Gojo Love - Blog Posts

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. 

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.)

Gojo is the type to flirt endlessly with the person he likes. All inappropriate jokes, invasion of personal space and wildly descriptive insinuations about how he'd be the best damn lover you could ask for if you give him a fucking chance.

But he is Gojo Satoru. The Gojo Satoru. So you know better and guard your heart as best as you can.

It wasn't the winks and kissy faces that made you blush. It wasn't the way he would introduce you to everyone as his future wife that made your heart beat erratically either.

It wasn't the relentless flirting and sappy declarations of love that made your students extremely uncomfortable that made you do a double take at him. It wasn't his loud proclamations and flamboyant gestures like filling the school field with your favorite flowers after learning you've never received a bouquet of flowers before in your life that made your heart swell with joy.

But..

It's the way he stood up to the elders defending your name when you're under scrutiny, the way he'd menacingly state so plainly, in such a calm clear voice, that he'd end everyone in the council if anybody tries to hurt you.

It's the way he would sit quietly with you after a tough job or when you lose another colleague, the way he would ease you into an embrace and hold you until you fall asleep in his arms. It's the way he would grab your cold hand as you stand in the rain hours after one of your beloved students had been buried 6 feet under.

Gojo would pout at you when you tell him you like him better when he's not as raucous as he usually is.

But he doesn't know that you mean you've fallen for him because of how much more loving and caring he is without even trying.

No grand stunts, no gimmicks. Just.. him.

Him and his ways that show you he'll always be there, without saying a damn thing.

✧*࿐random cute texts: jjk ✧˖*࿐

✧ft: satoru, yuuta, yuuji, megumi & nanami

✧note: trying to get back into posting again. enjoy!!

✧ want your own customized texts from your favs? commissions are open!

Tell the moths in my tummy to relocate, please

Synopsis: In which 40° weather grants you insight into Satoru’s powers Word Count: 2.0k

Story Content: Female reader, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Seemingly unrequited pining, Idiots in love but they don’t even know it yet, Slow-burn (doesn’t get anywhere), Crackfic, We learn the many ways in which Satoru can use his technique, Reader POV!

A/N: this is a celcius only household (kidding. but not really.) This has been in my drafts for a reaaaally long time im just glad its out honestly

GOJO SATORU is a frigid blast of cold air during a warm summer day. 

It’s surprising, considering his typical characterisation. People, yourself included, likened him to the sun. Bright and blinding. That’s how the pillar of the Jujutsu world should be, they’d say. He’s the epitome of sorcery. The honored one, they’d praise. 

Just to be clear, you thought of him as the sun for entirely different reasons. Reasons that you weren’t about to go into too detail about. But just as a tiny, small little hint: It had to do with his body temperature. And you were currently being quickly betrayed by what you once thought was fact.

“Am I a portable air-con?”

“Yeah,” you spit at him. Half in betrayal and half in fascination, you huff, gripping his elbows to keep him still as you tuck your body against him, forcing his technique over you with your own. 

The chill settles into your bones and makes you sigh sweetly. It almost makes you forget about how the sun was shining a little too brightly into your eyes. 

In the back of your mind, you can’t help but envy him and his thousand dollar shades. Did he bring a spare? Could you have them? 

Keep reading

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GOJO X FEM READER

You expected working at a convenience store during the twilight hours just to make enough to cover rent to be boring. After all, you took the job for the cash, not for a love of faking smiles for strangers who don’t care. The appearance of a stranger who seems to have a lot to hide is tantalizing bait to your boredom, but you can’t give in. That is, if you have a choice at all. 

wc — 3k

cw — mafia au but not really, implied but never addressed, is he or isn’t he, Gojo is Weird, blood, guns, this is not meant to be a serious gorey fic, its just a fun little way for me to branch out and stretch those writing muscles 

They don’t pay you enough to keep guns under the counters, but it’s cheaper to teach you to shoot then it is to pay for security cameras. It would be cheaper not to show you to protect yourself at all, actually, but you’re the sixth cashier they’ve burned through in as many weeks. Even in a town as down as this one is, rumors spread fast. 

The wages are shit, but it’s all you’ve got, and college is expensive for a degree as useless as yours is. Four months away from becoming a junior, and you’ve only held unpaid internships and this position as a cashier at a dirty, old convenience store on the wrong side of the train tracks. 

You think the owner is hiding something, or maybe that’s just wishful thinking for a job as boring as this one. People come and go, make rude comments, pick up beer and slide you IDs you weren’t trained to check. It’s quiet enough to convince you to let down your guard, then your fingers brush the cold metal underneath the register and you remember the long line of unnamed, unknown girls who came before you. 

