A record shop isn’t the worst part time job in the world, really. Your boss is super lenient, and the adjacent café means free drinks all the time.
You appreciate the lack of foot traffic, especially as a college student. Whenever it’s not busy, which is most of the time, you can take the opportunity to catch up on some work, or lean against the counter and observe the clientele.
A brunette girl. She never bothers to stub out her cigarette before she enters. You can tell it grinds on your boss’s nerves, but until you get a raise, you don’t care.
A blond guy. He takes up residence at one of the café tables, rents a Walkman, and works for hours. One day you’ll ask him how he can focus for so long without breaks.
A noisy pink-haired kid, and his silent black-haired friend. Despite the noisy tendencies of the former, you’ve never had to tell him off. His friend has that covered.
A white-haired guy. This was your favourite eye candy, by a landslide. His enormous glasses were always slipping down his nose, and he always bundled himself into a corner, surrounded by stacks of study material. From your vantage point, you had noticed that you must share a course or something. You spied familiar professors’ names as you sidled past his desk last week.
He’s phenomenal to look at, and judging by the glances he sends you, you’re sure he’s interested in you. However, whenever you end up serving him, he seems to devolve into a stuttering, blushing mess, and it’s honestly not as big a turn-on as you’d expect.
But this all goes flying out the window the day he musters up the courage to speak to you proper.
You’re at the counter, as per usual, ignoring the teen hooligans sneaking CDs into their comically large hoodie pockets. In fact, you’re so engrossed in painting your nails that when he speaks to you, you jump, sending the nail polish brush over your boss’s stack of illegitimate payslips.
“Oops. How can I help?”
He blinks at you owlishly, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish before he remembers how to speak. “I can’t pick.”
“What?”
“I can’t… pick. Which CD to buy.”
You look at him like he’s sprouted a second head, before you remember you work at a record store and he’s not just asking you if you wanna get out of here and see what he’s working with under that Digimon T-shirt. Bad luck.
“Yeah? Let’s see what you’re working with.” You take the five CDs, assessing each one. Solar Power, The Land is Inhospitable and So Are We, Brat, OK Computer, and Who Really Cares.
He stares at you intensely, trying to glean your reaction from the complicated expression on your face.
You hum. “Well, these are all good, but they don’t really have a lot in common.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have, like, a particular genre preference?” You look up at him, and you’re immediately distracted by the pretty pink flush drifting down his neck. “... ‘Cause I can’t really help you otherwise.”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I’ll just—” He moves to take them back, but you jerk away, moving all five out of his reach. He stares at you in confusion, and now you’re the stuttering idiot.
“Well—! We can listen to them all now!” You like these albums, and a little part of you wants to believe he somehow reached inside of your head and siphoned out your favourite songs. You're not passing up this golden opportunity.
“What? All of them?”
“Yes! Bring your stuff over here, and we can listen to them!” You smile, thrilled with the mastermind plan your horny brain just conjured up. You’re gonna get in his pants one way or another, even if it means sitting through five albums straight to do it.
He looks like he’s about to protest, but he practically shrivels under the brightness of your gleaming teeth. “Okay…”
Your hawk eyes remain trained on him as he gathers his belongings, relocating to sit beside you, behind the counter.
“We’ll start with Solar Power,” you say, loading up the CD. “What’s your name?”
“Satoru. Um, Gojo.”
“Well, Satoru, I hope you like this one.” You plop down next to him, grinning as the first guitar chords start ringing out across the record store. “The most important thing to remember is that all these storylines are just the author putting a spin on the vibe of the album.”
“What?” Satoru furrows his brows at you, a little confused. It takes Herculean strength to resist reaching out a thumb and smoothing out the crease between his brows.
“What, what? I’m just saying that the author isn’t necessarily saying that her plotlines are the direct plot of the album, just how she wanted to honour her favourite music in her work.”“What are you even talking about?”“What are you talking about? Just listen to the album!”
❚❚ working in a record shop isn't the worst job in the world, especially when you have such good eye candy. the same bespectacled white-haired boy who comes in weekly to stare at you.
but you're taken by surprise when he finally musters up the courage to speak to you, only to ask for... music recs?
oh yeah, your job...
press play! ▶️ (fem!reader)
⏯ SOLAR POWER
prologue
the path solar power california stoned at the nail salon fallen fruit secrets from a girl (who's seen it all) - interlude the man with the axe dominoes big star leader of a new regime - interlude mood ring oceanic feeling
⏯ THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE AND SO ARE WE
coming soon . . .
⏯ BRAT
coming soon . . .
⏯ WHO REALLY CARES
coming soon . . .
⏯ OK COMPUTER
coming soon . . .
Yayyy, another series! I like having multiple projects at once cause I can just hop on another one when I'm procrastinating ;). This is a five part album series with multiple subparts, and each album will see a fleshed out storyline, one chapter per song :)
I'm so excited, and I hope you are too! These are some of my favourite albums, and I hope you'll like how I've put them to work :3
⟶ I miss my wife it hurts so bad. #LivingWithGrief
⟶ contains ;; fem!reader, husband!satoru, fluff, fleeting suggestiveness, not proofreading don't care, slightly mean!reader, wc: 0.6k .
“Your eyelashes are so long, baby,” you mumble, straddled over Satoru’s lap. You gently hold his jaw, keeping his squirmy head still to brush blue mascara on.
“Yeah, cutie? And what else?” he smirks. He's dying to kiss you, to lean forward and capture your lips with his own. How can you expect him to behave, when he has the world’s most beautiful woman in his lap and he can't lean forward and love on her?
You cap the mascara, rubbing a gentle thumb over his cheek before reaching for a lip liner. “And blue mascara looks really nice on you. You look like an 80s whore.”
