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microdose - KUROO T.
you’re my ecstasy when you’re next to me.
timeskip!kuroo tetsurō x f!reader you surprise your long distance bf!kuroo and instantaneously give him a cardiac arrest.
the thing about kuroo is that he has always been a little bit of a menace. not the ‘i’ll set your house on fire’ kind of menace, but the ‘i will stare at you across a gymnasium until you feel the heat of my gaze through your uniform’ kind.
when he first saw you at that away game, his brain basically short-circuited into a single, high-frequency hum. you were power-walking across the court with a clipboard, looking like the most beautiful, stressed-out person in miyagi, and he was a goner. he didn’t even try to be cool. well, he tried, but he mostly just ended up leaning against walls in your peripheral vision, looking like a tall, lanky gargoyle who had been struck by lightning.
he spent the next few months yearning with the intensity of a victorian widow waiting for a ship to return from sea. it was pathetic, really. kenma would be trying to play a boss fight and kuroo would be sighing into his palms, wondering if you liked apple juice or orange juice better. he was gentle about it, though. he never wanted to crowd you. he just wanted to be near you, like a moth circling a very pretty, very confused lamp.
呪術廻戦 › nerd!jo will always put you first SFW. fem!reader. very self indulgent fluff. college au. ✶
it’s 2:34 in the morning, and the only light in your dorm room comes from your glowing laptop screen. your history paper, a fifteen-page monstrosity on the socioeconomic impact of the second world war, is due at 8:00 am. you’ve been surviving on a combination of caffeine and sour candy for the past six hours, and you can feel the exhaustion settling deep into your bones
you’re typing the topic sentence of your conclusion, when without warning, without so much as a flicker, your screen goes completely black and the low hum of the fan ceases. your heart hammers against your ribs, a beat of pure panic. no. no, no, no.
you spam the spacebar. nothing. you mash the power button, holding it down until your finger aches, then releasing it and pressing it again. nothing.
you try every combination of keys you can think of, hands trembling so badly you can barely type. nothing. the screen remains a void mirror that reflects your own, tear-streaked face back at you. the document. your sources. hours of work. . . gone.
a choked sob escapes your throat. tears spill over your waterline, blurring your vision until the dark screen is just a smear of nothingness. you can feel the panic building in your chest, squeezing the air from your lungs.
your roommate, shoko, is dead asleep across the room, her soft snores the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. you can’t wake her up. you can’t bother anyone with this. with the sole exception of satoru gojo, of course.
with trembling fingers, you grab your phone and pull up his contact. thumb hovering over your keyboard.
it’s almost three in the morning. satoru is meticulous about his sleep schedule. he needs his eight hours or he’s insufferable and cranky all day. and he has his biochem final today. you can’t. you shouldn’t.
but the thought of starting over from scratch, of facing this alone, is more than you can bear.
toru i’m gonna cry [ 02:36 am ]
you stare at the words you’ve typed up, they’re so dramatic and unserious but you send them anyway.
i hate my fucking chungus life [ 02:36 am ]
three little dots appear before you can even wipe the fresh tears from your cheeks.
toruuu ❤︎ : What’s wrong baby? [ 02:36 am ]
oh i need a man like him in my life ://
this was the first time you had ever seen 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒖 𝑮𝒐𝒋𝒐 drunk. okay, he was wasted and couldn’t hold his liquor.
it happened after a mission celebration that had gone on far too long, and you were the unlucky—no, blessed—person assigned to get him home. he leaned on you like a boneless cat the moment you stepped outside, long limbs draped around your shoulders, blindfold pushed up messily into his hair.
“woooow,” he giggled, far too delighted with the way the streetlights blurred. “everything’s so… sparkly. are you sparkly too?”
“satoru,” you sighed, trying to keep him upright. “you’re drooling.”
“am not.” a beat. then he sniffed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and burst into laughter. “okay maybe a little.”
the strongest sorcerer alive was reduced to a giggling mess, head lolling against yours, laughter warm and unguarded. every few steps he rambled about how the night air felt nice, about how nanami definitely judged him, about how you were way too patient with him.
out of nowhere he stopped walking. “hold on,” he said seriously, fumbling with his phone. his fingers were clumsy, missing the screen twice before he finally unlocked it. he squinted, face inches from the display, before turning it proudly toward you.
it was a photo of you. one you barely remembered him taking—your hair a mess, laughing at something stupid he’d said, eyes soft and unguarded.
his smile went slack with awe. “isn’t she beautifuuuul?” he slurred, voice hushed like he was sharing a secret with the universe. “that’s my girlfriend. i love her so much.”
your chest tightened. “satoru—”
“shh,” he interrupted gently, swaying closer. “i’m thinkin’ important thoughts.” he stared at the photo again, nodding to himself. “i’ll maharry her one day. big ring. huge. like—” he gestured vaguely with his free hand, nearly dropping the phone. “everyone’ll be jealous. especially me. i’d be jealous if i wasn’t me.”
you laughed despite yourself, slipping the phone safely back into his pocket.
when you finally got him home, he collapsed onto the couch dramatically, arms opening immediately. “c’mere,” he mumbled. “need my girl for balance.”
you sat with him, and he curled around you without hesitation, forehead pressed to your shoulder. his voice dropped, soft and sincere in a way he never let himself be while sober. “don’t tell anyone i said all this,” he murmured sleepily. “i gotta keep my cool reputation.”