Keep reading

“you’re the only one that makes me Powerless tonight”

“and you can devastate my personal space i never liked it anyway.”

synopsis// alone and lonely were two very different things. gojo was never alone but he was tired of being lonely, at least that was until you showed up.

pairing// satoru gojo x gn!reader

word count// 1.4k

contents// angsty gojo?, gojo never turns off his infinity and never lets people touch him in any context!, ooc gojo probably, angst in general if u squint

notes// yep you guessed it! a waterparks song did in fact inspire this! todays inspiration is powerless!!! wooooooo!!!

Gojo Satoru was by no means alone. Whether he was with the higher-ups or other sorcerers or with his students, he was always with someone, around someone. Gojo Satoru was by no means alone, but he was by every means lonely. There was always a wall between him and everyone, metaphorically and quite literally, considering his infinity. only one person had ever been able to get past it, and that was when he was in jujutsu high himself, only one person until you. 

Yaga had called Gojo in one day for what he thought was a meeting, but upon arriving, he was met with you, standing there in all your glory, hands clasped together as you smiled sweetly at Gojo, who could now actively feel his pulse quickening the longer he stared at you. 

“Gojo, meet L/N; they're a new teacher here. In fact, they'll be working with you and your first years," Yaga catches Gojo up as he begins walking toward you two.

“Hi! Nice to meet you,” you say happily as you offer your hand out to him for a handshake. 

Gojo catches himself about to shake your hand but stops himself before he can do so. That’s not Gojo; Gojo doesn't shake hands, and Gojo doesn’t turn off his infinity, so why was he about to? just for you? He clears his throat and smiles smugly. “Sorry, pretty. I don't shake hands.”

Your mouth forms a slight “o” shape as you retract your hand and go back to clasping it together with your other. “Sorry!” you apologize sincerely. 

Yaga quirks up an eyebrow at Gojo in question, having witnessed the whole interaction, and the only thing Gojo can do is flash his signature smile. 

Yaga sighs. “Right well, that’s all. They start tomorrow with you, Gojo. Get them informed on your class, yeah?” He says this before walking out of the room. 

“Nice to meet you!” You call out to Yaga, who is long gone at this point. “So Gojo, what’s our class like?”

Gojo catches himself smiling like an idiot at your use of “our.” He likes the sound of that; he likes it a lot, a little too much, actually.

“Just call me Satoru.”

Everything after that was history. Gojo and you had quickly taken to each other like no other, catching everyone by surprise. Mostly because Gojo hadn't let himself take to anyone since he was in Jujutsu High, so why should you be any different? Nobody knew why, and he certainly didn't know why either, which is what scared him; it’s what’s made him keep you at arm's length; it’s what’s made him keep the quite literal invisible wall between you two.

But none of that stopped you; you were still just as enticed by Gojo as was everybody else, but you were different. You didn't fall for him because he was Gojo, the strongest sorcerer; you fell for him because he was just Satoru to you; you saw him when he was see-through, and maybe that's exactly why he keeps you at arms length. Because being truly known scares Gojo, allowing someone to truly know him again is what keeps Gojo up at night, even if deep down that's all he really wants. 

It’s been about a year at this point of you and Gojo being friends that aren't just friends but also aren't together but also aren't not together. In simpler terms, it's been about a year at this point of you and Gojo being together without actually being together. This isn’t to say you haven't tried; you have, kind of. You’ve never wanted to push too hard, afraid that it would do more harm than good. You would try and plan dates with Gojo, telling him you’d make time for him and that you were waiting on his greenlight, but apparently his light was always red, occasionally yellow, but never green. never.

But now you’re sick of waiting for the right time. You're sick of not being pushy; you're sick of being whatever it is you are with Gojo; you’re either together or you're not. You need answers; you need to know if he needs you like you need him, which is how you found yourself at his front door at midnight. You find yourself hesitating to knock on his door but end up knocking anyway; you didn't come out all this way in the cold only to end up not knocking. After a few moments, you're still out in the cold, so you knock harder, only to end up knocking on Gojo, well—you would have had his infinity been off.

“Y/n?” he asks grogily. 

“Gojo,” you reply back flatly, nodding as a form of greeting.

Gojo’s face scrunches up in confusion and slight disgust at his last name coming from you as he moves out of the way to allow you in. 

“Did I do something?” he asks curiously as he watches you walk into his living room. 

“yes.. no! .. maybe? ugh, I don't know,” you respond vaguely as you stand in front of his couch and turn to look at him. 

