miz ʚɞ @miziyaos - Tumblr Blog

mutual revisions

─ ⊹ ⊱☕️⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱☕️⊰ ⊹ ─

satoru gojo x fl!reader

art creds: artiwithasingle_a, keki_1205

content warning: enemies to lovers, office romance, slow burn, explicit smut (late-night war room scene), mild power imbalance (rivals competing for the same promotion), workplace tension, secret relationship, light angst from hr monitoring, possessive/soft gojo, awkward flirting, fluff mixed with banter

you and satoru gojo have spent months as the office’s most infamous rivals. constantly clashing in meetings, trading sharp comments, and pushing each other to be better while pretending you can’t stand one another. when management forces you both to co-lead the high-stakes prestige account with only one senior director promotion on the line, the tension skyrockets. late nights in the war room turn from bitter arguments into reluctant teamwork, stolen glances, quiet edits, and feelings neither of you planned for.

the twenty-third floor always had that same dull buzz from the lights and the low hum of the ac that never quite got warm enough after nine. you'd been at this office for three years straight, grinding your way up with decks that were clean and numbers that didn't lie. no flashy stuff, just work that held up when someone actually looked at it. people noticed. some of the older partners would nod at you in the hall like they were already measuring you for the next rung. it felt good. steady.

then satoru gojo transferred in from the osaka office and everything got louder.

he was tall, messy white hair that somehow looked intentional, and those round sunglasses he wore even when the sun was down. his ideas came fast and loose, like he was throwing paint at a wall and expecting it to form a masterpiece. clients ate it up. he'd stand up in meetings, half his shirt untucked, and spin some story that had the room leaning in while you sat there with your perfectly aligned slides feeling like you'd brought a spreadsheet to a knife fight.

your first real clash happened in week two of him being there. he leaned back in his chair during your presentation and said, loud enough for everyone, "solid numbers, but it's giving corporate funeral vibes. where's the pulse?"

you didn't even blink. "better a funeral than a circus, gojo. at least the client's money stays safe."

the room went dead quiet for two seconds, then a couple people coughed to hide laughs. from then on it was game on. every strategy meeting turned into the two of you trading shots. you'd call his concepts reckless and half-baked. he'd call yours safe and soulless. the rest of the team started placing bets on who'd snap first.

it should've been exhausting. instead it pushed you. your decks got tighter because you didn't want him to have anything to poke at. his pitches got sharper because you'd tear apart anything weak. the work improved. neither of you would admit it.

you kept it surface level for months. snide comments when you passed each other in the kitchen. him "accidentally" taking the last good parking spot. you sending him the longest regulatory pdfs you could find with the subject line "enjoy." he'd stick post-its on your monitor that said things like "smile more, it confuses people." it was almost fun, in a weird way. as long as you were rivals, you didn't have to think about the way his laugh sometimes stuck in your head longer than it should.

then the prestige account hit.

luxury hotel chain wanting a full repositioning for a younger crowd. massive budget, massive visibility. and one senior director promotion attached like a carrot on a stick. management, in their genius, decided to pair the two top performers. you and gojo. co-lead on the whole six-week sprint. "let the best ideas win," the vp said with that fake team-player smile during the kickoff.

you wanted to scream. gojo just grinned across the table like he'd won the lottery.

the war room became home base. you showed up early every day and mapped out timelines in neat columns. gojo would stroll in later, sleeves already rolled up, and start scribbling over half your board with wild arrows and question marks. you'd argue for hours about tone, about visuals, about whether the client even wanted "edge" or just clarity.

"your stuff is so buttoned up it's choking," he'd say, tossing the marker between his hands.

"and yours is all flash with no follow-through," you'd fire back. "pick a direction and commit."

but the longer you worked together, the harder it got to keep the fights pure. sometimes you'd spend twenty minutes tearing into an idea only to land on something that actually worked when you mixed his chaos with your structure. the client feedback started coming back stronger than either of you expected. you still wouldn't say it out loud.

around week three he started leaving coffee on your desk. black, extra shot when it got late, no note. you'd find it there lukewarm sometimes because you'd been in back-to-back calls. you started leaving him printed competitor decks with your scribbles in the margins. "this part doesn't completely suck" was about as nice as you got.

one night in week four you were alone in the war room, staring at the same slide until the words stopped making sense. your eyes hurt. your shoulders were knotted. gojo walked in carrying two bentos from the konbini downstairs. he didn't say anything dramatic. just sat across from you, opened his food, and slid the spare chopsticks over like it was normal.

you ate. the quiet felt okay for once.

after a while he spoke, voice lower than his usual cocky tone. "we're both gonna drop dead before this thing's done if we keep pretending we're not exhausted."

you poked at your rice. "one of us has to come out on top."

he hummed. "yeah. still sucks though."

that sentence stayed with you the whole walk to the train.

the secret edits started showing up not long after. you'd leave a draft rough around the edges and come back the next morning to find tiny fixes. a clunky line smoothed out. a visual swapped for something punchier that still fit your overall flow. it was clearly him. the style was too gojo to miss. you never thanked him. he never brought it up. but you started noticing how much better the project felt when his touch was in it.

you noticed other stuff too. the way he'd watch you during dry runs, chin on his fist, quiet for once. how his shirt would ride up when he stretched after long hours. how sometimes he'd say your name softer when it was just the two of you late at night. you shoved it all down. told yourself it was the sleep deprivation talking. you weren't catching feelings. this was still a competition.

you tried pulling back anyway. shorter check-ins. colder replies to his emails. he matched the energy without complaining. the banter went quiet. it should've felt like winning. instead the war room felt bigger and emptier, and you hated how much you noticed the absence.

week five dragged. the deadline loomed closer, client reviews got harsher, and the promotion pressure sat heavy on both of you. one night you were both there past eleven, arguing over color palettes of all things. voices low but sharp.

"this palette is too cold," he said, pointing at the screen.

"it's elegant. your version looks like a candy store exploded," you shot back.

he laughed under his breath, but there was no real bite in it. "you know what? fine. we'll split the difference. your structure, my color. deal?"

you stared at him. that was the first time he'd suggested compromising without turning it into a win for himself. you nodded slowly. "deal."

after that, the nights started blending together. you'd catch him glancing at you when he thought you weren't looking. you'd find yourself watching the way his fingers moved over the keyboard, long and sure. once, when you yawned so hard your eyes watered, he wordlessly slid his hoodie across the table toward you. you put it on without arguing. it smelled like his cologne. clean, a little expensive, completely him. you told yourself it was just because you were cold.

the flirting stayed awkward and small, like neither of you wanted to name it.

one night around 1 a.m., you were fighting over a single headline. he leaned in close to point at the screen, his shoulder brushing yours. "come on, say i'm right just once. it'll feel good, i promise."

"you're a reckless show-off," you muttered, but your face felt warm.

he grinned, slow and crooked. "from you that's basically flirting."

you shoved his arm. "shut up."

but you didn't pull away. his knee stayed pressed against yours under the table for the rest of the hour. neither of you mentioned it.

another time, after a brutal client call that left you both drained, he dragged you up to the rooftop with cheap onigiri from the konbini. you sat on the ledge eating in the cool night air while he pointed out fake constellations.