He grins, his hands straying from their position on your waist, dipping lower and lower until they sprawl across your ass. He squeezes gently, trying to rock you forward against him. You resist. You're a woman on a mission.
“Anything else, sweetness?” he murmurs, his eyes become lidded as you lean forward, tracing a pencil around his lips.
“Yeah. Your breath smells like tuna.”
Satoru practically throws you off of him. “Go away! Go away and never come back!” He stubbornly turns away, crossing his arms like a petulant child. When he hears you laughing, he so badly wants to turn to you and kiss you, you with your melodic laugh, like a windchime on a breezy day. But you're so mean!
“I'm sorry! I'm kidding! I just wanted you to stop humping me!”
He mock sniffles. “So you hate me! You hate me and think I'm disgusting! You never want to have sex again!”
You can't stop your giggling, even when you're crawling back into his lap and gently guiding him back to face you. “Just let me finish, Satoru. Then I'll love on you.” You smile, combing his hair back with your fingers, before you finish up his lip liner. “Looking good.”
“Yeah? Better than you?” Satoru sure recovers fast, smirking at you as you unscrew your lipgloss. His hands have returned to rubbing up and down your waist, every so often, dipping beneath your shirt and tracing your spine, pushing you to arch against him.
“Not quite. But you'd make one pretty woman.” You drag your lipgloss wand over his lips. His lips are so unfairly pretty, you think. So pretty and pink, and they look just edible when glazed like this. You pretend you can't see him waggling his eyebrows in your peripheral.
He hardly waits for you to replace the cap on your lipgloss before he's scooping you up in his arms, swept right into a bridal carry. He steps to the mirror, pressing his cheek against yours.
You've done a good job on him. Although your husband is already stupidly beautiful, it's fascinating to see an angel wearing makeup. His high cheekbones dusted with a slight sheen, his blue eyes cradled by blue lashes, his inner corners just as dazzling as the rest.
“No, yeah. I'm hotter than you,” he says. You can't even argue. He might be, he really might.
You hum in agreement. “You're really beautiful, Satoru.” At your words, he pauses. It's so rare you deliver affection so directly.
He turns his face toward you and licks a giant stripe up your cheek.
“Aghh! Aghhhh! You're sick! Sick, I tell you!”
He can't hear your shrieks over the sound of his laughter. Even as your hands flail against him, he's giggling, dodging every slap and shove with puckered lips and an attempt to kiss you.
⟶ I miss my wife it hurts so bad. #LivingWithGrief
⟶ contains ;; fem!reader, husband!satoru, fluff, fleeting suggestiveness, not proofreading don't care, slightly mean!reader, wc: 0.6k .
“Your eyelashes are so long, baby,” you mumble, straddled over Satoru’s lap. You gently hold his jaw, keeping his squirmy head still to brush blue mascara on.
“Yeah, cutie? And what else?” he smirks. He's dying to kiss you, to lean forward and capture your lips with his own. How can you expect him to behave, when he has the world’s most beautiful woman in his lap and he can't lean forward and love on her?
You cap the mascara, rubbing a gentle thumb over his cheek before reaching for a lip liner. “And blue mascara looks really nice on you. You look like an 80s whore.”
He grins, his hands straying from their position on your waist, dipping lower and lower until they sprawl across your ass. He squeezes gently, trying to rock you forward against him. You resist. You're a woman on a mission.
“Anything else, sweetness?” he murmurs, his eyes become lidded as you lean forward, tracing a pencil around his lips.
“Yeah. Your breath smells like tuna.”
Satoru practically throws you off of him. “Go away! Go away and never come back!” He stubbornly turns away, crossing his arms like a petulant child. When he hears you laughing, he so badly wants to turn to you and kiss you, you with your melodic laugh, like a windchime on a breezy day. But you're so mean!
“I'm sorry! I'm kidding! I just wanted you to stop humping me!”
He mock sniffles. “So you hate me! You hate me and think I'm disgusting! You never want to have sex again!”
You can't stop your giggling, even when you're crawling back into his lap and gently guiding him back to face you. “Just let me finish, Satoru. Then I'll love on you.” You smile, combing his hair back with your fingers, before you finish up his lip liner. “Looking good.”
“Yeah? Better than you?” Satoru sure recovers fast, smirking at you as you unscrew your lipgloss. His hands have returned to rubbing up and down your waist, every so often, dipping beneath your shirt and tracing your spine, pushing you to arch against him.
“Not quite. But you'd make one pretty woman.” You drag your lipgloss wand over his lips. His lips are so unfairly pretty, you think. So pretty and pink, and they look just edible when glazed like this. You pretend you can't see him waggling his eyebrows in your peripheral.
He hardly waits for you to replace the cap on your lipgloss before he's scooping you up in his arms, swept right into a bridal carry. He steps to the mirror, pressing his cheek against yours.
You've done a good job on him. Although your husband is already stupidly beautiful, it's fascinating to see an angel wearing makeup. His high cheekbones dusted with a slight sheen, his blue eyes cradled by blue lashes, his inner corners just as dazzling as the rest.
“No, yeah. I'm hotter than you,” he says. You can't even argue. He might be, he really might.
You hum in agreement. “You're really beautiful, Satoru.” At your words, he pauses. It's so rare you deliver affection so directly.
He turns his face toward you and licks a giant stripe up your cheek.
“Aghh! Aghhhh! You're sick! Sick, I tell you!”
