what if one day you leave me, gojo wonders, frightened beyond belief. he tucks his face in the cradle of your warm palm, eyes open enough to see you smile softly. your fingertips are cold against his cheek.
there are no words for him to say, none that don’t get caught in his throat. gojo has faced down some of the greatest spirits and beasts in japan, even in the world, but this vulnerable, bleeding ache is somehow even more ominous and terrifying.
“what if,” he begins and stops to exhale, nuzzling deeper into your hand. his eyes stay fixed on you — gojo knows you like the path that is walked on every morning, like a favourite poem and the familiar feeling of adoration — which is how he catches the sadness seeping into your eyes.
“you’re such a silly man,” you say. you are too good for him. he knows this in his bones.
but you are with him regardless and he is selfish enough to take what he can get. if you choose to be with him, he will not do you the disservice of throwing your agency back in your face.
“you’re it for me. don’t you know? you’re the love of my life.”
i love you too, gojo thinks, then says out loud. then again and again. i love you i love you i love you; in kisses on your face, across your knuckles, on the curves of your throat.
the feeling rises in him. i will protect you endlessly. gojo knows this sentiment well, has felt it in every cell of his body only every day after he first began falling in love with you.
how fitting, for someone with infinity to express devotion in eternal absolutes. to have love expressed to them in kind.
“you’re mine,” he tells you instead, coy, something to rile you up, make you smirk wickedly. his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. and i protect what’s mine.
“come on,” gojo says. he looks unbearably fond, impossibly sad.
you have bantered with him almost everyday for a year but right now you are helpless but to gaze back at him. you have no words that can match his tone, something beyond you. you want to reach out and shake answers out of him. you want to kiss him until he stops looking like that.
he cups your face, so tenderly that you are falling apart in his hands before you even know it. his fingertips still smell like his jujutsu; which is to say that infinity smells like vintage leather, bergamot, and ripe plums.
gojo burns citrus scents at home, sometimes sandalwood if he’s in a specific mood. you never thought much about it but in this moment, for some reason, your mind catches on it.
“baby.” gojo’s voice is so deep and warm and aching. it makes your heart hurt. when you look into his eyes, they are bright and tired and resigned. they are so blue, you want to drown in them, want to spend eternity doing stupid things like holding his hand and telling him how pretty he is.
“don’t you know? you’re my favourite person. i’d do anything for you.”
this is a lie, you think. gojo will put himself first in almost any situation. and yet, you know he will do unspeakable things for you — that he has done so already.
so what more can you do except catch his wrist, fine bones and soft skin, in your hand; to lean your face into his warm palm. his hands are so big and warm.
“i know,” you reassure him, gentle. his gaze, impossibly, softens further. there is something so fragile about him, a man who you just saw take down a special grade curse without a scratch. “i love you too.”
tw/cw: gn reader, photo-taking, lingerie, spit, light degradation (name calling), implied size kink, a little bit of dom/sub undertones; tiny mentions of praise kink, breeding and mirror sex.
minors dni ; for the secret santa exchange. happy holidays venus @semisgroupie !! hope you like this x
Christmas is a… tentative time for you. It’s not really something you celebrate, but hey, widespread corporate holidays are A Real Thing and also, Gojo Fucking Satoru keeps cursed mistletoe in the halls to annoy everyone so. Tis the season, or whatever.
But the point! The point is that this also falls around your one year anniversary with Nanami Motherfucking Kento: sexiest man alive, forearms of a god, shoulders for days, competency kink’s wettest dream. He’s also, coincidentally, maybe, the love of your life.
You want to do it all with him: slow sex on rainy mornings and kissing him with terrible coffee breath and planting a garden together, spending forever together. You want to watch him spin out his jujutsu like it’s nothing and then meet him at home and watch him gently but firmly pluck lemons from your backyard fruit tree.
Case in point is that you want to get him something special and beyond that, you want to get him something that will make him feel soft and squishy and maybe willing to fuck you into your guys’ new couch cushions. It’s a very nice couch — a pale, pale green and so comfortable and deep that when you sit down, you sink right it. The kind of couch that swallows you whole and is, admittedly, not very idyllic to fuck on but should still be christened.
