#sayukiwrites!!

[satorvsslvt]

ᐟᐟ⠀⟢⠀Stay. Please.⠀ᶻ𝗓⠀˚ .⠀ᵎᵎ˖

synopsis. Gojo Satoru is the strongest sorcerer in the world. But when morning comes, he's just a man who refuses to let his wife leave the bed. Not because he's lazy (he is), but because her warmth is the only thing that makes waking up worth it.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. pure fluff, established relationship (married), super clingy and whiny gojo, messy hair agenda, soft morning cuddles, maybe a little tooth-rotting ♪(´▽｀)

word count. 2.7k+

A/N. mama has been busy, late post !! 〒▽〒

The first thing you registered was warmth.

Not the kind from the heater or the sun filtering through the curtains. No, this was him — all six-foot-three of him, wrapped around you like an octopus who had decided you were his favorite rock.

Satoru's arm was draped across your waist, heavy and unyielding. His legs were tangled with yours beneath the mountain of blankets he'd hoarded sometime during the night. His face was buried in the curve of your neck, his breath warm and slow against your skin.

And his hair.

Oh, his hair.

The iconic white locks that usually fell in perfect, effortless waves were now a complete disaster. It stuck up in every direction — flattened on one side from the pillow, sticking out wildly on the other like he'd been electrocuted sometime around 2 AM. A few strands had fallen across his face, and he'd clearly been too deep in sleep to care.

You smiled softly, your heart squeezing in that familiar, painful way it always did when you looked at him like this. Unprotected. Unbothered. Yours.

Slowly, carefully, you tried to shift your weight.

Big mistake.

Satoru's arm tightened around you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with a strength that reminded you — not that you'd ever forgotten — exactly who you'd married.

"Mmm," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "No."

"Good morning to you too," you whispered.

"Not morning yet."

"It's 8:30."

"That's the middle of the night."

You laughed softly, reaching down to brush your fingers against his wrist. "Satoru, I have things to do."

"The things can wait."

"They're important things."

He lifted his head just enough to crack one eye open — still half-lidded, still hazy with sleep, but sharp enough to pin you in place. That one visible eye, the color of the sky just before dawn, stared at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

"More important than me?" he asked, his voice still raspy.

You paused. "That's not fair."

"I'm not playing fair." He buried his face back in your neck, his nose cold against your skin. "I'm playing stay. I always win at stay."

"You made that game up."

"Doesn't make me any less good at it."

You sighed, but you were smiling. You couldn't help it. This was the same man who had stared down curses that would make seasoned sorcerers weep. The same man who had faced death with a laugh and walked away unscathed. The same man who had stood in front of you on your wedding day, blindfold nowhere to be seen, looking at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

And now he was whining about you getting out of bed.

Some things never changed.

"I really do need to get up," you tried again, attempting to peel his arm off your waist.

He responded by wrapping his other arm around you too, effectively caging you in. His legs shifted, hooking around yours like he was building a human fortress. You were pinned. Completely, utterly, hopelessly pinned.

"You're being dramatic," you informed him.

"I'm being efficient," he corrected, his lips brushing against your shoulder. "This is the only way to keep you here."

"There's nothing efficient about this. You're just clingy."

"Clingy implies a lack of purpose. I have a purpose." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder — soft, almost unconscious, like he wasn't even aware he was doing it. "My purpose is keeping my wife in bed where she belongs."

"She belongs out of bed. Living her life. Doing things."

"You can live your life right here." He tightened his arms. "This is life. Peak life. The best life."

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you," he mumbled. "Satoru thinks you're warm. Satoru doesn't want you to leave."

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. "Are you speaking in third person now?"

"I'm speaking in whatever it takes."

You felt him yawn against your skin, his jaw cracking slightly, and the sound was so endearingly human that your heart ached. This was Gojo Satoru — the strongest, the most untouchable, the man who carried the world on his shoulders without ever seeming to feel the weight.

But right now, he was just your husband. The one who ran hot at night and stole all the blankets. The one who mumbled nonsense in his sleep and always, always reached for you before he was fully awake.

"Ten more minutes," you bargained.

"An hour."

"Fifteen minutes."

"Forty-five."

"Twenty, final offer."

