You can call me Gator, Sunny, Sunshine, or any other combo of my name that tickles your fancy. 🌻🐊
I'm writing fanfiction again for the first time since high school (all One Piece for now)! I've mainly been a lurker on every website my entire life, so I'm still figuring this whole thing out! And hopefully having fun and making some cool internet friends along the way. ❤
I occasionally write spicy stuff and frequently reblog NSFW content. With that in mind, this blog is 18+ - Minors Do NOT Interact.
gojo’s always bragging about his perfect wife. unfortunately, his perfect wife is mad at him.
gojo always said it the same way.
my perfect wife.
like it was the most obvious thing in the world. he’d say it to strangers. cashiers. coworkers. students who absolutely did not ask.
“can’t stay late. my perfect wife is waiting.” ; “yeah, yeah, i’ll grade those tomorrow. my wife misses me.” ; “do you know how lucky i am? my wife married me.”
it was obnoxious and embarrassing, and worst of all he meant every word, which is why it hurt so much when he kept breaking the same promise.
“i’ll be home earlier.”
again and again and again.
the first few times you understood. missions happened, and curses didn’t exactly work around schedules, but eventually it stopped being about the missions.
it became about the promise. every morning he’d kiss your forehead and grin. “today for real,” and every night you’d check the clock.
11:34.
12:47.
1:15.
2:02.
and he’d stumble through the door with an apologetic smile and some excuse. just one more mission, just one more emergency, just one more thing.
you stopped arguing, eventually.
the night everything finally snapped, he got home at nearly three in the morning.
the apartment was dark, and silent. he rubbed at his eyes as he kicked off his shoes. “baby?”
nothing. he frowned. usually you’d answer, even if you were annoyed or half asleep. usually there was something.
the kitchen and living room were both empty, and he shrugged, assuming you were already asleep. fair—he’d promised he’d be home by nine.
again.
with a yawn, he shuffled into your bedroom and collapsed face-first onto the mattress. too exhausted to think, and too exhausted to notice that your side of the bed was empty.
within seconds he was asleep.
the next morning he woke up reaching for you, his arm stretched across cold sheets.
his brows furrowed. nothing? still half asleep, he reached over again, and when he rubbed his eyes open, he slowly sat up and looked around.
empty. “…baby?”
now fully awake, he climbed out of bed. your house felt weird, all wrong. you weren’t in the bathroom, or the kitchen, and when gojo noticed that the guest room door was cracked open, his stomach dropped.
he already knew before he pushed the door open, and there you were, asleep, curled up beneath the guest room blankets. alone.
gojo stared at you for a long time, motionless, breath caught in his throat. were you really mad at him? you were this mad at him? he blinked back tears, standing there looking at you.
seeing you in another bed felt worse than any curse he’d ever fought. you weren’t supposed to be here, you were supposed to be with him, tangled in his arms, stealing all the blankets and grumbling when he tried to pull them back from you.
his chest physically hurt. “baby…”
you stirred, eyes opening slightly. when you saw gojo standing in the doorway you turned onto your side. “go away.” your voice was quiet and flat.
gojo swallowed. “can we talk?”
“no.”
“please?”
you sat up, already reaching for your work clothes that you’d laid out on an armchair the night before. “gojo.”
he felt nauseous. not satoru, or babe, or anything soft. just gojo, cold and formal.
“leave.”
his throat tightened. “baby, i’m sorry.”
you didn’t answer, just walked past him toward the bathroom and shut the door.
he spent the entire day miserable, absolutely unbearable. the students noticed immediately, of course.
“why do you look like somebody kicked your dog?” yuji asked.
gojo stared into space. “my wife is mad at me.”
“that bad?”
“she slept in the guest room.”
everyone immediately winced. “ooooh.”
“yeah.” gojo ran a hand down his face, fingers catching slightly in his blindfold—he’s reminded of how you’d always tug it off for him when he got home from work, hands soft and warm, and your sweet little giggle when he’d blink down at you.
“you’re cooked,” nobara said.
gojo dropped his forehead against the desk. “i know.”
megumi looked mildly concerned. “what did you do?”
“i disappointed her,” gojo mumbled against his desk.
he felt so small. he wasn’t scared of curses, or scared of death. but disappointing you? his perfect wife?
all day he couldn’t focus. in every conversation, gojo managed to bring you up. “my wife likes that restaurant.” “y/n would hate this weather. her hair would get frizzy.” “yaga, we need a new coffee machine. my wife’s coffee is better.”
shoko finally threw a pen at him. “either go home or shut up.”
“go home?” his eyes lit up. “that’s actually a great idea.”
