── ˖ ࣪૮₍ ࣪˖𝓑aby, we could go back to the basics ♡ ࣪ა ࣪˖
── 𑣲⋆ 𝓘 can speak Spanish, you can sing for the neighbors
welcome to the blog of a certified. 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. you can find her hunched over her computer, writing the most toe curling smut ever.
𑣲⋆𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 :: 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄 & 𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐄 lover that spends more time writing her book and silly fanfictions than on her assignments. she will never be able to choose between 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐉𝐎 and 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐉𝐎
𓏵‧₊˚ ┊ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 2004 baby
── 𝓢 it back in my pink cadillac ♡ ࣪ა ࣪˖
𑣲⋆ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍's mlist + taglist will be out when she stops being a lazy fuck
𝓢 𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒆'𝒔 only rules are :: 01. do not ask for updates. 02. hate anons will be ignored. 03. requests are not and will never be open. feel free to make suggestions but just know that i might not write them.
ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ aizawa's wife and keigo's favorite girl ♡ ⨾
── ˖ ࣪૮₍𝓨ou've been pretty stupid ever since you got famous
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ryomen sukuna has slaughtered armies, leveled villages, and rewritten what it means to be feared. somehow, the hardest thing he's ever done is look three gardeners in the eye and say sorry.
art by : @/f-tality0 dividers by: @/pixopix
The morning had started beautifully, which should have been your first warning.
Birdsong, cool air drifting through the screens, the smell of rice porridge from the kitchen— all of it unbearably peaceful for a compound that housed the King of Curses and his apparently boundless appetite for chaos. You had allowed yourself, foolishly, to feel something close to optimism. You had even smiled into your tea. A mistake. A profound, rookie mistake, and you had been married to Ryomen Sukuna for three years, so you genuinely had no excuse.
The screaming started not too long after.
Not the urgent, desperate kind— you had learned to calibrate the screaming in this household with the precision of a court musician tuning her instrument. This was the high-pitched, slightly theatrical kind, which meant no one was actually dying. Yet. It also meant Sukuna was bored, which was, in many ways, considerably worse.
You set down your tea with the measured calm of a woman who had made peace with her circumstances and walked toward the noise.
You found him in the eastern courtyard.
He had cornered three of the groundskeeping staff against the garden wall— four arms spread wide, two of his eyes half-lidded with something you could only describe as delight, the other two watching the men with the attentive focus of a cat who had found a very entertaining mouse. The men were pressed so flat against the stone they might have been trying to become part of it. One of them, Kenji, the eldest, was making a sound not unlike a teakettle.
Sukuna had, at some point, materialized a flame in his upper left palm— not enough to burn anything, just enough to be theatrical— and was gesturing with it idly as he spoke.
"—and that's why," he was saying, in the conversational tone of a man explaining something very reasonable, "the eastern section of the garden should be redesigned. Entirely. Burn the plum trees. I find them uninspiring."
"Ryomen."
He turned. The flame flickered out immediately— not because he was startled, he would insist, loudly, if asked— but the speed at which all four of his arms dropped to his sides was fairly telling. The expression on his face cycled through several things in quick succession before it settled on something that aspired to be casual.
"You're awake," he said.
"The screaming woke me." You looked at the three men against the wall. Kenji appeared to be praying. "What are you doing?"
"Landscaping consultation."
"Ryomen."
"I'm consulting them."
You crossed your arms. He had the decency— or possibly the self-preservation instinct— to hold your gaze for about four seconds before one of his eyes cut sideways. It was the closest thing Ryomen Sukuna came to looking caught, and you had catalogued it carefully over the years.
"The plum trees," you said, "which I planted, are staying."
"They're aesthetically offensive."
"You said they smelled nice last spring."
A pause. Something moved across his face— irritation, mostly, at being remembered accurately. "That was a weak moment."
"You stood under one for an entire afternoon."
"Strategic repositioning."
"You fell asleep."
The silence that followed was tremendous. Kenji had stopped praying and appeared to be watching this exchange with the stunned expression of a man who had been handed information he didn't know what to do with. You turned to the three of them and offered a short bow of your head, which sent them into a fresh spiral of panicked bowing in return.
"You're dismissed. Thank you for your patience." They were gone before you finished the sentence. You turned back to your husband.
Sukuna stood in the middle of the courtyard with his upper arms folded and his lower arms hanging loose at his sides, which was the Sukuna equivalent of standing with his hands in his pockets— a posture that radiated the very specific energy of a man who felt he was being unfairly persecuted.
