The twins! There’s nerdjo 🤭and then there’s fratjo too ig, I was really excited when i saw nerdjo trending so I grabbed the opportunity to draw him hehe
It’s breakfast, the kids are still half-asleep and yawning, pajamas wrinkled with cereal bowls clinking on the table, and Kento’s standing at the counter pouring orange juice—still shirtless from when he woke up, because you begged him to stay that way just a little longer since he’s always in his dress shirt and slacks just an hour after waking up like who the hell does that.
And that’s when your oldest squints up from their seat and goes:
“Daddy… what’s that on your back?”
You freeze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth while Kento stiffens ever so slightly, his back muscles twitching under the sudden attention. He glances over his shoulder with practiced calm, the man who can handle million-yen clients and diaper blowouts without flinching—but even he hesitates when he sees those little curious faces blinking up at him.
“What do you mean?” he asks calmly, already knowing exactly what they meant.
“Those red spots,” your youngest chimes in, finger pointed like they’ve made some shocking discovery. “Are those…owies? Did you fall down?”
You nearly choked on your food. Kento turns to you for backup with his eyes narrowing like it’s a signal, but you’re no help at all—trying desperately not to laugh, lips pressed tight with your shoulders shaking as you try to contain yourself.
“Uhh…” He clears his throat, reaching for a shirt to tug on, finally. “They’re, uh…grown-up stuff”.
The kids make faces in sync. “Like taxes?”
“Worse,” you mutter under your breath.
Kento shoots you a look as he pulls his shirt on. “No,” he says a little too quickly. “Just Mommy was being a little silly”.
You raise an eyebrow at him all innocently. “Was I?”
He leans down to whisper in your ear as he passes with the juice. “You’re getting it back tonight”.
You grin over your coffee. “Good. Then you’ll have even more explaining to do”.
Later that day, your youngest hands him a Band-Aid. “For your owies, Daddy”.
He takes it with a resigned sigh and ruffles her hair before planting a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart”.
Synopsis: Nanami x Reader. breakup, soft tension, soft angst, unresolved feelings. Seeing each other for the first time after breaking up.
—————————————————————————-
Gojo had a way of dragging people out of hiding. Even Nanami.
It was supposed to be a casual get-together—just drinks, light food, a few familiar faces scattered around the low-lit rooftop of his building. Nothing big. Just an excuse for people who used to know each other better than they do now to cross paths again.
Nanami hadn’t expected to see you there.
You hadn’t expected to see him either.
The breeze was mild, laughter floated around you like background music, and there he stood across the space—glass in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair a little longer than before. He looked the same and not the same, like a book you once read every night but hadn’t touched in months.
He noticed you at the same moment you noticed him.
Your breath hitched. His chest rose, almost imperceptibly. You didn’t look away, didn’t smile either.
But neither did he.
It wasn’t awkward. It was… full. Thick with everything you used to say and everything you never could. Eventually, he approached. Of course he did. Nanami wasn’t the type to hide.
“Hey,” you said softly, your voice gentler than you’d meant it to be.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice was calm as always, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than they used to. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
You glanced around. “Gojo’s persistent.”
A faint huff. “That he is.” There was a pause then. Comfortable and heartbreaking.
He looked good. Healthier. Worn down a little, maybe. But grounded. Anchored in that life he chose to keep—one you couldn’t quite reach, no matter how hard you’d tried.
You toyed with your glass, thumb tracing the condensation. “You still working missions?”
“Yes,” he said. “Same old schedule.”
You nodded. “Dangerous, lonely, draining… same old?”
He looked at you with those eyes that used to see straight through you. “It’s what I’m good at.”
You gave a soft smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I know.”
He glanced down, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no malice. No lingering anger. Just that heavy awareness of what was.
“Do you ever regret it?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Us?”
His jaw shifted slightly. “No.”
You swallowed. “I don’t either.” The silence that followed was more intimate than it should have been. You could still feel what he meant to you—like muscle memory. The way your body leaned toward his without thinking. The way your heart ached a little slower in his presence.
But you had your life now. And he had his. Two lanes running parallel that couldn’t quite merge.
“I still think about you,” he said suddenly, quietly, like it was a confession. Your eyes lifted to his. The city lights painted his profile gold.
“I think about you too,” you replied. “Sometimes I forget I’m not allowed to.”
He looked away, then back, and for a moment you thought he might reach for you. Might take your hand the way he used to, thumb over your knuckles, grounding himself in your warmth.
But he didn’t.
Because this wasn’t a story about what could be fixed. It was just a moment. A sweet, aching one.
“Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
“You too, Kento.” And then you stepped away.
Maybe in another life, you would’ve walked back.
—————————————————————————-
A/N: I’m gonna pretend like I wasn’t gone for a few months lol. I also might post a part 2 idk idk idk
Synopsis: Nanami x Reader. breakup, soft tension, soft angst, unresolved feelings. Seeing each other for the first time after breaking up.
—————————————————————————-
Gojo had a way of dragging people out of hiding. Even Nanami.
It was supposed to be a casual get-together—just drinks, light food, a few familiar faces scattered around the low-lit rooftop of his building. Nothing big. Just an excuse for people who used to know each other better than they do now to cross paths again.
Nanami hadn’t expected to see you there.
You hadn’t expected to see him either.
The breeze was mild, laughter floated around you like background music, and there he stood across the space—glass in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair a little longer than before. He looked the same and not the same, like a book you once read every night but hadn’t touched in months.
He noticed you at the same moment you noticed him.
Your breath hitched. His chest rose, almost imperceptibly. You didn’t look away, didn’t smile either.
But neither did he.
It wasn’t awkward. It was… full. Thick with everything you used to say and everything you never could. Eventually, he approached. Of course he did. Nanami wasn’t the type to hide.
“Hey,” you said softly, your voice gentler than you’d meant it to be.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice was calm as always, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than they used to. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
You glanced around. “Gojo’s persistent.”
A faint huff. “That he is.” There was a pause then. Comfortable and heartbreaking.
He looked good. Healthier. Worn down a little, maybe. But grounded. Anchored in that life he chose to keep—one you couldn’t quite reach, no matter how hard you’d tried.
You toyed with your glass, thumb tracing the condensation. “You still working missions?”
“Yes,” he said. “Same old schedule.”
You nodded. “Dangerous, lonely, draining… same old?”
He looked at you with those eyes that used to see straight through you. “It’s what I’m good at.”
You gave a soft smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I know.”
He glanced down, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no malice. No lingering anger. Just that heavy awareness of what was.
“Do you ever regret it?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Us?”
His jaw shifted slightly. “No.”
You swallowed. “I don’t either.” The silence that followed was more intimate than it should have been. You could still feel what he meant to you—like muscle memory. The way your body leaned toward his without thinking. The way your heart ached a little slower in his presence.
But you had your life now. And he had his. Two lanes running parallel that couldn’t quite merge.
“I still think about you,” he said suddenly, quietly, like it was a confession. Your eyes lifted to his. The city lights painted his profile gold.
“I think about you too,” you replied. “Sometimes I forget I’m not allowed to.”
He looked away, then back, and for a moment you thought he might reach for you. Might take your hand the way he used to, thumb over your knuckles, grounding himself in your warmth.
But he didn’t.
Because this wasn’t a story about what could be fixed. It was just a moment. A sweet, aching one.
“Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
“You too, Kento.” And then you stepped away.
Maybe in another life, you would’ve walked back.
—————————————————————————-
A/N: I’m gonna pretend like I wasn’t gone for a few months lol. I also might post a part 2 idk idk idk
Synopsis: Nanami x Reader. breakup, soft tension, soft angst, unresolved feelings. Seeing each other for the first time after breaking up.
—————————————————————————-
Gojo had a way of dragging people out of hiding. Even Nanami.
It was supposed to be a casual get-together—just drinks, light food, a few familiar faces scattered around the low-lit rooftop of his building. Nothing big. Just an excuse for people who used to know each other better than they do now to cross paths again.
Nanami hadn’t expected to see you there.
You hadn’t expected to see him either.
The breeze was mild, laughter floated around you like background music, and there he stood across the space—glass in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair a little longer than before. He looked the same and not the same, like a book you once read every night but hadn’t touched in months.
He noticed you at the same moment you noticed him.
Your breath hitched. His chest rose, almost imperceptibly. You didn’t look away, didn’t smile either.
But neither did he.
It wasn’t awkward. It was… full. Thick with everything you used to say and everything you never could. Eventually, he approached. Of course he did. Nanami wasn’t the type to hide.
“Hey,” you said softly, your voice gentler than you’d meant it to be.
“Hey,” he replied. His voice was calm as always, but his eyes lingered just a second longer than they used to. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
You glanced around. “Gojo’s persistent.”
A faint huff. “That he is.” There was a pause then. Comfortable and heartbreaking.
He looked good. Healthier. Worn down a little, maybe. But grounded. Anchored in that life he chose to keep—one you couldn’t quite reach, no matter how hard you’d tried.
You toyed with your glass, thumb tracing the condensation. “You still working missions?”
“Yes,” he said. “Same old schedule.”
You nodded. “Dangerous, lonely, draining… same old?”
He looked at you with those eyes that used to see straight through you. “It’s what I’m good at.”
You gave a soft smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I know.”
He glanced down, lips pressing into a thin line. There was no malice. No lingering anger. Just that heavy awareness of what was.
“Do you ever regret it?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Us?”
His jaw shifted slightly. “No.”
You swallowed. “I don’t either.” The silence that followed was more intimate than it should have been. You could still feel what he meant to you—like muscle memory. The way your body leaned toward his without thinking. The way your heart ached a little slower in his presence.
But you had your life now. And he had his. Two lanes running parallel that couldn’t quite merge.
“I still think about you,” he said suddenly, quietly, like it was a confession. Your eyes lifted to his. The city lights painted his profile gold.
“I think about you too,” you replied. “Sometimes I forget I’m not allowed to.”
He looked away, then back, and for a moment you thought he might reach for you. Might take your hand the way he used to, thumb over your knuckles, grounding himself in your warmth.
But he didn’t.
Because this wasn’t a story about what could be fixed. It was just a moment. A sweet, aching one.
“Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
“You too, Kento.” And then you stepped away.
Maybe in another life, you would’ve walked back.
—————————————————————————-
A/N: I’m gonna pretend like I wasn’t gone for a few months lol. I also might post a part 2 idk idk idk
WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — SERIES MASTERLIST
SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.