He was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe — maybe — he'd fallen back asleep. But then he shifted, pulling you even closer until your back was flush against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head.

"The world can wait," he murmured, his voice soft and sleepy. "Just... ten more minutes of this."

Your resolve crumbled.

"Fine," you whispered. "Ten more minutes."

He hummed in satisfaction, his arms relaxing just slightly — just enough to be comfortable, never enough to let you go.

"Love you," he breathed.

"Love you too."

"Love you more."

"That's not how love works."

"Don't care. Still true."

You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him. The blankets were soft. The morning light was gentle. And Satoru's heartbeat — steady, rhythmic, alive — was the only sound you needed to hear.

Twenty-three minutes later, you were still there.

Not that you were counting.

(You were counting. You'd counted every single minute, and you'd let him have every single one.)

"I can feel you thinking," he said suddenly, his voice still rough from sleep.

"You can feel me thinking?"

"I'm very perceptive."

"You're very nosey."

"Same thing."

You laughed — a real laugh, the kind that shook your shoulders and made his arms tighten around you instinctively. "I need to go, Satoru. The world is calling."

"The world is overrated."

"The world pays our bills."

"The world can pay them later."

You turned in his arms — an awkward shuffle that involved a lot of squirming and a displeased grunt from your husband — until you were facing him. His eyes were still half-closed, his white hair an absolute disaster, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek.

He was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.

"Hi," you said softly.

"Hi," he said back, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Your hair is a mess."

"Your hair is also a mess."

"It's your fault. You were using it as a pillow."

"It's a very comfortable pillow. You should be flattered."

You reached up, brushing the wild strands away from his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a moment — just a moment — he looked so young. So unburdened. So safe.

"I really do have to go," you said quietly.

"I know."

But he didn't let go.

Neither of you moved.

Then, slowly — reluctantly — his arms loosened. Just a little. Just enough.

"Go," he said, but his voice was thick. "Before I change my mind."

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Soft. Lingering.

"I'll make breakfast," you promised.

His eyes cracked open again. "What kind of breakfast?"

"What kind do you want?"

"The kind where you come back to bed after."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Nice try."

"Worth a shot."

You slipped out from under his arms — a careful, practiced escape that you'd perfected over months of marriage — and stood up. The morning air was cooler without his warmth, and you immediately missed it.

Satoru groaned, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. The blankets had slipped down to his waist, revealing the bare expanse of his chest, and his hair was spread across the pillow like a white halo.

"You're staring," he said, not moving his arm.

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are. I can feel it. My wife is ogling me."

"Your wife is leaving."

"Your husband is suffering."

You grabbed his hoodie from the back of the chair — the one he'd left there last night, the one that smelled like him — and pulled it over your head. It fell to your mid-thigh, swallowing you whole.

Satoru lifted his arm just enough to peek at you.

"You're stealing my clothes," he observed.

"I'm borrowing your clothes."

"With intent to return?"

"...Debatable."

He dropped his arm back over his eyes, but you could see the smile spreading across his face. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." You walked over to his side of the bed, leaning down to press another kiss — this time to his lips. Soft. Simple. A promise. "I know."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes — both of them now, open and bright and so impossibly blue — looked up at you.

"Ten more minutes wasn't enough," he said quietly.

"It never is."

"Then stay longer next time."

You smiled. "Maybe I will."

And even as you walked out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, you could feel his gaze following you. Warm. Devoted. Endless.

Somewhere behind you, you heard him sigh — content, happy, utterly, ridiculously in love.

"Married," he muttered to himself. "I'm married. To the most beautiful woman in the world. How did I get this lucky?"

You didn't answer.

But you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

Breakfast was half-finished when you felt arms wrap around your waist from behind.

Satoru's chin dropped onto your shoulder, and you could feel his breath warm against your ear.

"You're supposed to be in bed," you said, not looking up from the stove.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Couldn't, or wouldn't?"

"Same thing."

You felt him press a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher up on your neck, then another just below your ear.

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you," he mumbled against your skin. "Satoru wants pancakes."

"You're getting eggs."

"Satoru wants pancakes and eggs."

"Satoru is very demanding."

"Satoru is very loved, which means he should get pancakes."

