♡ satoru’s favorite thing to do was to kiss you. your bare shoulder when you were fresh out the shower, a thin layer of vanilla oil coating your soft skin. the side of your temple while you studied, the right side of your cheek about two centimeters away from your lips — nothing more & nothing less — your hand whenever you touched him, and the tip of your nose just because.
and because satoru gojo can’t do anything normally — one forehead kiss became two. then three. then he was holding your face in both hands, squishing your cheeks together, pressing another and another and another against the same spot as you giggled helplessly.
“toru—!”
“shh baby. m’busy.”
each time you tried to pull away, he’d chase after you with another dramatic “mwah mwah mwah” until eventually he let you go on his own (most likely he exhausted his lips)
as much as you loved it — you couldn’t help but wonder why ? so you had worked up the courage to ask him.
“ satoru . . . ” you began, lying on your side wrapped in his embrace and his fingers traced mindless patterns on the warm skin of your back. “why do you kiss me so much?”
his ministrations paused as he let out a soft hum, “because sweetheart, i like you . . . alot.” his hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, “more than i know how to say it actually.”
“you like me?” you scoff, raising an eyebrow.
he rolls his eyes, pressing you closer to his chest, his warm scent filling up your senses. “fineeee,” he huffs before leaning in, his face centimeters away from your own.
“i love you. that’s why i kiss you . . . duh.”
and somehow, that was the best answer you could ever possibly received.
nerdjo! who makes a lipstick the same shade as your discontinued fav because he loves you sooooo much! on some nonchalant shit idfk ugh
"Sa-to-ru!"
Drawling out the syllables of his name with beguiled intent, you don't give your boyfriend any warning as you jump straight onto him, landing right in the centre of your target with optimal precision— his very empty lap.
A short 'omph!' sounds from him as you make yourself comfortable on your self-assigned seat, his hands instantly finding your waist to keep you stable. Gojo, for the many years he's observed you, has grown use to you abrupt antics — it's also why he doesn't rebuke you like he once used to.
See, the thing with Gojo is that he's painfully uptight. Always scolding you and trying to be a smartass to every quip you have. Well, he is a smartass, but that's besides the point!
After learning how sensitive you got to his concern that bordered the line of rudeness, he's learnt to keep his mouth shut and enjoy the moment before he ends up inevitably ruining it with a snarky remark. It was a very difficult process, but having you ignore him is surprisingly harder to deal with…
"…What?" His tone is slightly clipped as he returns your enthusiasm with his apathy, gaze narrowed behind his specs, a terrifying sight enough to make a grown man piss himself.
And yet, even under his pointed scrutiny, you don't seem to shy away from him. If he was really bothered by your sudden entrance, he would've said something about it or pushed you off by now, something he has yet to do. Therefore, which leads to your ultimate conclusion, he's very curious to hear what bullshit you have to say now!
"Well, my colleagues," you start, your hands finding home in the tufts of his pale hair, a mess that he let nobody touch casually. But, obviously, it's no surprise that you've somehow managed to bypass this absolute law, just like how you'd managed to wrap him around your finger.
"My colleagues are always calling me a gatekeeper! Can you believe it!? My own friends!" In the midst of your little fit, you don't realise you're tugging hard at his roots.
"Gatekeeper..?" He lets out a low grunt of annoyance, but otherwise remains pliant under your ministrations, only raising a sharp brow as your cue to continue.
"Yep!" You nod solemnly before a huge grin slips out against your will, your pretty shade of lipstick catching the light of the setting sun, a sight that has Gojo's eyes glued onto you. "They're always saying my makeup is flawless! That my base is butter smooth, and that it never creases!"
Gojo hums under his breath, a telling sign he's hanging on to every word you're saying with rapt intrigue as he subconsciously presses you closer to his proximity. "And?"
"And!" You stretch with effort, before jutting your bottom lip out with mock sadness, a movement followed intensely by the man before you. "They always ask what I use, but they never believe me when I say it's you who makes it!"
That's right, there was once a time where you'd come home crying to Satoru. Apparently, your favourite lip shade was announced to be discontinued, and because Satoru has never hated anything more than the sight of your tears, he'd promised to create you something that was near identical — so long as you stopped crying.
And what started off as lipstick eventually grew, Satoru was wordlessly began creating all sorts of cosmetic products. You didn't even have to ask, he was always multiple steps ahead of you! Your online shopping carts of products you wanted to try saved on his notes, for him to later create at the lab he was always holed up in.
"What does that matter?" Huffing, he presses his nose into your collarbone, inhaling the scent of your perfume with quiet reverence.
"They keep making requests for themselves!" You let out a soft whine, throwing your head back with exasperation. God, their shamelessness knew no bounds! It was a miracle you hadn't yet lost your mind. "They say that I'm a bad girlfriend for gatekeeping my good boyfriend's makeup line!"
"…." He cringes as you mimic them, your voice taking on an unusual lilt he's not quite used to.
"Tell me, Satoru…" Your words trail off as you purse your lips in ponder. "And answer me honestly, okay?"
"I'll try…" He mumbles too lowly for you to hear, his eyes shutting with slight fear. If he answered wrong by your standards, you might end up putting him through hell like you did those last few times when his answer was not to your satisfaction.
"Am I a jealous woman?" You ask with complete seriousness.
"…Huh." He blinks, taken aback by your question.
"For wanting to be the only woman receiving your handmade makeup. Does that make me a bad girlfriend?" Your jaw clenches as you think back to your colleagues multiple comments that have slowly began to grate on your nerves.
"No..?" He frowns, brows creased together like he can't comprehend why the hell that would make you a bad girlfriend. "I, I uh- um, I prefer making it for you only…"
"Aw! You're such a good boyfriend!" You giggle, the noise so sweet it has Gojo's pants tighten. "Going along with all my whims!"
"Uh, it doesn't— it doesn't bother me..." He stammers lightly, ears heating up with fluster as his cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. "I don't mind…"
His response is so adorable, and the way he can no longer meet your eyes from the shyness that overwhelms him has your heart clench with aggression. You don't have it in you to hold back from your urges, so you do as your heart desires. Smother his unguarded face with a flurry of kisses!
The noise of your lips against his face is unbearably loud, and even when Satoru squirms under your hold, you don't bother stopping. Not when you can clearly feel him get very happy beneath you. You trail a bunch of kisses everywhere, his cheeks, nose, forehead and all over— no place is left untouched under your affections, except for one particular spot.
After a couple more lingering smooches, you hover over his untouched lips, before reluctantly pulling away to admire your little masterpiece. The dazed expression he wears on top of the many kiss marks across the expanse of his skin is unfairly cute, he's quite literally melting into a puddle of putty under your touch, the searing heat of your fingers sending him into a blushing mess of stutters and whines.