PAIRING: general!nanami x princess!reader
CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal
TEASER: here
WC: 50.7k
STATUS: ongoing
WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism
— CHAPTER INDEX
prologue — the years before the garden
act i — the appointment of a shadow
act ii — the weight of names
act iii — the crown ascends
act iv — the armor undone
act v — the garden endures
epilogue — the sound of laughter
A/N: please send in an ask or comment if you would like to be tagged! thank you to @gojover for being my biggest, and i mean BIGGEST, fan. her reactions were what drove me to complete this story, and i'm so grateful for her. i hope you adore this series as much as she does. (art by ykRRR23 on X)
feed back and reblogs are always appreciated my girliees <333
virgin!nerdjo who pulled a total certified baddie in college by being…himself.
awkward, dorky, too tall for his own good, always pushing up those stupid glasses with ink-stained fingers— it was him. somehow, you wanted him. he doesn't understand how he got so lucky, but he's not about to question it.
virgin!nerdjo got one mission : being good to you. especially in bed. because when you kissed him for the first time, straddling his lap, grinding that perfect little body against him, he nearly came in his pants. he gripped your waist a little too tight to keep you from moving too much. it's humiliating how quickly he was about to fold, how his cock throbs desperately just from the heat of you.
virgin!nerdjo isn't completely clueless—he's read about sex, heard about it, he's not that innocent. but knowing and doing are two completely different things. and he realized it the second you grinded on him. he damn near whimpered. bit down hard on his lip to swallow it back.
virgin!nerdjo needs to learn. he thinks porn might help—big mistake. it's all so…aggressive. male-centered. nothing about it feels right. he watches a few clips, cringing the entire time, then slams his laptop shut and scrubs a hand down his face. he should have listened when geto used to go on and on about his exploits. should have paid attention instead of rolling his eyes and tuning him out.
so he does what he does best. he researches. virgin!nerdjo orders a book called ‘The Art of Female Pleasure.’ and the moment it arrives, he's on it. glasses slipping down his nose, hunched over the pages, absorbing every word like it's the most important text he's ever studied. he dedicates days to this. nights. rereads passages, highlights sections. he doesn't just want to be good. he wants to be perfect. because you're a baddie—a pro— and he's so fucking lucky. what if you jump on him any time soon and he's still not ready? that idea terrifies him.
virgin!nerdjo gets so into it that he even starts to scroll through forums. he reads firsthand experiences, studying anatomy diagrams until his face is burning and his cock is achingly hard beneath the sheets. because it's not just learning, it's imagining.
virgin!nerdjo who imagines you underneath him, pretty lips parted in gasps, legs spread as he slides his fingers over you just like the book describes. he imagines how wet you'd get if he did everything right. if he took his time, kissed his way down your body, licked into you like he's read—slow, deep, deliberate. he wonders if you'd tug on his hair, if you'd cry out his name, if you'd shake when you come, thighs squeezing around his head—
fuck. horny thoughts took over him as he bucks up into nothing. he wants it. so bad.
and the next time you're kissing, you instantly notice how his hands get bolder, slipping under your shirt, trailing fire down your spine. how he suddenly knows excatly where to touch, where to squeeze, when to roll his hips just right—letting you feel the size of him, the hard, thick heat pressing up against you. you break the kiss, breathless. “since when do you do all that?”
virgin!nerdjo swallows thickly, ears burning red. “…i've been studying.”
he picks up his phone on the first ring, ‘yes sweetheart? did you already reach? where are you?’
‘i’m almost there ken but i think i’m gonna need a minute or two to recover’
concern flooded his mind ‘recover? what happened-‘
‘i just saw the most beautiful man ever!’ you squeal through the phone.
what.
‘he’s drop dead gorgeous ken! and he’s not even doing anything, he’s just standing there’ you sigh dramatically.
‘oh my god ken, his jaw is so chiseled i could grate cheese on it’ your squealing continues.
‘y/n what are you talking about?’
were you being serious right now? was his jaw not chiseled enough to grate cheese? was he not gorgeous?
why were you calling him, your dear boyfriend, to gush about some man guy?
‘and he’s in this light blue dress shirt which you already know is my personal weakness’
wait. oh.
just then, a small smile makes its way on to his face.
‘ken ken ken he just smiled! i think it might be my favourite smile ever! oh god, it’s so beautiful’ you’re swooning on the other side.
‘really? tell me more’ he’s full on grinning now.
‘i could go on and on but you know what? i think i’m gonna shoot my shot and ask him out. i’ll let you know how it goes later. bye, i love you’ you hang up and he has to stop himself from laughing.
he pockets his phone when sees you crossing the road to get to him.
you throw a small wave at him ‘hey, i was on my way to see my boyfriend but then i saw you and you’re just so beautifully sculpted and i decided that i’d rather spend my life with you instead. what do you say?’
‘i’ll have to ask my girlfriend about that’
‘of course a guy like you is off the market’ you feign defeat ‘but i bet i’m more prettier than her’
his eyes scan you from top to bottom ‘you’re ok i guess’
scoffing ‘gee ken thanks a lot. what’s the harm in playing along for a little bit?’ you pout, making him snicker.
you and your antics never fail to amuse him.
you feel his arms wrap around you then and pull you to his chest as you melt into him.
‘i’m not lying. my girl is the prettiest’ he says.
‘and i wasn’t either, you really do have a jaw for grating cheese’
yeah thinking about a touch starved nanami kento who’s like fully hunched over your body, cradling your head in his big hand while stretching you ouuut in missionary. your face smothered in the crook of his neck, his expensive cologne dizzying, hips maddening. and his thrusts are just so fucking heavy. feeling the head of his thick, pretty cock kissing against the same, overstimulated spot over and over and over and I JUST FUCKING NEED HIM OKAY? that is all, that is the post.
synopsis — satoru gojo is your bestfriend and you are his. but sometimes, lines between friendship and something more seem to blur.
pairing — bestfriend! satoru x reader
word count — 10.6 k
warnings — making out, somewhat heavy petting, they take off each other's shirts but that's about it LOL, angst (not a sad ending though), reader feels unwanted at times.
Satoru Gojo.
How long have you known him? Your whole life, probably.
Scratch that. Not your whole life, but definitely the majority of it.
It started in preschool.
You were the quiet kid—the one who clung to the edges of the classroom, never quite fitting into the messy, chaotic whirlwind of children who seemed to make friends like it was the easiest thing in the world. You didn’t know how they did it—how they found each other in the noise, how they paired up so effortlessly, how they just knew where they belonged.
You, on the other hand, spent most of your time alone, stacking blocks in the corner, drawing quietly, or waiting for the teacher to tell you what to do next.
And then there was him.
Satoru Gojo, the loudest, brightest, most obnoxiously happy kid you’d ever met. He was the kind of child who ran instead of walked, who laughed at things no one else found funny, who always had a scrape on his knee but never seemed to care. He was larger than life, in a way that made your stomach twist—not quite jealousy, not quite admiration, just… confusion.
So when he plopped down next to you one day, completely uninvited, you weren’t sure what to do.
“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, peering at the tiny house you were building out of wooden blocks.
You shrugged. “Building.”
“Cool,” he said, grinning. “Can I help?”
You hesitated. You didn’t want help. But before you could answer, he was already reaching for the blocks, stacking them in ways that made no sense.
“You’re ruining it,” you mumbled, frowning.
He blinked at you, then back at the house. “Oh.” And then, without missing a beat, he knocked it over entirely.
You gasped, horrified.
He just laughed. “Now we can build it again!”
You decided, in that exact moment, that you hated him.
But Satoru Gojo was persistent.
He started following you around—not in a creepy way, just in an annoying way. Every time you thought you’d shaken him off, he’d pop up again like a bad penny, grinning that ridiculous grin of his.
Eventually, you just… let him.
It was easier than trying to get rid of him.
And somewhere along the way, he became your first real friend.
Your moms met not long after.
It happened at pickup time, when Satoru ran straight past his usual waiting spot to grab your hand instead. “Can I go to their house?” he asked his mom, all wide eyes and uncontainable energy. “Please, please, please?”
Your mom looked vaguely alarmed, having not expected to suddenly be responsible for another child, but Satoru’s mom just laughed.
And that was that.
Your friendship expanded beyond the preschool walls, spilling into weekends and playdates. Satoru’s house became as familiar as your own, with its too-big windows and fancy furniture that he absolutely wasn’t supposed to jump on (but did anyway). In return, he practically lived at your place, showing up unannounced, eating snacks straight from your pantry, making himself at home in a way that should have been irritating but never really was.
By the time middle school rolled around, he was less of a friend and more of a permanent fixture in your life.
“Okay, but listen,” Satoru said one afternoon, sprawled across your bedroom floor, Switch in hand. “If you had to pick one Digimon partner, like one to be stuck with for the rest of your life, who would it be?”
You barely looked up from your homework. “I don’t know. Agumon?”
“Agumon?” he repeated, scandalized. “That’s so basic. It’s like saying your favorite Pokémon is Pikachu.”
You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally the main character’s Digimon.”
“Exactly!” He threw his hands up. “No originality. None. Zero. I expected better from you.”
“You asked me,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes.
“Yeah, but I thought you’d at least think about it.” He sighed, dramatically flopping onto his back. “I should’ve known. I’m best friends with a casual fan.”
“You should be grateful you have a best friend at all,” you shot back.
Satoru grinned, tilting his head toward you. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
At some point, he started wearing glasses. Not for fashion, not because he wanted to, but because years of staring at screens in the dark, playing Digimon and Pokémon and whatever else he was obsessed with at the time, had officially caught up to him.
“I’m blind,” he announced the day he got them, pushing them up the bridge of his nose. “Absolutely, totally blind.”
You snorted. “You’re, like, mildly nearsighted.”
“Same thing,” he said, already taking them off to examine them. “Do I look smarter with them?”
You tilted your head, pretending to consider it. “Not really.”
“Rude.” He huffed, sliding them back on. “What about cooler?”
You threw a pillow at his face.
He laughed, catching it easily. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
—
Then came high school.
At first, nothing changed.
Satoru was still Satoru—loud, annoying, always in your space. He still showed up at your house unannounced, still texted you at odd hours about random nonsense, still sat next to you at lunch like it was a law of the universe. He was your best friend. Your person.
And for the first two years, you were inseparable.
There wasn’t a single moment where people saw one of you without the other. Satoru Gojo and you. You and Satoru Gojo. Always a pair. Whether it was cramming for exams together, getting kicked out of the arcade because he got too competitive, or spending Friday nights playing whatever old game he got obsessed with that month, he was your constant.
Until junior year.
It started small.
A casual comment in gym class about how fast he was. A joke from a teacher about how he should try out for the football team. A half-dare from some of the guys he barely knew.
And somehow, against all odds, Satoru Gojo became an athlete.
You didn’t think much of it at first. It was just another one of his phases, right? Like that time he swore he’d master speedrunning or decided he was going to learn five languages at once. But he was good—annoyingly good. Tall, fast, with ridiculous reflexes that made him impossible to catch on the field.
And people noticed.
By mid-season, he wasn’t just some new player—he was the star. The guy everyone knew, the guy who had a crowd around him in the hallways, the guy who got called out over the school speakers for game-winning plays.
The guy who no longer just belonged to you.
The first time you really felt it was when he showed up at your house one evening. That part was normal. He still did that, still made himself at home on your couch, still stole whatever snacks he wanted.
But something was different.
You were sprawled out on your bed, flipping through a book, when you glanced up and noticed.
“Where are your glasses?” you asked.
Satoru blinked, as if he had to think about it. “Oh. Right.” He shrugged, plopping down next to you. “They’re kind of a hazard in football, so I switched to contacts. Figured I’d just stick with them.”
You sat up, frowning. “But you hate contacts.”
He grinned, stretching lazily. “Not anymore.”
And just like that, something in your chest twisted.
It wasn’t just the glasses.
It was the way he stopped rambling about Digimon, the way he never asked if you wanted to rewatch old anime together anymore. It was the way his schedule started filling up with team hangouts and parties you weren’t invited to. It was the way people started looking at you differently when you were with him.
Because Satoru Gojo wasn’t just Satoru Gojo anymore.
He was Gojo.
Senior year was when it really started to hurt.
He still sat with you at lunch, still texted you silly memes at night, still acted like nothing had changed. But everything had.
He would often cancel on your invitations, his responses still typed in that absurd, unmistakable way of his—yet his excuses always seemed to follow a familiar pattern. It was always something urgent, something unavoidable: he had to rush off to practice, or there was a party he couldn’t miss, or someone needed his help and he simply couldn’t bring himself to say no. Each time, it felt like a rehearsed script, as though his priorities were perpetually elsewhere, leaving you to wonder if you’d ever truly make the cut.