"that one right there? that's the rival who secretly doesn't hate me," he said, bumping your shoulder lightly.

"you're delusional," you told him, but you were smiling, and the city lights made everything feel softer than it should.

week six hit like a truck. the final presentation was days away. stress was thick in the air. you'd both stopped pretending the rivalry was all there was. small things kept happening. he'd fix your matcha exactly how you liked it without being asked. you'd leave him notes with actual helpful feedback instead of just sarcasm. the edits in your drafts continued, always quiet, always making things better without stealing the spotlight. you started leaving the war room door unlocked on purpose some nights, half hoping he'd show up anyway.

then the hr email came.

strict monitoring on the prestige project. any sign of obvious collaboration or favoritism and both of you could kiss the promotion goodbye. individual performance only. they were watching file logs, late-night access, everything.

the shift was instant and painful.

you stopped staying past nine if he was still around. he stopped touching your drafts. meetings turned short and painfully polite. when your fingers accidentally brushed reaching for the same marker, you both jerked back like you'd been shocked. the hoodie stopped appearing on your chair. the post-its disappeared. the easy silences turned into awkward gaps you didn't know how to fill.

but the feelings didn't vanish. they just burned hotter in the quiet. you'd catch his eyes across the conference table during dry runs and feel your stomach twist. he'd look away first, jaw tight. every interaction felt risky now. like one wrong glance could cost you both everything you'd worked for.

the distance made it worse. the more you tried to act cold, the more you noticed how much you missed the old version of him. the one who argued with you just to hear your voice. the one who made you laugh even when you didn't want to.

the night before the final pitch, you were back in the war room alone, nerves eating at you. the slides were done, the deck was polished, but your mind wouldn't settle. the door clicked open around 11:30. gojo stepped in holding two coffees. he set yours down in front of you without a word.

"we're not supposed to be here like this," you said quietly, staring at the cup.

"i know." he sat on the edge of the table, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. this time he didn't move away. "but i'm done pretending it's all still just rivalry."

he reached out slow, giving you every chance to stop him, and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered near your jaw.

"i've been choosing you," he said, voice rough around the edges. "every quiet edit. every time i stayed late anyway. even if it tanks my shot at the promotion. i don't want to win if it means this thing between us never gets to happen."

you didn't think. you just grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

it started careful, like both of you were testing if it would break. his lips were warm, a little chapped from all the late nights, and he tasted like the cheap coffee he'd been drinking. for a second you both stayed still, mouths just pressed together, hearts hammering so loud you were sure the whole floor could hear it. then his hand slid to your waist, fingers gripping tight like he'd been waiting months for permission, and the kiss deepened. tongues brushing, slow at first, then hungrier. you could feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding back even while pulling you closer.

he lifted you onto the table without breaking the kiss, papers sliding off and fluttering to the floor. the war room was dark except for the glow from the monitors and the city lights bleeding through the glass walls. anyone walking by the hallway could see shadows if they looked hard enough. the thought made your stomach twist. half fear, half thrill. you should stop. you both knew it. but neither of you did.

"gojo—" you whispered against his mouth, but it came out breathy, not like a warning.

"satoru," he corrected, voice low and rough as he kissed down your neck. "just satoru tonight." his teeth grazed your skin lightly, then soothed it with his tongue. one hand worked the buttons of your blouse open, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch he uncovered. the cool air hit your chest and you shivered. he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark behind messy white hair. "fuck, you've been driving me crazy for months."

you tugged his shirt up and over his head, hands sliding over the warm skin of his back, nails digging in when he leaned down to mouth at your collarbone. he unhooked your bra with one hand, tossing it somewhere behind him, then his mouth was on your breast, tongue circling, sucking until your back arched off the table. you bit your lip hard to keep quiet, the risk of someone still working late making every sound feel dangerous. the cleaning crew could come by any minute. security cameras probably caught the lights being on this late. the thought only made heat pool lower in your belly.

his free hand pushed your skirt up your thighs, fingers tracing the edge of your panties before slipping underneath. he groaned softly when he felt how soaked you already were. "this wet for me already?" he murmured against your skin, two fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your clit slow and firm. your hips jerked. you grabbed his hair, trying to stay quiet as pleasure built sharp and fast.

"satoru— we can't get caught," you gasped, even as you spread your legs wider for him.

"then be quiet for me," he said, voice teasing but strained. he kissed you again to swallow your moan as he pushed two fingers inside you, curling them just right. he pumped them slow and deep, thumb rubbing your clit in steady circles, building you up until your thighs were shaking. every time you got too loud he'd kiss you harder, muffling the sounds. the table creaked under you. outside the glass, the hallway stayed dark, but the fear of footsteps or a door opening kept your heart racing.

you came on his fingers with a choked whimper, clenching around him as the orgasm hit hard. he worked you through it, kissing your neck, whispering "that's it, good girl" against your ear until you were trembling and oversensitive.

he pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while watching you with those intense blue eyes. then he was undoing his belt, shoving his pants and boxers down just enough. his cock was hard, flushed, already leaking at the tip. you reached for him, wrapping your hand around the length and stroking once, twice. he hissed through his teeth, hips twitching.

"condom?" you whispered, suddenly remembering.

"wallet," he muttered, fumbling for it on the floor. he found one fast, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it on. then he was lining up, rubbing the head against your slick entrance, teasing.

"please," you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders.

he pushed in slow, inch by inch, stretching you open. the feeling was intense. tight, full, perfect. he bottomed out with a low groan, forehead pressed to yours. "fuck... you feel so good. been thinking about this for so long."

you both stayed still for a moment, breathing each other in, the risk hanging heavy in the air. then he started moving. slow rolls of his hips at first, deep and deliberate, like he wanted to drag it out. every thrust made the table shift slightly. the monitors glowed behind you, casting shifting light across his face. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. his pace picked up gradually, harder, faster, the wet sound of skin meeting skin too loud in the quiet room.

you tried to stay quiet. really tried. but every time he hit that spot inside you a moan would slip out. he'd cover your mouth with his hand or kiss you sloppy to muffle it, whispering "shh, baby, someone's gonna hear" even as he fucked you harder. the tension made everything sharper. the fear of getting caught mixing with how good he felt, how right it was after all those months of pushing and pulling and pretending.

he changed angle, hitting deeper, one hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. "come on," he panted against your ear. "come for me again. wanna feel you."

you did, harder this time, biting his shoulder to keep from crying out as waves of pleasure crashed through you. he followed right after, thrusting deep a few more times before he stilled, groaning your name low and broken as he came.

for a minute you both just stayed there, panting, bodies slick with sweat. he pulled out carefully, tied off the condom and tossed it in the trash under the table. then he grabbed his hoodie from the chair and draped it over both of you, pulling you against his chest while you stayed tangled on the messy table.

"we'll figure tomorrow out when it gets here," he murmured against your hair, voice soft now, fingers tracing slow circles on your bare shoulder. "together. even if we have to flip some tables."

you let out a small, breathless laugh into his chest, still buzzing. "you're still an idiot."

