One Nice Bug Per Day

roma★
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dirt enthusiast
Game of Thrones Daily
styofa doing anything

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
ojovivo

Discoholic 🪩
wallacepolsom

tannertan36
Monterey Bay Aquarium
will byers stan first human second
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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NASA
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$LAYYYTER

JBB: An Artblog!
Three Goblin Art

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@fh4irys
MDNI
when your husband is supposed to be the calm, rational one, you don’t expect to find him standing at the foot of the bed with his cock in his hand, whining into the dark.
but that’s where satoru ends up. tank top pushed halfway up his ribs, belt hanging useless from one loop, pants around his knees. his fist works up and down the fat length of his cock in rough, punishing strokes, spit and precum smeared down to his balls. he’s staring at you the whole time—at the soft curve of your hip under the sheet, the flutter of your lashes against your cheek. pregnant. glowing. carrying his baby.
and he’s rutting into his hand like some desperate virgin.
the panties he stole from the laundry basket are bunched in his other hand, pressed to his face. he inhales like he’s drowning, shuddering so hard the flimsy fabric trembles against his nose. your musky scent has him sobbing out a noise that doesn’t sound him at all.
“fuck, baby—” it rips out of him, pitched way too high. “smell so good... oh fuck, i can’t—can’t stop.”
his cock is obscene. flushed dark, veins raised under the skin, the head slick enough to shine in the faint glow of the bedside lamp. precum drips in heavy strings down his balls, thick enough to coat his knuckles. every stroke drags more slick out of him, messy and loud—schlick, schlick, schlick.
he sucks at the fabric like it could feed him, panting between licks, nose buried deep so he could breathe you in while his tongue works. “god, i'd eat you out for days if i just—mnhm!—if i just had the chance...”
his hips snap forward into his own fist, cock smacking his stomach with each thrust. precum splatters onto his tank top, dripping onto the hardwoods in obscene drops.
disgusting. a husband rutting into his fist because he’s too scared to touch his pregnant wife.
but satoru can’t stop. he’s babbling now, words spilling fast and needy. “want it so bad–fuck, i’d worship you, i'd never stop—”
he chokes on a sob as his balls tighten up, cock jerking violently in his grip. the sound he makes is humiliating, a high and euphoric whine. his thighs shake.
cum spurts out in heavy ropes, hot and endless, painting his stomach, his abs, his fist, the floor. lewd, thick jets that won’t stop, spilling like his body is trying to empty years of frustration at once. it drips down the backs of his fingers, strings across his knuckles, sprays his shirt. he gasps, still pumping through it, cock still twitching violently.
“ah—mnhg—fuck, t-too much, i can’t...” his voice cracks, strangled, but his fist won’t let go. more cum leaks out, drooling down his cock, streaking his thighs. his knees buckle and he braces one hand on the nightstand, forehead dropping against the wood with a hollow thud.
when it’s finally over, when the spurts slow to tiny dribbles, he’s still shaking so hard he can barely breathe. his cock still twitches against his stomach, still half-hard like it doesn’t know how to stop.
and you’re still asleep, lips parted beautifully while he stands there.
oh god, he is so fucked.
you and nerd!jo were good friends, so you weren't surprised when a text came from him late at night asking for you to come over to his place, with snacks, of course.
one small problem.
you were ovulating. and never in your year of knowing gojo were you this down bad for him. yes you were aware he was handsome. only thing setting him back from getting any popularity with the girls was how much of an absolute geek he is.
he could name you every constellation, every digimon character, and the whole script for every Star Wars movie. you personally found it attractive but you would never try anything with him. he was your best friend after all.
so why is him laying there in his stupid collared shirt on the floor stuffing his face with chips making you so fucking horny?
"anyways, I kept begging and begging but that little kid just didn't want to let go of it! it was the last limited edition biyomon stuffed animal in that store!" he ranted. knowing your eyes should be focused on his face, they traveled down to his biceps peeking from his sleeves.
you forgot he was jacked up. the first time you found out he went to the gym you were baffled thinking that he only had time for formulas and.. whatever he's talking about right now.
"are you even listening to me?" his voice was muffled due to the amount of food he had inside, making him look like a hamster stuffing his cheeks with seeds.
his glasses were sliding down his nose a bit and his hair was so perfectly messed up that under the faux universe lit up by the projector set on his desk only made him look even more ethereal.
"..um yeah, sorry, continue." you mumbled.
he looked at you weirdly, raising a brow before going back to rambling. but you seriously couldn't handle it anymore. your pussy was pulsing, literally saying his name in morse code and you were sure that your panties were drenched by now.
gojo gasped at the weight of you. you shifted on his lap, tugging at his shirt quietly asking to remove it.
to your surprise, he obliged, sitting up to allow you pull up his shirt. the fabric slid of his broad shoulders to fully reveal his toned abs, delicious muscles, and his happy trail.
his face was serious, watching in silence. you were practically drooling at the sight of him, hands gently pushing him back to lay on the ground.
gojo's jaw clenched. his hands finally placed themselves on your waist. his grip was strong, staring up at you in awe. soon enough, his breaths matched yours, coming out in heavy pants as you began to grind on his clothed tent. the outline of his cock stained against his pants.
"take my pants off." he ordered.
you were surprised but you didn't need to be told twice. your hands fumbled with his zipper, sliding his pants off along with his boxers.
oh wow. he's huge.
like, really, really huge.
his tip was leaking pre, a nice shade of pink. your eyes trailed down. he was unshaven but honestly, you found that hot.
a small whimper left your lips when gojo's hand shifted to squeeze one of your breasts, forcing you to now lay down, switching your positions.
"been dreaming of this since forever.." his voice was rough and full of arousal.
and you internally thanked your ovulation, because right now you were getting fucked like you never have before, making you feel like a virgin all over again.
his thrusts were fast and deep, reaching into places you never knew were possible to touch. "mm fuck yes fuck yes yes yes.." he moaned into your ear, moving to kiss your neck, nipping at it hard enough to leave hickeys behind.
your back was arching, arms wrapped around his waist.
"oh my god!" you could feel yourself tear up. all you could process was how good his cock felt and the obscene sounds coming from you two.
"y'know how many times i've jerked my fucking cock to you? you kept torturing me with those pretty skirts and and nah.." his words trailed off after feeling you reach your orgasm, squeezing hard enough to cut off any circulation on his dick.
you panted, body feeling numb. your hands fell off his back thinking you were done.
gojo kept pounding into you, even faster than before if even possible. "not done pretty, I haven't came inside you yet." and based from how he sounded, you were far, far from done.
extra :
"I was hoping to ask you out on a date first, y'know before we even fucked, so I'll ask you now." he was leaning on his elbow, staring down at you as he played with a strand of your hair. "that okay?"
you responded with a nod. of course you were going to go out with him. there was no way you would let anyone else get dicked down by him, ever. he was yours now, and you were his.
me if reading x reader fanfics was illegal
satoru likes when you need his help (⸝⸝> ⌓ <⸝⸝)
satoru likes when you depend on him. not in the controlling kind of way, he just likes being needed in all the tiny spaces of your day.
so he twists bottle caps just a little too tight before handing them to you with an innocent smile.
