I wouldn't crucify you lol, you're part of the reason I joined Tumblr and started a writing blog of my own. Whatever you post, welcome back :)
you guys are going to make me CRY. iâve mostly been drawing lately but after i finish a couple projects iâm hoping to crack down and do some writing again. unfortunately all my wips are oc x canon but yknow what itâs SOMETHING at least đ
AUGHH THANK U GWEN i lvoed writing ths..... first time writing dr ratio be gentle on my fragile soul
my 1k event!
â°+..･ďžď˝Ąďž+.*.･.â
When Doctor Veritas Ratio walks into his very-private, very-locked, very-secluded study, heâs greeted with the unfortunate sight of youâsitting on the floor, an easel with a wide canvas set up low to the ground, oil paints sprawled absolutely everywhere.Â
âWhat the hell are you doing?â
A sheepish smile pulls at your face, as if a sweet expression will get you out of the mess youâve made of Ratioâs personal space. Itâs far too lateâ late? Too early? Regardless. The hour of the night-slash-morning that youâve decided to paint in his room is not appropriate at all.Â
âI can explain,â you say, followed by a complete lack of an explanation as the two of you stew in silence for another half a minute.Â
âWhy are you even awake at this hour?â Ratio scoffs, stepping around you and your hazardous art set-up as he places some irrelevant stack of books on his (thankfully untouched) desk. âYou shouldâve been in bed a long time ago. Soon youâll experience delirium from lack of sleep.âÂ
âOh, please,â you argue, swatting a hand in his general direction playfully as you turn back to your canvas. Itâs full of nauseating color, clear shapes and lines that donât blend together in the slightest, vague animal-like forms that overlap with each other. âYouâre awake too, arenât you? Unless I really did hit delirium, and youâre just some Veritas-ghost floating around in my subconscious.âÂ
Ratio does not get a kick out of your very funny joke. An annoyed huff escapes him, tainted with something like weariness and exhaustion. Your eyebrow twitches.Â
âAnd to answer your first question,â you prattle on, mindlessly scrubbing dried paint from the side of your hand with a wet rag, before picking up a fan brush, âIâm painting. This room is really well-ventilated, which is nice, because it would be a shame if all the fumes got to my head and zapped away my few remaining brain cells.âÂ
That one gets a laugh out of him, probably because itâs at the expense of your own intelligence.Â
âThere are a hundred other rooms that are exactly the same as mine,â he argues, finally turning away from his pointless shuffling of materials on his desk and facing you, looking at you while he talks to youâyou know, like a normal person would. âThere was no reason to infiltrate my own private study for your⌠painting. The door was locked, too. How did youââÂ
âDonât ask silly questions, Veritas,â and you like the way each consonant of his name clicks against your lips and teeth and tongue, âI have my ways. Does it bother you that Iâm defiling your good room with my frivolous fine arts endeavors?âÂ
âRidiculous,â his face screws up in displeasure at your assumption that heâd be so elitist to deny you of your passion. He walks around your spread of supplies again, carefully, before kneeling by your side to watch you work. As much as heâs loath to admit, youâre one of his few soft spots, and it shows in the way he traces the lines of your paint with his gaze, and the fact that he has yet to kick you out of his room. âThe humanities are just as important as any other field.âÂ
âSpoken like a true scholar,â you quip, trying to hold back the shakiness of your hands and the swaying of your body. It really is too late for this, but youâd slept through the day and felt much too awake by midnight. Setting up camp in Ratioâs room was a natural instinct.Â
âGo to bed,â he says, commanding yet gentle as he tugs a paintbrush from your hand. He doesnât touch your hands, never really does, but heâs gathering your scattered, wrung-out tubes of paint and the little containers of linseed oil hidden under the easel. âIt does neither you nor your artwork any good to be exhausted.âÂ
âIâm not even tired!â you complain, dragging out your words in a whine as he nudges you with his foot in a wordless command to stand up. Thereâs something like a cot in the corner of his room (because he does sleep, sometimes, and often itâs between textbooks and files and loose leaf paper) and a cozy patterned blanket thatâs definitely yours.Â
âYou will be tired the second your head hits the mattress.âÂ
âThis is a really awful mattress, Ratio.âÂ
âDonât complain,â and his tone is harsh but you know he doesnât mean it, because heâs pushing you back onto the little sleeping corner and tucking you into the blanket, nothing short of kindness in his hands. âYou still have to clean your mess in the morning.âÂ
Sure, you think, already drifting off. By the time you wake up, you know that your mess will be packed away in a neat pile, floor wiped clean and canvas propped safely against the wall.
â°+..･*ďžď˝Ą*ďž+.*.･.â
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Argenti holds you like you're porcelain and he's a child too reckless to handle you. He's shed off his gloves to cup your face like this, feeling the warmth of your skin with his fingers just like thisâhis palm is calloused from years of training with a polearm but he's so soft, treating you like nothing else exists in the world.
(He wonders if this is what Idrila meant.)