You finally turned off the stove and turned around in his arms. He was still half-asleep, his hair still a disaster, his blindfold nowhere to be seen. He was wearing nothing but his sweatpants, and he looked like he'd rolled out of bed approximately thirty seconds ago.

Which, to be fair, he had.

"You look terrible," you said affectionately.

"I look devastating."

"You look like you were hit by a truck."

"A very handsome truck."

You laughed, reaching up to fix his hair — or try to, anyway. It was a losing battle. The white strands slipped through your fingers like silk, refusing to be tamed.

"I love you," you said softly.

His eyes softened. The teasing faded from his face, replaced by something quieter. Something real.

"I know," he said, echoing your words from earlier. "I love you too."

He leaned down and kissed you — slow, lazy, morning-sweet.

When he pulled back, he was smiling.

"So," he said. "Pancakes?"

"Eggs."

"Pancakes and eggs?"

"...Fine."

He grinned, the full megawatt smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place, and pulled you into another hug — this one tighter, warmer, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go.

"Best morning ever," he declared.

"It's not even 9 AM."

"Doesn't matter. You're here. I win."

And honestly?

You couldn't argue with that.

You never made it to the kitchen.

Well — you did. You made the eggs. You even made the pancakes (because you were weak and he knew it). But somewhere between the last bite and the first sip of coffee, Satoru had tugged you toward the couch instead of the bedroom.

"The bed is right there," you said.

"The couch is closer," he'd argue.

"You're impossible."

"You're mine."

And now here you were — curled up on the sofa, the morning light still soft through the curtains, your half-empty coffee mug on the side table. Satoru's head rested in your lap, his long body stretched across the rest of the couch, his feet hanging off the armrest like he was too tall for any piece of furniture ever made.

His eyes were closed. His hair — still a complete disaster — fanned out across your thighs like white silk. He looked peaceful. Pretty. Soft.

You ran your fingers through his messy hair, untangling the knots gently, and he made a sound low in his throat. Something between a sigh and a hum. Content.

"You're purring," you observed.

"I'm not purring."

"You're absolutely purring."

"Shut up. I'm sleeping."

"You're not sleeping. You're just lying there with your eyes closed."

"Same thing."

You laughed quietly, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw.

"Satoru."

"Mm."

"You said ten more minutes. That was forty-five minutes ago."

"Time is fake."

"The clock says otherwise."

"The clock is a liar." He cracked one eye open, peering up at you through his lashes. The blue was striking against the morning light — bright, almost glowing. "Are you trying to leave again?"

"I'm trying to be productive."

"Productivity is overrated."

"Someone has to do the dishes."

"The dishes can wait." He closed his eye again, nuzzling his face against your thigh. His nose was cold. You yelped slightly, and he grinned — slow and sleepy and unfairly handsome. "See? You're not going anywhere."

"You're impossible."

"You've mentioned that."

You sighed, but you were smiling. Your fingers found their way back into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he melted. Actually melted. His whole body relaxed beneath your touch, his shoulders dropping, his breathing slowing.

"I could stay like this forever," he murmured.

"Then we'd starve."

"Worth it."

"No food?"

"You're enough."

You swatted his shoulder lightly, and he laughed — a low, sleepy rumble that vibrated through your legs. His hand came up to rest on your knee, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the fabric of your sweatpants.

"Do you remember," he said softly, "when we first started dating? And I used to fall asleep on your shoulder during movies?"

"You still do that."

"Yeah, but back then I was pretending to be cool about it."

"You were never cool about it. Your ears turned red every single time."

"...I was hoping you didn't notice that."

"I noticed everything."

He opened his eyes again, looking up at you with an expression that made your chest ache. Soft. Vulnerable. Loving.

"Good," he said quietly. "I wanted you to notice."

The morning light shifted, casting patterns on the wall. Somewhere outside, a bird was singing. The world was waking up — slowly, gently, like it didn't want to rush either.

Satoru turned his head, pressing a kiss to the inside of your palm.

"I love you," he said against your skin.

"I know."

"Say it back."

You leaned down, your hair falling forward to brush against his cheeks, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips — soft, quick, a whisper of a kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered. "Now let me do the dishes."

"No."

"Satoru."

"Satoru loves you. Satoru thinks you should stay right here. Satoru's head is very comfortable in your lap and he refuses to move."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're ridiculously in love with me."