"Ah! But y'know," your eyes curve with teasing mischief as you tap your finger against your smudged lips, swiping a bit of the product off with wicked intent. "You're actually a very baaad boyfriend, Satoru."
"Huh," he sighs, glasses crooked on his nose as his eyes grow half lidded with bliss. His confusion is palpable, something you don't see very often from your usually smart-mouthed boyfriend, the sort of sight that has you still and admire for a good moment.
"You've still yet to find a way to make my lipstick transfer proof..." You lean closer towards him, slowly dragging your stained finger across his untouched lips, pulling a soft whimper out of him. "Why is that? Am I to assume you actually like all the kisses I leave on your face?"
"That's not— that's not true…"
@saintly11x here u fucking go damn
a/n: does this count as tsun tsun nerdjo... idkidkdkdkdk
Satoru’s dorm room is cosy as rain peals against the closed window and you settle back into his awaiting arms. There’s a sizeable pile of stationery and papers on his desk, all painted a glowing orange by the lamplight.
“Ew.” You grimace at the laptop. Despite watching Return of the Jedi countless times by yourself and even more with your boyfriend, the sight of Jabba the Hutt never fails to make you feel mildly disgusted. “He’s so slimy, I hate it.”
Satoru laughs behind you, voice muffled into your hair. “Shh, you’re missing the fight.”
“That cannot be comfortable.” You muse casually, gazing at Leia’s golden bikini and the sash attached. “You couldn’t pay me to wear that, I don’t think I’d be able to move properly.”
Behind you, Satoru stiffens a little and you can feel the nerves radiating off him. Slowly, you turn around and grin.
“Oh my god. You’re totally thinking about me wearing it, aren’t you?”
“N-no!” He blurts, face flushed as his arms tighten nervously around you. “No, I’m not, I swear, I just-“
“-want to see your girlfriend in Leia’s 1983 golden bikini.” You snort, giggling at his red cheeks and the way his glasses are nervously being pushed up the bridge of his perfect nose. “Oh my god, and here I thought you couldn’t get any nerdier.”
“You- you picked the film!” He protests, “I wanted to watch Revenge of the Sith-“
“What, are you gonna suggest I try on Padme’s nightgown next?”
He gapes, before pinching his brows together and you can tell he’s considering the way you’d look in the floaty blue silk. Unfortunately for Satoru Gojo, he happens to fall very much under the nerdy male stereotype of a painstaking first crush on Princess Leia- and it’s not made better by the way you’re openly laughing in his face.
You chortle and settle back into him, voice lilting with just a little bit of tease. “Maybe if you do well on your exam, I'll consider it.”
He knows you’re joking- or are you?- but he’s already planning out the study timetable.
masterlist
a/n: I knowwww I’m only supposed to be posting my summer series but I wrote this in like 4 minutes last night and thought it was kinda funny
The hum of Satoru’s desktop fan was usually the loudest sound in his dorm room, but right now, it was entirely eclipsed by the frantic thumping in his chest.
He was sitting at his desk, a heavy mechanics textbook open in front of him, though he hadn’t read a single line in the last ten minutes. Instead, his eyes kept darting to the reflection in his computer monitor. You were sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling through your phone.
Five years. The two of you had been together for five whole years, spanning the chaotic bridge from high school to your sophomore year of college. You were still the same vibrant, effortlessly captivating girl who ran in the popular circles, the one everyone expected to choose some star athlete or frat president. But you had chosen him—the guy who helped you pass physics in eleventh grade and never stopped looking at you like you hung the moon.
"Hey, Satoru?"
Your voice broke the silence. You set your phone down on the nightstand, a deliberate finality in the movement that instantly put Satoru’s internal radar on high alert.
"Yeah?" Satoru turned in his swivel chair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. He pushed them up out of habit. "Need help with the syllabus for Monday, or—"
"No," you said softly. You weren't wearing your usual bright, social-butterfly smile. It was something gentler, more grounded. You looked around the small dorm room, then back at him, your eyes locking onto his. "Lock the door, Satoru."
Satoru blinked. His brain, usually capable of calculating complex equations in seconds, completely short-circuited. *Lock the door? At 7:00 PM on a Friday?*
"Oh. Um. Is there... is someone from the hall bothering you?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. He cursed himself internally.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, shaking your head. You stood up from the bed and walked over to him, stopping right in front of his chair. You reached down, your fingers gently brushing against his jawline, tilting his face up.
"Nobody is bothering me," you murmured, your gaze incredibly steady. "I want you to lock the door because I want it to just be us tonight. For real. I’m ready, Satoru."
The universe stopped spinning. Satoru’s hands gripped the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. The implication hit him like a physical wave, sending a sudden rush of heat straight to his ears. *Ready.* The two of you had talked about it, abstractly, agreeing to wait until things felt right, never rushing, always respecting the boundaries you'd built since you were teenagers.
"You..." Satoru swallowed hard, his throat suddenly bone-dry. He stood up, his knees feeling dangerously like jelly. "Do you mean... like... *everything*?"
"Yes, you dork," you whispered, a faint blush finally creeping onto your own cheeks, though you didn't look away. "Everything. If you want to."
"If I—*of course* I want to!" Satoru blurted out, a little too loud, before his hands flew up in a gesture of frantic reassurance. "I mean—only because you want to! Only because you're ready! I'm completely fine just watching a movie or doing flashcards! I just want you to be comfortable, and if this is what you want, then I—"
You caught his rambling hands in your own, squeezing them tightly. Your touch instantly anchored him, cutting through the static of his spiraling thoughts.
"Satoru. Look at me," you said, stepping closer until there was barely any space between them. "I’ve loved you for five years. There is no one else I’d ever want to give this part of myself to. I am completely sure."
The nervous, bumbling armor Satoru usually wore completely melted away. A profound, overwhelming wave of sincerity took its place. He looked down at you, seeing past the "popular girl" persona the rest of the campus saw, seeing only the girl who held his heart. He felt an immense, humbling weight of gratitude that you trusted him this deeply.
"Ok," Satoru breathed, his voice dropping to a soft, reverent whisper.
He stepped past you, walking over to the heavy wooden dorm door. His hand shook just a fraction as he turned the deadbolt, the sharp *click* echoing like a starting gun in the quiet room.
When he turned back around, his logistical nerd brain tried to hijack him one last time. He looked at the bed, which was currently cluttered with a stray hoodie, a half-finished bag of chips, and three notebooks.
"Wait, let me just—" Satoru dashed forward, frantically grabbing the clutter and shoving it unceremoniously into his closet. He kicked a stray sneaker under the desk and hurriedly smoothed out the comforter. "Sorry. I just... I want it to be perfect for you."