"My love, you are simply radiant," he praises softly, but he knows whatever he says will never fully encapsulate the fondness he has for you in his heart. Words has never been his forte, and during times it becomes his, what he murmurs lowly in your ears are just the half of it; parts of his love melting into his words.
You smile, beaming like the sun, and it shakes the heart of his in his chest into a rhythm he's only felt while fighting. It is a familiar, rapid beating, that makes him think that you are what the moon is jealous of; its luminescence a poor imitation of your radiance; its beauty only a fraction of what you are capable of.
So you are the sun, Argenti decides, and he chooses never to look away. He indulges in your beauty, letting your rays shine upon his skin, and for a moment, he thinks of you as the beauty Idrila has chased until oblivion.
This act of reverence, then, shall be called a kiss. It is an act of devotion worthy of your being.
(Argenti worships you like the Aeon he's swore his loyalty to.)
iâll relearn love at our kitchen table ; satoru gojo
synopsis; satoru still doesnât really know what love is supposed to feel like. but if it means coming home to you, and getting to bask in the warmth of your embrace, then maybe itâs fine if itâs a curse.
word count; 4.9k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, satoru gojo vs. the mortifying ordeal of being loved, fluff fluff fluff!!, a hint of angst if you reeeaallyyy squint, gojoâs pov, the babygirlification of satoru gojo, i just think being babied would fix him <3
a/n; i wanted to write something for suguru or shoko but this man is genuinely holding my brain hostage atp so more satoru fluff it is!! physically i could write gojo angst yes but emotionally? imagine the tollâŚ
when satoru steps over the threshold to your apartment, heâs downright exhausted.
itâs a heavy kind of fatigue, a little sickening. the kind that seems to sneak its way into his bones, crawl its way under his skin. dragging him down, down, down.
a yawn slips from his lips.
the mission itself wasnât too tough â anything is a breeze for satoru gojo, that fact needs no elaboration. this one was just a little more taxing than usual, slightly more important, which meant he had to deal with the technicalities of it all. had to listen to the elders go on and on about the importance of discretion, about finishing things swiftly and efficiently, and something else he didnât stick around long enough to hear.
and the curse? a small fry, really. nothing worth fussing over. but it was annoying, with that irritatingly effective barrier technique. how long did he have to stay inside that goddamn veil before it let him get close enough to land a hit?Â
satoru doesnât want to think about it, canât be bothered to figure it out when all he wants is to collapse into the warm comfort of a soft mattress. all he knows is that when it finally lifted, the night sky was the only thing he could see. a vacuum of stars â taunting in its perpetuity.
so, with all that being said; to say satoru feels a little worn out might be a bit of an understatement.Â
hair slightly tousled, eyelids heavy with sleep-deprivation, he slumps against the wall and allows himself to simply breathe. a soft groan flows from his parted lips as he stretches idly, a small respite for his stiff and achy joints, his tired muscles.Â
itâs been a long day. but satoru still finds it in him to exhale a relieved breath, to drag his blindfold down to his neck and kick off his shoes.
because itâs been a long, long day â but now heâs finally home.
(not just a house, not just an apartment, but a home. a place of comfort and belonging. satoru didnât think that was a luxury he would ever be able to afford.)
the moment he lets the door close behind him, a particular scent greets him. soothing in its familiarity, the only thing in his life that never seems to change; a blend between fresh laundry, and watered houseplants, and something that smells a bit like honey. maybe even sweeter than usual, though satoru chalks that up to his mind playing tricks on him.Â
itâs nice. so nice. coming back to something warm and real, a respite from his hectic work. a safe haven, of sorts, one that hasnât been taken from him just yet.
satoru likes to think of your front door as a threshold between realms, a gap between within and without. one is dark in its saturation, plagued by that never-fading smell of iron, while the other is simply warm. sacred in its normalcy.Â
everything looks just as it should, the same as when he rushed out this morning; a fluffy blanket draped over the couch haphazardly, that soft golden light streaming out from the kitchen, your shoes by the front door.
satoru blinks, drowsily.
wait.
why is the kitchen light still on?
as if his eyes could ever deceive him, satoru rubs the skin under them groggily â blinking once, then twice.Â
yep, itâs still there â that soft fluorescent glow. a sight heâs come to associate with breakfast and dinner and a mellow kind of love, laughter shared over warm meals made by human hands. food tastes better, satoru has come to realize, when you have someone to eat it with.Â
ah, but itâs odd. did you forget to turn the lights off? thatâs not very like you.Â
as if possessed by a strange, irresistible longing, his feet carry him to the kitchen in question. undeniably groggy, his uncoordinated steps are riddled with fatigue, but the yearning in his chest compels him to move forward anyway â a kind of yearning he only fully understands when he enters the space, and sees you slumped over the table, a familiar flicker of cursed energy capturing his attention.
youâre asleep.
satoru stills, where he stands by the threshold between the kitchen and the living room.