“okay,” you whispered with love as his breathing evened out seconds later with his hands holding onto yours.
a mini explosion!
features: katsuki bakugo
contains: fluff, swearing, slightly suggestive (?), fem!reader
about: texts between husband!bakugo & pregnant!reader
a/n: idk if i like this or not, and im so bad at titles it ruins it for me :/
“what the hell?” satoru mutters to himself, scratching his undercut in confusion.
one second he was fighting a curse, and the next, he was at the gojo residence. and he’s 99% certain that he didn’t somehow accidentally teleport.
he shrugs it off, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he begins to walk through the gardens.
must be a dream, he thinks to himself.
a hyper-realistic dream because when he breathes in, he smells the familiar incense that could somehow always be smelled from outside. and a shadow flies over him which he automatically assumes is a grey heron.
what really makes it confusingly realistic is his favourite ball from when he was a child bouncing into view. he instinctively catches it and holds it under his foot.
then, satoru comes running into view-- wait…
he has to stop himself from yelling, his mouth falling open the widest it’s ever been as he stares at himself. just smaller. shorter. so young. no older than eight years old.
he laughs to himself, unnerved. “this really must be a dream.”
the younger version of himself crouches down to pick up the ball from under his foot and he lets him take it.
it’s like the sky reflected onto water when his eyes meet his own. on a face smaller than his, but still his. he feels like he truly is staring into the eyes of his eight-year-old self. a half-pout, half-scowl on his younger version’s mouth.
“watcha doin’, little ‘toru?” he asks, squatting down to his level.
“wouldn’t you like to know?” the smaller version shoots back, looking at the older satoru with caution. he can only guess it’s because they look the exact same. well, they are the same.
satoru pauses and blinks before breaking into laughter. what a stuck-up brat he used to be.
“well then, let me skip inside and let the elders know you’re neglecting your duties,” he says teasingly. a joke. he would never take away his younger self’s childhood even if it was just a dream.
but he immediately regrets making that joke when the little scowl disappears and a sulk takes over. snowy eyebrows knit together in slight panic. bright, blue eyes swirling with a plea before his gaze downcasts, cheeks drooping sadly.
something in satoru’s heart aches. feeling the distress of being a child who could never truly be a child all over again. something that reverse cursed technique could never heal.
“i’m kidding, buddy. play all you want.” satoru stands back up, reaching out to ruffle his little self’s hair who shakes his hand off and draws back. “just… hang in there, alright? everything’s gonna be okay, i promise,” he whispers, something broken in his voice.
satoru feels stinging behind his eyes, threatening to spill years of a stolen childhood and a burden that only the strongest could carry.
the younger version of him tilts his head at the taller man - the same way he tilts his head to this very day when he’s confused.
“old man… why are you crying?”
“did you just call me old, you br-- wait, what?” satoru says, reaching up to touch his own cheek. he, in fact, does feel salty moisture rolling down the curve of his cheek. “oh… uh, that’s um allergies. yeah, allergies”
but little him scrutinises him like he doesn’t believe his older self. but before he can say anything else, an elder’s voice calls for him from inside, most likely for training.
all satoru hears is a mumbled “weirdo” before his younger self scurries away with a pout tugging at his mouth. and he can’t help but let out a wet chuckle, wiping his face with the heel of his palm.
he watches him go, leaning against the wall with a soft smile touching his lips.
“everything’s okay,” he murmurs to himself under his breath. a sense of peace settling within him.
after wandering around for a while longer, hiding from clan members because something tugs at his gut that this isn’t a dream, he’s suddenly warped back to the abandoned lab where he was dealing with the curse. said curse nowhere to be seen because he had exorcised it before whatever the hell just happened.
he heaves out a breath before immediately teleporting home. to his home. you.
he’s wrapping himself around you from behind, slumping against you and burying his face into the side of your neck.
“my love?” you say softly, surprised and confused but not resisting. you rest a hand on his arm that’s looped around your stomach, brushing your thumb back and forth. “what happened?”
moisture patters against your neck and you freeze, but you don’t force him to speak or lift his head. you let him hold you. let him breathe you in shakily.
“… i love you so much,” he finally murmurs, lips moving against your neck like he’s trying to etch the words into your skin. “i love you. thank you for loving me. fuck, what did i do to deserve you?” he whispers the last part to himself, in disbelief.
“satoru,” you say a bit more firmly this time. hearing him self-deprecate always caused your heart to twist. it made you want to undo the years of trauma that he never deserved. “what’s going on? was your mission okay?”
he laughs softly, then nods. “would you believe me if i said that i think i time-travelled to the past? like, twenty years back.”
“… did you knock your head against something? should we get you to shoko?”
satoru laughs again, louder this time, heartier. he lifts his head from your neck, his face blotchy with stained tears, eyes twinkling with amusement rather than tears now.
“i’m okay, i promise. more than okay. life is perfect,” he grins, feeling ever so thankful for how his life turned out. thankful for you.
a/n: my baby :((
taglist: @sweethearticism @sugurusladyknightt @cupidstrace @man1cslut @chewiebee @besidesjustmyamour @kirsteinsring @hails-trom @theevilarcher @aquariusscollection @snooptoru @snailsolidarity @maximasx @luvsukei @sunbumglow @satorusdollie @chuiisi @kalihrts @satorvs @synd1caate @angelabassettsbiceps @deadandhorny @dreamcastgirl99 @satorubunni @sovaintilla @ostara-27 @paintedperidot @sukiiiiie @newpersonsameoldmistakez @myasfiction @lisabelhyhn @getorade @dogggggggblog-kaye @sugarbunnyluv @cinnamonnmar @un1v3rsalh0pper @catgvrl
oh my gosh my poor baby :((
Needed to redraw THAT official art
the morning after (jjk edition)
features: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, & toji fushiguro
contains: fluff, fem!reader
a/n: here’s the part 2 of drunk confessions!
satoru gojo
suguru geto
kento nanami
toji fushiguro
the morning after (jjk edition)
features: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, & toji fushiguro
contains: fluff, fem!reader
a/n: here’s the part 2 of drunk confessions!
satoru gojo
suguru geto
kento nanami
toji fushiguro
five times gojo thinks of proposing to you and one time he does.
contents. gojo x fem!reader • tooth rotting fluff • a lot of i love you’s • some light angst • in yearner satoru we trust
i.
it’s raining. this is that miserable kind of raining that seeps through the seams of his jacket, plasters his white hair to his forehead and makes the fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store flicker like they’re also tired of existing.
you’re standing in front of the instant ramen section, waddling around because your shoes broke three blocks ago and are heavy with water, shivering in his oversized hoodie that he’d draped over you the moment he saw your teeth chattering. your hair is damp and sticking to your cheeks, and you’re squinting at the different flavor packets like they hold the secrets to the universe.