You watched him, your heart swelling. You didn't want a smooth, practiced player; you wanted *him*. You walked over to where he was standing by the edge of the bed, reaching out to gently remove his glasses, placing them carefully on the desk nearby.
Without them, the world was a little blurry for Satoru, but as you slid your arms around his neck and pulled him close, your face was the only thing that needed to be in focus.
"It's already perfect," you whispered against his lips.
Satoru brought his hands up to rest gently on your waist, his heart racing, but the panic was gone—replaced by the absolute certainty that he was the luckiest guy alive.
you and your husband, nerdjo, rewatching his old science vlogs from his high-school days 𑣲 .✦ ݁˖ ۶ৎ
husband!gojo x f!reader, 16yo nerdjo mentioned, gojo has glasses, fluff | wc 1.3k
“…hey suguru, are you sure the camera’s set up correctly?”
you smile to yourself at the sound of satoru gojo’s voice — albeit a much younger and more boyish version of it — coming from your laptop as you put the video into full-screen.
you lean closer into your husband, the present-day satoru, who’s sat by your side with his brows pinched and lip jutted out as he watches his younger self dart across the camera frantically. you’re both curled up, the laptop upon your legs and your head on your husband’s shoulder, his own head resting atop yours. by his side is a bowl of brownies — a friday evening necessity for you two now — and his legs are tangled with yours beneath the blankets.
on the screen, ivory strands of hair flash across the screen as you watch the much younger version of him fuss with the camera, trying to focus it properly on himself. from the little portion of his face that you can see, he’s evidently stressed, chewing so hard on his lip that you’re sure that it’s bound to start bleeding at some point in the video.
after a few minutes of messing with the camera, a sixteen year old version satoru finally comes into view on your laptop. there’s something softer about him, an almost refreshingly naive sense of youth in his features as he beams at the camera, clearly pleased with himself for finally working it out.
“…okay! hello viewers! today’s video is going to be about determining planck’s constant using….” he rummages through the small tray to his left. “ah- this little guy!”
he holds up a tiny blue LED bulb, a huge grin on his face. “it doesn’t look like much, but there’s a crazy amount of quantum mechanics behind making this thing run!”
you snort at that, playfully nudging present-day satoru, who pouts and turns to face you.
“toru, you were such a dork!”
“i wasn’t! it is a pretty cool piece of physics — you just don’t understand!”
you can’t help but laugh harder at that, at which he groans and lifts a brownie to your lips.
“you’re doing too much laughing. just eat.”
you gasp, scandalised, pushing his hand away playfully. “you’re just trying to shut me up!”
“am not.”
you’re about to offer a witty comeback when you’re interrupted by the slightly distorted sound of video-satoru speaking to the non-existent viewers once more.
“…okay..so you can see here that i’ve set up the circuit. here,” he points at a power pack, “i’ve attached the power supply to a resistor. then i’ve attached the ammeter in series to our LED. oh, and of course the voltmeter is in parallel.” he lifts the LED bulb attached to two crocodile clips, holding it beside his face.
“hey, this shade of blue kinda matches my eyes! see?”
you feel satoru physically tense up a little by your side, clearly cringing at his past self too. you put a arm around him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly as though to comfort him that it isn’t that bad even though it really is.
“okay..now you’re gonna want to roll up a piece of cardboard to form a tube…” he demonstrates, eyes fixed on the surface of the table. his tongue is stuck out just slightly in concentration, a habit that seems to have followed satoru even into adulthood, before finally lifting it to his eye.
“it should look a little like a makeshift telescope….tada! like a pirate, i guess…guess you could say that it really looks like i’m about to walk the planck.” you’re sure you hear somebody snort at the terrible pun — presumably shoko, judging by the pitch of the noise.
you have to bite back your own laugh for the sake of your poor husband, who has now dramatically buried his head in his hands with a groan.
“my own wife hates me.”
“i don’t hate you toru! i think you were cute!”
“you think i was a total loser.”
“a cute loser!” you quip with a giggle, pushing his glasses back so you can study his face clearly and propping them upon his head. carefully, you study his features, as though to gauge whether he’s really embarrassed. of course, he’s got his signature pout on, dramatic as ever, but you can still see the slight crinkle in his eyes as he tries to fight off a smile.
he clearly enjoys the attention.
you sigh and playfully flick his forehead. “you are so dramatic! whatever, eyes on the screen. we still need to see the result of this experiment, right?” you pull his glasses back down, fixing them so that they’re now resting upon his nose.
video-satoru steps back slightly so that he’s fully in view, absentmindedly fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater as he speaks.
“okay! so my friend shoko’s gonna turn off the lights now…and then i’m going to use this,” mini-satoru holds up the cardboard tube, “to block out any remaining light from the windows! my eyes are pretty sensitive to my surroundings already so i could technically skip this step, but for the sake of accuracy i’ll do it anyway.”
the lights flick off and you hear rustling on the screen before his voice sounds once more from somewhere in the dim classroom. the quality is too poor to properly make out his features amongst the sea of darkness.
“okay..so i’m going to keep gradually adjusting the resistance until i see it light up…”
as if on cue, the familiar soft white hair and cheesy grin come into view, illuminated by soft tones of lapis blue. the light seems to bounce off his features. the quality of the LED is much too poor to fully light up the room: instead, it flickers weakly, dancing across the boy’s face in uneven patches. nonetheless, the pleased grin on his face is so distinguishable, so satoru, and you feel your heart swell a little at the boyish look he flashes towards the camera.
with a little kick to his legs under the blanket, you mumble, “you were so cute toru…it’s not fair.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the animated actions of his younger self on screen, leaning further into him subconsciously as you pick up a brownie slice and take a bite.
“hey, aren’t i still cute now?”
“…don’t push it.” you mutter between chews.
the laugh he gives off is warm, hints of the sixteen year old version of him you’re watching on screen just slightly noticeable in it if you listen close enough. something about it all, about current-satoru’s messy white hair, the way his brows relax a little as he smiles, the hints of a cheeky grin evident on his face: it’s all so familiar, so unbelievably sweet and reminiscent of the naiver, smaller version of him currently rambling excitedly on screen.
the video comes to an end as you stare at satoru. you’re zoned out, eyes fixed on his features, staring at him as though deep in thought. eventually you realise that the video has already ended and that he’s already moving to shut the laptop, clearly somewhat relieved at the opportunity to turn it off, before you eventually speak up.
“next week we’re watching the most recent one.”
you murmur it with a sense of finality, and satoru can’t help but raise his eyebrow at the suddenness, a tone of worry seeping into his voice when he finally speaks.
“mm? why that one specifically?”
“…shoko told me you blew something up.”