Lots of gift ideas are in the cards for Kento but it’s hard to get something for a man who is so practical and who indulges himself very intuitively. You know that you are one of his indulgences but aside from wrapping yourself like a gift and putting on a bow on your private parts, there’s not a lot in that department. But there is something that comes to mind, a far off idea that you saw on social media, and it manifests like this: you, in lingerie and Maki, with a camera.
The plan is to make a sexy calendar, every month a collage of your nudes. You brought a variety of lingerie, because the one thing your darling and devilishly handsome boyfriend likes more than buying you lingerie is ripping it off of you, so your collection has amassed pretty well.
There’s a fluffy white set, a bite of tulle and lots of lace. A silk skirt that you hike up to show the curve of your ass. A thong that you hitch around your waist and which covers approximately nothing. Your whole ass is exposed. It’s you, Maki’s unimpressed face, and your private bits against the world.
You put on a teeny tiny miniskirt and an itty bitty top and feel inordinately more exposed than you were in just the underwear. The negligee requires some untangling, more straps than fabric. You arch your back and spread your legs and lollipops get involved.
The photoshoot is fun and sexy and you get a little stirred from it but that’s nothing compared to when Kento opens up his gift. The air noticeably thickens and you can’t help the way you squirm in your seat, just a little. All Nanami does is lay one broad hand over your thigh, fingers giving you a firm squeeze that makes you ache a little, already.
It’s one thing to be in front of the camera, making faces at Maki in between shots and trying to school yourself into the right mindset to fellate a strawberry-flavoured lollipop. It’s another thing entirely to be sitting beside your boyfriend, watching the flicker of his eyes as he methodically and slowly peruses each monthly spread. It’s different and you’ve never felt sexier than when you’re underneath Kento’s gaze, never felt the hot flush of want like you do when he looks over you.
Each monthly spread is a collage, either of you from the photoshoot or of past pictures, alone or together with Kento himself.
January starts off easy, kind of. It’s you in the thong and some socks. You thought it was kind of cute at the time, but now you squirm in your seat, already achingly empty and hyper aware of Nanami’s big, warm hand on you. Your ass is printed out in multiple angles. There’s you, sitting back on your heels, showing off the fullest curves of your cheeks. Bent over the arm of a couch, stretching like a cat. Wearing your boyfriend’s button down, hiked up around your hips to show off as much skin as possible, looking up with a lollipop in your mouth.
Kento’s hand tightens on your thigh and you can’t help the whimper that escapes you.
“You look like a whore,” he says, something hard in his tone, but he doesn’t say anything else, just flips to February. It’s a purposeful tease and when you try to wiggle around again, his fingers grip you harder: a reprimand. You’re going to be bruised from this. You can’t wait to look at them.
March is a strappy number that covers exactly nothing, which Kento would remember because he ripped it an identical piece off of you the first time you wore it for him. There’s you on your knees, presenting for him, back arched and cheeks spread. A picture with a dildo worked into you, straps pulled aside, that you had to kick Maki out to take on self-timer. A few of you and Nanami from the last time you fucked in it: hole spread wide around his fat cock, his hand adding to the straps wrapping around the base of your neck.
Kento, at this point, has pulled you to sit in between his legs, instructing you to hold and flip through the calendar on command in a low, deep tone. It leaves his hands free to wander, pinching your nipples, wandering down between your legs to rub thick knuckles against sensitive places. It’s all you can do it not get on your knees and beg. Every time your head tips back to rest on his shoulder, he forces it up again.
“Head up,” he orders. His fingers squeeze your cheeks, making your lips part. He angles your head to spit in your mouth and you whine, clenching around nothing, desperate and half crazed as he makes you flip another page.
August is a collage of you two from the summer. There was a curse out on the coast, they called in Kento to deal with it, and you spent a blissful two weeks there, fucking between bouts of fucking exorcising and sunbathing between bouts of fucking. Your skimpy bathing suit bottoms leave nothing to the imagination, especially with the way the pictures have perfectly captured your boyfriend squeezing your ass, pulling you up on your toes in a kiss. There’s you in his lap, legs sprawling, his hand high, high up on your thigh. Kento, in his broad shouldered glory, all muscled arms and tiny waist and that broad, broad chest, not bothering to look up for the mirror picture you’re taking, two of his thick fingers inside of you, mouth on your jaw.