Every time he plopped down next to you, people stared. Whispered.
“Why’s he sitting with her?”
“Shouldn't he sit with the rest of the team?”
“Is she, like, his childhood obligation or something?”
You weren’t an idiot. You heard it. You felt it.
And it made you snap.
“You don’t have to sit here, you know,” you muttered one day, keeping your eyes on your tray.
Satoru frowned. “What?”
“I said, you don’t have to sit here,” you repeated, sharper this time. “If you’d rather be with your actual friends—”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
You clenched your jaw, hating how defensive he sounded. “Nothing. Forget it.”
He didn’t forget it.
You fought about it. About how he didn’t get it, about how easy everything was for him, about how he could walk into any room and belong while you felt like you had to justify existing.
“You act like I abandoned you,” he snapped, voice low and frustrated. “But I’m right here. I’ve always been here.”
And you hated that he was somewhat right.
So you patched things up. Not because you fully understood each other, but because you both wanted to. And by the time graduation rolled around, you could almost pretend things had gone back to the way they were.
But then came college.
And somehow, Satoru Gojo managed to be even more himself than ever.
Bigger. Louder. More impossible to ignore.
If high school had turned him into a star, then college made him a supernova.
He was everywhere—at parties, in clubs, on the field. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to be around him.
And somehow, despite it all, he still tried to keep you close.
“Come with me tonight,” he’d say, sending you an invite to some massive party. “It’ll be fun.”
You always said no.
At first, he laughed it off. But after a while, he started looking at you differently—like he noticed the way you avoided him now, the way you barely answered his texts, the way you pulled away whenever he tried to meet your eyes.
And one night, when he showed up outside your dorm after another party, half-drunk and grinning, you saw the exact moment that grin faltered.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Why would I be mad at you?” you replied, your tone lighter than you felt, as if you could brush the question aside with a casual shrug.
Satoru studied you intently, his glasses nowhere to be found, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times. His gaze was sharp, unrelenting. “Because you’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something you couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or hurt.
You forced a laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Not you.”
The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your throat tightened. You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s just—” you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to piece together the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for weeks. “You don’t need me anymore, Satoru. You have them. All your cool—I don’t know, jock and cheerleader friends, everyone else who likes you. You don’t have time for me now.”
He blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to disbelief. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice rising slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His hands gestured vaguely, as though trying to grasp the words you’d just thrown at him. “You think I’d just—replace you? Like it’s that easy? No, like seriously fucking explain to me what the absolute hell you mean?” He mutters out angrily, words slightly slurred.
The air between you felt heavy, charged with emotions neither of you had fully acknowledged until now. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat, leaving only silence hanging in the space between you.
You let out a bitter laugh. “It means I’m tired, Satoru. Tired of feeling like a ghost when I’m with you. Tired of pretending I’m okay with being the weird friend you keep around out of habit.”
Satoru opened his mouth, then closed it.
And for the first time in your life, you saw it—hurt. Real, genuine hurt in his stupidly bright eyes.
“You think that’s what this is?” he said, voice quieter now. “Habit?”
You didn’t answer.
Because if you did, you might have to admit that you missed him. That you missed the late-night anime marathons, the dumb inside jokes, the way he used to act like you were the only person in the world that mattered.
But you weren’t sure if that version of him still existed.
And you definitely weren’t sure if you had the courage to find out.
Satoru stared at you for a long time, the weight of your words settling between you like a stone. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking, couldn’t decipher the way his lips pressed into a thin line, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—but wasn’t sure if he should.
Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“I don’t get it,” he admitted, voice lower now, quieter, like he was afraid too many words would push you further away. “You’re acting like I left you behind, but I’m right here.”
You bit your lip. “You don’t see it.”
“Then make me see it,” he shot back, suddenly frustrated. “Because all I know is that one day we were fine, and the next, you started treating me like a stranger.”
That stung.
Because wasn’t that what he did first?
He wasn’t the one being looked at differently in high school when he sat next to you at lunch. He wasn’t the one feeling like a burden when you tagged along with him to something you thought was just going to be the two of you. He wasn’t the one realizing, little by little, that your best friend was outgrowing you.
But how could you even say that? How could you explain it in a way he’d understand?
“It’s not just one thing, Satoru,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… everything.”
Satoru exhaled sharply, pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “That’s real specific.”
You rolled your eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into your bones. “You wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.”
You hesitated. He looked serious, standing there under the dim glow of the dorm hallway lights, arms crossed, gaze steady. But what would it change? Telling him wouldn’t undo the years of growing distance, wouldn’t erase the fact that you felt like you didn’t fit in his world anymore.
Maybe it was better to let it go.
So you shook your head, stepping back toward your door. “It’s late. You should go.”
Satoru let out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fine,” he said, jaw tightening. “Run away, then. You’re good at that.”
That hurt more than it should have.
But you didn’t argue. You just stepped inside, closed the door, and pretended the ache in your chest wasn’t real.
It got worse after that.
You thought maybe that argument would clear the air—that he’d finally see why you had been keeping your distance. But if anything, it only made things weirder.
Satoru still texted you, but not as much. He still invited you to things, but there was something almost hesitant in the way he asked, like he was bracing for rejection. And when you turned him down (because of course you did), his replies became shorter, more clipped.
Then, one night, he stopped asking altogether.
You didn’t realize how much you had come to expect it—his name popping up on your phone, his easy confidence that somehow, eventually, you’d say yes. But when Friday night came and went without a text, something inside you twisted.
Maybe this was what you wanted. Maybe it was easier this way.
So why did it feel so awful?
A week later, you ran into him by accident.
Literally.
You were coming out of the campus library, arms full of books, when someone rounded the corner too fast and nearly tackled you.
“Oh, shit—sorry—”
You looked up, heart dropping to your stomach.
Satoru.
Your hands clenched around the books, pulse stuttering. It had only been a week, but he already looked different—like he’d fully settled into his role as that guy. Loose hoodie, messy hair, the faint scent of cologne and something vaguely alcoholic clinging to him.
You swallowed hard. “Hey.”
His expression flickered—just for a second. “Hey.”
It was awkward. Awkward. When had things ever been awkward between you?
You shifted your grip on your books. “Uh—sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah, no, my bad,” he cut in quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
Silence stretched between you. Too long, too tense.
Then, suddenly, his eyes dropped to the stack in your arms. “Of course you’re carrying, like, ten books at once.”
It was such a Satoru thing to say that, for a second, you almost smiled.
Then his gaze flicked up to yours, something softer in his expression, and your breath hitched.
And then—
A voice called his name from across the quad. Some guy you didn’t know, waving him over. Satoru hesitated. Then, with a small exhale, he gave you a lopsided grin. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
He didn’t wait for a response before turning away.
And you stood there, watching him go, feeling like something important had just slipped through your fingers.
Days passed. Then a week. Then two.
And for the first time in years, Satoru Gojo wasn’t part of your life anymore.
No more texts. No more unannounced visits. No more standing at your dorm door at 2 AM, grinning like he belonged there.
You had wanted this, hadn’t you? You had wanted the space, the distance, the freedom to not be caught in his orbit.
But now, without him, everything just felt… quiet. You hated it.
You missed him.
—
It was months before you and Satoru spoke again.
At first, you kept waiting for him to text you, to pop up at your door with some stupid excuse, to send you a meme like nothing had happened. But days passed. Then weeks. Then months. And Satoru Gojo—your best friend since childhood—became just another person you saw in passing.
Sometimes, you spotted him across the quad, surrounded by his usual crowd. Sometimes, you caught glimpses of him at the library, laughing too loudly with friends who barely even acknowledged your existence.
And it hurt.
More than you wanted to admit, it hurt.
But you told yourself this was how things were meant to be. That he had moved on, and you needed to do the same. That whatever had existed between you belonged to another lifetime, one where you weren’t the quiet girl who spent her nights buried in books, and he wasn’t the golden boy who belonged to the whole damn world.
You thought you were doing fine. You thought you were getting used to it.
Until the professor announced lab partners.
The moment your name was called, a small, high-pitched voice cut through the classroom.
“Uh… who?”
Laughter rippled through the room. You felt your face go hot, every muscle in your body locking up as the girl—some blonde from Satoru’s usual group—looked around in exaggerated confusion.
It was humiliating.
Because she wasn’t just some random classmate. She was someone who had spent actual time with Satoru. Who had probably been to his dorm, who had probably sat next to him at parties, who had probably heard him talk about people in his life.
And she had no idea who you were.
You didn’t even dare look at Satoru. Didn’t want to see his reaction. Didn’t want to see whether he’d step in, whether he’d say anything—
But he didn’t.
He didn’t laugh, but he didn’t correct her either.
Didn’t turn to acknowledge you. Didn’t make some joke to brush past it. Didn’t do anything at all.
Just stared at the table like he was somewhere else entirely.
And that, somehow, was worse than anything.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral as you scribbled down the details of the assignment. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
—
Working with Satoru again was… weird.
Not just because of everything that had happened between you, but because neither of you seemed to know how to be around each other anymore.
Gone were the days of effortless conversation, of teasing remarks and stolen fries and arguments about Digimon evolutions. Now, everything felt stilted, careful, like you were two strangers trying to relearn the language of each other.
Sometimes, it almost felt normal.
Like when you sat across from each other in the library, bent over research notes, and he’d randomly hum the Sailor Moon theme song under his breath. Or when he muttered something stupid under his breath about the professor’s handwriting, and you nearly choked on your water holding back a laugh.
But then, inevitably, the moment would pass.
Because girls from his usual group would come over, acting like you weren’t even there, their voices too sweet as they draped themselves over the back of his chair.
“Satoru, are you coming to the party on Friday?”
“Satoru, when are you free? We should all hang out.”
And he’d always answer them. Always give some noncommittal shrug or a lazy smirk. But you could tell—even if no one else seemed to notice—that he wasn’t really there. That when he looked at them, he wasn’t listening.
And yet, he never told them to leave. Never told them that you were working. Never acknowledged you at all when they were around. So, after a while, you just stopped expecting him to.
And then, one day, you got sick.
Not just a little sick. Not just a sore throat or a cough you could push through. No, you were the kind of sick that made your whole body ache, that sent shivers down your spine no matter how many blankets you curled under.
But it was a project day. And despite everything, you still had responsibilities. So, begrudgingly, you shot Satoru a text.
Come to my dorm. I can’t go out today.
He didn’t reply right away. But twenty minutes later, there was a knock at your door. You barely managed to drag yourself over, your vision swimming slightly as you opened it.
And there he was.
Looking the same as always—messy white hair, sharp blue eyes, hoodie slung over his frame like he’d just rolled out of bed.
The only difference? The way his expression immediately dropped the second he saw you.
“Shit,” he muttered. “You look awful.”
You groaned, stepping aside to let him in. “Thanks for the confidence boost.” He kicked off his shoes, setting his bag down before eyeing you carefully. “Have you been drinking water? Eating enough? D’you eat somethin’ you weren’t meant to eat?”
You rolled your eyes. “How am I supposed to know, I just woke up sick as hell.”
Instead of a snarky remark, Satoru just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, before you could protest, he was guiding you toward the bed, nudging you to sit.
“You’re not working like this,” he said firmly. “Lie down.”
“I’m fine—”
“Lie down.”
You hesitated.
This wasn’t him. This wasn’t the version of Satoru you had gotten used to in the past year. The one who was always a little distant, a little out of reach. This was… him.