“oh. that one.”
author’s notes: filler post since exams start tomorrow💔this is so embarrassing but i had to check the notes whilst writing this because i forgot how to do the practical
anyway physics paper 1 tomorrow and i’m writing a fic about one of the practicals do we think i’m getting that A*
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not in his usual, subtle way—the way he does in the library when he thinks you’re too focused on your textbook to notice, peering at you over the rim of his round glasses with something soft and unreadable in his eyes. no, this is different.
he’s staring. openly. intensely. his glasses are pushed up into his messy white hair, and his impossibly blue eyes are fixed on you with the laser focus he usually reserves for his physics textbooks or the latest game release he’s been counting down to.
you look up from your laptop, startled. “what?”
“cherry cola.” he says, as if that explains everything.
you blink. “what about it?”
“that’s what you taste like.” he says it with such devastating certainty, leaning forward on his elbows across the café table, that you feel your face immediately flush.
“i— what? gojo, what are you talking about?”
he grins, and it’s the dangerous one. the one where his eyes crinkle at the corners and his whole face lights up like he just solved an impossible equation. “you ordered cherry cola. at the movies. two weeks ago. you let me have a sip because i finished my drink in the first ten minutes of the previews, remember?”
you do remember. you remember the way his fingers had brushed yours when he took the cup, the way he’d wrinkled his nose after tasting it and declared it “too sweet”, the way he’d kept stealing sips anyway for the rest of the movie. you remember pretending to be annoyed and failing miserably.
“i remember you complaining about it the whole time.” you manage.
“i changed my mind.” he props his chin in his hand, still watching you with that unsettling intensity. “it’s my favorite now. i can’t stop thinking about it.”
your heart does something complicated in your chest. satoru gojo—resident genius, top of every class, the guy who corrects professors and finishes exams in half the time and still manages to look bored doing it— is sitting across from you in a sunlit café, telling you he can’t stop thinking about cherry cola.
no. about you and cherry cola.
“that’s—” you start, and then stop, because you have no idea what to say to that. “that’s weird, gojo.”
“probably,” he agrees cheerfully. “but i’ve been thinking about it for two weeks and i’ve run the calculations and i’m pretty sure there’s only one solution.”
“there are calculations now?”
“extensive ones.” he reaches into his bag and pulls out a notebook, flipping it open to reveal pages of what looks like actual mathematical work, except scrawled in the margins are little doodles— hearts, soda cups, what might be stick figures holding hands. “see, if we assume variable x equals my feelings and variable y equals the probability that you’ll say yes to a date with me—”
“gojo.” you interrupt, your voice coming out a little strangled.
he looks up at you, and for just a second, the bravado slips. underneath all the confidence and chaos, he looks nervous. hopeful. like he has just handed you the answer to a problem he’s been working on for a very long time and he’s terrified you’re going to mark it wrong.
“satoru,” he corrects quietly. “i want you to call me satoru. or toru. suguru calls me toru. you can too. if you want.” he’s rambling now, the words tumbling out faster. “only if you want. no pressure. i just— i like you. a lot. an embarrassing amount, actually. suguru says it’s pathetic and nanami just sighs every time i bring you up, which is often, probably too often, and i just thought maybe if i showed you my work you’d understand that i’m serious, because i know i joke around a lot but this isn’t a joke, you’re not a joke, you’re kind of the opposite of a joke, you’re—”
“satoru.”
he stops. his eyes are wide behind the glasses he’s pushed back down, like a shield.
you reach across the table and take the notebook from his hands. you look at the equations, the doodles, the messy handwriting that somehow still manages to be elegant. you look at the little hearts. so many little hearts.
“you’re such a nerd.” you say, but you’re smiling, you can’t help it.
“i know,” he whispers. “is that... okay?”
you close the notebook and slide it back toward him. “show me the part where variable y equals yes.”
it takes a second for the words to register. when they do, his whole face transforms. the nervousness melts away into something so bright and incandescent it makes your chest ache. “yeah?”
“yeah. but you’re buying me another cherry cola first.”
he’s already on his feet, notebook forgotten, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. “i’ll buy you a hundred cherry colas. a thousand. i’ll buy stock in the company. i’ll learn how to make it from scratch—”
“toru.”
he pauses mid-ramble, grinning down at you like you hung the moon and all the stars besides.
“one is fine,” you tell him. “just one. and then maybe you can show me the rest of your calculations.”
his grin widens impossibly. “you want to see all my work? eve the stuff about the wedding venue? because i have a whole separate notebook for that, it’s color-coded and everything, i’ve been working on it since—”
“satoru.”
“going!” he’s already backing toward the counter, still facing you, still grinning. “one cherry cola. and then we’re going to discuss variable z, which is where we should go for our first date, because I have opinions. many opinions. i made a spreadsheet.”
you watch him go, cheeks warm, heart full, the pages of his notebook still open on the table between you.
nerd. you think, with more affection than you’ve ever felt for anyone.
pairing: fratjo x reader
synopsis: you confess your feelings to the annoying (but cute) fratguy you've been tutoring...
cw: angst, cussing, mentions of drinking and partying, unrequited love, jealousy, pining
wc: 2.7k
art creds: @/syllysmot on twitter
Gojo masterlist
collection masterlist
Satoru was stupid. The biggest idiot there ever was.
And I don’t mean academically—although god knows that wasn’t exactly one of his strong suits either.
No, it was more than that. Satoru was an imbecile when it came to his feelings and emotions. Hence why he sometimes relied on other people for help. So far that doesn’t exactly sound like a bad thing, right?
Wrong. It is a bad thing when the people in question are just as—if not, worse than him.
Around six weeks ago, you had gathered your courage and finally told him you’d been crushing on him for the past few months. This decision was not easy for you.
Afterall, the two of you had a sort of bickering dynamic. You claimed he annoyed you to death, and he affectionately bullied you. You weren’t sure when exactly you’d developed your feelings for him, or how, but you soon realized there was no use denying them. You were in love with Satoru Gojo.
And a small part of you simply knew he felt the same. Sure, he was in a frat and liked to party, drink and hookup. But ever since meeting you, he hadn’t been with anyone, he was seen less at parties, and he even stopped drinking so regularly. That had to mean something, right?
Well as it turns out, it didn’t. Or at the very least, it didn’t mean what you had hoped it did.
You didn’t know what it meant— maybe he was just playing the long game with you to win a bet, maybe he just felt like exercising chastity for a couple months, or maybe there was no explanation at all.
Whatever it was, you didn’t want to know anymore.
He’d rejected you. Cold, dry, indifferent. As if you were just one of the other couple hundred girls who wanted him. As if you weren’t special to him. As if all those months you spent getting closer didn’t mean anything to him.
