hart

[star-har]

hi! so glad you guys could make it <3

| hart | 19 | she/her |

requests: open! (I only write for jjk!!)

masterlist

[star-har]

Toji’s questionable guardly duties

Pairing— princess!reader x guard!toji

The day had been building toward something breaking. You felt it long before you understood it or felt it.

Every word in that council chamber had landed like a weight—alliances, expectations, your name spoken like it belonged to everyone but you. A marriage proposal dressed as strategy. A future decided in front of you, not with you. It was the usual.

And although you knew you’d never succumb to their court-imposed expectations and patriarchal bullshit, their words still found a way to crawl under your skin. Quiet, insistent, impossible to ignore.

You sat there perfectly still. Perfectly composed. Perfectly suffocating.

Toji stood just behind your chair, as he always did—silent, still, eyes half-lidded like none of it concerned him. But he oversaw everything. As head of the royal guard, his presence in this room was required, not requested. He wasn’t here to participate. He was here to ensure nothing went wrong.

You kept your expression composed through it all.

“Your Majesty,” one of the councilmen spoke, looking past his glasses and down the table to your father. “It is an alliance worthy of scrutiny. Such a union could pave the way for the fruition of our kingdom.”

As if in sync, all heads turn to face you.

You scoff and sip at your tea. “Perhaps these unions wouldn’t be necessary if we all approached civil matters with even the slightest hint of dignity and honour.”

The room went quiet, as if irritated at your suggestion of their fraudulent conduct. Your heart thrummed in your chest at how little they cared for your warranted words.

When the meeting finally ended and chairs scraped back, you were already moving— falling into step behind you was Toji before anyone else could linger too long.

As fucking always, and by your father’s commands, he never left your side.

By the time you reached your chambers, your ribs already ached.

The door shut behind you, and the silence didn’t feel like relief— it felt loud. Pressing in. Closing around you.

Your fingers went straight to the laces of your corset, yanking hard, fast, messy.

Too tight. It was too tight.

Your breath hitched halfway in and didn’t go any further.

“—come on,” you muttered, but it broke apart in your throat.

Your hands wouldn’t cooperate— shaking, slipping, useless. Each breath came quicker than the last, shallow, sharp, not enough.

Something was wrong. A knock at the door.

You ignored it.

“Your Highness.”

Of course.

“I’m fine,” you snapped, too fast.

The silence on the other side lasted half a second too long. Then the door opened.

“I said I’m—” Your voice faltered. You didn’t finish.

He didn’t speak immediately.

You could feel him taking it in—the way your shoulders were tight, the way your chest rose and fell quick, the way your hands kept failing at something as simple as undoing laces.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“Get out,” you said, sharper now, forcing the words through uneven breaths.

He didn’t move.

Your chest seized again—worse this time. Air stopped short, like your lungs refused to open properly.

“I—” You tried to pull in a full breath and couldn’t. “I can’t—”

Your grip on the table tightened.

“I can’t breathe.”

That was enough. He crossed the room in a few quick strides.

“Stop fighting it.”

“I’m not—” Your voice snapped thin. “I just—”

Your knees dipped beneath you, suddenly and quick. He caught you before you could hit the floor, grip solid, steady—but his focus was already on your breathing. Too fast. Too shallow.

His jaw set. “Hold still.”

You barely registered the movement—just the sound of steel, quick and clean.

A sharp slice.

The corset split behind you, tension snapping open in an instant. The fabric fell to the floor and you were left in your underdress.

Air hit your lungs harder this time—but it still came uneven and too fast, your body lagging behind the relief.

“Slow it down,” he said, voice low, controlled. Not gentle, steady. “You’re surging in too fast.”

Your hands had fisted into his shirt without you realizing, grip tight enough to wrinkle the fabric.

“I’m trying!—” you forced out, frustrated, breath hitching again. “I can’t— I can’t regulate it.”

“Then follow me.”

You shook your head instinctively.

“Look at me.”

You didn’t want to. You did anyway.

His expression was locked— focused, sharp, like he’d narrowed the entire situation down to one problem. Just as Toji did in battle; as intuitive and as effective as he was with a sword.

“In,” he said.

He took a measured breath.

You dragged one in after him—uneven, but deeper than before.

“Again.”

You did it.

Out.

Your grip didn’t loosen.

Again.

The rhythm started to catch—barely, but enough.

Your chest still felt tight, but it wasn’t crushing you anymore.

You forced your breathing into something steadier, even as your pulse refused to slow.

“I hate this,” you said under your breath, more controlled now, but edged with irritation—at yourself more than anything. “Losing control like that.”

“You didn’t,” he said flatly.

You shot him a look. “Never took you for a liar”

“You stayed on your feet,” he replied, smoothly. “That’s control.”

You exhaled slowly, longer this time.

Not perfect.

But manageable.

Silence settled between you.

You became aware of everything at once—your ruined corset, how close he still was, the fact that your hands were still gripping him.

You let go first.

“…Say nothing about this.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

No hesitation. No curiosity. Just a fact.

You studied him for a second— like you were trying to figure out if there was anything underneath that answer.

There wasn’t. Or at least, he didn’t show it.

You straightened, rolling your shoulders back despite the lingering tightness in your chest.

“Please tell Grelda to prepare a bath.”

He didn’t move immediately this time.

His gaze flicked over you once more—quick, assessing. Checking.

Then he stepped back.

“As you wish.”

guys ignore any spelling mistakes okay 😔

borders from @uzmacchiato!!

guys should I make this a series??!??!

[star-har]

Breaking and entering (it’s just Sukuna dw)

Your window taps once.

Soft. Then again, a little louder.

You blink awake, sitting up, heart already picking up speed. It’s too late for this to be normal.

It comes again.

You push your covers back, padding over, grabbing the scissors you kept at your vanity, and pull the curtain aside.

And there he is. Perched on the railing of your balcony like it’s nothing.

“Are you insane?” you whisper, already unlocking the window, the scissor still gripped in your palm. “Sukuna, it’s like two in the morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Ryomen glances at you, slow, like it takes a second for him to fully focus. This his eyes snap to your hand and he smiles, amused. “Were you going to try to stab me with those scissors?”

“You couldn’t sleep so you climb into my house?” you question, tossing your scissors back where they had been. “And yes. Stay still because I might reconsider.”

He leans against the fence of your balcony, forearms pressed against the wood, leaning over, his back facing you.

You hesitate as you step past the door, feeling the cool summer breeze even in your room, but you do.

Cool night air hits your skin, tousling your hair and brushing your shirt. You wrap your arms loosely around yourself. The street below is quiet, the world dim and half-asleep.

You press your back against the wall by the window, leaning against it. He turns and looks over his shoulder, staring at you with a peering gaze.

Up close, it’s obvious.

His eyes are heavier than usual, a little unfocused around the edges. There’s a smell on him, smoke, something sharper layered underneath.

You tilt your head slightly. “…You’re high.”

“A little,” he says.

“Your version of little is quite different than mine.”

He watches you for a second like he’s waiting for something else, for judgment, maybe. You don’t give it.

“I’ve only had one hit, don’t worry.” He turns back to face the dark night ahead of him.

You don’t push. “…Okay.”

That does it again— that quiet acceptance he doesn’t get anywhere else.

His jaw shifts slightly, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulling something out.

You recognize it immediately.

“Sukuna,” you say, a little quieter now.

He glances at you, already rolling it between his fingers. “Relax.”

“Don’t tell me to relax, asshole.” You scoff. “I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“Doesn’t sound like it very much.”

“It’s my house,” you shoot back, stepping up beside him. “You climbed up here and now you’re—”

He lights it anyway.

The flame flickers briefly between you, casting a warm glow over his face before it dies out. He inhales slow, practiced, like it’s muscle memory.

You watch him.

He exhales to the side, away from you, the smoke swirling into the night and tinging the air around you.

“…You didn’t have to come here for that,” you say after a second, looking away and thumbing at the railing.

“Didn’t come here for that.” He mutters, tapping the blunt against the railing to rid of the ash that collected there.

“Then why did you come?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leans against the railing, looking out over the quiet street like he’s trying to find the words somewhere out there.

“I told you,” he says finally. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You look at him for a second, then shake your head a little, smiling. “You sure it wasn’t because you wanted to hang out with me?”

“Yeah, yeah.” But he’s not arguing.

He takes another slow drag, then pauses—glancing at you again, more focused this time.

The faint glow between his fingers lights up and dims, lights up and dims, steady like breathing. You keep watching it without meaning to—eyes tracking the movement, the way he exhales slow and controlled, like this is the only thing tonight that isn’t unpredictable.

“…Does it even do anything?” you ask after a while.

He glances at you, laughing as he pushes the blunt past his lips again. “Yeah.”

“Like what?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “Takes the edge off.”

“I hate that saying.”

He stares at you like you’re weird. “Why’s that?”

You blink. “Because what really is the edge— why does it need to be taken off?”

That same confused expression strikes his face, although he is half amused. “Great question. I have no idea.”

Your hand moves—quick, impulsive—plucking it right out of his fingers.

You smile triumphantly, “and thank you—”

“What the fuck—“

Before he can react, you flick your wrist and toss it down below the balcony, onto the patio in your backyard.

It hits the ground, still burning for a second before the glow dulls against the concrete.

Silence.

His head turns toward it first. Then toward you.

“…Really?” he says, voice low.

You nod. “Yup.”

“That’s what we’re doing?”

“I didn’t want you to—”

“To what?” he cuts in, sharper now. “Do what I always do?”

You open your mouth, then close it again, setting your shoulders back firmly.

You scoff and cross your arms over your chest, suddenly wanting to kick him out. “Drop the attitude.”

A beat passes.

His jaw tightens, eyes still on you— not angry in the way you expected, not explosive. Just… irritated, you suppose. Frustrated.

But not at you. Not fully, at least.

“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, looking away as if you’ve burned him.

“Well,” you say quickly, “I don’t like it.”

He pauses. Looks at you again, deep eyes searching yours so intently you want to look away.

“You don’t like a lot of things,” he says, quieter now.

“I guess so,” you mumble, looking away, “I’m very particular about certain things. Like balcony-climbing burglars.”

“You enjoy my presence.”

“Love that we’re just stating false facts.” You huff. “And that’s not the point.”

Another silence. Thicker now but not necessarily uncomfortable.

“You’re a problem,” he says finally.

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“You were smoking on my balcony!”

“And you threw it.”

“Because you were smoking on my balcony!”

A beat. Then— unexpectedly— he exhales something that’s almost a laugh. Short. Barely there.

“Unbelievable.”

You cross your arms tighter, trying not to react to that. “You’re not even mad.”

“I am.” He says, attempting to sound serious but he just ends up choking on laughter.

You smile, leaning your chin onto your palm. “You don’t look very mad.”

“I was,” he says.