everything looks the same as always â cookie jars placed on the highest shelf to give him an excuse to help you reach them, origami made from newspapers he never bothers to read anyway, a vase standing proudly on the kitchen counter, stuffed with fresh flowers he bought for you two days ago.Â
the red roses still havenât wilted, shining in the blue of the moonlight flickering in. good. theyâre pretty, but maybe next time he should get you something more original. maybe some sunflowers, something that could rival the brightness of your smile. do they even sell sunflowers this time of year? if you were awake, satoru would ask you, even though you always tell him to just google it â
but you're not awake. youâre fast asleep, cheek squished against the kitchen table, snoring softly.
satoru feels his mood lift at the sight alone, and suddenly he doesnât feel as tired anymore. something soft and almost otherworldly sprouts in his chest, as he takes you in, stepping closer. almost giddy, just to see you up close.
you look so peaceful and relaxed, so content. elbows resting on the table as soft little breaths fall from your parted lips; he spots a bit of drool on the corner of your bottom lip, gaze fond as he wipes it away with his thumb. he canât resist the urge to poke your cheek, and it makes you stir ever so slightly â lips curling up into something akin to a sleepy smile.
satoru grins.
(youâre so cute.)
despite his fatigue, he hears himself chuckle, all soft and amused and a little bit lovesick. it comes to him so easily, when heâs with you; that upturn of his lips, the butterflies in his stomach.
satoru is still getting used to it. this cotton candy sweet, light as a feather kind of love. the kind that always feels like spring. but with every day that passes, the life he has with you becomes a little easier to digest. his future with you becomes a little easier to visualize.
yeah, he thinks. he could get used to this. coming home to you.
a soft smile, as he exhales a somewhat exasperated breath. you really shouldnât be sleeping out here, though. silly.
satoru leans forward, inching closer to your pretty, sleeping face â he almost feels bad, waking you up like this. but he wants to hear your voice so badly.
so he cups your cheek, cold skin meeting warm, his hands still lingering with the bite of the midnight air. his fingertips tingle, buzzing with the body heat that trickles from your veins to his â one single touch is all it takes for him to soften.
the word that falls from his lips breaks the peaceful silence of the kitchen, breathing life into the moment. whispered into your ear, causing your brows to furrow as you gently slip from sleepâs embrace.
âbabyâŚâÂ
satoru is smiling, when your eyelids flutter open. a sincere smile, reserved for you and his students. bathed in the mellow hue of the kitchen lampâs illumination, a soft glow curls around the strands of his white hair, creating a halo of artificial light.
blinking sleepily, you gaze at him in silence. something shines in your eyes, something satoru tentatively recognizes as adoration. and he gazes right back at you, with heavy-lidded eyes and a lopsided smile. teasing, lighthearted. thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek.
then he grins, hopelessly endeared. âhey there, sleeping beauty.â
a yawn tumbles from your lips, and you lift yourself up. leaning into his touch. âtoruâŚâ you mumble, voice a little raspy but still oh so sweet.
satoru doesnât say anything. he simply takes you into his arms, gently, touch so very delicate â as if youâre made of porcelain. and you just let yourself fall into his embrace, while he tucks you under his chin, safe and secure.Â
itâs warm, he thinks. it feels right. complete, somehow.
and satoru thinks to himself that this must be what love feels like. what itâs supposed to feel like, anyhow, all sweet and light. all good and normal, something you never have to question. a cornerstone.
âyouâre backâŚâ you drawl, muffled into his uniform as your arms sneak around his thin waist. bringing him closer.
stroking the back of your head softly, satoruâs chest rumbles as he speaks, voice deep and a little raspy. soothing, a lullaby just for you. âyeah,â he hums. âwere you waiting?â
all you do is nuzzle further into his chest, cheek smooshed right over his heart; breathing out a sleepy little mhm that has him going weak at the knees, lips curling up helplessly.
âi wanted toâŚâ you continue, stretching your arms a little to shrug away the remnants of sleep still clinging to your joints. âbut i fell asleep.âÂ
satoru feels you move in his arms, until your jaw settles on top of his shoulder and you press a chaste kiss to his neck. an exhale leaves his lips, something tender in the way his breath wavers.
âwelcome home,â is whispered, muffled against his skin. a sentence he never wants to go a single day without hearing. âdid the mission go okay?â
he plants a kiss on top of your head, speaking in a low tilt, reassuring. âit did. just took a little longer than i thought.â a soft inhale, as he basks in the scent of your shampoo. âi wanted to text you, but the veil blocked my signal. sorry, sweetie.â
another soft yawn, and a shake of your head. âsâ fine, donât worry,â you murmur. âiâm just glad youâre okay.â
satoru chuckles. thereâs a fondness to it, light. and then something else, something more heavy â it rumbles through his chest, almost like a purr, or a soothing thunderstorm. he can only hope itâs enough to comfort you.