You blamed yourself for it. Of course he didn’t feel the same. Why would he? He’d been with more girls than you could ever know. (You’re pretty sure he didn’t know either, for the record.)
But it still hurt to know that the renowned manwhore on campus didn’t even want to pity fuck you.
So you let yourself cry and be depressed for a week. Just a week. Because after that, you promised yourself you’d move on and forget the asshole.
Six weeks later, and you’re doing better. Sure you still see him in the hallways or in the coffee shop close to your campus, but you don’t feel the same nauseating sickness churning in your stomach at the mere sight of him anymore. You could happily confirm that he was old news.
Your friends—always eager to help—had even set you up on a blind date with someone to help you move on, and it was going great. He was kind and patient, not arrogant and loud. He was respectful and understanding, not pushy and self-centered. He didn’t give you mixed signals. And most importantly, he didn’t make you cry yourself to sleep.
And yet you couldn’t stop the little voice in your head wondering if Satoru had seen you with him. If maybe the sight of you with someone else troubled him. And you were almost mad at yourself for wishing he cared enough to be jealous. Because he had made it very clear that he didn’t care.
But the truth of the matter was that he didn't know how he felt. He had played the conversation in his head at least a hundred times over, to the point where he’d eventually come to notice every detail. The way you had clenched your trembling hands together, the fact you’d put more effort than usual in your appearance, the soft tone of your voice as the words “I like you” left your lips. Evidently, his mind was set on torturing him.
And despite all this—this agonizing recounting of events—he still didn’t understand his feelings any better than the day he rejected you.
If there was one thing he did know however, it was that he never should’ve asked his frat brothers for advice when he suspected you might be into him.
“Ain’t no way you’re gonna say yes.” Sukuna laughed, arms draped across the back of the couch, legs spread wide. “I know game is game, but her? You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Satoru stayed propped up against the doorway to the living room with his arms crossed as he stared at his friend. His expression was pulled into a light frown. “Why? She’s not that bad.” he retorted, his voice quiet, as if a little embarrassed.
“She’s not that bad but she’s not hot shit either.” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, as if this was obvious. “You literally get the hottest chicks out of all of us and you’re considering her?”
“It’s Satoru—Mr. Worldwide, remember? He’ll sleep with anything that has a pulse.” Suguru chuckles softly.
“Shut the fuck up before I pull that stupid ass sidebang from your scalp.” The blue eyed man instantly spits out as he glares at Suguru.
The latter raises his hands in mock surrender, a smirk gracing his lips.
Satoru runs a hand down his face and groans. “I don’t know why I thought asking you both would help.”
Sukuna only laughs at his friend’s frustration before settling down. “Seriously though, I wouldn’t do it. You don’t even like her anyway.”
“And how would you know?”
“Because if you did, you would’ve fucked her already.” he shrugs, ignoring the anger brewing behind his friend’s eyes. “Besides, you’re literally just talking to her ‘cause she tutors you, right?”
Before the white haired man can answer, Suguru interjects.
“I wouldn’t reject her,” he says.
Satoru’s eyes immediately fly to his black haired friend, subtle hope blooming in his chest without knowing why.
“Because if you do reject her, she won’t tutor you. And we both know you can’t afford that.” he laughs.
The tall man rolls his eyes and separates himself from the doorway to walk away. “Fuck you both.”
And although he’d left that conversation mad at his friends, he couldn’t get their words out of his head. I mean it was true… right? He only hung out with you for tutoring. And if he wanted you, he already would’ve crossed that line with you. But he didn’t, so that had to mean he wasn’t interested.
As he suspected, you’d confessed your feelings to him later that same week.
“I like you,” you mumbled under your breath, heart hammering in your chest, your eyes trained on the ground beneath you. You couldn’t bear to look at him.
An awkward silence passes by before he scratches at the short hairs on his nape, a heavy sigh escaping him. “... I don’t feel the same, sorry.”
At that moment, everything went quiet. You couldn’t hear the chatter of people while they walked to their classes, the whisper of the wind rustling through tree branches, or the sound of the water fountain spraying.
You kept your eyes on the ground, hands fisting against your bag straps. “Oh,” you let out, quietly.
He cleared his throat. “Anyway… my class started five minutes ago. I should probably go.” and without saying goodbye or waiting for a response, he turned on his heels and walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the front yard of your college like an idiot.
You did the same, quietly walking away, your body moving on autopilot. And you were thankful for that. Because if someone had seen the both of you—which they definitely did considering how eye catching he was—they probably thought you two were just talking about the weather or something.
Thankfully you’d finished all your classes for that day so you allowed yourself to mope around in your room for the rest of your evening.
Satoru almost winced as he recounted the events for the millionth time this week.
What was wrong with him? Why had he been so dismissive? Why did he try so hard to give off as unbothered and unreachable an air as possible? Why did he act like you were so far beneath him when that was so far from the truth?
You were the smartest person he’d ever met. But not in the annoying, matter-of-factly way he claimed you were when the two of you bickered. You had the brightest mind and sharpest tongue, always humbling him when he was too arrogant, always retorting a witty response right back at him, always holding him accountable for his idiocies. Always putting up with his bullshit.
He missed talking to you. He missed having someone he could piss off so easily, and who could keep up with his banter so well. He missed seeing the anger flash in your eyes for a split second right before you threw his words right back at him. That same frustration behind your gaze flaring so fast he could almost miss it, but he never did.
Because he never kept his eyes off you when you were near. How could he? You were the most captivating thing he’d ever seen. He was sure you’d thrown a spell on him right after meeting for the first time. But no, believing that would be a complete disservice to your wit and beauty. And they deserved their own merit. This wasn’t the work of some crystals, or written manifestations—it was just you.
Those girls Sukuna claimed to be so much better than you could spend their entire lives trying to reach your level, and they still wouldn’t hold a candle to you. Satoru was sure of it now.
But ‘now’ was far too late.
Of course it was too late. Tardiness was one of the only things he was good at.
Late to class, late in handing in assignments, late to his own parties. And worst of all—late in understanding his own feelings.
Satoru now also knew for sure that he was the biggest idiot ever.
And yet that didn’t stop him.
After realizing he was mistaken in listening to his friends instead of himself, he was determined to fix things with you. To change himself for you.
He’d planned it all out. He’d stalk find you after your last class of the day, surprise you with the biggest bouquet of your favorite flowers, and apologize profusely all while telling you he actually felt the same.
He’d worked on every step of his plan (more than he ever worked on any assignment), and was now at the last phase: putting the plan into action.
So there he stood, down the hallway from your lecture hall’s door. Patiently waiting for you to round the corner so he could surprise you with the flowers, and a bag of your favorite snack. People who passed the hallway looked at him with raised eyebrows and wide eyes while whispering, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered to him anymore except you.
