and hate and everything rotten with the world, so that there’s, perhaps, a chance for someone, somewhere to rest easier.

The thing you are closest to is tragedy. You spar with suffering and feel it in your open palms every day. 

It makes sense you’d anticipate closeness, regardless of its intention or context, as something to be wary of. Frightening, if you really got down to it. Terrified that pleasurable touch is a farce, and that the next moment you’ll be faced with your guts on the floor, and something in you wounded beyond repair. 

“Satoru?” You say his name softly, tugging his face to your chest. His cheek rests against your sternum and his warm breath fans over your skin. “You there?”

“Yeah,” He answers immediately, nuzzling into the heat of you. “You’re better with words than you give yourself credit for, probably.”

You don’t get a chance to reply or process Satoru’s confession. He startles you when he shifts his grip under your thighs and hefts you up. He stands, adjusting you, and whisks you off to a bedroom nearby.

The room you’re brought to is dimly lit, enough that the shadows obscure any of the decor. There’s only a small lamp atop a dresser that gives off the barest bit of warm light. Hardly enough to make out any of the furnishings. You have to rely on feeling as you are set on the bed with a gentle bounce, and pushed into the sheets. They’re cool and buttery beneath you. The mattress is harder than you would expect from someone with Satoru’s tastes.

Any other thought you could have is quickly chased away by Satoru. He’s up over you within moments, settling over your hips and kissing you harder than before. 

He’s handsy, feeling and squeezing anywhere he can get a hold of. No part of you is spared from the heat of his palms and strength of his grip. He’s a bit more forceful, a bit bolder, now that you’re laid out underneath him. He’s big. Broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and easily keeps you down and pliant.

You meet him where you can. You wind a hand into his hair, tug him closer and try to drink him. It’s a sloppy thing, messier than you’d ever admit. And you like it. The spit pooling out of the corner of your lips and the desperate little noises you exchange warm your guts in a way that feels foreign and welcome all the same.

“Satoru,” You say his name like a smothered prayer, caught between half-breaths. He outright moans when you call to him.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty saying that,” Satoru pulls away to drop his hand to your collarbone.

You run a hand down the nape of his neck, squeezing, “Your ego is showing, be careful, Satoru.”

He makes a choked sound and chomps down on your collarbone. You squeak and slap at his shoulders. Your scolding doesn’t deter him, if anything it eggs him on. His lips trail lower, deftly removing any remaining fabric as he does.

You claw at him, trying to drag him into your skin. You want to mix together, dissolve into a puddle, and never be anything but that. It’s indulgent to think about, and you can’t help the giddy sound that bursts from your lips as Satoru brushes past a particularly sensitive spot on your navel.

“That’s a cute sound,” He peaks up from his lashes, long and silver and he looks fucking angelic. You drop your head to the pillows, steeling yourself as he works. You adjust your leg over his shoulder, tucking him between your thighs and Satoru makes a contented sound that has you thrumming from the inside out.

The heat of Satoru seeps into your skin, making you pliable beneath him. Satoru lies half off the bed and his lower half slips to the floor below. He drags you by your calves. You yelp, grabbing the sheets and regarding him with wide eyes.

Even kneeling on the bed, Satoru is tall. The figure of him sends something stirring in you, some feeling that’s both intimidating and lust, rolling into something hot on the back of your tongue. Satoru tilts his head with a smile that gleams, adjusting you as he pleases. You let him, let him, let him—

He props your hips up with a pillow, leaving you off-kilter and exposed to the cold air of the room. He works off the rest of your uniform skirt, leaving your panties and knee-highs intact. Satoru seems to settle, eyeing your clothed sex with that same smile. He traces a nonsense pattern over your hips, teasing with the tip of his finger.

Blood rushes to your skull and you feel woozy with it. With him. It’s so much. You feel exposed like this. He has hardly touched your cunt, only prodded the parts he could lavish, goading you on. You should’ve met him more, he can’t—

You shoot up, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, “I’m sorry—”

Satoru pauses, raising an eyebrow and withdrawing. 

“Sorry? For what?” He retains an air of mischief to his voice, but it feels hollow. You feel a ringing start in your ears.

You’re scared.

You’re scared.

It’s too close.

You twitch. Your impulse is to grab a weapon, wind up with cursed energy, and punch. The urge claws up your chest in the form of breaths that catch in your nose too fast. Sweat beads on your forehead and you make a tiny, dying sound.

You feel Satoru’s cursed energy crackle and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise. You scramble upright on the bed, away, away.

It’s instinct, really.

Your heart pounds, the feeling of violence so thick in your blood that it clouds your vision. You’re nothing but a specter, why would you bother with physical pleasures? You feel foolish and you clutch at your throat.

“Woah, woah there,” Satoru puts his hand up, still kneeling. His brow creases with concern. Gone is the desire and mischief. Caring. Satoru Gojo cares about you, about the way you’re sure he can see how your body and cursed energy are spasming. You’re scared, you’re scared—

This is it, isn’t it? Why you so rarely indulge in the carnal. It tastes bitter. Its bile, rising from your gut and you have to swallow to keep from drowning in it. It’s a fear that’s so fucking hard to place, hard to verbalize, certainly to someone outside of your profession. Even to another sorcerer, you’re not entirely sure you could force yourself to put into words the tangled, horrific feeling that you can’t seem to escape in these moments.

It pulls you. Tugs you. It’s going to tear you apart—

Satoru says your name, sharp and clear, and it brings you back to the room. You’re in Satoru’s low-light bedroom, probably. The sheets are soft. Satoru smells good. There’s a dead stick of incense on a holder on the dresser.

Satoru grabs your cheeks in his hands and drags you nose to nose. You feel the heat pouring off of him.

And you look at him.

“There you are,” Satoru says with an edge of relief you’ve never heard from him. “I lost you for a sec there. Take some breaths with me, ‘kay?”

“S-Sure, yeah,” You reach for Satoru’s wrist without thinking and hold. You ground yourself on the feeling of his pulse and bone.

Satoru counts in little murmurs, coaching you through a few moments of deep breathing. The first ones wrack through you, dragging out sounds you wish you could’ve quieted. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps your attention, expression schooled open and inviting, and doesn’t waver until you’ve settled.

“There we go, back down to earth,” Satoru lets out a sigh. Perhaps, of relief, even.

You expect Satoru to pull back and create distance in some way. The necessity for closeness has passed and there’s no reason for him to linger—

(You forget, so easily, that you’re in the exchange of desire. You’re tender in a dance of skinship that you’ve never left, not even for a moment.)

Satoru shifts, dragging you up and pressing you against his chest. You’re both so bare— you’d forgotten. The sudden amount of skin-to-skin contact, superheated and sensitive, makes you jolt. Satoru shushes you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you flush against him.

You don’t say anything for a while. You deflate from rigid to slack over some length of time you’re too fuzzy to measure. Satoru is mostly quiet. He only hums in what you can only assume to be approval, with each chest-heaving exhale that leaves you more relaxed against him.

It’s easier to bend now. The heat of the situation has dissipated, and the post-adrenal haze makes it easy to crash. You can feel embarrassed about it later. You’re lulled by bugs that sing night songs in the estate’s courtyard, and the gurgling of the stream that cuts through the property. 

“... You know, it happens to everyone,” Satoru says nonchalantly. He hooks his chin over the top of your head. “I don’t know a single sorcerer I’ve consistently fucked who hasn’t melted down at least once.”

“... How many sorcerers is that?” You surely must validate his data, see if he’s pulling your leg out of pity.

He laughs, “Is that a roundabout way of asking for my body count? You dog.”

You snort and shake your head, “No, I’m asking seriously.”

“More than a handful, less than a dozen,” Satoru answers after a moment of thought. “It’s normal, though. I have my moments too.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just squeezes you. 

You haven’t bedded too many of your colleagues, and even when you had, you hadn’t thought too much about their potential panic (you were too busy quelling your own enough to enjoy physical release.) 

Like all things of this nature, your dance is mutual.

“Huh,” You lean up to look at him, craning your neck. “Comforting. Glad to know the strongest sorcerer in the world cries during sex sometimes.”

He gives you a look, “Hey, I never said that—”

You lean away from him, cupping your hands around your mouth, “Hey world! Did you hear that ‘World’s Strongest Sorcerer’, ‘Well-est Endow-ed’, Gojo Satoru cries during—”

He jabs at your sides and you sputter around your words.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re in for it—”

And Satoru sets upon you, your ribs and sides and tummy with the tips of his fingers in what can only be called a minor war crime. You snort and gasp between giggling fits and streams of ‘no, no— Satoruuuuu!’s. He relents, eventually. Satoru goes from tickling to petting you as you catch your breath.

“Asshole.” You huff without any bite.

 He kisses your temple, “You started it.”

“Maybe, perhaps.” You jab your elbow into his ribs. You preen at the little ‘oof’ of air Satoru lets out. Victory.

“Do you want to continue? Or is the mood totally ruined.” You ask matter-of-factly. 

You’re still shaken, just a little. But you wouldn’t mind trying again. The silliness of things worked away some of your latent tension. You’re not boneless, but you wouldn’t mind being, you know, bone in if that’s what things led to. 