“spicy or chicken?” you ask him, turning slightly. there’s a drop of water clinging to your lower lip.
gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer of his generation, a man who has stared down curses that would make lesser men weep, feels his heart do something stupid in his chest. it’s inconvenient, really. he’s supposed to be above this— above the mundane domesticity of convenience store runs and broken sandals and wet hair plastered to sleepy faces.
but you’re wearing his hoodie. you’re standing in a fluorescent-lit hellscape at 11:47 pm on a tuesday, and you’re asking him about ramen flavors like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“spicy,” he says, his voice coming out softer he thinks it does.
you nod and grab two cups, and when you turn back to him, you give him a smile— small and tired and pretty— and he thinks i want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life.
the thought is so sudden and so loud that he almost chokes on his own spit.
he watches you walk to the counter, watches you fumble with his card. you’re so ordinary in the best possible way. you’re not a sorcerer, not a clan heir, not someone the world expects anything from except to live and be happy.
and you chose him.
the rain drums against the glass doors as you come back to him, holding out the bag. “let’s go home, toru,” you say, your voice muffled by the hoodie’s collar pulled up to your nose.
home. you call it home and he calls it home too. your small apartment, the one with the broken lock on the bathroom door and the neighbor who practices violin badly at 6 am. his home.
his hand twitches toward his pocket, where he absolutely does not have a ring because he hasn’t bought one, because this is insane, because you’ve only been together for a year and a half and that’s not even that long in the grand scheme of things.
but the word home echoes in his skull like a prayer, and he thinks— i could do it. i could ask her right now, in this ugly convenience store, with rain in my shoes and ramen in my hands.
he doesn’t, of course. he’s not that reckless. probably.
“let’s go home, baby,” he agrees, and he takes the bag from you with one hand and wraps the other around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you’re warm despite everything, and you fit there perfectly, like you were designed for it.
the ring box stays imaginary in his pocket all the way back to the apartment.
ii.
it’s not even his injury. that’s the worst part.
gojo is fine— annoyingly, immortally fine— but you’d taken a hit for a civilian during a mission gone sideways, and now you’re behind a set of double doors with a concussion and three broken ribs, and he’s sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time he moves.
he hasn’t moved in forty-seven minutes.
shoko had looked at him with something between pity and exasperation when she’d examined you. “she’ll be fine, satoru. stop looking like someone killed your dog.”
but he can’t stop. his leg is bouncing, his hands are clasped too tight in his lap, and every time a shoko walks by he almost jumps out of his skin.
you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.
the doors open and you’re wheeled out on a gurney, pale and groggy but awake, and your eyes find him immediately like they always do; they’re magnets and he’s north.
“toru,” you say. your voice is hoarse and so small that he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let you leave the apartment again.
“hey,” he says, and he’s beside you before he remembers standing up, his hand finding yours. your fingers are cold. “you’re an idiot.”
“i know,” you say with a smile. it’s weak and wobbly and it makes his chest ache.
they move you to a room and he sits in the chair beside your bed, holding your hand while you drift in and out of sleep. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. the heart monitor beeps a steady rhythm. you look small against the white hospital sheets, smaller than you ever look anywhere else, and he hates it.
at some point, you wake up properly, blinking at him with those eyes he’d drown for. “how long have you been here?”
“few hours.”
“you should go home. sleep.”
“not leaving.”
you sigh, but there’s no real frustration in it. your thumb traces circles on the back of his hand. “you’re so stubborn.”
“learned from the best.”
you laugh, then wince because of the ribs, and he immediately leans forward like he can somehow absorb the pain from you. “don’t make me laugh, asshole.”
“sorry. sorry.” he presses his forehead to your knuckles. your skin is warm now, finally. “you scared me.”
“i’m okay.”
“you got hurt.”
“i’m okay.” your free hand comes up to card through his hair, causing him to make a sound he’ll deny later. “i’d do it again.”
“don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks in a way that would embarrass him if he had any room for embarrassment left. “don’t ever do it again. i can’t—i can’t lose you.”
you’re quiet for a moment. the heart monitor beeps. somewhere down the hall, shoko curses.
“you’re not going to lose me,” you say finally, softly. “i’m right here.”
he lifts his head to look at you. you’re smiling at him like he’s not a mess and it’s not him who is sitting in a hospital chair with dark circles under his eyes and a crick in his neck. like the fact that he’s here and he’s satoru is enough.
he wants to marry you.
the thought is quiet this time, not loud and sudden but soft and settling, like snow. he wants to marry you. he wants legal documentation that says you’re his. he wants to be the one they call when you’re in a hospital bed. he wants to be family, not just boyfriend, not just partner, but yours completely.
his hand tightens around yours.
“what?” you ask, because you always notice everything.
“nothing,” he says. “go back to sleep.”
you do, eventually, your hand still in his. and he watches you breathe, in and out, steady and alive, and he starts mentally calculating how long it would take to get a ring custom-made.
iii.
the sky explodes in gold and crimson and you’re standing so close that your shoulder presses against his, your face tilted up toward the light like you’re trying to drink it in.
fireworks have never done anything for gojo. he’s seen more impressive displays of cursed energy before breakfast. but you’re happy— genuinely, your mouth curved into a soft smile, your eyes reflecting every burst of color— and he can’t look away from you.
the crowd jostles around them. children shriek with delight. couples hold hands and take photos. you’re wearing a yukata he’d helped you tie earlier, fumbling with the obi until you’d laughed and pushed his hands away and done it yourself.