At the sound of the door opening, and chatter filling the hallway, he turned his head over his shoulder and saw people slowly leaving the lecture hall. He immediately threw his head back and stared at his shoes. His grip on the bouquet tightened as he went over every word he wanted to say to you.
There was so much he wanted to say: how stupid and undeserving he was, how beautiful you were to him, how he literally couldn’t go another day without speaking to you. But he had to stay focused and stick to his plan to make sure he wouldn’t turn into a bumbling buffoon.
That’s when he heard your voice down the hallway, the sound immediately soothing him. God how he missed it, how he missed hearing his name slipping past your lips in that annoyed tone.
He took a deep breath and braced himself. This is it, he thought.
He turned the corner himself—a last minute decision because he couldn’t bear not seeing your face for a second longer—and his eyes searched for you. But the moment they found you, he felt his body go cold.
There you were, as perfect as ever, laughing with your books in hand.
But that wasn’t the issue. No, the problem was the guy next to you, the reason you were laughing. He laughed along with you, while pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Decently tall, nice build, dressed comfortably but well, one backpack strap on his firm shoulder.
This was the first time ever that Satoru found himself over-analyzing another man out of envy. He never felt insecure. He was 6’3, worked out, had pretty blue eyes, soft hair, and was rich. Why would he be insecure?
In spite of himself, he couldn’t stop the onslaught of deprecating thoughts running through his mind.
So he stood there like an idiot—the same way he’d left you after rejecting you so coldly—the bouquet of flowers slowly slipping from his hand as he loosened his grasp on it, shoulders dropping.
He stared as the guy slid a hand around your own and pulled you in for a forehead kiss. You looked so beautiful with your gentle smile and closed eyes as you accepted the affection. And he couldn’t stop picturing how you’d look if he’d been the one to kiss you. But he wasn’t the one kissing you, and he hated how happy and serene you looked in someone else’s arms—as beautiful as you were.
When the two of you pull away from one another, he watches the way your eyes quickly sweep over the hallway, and the way they grow wide once they land on him. His own eyebrows raise, as if he’d been caught stealing something.
His grip on the flowers tightens once more, and he slowly moves his arm halfway behind his back. As if he didn’t want you seeing the flowers out of embarrassment.
You stay frozen in place, staring at him across the room. Sure you had seen him in passing these past weeks, but from a distance. Now, seeing him so close, you wondered if you truly ever were over him. Your mind raced.
What was he doing here? He didn’t have any classes in this block, neither did any of his friends. Why was he holding flowers and snacks? Who were they for? Were they for you? No, that couldn’t be. He didn’t care about you. He probably didn’t even remember your name. But those were your favorite flowers, and your favorite snack. Could it be that—
“Are you okay?” you hear a soft voice speak.
You tear your eyes off of him before looking back at the source of the sound and smiling. ”Yeah… I’m good.” you clear your throat. “Let’s go eat, I’m starving.” You force a smile, and he tightens his hold on your hand before tugging you forward.
Satoru feels his heart drop to his stomach as you walk away, your figure disappearing among the crowd. He slowly looks down at the pretty bouquet he was holding, and it felt like it was staring back at him with condescension. He’s pretty sure that if it could speak, it’d say “I told you so”.
Was this how you felt when he rejected you? Humiliated, stupid, worthless? It fucking sucked.
His regret and self-hatred only grew at the thought of you going through the same thing. And the image of you crying because of him popped up in his head. It almost made him want to puke out his insides.
He truly was the worst, wasn’t he?
Maybe this was for the better. You looked happy with that guy. He deserved you more than Satoru ever would.
But it still hurt.
With a shattered heart, Satoru slowly turned around and walked away, leaving the bouquet on a bench somewhere or something—he couldn’t even remember.
He’d arrived back at the frat house, showered, changed and gone to bed. Although he didn’t know how or when exactly. Because for the past minutes—or hours? he wasn’t sure—he only had one thing on his mind.
nerd gojo & fem reader, awkward gojo, occ characters
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who cannot flirt even if it meant that his life was on stake, yet still tries to hit you up cus he has a confidence of an ugly straight white man
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who WAITS till you start chugging down your coffee before blurting out stupid shit in hopes of swoonin you up,
"are you.. uhm.. like.. made of copper and tellurium?" he waits painfully long before continuing, "because you’re Cu-Te." and when your thoughts are, tf is ts ho on ab, he scrambles around, mumbling to himself
"no-- you know the periodic table? its.. its a chemistry joke aha.. sorry, do you.. do you want me to explain?"
AND HE FUCKING DOES EXPLAIN. like for two FULL minutes. this mf didn't even notice you choking on your coffee.
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who decides to "play it cool" by casually sliding into the seat next to you in the library.
except he miscalculates the distance and before he knows it, the chair screeches loud and eventually falls along with the manchild.
but the great gojo satoru does NOOT give up, instead, he whispers while still laid out on the ground,
“i fell for you,” (tht korean heart thingy included)
“are you done?”
“yes, sorry.”
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who tries to be subtle. you’re prob complaining about being tired and this man, dead serious, will go on
“well, you must be exhausted.. from running through my mind all day,” he blurts.
there’s a pause. a loooong pause.
in his mind, he got you speechless-- which he did, just not for the right reason, and he starts nodding to himself like he’s proud.
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who picks the worst possible time-- mid-argument about a group project,
“are you a 90-degree angle? because you’re looking right.”
he got tomatoes thrown at him after that.
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who literally practices pickup lines in the mirror. he times them, with different ways of saying it, with different smiles-- deepen his dimples or lazy smirk? (he looks constipated doing it, but he's cute so lets slide it ok? ok.)
he's convinced you'll fall for him if he adjusts his glasses. but when he finally approaches you at the vending machine, all that comes out is,
"doyoubelieveinloveatfirstsight,orshouldiwalkpastagain?” im not kidding u when i say that this man actually turns around to redo it. while he’s halfway through the second attempt is when he trips over someone’s bag AND THEN CONTINUED TO WALK.
you didn't understand what he said, so for you, gojo rapped some bs, walked all the way towards the gates, returned back after falling face first just to hit you with a pose with his hands on his hips.
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who thinks the best time to confess he likes you is during a study group. in front of everyone because he read somewhere that confidence is attractive. so when you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes, he freezes, ears red, and says way too loudly,
"if you were a triangle, you’d be acute one." the room goes silent. you blink at him. he immediately adds, softer this time, "i mean… you are. cute. not-- mathematically. i mean, also mathematically, but--"
he doesn’t sleep that night. but he keeps the way you smiled at him stored like a sacred relic.