Kento gets through the whole calendar, a tent in his pants that you definitely grind on the whole time, while he fondles you, casually, lightly. The second the calendar closes, Kento has already manhandled you onto your knees like you wouldn’t have sank down anyway. The man is an Adonis, chiselled and glorious, and you are so, so desperate for him, you’d do anything he asked in this moment.
“Slut,” he says, tone void of inflection and eyes heated. He doesn’t touch you, just watches you pant for him for a second, eyes big and watery looking up at him. You barely, barely resist the urge to rub your thighs together impatiently. You want to be good for him. You know this look and want to give him it all, want to be a good baby for him for Christmas tonight and have him breed you in reward.
His big hands unbuckle and unzip his pants — measured, patient movements that mean your mouth is already salivating when he frees his massive cock. Kento pumps it slowly with one hand, and you lose track of the plot for a second when his other hand grips the back of your neck, tilting your head further up to spit in your mouth again. When he pulls away, you keep your mouth open for another few moments, eyes fixed on him, a good little bitch with their tongue out. You swallow only when he gives you permission.
“Go on,” he tells you, and you need nothing else to get your mouth on his fat cock. Kento’s such a good boyfriend, training you on his cock for months and months so now, you only struggle a bit before you get his thick head down your throat.
He keeps eye contact with you, because that’s one of his requirements, you must look up at him unless he says otherwise, and you feel one of his big hands pet your head, even as you gag a little on his dick.
“That’s it,” he says. You work a little harder, because Kento is fair in his praise and you’ve always been a slut for it. “Good baby, that’s it.”
minors do not interact. i have promised and delivered @srbxzero for you, my beloved
tw/cw: gn reader. nsfw below the cut — praise, degradation. mentions of semipublic sex, exhibitionism, mirror sex, petnames
i shall set the scene: it’s a bad day. your joints hurt and work was an exhaustive capitalist hellscape and you are one wrong word away from giving up escaping to a lakeside cabin. so you get home, irritable and too exhausted to be irritable, and kuroo knows. he knows by the curve of your mouth and the slump of your shoulders and sends you off to shower. he brings you your favourite hot beverage and puts on a stupid show, something real estate or animal related or your comfort animation, and cooks for you. your day was shit but you go to bed warm and loved and full.
kuroo has amassed a very very large collection of sweatshirts because not only does he buy enough for himself, he buys extra knowing you’re going to steal them. additionally, if he’s buying you a hoodie, he buys it in his size so he can steal it. he calls you a sweater thief and himself pragmatic. like ok consumer
likes to collect things ! when he was a kid he had a bookmark collection (specifically the math and science ones). he travels a lot more these days and likes to pick out magnets for the fridge.
sends you postcards if it’s a long trip. it does not matter if he’ll be back sooner than the postcard will arrive. kuroo has come home from three weeks in america and three days later you got a postcard addressed to “the love of my life”. fucking dork.
genuinely laughs at science memes and jokes. like it does not matter if it is an awful generic physics pun or some niche chemistry joke. he thinks they’re hilarious in a corny, genuine kind of way. you get him those awful shirts with the puns printed out on them and he wears them unironically all the time.
kenma and kuroo are still and always will be besties. there are many times you come home and kenma is over and they are both curled up on the couch. and almost all those times you have just inserted yourself into the cuddle pile and been welcomed. you and kenma are besties — nothing like trashing kuroo and sitting in ambient, comforting silence as you do your own thing.
(i know this is a kuroo headcanon thing but sometimes you and kenma will be on facetime / videocall for hours just vibing. not to say you don’t do that with kuroo too, but rather that you and kenma have a longstanding weekly videocall date).
kuroo likes to bring you flowers but is also delighted when he receives flowers. or when you make him coffee in the morning (he usually does a coldbrew but he’ll never turn down a cortado from the very expensive coffee machine that kenma gifted him).
wears birkenstocks and crocs and slides bc theyre comfy. new balance shoes bc theyre ergonomic. $5000 dress shoes for work. i have nothing else to say.