“look, look,” you say, pointing at a particularly large bloom of green and purple. “that one’s pretty.”
“yeah,” he says, but he’s not looking at the sky.
you turn to catch him staring and raise an eyebrow. “you’re supposed to be watching the fireworks, dummy.”
“i’m watching something better.”
“that’s so cheesy.”
“you love it.”
you don’t deny it. instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, and he feels the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his own kimono. the fireworks continue to explode overhead, painting your skin in fleeting colors— blue, then pink, then white.
a group of children runs past, laughing, one of them bumps into your side. you stumble, just slightly, and his arm goes around your waist automatically, steadying you.
“careful,” he murmurs.
“i’m fine.”
but you don’t pull away, and neither does he. his hand rests on your hip, and you’re so close that he can smell your shampoo— floral, soft, something that makes him think of mornings and pillowcases and shared showers.
the fireworks finale begins, a chaotic symphony of light and sound that makes the ground vibrate beneath their feet. the crowd cheers. someone sets off a sparkler nearby, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air.
you turn your face up toward him, the light catching your eyes, and you’re so beautiful it hurts.
“thank you for bringing me,” you say.
“thank you for coming with me.”
you beam, and he thinks about the ring he’d looked at online last week— the one with the sapphire, because he’d want you to always carry something that resembles him in some kind of way, and he’d thought that’s the one but he hadn’t bought it because buying a ring online feels wrong, feels too impersonal for something that’s supposed to hold this.
but standing here, with your body warm against his and your smile soft in the fading light, he thinks he should have bought it anyway. he thinks he should get down on one knee right now, in the grass, with the last of the fireworks fizzling out behind him.
“hey,” he starts. his voice is strange in his own ears.
“hmm?”
he looks at you, properly, intently. the curve of your cheek, the way your hair falls across your forehead, the small scar on your chin from when you’d tripped over his shoes last month.
“nothing,” he says. “just happy.”
your expression softens into something so tender it’s almost too much for him to handle. “me too.”
he doesn’t propose at the fireworks festival. he doesn’t have a ring, and the moment doesn’t feel big enough— not because it’s small, but because he wants more. he wants you surrounded by people who love you, or maybe just the two of you in a quiet room, or maybe something in between. he wants it to be perfect.
but standing there, with your hand slipping into his and your fingers interlacing like they’ve done it a thousand times before, he makes a promise to himself.
soon. it’ll be soon.
iv.
you don’t cry often.
that’s the thing about you: you’re steady in a way he’s never learned to be. you take things in stride. you handle his chaos with a patience that borders on supernatural. you’ve seen him at his worst, hollow-eyed and trembling after missions that went wrong, and you’d held him without a single word of judgment.
so when he finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with tears streaming down your face, something in him fractures.
“hey,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “hey, what’s wrong? what happened?”
you shake your head, trying to wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. “it’s stupid.”
“i don’t care if it’s stupid. tell me.”
you take a shaky breath. “that necklace you gave me, your first gift to me. i—i can’t find it anywhere, and i’ve looked everywhere, and it’s gone, and i know it’s just a thing and i have more, but you gave it to me and i always wear it, and—”
you break off with a sob as he pulls you into his chest without thinking. you cling to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, and he holds you as tight as he dares.
“it’s not just a thing,” he says into your hair. “it’s important to you. that makes it important.”
“i’m being ridiculous. ”
“you’re not.”
“i’ve been crying for twenty minutes over a necklace.”
“and i’d cry for twenty days if i lost something you gave me.”
you laugh wetly against his chest and he feels the vibration of it, feels the way your body relaxes slightly. he rubs your back in slow circles, the way you do for him when he’s the one falling apart.
“i’ll find it,” he says.
“you can’t just—”
“satoru gojo, master of the impossible. remember?” he pulls back just enough to look at your face, to thumb away the tears still clinging to your lashes. “i will find your necklace if i have to tear this entire city apart tile by tile.”
“don’t be dramatic.”
“i’m never dramatic. i’m perfectly reasonable.”
you snort. it’s such a normal sound, that he grins despite the tightness in his chest.
“i love you,” you say quietly, with your voice raw and wrecked and it hits him like a physical blow.
he thinks about the ring in his nightstand drawer.
he’d bought it last week, finally, after weeks of indecision. it’s simple— a thin gold band with a small diamond, nothing flashy because you’ve never been flashy. he’d held it in his palm for a long time before putting it in the drawer, and he’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment.
this isn’t the right moment. you’re crying on a bathroom floor, your face blotchy and your nose running, and you’ve never looked more human, more real, more his.
he wants to ask you. he wants to open his mouth and say the words and watch your eyes go wide. he wants to tell you that he’ll spend every day of the rest of his life finding things you’ve lost, fixing things that are broken, holding you when you cry.
but you’re vulnerable right now and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. he doesn’t want you to say yes because you’re sad and he’s here and it feels like the right thing to do in the moment.
so he doesn’t.
instead, he kisses your forehead and says, “let’s go look for that necklace together.”
you nod, wiping your face one more time. “okay.”
you find it three hours later, wedged between the bed frame and the wall, and the way you light up when you see it— the way you clutch it to your chest like a lifeline— makes him think that maybe the right moment is just whenever you’re you.
but still. he waits.
v.
you’re making pancakes.
it’s such a mundane thing, such an insignificant thing, but gojo wakes up to the smell of batter and butter and the sound of you humming off-key in the kitchen, and he thinks this is it. this is what i want forever.
the sun is streaming through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. your hair is a mess, sticking up in the back where you’d slept on it wrong. you’re wearing his t-shirt— the old one with the hole in the collar— and nothing else, your bare feet on the cold tile floor.
you haven’t noticed he’s awake yet. you’re too focused on flipping pancakes, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and he watches you from the doorway with something so big and so warm in his chest that he’s surprised he doesn’t burst.
