When Satoru bought a new bed for you two to share, you had assumed it meant you would finally regain some personal space.
This was proven to be, in fact, false.
This was the third night in a row that you had been awakened by your husband's long limbs smacking you in your sleep. One lanky leg flopped over your own shorter legs while his arm draped over your stomach. It had become a routine of sorts; he would join you in bed around 4AM after finishing his duties, then around 5AM, he would begin his shenanigans.
At first, it was smaller, less irritable things like accidentally nudging you in his sleep, or snoring, but as time went on, his unconscious body seemed to turn restless. Satoru began to spread out on the bed, taking up around seventy five percent of the mattress, leaving you a sliver of space to occupy.
His lanky frame lay sprawled on the bed, limbs stretched out on top of your own as if you were his personal body pillow.
It eventually became insufferable; you couldn’t sleep with his constant invasion of your personal space, so you begged him to buy a bigger bed.
And that he did, except it somehow made the problem worse.
Now you lie awake, 5:17AM, with your husband snoring happily next to you, his leg draped over your hip, arm stretched over your collarbone, and face tucked into the crook of your neck. You didn’t understand how he managed to somehow take up the entire king-sized bed.
You huffed, trying — and failing — to push his body off of you, “Gosh, why are you so damn heavy?” You muttered under your breath, hand moving to nudge him awake.
“Toru, get up!” You whisper shouted, “You’re suffocating me, you oaf.” Gojo blinked groggily, bright blue eyes piercing the dimly lit room, “As much as I adore you, I’d like to get my three hours of beauty sleep, babe.” He groaned, nuzzling further into your neck, “Yeah, Toru. Me too, get off.”
He whined, pulling you further into his embrace as if he was trying to trap you. You rolled your eyes at him, hands still trying to push him away so you could actually enjoy your sleep. “Why do you hate me? I’m just trying to cuddle my wife,” he peeked up at you, blue eyes widening in faux puppy eyes.
“No, you’re suffocating me. Seriously, baby, how do you take up so much space?” He lifted his head, gasping in mock offence, “Are you calling me overweight? That’s so hurtful, I’ll have you know I have an amazing physique.” You stifled a laugh, brushing your fingers through his snowy hair, “Yes, Toru, I can see that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if all those sugary snacks caught up to you.”
“I’m just saying you sprawl out a lot, Toru, I’m trying to sleep, and I feel you practically on top of me.” He hummed into your neck, seemingly contemplating how to respond, “I just enjoy being close to you, is that a crime?”
You giggled, “It is when I’m practically being strangled.” Satoru whined louder this time, “It’s not fair, you deprive me of physical touch, babe.” You swatted his shoulder lightly, “Be quiet, you big baby. No one said we couldn’t cuddle. I just said stop confusing me for the mattress.” He pouted, “But you’re so soft.”
Leaning down, you kissed his pursed lips, “Just cuddle me like a normal person, okay?”
“But I’m not normal,” he sleepily argued.
You laughed, tugging lightly on his messy hair, “I know, baby. I know.”
nerdjo’s high maintenance gf is his prettiest distraction !
I. DISTRACTION #1: NO KISSING IN THE LECTURE HALLS !
time: 8:46 am location: Curtis Lecture Hall I (CLH-I)
gojo satoru is typing one handed because his other hand is pressed between your thighs.
not that he minds. 8AM thursday means excel sheets & a cup of hot coffee to keep his bleary eyes open. gojo satoru is trying—trying to focus, but his pretty girl is talking a mile a minute and he’ll be damned if he didn’t reply to your every word.
“it was so hard getting out of bed today, toru,” you pout up at him, chin on his shoulder & gloss sticky on his sleeve. “i told kento to stop by and wake me up on his way to class. can you believe he didn’t?”
“i’m very proud of you for getting out of bed regardless.”
“thank you. it was very hard.”
you sigh against his shoulder. “he’s probably still mad i cussed him out,” you huff, reaching up to twirl the hairs on his nape. “all because i put him on cherry crush and he tried to act like he discovered it first.”
satoru’s eyes are still on his screen, so you squeeze his palm between your thighs to bring him back to you. “he’s so petty, toru.”
“very petty, baby.”
you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.
so you block his view.
“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”
he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”
oh, that’s enough.
“toru.”
“hm, baby?”
“kiss me.”
gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.
“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”
your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.
“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”
you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—
gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.
he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—
“ahem.”
you both freeze.
in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?
he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.
“this is not a love nest.”
you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.
II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅
time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence
⎚-⎚
gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.
an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.
you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.
“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“
“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”
gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”
you nod sweetly, squeaking a little when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.
“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“
“satoruu,”
thirteen words this time. fairs.
“yes, sweetheart.”
“my feet hurt,” you pout, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”
he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”
satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. lips wobbly, eyes all glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. gojo’s heart goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?
he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”
he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”
you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.
“they’re huge, toru,” you giggle, twirling around in the office. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.
knock knock.
one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”
satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you waddle around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.
right.
he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”
you’re still entranced by his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.
——
the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.
have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.
but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.
the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.
satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.
gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.
III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…
time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.
⎚-⎚
“who discovered america ?”
“Martin Luther King.”
You are going to fail this exam.
“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”
“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”
no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”
your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”
he blinks, “done?”
“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”
satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”
“i have a very strong brain.”
satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”
you frown in his neck.
“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”
“good job.”
“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”
“oh.”
satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).
you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.
“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”
“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.
“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.
satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”
“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”
there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.
you are going to fail your exams.
you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.
you are going to fail your exams.
gojo lets you have his card.
you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.
“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.
gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.
ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu
DISTRACTIONS, end.
HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.
Synopsis: Snapshots of moments between you and your childhood best friend, Satoru • Friends to lovers • Fluff • Slowburn
This is the same Snapshots series- just under a new name!
You're twenty when you move in with Satoru.
The two of you had tried to live separately after graduation, but had honestly spent most of the time sleeping at each other's apartments anyway. It made more sense to just move in together.
You've been joined at the hip since you were children after all.
Living with Satoru is surprisingly easy. He's clean, he knows how to cook, and if he has any annoying habits you're already used to them. You naturally exist in each other's space, you always have. Being around Satoru has always felt... easy. As natural as breathing.
There is one issue, though.
"Come on~ you really can't reach?" Satoru is standing behind you, knowing fully well that you cannot reach. He even has the audacity to smirk.
Satoru has developed this new annoying routine, where he purposefully leaves things on the top shelves of the cupboards. It is always stuff that he knows you'll want, like your favourite snacks, or the cereal.
He does it on purpose. So you'll call for him and he can play hero.
"Here, let me help you with that."
Before you can react, he's already behind you. One arm braced on the counter beside you while he reaches up, and pulls out your favourite packet of crisps. Naturally, he still holds it above your head.
"Now, what's the magic word?"
"You're insufferable."
"Ouch, I'm afraid thats the wrong answer..." His smile is contagious, and you find that you can't act grumpy when he's looking at you like that.
You turn in his arms, and try to move away, only to be met with the immovable wall of his broad chest. It hits you then, both physically and metaphorically, how close he is. You peer up at him, and for a moment neither of you move.
This is the other issue in living with Satoru. Being in such close proximity with him, you've started noticing things. Things your brain was previously too young or too distracted to notice.
Obviously, you know Satoru is attractive. You have eyes. Though you'll never tell him that lest it boosts his already impossible ego.
But there's other things too. His beauty is made up of little details that all come together to create something special. Something you can't fully comprehend all at once or it'll swallow you whole.
Like the shape of his shoulders, the dimples in his smile, or the way his eyes twinkle when he's actually having fun and not just pretending. Sharp lines, mixed with undeniable softness in the way his white eyelashes bush his cheeks, or the way he moves around like he's not really aware of how much space he takes up.
You should not be thinking this way about your best friend.
The tips of his ears turn slightly pink, and you know you've been caught staring. This time, he doesn't tease you, doesn't mention it at all. He just, steps away, giving you space. He holds out your crisp packet.
"The magic word was 'thanks'" he murmurs in a voice that is much too small for him.
"Thanks.." You respond, taking the packet and walking away.
You don't notice the way Satoru shakes his head as you turn your back, like he's trying to clear his mind. He takes a few moments to breathe, before that casual, easy smile snaps back into place and he drops himself down on the couch next to you.
"What are we watching?" He asks, stretching out like a giant, lazy cat.
"There's this new rom-com-" You don't get to finish your sentence before he groans with such disapproval that you shoot him a look.
He might complain, but he won't move. Not while you're there.
Satoru has become so swift at his missions, that he has set new records with the speed at which he's taking down curses.
Nobody is quite sure where this sudden determination stems from. Perhaps he's trying to prove something? Maybe he's just showing off.
Regardless, the higher ups are pleased with the amount of work he's doing. Meaning, of course, that he gets to come home sooner.
He has a reason to be home now, after all.
His reason is sat on the couch wrapped up in three blankets when he arrives. Satoru stops by the door, just... watching you for a moment. Appreciating. Admiring. He doesn't quite have the words himself.
You're utterly at ease, cozy, existing in his space like you've always belonged there. Satoru thinks he's never seen anyone so beautiful.
He finally approaches. "Hey"
"Shh! Not now!" You shoo him away, and he chuckles. A sound that comes out softer than intended. His cerulean eyes flick up to the TV, where you're pouring all your concentration onto a new game. Cute.
Satoru sighs, then pouts dramatically. "Eh!? What happened to hello? How was your day?" He pokes your cheek, and laughs as you swat him away. "You're doing it wrong."
"No I'm not." You grumble, and Satoru hums sarcastically in response.
Right on queue, the screen turns red with a "Game over."