“…Was?” You repeat, raising a brow.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

His gaze lingers on your face a second too long before he looks away again, jaw shifting like he doesn’t want to answer that.

“Not sure.”

You lean forward against the balcony again, shoulder brushing his arm like before—closer this time.

He stills for a second. Then doesn’t move away.

You turn to him, crossing your arms across your chest. He gives you a look—confused, a little suspicious—before turning fully to face you.

“What?” he asks.

Instead of answering, you step closer.

Then, without warning, you reach up—

—and grab his ear.

Hard.

“Hey—what the hell—” he jerks slightly, caught completely off guard, hands coming up like he doesn’t know whether to pull you off or just accept his fate.

You lean up on your toes, still holding his ear between your fingers, squinting at him like you’re inspecting something defective.

“For the record,” you say. “I do get to make these decisions for you. You’re on my balcony. You’re with me. You’re my friend, Sukuna. And I don’t have friends that are addicts.”

“You’re insane.” He yelps, hissing as you tug harder.

“You hear me?” You say again. “D’you understand.”

He nods eagerly, a hand attempting to loosen the hold you have on his ear. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Say it.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly debating his choices to come here tonight.

“…You get to make the decisions,” he mutters, defeated yet a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Good.”

You finally let go.

He immediately reaches up to his ear, rubbing it, glaring at you like he should be furious—but there’s something off about it. The edge isn’t there.

“You’re lucky it’s you,” he says.

“Or what?” you shoot back.

He pauses. “…Nothing.”

You smile, way too satisfied with that answer. “Exactly.”

“You are. But you’ll be my best friend if you stop being an addict.”

He snorts, but then his arms dip to circle your waist, and he leans his neck down so you don’t have to tip toe as much.

“Don’t ever try to deny me my decisions, Sukuna.”

He freezes beneath you, but then you hug him tighter, and something in him eases. As if all the tension, from before, from now, is releasing out— from his shoulders, his back.

“I promise.”

ignore any grammar errors plsss haven’t read thru this yet

[star-har]

First Sukuna crashes your car, and then he crashes your lips?!?

It happens loud, fast.

Your whole car lurches from the impact, tires screeching as something slams straight into your front end. Your hands tighten around the wheel, heart jumping into your throat as you surge back in your seat.

“What the hell—?!” You screech, eyes obstructed by the bright headlights in front of you.

You shove the door open and step out, adrenaline already spiking, anger hitting fast and hot. The front of your car is wrecked—hood crumpled, paint scraped, headlight nearly falling out. Your mouth drops at the sight, hands fisting by your thighs.

“Oh my god—are you serious right now?!” You yell, snapping your head to the other car which isn’t nearly as destroyed as yours.

The other driver’s door slams.

And then he’s there. Not calm. Not distant.

He’s already moving toward you, fast, shoulders squared, irritation written all over his face like he’s ready for a fight, and stops a metre away from you. And then he pauses— as if expecting anyone but you to be standing in front of him.

The guy is intimidating— a loose shirt revealing arms with muscle and one with a sleeve of tattoos, red eyes as sharp as the headlights of your car, all height. He’s looking down at you with the most attractive livid expression.

“You blind or just stupid?” he snaps immediately, voice sharp, cutting through the air.

Your jaw drops even further. “Excuse me?! You hit me!”

“You pulled out like you owned the fucking road,” he shoots back, stepping closer without hesitation. “What did you expect?”

Your anger flares higher, matching his energy instantly. You shove your hand into his chest, “I had the right of way! Learn how to drive before you get behind a wheel!”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he bites, his tone dropping lower—but more clipped. His eyes lock onto yours, intense, unyielding. “You’re the one who froze instead of committing to the turn.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh harshly, briefly turning to your car behind you. You throw your hands up, pointing at the damage. “You’re actually blaming me for this?”

He steps forward, slowly. “Yes.”

The way he says it—no hesitation, no doubt—makes the irritation beneath your skin crawls.

You step closer too, refusing to back down. “You’re fucking insane, asshole.”

“And you’re a crazy fucking brat.”

The space between you disappears fast. The anger is still there— settling in your bones, racing your heartbeat, igniting your blood— but it’s overtaken by something else completely.

“You just totaled my car,” you snap, voice tight. “You don’t get to stand here and act like you’re right.”

“And you don’t get to act like you didn’t cause it,” he fires back just as quickly. His jaw tightens, gaze flicking over your face like he’s trying to figure you out and getting more irritated by the second. “Take some responsibility.”

“I am responsible,” you shoot back, pointing at your car. “For dealing with idiots like you with small dicks and even smaller egos!”

He steps even closer—close enough that your breath catches for a second despite yourself.

“Holy fuck,” he scoffs, delighted. “You got a damn smart mouth on you.” He replies, low and controlled, like his voice is being held back by force.

There’s a beat. A tense, crackling silence where neither of you moves, neither of you looks away.

His eyes drop to your mouth. Yours flick to his against your better judgment and you swallow thickly.

And it’s like something snaps.

He grabs you first— hand coming up to your jaw, rough, impatient, drawing you into him— and you push up on your feet to meet his mouth in a kiss.

It’s angry—all heat and tension, like the argument just flipped into something else instead of completely erasing. You react before you even think, grabbing onto his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away like the back of your mind is telling you to.

You sigh into his mouth, hands pressing into the muscle of his shoulders. His tongue swipes at your lower lip, snatching it between his teeth before his tongue is invading your senses, dipping itself into your mouth, wet and messy.

His hand fists your hair, snatching your head back to control the movement of your lips against his, making you move at the pace he wants to set. His jaw moves fast beneath your palm, lips slanting harder against yours.

For a second, just one, you forget the crash, the yelling, everything. There’s just him— crowding your space. The heat of him, the grip at your waist, the steady pressure of his hand at your jaw.

His grip eases, not letting go, just recalibrating—fingers still at your waist, anchoring you in place. The kiss slows, but it doesn’t soften; it turns deliberate, measured, like he’s suddenly aware of exactly what he’s doing and is choosing to keep doing it anyway.

He walks you backward until you’re sitting at the hood of your dismantled car, legs wrapping around his waist. A low sound slips from his throat, barely restrained, more reaction than intention, and it goes straight through you.

Your stomach flips inside out as his muscled hands slide to the small of your back, pressing you into him as he deepens the kiss.

Then—

You shove him.

Hard.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you snap, stumbling off the car at your own strength, lips still tingling, heart pounding even harder than before.

“You didn’t seem to find anything wrong with me just a second ago.” He says cooly, voice rough and smug, wind tousling his hair and whipping against his shirt.

He’s fucking hot.

“Because I was in shock!” you fire back immediately, although you know he can tell you’re lying, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand like that’ll erase it. “You don’t just—kiss people after crashing into them!”

“You kissed me back.”

“I—”

“You did.”

You glare at him, flustered and furious and something else you refuse to name. “You are actually unbelievable.”

A slow, easy smile pulls at his mouth now, less mocking. More… certain.

“Yeah,” he says, agreeing with you as if he just wants you to shut up. “Wanna go again?”

Your breath stutters and you are shocked that you even contemplate his suggestion for a second.

Your heart is racing way too fast for someone who’s supposed to be angry.

“You’re paying for these damages, asshole.”

———

“Tell me you’re joking,” you mutter under your breath, arms folding tighter across your chest.

From the back of the shop, a tool clatters. Then he steps out. The same fucking guy from last night.

Grease on his hands. Sleeves pushed up like he’s been there a while. Same height, same presence—just now framed by dim fluorescent light and the hum of machinery instead of the chaos from earlier.

His eyes land on you instantly. And stop.

“…No way,” he says, borderline pleased and sinister.

You look at him with disdain. “You?”

A slow exhale through his nose. He’s amused.

“You’re the car from earlier,” he says.

“I’m the victim from earlier,” you correct immediately.

His gaze drags over you like he’s replaying the accident in his head— or maybe even the incident.“You’re still talking, huh?”

“You—.” You cut yourself off, unsure of what word could encapsulate every single emotion you’re shuffling through.

That earns you a look—sharp, cutting, like he’s deciding whether you’re worth the effort of arguing with again.

“You came here,” he says then, “out of all garages.”

A beat. His jaw tightens slightly, and then he smiles, cocky and arrogant.

“Show me your car,” he says finally, turning without waiting.

“You’ve already seen it, jerk.” You scoff, but turn on your heels either way, ducking past the garage door outside. “You’re the one who totalled it.”

“Debatable,” he throws back instantly, not even looking at you while he’s brushing past.

You walk faster just to keep up with his long strides.

The damage looks uglier everytime you see it. You wince, muttering under your breath. “My car.”

Sukuna leans against the workbench beside it, arms crossing loosely, seemingly having heard you. “Yeah. You did that.”

You ball your hands into fists. “I did not do that.”

“You froze.”

“I reacted.”

“You hesitated.”

You glare at him. “Do you always argue with customers?”

“Only when they’re wrong.”

He looks at the damage again, then back at you—expression unreadable, but focused now in a way that feels less careless than earlier.

“I’ll fix it,” he says finally, and then he pauses, as if his mind is turning. Then, he smirks, looking to you. “Free of charge.”

You blink, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“Of course not. In return for dinner,” he crosses his arms, muscle straining. You swallow thickly, snapping your eyes back up to his face. He smiles wider, as if he’s amused at what’s caught your attention.

“You’re kidding.”

A pause.

“Sound like a fair trade to me.” He shrugs.

You lift your chin slightly. “Is that right?”

That answer entertains him more than it should “You tell me.”

You sigh to yourself, crossing your arms across your chest, drumming your fingers on your arm.

You spin on your heels and walk away, heading down the sidewalk. “I’ll see how good you fix my car first, then we’ll talk.”

He laughs, loud and berating. “I’ll have it ready by tomorrow, pretty.”

You shoot him your middle finger before you cross the street. You swear you hear him cackle louder.

SUKUNNAA one chance pls 🤤

[star-har]

put your loving where your mouth is (your sugar talking isn’t working tonight)

pairing- popstar reader x lead dancer gojo

The studio smells like sweat and floor polish that never quite covers the heat of too many bodies rehearsing the same thing over and over again.

“Five, six, seven—again.”

You’re moving before the count even finishes. You’re not sure if it’s because of the exhaustion that’s got you out of step or if it’s your very absent main dancer that’s somehow late to essentially the most important night of your life.

You spin along with the preformed music they have playing temporarily— so as to not wear out your voice less than 24 hours before your show.

Six-inch, glittery heels. A mock-up of your dress. A whole bottle of hairspray holding your curls together. A festival stage waiting in less than a day that already feels like it’s swallowing you whole.

Again. Always again.

You hit your mark perfectly, breath steady even when your feet are not. Your stomach dips— now is not the time for your feet to become sloppy, nervous, boneless slobs. You need to pull yourself together.