“you’re staring,” you say without turning around.
“how do you always know?”
“i can feel your eyes on me. it’s creepy.”
“it’s affectionate.”
you turn then, spatula in hand, and you’re smiling at him— that easy, unguarded smile that’s just for him. “good morning, sleepyhead.”
“good morning, pancake princess.”
you roll your eyes and turn back to the stove, and he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you lean back into him instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“how’d you sleep?” you ask.
“fine. you?”
“had a weird dream about a talking white cat.”
“was it cute?”
“very annoying, actually.”
he laughs into your neck, and you shiver slightly, and he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear that always makes you melt.
“i’m trying to cook,” you protest, but you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.
“mm. you’re doing great.”
“you’re distracting me.”
“i’m supporting you.”
you elbow him gently, but he just tightens his arms around you, and for a moment the world narrows to this— the warmth of the kitchen, the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the pan, the softness of your body against his.
he thinks about the ring again. it’s still in his nightstand drawer, hidden beneath a pile of socks he should have folded weeks ago. he’s taken it out a dozen times in the past month, held it in his palm, imagined sliding it onto your finger.
but the moment has never felt right. there’s always been something— a mission, a bad day, a distraction. he’s been waiting for perfect, for the kind of moment they write songs about, for something that feels big enough to hold everything he feels for you.
and maybe that’s the problem. maybe perfect doesn’t exist.
maybe perfect is this. sunday morning, bare feet on cold tile, pancakes burning slightly because he’s distracting you. maybe perfect is the way you fit against him like you were made to be there. maybe perfect is the off-key humming and the holey t-shirt and the sun on your face.
“i love you, baby,” he says. the words come out different than usual, heavier with meaning. “i love you so so much.”
you tilt your head back to look at him, and your eyes are soft and curious. “i love you too.”
he almost says it. the words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, three words and a question and the rest of his life. marry me. marry me. marry me.
but then the smoke alarm goes off because the pancakes are definitely burning now, and you shriek and push him away and grab the smoking pan, and the moment scatters like startled birds.
he laughs, watching you fan the smoke detector with a dish towel, and he thinks soon. soon soon soon.
+ i.
it’s three in the morning and you’re both still awake for no good reason.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the television, which is playing some terrible late-night infomercial about a vegetable chopper that neither of you is watching. you’re lying on the couch with your head in his lap, your legs draped over the armrest, and he’s been absently running his fingers through your hair for the past hour while you scroll through your phone.
neither of you has said anything important in a while. it’s just the comfortable kind of silence, the kind that comes after two years of learning each other’s rhythms, of knowing when to talk and when to just be.
on the screen, a man with too much enthusiasm is dicing an onion at impossible speed.
“we should get that,” you murmur, not looking up from your phone.
“the vegetable chopper?”
“yeah. think of all the time we’d save.”
“we don’t even cook that much.”
“we could cook more if we had a vegetable chopper.”
he snorts. “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard.”
you finally look up at him, and your phone’s light casts strange shadows on your face, making you look like something out of a dream or maybe a horror movie, depending on the angle. your eyes are tired but warm, there’s a small smile playing at your lips.
“you should spoil me,” you say.
“i already do!”
“not enough.”
“fine. but we’re not buying that vegetable chopper.”
you laugh, soft and sleepy, and close your eyes. his fingers resume their path through your hair, and he watches your face relax, watches the tension melt out of your shoulders.
and he thinks again— this is right.
not the fireworks. not the perfect sunset. not the grand gesture he’s been building up in his head for months. just this: three in the morning, terrible infomercial, your head in his lap, and the overwhelming, bone-deep certainty that he doesn’t want to spend another day of his life without being able to call you his spouse.
the ring is in his pocket.
it’s been in his pocket for three days now, ever since he’d stuffed it there on a whim, telling himself he’d find the right moment. he’d almost pulled it out at dinner. almost pulled it out on the walk home. almost pulled it out when you’d tripped over the welcome mat and cursed creatively.
but he’d talked himself out of it every time. too soon. too cliché. too much.
but now, with the infomercial guy enthusiastically demonstrating the vegetable chopper’s julienne function, and your breathing slowing into something that might be sleep, he realizes that the right moment isn’t something you find.
it’s something you make.
“hey,” he says softly.
“mm?”
“don’t fall asleep. i need to ask you something.”
you open one eye. “at three in the morning? about the vegetable chopper?”
“no.” his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes you can’t feel it through his fingers in your hair. “something else.”
you sit up slowly, blinking at him, and the movement makes him lose contact with your hair. your hand finds his instead, your fingers intertwining with his like they’ve done a thousand times before.
“you look weird,” you say. “are you okay?”
“i’m fine. i’m great. i’m—” he takes a breath. “i’m in love with you.”
you raise an eyebrow. “i know, toru. you tell me that like five times a day.”
“i know. but i mean—” he laughs, a little breathless, and pulls his hand away from yours to reach into his pocket. “i mean it in a specific way tonight.”
your eyes widen as his fingers close around the small velvet box. you’re looking at his hand, then at his face, then back at his hand, and your mouth falls open slightly.
“is that—”
“it’s not a vegetable chopper,” he says, and pulls out the ring.
he’d spent weeks looking at rings, had even asked megumi for advice (which had been a disaster—the kid had just stared at him for a full thirty seconds before saying “i don’t know, just pick one”). but this one had felt right the moment he’d seen it.
“satoru,” you whisper.