“The mood’s not ruined,” Satoru squeezes your hips and you shift higher in his lap. “I’d love to see where things go, if anywhere, if you want to continue.”

You adjust, sitting up over his hips. 

“I want to try, even if we have to stop again.”

And in the low light of the bedroom, you come nose to nose with Satoru Gojo yet again. You’re level.

“Perfect, sweetheart,” and he thumbs over your bottom lip before kissing you so soft and gently, it almost cracks your chest in two.

...

Your night continues until it becomes a dawn, and then a morning. 

It’s not a seamless tryst, surely, but your stumbles and brief panics are quelled now that Satoru knows what to look for, and you’re more vigilant of the things that will send you spiraling.

(Satoru says your cursed energy begins to curl around your chest and climbs to your throat in little wisps. You avoid your middle being exposed and vulnerable.)

Satoru holds his own— very well, in more ways than one. His own hiccups in intimacy aren’t panic, like your own, but rather awe. He has moments where he looms above you, eyes glassy and almost unfocused, where you can tell he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t seem scared, just slower, more out of body than the strongest allows himself to be.

(It’s reverence, really. He touches you in those moments like you’re a sculpture at a shrine, a sacred thing to pray to.)

He takes his time. You take yours. It’s a mutual crawl, but a pleasant one. Satoru stretches you open on his fingers, one after another until you swear the fucker is prepping you to take his fucking fist and not his cock. 

(“I’m just being thorough!” There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “— Didn’t you already call me ‘well-endowed’?”)

You try on top of him, first. When Satoru finally considers you prepped ‘enough’ that you could fit his cock into your cunt, you straddle his lap, brace yourself over his navel, and try—

(He’s too big. He’s too fucking big.)

Even sinking down with the help of gravity, and the incessant need to be filled and fucked and anything other than teased, it hurts. It’s a tight fit, and you only get halfway impaled on his cock before the angle and pressure have you tipping off of his lap and away in defeat.

(Then, Satoru makes you come at least three more times— you start to lose count after that. You’re more pliable, soaked through and fucked out without even being properly filled. Satoru easily shifts you onto your stomach and lifts your hip with a pillow or two.)

When Satoru takes you like that, you know you won’t be able to walk for a half day. His rhythm starts slow, to give you time to adjust, wriggle about, and find whatever angle satisfies both your cunt and your bent spine.

(It’s good, it’s sooooo good—)

Satoru comes inside you, which is fine. Unplanned, but fine. You prepped for such a possibility prior. You’re only half-lucid when Satoru’s pace shudders, and he fucks you with a few short thrusts before spilling into your cunt. 

(You can’t remember the last time someone came inside you. Even when he pulls out, and flops next to you, you still feel full of him.)

Satoru gets clingier after that. Less wordy, less mouthy (well, in the traditional sense of the word.) He tugs you to his chest, lets his refractory period pass, before fucking you slow and hard, back to chest. 

The rest of the night passes much the same way.

You’re liquid, by the end of it. You’ve only taken a break or two, mostly to gulp down water, or sit up briefly and kinesthetically reorient yourself as the bodily force of Satoru Gojo’s fucking you rewired your brainstem, maybe. 

When there are threads of hot, gold light spilling in from his bedroom window, you’re only half aware and a quarter awake. Almost dreaming.

Later, you’ll remember this morning. You’ll remember the exact hue of the sun rays, the smell and thread count of the sheets, and him— Satoru. Who looks equally as wrung out, tired, but sated. He looks content and you’ll be forever grateful you burned the image of him like this into your mind. You’ll savor in the worst of times. In your grief.

Satoru’s moving around, somewhere. Maybe in the bathroom? At some point, you’re lifted carried there yourself, and literally set on the toilet— (“You’ll thank me for this when you don’t get a UTI.”)

Satoru helps you back to bed after, now laid with fresh sheets and linens. It’s cool when you flop face first and take a whiff of whatever detergent he uses. It’s fresh, if not a bit minty. Maybe eucalyptus or tea tree? Some scent that clears your sinuses and skull enough to regard Satoru outside of a sleepy or lust-filled haze.

“Busy tomorrow, I’m assuming?” Today, you silently add. You know his answer before he speaks. 

“Yup!” There’s a hollow echo of cheer to it. “Don’t worry about that now, though. We’ll rest, and get something sweet for breakfast in a few hours.”

“... Sure, sure,” You nod into the buttery sheets. You know he’ll treat you to something decadent. 

You crawl up toward the headboard, closer to Satoru, until you’re snug against his side. You wrap yourself around him shamelessly, and let his easy chuckle that follows be the last thing you hear as you slack and fall asleep. 

Nike Air Force 1 Low “Valentine’s Day” (2023)

IT’S NOT ‘PEEKED’ MY INTEREST

OR ‘PEAKED’

BUT PIQUED

‘PIQUED MY INTEREST’

THIS HAS BEEN A CAPSLOCK PSA

small amnesia drabble ft osamu based on this 9yr old video that still makes me giggle. cw: little violence mention but that’s it.

The hell’s that beeping coming from…

There’s a noticeable restriction in his movement when he slowly begins to stir, lethargy sitting heavy on his limbs as his eyelids pull with visible tension.

Osamu immediately winces. “…Fuckin’ bright…”

Someone gasps at the foot of his bed.

It’s an effort to crane his neck and peek over the footing of his bed, more of an uncomfortable strain than the headache he should expect but what he finds there might just be worth it.

There’s… a cottony to the woman standing before his bed unreserved for anybody else in that typical stark hospital lighting. A fuzzy glow, unburdened by the mussed hairs that stick out of your done up hair or that blue tinge of worry that melts into relief the moment you realize he’s returning eye contact. There’s a few vending machine snacks in your hand that he watches you discard as you step closer to him, and he’s not too shy to blatantly ogle as you take a comfortable seat at his bedside.

That beeping’s gotten a little faster. “You’re up. How do you feel?”

“Dunno…” Though charmed would’a been his second answer.

“Dunno’ s a good answer.” You reply. “Better than what the other guy’s probably saying.”

“The other guy?” There’s not a lot he remembers aside the basic stuff, and you’re definitely not one of ‘em.

“The blow job that tried to hold up your shop last night. Came in swinging this big ass metal bat like you wouldn’t knock his lights out a moment later.” Your smile sparkles as you hum fondly. “Although he did knick you a few times before you could actually get at him.”

Which would explain the thick casting on his arm and the way your fingers softly graze the wrapped gauze on the side of his face. Which in turn makes him blush a little like an overgrown schoolboy.

Although the way your thumb starts to rub circles in his cheek has him breaking out in a sweat. “You saved a lot of people, ‘Samu, me including,” You coo. “But more than anything I’m just glad you’re okay.”

‘S-Samu…?

Your eyes quickly flicker to the quickening heart monitor.

Though when you glance down his face is neutral as ever. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Osamu swallows. “Just havin’ a hard time connectin’ the dots.”

“Hm? Oh, has the anesthesia not worn off completely yet?”

“Don’t seem like it.”

You nod a little understandingly, straightening your back until you’re fastening your hand in his. “Hmm, that makes sense. I mean, I can’t imagine what they’re pumping you up with after a broken elbow and a few fractured knuckles. - For your sake, they don’t stop too soon,”

Osamu watches you pull his good arm into your lap and hold it there like it belongs to you, and he’s definitely not gonna tell you otherwise. “Although, the quicker we get home the better. At the very least, for some proper rest-“

“Home?”

You tilt your head a bit. “Yeah home? You know, our cozy little shoebox apartment? The one your brother’s definitely not raiding for snacks while you’re gone?”

“Wait, are - we’re…?”

“Baby?”

“Baby.” Ohhkay,” Osamu blows out a disbelieving breath. “Oh, wow. I’m definitely missin’ some important information.”

You furrow as he tilts his head to scan you over a little more. “I hope I’m not misreadin’ this. An’ I hope to god I’m not. - But are we…?”

“Do you not… remember me?”

“I’m pretty beat up about it too, angel.”

“Oh.” You glance at the I.V. still hooked in his wrist. “Yeeaah, that anesthesia has not worn off yet.”

“I’m not misreadin this, right?”

“No. No, you’re not, honey. You’re not.”

“Aye so,” He lifts himself more properly on the hospital bed. “What… the hell does a scrub like me gotta pull off to bag a dime like you, angel? Askin’ that honestly.”

And it looks like an effort not to full out laugh at the genuine confusion on his face. “Straight to the point, huh?”

“I mean, when a guy wakes up to a girlfriend like-“

“Wife.”

“Wi-“ The way he all but gasps to himself has you full out giggling before you can stop yourself. “Yer lyin! Ma wife?!”

The little (see: not little) rock you wave on your ring finger is enough to turn him all but blue, especially when you reach forward to gingerly unveil the matching wedding band hanging from a chain under his hospital gown. “Your wife, baby. Made me a Miya not even a year ago.”

Osamu quietly repeats the admission under his breath as he takes a moment to digest that.

And then he’s turning to you fast enough to break the sound barrier. “Can I kiss ya’?”

You chortle as you lean in, gentle mint pervading his nose. “You’ve been kissing me, baby.”

Osamu’s putty when your lips meet.