Gojo now finds himself a few feet in front of you, every part of him aching to just hold you. “You don't know?” he asks quietly. 

you groan. “What are we, Gojo?”

Gojo winces at you using his last name again. “Can you stop calling me Gojo?”

You frown. “okay fine. What are we, Satoru?” You purposely draw out his first name as if to mock him. 

He matches your frown, his eyebrows scrunching together as he questions, “Where is this coming from?”

You scoff. “You can't even tell me!”

"Y/n no, I'm just confused," Gojo responds sheepishly. 

You sigh. “Satoru, I'm in love with you.”

Gojo goes wide-eyed; he had pretty much already known, but hearing you say it outright still takes him by surprise, and suddenly, with the way his pulse is quickening, he's taken back to the first time he met you. “Y/n-“

You don't give him a chance to speak, raising your finger at him as if telling him to shut up, and he does. “I am so in love with you, but I can’t keep doing whatever we’re doing, Satoru.”

“What are we doing?” he asks with a frown. 

“I don't know!” you exclaim. “That's the problem, Satoru! I need to know if you’re in because I have been in since the moment I met you, Satoru, so now it’s your turn. Do you love me, Satoru?”

Gojo bites the inside of his cheek, and his eyes are stinging; he might just actually cry. He inhales and exhales deeply. “Y/n, I love you so much that it scares me,” he whispers back because he thinks if he talks any louder, his voice will crack. 

Now it's your turn for your eyes to sting, along with your lips starting to tremble. Scratch that—every part of you is beginning to tremble as you watch him step closer to you. “Then prove it,” you reply meekly yet sternly. 

Gojo doesn’t say a word. The way he wants to prove it doesn't involve him speaking; it involves him wrapping you in his embrace, which is exactly what he does, and you go stiff at feeling him touch you for the first time. You blink a few times in disbelief before grabbing whatever part of him you can get your hands on—his back, shoulders, arms, neck, hair, face—everything and anything. You’re trying to memorize his body whole in case this is the first and only chance you’ll get to ever touch him.

He stifles a laugh at how your hands won't stay still on him, and he kisses your forehead, and the two of you stay like that for a few moments, his lips against your forehead, while you try to memorize Gojo whole. Eventually, you finally stop and wrap your arms around him just like his are around you; your heart is about to practically jump out of your chest with how hard it’s beating. 

Gojo is the first to break the silence. “So, I was thinking maybe we could get away? call it a date?” He mumbles against your forehead. 

“Is this real?” you ask breathlessly.

Gojo laughs as he pulls away slightly, arms still around you, in order to look at you face-to-face. “Of course this is real. Am I just that amazing that you can't believe I'm real?” he asks as a smirk tugs at his lips. 

Despite the grin on your face, you roll your eyes at him. "Oh, shut up! It's just... does this mean you're in?" You ask nervously. 

Gojo hums before he leans in and kisses you passionately, yet keeps it short and sweet by breaking the kiss just to mumble.

                                   “Yeah, i'm in.”

© LITTLEXBIMBO

Get down on it

Dear Future Me…

in which gojo travels inexplicably to the future

not proofread; enjoy

one minute gojo’s walking on the street, heading over to your house to pick you up for a picnic, on the phone with megumi who’s at the grocery store buying a last minute cake, and one minute he’s…not. a flash of light from the other side of the road, too fast to avoid even with gojos unhumanlike reaction time. hes pushed forwards, or was it backwards, and a cold wind whips around him, making goosebumps form on his arms. and then suddenly, hes back, except things are a little different. take the road for example, seems much too worn out for a road newly paved last week. and your house. its painted a welcoming green, with a cute red door, not the yellow it used to be. theres a new tree in your garden, blossoming flowers gojo knew wasnt there before. his attention turns on the movement of the front door, opening to reveal…you. you look beautiful, but much older than when he last saw you. gojos breath is taken away by how you glow, your smile lighting up the sky, just like it always is. and then, unexpectedly, just as hes about to call out to you, someone walks out the door behind you.

“what the fuck…” gojo mumbles to himself, watching an older, fitter, hotter (if he may say so himself), and possibly wiser gojo walk out of the door and lock it gently, before wrapping an arm around your waist and poking at a yellow bundle you have in your hands. this is a lot for now-gojo, as we must resort to calling him, to take in. he...and you?? and his hand on your waist?? and…and.