The Satoru you had known since childhood. The one who always knew when you were exhausted, even when you swore you weren’t. The one who used to push his fries onto your plate when you were too stressed to eat.
The one who, for the first time in months, was looking at you like you were still his best friend. So, slowly, you lay back down.
Satoru exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get you some tea or something. You have any?” You nodded weakly. He moved toward your desk, rummaging through your stash of instant tea packets like he had done it a million times before.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was familiar.
Safe.
And even though you felt like death warmed over, for the first time in months, you didn’t feel so alone.
—
From that day on, something shifted.
It wasn’t immediate, and it wasn’t dramatic, but it was there—a quiet, almost imperceptible change in the way things were between you and Satoru. The library, once the default meeting spot for your project sessions, was suddenly off the table. He stopped suggesting it altogether, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. But then, one afternoon, he showed up at your dorm unannounced, arms loaded with snacks and a careless shrug when you stared at him, bewildered.
“Library’s too loud,” he said, brushing past you and stepping inside like he owned the place. “Figured we’d get more done here.”
You didn’t question it. Not then, and not a week later when you found yourself in his dorm instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he scrolled through research notes on his laptop.
“Library’s too crowded,” he explained that time, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
After that, it just became… routine. Your project meetings moved from the library to your dorms, back and forth, as if by some unspoken agreement. The shift was gradual, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You still weren’t quite friends again—not the way you used to be, back when everything was easy and uncomplicated. There was still a careful distance between you, an unspoken awareness of all the time that had been lost, all the moments that had slipped through your fingers. But things weren’t cold anymore. They weren’t distant.
Satoru filled the quiet moments with mindless chatter, the way he always had. He teased you about your typos, stole your pens when you weren’t looking, and groaned dramatically whenever you made him do too much reading. Slowly, bit by bit, the pieces of your friendship started falling back into place. Not completely. Not yet. But enough that sometimes, when the two of you were laughing over something stupid, it almost felt like the past year had never happened.
Then, one day, everything cracked open.
It was late—much later than usual—and the two of you were sitting in his dorm, textbooks and notebooks sprawled across his desk. You were both exhausted, the kind of tired that made your eyes burn and your thoughts sluggish. Satoru was absentmindedly flipping through one of your old notebooks when he suddenly snorted.
“Oh my God.”
You blinked up at him, too tired to muster more than a mumbled, “What?”
He turned the notebook toward you, pointing at a messy doodle in the margin. It was a Digimon—a rough, scribbled outline that barely resembled anything recognizable. But something about it made him grin, leaning back in his chair like he’d just uncovered a hidden treasure.
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “Feels like a whole different lifetime ago.”
And then, in a voice so casual, so familiar, he added—
“Remember when we made a whole ass PowerPoint ranking every Digimon evolution?”
That was it.
That was what broke you.
It was so stupid—just a random memory, an offhand remark. But the second he said it, something in your chest twisted violently. You clenched your jaw, swallowing hard, telling yourself not to be dramatic. But then your vision blurred, and suddenly, you were crying.
“Oh—oh shit.”
Satoru’s chair scraped against the floor as he shot up, eyes wide with panic. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
You barely managed to shake your head, your hands gripping your knees as you tried to steady yourself. But the tears kept coming, and then—through the hiccups, through the pathetic, trembling gasps—you broke.
You clenched your jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears spilled over anyway. Your chest heaved as you choked out the words, “I miss you. I—God, Satoru, I miss you.”
His face went slack, his usual confidence faltering as he stared at you, stunned. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, like he was trying to process what you’d just said. Then his voice came out quiet, almost fragile. “What are you talking about? I’m right here.”
You shook your head, your hands gripping your knees so tightly your knuckles turned white. “No, you’re not. Not really. You’ve been… gone. For so long. And I—” Your voice broke, and you hated how weak you sounded, how raw and exposed you felt. “I don’t want to be without you anymore. I don’t—I don’t want you to hate me.”
Satoru’s breath hitched, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack. His eyes glistened, and he blinked rapidly, like he was trying to fight it, but a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, his voice trembling as he muttered, “You’re so fucking stupid. How could I ever hate you?”
You let out a shaky laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “I don’t know. You just—you stopped talking to me. You stopped needing me. And I thought… I thought you didn’t care anymore.”
He shook his head, his hands reaching out like he wanted to touch you but wasn’t sure if he should. “I care. I care so much it’s stupid. I just—” He paused, his voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know how to come back after everything. It felt like you were pushing me away.”
“You could’ve just— I don’t even know what to say,” you hiccuped, your voice barely audible. “You could’ve just… stayed. I don’t know— like yell at me, tell me that you care for me or something. I wish I wasn’t so stubborn about not speaking to you either, but god, maybe I just wanted you to like— tell me how much you needed me. Because it never felt like you did anymore.”
Satoru’s face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping like the weight of everything had finally caught up to him. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice raw. “I’m so sorry for leaving you behind. I didn’t mean to. I just… I didn’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’d already ruined everything.”
You looked up at him, your vision blurred by tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just… I needed you. And you weren’t there. And really, it was my fault too, for not communicating—”
He cuts you off, his own tears falling freely now, though he didn’t seem to care. “I know. But I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. I— I should’ve been there for you more often because God, life without you is just so horrible, and I’ve been so horrible— ”
“You’re fixing it now,” you said, your voice trembling. “Just… don’t leave me again. Please.”
He let out a choked laugh, his hands finally reaching for you, pulling you into his chest. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. “I won’t,” he murmured into your hair. “I won’t. I promise.”
You buried your face in his shirt, your hands clutching the fabric as you cried. His body shook against yours, and you realized he was crying too—quietly, almost like he was trying to hide it, but you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his hands trembled as they held you.
“I missed you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Every fucking day. I just didn’t know how to say it.”
You didn’t respond, couldn’t respond, because the weight of everything—the months of silence, the distance, the ache of missing him—was finally crashing down on you. But for the first time in what felt like forever, it wasn’t a bad kind of crash. It was relief. It was the feeling of something broken finally starting to heal.
Satoru’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he held you closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, his voice firm despite the tears. “Not again. Not ever.”
You nodded against his chest, your tears soaking into his shirt. “Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”
It took a long time for the tears to stop, for the sobs to quiet into shaky breaths. But even when they did, neither of you moved. Satoru kept holding you, his arms tight around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt safe. You felt like you were home.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were red and puffy, but he was smiling—a small, tentative smile that made your chest ache in the best way. “You’re stuck with me now, like y’know, the annoying kid who’d follow you around as kids,” he said, his voice soft. “Just so you know.”
You laughed, the sound watery but genuine. “Good. Because I miss that Satoru, and I’m not letting you go again either.”
He grinned, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Deal.”
And just like that, something shifted. The distance between you closed, the cracks in your friendship slowly mending. It wasn’t perfect—not yet—but it was a start. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like everything was going to be okay.
—
After that night, Satoru made it a point to talk to you during class.
It was weird at first—uncomfortable, even. Because now, whenever he sat beside you, people stared. People whispered. But Satoru didn’t care. And after a while, neither did you.
Then, one day, it happened.
You were in the middle of a conversation when one of the girls from his usual group strolled up, her friends lingering just behind her.
“Dude,” she drawled, arms crossed. “We’re waiting for you.”
Satoru didn’t acknowledge her.
She huffed, looking at you for the first time.
“Who even are you?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Silence.
Then—calmly, lazily—Satoru turned to her.
“Fuck off.”
Her expression twisted. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re talking.”
You swore you saw steam coming out of her ears.
She spun on her heel, storming off in a flurry of designer fabric, and Satoru just turned back to you like nothing had happened.
You blinked at him, stunned. “That was… aggressive.”
He shrugged. “Don’t like her.”
You snorted. “You used to hang out with her all the time.”
“Yeah, well.” He gave you a pointed look. “I was an idiot.”
And maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the certainty in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little closer like this—this—was what mattered.
But for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Something warm. Something steady. Something that told you, without a doubt—
Satoru Gojo wasn’t leaving you behind again.
—
It happened slowly.
At first, it was just the way things had been before. You and Satoru were best friends again—finally, properly—and you were making up for lost time.
You sat together in lectures. You ate together between classes. You spent hours holed up in each other’s dorms, either working in silence or complaining about whatever god-awful assignment was due next.
And it was good. It was easy.
But then—then—things started to shift.
It was subtle at first.
A hand brushing against yours for just a little too long. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in a too-crowded study session, his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in, muttering something you could barely focus on.
The way his eyes lingered when he thought you weren’t looking.
The way yours lingered, too.
—
It was a Friday night, and you were at Satoru’s dorm, lying on his bed while he sat at his desk, spinning lazily in his chair.
“I don’t wanna study,” he whined, stretching his arms over his head. “Let’s do something fun.”
You turned a page in your book, unimpressed. “And what exactly do you define as ‘fun’?”
“Dunno,” he mused. “Wanna go for a drive?”
You sighed. “Satoru, it’s almost midnight.”
“And?” He grinned, kicking his feet up onto his desk. “C’mon, live a little.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “You just don’t want to do your readings.”
“Obviously.” He snorted. “But also, I feel like getting snacks.”
You hesitated, torn.
Then, finally—
“Fine.”
His eyes lit up. “Knew you’d cave.”
You rolled your eyes, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go before I change my mind.”
—
It was raining by the time you got to the convenience store.
Not heavily—just a light drizzle, enough to make the streets shimmer under the streetlights.
Satoru grabbed half the store’s supply of junk food while you rolled your eyes, paying for your single bottle of tea. Outside, the air was cool, the pavement slick beneath your feet.
“I’m driving,” you said as he dug through his bag of snacks.
“Nah.” He grinned, tossing a chip into his mouth. “I got this.”
You gave him a look. “You almost crashed last time.”
He scoffed. “That was a red light, not a crash.”
“You ran the red light.”
“Meow.”
You cringe, snatching the keys from his pocket. “Oh my god. Absolutely not.”
Satoru laughed but let you.
And for some reason, that made your stomach flip.
—
Back at your dorm, Satoru made himself at home—because of course he did.
He sprawled across your bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other mindlessly tossing a snack in the air and catching it with his mouth.
“You should be paying me rent at this point,” you muttered, shutting the door behind you.
“I would,” he said, grinning, “but I’m broke.”
You huffed, settling onto the bed beside him. “What, your trust fund isn’t enough?”
He smirked. “Nah, gotta save that for important things.”
You rolled your eyes. “Right. Like overpriced sunglasses.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, reaching for the remote.
And then—a shift.
Satoru turned his head to look at you, and when you met his gaze, something in his expression softened.
“Hey,” he murmured.
You swallowed. “Hey.”
He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Your breath hitched.
His fingers lingered at your temple, just for a moment. His touch was warm, featherlight.
You exhaled, heartbeat stuttering.
And then—just as quickly—he pulled back, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan.
“What should we watch?” he asked, stretching like nothing had happened.
You exhaled.
Your chest felt tight.
“Uh.” You cleared your throat. “Dunno.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
—
But the tension didn’t. If anything, it only got worse.
It was in the way his hand brushed your waist when he reached past you.
The way he sat just a little too close, his knee knocking against yours under the desk.
The way his fingers trailed across your wrist when he grabbed something from you, his touch slow, deliberate.
And—God—it was in the way he looked at you.
Like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.
Like he was waiting for something.
Like he wanted something.
And maybe—just maybe—so did you.
—
By the time second year rolled around, you weren’t sure what you and Satoru were anymore. Still best friends, technically. Still Satoru and you. But there was something else, too.
Something unspoken.