ಎ ⎯⎯ ✉️
nerd 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 who pretends the cheesy lines are ironic, but he highlights the ones he thinks would make you laugh specifically. he notices the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. he notices when you’re tired. he notices everything.
and every terrible joke is just his very nerdy way of saying, please like me back.
it’s 2:30 AM. you’re dead to the world until your phone starts buzzing violently on your nightstand, vibrating so hard it’s practically dancing off the edge.
you crawl out from under the blankets, blinking blearily at the harsh screen light. there are 17 unread messages from satoru (do not answer). they start with incoherent memes, transition into a blurred picture of a stray cat he saw that “looked like you,” and end with a string of keyboard smashes.
the last text reads:
satoru (do not answer): i know ur asleep but i found this cool vending machine that dispenses little juice boxes and i bought 10 for u because they have little bears on them. do u think bears are cute? i think u’re cute. wake up i miss u.
before you can even type out a reply telling him to go to sleep, there’s a soft, rhythmic tapping on your glass.
you slide the window open, and satoru is literally floating outside your second-story room, gravity completely optional to him. he’s holding a crinkling plastic bag full of bear-themed juice boxes.
he grins, rubbing the back of his neck, looking incredibly endearing and slightly ridiculous in the moonlight. “hey,” he says softly, the night wind blowing his white hair into his eyes. “you’re awake. cool. can i come in? i brought juice.”
You don’t even notice when he slips out onto the balcony.
You’re too busy curled up on his bed, scrolling mindlessly, one of his hoodies drowning you, sleeves covering your hands. The door’s cracked open just enough to let the night air in, cool and soft, and there’s that faint smell you always associate with him. Smoke.
You wrinkle your nose a little. “Gross,” you mutter to yourself, even though he’s not in the room to hear it.
A minute later, the door slides open properly. Sukuna steps back in like nothing happened, hair a little messy from the breeze, shirt hanging loose, cigarette already gone. He looks at you sprawled across his bed and just… pauses for a second. Like he always does.
“You’re gonna wreck the sleeves,” he says, nodding at his hoodie, eyes flicking to the way you absentmindedly pick at the loose threads.
You don’t even look up. “Good. Then you can’t take it back.”
He huffs, low and amused, walking over. “Wasn’t planning to.”
You finally glance at him. He’s standing right at the edge of the bed now, looking down at you with that same lazy expression, but there’s something a little softer underneath it.
“You smell,” you say bluntly.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning closer.
“Like cigarettes,” you add, scrunching your nose. “It’s ugly.”
“Ugly,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word.
Before you can say anything else, his hand comes up, tilting your chin just slightly. You blink, confused for half a second– and then he kisses you. It’s quick at first. soft snd familiar.
Then he exhales.
Warm breath, laced with smoke, slips into your mouth before you even realise what he’s doing. Your eyes widen, instinctively pulling back, coughing lightly as you push at his chest.
“Sukuna–!” you choke out, half laughing, half scandalised. “What the hell was that?!”
He’s already grinning. Not big, just that stupid, smug curve of his lips. “You said I smelled,” he shrugs. “Thought I’d share.”
“You’re disgusting!” you smack his arm, sitting up properly now. “That is so– ugh!” But you’re laughing. He notices, making his hand slide to the back of your neck, pulling you back in before you can complain again. This time, the kiss is slower. No tricks. Just him.
You hesitate for a second… then melt. Because of course you do.
When he pulls away, your forehead bumps lightly against his, and you can still faintly taste it, mixed with him, and it’s annoying how it’s not even that bad anymore. You narrow your eyes. “You did that on purpose.”
“Obviously.”
“I hate you.”
“Mm.” He brushes his thumb over your cheek, casual. “Still kissed me.”
You go quiet for a second, trying to think of a comeback. Nothing comes. He watches you struggle, amused, then flicks your forehead lightly. “Dumbass.”
“Shut up,” you mumble, grabbing his shirt and tugging him down onto the bed with you. He lets himself fall, arm wrapping around you automatically like it’s second nature. You bury your face into his chest, muttering, “If I get lung cancer, I’m blaming you.”
He snorts, resting his chin on your head.
“You’ll live.”
A pause.
“…don’t do that again,” you add.
Another pause. “Maybe.”
You pinch his side.
He groans. “Alright, alright– fuck– fine.”
You smile into his shirt. Five minutes later, you tilt your head up and kiss him first anyway.
a/n: this was made a whiiiilllleeee back. idk if it's my lack of sleep or if this actually sounds choppy😭
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
.ೃ࿔*nerdjo using his friend's advice to flirt with his girlfriend
≈ 893 words masterlist
The screech of the library chair was a stark contrast to the quiet hum of the air conditioner in the room. You winced, side-eyeing Satoru as he practically fell into the seat next to you. He adjusted his thick blue-light glasses and forced his legs into a man-spread so wide he almost kicked your shin.
With a shaky breath, he slung his long arm over the back of your chair. He looked so stiff as if he was being forced into that position. You spared him a glance before going back to typing your assignment. Then, he leaned in so close you could smell his minty breath.
“What... are you working on?” he rasped.
The voice was horrifying. It sounded like he’d been screaming into a pillow for three days or hadn’t had water for years. You stopped typing, the silence echoing. Slowly turning your head, you found him flushed to the tips of his ears, his jaw clamped so tight it looked painful as he tried to maintain a smolder.
“Satoru… are you sick?” you asked, your voice laced with genuine worry. You reached up, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. “Your voice is so hoarse. Does your throat hurt? Are you coming down with something?”
His facade shattered like glass as he caught your wrist, his palm warm, way too warm. “Haha, no! No! I’m... I’m perfectly fine! Optimal health!” He chuckled nervously, his voice cracking back into its usual high-pitched tone before he aggressively cleared his throat.
Sukuna’s advice about lowering your voice to attract women is statistically ineffective, Satoru thought bitterly.
You sighed, too drained by your essay to interrogate him further. You slumped sideways, letting your head fall against his arm. “I still have half of this left, and my brain is actually melting.”
He froze. Your hair was tickling his neck. Suguru had told him this was the moment to take control.
“Hm,” he hummed, trying to sound thoughtful. He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your shoulder as he peered at your screen. Following Suguru’s advice on guiding his partner to create butterflies, he reached out. His large, pale hand hovered over yours on the mouse.
It should have been romantic. Instead, you felt how incredibly clammy he was. He was literally sweating through his sweater. As he tried to casually scroll, his finger twitched with pure anxiety.
Click.
The blue highlight swallowed your text. Delete.
The screen went blindingly white. You both stared at the empty document, the cursor blinking like a mocking heartbeat.
“Satoru,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the ghost of ten hours of work.