âof course.â he says the words like theyâre indisputable, like theyâre written down in scriptures old and worn. cradling you in his strong arms, he pulls you closer to his chest. hoping youâll feel his heartbeat against you, feel that heâs there. âi always am, arenât i?â
no answer. only a tiny hum, absentminded.
and satoru knows, deep down, that his words donât mean much. that a part of you is always going to worry over him, no matter how many times he tells you that thereâs no need. that heâll be fine.
the thought makes him feel a bit guilty. a little sick to his stomach, at the thought of being a source of your anxiety, the reason you canât fall asleep at night â but heâd be lying if he said it didnât also make him feel somewhat giddy. the thought tastes sweet, on his tongue, even though it probably shouldnât.
having someone who worries for you is a luxury, satoru has come to realize. a luxury he has, now, one he hasnât had since â
well. thatâs neither here nor there.
(âbe careful, satoru,â he recalls a kind boy saying.
but that was many, many springs ago.)
âoh, right.â
at the sound of your voice, satoru pulls away ever so slightly, gazing down at you. âhm?â
with a single step back, you look up at him. tilting your head. hands still resting securely on his waist, fingertips squeezing at his hips. lightly, affectionately. barely restrained fondness. âhave you had anything to eat yet?â
âyeah. got some takeout on my way back.â
satoru expects you to sigh in relief, at his instantaneous answer. you donât like it when he skips meals, so these days heâs been trying not to do it as much. even though he doesnât always have the time to eat properly, and even though the sweets he chews on between missions make him lose his appetite. but he makes an honest attempt, for you.
someone worries for him. someone wants him to eat well. thatâs more than enough motivation for satoru gojo.
but you donât exhale, and you donât look very relieved, either. you look⌠disappointed. eyes suddenly glancing down at the floor, lips curled down into a barely noticeable frown.Â
âoh,â you breathe. âokay. good.â
one second. then two. satoru tilts his head.
âwhy?â he stops to think. maybe⌠âdid you make something?â
a certain recognition flickers in the depths of your eyes, and satoru thinks he must be right on the money. chewing at your bottom lip a little, you wait a moment before curling your fingers around his wrist â tugging him away from the kitchen table.
satoru follows, pliantly, until youâre standing in front of the fridge.
âwell, um⌠here,â you mumble, somewhat sheepishly. fingers tapping at the handle before pulling it open. âtake a look.â
satoru watches as the fridge door opens, slowly.
he blinks.
the first thing he sees is a single slice of strawberry shortcake. the strawberry looks fresh, glittering like a ruby on top of the softly whisked cream â and layers of sponge cake, that look like theyâd melt in his mouth.
and thatâs not all. there are a wide array of baked treats stuffed into the cramped space, protected by plastic wrapping and containers. everything from cupcakes with too much frosting â just the way he likes them â to chocolate chip cookies that crumble at the corners, satoru never seems to run out of things to look at. colourful treats, lovingly made and sitting right in front of him. itâs like heâs standing in a patisserie. they almost seem to sparkle, in the peripheral of his vision; glimmering softly, tantalizingly, like something out of a dream.
childish. thatâs what nanami and shoko always call him, and he always protests, but â
maybe they have a point, after all. satoru certainly feels a little childish, when he realizes his eyes must be wide and bursting with child-like giddiness. a simple kind of joy, at seeing the ample selection in front of him. especially after that tedious mission prevented him from getting any sugar into his system.
âi did my best,â you mutter, sharing the sight with him as your eyes trail over a pretty bag of pink and green macarons. âdunno if they turned out any good, but⌠i hope youâll like them.â
satoruâs gaze flits over to you.Â
he opens his mouth, and then closes it again.
âdid you⌠make these?â a beat. âfor me?â
a blink. â.. yeah?â who else would they be for?, your eyes seem to say. a little confused.
for a second, satoru can only stare at you. in complete silence, the tired cogs inside his head turning sluggishly as he thinks about the implications of that answer. and with a soft flutter, he feels his heartbeat pick up, warming him up from the inside out.Â
you made them. with your own hands. you made all of these and you did it for him.
for some reason, satoru finds it oddly hard to speak, like someone stuffed a bunch of cupcakes down his throat. itâs weird â usually he canât seem to stop talking, especially not when heâs with you, butâŚÂ
(something about this is just too tender.)
you must have been baking all day. no wonder the apartment smelled sweeter than usual, when he walked in.
as if itching to curl around one of the macarons, his fingers twitch, but satoru gulps and keeps them still. he wants to say something, anything, wants to thank you or ask why youâd spend so much of yourself on him, but satoru only stays silent.
and maybe itâs because heâs tired. maybe heâs just a little caught off guard. usually this wouldnât be that hard to handle â he could just throw himself on you and shower you in kisses, show his appreciation with a flurry of dramatics and declarations of love.Â
but right now there seems to be a disconnect, between satoruâs mind and body. maybe the mission drained him more than he realized. or maybe itâs more than that, maybe thereâs nothing he can say or do; what words could he even begin to use to properly verbalize the emotions heâs feeling right now? how could his touch ever begin to measure up to the sweet sensation unfurling in his chest?
the silence doesnât last long. as satoru stands there and spirals, you speak up, most likely chalking it up to him being too sleepy to react.Â
âthis mission was especially rough, right?â you begin, with a soft tilt of your head. a smile curls its way onto your lips, proud and sweet. sweeter than everything in the fridge combined.
one step, then two. you inch closer to him, until thereâs almost no space between you â standing on your tiptoes, one hand on his shoulder and the other reaching for his head. smoothing down his tousled hair, fingers tangling themselves between the soft white strands and getting lost in them. and itâs gentle, the way you begin to pat his head, doting.Â
then you speak. âyou did well.â
and itâs such a simple thing to say. three words, three syllables, but the words just tumble out from your mouth so earnestly that satoru canât help but still. his breath hitches in his throat, softly, barely noticeable, but itâs there. that surprise.
he never knows how to act, when you get like this. patting his head and ruffling his hair like heâs something warm and sweet and worthy of love. something delicate, and not the strongest man on the planet.Â
itâs so weird. youâre so weird.