Yeah, there’s no way he didn’t die and go to heaven.

reblog for a warm bowl of soup 🍲

𝟓:𝟒𝟕 𝐀𝐌 | 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔.

you’re not too sure what time it is, but you know it’s early when osamu lays himself over you, head digging into your chest as he steals your warmth. you groan, wrapping your arms around him as you pull the blanket higher over your bodies.

“what time is it?”

“almost six,” he hums. it’s quiet for a moment, you seem to be drifting back to sleep, and osamu grins in victory against your shirt that all’s gone according to plan as he drifts off himself.

until you speak up.

“wait a second. aren’t you supposed to be on the couch?” his body freezes for a moment before he’s clutching onto you tightly while you’re trying to shove him off. “samu! get off!”

“no!”

“i’m serious, i’m still mad at you,” you huff. he frowns (though it’s more of a pout) and simply shakes his head.

“‘m not lettin’ go. ma back hurts. i’m cold too.”

“miya osamu—”

and before you can finish your sentence, there’s a soft bite at your chin that makes you stop.

“don’t call me by ma full name,” he grumbles, settling back down into your chest. “‘s rude.” he has the audacity to grab your hand and plop it into his hair too, gesturing at you to play with the dark brown strands.

“did you just bite me?”

“and what if i did?” comes his quiet mumble, voice muffled by your shirt.

last night wasn’t exactly a big fight, it was a petty one if the both of you were being honest, but osamu should’ve admitted he was wrong, and his attitude was what landed him a spot on the couch. and to his dismay, you seem to fall asleep much easier without his embrace than he does without yours.

“what do you—you bit me,” you repeat incredulously. you smack his shoulder when he snickers quietly at your shock.

“didn’t even hurt, ya drama queen.” and you want to keep your facade of being mad, you want to tell him to go back to the couch until you’ve deemed he’s earned his spot back, but something about the way he nuzzles into you and kisses your collarbone before trying to fall asleep makes you give in.

he’s stubborn, you’ve come to know this a tad bit too well, but he’s also gentle. he plants one more spoonful of dinner to your plate when you tell him to stop, he pulls the sun visor down for you when the light shines in your face as he drives, he wakes up and puts socks on your feet when they feel like icicles against his calves, and he’s the only person who easily forgives you for your own stubbornness too—every time, without fail.

so you wrap your arm tightly around him, stroking through his locks as you mumble “you’re such a weirdo, you know that?”

“well, ‘s just the way i am, deal with it,” he mumbles back. and then you giggle, he laughs, you kiss his forehead, and he kisses your jaw—and you’re back to your usual routine, last night all forgotten.

“i love you,” you whisper.

“love ya too. and i also love yer cheeks, ‘m bitin’ them next.”

still firmly believe osamu’s love language is biting

ೀ*: ･ﾟrandom suna texts!

his playlist to you♡

Camera falls from a plane and lands in a pig pen.

As you all know. I work at an elementary school. And for Christmas, a bunch of kids got tamagotchis. Well. One girl fucking FORGOT her tamagotchi at school. And I saw it and was like oh fuck. So I took it home for the weekend and now am saddled with the responsibility of keeping it alive until Monday afternoon when I see her again.

wouldn't it be nice? - suna rintarou/f!reader (haikyuu!): fluff but suggestive at times, established relationship, talk of babies/families/pregnancy, committing to the bit is all fun and games until the bit commits to you, tw: light miscommunication since some of u guys hate that, let the record show this was NOT written for his birthday, i didn't even KNOW it was today ok, i will not be taking questions at this time (or ever)

You know exactly what started it.

The problem.

It was some sappy commercial you saw on TV one lazy Sunday afternoon.

You rarely even watch television—not proper cable television anyway—preferring the simplicity of streaming services in this modern day and age. It's a complete fluke that you happen across it at all while you and Rintarou rest sprawled across his couch in the afternoon sun, your feet tucked underneath his thigh. You wouldn't even go on to remember what the commercial was for; all you remember is the perfect, cherubic little baby at the centre of it, and the way that it made your heart melt.

You let out a long, wistful sigh once the advertisement transitions into the next. "I want to hold a baby."

It piques his interest. That stupid, completely unremarkable comment that you'd come soon to regret.

Rintarou pulls himself a little more upright at his end of the sofa, shooting you a mischievous look. His expression might seem placid to most people, impassive even, but you know it, and him, and all his minute eccentricities too well to be fooled.

"I'll give you a baby," he muses, angling his body over yours on the sofa with his arms caging your waist. You draw your legs back instinctively—hips perpendicular to your thighs and heels to the bottom of your bum—at the first sign of trouble.

Your lip curls, and you lift your sock-clad feet so they press flat against his chest, pushing him back with all the strength you can. He hardly budges, but you expect as much.

"Ew, Rin," you snort, head lolling to the side to idly watch the next useless commercial on TV as it unfolds, “gross."

Suna pauses, a hand loosely circling your ankle, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye. There's a look that you don't recognize that flitters across his face. His grip tightens a little, his thumb sweeping down over the round protrusion of your joint and back again.

"Gross?" he asks softly.

"Yeah, gross," you say, pulling your foot out of his hold. It takes a bit of effort, because he doesn’t seem to want to move, but you roll over onto your side and wiggle out from under him to rise up off the sofa. You shuffle into the kitchen for a snack, and you feel his eyes on you as you go.

But that was just the start.

You’re not sure if you just never noticed, or if the universe has a deeply perverse sense of cosmic humour, but after that Sunday afternoon, it seems like there are babies everywhere you go. 

And if not actual living, breathing babies, then it's all matter of things that are decidedly baby-adjacent. Itty bitty onesies on display at the store you two are shopping at. Sweet souvenir plushies at the Aquarium that are meant for little ones to hold. Diapers, formula, and various other baby necessities are advertised in the posters mounted on bus stops, on train stations platforms, and on flashing digital billboards. 

And every single time, without fail, you see them when you’re with Suna. 

And every single time, without fail, he looks at you and waits for you to meet his gaze. 

You’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding it, honestly. But then he’ll always make some comment. Point it out. Make it obvious.

“Look at that baby’s tiny hand. I bet our baby will have my hands.”

“Can you believe that babies are really this little? Do you think ours will be this small?” 

“If you were buying these for our baby would you get the yellow or the—“

“Trick question,” you cut Suna off, snagging the yellow pair of training chopsticks (complete with a little ducky on top) out from his hands and shoving them back onto the display he’d just plucked them off of. You don’t allow yourself to linger for too long on how cute they really are. “Babies don’t use chopsticks, and also we’re not having a baby.”

You continue down the aisle of the market, a familiar pain throbbing just behind your eyes that Rintarou seems so uniquely skilled at eliciting. Your face is hot too, but that’s probably just from the frustration. After a moment you hear his feet shuffling along after you, and the two of you finish your grocery shopping in relative silence.

You’re used to putting up with all of your boyfriend’s other annoyances and oddities, so this is just another one to add to the ever-growing list. But this time, something feels a bit… different. 

The two of you stop at a vending machine for coffee on your walk home since it’s cold out. Suna has the largest of your two reusable grocery bags looped over one of his arms, and somehow while you’re digging for change in your wallet he manages to weasel the other one off of your arm and onto his own, too. 

“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner, why are you stopping here?” he asks, watching as you carefully make your selection from the humming machine in front of you. You press the button of your choice, and a can of cafe au lait clunks down into the waiting chute below. 

“The metal can keeps my hands warmer,” you explain, sticking a few more yen into the machine and choosing Rintarou’s favourite, too. His choice makes the same descent yours had, and you crouch down to retrieve it for him, holding it out to him in offering as you stand. 

He blinks at you.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, shaking his head a little. “Hands are full, anyway.”

You balk at him soundlessly for a moment. “Give the other bag back, then!”

“Nope,” he replies, making a point to enunciate it clearly in a way that you know he knows drives you crazy. He takes a step in the direction of your apartment, and you have no choice but to stick the can of coffee he’d declined into your coat pocket and chase after him.

It does a great job of keeping your hand—tucked into your pocket and wrapped around it—warm as you walk, though.

Nearly back at your apartment, your can of coffee drained and properly disposed of, a little ball of fluff waddles past you on the sidewalk, heading towards the entrance of a nearby park. You and Rintarou both pause, equally confused by what you’ve just spotted.

Behind the amorphous little thing is a couple, maybe a few years older than you two are, trailing not even a metre away. You watch as they coo and fawn over it as is wobbles unsteadily towards the open stretch of grass ahead. They call it pet-names, and try to convince it to turn around for mom and dad so they can take a picture.

Oh.

A baby.

Probably a little older than a baby given the whole… walking thing. But it’s still so tiny, even in its big, puffy coat, so they can’t be very old. The hood is pulled up over the child’s head, and you realize upon closer inspection that it has—

“Teddy-bear ears,” Rintarou says, cupping his fingers over his mouth and blowing warm air into his hands. “That’s so cute.”

“Yeah,” you say with a soft smile, watching as the child toddles along in their fluffy little teddy jacket.

Suna must have put the grocery bags down at his feet at some point when the two of you stopped walking, and when he pulls his hands back from his face, you see how the tip of his nose has gone pink from the cold. He dips down in front of you, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing you up-close. 

“What?” you ask him nervously, a hand fluttering self consciously to your face. 