He can't hear your shrieks over the sound of his laughter. Even as your hands flail against him, he's giggling, dodging every slap and shove with puckered lips and an attempt to kiss you.
to the people who write abt incest on here and defend it… i have a question… if someone was to come on here and write fanfiction abt children would you say “it’s just fiction?” would you say “it’s not abt real people so it doesn’t matter?” i would hope NOT. it’s an indication that the writer is weird and likes kids… so what are we supposed to think when you write abt two people that are siblings or parent and child fucking????
like you mfs are genuinely too deep in this smut shit that it’s making y’all think writing this weird shit is normal or cool. it’s not. you’re extremely weird and you should be ashamed.
If you're familiar with the movie, you may have noticed I'm only doing one pov instead of both! This is because for those who haven't watched it (but u totally shud bc this will spoil it completely lol) I want u to experience the plot twist like YOU r the fmc ;PP
“Shoko, I’m so bored.” You drop your head into your hands, rubbing your temples.
Your coworker laughs, crouching down to see what’s on your screen. ‘Does Laplace’s demon still hold relevance in today’s world of science?’ She snorts. “Like hell that’s getting approved.”
See, you’re a columnist. For Jujutsu Magazine. You worked your ass off in college, assembled a flawless portfolio, applied to what must’ve been hundreds of jobs, all to land a column at a gossip mag. Well, your job is fine. Knowing you’re helping women across Japan isn’t too awful, but it still stings when the editor-in-chief drops your political thinkpieces into the shredder without so much as a second look.
You huff, swivelling around in your chair to look up at her. “I know. But I wanna write about what matters, just once. Geopolitics, or philosophy, or even sport! I don’t wanna be stuck rating pick up lines for the rest of my career.”
Smirking, Shoko hands you a cup of coffee. You’re sure she has a snarky retort on her tongue, probably along the lines of ‘oh, you’re too good for romance, aren’t you?’ But fortunately, she’s interrupted by Utahime. She flits by, giving the two of you a brief smile.
“Meeting in thirty minutes, ladies, don’t forget.” Then she’s off again.
You sigh. “Hey, where’s Nobara? It’s not like her to be late, right?”
“Right…” Shoko murmurs.She thinks for a moment, throwing back the last dregs of her coffee, before her face falls. “Do you think…”
You groan. “He dumped her.”
The two of you share an eyeroll, before she’s grabbing your wrist and dragging you out the office. You have a best friend to rescue, you know? You pull a cardigan off someone’s chair as you pass by. They won’t miss it. Besides, emerald green looks way better on gingers, like Nobara. (Last summer, you did a piece on the best pastels for every hair colour.)
Who says you haven’t learnt anything?
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Nobara says. She’s sandwiched between you and Shoko in the cab, her expression stubbornly stoic, even as Shoko dabs at her eyes.
“Totally. But we have a meeting today,” you tell her, thrusting the cardigan into her lap.
She nods gratefully, slipping the cardigan around her as she steps out the cab, gratefully taking the coffee Shoko holds out to her. She barely manages a single sip before she’s sniffling. “Why does this always happen to me? I don’t even know what happened!”
“Oh, Nobara,” you pout sympathetically. “I think you do wanna talk about it.”
She sniffles, wiping her eyes as the three of you reenter your office. “It started out so well. The first time we had sex, I cried.”
“Oh,” Shoko says, pulling a face behind her back. “That’s not like you. Like… one little tear?”
“Not really. I was kind of sobbing.” Nobara is smiling at the memory, rolling her coffee cup between her hands. “And I told him I loved him.”
“Oh my god. After how long?” You grimace.
“Five days. Well, two.”
The three of you lapse into silence. Nobara can feel the weight of your stares on her back, and she whips around, frowning. “It was how I felt, okay?”
“Okay…” Shoko nods. “So what did he say?”
“Mhm, he didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he felt.” She smiles once more. You’ve never seen Nobara so lovesick like this. “But then he got really busy! So, I just started showing up where he works and leaving messages on his answering machine. But I never caught him. Weird, huh?”
“Yeah. Weird,” you tell her.
She huffs. “Anyway. I know why he dumped me.” Nobara pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers, the three of you bundling into the elevator. You look at her expectantly, and she shrugs. “I’m too muscular.”
“Nobara, that is so not true! Loads of guys love muscular girls. You’re just— uh— a lot?” You say, awkwardly patting her shoulder. For a writer of a gossip mag, Nobara is awfully dense when it comes to romance.
“That’s easy for you to say, hottie. Guys love you! You could literally, I dunno, erase your memories of him and he’d still beg you to take him back.”
“That’s so not true. And a weird example. If I acted like you, any guy would dump me too.”
Shoko pushes open the door to the meeting room. Gathered around are all of Jujutsu’s writers, conversing quietly. As soon as the three of you are seated, bundled into each other, the meeting commences.
Mei-Mei is an imposing editor-in-chief. She exudes elegance, and poise, and every time she opens her purse a few shreddings of rejected articles flutter to the ground. If you look closely, you swear most of them are yours. “Utahime. How is your piece coming along?”
“Oh, just great,” she says, leaning forward. “It’s about avoiding oral fungi when you use makeup testers at the mall. It’s surprisingly educational!”
“Hm. Perfect,” Mei-Mei says. “And you?”
Every time Mei-Mei fixes her piercing glare onto you, you can't help but shiver. Your column is wildly successful, and yet, you always feel like you’re letting her down.
“I thought I’d try something a little different this week. I have this philosophical piece on determinism—”
“Nice try,” Mei-Mei smirks. “Your column is still fresh. Until you have top ratings, you write what Jujutsu tells you to write. Got it?”
“... Got it,” you mutter, shriveling slightly under the weight of her stare.
“And Nobara?”
“Ah—” she begins to stutter, desperately looking for Shoko for help. “I, uh, wasn’t feeling well…”
Shoko winces. “That’s one way to put it. She got dumped.”