“i had this whole thing planned,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, he can hear it, and he doesn’t care. “i was gonna take you somewhere nice. do the whole dinner-and-candlelight thing. get down on one knee like a normal person. but i kept waiting for the perfect moment, and it never came, because—” he swallows. “because every moment with you feels perfect. even the ones where we’re watching commercials at three in the morning.”
your eyes are wet. he can see the shine of tears in the blue glow of the television.
“so i’m not gonna wait anymore,” he says. “i’m not gonna wait for the right restaurant or the right weather or the right anything. because i don’t need any of that. i just need you.”
he shifts on the couch, turning to face you properly. he doesn’t get down on one knee— there’s no room, and honestly, he’s pretty sure he’d trip over the coffee table— but he takes both of your hands in his, the ring box pressed between your palms.
“marry me,” he says. “because i want to come home to you every day. because i want to argue about vegetable choppers with you for the rest of my life. because you’re the first person i want to tell when something good happens, and the only person i want to hold me when something doesn’t.”
you’re crying now, tears, rolling down your cheeks, and you’re laughing at the same time, which is such a you thing to do that his heart feels like it might burst.
“you’re proposing,” you say, your voice cracking, “while an infomercial is playing in the background.”
“that guy can be our witness.”
you laugh harder, and you’re nodding, you’re nodding, and he hasn’t even heard the word yet but your head is moving up and down and you’re squeezing his hands so tight it almost hurts.
“yes,” you say. “yes, you absolute idiot. yes.”
he kisses you before he even puts the ring on you. his hands cup your face, and you’re both laughing into the kiss, and it’s messy and wet and perfect in a way that nothing else has ever been.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead against yours, he slides the ring onto your finger. it glints in the television light, catching the blue glow and turning it into something softer.
“it fits,” he says, surprised.
“did you measure my finger while i was sleeping?”
“…maybe.”
you look at the ring, then at him, and your smile is so wide it crinkles the corners of your eyes. “i love you. i love you so much.”
“i love you too,” he says. and then, because he’s still him, because he’ll always be him: “so… we can get the vegetable chopper, i guess. as an engagement gift to ourselves.”
you shove his shoulder, but you’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and somewhere on the television the infomercial guy is still dicing onions with reckless abandon.
neither of you notices. you’re too busy looking at each other, at the ring on your finger, at the rest of your lives starting right here, right now, in this ridiculous, wonderful, imperfect moment.
and gojo thinks that he’s never been happier to be wrong about what perfect looks like.
[ an. hello hello!! permanent taglist spots are still open!! ]
🏷️ taglist: @ethezreal @astutetwilight @unforgivemn @sunnydayqq @lalawlrd @koral-pink @secretsofchance @raendarkfaerie @kingraspberry12-blog @xznyana @leftrightgn @indom-itus @ihatemynewbangs
that was the cutest thing i ever read. i almost started crying:(
“uh… why is sensei doing push-ups?” yuji asks, when he, nobara, and megumi enter the classroom.
satoru’s pushing himself up and down with one hand because, according to you, normal push-ups weren’t enough. but even then, he’s barely breaking a sweat. and he’s grinning, while you stand over him, watching with your arms crossed.
his uniform jacket is folded over the back of a chair, leaving him in his compression shirt, arm bulging and back tensing with each lift and fall of his body.
“i upset my-- hah beautiful, smart-- hah strong, gorgeous, perfect wife,” he pants, “punishment fits the crime.”
he really is right where he wants to be.
megumi doesn’t even bat an eye - this was the least unusual thing that you and satoru do. he slides into a chair with a sigh.
“how many does he have to do?”
“a hundred,” you say. satoru lifts his head to look up at you, mouth parted, little pink hearts in his eyes peering at you over the rim of his glasses. “he’s on seventy-two.”
his grin widens. “you know, this isn’t a challenge for me. why don’t you sit on my back, sweetheart?”
you crouch down in front of him and his eyes light up. “i know what you want, and you don’t deserve my touch.” you push his head down so he’s facing the floor again, and he grunts when you press extra weight, forcing his body down. “only twenty-three left. you can do it, my love.”
if his heart wasn’t beating fast enough before, it definitely was now. especially with the saccharine tone you used at the end of your sentence.
god, was he down bad.
“… call us when you’re done,” megumi says, already out of the classroom.
silly thought inspired by this video HAHA can you tell he makes me a little a lot insane
Hi hi Izzy!!!
I saw your inbox open for requests and I have one request for SMAU
Could you write JJK men reaction to an insecure reader? Fluff+ a little angsty. The reader could be insecure about her weight or something similar.
No pressure though, love your works❤
jjk men react you being insecure!
features: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, & toji fushiguro
contains: fluff, slight angst, fem!reader, mentions of insecurity about weight and/or body image, swearing.
a/n: HELLO ANON!!! thank you SO much for leaving this request and im so honored you love my works 🥹🥹 i’m so sorry it took me a little to get this out but i hope you enjoy!!! feel free to leave more requests here!!!!!!!
satoru gojo
suguru geto
kento nanami
toji fushiguro
Hi hi Izzy!!!
I saw your inbox open for requests and I have one request for SMAU
Could you write JJK men reaction to an insecure reader? Fluff+ a little angsty. The reader could be insecure about her weight or something similar.
No pressure though, love your works❤
jjk men react you being insecure!
features: satoru gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, & toji fushiguro
contains: fluff, slight angst, fem!reader, mentions of insecurity about weight and/or body image, swearing.
a/n: HELLO ANON!!! thank you SO much for leaving this request and im so honored you love my works 🥹🥹 i’m so sorry it took me a little to get this out but i hope you enjoy!!! feel free to leave more requests here!!!!!!!
satoru gojo
suguru geto
kento nanami
toji fushiguro
satoru tears up when you feed him. pure fluff.
he’s not… used to this.
ever since you and him started dating, his days have become so.. normal. in a good way. a really good way.
the problem is, he hasn’t had much of ‘normal’ in his life, ever.
but then he met you and he knows you’d probably plow his back if he ever called you normal, but that’s what you were and it was just about the best thing in the world.
he picks you up from your classes, stops at the grocery store to follow you around as you get stuff you need to stock your dorm room.