(satoru leans into your touch without thinking, allowing his eyes to flutter shut.)
itâs perplexing, this feeling, and the fact that he canât pinpoint why frustrates him to no end. isnât this wrong? shouldnât he be the one ruffling your hair, coddling you?
what formula is he supposed to follow here, exactly? should he tease you? pull away from your touch?
satoru wishes his six eyes could tell him the answer, but they donât. theyâve never been very good with emotions, with things that arenât directly tied to his suffering or imminent death.
(so ironic. all these eyes and nothing to see. they failed to see suguruâs silence, back then, and now they fail to see what reaction would please you the most.Â
really, such a worthless ability to love people with.)
no answer comes to him. so satoru doesnât tease you, and he doesnât pull away.
it does feel slightly wrong, though. like this feeling isnât something heâs supposed to have, there must be some mistake, he canât possibly be allowed to feel so loved â can he? having you bake him all his favorite treats, run your fingers through his hair. praise him for working hard.
really. isnât he being too coddled?
(⌠but it feels so nice.)
satoru suspects that thereâs a lot to love he might not fully understand, just yet.
maybe tomorrow, when heâs a little less tired, he can try once again to give you the impression that heâs perfect. that he doesnât need affection, that he doesnât crave your support or your touch. that heâs above all that, the strongest, someone for you to depend on.
depend on him, while he depends on no one. thatâs the kind of existence satoru gojo is. thatâs how it should be, thatâs all he knows, butâŚ
â ah. it feels really nice when your nails scratch his scalp like that.
and suddenly, thatâs all satoru can think. no more pesky what-ifs, or second guessing every good thing he gets. right now, itâs just you and him. your fingers in his hair, his footprints in your life.
satoru allows himself to melt under your touch, almost meekly. leaning down just a little further, to make it easier for you to smooth your hand over his head. he nuzzles into your palm with a happy little exhale, and for some reason he feels sort of bashful.
try as he might, he doesnât manage to successfully shoo the emotion away, so all he can do is hope you donât take note of it.
and you just continue your onslaught of affection, now ruffling his hair with both your hands, like heâs a big puppy getting cooed over. satoru has a nagging suspicion that you might be getting a little carried away, but he doesnât stop you. greedy, in the way he wishes your hands would never leave his hair. the way he hopes youâll never be too far away from him to reach.
âsuch a hard worker,â you coo, and he feels himself grow flustered. âmy baby deserves so much love.â
âwoah there,â satoru chokes out, grinning, desperately hoping you wonât notice the red tint to his ears. âare you flirting with me? i have a partner, you know.â
a giggle slips from your lips, sleepy and amused. âoh, do you?â one of your hands goes to cup his cheek, thumb caressing the edge of his jaw as you gaze at him fondly. âlucky them.â
the grin youâre wearing is awfully bright. soft around the edges in a way that has him speechless, brain malfunctioning ever so slightly. satoru makes a mental note to scrap the sunflower idea â there has to be some brighter flower out there, one that can actually compete with your smile. sunflowers just wonât cut it.
but then you let go, and satoru gets broken out of his lovesick stupor.
when your hands leave his skin, his lips curl down into a soft pout. one he rushes to smooth away, before you can notice it.
you step back, failing to stifle a soft bout of laughter, but satoru knows itâs not because you saw it â he knows because your gaze is glued to his hair, and he internally winces when he thinks about how messy it must look, after your little bout of cuteness aggression.Â
(you really are weird, finding him cute of all things.)
he expects you to tease him a little more, but you donât, turning away and tapping your fingers on the kitchen counter. âif iâd known youâd be home this late,â you speak, stealing one last glance at the pastries before closing the fridge. âthen i wouldâve waited until tomorrow. so you could eat them fresh.â
an apology rests on satoruâs tongue, but as if sensing it, you rush to reassure him.