“holy shit…” gojo breathes. the yellow bundle is a baby. now-gojo sees that now, as little hands reach out towards your cheeks, and as future gojo lifts it out of the bundle of blankets in your arms and into his chest. the wispy sunlight catches the babys face just as it is tucked into future gojos chest, and its eyes, bright blue like pools of dreams and hope, quite lovely gojo thinks, take all the weight off his shoulders and he breathes a sigh of relief so deep he physically sags down.

when gojo looks up again, he is back on the newly paved street leading up to your house. “…hello? you there?? you havent answered me in like ten minutes. i asked red velvet or cheesecake. you good-“ megumis voice streams from the speaker on gojos phone.

“ye-yeah. yeah. im good megumi. very good actually. splendid. now if i may, i have a visit to pay to someone.”

“not y/n again…” megumi grumbles as his voice fades into nothingness.

gojo smiles, a new pep in his step as he leans forward to knock on your door.

“g’mornin pretty,” he winks at you, “i gotta tell you somethin’. “

cw: gojo's past arc spoilers, implied sex, suggestive, kissing

when gojo awoke, he noticed four highly unusual things.

one, his bed was missing its usual coldness. the one he has gotten used to waking up to ever since… he was born?

which is weird, because he never bought any sort of electric bed warmers nor was it summer.

two, he had no nightmares. no images of his best friend's back turned to him as he slowly blends into the crowd, no images of a dead amanai riko lying limply in his arms, no images of fushiguro toji stabbing him on his throat, and no images of the three of them blaming and shouting at the man for their own fates.

which is rare, because every night either one or all of them would visit gojo. he even had the habit of taking his guesses on who's appearing in his dreams due to how frequent they happen.

three, he feels happy. like really, sincerely happy. not like the mask of joyfulness he shows his students; unlike the facade he had gotten all too used to presenting people.

which is rare, because gojo satoru has never felt true happiness ever since geto suguru's defection.

four, there's something warm and soft enclosing his whole body. as if he suddenly acquired a life-sized teddy bear he's now snuggling with.

but no, he never bought any sort of stuffed toy and what he was feeling was something way better than some big plushie.

(because teddy bears don't radiate warmth that feels as homely, as comforting, nor as peaceful as the sorcerer senses to the point that he never wanted to let go.)

so despite his body and mind's unceasing protests, gojo satoru slowly but surely opened his eyes to inspect why the hell there were suddenly so many changes on his usual mornings.

it was you.

an ethereal being quiescently sleeping with your cheek squished on his toned pectoral littered with red and purple marks, your marks, drool dripping down your mouth, tangled and messy hair sticking to your face, arms tightly wrapped around his naked torso as if you too would never want this moment to end.

ah. that explains why i slept so well.

gojo raises the duvet up to your shoulder before lifting his right hand and brushing your hair out of your face, wanting to see for the first time what you look like when you sleep and god. it's the only sight he would ever want to see over and over again and again for the rest of his mornings.

memories of the night prior came flooding back into his mind, filling his entire being with more and more tenderness as he remembers how your bodies perfectly molded and joined into singularity mere hours ago, as if you two were puzzle pieces who found their way towards each other despite being lost wandering somewhere around the vast and endless universe.

gojo tightened his left arm on your bare waist, his desire to be closer to you and to feel you even further starting to overtake his senses.

that is until you stirred, opened your eyes, and roamed your pupils on your surroundings before settling into his own sapphire irises. your forehead scrunched upon recognizing the man, as if you were wondering how you ended up in your current position.

you're frowning and groggy and disoriented so why are you still so gorgeous?

"g'morning, drooling beauty. someone had a great sleep, huh?" he teases as a greeting, making you frown even more as you attempt to remove your arms from his body.

whining, gojo's hands instantly flew to yours as he pressed his weight down onto the mattress, "nooo. let's stay like this."

at that, you smirked and rested your chin on his sternum before opening your mouth, "heh. someone wants to cuddle, huh?" your tone was condescending yet you still held him tighter than before, upper body fully pressed on his and arms underneath him as you lean closer to press your lips on his jaw.

(oh how he loves your morning voice; the only sound he wants to hear as soon as he wakes up.)

satoru smiled before muttering ‘just stay with me,’ pressing his lips that have said far too many words and brushed all over your figure last night on the top of your head as he basks in your presence.

it’s pretty ironic. how infinity, his most prized technique, is meant for gojo satoru to be untouchable, to serve as a barrier—a physical boundary he learned to automatically activate in order to keep himself from any injury, from any type of harm, from any kind of pain.

yet all he wants whenever he’s with you is to turn all those barriers off and to shove them away on the deepest part of his being, never to emerge again. he just wants to hold you close until the edge of the universe stops expanding and starts receding, until only the two of you are left in a small space slowly getting swallowed by complete darkness.

only then will he activate his infinity and shield the both of you against the collapsing cosmos.