“satoru,” you complain, standing in the kitchen trying to open the bottle, “you sealed this thing shut!”
“hm?” he glances over from where he’s leaning against the counter. “did i?”
“you did!”
“wow, sounds serious. better let me handle it.”
he takes the bottle from your hands, making a dramatic show of opening it effortlessly, and his grin is unbearably smug when he gives it back.
“there you go, sweetheart.”
it’s the same with things placed on high shelves. you’re almost certain he moves them when you aren’t looking.
your favorite mug somehow ends up just out of reach, the snacks you bought disappear onto the top shelf— even your hoodie once ended up in the highest wardrobe compartment he knows you can’t comfortably reach.
and he absolutely refuses to let you lead when going out.
every time you go somewhere together, he’s the one leading. hand wrapped around yours while you trail beside him through crowded streets.
“you know where we’re going, right?” you ask, barely paying attention to where you’re headed.
“obviously.”
“then why won’t you just tell me?”
he shrugs. “because then you won’t need me next time.”
“toru...”
“baby.”
“one day i’m gonna get lost on purpose.”
“that’s fine,” he hums. “i’ll always come find you anyway.”
he also laughs when you roll your eyes, walking over before effortlessly plucking another item down from a shelf. except instead of handing it over immediately, he lifts it just out of reach.
“what do i get for my excellent service?”
“nothing, because you’re literally the one doing this!”
he kisses your forehead before giving it back.
because the truth is, satoru adores taking care of you. carrying your bags before you can complain that they’re heavy. zipping up your jacket when your fingers are cold. plugging your phone in after you fall asleep.
and maybe he just likes hearing you call his name, likes the way your voice softens when you ask, “can you help me?”
so yes, maybe he tightens jars too much on purpose, maybe he keeps your favorite things just barely out of reach, but only because he loves the little pout you give him before letting him swoop in and save the day.
your boyfriend has been feeling insecure these past days regarding his braces. he had just started wearing bands and they hurt like shit. “toru?” you walked into his dorm, seeing him laid out on the bed in a starfish pose. “baby what’s wrong?”
satoru groaned, feeling a sharp pain erupt in his mouth. he pointed at his lips in indication that it was braces that were hurting him.
it’s been a while since he’s properly kissed you as well. not like it’d be enjoyable with the way his lips kept getting chapped every other minute. he was already a geek but his braces didn’t help his nerdy appearance.
“aw,” you coo’ed, gently cupping his cheeks in your hands. “they’re hurting?”
the white haired boy nodded, desperately wanting to smash his mouth against yours. whenever he even tried pouting out for a peck, the pain would begin again.
“wanna kiss you..”
“yeah?” his eyes flickered down your plump lips. god, he missed them. “let me do all the work then.” you offered.
you leaned down to press a gentle kiss at the corner of his lips, causing him to whine. “more..” he begged.
“don’t be greedy.”
your tongue darted out to lick away at the dryness before kissing him right in the middle. “does it hurt?”
satoru shook his head, gripping your waist tightly as he chased after your once you pulled away. “thank you love.”
you hummed, caressing his lips with your thumb. “brought you some ice cream. hopefully that’ll numb down the pain.”
“good.. cuz i wanna kiss you.”
★ 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐩 - 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠.
a oneshot for @sugusplaything’s cyber override event!!
wc: ~7.2k | cw: nerdjo! smut, dark themes, toxic relationship dynamics, stalking, voyeurism, hidden camera/surveillance, invasion of privacy, gojo a creep fr, obsessive behavior, anonymous harassment, jealousy/possessiveness, fingering, masturbation (f!), rough sex, hair pulling, creampie
summary: after you break up with your boyfriend, you begin receiving ominous messages from a burner account that seems to know too much.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
NOBODY IS AFRAID of Satoru Gojo until it is too late.
a regular sunday afternoon. at least that’s what you gathered as you were completing the mundane task of laundry.
you stuffed a few hoodies, shirts, pants, skirts, whatever until you found one of satoru’s jeans. you straightened them, levis, until you put your hand into each pocket to make sure he didn’t forget anything inside.
you never forgot to after the incident a few months ago when satoru left his phone in the back pocket and well.. he didn’t backup his icloud.
you felt the front pocket and frowned at a protruding square, inserting your hand to find his wallet, leather and black with a few scruffs on the corners.
you hadn’t seen it in a while since he usually keeps it in his pockets and sends you money through his new phone, so you opened it.
couple of credit cards, cash, a coupon for his favourite shop that was probably expired knowing him and.. a photo of you.
your expression softened and you felt your cheeks redden, it was a candid photo you didn’t even know he took.
it was roughed up, teared slightly and definitely old. you remembered the outfit and place- it was your first date.
you heard the front door open, the shuffles of shoes being taken off and jingling of keys until your sweet satoru enters with a bag in hand.
he smiles widely at you, blue eyes lighting up. “baby! i missed you, you have no idea. there was some freak curse on the street when i was coming home, not to mention the shitty day i had at school so, of course, i deserved a sweet treat and i swung by the shop but i realised i forgot my coupon, bu-.”
you couldn’t wait and rushed over to him, pulling him down to kiss him gently. he muffled against your lips, words dying away while he wrapped his arms around you like second nature.
as you departed from each other, satoru grinned widely, eyes searching yours in the moment of surprise. “what was that for?”
your lips lifted up softly in admiration, feeling shy all of a sudden. “i just.. really like you.”
he snorted, dropping the bag on the dining table as he pulled you closer by the loops of your jeans. “that so?”
you nodded, biting your lip to contain a wide smile.
he hummed, “no reason in particular?”
you glared at him jokingly, “do i need a reason to like my husband?” you asked, poking him in the chest.
he feigned pain, face contorting as his eyes drifted to behind you. “you wound me. wha- hey, my coupon!”
NERDJOOOO
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ MILLION DOLLR BABY!
★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 ⎯ for as long as you can remember, you’ve been friends with Satoru Gojo—just friends. Then why is now insisting that you’re the perfect woman to birth the Gojo clan heir?
★ 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 ⎯ gojo x fem!reader, smut (mdni), implied experienced!gojo x virgin!reader, gojo clan au, breèding k⍣nk, best friends to lovers/f⍣ckers, implied s⍣xual tension, unprotected s⍣x, slight mention of size difference, mentions of passing out, slight cl⍣t play, slight t⍣t play, bigd⍣ck!satoru.
When Satoru had first proposed this..idea of his, you’d almost choked on the succulent dumpling you were chewing on. Your eyes widened and you looked over at the white haired, heaven sent man beside you, and while, yes, yes he was so fucking attractive, you just didn’t want to waste years of friendship for something you were both unsure of.
You knew that the Gojo clan was in dire need of an heir with Satoru’s ability, considering he himself was the clans one and only trump card. But, where you really the one that could carry out this oh, so important task? You simply couldn’t carry that burden on your shoulders.