“I—I—!” Before you could even process the loss, Satoru scrambled out of the chair. He collapsed to his knees on the hard library carpet, his hands desperately gripping your calves.
“I’m so sorry! I’ll rewrite it! I’ll stay up all night! Please don’t hate me!” He looked ready to sob, his big eyes wide and shimmering with terror behind his glasses.
You looked around, spotting a group of students whispering and pointing at the tall man kneeling at your feet like a beggar. You chuckled awkwardly, reaching down to grab his collar. “Satoru, get up. Please. It’s okay. I’m just going to hit Undo. See? It’s back.”
You dragged him back into his seat. He sat there, sniffing, looking utterly defeated. All his tactics were in shambles. But after a few minutes of deep breathing, Satoru decided to pivot. He ditched his friends’ tactics for something he’d researched, The Triangle Method.
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek with gentleness. He turned your face to his and gulped, his eyebrows furrowed in a look of such intense concentration you thought he was solving equations. Then, he began with the left eye, right eye, lips. Then back again.
He didn't even blink once. His eyes began to water from the strain, a single tear of pure effort rolling down his cheek. He looked less like he was trying to flirt and more like he was performing a very intense neurological exam.
You stared at him, bewildered, as your thumbs moved to wipe the moisture from his face. “Satoru… seriously, are you okay? Do I need to take you to the nurse?”
He let out a shaky breath, his lips still parted in what he thought was a seductive pout but was actually just him gasping for air.
“Is it working?” he whispered desperately. “Do you feel the tension? Is the atmosphere heavy with desire?”
You stared at him blankly for a long beat. “I feel like I’m watching a fish out of water gasping for air, Satoru.”
His head hit the library table with a pathetic thud. “The internet lied to me,” he muffled into his sleeves. “How am I supposed to seduce you when you look like that? You make my brain short-circuit.”
You laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Dork. You looking like this is already seducing me enough.”
He took a shaky breath, finally relaxing. A small, goofy smile spread across his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled packet.
“I bought you those strawberry gummies you like,” he muttered, looking at his shoes. “Toji said I should eat them in front of you to show dominance... but I’d rather just see you happy.”
🏩 "𝑺𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑼 𝑮𝑶𝑱𝑶," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ sfw headcanons w/ husband 𝒢ojo 𝒮atoru in canon compliant universe #⃝ 𝓦ARNINGS ◦ ₊ㅤ ㅤ﹙ mentions of gojo possibly dying fluff megumi & tsumiki cameo tooth rotting fluff ໒ִ 𓈒ིྀ ˚ ℳINA'S 𝓝OTES ⫽ ୧ྀ ─ do we like this new type of set up, and should i do a nsfw ver. of this post? plz reblog / like 2 support⠀ ⃘໋ׅ♡
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who never took off his blindfold, and was struggling to find ways to cover his eyes properly. That was until his 27th birthday, 3 years into your marriage where you, his wife, made custom black blindfolds to block out most natural light and sight so that he could rely on his senses comfortably. No more accidental headaches or nosebleeds, thanks to you. "how do I look?" he had strutted around, posing for you with the newly made blindfolds, as you smiled sweetly and squealed, gushing over how handsome he looked.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who never leaves home without kissing your cheek and hugging you while complimenting you. Even if it was 6 in the morning, his arms would wrap around you in bed, his breath brushing against the back of your neck, as he talked softly while spooning his sleepy wife. "you're so pretty... I'm g'nna be thinking of you all day... I'm gonna miss your soft lips so badlyyy.." he'd whine, before planting soft kisses to your forehead and cheeks, as you'd squirm and grumble, half asleep, but he'd leave to go teach.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who loves showering you in gifts, he has the money, in fact he has a lot of it. What’s the point of it all if he doesn’t use it to shower you with gifts you like? You want that new dress? Gifted to you personally within a few hours. You want to try out that new restaurant downtown? He has a reservation there for the weekend. You need Sylus’s new myth cards? He’s already swiping his card and pulling on your account, just so you can wake up to a fully maxed out Sylus Vampire myth. He gets a little drunk on the kisses and praise you give him.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who didn't often argue with you, but was always the first to reach out for you and want to fix the problem. You got angry at hime once for not paying any attention to you over the week, as he was busy with exorcising curses and teaching through most of the day, leaving him only a few hours to cuddle and sleep with you. The both of you had went back and forth for an entire hour, until you gave up and just walked upstairs, trying to cool down. He was the first to come to you, hold you, and talk softer. “I’ll make time for you. I haven’t forgotten you, but I need you to know it’s not always easy to balance all these things in my life. I love you, and I always will, but sometimes I just need you to be there for me when I’m struggling, okay?” He explained to you softly, before you had apologised and made up with him that night. Even if he wasn’t the one in the wrong, he’d be the first to reach out for you again.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who tries his best to avoid upsetting his pretty wife. He’s seen all those videos that Megumi texts him, about the terrible husbands and the women in the comments venting about the things that their husbands do wrong. It’s almost like a symbiotic relationship they have. Megumi sends him all these videos to make sure that Gojo doesn’t mess up being a husband, and Gojo makes sure to give you an excuse whenever you wanted to spend time with your ‘children’ with Gojo.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who treats Megumi and tsumiki like your biological children in your married house, making them visit over from their dorms to play house every week. He tries to avoid it best he can, knowing how Megumi could be, but there were times where he just wanted to make you feel apart of a normal family for once. He’d dress up all nicely, search up ‘dad jokes’ on his phone before Megumi arrived, and made sure to crack the cheesiest ones so that you could laugh and giggle at him. So that you could connect with Megumi and Tsumiki about how “cheesy” their dad was. He watched you three from the living room, as Megumi was washing the dishes, while Tsumiki was drying them next to him, and you were cleaning up the kitchen counters, chatting with them like they were you children, referring to gojo as their dad so naturally.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who is scared of leaving you alone. He fears that one day, this all might end. That he might never get to be able to see you old, wrinkled with lines that told stories about how much he made you laugh. He fears for the unknown, the mysteries of the future where his wife may have to buy her own flowers to put them at his grave. He knows that those thoughts aren’t reality, or at least for now, but he does watch you sleep peacefully at night and hold you just a bit tighter so that you remember how he holds you in the future.
♡⃘𓈒 ℋusband!gojo who never leaves you with doubts of returning home when he leaves in the morning. He’s the one with the fears, as you already know of your husband’s capabilities and gloating, but he needs that reassurance. While he may appear cool, collected and smiley all throughout the day, even when dealing with dangerous curses, his mind is only focusing on one person and repeating the same phrase over and over again. As if to not forget who’s waiting for him at him.
“I miss my wife,” he pouted with a sigh, before exorcising a special grade curse with ease, and already taking out his phone to see what you were doing.