"yeah," he said, smiling against your temple. "but i'm your idiot now if you'll have me."

the pitch the next morning went smooth. you kept it professional in front of everyone, but every shared look carried weight. you both nailed it. your structure carrying the backbone, his flair giving it life. the clients looked impressed. management stayed stone-faced.

two days later the email came.

you were at your desk, heart already in your throat when the subject line popped up: "prestige account—senior director decision." gojo was across the open office, pretending to scroll through something on his screen, but you could tell he was watching you from the corner of his eye.

you clicked it open.

the first line made your stomach drop, then flip.

"after careful review of individual contributions, client feedback, and overall project impact... we are pleased to announce the promotion to senior director goes to you."

your breath caught. you read it again. then again. it was real. you got it.

you looked up slowly. gojo was already staring at you, eyebrows raised in that silent question. you gave the tiniest nod.

he stood up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the desk behind him. in three long strides he was at your desk, leaning down like he wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the open floor but somehow held back. his grin was huge, the real one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

"you did it," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, but bright with something that sounded a lot like pride. "fuck, you actually did it."

you tried to keep your face neutral in case anyone was watching, but your hands were shaking a little under the desk. "we did it. the deck was both of us."

he shook his head, still smiling like an idiot. "nah. that was you. your backbone held the whole thing together. i just added some sparkles." he reached over and squeezed your shoulder once, quick and hidden behind your monitor. "i'm really happy for you. seriously. you deserve this."

his eyes were soft in a way you'd rarely seen. no teasing, no rivalry, just genuine warmth. it made your chest feel too tight. you wanted to pull him into the supply closet and kiss him stupid, but you couldn't. not yet. not with half the floor still pretending they weren't eavesdropping.

"thank you," you whispered. "for the edits. for staying late even when we weren't supposed to. for... everything."

he straightened up, shoving his hands in his pockets like he didn't trust them not to reach for you again. "told you we'd figure it out." his voice dropped even lower. "we're still celebrating later. my place. no hr watching."

you bit back a smile. "you're impossible."

"yeah," he said, already walking backward toward his desk, that stupid happy grin still plastered on his face. "but i'm your impossible now."

later that afternoon they made the official announcement in the team meeting. you stood at the front while people clapped and offered congratulations. gojo leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, looking prouder than anyone else in the room. when your eyes met across the space, he gave you the smallest wink. the kind that said this was only the beginning.

the rivalry never disappeared. you still bickered in meetings just to see that spark. he still called you ice queen when he wanted to rile you up. but now the fights usually ended with locked doors and his hands on you. late nights ended with you curled against him instead of alone at your desk.

and when people asked how the prestige account turned out so well, you'd just shrug and say the obvious.

turns out the best work happens when rivals stop pretending they're only enemies.

he still pushes you to be better. you still push right back.

and now you get to do it as senior director, with satoru gojo cheering louder than anyone else.

mutual revisions

─ ⊹ ⊱☕️⊰ ⊹ ── ⊹ ⊱☕️⊰ ⊹ ─

satoru gojo x fl!reader

art creds: artiwithasingle_a, keki_1205

then satoru gojo transferred in from the osaka office and everything got louder.

you didn't even blink. "better a funeral than a circus, gojo. at least the client's money stays safe."

then the prestige account hit.

you wanted to scream. gojo just grinned across the table like he'd won the lottery.

"your stuff is so buttoned up it's choking," he'd say, tossing the marker between his hands.

"and yours is all flash with no follow-through," you'd fire back. "pick a direction and commit."

you ate. the quiet felt okay for once.

after a while he spoke, voice lower than his usual cocky tone. "we're both gonna drop dead before this thing's done if we keep pretending we're not exhausted."

you poked at your rice. "one of us has to come out on top."

he hummed. "yeah. still sucks though."

that sentence stayed with you the whole walk to the train.

"this palette is too cold," he said, pointing at the screen.

"it's elegant. your version looks like a candy store exploded," you shot back.

he laughed under his breath, but there was no real bite in it. "you know what? fine. we'll split the difference. your structure, my color. deal?"

you stared at him. that was the first time he'd suggested compromising without turning it into a win for himself. you nodded slowly. "deal."

the flirting stayed awkward and small, like neither of you wanted to name it.

"you're a reckless show-off," you muttered, but your face felt warm.

he grinned, slow and crooked. "from you that's basically flirting."

you shoved his arm. "shut up."

but you didn't pull away. his knee stayed pressed against yours under the table for the rest of the hour. neither of you mentioned it.

"that one right there? that's the rival who secretly doesn't hate me," he said, bumping your shoulder lightly.

"you're delusional," you told him, but you were smiling, and the city lights made everything feel softer than it should.

then the hr email came.

the shift was instant and painful.

"we're not supposed to be here like this," you said quietly, staring at the cup.

"i know." he sat on the edge of the table, close enough that his knee pressed against yours. this time he didn't move away. "but i'm done pretending it's all still just rivalry."

he reached out slow, giving you every chance to stop him, and brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered near your jaw.

you didn't think. you just grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him.

"gojo—" you whispered against his mouth, but it came out breathy, not like a warning.

"satoru— we can't get caught," you gasped, even as you spread your legs wider for him.

"condom?" you whispered, suddenly remembering.

"wallet," he muttered, fumbling for it on the floor. he found one fast, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it on. then he was lining up, rubbing the head against your slick entrance, teasing.

"please," you breathed, nails digging into his shoulders.

he changed angle, hitting deeper, one hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. "come on," he panted against your ear. "come for me again. wanna feel you."

"we'll figure tomorrow out when it gets here," he murmured against your hair, voice soft now, fingers tracing slow circles on your bare shoulder. "together. even if we have to flip some tables."

you let out a small, breathless laugh into his chest, still buzzing. "you're still an idiot."

"yeah," he said, smiling against your temple. "but i'm your idiot now if you'll have me."

two days later the email came.

you clicked it open.

the first line made your stomach drop, then flip.

"after careful review of individual contributions, client feedback, and overall project impact... we are pleased to announce the promotion to senior director goes to you."

your breath caught. you read it again. then again. it was real. you got it.

you looked up slowly. gojo was already staring at you, eyebrows raised in that silent question. you gave the tiniest nod.

"you did it," he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, but bright with something that sounded a lot like pride. "fuck, you actually did it."

you tried to keep your face neutral in case anyone was watching, but your hands were shaking a little under the desk. "we did it. the deck was both of us."

"thank you," you whispered. "for the edits. for staying late even when we weren't supposed to. for... everything."

you bit back a smile. "you're impossible."