“‘Toru,” you called out softly, swallowing the last remains of your food before you reached out and cupped his bigger hand in yours. The warmth of his hand alone had you ready to stutter out your whole sentence. “Look, I—“
But could you really continue speaking with the way his azure eyes bored into you as he stared, his free hand taking ahold of yours and holding it tight, practically engulfing your palm in his? You think not.
“Please. I’ve been being bugged all day, you don’t understand.” He pleaded, a pathetic whimper of your name leaving his lips as he pulled you closer to him by the arm. “You’re the only one I wanna do this with.”
“Please.”
And so was the escalation of how you ended up under your best friend of—how many years had you spent with him again? You couldn’t remember with how foggy your brain was as his lips slid across your neck while he peppered hickeys along your skin.
chapter 3: the manor a bridgerton!au
pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader
summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?
warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly
chapter summary ⸺ you and gojo have just uncovered your mothers' matchmaking scheme: a plan that sends you both to his extravagant countryside manor in kent, arriving a week earlier than the rest of the ton. the question remains—can you endure gojo's insufferable nature during this secluded stay? (8.3k)
prev. the aftermath | next. the game
general masterlist | series masterlist
a/n krnfeknfkejrn i was so tired writing this chapter but used it to procrastinate on the reports and papers i have to write for internship/reports (wtf is quantum physics anyways). ty as always to @/sinn-clair for being the best beta reader <33333
Dear readers,
Apparently, last week, there was an altercation in Lady Itadori’s drawing room involving Lord Gojo, Miss Itadori, and a dog. The dog was the victor.
Furthermore, If one is to trust the betting books, then Lord Gojo shall be witness to wedding bells before the year is through.
As much as it pains This Author to agree with the betting books (they are written by men, and thus inherently flawed), This Author must concur in the prediction.
Duchess Gojo will soon have her daughter-in-law. But who she will be⸺ah, Gentle Reader, that is still anyone’s guess.
⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS
gojo satoru is tall. freakishly tall. standing at six foot three, satoru towers over most people he encounters in his lifetime—one of them being you, the love of his life and his wife (you just don’t know it yet). gojo satoru knows he’s tall. he also knows that you like tall men. and of course, in usual gojo fashion, he uses that knowledge to his advantage.
have difficulty reaching a book in the library? no worries, he got you. one hand on your lower back, and the other arm stretching up to grab the book and also to flex his gorgeous muscles right by your face.
your mug missing from the teachers’ lounge? oh my, what evil person would place it on the highest shelf? do not fret, mister baby blue eyes is on the rescue! there are two ways satoru plays this: one, reaching it for you—blegh, boring. or he could lift you up the counter and let you reach for the mug yourself… with his hands on your waist, hmm.
the sky is the limit when it comes to satoru using his height to get you to fall in love with him.
one thing he really likes, though? when you complain about your neck hurting every time you talk to him. boots! what an ego boost! the first time you said that to him, he spent the night giggling and rolling in his bed.
he can lean down, speak to you with his legs spread apart like he’s about to do a split, you know—be accommodating and meet you halfway. but.. why would he do that? why would he do that when he can have you looking up at him with stars in your eyes (there weren't any) and tiny hearts flying out to him? (again, there weren’t any)
“can you please bend down? my neck is starting to cramp.”
“bend down? i didn’t know you liked that.” satoru giggles, like a little boy, and takes the chance to pinch your cheek. that earns him a swat and a glare from you. naturally, he grins in response.
“you’re so annoying.”
“i prefer the term affectionate.”
“bend down.”
he hums, cupping a hand to his ear. “i’m not hearing a please.” he knows he should stop. he’s pushing your buttons quite well, and you’re about to burst any minute now. that look in your eyes tells him that you’re two seconds away from violence.
but he also knows that he loves it when you’re annoyed. a frown apparent in your face, brows furrowed, glare so intense that his six eyes cower away in fear—what is going on? why are you grabbing his collar? are you… are you about to kiss him?! good lord, satoru has been praying for times like this but never did he expect for the day to come sooner.
his collar in your grasp, you pull. hard.
his brain, a thing capable of processing infinite information, goes perfectly blank. he stumbles forward on instinct, one hand catching the wall beside your head, knees bending so fast it’s humiliating. suddenly he’s eye level with you, close enough to feel your breath, close enough to count your lashes if he wanted.
you smile.
not often. not wide. but enough.
and he swoons. he’s wonderstruck, red in the face. you’re so close—all his senses are being overridden by you. you’re so, so close. a little nudge of his head can easily result in a well-awaited true love’s kiss. he’s doing it, he’s leaning in, his nose is touching yours, his lips less than an inch away—
“see?” you murmur. “that’s not hard to do.”
you pat his cheek twice and walk away.
he stays there for a full five seconds, bent over, staring at nothing.
then—
“suguru!” he shouts. “i think my wife just manhandled me!” he runs down the hall screaming, “she loves me! she loves me!”
suguru just sighs, feeling exasperated at the thought of reminding satoru that, no, you guys aren’t even dating yet.
JJK MEN : catching feelings for you ⋮ 禪院甚爾 ed.
toji zen'in starts out having absolutely no filter with you. he treats you with the same gritty lack of decorum he shows his few male associates: blunt, occasionally crass humour.
acerbic smartassery has always been his forte, and he finds your reactions funny. cute, even. he’ll boast about a meager gambling windfall while conveniently omitting the staggering losses, or offer casual, irreverent tidbits about his latest conquests. his total indifference stems from the somewhat cynical assumption: you wouldn't care anyway, so why bother trying to impress you?
the only anomaly in toji's "you're one of the boys" attitude is the occasional offer to foot the bill—a courtesy he'd never extend to a man on principle.
but the moment he catches feelings, that signature nonchalance goes out the window. this man pivots from being unfiltered to agonisingly reflective, mentally replaying conversations and overanalysing his phrasings for potential blunders. even his texting style does a complete 180; he goes from perfunctory one-word replies and dry thumbs-up emojis to actual, coherent sentences.
if you're slow to respond, the sorcerer killer is reduced to staring at his screen, hovering over the keyboard in a state of quiet agitation, fighting the urge to send a double-text just to make sure that you're just too busy to text back </3
would you wet your fingers for me?... would you place a bookmark in me?
LIBRARY (n.) a playground for books and readers, but also for occasional debauchery
Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:
is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?
Warnings: porn with plot, a romcom vibe series, college au, nerd!nanami x nerd!reader, both classical lit students, f!reader, rivals to lovers, forced proximity, they're mean to each other, specific warnings will be added to the relevant chapters, Nanami art by @/thatsallitchief, will be next updated TBA (super busy next week), will eventually be available on AO3, comment to be added to the taglist on this post (must be 18+ and have that clear in bio or pinned post), details on this post are subject to change, not proofread Word Count: tbc
Canto I - The Hopeless Gate
℘ you wanted the librarian job. unfortunately so did he. and the world hates you so you both got the job. now you have to learn how to tolerate his existence with much closer proximity than before. it's doable, isn't it?