"Here, let me show you." Before you can protest, Satoru plucks the controller from your arms. You look at him like he's just stolen your life savings.
Satoru pays you no mind. You watch his fingers move against the controller, a cocky grin forming on his lips as he flawlessly passes through the level you were struggling so much with. It's done before you can even turn around properly, he even got a perfect score.
"Show off..." You murmur.
"Ouch, and here I worked so hard to help you." He hands the controller back to you, before ruffling your hair and heading off for the kitchen.
"Wait-" You stop him before he can go, a hand tugging at his jacket sleeve. "Can you show me what I was doing wrong?"
Satoru turns around with a giant grin. How could he refuse you anything when you're pouting at him like that?
He realises he has a problem when he struggles to fall asleep that night. You're sprawled on top of him, like you always are. Like you have been since that first night he sought you out in the dorms.
The apartment has two bedrooms. But you only use one.
And he knows that best friends are not supposed to cuddle. It has never been an issue before for the two of you. An unspoken agreement between two people who can't fall asleep without one another.
Tonight, he finds its your presence that keeps him from sleeping, though. He's hyperfocused on the way you're holding onto him, like a giant teddy bear. In your subconscious slumber, your hands have found the spot where his shirt has lifted on his waist. The skin to skin contact is making his heart race so loudly that he's surprised he hasn't woken you up.
He's staring at your lips. The way they part in sleep. And he knows its wrong to think about you this way... of course it is. You're his best friend. He's known you forever.
So Satoru Gojo closes his eyes, but does not sleep. Because he doesn't know what to do with the beautiful woman sleeping in his arms.
He sleeps so well in your arms that he even snores a little. But he doesn’t believe that.
Satoru couldn't remember the last time he had truly melted into unconsciousness like this. Usually, sleep for him was a shallow necessity, often interrupted by the weight of being the world’s strongest. But last night had caused an anomaly. The friction, the heat, and the desperate sex you two had acted as an anchor, dragging him down from his lonely pedestal into a state of pure exhaustion.
He was dead to the world, buried beneath a heavy duvet and the even heavier comfort of your warmth.
He was currently a dead weight against you. His head was nestled comfortably on your chest, his face pressed so close that with every rise of your breath, your nipple grazed his upper lip and the dip of his cupid’s bow, a ticklish reminder of the skin to skin contact he craved. He looked less like the strongest sorcerer and more like a fallen angel, vulnerable and warm.
Then you woke up to a sound that felt entirely out of place for a man of his stature. It was a soft snore. It wasn't the roaring kind of a snore but a consistent, buzzy little sound that vibrated against your skin. You couldn't help the quiet laughter that shook your chest, your fingers instinctively finding their way into his soft snowy hair. He didn't even flinch; he was gone to the world.
When the morning light finally filtered through the blinds, Satoru began the agonizingly slow process of returning to consciousness.
He let out a muffled groan against your skin. The sound was like a kittenish protest against the concept of consciousness. His throat felt like a desert; his mouth had been hanging slightly open for hours, drying out his lips. He tried to blink, but his eyes felt heavy, weighted down and stinging by the depth of his slumber. With a groan, he finally peeled his face away from the warmth of your breast. He propped himself up on one shaky elbow.
The sight was comical. The cheek that had been pressed against your breast was a vivid, healthy pink. His hair was a literal bird’s nest, sticking up at impossible angles. He looked less like a god and more like a very large, very confused white cat. He looked so soft and pouty.
He was so beautiful.
"God," he rasped. His morning voice made you feel a tingling sensation in your chest. He rubbed a palm over his face, looking like a teenager who had slept through three alarms. "I don't... I don't think I’ve ever slept like that. I feel like I was in the clouds. Best sleep of my entire life, seriously. You’re like a human sedative, babe."
He leaned back in, intending to nuzzle into the crook of your neck to reclaim his warmth, but you let out a dramatic, weary sigh.
"I’m glad one of us got some rest," you teased, your voice dripping with fake exhaustion.
Satoru paused, his nose hovering just above your collarbone. He pulled back just an inch, one eye squinting open to look at you with confusion. "What’s that supposed to mean? You were out like a light when I checked…” Then a smug, sleepy smirk formed on his lips. “Was I... too much for you last night?"
"No," you lied smoothly, stroking his cheek. "You started a symphony. Honestly, Satoru, I didn't know someone could make that much noise through their nose. It was like sleeping next to a chainsaw."
Silence fell over the room. Satoru sat up fully, the sheet pooling at his waist, exposing his broad, naked chest. He stared at you, his brain trying to process the blow to his ego. He, the god of the jujutsu sorcery, was accused of something as mundane and un-sexy as snoring.
Silence stretched between you. He stared at you, his expression blank, processing the accusation as if you’d just told him the sky was neon green.
"You're lying," he murmured flatly, though there was a hint of a pout forming.
"No, I'm not. You were really snoring, baby." You giggled.
"Nah," he waved a hand dismissively, falling back onto the pillows with a dramatic thump and pulling you close to him. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin. "That’s a total lie. Satoru Gojo does not snore. I’m far too elegant for that. You’re just trying to humble me because I was soooo good last night."
"Believe what you want," you whispered, wrapping your arms around his broad, warm shoulders. "But my ears are still ringing."
He grumbled something under his breath about "getting a recording next time," but as he settled back into the crook of your shoulder, his pride was clearly losing the battle against his need for more cuddles. His face found its home back in the soft valley of your chest, his nose nuzzling against your skin as he let out a long, shaky sigh of pure contentment. You were his anchor, his heated blanket, and his favorite place in the world all rolled into one.
"Satoru," you murmured as you combed your fingers through his hair, occasionally pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "Come on, giant baby. You actually have places to be today. You need to get up."
A low protesting groan rumbled. "No," he muffled into your skin. “I’ve been struck by a curse that makes my limbs weigh ten tons. The only way to survive is to stay right here."
"I'm serious," you laughed, feeling his lips trail a lazy path along your breasts. "The strongest can't be defeated by a duvet."
"Watch me," he countered, his grip tightening.
He was being slick, using his sheer size to pin you down in a way that made it impossible for you to move without dragging him with you. He shifted his head just enough to peek up at you.
"Tell you what," his voice dropping into a velvety, manipulative purr. "Since you’re so convinced I’m some kind of... chainsaw in my sleep. I’m going to give you a golden opportunity. A scientific study, if you will."
He closed his eyes again, his cheek squishing against your breast as he exhaled a puff of warm air.
"If I’m really snoring, you can record me. It’ll probably just prove that you’re delusional and that I sleep like a silent, graceful angel... but let’s test that theory again, yeah? For science."
He let out a long, dramatic sigh of contentment, nuzzling even deeper into your chest, trying to merge his dna with yours.
"Five more minutes," he added, though it sounded more like a prayer than a promise. "And if I don't snore, you owe me a very thorough apology for slandering my good name. Maybe one involving this lying mouth of yours..."
His voice trailed off into a soft exhale, his grip on you tightening just for a second as he drifted back into the hazy dreamscape where the only thing that mattered was the woman in his arms.
You watched him for a moment, the way he looked younger, softer, and entirely human. Despite the teasing, you knew the truth: the weight of the world usually rested on his shoulders and his brain never truly stopped processing the infinite amount of information. For him to fall this deeply into the eepy abyss wasn't just a luxury; it was a rare, hard won necessity.
You let out a soft, defeated sigh, your heart swelling with protectiveness that outweighed your desire to be punctual. You weren't going to reach for your phone to record him. You weren't going to nudge him again.
Instead, you adjusted the duvet, pulling it higher around his bare shoulders to seal in the heat.
You shifted your head, resting your nose against his hairline and breathing in the scent of him. You closed your eyes and drifted back into sleep.
This time, he slept like a silent, graceful angel in your arms.
I think I might be obsessed about him getting a proper sleep because I can’t… I’m currently stuck in a migraine loop because of insomnia. He needs to sleep I need to sleep and I hope you’re getting enough sleep my dear reader<3
When Gojo overhears something he shouldn't have....
Satoru Gojo drags his long limbs through the infirmary. The lack of sleep is definitely starting to catch up to him. That, and he had forgotten his blindfold earlier, and now his head is pounding like it's preparing to explode.
He's come to see Shoko, to see if he can take anything to make it better. To his dismay, his rct was utterly useless against his migraine. But Shoko always knows what to do.
Besides, if you saw him in this state he'd be so embarrassed that he'd have to go hide in a hole.
The strongest- reduced to nothing by a headache.
Satoru pauses when he nears her office, hearing voices inside through the open door. Shoko must be busy. He's just considering coming back later when he hears your voice. That makes him pause.
"I don't know, Sho, I feel like I've been making it quite obvious but he's not picking up the hints. Maybe he just doesn't like me like that?"
Satoru's lips press into a thin line, his jaw locks. Just when he thought his day couldn't get worse. You like someone? Just what sort of idiot wouldn't want you anyway-
"Gojo is a total idiot, he's definitely just being oblivious." Shokos voice breaks through his thoughts. He turns back towards the office now, wondering if he just heard that correctly.
"Maybe he doesn't have time, you know how busy Satoru is..." You say, voice so gentle it almost breaks him.
"He'll definitely make the time if its you, trust me"
"How can you be sure?"
"Call it intuition..."
The two of you pause long enough for Satoru to realise his heart is pounding now. He doesn't fully believe what he's listening to, and part of his mind is convinced this is a migraine induced hallucination.
He should leave, right? This is a private conversation.
But his feet stay firmly planted where they are.
"Did you see him on Monday? I think he was wearing a new cologne..." You hum after a moment, he can hear by your voice that you're smiling. That makes his knees weak.
"Ew" is Shokos only reply.
"Come on, even you have to admit he's fine as hell. You have eyes" You laugh, another sound that makes him weak.