"Unfortunately."

He grinned — that full, blinding smile that made your heart stutter — and pulled your hand down to rest over his heart. You could feel it beating beneath your palm. Steady. Strong. Alive.

"Ten more minutes," he said.

"You said that forty-five minutes ago."

"Ten more minutes this time."

You looked down at him — at his messy hair, his sleepy eyes, his soft smile. At the man who could destroy cities but chose to spend his morning with his head in your lap.

"...Fine," you said. "Ten more minutes."

He closed his eyes, still smiling.

"I win."

"Yeah," you said softly, your fingers finding their way back into his hair. "You win."

The coffee grew cold. The dishes waited. The world kept turning, slow and patient.

And Satoru stayed exactly where he was — head in your lap, heart in your hands — exactly where he belonged.

A/N. he's so adorable he could keep me in bed all day and i wont complain (┬┬﹏┬┬)

Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3

[satorvsslvt]

the way satoru holds you after a long day ૮◞ ◟𑁬∘˙˚

The door closes behind you with a click that feels louder than it should, echoing in the quiet apartment. Twelve hours. Twelve hours of meetings that could have been emails, a commute that smelled like wet umbrellas and someone else's regret, and the particular hell of pretending to be a functional adult while your brain felt like lukewarm oatmeal.

You don't even bother with your shoes. You kick them somewhere in the general direction of the mat and let your bag slide off your shoulder to the floor with a heavy thud that probably wakes up the neighbors.

"That's a safety hazard," a voice drawls from the living room, lazy and warm and immediately, unfairly comforting. "I'm going to trip over that and die, and then you'll have to explain to everyone why the strongest sorcerer in history was taken out by a woman's handbag. The scandal."

Satoru is sprawled across the couch like he owns it, which, technically, he half-does. He's got one arm draped over the back, the other holding his phone above his face, and he's wearing that stupid blindfold even though he's indoors, at night, with absolutely nowhere to be. He looks like a cat who has claimed the sunniest spot in the house and will defend it with casual, devastating violence.

You don't answer. You don't have words left in you. You just stand there in the entryway, your coat still on, staring at him with what must be a truly pathetic expression because his head tilts, just slightly, like he's actually looking at you even though the blindfold is in the way.

"Oh," he says, and his voice changes. "Oh, baby. Come here."

The walk to the couch takes approximately seven years. When you reach him, you don't ask. You don't negotiate. You simply collapse on top of him, aiming for his chest and hitting somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

"Oof." His phone clatters to the carpet. "You're crushing my flawless physique. Do you know how many people would pay actual, substantial money to be in your position right now? And you're using it like a discount memory foam mattress. No appreciation for art."

You make a sound. It's not a word. It's barely even human. You press your face into his shirt and breathe him in — cedar and something warmer, something that makes your eyes sting with how badly you want to close them.

"That bad, huh?" His arm comes around your back, long and easy, settling you more securely against him. His other hand finds your hair, fingers threading through the strands with a gentleness that contradicts every annoying, theatrical thing he's ever said. "Tell me."

You shake your head, just barely. Too tired to explain. Too tired to relive it.

"Words are hard," he murmurs, understanding. "That's okay. I can talk enough for both of us. It's a gift, really. A burden I bear with incredible humility."

A huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close. Your hand finds the fabric of his shirt and fists in it, anchoring yourself.

"Let's see," he continues, his voice dropping to something low and intimate, his hand still moving through your hair. "You had to smile at people who didn't deserve it. Someone was condescending. Probably a man. Probably with a bad tie. You wanted to set him on fire but you didn't because you're civilized and I'm not there to do it for you."

Your nose wrinkles against his chest. He feels you smile.

"Bad tie?" you whisper, your voice rough.

"The worst. Clip-on. Probably novelty. Neon color or something."

"Not neon colors."

"Worse?"

You nod, just slightly. Your eyes are closed now. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, a rhythm you could fall into.

"Monsters," he says softly. "Actual villains. The world is cruel to put you in a building with fluorescent lighting for eight hours. You should be somewhere with natural light and excellent company. Specifically me. I'm the excellent company."

"You're okay," you mumble.