"They were fine," he said.
"Kenji was crying."
"Emotional man."
"Ryomen. Just don't."
The words landed the way they always did— not like a reprimand, exactly, but like a door closing. Quiet, final, leaving very little room for argument. He stared at you. You stared back. Somewhere in the garden, a bird sang three notes and then, as if sensing the atmosphere, thought better of it.
He made a sound through his teeth. Low, grinding, deeply aggrieved. Then he turned and walked back toward the main hall, and you heard him, very quietly, in a tone he absolutely believed did not carry
"Get married, they said. It'll be enriching, they said. Bring some warmth to the compound, they said—"
"I can hear you."
The grumbling stopped.
You gave him an hour.
This was a system you had developed— Sukuna required approximately one hour of sulking before he became approachable again, and attempting to engage before that window had passed resulted in sarcasm so dense it was almost structural. You used the time to check on the kitchen staff, reassure two of the younger attendants who had heard the screaming and assumed the worst, and locate Kenji to confirm that he was, in fact, fine and had merely needed to sit down for a while.
When you found Sukuna again, he was on the engawa overlooking your allegedly offensive plum trees, doing nothing, which was a thing he was genuinely terrible at. His chin was resting on one of his upper fists. He looked profoundly put-upon by the concept of existing.
"You're going to apologize to them," you said, sitting down beside him.
He turned his head so slowly it was almost artistic. "I absolutely am not."
"You frightened them."
"I intended to frighten them. That was the point."
"What was the point, Ryomen? Walk me through the strategic value of terrorizing the men who maintain our garden."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "It was amusing. Whimsical even."
"For who?"
Another pause. He turned back toward the garden, and the tips of his ears— which she had learned, over three years, were a reliable indicator— had gone the faintest shade darker. "...Me," he said, at a volume that required concentration to hear.
You leaned your head lightly against the outside of his shoulder, because you knew perfectly well he wouldn't permit anything more than that while he was still in a mood, and because three years had taught you the specific geometry of his moods. "Apologize," you said, not unkindly. "And then we can talk about the garden redesign. Without flames."
He exhaled through his nose. It sounded like a very small natural disaster.
"Fine," he said.
You assembled the three of them in the courtyard an hour later, and whatever they had expected, it was clearly not this.
Sukuna stood in front of them. All four of his arms were clasped behind his back in a configuration that looked less like contrition and more like a man physically restraining himself from doing something his wife would find objectionable. His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere near his own feet. He was, in terms of sheer physical presence, still the most alarming thing most people in this province had ever stood within ten feet of— and he was standing like a child who had been marched to the neighbor's house to return something he had stolen.
One of his feet moved. Slowly. Dragging the toe of his sandal against the dirt in a small, sullen arc.
The groundskeepers watched this with the expressions of men whose understanding of the world had just been quietly reorganized.
"I," Sukuna began, and then stopped, as if the word had been a step onto uncertain ground. You waited. He tried again. "I may have been—" a jaw flex, a pause— "excessive. In this morning's consultation."
Kenji made a sound.
"The flames," Sukuna continued, each word apparently costing him something personal, "were unnecessary." Another drag of the foot. His upper left hand, behind his back, had curled into a fist that he was squeezing and releasing like he was trying to knead the indignity out of his own palm. "The plum trees will remain. As they are."
He looked up. It lasted approximately one second— eye contact, enough to constitute sincerity by his standards— and then he looked away again, at the garden, at the middle distance, at literally anything that was not the three men in front of him absorbing the fact that the King of Curses had just apologized to them about a tree.
"...That's all," he said.
You caught his eye over their heads and nodded, once, which was the signal that this had been acceptable. Something in his shoulders unknotted, just slightly, in a way he would have vehemently denied if pressed.
That evening, after the household had settled into its routines and the lamps had been lit, you found him exactly where you'd expected— back on the engawa, under a sky going violet and orange, watching the plum trees he professed to find offensive and had once spent an entire drowsy spring afternoon sleeping beneath.
You sat beside him. This time he permitted you closer, the way he always did when the day had worn the sharpest edges off his performance of indifference. One of his lower hands settled over yours without ceremony, without comment, in the manner of something habitual and therefore not worth acknowledging.
"I stand by the redesign," he said, after a while.
"Noted."
"The symmetry is genuinely bad."