Canto II - The Second Circle
℘ this job's not as stimulating as you thought it would be. people are predictable, unadventurous, and too serious. he looks bored too. stoking some harmless competition wouldn't be so bad, right?
Canto III - The Dark Descent
℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?
Canto IV - The Emerging Stars
℘ this was a mistake. all of it was. from the very beginning, it was doomed. you're too similar, too ambitious, too cutthroat. at the end of the day, you're only ever meant to be rivals...aren't you?
EPILOGUE
Do not copy, remake, repost, feed my work into AI, or translate any of my works © 2026 ReignPage on Tumblr, all rights reserved
⡴ gojo using infinity like a condom ⡴ 0.6k words (inaccurate representation of infinity but who cares)
satoru’s over again, and of course that means he’s made it into your bed from hundreds of pleas and charismatic smirks.
“condoms are in my nightstand draw—” you try and say before he climbs up onto you. he cuts you off.
“i’ll pull out, baby.” you stare up at him, unamused because, as much as you love him, you do not rust him to. “promise. you can slap me if not.” he pans for your answer with a puppy dog pout he abuses when he’s around you like he’s not a grown ass man.
you hold his jaw and force him to look at you as you say, “holding you to that, satoru.” he nods assuringly, stupidly fumbling out of his sweatpants.
and not 5 minutes later he has you folded like a goddamn lawn chair, knees pressed up against your shoulder as he heaves his dick in and out of you, looming above you with labored breath.
“mm fuck, baby.” he practically whines out, squeezing your knees he has pressed up impossibly tighter like he’s losing control. “you look so fucking good like this—feel so fuckin’ good.”
you’re clenching so goddamn hard around him it’s driving him crazy. your “impossibly perfect”—gojo’s words, not yours— pussy has a vice grip likes it’s trying to prevent him pulling out. it’s unfortunate that someone as cocky as him actually has good dick game because that just feeds his ego even more. you swear his ego is never higher than when you moan his name so sweetly, like you weren’t just pretending to be annoyed by him 10 minutes ago.
“ha, satoru—fuuuuuuuck,” you grip on his silky white hair, tugging his face closer to yours as your respective moans nearly blend into eachother’s, “just like—ughh—that, so fucking good, ‘toru.” yea his egos at an all time high and growing.
your bed frame has it the worst, slamming and straining against the wall with his hefty cock thrusting in and out of you. you can feel every single perfect vein, on his perfect porcelain cock, on his perfect body.
“you gon’ cum for me?” he twitches his eyebrows up as he says it, half taunting you. you nod as his dick nails even deeper than before, throwing your head back as you do. he chuckles, “thought you hated me? now your cumming on my dick.” you’re this close to smacking him but your orgasm interrupts him, creaming around his girth. you squeeze so tight around him he thinks you’re gonna slice his dick off from the tension .
he breaths even more irregular, still thrusting like you’re not coming apart and scraping at his scalp. his cock throbs near violently and you feel it, feel how he tenses up and accidentally digs his nails into your skin.
“satoru, hngh,” you manage, “pull out.”
he breathes harder, before he smirks down and tells you, “i got it baby, don’t worry.”
“what the fuck does tha—”
he moans, moreso whimpers really, and nuts. you’re going to kill him. you are seriously going to kill him.
except it doesn’t fill you, no, he uses his infinity or whatever the fuck that he’s tried to explain to you before and prevents his cum from actually touching your walls or delving into your womb. he pulls out, lets your legs down as your breath heaves, still obscenely confused as to what he just did, and he steps of your bed frame, standing there naked like an idiot with his cum floating a centimeter around his dick like an invisible barrier.
he breathes too hard and all his sperm falls and splatters on your floor while he’s still catching his breath.
“sorry, i’ll clean that.”
you really need to start paying more attention to him when he explains his powers.
not proofread
three words
clingy gojo never gets tired of hearing you say you love him.
“baby.”
you woke up to the familiar sound of exaggerated sighing coming from the other side of the bed. not just any sigh –no, this was the full satoru gojo special: a long, theatrical exhale that somehow managed to sound both heartbroken and annoyingly smug at the same time. you cracked one eye open, already knowing what was coming.
“do you even love me?” he whined, voice muffled against the pillow he was now clutching like a jilted lover.
you groaned, burying your face back into your own pillow. “satoru. it’s literally seven in the morning. i haven’t even had coffee yet.”
he rolled closer, slinging a long arm over your waist and yanking you against his chest with zero effort. “exactly. seven in the morning and you haven’t said it once. not a single ‘i love you, satoru, my handsome, amazing, perfect boyfriend who deserves all the sugar in the world.’ i’m dying here. wasting away. look at me– i’m practically translucent from neglect.”
you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out. this was routine. as routine as his daily sugar intake and his insistence on wearing those stupid designer sunglasses indoors. you’d been together for twenty five months, three weeks, and four days (he kept count, obviously), and not once had the man gone more than twelve hours without fishing for verbal confirmation that you were still obsessed with him.
you wrote him letters. you baked him those stupid mochi waffles at 6 a.m. on sundays. you once spent an entire evening color-coding his sock drawer. it didn’t matter that you left sticky notes with terrible poems on the bathroom mirror (“roses are red, your hair is white, i’d fight a bear for your morning bite”): he’d decided your full-time job was proving your affection on demand.
you twisted in his arms, cupping his ridiculously pretty face in both hands. “satoru gojo, i love you more than i love sleep. more than i love the last slice of matcha kasutera. more than i love when you shut up for five whole seconds. happy now?”
he leaned in, peppering your face with loud, obnoxious kisses until you were giggling and shoving at his chest. that megawatt grin probably got him out of traffic tickets and into your heart in the first place.
“say it slower. with feeling. and maybe throw in something about my calves.”
you flicked his forehead. “you’re such a drama queen.”
-
you were flipping blueberry pancakes –extra chocolate chips, edges slightly burned because he once declared ‘crispy is a personality trait’– when familiar arms wrapped around your waist from behind. a chin that weighed approximately one metric ton of clinginess dropped onto your shoulder.
“baby.”
“yes, satoru?”
“you love me?” he purred, voice still sleep-rough.
you didn’t miss a beat, sliding a pancake onto the plate. “satoru, i woke up just to make these because you sent me three tiktoks about them at midnight. i think the answer is yes.”
“okay, but do you really love me? or is this all an elaborate prank because i’m too hot and you’re trying to humble me?”
you flipped a pancake with more force than necessary. “i wrote a haiku about your eyes last week. again. and i hate poetry.”
he chuckled. “read it to me. right now.”
“i’m not reading anything out loud again. you recorded the last one and set it as your ringtone.”
he pouted –full bottom lip jut, baby-blue eyes wide and glistening like he was one second away from fake tears. “so you don’t love me.”
“satoru.”
“it’s been twenty whole minutes since you said the l-word. i could die.”
you rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “i love you.”
he tightened his grip and hummed like he was thinking very hard. “okay but… would you rather get your entire face atrociously burned off in a freak pancake-related grease fire… or watch me go on one single date with another woman?”
you froze mid-flip. the spatula hovered. you slowly turned in his arms, eyebrows raised so high they were basically in your hairline.