"Okay!?" He sounds personally offended, but his hand keeps stroking your hair, so you know he's not actually wounded. "I'm devastating. I'm the gold standard. People write songs about men like me."

"Do they?"

"They will. When I'm gone they'll realize what they lost." He shifts beneath you, adjusting his position without dislodging you, lifting one leg so you can settle more fully against him. "You're still wearing your coat." He tugs at the sleeve gently. "I'm not gonna bite, you know. Unless you're into that. No judgement."

"Too tired to take it off."

"Allow me."

He sits up just enough to peel your coat off your shoulders, maneuvering it down your arms with surprising care. You let him move you around, too exhausted to protest. He tosses the coat somewhere — you hear it hit a chair — and then he's pulling you back down, arranging you against him with an attention to detail that would be ridiculous if it didn't feel so good.

"Better?" he asks.

You hum, which he seems to accept as a yes. Your head finds the crook of his shoulder. Your arm drapes across his stomach. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, he's solid and warm and real in a way that makes the whole terrible day feel like it happened to someone else, in another life.

"You know," he says, and his voice has dropped to something almost whispered, "there was a time when I thought this kind of thing was beneath me. Domestic bliss. Cuddling on couches. Being someone's furniture."

"You're not furniture."

"I'm excellent furniture. Top tier. Custom-made. Very expensive."

You huff out a breath that might be a laugh. Your fingers curl against his side, finding the hem of his shirt and slipping underneath to touch skin. He inhales, sharp and surprised.

"Cold," he hisses.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be warm." But his arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, so quick you might have imagined it. "You're freezing. Why are you freezing? Was the heating broken at work? Was it? I'll kill someone. Just say the word."

"Not broken. Just... tired."

"I know." His hand returns to your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone with unbearable tenderness. "I know, baby. I've got you."

The word baby shouldn't make your chest ache like this. He's said it a thousand times, teasing, theatrical, throwing it around like confetti. But right now, in the dark quiet of the apartment, with his heartbeat under your ear and his thumb brushing your skin, it feels like something he's keeping safe just for you.

"Sleepy?" he asks.

"Mm."

"Don't fight it on my account. I'm very comfortable. I'm enjoying this. You're like a weighted blanket, but cuter. And more opinionated."

"Mm, not... opinionated right now."

"No?" You can hear the smile in his voice. "What are you right now?"

You think about it. Your eyes are closed. His hand has moved back to your hair, stroking slow and hypnotic. "Yours," you whisper, and the word slips out before you can catch it, too honest, too bare.

He goes still for a moment. Just a moment. Then his arms tighten around you, almost fierce, and you feel his lips press against your forehead.

"Yeah," he says, and his voice is rough in a way you've never heard before. "Yeah, you are."

Another kiss, this one lingering at your temple. Then another, at the edge of your eyebrow. Each one is deliberate, unhurried, like he's mapping something sacred, like he's trying to memorize the shape of you in the dark.

"You're not fair," you murmur.

"Never claimed to be."

His lips find your forehead again, right at the hairline, and stay there. You can feel his breath, warm and even. The arm around your back pulls you closer, until there isn't space for anything between you, not even the bad day you've been carrying. It can't survive here, pressed up against him. It dissolves like sugar in rain.

"Sleep," he whispers against your skin, and his voice is so soft it barely disturbs the air. "I've got you. I'm right here."

You want to say something. You want to tell him he's insufferable, that you don't need him, that you're fine on your own. But your eyes are closing, your body is sinking into him, and the last thing you feel is his mouth pressing one final, lingering kiss to your forehead as the world goes soft and dark around the edges.

"Dream of me," he murmurs, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "Obviously."

You don't need to dream of him. He's already there — in your chest, in your bones, in the quiet spaces you didn't know you were saving for him. You close your eyes, and the world fades, but he doesn't. He's the last thing you feel, the last thing you hold onto as sleep pulls you under.

A/N. not proofread, hope you enjoyed sweetheart! ♡ currently planning to make a reversed version soon ♪(´▽｀)

series. part 15 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend" series!! all parts will be found here! (can be read as a oneshot)

🏷️: @hllgiw , @feralparagonsamurai , @happyfoxtechnomancer

© 2026 satoruvsslvt. do not repost, translate, or feed to ai. this is a work of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only. i do not own jujutsu kaisen or its characters—i am simply borrowing them with love (and a lot of sexual tension). if you see this fic on any platform other than tumblr (where it's posted), it has been stolen. please let me know.