big fan of jasmine tea and green tea. not a huge fan of hot chocolate but drinks it on the bad days
kuroo eventually joins the local volleyball club that consist of people around his age who will play rec games with other clubs / scrimmage with each other. you are unsure how long this mans will actually last on there considering he is a househusband, works a full time business job and already goes for runs int he morning but he genuinely enjoys going and is on a mission to drag kenma out too. you show up to his games with oranges and water bottles and he kisses you, messy and sweating and glowing with satisfaction, after every game
you guys have a full sized 12 month calendar (cat themed) where you plan out cute dates and grocery shopping days. kuroo is a big meal planner and while you do your fair share of cooking, it’s easier for you to just stock up so you have anything you need on hand. it’s all very domestic and organized and very kuroo. and there is, admittedly, nothing like watching his bright grin over the calendar, inordinately expensive pen in hand to match with his ratty, too short sweatpants and bed head.
kuroo keeps a photo of you in his wallet, tucked behind a couple of cards he rarely uses. i want to say he blushes but this man can also have mad game when he wants. he tries to convince you to keep a polaroid of him but you refuse to carry his dick pic around
bangs fists on table exhibitionist kuroo who slides his hands up your thighs when you’re seated at a restaurant, keeps them high on your leg the whole night. likes to run his fingertips over sensitive places to make you twitch while talking. does an awful job of not smirking while doing so
kuroo is not huge on pda but definitely can do a little sloppy public makeout, a little semi public groping. semi public sex is always a yes for him, esp if someone’s been hitting on you that night
likes to praise and degrade you in turns (calls you sweet, calls you a slut. tells you how you’re all he can think about, his perfect whore). lots of pet names (you know he calls you kitten. do we even have to ask.) and heavy petting
foreplay lasts hours and half of it can be mostly talking, just him saying things to get you riled and teasing / goading you until you’re shaking
loves fingering you, loves eating you out and being on his knees for you. mirror sex is always a yes but in general he loves being able to watch your face
gojo once asks you what you truly, genuinely think of him.
you pause. there are pages and pages in your journal dedicated to him. how he is a supernova, burning up from the inside out. how he is infinite and brilliant and you want to hold him in your palms until eternity comes crashing home. how you think he is a fool and you think he is, often, the smartest person in the room at any given moment.
you settle on saying, “you are a pipedream.”
he laughs. his eyes scrunch into little half moon smiles. they are strikingly bright, the curve of his mouth genuine and sweet.
“i’m right here,” gojo says.
“not always,” you say. you do not mention the missed and cut off phone calls; gojo’s bloody hands the last time he came home at 3am. you do not mention the way he sometimes grows distant, the twist of his mouth when he becomes the jujutsu world’s prodigy, golden boy, strongest sorcerer. you do not have to.
gojo satoru as you know him does not exist in many landscapes. gojo as you see him now, hair down, in soft sweatpants and bare feet, is still as deadly as he is with his bandana around his eyes, in full regalia. your gojo is vulnerable in spades, uncurling around the edges: casual, and a little careful around you, existing in the margins of sunlight and nighttime.
you do not have to say any of this, because gojo knows better than anyone the faces he dons. you know, only in parts, the collateral of them.
it is quiet for a moment, and then, an arm curls over your shoulder. you look at him, try to memorize the cut of his high cheekbones and arch of his brows. the sunrise turns his hair pink and a little gold, warm tones.
“i’m here right now,” gojo promises. “i’m here for you.”
not always, you want to say, words catching in the hollows of your throat. you will break my heart and i will love you regardless, maybe for forever. and yet, you want to believe in him, this pipedream that is your shared apartment and his love and gojo fucking satoru himself, in his bleeding heart, golden veined glory.
you say nothing. when he reaches for your hand, you hold on tight.
you’ve noticed lots of things about oikawa’s hands, over the course of the past few months of talking to him. first of all, oikawa’s nails are always cut very short, and kept very neat and clean. it’s because of volleyball, you know — hands are a legacy, weapons that need to be upkept and treasured.
another thing you’ve realized is that oikawa’s hands never shake — not that you’ve seen, anyway. they are always sure and steady.
you figure out he loves you, long before he will ever say it, because he lets you hold his palms in your own. it’s not handholding, oikawa is very fond of that with just about all of his friends, but it’s rather: you, folding your smaller hands over oikawa’s large ones, tucked into his argentina national team hoodie; and oikawa, no product in his hair, glasses on, relaxed and softened as you pull out the athletic tape.
he looks at you, honey sunlight bleeding through the late morning haze, and you feel the crushing weight of his trust like a deity’s gift, a palm shoving into your heart, a punch strong enough to knock you off your feet.