Something fragile and complicated and new. And neither of you dared to acknowledge it.
—
The weather had started to change, the air cooler as autumn crept in. You could feel it in your bones—when the days shortened, and the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows. It made everything seem a little softer, like the world had gone quiet just to give you and Satoru a chance to breathe, to figure things out.
You were both sitting in the small, somewhat neglected corner of the university park, surrounded by towering trees with golden leaves fluttering to the ground. You were both on the grass, sitting close enough that your shoulders brushed whenever you shifted. It was the kind of quiet afternoon you could’ve stayed in forever, and maybe that was why you weren’t quite ready to let it end.
Satoru stretched, his arms reaching high above his head. “Ugh, my back’s killing me. Who knew studying could be so physically demanding?” He rolled his shoulders, groaning dramatically.
You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips curling into a smile despite yourself. “I think that’s just you, Satoru. You’re a professional at making everything harder than it is.”
He shot you a grin, a smug little thing, like he knew you couldn’t resist teasing him back. “Oh, please, I make things look easy. It's a gift.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the great Satoru Gojo.”
He raised an eyebrow at that, catching the teasing tone in your voice. “That’s right. You should be honored to sit next to greatness.” He nudged your shoulder with his, the warmth of his body spilling into yours. The touch was light but undeniable. Familiar.
You chuckled, nudging him back. “I don’t know if I’d call you ‘great’ when you still lose to me in Mario Kart every time.”
Satoru gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you’d just struck a mortal wound. “You—I’m just going easy on you because I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m a gentleman like that.”
You could hear the playful teasing in his voice, but the way he looked at you—his eyes crinkling at the corners with that boyish grin—felt like something deeper.
“I don’t need you to go easy on me,” you teased, leaning in just a bit too much, your voice soft. “I’m pretty good on my own, thanks.”
That was when you noticed it—the way his eyes flickered for a second, his lips curving down ever so slightly before he caught himself. His gaze held yours for a second longer than normal, and for the first time in a while, you both just stayed there. Not a word. No jokes or banter. Just the space between you thick with unspoken things.
Satoru was the first to look away, clearing his throat. “Anyway, want me to go grab us something from that little café over there? You could use some food if you’re gonna keep up with me.”
You hesitated. He’s back to that again. The Satoru who was always making sure you were fed, always thinking ahead for both of you, even when he had to act like nothing was different.
But you didn’t want to ruin the moment, not now. Not when everything felt right.
“No, I’m good,” you said softly, shaking your head. “But... thanks.”
Satoru studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly, before he dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “I swear, you’re impossible.” But even as he said it, his hand reached out—just a quick pat of his large hand atop yours. The briefest of contact, and for a moment, the world paused around you.
The warmth of his hand lingered even after it was gone, and you could feel your chest tightening, your pulse picking up. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.
And for the rest of the afternoon, you stayed like that. Silent. Comfortable in the space between you, letting the quiet be enough. But you both knew it wasn’t just the park that made the air heavy—it was everything unsaid that clung to it.
Eventually, the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the grass. You sighed, looking up at Satoru. “We should probably get back soon. It’s getting late.”
He glanced at his phone, then at you, and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” He paused. “Hey, you want to walk with me to my dorm? I’m not ready to head back alone yet.”
It wasn’t even a question, not really. But you could feel his eyes on you, like he was waiting for your answer to matter just as much as the offer itself.
You nodded, and the tension between you both lifted just a little as you both stood, stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Sure, let’s go.”
As you and Satoru walked side by side, the night air crisp and cool against your skin, the silence between you felt heavier than before. It wasn’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite. It was charged, like something waiting to tip over the edge. Every step you took together seemed to draw you closer, and you could feel the warmth of his body beside you, even in the chill of the evening.
You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, his hand brushed against yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away. The tips of his fingers grazed your knuckles—light, tentative. Like he was testing the waters. Like he was waiting for you to stop him.
But you didn’t.
You swallowed, trying to focus on the rhythmic crunch of leaves beneath your feet rather than the way your skin tingled where he touched you. It was such a small thing, barely even a touch, but it sent your heart skittering against your ribs. And when you finally dared to glance up at him, Satoru was already looking at you, his lips curled into something between amusement and something softer, something unreadable.
“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
Satoru tilted his head, his silver-white hair catching in the glow of the streetlights. “Nothing.”
A lie.
Because there was something—so much something—wrapped up in the way his eyes flickered over you, lingering for just a second too long on your lips before he looked ahead again.
The air between you felt tight, humming with something unsaid.
You were nearing his dorm now, the pathway growing quieter, fewer students passing by. It was just the two of you, footsteps slowing, the night pressing in close.
Satoru exhaled a slow breath, and then—without thinking, or maybe because he had been thinking about it too much—he reached out again. This time, his fingers laced through yours, not just a brush, not just an accident. A deliberate touch, a quiet declaration.
Your breath caught, and you felt him squeeze—just slightly, just enough.
“You okay?” he murmured, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.
You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. You?”
His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Dunno,” he said, squeezing your fingers again. “You’re kind of distracting.”
Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Oh, I’m distracting? That’s rich, coming from you.”
He huffed a laugh, the sound warm, teasing. “No, I mean it.” He stopped walking, tugging you gently by the hand so you turned to face him. “You ever notice how quiet things get when it’s just us?”
You blinked, your throat tightening. “Satoru—”
His free hand lifted, his fingertips barely skimming your jaw. He wasn’t quite touching, just there, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like he wasn’t sure if he should close the space between you.
And God, you wanted him to.
Your pulse pounded in your ears. It would be so easy. Just one step closer. Just one little push, and—
Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand falling away, his fingers untangling from yours. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “Never mind,” he muttered, laughing under his breath like he was scolding himself. “Forget I said anything.”
Your fingers twitched at your sides, the absence of his touch making your skin feel cold.
“No,” you said, firmer than you expected. “I don’t want to.”
His head snapped up, eyes wide, startled. “You don’t?”
You took a breath, steeling yourself. “No.”
Satoru stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he shook his head. “You really are impossible.”
And then, before you could overthink it, before you could talk yourself out of it—you stepped forward, pressing your palm against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his hoodie. His breath hitched, his body going still under your touch.
The silence stretched again, thick and unyielding.
“Say it,” you whispered.
His hands hovered at your sides, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Say what?”
You looked up at him, unflinching. “Whatever it is you’re holding back.”
Satoru exhaled, a sharp, unsteady thing. His hands finally settled on your waist, hesitant at first—then firmer, more certain. His fingers pressed into your hips, grounding himself in the feel of you.
And then, his voice—low, raw, real.
“I don’t want to be just your best friend anymore.”
Your breath caught.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The words hung between you, heavy and dangerous and everything.
Then, Satoru leaned in, his nose just barely brushing yours, his lips hovering so close. His breath was warm, and when he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.
“I want more.”
And then, finally—finally—you closed the space between you.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It was hungry, desperate, like the both of you had been waiting too long to do this, like neither of you wanted to waste another second. His lips crashed against yours, and you gasped against his mouth as he backed you up against the door of his dorm, hands gripping your waist tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, feeling the heat of him seep into you. His body pressed against yours, and the air between you turned thick with something intoxicating, something impossible to stop now that it had started. The small, breathless noises you made against his mouth only seemed to push him further, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare skin, warm and firm and so much.
The door behind you dug into your back, and for a fleeting moment, a thought broke through the haze—what if someone sees us?
As if he could read your mind, Satoru groaned against your lips, impatient, and without breaking the kiss, he reached behind you, fumbling for the handle. The second the door swung open, he practically pulled you inside with him, kicking it shut before his lips were on yours again, urgent, demanding.
You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was guiding you backwards, hands never leaving your body, mouth never straying too far from yours. You stumbled together, his grip firm, his kisses growing deeper, hotter, more insistent as you moved through the dark room.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your pulse was a wild, unsteady thing, your skin burning under his touch.
His mouth was warm and soft against yours, kissing your lips like he was afraid you were gonna disappear. Using his strength to his advantage, he manhandled you into his lap on the bed, while he sat up against the headboard. His tongue prodded into your mouth experimentally, and when you obliged him entry, he swirled it around with yours before licking into the cavern of your mouth, tasting you as if you were one of those sickeningly sweet delicacies he enjoyed.
His hands roamed from your waist to your hips, to your thighs before stopping hesitantly over your ass, to which you dragged them down until he was squeezing and kneading the supple flesh with his hands, mouth slotted against yours.
You pulled back slightly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. But Satoru didn’t let you go far. His hands were firm on your ass, keeping you anchored to him as his lips trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, and you tilted your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.
His mouth moved lower, pressing hot, lingering kisses along the column of your neck. Each touch of his lips against your skin felt like fire, and you couldn’t suppress the soft moan that escaped your throat. His hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but gentle, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. One hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer, while the other cupped the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek.
“Satoru,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper, but he didn’t respond—not with words, anyway. Instead, he captured your lips again in a desperate, hungry kiss that left you dizzy. His tongue slid against yours, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as the world around you seemed to fade away.
His hands roamed your body with a kind of urgency, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. One moment they were in your hair, the next sliding down your back, pulling you even closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, and you tugged at it impatiently, wanting—needing—to feel his skin against yours.
He broke the kiss long enough to yank his shirt over his head, tossing it aside before his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time. His hands found the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without hesitation, letting him pull it off and discard it somewhere on the floor. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to quell the heat building inside you.
Satoru’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of your waist, skimming over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast under your bra. You arched into him, chasing the friction, desperate for more.
His mouth found yours again, urgent and unrelenting, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, deliberate stroke that left you breathless. He kissed you like he wanted to consume you, like he didn’t care about anything else but this—you.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven. Every kiss, every touch, every press of his hands left you dizzy, lost in the haze of heat and want.
And when he pulled back, just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide and his lips swollen from kissing, you swore you’d never seen him look at anything the way he was looking at you now.
Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.
Both of your chests were heaving, your own shirt flung on the bed somewhere and Satoru’s completely off and forgotten somewhere on the floor. His hands were still settled on your waist, thumbs tracing slow circles over your heated skin. His head lolled back against the couch, a lazy, satisfied grin stretching across his lips.
“Damn,” he exhaled, voice slightly hoarse. “I think I saw the pearly gates for a second there.”
You scoffed, giving his shoulder a weak shove, while reaching for your shirt. “Dramatic.”
He only laughed, the sound bright and breathless. “I mean it, nerd. Who knew you had it in you?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers curling against his shoulders. “Satoru.”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up.”
His grin widened, but he obeyed—for all of two seconds. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, he waggled his brows. “You know, we should really make this a regular thing. Like, for health purposes. I feel like I just did an entire cardio session.”
You smacked his arm. “Oh my god.”
He gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to his bare chest. “See? That was uncalled for. Here I am, trying to improve my well-being, and you’re—”
“Satoru.” You fixed him with a look, but the corners of your lips twitched. He was impossible.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating under your fingertips. “Okay, okay, I’ll be good.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, as if to ground himself—or maybe to keep you exactly where you were. “But… just so we’re clear, this isn’t, like, a one-time thing, right?”
You blinked, his sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. His usual playfulness was still there, but there was something else beneath it—something genuine, something careful.
You swallowed. “What do you mean?”
His gaze flickered over your face, searching. “I mean…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before looking at you again. “I was serious, you know. About liking you. More than a friend.”
Your breath hitched. “You were?”
Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Obviously. You think I just let anyone straddle me and—”
You smacked his chest. “Can you not ruin the moment?”
He caught your wrist before you could pull away, lacing his fingers through yours. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, quieter. “I was serious,” he repeated. “I am serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I like you, and I want to do this properly.”