"yeah," he said, already walking backward toward his desk, that stupid happy grin still plastered on his face. "but i'm your impossible now."

and when people asked how the prestige account turned out so well, you'd just shrug and say the obvious.

turns out the best work happens when rivals stop pretending they're only enemies.

he still pushes you to be better. you still push right back.

and now you get to do it as senior director, with satoru gojo cheering louder than anyone else.

miziyaos

you only say it when you’re drunk

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

frat!jo x fl!reader

art creds: m3yunzu/secremeyun, aransmind

content warning: explicit sexual content (smut), heavy alcohol use, drunk confessions, jealousy, strong language, enemies to lovers tension, lots of heated arguments, college au, frat gojo, 18+, fluff,

gojo satoru is everywhere you don’t want him to be. loud, smug, and annoyingly hot, the frat president spends half his time pushing your buttons and the other half pretending he doesn’t care when you push back. everyone swears you two are basically dating. you both deny it instantly. until the nights he gets drunk and the filter disappears. “i don’t actually hate you, you know.” suddenly the arguments feel like flirting, the jealousy burns hotter than it should, and one sober morning after a chaotic party changes everything. because hating him was easy. wanting him? that’s the part neither of you saw coming.

you’ve known satoru gojo for exactly eighteen months, three weeks, and two days. not that you’re counting. it’s just that the universe keeps shoving him into your orbit like it’s got a personal vendetta. same lectures where he sits in the back row with his long legs stretched out, sunglasses on indoors, somehow still acing every quiz while you grind in the front row taking meticulous notes. same mutual friends who throw you together at every group study session or late-night food run.

same stupid campus events where everyone pretends they’re not here for the free booze and the drama. he’s the frat president with the white hair that somehow never looks messy even after three keg stands, always in the center of every room, laughing too loud, drawing every eye like he was born for the spotlight. you? you’re the one who keeps getting dragged along because your roommate is dating his vice president, suguru geto, and apparently that makes you part of the ecosystem now, whether you like it or not.

at first it’s just eye rolls across the quad when he walks by with his usual crew. then it’s passing comments at parties. “you always look like you’re one bad song away from calling the cops on all of us,” he says once, leaning against the porch railing with that smirk that makes you want to smack him and ruin his pretty face.

you fire back without missing a beat, “and you look like you’ve never had a single original thought in your life. you’re just coasting on pretty privilege, aren’t you?” the crowd around you laughs like it’s prime entertainment. he just tilts his head, eyes bright behind those stupid designer shades even at night, and says, “cute. keep going, i like it when you get all fired up. makes my night more interesting.”

it escalates from there. every time your circles collide he finds a new button to push. you call him out for showing up hungover to a group project meeting, reeking of last night’s regrets while everyone else actually prepared. he teases you relentlessly for being the only person who actually reads the syllabus front to back and color-codes her notes. your friends start placing bets on how long it’ll take before one of you snaps or finally hooks up.

shoko just lights another cigarette, exhales slowly, and mutters, “you two are basically dating at this point, you know that right? all that bickering is foreplay.” you both deny it instantly, voices overlapping in perfect sync “absolutely not!” and “as if.” and the denial only makes everyone laugh harder. geto just shakes his head with that knowing smile, like he’s been waiting for this trainwreck for months.

the arguments feel like foreplay and neither of you will admit it, even to yourselves.

tonight is the big spring party at the his house, the one where the music is too loud and the lights are too low and the kitchen is the only place that isn’t completely packed with bodies grinding to whatever playlist the sophomores threw together. red solo cups litter every surface, the air thick with cheap beer, weed smoke, and too much cologne. you’re there because your roommate begged you not to be a hermit again, and because you’re trying (and failing) not to think about the fact that gojo’s been staring at you from across the living room for the last twenty minutes.

his gaze cutting through the crowd like he can’t help himself. you weave through the chaos, dodging a game of beer pong that’s already gotten way too sloppy, and end up in the kitchen grabbing a bottle of water when he stumbles in, taller than everyone, hair falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed from whatever he’s been drinking all night.

“look who it is,” he says, voice lower than usual, a little rough around the edges. “miss uptight herself. come to lecture me about responsible drinking again? or are you finally here to have some actual fun?”

you snort, twisting the cap off your water. “someone has to keep you in check. you’re one shot away from face-planting into the punch bowl again, like last month when you tried to crowd-surf and nearly took out the whole coffee table.”

he laughs, but it’s softer this time, almost fond instead of mocking. he steps closer. way too close, the way he always does when he’s past tipsy. the counter digs into your lower back. his eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, but he’s still got that signature smirk tugging at his lips. “hey, you know i don’t actually hate you, right?”

the words hit like a record scratch in the middle of the bass-heavy music. you laugh, sharp and disbelieving, trying to play it off. “yeah, okay, gojo. you’re drunk. save the heartfelt shit for someone who believes it.”

“i’m not that drunk.” he leans in even more, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, caging you in without quite touching. you can smell his expensive cologne mixed with beer and something sweeter, maybe the cherry shots he was doing earlier. “i notice shit about you. like how you always twist that little silver ring of yours on your finger when you’re pretending not to be nervous in a crowd. or how you quote that one pretentious philosophy book when you’re trying to win an argument and shut everyone up. you’re the only person who actually challenges me. makes everything… interesting. makes me want to be better, even if i act like i don’t.”

your heart does something stupid and traitorous in your chest. you shove at his chest lightly, but there’s no real force behind it. “stop. you’re going to regret this tomorrow when you’re sober and back to your usual asshole routine.”

he doesn’t move an inch. his free hand comes up, fingers hovering like he wants to touch your cheek but isn’t quite brave enough yet. “i think about you more than i should. way more. even when i’m in class pretending to pay attention. even when i’m supposed to be running shit here. you’re always in my head, trouble.”

the kitchen spins a little. not just from the alcohol in the air. someone walks in, sees the two of you pressed close like this, and immediately backs out with a knowing grin and a muttered “finally.” you brush the whole thing off as best you can, tell him he’ll regret every word tomorrow, and slip away before he can say anything else that might crack your walls wider. the next morning he’s back to normal. teasing you across the brunch table like the words never left his mouth, sliding you an extra pancake with a wink. “morning, princess. sleep okay after saving me from myself again?”

you hate how much it stings. how much you wish the drunk version would stick around.

it becomes a pattern after that. every party, every late-night gathering where alcohol loosens his tongue, he seeks you out like a magnet. gets too close on the house couch, fingers brushing your knee “accidentally” while he murmurs, “you’re prettier when you’re mad at me. makes me want to keep pushing just to see that fire.” another time, outside under the string lights with the bass thumping faintly through the walls, he admits quietly, “i wait to see if you’ll show up every time. it’s annoying how much i look for you in every room.” sober him never acknowledges any of it the next day. he just smirks like always and calls you “trouble,” like the confessions were nothing but drunk nonsense.

your friends won’t shut up about it. geto claps him on the back during one of their house meetings and says, “dude, just ask her out already before someone else does.” gojo flips him off with a laugh that sounds a little forced. you deny everything louder whenever shoko brings it up, but the tension is thickening, slow and unbearable, like honey dripping into your veins and sticking everything together. his insults start sounding suspiciously like compliments. he remembers you hate olives on pizza and always picks them off your slice without being asked. he saves you the last slice of cake at group events. he ends up next to you every single time, shoulder brushing yours, like gravity itself insists on pulling you together no matter how much you bicker.

then there’s the jealousy that cracks everything open wider.

it’s at another party mid-april, the air thick with smoke and bass and too many bodies pressed together on the makeshift dance floor. you’re in the corner talking to a guy from your psych class. nice enough, funny in a low-key way, the kind of chill that feels like a vacation from gojo’s constant high-energy bullshit, when gojo appears like a storm cloud rolling in fast. he doesn’t interrupt at first. just stands a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched, those blue eyes locked on the way the guy laughs at something you said and leans in a little too close to hear you over the music. you can feel the shift in the air, heavy and electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.