This is your space. Your show. Everyone else adjusts to you.

And that is supposed to include your fucking lead dancer. Your lead dancer who isn’t here. Your lead dancer who is replaced by an understudy who does a good enough job but isn’t Gojo Satoru. Isn’t as careful with his hands, as sure in his steps, or as smooth as his smile.

Because Gojo is late. And you think that if you see him, you’ll dig your heels straight into his chest.

You’re mid-transition with his understudy when it happens—

The door slides open. He walks in, and with three of those sure strides, he’s replaced your understudy slickly and taken his spot on your stage. You scoff to yourself, staring back at the rows of empty seats before you like you’ve practiced a hundred times before.

You don’t look at him at first. You don’t need to. You spin into the air and Gojo catches you—strong hands around your waist, pointedly avoiding the strings of your dress so as not to loosen the bodice, something his understudy lacked.

Effortless. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.

You land against his grip and immediately push off him, eyes cutting sharp.

“Are you serious?” Your voice cuts through the music even before it fully resets. “Do you think this is some kind of joke, Satoru?”

Gojo exhales like he was bracing for impact and still chose to take it anyway.

“I’m here,” he says lightly, voice barely carrying over the music.

“You’re late.”

“From the top,” they call, tired.

The music starts again. And you move. Gojo moves too. Perfectly.

“I know,” he mutters—gentle, apologetic—and his eyes stay on yours, soft but steady, like a reminder that he is here now.

“Do you really not care about any of this?” you ask, your voice cracking just slightly under the weight of it.

He catches your wrist in transition, turns you clean into the next sequence.

“What—no. Of course not.”

You twist out of his hold, sharper than necessary, and spin into your next steps.

“This is hours before the biggest performance of my life, Gojo. I don’t need you half-assing your way into showing up.”

His face shifts—just slightly. Not defensive. More like he’s taken the hit and doesn’t know how to move with it yet.

“You don’t get to just drift in and out like it doesn’t matter,” you continue, voice tight. “Everyone else is showing up on time. Showing up ready. And you just—didn’t.”

There’s silence in his expression now. He still moves with you, still catches you when he’s supposed to, but he’s listening. Letting your words sink in.

You sound so devastated and Gojo can’t stand it. He can’t stand that he is the reason for creating so much unnecessary stress on a day that means more to you than anything.

“The one— the one person I needed to be here—” you spin away and he pulls you back in, twirling you cleanly across his frame. “Wasn’t. You weren’t here, Gojo.”

Gojo sounds quieter when he replies, all stage confidence stripped down into something real.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, angel.”

Simple. Not flippant.

“I won’t let it happen again.”

But that doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t touch the irritation still sitting under your skin.

“Let’s keep the scene going—wrap it up with the finale of the song,” the choreographer shouts from the stands.

The choreography slows into its final arc.

Gojo slips into position, dropping onto his knees, then onto his elbows as you advance toward him.

You walk him down, and he retreats back, staring up at you. The recorded track carries your vocals now, leaving you silent—just presence, just movement, just emotion in every step.

Controlled. Precise. Eyes locked.

He leans back slightly on his forearms, still watching you like you’re the only thing in the room worth tracking.

You stop over him and begin to lower yourself.

Gojo’s breath catches—subtle, involuntary—at the way you come into his space, close enough that the air feels shared. God, you’re beautiful. You look fucking devastating over him and his heart stutters in his chest at the sight of you.

He can hardly breathe.

You hover above him, then shift into position, and he steadies you at your waist, guiding the turn so you face forward again.

“You disappointed me,” you say quietly.

It’s blunt. It’s honest—just like you.

His expression shifts immediately.

“I know,” he says, borderline reverent.

“I don’t ask for a lot,” you add. “Just show up. Just be where you’re supposed to be.”

His jaw tightens. “I know, angel.”

Then, softer—almost frustratingly calm:

“I’m sorry. I should’ve been here. I should’ve been on time. I wasn’t thinking, and I was an absolute fucking idiot.”

You shift, turning on your knees now, resetting for the next sequence.

His hands find you immediately—steadying you from behind, palms at your ribs like he can’t stand even a second of distance.

“I was hurt,” you say, voice lower now. “You not showing up made me feel like you couldn’t care less about something that is so incredibly important to me.”

He swallows. “I know.”

And then the choreography changes again.

You start retreating backwards—slowly, deliberately—your side facing the stage with your head tilting up at him, still performing, but moving away from him, lowering back on your elbows.

And he follows.

Crawling forward as you move back. Perfect synchronization. Step for step.

Distance collapsing and stretching at the same time.

“Please forgive me,” he says, breathless.

“Why should I?” you reply immediately. But it’s softer now. Less sharp.

He closes the gap again, hovering over you as you both reach the final formation.

Then he brings the mic toward your mouth, guiding it with careful precision—making sure it’s exactly where it needs to be for you, like always.

Careful. Controlled. Like he’s afraid to mess up again.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You do.

Still leaning back on your hands, still in character, still performing—but your eyes meet his fully.

And he isn’t smiling. Just watching you like you matter more than he knows how to say properly.

“I’ll be on time,” he says. “Every time. I’m not doing this badly again. Not with you.”

A beat. Then softer:

“Don’t shut me out.”

Your breath catches slightly.

But you don’t look away.

The music swells. You stay there for a moment—wind catching at your hair, tugging at your dress—before you finally move. You bring a hand to his shoulder, using it to push yourself up. He looks briefly defeated as you step away from him.

Then you sigh dramatically, kick his chest, and send him sprawling back onto the floor.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again, Satoru.”

heudifhejeejeje i saw sabrina’s coachella performances and I’m genuinely obsessed I keep watching them back I’m getting such fomo I should’ve been there 😔

But I KNEW I had to write a gojo fic to this like asap so I hope u guys like ittttt

[star-har]

fwb Sukuna realises something is incredibly wrong (it’s you)

There are a couple of things Sukuna is used to: looking down on everyone around him, sticking to his routine, and never ever wasting time with girls apart from sex.

That last one, especially.

It’s a rule. A principle. A fact.

And he made sure you knew it the first time you hooked up.

He’d tucked you between himself and the wall, pressing a kiss to your lips, “That’s all this is.”

You humed against his mouth, manicured fingers fisting into his hair.

“Just sex.”

You didn’t even bother answering. Your hands were already tugging at the hem of his shirt, impatient, uninterested in definitions.

Sukuna exhaled through his nose, already pulling you closer.

A couple months into your just sex arrangement, Sukuna realizes something has gone very, very wrong.

Because for some stupid, godforsaken, idiotic reason—

he likes you.

Not in a vague, tolerable way.

Not in a “you’re convenient” way.

No.

He likes you.

He doesn’t know when it started. He just knows it did.

And now it’s everywhere.

———

Maybe it was the first time you fell asleep in his bed.

You weren’t supposed to.

You never stayed after hook-ups. That was the point.

But that night, you’d knocked out under his covers, completely unaware, curled into his sheets like you belonged there.

Sukuna had walked over, already reaching to yank the blanket off you and wake you up—

—and then stopped.

His hand hovered midair.

Something in his chest… shifted. Annoying.

He stared down at you, jaw tightening slightly.

He’d seen you like this before—after sex, during, every possible angle— taken you in every possible way.

But this—

Your face was relaxed. Soft. Your lips parted slightly, breathing slow and even. No tension. No attitude. No sharp replies.

Just… you.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Unaware.

He swallowed thickly, fingers flexing.

For a second—just one—he considered brushing your hair out of your face. Tucking it behind your ear, something he never let himself do while he was inside you because it felt too… invasive. Too intimate.

Instead, he pulled his hand back like he touched something hot and got burned in the process.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath. “Brat took my whole bed.”

He let you sleep. Reflecting back now, Sukuna realises this was the first mistake.

He’s grabbed a pillow. A spare blanket from his closet.

And then he sprawled across the highly uncomfortable couch in his own room.

Ridiculous. He scoffed at the absurdity. Why was he letting some girl make him sleep on a couch all night long?

It doesn’t even bother him that much. That’s what pissed him off the most. He could’ve easily kicked you out of his room.

That should’ve been the first red flag.

———

Or maybe it was the time you laughed at your phone.

He heard it from the bathroom.

Real laughter.

Not the sarcastic kind. Not the kind you used on him when he was being a complete irritation to you.

Actual, bright, unfiltered laughter.

He walked out, toothbrush still in his mouth, staring at you sitting on his bed.

“…What.”

“Nothing,” you said, still smiling at your screen.

“That wasn’t nothing.”

You sighed, finally looking up. “It’s my friend.”

“What friend.”

You blinked at him. “A normal one?”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

Then, dry:

“You’re not funny enough to have multiple people laughing with you.”

You gasped. “You’re such an asshole, Sukuna.”

But you went right back to your phone.

Still smiling.

Still laughing.

He stood there for a second too long.

Then turned back into the bathroom.

Spit. Rinsed. Brushed harder than necessary and flossed with extra aggression.

You were still laughing.

By the time he was done, he was irritated.

He walked back out, arms crossed.

“Give me your phone.”

“No??”

“Let me see.”

“You’re insane.”

“Tch.”

You sighed like he’s exhausting—but you scoot over anyway, tilting your screen toward him.

He leaned in.

Group chat.

You, Shoko… and Gojo.

He watched the messages come in.

Watched you type.

Watched you smile at something that isn’t him.

Something sharp twisted in his chest.

Before he could even think—

he snatched your phone and tossed it onto the bed.

Then he was on you.

You yelped as your back hit the mattress, laughter bursting out immediately as his fingers went to your stomach.

“Sukuna—!”

“Shut up,” he muttered, already kissing you.

Not slow.

Not careful.

Annoyingly insistent, like he was trying to prove something.

You were laughing against his mouth, trying to push him away. “What is your problem—”

“Nothing,” he said, and kissed you again.

You were still laughing.

It got worse.

He shifted, pinning your wrists above your head this time, leaning down again—again—again—

“Okay—okay—!” you gasped between laughs. “You’re so—”

“Better,” he cut in, voice low. “I’m funnier.”

You stared at him, breathless, confused. “What?”

“Than them.”

Silence.

Then you start laughing harder.

“Oh my god—you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally—tackled me—”

“I didn’t tackle you.”

“You threw my phone—”

“You were annoying.”

“You’re insane.”

He leaned down again, biting lightly at your lower lip this time just to shut you up. It worked, barely.

Your laughter lingered, soft and warm, right against his mouth.

And he realized—

he liked that sound.

A lot.

Later, when you leave, it hit him.

Harder this time.

He’s standing in his room, staring at where your phone had been.

Jealous?

He scoffed.

Sukuna Ryomen didn’t get jealous.

That’s pathetic.

That’s weak.

That’s—

He paused.