“don’t tell me,” oikawa starts. he’s eyeing you because you’ve stilled, quiet as you contemplate the callouses on his fingertips. “you’re so in awe of me, you’ve realized you can’t possibly me worthy enough to touch something so divine. fear nothing, i can and will allow you the privilege of being close to me.”
it feels like a privilege, you want to say. you are so vulnerable like this, so loving like this. how could i not feel blessed.
instead, you say, “shut the fuck up,” with all the fond annoyance that is settled in your stomach. you unwrap the athletic tape.
oikawa grins, brilliant and knife-quick and so achingly genuine you are involuntarily smile back. “it’s that or you have a hand kink!” he teases. he’s practically glowing with contentedness and satisfaction. it’s a good look on him.
he is so happy here and you are so happy here, with him, like this, right here.
this does not stop you from pinching the soft skin on the underside of his arm, and taking your own satisfaction in his yelp and subsequent whine.
oikawa’s hands are steady in yours and that is enough. you suspect it will always be enough, to have him trust you like this, just to have him beside you.
cw jjk spoilers / shibuya arc spoilers & i have not read or watched about the shibuya arc yet lmao so this could be terribly off | MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY!
“nanami.” your voice is fraught. you pause, winded, trying to catch your breath for no reason. you haven’t gone anywhere, but he has. “come home already.”
your voice breaks a little. when he left for work, he hadn’t returned and now here you are, eyes blurring; a double betrayal.
you hang up the phone. one day, you know, his voicemail will be full. one day you may not be able to call at all.
how frighteningly dreary and horrifying it is to be ruled by this kind of fear. when you swore your love and life partnership to your best friend (three years in spring, followed by a 10 day coastal honeymoon a month later in summer, all the time your husband could get off), you never thought you’d feel lost like this.
there’s a text in your inbox, asking can we meet for coffee, i need to talk to you.
you send back an affirmative, wishing you had made nanami take a few more days off in general to spend with him. you hope it was all worth it. you hope you made him happy.
you hope — and then stop yourself.
there’s many reasons nanami loved you and one of them was this: you do not lie to yourself, even — even when it makes you feel flayed open; even when the truth crushes your lungs to dust. it isn’t over you, you think, and then: isn’t it?
where are you, you wonder. you’re crying again. maybe it’s been hours, since the call, or a few minutes. your eyes feel too dry and your face hurts from being screwed up, trying to keep the tears back. where are you and what happened and i love you, i miss you so much it hurts.
you see him and you think, that is a man who never loses. you see him and you fall in love.
bakugou katsuki is not a nice man and yet he cradles your heart in his hands. for some reason, you feel like he would let you down gently, even though you know he would not. instead, he would lay you down carefully and callously.
but there is this: he will love you forever. he will protect you until the end of his days. devotion is the burden bakugou has borne his whole life and you, in the centre of his universe, in the peripherals of his dreams, are always going to be one of the best and worst things to have happened to him.
how do you look at a man who has let you hold his legacy, his hands in yours, and not give yourself to him, over and over. how do you see the knife-sharp curve of his smirk and the burning light in his eyes and not think, ah yes. i want to love him until i am dust in this earth: as my eternity, my homecoming.
nobody would ever call bakugou stable and yet he offers himself up time and time again to give you a north star, a home, a guiding voice on the worst of days. it is gritty and it is humbling but bakugou is trying and so are you, reaching out again and again; heart on your sleeve, heart caught in your throat.
it is honest work. it is trying work. it is a relationship, built off of trust that is bone deep and love that drains into the basin of both of your very fucking souls.
is that not it, something between you two that is so deep and fundamental where if you were to ever part, you could never replace the feeling of bakugou’s hands on your vulnerable ribcage, curling into the liminal space of your chest.
if you were to ever part, there is something in bakugou that would shatter before he could rebuild himself, an ache in his hands that would never quite go away to match the one in his heart.
but bakugou has not lost yet and he does not plan to lose you. so: he tries. and you try. and in there, you keep falling in love.