âah, but this is fine too! they should still taste good!â you turn away, muttering. â⌠hopefully.â
then you nod to yourself, crossing your arms absentmindedly.Â
satoru looks at you for a second.Â
then he steps forward, unable to resist the temptation â tapping at your wrist with the pads of his fingers, before gently curling them around it, coaxing you into turning your head towards him.
the kiss he presses to your lips is soft, delicate. his fingers trace along your jaw, cupping your cheek and tilting your face up slightly, just letting his warm lips rest against yours. sweet and chaste. he sighs into the kiss, content, and feels your pulse pick up.
then he moves down to your jaw, slow and methodical â lazy kisses, sleepy but so full of affection. and little pecks, scattered all over your lips, your cheek, the tip of your nose.
you seem to melt a little, against him, and satoru relishes in it; his ability to make you relax. far more valuable than the six eyes, he would argue.
when he pulls away from you, with what takes tremendous self-restraint, heâs smiling. his gaze meets yours, layered over with pure adoration, blue eyes crinkling as he looks at you. as if youâre his entire world. the kitchen light embraces him, cascading down the contours of his face; the bridge of his nose, the curve of his jaw, his barely noticeable dimples.
and there it is, again â that flicker of love in your eyes, that adoration. as if youâre looking at a painting, something too beautiful for words.
(satoru hopes you can see that very same adoration, reflected in his eyes as he looks at you.)
after a moment, he leans forward, to rest his jaw on the curve of your shoulder. you stumble a little under the weight, caged in as his arms hug your midriff.
âgod,â he sighs, breathless, heavy with giddy disbelief. almost whining when he continues, nuzzling into your neck as if to hide. âwhy are you so perfect, huh? i donât get it.â
at that, you huff out a laugh, an amused little breath. wrapping your arms around his neck and scratching softly at his nape. satoru shudders just a little, arms tightening around you.
âstealing my lineâŚâ you mutter, accusatory, smile laced over with a honeyed affection.Â
another amused breath, this time from him. this is one battle he wonât let you win. ânah,â he grins, tugging you closer. ââs mine.â
this is warm, he thinks. this feels right. complete, in a way that satoru never understood before you.
he could probably stand there forever, just basking in it. soaking up your body heat and the smell of your shampoo. until your warmth is all he knows, until he can never get your scent off his skin.
and satoru thinks that he could get used to this. a cotton candy sweet, light as a feather kind of love, one that smells like spring and tastes like strawberry shortcakes and feels like tight hugs shared in kitchens.
your love makes him feel so human. and itâs scary, terrifying even, but it's also too good to pass up. itâs worth the risk. so worth everything.
a yawn leaves your lips, suddenly. satoru feels you soften in his embrace, nuzzling closer to him, stumbling just a tad; he doesnât think itâs fair, for such a simple gesture to make him as happy as it does.
âsleepy?â he coos, smile giddy and fond. âletâs go to bed, okay? no more sleeping on the kitchen table, silly.â
a disgruntled little huff resounds throughout the air, as you let your arms fall to your sides. âthatâs on you,â you declare, poking the plush of his chest with your finger. âi only fell asleep because you took so long.â
a teasing glint flickers in satoruâs eyes.
âwanted to see me that badly, huh?â he coos. you roll your eyes, and he pulls your cheek. âthatâs cute.â
âso what if i did?â
satoru stills. youâre smiling, a little mischievous, but mostly sincere. and it really is very unfair of you, he thinks â to do this to him while his guard is down.Â
but he manages to pull himself together, raising an amused eyebrow and booping your nose in a way that catches you off guard. blinking up at him, eyelashes fluttering.Â
satoru clears his throat. âwell, thatâs sweet.â
then he turns on his heel, suddenly, and strolls over to the fridge. âbut you know whatâs even sweeter?â he chirps, fingers curling around the handle as he swiftly pulls it open.Â
licking his lips, absentmindedly, his eyes trail over all the different pastries. so close yet so far, just out of reach; his fingers move forward, towards that mesmerizing slice of strawberry shortcake â
ââ no.â
a hand settles on satoruâs waist, and tugs him away from his well-deserved prize. taking advantage of his momentary surprise, you close the fridge decisively, and give him an unimpressed raise of your eyebrow.
satoru whines, loud and grating. pouting sweetly, trying to make you feel bad. âcâmon, just one bite ââ
âno.â
âbut theyâre for me!â
âtheyâre for you to eat tomorrow. i was only gonna let you eat them tonight if you were on the brink of starvation, or something.â
âi am!â
âso the takeout was a lie?â you narrow your eyes at him, suddenly suspicious. âhave you been skipping meals, again?â
satoru pauses. weighing his options. âwell, no, butâŚâ
ââ then no.â
another soft whine. you turn away from him, when he tilts his head and gives you his best set of puppy dog eyes. in fear of giving in to them, satoru knows, as you have so many times before. âplease?â he tries, to no avail.
âyouâre not eating sweets before bed, satoru,â you deadpan, and his smile falls further, exaggerated. âand no, we are not having that conversation again.â
he can tell youâre trying to sound stern, but a giggle tumbles from your lips nonetheless, at the ridiculousness of the situation. keeping a grown man away from your fridge, knowing that heâll wolf down every pastry he sees and get himself sick if you donât. all while the man in question whines at you in protest, frowing so deeply, disappointment evident on his features.