The room murmurs sympathetically, hands reaching across each other to give Nobara a comforting pat on the shoulder, or arm, or knee.
“Shame. Use it. Write about it.”
Nobara’s eyes widen, scandalised. “Mei-Mei, I can’t do that! It’s wrong to wield my personal life like that—”
“You are absolutely right. Who will wield Nobara’s personal life?”
Utahime’s hand flies up. “Ooh, me!”
“No! Utahime will keep her nose out of my dating life—”
“I’ll do it.” The room falls quiet, all eyes fixing on you. You clear your throat, suddenly bashful under everyone’s stares. “I’ll write a column. About… Pushing a guy away. I’ll use every mistake that women — like Nobara — use when dating, and keep a log on what works.”
Mei-Mei grants you a rare smile, her hands clapping together. “‘How to lose a guy in ten days.’ I like it, I do. That’s what you’ll be doing.”
Ten days. It’s not a long time, but Nobara was right. Finding a guy will be easy; losing him will be hard. You glance at her to see her smiling gratefully, clearly glad her tragic personal life wasn’t dropped in the hands of Utahime. It’s nice to do good deeds.
The three of you end up trailing behind Mei-Mei downstairs. It’s clear she's eavesdropping, but you’re much too wrapped up on working out the kinks of your column. Nobara is a goldmine of what-not-to-dos.
“Ah, my three o’clock,” Mei-Mei exclaims, stopping so abruptly the three of you nearly go right into the back of her. She ushers two ladies over. A tall, sexy woman, flicking blonde hair over her shoulder, and a poised, bespectacled woman, her hair swishing around her head in a ponytail.
“Yuki and Maki. I’d like for you to meet my favourite writers.” You’re sure that’s a lie, but you’d be an idiot to turn down free Mei-Mei praise. “Shoko, for fashion. Nobara, for fitness and lifestyle. And, of course, my treasured How To columnist.”
“Hey, I read your column!” Yuki grins, gripping your hand in a firm handshake. You think, by the time she pulls back, she may have given you micro-fractures in your fingers. “What are ya working on, huh?”
“Oh, it’s—-”
“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Mei-Mei says, smiling. “She’s going to start dating a guy, and in less than two weeks, drive him away. It’s perfect, right?”
Yeah, perfect, you think to yourself. How are you supposed to find a sucker tonight?
Fortunately, Nobara and Shoko thought ahead of you. You had barely clocked out before they were dragging you to a cocktail bar. You’d never changed in a cab before, and it was unpleasant to say the least. But it was worth it to be sat opposite your best friends, two martinis deep and knowing there are men all around, ripe to be picked.
“Okay, him,” You say, tugging them in to listen to you whisper. You covertly point at a man across the room. A blond, slicked back, and it’s totally impossible to ignore the size of him. You’re certain he could fold you right into two. “I’m going for him. Wish me luck!”
Nobara giggles, giving you a light shove. You weave through the crowd, and make eye contact with him. The brief smile he gives you wakes butterflies in your stomach, and you’re all too eager to slip into the seat opposite him.
“Hey. What brings you here?” You give him your best flirty smile, setting your martini on the bar.
“Oh, hello. Just a work meet,” he returns a polite smile, gesturing to his colleagues. “I can’t stand them, but my fiancée loves them.”
“Oh.” Oops, you think. You glance back at your friends, and they wince like they can hear you from over there. When you turn your head back towards him, there's a woman hovering behind him, looking at you curiously. Pretty, you think, all decked in pink. You give them an awkward smile. “You two enjoy your night.”
First bust of the night. You sigh, turning a corner, and nearly bumping right into someone else's firm chest. You look up, and you’re met with the strangest looking man you've ever seen, like the universe heard your internal groan and sent you an apology.
He boasts carefully mussed bright white hair, dazzling blue eyes, and he’s just so tall. Easily over 6’3”, and with such a playful smirk you can’t help but be thrilled that you almost barreled into him. It takes a moment for you to be able to force out words.
“... Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi.” He outstretches his hand, gripping your own in his. “Satoru Gojo.”
“Cute,” you smile, giggling slightly.
“Thanks.”
“I meant your name.”
“Thanks… twice.” He plucks your martini from your hand, taking a sip. “You hungry?”
»» Yay, my first series! This is a big commitment, but I'm really quite excited :3
»» GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, suggestive but no smut, I'll stay generally loyal to the plot of each film but will obviously have to take some creative liberties, probably slow uploads
⟶ first time in nerdjo's room doesn't go as planned
⟶ hi lovely new people hehehehe
cw :: sexual content, f!reader, barely proofread, first time writing nerdjo. subby!gojo, mean!reader
He froze when you froze.
See, Gojo is sexy. He doesn’t realise it, but you certainly do, and you’re all too aware of the way your panties dampen when he stretches to reveal a sliver of porcelain skin beneath his hoodie, or when the corners of his lips twitch skyward when he gets a perfect score, or when his glasses slip down his nose, fogged up, sliding down with every pant against your lips.
His hand is already down your jeans, kneading your ass, his other hand fumbling with the lock of his door. It’s hardly the first time you’ve left the library halfway to intercourse, but he’s never fucked you in his bed. That has to change, you know?
He swallows down your moans, each and every one, and god, when you start groping at his half-chubbed cock he swears he starts seeing stars.
He pulls you inside. The door is barely slammed behind you before you’re ripping clothes off each other, your t-shirt abandoned at the door, his sweatshirt lost somewhere behind the couch, your bra swinging from his bedroom door handle like a goddamn trophy. You’ll never get it back.
You stumble inside, fumbling with your fly, desperate to get this fucking loser inside you, when you see it.