"Again, Ew"
He'll have to get Shoko back for that some other time.
"Shoko... I'm getting desperate its pathetic. If he gave me the chance I'd probably climb him like a tree-"
That makes him snort, just once, and he immediately covers his mouth. But the damage has been done, because the conversation immediately stops. The entire energy shifts, but Satoru is grinning like an idiot. He leans against the wall, waiting.
Moments later, you pop your head out through the door. Red as a tomato, you look utterly mortified, and its adorable.
"Like a tree, huh?" He asks, ignoring his migraine for the time being. A chuckle escapes his lips when your eyes widen.
"I'm transferring to Kyoto-" You squeak, embarrassed and indignant.
"Aw, don't do that, how am I gonna take you out on a date then?" He leans in closer, enjoying the way you squirm. He's determined to see you blush like this more often, and Satoru always gets what he wants.
"Eh??" You blink at him, and Satoru just winks before side stepping you and walking into the office. He still needs to see Shoko after all.
"Friday at five~ I'll pick you up from your place"
I wrote this in like 15 min and didn't proofread- please let me know if there's any mistakes! Thank you for reading 🩵
Your crimson dress shines like a liquid flame under the candlelight, moving like molten gold as you dance along to the music from the lute. For tonight is a special occasion, your birthday. The entire court has gathered here to celebrate their princess, as fair as rose in bloom, as precious as treasure. The King's favourite daughter.
All eyes are on you. After all, who could look away from such a picture perfect sight? An angel is amongst them tonight, and they should be so lucky to be in your presence.
Although, while suitors line up to speak with you, acting like fools for just a shred of your attention, your mind is elsewhere. Your eyes scan the room for a particular man.
You hear him before your see him, by the sounds of laughter drifting from the other end of the ballroom. As if the very air whispers your name, his eyes instantly find yours. That sinful, familiar mouth of his curves into a grin.
Satoru Gojo. The court jester. Your lover in secret.
His cerulean eyes linger on your dress, on the delicate curves of your body and the hint of skin on your shoulders. Utterly shameless. Unafraid of being caught staring, even by the King's watchful eye.
You're drawn to him by magic, your heart searching for his instinctively. Even beneath the mask you can see his amusement, it's a palpable thing. In a room full of princes and lords, you have chosen him.
"Will you amuse me tonight, dear jester?" You ask him, getting perhaps a little closer than what may be considered appropriate.
"For your highness, I shall do absolutely anything." He bows his head, the bells on his hat ringing with the movement. When he's down, and sure that only you can hear him, he murmurs "Were those lordlings not to your liking, my love?"
You can hear the victory in his voice.
Your reply is instant, "I can hardly bare it."
"Patience..." he breathes. "We will be alone again soon."
Satoru wastes no more time. He straightens, and proceeds to steal the lute from the musicians hands. Then he's around you, playing a fast tune, performing for all the world as nothing but a simple jester. But you know better.
For the way he plays, it's as if you're the only two people in the room. The way his eyes train on you tells you he wishes that were the case too.
His lips are on you. Your lips, your chin, your shoulder. He's everywhere and you still can't seem get enough.
Much like a moth to a flame, the moment you had retired to your bedchamber for the night, Satoru had followed you. He is not one to waste time with words. Rather, he prefers to show you exactly how he feels.
"You are resplendent..." He murmurs against your neck, sending shivers through you. You're melting in his arms, if he wasn't holding you, you're sure you would fall.
"Do you have any idea, my love, how difficult it was to watch you dance with other men tonight?" Satoru's voice is rough as gravel, his hands hold you in a possessive embrace. When he pulls back to look at you his eyes are dark, even more stark now with the mask discarded.
If anyone caught you, it would bring shame upon you both, likely worse. Though nobody suspects their gentle princess could stoop to such depravity behind closed doors.
Your hands trace his features, his sharp jawline, high cheekbones, stubble so light it is almost invisible. Finding that you are not in the mood for depravity tonight.
"Could you just... hold me tonight?" Your voice comes out so gentle.
Your lover does not answer with words. In fact, you barely have time to react before he hoists you in his arms and carries you over to the bed. It is only when you're comfortable, wrapped up in cool linens and snug against his steady chest, that he kisses your hair.
He holds you like you're something incredibly precious. "I can hold you as long as you wish..."
You close your eyes, settled down after a perfect evening. Maybe, this is all you'll get to have. Whispered conversations and hidden affection, a love so deep it crushes your soul. When it comes to Satoru, you know better than to be selfish. This secret shall protect his life.
So if your love must stay hidden, you'll keep it that way. So in turn, you may keep him for as long as possible.
"I love you, my Satoru..." You whisper. Even now, his breath hitches when you say those precious words.
You don't need to see him to know he's smiling when he responds. "I love you too. Forever."
synopsis: the thing is, gojo satoru has no intention of marrying someone his clan elders pick for him. there’s a simple solution, of course! why get married to a stranger when you can whisk your best friend away to las vegas for a weekend and elope?
tags: fluff, smut (oral sex, fingering, riding, unprotected sex, one orgasm denial), mild angst, best friends to lovers, vegas wedding!au. idiots to idiots in love, profanity, alcohol consumption, discussions of arranged marriage, attempts at humour, crack taken seriously, mutual pining.
word count: 7.1k
a/n: the art in the header is by m00__ry on instagram & the fic title is from the 2008 movie of the same name. thank you to @saezzi for beta reading!
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #1 – ARSON.
For the record, none of this is your fault.
It’s all Satoru’s fault, and you’re pinning all of this solely on him because he gets on your nerves and he’s also a liar. A compulsive liar with no concept of shame or mortification or guilt, because the whole world revolves around his thick head and you, unfortunately, are no exception to this rule. It was a nasty trick, really, coercing you into going on vacation with him.
You should’ve known something was up when he specifically bought only two first-class tickets to Las Vegas and your flight was at midnight. He’d insisted the two of you sneak out of the Kyoto Jujutsu Tech compound where you’d stayed for the duration of his visit to the Gojo clan, and hadn’t bothered to inform Shoko or Utahime or Yaga.
And so, again, you reiterate firmly and resolutely: none of this is your fault.
Your predicament—standing in a parking lot behind a Denny’s at nine in the night with a small fire going in a trash can nearby—is entirely, absolutely, positively Gojo Satoru’s fault.
“I want a divorce,” you tell him.
“We’ve been married for forty-seven minutes.”
“Forty-seven minutes too long.”
“You’re burning our wedding certificate!” Satoru says. “How are we supposed to file for divorce if there’s no proof we even got married?”
“I’ll figure it out,” you say, poking at the certificate with a stick you found on the ground. The corner of it curls and blackens satisfyingly. “I’m very resourceful.”
“You’re committing a crime is what you’re doing,” he says.
“You committed a crime first.”
“Getting married isn’t a crime—”
“Fraud is.”
Satoru opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, at a loss for words. This is a rare and precious occurrence—Gojo Satoru, speechless! You would be savouring it more if you weren’t currently a married woman in a Denny’s parking lot in Las Vegas at eleven o’clock in the night.
Satoru had told you it was a vacation. He’d shown up at your room in the Kyoto compound at half-past ten with a bag tucked under his arm and said, simply, “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“Leaving where?” you’d asked.
“Somewhere that isn’t here,” was his cryptic reply.
You’d been in Kyoto for six days. Six days of watching Satoru navigate the Gojo clan and their elders with their careful smiles and careful words. Nearly a week of watching something tight and unhappy lodge itself behind Satoru’s eyes while he pretended, convincingly, that everything was fine. You knew he wasn’t; you’d watched him perfect his act for years, after all.
So, you went. You told yourself it was because you’d never been to Las Vegas. This, at least, is true.
You’d grabbed your bag and followed him out through a side entrance of the compound at nine forty-five, and you didn’t inform any of your friends or superiors. Because of this, your phone has been periodically buzzing in your pocket for the last several hours and you’ve been ignoring it, which is a problem that is also, for the record, Satoru’s fault.
The flight was actually wonderful. First-class seats entailed warm socks and warm food and a window seat, because Satoru had graciously sat by the aisle. When you were flying over the Pacific, he’d fallen asleep with his head tipped back and his sunglasses still on. He looked younger when he was sleeping, you’d thought. More like the version of him you’d met when you were both too young and foolish to understand what being a sorcerer actually meant.
After you landed, Satoru took you to a casino and then to a fancy place for lunch, and then to another two casinos—if he wasn’t careful, he’d turn into a gambling addict soon—and then he took you to a chapel on the Strip with fake flowers zip-tied to the pews and an officiant named Francis who had red hair and smelled like cigarettes and convenience store chewing gum.
Francis had cried a little during the vows, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. Satoru had found this enormously gratifying. You, however, had been in something of a dissociative state.
“It’s not fraud,” Satoru says now, in the parking lot, watching you cremate your marriage certificate. “We did actually get married. Francis witnessed it. There are photos.”
“There are photos?”
“Francis had a camera.”
“What?”
“I think it’s just something he keeps on him professionally.”
You stare at him. He has the grace to look slightly sheepish. His sunglasses are still on. His suit jacket is open, and his tie, which had been done up neatly for the ceremony (clearly he’d planned far enough ahead to wear a nice tie) is now loosened and slightly crooked. The cheap gold ring on his finger—wrong hand; he’d fumbled it in the moment and jammed it on before either of you could correct it—catches the light from the parking lot fluorescents.
“That’s it!” you say, snapping your fingers at him. “That’s our proof to file for divorce! Take me back to the wedding chapel, Satoru.”
“No way,” he says. “I’m taking you to dinner first. We need to commemorate our first night of being married.”
“We’re behind a Denny’s,” you point out.