Your heart thudded against your ribs. “Properly?”
He nodded, suddenly looking almost shy. “Like… an actual date. Multiple dates. Boyfriend privileges. All that cute shit.” His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “So, what do you say?”
Your stomach flipped, warmth spreading through your chest. “You’re actually asking me out?”
Satoru huffed a laugh. “Well, yeah. What, you thought I’d just kiss you senseless and leave you hanging?”
You bit your lip, pretending to think. “I dunno. You are kind of a menace.”
His brows shot up. “A menace?”
You giggled, and he groaned, tightening his grip on your waist. “Okay, that’s it, you’re legally required to say yes now.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile stretching across your lips. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll go out with you.”
His face lit up, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, arms wrapping fully around your waist. He shifted, rolling you onto the bed so he was hovering over you, his weight pressed deliciously against yours.
“Guess that makes you my girlfriend now,” he murmured against your lips. “Which means—” His fingers trailed down your side, teasing. “—I get unlimited make-out privileges.”
You huffed a laugh. “You’re so weird.”
“Would you like it if I said sex privileges too?”
“I’m gonna seriously hurt you—“
Satoru only smirked before cutting you off with another kiss.
—
A few months into dating Satoru, you realised three things.
One, he had absolutely no concept of personal space. If he was near you, he was touching you—whether it was throwing an arm over your shoulder, draping himself across your lap, or trapping you against a wall just to say hi like a complete menace.
Two, he was shamelessly, overwhelmingly, ridiculously obsessed with you. If he wasn’t texting you, he was calling. If he wasn’t calling, he was physically finding you. And if he couldn’t find you, he’d send a stupidly dramatic voice memo about how he was “perishing” without you.
And three, he was always teasing. Always testing his limits, pushing your buttons, flashing that damn smug grin whenever you got flustered.
Like right now.
“I think you should stay over.”
You blinked up at him from where you were curled up on his bed, wearing one of his hoodies that was way too big for you. “I am staying over.”
Satoru huffed, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. “No, I mean, like, actually stay over. Move in.”
You snorted. “Satoru.”
“What? I’m serious.” He nudged your knee with his own. “Just think about it. That trust fund has enough money— actually maybe more— for an apartment near college. We basically live together anyway.”
“Not even close.”
He scoffed. “Oh, please. You leave clothes here, you steal my hoodies—”
“They’re practically dresses on me.”
“—and you’re here more than you’re at your own place.”
“That’s a lie.”
Satoru gasped dramatically. “Oh, so I’m imagining you in my bed every night?”
Your face warmed, but you shot him a glare. “You’re exaggerating.”
He only grinned, scooting closer until your noses nearly brushed. “You love sleeping here,” he drawled. “You love my bed, you love my cuddles, you love this d—”
You smacked a hand over his mouth, but it barely muffled his muffled laughter.
“I swear to God, Satoru—”
Before you could finish, he grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back, caging you beneath him in one smooth motion. His weight was just enough to make your breath hitch, his silver lashes casting shadows over sharp blue eyes.
“You love me,” he finished, his voice dipping lower, teasing, smug.
Your stomach flipped.
“…Debatable,” you muttered.
Satoru barked out a laugh. “Debatable?” He leaned down, nuzzling into your neck as his hands slid under his hoodie, warm palms settling against your waist. “You’re literally in my bed wearing my clothes right now.”
Your breath stuttered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear.
“Admit it,” he murmured. “You’re obsessed with me.”
You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping his bare shoulders. “Satoru—”
“I mean, I don’t blame you.” He grinned against your skin, pressing another kiss, this one lower. “I am insanely hot.”
You groaned. “You ruin everything.”
Satoru laughed, bright and breathless, before rolling over, pulling you fully on top of him with ease. His hands never left your waist, fingertips dancing over your skin in slow, lazy patterns.
Then he suddenly reached behind him, grabbed something off the nightstand, and slid his glasses onto his face.
You blinked. “I thought you preferred contacts now?”
Satoru hummed, adjusting them slightly as he gazed up at you. “Yeah, but I dunno…” His lips curled into a small, lopsided smile. “You always liked me better in these, didn’t you?”
Your breath hitched slightly. He wasn’t wrong—there was something about the way his glasses framed his face, how they softened him just a little, made him look more like the Satoru you’d known before he became everyone else’s.
“…You’re so full of yourself,” you muttered.
His grin widened. “And yet, you’re still staring.”
You scoffed, reaching up to pluck them off his face, but he caught your wrist, tugging you down until your noses brushed.
“Admit it,” he murmured. “You like me better like this.”
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
“I like you anyway,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.
Something flickered in his eyes—something soft, something warm—before his grin turned teasing again. “Good,” he said, rolling you onto your back in one smooth motion. “Because I was gonna keep you here all night either way.”
You barely managed to mutter, “You’re so weird,” before he cut you off with another kiss.
i don't like this work at ALL lol but tbh i wrote this because i want to be wanted UGH hdhjsdh
from pregnancy freak to postpartum freak — satoru finds himself in a tough spot while your body is recovering from giving birth to his child. he tries to be patient but motherhood looks so beautiful on you… and unfortunately, after you’re ready to have him again, there seems to be another little issue — one that likes to cry and disrupt the moment satoru has been longing for
MDNI, established relationship, f!reader (she/her), pregnancy and postpartum, you have a beautiful baby daughter, mentions of breastfeeding and satoru being really really weird about it, mentions of male masturbation, somno if you squint really hard (just to be safe), pet names (baby, beautiful, sweetheart), nothing too explicit going on here tbf, but there’s a sweet little hint of a potential breeding sesh at the end, not proofread, wc: 1.8k+
your husband (gojo satoru) and you have always had a marvelous sex life, one that would naturally induce a sense of envy in anyone who came to know of it, accidentally or not — the walls were thin, but sometimes it was the mouth of your husband that was too big.
but in all honesty, there has never been a day in which you didn’t desire each other carnally, even after so many years.
you thought, maybe, this might change after he knocked you up with a baby — you had read a handful of articles on the topic and how some men become more distant during that sensitive timeframe — but as it turns out, you could not have been more wrong. either those magazines sucked or your husband was some sort of mutation. maybe, it was both.
your pregnancy could be, in fact, easily considered the peak of your sex life — that round belly of yours really did a number on him, as well as on you. well, with you it was the hormonal changes your body was going through that made you so borderline sexually insatiable, and the mood to bounce on him would strike you more often than ever. at some point, your sex drive went off the roof — you’d ask him to fuck you multiple times a day and satoru couldn’t be more fortunate — he’d drop everything and oblige in an instant, like that was all he had been waiting for, which was not so far from the truth. it was safe to say that you enabled the freak in him, and he was grateful.
“thank god… i don’t know how else i could survive those 9 months with you glowing like this, becoming more and more beautiful with each passing day”, he’d say to you every time you pressed and rubbed your ass against his cock in the middle of the night, not so innocently waking him up because you had a craving.
you had a lot of sex, but he was always careful with your aches and pains, no quirky positions until the baby was born — your physique didn’t allow it as the pregnancy progressed anyway. but the passion was always there, undeniably so, growing along with you.
but things changed after you went into labor and your daughter was born. the perfect little angel, his and his baby’s baby. satoru has never been happier.
to be honest, he didn’t think about sex at all in the beginning. he was on cloud nine, overjoyed. every second of his day was spent exploring this new light in his life and taking care of the both of you.
after you got discharged from the hospital, he took it upon himself to look after the house and deal with the chores — he handled the cooking, he washed the dishes, cleaned, did the laundry and everything else that needed to be done — while you were healing and navigating through motherhood. he helped you nurse your daughter, there wasn’t a single night where he didn’t wake up along with you whenever the baby needed feeding or randomly started crying.
but soon enough, after he adapted to this new pace, his sex drive started showing signs of its return. it came back strong — in fact, stronger than ever, and once again it was none other than you to blame for it.
…because, being a mother looked so good on you.
you have been his wife for years. but now, you are the mother of his child, and that is a title that somehow makes you his even more than ever. it is so permanent. because, even if you leave him one day — which you never would since he would simply never allow it — being the mother of his child will always tie you to him, he will always have a place in your life. that’s it, you just made it impossible for yourself to run away from him. like it or not, you will be his eternally and irrevocably.
he liked watching you be a mother and couldn’t help but get bricked up each time you held your daughter close to your chest, revealing your breast and holding it to her mouth in order to feed her.
was this normal? to get this hard? now of all times? — he didn’t know, and honestly, he didn’t bother finding out. because, when was he ever normal about you to begin with?
all he wanted to do in those moments was pin you down and fuck himself into you. you could see it in his eyes and in his bulge that he was trying to readjust.
“don’t try anything funny in front of the baby”
“i would never — i am simply watching and engraving this scene into my mind, for later”
‘for later’ obviously meant when he was jerking off.
the doctor said “no sexual intercourse for six weeks”
your body needed time to heal after giving birth, and that was only natural. and it was okay.
but it didn’t mean it wasn’t arduous for him. he had to watch you day and night without being able to touch you in ways he wanted to.
and now it’s been two months. two whole months without him laying a finger on you. his urges were back with full force, but yours? not really.
sure, you cuddled plenty while the baby was sleeping, which made it even harder for him. but you never got sexually intimate after you gave birth. he was well aware that you needed more time, that your body was still not ready, that you were exhausted physically and mentally because, once again, you were going through all these changes — because of him.
he understood that. but still, he missed you so much.
he’d jerk off whenever he got the chance, more than once a day, in fact. religiously so in the shower, it was a must — or else he would find it more difficult to manage himself around you.
sometimes he’d watch you breastfeed the baby and secretly sneak into the bathroom midway through it to rub one out, because if he didn’t — he’d bust right then and there. but can you blame him? you looked so maternal, so ungodly and unapologetically beautiful. the way you hissed whenever the baby sucked too hard on your nipple made him wish it was him dragging those sounds out of you…
fuck. he was becoming a freak again.
there were nights when he would wake up, as hard as a rock, and watch you sleep while fisting himself in the spot next to you in bed. he would be careful not to wake you when pushing the cleavage of your gown down, just enough to take your breasts out. he’d peck you softly on the nipples and that would inevitably and always lead to him uncontrollably unloading himself inside his palm. sometimes he would make a mess of the bedsheets, other times — of your nightgown.
“shit— if simply touching your skin does this to me, then i don’t want to think what will happen to me the second i slide it in”, he’d curse under his nose while washing off in the bathroom. “fuck. i miss you, baby”, he’d brush a hand over his face. “look what you made of me…”, and he would get hard all over again, just because for a split second he thought of being inside you.
luckily, you soon started dropping subtle hints of desiring him — initiating longer morning kisses, biting your lower lip and giving him the look whenever he walked out of the shower, saying his name in that same sweet voice with an undertone of fake innocence you would use in the past every time you wanted him to do things to you, rubbing his chest as you cuddled in bed or on the couch, sometimes your hand would slide a bit lower down his abdomen… but, that was it.
satoru never saw past the pearly gates, because his sweet angel of a baby would always start crying in the most inappropriate of times, as if on purpose.
“you go — i don’t want to face my daughter with a boner”, he’d whine, and you’d chuckle.
he loved his daughter more than anything, but he was genuinely bummed out and he had to do something about it.
one afternoon, after you fed the baby and left her in the care of your husband to go and take a shower, satoru put his daughter in the crib and leaned over with a serious expression of a parent about to lecture their misbehaving kid.