“are you serious right now?” you poked his chest with the spatula. “satoru, i spend forty-five minutes on skincare every night so i can look like a glazed donut. i visit my dermatologist once a month, that gives you a hint of how vain i am. besides, our face is our calling card to the world. so yeah. i’d rather watch you go on a date with someone else.”
he gasped like you’d stabbed him. “you’d let me date another woman?!”
you couldn’t resist him when he got like this. you wiped your hands on a dish towel, pulled open the junk drawer, and retrieved the folded papers.
“i’d sit in the café across the street, eat my feelings in the form of their entire pastry case, and then kidnap you on the way home while blasting our song. because i’m not an idiot and i know you’d text me memes the whole date about how bored you are.”
he stared at you for half a second, then burst out laughing so loud the neighbor’s dog started barking. he scooped you up, spun you once, and planted a sticky chocolate-chip kiss on your cheek.
“you’re so mean when you’re logical. i love it. marry me right now.”
“you already asked yesterday. i said yes. again.”
“yeah but you didn’t say it with enough enthusiasm.” he stole a pancake straight off the spatula, burning his fingers and not caring. “say it like you mean it this time.”
you sighed, clearing your throat. “satoru gojo, light of my life, thief of my pocky, i would marry you in a denny’s parking lot at 3 a.m. wearing crocs and a trash bag if that’s what you wanted. now sit down before i actually burn my face on purpose to escape this conversation.”
he cackled and plopped into his chair like an overgrown puppy. you set his plate in front of him –extra whipped cream, because he was a child– and sat across from him with your own.
“there. evidence of love. delivered fresh daily.”
-
you were comparing two brands of hojicha powder when satoru materialized at the end of the cart like a teleporting menace, holding up a family-sized bag of strawberry kitkat.
“baby,” he said, voice dropping into full dramatic mode as usual. “how much you love me?”
you didn’t bother to look up. “i love you enough to let you buy the jumbo pack even though last time you ate them all and then complained your stomach was staging a coup at 2 a.m.”
he abandoned the kitkats in the cart and draped himself over the handle. “would you rather break your nose and never have it set properly again… or break up with me?”
you finally met his eyes. he was using his letal weapon: pouting. the characteristic bottom lip, sparkling blues, the whole oscar-worthy performance. a passing grandma actually slowed down to stare.
you leaned on the cart, deadpan. “seriously? i need my nose to breathe, satoru. besides being functional, the nose determines the shape of the face. and i am allergic to dust. having it permanently broken would cause me a lot of trouble. so yeah. i’d rather break up with you.”
he clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “you’d break up with me?!”
you patted his cheek. “i’d cry for three days straight, eat ice cream in your purple hoodie, and then show up at your door with a powerpoint titled ‘reasons we should get back together’ that includes graphs of how much i spoil you. because i’m logical, not suicidal. now help me pick the good hojicha before i add ‘makes me answer dumb questions in public’ to the breakup slide.”
he stared, then started laughing so hard an employee three aisles over dropped a jar of mayonnaise. he rounded the cart, lifted you clean off the ground, and spun you until you were both giggling like lunatics between the wasabi and the instant ramen.
“you’re ridiculous and i’m obsessed.” he murmured against your hair. “i’m keeping you forever. even if you’d dump me for breathing.”
“only temporarily. i have receipts for every sweet i’ve ever bought you. that’s legally binding in at least four countries.”
-
evening rolled around and you were curled up on the couch watching some mindless action movie he’d picked because “the explosions remind me of how my heart feels when you walk into a room.” (his words, not yours.)
you were half-draped over his chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back under your shirt. all of your letters were proudly taped to the fridge like kindergarten art projects, as they should.
during a quiet scene he suddenly tightened his hold. “baby.”
you already knew. “yes, satoru?”
“do you even love me? like, love-love me? the forever kind?”
you twirled a strand of his snowy hair. “i spend fifty minutes every morning rhyming your name with something different each time. i think we’re good.”
he looked down, chin digging into your head, eyes sparkling with revelry. “would you rather i move to another country… or get hit by a bus?”
you blinked slowly, processing the new level of ridiculous. “that’s not even the usual format. but i’d rather you get hit by the bus. at least then i could camp out at the hospital, yell at doctors, bring you all your favorite sweets, and nurse you back to health while you’re stuck being extra clingy and dependent on me for months. if you move to another country, i’d be stuck with long-distance, terrible time zones, crying over video calls, and worrying you’re out there eating better yakitori without me. no way. i’d take the bus every single time.”
he tried to hide his smile. “you’d let me get flattened for dairy?!”
you booped his nose. “priorities, bae. i’m keeping you near me. now shut up so we can finish this movie.”
he tackled you into the cushions, kissing your face so aggressively his glasses went flying somewhere into the void. between kisses he kept muttering: “you’re so mean… so logical… i love it so much… more than sweets… more than winning… more than–”
you laughed and cupped his stupidly pretty face, kissing him quiet. “i know, you big dramatic baby. and i love you so much it’s embarrassing. i write you letters because texts feel too temporary. i say it every day because you deserve to hear it every day. i put up with your ridiculous hypotheticals because they make you smile like an idiot and i’m weak for that smile. you’re my favorite person in the entire world, satoru gojo.”
he melted and pulled you closer, burying his face in your neck with a happy little hum. “you’re the best, i swear.”
-
you were half-asleep, curled against his chest, when the question came again, softly into the dark. he couldn’t help it.
“baby… do you love me?”
you didn’t open your eyes. you just hooked a leg over his waist and mumbled. “yes, honey; enough to spoil you rotten and be logical about it. now go to sleep before i change my mind.”
for a long moment, there was only silence. no dramatic gasp, no theatrical clutching of his chest. just the steady rise and fall of his breathing against your hair, the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the half-drawn curtains. then his arms tightened around you –not the usual playful squeeze, but something deeper, almost desperate.
“god, i love you.” he murmured in a way that made your sleepy heart stutter. his fingers traced lazy circles along your back, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked just a little. “i never got to hear those words before. no one truly loved me until you came into my life. you choose me every single time, even when i’m such an insufferable brat. i don’t know what i did to deserve you, but i’m never letting go.”
you felt the heat of his smile against your temple, soft and genuine. tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
“you big sap,” you whispered, voice thick with affection. “i’m keeping you forever too. even if you keep asking me every day for the rest of our lives.”
-
the next morning, gentle sunlight slipped through the curtains as satoru slowly woke up. his arm reached out across the bed on instinct, searching for the cozy warmth of your body curled against his. instead, his fingers met cool, empty sheets.
he blinked, lifting his head with a sleepy little pout.