His breath leaves his mouth in wispy clouds as he tilts his head to the side. He’s so close that the warmth brushes against your lips like an airy, indirect kiss. You wonder if he can taste the coffee that clings to yours.

“What?” you repeat yourself again, a little more insistently this time. You reach up and pinch either of his cheeks between your thumbs and forefingers—stretching the pliable flesh outwards in an attempt to get him to back off a bit. His rosy cheeks are cool under your warm touch.

“Do you think we’d make a cute baby?” Rintarou asks, though the question is a little garbled thanks to your grip, and your stomach clenches involuntarily. His hands, and his frigid fingertips, reach up and rest over your own where you’re still pinching his cheeks—though your vice has eased slightly.

“You can barely even make an omelet,” you huff out as heat rises in your cheeks, pulling your hands out from under his and looking away. “Like I’d ever trust you to make a baby.”

“People make them all the time by accident, you know,” he remarks, rubbing at his stinging cheeks where you’d been pinching him. “I’m sure I could do it on purpose if I really set my mind to it.”

You dip down and grab the grocery bag he’d taken off your hands earlier, hiking it up onto your shoulder.

“Why are you so obsessed with this stupid baby joke?” you ask him exasperatedly, following it with a long, aggrieved sigh that you can see as you breathe it out.

He looks at you for a moment, his brow pinching in the middle. His nose is still so pink, and it makes the green in his eyes stand out more. 

You watch how Suna’s lips part, like he’s going to say something, but then they press together in a thin line again without uttering a word. He picks up his grocery bag with one hand and sets off in the direction of home, and this time you feel a little sheepish as you follow after him.

The apartment is quiet when you return home, and it stays that way as the two of you unpack the groceries in your kitchen side by side. You bought more than you usually would on a weekly grocery trip, all because Suna’s been staying over more than he usually does. But there’s a sudden frostiness that seems to have creeped in from outside, as if clinging to your coattails, and the chill has now settled between the two of you. 

It makes a strange sort of anxiety prickle under the surface of your skin, tender like a bruise. It makes you wonder if half of these groceries are going to go to waste.

“I’ll shower first,” Rintarou mutters without turning towards you after he puts the last pantry item away and closes the cabinet.

Stress sits heavy in the pit of your stomach when he doesn’t look at you. It’s intentional, you know it is. Suna’s favourite hobby is staring at you—he’s told you that himself many, many times. But he doesn’t even spare you a glance before he shuffles off towards your bedroom. 

You stand in silence in the kitchen, as though that weight in your gut keeps you anchored in place. You can hear the rustle of Rintarou’s clothes hitting the hamper. You hear the bathroom door close. You hear the spray of the shower turn on. 

You hear your heartbeat. Loud and wet in your ears.

You’re being ridiculous. You know that. You’re all worked up over nothing. 

This was all just some stupid joke that he was being annoying about in the first place. That he found every possible opportunity to bring up. 

You aren’t even sure what’s upset him so much; uncertain as to why you being annoyed about one of his blatant attempts to annoy you seems to have caused him offence.

You curl up on your sofa as Rintarou showers, picking at the fraying cuff of your hoodie as you similarly pull apart every second of your memory from the walk home from the market in an attempt to identify what could possibly have gone wrong. You’re thinking about the can of coffee—left sitting, unopened and room-temperature now, on your kitchen counter—when you hear the shower turn off.

The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly as you wait for your sullen boyfriend to emerge, but when he does he still seems resolved to avoid you. You wait on the sofa, your fingers stilled in the motion of fiddling with your sleeve, anticipating that he’ll come ask you to blow-dry his hair, just like he always does.

He doesn’t. 

The hairdryer clicks on in the other room, and the sound makes you feel sick. 

“Rin!” your voice leaves you involuntarily, without an ounce of conscious effort. You sound panicked.

The hairdryer clicks off immediately, and Rintarou appears in the doorway to your bedroom—half-dressed and hair half-dried—in an instant. His eyes are alight with concern.

Your hand had flown to your mouth as soon as you called out for him, too late to actually muffle the sound. But it stays there as you look at him with shocked, notably-guilty eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks you, eying you suspiciously.

“Nothing,” you murmur, your fingers still resting lightly over your lips, you avert your eyes. “It’s nothing, sorry.”

He hesitates in the doorway for a moment, and then turns to head back to the hairdryer.

“It’s just—“

He pauses when you speak again, one of his hands resting on the doorframe he’s lingering beneath—neither in nor fully out. 

“—you’re mad at me.”

You watch his shoulder blades as your words hang in the air between the two of you. The chill in your apartment, unlike it had been outside, is only proverbial—but you half expect to see wisps of vapour slipping out on the edge of your breaths.

“I can’t figure out what I did wrong.”

Suna looks at you over his shoulder, his already vulpine eyes narrowing a little further. Not in irritation, but consideration. For all the strangeness between the two of you today, you can still recognize that much in his expression. 

“I’m not mad at you,” he finally says, and you hate how relieved you feel at so few words. Hate even more how him turning back to face you makes the weight in your stomach lessen. That as he approaches you on the sofa you feel the air warm with every step.

Rintarou perches on the edge of your couch, a full cushion between the two of you as you sit there quietly. Both of his feet are on the ground, but yours are drawn up onto the sofa with you, facing him. Slowly your feet creep forward, slipping your toes under his sweat-pant clad thigh.

Suna’s head droops forward, and he lets out a breathy, wry laugh.

“What are your theories so far?” he asks quietly. 

Your head tilts to the side in confusion.

He peeks over at you, peering up at you from the corner of his eye.

“What do you think you might have done wrong?”

You hum quietly, pursing your lips slightly.

“Well, I… I thought maybe I got you the wrong coffee. I didn’t ask, but you always choose that one, so I just thought…”

Suna clicks his tongue.

“Nope.”

You huff a bit, staring at your hands in your lap. “Well… there was that baby at the park.”

You feel Suna’s eyes on you, but you’re suddenly too wary to meet them. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong though, so you continue. 

“And I said you can’t make an omelet.”

He laughs a bit again, and you know that wasn’t it either.

“Are you upset because I said that I didn’t think you could make a baby?” you ask, peeking up at him. “Rin, I’m borderline militant about taking my birth control. I obviously don’t think you’re impo—“

Rintarou tips his head up a little further, meeting your gaze. Caught in his stare, it’s suddenly like your words die before you can get them off the tip of your tongue. Slowly, he reaches out towards you, taking one of your fidgeting hands and holding it in his. His touch is warm now, in contrast to what it had been at the park. He lifts your hand up to his mouth.

Delicately, he kisses your fingertips. His lips brush against the digits, over your knuckles and up to your palms. He presses your hand to his cheek and looks at you with the most pitiful gaze. It makes your chest ache. 

“I don’t like it when you say that,” he says reticently. And for all Rintarou’s height and weight and sheer breadth, he sounds so impossibly small.

“Say what?” you ask him, and your voice is quiet too. Vulnerable.

He leans his flushing cheek into your hand, holding it to his face and closing his eyes as he nuzzles into your touch.

“That you wouldn’t have my baby,” he whispers, “that you don’t want it.”

You resist the urge to pull away. It’s an instinct you can’t explain: a desire to keep him at a distance, to always laugh things off, to make a joke out of very real feelings. 

“Because I do.”

You blink.

Suna opens his eyes and looks at you, and for the first time you see the very real, very not joking pain in his eyes.

“I want that with you.”

Your mouth is dry and you’re frozen. You stare at him, completely still, stunned by his sincere confession.

“What?” you manage to squeak out. 

Rintarou closes his eyes again, breathing out a little sigh. He pulls your hand from his cheek, folding your fingers down so they’re hooked in a loose fist around his thumb. He brings your hand to his lips, not quite a kiss but close enough to call it that anyway. 

“Not right now,” he murmurs into your knuckles, lips brushing against you as he speaks the words. “But someday.”

You’re still so shocked that you don’t know how to respond. He peers at you, hand still held to his lips, his eyes more resolved than they are wounded now. 

“And I want you to want that. But I don’t know how to make you want it too.”

Your heartbeat thumps in your chest, resonant and palpable. Heat has crawled all the way up your face now, and you’re fairly certain your hand has gone clammy, but Rintatou passes no comment even if it has.

“Do you think you could?” he asks you quietly. Sheepishly. Earnestly. “Could you want that? With me?” 

You pitch yourself forward suddenly, and Rintarou lets out a little grunt of surprise as the two of you topple back into the sofa. You hide your burning face in the crook of his neck, that smells like your body wash and shampoo but somehow so much better, clutching onto him like your life depends on it. Suna seems shocked for a moment as he finds himself flat on his back with your weight on top of him, and his body is stiff as he processes it. After a few beats of your too-loud, too-telling heart pass, he finally eases. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you tightly to him.

“You’re so stupid,” you grumble, your eyes squeezing shut tightly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and you can hear the smile in his voice. The genuine laughter that’s hiding just behind the words. He hugs you a little tighter. “Probably.”

You stay like that for a while, basking in the warmth of Rintarou’s body and the rhythm of his breath.

“You love me though,” he says quietly, “so that reflects pretty badly on you.”

You lift your head to meet his gaze, and find him barely holding in a laugh. You can’t help but laugh with him. Can’t help but enjoy your favourite sound.