“crunchy or smooth?” you’re not looking at him but at the options on the shelves.
“smooth,” he replies, his hand on the cart that he’s in-charge of pushing around.
“wrong. crunchy is the only right answer,” it’s not, but you liked disagreeing with satoru.
he pouts, “you said that about smooth last time.”
“did i?” you hum, already moving on, satoru trailing behind you.
he doesn’t miss the way you pick up his favourites to keep in your tiny dorm pantry, things that he always prefers having over others.
his chin is on your shoulder as you contemplate between the flavour of instant noodles you want for the week. he chimes in his opinions every now and then, and you always acknowledge and reply.
in your room, you ask him if he wants to stay the night.
"yes," he replies, plopping down on your bed, "obviously."
"'kay," you rummage through the stuff you bought and pull out the takeout boxes.
"what're we doing?" satoru gets off the bed and starts to put away the groceries while you're busy.
"i have a presentation tomorrow," you open the box of noodles and settle it on your bed before opening your laptop. "you find something to do while i practise."
and that's how satoru picked up the book you'd recommended him, sitting beside you on your bed as you go over your notes.
occasionally, you take a bite of your takeout while you work and notice satoru's share left untouched on the table still.
you turn your head to the side, "you're not eating?"
he doesn't lift his eyes off the book, "'m comfy, don't wanna move."
"but you're hungry?" you press.
"i always am," he wiggles his eyebrows at you, finally looking at you.
you roll your eyes, of course. wordlessly, you pick up the noodles, gathering them in your chopsticks and bring it up to his lips.
"thank you," he says while chewing, attention back on the book.
"don't talk with your mouth full," you chided before taking a bite yourself.
he thought that would be the end of it.
but after a few minutes you take a bite and start twirling the noodles around your chopsticks again, as compact as possible.
and then you silently raise your hand towards his mouth again, grabbing satoru’s attention away from the book. again, he wordlessly leaned forward and took the offering.
all while your eyes never leaving your laptop, skimming over your notes.
confused, he thinks maybe that’s the end of you passing down food to him and refocuses his attention on reading.
but then there's your chopsticks in front of his lips and he eats it, of course, but frowns, "do you not like the food?"
you glance at him sideways, still hunched over towards your laptop, "huh?"
"the food," he juts his chin at the box in your hand, "is it not to your liking?" already mentally taking notes to avoid the restaurant, because really, why else would you be feeding him so much of it?
your eyebrows furrow as you look at the noodles in your hand, "no, these are delicious. why?"
"then why're you feeding it to me? i thought it was because you didn't like this," satoru is genuinely confused, being unable to imagine any other reason behind your actions.
you blink, "toru..."
you turn towards him, "you said you were hungry, and i didn't want to move either," your explanation is easy, as if the obvious answer was to just share your food.
and it was, it was not a big deal at all to you. wanting to keep your boyfriend fed but not wanting to get up. this was the ideal solution.
"if i'm still hungry, i'll just have some of yours later," you stick the chopsticks in the box and boop his nose when he remains silent.
your eye darts to your dimming laptop screen, fingers skimming on the touchpad so your device doesn’t enter sleep mode and when you look back at your boyfriend, his eyes are misty.
“wh-” your eyes widen slightly in alarm, “toru, are you crying?”
“you’re so nice to me,” he lets out a dramatic wail to hide the fact that he’s actually emotional and sappy right now, jumping up from his position to throw his arms around you and engulf you in a massive hug.
“oomph,” your grunt as you swiftly hold up the food in the air, protecting it from satoru’s sudden burst of affection.
he sniffles a bit, his hand reaching over to pluck the takeout box out of your hand and onto the bedside table, before putting his full weight onto you as he pushed you onto the bed.
“i will eat you up,” satoru is pouting, looking down at you, tears still shining in his eyes.
“why’re you crying?” your voice is soft as you wriggle your hand out of under him, wiping away the moisture.
“i’m not,” he sniffles again right as a tear falls down his eye and onto your cheek.
“why are we lying?” you snort as he leans down and licks it up in a flash. “hey!”
he ignores your surprise at his dog like behaviour, pressing his weight onto you more, “i’m neither lying nor crying.”
“okay, poet,” your eyes are soft and understanding despite your teasing tone. your fingers still swipe the tears collecting at his waterline.
he suddenly burrows his face on your neck, giving out his arms from around you so that he was fully laying on top of you.
“toru, that tickles.” you giggle as you felt satoru’s breath on your neck.
“HELP,” you half screamed, half laughed as you felt satoru deliberately breath harder into your neck. your arms feebly pushed against him as you tried to wiggle out from underneath him, giggling harder as you felt him laugh against you.
after a moment of the weird breath-tickle torture, satoru lifts himself off as you take in big gulps of breaths.
he slips in beside you, wrapping his arms around your frame. you meet his eyes, face flushed from the exertion of laughing so hard while being crushed.
his heart skips a beat as he takes you in. you are the most beautiful thing in the world, with eyes so full of shine and warmth, hair disheveled on your pillow, breaths mingling with his, lips parted into a tender smile that satoru wanted to receive for the rest of his life.
“I love you,” he blurts out, “i’ve never been so grateful for anything in my life as much as i am for you.”
you still in his arms, eyes searching his face to reassure yourself that he was okay, but you say nothing.
satoru squeezes your waist lightly as he finds the words to continue, “everytime i think of you, my heart fills with so much love it threatens to burst out.”
your lips twitch and he catches it, groaning as he realises how that sounded. you let out a giggle despite your attempts at holding it in and he loses it with you, laughing as he pulls you closer.