Yeah, you see it.
Gojo flushes redder than you’ve ever seen him, including the time you found him taking a long inhale as you walked up the stairs ahead of him. He stutters, aghast at your sudden silence, but you drown him out,
Because he has a fucking hammock.
Swinging between two posts where a bed should be, prettied up with a Star Wars blanket, and a full sized body pillow. Upon closer inspection, it’s adorned with a photo of you. Cute or creepy? You’re undecided.
“What the fuck is that?” you mutter, your lips curling, half disgusted, half intrigued. Your hands fall from his shoulders, dangling uselessly at your sides.
“I-It’s better for your back…” Gojo mumbles, positively crimson. He practically quivers when you look back at him, shrivelling under the weight of your judging stare.
It takes you a second, but after a moment of recalibration, you sigh. “Okay. We can work with this.”
And just like that, you’re back in the mood. His hands slide around your waist. Down, down, down, until he’s pushing your jeans to the floor, splitting your fragmented attention between the kisses he trails up your neck and the way his fingers tease at the gusset of your panties.
In tandem, your hands roam over his chest, comb through his hair, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, ‘don’t stop, you’re so good at that, fuck, baby,’ as you let him guide you towards his bed. Sorry, hammock.
As he pushes you down, leaning over you, you lose your footing. And fall.
It takes a while for your brain to catch up with gravity. One second, Gojo was laying a particularly sweet love-bite behind your ear, the next, you’re entirely tangled up in his web of deceit and Star Wars.
You groan, your head brushing the ground. “I was wrong. Didn’t realise this doubled as bondage gear. I was unaware of your play,” you snark. You know any attempt to escape is futile, what with the way one arm is pinned beside your head and the other is knotted behind your back.
What a predicament to find oneself in. You’ve fucked with many guys, including half of Gojo’s friend group (he doesn’t know this), yet not one of them thought to mention the dweeb sleeps in a hammock. Well. You’ll have a bone to pick with them.
Gojo squawks, panicked, fumbling, his hands unable to decide where to land, where to start. “Oh my god, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
“Yeah, whatever, you’re sorry! Get me out!”
He gets to work immediately. He’s practically in tears as he uprights you, untangling you with ease (as though he frequently finds himself in such a dilemma), soothing his hands over where his nerd nest dug into your skin.
And it’s tempting to shove him away. It’s tempting to retrieve your trophy bra and stride out the door to never see him again, ‘cause who are you to have sex in a hammock? What is this, Survivor Gone Wild Gone Sexual? But when you look down at him kneeling, his face pressed into your stomach, lips quivering and tears dripping down your navel, you know you’re weak. You remember he’s sexy, and he doesn’t fucking realise.
But he knows what his teary eyes do to you. “I’m sorry, baby, we should’ve gone back to your place… This is all my fault…” he sniffles. The subtext is clear.
Don’t leave me.
And, geez, what kind of villain does he take you for? To leave him over his jizz-stained body pillow and dingy hammock?
“Don’t call me baby, stupid. Just make it up to me. On the floor.”
⟶ the 4 times teen!satoru tried to break down the walls to your heart, and the 1 time he did.
cw:: fem!reader, not proofread due to lazy xP, reader dgaf, fluff/crack, 2.1k words, i can't write long works, mild blood/injury (nosebleed, broken ankle)
Satoru Gojo has no shortage of confidence. Quips that have men clapping him on the shoulder, flirts that have girls weak in the knees. He is a boy who exudes cockiness, but for some reason that he just can't understand, it all melts away in your presence, giving way to trembling hands and a red face.
You are several grades below him. Grade Three, specifically. And it's not like you're model pretty. Sure, his eyes are always fixed on your legs or your neck or your eyes or your lips or your hair, but he's definitely prettier, he's certain.
You're not even nice to him. A biting remark here, a blatant dismissal there, and he finds himself wailing into his pillow, a half-sympathetic Suguru watching on in mild pity.
“Just start small. Say you like her hair. Or her shoes,” he says, looking down at Satoru, who's sprawled out on his dorm room floor.
Satoru sniffles, lifting his head. “You really think it'll work?”
“Dunno. But it's worth a try.”
“I like your shoes, Y/N!”
You look up from your flip-phone in surprise. Paired together on a mission, the two of you had, up until now, been sitting in silence on a train. You follow his line of sight to your new converse, laced up tight. Perfectly clean and perfectly you.
“Thanks. My mom just sent them for me,” you mumble, looking the exact opposite way of him. God forbid he sees the way your cheeks tinge very slightly pink. You'd hate for him to know the effect even a passing compliment from him clearly has on you.
He grins in self-satisfaction. He knew it was a good idea to trust Suguru! And now, like clockwork, you'll be falling at his feet in three… two… one…
“There’s seaweed in your teeth.”
Stupid Suguru!
Satoru blushes furiously, turns the other way, and starts furiously sucking at his teeth to remove the offending plant. Suguru had pawned off his seaweed snack to him earlier, and now he has to reap the consequences. Another romantic failure, and this time it wasn’t even his fault.
Still red, eyes pricking with embarrassed tears, he looks back over at you. But, much to his dismay, you've returned your attention to your phone, tapping away.
He'll get ‘em next time.
”Holy shit, Gojo!”
But not this time, apparently.
His eyes widen as he sees you staggering back, and he jogs up to lean over you.
“You okay…?”
Stupid question. Because you look up at him, blood pouring from your nose, a devastating mixture of humiliation and resentment and raw pain glinting in your eyes, as you wipe your bloodied nose on your white shirt and drag your bloodied hand over your skirt.