Rememberd the way you were smiling at your phone.

The way he didn’t like it.

The way he needed your attention back.

“…Stupid.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

He didn’t sleep well.

———

Or maybe it was the night you called him.

Drunk.

“Please, Sukuna,” you slurred through the phone. “I wanna go home.”

He’d already grabbing his keys. Already halfway out the door. He’d never admit that part.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutterd. “Send the location.”

He was driving before the call even ended.

ETA: 20 minutes.

He made it in 12.

He didn’t think too hard about why. He convinced himself it was becahse the faster he got to you, the faster he could get himself into bed again.

You were outside the club when he pulled up, wobbling in your heels, talking to the bouncer like you’d known him your whole life.

“Hey,” Sukuna called.

You lit up immediately. “There you are!”

You waved, take two steps toward him—

and immediately started falling.

He sped up, sweeping his arms beneath yours before you before you hit the ground.

“Do you have bones?” he snapped, helping you straighten yourself which proved fruitless because your knees gave out over him anyway. “What are you doing—”

You squished his face together with both hands, laughing. “You’re so serious all the time!”

He rolled his eyes, adjusting your arm over his shoulder.

“Lighten up, ‘Kuna, or else you’ll—”

You mouth snapped shut, interrupted by—

Your snoring.

He froze.

“…You’re kidding.”

You were out.

Completely.

Dead weight.

He stared at you for a second.

Then sighed, scooping you up properly.

“Unbelievable.”

He got you home. His home.

Kicked the door shut behind him, dropped you onto his bed carefully—carefully—and paused.

Looked at you. Scanned for any injuries, any sign of discomfort or distress.

Sighed again, and he wanted to believe it was not out of relief and out of the pure exhaustion of being up past 3 a.m..

He removed your shoes.

Fixed your hair, tying it up because he knew you hated waking up with it messy and all tangled in your face.

And he’s seen you naked a hundred times before. Had mapped every inch of your body within his mind, caressed every mound of flesh, and kissed every inch of skin with bruises and teeth.

He still looksd away when he changed you into one of his shirts. Closing his eyes as he unclipped your dress, tugged it away.

Annoying.

When you woke up later, half-asleep and sick, stumbling to the bathroom—

he’d been there instantly.

Holding your hair. Hand on your back rubbing slow, steady circles.

You groaned, miserable, holding your head at the presence of a splitting head ache.

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple without thinking— it might not have even been a kiss, just a chaste press of his lips to your skin. But he’d done it anyway.

———

Sukuna doesn’t know when it happened.

There’s no clear moment.

Just a series of stupid, small things that stacked up.

Now you’re in his bed every night.

Fucking him with something gentler— something sickeningly affectionate and intimate that Sukuna really can’t get enough.

Calling him when you need something.

Falling asleep like you trust him completely.

And he—

lets you.

Every time.

And he cannot find it in himself to regret any of it.

There are probably a lot of grammar errors here but I’m too lazy to read thru this ignore pls!!!

[star-har]

pairing— fratkuna x reader

fluff / crack ¿!

Your phone buzzes at 2:13 a.m.

You squint at the screen, still half asleep, eyes straining under the bright light of your phone.

Sukuna: open the door.

You blink. Half wondering if you’re imagining this.

You: no?

Three dots. Then—

Sukuna: i’m outside.

You sit up immediately, the cold air of your apartment biting when you’re not in your blanket.

“…You’re joking.”

Another buzz. But this time, it’s your doorbell.

Sukuna: freezing. hurry up.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, adorned in nothing but bunny slippers and your sleep shirt as you shuffle toward the door. When you open it—

Ryomen Sukuna is leaning against the frame like he’s been holding it up by himself.

Hair a mess. Jacket half-zipped. Eyes a little too heavy.

“…You’re drunk,” you say flatly.

“‘m not,” he mutters, and attempts to push off the frame but he nearly topples backward so he goes back to holding the wall.

You snort. “You literally just almost fell.”

“I slipped.”

“On what.”

“…it doesn’t matter, brat.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then—“you gonna let me in or what.”

You sigh and step aside, and he shuffles past you, smelling like bear and cologne and the faint smell of rain.

“Shoes off.”

“Bossy.” he mumbles, grumpily.

“Sukuna.”

He sighs outwardly. He kicks them off—badly, one nearly hitting the wall—and then he’s further inside, dragging his feet like every step is optional.

You barely get the door closed before he’s on you.

Arms wrapping around your waist, face dropping into your shoulder like that’s where he’s been trying to get all night. He surrenders all of his body weight onto you, basically floating.

You grunt beneath him, bent awkwardly with a hand on his muscled back, keeping him for making both of you fall over.

“…you left early,” he mumbles, voice low and slurred. His breath smells like alcohol and smoke.

You blink, caught off guard. He’s talking about the party, you think. “…I’m sorry, I had to take Shoko home.”

“Brat. You could’ve texted me.”

“I didn’t realize you noticed.”

“I did.”

He doesn’t move.

You sigh and smile to yourself, swaying slightly as he adjusts himself over you. “I’ll let you know next time, kuna.”

He keeps stands there, holding you like you might disappear if he loosens his grip even a little.

You hesitate—then your hands come up, resting lightly on his back.

“…Did you fight someone,” you murmur, feeling the tension in his shoulders. You trace your fingers down the crevice of his back and his shoulders jerk as he hisses in pain like you’ve hit a tender spot.

“No.”

“…Did someone fight you.”

“…maybe.”

You pull back slightly. “Sukuna—”

But he just leans down again, pressing his face into your neck, inhaling sleepily.

“Don’t start,” he mutters. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Am.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not more than the other guy”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He huffs against your skin, clearly upset you’re disrupting his quiet as he takes his slumber across his newly equipped bed— you, apparently.

Then—without warning—his lips press to your neck. His lips move sloppily, pressing wet kisses everywhere.

You inhale sharply. “Sukuna—”

He hums like he didn’t hear you, mouth moving—jaw, collarbone, the side of your throat, stretching your shirt down to your arm to feel more.

“…You need to get to bed,” you say, voice weaker this time.

“Don’t need to.”

“That’s debatable.”

He huffs softly, but his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer.

“C’mere,” you murmur finally, tugging at him. “You’re not standing in my doorway all night.”

He lets you guide him. Barely, if guiding is what you can call it— or slinging a bag of weight across your shoulder, walking impossibly slow under the heaviness.

By the time you get him to your room, he’s already halfway gone again—head dropping onto your shoulder, arms wrapped around you like second nature.

“Bed,” you say, nudging him down.

He sits. Then tries to flop back dramatically, one arm thrown over his eyes.

“Outside clothes off, first.”

“…you’re so annoying,” he mumbles.

“And you showed up uninvited.”

“You’re the one who let me in.”

You roll your eyes, climbing onto the bed beside him. “Just shut up before I kill you.”

He turns his head toward you.

Eyes half-lidded.

“Brat.”

You don’t answer.

Because he’s already moving again—rolling onto his side, arm hooking around your waist and dragging you into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Sukuna—”

“Closer.”

“Seems like you’ve got that covered.”

“Sure do.”

His face presses into your chest now, breathing slow, heavy, like he’s already settling. His lips latch onto your neck, sucking and bruising your skin lazily.

But his hands—

his hands don’t stop.

One slides under your shirt, palm warm against your waist, fingers flexing slightly.

The other grips your thigh, pulling your leg over his hip, tracing back up to grab leverage of your ass and slink you closer.

“…You’re handsy,” you mutter.

“Mm.” He sounds half disinterested and half on the verge of knocking out.

You huff quietly, but your fingers find his hair anyway, brushing through it slow.

He leans into it immediately.

His hand drifts—waist, hip, back again—never really settling, just touching, like he can’t decide where he wants you most.

The heather keeps you firmly planted in the bed, his hands and mouth working at every inch of your body.

When you shift even just slightly— “Don’t move.”

“I’m literally just—”

“Shh.”

You sigh, but you don’t fight it, letting

He buries his face deeper, pressing a slow, lazy kiss through your shirt, right over your skin.

You smile a little and he dozes off like a snoring bear sooner or later.

GUYS I sort of hate this I have no idea how to write sukuna i feel like this was such a mischaracterization ehguvivid

[star-har]

pairing- frat president toji x sorority president reader

mostly just a bunch of blurbs and random drabbles

You’re halfway through organizing sign-up sheets at your sorority table for the annual summer fundraiser, pen moving fast, when a shadow leans over everything.

“Didn’t know dictatorship came with pastel clipboards.”

You don’t look up. “Didn’t know trespassing came with a varsity jacket. Move.”

Toji doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He plants his hands on the table, caging your papers in, scanning them like he has any business reading them.

“Attendance? Wow,” he hums. “You’re president duties sound exhausting.”

You finally glance up, expression flat. “It means I can also have you removed.”

He grins like that’s the best thing you could’ve said. “You’d miss me.”

You go back to writing. “Not even a little.”

Your pen presses a little harder than before. He notices.

“So, am I invited this time?” Toji asks, and you can hear the implicating tone behind the smirk he’s plastered on. He’s referring to the time his frat house crashed your kappa gamma party with kegs and beef jerky. The police had been called.

You smile sweetly, leaning back in your chair to stare up at him. Pushing your sunglasses to your head, you glare with contempt, “What do you think, Toji?”

“I think a party is nothing without—“

“The Fratican?”

He snorts. “And beer.”

You think for a moment. By all means, you do not want him there. However, “You’re invited if you bring your frat’s sound system.”

Toji grins all teeth. “You’ve got a deal, pres.”

-

You slip out to the back of the event for air—music too loud, people too much, and a whole lot of annoying rich people who you have to please to encourage their donations—and for once, it’s quiet.

For exactly ten, fleeting seconds.

“President sneaking off? Scandalous.”

You close your eyes briefly. “Do you have a tracking device on me or are you just obsessed?”

Toji leans against the railing beside you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours and faces the door. “Coincidence.”

“Liar.”

“Probably.”

You take a sip of your drink, refusing to look at him. He doesn’t speak for a second—just watches, like he’s waiting you out.

“You always this tense?” he asks, softer now. “Or just when I’m around?”

You scoff. “You’re not that important.”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “Then why’d you leave when I walked in earlier?”

You finally turn. “I didn’t—”

He’s already smirking. Caught you.

You hate that he’s right. Only partly. “It’s the snobs in there.”

“Fundraisers are the worst for that exact reason.” Toji replies, knocking back the bottle of beer he’s got.

“I wish they were gone.” You sigh bluntly, dipping your chin into your palm. “They’re drilling my girls out there and they’re ruining my mood. For god sakes, it’s about the sea turtles!”

Toji snickers, as if he’s delighted by your candid words. Quiet ensues, then, “One word and I’ll get them out.”

“Really?”