Rintarou scoops you up in his arms again, tugging you into his lap. He presses featherlight kisses to the corner of your jaw, and you fiddle with his long, lithe fingers. He sighs, but this time the sound is at ease. His damp hair tickles your face as he rests his forehead against your temple, nosing at your cheek.

“Hey, Rin?” you murmur as you run your thumb over the space between his first and second knuckle on his ring finger. You think about the kid you saw at the park in the fluffy jacket, and the besotted parents trailing along behind it.

He answers you with a content, if not slightly curious, hum. 

You turn your face towards him, and your noses brush. Rintarou’s lashes flutter as his gaze turns a little heavy-lidded. You can feel his breath on your lips, that’s how close he is. You inch forward until the space between you is almost completely gone.

And just before your lips meet, you smile.

“I do think we’ll make a cute baby.”

a man down so bad for you he calls you ‘dumbass’ under his breath but plans out the next sixty years of his life with you in mind

The chili plant made a deal with their God to only be consumed by things that could spread its seeds and fly. The chili received capsaicin, making itself painful to eat for mammals, but not birds, and all was well for the chili.

Then the human shows up, tastes it, and likes the pain. So now there's this flightless fucking mammal eating the chili. Like not even a fruit bat or anything, a flightless fucking mammal chomping on the chili.

What the fucking shit, God, cried the chili, I specifically requested the opposite of this.

Now hold on, wait a moment, replied the God who talks to plants but has no idea what the fuck these apes are going to do next. It might be something cool.

And in a flash of a second, in barely fraction of the time that chili took to develop capsaicin, the humans went from walking across land bridges and rowing little boats across small waters, into building ships that could cross oceans. More humans tasted the chili, and liked the pain. They took the seeds with them, and planted it elsewhere.

See? They spread the seeds.

They're still not flying, said the chili, still feeling insulted and betrayed.

But before the conversation was over, the humans were still not done fucking around and nowhere close to finding out. The ships became machines, and another machine was invented, capable of flight. Now, not only were the humans farming chili on continents far too far away for any of the birds that originally ate it could dream of flying, but the chili flew with them to lands where it could possibly not grow, so that humans over there could also eat it and enjoy the pain.

You see? They spread your seeds and fly.

It doesn't count as keeping a promise if you only manage it by a fucking accident, said the chili, still somewhat insulted. But nonetheless, the chili thrived.

different viewpoints

“Put him on his knees give him something to believe in” has the exact same energy and depth of meaning as anything Hozier puts out on the regular but since it’s sung by Megan Thee Stallion no one takes it seriously. In this essay I will-

Want to learn something new in 2022??

Absolute beginner adult ballet series (fabulous beginning teacher)

40 piano lessons for beginners (some of the best explanations for piano I’ve ever seen)

Excellent basic crochet video series

Basic knitting (probably the best how to knit video out there)

Pre-Free Figure Skate Levels A-D guides and practice activities (each video builds up with exercises to the actual moves!)

How to draw character faces video (very funny, surprisingly instructive?)

Another drawing character faces video

Literally my favorite art pose hack

Tutorial of how to make a whole ass Stardew Valley esque farming game in Gamemaker Studios 2??

Introduction to flying small aircrafts

French/Dutch/Fishtail braiding

Playing the guitar for beginners (well paced and excellent instructor)

Playing the violin for beginners (really good practical tips mixed in)

Color theory in digital art (not of the children’s hospital variety)

Retake classes you hated but now there’s zero stakes:

Calculus 1 (full semester class)

Learn basic statistics (free textbook)

Introduction to college physics (free textbook)

Introduction to accounting (free textbook)

Learn a language:

Ancient Greek

Latin

Spanish

German

Japanese (grammar guide) (for dummies)

French

Russian (pretty good cyrillic guide!)

bakugou has a tiktok account where he bakes or cooks but the only thing that’s shown are his hands— nobody knows that it’s him behind the screen.

he bakes or cooks late at night, when he comes home from missions and the sights that he’s seen keep him up for longer than he’d like. the hum of his whisk or his food processor provide him solace and escape from his blood stained thoughts. the scrape of bakugou’s knife against a perfectly cooked and crisp pork katsu soothes the night demons tormenting his soul with screams from the people he couldn’t save.

in his videos, katsuki always serves up two plates, two hearty portions and a lot of his viewers like to think that he does it for them— so that they have someone to eat with, to share a meal with late at night when they can’t sleep either. that’s true, for the most part. but more often than not, katsuki bakugou shares out another plate because he knows that you’ll wake up and join him so that he doesn’t have to be alone.

and if you watch his videos closely enough, you can see arms wrapping around him from behind— the glint of your silver wedding band firm against his mid section, letting katsuki know you’re here for him too.

Ex husband Bakugo who knew marrying his high school sweetheart would just hold him back from his goal of being a top pro hero.

Ex husband Bakugou who would forget to separate personal and work life and bring home his anger and frustration from a days work.

Ex husband Bakugou who fights with you so often that he sees the light in your eyes vanishing every time he yells at you.

Ex husband Bakugou who somehow managed to hold onto what little love you have for him until he’s reached the top three heroes of Japan in just two years from graduating U.A..

Ex husband Bakugou who lets the fame get to his head and suddenly disappears from home for weeks at a time until one day he comes back to see you holding divorce papers.

Ex husband Bakugou who doesn’t realize how much he’s made you suffer since marrying him and reluctantly signs the papers after hearing your voice crack with each reason for wanting the divorce.

Ex husband Bakugou who watches you leave the day the divorce is finalized without another word, desperate pleads stuck in the back of his throat as you vanish from his life all together.

Ex husband Bakugou who goes on to do greater things but realizes too late that it’s lonely at the top, especially when the best person he’d ever had left him for his own negligence.

Ex husband Bakugou who calms down over time, becoming much more bearable and actually scoring someone who he could love for a bit.

Ex husband Bakugou who has the greatest little girl be born as his daughter and coddles her like a porcelain doll.

Ex husband Bakugou that walks in one day to see his woman beneath one of his sidekicks from his agency in their bed. His little girl wailing in the next room for food and a diaper change.

Ex husband Bakugou who’s thoroughly humiliated by the sight before him. His current wife berating him for spoiling her fun and calling his daughter a nuisance.

Ex husband Bakugou who divorces the woman and makes a deal with her, full custody of his daughter and she wouldn’t have to pay him anything, she happily agrees to those terms and vanishes forever.

Ex husband Bakugou who doesn’t waste his time loving another when he has his little girl to focus on. Dotes on her, is overprotective towards her, spoils her like a princess, she’s his everything now.

Ex husband Bakugou who, almost a decade later gets a call from his little girl while she’s in grade school, whispering into the phone that there’s an active shooter on campus.

Ex husband Bakugou, who despite his growing white hairs, rushes to his daughter’s school with the speed that could rival a jet.

Ex husband Bakugou who hears the screams of his daughter and the other children when the gunman breaks into the room and threaten them all with warning shots into the ceiling.

Ex husband Bakugou who rushes to his daughter’s classroom only to see the active shooter kicked into the wall by an ice covered leg he recognized all to well. The man somehow manages to stay conscious and reaches for the gun once he flattens out and drops to the floor, for good measure you swing your leg high above your head and come down hard on the man’s back knocking him out and creating a crater under him from the sheer force of your strength.

Ex husband Bakugou who calls out your name only receiving a glare as acknowledgement, you call out to the other teacher in the room to get her students out, with pleasure she does, counting each one as they pass by and orders them out to the field.

Ex husband Bakugou who notices that your skirt has torn apart at the sides to accommodate the moves that just saved his daughter, who is now crying into his stomach in relief that their all okay.

Ex husband Bakugou who sticks around until police have arrived to take the man in, they take him to the hospital to check his injuries and you’re left huffing and annoyed when a parent scolds you for your torn dress since it’s “inappropriate for a school teacher to look like that!”

Ex husband Bakugou who growls and barks at the woman that you’d just saved her kid from being shot, she flinches at his intimidating stature towering over her and leaves before she gets barked at again.

Ex husband Bakugou who’s little 11 year old daughter notices the way her papa looks at you, lovesick and sad, she likes that look on him and decides to be his Angel of influence.

Ex husband Bakugou who doesn’t know that his daughter is buttering you up so he can ask you on a date. “Hey Papa! Guess what (L/n)-sensei said she wants to go out dancing this weekend but she doesn’t have anyone to take her! You should go!”

Ex husband Bakugou who chokes and spits out his coffee to the news his daughter has suddenly acquired, she slips a piece of paper towards him before leaving to school with her friend. It’s your phone number that she just so happened to steal from her teacher’s contact book.

Ex husband Bakugou who takes the chance to be with you again and invites you out on a date, to his shock you actually say yes and on Friday night he leaves Kirishima and Mina in charge of his smiling little girl.

Ex husband Bakugou who finds you waiting for him at the club in a gorgeous little cocktail dress with laced sleeves and an open back, and simply can’t take his eyes off of you.

Ex husband Bakugou who immediately corrects you for degrading yourself for wearing something fit for someone “younger” and complements your matured form like you were the last Angel on earth.