"I'll take it under consideration."
He was quiet. Then, in a tone that was so deliberately neutral it wrapped back around to something almost tender: "You have terrible taste in garden design."
You smiled. "And yet."
"And yet," he repeated, like he was agreeing to something much larger than gardens, and said nothing else, and the plum trees stood exactly where they were, and the evening settled over the compound of the King of Curses like something almost peaceful.
In the distance, very faintly, Kenji was telling the younger groundskeepers what had happened that afternoon, and the sound of their disbelieving laughter drifted through the warm air and dissolved into the dark.
Sukuna pretended not to hear it. His hand stayed over yours.
𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ :: geto suguru has built a reputation out of silence, inked a thousand skins, and never once in his life chased anything. somehow, he's been letting himself into his ex-girlfriend's apartment at midnight just to move her coffee mug three inches to the left.
oh! forgive me lord! oh i'm a good girl ♡ run rabbit! run rabid ♡
content warning :: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, dubcon (initiation while reader is asleep/semi-conscious, but she is into it when she wakes up), somno, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive & possessive behavior, yandere themes (both parties), unhealthy relationship dynamics, theft of personal items, not beta read. art by @/thatsallitchief
4.8k words
The breakup was his idea. That's the part that kills you most.
Not that you didn't see it coming—you did, in the way you see storms gathering on a horizon you've been watching for too long. You had felt it in the spaces between his words, in the weight of his silences, in how his hands had stopped reaching for you in his sleep.
Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.
"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.
You had held it together long enough to get out the door.
That had been seven months ago.
You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.
It started small. The way these things always do.
You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.
But then he'd switched his personal account to private.
@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.
You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.
He accepted within a day.
You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.
Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.
The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.
You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.
The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.
There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.
You are terrified of needles.
You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—
"Breathe."
His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.
You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.
"Watanabe-san?"
You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.
"Hi," you said. Brilliant.
"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"
"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."
He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.
You managed. Barely.
The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.
His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.
You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.
You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.
He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.
You don't look up.
You're very good at not looking up.
The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.
There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.
You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.
You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.
The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.
And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.
You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.
What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.
There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.
So. The women.
You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.
You are very good at this.
You have gotten very good at this.
You think you're slick.
This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.
You believe this story.
You are, perhaps, the only one who does.
Geto Suguru notices everything.
This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.
The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.
Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.
You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.
There she is.
He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.
He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.
He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.
@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.
He had looked at the profile for a long time.
The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.
He had accepted the follow request.
He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.
The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.
Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.
Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.
He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.
He wanted to say: I already know.
He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.
The club thing is his favorite.
He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.
The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.
Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."
"I know," Suguru had said.
Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."
It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.
He still has your key.
This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.
He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.
He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.
He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.
He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.
The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.
You hadn't thrown any of it away.
He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.
He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.
He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.
It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.
Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.
The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.
He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.
It gives way.
You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.
He leans against the doorframe.
He watches you breathe.
There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.
You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.
He is still there.
There she is.
He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.
The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.
His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.
You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.
“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”
His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.
You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.
Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.
You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.
He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.
He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.
One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.
He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”
He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.
You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.
Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.
He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.
Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.
“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”
You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.
For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.
He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.
Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.
Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.
꒰ 𓏲๋࣭࣪˖🌷.ᐟ Satoru Gojo is the loudest, prettiest boy on campus — and secretly the biggest nerd you've ever met. You make a list of twenty ways to make him yours. It works better than expected. ꒱
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo x reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, mutual pining, 3.4k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/to00fu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
Gojo Satoru did not look like a nerd. That was the first thing you had to get past.
He was six-foot-three, white hair that looked like he'd bleached it out of spite, and a jawline that made underclassmen forget how to walk in straight lines. So the first time you sat next to him in Intro to Theoretical Physics and watched him correct the TA's derivation on the whiteboard— politely, cheerfully, in a way that made the TA visibly reconsider their choice of career— you assumed it was a fluke. A pretty boy who got lucky on one problem set.
It was not a fluke. It happened every single week.
By week four you knew: underneath the sunglasses he wore indoors "for the bit," underneath the easy charm and the way he called everyone "sweetheart" like it cost him nothing, Gojo was the single biggest nerd you had ever met in your life. He annotated his textbooks in four colors. He had a ranked opinion on which university library floor had the best "ambient silence." He once spent twenty minutes explaining the Fermi paradox to a girl at a party who had asked him, literally, where the bathroom was.