later, when the guy steps away to grab fresh drinks, gojo corners you by the staircase, voice low and edged with something raw and ugly he usually keeps locked tight behind that effortless smirk. “didn’t know you were into guys who wear cargo shorts and talk about their gpa like it’s some kind of foreplay. real catch there, princess. hope he recites the textbook while he’s trying to impress you.” the words drip with jealousy he doesn’t bother hiding this time. his eyes darker than the dim party lights should allow, shoulders tense like he’s fighting the urge to drag you away right there.

you snap back that it’s none of his damn business who you talk to, that he doesn’t get to act possessive when he’s the one who pretends every drunk confession never happened, when he leaves you hanging every sober morning wondering if any of it was real. he laughs, but it’s short and bitter, no real humor in it, and for the first time the argument doesn’t feel like your usual charged flirting. it feels like something cracking wide open, like he’s one second away from admitting how much it actually bothers him to see you give anyone else even a fraction of the attention he craves. you both storm off in opposite directions, hearts pounding harder than the music, leaving the party early and separately for once. the awkward sober morning after that one is the worst yet. texts ignored on both sides, glances carefully avoided in the dining hall, the silence between you heavier and more loaded than any insult you’ve ever thrown.

the shift finally happens on the last friday in april, another frat rager that’s somehow even louder and messier than usual. this time you’re the one who’s had too much. shots with your roommate turning into dancing in the living room turning into the world going soft and spinning around the edges. gojo is stone-cold sober for once, playing designated driver because geto’s out of town for the weekend. you find him in the backyard, away from the worst of the chaos, leaning against the wooden fence with moonlight catching in his white hair like it was painted there just to make him look unfairly beautiful and calm. suddenly everything you’ve been swallowing down for months spills out in a messy, slurred rush.

“you’re such an asshole,” you tell him, words tumbling over each other but honest in a way sober you never allows. “you say all that shit when you’re drunk and then pretend it never happened the next day. you notice things about me that no one else does. you think about me. you get jealous like you have any right when i talk to other people. and i—god, i care what you think of me. i hate how much i care. i hate that i look for you in every single room too. i hate that i want you so bad even when you’re driving me fucking insane with that stupid smirk and your endless teasing.”

he goes very still against the fence. the usual smirk is completely gone. just those ridiculous blue eyes, wide and unguarded for once, moonlight reflecting in them like stars.

“say that again,” he says quietly. no teasing. just raw need in his voice.

you do. you step closer on unsteady legs, swaying a little into his space, and repeat every messy, vulnerable truth. he catches your elbow gently to steady you, and this time his touch lingers like it means everything. the air between you feels electric, charged with months—years, almost—of bickering and almost-touches and half-confessions finally snapping taut and breaking.

“i don’t hate you either,” he admits, voice rough and low, like the words have been fighting to get out for ages. “never did. not even close. i just… didn’t know how to say the rest without sounding like a complete idiot. sober me is a coward, apparently. always has been when it comes to you.” he laughs once, soft and self-deprecating, and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising tenderness. the gentleness undoes you more than any drunk confession ever could. “i think about you all the time. even when i’m pretending i don’t. especially then. you make everything better. louder. brighter. more fun. i don’t know how to do any of this without you anymore. you challenge me and it makes me want to be someone worth challenging.”

you kiss him first. messy and desperate, tasting like cheap vodka and months of relief and want. he makes a soft surprised sound in the back of his throat before his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against his tall frame like he’s been waiting lifetimes for permission. the kiss deepens fast, turns hungry and heated, all the tension that’s been building between you exploding at once. when you finally break apart for air, foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling, he whispers against your lips, “stay with me tonight. no take-backs in the morning. please. i don’t think i can pretend anymore.”

you stay.

the walk upstairs to his room is a blur of stumbling steps, shared laughter that bubbles up between kisses, and more heated presses against the hallway walls where his hands slip under the hem of your shirt like he physically can’t wait another second. once the door clicks shut behind you the rest of the world disappears completely. his hands are everywhere. reverent and greedy at the same time, peeling off your clothes like he’s memorizing every inch of skin he reveals. “been wanting this for so fucking long,” he murmurs against your neck, nipping softly at the sensitive spot below your ear, then soothing it with his tongue. you arch into him, fingers threading through that stupid perfect white hair and tugging just enough to make him groan like the sound alone could ruin him completely.

he’s surprisingly gentle at first despite the hunger, all long limbs and whispered praises as he lays you down on his unmade bed that still smells like his cologne. “look at you,” he breathes, eyes dark and reverent as they rake over you, kissing a slow trail down your stomach. “so fucking pretty when you’re not yelling at me. so pretty when you are, too. god, i love how you never back down from me.” then that familiar smirk returns, but it’s softer now, warmer, full of affection instead of arrogance, and he spends what feels like hours teasing you open with his fingers and mouth. slow, deliberate circles of his tongue around your clit until your thighs shake around his head, until you’re begging with his name like a prayer, hips bucking up desperately. he hums against you like he’s savoring every moan and gasp, like he’s been starving for the taste of you for months and finally gets to indulge.

when he finally slides into you, slow and deep at first, eyes locked on yours the entire time. the stretch is perfect, overwhelming in the best way. you both gasp at the same time, foreheads pressed together. “fuck,” he mutters, voice strained as his hips roll in shallow thrusts that make you see stars. “you feel… god, you feel like home or something. that’s stupid, right? but it’s true. you’re it for me.” it’s not stupid. you tell him so by rolling your hips up to meet his, nails digging into his broad shoulders, and the pace shifts harder, faster, deeper, the kind of desperate, relentless rhythm that only comes after months of denial and tension. he fucks you like he’s making up for every single argument, every ignored confession, every time he walked away sober and left you wondering. his mouth stays on yours or on your neck, murmuring filthy praises mixed with soft ones—“so tight for me, baby. taking me so well. been dreaming about this”—until you cum first, clenching around him hard with his name breaking on your lips. he follows right after, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep, burying his face in your neck like he never wants to leave, whispering your name like it’s the only word that matters.

afterward he doesn’t pull away even for a second. he tugs you against his chest, one arm slung possessively over your waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles on your bare skin while the other hand strokes gently through your hair. the room is quiet except for your slowing breaths and the occasional soft kiss he presses to your temple, your shoulder, anywhere his mouth can reach. “no more hiding,” he says softly into the dark, voice warm and certain. “i’m done pretending i don’t want this. don’t want you. all the time. even when you’re calling me an idiot and threatening to report me for noise violations. especially then.”

you smile into his collarbone, pressing a lazy kiss there, your body still humming with aftershocks. “good. because i’m done pretending i don’t like when you push my buttons. i like all of it. the teasing, the drunk confessions, the way you look at me like i’m the only person in any room who actually matters.”

he chuckles, the sound rumbling warmly through both of you, and pulls the blanket up over your tangled bodies. “we’re still gonna argue, you know. i’m still gonna win most of them.”