(except satoru really isnât very disappointed at all. like this, he gets to stare at your smile all he wants, after all; knowing you wonât notice it, too busy trying to keep yourself from giving in to his pleas.)
he tries again, one last time. just because he knows itâll make you laugh. you do, a little exasperated, and satoru couldnât be happier.Â
and he thinks to himself that if this is what love is, if this is what itâs supposed to feel like, then it canât possibly be that much of a curse.Â
maybe he should revise the hypothesis, get a second opinion. heâll have to ask you tomorrow, over pastries and coffee, and hear what you have to say.
as you both stumble to the bedroom, sleepy and a little delirious, satoru thinks that maybe this is enough; the lighthearted banter, the fond laughter. everything good and real and normal, within the space of your apartment, a home he never thought heâd have.
(and maybe, a second opinion isnât necessary, after all. maybe it doesnât really matter if love is a curse or not, as long as he gets to share it with you, like this.)
that night, satoru dreams. curled up with you beneath the blankets, limbs tangled together, as if he could never be close enough.
he dreams of kitchen lights, of sweet treats and warm hands. of spring breezes, and a love heâs finally beginning to accept for what it is:
you are somebody that i want to keep ; satoru gojo
synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that itâs good.
word count; 6.7k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33
a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.
in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.
tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home youâve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe.Â
and you think youâve done a pretty good job. all these comforting sensations bleeding into each other; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. bliss.
indulging in a peace yet to shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes, blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.
beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo â save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a bit like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasnât in the way. keeping the cold out.
itâs a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber. a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in.Â
a false solitude, really. because, for once, thereâs another human being in your home â one you donât know nearly as well as youâd like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly.Â
satoru gojo.
like this, he looks very⌠human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.
even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace. like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car.Â
(youâre curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)
honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.
then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didnât have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you canât recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.
and now youâre here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.
itâs still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you canât say youâre particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.
a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.
(when he opens his eyes, itâs even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.)
â and the world wakes up.
a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.
faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position.Â
it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.
when his gaze meets yours, you canât control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldnât have. oops.
gojo cracks a grin.
â.. watchinâ me sleep?â he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but thereâs something almost performative about it, something youâre sure youâd miss if he wasnât still in the process of collecting himself.Â
âgood morning,â is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesnât push it, to your surprise. âsleep well?â
a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.
âlike a log,â he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe heâs above such things.
choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.
âthanks for letting me crash,â he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room â looking for the exit. âiâll get outta your hair,â he mutters, and you raise a brow.
ânot staying for breakfast?â
gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.
his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then itâs back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.
âgenerous, arenât you?â he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licks at the white locks of his hair.
you shrug. âi wouldnât mind the company.â
the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home â somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.
(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. heâs really more like the fox who scared it.)
you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworkerâs apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesnât have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.
maybe he didnât expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought youâd be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe heâs not used to being wanted.Â
âha⌠iâm flattered, believe me, but ââ
âwhat do you usually eat?â you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. âfor breakfast, i mean. iâll whip something up.â
a chuckle slips from his lips. you canât put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. âreally, thereâs ââ
âif youâre worried about inconveniencing me, donât be.â you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. âitâs been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.âÂ
itâs strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort youâre putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you donât know him at all â all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you arenât afraid of him, even though you probably should be.
something about him just feels safe.
âiâm pretty good at making pancakes,â you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. âdo you want some? before we go to work.â
(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)
a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.
gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you donât scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.
he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed. not quite performative, a little more natural.
âwell, if you insist.â
he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.
youâre pleasantly surprised.
âhow would you like them?â you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesnât comment on it. âyour pancakes.â
âwith chocolate chips, please!â he shoots you a sweet smile. âand whipped cream on top.âÂ
so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.
âgot it.â
the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.
the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.
a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it.Â
gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.
you wonder what it means. where itâs going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldnât stop if you wanted to.
a budding connection.
the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.
with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.
gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.
today, heâs wearing black shades â like he usually is when you meet outside of work. itâs kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes.Â
heâs beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about.Â
protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.
he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie youâre about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought itâd get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that youâll like it.
(cute.)
distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you donât look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didnât happen to be walking on the right side of the street âÂ
crashing straight into a lamp post.
âowch!â
itâs sudden. and itâs a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit.Â
and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are â whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings.Â
a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie heâs been waiting to watch all week.Â
for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings.Â
then he starts laughing.
scratch that â gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.
asshole.
with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. youâre embarrassed.
(so embarrassed you donât even notice how he puts his infinity down.)
âdonât laugh, you piece of shit!â you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. âit really hurt!â
but gojo doesnât stop. doesnât even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard heâs laughing â clutching his stomach.
âsorry, sorry â âm justâŚâ he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. âhow the hell â howâd you ââÂ
he stops trying. laughing, again.
and itâs a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.
and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how itâs metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.
he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.
he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all thatâs left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.
while youâre busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision â until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin.Â
searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red.Â
âah.â
gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one youâre frighteningly used to. itâs almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface â
when suddenly, something touches your cheek.Â
one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.
gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray â the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. theyâre crinkled at the edges.
he looks awfully amused.