[satorvsslvt]

morning cuddles with satoru ໒꒰˵- ˕ -˵꒱১

Waking up early is a curse Satoru usually avoids. The world's too quiet, too still, too full of space for thoughts he'd rather not have.

Today, he doesn't mind.

You're still asleep. That much is obvious from the way you're sprawled across his chest, one leg thrown over his, hair a disaster he can feel against his chin. Your hand is fisted in his shirt like you're worried he'll escape while you're unconscious.

He won't.

He shifts, just slightly, and your grip tightens. Even in sleep, you're possessive. The thought makes him smile into the dim morning light.

Forty minutes. He's been awake for forty minutes, watching the gray turn gold through the curtains, feeling your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. He could move. Should, probably. His back is starting to complain about the angle and there's coffee to be made, emails to ignore, a whole world waiting for him to be Gojo again.

Instead he traces lazy patterns on your shoulder, feather-light, and watches your face.

You make a noise. Something soft, displeased, and your nose wrinkles like you're arguing with someone in a dream. He wants to know who. Wants to find them and fight them, probably, which is ridiculous because it's a dream and he's Gojo Satoru and he doesn't get jealous of imaginary people.

He does, though. A little.

The sun climbs higher and he keeps watching. Catalogues the way your eyelids flutter, the faint part of your lips, the absolutely unfair softness of you right now. No guard. No performance. Just... you.

He could take a photo. Should, for blackmail.

His hand stills on your shoulder and he doesn't reach for his phone.

You're starting to wake up. He can feel it in the tension creeping into your limbs, the change in your breathing, the way your forehead furrows like you're trying to remember what consciousness feels like. He should look away. Pretend he was asleep too, or bored, or literally anything other than completely absorbed in watching you exist.

He doesn't.

Your eyes crack open.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The first thing you register is warmth. A solid chest beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, arms loose around your back like you're wrapped in something too good to be true.

The second thing is the staring.

You force your eyes open and immediately want to close them again. Everything's too bright, edges blurred, and there's a shape looming over you that takes several blinks to resolve into anything human.

Satoru. Propped on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression that's half grin, half something softer.

"Morning," he says.

You squint at him. Your eyes feel gummy, your brain feels like it's wading through syrup, and you know without looking that your hair is doing something unfortunate. You probably look like roadkill.

He probably looks like he was carved by angels.

"Stop," you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me."

"Can't help it." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering. "You're very look-at-able right now."

"I'm very what?"

"All squinty and confused. Like a cat that just got woken up from a nap." He demonstrates, squinting dramatically and wrinkling his nose. "'Where am I? Who are you? Is this reality?'"

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely do." He drops the expression, smiling softer now. "It's cute."

You groan and try to bury your face in his chest, but he catches your chin, gentle, keeping you where he can see you. His thumb traces your jawline, and his eyes have gone serious in a way that makes your stomach flip.

"What?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing." But he doesn't look away. "Just... looking."

"For how long?"

He shrugs, all casual innocence. "Awhile."

"How long's awhile?"

"Long enough to notice you drool a little."

"I do not—"

"You do." He's grinning again, all teeth, and you feel your face go hot. "It's okay. I still like you."

"You suck."

"Mm." He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, and you can feel him smiling against your skin. "But you like me anyway."

You don't answer. Can't, really, not with him this close, morning — soft and unexpectedly tender. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there's something there, something he isn't saying, something that makes your chest ache in the best way.

"Go back to sleep," he says quietly.

"You just said I drool."

"And I meant it affectionately." He settles back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you're tucked against his side again. "Thirty more minutes. Then I'll make you coffee and you can yell at me properly."

"Promise?"

"Promise." He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, and you hear him take a breath like he's memorizing this too. "Now close your eyes. You're ruining my view."

"Your view of what?"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, and you feel his lips curve against your hair.

"Sleep," he says. "Or I'll tell everyone about the drooling."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

You close your eyes, smiling despite yourself, and let the warmth of him pull you back under.

Maybe you didn't hate mornings that much.

A/N. part 14 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend" series!! all parts will be found here!