“dream on, gojo.”

“already living the dream, baby.”

the next morning there’s no awkwardness at all, just sunlight spilling golden across the tangled sheets and his arm still heavy and warm around your waist like even in sleep he’s afraid you’ll disappear. you wake first, blinking against the light, and spend a long moment just tracing idle patterns on his bare chest, watching the way his face looks softer in repose. white lashes against his cheeks, lips slightly parted. he stirs after a while with a sleepy hum, eyes cracking open to find yours, and instead of pulling away he just smiles. wide, boyish, and genuinely happy, and pulls you closer until your legs tangle together completely.

“morning, trouble,” he murmurs, voice deliciously rough from sleep and everything you did last night. he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips like he’s savoring the fact that he finally can. “don’t even think about sneaking out or pretending this was a one-time thing. i made plans for us.”

those plans turn out to be him making you breakfast exactly how you like it. toast with bananas on top with sweet coffee on side while you steal one of his oversized hoodies that smells like him and curl up on his bed again, legs tucked under you. he brings the mugs over, sets them on the nightstand, and climbs right back in, wrapping around you from behind like a human blanket, chin resting on your shoulder. “so,” he says quietly, nuzzling into your neck and pressing soft kisses there between words, voice still a little shy in a way you’ve never heard from the confident frat president. “we’re doing this, right? for real this time. no more drunk-only truths. no more pretending the next day. you’re mine now. and i’m yours. all the stupid fights, all the late nights studying together just so i can annoy you, all the parties where i only show up hoping you’ll be there. all of it.”

you turn in his arms, cupping his face gently, thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones as you look into those impossibly blue eyes. “yeah, satoru. all of it. i want the real you. the smug frat boy who drives me crazy with his teasing and the guy who remembers i hate olives on pizza and who looks at me like i hung the moon when he thinks i’m not paying attention. i want the arguments and the make-ups. i want mornings like this.”

he grins, wide and boyish and so full of affection it makes your chest ache, and kisses you slow and sweet, like he’s got all the time in the world now that the walls are finally down. the kiss turns deeper after a while, hands wandering lazily under the hoodie, but it’s not rushed or desperate this time. just warm and affectionate and full of quiet laughter when his hair falls in your face and you push it back with a playful grumble. you spend the whole morning like that. tangled up in his sheets, trading soft confessions and inside jokes between kisses, planning nothing bigger than “skip our morning classes and stay in bed all day.” he feeds you bites of toast, whispering how pretty you look wearing nothing but his hoodie, how he’s been thinking about waking up exactly like this for months on end.

“i love how you challenge me,” he admits quietly later, forehead against yours as you both sip coffee and bask in the sunlight. “no one else does. it makes me better. makes everything feel worth it.”

you melt a little more, pulling him closer and kissing the corner of his mouth. “i love how you never back down. even when you’re wrong. especially when you’re wrong. it makes me feel alive.”

he laughs, bright and open and completely unguarded, and rolls you gently under him again. not for more heat this time but just to pepper your entire face with playful kisses until you’re both giggling like idiots, the kind of light, happy laughter that comes after finally giving in. the tension everyone around you had seen for months was never hate at all. it was always this. pulling you closer even when it looked like pushing away. your friends will never let either of you live it down, geto’s already blowing up his phone with a string of “finally, you idiot” texts and shoko’s sending memes about “enemies to lovers speedrun” but for once you don’t care at all. he calls you “trouble” this time and it sounds exactly like “i love you,” even if neither of you says the words out loud yet. when he says it you believe him completely, and you say it back in the way you kiss him like he’s yours now.

it feels like the start of something real, something loud and perfect that neither of you ever want to end.

you only say it when you’re drunk (18+)

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

frat!jo x fl!reader

art creds: m3yunzu/secremeyun, aransmind

the arguments feel like foreplay and neither of you will admit it, even to yourselves.

you hate how much it stings. how much you wish the drunk version would stick around.

then there’s the jealousy that cracks everything open wider.

he goes very still against the fence. the usual smirk is completely gone. just those ridiculous blue eyes, wide and unguarded for once, moonlight reflecting in them like stars.

“say that again,” he says quietly. no teasing. just raw need in his voice.

you stay.

he chuckles, the sound rumbling warmly through both of you, and pulls the blanket up over your tangled bodies. “we’re still gonna argue, you know. i’m still gonna win most of them.”

“dream on, gojo.”

“already living the dream, baby.”

you melt a little more, pulling him closer and kissing the corner of his mouth. “i love how you never back down. even when you’re wrong. especially when you’re wrong. it makes me feel alive.”

it feels like the start of something real, something loud and perfect that neither of you ever want to end.

miziyaos

on time for you

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

satoru gojo x fl!reader

art creds: su2kuna

content warning: explicit sexual content with detailed smut scenes, slow-burn romance, heavy flirting, and soft emotional moments. includes college au setting, tutor/student dynamic, and light swearing.

you’re the perfectly organized tutor who never misses a deadline. satoru gojo is the brilliant but careless student who’s always late, always joking, and somehow still acing everything without trying. when you get assigned to help him with advanced macroeconomics, you expect frustration and wasted time. what you don’t expect is late-night study sessions filled with shared snacks, stupid jokes, and the slow realization that he’s starting to show up on time. not for the class, but for you. what begins as reluctant tutoring slowly turns into something warmer. rainy walks, whispered confessions, and the kind of tension that builds until the textbooks get pushed aside.

the campus library at night smelled like old paper, cheap coffee, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights that never quite turned off. you sat at your usual table on the third floor, notes spread out in perfect rows, highlighter caps aligned like little soldiers. you were the type who loved color-coding everything, who showed up ten minutes early, who actually read the syllabus twice and made flashcards just in case.

gojo satoru was the opposite in every single way that mattered.

he showed up twenty-three minutes late the first session, sunglasses still perched on his nose even though it was pouring rain outside, white hair a chaotic mess like he had rolled straight out of bed and sprinted across half the campus. he dropped into the chair across from you with a dramatic sigh, long legs sprawling under the table until his knee bumped yours and stayed there for half a second too long, sending a tiny spark up your spine.

“sorry,” he said, flashing that blinding grin that probably got him out of trouble his whole life. “lost track of time. again. there was this really interesting cloud.”

you didn’t look up from your planner, pen clicking once. “you’re satoru gojo. professor yaga assigned me as your tutor for advanced macroeconomics because your last three tutors apparently quit in tears. i’m the last resort.”

he tilted his head, blue eyes peeking over the rim of his shades with clear interest. something flickered there. recognition, maybe amusement. you had seen him before, rushing across the quad with that effortless lazy stride, earbuds blasting, laughing loud enough to turn heads while his dark-haired friend tried to drag him toward the business building. you had caught him looking at you more than once too, that quick, lingering glance when you passed each other on the narrow path, like he was trying to figure out why you always looked so put-together. neither of you had ever spoken. campus was big, but not big enough to completely ignore someone like him.