Ex husband Bakugou who shares a couple of drinks with you at the bar, talking about life and how you’d both been doing since the divorce. You make fun of him for being such a sucker for his daughter but you see how happy the little girl makes him.

Ex husband Bakugou who confesses that he’s missed you so much and admits that he’s been lonely ever since his second divorce, you simply nod and confess that you’ve missed him too.

Ex husband Bakugo who drags you onto the dance floor to gently sway to your old wedding song, getting lost in your eyes as he whispers the words he failed to tell you back when you were still his.

Ex husband Bakugou who doesn’t even notice that he’s kissing you by the end of the song, the taste of your sweet fruity drink still lingering on your sweet colored lips. His eyes are closed shut and he focuses on the fact that you’re still as soft and beautiful as before.

Ex husband Bakugou who spends the whole night with you until you’re both stumbling into his penthouse home, singing and dancing and mocking each other like the good ol days.

Ex husband Bakugou who falls asleep with you in his arms smiling like a love drunk fool, for the first time in years he’s able to share a warm bed with the woman he loves and it feels so right.

Ex husband Bakugou who doesn’t just stop at one date, he takes you out several times before asking you to be his again and to his surprise you tell him yes.

Ex husband Bakugou who smiles when you meet his daughter officially, the little girl smiling with pure glee once she sees how happy you make her sour old Papa.

Ex husband Bakugou who now has a truly loving family with you and his little girl, despite your old age he’s completely bewitched by your kindness and beauty like you were fresh out of High School.

Ex husband Bakugou who now gets home cooked lunches and meals made by you despite being able to do them himself.

Ex husband Bakugou who gets you pregnant just two years after becoming his again, absolutely loses his mind seeing cute you are swollen with his kid.

Ex husband Bakugou who listens when you put him in his place for bringing work troubles home with him or correcting him when he forgets to make time for the family, he won’t make the same mistake twice.

Ex husband Bakugou who is absolutely over the moon when he finds out you’re pregnant with twins, his little girl is so excited by the news she’ll have two little babies that’ll idolize her!

Ex husband Bakugou who does everything in his power to come home to his two special girls every time he goes to work, even when he’s battered or bruised he makes it home to you both so you don’t stress and worry about him.

Ex husband Bakugou who has a happy family with you and will never take you for granted again.

since bakugou got his three roommates sero, kirishima and kaminari he barely ever has to open the door when you come over to his house. one of the three are always closer to the front door whenever you ring the bell. walking by, tidying the living room or wandering the kitchen.

every time you enter you’re bombarded with questions and compliments from the sweet men. “you look pretty yn.” “where’s he stealing you off to today?” “did you watch the latest episode?” “ah i think he’s in his room, dunno.”

and every time after you get through your conversations with each of your boyfriends roommates, the man of your dreams is always leaning against the doorway behind them all.

cross armed, looking you up and down with a down turned smile, his comfy grey joggers and a black tight t-shirt with ‘DYNAMIGHT’ printed on the left breast, his own merch. he’s got his slipper socks on his feet, a black and white pair you bought him last month and you can feel the burn of his gaze.

bakugou enjoys staring at you from afar. not in a creepy way or anything, you know he’s in the house and once you get distracted from talking to one of his friends you’ll notice him.

he’s so cute, the six foot four man is so cute to you. giving you a nod and a single wave of his hand. and then he’s back to crossing his arms across his chest. his big bulging muscles, the black fabric of his t-shirt hugging them deliciously.

it’s only once he’s noticed you’re completely distracted from talking to his friends, your talkative self suddenly becomes mute, he knows it’s time to save you.

“alright, fuck, go get your own girlfriends and stop botherin’ mine.”

the three men sigh and huff, spreading apart like the red sea so you can walk to your lover.

you give him a massive grin, always excited to see him after months of being together. you force the skip in your step to stop with the eight eyes on you but that doesn’t stop your arms from stretching out to warn him you’re coming in for a hug.

honestly, it warms his heart. he’s never had anybody in his life excited to see him. perhaps as a hero because they know he’s going to save their lives. but right now in his home and comfy clothes, you’re probably just gonna eat snacks, gossip and watch some netflix. and every single time you’re excited to see him like he’s about to save your life.

once you’re a metre away, your steps get bigger and katsuki’s arms widen to bring you to his chest. your arms slither around his waist and you stuff your head between his pecs, inhaling the unique scent of him.

“hey ‘ki. missed you.”

“didn’t you see him two days ago?”

“fuck off sparky,” he bites, then softer after kissing the top of your head, “missed you too baby.”

“so disgusting.”

“in the public areas of our home. go get a room.”

you turn back to smile, “you’re all just jealous. you want a hug from him too, don’t you?”

“baby,” katsuki warns, “let’s go to my room now.”

one by one each of bakugou’s roommates smile. sneakily walking towards you both with most mischievous look you’ve ever seen, “true, we’ve never had a hug like that before.”

the grin on your face matches the same one as his three friends behind you. he knows what’s about to happen before he can stop it.

“i don’t wanna fuckin’ hug you lot.” he spits, backing away and letting go of you in the process.

you pout and his eyes flick down to you immediately like you’re in danger, “what? you don’t wanna hug me?” you whine and he’s just falling into your trap, the boys behind him stifling their giggles.

“what the fuck? yeah course i do, baby,” and like he’s drawn to you he walks back to wrap his arms around you, “was talking about them fuck—,”

with a hmpf from katsuki and a giggle from you, three extra bodies circled around you both in massive cuddle. your head was trapped between hard chests and you could feel the rumble of annoyance radiate from katsuki.

“knew you’d be a good cuddler, k,” sero says, one arm tightly around you and his other around your boyfriend.

“nice and warm. we should do this more often,” kaminari mutters, his head leaning on katsuki’s shoulder.

it’s kirishima that squeezes you all together pressing your cheek into katsuki’s chest with a loud fluttering giggle. bakugou finds it hard to be mad when you sound like that against him, even with three more annoying men touching him.

“now this is a hug. i’ve never had a hug more manly than this,” kirishima chuckles and bakugou’s had just enough.

“three seconds to get off me before i blow you all up.”

“you gonna hurt me too?” and it’s humourous how easily he plays into your palm, meeting your rounded eyes and rubbing your back. it’s like you’re in your own world as his tone changes and his body softens.

“no not you baby. them.”

you only laugh again as katsuki lifts his head up, “get off me. now.”

his friends back away slowly, chorus of laughs and giggles from them all as katsuki spins on his heels and drags you behind him. you wave like the queen at them, “bye guys!”

i wanna see usurper!gojo's courting shenanigans plsplspls

in which gojo satoru, your beloved king and betrothed, knows his time is best spent in your company riling you up.

gojo satoru x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k genre: fluff, royal au, childhood friends to lovers type: one-shot reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, fem clothing including dresses) warnings: once again hes pushy n the reader's a lil bit hesitant but hed stop if she rlly wanted, vague references to violence note: see i was gonna do a few lil scenes but the first one got away from me.... but basically the period of him courting the reader (which full disclosure isnt technically courting bc that should be happening before one proposes but this occurs while theyre engaged bc Gojo Didnt Get That Memo but i digress) is just him being WILDLY inappropriate for cultural standards, everyone silently pitying the reader, and the reader having a whole ton of conflicting emotions but ultimately rlly liking it 😭😭😭

usurper!gojo tag || masterlist

“they say you’re inhuman, you know.” you’ve finished the flower chain. his eyes don’t stray from your fingers as they nimbly connect the two ends and tie them together with a final stem into a thick circlet. “they said it a lot that night. they said you were the gods’ fury made mortal.”

he snickers. “how dramatic.”

you lift yourself up onto your thighs, shuffle towards him further and reach out, and he bows his head to let you place your creation upon it. your hand trails down when you let go, drifting over his ear and along his jaw as he lifts his head from its bow to look at you. you certainly mean to pull it away but his hand beats you to it, darting up to keep your palm against his cheek as you settle back down on the backs of your heels.

“i know why they came to that conclusion,” you say. “you terrified me when i saw you.”

“did you think me inhuman?”

you hum, eyes tracing along the band of flowers now gracing his forehead, falling to rest on his hand over yours. “no. never. monstrous, perhaps. odious. but very human.”

Satoru finds you out on the grounds, tucked away at the edge where the manicured gardens give way to rough forest. The weather has been turbulent, but for the first time since the coup there’s enough sun to stand being outside the castle longer than a scant few minutes. You’d said that morning that you planned to venture out, now that early spring flowers were beginning to bloom.

You’re cloaked in heavy furs, layers of skirts and wool protecting you from the cold, all elaborate garments that he’s gifted you. It's adorable (satisfying) to see you dressed up in his presents. He tells you as much when he finds you, delves into the treeline long before you see him so that he can sneak up upon you and whisper it into your ear to make you yelp and jump away.

“You mongrel,” you accuse with wide eyes and a hand on your heart as you work to steady your breathing. “Have you no respect for your future wife?”

“Ah, she admits it readily now? Progress.”

Your face twists as if someone has struck you. He chooses to ignore it and drops to sit sprawled out on the grass, beckoning unabashedly for you to join him on his lap. You won’t relent, he’s well aware, but he’ll have his desires known either way.

“Presumptuous,” you say. He'd die a happy man if you kissed him as many times as you called him that, but in lack of the former he’ll be content with the latter.