And somehow, against every instinct you had about self-preservation, you'd fallen for him anyway.
The problem was that Gojo Satoru was completely, catastrophically oblivious to the fact that you liked him. Not because he was dumb— the man had a 4.0 and could recite pi to sixty digits when he was nervous— but because emotional self-awareness was, apparently, the one subject he'd never taken.
So you did what any reasonable person would do. You made a list.
Not a real list, not at first— just something you texted your roommate at 1 a.m. after he'd walked you back to your dorm and then said "anyway, goodnight, study buddy!" like a golden retriever who'd just learned the word "goodnight." But it grew. Item by item, week by week, you built yourself a plan. A syllabus, if you wanted to be annoying about it. A plan for how to make a nerd— your nerd, if you had anything to say about it– fall for you back.
Here's what the list looked like, three weeks later, mostly executed and slightly out of order:
1. Ask him to explain something you already understand
Not because you need it explained. Because Gojo lights up like a Christmas tree the second someone asks him a real question, and there is nothing in this world cuter than a six-foot-three man drawing a diagram of quantum entanglement on a napkin at 9 p.m. because you asked "wait, but how does that actually work?" He'll talk for eleven minutes straight. You will not understand half of it. You will not care.
2. Bring him coffee exactly the way he takes it, without asking.
Oat milk, two sugars, and— this is important— he needs it slightly too hot, because he likes complaining that it burned his tongue and then drinking it anyway. The first time you showed up to your study session with his order memorized, he stared at the cup for a solid five seconds like you'd handed him a diamond instead of a four-dollar latte.
"You remembered," he said, and for once he didn't sound like he was performing anything.
"It's not that hard, Satoru."
"No," he agreed, still staring at the cup. "I guess it's not."
3. Steal his hoodie and never give it back.
This one is less a strategy and more just theft, but the effect is the same. You took it during a group project when the library air conditioning decided finals week was a personal vendetta, and you simply forgot to return it. He noticed. He did not ask for it back. He instead started "accidentally" leaving other sweaters at your dorm, like he was building a small collection of hostages in reverse.
4. Beat him at something. Anything.
Gojo has never lost gracefully in his life. He is aggressively, hilariously competitive about things that do not matter, like Mario Kart, or who can name more moons of Saturn, or whose flashcards are better organized. Beat him once— just once— and watch a switch flip behind his eyes. He will demand a rematch. He will demand several rematches. He will, three rematches later, forget that he is supposed to be trying to win and just start trying to make you laugh instead.
5. Notice the thing he's insecure about, and don't make a big deal of it.
Underneath the confidence, Gojo has Opinions about his own eyes— the pale blue, the way people stare, the way strangers sometimes ask invasive questions like he's a museum exhibit. You noticed early that the sunglasses weren't entirely a bit. So you never once commented on his eyes unless it was in passing, the same way you'd mention someone's nice handwriting. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Just a fact about him, not a headline.
He clocked that you'd clocked it. He didn't say anything. But he started taking the glasses off around you more.
6. Let him info-dump. Then remember what he said.
Two weeks after the Fermi paradox incident, you asked him— out of nowhere, mid-lecture— "okay but statistically, if the paradox holds, doesn't that actually support the idea that we're early, not alone?" He turned to look at you like you'd grown a second head. A good second head.
"You remembered that?"
"You explained it for twenty minutes to a stranger looking for the bathroom. Of course I remembered."
7. Make him carry something heavy for you.
Not because you need the help. Because there is a specific, devastating satisfaction in watching Gojo Satoru— who could probably bench-press the entire physics department— insist on carrying your grocery bags, your laundry basket, your six textbooks, all at once, while pretending it's nothing, while very obviously flexing about it.
8. Show up to his study group uninvited and stay anyway.
He runs a Tuesday night study group that is, allegedly, "for anyone who wants to come," but somehow the same three terrified freshmen show up every week and leave within the hour because Gojo cannot resist turning every session into a TED talk. You started showing up too. You did not leave within the hour. By the third week, he'd started saving you a seat next to him without being asked— the one by the outlet, because he'd noticed your laptop charger was fraying.
9. Text him something dumb at 2 a.m. and let him overthink his reply.
You know this one works because your roommate is somehow also friends with his roommate, and the intel came back within the hour: Gojo spent eleven minutes composing a response to your "ok but if a vending machine gains sentience is it a philosophical zombie or just annoying" text. Eleven minutes. For a joke. He sent back four different drafts before landing on one, and it was still unhinged.