“listen, little miss, because we have a problem”
the baby chuckles in response.
“…and apparently, you know it”, satoru snorts. “but listen here, i know you love mama and you want her all to yourself. but what about papa?”, he pouts. “papa loves her too and wants her all to himself, at least once a day, but you’re not giving him a chance here. it’s not like i am asking for an entire day, just stay put for 15 minutes — 15 minutes is all i am asking for. deal?”
his daughter lets out another sweet chuckle.
“i’ll take that as a yes”, he caresses her cheek before leaving the room with the baby monitor in hand to join you in the shower.
finally. it was happening.
he stripped out of his clothes and walked into the bathroom, placing the baby monitor on the sink countertop before stepping into the shower cabin, letting the hot stream wash down his body as he reached for you.
“hello, beautiful”
“oh—“, you jolt. “you’re here? but what about the ba—"
“shh—“, he puts a finger on your lips, his free hand snaking around your waist to pull you close. “don’t worry, she’s fine. if something happens, we’ll know it from the baby monitor — so just relax”
you smile against his fingertip and softly peck it before sucking it in between your lips. his cock, already hard and squished between your naked bodies, throbs with a powerful twitch. a low growl rolls out of his mouth.
“god… i’ve missed you so much”, his hips involuntarily push against you, a desperate attempt to seek more friction by humping himself on your stomach. with how starved he was for you, he could probably finish just from this. but he wanted to take it slow and savor every second.
“it’s been so long, isn’t it?”
he nods. “i thought i was going to die”
you laugh. “you’re exaggerating”
“i am not… i never thought our tiny little angel could be such a huge devilish cockblock”
“you shouldn’t speak like that about our kid”, you snort.
“but it’s true. she’s a sly one, and obviously she’s obsessed with you”, he pouts.
“i wonder who she took it from…”
“she’s going to cause me a lot of trouble, isn’t she? but maybe, if we gave her a friend, she wouldn’t feel as lonely. maybe then, we’d get to have more alone time — like this. what do you think?”
“she’s too young for a pet, satoru. you know that”
he laughs. “i didn’t mean a pet, sweetheart. but we can get that too at some point”
cw. 18+. semi public sex. sub undertones. breeding kink.
“—ohhhh fuckkkkk,”
he doesn’t understand it— any of it. he doesn’t understand how he, of all people, managed to get you. the it girl on campus— with pretty hairstyles and cutesy nails, flocks of both girls and boys crawling after you for the slightest bit of your attention, is somehow interested in the least known guy around— the lanky, socially awkward physics teacher assistant with fading digimon stickers glued to the back of his worn down computer.
gojo assumes he’s experiencing one hell of a good dream. that’s the only way to explain the insatiable feeling of wet heat enveloping his aching dick. it’s the only way to explain the pornographic sounds of skin slapping echoing in this empty library. it’s the only way to explain why his balls are begging for release with each grind of needy hips rocking against his own.
he doesn’t want to wake up. he feels the cheap fabric of carpet beneath his fingernails from digging them into the floor. his knuckles are turning white from how hard he’s clenching. there’s an abnormal tightening of a knot in his guts begging to be snapped. he can feel beads of sweat forming at his hairline and his foggy glasses are slipping past his nose bridge uncomfortably—
but he doesn’t want to wake up.
planted on the heels of whatever latest trendy shoes you own, you’re riding his cock as if he were your lifeline. god you feel divine— your folds swallowing him into your cunt with such ease and precision, walls clenching down the moment he’s balls deep. he can feel your acrylics scratching at his undercut with one hand while the other holds your body steady down his thigh.
gojo doesn’t think he’s breathing, and frankly, isn’t sure if he wants to. you’re reckless— moaning freely in the emptiness of the establishment and right into the shell of his ear as if your birthright, careless of the thuds of heavy textbooks hitting the floor. there’s a crease in your brows and your jaw hangs slack, glossy lips parted as they release the hymns of your cries,
“—so deep, can feel you in my stomach!”
your tits bounce in clockwise motions. you’d freed yourself from your top sometime between the flirting behind bookshelves and his pikachu drawls dropping down to the floor. the sound of your pussy squelching with every bounce is a memory he wouldn’t forget even on his death bed— cunt so wet he can hardly feel his own dick in you.
the pad of your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and you lean forward to catch it between yours. he’s frozen stiff— the slip of your tongue in his mouth, your overwhelming sweetness invading his senses. he’s moaning pathetically, growing some security in the muffled sounds, so overstimulated by this insatiable pleasure that his arms start to feel weak.
your tongue swipes at his lips before nibbling on the flesh, “—taste so good,” he feels your lips mouthing against his own, and wishes he was able to focus for a split second on what you told him, but the ache in balls are a telltale that this euphoric dream is drawing to an end.
he squints his eyes shut. he tries to focus on the latest chapter of his latest obsession manga and theories he’s conspired. he recalls the sneak of his wrinkly old professor’s ass crack from his early lecture. he thinks back on this auction he’s seen online for retro limited edition video games. did he ever end up submitting that biochem lab assignment due—
“gojo.”
he snaps his eyes open. he didn’t realize he’d clenched his entire facial muscles until the moment he was able to see you again— only releasing those muscles feeling tightness in his cheeks (amongst other places)(read: his cock).
you’ve slowed down your pace. you’ve switched your movements from bounces to grinding. he can feel his tip prodding at your gummy walls. your breath fans his cupid’s bow and he’s only now noticing how close in proximity you both are. he can feel your heartbeat against his chest, and he’s positive you can feel his stomach clenching against your own.
he begins to feel more of your body weight on his, a feeling he definitely wants to get accustomed to, as you shift from your feet to your knees. your hand on his thigh trails upwards past his trail of hair, sliding up past the ridges of his abs, over the planes of his chest and meet at his nape with its other duo. there’s an aroma of vanilla and cherries exuding off you—
heisenburg’s uncertainty principle. star wars mandalorian culture. the roswell ufo incident. fucking neon genesis evangelion’s a cruel angel’s thesis—
“you don’t like me?” you ask him, all doey eyed like. it doesn’t sound like a legitimate question, but his ‘huh’ does draw more into a whine when you intentionally clamp down on his dick. he doesn’t miss the mischievous glint in your eyes.
gojo bites down on his lower lip, fiddling with a loose thread on the carpet. his body releases a shudder at the chills creeping up his spine when you trace a finger down the slope of his neck, “w-what?” he asks weakly, huffing as his toes curl in his socks.
this time, you cock your head just barely to the side, and he watches your gaze trail from his lips to his eyes and back to his lips. despite the agonizingly slow pace, you never stop riding him. his cock is still graced by your warmth, still snatching his soul through his slit. your lashes bat twice before glancing back up at his eyes.
“you don’t like me.” you’re not asking this time, your tone dripping in seduction and like a fool, finds himself swayed. you’re teasing him— he can see it in the way the corner of your lips quirk into your infamous smile. you’ve got him wrapped all around your pretty finger— he knows it and you definitely know it.
as if he was anybody to not like you. your ass cheeks clench when you drive your body forward, gripping on his cock so tight he can feel the wind knocked out his lungs, “no! are you, ngh, crazy— of course i do—”
“because i like you.” it falls short of a whisper, but the vibrations of your words against his lips shoot right to his heart and balls, and he knows his blotchy cheeks are now flushed red for an entirely different reason.
he answers faster than his mind can process, his stomach jumping with butterflies and an oncoming orgasm. your eyes won’t leave his— like a deceiving siren baring deep into his soul and rendering him vulnerable before consuming his entire being. not too far from his reality, hips bucking upwards as desperately as possible to emphasize his immediate answer, “i like you too—”
“you won’t look at me,” gojo hadn’t realized he shied away from your gaze, pouring his entire focus on not spilling both his heart and cum right into you, “talk to me.”
“i-it’s just, um,” he tries to flick his eyes back onto yours, but you’re still staring so intensely behind siren eyes and still rocking your hips. your fluids drip past your cunt and down his sack, before staining the carpet, “i’m a—mmph, nobody and you’re— well, you’re you,” he feels a hot tongue glide over the accumulated sweat on his neck and humps up again, “y’re just so pretty and every time i look at you i get the urge to c-cum but,” your teeth sink into his jugular before nibbling and he whines, throwing his head back, “i want— need you to cum first. . .”
there’s a beat of silence for a while. you’ve even halted your grinding altogether. he prays to god he didn’t mess up the one good thing that’s happened to him in all his twenty one years of living. you’ve even popped his now bruised skin from your lips— hovering right over the mark you left on him. pleasure licks at his limbs feverishly, back arching in hopes to dig even deeper (if possible) in your pussy.
you pull away from his neck and the tip of your nose is back to grazing his own. your usually styled hair is now a mess, your skin dampening from moisture and your lip gloss now swapped for your and his saliva— your overall classic, picture perfect image completely abandoned,
and he doesn’t think you’ve looked any prettier.
“so,” you draw out, freeing a hand from his locks to graze over the throbbing love bite at his neck. gojo sniffs, pushing his foggy glasses back up on his bridge with the back of his hand, and you caress the throbbing flesh, “the problem is when you look huh. . .?”
his neck is suddenly released from blissful torture and he feels his frames coming off his face from no effort of his own. his vision slowly fades and his pupils dilate to accommodate to his now poor quality of sight, “what are you—”
and his breath hitches. he can only make out your shape through your sinful curves but there’s no mistake from your silhouette— your hands, now holding his glasses hostage, press at his chest, “trust me,” you apply firm pressure from your palms to his upper body, and he feels himself sinking into the floor, back meeting the dirty carpet.
trust you? he’d lay his life on the line for a woman like you.
his fingers spread as his palms face the sky, and his breath staggered. the bookshelves, windows and study rooms are all blurry as fuck— which is both off putting and extremely risky since library hours were still valid at this time, but despite it all, it felt as if he could see you clear as day. gojo would usually never put his academics on the line, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of possibly getting caught having sex with the finest girl in school in a public library had his cock twitching incessantly.
god, he is just so happy to be here.
your fingers slide his glasses atop your nose bridge, and your cheeks split into a cheeky smile, hips beginning to roll back into their previous tempo. he feels your hands grabbing his own, before resting them at your hips. he’s a greedy man, and since the opportunity may only come once in his lifetime, he slides his hands further to your ass., and with a gulp, grabs the flesh greedily. damn— it hardly fits in his palms.
there’s a symphony of moans coming from you both when you lift your hips up, and it’s downright disgusting how turned on he gets at your essence trickling down his shaft and past his balls. your pussy lips drool and latch onto his tip tightly, before entirely releasing him and slipping your hand between your thighs. you kneed his nuts, fondling the testicles between your digits expertly and his back arches off the floor, “shouldn’t be an issue anymore, yeah?” you hum.
“y-yeah— oh god, yes,” gojo nods dumbly, toes curling in his socks as you proceed to stroke his cock. his tip is weeping in pre cum blended with your own wetness, and the faster you flick your wrist, the tighter his stomach contracts. he’s lasted quite some time now, considering this being his first time and all, but there’s only so much a man can hold back. his fingernails dig crescent moon shapes into the mounds of your ass as his hips chase after your touch with every stroke. “w-wait, fuck, i’m gonna cum—”
“yeah?” you encourage him, hunching just over his weeping dick, still holding him at his base. you drag his tip in between your lips, back and forth, while your other hand feels him up at his abs. “where do you wanna finish? on my face?” he whines, mindlessly humping and your smirk deepens as you slowly sink down, “on my tits?” gojo shakes his head, and feels drool coming from the corner of his lips. his limbs are on fire and his groin feels like it’s on the verge of explosion, “on my ass?” you’re about halfway down, “or. . . inside?”