“I know,” Satoru says. “Denny’s is a perfectly acceptable dining establishment, but I meant somewhere nice. There’s a steakhouse on the Strip that has a three-month waitlist.”
“Then we can’t go there.”
“I called ahead.”
You gape at him. “Three months ago?”
“No,” he says. “I called ahead on the plane. You were asleep.”
“I wasn’t asleep for that long—”
“Yeah, you were asleep for, like, four hours. You even snored a little.”
“I did not—that’s not the point! The point is, you planned this. You planned all of it, the chapel, the restaurant, the—” You gesture at the ring on his finger, the ring on yours, the dying fire in the trash can—“everything.”
“Not everything. I didn’t plan for you to burn our wedding certificate in a fit of rage.”
“That’s your fault by proximity.”
“That’s not a legal standard.”
“I’m making it one.”
Satoru smiles, quick and bright. You have a long and storied history of making Gojo Satoru laugh when he isn’t expecting to, and it used to feel like winning something. It still does, if you’re being honest.
“Come on,” Satoru says, nodding towards the street. “Dinner first, Francis later. We can get the photos after and then you can file for divorce. I won’t stop you.”
“You’d better not,” you say.
“I said I won’t.” He holds his hands up, the picture of innocence. “I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m a man of some of my word,” he amends.
The steakhouse is situated on the upper floor of one of the larger casinos on the Strip, lined with dark wood and low, hushed lighting. You are seated by a window. The Strip sprawls below you in every direction, extravagant and relentless, all that light going nowhere at tremendous speed.
“Were you really that confident I’d say yes?” you ask once the menus have been set in front of you.
“I was… hopeful,” Satoru says. It’s not a word you can recall him ever applying to himself before, in all the years you’ve known him; it sounds odd. You pick up your own menu and look at it without reading it.
What you’ve learnt about Satoru and what most people tend to miss is that underneath all the grinning and grandstanding and carelessness, there is someone who wants things very badly and has learned not to show it. You’ve known this for years. You’ve watched him want things, and watched him bury it under layers of grandiosity until it’s almost invisible. Almost.
“The elders have been at it for two years,” he says finally, without looking up from the menu. “The meetings, the candidates. They’re all very suitable women from very respectable families. Good for the clan’s interests.”
“You never told me it’d been going on for that long.”
“Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“Satoru—”
“It’s fine. It’s just—” He sets the menu down and looks out at the Strip, all that light below. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life performing for someone who sees me as a resource. I do enough of that already. I knew it was going to happen eventually and that they were going to stop asking and start insisting. So. Vegas.”
“Vegas,” you echo.
“You were the obvious answer,” he says matter-of-factly. “You already know what you’re getting into with me. You don’t have any illusions. You—you’re my best friend. There isn’t anyone I’d rather be stuck with.”
“Stuck with,” you repeat. “Incredibly romantic.”
“I said what I said.”
The waiter arrives and Satoru orders for the two of you. You look down at the ring on your finger and think about how it came from the little rotating display by the chapel door, five dollars American. It fits almost perfectly except for being on the wrong hand.
“Er. You fumbled the ring,” you say.
“I was nervous,” he says.
Gojo Satoru, nervous. Gojo Satoru, who treats most of human experience as something happening at a slight remove, who has never, to your knowledge, shown up to anything in his life uncertain of the outcome—nervous!
“Were you,” you say.
“Briefly,” Satoru says, with great dignity. “It passed.”
“Of course.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course.”
The fountains in front of the Bellagio are in the middle of their routine, water arcing up in great pale columns against the dark. The light from them moves across the window in slow, repeating patterns. Satoru’s eyes catch the shifting light. You swallow hard.
“We’re not arguing about the divorce, by the way,” you tell him.
“We’ll see.”
“Satoru.”
“We’ll see,” he says again pleasantly. You’re going to say something else, something firm and unambiguous, but he’s already put his cutlery down and is walking out, and you’re already following.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #2 – BREAKING AND ENTERING.
The supposed 24/7 active wedding chapel has a sign tacked onto the front door when you arrive later, which reads, Under maintenance. We apologise for the inconvenience!
“Fuck,” you groan.
“Language,” Satoru says. “Maintenance at midnight. Huh. That’s strange.”
“That’s what I’m focusing on right now, yes, thank you.”
You press your face briefly against the chapel door’s small window. The lights inside are off. Through the glass you can just make out the shape of the pews, the flowers zip-tied to their ends, and the little altar at the front where Francis had stood several hours ago and wept openly into his handkerchief. How are you supposed to get the photographs of your husband—you are using that word provisionally under extreme protest—looking at you like you’re the only fixed point in the room?
“He might live here,” Satoru says.
“Francis?”
“Some of these places have a back apartment for the officiant. We could knock.”
“We’re not knocking on a man’s door at midnight,” you say.
“It’s nearly one.”
“That makes it worse!” You step back from the door and look at the sign again. There’s a narrow alley running along the left side of the chapel, squeezed between the chapel building and the 24-hour tattoo parlour next door. You only notice it because Satoru’s already walking towards it. “What are you doing?”
“Recon,” Satoru says. “Just looking.”
He disappears around the corner. You stand on the pavement with your hands on your hips before deciding to follow him. The alley is cramped and smells stale. There’s a dumpster and a stack of plastic chairs leaning against the chapel wall. Satoru stands with his hands in his pockets, looking upward with his head tilted back.
“No,” you say.
“There’s a window.”
“I see that.”
“It’s open!”
It appears to be a casement window on the chapel’s ground floor, propped out at an angle, about eight feet off the ground and just wide enough for a person to fit through.
“That could be a bathroom window,” you say. “We’d be breaking and entering.”
“The window’s already open,” Satoru says. “Technically we’d just be entering. The photos Francis took are currently somewhere in that chapel developing in a back room, unattended.”
“If we get arrested,” you say, “I’m blaming you entirely.”
“Obviously.”
“I will give a statement to the police and it will contain your full name and a detailed account of everything that’s happened tonight, starting with the chapel and working backwards to Kyoto.”
“Sure. Boost or be boosted?” Satoru asks, turning to the chairs. “I’d say I’ll boost you, but I want it to be on record that I think you’d make a better lookout.”
“I’m not being a lookout.”
“You just said—”
“I’m coming with you.”
He pauses, glancing at you, his expression softening just a little bit. Warm and amused—gone before you can fix it in place.
“Obviously,” he says, smiling, and starts stacking chairs.
The window is, in fact, not a bathroom window. It opens into a small storage room at the back of the chapel, with folding tables against one wall, boxes of artificial flowers stacked against the other, and a mop in a bucket in the corner. Through a door on the far side, you can see the chapel proper. The dripping you can hear means the maintenance situation is a ceiling problem, probably towards the front.
“There’s a whole back operation,” Satoru says, impressed.
“We need to find the darkroom,” you whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because we’re trespassing.”
“Right, yes,” he says, lowering his voice. “The darkroom will need ventilation, so it’s probably towards the back.”
“How do you know anything about darkrooms?” you ask.
“I went through a photography phase in my second year of middle school. It was a whole thing.” He opens the storage room door and peers through into the chapel. “All clear.”
You follow him through. The chapel at night, empty and dim, is a different place entirely from what it was several hours ago. Smaller, somehow. Without Francis and the lights, it’s just a room with cheap flowers and worn carpet.
“Back room’s through here,” Satoru says softly; he’s already at the door behind the altar. You cross the chapel quickly, not looking at the pews or the aisle, not doing anything so foolish as standing in the dark and sentimentalising about a five-dollar ring and a laminated vow card.
The back room is small and smells sharply of chemicals—developer and fixer, mostly. There’s a red safelight along the wall that Francis has left running, bathing everything in a dim glow. A long workbench runs along one wall, and on it, clipped to a line strung above the bench, are your photographs.
Four of them, hanging in a row, damp and gleaming slightly under the monochromatic light. Even from across the room, you can make out the chapel and the altar. Neither of you says anything for a moment, until Satoru walks to the bench and stands in front of the photographs. You make your way and stand beside him.
The first one is mid-ceremony. You’re both facing Francis, and you can see Satoru in profile—head tilted, shoulders set. The second one is the ring exchange; you can see immediately why it’s blurry. You’d both been laughing, actually, you remember that now, because Satoru had fumbled the ring and said something under his breath, and you’d bitten down on a laugh and not entirely succeeded. Francis had captured exactly that, the two of you with your heads slightly bent towards each other.
In the third one, Francis had asked you to face each other for a photo, and while you’re looking at the camera, Satoru’s looking at you. You look—Francis had said surprised, and yes, there is that, but there’s also something else, something you would rather not name.
Satoru is looking at you the way he was looking at you in the chapel, the way he’s been looking at you in these odd unguarded moments all evening.
“We look like idiots,” Satoru says.
“Francis was right,” you say. “We both look surprised.”
“Were you?” he asks.
“Yes. Were you?”
“No,” he says, then adds quietly, “Maybe. About—about other things.”
In the fourth photograph, you are outside the chapel, looking at the ring on your hand, and Satoru is looking at you looking at the ring. Francis had captured the angle so cleanly that you can see Satoru’s full expression, soft in a way his face almost never is in front of other people, private. You realise you’re holding your breath.
“We should take them,” Satoru says.
“We can’t just take them,” you say. “They’re developing.”
“They look pretty developed to me.”
“Satoru, they’re damp—”
“They’ll dry.” He’s already carefully unclipping the first photograph from the line. “Francis has the negatives. He can print more.”
“You don’t know that Francis has the negatives, and besides, we’re stealing from him.”
“We’re borrowing from Francis.” Satoru holds the first photograph carefully by its edge and looks at it in the red light before setting it down on the workbench. “Hand me something to put these in. There should be a folder or an envelope on the bench somewhere.”