“last resort, huh?” he drawled, pulling out a notebook that looked like it had been used as a coaster for someone’s energy drink. “guess i’m stuck with the cute, serious one who probably has color-coded highlighters for every gdp component.”

you exhaled slowly through your nose, refusing to let him see the tiny flush on your cheeks. “two hours. chapter seven. fiscal policy multipliers. try to keep up, or at least pretend to.”

the first few sessions were pure torture dressed up as studying.

he was late every single time, each excuse more ridiculous than the last. “sorry, there was a cat stuck in a tree and i had to negotiate with it.” “sorry, my alarm clock filed for divorce and i had to mediate.” he doodled little infinity symbols, tiny stick-figure economists fighting with tiny swords, and random memes in the margins instead of taking actual notes. he would answer your questions with half-jokes and then casually drop the correct, perfectly reasoned answer like it cost him nothing at all. it drove you insane in the best and worst ways. you stayed up late making perfect summaries and color-coded practice problems. he coasted through and still somehow understood everything on the first try while barely trying.

one rainy evening he showed up carrying two cans of soda and a family-sized bag of chips, sliding the orange soda toward you like it was a peace offering from a rival nation.

“fuel for the lecture machine,” he said, grinning as he cracked his own open. the fizz echoed way too loudly in the quiet library. “you look like you’re plotting my slow academic death by spreadsheet. sugar might help your mood and stop you from murdering me with that glare.”

you stared at the can for a long moment. “i don’t eat or drink during study sessions. it’s distracting and messes with focus.”

“live dangerously for once,” he teased, already munching loudly. “i promise not to tell the syllabus police or your color-coded highlighters.”

you ended up eating half the chips anyway, trying and failing not to smile when he dramatically reenacted a supply shock using potato chip crumbs as fleeing consumers. he kept stealing glances at you while you explained is-lm curves for the third time, blue eyes softer than they had any right to be, like he was memorizing the way your lips moved when you got passionate about deadweight loss.

later that night, after he finally left forty minutes late with a casual wave and a “see you next time,” you packed up slowly. you caught yourself replaying the way his fingers tapped an invisible rhythm on the table when he was actually thinking hard, the tiny furrow between his brows when he focused for more than ten seconds. you shook it off quickly. he was just another brilliant slacker who would probably forget you existed the second finals were over and his grade was safe.

you didn’t know he was venting about you to geto the next afternoon in their shared apartment.

“she’s terrifying, suguru,” gojo groaned, sprawled dramatically on the couch, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it without looking. “color codes her notes like it’s a religious ritual. stares at me like i personally murdered the entire concept of gdp. but she’s… really good at explaining stuff. and she has this tiny, reluctant smile when i finally get something right even though she tries to hide it behind her planner. it’s distracting.”

geto raised an eyebrow while stirring his instant ramen on the stove. “so maybe stop being late every time and she’ll stop looking at you like you’re a walking disaster.”

“i’m not that bad,” gojo muttered, catching the ball again. “okay, i’m exactly that bad. but she’s different. most tutors just want me to pass so they can brag they helped the gojo satoru. she actually wants me to understand the material. it feels… weird. good weird.”

the shift crept in so quietly and slowly that you almost missed it at first.

by week three he showed up only fifteen minutes late. small victory, but you noticed. he even had a new notebook with actual notes from last session scribbled in his messy, slanted handwriting.

“no sarcastic comment today?” he asked, lips twitching into a half-smile as he sat down and pushed the coffee he brought toward you. iced coffee with one sugar, exactly right.

you just raised an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “keep this up and i might stop calling you hopeless behind your back when i rewrite your notes.”

that night the library was almost empty because of the heavy rain pounding against the tall windows. he asked to share your playlist, so you handed him one earbud without thinking. his shoulder brushed yours as you both leaned over the same textbook, warm and solid. he smelled like rain and mint gum and something warmer that made your stomach do a slow flip. neither of you moved away even when the song changed.

“you know,” he said quietly after a long comfortable silence, voice low so it wouldn’t carry, “i’ve seen you around campus a lot before this whole tutoring thing started. always walking fast with your bag perfectly organized, headphones on, looking like you have the entire day planned down to the minute. it’s kinda cute. makes me want to mess up your schedule just a little bit, see what happens.”

your pen froze mid-sentence. heat rushed up your neck and into your cheeks. you kept your eyes glued to the page. “i’ve seen you too. usually sprinting late somewhere with your hair even messier than it is now, laughing like the world is one big joke.”

he laughed softly, the sound warm and close in your shared earbud, curling somewhere deep in your chest. “guilty as charged. maybe i like the way you look when you’re trying not to laugh at my excuses.”

after that the little rituals started forming without either of you ever discussing them out loud.

you began leaving his favorite sour gummies on the table before he arrived, pretending it was just leftover from your own snack. he started showing up with your exact coffee order balanced carefully in one hand like it was no big deal, sometimes with a silly doodle on the cup sleeve. you never thanked him out loud. he never pointed it out. it just became part of the quiet rhythm between you.

conversations stretched longer and longer between practice problems and graph explanations. he told you how he hated that everything came so easy most of the time, how it made him lazy and careless because nothing ever felt worth the full effort. you admitted the heavy, quiet pressure you put on yourself every single day, the fear of falling behind even when you were already ahead of everyone else. he listened without jokes for once, blue eyes steady on yours across the table. his usual cocky mask cracked just enough to show someone who was tired of pretending nothing mattered to him.

one particularly stormy night the library closed early for maintenance. instead of splitting up at the doors, he offered to walk you back under his oversized umbrella. shoulders bumping in the narrow dry space, rain drumming loudly above you, the walk back to the dorms felt endless and far too short at the same time. he cracked a few dumb jokes to fill the silence, but mostly he just walked beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth. he didn’t push for more. you didn’t either. the silence felt comfortable now, charged with all the tiny things neither of you were ready to say yet.

by week five he showed up exactly on time for the first time. you blinked in genuine surprise as he set his bag down quietly and pulled out his notebook without any fanfare.

“what, no dramatic entrance or cloud excuse today?” you asked, unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

he just grinned, bright and boyish. “figured i’d try surprising you for once. how am i doing?”

another session he made you laugh so hard you had to cover your mouth with both hands. the way he dramatically declared all-out war on the phillips curve like it had personally insulted his entire bloodline. the librarian shot you both a sharp glare from across the room, but gojo just winked at you and whispered, “worth it,” and you had to bite your lip hard to stay quiet. his eyes stayed on your face longer than necessary afterward, like he was collecting the sound of your laugh and storing it somewhere important.

the tension built in a thousand tiny, maddening almost-moments that left you replaying them alone in your dorm later.

his knee resting warm and steady against yours under the table for entire sessions and neither of you ever pulling away. the accidental brush of his fingers when he passed you a pen or pointed at a graph. the way he leaned in close to explain something, breath warm against your ear as he whispered a dumb joke only for you. you started noticing how his white hair fell into his eyes when he concentrated hard, how he chewed his lower lip when he was stuck on a problem but too stubborn to ask for help right away. you caught yourself thinking about him even outside tutoring hours, wondering if he was late to practice again, if he was eating properly, if he was lying awake thinking about you too.

he definitely was.