“baby…?”
before disappointment could settle in, his eyes landed on a neatly unfolded napkin resting right on your pillow –your fancy handwriting covering it in careful black ink.
he sat up, a small smile already tugging at his lips as he picked up the note and read:
« my dear satoru,
i woke up early because i saw online that a super special limited edition of those premium sakura daifuku from the exclusive wagashi shop just dropped this morning. i ran out to grab a fresh box for you before they’re gone. i’ll be right back! but in the meantime, i hope this will be enough:
i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you (x∞) ♡
ps: missin ya rn. »
satoru stared at the paper, his thumb gently tracing over your enthusiastic words. his heavenly irises softened in that rare, unguarded way only you ever got to see. another warm, genuine smile bloomed across his face as he pressed the napkin to his chest, right over his heart.
in that moment, with your loving note in his hands and the promise of your return, satoru knew without a doubt that true love only comes once in a lifetime.
five times gojo thinks of proposing to you and one time he does.
contents. gojo x fem!reader • tooth rotting fluff • a lot of i love you’s • some light angst • in yearner satoru we trust
i.
it’s raining. this is that miserable kind of raining that seeps through the seams of his jacket, plasters his white hair to his forehead and makes the fluorescent lights of the 24-hour convenience store flicker like they’re also tired of existing.
you’re standing in front of the instant ramen section, waddling around because your shoes broke three blocks ago and are heavy with water, shivering in his oversized hoodie that he’d draped over you the moment he saw your teeth chattering. your hair is damp and sticking to your cheeks, and you’re squinting at the different flavor packets like they hold the secrets to the universe.
“spicy or chicken?” you ask him, turning slightly. there’s a drop of water clinging to your lower lip.
gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer of his generation, a man who has stared down curses that would make lesser men weep, feels his heart do something stupid in his chest. it’s inconvenient, really. he’s supposed to be above this— above the mundane domesticity of convenience store runs and broken sandals and wet hair plastered to sleepy faces.
but you’re wearing his hoodie. you’re standing in a fluorescent-lit hellscape at 11:47 pm on a tuesday, and you’re asking him about ramen flavors like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“spicy,” he says, his voice coming out softer he thinks it does.
you nod and grab two cups, and when you turn back to him, you give him a smile— small and tired and pretty— and he thinks i want to wake up next to you every day for the rest of my life.
the thought is so sudden and so loud that he almost chokes on his own spit.
he watches you walk to the counter, watches you fumble with his card. you’re so ordinary in the best possible way. you’re not a sorcerer, not a clan heir, not someone the world expects anything from except to live and be happy.
and you chose him.
the rain drums against the glass doors as you come back to him, holding out the bag. “let’s go home, toru,” you say, your voice muffled by the hoodie’s collar pulled up to your nose.
home. you call it home and he calls it home too. your small apartment, the one with the broken lock on the bathroom door and the neighbor who practices violin badly at 6 am. his home.
his hand twitches toward his pocket, where he absolutely does not have a ring because he hasn’t bought one, because this is insane, because you’ve only been together for a year and a half and that’s not even that long in the grand scheme of things.
but the word home echoes in his skull like a prayer, and he thinks— i could do it. i could ask her right now, in this ugly convenience store, with rain in my shoes and ramen in my hands.
he doesn’t, of course. he’s not that reckless. probably.
“let’s go home, baby,” he agrees, and he takes the bag from you with one hand and wraps the other around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. you’re warm despite everything, and you fit there perfectly, like you were designed for it.
the ring box stays imaginary in his pocket all the way back to the apartment.
ii.
it’s not even his injury. that’s the worst part.
gojo is fine— annoyingly, immortally fine— but you’d taken a hit for a civilian during a mission gone sideways, and now you’re behind a set of double doors with a concussion and three broken ribs, and he’s sitting in a plastic chair that squeaks every time he moves.
he hasn’t moved in forty-seven minutes.
shoko had looked at him with something between pity and exasperation when she’d examined you. “she’ll be fine, satoru. stop looking like someone killed your dog.”
but he can’t stop. his leg is bouncing, his hands are clasped too tight in his lap, and every time a shoko walks by he almost jumps out of his skin.
you’re fine. you’re fine. you’re fine.
the doors open and you’re wheeled out on a gurney, pale and groggy but awake, and your eyes find him immediately like they always do; they’re magnets and he’s north.
“toru,” you say. your voice is hoarse and so small that he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and never let you leave the apartment again.
“hey,” he says, and he’s beside you before he remembers standing up, his hand finding yours. your fingers are cold. “you’re an idiot.”
“i know,” you say with a smile. it’s weak and wobbly and it makes his chest ache.
they move you to a room and he sits in the chair beside your bed, holding your hand while you drift in and out of sleep. the fluorescent lights buzz overhead. the heart monitor beeps a steady rhythm. you look small against the white hospital sheets, smaller than you ever look anywhere else, and he hates it.
at some point, you wake up properly, blinking at him with those eyes he’d drown for. “how long have you been here?”
“few hours.”
“you should go home. sleep.”
“not leaving.”
you sigh, but there’s no real frustration in it. your thumb traces circles on the back of his hand. “you’re so stubborn.”
“learned from the best.”
you laugh, then wince because of the ribs, and he immediately leans forward like he can somehow absorb the pain from you. “don’t make me laugh, asshole.”
“sorry. sorry.” he presses his forehead to your knuckles. your skin is warm now, finally. “you scared me.”
“i’m okay.”
“you got hurt.”
“i’m okay.” your free hand comes up to card through his hair, causing him to make a sound he’ll deny later. “i’d do it again.”
“don’t,” he says, and his voice cracks in a way that would embarrass him if he had any room for embarrassment left. “don’t ever do it again. i can’t—i can’t lose you.”
you’re quiet for a moment. the heart monitor beeps. somewhere down the hall, shoko curses.
“you’re not going to lose me,” you say finally, softly. “i’m right here.”
he lifts his head to look at you. you’re smiling at him like he’s not a mess and it’s not him who is sitting in a hospital chair with dark circles under his eyes and a crick in his neck. like the fact that he’s here and he’s satoru is enough.
he wants to marry you.
the thought is quiet this time, not loud and sudden but soft and settling, like snow. he wants to marry you. he wants legal documentation that says you’re his. he wants to be the one they call when you’re in a hospital bed. he wants to be family, not just boyfriend, not just partner, but yours completely.
his hand tightens around yours.
“what?” you ask, because you always notice everything.
“nothing,” he says. “go back to sleep.”
you do, eventually, your hand still in his. and he watches you breathe, in and out, steady and alive, and he starts mentally calculating how long it would take to get a ring custom-made.
iii.
the sky explodes in gold and crimson and you’re standing so close that your shoulder presses against his, your face tilted up toward the light like you’re trying to drink it in.
fireworks have never done anything for gojo. he’s seen more impressive displays of cursed energy before breakfast. but you’re happy— genuinely, your mouth curved into a soft smile, your eyes reflecting every burst of color— and he can’t look away from you.
the crowd jostles around them. children shriek with delight. couples hold hands and take photos. you’re wearing a yukata he’d helped you tie earlier, fumbling with the obi until you’d laughed and pushed his hands away and done it yourself.
“look, look,” you say, pointing at a particularly large bloom of green and purple. “that one’s pretty.”