“Sit with me, my queen. I've missed you.”

“I am not yet your queen, Satoru,” you correct out of obligation. “You saw me an hour ago, we ate together.”

“Ah, but every moment apart is agony.” Satoru wonders if you know how serious he is beneath the breezy tone. From the way you wrinkle your nose, he doubts it.

“You have a meeting with your advisors now. You should not be out here.”

He pouts. “But you’re out here, and if I have to spend more time with those old fools than you today then I'll throw a tantrum tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes, let out a sigh that sounds long-suffering, but you shift your skirts and ease yourself down to sit gracefully before him with your legs tucked next to you. His threats aren’t empty and you know it.

“Fine.” You look down, as if inspecting the grass, spreading fingers along the blades as you begin to pluck wildflowers. Then you pause and glance up at him. “Remove those… oh, whatever they are. Let me see your eyes unhindered, at least.”

“Anything for my darling bride,” he coos at you, immediately doing as asked. He’d have done so anyway, if only to watch you lose yourself in staring when he reveals his eyes, catching yourself once he blinks and snapping your head back to the ground to busy yourself once more with plucking your blooms.

“How do you see a thing through those,” you grumble lowly, certainly just to break yourself from being flustered. It works too well; Satoru immediately jumps on the chance you’ve given him.

“Would you like to try them?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response, mind already conjuring an image of you draped in every golden chain and precious stone gracing his chambers.

He removes them from his face, pulling the chain from around his neck, and swiftly transfers them to yours before you can refuse—tilts your head up to look at him and tugs your hair out of the way with deft fingers, eases the gilded extremities onto your ears and lets the pads of his digits linger on either side of your head before pulling away. Pausing in your work and tilting your head back down to peer at him over the top of the frames, you blink at him owlishly from behind the glass, unused to staring through it. Precious, he thinks, and wishes briefly to kiss you—but he has to be smart about kissing you, calculating. Too much attention too fast and you have a tendency to pull away from him like the ebbing tide. It's agony for him, wanting nothing more than to hold you as much as he wishes, but as much as he wants there’s very little he hates more than when you tense under his touch and turn away from him.

“They suit you better,” he tells you, because they do. You look good adorned with jewelry of his design. “You oughtn’t wear them in public, though, or all the courtiers will be scrambling to get themselves a pair. Just for me, I suppose.”

Your nose wrinkles at the mention of your newfound influence, eyes darting to the side and lower lip pouting, an expression that makes him cast aside all his convoluted schemes to ease you into his affections. He leans down to peck at your lips, kiss away the pout, gone before you can complain. It’s fast enough that you don’t immediately recoil and give him a lecture on decorum, or perhaps you’re simply getting more used to it.

Satoru’s attention doesn’t stray as you return to your work. You’ve gravitated towards flowers with long stems, he realizes; collected them in a pile on your skirts, which you seem to have deemed large enough as you pick a notably long one up and begin to string them together in a chain. You don’t bother removing his glasses either, simply allowing them to slide down to the end of your nose. The golden chain clinks softly with every movement of your head.

He wonders when you learned to make them. You’ve always been so careful about the skills you acquire, but he thinks perhaps your mother might have taught you. Or his aunt, for how much she loves flowers, and for how much of her time as queen (he’s been told anyway) was spent doing such frivolous things as making daisy chains in the gardens. You’re so very meticulous with your actions, every choice carefully constructed. He knows you’ve been doing that less and less around him—perhaps it’s finally sinking in that he cares very little about your actions, that he finds everything you do to be enthralling. More likely you’ve exhausted yourself trying. You’ve certainly exhausted yourself attempting to rein him in, though he’d like to believe you’re beginning to allow yourself to enjoy his antics.

Posterity, he thinks, will paint him as you do—bold, brash, uncaring of tradition, unapologetic in pursuit of a woman far beneath his status. There are a great many reasons you hesitate to marry him, he doesn’t blame you for your doubt. Certainly when he was younger he’d never imagined himself the type of man you’d end up betrothed to; he couldn’t count on his fingers the number of more suitable matches for the both of you in the eyes of society, but whereas in his youth he might silence himself and go along with the whims of his advisors he’s lost all sense of decency now. His close call with death and the coup he’d spent years preparing for had rid him of any desire to compromise, and he stands now in a position where he can certainly refuse the very people who once held sway over him. And you appreciate all of that, he knows it. It’s one of the reasons he adores you so; beneath your veneer of decorum lies not a lady but a queen with desires all too different from those you’ve been forced to portray. He’s always known this, and to an extent he can’t find it within himself to regret the events that have led him to where he is today because if they hadn’t transpired he wouldn’t have you.

Satoru remembers a time in his youth when his mother made a passing mention that she enjoyed a certain hairstyle on young girls—two long braids, tied with ribbons. For months afterward all the upcoming court ladies wore it diligently, yourself included. He found it painful to see on you until he discovered that they made a lovely way to pull your nose from a book and fix your attention onto him, and that he could tug on the ribbons at the ends until they unfurled and he could pocket them to return later by tying them around the necks of one of his hunting dogs and sending it after you.

(If he were the kind of man you’d marry without hesitation he’d feel remorse for his childhood actions. Instead he’s the man you will marry, and he plots how to steal one of your hair ribbons again and return it in the same way. For memory’s sake.)

“They say you’re inhuman, you know.” You’ve finished the flower chain. His eyes don’t stray from your fingers as they nimbly connect the two ends and tie them together with a final stem into a thick circlet. “They said it a lot that night. They said you were the Gods’ fury made mortal.”

He snickers. “How dramatic.”

You lift yourself up onto your thighs, shuffle towards him further and reach out, and he bows his head to let you place your creation upon it. Your hand trails down when you let go, drifting over his ear and along his jaw as he lifts his head from its bow to look at you. You certainly mean to pull it away but his hand beats you to it, darting up to keep your palm against his cheek as you settle back down on the backs of your heels.

“I know why they came to that conclusion,” you say. “You terrified me when I saw you.”

“Did you think me inhuman?”

You hum, eyes tracing along the band of flowers now gracing his forehead, falling to rest on his hand over yours. “No. Never. Monstrous, perhaps. Odious. But very human.”

“You wound me. I might die by your cruelty.”

“Die, then.”

Satoru makes a show of it just for you. Falling back to sprawl on the ground, he gags violently, stabbing at his own heart with an invisible knife and convulsing with his tongue hanging out until you shriek for him to stop, voice filled with giggles. He takes that as a cue to still, to fall limp as if truly dead with eyes fluttering shut—then beckons you closer.

“I need…” he rasps out, barely audible.

You indulge him and do so. “My king?”

“…iss…”

“What?”

“True love’s kiss,” he repeats louder, pursing his lips expectantly. He doesn’t truly think you’ll do it, and you don’t—you lean in like you will, but bypass his lips entirely and bite his cheek instead.

He yelps, just for you, just so you’ll feel accomplished. And so he can see your smile, hear the smugness in your voice as you say, “It’s a miracle, you’ve come back to life.”

But he doesn’t give you weakness for free. No, he snakes his arms around your waist before you can pull back, and uses the grip to all but pull you on top of his lap as he sits up. Perhaps it’s his lack of insistence on you giving him a kiss, or perhaps he’s simply started to break down your walls enough, but whichever it is you don’t protest. Instead you seem to find flaws in the flower crown you’ve gifted him. Your lips purse, hands coming up to fiddle with the blooms. He realizes that he can’t stand a single moment of your attention on anything other than him, even if your fingers are nearly tangled in his hair.

“If I return to court with a crown of flowers made by my lover still on my head, do you suppose they’ll think me less inhuman?”

Your face falls at the suggestion, eyes widening in mortification. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“It's far more comfortable than that heavy gold. And I happen to personally adore the artisan who made it, so—”

“I don't trust you anymore, take it off! You’ve lost the right!” You attempt to remove it, but he reacts with the very reflexes that make him so inhuman, uses that monstrous height to lift his head higher than you can reasonably reach, though it doesn’t stop you from trying.

“It'd be rude of me to refuse a gift, my queen.” Laughing, Satoru holds you back with ease, eager for the excuse to put his hands all over you while you’re too worked up to feel self-conscious.

“Not yet,” you wail. “Not your queen yet, you knave!”

“Mine either way, though,” he replies smugly with a playful tug to the chain you still wear. “Covered in my presents. It’s only fair that I get to display a token you’ve given me, no?”

“No, it is not. You’ve stolen all of my outerwear and replaced it with these, I've no other choice. But you will not return to your advisors displaying that—that childish trifle, I won't allow it, you will not expose to the court that I made such a thing for yo—oh!”

He tackles you to the ground, careful not to even knock the wind out of you, though he steals your breath the moment you’re safe in his arms by pulling you into a kiss to keep you from talking further. He’d intended it to be faster, but his nose crashes into the tinted spectacles still upon your face and he’s filled with such ardor that he can’t help but deepen it.

Your hand slides behind his head, threads through his hair. He feels you snap a single stem between your fingers. The crown comes apart just as he takes a moment to pull away, and the flowers fall to scatter in the grass beneath him, a halo around your head. There’s a little smile on your face, your chest huffs with quiet laughter, and your palm slides down to the base of his hair. You use that hold and your other hand, which has fisted his tunic, to yank him down and connect your lips again.