There’s a paper envelope at the end of the bench, brown and flat. You pick it up and hold it open. Satoru slides the photographs in one by one.
“We need to leave Francis a note,” you say, “and money. For the printing. For—everything.”
“How much do you think midnight darkroom theft runs these days?”
“What?”
“I’m asking genuinely.”
“A lot,” you say. “Leave a lot.”
You find a notepad on the workbench next to a jar of pens. Francis, you write. We’re sorry for the unauthorised visit. We needed the photos tonight, so please print yourself copies. Enclosed is payment for the developing, the breaking-in, the trouble, and your time. Thank you for everything. It was a beautiful ceremony.
You fold the note and put it on the workbench. Satoru takes his wallet out, removes a quantity of cash that makes your eyebrows go up, and weighs it down with the jar of pens.
You go back through the chapel and through the storage room and back out the window into the alley. Satoru drops down behind you and lands easily on the ground. The night air is warm, and the Strip is still brightly lit not thirty feet away. You hold the envelope against your chest. The photographs inside are still slightly damp.
“For the record,” you say, “this is also your fault.”
“The chapel was closed,” Satoru says reasonably. “I didn’t plan that part. Plus, we have the photos, so. Seems like it worked out.”
You look at him with his loosened tie and ruffled hair and think, He’s going to be completely insufferable about this for years. You are going to have to hear about the Vegas chapel break-in for the rest of your natural life and possibly longer.
“Come on,” you say. “You said the hotel’s three blocks away.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #3 – VANDALISM.
There is only one bed. It’s not, on its own, an unusual situation. You’ve shared sleeping arrangements with Satoru before—field missions and overnight calls that left two sorcerers and one room. You’d use a pillow wall, most of the time.
The difference is that you are currently married to him.
“You booked a room with one bed?” you ask.
“They may have assumed, given that I made the reservation under a recently married couple’s names, that we would want,” Satoru says, gesturing at the bed, “the one bed.”
The bed in question is enormous, dressed in white linen and piled with decorative pillows. There’s a bowl of strawberries on the bedside table. The whole room smells faintly of roses.
“Did you request the honeymoon setup?” you say.
“The woman on the phone seemed very enthusiastic about it.”
“That’s not an answer!” You look around the room, hands on your hips. “Well, there’s a couch. You can use that.”
It’s one of those small, decorative couches present in hotel rooms to fill a corner, hold throw pillows, and look tasteful in photographs, but not to sleep on.
“I’m not going to sleep on it, but noted,” Satoru says, striding towards the minibar, shrugging his jacket off and draping it over the back of the chair by the window. “Whiskey or gin?”
“Whiskey,” you say. “We can put a pillow wall down the middle.”
“We’re married,” he says, crossing the room with two small bottles. He sits down on the other side of the bed. “It seems a bit prudish.”
You take the whiskey from him and twist the cap off. Satoru has his own bottle balanced between both hands, still unopened, and he’s looking out the window at the city below. You’ve spent enough years watching him, but it doesn’t seem to change anything; the flutter in your heart remains the same, as does the contentment you feel in your chest.
“I want to see them again,” you announce.
Satoru looks at you. “The photos?”
You reach for the envelope on the nightstand and slide the pictures out carefully, holding them by the edges. They’re drying, stiffening slightly. You hold them in your lap and he leans in slightly.
“You should’ve warned me,” you say quietly.
“About which part?”
“All of it.” You tap the third photograph’s edge, gently. “This.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “If I’d warned you, you’d have said no.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he says, not unkindly. “You’d have thought about it too long and decided it was too complicated, and then you’d have spent months being strange about it, and then we’d have gone back to normal, and—” He stops, turning the bottle in his hands. “…I didn’t want to go back to normal.”
“It’s still a bad idea,” you mumble.
“Probably,” he agrees. His hand shifts on the duvet between you, the tip of his little finger coming to rest against the back of yours. “Hasn’t stopped being true, though. Whatever it is. You know what I mean.”
You do. That’s the problem: you’ve always known what he means, even when he’s being deliberately oblique about it. You’ve known him too long and too well for any of it to not make sense anymore. Which means, you understand now, that you’ve also known you’re in love with him for longer than you thought.
You look at the fourth photograph—Satoru, standing outside the chapel, watching you look at the ring on your hand.
“You could’ve just said something,” you tell him. “At any point. Like a normal person.”
“I took you to Las Vegas and married you,” he says. “That’s me saying something directly.”
His hand turns over and covers yours, warm and assuaging, and whatever reservations you’d been carefully maintaining for years simply crumble.
You close the remaining distance. Satoru’s free hand comes up to your face before you’ve fully moved, which means he was thinking about it too—has been thinking about it, probably, for longer than tonight, longer than Vegas—and he’s kissing you.
He kisses you decisively. There’s a certainty to it that shouldn’t surprise you—this is Satoru, who does nothing halfway—but it does, a little. But what surprises you more is how easy it is. How it doesn’t feel like a change in anything so much as a long-overdue acknowledgement of something that’s been there all along.
When you pull back, his forehead drops to yours. His sunglasses are still pushed up on his head, and you reach up and take them off without asking. He lets you.
“Hi,” Satoru says.
“You’re still wearing your sunglasses indoors at midnight,” you chide.
“I said hi.”
“Hi,” you say.
He smiles; it reaches his eyes. “So,” he starts.
“Do not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I wasn’t going to. Probably.”
“Insufferable,” you say, and kiss him again, which is both a rebuke and a surrender but mostly just because you want to. He makes a sound against your mouth that might be a laugh, and his arms come around you properly this time.
The decorative pillows go first. There are seven of them, and they go in ones and twos without either of you paying much attention—one knocked off when his arm comes around you properly, two more when you shift closer, the rest sliding off the edge in a soft succession of thuds. One of the small whiskey bottles, empty now, rolls off the mattress and lands on the carpet. You don’t notice any of it; you’re somewhat preoccupied by Satoru taking your face in his hands and tilting it and kissing you until you forget what you were arguing about.
You suspect that he’s thought about this for a long time, the same way you have.
“You’re thinking,” Satoru says against your mouth.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I can tell. You get this little—” He pulls back just enough to look at you, and traces something between your brows with one finger. “Here.”
You stare at him. “I hate that you know that.”
“No, you don’t,” he says. He’s right, and you hate that too, so you tell him so by pulling him back down by the front of his shirt.
He lets you tug at him willingly—more than willingly, with an enthusiasm that sends you back against the pillows and makes you laugh, briefly, before his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, and the laugh turns into a gasp. His hands are at your waist, warm through the fabric.
His tie joins the pillows on the floor; you get the knot loose while he’s working on the matter of your buttons. His shirt is untucked and you run your hands on his waist, his ribs, the warm plane of his stomach. Satoru groans against the side of your neck, and you shiver. He tosses your shirt aside, too, and his eyes darken when his gaze lands on your chest. He takes his time with your nipples, rolling them around with his thumbs, before taking one of them in his mouth.
He moves lower, pressing kisses to the underside of your breasts, moving down to your navel. When he reaches the waistband of your jeans, he looks up, pupils blown wide and asks, “May I?”
“Yes, yes, please.” You nod frantically, helping him pull your jeans and panties off when he unbuttons it. You’re already wet and needy.
“You’re so beautiful,” Satoru says, gazing up at you before littering kisses on your inner thighs, so close to where you want him.
“Satoru, please,” you say. “I need you.”
He blows on your wet core, making you shiver. “Need me to what?”
“I need you to, hah, just—”
Satoru latches onto your clit, sucking and swirling his tongue around the bud. You moan, your hands flying to his hair and gripping the silver-white strands. He alternates between quick flicks and long, broad strokes, keeping your folds spread apart with two fingers while his other hand traces patterns along the underside of your thigh.
“Fuck, fuck—” You curse when his tongue moves in a circle right around your clenching hole. Satoru doesn’t stop. If anything, the sound of your voice breaking, the way you curse his name, only spurs him on. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s always known how to push your buttons. But this is different; this isn’t a playful tease during a mission.
He dives back in, his tongue flattening out to lap at you with broad, wet strokes that cover everything from your clit down to your opening. You arch your back, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, trying to press yourself harder against his mouth.
“Satoru… please, I’m—”
“You’re what?” he mumbles against your skin. He doesn’t wait for an answer, sliding two fingers deep inside you. You let out a strangled cry, your toes curling. His fingers are thick and warm, and he curls them, hooking them upward to find that sensitive spot that makes your vision blur. His thumb remains locked into your clit, rubbing circles on the engorged bud.
The sensation is overwhelming. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough. You can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a tight, simmering coil that winds tighter and tighter with every second.
“Right there,” you moan, your fingers knotting into his hair. “Right there, Satoru, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
Your breath comes out in short, jagged gasps, your chest heaving. Just as you are about to orgasm, Satoru stops. He doesn’t just slow down; he pulls his fingers out of you with a sudden, wet pop and removes his mouth from your heat entirely. You freeze, your eyes snapping open. “Satoru, what the hell—”
He’s hovering over you, braced on his elbows, his hair messy and falling over his forehead. A slow, smug smile spreads across his lips, though his breathing is just as heavy as yours.
“Not yet,” he whispers.
“I hate you,” you groan, your hips twitching involuntarily, searching for the friction he just stole from you. “I actually hate you so much.”
“Liars don’t get to come,” Satoru teases, though his hand reaches down to gently stroke the skin of your inner thigh.
He shifts, moving upward to kiss you. He tastes like you, and you moan into his mouth, before he pulls away just an inch, his gaze dropping to your drenched core. “I want to feel you,” he murmurs. “I want to feel how tight you are around me.”