“Try me.” He’s already walking backwards towards the door. He’s got a twinkle in his eye and a light in his step.

By the time you return, the room has livened. A few donors glance nervously at each other, then head for the exit but not before offering up a generous donation. Somewhere, a keg hisses. Toji’s grin across the room says it all.

———

You’re leading a meeting, mid-sentence, when the door creaks open and in he walks like he belongs.

Your entire exec board smiles at his entry.

“Hey toji!” In unison, they speak. And then they’ve got small knowing smirks tugging their lips as they look over at you.

“Toji,” you say, tight smile, ignoring your friends. “Lost?”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed. “Heard there were free snacks.”

“This is a private meeting.”

“Looks boring.”

“It’s not for you.”

“Could be,” he shrugs. “You never know.”

You inhale slowly. “Out.”

He doesn’t move. Just watches you—amused, like this is the highlight of his day.

One of your members stifles a laugh. Traitor.

You point to the door. “Now.”

He pushes off the wall, finally, but pauses when he passes you, leaning just close enough to murmur—

“You’re cute when you’re bossy.”

Your jaw tightens.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You forget what you were saying.

———

You’re sitting on the library steps, finally alone, scrolling through your phone. Your midterms are done, all turned in. The ocean ahead is swishing and shining under the setting sun.

Peaceful. Productive.

A drink appears in your line of sight.

Cold can of Coke Zero. Your favourite.

You look up slowly.

“I don’t remember asking,” you say.

Toji drops down beside you anyway, fisting a can of some energy drink in his own hand. “You didn’t.”

“Then why—”

“Because you always get the same thing,” he cuts in, like it’s obvious. “Figured I’d save you the trip.”

You stare at him for a second too long. “You’ve been paying attention?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

You take the drink. The cold press of it alleviates the stress of the summer sun above you.

“Didn’t say thank you,” he adds.

You crack it open. “Maybe later.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back on his hands, way too comfortable.

You both sit there longer than necessary. You trade drinks too, and it bothers you how much you enjoy it. The drink or the fact his lips have pressed where yours once were, you don’t know. Your stomach knots anyway.

You settle into your newfound peace, heightened by your cold can of soda. Perhaps the company helps, too.

“Thank you.”

He sounds smug and ecstatic as he replies, “Anything for my favourite gi—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Toji.”

He chuckles and you can’t help but laugh. Comfortable silence follows.

———

You catch him at a party again—same routine, different girl, his hand low on her waist, smile easy.

Of course.

You roll your eyes and turn away, grabbing your friend. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Later, when you’re outside, he finds you like it’s instinct.

“That guy you were talking to earlier,” he says, nodding vaguely. “Didn’t like him.”

You blink. “You were busy.”

“Still noticed.”

You cross your arms. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Maybe.” He steps closer. “You got a type now or just lowering your standards?”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh. Your annoyance flares. “Bold coming from you.”

“Hey,” he says lightly, “I never said I was a good example.”

You look at him—really look for a second.

He holds your gaze this time.

You turn away and join your friends, attempting to ignore his eyes on you as you do.

-

You’re trying to leave again—keys in hand, done for the night. Your friends reluctantly let you slip out and you’re glad you’re not designated driver today because you really want to leave. Your stomach feels like it’s sinking and your chest stings. You pretend you don’t know why and you hate it.

He steps into your path like it’s a reflex.

“Where’re you going?”

“Home.”

“Early.”

“It’s late.”

“For you, maybe.”

You try to step around him. He shifts, blocking you again.

You glare. “Move.”

He leans in slightly, not touching, just close enough to be annoying. “You’re mad at me.”

“I couldn’t care less about you, Toji.”

“Sure.”

You push past him, shoulder brushing his. He smells like expensive cologne and the beach and it’s intoxicatingly annoying.

“You didn’t have anything to drink, did you?”

You look at him in annoyance. “Why.”

“Drinking and driving isn’t safe, you know.”

“Like you care about that.”

“That drinking and driving isn’t safe?” He repeats, the summer wind tugging at his hair beautifully. “Oh I care. I care the most. I care like I’ve never cared before. That’s why you shouldn’t drink while driving.”

You stand there, flat expression, staring him down and he doesn’t waiver.

“That’s what I thought.” He starts towards you, snatching the keys to your car from your hands before you can react and walks ahead of you. “Get in, I’ll drive.”

You laugh. “You’re telling me you're sober and I’m not at a frat party?”

He looks back at you and smirks. “Designated driver, unfortunately.”

Designated driver the rare time you aren’t. Sounds a little too coincidental.

You stare at him as he opens your car door, too comfortable acting as if it’s his own. He’s got an arm on the door and he’s got his gaze set on you, watching, waiting like you’re an alley cat that gets easily spooked.

You force an eye roll as you walk around to the passenger seat.

“Then I guess you can pay for my Taco Bell, as well.”

He smiles, smug. “Why settle for Taco Bell when I could just buy you the store.”

“Oh just drive, Toji.”

“Yes ma’am.”

———

[star-har]

tangled

pairing- toji fushiguro x reader

you wake up around 3am, the air just a little too cold, your mouth a little too dry, and toji’s arm—still heavy across your waist—making it impossible to move without waking him.

you try anyway. slowly. carefully.

but the second you shift, he hums, low in his throat. “where you goin’.”

“just getting some water,” you whisper, patting his hand. “go back to sleep.”

you start to slip away, but then—

“nope,” he mutters, dragging you back down like gravity itself. he hooks a leg over yours, buries his face in your shoulder, wraps both arms around your middle and tightens.

“toji,” you wheeze, laughing. “i can’t move—”

“exactly.”

“i’m thirsty.”

“drink later.”

“i’ll die.”

“then die in my arms,” he grumbles, pressing his nose behind your ear. “romantic.”

“you’re the worst.”

he just grunts softly in response, nuzzling deeper into your neck. his grip doesn’t ease, not even a little. you’re tangled beneath him like a blanket he refuses to let go of.

“you’re so dramatic,” you mutter.

“and you talk too much,” he mumbles back. “but i still keep you around, don’t i, baby?”

you sigh dramatically, loosening your grip on him just enough to have him tackle you into holding him again. “guess I’ll just face the wall now.”

he snorts. “oh, you’re so full of it.”

[star-har]

love but in aisle 7

nanami kento x reader | fluff

It starts with a mumble.

“Nanami?”

A sleepy grunt. His arm tightens lazily around your waist.

“I want chocolate-covered strawberries.”

Nanami doesn’t speak right away, just lets out a breath—something between a sigh and a groan—his face buried against the back of your neck. He’s warm, soft, half-asleep, and clearly praying you’re joking.

“God help me,” he murmurs into your skin.

Which is how you end up thirty minutes later in a fluorescent-lit grocery store at 1 a.m., with your very sleepy husband trailing behind you like a badly-dressed zombie, pushing a cart.

Nanami’s in striped, blue pajamas and the first shoes he’d been able to grab on the way out. His hair’s flattened on one side, tousled on the other. He blinks slow, like it takes real effort, and keeps one hand resting lightly on your lower back as you wander down the produce aisle in search of strawberries.

You stop in front of the display, humming, the hoodie-blanket you wear swallowing you whole. “Do you want the pre-dipped ones, or should we do it ourselves?”

He leans against you slightly, head dipping toward your shoulder. “Do it ourselves,” he says, voice rough. “You’ll make it taste better.”

You glance at him with a grin. “How romantic.”

“I’m too tired to lie,” he mutters.

You kiss your teeth and nudge him playfully with your elbow. “You’re such a baby.”

“you’re the one who dragged me out of bed,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist, “so now, my love, you have to deal.”

“Gladly.” You toss the strawberries into the cart. Nanami lets his hand drop to your hip again, thumb brushing circles there as he follows you, silent and calm. That is—until you casually grab a box of Pop-Tarts off the shelf.

He pauses.

“…I thought we were here for strawberries.”

“We are!”

You drop the Pop-Tarts in the cart and keep walking.

Nanami stares at the cart. Then at you.

You grab a pint of ice cream. He squints.

“Wait.”

You turn, completely unfazed. “What?”

His mouth twitches, eyes finally opening just a little wider. “You said chocolate-covered strawberries. Singular mission.”

You grin, smug. “Plans evolve.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses. “This is a grocery trip.”

He steers the cart along gently anyway, leaning against it slightly behind you as you lead him to yet another shelf. He sighs but there’s only amusement that lingers in his tone, no real weight behind it.

“You’re dramatic,” you tease, stopping in front of the cereal.

“I’m sleep-deprived,” he deadpans. “And now I’m shopping for Cheerios.”

You turn to face him, holding up your cereal. “Nope! You’re actually shopping for Lucky Charms.”

He exhales through his nose, leans down, and kisses you—soft and slow and sleepy.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You blink, touched and laughing. “I might actually be offended.”

“I could say that I’m lucky you love me but that’s obvious.”

“Corny but I’ll let it slide since you’re cute.”

And he’s turning towards the shelf next to the cereals, reaching for the chips and pulls away with balsamic vinegar.

You lean your hip against the cart and send him a pointed look. “Singular mission, is that right Nanami Kento?”

He smirks and leans down, kissing you. His mouth slants to yours, warm and lazy, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

“And balsamic vinegar, of all things.” You mumble against his mouth.

He smiles into the kiss, dipping his tongue past your lips. And then you hear the crinkling of foil and he’s throwing in barbecue too. You grin successfully.

“Mm,” he hums, glancing down at you, a firm arm across your waist. “I heard the ice cream has a two for one deal.”

“I heard that too.”

Nanami huffs a laugh, but he’s leaning down, chasing your lips once again.

they make me sick (I love them rlly)

[star-har]

the weight of quiet

nanami kento x reader | fluff

“you’re fidgeting.”

nanami’s voice was thick with sleep, but the way his arm curled tighter around your waist made it clear he wasn’t too tired to notice. his hand smoothed over your stomach, fingers pressing gently into your skin as if coaxing you to relax.

“m’not,” you murmured, though you didn’t fight when he pulled you back against his chest, legs tangling with yours beneath the sheets.

he hummed, unimpressed. “then why can’t you sleep?”

“no reason.”

his hand splayed over your waist, warm and grounding. “that’s a lie.”

you hesitated for half a second before deciding there was no point in pretending. “want you to rub my back.”

nanami went quiet, and for a moment, you thought maybe you’d actually surprised him. then he sighed, low and amused, shifting behind you as his fingers smoothed up your spine.

“you could’ve just said that, my love.” he muttered, the tips of his fingers dancing across your back, his lips pressing kisses into your neck.

your breath hitched slightly as warmth spread through your body, his touch slow and deliberate. “figured you’d do it anyway.”

nanami huffed, but you felt his smile against your skin. “you’re spoiled.” but there was no real weight behind it—not when his palm was already moving lower, kneading at the small of your back before dragging up again, his other arm resting firm across your pillow beneath your head.