“please,” he doesn’t care if he’s begging. snowy lashes bat open as his teary unfocused eyes adjust to the dimmed lights. even your silhouette is sexy, “please lemme cum inside, i-i’ll do anything.”
“hmm, anything?” you purr, knees finally hitting the floor as you straddle him once more. he lets out a guttural groan at the familiar feel of your silky walls entrapping his cock. his mind is fucking hazy and despite never having consuming alcohol, he feels drunk.
“yes,” he pleads, rolling his hips impossibly deeper into you, euphoric pleasure shooting in his bloodstream, “a-anything you want, i swear,” at the sudden intrusion, you let out a loud gasp when his tip bumps into your cervix and drop your body forward, arms giving out.
chest to chest, skin to skin, your lips hover over his as your back dips into an arch, forcing a penetration deeper in your guts. your palms are pressed flat onto the floor at the side of his head, and he can make out his glasses sitting lazily on the ball of your nose. he slides his hands up your sides, kneading at every inch of your flesh, before sliding back down to your ass.
“even my homework? assignments?” you tease breathily, a strangled moan ripping out your throat when his knees push up and fucks into you. your body jerks forward as his feet plant to the floor, hands still gripping on your ass.
when he snaps his hips up, you roll yours down, and the matching intensity sends his brain haywire. he’s desperate for release, forcing your hips down as he nudges his cock languidly into your cunt. his jaw falls slack and he nods again, dumbly, “ngh, for the rest of the s-school year,”
“that easy with you?” you giggle, but is easily interrupted when he leans forward to catch your lips in a messy kiss. there’s a shit ton of saliva involved, some even escapes past your mouths and down your jaws, but he couldn’t care any less—you tasted heavenly. he wishes he had the time to eat your pussy, he’s positive you taste holier down there.
“it’s your world.” gojo moans, snaking his hands from your ass to wrap around your upper body. now caught in his embrace, you let your head fall limply into the crook of his neck as he works his dick in and out of you. he means what he said— it is your world, and he’s nothing more than a happy servant. “i’ll do it all— bring your books to class, rub your feet— i’ll bark if you need me to— just, please, please, please let me cum inside.”
your moans vibrating from his neck run straight to his ears and fuels him further. he’s thrusting relentlessly— there’s no set pace at all, and he’s so close to finishing he’s completely forgotten about wanting you to cum first. he finally understands why everybody obsesses over sex— he never wants to let you go.
your head pushes up from his neck, nosing at his jaw. he feels your hands cradling his hair, and your lips pressing kisses at the corner of his mouth. his heart skips a beat— he revels in the attention you’re giving him, even if it’s just for the moment. he knows he won’t ever be this lucky again, so he might as well enjoy the ride while he’s here.
“you wanna breed my pussy?” you bite your lip, each stroke in your cunt jerking the glasses down the slope of your nose. despite the dense flog clouding the lens, he can feel your eyes on him. he nods desperately, tightening his hold on you, and the new angle has your clit dragging against his pelvis, “mmph— okay, yeah — put a baby in me, freak.”
and so he does. he thrusts as spurts of cum shoots inside your womb. his balls tighten as his hips rut, arms clutching onto your body with every fibre in him. you smell good, feel good, look good— and your cunt milks him dry for whatever he’s worth.
his orgasm feels short of an eternity yet simultaneously a second, his soul having transcended into an outwardly dimension. and it’s only when you scoot your ass upwards, sliding a hand between both warm bodies, that you collect his cum on the pad of your fingers. he blinks hazily, zeroing his focus when he sees you pop your fingers into your mouth.
“mhm,” you hum at the taste. he’s panting heavily, body riding a euphoric high he’s yet to come down from. you don’t seem to mind, leaning forward to catch his lips once again. and he lets you, moaning at the taste of himself on your tongue. when you pull away, there’s a thin string of cum induced saliva pulling at your lips. “‘s my world, right? want my pussy in your mouth.”
this fic is a part of my series: there is no other love, it’s only yours. feel free to check out part 1 and part 2 on ao3! you can also read part 3 here. nonetheless, this can be read as a standalone :)
you’re the closest to heaven (that i’ll ever be)
summary: Whenever Satoru is tired, you’re the one he seeks out—his anchor, his peace. You help him find rest, even when the weight of the world is on his shoulders.
contains: female reader, fluff, reader being a cursed speech user, just something very domestic for valentine’s (even tho i’m four days late)
Satoru’s footsteps echoes softly as he walks through the quiet hallway of your shared home. He’s tired—beyond tired, really—but it’s nothing new. It had been a grueling mission, and even the strength of the strongest sorcerer couldn’t protect him from the exhaustion that weighed him down after a day like today.
But even in the midst of his physical and emotional fatigue, there was a single thought that kept him moving.
You.
When he reaches the kitchen, he finds you exactly where he expected—quietly brewing tea. You stand by the counter, your back to him, with only the soft sound of the boiling water filling the air.
Satoru pauses at the doorway, standing still for a moment longer than usual.
There’s something about the scene before him that makes his heart thump in his chest. The way the soft light from the window frames your figure, how the steam from the kettle dances in the air, and how, even in the midst of such a simple task, you seem so perfectly… serene.
Pretty.
The thought hits him like a wave, and for a second, he almost forgets to breathe. He can’t believe how lucky he is to have you in his life. You, who’s too perfect for him—too good for someone like him.
He remembers all the times strangers—non-sorcerers—would look at the two of you when you go out together; how they would say how lucky you were to have a handsome man like him.
He remembers the sharp words of Nanami, even his (his best friend; his second other half), telling him that someone like him didn’t deserve someone like you. And Satoru agrees.
It wasn’t you who was lucky to have someone like him.
It’s me. I’m the lucky one.
Satoru doesn’t believe in gods. He doesn’t believe in fate or destiny. He’d been told for so long that he was something above ordinary humans, that he was something more—the honored one. And though it did get to his head when he had been much younger, none of that mattered now. Because the only thing he can truly believe in is you.
You must be heaven-sent.
He stands there for a moment longer, watching you as you focused on your task, before you finally turned around. The instant your eyes meets his, everything else in the world faded.
There was no weight, no expectations, no mission, no curse. Just you, and the way your gaze softened when you saw him.
A smile tugs at your lips, and without hesitation, you wave a hand in greeting, like you always do when you see him. The simple gesture—so natural, so effortless—made Satoru’s heart stutter in his chest.
You’re so pretty, he tells himself for the second time that moment. Pretty doesn’t even do you justice, but it’s the word that comes to him, the one that always surfaces no matter how many times he sees you, no matter how many times he’s in your presence.
His breath catches, and for the briefest second, he forgets what it’s like to be the strongest sorcerer in the world. Instead, he is just a man, standing in front of the woman he loves.
You, who had agreed to marry him, to bind yourself to him, to trust him with your life. And he could never quite wrap his head around how lucky he is. How you—someone so pure, so beautiful, so good—had chosen him.
His thoughts spiral, but he’s snapped back to the present when he notices you tilt your head slightly, an inquisitive expression crossing your face.
And just like that, the flush creeps up the back of his neck. His heart races faster, and for a fleeting moment, he feels like the high school kid who’d first fallen for you. He can’t help but smile sheepishly, ears burning.
“Guess I’ve been standing here a little too long, huh?” His voice is hoarse, tired, but the warmth in it is unmistakable.
The tips of his ears feel like they might combust, and the thought that he’s still this enamored by you—after everything—makes him feel like a teenager again.
You give him another smile, one that’s soft, comforting, and full of understanding. Without a word, you reach out, guiding him over to where you’re standing. The tea is almost ready, but more importantly, so are you.
You always know what he needs.
He doesn’t deserve you, but somehow, you’ve made him feel like the luckiest man alive. And maybe, just maybe, that’s all the proof he needs that you really are something out of this world.
Satoru approaches you languidly, his movements unhurried but deliberate. The moment he’s close enough, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
He has to bend slightly to fit against you, but he doesn’t seem to mind—not when the scent of you is enough to ease some of the weight pressing down on him.
At a glance, he might look relaxed, but you can feel the tension in his shoulders, the heaviness he carries even now. Without hesitation, you reach over and turn off the stove, the bubbling water momentarily forgotten. You don’t move away, don’t push him back, simply letting him hold onto you for as long as he needs.
But then, after a few quiet moments, Satoru pulls away just enough to look at you. Though his eyes remain hidden beneath his bandages, you don’t need to see them to know—his brows are furrowed.
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.
You nod without missing a beat, taking his hand in yours, your fingers curling around his as if to anchor him.
You don’t speak, but Satoru understands. He always does. After years by your side, he knows you better than anyone. The slow, reassuring circles your thumb traces against his palm say everything your voice does not.
You come first.
And that’s all he needs to let you lead him away, your grip firm yet gentle as you guide him to your shared bedroom. The moment he sits on the edge of the bed, you press lightly against his shoulders, urging him to lie down. He doesn’t resist, letting himself sink into the mattress with a quiet sigh as his head comes to rest in your lap.
Your hands move with practiced ease as you begin to unwind the bandages from his eyes. And when the last strip falls away, Satoru blinks against the dim light, his vision adjusting.
The first thing he sees is you.
Not the weight of the world on his shoulders, not the ghosts of his past—just you.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels like he can finally breathe.
Your hand hovers over his eyes, gently covering them as if to shield him from the world. The warmth of your palm is enough to calm him, and for a moment, he feels the weight of everything start to slip away.
Then, for the first time today, he hears your voice.
“Sleep.”
It’s all you say, but it’s enough.
He feels his body relax, the exhaustion from the mission and the day’s tension draining from him as your words settle into him like a lullaby. His eyelids grow heavy, and he feels his mind slip into that quiet, drowsy space between waking and sleep.
He can never get tired of your voice. Even when it’s just a whisper, it’s more comforting than anything. He knows why you speak so rarely—your cursed technique, the fear of unintentionally hurting someone—but sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes you didn’t have to hold back.
Satoru wants to hear you sing, to hear the melody of your voice flow freely without fear. He wants you to say his name, call him whatever cute nickname comes to mind, to tell him you love him in the same way he pours his heart out to you without hesitation.
But tonight, he’s too tired to ask. Too drowsy, his thoughts slipping away like the threads of a dream. His lips part, but no words come out. Instead, he feels himself falling deeper into the softness of the moment, into the calm you’ve created around him.
And before he completely drifts away, before sleep fully takes him, he hears it.
Nanami shoves his ice cold hands up your shirt causing you to screech.
“Get your cold hands off me!” You try to squirm away but he’s wrapping you in his arms.
He shushes you. Shoving his cold nose into the back of your neck. You continue to try and wiggle out his grip.
“Don’t shush me!” You protest.
He’s warmed up but the chill is now prominent in your body. Plus the principal!
“Just let me hold my hot wife.”
You scoff, amused, turning around in his arms. “You got jokes.”
“I’d never joke about my hot wife,” a slight smirk on his lips, “but I do find that compliment to be rudimentary.”
He kisses your lips gently before placing a trail from your cheek down to your neck. He stops above your shoulder.
“I much prefer beautiful, gorgeous,” his hands slip from under your shirt down the curve of your ass, “sexy.”
He squeezes, pulling you closer something hard pressing against your stomach.
“I’m still a little chilly darling, can you warm me up some more?”
When you first started dating Nanami you never expected him to be so suave. It was like a switch flipped and you were blushing and stuttering while he gazed at you with that same smirk he’s giving you now.