Satoru slides backward, just enough to strip off his trousers and underwear in one hurried motion. His cock springs out, thick and flushed. Your mouth waters simply looking at it, while he pumps it once, twice, thumb circling the tip. He doesn’t lie back down. Instead, he sits up, leaning his back against the headboard of the enormous bed, his legs spread wide. He reaches out, grabbing your waist with those large, strong hands and pulling you forward until you are hovering over him.
“Ride me?” he asks.
The need for friction, for fullness, for him overrides any lingering frustration. You shift your weight, guiding his cock to your entrance. As you slowly lower yourself down, the feeling of his cock filling you, stretching you open, sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you. You let out a long, shuddering moan as you sink down completely, inch by inch, your pelvis flushing against his. Satoru lets out a choked sound, his head hitting the headboard with a thud, his eyes screwing shut.
“Fuck,” he moans. “You’re—you’re so tight. I can’t—”
“Shut up,” you whisper, though there’s no heat in it.
You begin to move, a slow, grinding rotation of your hips. You watch his face—the way his jaw clenches and his nostrils flare, the way he looks at you with warmth and wonder. You quicken your movements, bouncing on his cock. Satoru’s hands move from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, helping you ride him. He thrusts upwards, tilting his hips and dragging his cock against your walls.
“Look at me,” he groans. You look down, your eyes locking onto his. “I love you,” he says.
You feel the coil in your belly snap. Your orgasm washes over you as you clench around his cock, milking him. Satoru moans, his back arching off the bed as he thrusts upwards one last time. “I’m going to come,” he says. “Let me—”
You slide off his cock and he comes, his release spurting onto his stomach, a little bit on your thighs. You collapse against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into the crook of his neck.
For a long time, neither of you speaks. Eventually, Satoru shifts slightly, kissing the top of your head.
“So,” he whispers. “Shower?”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him with tired, happy eyes. “Already?” you say with faux innocence. “I thought you’d want to fuck me on that stupid couch first.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #4 – EMBEZZLEMENT.
Hopefully Satoru didn’t mind you swiping his credit card from his wallet while he was fast asleep, one arm thrown over his face while the other was stretched out beside him. You’d wriggled out of his grasp carefully, pressing a gentle, barely-there kiss to the tip of his nose, before digging through his jacket’s pockets for his wallet and pulling out his black card.
It’s for a good purpose, you console yourself, hurrying through the streets of Las Vegas with a jewellery shop’s location pulled up on your phone.
Las Vegas in the early morning is a different city entirely from the one that had swallowed you whole last night. It’s not quiet, exactly—it’s never quiet, you suspect—but it’s quieter, the frenetic energy of the Strip mellowed into something slower. The crowds have thinned, at least.
You walk with your hands in your pockets, Satoru’s black card tucked safely between two fingers. The morning air is warm and dry, and the sky above the glow of the Strip is beginning to lighten from black to the deep bruised blue that comes just before dawn.
The jewellery shop is three blocks from the hotel, according to your phone. It’s a small, well-lit place that stays open through the night, catering to those Las Vegas visitors who find themselves in need of jewellery at unusual hours, which you now understand is a larger demographic than you’d previously considered.
You walk and think about the rings. The ones currently on your fingers are not adequate. They’re soft metal, the gold already slightly scuffed from one night of existence, and they’ll tarnish in a week. You’d noticed this morning, while Satoru was still asleep: the way your rings sat a little loose, the way it had already lost some of its shine. It’s more of a placeholder than anything else.
The thought of replacing them had arrived while you’d lain in Satoru’s arms, listening to him breathe and looking at the ring.
You aren’t scared, though you’d expected to be. You’d expected to wake up this morning with the full weight of what’s happened landing on you like a dropped beam, and to spend the subsequent hours dealing with the considerable wreckage of your own panic. It seemed like a reasonable response to having been married to your best friend in Las Vegas by a crying man named Francis and then having the matter become rather more settled than a marriage certificate alone would suggest.
But when you’d woken up with Satoru’s arm around you and the photographs on the nightstand, what you’d felt was something almost irritatingly simple: you’d felt like yourself.
The jewellery shop is small and bright, jewellery arranged in lit display cases along the walls, a pudgy man behind the counter. He looks up when you come in, takes in the look of you—your clothes from last night, slightly slept-in, your hair not fully combed—and nods pleasantly.
“Morning,” he says. “What are you looking for?”
“Wedding rings,” you say. “Two of them, please. Something that’ll last for a long time.”
He nods again. “Do you know the other person’s size?”
You think about Satoru’s hands—the ring sliding onto his finger in the chapel, his hand covering yours on the duvet last night, the warmth of his arm around this morning. “I can estimate,” you say.
He shows you to a case along the left wall. The rings inside are simple, for the most part—plain bands in gold and silver and white gold, some with small details, most without. You find two plain bands in white gold, clean-lined and unornamented, substantial enough to last.
“These,” you tell the man behind the counter.
He nods. You produce Satoru’s black card and spend a figure that makes you wince slightly but not reconsider, because the point isn’t the cost and you’re sure Satoru will agree with you about this when he wakes up and finds both you and his credit card gone. You leave the ship with the rings in a small white box and stand on the pavement outside for a moment in the warming air.
You pull your phone out and type in the search bar, Chapel of Eternal Love, and punch in the number attached.
“Hello, Chapel of Eternal Love, Francis speaking—”
“Francis,” you say, smiling. “I have a favour to ask.”
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS, ITEM #5 – MARRIAGE.
Francis, it turns out, is delighted. He’d gone quiet for a moment when you explained what you were asking, and then said, Give me an hour, and hung up before you could confirm the details.
You make your way back to the hotel with your ring box in your pocket and the morning brightening steadily around you. The casino lobbies you pass are still going—slot machines, a scattering of determined gamblers, staff moving between stations—but the Strip itself is relatively peaceful, the night’s crowd entirely dissolved and the day’s not yet arrived. You have the pavement to yourself. It’s a strange and pleasant feeling, Las Vegas in the interstitial hour.
Satoru is awake when you get back, sitting up in bed with his hair in complete disarray and the duvet bunched around his waist. When you open the door he looks at you blankly.
“Morning,” you say.
“My credit card,” he says.
“Is fine.” You cross the room and hold it out. He takes it without looking at it, still watching you. “I needed it for a purchase.”
“What kind of purchase requires you to leave the hotel room at—” he glances at the clock on the nightstand—“six forty-seven in the morning?”
“The important kind.” You sit down on the edge of the bed and take the white box out of your pocket, setting it on the duvet between you.
Satoru picks the box up and opens it, and doesn’t say anything at all, which is the loudest thing Gojo Satoru can do. “You stole my credit card,” he says finally, “to buy us wedding rings.”
“I borrowed it,” you say. “To replace the ones we got from a spinning display rack for five dollars each.”
“I liked those rings.”
“They were tarnishing,” you say. “There’s more, by the way.”
You tell him about Francis. He looks surprised at first, and then warm, so utterly warm when he tugs you closer to him and kisses you again, and again, and once more for good measure. Satoru closes the ring box and holds it in both hands, the way he’d held the whiskey bottle last night before he’d covered your hand with his.
“I thought you wanted a divorce last night, and now you’ve stolen my credit card and called Francis.”
“Yep.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The morning light filters through the curtains and he looks extraordinarily, unfairly beautiful, even just woken up.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” Satoru sets the ring box on the nightstand, next to the photographs. “Okay.”
Francis has decorated the chapel when you arrive. You’re not entirely sure when he found the time—it’s been barely two hours since your phone call—but the maintenance issue has apparently been resolved, because the lights are on when you arrive. The door is unlocked; when you step inside you find that Francis has replaced the zip-tied artificial flowers on the pews with fresh ones, white and small. There are candles lit along the windowsills. The worn carpet, in the warm light, looks less worn somehow, or perhaps you’re simply disposed to see it differently today.
Francis himself is standing at the altar in a clean shirt, his red hair combed and his camera in his hands. “You came back,” he says.
“We came back,” you confirm.
Francis looks at the two of you—Satoru in a fresh shirt with his tie done up neatly again, you in the best thing you could assemble from your bag on short notice—and grins. “The rings, did you—”
You produce the white box.
“Right,” Francis says. “Right, yes. Let’s—shall we?”
Here is what you think about, standing at the altar of the Chapel of Eternal Love for the second time in less than twenty-four hours:
You think about the first time, yesterday, and how you’d stood here in something close to a dissociative state, your brain running through the situation at high speed. You think about the parking lot behind the Denny’s and the small fire in the trash can. You’d meant it when you said you wanted a divorce, though you realise now that you were frightened of what being married to your best friend entailed.
Satoru had let you burn it, too. He hadn’t argued because he’d known you’d come around. Not from arrogance, but because he knew you, the same way you knew him, all the way down to the things you didn’t say aloud.
You think about the darkroom, the four photographs drying on the line in the red light. Climbing back out through the chapel window into the warm Las Vegas night and holding the envelope against your chest, the photographs still damp inside it. You think about the rings in the spinning display by the door—you can still see them from where you’re standing, the little rack with the remaining rings. They were the beginning, it turns out.
You turn to look back at Satoru. He’s smiling at you.
Francis clears his throat gently. “Shall we begin?”
The vows are the same ones from the laminated card. Francis offers alternatives—he has a small binder with options—but Satoru shrugs, so you use the same ones. When Francis gets to the rings you open the white box yourself. You take Satoru’s ring out and hold it; he holds out his right hand out of habit before catching himself and switching to his left, and you both laugh helplessly. Francis gulps and pulls out his handkerchief. You put the ring on the correct hand this time.
Satoru takes yours from the box and looks up at you—there’s that expression, the one from the photographs, the one you have a name for now. He slides the ring onto the correct finger and holds your hand for a moment after.