“yeah, but only by you.”

he exhaled through his nose, amused, his lips brushing over the back of your neck. “damn right.”

your eyes fluttered shut as his touch lulled you further into sleep, your body melting against his.

“better?”

“mhm,” you mumbled, already half gone.

nanami pressed one last kiss to your shoulder, the steady twirl of his fingers now a distant and featherlight touch as sleep had taken over.

“good. now sleep, baby.”

[star-har]

pancakes

gojo satoru | fluff (mild nsfw?, like if u rlly rlly squint)

the morning sun filters through the curtains, casting golden light across the room. you’re still half-asleep, cocooned in blankets, when you hear the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.

your brows furrow. gojo doesn’t cook.

blinking against the light, you drag yourself out of bed, padding toward the kitchen after lazily brushing your teeth and washing your face. and there he is—standing by the counter, hair a mess, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms.

the golden hues of the sun dance across the smooth expanse of his skin, all toned abs and lean muscle built into every inch of his frame—he looks as if he’s been carved from stone by some greek god. you wouldn’t be surprised if he was.

“what are you doing?” your voice is hoarse with sleep, amusement curling at the edges.

“making breakfast for my wife,” he says, too casually. you glance at the stove—pancakes, or at least an attempt at them. the batter is too thick, one side slightly burned.

a small laugh slips from your lips. “you can’t cook, sweetheart. remember, you were banned from the kitchen.” you muster a snort as you recall his last encounter with breakfast—he’d melted the plastic spatula and set the pan on fire.

he scowls, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking of. “really? can’t recall that..” he wonders thoughtfully, scratching his chin. then he jumps when he catches the burnt crust of the pancake on the pan. he hurriedly flips it and ignores your narrowing eyes.

“right.” you step closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, chin resting at his muscled back. he’s warm, solid, and smells faintly of vanilla and coffee. “and what’s the occasion?”

you trail your fingers down the expanse of his back, tracing the pink scratches there, still lingering from the night before.

his hands still for a second before he flips a pancake—badly. “dunno.” clearly, he’s not letting go of this quickly-formed grudge.

you smile to yourself as you lift your head slightly, peering at his face. his ears are pink.

a slow smile spreads across your lips. “you just wanted to do something nice for me, huh?”

“shut up,” he grumbles, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

you turn him around, pressing up on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth, lips barely brushing his skin. “it’s cute.”

his hands find your hips, grip tightening just slightly. “you’re cute.”

he dips down, sweeping you into a kiss. there’s a taste of coffee in his mouth as he slants his tongue to yours, sighing against your mouth as his hands slide down your tank, grabbing your ass.

you laugh and pull away, and his response is to kiss you again, deeper this time—if it’s even possible.

you speak against his mouth, fingers running circles over his skin. “you gonna feed me or let me starve?”

he tilts his head back, gold light hitting his snowy lashes, pretending to think. “i’d say i’m practically already feeding you, no?”

“oh, is that right?”

to emphasize his words, he sinks down, capturing your mouth with his own as he pulls you flush against his hips. your stomach flutters, legs buckling beneath you. if not for his grip anchoring you in place, you’d have already collapsed.

“there’s plenty more where that came from, too.” his grin is wicked.

your knees are so weak. “is that so?”

he pulls you closer, dragging his mouth from your lips to your cheek, your jaw, below your ear where he places a soft kiss. “that depends, though.”

“on what?” you say, but it comes out more as a breathy whisper.

he leans in, lips grazing your ear. “on how you plan to thank me.”

a laugh bubbles out of you. “eat first,” you murmur, tugging him closer. “then we’ll talk.”

he practically inhales his pancakes. you do too.

[star-har]

Five more minutes

Nanami Kento x reader | fluff

“You coming to bed?”

Nanami’s eyes flick up from his laptop, already expecting the scolding he’s about to get. But the moment he sees you—soft and sleepy in that silky pink slip dress, hair slightly tousled, lips just the tiniest bit pouty—he knows he’s in real trouble.

“Hello, my love,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something warm and gentle, like he’s already half-softened just from the sight of you.

You step closer, and, as always, he lifts his head just in time to meet your lips. The kiss is short but sweet, lingering just long enough to make your chest flutter. But when you pull away, you’re still frowning, eyes flickering to his screen.

“How much longer?” you ask, fingers lightly tracing the back of his chair.

“Five more minutes.”

You blink. Then, your expression flattens. “You said that hours ago.”

Nanami sighs, rubbing his temple. “…Did I?”

You groan dramatically and go behind his chair, leaning over. Wrapping your arms loosely around his neck from behind, you rest your chin in the crook of his shoulder.

He stills, his breath catching just slightly as you hug him from behind.

“You work too much,” you murmur against his skin, your voice taking on that soft, sleepy quality that makes his stomach twist.

Nanami exhales, his hands resting over yours, fingers brushing absentmindedly along your knuckles. “And you’re clingy when you’re tired.”

“Because I miss you,” you whine, nuzzling against his shoulder. “I can’t sleep without you.”

His lips twitch, and his hands shift, one coming up to lightly squeeze your wrist in silent affection.

“You survived before me,” he teases.

“That was before I knew how warm you are.” You huff, squeezing him a little tighter. “And how you’re my favorite pillow. And how your arms feel like the safest place in the world.”

Nanami swallows. His ears burn, and he clears his throat. “You’re not playing fair.”

“You’re the one still working,” you counter. Then, after a moment, you press a tiny, fluttery kiss against the side of his neck. “Come to bed.”

He sighs, shifting slightly. “Five mi—”

“Nanami.”

The way you say his name—half-whiny, half-scolding, but all fond—makes something in him break. He turns his head slightly, his nose brushing against your temple, and lets out a deep, resigned exhale.

“…Fine.”

You brighten immediately, squeezing him once more before stepping back, tugging at his sleeve. “Finally.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real annoyance there—just quiet amusement as he watches you. Watches the way you bounce on your toes, the way your slip dress sways with every little movement.

You really are the most beautiful, clever thing he’s ever come across.

And when you turn back, smiling over your shoulder, your voice lilting, teasing—

“Come on, handsome. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

—yeah.

Nanami shuts his laptop.

No more five minutes.

[star-har]

Hello! Imagine baker au!Kento Nanami where reader gets a new perfume that smells like sugary sweet delicious baked goods, and he falls head over heels all over again- his sweet girl and his favorite type of smell all in one? Score!

Love your Gojo works, if you like this idea i would love it if you expanded on the idea!

No pressure tho, just appreciate seeing your updates. 💟

short n sweet

nanami kento x reader | fluff 

the bakery has settled into a comfortable quiet as evening approaches, the last few customers offering kind smiles as they exit, the soft chime of bells echoing in the air as the door wisps shut behind them.

nanami stands behind the counter, swiping at the tops with a damp towel, wiping away the remnants of his baking. the scent of fresh bread and sweet pastries lingers in the air, mixing with the warmth of the setting sun that filters through the windows.

he’s just about finished—he’s stashed away the left-over pastries and cookies onto plates with foil lining the trays to keep them fresh. he’s also packed away some chocolate scones for you. they’re your favorite, and nanami had purposely created a larger batch this morning to save some for you.

he moves with calm precision, his routine practiced and familiar. as he finishes wiping down the counter, he glances at the record player sitting on a nearby shelf. with a swift, fluid motion, he flicks it on, and the soft, soothing melody of frank sinatra’s “something stupid” fills the room.

the music hums around him. this song is one of his favorites, a timeless classic that always makes him think of you. he turns back to his work, the towel now folded neatly beside him as he begins to organize the freshly baked goods for the next day.

the soft chime of the doorbell catches his attention, and he looks up, his smile widening as you step inside. “hello, my love,” he greets, his voice low and warm, the sound blending seamlessly with the crooning of sinatra in the background.

his heart warms as you step in from the wintry night, cheeks red and the tip of your ears turning a rosy pink. “hey baby.” you smile and shake the snow from your boots at the mat before stepping further into the shop. “finishing up?”

“just about, sweetie,” he says, setting aside the last of the pastries as you approach. without missing a beat, he steps around the counter, slipping an arm around your waist as you reach his side. it’s an easy, natural gesture, one that you both fall into with practiced familiarity.

you push up onto your tiptoes, leaning up for a kiss, but he pauses where he’s leaning down to meet your lips. his senses collide with vanilla, and with a deeper inhale, the scent of caramelized sugar and apples wafts through him. the sweetness is familiar yet entirely new, and it wraps around him in a way that’s both comforting and intoxicating.

he tilts his head slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“what? is something wrong?” you mutter softly, your hands intertwining behind his neck.

instead of answering, he dips his head into the crook of your neck, breathing you in deeply, running his nose along the curve of your skin. the scent clings to you, enveloping him like the most delicious treat.

“did you change your perfume?” he asks, his voice a bit rough as he pulls back, a smile tugging at his rugged mouth.

you flush, cheeks reddening impossibly. “yeah! thought you might like it—picked it up from a store today.”

“i like it,” he says immediately, his voice low and sincere as he sweeps you closer to him, pressing a lingering kiss to your mouth. his tongue brushes past your lips, sliding against your own tongue with an unhurried confidence that makes your knees weak. when he finally pulls away, there’s a slight frown on his lips. “your lips are cold.”

you roll your eyes, prepared for his inevitable scolding.

“i told you not to walk here tonight. the temperature is freezing.”

your response is a shrug and a playful smile. “but i missed you today.” you pout, and he shakes his head like he’s caught you doing something you know you shouldn’t.

“missed you too, my love,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he cranes his neck to brush his lips against yours for a brief moment. “let me just finish up here, and we can head home.”

nanami attempts to pull away, but you tug him back with a sharp yank around his neck, pulling him flush against you. his chest presses against yours, and you can feel the unsteady thrum of his heartbeat.

“but you’re already finished,” you whine, your voice a soft plea as you press closer.

he laughs softly, trying to pry your arms away, but it’s a hopeless effort—you’ve trapped him against the counter. “it’ll only take a minute, y/n,” he assures you, but there’s a warmth in his tone that hints he’s not in much of a hurry to move.

“you always say that,” you murmur, leaning up to brush your lips against his jawline. “and yet, here we are.”

his breath hitches slightly as your hips shift against his, the soft pressure sending a shiver through him. he’s trying to keep his composure, but you can tell you’ve caught him off guard. “you’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, his voice dropping to a rough whisper as his hands tighten around your waist.

this close, he’s wrapped up in your vanilla and caramel and apples, drowning in your touch and taste and smell. he loves this perfume on you, finds himself kissing you even deeper.

he’s not sure why you’ve elicited this reaction from him— he supposes it’s because of your thoughtfulness. the image of you wandering around a shop and stumbling upon this perfume and thinking of nanami and how much he’ll love it and deciding to purchase it.

or perhaps it’s because it emanates him. it’s as if everything about you, every aspect from the wedding band on your finger to the way you smell, belongs to him.

everything you are— you’re his. the thought makes his blood warm.