“you still have paperwork.” shoko watched gojo get up anyway, a new light beaming across his features as he grabbed his bag. “gojo.”
“yeah?”
she sighed. “i’ll tell yaga you have diarrhea. leave. you’re lucky i tolerate you.”
gojo choked out a laugh. “whatever.”
you got home around six to a suspiciously clean house. you narrowed your eyes immediately. gojo only cleaned when he was guilty.
very guilty.
you stepped into the hallway leading to the kitchen and stopped. flowers, everywhere. your favourite snacks, your favourite takeout, candies.
sitting on the couch was satoru gojo, blindfold off, sad blue eyes staring at you like a man awaiting execution.
the second he saw you, he stood up. “hi.”
you stared and wordlessly walked past him. he followed immediately.
“baby.”
silence.
“love.”
silence.
“my beautiful, perfect, amazing wife.”
you couldn’t help the little smile that etched onto your face, and gojo nearly sighed of relief. “there she is.”
you pointed toward the living room. “go sit back down.”
his face fell. “am i getting divorced?”
“i’m getting changed into comfortable clothes, and then we can talk. sit.”
naturally, five minutes later you found him exactly where you’d left him, hands folded and looking nervous.
“gojo.”
“yes ma’am.”
you sighed and he visibly flinched because even your sigh sounded disappointed.
“you keep making promises.”
his head lowered immediately. “i know.”
“and you keep breaking them.”
“i—i know.” he runs a shaky hand through messy white tufts of hair, eyes trained to the ground.
his voice came out small. “i..i keep thinking i can do everything.” he rubbed his face. “i keep thinking one more mission won’t matter, and then i do it again.”
you stayed quiet and he laughed softly. “do you know how annoying you are? you’re in my head all day.”
you blinked. “thanks?”
“i spend all day talking about you. seriously.” he got off the couch, dropped to his knees in front of you. “i tell everybody about my wife.”
you tried not to smile.
“all day.”
“that’s not helping your case.”
“it is.”
he grabbed onto your waist, looking up at you with desperate eyes. “every time i stay late it’s not because i don’t wanna come home. you know that, right?” his thumb brushed against your knuckles. “it’s because i’m stupid.”
you snorted. gojo thought he might cry of joy.
he drops his forehead to your stomach. “i miss my wife.”
you rolled your eyes. “satoru.”
he smiles at the sound of his name. “i spend all day waiting to come home to you.”
your chest squeezed, because you knew he meant it.
“i’m sorry.” his words came out quiet and real. “i’ll do better, baby.”
you looked at him, really looked at him, and just saw your husband, the idiot you loved. “come back late again and i’ll move into the guest room permanently.”
he gasped. “that’s terrifying.”
“good.”
he stood up and wrapped himself around you immediately, burning his face in your shoulder, holding you so tightly you almost lost balance.
“gojo.” megumi looked annoyed. “the mission isn’t done.”
gojo checked the time. 5:01 pm. his face immediately brightened. “nanami’s said he’s coming.”
“nanami?” nobara asked.
“he’ll finish it,” gojo says, grinning.
“you’re making nanami do your work?” megumi sounds unimpressed.
gojo was already tightening his blindfold, completely unbothered. “i’ve got my wife waiting for me at home.”
the students groaned.
“here we go,” megumi grumbled.
gojo turned around wearing the biggest, proudest grin imaginable, like he’d won the lottery. “my wife.” he pointed at himself. “waiting.” then pointed dramatically toward the horizon. “at home.”
“please leave already,” megumi deadpanned.
“gojo-sensei, nobody asked,” nobara snipped, though she was smiling.
gojo laughed. “maybe i’ll pick up her favourite food on the way. and some mochi!”
he started talking to himself, all giddy, already picturing the smile on your face when he walks through the front door.
Look what brush Buggy made me also do. Couldn’t help but imagine the brush Buggy tormenting Shanks and this idea seemed too funny not to bring to life!
holding you by the hands: you know that the "you" in a 2nd person pov isn't literally you right? you know that even in a "reader insert" story it is still a character, right? you recognize that because they are not actually you they may make choices different from the one that you would make for the sake fo the story, right? you know that? you know that the only "you" that exists in the context of the story is the you that is reading it? right?
can i be real for one second are we not all cultivating vastly intricate filtered content lists. is that just me. i see little to nothing that bothers me. i block anything that could potentially bother me. i am blocking niche tags from 3 fandoms ago for my own peace of mind. i have the name ‘bruce’ filtered
20 years later. you're kermit. opening night at the muppet theater. you look up. you can't believe it. those two awful cunts from next door are here. neither of them died yet. they're going to be here, forever.