“...fast? gojo? are you listening?”

your muffled voice brought the naked man back to reality, and he feels you attempting to raise your head from its place on his neck (probably to look at him) but fails as he pushes the body part back with his chin. "yes, yes, i'm listening. you were saying something about how we finished fast, right? you can just say you wanna go for another, ya know? i won't mind~"

you let out an ugh and he swears he can hear your eyes roll within your response, "no, you idiot. i was asking what you wanted for breakfast. were you dozing off?"

he responds only to your former question, completely ignoring the latter. "breakfast, huh? let me think."

for gojo, breakfast normally meant going to some shop near wherever he currently is and eating a slice of cake alone. he couldn’t even remember the last time he had a home cooked meal and although he’d stop at nothing to taste your cooking (even if it’s dirt), he has been thinking of another meal ever since he realized woke up with you.

smirking, the white-haired man twisted his body before flipping the both of you and hovered over your form despite your halfhearted protests. you were looking incredulously at him, left eyebrow raised and forehead scrunched as he slowly leans in to plant a chaste kiss on your nose.

“you were asking what i wanted for breakfast, right? welp, i want you.”

however, the thought of you standing in his kitchen, in front of his stove, possibly wearing his shirt that would be way too huge for your figure and making him breakfast while his body encloses yours from behind, the combined smell of miso soup and your neck permeating his senses sits at the back of his mind while he kisses you silly.

so gojo satoru, the ever unpredictable man, halts the onslaught of his love on your face and pulls back, perching both of his hands on either side of your shoulder as he continues hovering over you and watching you catch your breath.

“i changed my mind. cook me breakfast now~” he beamed before getting off the bed and grabbing his shirt on the floor, leaving you dumbfounded as you allow him to lift you off the mattress and carry you bridal style out of the door.

you sighed exasperately.

what a bizarre man you fell in love with.

navi

i just love him a lot TT

omfg yes yes and yes and also he pretends not to be sad realllyyyy really hard but sometimes its just too much and when yall first moved in together (!!) and he was crying in the bathroom hiding you went in and kissed his forehead (gojo melt moment) and held him and sat on the cold tile cradling his head and didnt say anything sarcastic or stupid or anything actually and just sat w him until he started talking to you abt his feelings

AND he was so embarrassed afterwards he tried to make it up to you and apologize for wasting your time and you smacked him in the face (!!!!) and scolded him for thinking that way and he felt SO LOVED 🥰

i feel like gojo would be in a ‘hot chocolate x green tea’ relationship.. his partner is very funny but more of the sarcastic humor and he pretends to be offended but he never actually is. his partner is his sense and is the person who tells him to stop eating so many sweets and maybe get in some protein, makes sure that he sleeps well and tells him not to take missions when he’s sleepy. and when they do all this he wants to cry because he never got that time when he was babies becs he had to grow up so quickly. his partner his this older , mature energy about them and it makes him feel so different- not like he has to impress anyone or have anybody’s back. because hes finally being taken care of with no strings attached, and it feels so good to him. OH LETS NOT FORGET HOW HE WILL BE THE KINDEST PERSON EVEN TO HIS PARTNER!! because they’ve done all this for him and he wants to now buy you the entire earth or say the most disgustingly kind things to you.

like if you so much as tell him to have a good day , to be careful and that you love him he stops dead in his tracks and goes. , “thank you !! i love you more!! you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me!! byebye yn!!” while he’s walking out , and his voice is getting farther and farther but he’s also getting louder because you MUST know how special you are. the good you’ve done. how much of a good person you are. you HAVE TO. and don’t get me started when you’re sad. because when he’s sad he doesn’t know how to express it properly so he makes these atrocious jokes that leave you so concerned, but you still comfort him anyway, and he loves you so much for it. so he’ll hug you a tight but doesn’t know what to say at all😭. so he’s holding you and rocking you side to side and just saying , “i’m here, it’s alright, i’m right here,” because that’s all he really knows how to do but he PRAYS that it’s enough for you because he will literally wither away if it isn’t. gojo n his more emotionally smart, mature but still chaotic partner </33

aND LASTLY. everyone hates when you two are together because it’s so chaotic , you can’t even get out a sentence because every word you seem to say has some kind of dumb ass inside joke or something. like you once read a book that mentioned a baseball bat being heavy and he was so distraught . he kept going ,” heavy????? 😏 baseball bat???????? 😏” and now whenever anyone brings it up or it’s on tv you both topple over laughing. megumi is done cus he thought you were supposed to be the mature one 😕😕😕💔💔

all i wanna do is tell gojo ill be there to kiss his knuckles and wipe his tears