“i just want you to come home,” you say softly, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “right now.”

his resolve wavers, and you can feel it in the way his body tenses, his breath quickening ever so slightly. he leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s deeper this time, more insistent. his hands slide down to rest on your hips, pulling you even closer as he lets out a low, satisfied hum.

“just one more minute,” he murmurs against your lips, but there’s a playful edge to his tone now, like he’s testing just how far he can push before giving in completely.

you push up on your toes to kiss him again, sweeping your tongue into his mouth and he’s quick to respond, hands on your waist pulling you closer so that your body is flush with his. it’s enough to make him pause, his grip tightening as he holds you close, his forehead resting against yours now.

“you’re making it very hard to finish up,” he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sends a thrill through you.

“that’s the idea,” you tease, pressing another kiss to his lips that he returns lazily, feeling him melt into you. you know you’ve won when he sighs, his resolve crumbling as he finally gives in, wrapping both arms around you tighter and pulling you against him.

“fine,” he concedes, his voice barely above a whisper as his lips trail down your neck. “i’m done for the night.”

you smile against his skin.

when I write fluff I get so giggly and then I rmbr im single and lonely and I die a little inside!

thank you so much for your request and for reading my other drabbles it means so much!! i’ve been meaning to write about other characters so I’m glad I was finally able to!! thank you and I hope you enjoyyyy<3 oh and I hope u noticed the something stupid songggg and the lyric “the time is right ur perfume fills my head the stars get red and oh the night’s so blueeee,” TELL ME IM NOT A GENIUS

I just know this is filled with many errors but I am so lazy so I’m going to knockout!

kisses,

har 💗

[star-har]

blood bound

| satoru gojo | vampire au | nsfw |

when you enter gojo's room, there's agony filling his eyes.

he's chained to the bed, thrashing against his shackles. gojo's eyes are livid, the sharp blue flashing molten silver as you walk into the room.

his fangs grow longer, offering a wicked smile that looks more hungry than kind.

"you shouldn't be here,” he says, tongue gliding over the sharp points of his canines, shaking his head as if you've made a great mistake.

you hesitantly step closer to his hunched frame. he watches with predatory eyes as you inch closer, teeth glimmering a bright white. "you shouldn’t have done that."

he smiles then, vicious and gleaming. "yet we got what we wanted, did we not?"

he's right. the mission had been a success. but there's still a weight that sits in your chest, heavy and persistent.

you step closer and he shifts back, muttering a don't under his breath.

it's only natural for him to feel as hungry as he is — the need to feed his thirst will be overbearing and painful for the next few hours.

this is why tying him up is the best course of action. who knows what his thirst will force him to do. the logic is there, and yet you want to abandon all reasoning when you see his bloody wrists. it's obvious he's been fighting against the restraints, fighting against himself.

the thought makes your stomach dip. you hate him, you always have — yet all you can feel is pure, unadulterated sadness. anger. anger at gojo for being reckless, anger at that vampire for biting him.

you hesitantly bring a hand to his pale hair, running it through with your fingers. he sucks in a sharp breath, as if the contact is painful in itself.

“i thought you had died," you murmur, dragging your gaze from his eyes to the bite marks on his neck. your stomach crows danger at the tone of your voice; softer, warmer than you'd intended

when you found him, he was stumbling through halls, blood seeping into his shirt as he slurred on his words and fell into your arms as soon as you'd reached for him. the object you'd been searching for clenched tight in his fist.

"careful there, love." he smiles. "it sounds like you might tolerate me."

perhaps, before tonight, you'd have bounced away from him and scolded his ignorant words before running from the room.

but the pure horror that struck you tonight is still there, everlasting. and no matter how hard you try to pull away, you only inch closer.

you slide your hand away from his hair, down to the cold slice of his lips. his jaw hardens under your palm, as if he's refraining from dipping his fangs into your thumb to ease some of his pain away.

"don't do anything like that again," you clench the fist by your thigh. "ever."

his chest rumbles with a laugh, but there's weight behind it. "if i hadn't gone in there, you would have."

rather me than you.

it's the closest gojo's gone to expressing an emotion other than annoyance and anger and arrogance.

he attempts to jerk away from your touch and when you flicker out your daze, you find his eyes clouded and darkening. his brows are furrowed and his muscles are taut with the effort to stay away.

it's like torment. you've heard before how difficult it is to refrain from feeding under a bite. and you can only imagine the lengths gojo is going to to refrain from having you then.

"it's alright," you find yourself muttering, meeting his ravenous eyes. he looks pained and pushes away from your hand but you find his mouth again.

his breathing unevens and he meets your gaze with a glare. “you should leave.” he speaks as if talking is a difficult task, as if with every part of his lips, he wants to pierce your skin.

you push past his lips and hover your finger closer to his fangs. “it’s okay.”

his eyes flash. his teeth unclench, fangs sharpening impossibly and his tongue grazes your thumb, silently asking you to change your mind because he needs this and he can’t pull away himself.

your response is to push your thumb further into his mouth, brushing against the inside of his cheek.

his teeth dig in and you gasp at the feeling of sharp points biting into your flesh, tearing your skin apart and licking away at the blood that seeps.

the pain is gone in an instant. it’s replaced with a sick desire to feel him everywhere as the pleasant feeling buzzes up your arm and echoes in your chest and falls to your stomach to mingle.

he closes his eyes at the first drop of blood, grunting and only sucking harder.

and then, he’s moving.

his wrists rip free of their restraints with a sharp tug easily, grabbing your waist as he throws you onto the bed. your thumb remains in his mouth as he hovers above you, sitting with his knees on either side of your hips.

he grabs your hand with eager fingers and clutches your wrist like a lifeline. he groans with a long swipe of his tongue, shoulders falling and jaw slackening in their movements now that he’s quenched some of his thirst.

he rips away, blood lingering on his lips as he dives down to your throat. he grazes his lips against the expanse of skin, dragging an open mouth up to the crevice of your shoulder.

he waits there and you can see his hands fisting the comforter, knuckles white, beside your head, as if he’s urging himself to resist and pull away.

“it’s okay.” you push his head so that his mouth falls onto your skin. your other hand reaches out to brush his clenched hand, and with a hesitating moment, he moves to intertwine your fingers “it’s okay. take what you need.”

he hesitates, finding your eyes, resolve wavering. you look down at him. “take me how you want, satoru.”

that’s all he needs. he offers a slow, languid lick, savoring the taste with a sigh. then he’s diving in, his long, sharp fangs sinking into your skin.

he moves almost desperately, white-hot pain causing your back to arch off the bed. a gasp lodges in your throat as you dig your fingers into his scalp, urging his canines deeper.

you’d thought it would be draining. thought you would feel the life leaving your veins as he sucked your supple skin to be met with sweet blood— but it’s really quite the opposite. it feels like breathing. it feels as if with every drop of blood, there’s life being pushed through your body and bubbling in your chest.

in the world of the old blood, drinking isn’t just survival—it is sacred. vampires don’t share blood the way humans share kisses. they do it the way humans share pleasure. raw, consuming, and carnal in a way that leaves your soul bare. it is a ritual of hunger and heat, one that leaves traces behind long after teeth has left skin. and yet here he is, tasting you like he’s earned it. like he wants to make you feel it in places left untouched. and you do.

every inch of your skin feels warm despite the cold press of gojo’s body, spreading like blooming flowers.

when he rips away, it feels as if you’re pummelling down an endless void as everything yanks away from you at once; the bed beneath you, the inconsistent whisper of wind that flies through an open window, the sweet press of gojo all over you.

and then, he moves down to your chest, right above the mound of your breasts and dips his teeth in once again.

you surge back to reality as soon as the bite of his teeth dissipates to an unreal ecstasy.

his hands are ravaging your hair, pleasure running through your body like a river, pooling between your thighs. you push him into your chest, moaning with every drop he consumes. he laps at your skin, again and again.

the sound is obscene—wet and low and unhurried, like he’s savoring something he shouldn’t. his mouth parts just enough for breath, soft and heavy against your skin, and every pull of his lips sends a jolt down your spine. it’s quiet, but it isn’t. it’s full of things left unsaid. the way your breath stutters. the way his throat works when he swallows. the way the silence stretches thin, humming with tension and want.

and, gods—he groans. not loud, not theatrical, just deep. low. restrained, like he’s fighting the instinct to lose himself completely. it punches through your chest and settles low in your belly, heat curling up your spine, and suddenly you’re not sure if he’s feeding or if he’s devouring.

it feels heavenly. with every sharp inhale, gojo’s sucking up another drop. with every swallow, his hand is fisting your hair tighter, jutting your upper body from the bed to bury himself deeper inside you.

“yes,” you cry, pain spiking across your scalp deliciously and you push your hips up into his.

he pauses over you, a deep groan rumbling from his mouth the moment his hips press flush against yours. the contact makes him shudder—his body rolling into you with slow, unconscious need, grinding just once like he can’t help it. like instinct takes the wheel before he can stop himself.

the feel of him sends a shockwave of heat through your body, the friction dragging you deeper into a blissful, almost transcendent pleasure.

it’s not just his mouth on your skin anymore—it’s his entire body, moving against yours with desperate, controlled rhythm. each slow grind feels like an electric jolt to your core, your breath hitching, skin tingling, as if every inch of you is alight. it’s overwhelming, almost too much, like you’re floating in pure, divine ecstasy.

you’re trapped in this intoxicating whirlwind, barely able to focus on anything except the way his body presses into yours, the heated pulse of his movements turning every sense to raw, unrelenting pleasure.

but then he’s gone just as fast, pulling back like the taste of you has shocked him. his jaw’s clenched, eyes wide, chest rising hard with restraint. blood paints his lips, drips down his chin in a mess that stains the pale line of his throat.

the lack of feeling hits you with a harsh shove. your body grows numb, skin cooling unbearably. the world around you almost fades, dulls. every cell in your body aches for you to close your eyes as the room spins, and gojo must realise something’s wrong because he’s reaching for you.

and the absence of him hits you like a punch to the gut. the hollow, aching emptiness settles in—deep—shoving you back to reality.

your body grows numb, the warm glow of pleasure fading into an unbearable chill, skin cooling rapidly as if every inch of you is being erased. the room spins, tilting like it’s about to swallow you whole, the world dulling and sinking into nothingness. it’s as if the very air you breathe is being ripped away from your lungs, the weight of it crushing you.

you don’t realize you’re crying until you hear the tremble in your voice and the soft brush of satoru’s fingers over your cheek to swipe them away, “more, please.”

you push yourself up but the effort is useless because you are collapsing back, your vision fading around the edges. gojo panics, you can see it in the way he runs a hand down his jaw and slides an arm beneath your neck.