“No, I’m not fucking okay! You always do this, stupid!” You throw one more scornful look over your shoulder, before marching back towards the school, blood still streaming down your pretty face.
For a split second, he's torn between giving you space and running after you. He picks the latter, naturally, and is quickly stumbling after you with all the grace of a newborn fawn, yelling for you to wait, just a second!
You don't, of course, and it takes him catching up to you and slowing to match the pace of your furious stomps for him to be within your earshot.
“Come on, you know I didn't mean to—”
“You literally always do this. You beg me to come train with you, for reasons beyond my understanding considering you’re, like, three grades above me, and then every time it ends with me having to take myself to the stupid nurse’s office ‘cause you can't control yourself ever, so just leave me alone.”
He frowns, guilt tearing at his heart. “Y/N, please, just let me say sorry—”
At that, you whirl around, facing him dead on. Red mars your lower face, still steadily dripping down and collecting on your well-bitten lips, and it takes a world of strength for Satoru to tear his eyes away from your mouth and up to your own gaze boring into him.
He almost hopes for a second you won't speak. Hopes you'll just turn around and continue walking in silence, not looking at him over your shoulder but at least letting him stay with you.
Alas, he is not such a lucky man.
“I don't need you to say sorry,” you mutter, before turning on your heel and marching back into the building, leaving him standing alone on the smooth stone pathway.
He wipes flour from his eyes, sneezing once, twice, thrice.
You sigh. “I thought you said you were good at baking. You called yourself ‘wifey material’.” You’re not faring much better than him, wiping egg from your cheek with a frown.
“Hey! Even a perfect clock is wrong twice a day.”
“That’s not how the saying goes.”
He sighs, casting his eyes over what used to be the kitchen. Several bags of flour were tipped over, so much egg where egg should not be, milk steadily dripping onto the tiled floor. The two of you look like toddlers who'd broken into the pantry, covered head to toe in staple ingredients.
“Well if I can't cook… and you can't cook… who's going to make us sweet treats?” he laments.
You imperceptibly sigh, almost feeling bad for him. “We can go to the store, if you want,” you murmur, uprighting the carton of milk. You avoid making eye contact with the incredulous look he’s giving you, but can you blame him? It's been months of knowing you, and this is the first time you've proposed hanging out together without him asking first.
His eyes light up, sparkling with glee. “Sure! The store! I’ll pay!”
“Okay. Sure.” You unloop the apron from around your neck, taking his too, and hang them up. “Let's go.”
The walk to the store is pleasant. You can't help but admire the koi fish swimming through the clear-water streams, and Satoru can't help but admire you.
The warmer weather has pushed your white shirt cuffs up your arms, and unbuttoned your top button, and he can't help but trail his eyes over the few square inches of your exposed skin. So soft, and so pretty.
“Pardon?” You’re looking at him now, pushing your glasses up to your forehead and leaving tiny indents on your nose. He’d kill to kiss them away.
“Do you mean to be saying all this out loud?” And now the sun-driven flush on your cheeks climbs higher, teasing the fat under your eyes, sinking lower and falling beneath your jawline, and oh how he’d love to be the one who makes you blush, and be the only man privy to your fluster—
Snap! Snap! Snap!
Your rapid clicks before his face grounds him again, and with a squeak he realises how long he's been carelessly speaking his private thoughts aloud. He pouts and swats your hand away, redirecting his gaze to the right, looking away from you.
“What? Wasn’t talking about you. Just… Uh…”
In his embarrassment, he fails to notice the way you're fanning yourself, desperately trying to bring your heated cheeks to a regular temperature.
“Just… reciting poetry…”
“You may enter now.”
The nurse is barely able to finish her sentence before Satoru bursts through the doors of the ward. You’ve sat up in bed, a tiny little scowl marring your perfect features, eyes stubbornly refusing to even glance at the cast around your ankle.
“You scared me!” he whines, dropping into the plastic chair beside your bed and dragging his hands down his face. “I thought I lost you, Y/N!”
“It’s just a broken ankle,” you mutter, swatting half-heartedly at him.
“I mean, honestly, tripping down the stairs? What a lame way to die!” he laments, batting his stupidly long eyelashes at you. It takes everything in you not to snigger.
“What's a good way to die?”
“Oh, you know, getting struck by lightning, killed by a wild rhino, after killing five billion curses… But—” he pouts at you for distracting him, “—that’s not the point! You need to be more careful!”
“Aw.” You smile ever so slightly, your eyes crinkling when you look at him. “Well, you can sign my cast.”
“Really?” He immediately drops his pout, his eyes sparkling as he fumbles for the marker you're offering him. He shoots up and out of his chair, stumbling towards the end of the bed, and giggles like a schoolboy. “The first one?”
“Sure,” you hum, watching the way he delicately cradles your ankle in his hand.
He squeals, and immediately starts doodling his name along your cast. He can't help but draw hearts around his words, but you can't bring yourself to say anything when he looks so pleased with himself.
He pulls away, petting your ankle before he sets it gently back on the bed.
“Tech is sooo boring without you. All techniques this, missions that!” He sits down on the bed next to you, as you gently push yourself into a sitting position, careful not to aggravate your foot.
“Yeah? Anything fun happen in the last two days?” You ask, poking his shoulder.
“Nooo…” he sighs. “Everyone loves me too much. No variety.”
“You’re in love with yourself.”
“Well, who isn't?”
You snort. “Right.”
He grins at you. The breeze from the open window gently tousles your hair, your features bare from makeup and freshly washed. You glow under the sun, and he sighs, smiling.
“Hey, when you're back—” he starts, but is quickly interrupted.
“Alright, that's enough.” The nurse enters the room, armed with a syringe. “She needs to rest.”