© 2026 satoruvsslvt. do not repost, translate, or feed to ai. this is a work of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only. i do not own jujutsu kaisen or its characters—i am simply borrowing them with love (and a lot of sexual tension). if you see this fic on any platform other than tumblr (where it's posted), it has been stolen. please let me know.

[satorvsslvt]

❛   The Weight of Coming Home  ♡

synopsis. You waited three weeks. You set up the apartment perfectly — candles, dinner, soft music. Three weeks of counting down. Three weeks of missing him. Three weeks of planning the perfect night. And then he walked through the door — and nothing went the way you'd hoped.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, gojo is exhausted and snappy, harsh words, crying, emotional hurt, six eyes detail, soft comfort afterward, happy ending

word count. 1.7k+

A/N. this is for the lovely anon who requested this! love ya <3

You'd been counting down the days.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. You'd marked each one on the calendar, crossing off the numbers with a little more hope every morning.

Today was the last one.

Today, he was coming home.

You'd left work early. You'd gone to the grocery store, wandering the aisles, picking up everything he liked — the expensive soda, the brand of chips he pretended not to care about, the ingredients for his favorite dinner. You'd even found candles. Soft ones. The kind that made the apartment smell like vanilla and cinnamon.

You wanted it to be perfect.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights. You changed into the sweater he liked — the one he always said made you look cozy. You checked your phone. No new messages.

He said he'd be home by eight.

It was seven forty-five.

You lit the candles.

The door opened at eight thirteen.

You heard his keys hit the counter. The familiar sound of his shoes being kicked off. The sigh — heavy, exhausted, the kind that came from somewhere deep.

You stood up from the couch.

"Satoru?"

He was in the doorway. His hair was messier than usual. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck, and the skin under his eyes was dark, bruised-looking. His uniform was rumpled. There was a tear in his sleeve.

He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"Hey," you said softly. "Welcome home."

He didn't answer.

You stepped closer. "I made dinner. Your favorite. And I got those chips you like, the ones from—"

"I don't want chips."

The words came out flat. Sharp. Like a door slamming shut.

You stopped.

"I just— I thought—"

"I don't care what you thought." He walked past you into the living room. "I just spent three weeks fighting things you can't imagine. I don't need candles. I don't need dinner. I need to not have to pretend right now."

Your chest tightened.

"I wasn't asking you to pretend," you said quietly.

"Then what were you doing?"

"I was trying to make you feel better."

"Well, you're not."

The words hit like a slap.

You blinked. Your eyes were stinging.

"Satoru..."

"Don't." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "Just— don't."

He was pacing now. Back and forth, back and forth. His hands were shaking.

"You don't understand," he said. "You can't understand. You're not the one who has to—" He stopped. "You're not the one who has to watch people die. You're not the one who has to make choices that get people killed."

"I know," you said.

"You don't know."

"I know I don't know." Your voice was smaller now. "But I'm trying to—"

"Trying to what? Fix me?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Love you."

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was brittle and sharp and it cut through the room like glass.

"Love isn't going to bring them back."

You flinched.

He saw it.

Of course he saw it. His Six Eyes missed nothing — the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way a tear slipped down your cheek before you could wipe it away. He saw the flinch. He saw the hurt. He saw the exact moment his words pierced through you.

And it broke him.

"You flinched," he said. His voice was barely audible.

You didn't answer.

"I saw you flinch." He wasn't pacing anymore. He was standing still, staring at you like he'd never seen you before. "When I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "When I said those things. You flinched like you were expecting to be hit."

"Satoru—"

"I never wanted to be the reason you flinched."

The room was silent.

The candles flickered. The dinner was getting cold. The apartment smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and something sad.

"I'm going to bed," you said.

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't."

You walked past him. You didn't look back.

You didn't cry right away.

You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, your hands in your lap. The tears came slowly — first a sting in your eyes, then a few drops on your cheeks, then the kind of crying that made your whole body shake.

You pressed your hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds.

You didn't want him to hear.

You didn't want him to know how much it hurt.

But he heard anyway.

The door opened.

"Sweetheart,"

He didn't say anything. He just stood there, in the doorway, looking at you.

Your face was wet. Your eyes were red. Your shoulders were still shaking.