Francis is fully crying now. He dabs at his eyes without embarrassment and beams at the two of you over his handkerchief with radiant approval.
“I’ve never had anyone come back,” he tells you. “In twelve years, you’re the first.”
“We forgot something the first time,” you say.
Francis tucks his handkerchief away and straightens up. Smiling, he announces, “You may now kiss,” and so you do.
a/n: the real mvp of this fic is francis who was also unironically my favourite person to write. thanks for reading!
Synopsis: Snapshots of moments between you and your childhood best friend, Satoru • Friends to lovers • Fluff • Slowburn • Angst
Im so sorry
Your best friend sits on the stairs covered in blood, the same ones leading up to camps, where he was attacked by Toji Fushiguro. He's resting his head in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Splotches of red blood matt his white hair.
Satoru doesn't even acknowledge you when you sit next to him. Until you reach out, only to be met with a wall of his infinity. He is protecting himself, even from you.
"I failed." He murmurs, you aren't sure if he's talking to you.
"You couldn't have known-"
"I FAILED THEM!" He snaps, and you flinch. Satoru has never raised his voice at you before. Never. When he looks up, his eyes are red rimmed, he's trembling.
You can see the moment the realisation of what he's just done hits him. His eyes widen, and he makes to reach out for you... but pauses.
"Just... leave me alone."
Some part of you knows he doesn't mean it, that he's just trying to push you away. Hurt people hurt people. But there's nothing you can say right now to help. You don't know where to start.
You're too young for such tragedy- all of you are.
Yet, this is just the beginning.
There are times when the world slows down. You're watching a car crash in slow motion and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
Satoru has thrown himself headfirst into missions, into training. He is powerful in a way nobody else can relate to anymore, powerful enough to bend time and space to his will. Too much responsibility on the shoulders of a teenager.
Suguru is wasting away before your very eyes. He is thinner, noticeably so. Pale. Dark eyes. He often stares off into space, going somewhere far, where no one can reach him. He refuses to talk about it. You've tried, you've all but begged him to talk.
You know he's not fully there anymore. The Suguru you knew is dead, perhaps he died the same day Riko Amanai did.
And Shoko... she's as helpless as you are. Watching your little group fall apart. You have each other, at least. Not that either of you talk much when you're together. What is there to say? Everything has gone to hell.
Neither of you were there, neither of you know what happened. You heard about the attack by Toji Fushiguro, about the awful death and the failure of the mission. But hearing about it and experiencing it are too different things.
No matter how hard you try, you'll never be able to understand what changed that day. The cause of this cataclysm.
You miss your best friend, miss the moments it felt like more. Something fragile has shattered between you both and maybe it can never be fixed. Everything is so different now after all.
Before Suguru leaves, he tells you one last thing.
"Take care of him."
You know you cannot stop him.
In the weeks after Suguru defects, things go from bad to worse.
Nothing prepares you for something like this. To watch your friend become a murderer. Someone you should hate. An enemy. No matter how hard you try you cannot see Suguru as an enemy. Even as the rest of the sorcerers around you scramble to cover up what he's done.
You haven't seen Satoru in two weeks. Two weeks. He hasn't come to class, isn't at his dorm, hasn't been taking missions. He's just... vanished. As much as you need him right now, you worry that he needs you more. Isolation is never the answer.
Your mind keeps replaying the moment he snapped at you. The broken look in his eyes after. You walk and walk but cannot clear your mind, cannot concentrate on anything. Your steps speed up, running away from the thoughts that chase you, or perhaps running towards something else entirely.
Soon, you reach the classroom. Jujutsu High is huge and there are more classrooms than there are students, but this one is yours. The place where the four of you met every day, grew closer in shared jokes and struggles. Where you'd help each other progress.
So many memories are contained within those four walls. Memories of events and holidays, all the times you've decorated this classroom, all the times you've had surprise tests, or shared your lunchtime together. Your little group, which will never be whole again.
The pain threatens to consume you, so you turn away. But pause as you hear the muffled sounds of crying coming from within the classroom.
Nothing he does subsides the memories, they chase him like vultures, tearing him apart at any opening. Memories of Suguru's face, the way he'd looked as he'd walked away. Of his final words which haunt him still.
What's the point of being the strongest if you can't even protect those you care about?
Satoru sits at Suguru's desk and presses his palms against his eyes. He failed, and now he's crying pathetically. Crying so much that his head hurts. His technique is weakened.
Thats why he doesn't notice you until the door is opened, until you're there, looking at him. Beholding him in all of his self loathing and pity. Satoru sees the last moment you spoke to him, the way you'd flinched when he'd raised his voice.
Years of knowing you, and you had never flinched from him before. Gods, he hates himself.
Especially as you cross the room to him and kneel next to him, looking up with those big eyes of yours. His angel, looking so concerned as always. Looking at him with all the care he doesn't deserve. But you're here. Despite everything you're still here.
"Satoru..." You murmur.
He isn't sure what to say. What can he say? He told you to leave him alone and then left for two weeks. Though, he cannot tare his gaze away from you.
You don't demand answers, you don't blame him for disappearing. He should have expected this, you've always had a kind heart. It makes him want to get on his knees and beg for an apology.
"Give me a sec..." he breathes out "I bet I look pretty pathetic right now, huh?" Satoru tries to crack a smile but ends up sobbing instead. He can't pull himself together this time. No matter how hard he tries. He can't do it.
In an instant, you're on your feet. You tug him into your arms and he welcomes it, settles his forehead against your stomach, getting your shirt wet. You're holding him together when all he wants to do is break apart.
"You're allowed to feel these things, Satoru" you tell him. "No matter what anyone says. This whole situation is messed up. The whole system is. So you're allowed to be angry, or upset. Do not let them take your emotions away."
Wrapping his arms around your waist, he tugs you closer. His hands dig into the fabric of your shirt, he breathes in your familiar scent, lets himself feel the full force of this mess. Welcomes the pain instead of running away. Your hands find his hair, gently stroking over it to calm him.
Its all he can do to start muttering apologies against you. Strings of "I'm sorry" and "I've been such an ass" and "I'm so sorry". All while you tell him its okay, over and over again.
Nothing is okay.
Satoru is at rock bottom. But there you are, a guiding light back up. He knows you well enough to know you won't leave. Should have known from the start. The trust between the two of you has always been strong.
Suddenly, he's six again. Friendless. Except for one. His friend hiding under the table with him at clan events. The same friend currently holding him together. And he remembers that whispered promise from all those years ago.
He's going to marry you someday.
Taglist: @hoppindihdihdihh @mimisayss @freyao7
Thank you for reading! I promise the next one will be happier. (Maybe)
Synopsis: Snapshots of moments between you and your childhood best friend, Satoru • Friends to lovers • Fluff • Slowburn • Angst
I wasn't expecting to post another part so soon but this just came out of me last night and I needed to get it down
Satoru has been acting strange.
Yes. More strange than usual.
Always starting off into space, too quiet, too distracted. He avoids your gaze, something almost guilty dances in his eyes whenever you do see them. In class, he's a model student. No pranks, or interruptions, or loud jokes.
Even Yaga becomes concerned.
Worst of all? He hasn't come to your dorm all week. Sure, he misses nights sometimes, but never so many in a row. You find yourself staring at the ceiling at night, unable to sleep without his arms around you, without his steady heartbeat or citrus scent lulling you to sleep.
There's a hollow feeling in your chest, like some vital part of you is missing. The tiredness makes it worse. Worry turns to agitation.
Then you're knocking on his door. Pounding.
"Satoru! I know you're in there!"
You're met with silence, but you don't leave. You won't go anywhere until he talks to you.
Finally, he answers the door, opening it just enough to peer out but not quite enough to let you in.
"...do you know what time it is?"
His hair is messy, eyes tired. But you can tell by his voice that he wasn't sleeping. For a moment, you wonder if he's been struggling too.
"Can't sleep," You answer, "We need to talk"
"Can it wait?"
"No!"
"It's midnight-"
"Why are you avoiding me!" The question bursts out of you, only for you to immediately clamp your hands over your mouth. You didn't mean to shout, didn't want to wake anyone up.
Maybe that wide eyed, embarrassed look makes him take pity because he's opening his door to let you in. Frowning even as you do. You sit on his bed together, the weight of the mattress shifting with his movements in the way the world usually bends to his whims.
"I'm not avoiding you" he says, while stretching his long arms. He looks so exhausted it makes your chest ache. But you hold your ground.
"We've barely spoken all week..." you tell him, and he just pouts in return.
"(Name), we've been friends since we were tiny, a week is nothing."
"Do you need a break from me? Is that it?" That makes his head snap towards yours, searching your eyes. That guilty look returns and he murmurs your name.
"I could never need a break from you" he whispers. When you look away, he holds your chin between his thumb and index finger, making sure you hold his gaze. "Never. Don't ever think that."
You look at him like you don't fully believe him. "Then why..."
"I can't answer that right now." Satoru says, like that doesn't just bring up more questions. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close. It should feel familiar and yet you know that something has changed.
He's gone again the next day. Its the weekend, and you find that you don't really know what to do without him. Without the chaos in your life, always tugging you away to one place or another.
Alone, you end up wandering, walking the campus aimlessly. You end up in your little fort, that abandoned building you made into a safe space. You need a safe space right now to figure this out.
But you're not alone. There's shifting inside the building, and you feel his cursed energy before you even enter through the crooked door.
"Oh! Hi Suguru" you pause. The dark haired boy is sat on the couch, looking at the ceiling. He looks over when you enter and waves.
Of course, everyone knows about this place. The four of you, Shoko and Suguru and Satoru and You, often meet here. You just didn't expect to see him today. While you were stuck in your own mind.