He sighs once more, shoulders deflating, then stands from the bed. “See you.”
You wave. “Later.”
It came as a surprise to few that you made Grade 1 so quickly. A meteoric rise in skill, resultant of over a year of hard work, practice day in, day out. You’ve found yourself scrubbing away calluses every evening, taking less and less time for yourself, but treating less and less wounds.
It was a bone-deep satisfaction when you received the news. A several second long sigh of relief, a weight floating up, up, and away.
“Woooooooo!”
As confetti hits your face, you mentally scold yourself for believing you could ever have just a few minutes of peace.
“Grade 1! Wooooooo!” Satoru sweeps you up into a bone crushing hug, his party popper abandoned on the floor.
Your facial muscles betray you and you smile. Your voice box betrays you too, and you start to laugh as he spins you around.
“I know! It’s crazy!” Who said that? Not you.
“I bought you a caaaake!” He sets you down on the ground, grabbing your hand and dragging you back towards his dorm room.
“For you or for me?”
“For you, but if you don't like it, I’ll have no choice but to eat it.”
“A necessary sacrifice, I’m sure.”
“Exactly!” He pushes you into his room and flicks on the light switch. It illuminates a banner he’d put up, reading “GRADE 1 PARTYYYYY”.
You chuckle again, flopping down on his bed. “What would you have done if I hadn't gotten it?”
He smirks as he retrieves the three-tier Victoria sponge from his mini-fridge. “Wouldn’t’ve taken you to my room.”
You huff out a laugh. “I see.”
He joins you on the bed, sitting cross legged and setting down the cake. “No cutlery.” He grabs a fistful of cake, grinning as he pushes it to your lips. “Open wiiide!”
And as every neuron fires at once, screaming at you to swat his hand away, or pull back, or even just roll your eyes and pretend to be uninterested, you open your mouth and allow him to push a handful of cake into your mouth.
Cream smears along your cheeks, jam along your lips, and you watch him with fond eyes as he finishes off the handful.
And in that moment, you realise how effectively he's worked his way into your heart, taking residence in your arteries and synchronising your beats with his own.
He looks back at you, adoration swimming in his crystalline gaze, swallowing down the cake.
“I'm really proud of you,” he says, sincerity in every word, every syllable.
You mirror his smile, reaching out to wipe cream from his chin. “Thank you, Satoru.”
As your skin makes contact with his own, he melts under your touch. He realises how swiftly he's fallen in love with you, barely a year going by before you’ve had him at your feet.
He prays a silent prayer that you will let him share the rest with you.
“The cake?” You say, wiping your hand on a napkin. He realises that, again, he’s expressed his secret thoughts aloud. Oh, well. They're for you, anyway.
⟶ DONE WITH 19 MINUTES TO SPARE. merrryyyyy christmas evelings, not proofread because i entered a state in which all i could do was write without looking away and now im too scared to reread it.. if i made any glaring grammar mistakes PLS point them out lol. thank you for this wonderful year, pookies, despite my VERY spotty posting :)
cw :: gn!reader, mostly fluff, non explicit sexual content, everyone is happy! so happy! tsumiki did not die! neither did gojo! yay!
You and Satoru have reached a natural rhythm with Christmas. He wakes up several hours before you, prepares a truly gluttonous breakfast spread, then prepares himself. He likes to strip completely naked, wrap himself in a pretty blue ribbon, and sit pretty on the couch until you rise from your slumber.
And as is routine, you groan, throw a pillow (and some boxers) at him, and wait for him to sort himself out before you begin with the opening of the presents. Ten-ish for him, twenty-ish for you. Megumi will pop in around 3PM, dragging his cheery entourage with him, and will pretend to be uncomfortable when you plant a wet, slobbery kiss on his cheek. Kid takes after you.
Christmas at the Gojos used to look very different. Say, five years ago. Twenty-three years old.
Satoru would wake up at 6AM on the dot, waking you up only moments after. Like today, you'd groan, but your protests at being woken up so early would be swiftly swallowed up by his lips on yours, followed by sweaty, vicious, festive sex.
Once you had reached the brink of exhaustion, he'd drag you out of your room. He'd bought you in the region of forty presents, and you'd bought him six. He couldn't wait to open his six!
Some things don't change, though. Satoru would never let go of his tradition of giving you a little kiss on the cheek after every present you opened, and he'd probably kill himself if you stopped returning in kind.
It's at this point a ten-year-old Megumi would exit his bedroom, the noise of which would pull Tsumiki from her own. The pair strategically waits until the sounds from the living room have softened into a quiet, relaxed, conversational tone, so as to avoid their so-called “father figure” licking up and down your neck like he's marking his scent.
But the love remains. Then, and now, you'll pull your kids down onto the couch, you and your boyfriend-turned-husband-the-next-christmas enveloping them on both sides with warmth and an overflow of love. Tsumiki will pick Love Actually, Megumi will complain, and Satoru will find your ring finger behind their backs, stroking it up and down. Because you are his. And in turn, he is yours.
So, you suppose, some things will never change. Despite your orphaned child collection growing stronger by the year, Satoru will still find your ring finger, kiss you like he's terrified you could possibly forget your love for him, and strip down naked to wrap himself in ribbon and wait for you to perform oral. You never do.
⟶ bitches are envious of my posting schedule. you guys would not BELIEVE the evil shift i endured yesterday. i couldn't bring myself to go in today it was actual torment
cw:: fluff fluff fluff, comfort, language, not proofread, never ooc this is actually how god intended satoru, fiancé!satoru, gn!reader, reader is smaller than satoru (by how much is not specified)
From beneath the bed, your eyes remain trained on his socked feet, pacing around the bedroom. Your lip quivers, eyes damp, but you stay stubbornly silent.