10. Compliment his handwriting, not his face
He gets told he's hot approximately nine times a day, by everyone, including strangers on the bus. It means nothing to him anymore— it's just weather. But tell him his lecture notes are genuinely, freakishly beautiful— every equation boxed, every margin annotated in four colors like he's illuminating a medieval manuscript— and watch him go quiet in a way he never does when someone calls him pretty.
11. Let him see you fail at something.
Gojo doesn't actually want a girl who has it together 100% of the time— he wants someone real, though it took you a while to realize that. The night you completely bombed a presentation and cried a little in the stairwell after, he didn't try to fix it or hype you up with empty noise. He just sat down on the concrete step next to you in his very expensive jeans and said, "okay, worst professor you've ever had, go," and let you complain until you'd laughed the tears away.
12. Ask about his family. Actually listen.
He deflects hard whenever anyone brings up the Gojo name, the money, the expectations. Most people either fawn over it or pretend it doesn't exist. You did neither— you just asked, once, gently, "is it heavy? Carrying all that?" and let the silence sit instead of filling it. He didn't answer for a full minute. Then he told you more than he'd told anyone all semester. He told you about his twin.
13. Give him a nickname that isn't about how he looks.
Everyone calls him "Six Eyes" as some ironic school-wide joke about how much he supposedly sees. You started calling him "Professor" instead, low and teasing, every time he got insufferable about a fact nobody asked for. He complained about it constantly. He also, notably, never asked you to stop.
14. Show up to his dumb extracurricular thing
He's in the university's astronomy club, which meets on the roof of the science building at ungodly hours to look at things you cannot see because of light pollution. You went once, mostly out of curiosity, and ended up going every month after, wrapped in his stolen hoodie (see: item 3), while he pointed at smudges in the sky and insisted, with total conviction, that one of them was definitely Saturn.
"That's a plane, Satoru."
"It's Saturn, and I won't be taking questions."
15. Get jealous. Badly. On purpose.
You are not proud of this one, but it worked, so it's staying on the list. A guy from your seminar started sitting suspiciously close to you during group work, and Gojo— usually the most chill, unbothered person alive— suddenly developed a burning need to sit in on your seminar "for fun." He is not enrolled in your seminar. He does not need to be there. He was there anyway, arms crossed, radiating an aura your professor mistook for academic passion.
16. Take care of him when he forgets to take care of himself.
For someone so smart, Gojo is disastrous at remembering to eat during midterms. You started leaving snacks in his backpack without telling him— protein bars, the specific brand of gum he chews when he's anxious, a note sometimes. He never mentioned it directly. He just started leaving you snacks back, an unspoken little economy of care neither of you would put a name to yet.
17. Let him walk you home even when you don't need it.
It's fifteen minutes out of his way. He does it every time anyway, sunglasses off, hands in his pockets, talking the entire walk about nothing and everything, and you've started timing your goodnights to be a little longer than they need to be.
18. Catch him staring, and don't look away first.
It happened in the library, over a stack of shared notes— you looked up and he was already looking, not at your notes, at you, and for once in his entire dramatic life he didn't have a single word ready. You didn't look away. Neither did he. Somebody's highlighter rolled off the table and neither of you moved to catch it.
19. Tell him, out loud, that you like the nerd version of him best.
Not the flirt. Not the golden retriever performing for a crowd. The version that gets quiet and intense over a whiteboard, that memorizes the digits of pi when he's anxious, that lit up over a napkin diagram because someone finally asked him a real question. You told him this on the roof, under his fake Saturn, and he went so still you thought you'd broken him.
20. Kiss him first.
Because he will never, ever make the first move— not out of fear, but because some small, stupid, sincere part of him doesn't believe someone like you would actually want someone like him, underneath all the noise. So you have to be the one. You kiss him on the roof, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, his ridiculous fake constellation still glowing faintly behind him, and he makes a sound against your mouth like every ounce of composure he's ever performed just short-circuited at once.
When you pull back he's staring at you the way he stares at a problem he's finally solved— stunned, delighted, a little smug that he got there at all.
"Say something smart, Professor," you tell him, breathless.
"Give me a second," he says. "You broke my working memory."