“i don’t know, suguru,” gojo said one evening, staring at the ceiling from his bed, voice quieter and more serious than usual. “she makes me want to actually try. not just scrape by with the minimum. i keep showing up on time because i don’t want her to look disappointed in me. that’s never happened before. it’s annoying. and kind of nice.”

geto smirked from across the room, flipping a page in his own textbook. “sounds like you’re in deep trouble, satoru. careful.”

gojo threw a pillow at him but didn’t argue. the smile on his face gave him away anyway.

one stormy thursday night the library closed early again because of flooding warnings. this time he suggested his apartment instead. geto conveniently “out studying all night at the library across campus.” you both knew it was a flimsy excuse, but the pouring rain made it easy to say yes without overthinking. the walk there felt heavier than usual, every step humming with quiet anticipation and weeks of built-up tension.

you sat on his bed with the macroeconomics textbooks spread between you like a fragile, paper-thin shield. the air in the room felt thicker, warmer, electric. he sat closer than he ever had in the library, knee pressed firmly to yours, fingers occasionally brushing yours when you pointed at something on the page or passed a highlighter.

“you’re actually trying now,” you said softly, heart beating loud in your ears as you traced a line on the graph in front of you. “like, really trying.”

he stayed quiet for a long moment, then spoke, voice low. “yeah. i don’t want to disappoint you anymore. not even a little.”

your breath caught hard. you looked up and met his eyes. those bright blue eyes were softer than you had ever seen them, no sunglasses, no cocky walls, no jokes to hide behind.

“why does it matter so much to you now?” you whispered, barely audible over the rain outside.

he shrugged one shoulder, but it was honest this time, raw. “because you see me. not the grades, not the reputation, not the easy genius act. just me. and you still stay and try. that’s new.”

the textbooks got pushed aside slowly, carefully, page by page, until there was nothing left between you but inches of charged air. his hand found yours on the blanket, thumb brushing over your knuckles in slow, deliberate circles, giving you every single chance to pull away if you wanted. you didn’t. the touch felt like both a question and an answer all at once.

“satoru…” your voice came out barely there, shaky with everything you had been holding back for weeks.

he leaned in first, agonizingly slow, giving you all the time in the world to stop him. you didn’t. his lips brushed yours. soft, hesitant, almost reverent, like he was afraid the moment you had both been circling for so long would shatter if he moved too fast. the kiss stayed gentle and slow for a long time, deepening gradually, tasting like the coffee he had brought earlier and the faint sweetness of shared gummies and weeks of quiet wanting. his fingers slid gently into your hair, tilting your head just right. you kissed him back, heart hammering against your ribs, and felt him sigh softly against your mouth like he had been waiting forever for permission.

you moved into his lap without overthinking it, straddling his thighs as the kiss grew warmer, hungrier, but still careful and unhurried, like both of you wanted to savor every second after all the slow build. his hands rested on your waist, thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles through your shirt, respectful even as you pressed closer and let out a tiny, involuntary sound.

“tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough and strained with how much he was holding back for you.

“don’t stop,” you whispered, fingers curling into his shirt.

clothes came off slowly, every single piece deliberate and earned after all the weeks of almosts and maybes and stolen glances. he peeled your hoodie over your head, lips following the newly exposed skin down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses and sucking lightly at the sensitive spot that made your breath hitch and your fingers tighten in his white hair. you tugged his shirt off in return, hands exploring the lean, toned lines of his chest and shoulders, tracing faint scars he never fully explained with gentle fingertips. every brush of skin against skin felt heavy with meaning, with all the things you had both been feeling but not saying.

he laid you back gently against the pillows, hovering over you like you were something precious he didn’t want to rush or break. his mouth mapped your body with patient reverence. collarbone, the soft curve of your breast, the sensitive dip of your stomach. when he finally reached between your legs, his fingers were gentle and teasing, learning you inch by careful inch. he watched your face the entire time, blue eyes dark and completely focused, memorizing every twitch of your hips, every soft whimper and gasp he managed to pull from your throat.

“so pretty,” he breathed, voice hoarse as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh. “been thinking about you like this for so long… about making you feel good, about hearing you say my name.”

you pulled him back up by the shoulders, kissing him deeply and desperately as he slid one finger inside you, then two, curling them perfectly while his thumb circled your clit with that same slow, steady, maddening pressure. the pleasure built agonizingly slow, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly until it finally snapped with shocking intensity. you came with a quiet, broken sound, thighs trembling hard around his hand, his name slipping from your lips like a confession you couldn’t hold back anymore.

he kissed you through every wave of it, murmuring soft praises against your skin, then kissed you deeper, letting you catch your breath only to steal it again with his mouth. you reached down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him, stroking slowly and carefully until he groaned low into your mouth, hips jerking forward into your touch.

when he finally pushed inside you it was careful and slow, inch by deliberate inch, both of you gasping at the stretch and the overwhelming closeness after so much waiting. he stilled once he was fully seated, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged and warm against your lips.

“god… you feel perfect,” he rasped, voice trembling slightly with the effort of staying still. “so good for me.”

the rhythm started achingly slow, deep, rolling thrusts that made your toes curl and your nails dig into his shoulders. only when you moaned his name did his hips snap harder, one hand gripping your thigh to pull you impossibly closer, the other braced beside your head. sweat slicked your skin where you touched. the room filled with soft, obscene sounds, skin meeting skin, wet and rhythmic, mixed with his low, broken groans and your breathless whimpers and moans.

he flipped you onto your stomach later in the night, pulling your hips up gently and sliding back in from behind, even deeper this way. his chest pressed flush to your back, lips at your ear whispering quiet praises and filthy little encouragements as he moved, one hand slipping between your legs again to rub your clit with that same patient rhythm.

“come for me again,” he murmured, voice strained right at the edge, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “want to feel you fall apart around me one more time.”

you did, clenching tight around him as the second orgasm crashed over you even harder, vision blurring at the edges. he followed only moments later, burying himself deep inside you with a choked, raw moan of your name, holding you close through every shuddering aftershock as if he never wanted to let go.

afterward you lay tangled together under the sheets, his arm draped warm and heavy over your waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your bare skin. he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your temple, then one more to the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he was finally allowed to.

“still mad about all those ridiculously late arrivals and dumb excuses?” he asked, voice sleepy and fond and a little hoarse against the back of your neck.

you laughed quietly, turning in his arms to face him properly, noses almost brushing. “maybe a little. but i think i can forgive every single one of them now.”

he grinned, that familiar bright, cocky smile returning but softer around the edges now, eyes half-lidded and completely content as he looked at you. “good. because i plan on showing up on time for a very, very long time. maybe even early if you keep looking at me like that.”

outside the rain kept falling steadily against the window, relentless and soothing. inside, the macroeconomics textbooks stayed completely forgotten on the floor in a messy pile, and gojo satoru finally felt like he wasn’t just drifting through life anymore. he was right where he wanted to be. messy hair, bright blue eyes, ridiculous excuses and all, curled up next to you.

#gojosatoru #nerdjo #jujustsu kaisen x reader #anime #xreader #satoru smut #satoru x reader #gojo smut #satorugojo #smut #fluff #gojo #satoru #satorufanfic #fanfic #jjk satoru #female reader