“Babe, come on. I miss you.”
You don't respond. Satoru's been looking for you for the better half of thirty minutes. He knows you're in here, but he's already checked beneath the covers, in the wardrobe, behind the curtains. He even checked if you'd fallen between the vanity and the wall. No such luck.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees, peering under the bed. Ah, he found you.
“What the hell are you doing under there?”
“Fuck off. Crying. Obviously.”
“Please come out, sweetpea. I'll order food.” His eyebrows knit together, his pout mirroring yours. You'd think he's mocking you if you hadn't been with this loser for ten years.
“Just leave me alone. I'm not hungry.”
You stubbornly turn away from him, curling into yourself. Something must be wrong with you, you think. This isn't you. You're not whiny. You don't sulk. You don't hide under beds like a child. And yet.
Contrary to your wishes, Satoru lays flat on his back, scooting under the bed to lay beside you. He shuffles, inch by inch, movement restricted by the tiny space, but he manages. His hand reaches out, rubbing up and down your waist, before moving to link your pinkie fingers together. Ah, fuck your stupid, sweet fiancé.
“Come on, cutie. What's wrong?” he murmurs, voice low and quiet. The world outside slows to a stop, until it's just the two of you together, under your bed. The evening commute silences, your cats stop scratching, and the world shrinks to the two of you.
You roll over, your head knocking against his shoulder. You wince, before tucking yourself into him. “I don't know. Everything sucks.”
“It does,” he easily agrees. “Everything is awful.”
He doesn't push further. But his hands move, one rubbing circles into the plush of your thigh, the other arm tucked beneath you, keeping you close. You have no idea how long you stay like that. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. Your eyes dry, eventually, and your lip stops quivering.
You clear your throat. “I know I said I wasn't hungry earlier, but…”
He giggles. A light, airy thing, as he brushes his lips against your temple. “I've got you, babe.” His hand fishes for his phone in his pocket. “Whatever you want.”
⟶ i shat this out in about 20 minutes. unfortunately those "husband packs my lunch" tiktoks have successfully rage baited me. kento would never pack u dog food
cw:: just fluff i believe, husband!kento (not so much a warning as it is a promise), not proofread, fem!reader
The Missus 💘: i forgot my wallet lmao [11:32AM]
Kento’s phone buzzes from his pocket. It's one of those rare occurrences where he took the day off to catch up on housework, while you went into work like normal.
Except alone.
Kento had spent the morning sighing, pouting, and moping. Unfortunately, you'd managed to slip out of his arms without him so much as stirring, and made the silly decision to leave without so much as a peck for your husband.
He tried not to think about your plump little lips as he scrubbed the tub. He tried not to think about the curve of your cheeks as he changed the lightbulb in the bedroom.
You had, he recalls, smashed the lightbulb last night when he tickled you. You were so startled that your technique went awry, and Kento had the privilege of shielding your eyes from the glass lodging itself in various surfaces around the room. Ah, the joys of being a husband.
In fact, he missed you so bitterly that when his phone buzzed, he practically threw down the laundry to answer your text.
Silly. Shall I pack your lunch? [11:32AM]
The Missus 💘: omg would you? 🥹 yes please [11:35AM]
Would he? Would he? In the three minutes it took you to respond, Kento had already started boiling rice.
Pressing the white grains into those heart-shaped onigiri moulds you like, packing it with smoked salmon, and wrapping it with seaweed with all the precision of a neurosurgeon.
Frying up egg and rolling it into tamagoyaki, snipping at little bits of sausage to form those octopi you always coo at when you see on social media, not one, not two, but three different drinks (banana milk, canned bubble tea, and a bottle of diet coke if you were so curious), topped off with a pain au chocolat he'd been saving for himself.
For himself? Well. He'd prefer you to have it anyway.
Everything is packed into your favourite lunchbox, and he takes the time to clip on that keychain you almost refuse to take your lunch without.
The drive to Jujutsu Tech is agonising. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, and he's almost tempted to just press down on the acceleration a liiittle more: What if you're hungry? What if you're wondering where he is? What if you've collapsed from low blood sugar?
But, Kento reasons, he can't deliver your lunch if he's died in a head on collision. So, he stays exactly at the speed limit. No more, and certainly no less.
He arrives at your office at 12:18PM. Like clockwork, you call out “come in, honey!” when he delivers exactly two raps to the door.
“How did you know it was me?” he murmurs, bending down to press a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“No one else knocks just twice,” you respond, before pulling him down by the collar and practically forcing your tongue down his throat.
You separate exactly 34 seconds later, your husband looking wonderfully flushed, his lips wearing a nice sheen of saliva. “I brought you lunch,” he chokes out, fighting to regain his breath and dignity.
“Oh, did you? This was a test, you know,” you grin, taking the lunchbox from his hand and setting it on your desk.
“Was it, now? Did I pass?”
“Well, let's find out.” You start unpacking the lunchbox, your face lighting up further and further as you see what he packed. “You used the heart mould!”
“I did indeed.” Kento delivers a peck to your forehead, a heavy hand settling on your hair.
“I suppose you pass then. But you're on thin ice.”
can i be honest and say i feel like headcanons r drying up 😣
"he likes to manhandle u" "he kisses u rly possessively" "he loves teasing u" like lets get more creative
i headcanon satoru makes dogshit innuendos and cackles when u don't. i headcanon when he hugs u it takes a full ten seconds for him to start squealing and physically shaking u. i headcanon u have woken up on more occasion to see him looking at u in anguish and when u ask whats wrong he tells u "im just trying really hard not to take a bite out of u."
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germansingergirl
izzy806
gummygunk