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
ᘛᰍ𝅄 how 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 and 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 act with a crybaby girlfriend ♡
ᘛ ꒰ satoru gojo and satoshi gojo (separate) x crybaby reader | university au | fluff, crack-ish, 3.2k wc. no real warning, this is pure fluff. art by @/ge2lovu dividers by @uzmacchiato and @pixopix ྀིა
nerdjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
You've cried in front of Gojo Satoru exactly eleven times. He keeps count. He'll actually say it out loud, mid-argument, like it's evidence in a trial only he's allowed to preside over — "this makes eleven, for the record" — and somehow that's worse than if he'd just let you have the moment.
Right now is going to be twelve.
"I'm not — I'm not upset," you say, even though your voice cracks on the second word and gives you away completely. "I just think it's a little insane that you got a 98 on a test you didn't study for and you're acting like it's a personal failing."
"It is a personal failing." Satoru doesn't even look up from where he's re-deriving the two points he lost, pen tapping an impatient little rhythm against the desk. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose and he hasn't bothered to push them up, which somehow makes him look more insufferable, not less. "Two points, angel. Two. I know exactly which step I skipped and it's going to bother me until I die."
"You're going to make me die. Of secondhand humiliation. For you."
"Cute of you to worry about my reputation. I don't need the help." He finally glances over, and whatever he sees on your face makes the corner of his mouth twitch — not soft, not yet, more like satisfaction confirming an already-known result. "Oh, don't do that."
"Do what."
"The eyes. You're doing the thing." He sets the pen down with theatrical patience, like you're a mildly interesting variable he's chosen to solve for. "I have never in my life met someone who cries this easily over homework arguments. It's actually kind of a design flaw."
"I'm not crying—" you are, a little, the stupid prickling kind that happens when you're more frustrated than sad and your body doesn't know the difference. You swipe at it fast, annoyed at yourself. "I hate that you keep count."
"I keep count of everything. I have a 4.0 to maintain and apparently also a girlfriend who tears up if I use the word 'technically' in the wrong tone." He says it like a scientist reading off a data point, entirely too pleased with himself, and pushes his chair back to close the distance instead of just talking across the room like a person with object permanence issues. "C'mere."
"No. I'm mad at you."
"You're mad at the concept of me being annoying about a 98, sure. Doesn't mean you don't want a hug." He crouches down in front of your chair anyway, forearms braced on either armrest, effectively caging you in with the sheer, obnoxious confidence of someone who has never once considered that he might be told no and meant it. Up close his eyes are very blue and very smug and it is deeply unfair that you find both of those things attractive. "I'm right, aren't I."
"You're always right, that's your whole thing, it's exhausting."
"It is my whole thing." He reaches up, thumbs the wet line off your cheekbone with a gentleness that doesn't match a single other thing about his personality, and you hate — genuinely, chemically hate — how much that one small contradiction gets you every time. "You cry if I win an argument. You cried when I got us upgraded seats on that flight because the gate agent 'didn't even make me use my full charm.' You cried during that documentary about deep sea fish."
"The fish thing was valid, they live their whole lives in the dark—"
"It was a fish, baby." But he's smiling now, the real one, not the one he performs for the rest of the lecture hall. "Twelve times. You're an easy crier and I'm an insufferable genius and somehow this is the healthiest relationship either of us has ever had."
"That says more about your standards than mine."
"Everything says more about my standards, I have excellent standards, that's how I ended up with you." He kisses your forehead before you can figure out if that was a compliment or an insult, and honestly you've stopped trying to sort those into separate categories where Satoru's concerned; with him they're usually the same thing wearing a different shirt. "You want to know the actual two points I lost? I'll walk you through it. It's genuinely fascinating."
"I do not want a lecture on your test right now."
"You're getting one anyway, you're already crying, might as well cry about integration by parts instead of my ego." He's already standing, already pulling his notebook back toward you both, already narrating before you've agreed to a single word of it — and the worst, most damning part is that you let him, elbow propped against his shoulder, watching him get worked up over a problem he answered correctly, because apparently this is just what loving Gojo Satoru looks like: getting talked at by someone who is never once unsure of himself, and somehow finding it the most steadying thing in your entire week.
"You skipped a substitution step," you point out eventually, squinting at his margin notes. "Right there."
He goes quiet for exactly one second. "...I'm aware."
"You just wanted me to find it myself so you could feel smug about explaining it."
"I contain multitudes." He flips the page like that settles it, entirely unbothered, entirely certain that being caught changes nothing about how correct he is in every category that matters. "Anyway. Thirteen's coming. I can feel it. I'm going to say something devastatingly accurate about your parking technique later and you're going to cry about that too."