"Are you alright? You look...." Suguru pauses, like he can't find the right words to say, like he's looking for something that won't offend you.
You drop down next to him on the couch. "I didn't sleep well."
"Ah." He says, a knowing smile now tugs at his lips, like he's connected the dots. Pieces of information you don't have. "Something to do with Satoru?"
"No..." you lie, and Suguru snorts. You smile a little at the ridiculousness of it all. Just beyond the windows you can spot a clear and wonderful day. Its sunny, just warm enough without it being suffocating- a vast cloudless sky that's the perfect shade of blue. You should be enjoying it, instead you're here, sulking about Satoru.
"It's just," You try again, and pause. "Has he seemed, off... to you? Like, weird"
"You mean more than usual?" Suguru smiles, and shakes his head.
"It's just, he's been quiet. Really quiet. And I've barely seen him this week outside of classes. Didn't you think it was strange when he missed movie night on Friday?" You cross your legs and turn to look at Suguru, maybe he knows.
But he just lets out a long suffering sigh. "Satoru's just an idiot."
You blink. What's that supposed to mean?
Suguru says "You don't need to worry. He's just... stuck in his own head a little. I think he's scared of saying the wrong thing and so he's resorted to saying nothing at all"
"I don't understand that at all... we always tell each other everything."
Suguru just pats your head. "This is something he can't really tell you. But its nothing bad, alright? Now, if he's avoiding you that's his problem, but its too nice out today to be stuck in here."
He stands up and offers you a hand. "Come on, we can go and get Shoko and then go out somewhere."
You take his hand and let him tug you you up. Leaving more confused than you were before.
The hollowness in your chest grows the more you miss him. With each passing day that he isn't around. You find it embarrassing how much you'd started to rely on his presence, now that it's gone you're lost.
So you try to find new ways to entertain yourself. You hang out with Shoko for a while, reading gruesome old crime stories together. Suguru is always around for a vending machine dinner.
When they're both busy, you hang out with the third years. One of them, Tomohiro, seems to take a particular interest in you. He makes sure to ask you questions, listens when you go off on a tangent, smiles at you like you're the most interesting person he's ever met.
A few days of knowing him, and he decides to ask "Would you like to go out sometime? Maybe Friday, we could get ice cream?"
You pause, unsure what exactly this is. A warm breeze fills the air today, rattling the trees around you. The world is beautiful and green like his eyes, and this could be something new. "Sure, I'd like that."
He grins like he's just won the lottery. "It's a date, then"
Like the word was some kind of summons, the world shifts. The breeze stops, the chirping birds go quiet. His cursed energy fills the air in the way it always has, overwhelming, terrifying. You know it like you know your own mind. So it doesn't surprise you that Satoru has just teleported behind you.
"She's busy on Friday" Satoru grins, and you whirl on him. Wondering where he gets the audacity.
"I'm not." You say. He has some nerve, appearing out of thin air and acting like nothing is wrong when he's been avoiding you for two weeks.
"Movie night, remember?" He looks at you, then at Tomohiro. "Sorry, I guess your little date will have to wait." The word comes out with such irreverance that it makes your blood boil. It's like he's making fun of you.
"Oh, well shouldn't she decide that?" Tomohiro asks. Wonderful, gentle Tomohiro. Guilt pools in your stomach like nausea.
"Nope." Is all that Satoru says. Then he's taking your hand and walking away, and for some stupid reason you let him. Some small, stupid part of you still believes that he has a reason to be acting this way.
Its only when Tomohiro is out of earshot and Satoru still hasn't explained himself that you tug away from his grasp, frowning.
"You have five seconds to explain."
Satoru's smile drops, and he turns to look into your eyes. He pushes his sunglasses up, into his hair, so you can make direct eye contact. "You were really gonna miss movie night for that guy?"
"What are you talking about? You missed it last week, why is it a problem when I do it?" Your voice raises again, but you can't help it. You're tired of being confused, tired of the silence and the weirdness. For once, you will him to tell you the truth. Mentally, you beg him.
Dark storm clouds roll into the beautiful blue of Satoru's eyes. He steps closer to you. "You can do better than him."
"What?" You go quiet again, but don't step away. He takes that as a sign to reach out. To pull you into his arms and hold you close again, the closeness you've been craving ever since he was gone. He still smells like citrus and fresh snow.
"Let me be better..." He whispers into your hair, then pulls away just to hold your face in his hands. His thumbs caress your cheeks so gently, and he looks at you like he needs you to breathe. "I'll take you out somewhere, on a date. I can do that for you. Please..."
A date...? Your best friend wants to take you out... on a date? This is slowly becoming too much for you. But your heart is racing in a way it didn't when Tomohiro had asked, your cheeks feel warm. Your agreement comes out naturally. "Okay..."
"Thank you." He breathes out. Then his forehead rests against yours. You know there's more he's not telling you, but the moment is too fragile. You're too afraid to ask for an explanation. Too afraid to lose him again.
You never end up going on that date. Because the following week, Satoru and Suguru get assigned on a mission to retrieve the star plasma vessel, and the world turns upside down.
Taglist: @hoppindihdihdihh @mimisayss @freyao7
Thank you for reading! This wasn't proofread so I'm sorry for any grammatical errors. Please let me know if you spot something :)
Satoru Gojo x Reader • Slowburn • Childhood friends to lovers • Fluff
Synopsis: Snapshots of moments between you and your childhood best friend, Satoru
Satoru thinks you might be an angel. Scratch that, he's convinced that you are. It's the way you improve everything that you grace with your touch, the way you add warmth and comfort into his life just by existing. He's living proof of your miracle work.
In your first year studying at Jujutsu High together, you drag him to some abandoned building at the edge of campus. Its an old, dirty thing that a gust of wind could knock down. Boarded up windows, missing chunks of roof, its got the whole horror movie vibe.
But you look at it with stars in your eyes, because where Satoru sees dust and splinters, you see potential. Of course you do.
You bribe him with mochi, to help you clean it up. Though, if he had to be honest, that look in your eyes would've made him do whatever you said regardless.
By second year, you've managed to fix it. Billowy curtains cover the windows, now open and inviting. You've salvaged whatever old furniture was still usable, covered it in blankets and cushions, fairy lights cover the ceilings. Those missing chunks in the roof are covered by new planks of wood in different colours.
You've made it into somewhere you actually want to be.
You're definitely an angel, at least in Satoru's eyes. But even angels have their bad days. On yours, you always end up in that abandoned building.
Satoru finds you there after a mission that hadn't gone very well. He'd heard the details from Shoko, how your technique had gone awry, how you'd almost hurt innocents. You'd managed to reign it in on time, and nobody got hurt, but Satoru knows you well enough to know you'll blame yourself anyway.
You've withdrawn into yourself, wrapped up in your blankets while you stare out of a window. He can read the look in your eyes, the way you're replaying your mistakes over and over again, deciding what you could've done instead, what you could do now to fix it.
"You think too loud" Satoru tells you, and when you don't reply he approaches carefully. He squats down in front of you, taking your hands. A small smile tugs at his lips when your eyes meet. "Wanna talk about it?"
"No..." You murmur, but you squeeze his hands slightly.
"That's fine too, but I'm not letting you sulk about it either"
"I'm not sulking-!" You give him a sharp look, but the way your lips form an adorable little pout makes him chuckle.
His gaze lingers on your lips for a moment that is too long. Long enough for a blush to form at your cheeks. Then he stands up, and offers his hand out to you.
"You need help with getting your technique under control? Let's go get it under control."
His grin is downright victorious when you take his hand.
You have a tradition. Whenever one of you is having a bad day, you find the most dingy looking fried chicken shop around and feast on unhealthy food. The trick is that the worse the place looks, the better the food tastes.
After hours of training you end up at your preferred spot. Sat in the corner of a place not too far from the school, one that no one else dares to go into. You two are the only regular customers here, and are probably keeping this place in business. So the owners always give you free milkshakes.
Satoru waves his milkshake about "See? Controlling your cursed technique is kinda like drinking milkshakes."
"Eh?" What is he on about this time?
"You have to be careful how much you drink or you'll get brain freeze, you know? Its the same, if you let out too much energy at once then you can no longer control it"
Weirdly enough, that makes sense.
Satoru makes an incredible teacher. After all, if anyone would understand what it's like to have a power too big for your body, it's him.
He's patient with you, careful, voice soft in a way you've never heard it before. He makes you practice things you never would have thought of.
"You know, it's like you're made for this whole teaching thing" You tell him, sipping at your own milkshake. Satoru tips his head back, laughing.
"I'm good at everything." He shoots back, you roll your eyes. "But teaching? Nah, that's not really my thing"
You look at him then, really look. At this incredible guy you've known for as long as your memories can reach. Something in your chest stirs, then softens, and you relax back into your seat.
"Seriously, Toru. Thank you for today. You're incredible..."
A pause, he blinks at you for a moment. You can see the tips of his ears going pink. But its only a split moment, then that irreverent grin comes back.
"You could've done it all on your own. Now hurry up, or I'm gonna finish all the chips."
Satoru is screwed. Completely and utterly screwed. He reaches this realisation whilst you're perched on his back, on the way back to the dorms. You'd asked for a piggyback and he'd immediately agreed.
In the quiet of the night, as he listens to your laughter, Satoru realises there is little he wouldn't do for you. Maybe he'd do anything. He doesn't know.
All he knows for certain is that he's managed to make you smile today. So maybe he'll take it one day at a time. Do whatever it takes to keep that smile there.
That's just what best friends do, right?
Even if his heart tells him otherwise. Tells him that you're his.
Yeah, he's screwed.
Thank you so much to everyone who left lovely comments on the first one and inspired me to write this next part! And thank you for reading this one 🩵