Above, a cloud passes. Satoru can feel the sun shine warm on his back, hear the wind in the budding trees, smell the bite of melting snow and the petals of your wildflowers, yet there’s nothing that could distract him from the feeling of your kiss. His eyes close, he pushes closer though he hardly needs to with the way you still tug on his shirt. His arm comes up to brace next to your head, just to make sure he’s holding his own weight rather than crushing you, and the other leaves your waist to trail down your thigh and grip beneath your knee, shifting your leg to hook around him. If your mouth weren’t occupied he thinks you’d be lecturing him for such an obscene display in a place where anyone could stumble upon you—so he does well to keep it occupied, refusing to part even as your grip on his tunic loosens and he’s forced to grab your newly freed hand to pin it to the ground with fingers intertwined.

It's the first time you’ve ever kissed him. He already plots how to push you into doing it again when he finally pulls away, eyes locked on your swollen lips.

BAM: Empty Beds

in which king gojo satoru returns from a diplomatic mission to find his bed empty, and has qualms with it

gojo satoru x fem!reader

word count: 3k genre: kinda hurt/comfort but mostly fluff, royal au, childhood friends to lovers type: one-shot reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, fem clothing including dresses) warnings: gojo picks up the reader, the end is a little bit intense emotionally but not super bad the reader just has intimacy issues and gojo confronts her abt it

usurper!gojo tag || masterlist

“embrace me,” he orders, muffled against your throat. it’s sullen, demanding, and you make no move to comply.

your husband whines wordlessly at you—it’s that noise which calms the tumultuous unease within you, an assurance that whatever mood he’d been in is quickly passing (or that your touch is so important he’ll cast aside any other thoughts in favor of pleading with you). he kisses up your throat, along your jaw, only to nose against your cheek like some affectionate cat. when he speaks it’s a beg; beseeching. “embrace me, wife.”

“talk to me, husband,” you retort. “your sulking is bad for my health. i was terrified.”

against your skin, his lips quirk into a teasing smile. “you’re adorable when you’re terrified.”

Someone has slipped into your room.

You’re asleep. You have been for hours, yet Satoru’s borderline paranoid insistence on you learning to defend yourself even while resting have led to a far less deep manner of slumber, and so you’re roused by the simple sound of the door opening and are made aware of this unwelcome visitor the moment they enter.

It’s all you can do to keep still, even out your breath. Your mind conjures thoughts of your guards slaughtered just beyond your door, your maids and your ladies-in-waiting massacred in your vast array of rooms meant to be a sanctuary, your king returning home from his diplomatic trip east to find your own body not even in your shared bed but in the lonely one occupying the queen’s bedchamber, yours in name but so rarely used.

You hear the figure’s footsteps approach you; they sound large, imposing, though you dare not open your eyes until the ornate dagger beneath your pillow is in hand and the possible assassin close enough that it can do you any good.

Your fingers find the heavy hilt, wrap around it securely just as the mattress beneath you dips with the weight of the trespasser. The motions are ingrained in your body from weeks of practice with your husband; you lash out, knife against the intruder’s throat before they can realize you’re not asleep, aiming to slash at the throat—but then you pause, thankful that you’d opened your eyes to see the face of your attacker before you spilled their blood.

“Satoru?”

Keep reading

literally thought about adult bakugou meeting his middle schoo self and crushing him in hug and little him being stunned

it’s late february when gojo satoru decides he likes you.

the year is 2006, and the hour is late. a midnight snowfall takes place outside the window of gojo’s dorm room.

he sits at his desk, feet kicked up and pen twirling in his hand as he stares at the open laptop in front of him. the screen goes dim from being untouched for too long and gojo key smashes onto the blank document to wake it back up.

he’s currently mulling over an unfinished (and unstarted) mission report that was due appropriately 3 hours ago. but he just couldn’t find the words in himself to put onto paper.

(or, more accurately and less poetically- he just really didn’t want to.)

and plus, he was bored, and lonely. no one was awake at this time so he had no company, and gojo had found that he always worked better when not alone.

he sighed to himself before hunching back over the keyboard, ready to type in some nonsensical bullshit, when he sees something out his window- a person, clad in their pajamas, trudging through the snow. they were wearing fuzzy socks and gojo cringed because he just knew that they were soaked.

it was you, marching outside in horrid weather, with an expression that lay somewhere between delirious and determined.

he watched for a few more beats as you brushed snow off the courtyard benches with your bare, ungloved hands, seemingly in search of something. he wonders what could be so important that you’d brave the cold at this hour. gojo doesn't think he'd do that for anyone or anything in a million years.

his opinion of you, at the time, is not so positive. you were the second arrival to tokyo jujutsu high after him, and he didn't think he liked you very much. you seemed a little too apathetic, a little too spacey, contrasting his impassioned, driven personality.

you didn't seem very warm, he supposed, and that wasn't something he liked. (gojo never once considered that maybe, he just hadn't taken the time to get to know you.)

he's not sure why he follows you out into the snow, but before gojo knows it, he's pulled on his overpriced sneakers and a black scarf, and is standing beneath the overhang to the courtyard where you continued to search.

"i didn't think you were one to enjoy the snow so much," he calls out. you turn to face him, eyes wide, not having expected company. you look pretty, eyelashes webbed with snowflakes and a crown of ice adorning your hair. gojo's breath catches in his throat.

"i don't," you reply. your voice is thick with exhaustion, and gojo now sees how your arms are folded around your s shivering frame, and how your teeth chatter in the night.

"then what are you doing here?"

you look almost sheepish. "i forgot my book outside this morning."

gojo blinks. he wasn't expecting that. "you came outside in, like, negative 100-degree weather.. for a book?"

"listen," you start, indignant, "it was a really good book. it was actually so good that i dreamed about it, and i woke up because i didn't know what happened next. that's how i realized it was missing."

"so you're looking for your book at midnight in the snow because you had a dream about it?"

"basically."

gojo nods. "i'll help you look."

now it's your turn to be surprised. you knew he wasn't your biggest fan- but now, here he was, looking for something that had no meaning to him, solely for your peace of mind.

"oh. thanks, but... why?"

gojo shrugs. "i was working on a report and this seems more interesting. plus, you looked so sad and miserable and on the verge of death so you probably need the help."

you snort. that made more sense, you thought. he just didn't want to work, and this was an excuse to procrastinate further. you didn't think that gojo satoru had a selfless bone in his body.

but then he walked over to you, out in the snow, and removed his scarf. he wrapped it around your neck, deft fingers not yet numbed by the freezing temperatures.

"but first," he says, "you should put on some shoes. and grab a jacket. you might like, actually freeze. you look awful."

(he was lying. you looked heaven-sent in the stark whiteness of the background, but also kind of sickly due to the cold.)

he was close enough to kiss, you noted, though you weren't sure why. his face hovered close to yours and you could see the puffs of breath ghosting your cheeks. he's warm, so warm, and you're so tired- you don't even realize, but you slouch against him.

"you're probably right," you concede.

gojo is still, unsure of what to do. there's a pretty girl half-asleep on his chest in the freezing cold, one who he kind of hates but also thinks is really, really cute, and all he can do is place a hand on the side of your head and hold you there in a passive not-a-hug.

in a split-second, he realizes, though; he's not too sure if he can dislike you anymore. he'd thought of you as uncaring, but he supposes that can't be true anymore- not when you're desperate enough to know the ending of the story to traverse the snow in your fuzzy raccoon socks. you care a little, at least, about something.

(maybe gojo's grasping at straws to find a reason to justify his sudden liking of you. it works for him, though, because he smiles down at the top of your head and a warmth expands in the pit of his stomach.)

you pull yourself back drowsily, almost swaying where you stand. in an act of uncharacteristic kindness, gojo leads you back inside. you don't protest. he makes an amicable conversation with you, chattering away at half his normal volume to spare you the jarring sound of his blabbering.

"what book were you looking for, anyways?" he inquires at some point.

you're all but leaning against him as he guides you back to your dorm. he plans on leaving you there, because you're basically already dead on your feet and will probably pass out and die if you keep looking.

"kafka on the shore."

"i didn't know you knew murakami."

you manage a wry look through your heavy eyelids. "i didn't know you knew how to read."

he feigns a gasp and clasps a hand over his heart. "do you even know who i am?"

you hum contemplatively. "not really. but i wouldn't mind getting to know you."

his heart stops, and stutters. he hopes you're too tired to notice the rose flush gracing his cheeks. at this point, you've both made it to your dorm and you're already sitting on your bed. you look at him with your head tipped to the side and gojo realizes: he definitely doesn't dislike you. he might even go as far as to say he enjoys your company, if only a little bit.

he doesn't reply to your previous statement. "goodnight," he says instead, gently sliding the door shut. he hears you mutter a half-hearted 'sleep well' but he's already skipping back to his dorm room, grinning like a buffoon. he might as well be giggling and singing and dancing, with the way he feels like a child.

okay, so yes, gojo satoru probably liked you. maybe a little, probably a lot.

(he finds your copy of kafka on the shore in the common room the next morning. he thinks he'll give it back to you with a little note, asking you to a nice lunch with him later that day.)