“I was trying to pour my heart out!” he laughs, burrowing his face back into your neck.
“sorry, ‘toru” his breath tickles you again, and you giggle harder, pushing at his head weakly, “i-it threatens to burst out! bahaha—”
satoru whines, his face going red despite the wide smile splitting across his face. he nips at your neck as you squirm, still giggling at the unfunniest shit ever.
he decides to get his revenge, his hands going under your top and onto your skin, smirking when you shriek while laughing, crawling away from his ice cold fingers.
———
period care with satoru | husband nanami getting handsy
Bakugo sincerely believes his mother loves you more than she loves him. The way she dotes on you, softens around you, and asks about you every time he visits alone is proof enough in his eyes. He never complains though, secretly, he likes how close the two of you are, even if he’d never admit it.
The day after you said 'yes' to his proposal, he decided to tell his parents. He drove to their house with you in the passenger seat, barely able to contain your happiness, while his handsome face held that familiar scowl meant to disguise his own excitement.
His mom and dad welcomed you warmly, just as they always did, ushering you inside while asking how you’d been.
And soon…
_ "WHAT? You actually proposed?! So you two are getting married?" Mitsuki blurted out excitedly, clasping her hands together as she looked between you and him.
_ "Why’re you yelling, old hag?!” Katsuki snapped back a little more furiously than necessary, his cheeks turning red. “Yeah, I did. What’s it to you?!"
_ "Because you’re an idiot, and I’m shocked someone put up with your attitude long enough to say yes!"
_ "Don’t call me that, damn it!"
_ "I’ll call you whatever I want, you brat! And you’d better treat her right, or I swear I’ll kick your ass!"
_ "Like hell I wouldn’t! I’ll treat her like a damn princess!"
_ "Good! That’s what I like to hear! And I want grandkids before I hit fifty!"
_ "That’s not up to you, hag!"
They went at it for several minutes, loud arguments mixed with even louder congratulations, while you and Masaru sat there quietly, smiling at your loved ones.
_ "They'll calm down soon," Masaru whispered to you, a gentle smile on his face, "would you like something to drink while we wait?"
You nodded your head, giggling softly. "That would be great, thank you."
Divider by : @/saradika-graphics
♡ husband!satoru and his pregnant wife (≧◡≦)
“you’re eating what for breakfast?”
satoru leans against the kitchen counter, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his white hair as he watches you spread peanut butter on a pickle with serious concentration.
you take a bite, completely unbothered by his disbelief. “crunchy,” you say. “salty and sweet. it’s perfect.”
satoru huffs.
“you know,” he says slowly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “i think pregnancy might’ve fried your taste buds more than i thought.”
and before you can stop him, he dips the spoon you‘ve been using into the peanut butter jar, just to then lick it off with an exaggerated moan to annoy you.
you scrunch your nose. “you’re gross.”
“and yet,” he says, pointing the spoon at you, “you’re the one eating pickles with peanut butter.”
you open your mouth to argue, but the words die when he quietly slides the pickle jar closer to you.
a small thing.
lately your husband has become very serious about small things.
like the glass of water that’s already waiting beside you on the counter. like the way his hands ease the tension in your shoulders. like the chair he dragged over earlier so you wouldn’t have to stand while you eat.
“y’know, you did that again.”
“did what?” he asks innocently, though the corner of his mouth twitches.
“you keep putting chairs everywhere like i’m old.”
“arrest me i guess,” he puts his hands in the air. “for being a caring husband.”
you roll your eyes.
but when you adjust yourself on the seat, his hand automatically slides around your waist to steady you, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
“kid’s got weird taste,” he snickers.
“you’re the father.”
“hey,” he says offended again, “there’s nothing wrong with my taste.”
“you like having candy for breakfast.”
“that’s different.”
you snort.
satoru leans down and presses a soft kiss into your hair and it lingers a little longer than usual.
lately he does that a lot too.
little kisses when he passes by you. one on your temple when you’re sitting on the couch. one on your shoulder when he reaches past you for something in the kitchen. always like quiet little check-ins.
“did you sleep okay?” he asks, while his thumb traces slow circles over your stomach.
“mhm.”
“you weren’t nauseous again?”
“only when you talk.”
he gasps like you’ve stabbed him.
“sweetheart, you wound me. does everything i do not matter?”
“toru, you do too much. you bought twelve different snacks yesterday.”
“i had to make sure you liked at least one of them!“
“you‘ve labeled every single one.”
“i only want what’s best for my wifey,” he points proudly toward the pantry.
inside, little sticky notes read “good”, “maybe okay?”, and “absolutely not (learned the hard way)”.
you take another bite of your peanut butter pickle.
satoru watches you for a moment, then grabs a pickle himself.
“if you’re eating it,” he says, scooping peanut butter onto it, “i gotta make sure it‘s good for you.”
“you’re copying me.”
“i’m taking care of you.”
he takes a bite.
“hmm..” there’s a pause.
then another.
his eyes widen slightly. “…okay wait.”
you grin immediately. “right?”
“don’t get cocky,” he mutters, already reaching for another one.
you laugh softly, the sound filling the kitchen.
satoru looks over at you.
your hair is messy from sleep, your shirt is one of his, and there’s a tiny smear of peanut butter at the corner of your mouth you clearly haven’t noticed.
his expression softens immediately.
without saying anything, he reaches out and wipes it from your lip with his thumb.
then he kisses you.
when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.
“eat whatever weird stuff you want,” he says. “i’ll get you anything and everything you want.”
a/n: hubby toru.. save me hubby toru..
does anyone have any smau requests bc im feeling like making some but i have no ideas tbh