“yeah,” he says, but he’s not looking at the sky.
you turn to catch him staring and raise an eyebrow. “you’re supposed to be watching the fireworks, dummy.”
“i’m watching something better.”
“that’s so cheesy.”
“you love it.”
you don’t deny it. instead, you lean your head against his shoulder, and he feels the warmth of you through the thin fabric of his own kimono. the fireworks continue to explode overhead, painting your skin in fleeting colors— blue, then pink, then white.
a group of children runs past, laughing, one of them bumps into your side. you stumble, just slightly, and his arm goes around your waist automatically, steadying you.
“careful,” he murmurs.
“i’m fine.”
but you don’t pull away, and neither does he. his hand rests on your hip, and you’re so close that he can smell your shampoo— floral, soft, something that makes him think of mornings and pillowcases and shared showers.
the fireworks finale begins, a chaotic symphony of light and sound that makes the ground vibrate beneath their feet. the crowd cheers. someone sets off a sparkler nearby, and the scent of gunpowder fills the air.
you turn your face up toward him, the light catching your eyes, and you’re so beautiful it hurts.
“thank you for bringing me,” you say.
“thank you for coming with me.”
you beam, and he thinks about the ring he’d looked at online last week— the one with the sapphire, because he’d want you to always carry something that resembles him in some kind of way, and he’d thought that’s the one but he hadn’t bought it because buying a ring online feels wrong, feels too impersonal for something that’s supposed to hold this.
but standing here, with your body warm against his and your smile soft in the fading light, he thinks he should have bought it anyway. he thinks he should get down on one knee right now, in the grass, with the last of the fireworks fizzling out behind him.
“hey,” he starts. his voice is strange in his own ears.
“hmm?”
he looks at you, properly, intently. the curve of your cheek, the way your hair falls across your forehead, the small scar on your chin from when you’d tripped over his shoes last month.
“nothing,” he says. “just happy.”
your expression softens into something so tender it’s almost too much for him to handle. “me too.”
he doesn’t propose at the fireworks festival. he doesn’t have a ring, and the moment doesn’t feel big enough— not because it’s small, but because he wants more. he wants you surrounded by people who love you, or maybe just the two of you in a quiet room, or maybe something in between. he wants it to be perfect.
but standing there, with your hand slipping into his and your fingers interlacing like they’ve done it a thousand times before, he makes a promise to himself.
soon. it’ll be soon.
iv.
you don’t cry often.
that’s the thing about you: you’re steady in a way he’s never learned to be. you take things in stride. you handle his chaos with a patience that borders on supernatural. you’ve seen him at his worst, hollow-eyed and trembling after missions that went wrong, and you’d held him without a single word of judgment.
so when he finds you in the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet lid with tears streaming down your face, something in him fractures.
“hey,” he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. “hey, what’s wrong? what happened?”
you shake your head, trying to wipe your face with the back of your hand, but the tears keep coming. “it’s stupid.”
“i don’t care if it’s stupid. tell me.”
you take a shaky breath. “that necklace you gave me, your first gift to me. i—i can’t find it anywhere, and i’ve looked everywhere, and it’s gone, and i know it’s just a thing and i have more, but you gave it to me and i always wear it, and—”
you break off with a sob as he pulls you into his chest without thinking. you cling to him, your fingers digging into his shirt, and he holds you as tight as he dares.
“it’s not just a thing,” he says into your hair. “it’s important to you. that makes it important.”
“i’m being ridiculous. ”
“you’re not.”
“i’ve been crying for twenty minutes over a necklace.”
“and i’d cry for twenty days if i lost something you gave me.”
you laugh wetly against his chest and he feels the vibration of it, feels the way your body relaxes slightly. he rubs your back in slow circles, the way you do for him when he’s the one falling apart.
“i’ll find it,” he says.
“you can’t just—”
“satoru gojo, master of the impossible. remember?” he pulls back just enough to look at your face, to thumb away the tears still clinging to your lashes. “i will find your necklace if i have to tear this entire city apart tile by tile.”
“don’t be dramatic.”
“i’m never dramatic. i’m perfectly reasonable.”
you snort. it’s such a normal sound, that he grins despite the tightness in his chest.
“i love you,” you say quietly, with your voice raw and wrecked and it hits him like a physical blow.
he thinks about the ring in his nightstand drawer.
he’d bought it last week, finally, after weeks of indecision. it’s simple— a thin gold band with a small diamond, nothing flashy because you’ve never been flashy. he’d held it in his palm for a long time before putting it in the drawer, and he’d told himself he was waiting for the right moment.
this isn’t the right moment. you’re crying on a bathroom floor, your face blotchy and your nose running, and you’ve never looked more human, more real, more his.
he wants to ask you. he wants to open his mouth and say the words and watch your eyes go wide. he wants to tell you that he’ll spend every day of the rest of his life finding things you’ve lost, fixing things that are broken, holding you when you cry.
but you’re vulnerable right now and he doesn’t want to take advantage of that. he doesn’t want you to say yes because you’re sad and he’s here and it feels like the right thing to do in the moment.
so he doesn’t.
instead, he kisses your forehead and says, “let’s go look for that necklace together.”
you nod, wiping your face one more time. “okay.”
you find it three hours later, wedged between the bed frame and the wall, and the way you light up when you see it— the way you clutch it to your chest like a lifeline— makes him think that maybe the right moment is just whenever you’re you.
but still. he waits.
v.
you’re making pancakes.
it’s such a mundane thing, such an insignificant thing, but gojo wakes up to the smell of batter and butter and the sound of you humming off-key in the kitchen, and he thinks this is it. this is what i want forever.
the sun is streaming through the windows, catching the dust motes floating in the air. your hair is a mess, sticking up in the back where you’d slept on it wrong. you’re wearing his t-shirt— the old one with the hole in the collar— and nothing else, your bare feet on the cold tile floor.
you haven’t noticed he’s awake yet. you’re too focused on flipping pancakes, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration, and he watches you from the doorway with something so big and so warm in his chest that he’s surprised he doesn’t burst.
“you’re staring,” you say without turning around.
“how do you always know?”
“i can feel your eyes on me. it’s creepy.”
“it’s affectionate.”
you turn then, spatula in hand, and you’re smiling at him— that easy, unguarded smile that’s just for him. “good morning, sleepyhead.”
“good morning, pancake princess.”
you roll your eyes and turn back to the stove, and he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. you lean back into him instinctively, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“how’d you sleep?” you ask.
“fine. you?”
“had a weird dream about a talking white cat.”
“was it cute?”
“very annoying, actually.”
he laughs into your neck, and you shiver slightly, and he presses a kiss to the spot behind your ear that always makes you melt.
“i’m trying to cook,” you protest, but you tilt your head to give him better access anyway.
“mm. you’re doing great.”
“you’re distracting me.”