“i already took too much, love,” he says, but his voice echoes faintly, as if it’s carrying through a long, expansive corridor.

it’s okay.

you try to whisper the words into his broad chest as he whisks you off his sheets, holding you in his arms. it comes out as a hum and he offers a grunt of his own.

he’s moving, and then your back collides with the soft silk covers of gojo’s bed. you sigh almost immediately and you hear the rustling of his comforter slide over your body.

you think he says something, and for some reason, you wish you’d been awake enough to hear it. you are, however, conscious enough to feel the languid brush of his fingers over the bite marks he’d created.

his palm comes to rest on your chest where he feels the steady thrum of your heart under his skin. “get some sleep.”

the soft thuds of his footsteps sound, only echoing quieter with each step he takes and you want to turn and ask him to stay. you want to feel the cold, yet warm, press of his chest to your back as he cradles you away from this nightmarish world.

but you let him walk away, regardless.

i was going to turn this into smut but i got lazy LMFAOAOA

thank you sm for reading!! excuse any grammar errors ik there’s probably a handful but I can’t find it in myself to edit rn :(

kisses, always,

har

[star-har]

Hey! Can i submit a request?

Gojo x Reader playing twister. I just KNOW that man would be funny during that since he’s 80% leg. I need more gojo fluff in my life lol!

Your writing style is so cute. ♡︎

a game of twister

gojo satoru x reader | fluff

when gojo had come running into your room, squealing about being bored and needing attention, you had originally asked if he wanted to bake cookies.

he had nodded eagerly, pulling you from your bed where you were switching through channels and dragged you into the kitchen.

the next few hours consisted of whining and prying because you wouldn’t let gojo do anything. his job was to cramp your personal space and lick the spoons clean— but according to gojo, it was to actually help you.

he’d grown bored quick, and had sauntered off somewhere aimlessly, scratching his head in a clueless search of something fun to do.

but as soon as you’d pushed the cookie tray into the oven, his head had popped from behind the kitchen’s wall, beckoning you with wiggling brows and a mischievous grin to— this.

“just what is this,” you throw your arms in the air, cringing at the mess he’d made.

the coffee table, originally placed in the centre among your couches, had been shoved to the side with the flower vase knocked over. it’s replaced by a twister mat, spread across the carpet.

he rubs his hands, grin widening. “twister!”

“we are not playing twister,” you say, deadpan, crossing arms on your chest. it’s past midnight, and your limbs are aching for rest. the last thing you can manage is a round of twister— that he’d pulled out from butt fuck nowhere. you didn’t even know you had twister.

“oh, come on,” he throws his hands in the air, pouting. “let’s see who’s the most flexible!”

it’s a minute later that you find yourself bent over the mat, your left foot on red and right hand on green.

begrudgingly, you knock the spinner, feigning boredom as you wait for it’s response. you can’t admit you’re already having fun a minute into the game, anyway— he doesn’t need his ego blown even more than it already is.

“left foot, green,” you announce, adjusting your body as you shift your foot over.

gojo follows in your heed, cackling as he throws a leg across your waist to reach the green, purposely dropping his weight on you. “oh, i have this in the bag.”

with little grace, you thrust your hip up, nearly knocking him to his ass but his foot remains attached to the green circle.

his smirk follows your groan of frustration, and gojo cackles again, loud and obnoxious. despite your initial irritation, you crack a smile— he was only bored, after all.

you flick the dial once more beneath you. “right hand, yellow.”

with struggle, you reach beneath gojo’s chest and stretch your arm wide, dropping your arm on the circle.

“hmm, this isn’t a bad angle,” gojo bubbles with laughter and with a turn of your head, you realise quickly he’s talking about your ass.

you can’t shove him you you deside to elbow him in the chest and annoyingly enough, gojo doesn’t budge, maintaining perfect position.

you continue on, a mess of stretching limbs and nonsense giggling and lazy kissing.

before long, gojo’s lanky frame has spread across the mat in a ridiculous fashion— one arm stretched over your shoulder, leg over your head. you’re struggling just as much, if not more, wrapped around your boyfriend’s wobbling form.

“how you doing down there?” he prods, clearly amused as your arms shake beneath you, struggling to hold you up with the way they’re wrapped among each other.

you offer a sickeningly sweet smile in return. “think I’d be better without your long ass legs suffocating me to death.”

he huffs out what might be his millionth laugh tonight. “you’re just jealous because you’re the size of the seven dwarfs from snow white.”

from there, it’s a fight of who can say the best insult rather than who can last the longest in this game, really.

“right foot, blue,” you announce after knocking the spinner with your nose.

you, being an intellectual individual, move your foot slightly to the left with little scuffle. gojo, on the other hand, maneuvers around you.

the leg thrown over you lands just beneath your hip, holding himself up with the arm across your face.

“see? perfect balance—”

and for a moment, you think he may actually manage to hold himself up. but a second later, his hand slips, and he’s sliding down, falling on top of your, now, flattened body.

you erupt in laughter as soon as his hand slips, flipping over and shoving his body off to the side so you can breathe.

“‘toru! you idiot,” you wheeze and he drags you down, caging you in arms and legs and soap— he’d showered before this. “you could’ve gone the easy way— but no.”

“now what’s the fun in that?” he’s beaming when you look up to him, resting your chin on his chest.

“yeah, okay, mr. perfect balance.” you giggle and push off, only for him to fall back on top of you.

“well,” he sighs dramatically and snuggles into your neck, breathing in deeply. “I guess losing isn’t so bad if it means getting tangled up with you.”

that’s makes you wail out in laughs, knocking your head back as gojo presses kisses into your neck. “real smooth, love,”

“what can I say? you bring out the best in—” he pauses then, slightly lifting up with furrowed brows, a hint of a smile still on his lips. “what’s that smell.”

you frown, calming your bubbling giggles for a moment and take a sniff— something is… burning?

oh no.

you brush past gojo and jump off the mat and run to the kitchen. “my cookies!” you cry.

gojo’s laughing behind you as you shove open the oven and erupt in a series of coughs, black smoke rising from inside.

you throw yourself away from the mess, mouth dropping. “my cookies.” you repeat, this time more solemnly.

“m’sorry baby,” he clutches his stomach in laughter, kneeling over. “those are no longer cookies, though.”

you turn to him, eyes set in narrow lines and lips pursed— you had been looking forward to a late night snack. had spent all of fifteen minutes cutting bars of chocolate into the perfectly-sized chips. “I’m going to kill tou, ‘toru.”

his smile drops and he’s running.

i did not know how to write this at first but omg this was sm fun i kinda love how this turned out?!?!

tysm bb for both the request and the compliment, seriously means the world to me and sm more 💗💗

hope you enjoyed!

kisses,

har 🫶

[star-har]

hi lovey 🩷 may i request gojo x reader tooth rotting fluff where she makes him fairy bread for first time, or baking a pie that he hasn’t tried yet before. we know how he’s an absolute sweet tooth and would lose his mind over his lover feeding into his addiction lol 🍬 loved nightmare so much :’)

midnight snack

gojo satoru x reader | fluff

“i made you a snack.”

you stand in the doorway to the living room and gojo’s sprawled on the sofa, lights dim as he switches pause on whichever reality show he’s stumbled on this time.

he turns to look at you with furrowed brows and a smile. “just what are you doing up this late, hmm?” he sweeps his legs off the couch, silently asking you to take the seat beside him.

this is one of those nights gojo is struggling to sleep. the gash in his side is painful, a sharp throb spiking his back with white, hot pain every few minutes. and no amount of painkillers are helping, really.

“i made a snack!” you smile, pushing off the door frame, carrying a plate of what looks like toast.

“a snack,” gojo repeats, turning to face you automatically as you fall beside him, one leg thrown over his lap and the other crossed beneath you.

you offer a nod. “it’s a turkish snack.”

gojo’s heart warms and his blood bubbles, eyes softening. he knows it’s an attempt at comforting him and his aching side, and you’ve never been a night owl — so the gesture of you waking up this late just to ease some of his pain makes gojo wants to kiss you senseless.

he nearly does, mind you. if it weren’t for that plate in your hand, he’d have tackled you into the couch as soon as you sat down.

“woah— that smells— woah.” he pauses and snatches one of the desserts off the plate.

“it’s called bal kaymak.” you start, smiling as he digs his teeth into it, snapping off a bite. “it’s basically just toast, cream, and then honey on top.”

he groans and licks his fingers of the dripping honey sliding down to his palms. “this is just—" he cuts himself off to swipe some cream off his lip. “this is just cream, honey, and bread?”

“mhm.”

“really?”

“yes.”

“holy fuck,” he curses, staring incredulously at the toast in his hand and he eagerly snags another bite.

you grab your own toast and snatch a bite too. “i knew you’d like it!”

“you do realize it’s midnight, right?” he says then, leaning back against a cushion, comfortable.

you snort. “please, like you’ve never had a midnight snack.”

he shrugs, leaning in for a kiss which you give happily, lips slanting with his. his tongue sweeps your bottom lip, swiping off the honey that lingers there.

“hey, you stole my toast,” you pout when you catch the empty plate in your lap and he shoves the entire dessert into his mouth.

you quickly realize then his little kiss had merely been a distraction to keep your notice away from his thievery. you scowl.

he scoffs lazily. “what?” his voice is muffled from the toast.

“‘toru!” you smack his arm and turn around, pushing off from his side but he drags you back with a sharp tug of your hand, dropping you into his lap.

“i’m thorry!” he mumbles then moans as you nudge his forehead with your thumb, pressing your knees into his hips.

his gash hurts with the movement, but he musters his pain and swallows the remnants of your bal kaymak, hands holding your hips.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he says, voice dropping to a low thrum, lips sliding to the crevice of your neck, tracing up your throat.

“no.” gojo smiles— ever the stubborn woman.

“oh, come on,” he sighs, pecking your lips. “i’ll watch a movie with you.”

another kiss.

“I’ll stay home from work tomorrow.”

another kiss and this one piques your interest. “you will?”

“add another one of those toasts into this deal,” he whispers and nudges your hips further against him, lips on your collarbone. “and i’ll have you for dessert next,”

you grin and clamber from his lap, bounding to the kitchen.

gojo finds then, that his gash, is not a pain that will matter when you’re back by his side anyway.

i thought this would turn out betterrr but oh well!! thank you for this suggestion love it was so cute! my friend introduced me to this snack one day and I actually fell in love and so as soon as i saw this request, i knew just which treat i was going to do!! thank you so much mwahh ik it’s not the pie or fairy bread u requested but I still hope u enjoyed!

tysm nightmares was sm fun to write I’m so glad u enjoyed !

kisses,

har <3