(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)
âcareful,â he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you donât need to dissect to feel.
a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.
stay safe for me, silly.
then heâs letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but itâs there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.
and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.
he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. âyou coming? itâs starting soon.â
a moment passes.Â
âor do you need me to call shoko?âÂ
you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.
âyeah, yeah,â a roll of your eyes. ââm right behind you.â
gojoâs eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting.Â
with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.
a touch from the untouchable.
gojoâs lying on your couch.
he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldnât be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv â or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesnât just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.
(heâs there so often that youâre starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling thatâd be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)
this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things.Â
heâs on your couch, but he isnât manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesnât have that air of effortless confidence. and itâs palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.
he isnât wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isnât even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.
you think he might be having a rough day.
even the cats are noticing that somethingâs off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close â always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.
then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldnât, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state heâs in, you wouldnât even mind gojoâs usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best?Â
you canât help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isnât doing anything, and he isnât saying anything. heâs just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.
he must know that youâre there. he must have heard you come in. but he isnât saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.
youâre reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than youâd ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber.Â
(but you know better now.)
hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.
gojoâs eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.
a moment passes. agonizingly slow.
before you can properly think it through, youâve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.
gojo only stares.Â
his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.
for a moment, youâre almost certain that heâs about to get up and leave. that heâll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.
â but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.
when gojo collapses into your embrace, youâre so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home youâre in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how heâs like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close.Â
cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings.Â
a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.
gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like heâs itching to run, like he doesnât quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace.Â
(a little like a frightened fawn.)
a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin.Â
heâs pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.
nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, donât they? of course they do.Â
eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious itâs funny.
youâre not a god at all, are you?Â
a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.
youâre just like everyone else. just as fragile.
one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.
there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things youâll never be able to say, because youâre afraid that if you give him too much itâll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like itâs burned him before.Â
so you donât say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks thatâs enough. iâve got you â a whisper that you don't dare to voice.Â
one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.
(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you donât mention it.)
you simply hold him, and donât even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if heâll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you donât let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way youâd hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.
and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.
sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each otherâs heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each otherâs arms.
(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)
itâs barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.
a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesnât work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.
and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. thatâs how satoru always is, how heâs always been, how he hopefully always will be â an absolute pain. one you wouldnât trade for anything else in the world.
so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.
âiâll make you coffee, okay? just get up. câmoooon.â
â⌠what time is it, satoru?â is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee.Â
he cracks a grin. âdonât worry about it! just come with me.â
despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.
and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn â god knows where heâs taken you, but itâs pretty.
breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.
gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself.Â
âi canât take you on vacation, but ââ
he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.
and your heart softens a little.
because heâs mentioned it, before; how itâd be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. itâs no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.
so thisâll have to do. thatâs probably what heâs thinking.
âthe sunâll rise soon. itâll be pretty, i promise,â he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.
âoh, so thatâs why you woke me up so early.âÂ
his smile widens. ânice, right? i wanted to surprise you. dâyou like it?â
a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.
âyeah. itâs really pretty out here,â you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. âkinda nostalgic.â
satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.
the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise â but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you donât have to question.Â
a warmth thatâll stay with you for a long time to come.
it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you donât mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.
side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.
(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)
satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you donât miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word heâs willing to give to you.Â
he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you donât recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.
you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination thatâs never quite left you â though now you think it may be better described as love. âhey, satoru?â
at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. âmm?â
âif you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?â
satoru blinks.
he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.
then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.
â.. you teasing me?âÂ
a huff fills the air. âitâs a genuine question!â you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. âcâmon. anywhere in the world. iâm just curious.â
another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. heâs amused, you can tell.Â
but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell heâs taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.
something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crowsâ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics canât contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.
his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.
and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like youâre being devoured.
satoru parts his lips.
âright next to you.â
a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.
at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world â and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and itâs almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours.Â
for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick.Â
then heâs leaning forward.Â
itâs chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterflyâs wings. but it lingers, even after heâs pulled back â a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.
he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. itâs there. and it means everything.Â
and you know that for as long as you live, youâll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isnât a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.
thereâs no need to find the right words for it. there never was.
âkinda looks like melted ice cream.â
the words pull you out of your stupor. satoruâs looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him.Â
itâs beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someoneâs fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you.Â
and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who wonât ever leave.
sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall â you know heâll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.
so you know itâll be fine.
swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.
âyeah,â you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoruâs shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. âit does.â
he doesnât say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.
you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.
many, many years later, heâll still be satoru, and youâll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.
i just finished basically gutting my blog so it essentially serves as an archive of my works. i guess this is my official announcement that iâm going on an indefinite hiatus, despite the fact iâve basically been in one for over a year⌠oops. iâm not sure when or if iâll really return to this blog. iâm keeping all my works up, though, because i hope people can still enjoy them even if i donât really write anymore.
if youâd like to still keep up with me, iâll probably be more active on my main blog @lavenderstar-creations
thank you all again for the wonderful memories over the past couple years <3
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