“i’m supporting you.”
you elbow him gently, but he just tightens his arms around you, and for a moment the world narrows to this— the warmth of the kitchen, the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the pan, the softness of your body against his.
he thinks about the ring again. it’s still in his nightstand drawer, hidden beneath a pile of socks he should have folded weeks ago. he’s taken it out a dozen times in the past month, held it in his palm, imagined sliding it onto your finger.
but the moment has never felt right. there’s always been something— a mission, a bad day, a distraction. he’s been waiting for perfect, for the kind of moment they write songs about, for something that feels big enough to hold everything he feels for you.
and maybe that’s the problem. maybe perfect doesn’t exist.
maybe perfect is this. sunday morning, bare feet on cold tile, pancakes burning slightly because he’s distracting you. maybe perfect is the way you fit against him like you were made to be there. maybe perfect is the off-key humming and the holey t-shirt and the sun on your face.
“i love you, baby,” he says. the words come out different than usual, heavier with meaning. “i love you so so much.”
you tilt your head back to look at him, and your eyes are soft and curious. “i love you too.”
he almost says it. the words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, three words and a question and the rest of his life. marry me. marry me. marry me.
but then the smoke alarm goes off because the pancakes are definitely burning now, and you shriek and push him away and grab the smoking pan, and the moment scatters like startled birds.
he laughs, watching you fan the smoke detector with a dish towel, and he thinks soon. soon soon soon.
+ i.
it’s three in the morning and you’re both still awake for no good reason.
the apartment is dark except for the blue glow of the television, which is playing some terrible late-night infomercial about a vegetable chopper that neither of you is watching. you’re lying on the couch with your head in his lap, your legs draped over the armrest, and he’s been absently running his fingers through your hair for the past hour while you scroll through your phone.
neither of you has said anything important in a while. it’s just the comfortable kind of silence, the kind that comes after two years of learning each other’s rhythms, of knowing when to talk and when to just be.
on the screen, a man with too much enthusiasm is dicing an onion at impossible speed.
“we should get that,” you murmur, not looking up from your phone.
“the vegetable chopper?”
“yeah. think of all the time we’d save.”
“we don’t even cook that much.”
“we could cook more if we had a vegetable chopper.”
he snorts. “that’s the most ridiculous thing i’ve ever heard.”
you finally look up at him, and your phone’s light casts strange shadows on your face, making you look like something out of a dream or maybe a horror movie, depending on the angle. your eyes are tired but warm, there’s a small smile playing at your lips.
“you should spoil me,” you say.
“i already do!”
“not enough.”
“fine. but we’re not buying that vegetable chopper.”
you laugh, soft and sleepy, and close your eyes. his fingers resume their path through your hair, and he watches your face relax, watches the tension melt out of your shoulders.
and he thinks again— this is right.
not the fireworks. not the perfect sunset. not the grand gesture he’s been building up in his head for months. just this: three in the morning, terrible infomercial, your head in his lap, and the overwhelming, bone-deep certainty that he doesn’t want to spend another day of his life without being able to call you his spouse.
the ring is in his pocket.
it’s been in his pocket for three days now, ever since he’d stuffed it there on a whim, telling himself he’d find the right moment. he’d almost pulled it out at dinner. almost pulled it out on the walk home. almost pulled it out when you’d tripped over the welcome mat and cursed creatively.
but he’d talked himself out of it every time. too soon. too cliché. too much.
but now, with the infomercial guy enthusiastically demonstrating the vegetable chopper’s julienne function, and your breathing slowing into something that might be sleep, he realizes that the right moment isn’t something you find.
it’s something you make.
“hey,” he says softly.
“mm?”
“don’t fall asleep. i need to ask you something.”
you open one eye. “at three in the morning? about the vegetable chopper?”
“no.” his heart is pounding. his hands are shaking slightly, and he hopes you can’t feel it through his fingers in your hair. “something else.”
you sit up slowly, blinking at him, and the movement makes him lose contact with your hair. your hand finds his instead, your fingers intertwining with his like they’ve done a thousand times before.
“you look weird,” you say. “are you okay?”
“i’m fine. i’m great. i’m—” he takes a breath. “i’m in love with you.”
you raise an eyebrow. “i know, toru. you tell me that like five times a day.”
“i know. but i mean—” he laughs, a little breathless, and pulls his hand away from yours to reach into his pocket. “i mean it in a specific way tonight.”
your eyes widen as his fingers close around the small velvet box. you’re looking at his hand, then at his face, then back at his hand, and your mouth falls open slightly.
“is that—”
“it’s not a vegetable chopper,” he says, and pulls out the ring.
he’d spent weeks looking at rings, had even asked megumi for advice (which had been a disaster—the kid had just stared at him for a full thirty seconds before saying “i don’t know, just pick one”). but this one had felt right the moment he’d seen it.
“satoru,” you whisper.
“i had this whole thing planned,” he says, and his voice is shaking now, he can hear it, and he doesn’t care. “i was gonna take you somewhere nice. do the whole dinner-and-candlelight thing. get down on one knee like a normal person. but i kept waiting for the perfect moment, and it never came, because—” he swallows. “because every moment with you feels perfect. even the ones where we’re watching commercials at three in the morning.”
your eyes are wet. he can see the shine of tears in the blue glow of the television.
“so i’m not gonna wait anymore,” he says. “i’m not gonna wait for the right restaurant or the right weather or the right anything. because i don’t need any of that. i just need you.”
he shifts on the couch, turning to face you properly. he doesn’t get down on one knee— there’s no room, and honestly, he’s pretty sure he’d trip over the coffee table— but he takes both of your hands in his, the ring box pressed between your palms.
“marry me,” he says. “because i want to come home to you every day. because i want to argue about vegetable choppers with you for the rest of my life. because you’re the first person i want to tell when something good happens, and the only person i want to hold me when something doesn’t.”
you’re crying now, tears, rolling down your cheeks, and you’re laughing at the same time, which is such a you thing to do that his heart feels like it might burst.
“you’re proposing,” you say, your voice cracking, “while an infomercial is playing in the background.”
“that guy can be our witness.”
you laugh harder, and you’re nodding, you’re nodding, and he hasn’t even heard the word yet but your head is moving up and down and you’re squeezing his hands so tight it almost hurts.
“yes,” you say. “yes, you absolute idiot. yes.”
he kisses you before he even puts the ring on you. his hands cup your face, and you’re both laughing into the kiss, and it’s messy and wet and perfect in a way that nothing else has ever been.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead against yours, he slides the ring onto your finger. it glints in the television light, catching the blue glow and turning it into something softer.
“it fits,” he says, surprised.
“did you measure my finger while i was sleeping?”
“…maybe.”
you look at the ring, then at him, and your smile is so wide it crinkles the corners of your eyes. “i love you. i love you so much.”
“i love you too,” he says. and then, because he’s still him, because he’ll always be him: “so… we can get the vegetable chopper, i guess. as an engagement gift to ourselves.”
you shove his shoulder, but you’re laughing, and he’s laughing, and somewhere on the television the infomercial guy is still dicing onions with reckless abandon.
neither of you notices. you’re too busy looking at each other, at the ring on your finger, at the rest of your lives starting right here, right now, in this ridiculous, wonderful, imperfect moment.
and gojo thinks that he’s never been happier to be wrong about what perfect looks like.
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