"I hate you."
"You really don't," he says, and reaches for your hand without even looking, like it's a formality, like of course it's there — and of course it is.
fratjo and his crybaby girlfriend ♡
The music is still going somewhere downstairs, bass thudding up through the floorboards like a heartbeat that belongs to someone else's house, but up here in Satoshi's room it's just you, him, and the fact that he has not said a single coherent sentence in four minutes.
"You can breathe, you know," you say, sitting cross-legged on his bed while he stands by the door he's just shut, hand still on the knob like he's reconsidering the whole plan. "It's just me."
"I know it's just you." He says it too fast, which is how you know it isn't true — not the just you part, the I know part. Satoshi Gojo, who twenty minutes ago was standing on the kitchen counter doing a keg-stand countdown for a room of forty people, who has thrown three separate house parties this semester and gotten banned from a bar for "excessive charisma" (his words, and somehow the manager's too), currently cannot make eye contact with his own girlfriend in his own bedroom.
"You were fine downstairs," you point out, not unkindly. "You climbed on the counter."
"That's different, that's — everyone down there wants the loud version. That's easy. That's a bit." He finally crosses the room, sits on the very edge of the mattress like he hasn't fully decided he's allowed to, and rubs the back of his neck. "Up here it's just you looking at me and I don't have a — a bit for that. I don't know what to do with my hands."
"You could hold mine."
He looks at your outstretched hand like it might be a trick question, then takes it anyway, and something in his shoulders drops half an inch. "Sorry. You're not — you didn't do anything, I promise, I'm just—"
"Weird when it's quiet. I know." You've had this conversation with him before, in fragments, usually at two in the morning after everyone else has gone home and the house finally goes still enough that the real Satoshi surfaces — soft-spoken, oddly formal, apologizing for things that don't need apologies. It took you a while to understand that the party version of him is the performance and this is the actual boy underneath it, and once you did, you never wanted the performance again. "It's okay. I like this version better anyway."
"You say that, but—" he stops himself, jaw working, and you watch him decide whether to finish the thought.
"But what?"
"But then you cry, and I don't know if it's a good cry or a bad cry, and downstairs I can fix things with, like, a shot and a dumb joke, and up here I just kind of freeze and make it worse." He says it all in a rush, like it's been sitting in him for a while. "You cried on Tuesday because I forgot to text you when I got home and I still don't fully know what to do with that information."
"I cried because I was worried, not because I was mad at you."
"I know that now. In the moment I just saw you crying and my brain went completely white." He laughs, short and a little helpless. "I can talk a stranger into buying a hundred dollars of tequila for a party they weren't even invited to. I cannot handle you getting teary over a missed text. It's genuinely humbling."
"You're doing fine right now."
"I'm doing fine right now because you're not actually upset right now." He squeezes your hand like he's grounding himself with it. "The second the crying starts I turn into a golden retriever that's been left in a thunderstorm. Satoru would probably have some smug little speech ready. I just panic and offer you snacks."
"Satoru counts every time I cry like it's a scoreboard, it's honestly worse."
"See, that's so him. He'd rather be right than useful." Satoshi finally cracks a real smile, the one that doesn't show up much outside this room, easy and a little crooked and entirely unguarded. "I'd rather just — I don't know. Sit here. Hold your hand until it passes. I'm not gonna have some genius thing to say about it."
"You don't need a genius thing to say. You could just say that."
"...Yeah?" He looks almost surprised, like it's news to him that showing up quietly counts for something. "Okay. Noted. For future crying. Just — sit and hold hands, no snacks required unless requested."
"Snacks are always welcome, for the record."
"Right, duly noted, I'll workshop a snack protocol." The noise downstairs swells for a second — someone's turned the bass up, someone's shouting his name from the stairwell, Toshi, bro, get down here — and he glances toward the door like a switch is about to flip back on, the loud version gearing up to clock back in. But he doesn't move yet. He stays sitting on the edge of his bed, thumb tracing slow over your knuckles, in absolutely no hurry to go be a menace to forty strangers when he could just stay here a little longer, quiet, uncertain, entirely yours.
"You don't have to go back down," you say.
"I know." He says it like it surprises him too. "I kind of don't want to."
Downstairs, someone starts chanting his name. Up here, he doesn't let go of your hand.