He looked like someone had punched him in the chest.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You didn't answer.

"I'm so sorry."

"You should go." Your voice cracked. "You're tired. You don't need to—"

"I need to be here."

"You just said—"

"I know what I said." He stepped closer. "I know what I said, and I was wrong."

You looked up at him.

He looked terrible. His eyes were red. His jaw was tight. His hands were shaking.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said. "I'm not asking you to pretend it didn't happen. I just—" He stopped. "I need you to know that I didn't mean it."

"You did."

"I meant that I was tired. I meant that I was angry. I didn't mean—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean you."

He knelt in front of you.

"I've been gone for three weeks," he said. "Three weeks of nothing but fighting and blood and darkness. And all I could think about was coming home to you."

"Then why—"

"Because when I walked in and saw the candles and the dinner and the way you looked at me—" He stopped. "I didn't feel like I deserved it."

"Satoru..."

"I don't deserve you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I've never deserved you. And every time I come home and you're still here, I don't know how to handle it."

"You could try saying thank you."

He laughed — a broken, watery sound.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"You already said that."

"I'll say it a hundred more times."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

You looked at him — at his tired eyes, his shaking hands, the way he was kneeling on the floor like he was asking for forgiveness.

"Come here," you said.

He climbed onto the bed beside you, slow, careful, like he was afraid you'd push him away.

You didn't.

You pulled him into your arms.

He buried his face in your shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"I know."

"I love you."

"I know."

"I don't— I don't know why you stay."

"Because I love you too."

He held you tighter.

You lay there for a long time.

His head was on your chest. Your fingers were in his hair. The candles in the other room had burned out. The dinner was cold. The apartment was dark.

"I ruined it," he said quietly.

"You didn't."

"I snapped at you. I said horrible things. You went to all that trouble, and I—"

"You were tired."

"That's not an excuse."

"I know." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "But it's a reason."

He was quiet for a moment.

"I don't want to be that person," he said. "The one who comes home and makes you feel small."

"Then don't."

"I'm trying."

"I know."

He looked up at her.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Stay. Even when I'm like this."

"Because I know you."

You brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"I know the person you are when you're not exhausted. When you're not carrying the weight of the world. And that person is worth staying for."

His eyes were wet.

"You're going to make me cry," he said.

"Then cry."

"I don't cry."

"You're crying right now."

"I'm not."

"Your face is wet."

"It's allergies."

"It's November."

"I'm allergic to November."

You laughed — soft and tired.

He smiled — small and broken but real.

"I love you," he said.

"I know."

"I'm going to make it up to you."

"You don't have to."

"I want to." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Tomorrow. I'm going to make you breakfast. And I'm going to hold your hand. And I'm going to be better."

"You're already better."

"I'm trying."

"That's all I ask."

You woke up to the smell of eggs and toast.

You blinked. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. The bed was empty beside you.

Satoru was in the kitchen. Again.

He was wearing the same apron. There was a smear of butter on his sleeve. The eggs were slightly overcooked. The toast was perfectly golden.

He looked up when you walked in.

"You're up," he said.

"You're making breakfast again."

"I messed up yesterday." He slid an egg onto a plate, his movements careful, deliberate. "I wanted to try again."

You walked over to him.

"Satoru..."

"I know I can't fix it with eggs." He set the plate down and finally looked at you. His eyes were soft. Hopeful. Scared. "But I can try. Every day. Until you believe me."

"Believe what?"

"That I'm sorry." His voice was quiet. "That I love you. That I'm going to do better."

You looked at him — at the butter on his sleeve, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were still shaking just a little.

"Did you sleep?" you asked.

"Not really."

"At all?"

"A little."

"You need to sleep."

He set the spatula down and turned to face you fully.

"I need to take care of you first."

You reached over and took his hand.

"I'm okay," you said.

"Are you?"

"Yeah." You squeezed his fingers. "I am."

He stared at you. His throat moved as he swallowed.

"I don't deserve you," he said.

"Stop saying that."

"But it's true."

"It's not." You stepped closer. "Now sit down. Eat your eggs. And then you're going to sleep."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, softly: "Yes, ma'am."

It wasn't a joke. It wasn't sarcastic. It was quiet and sincere, like a promise he was making to himself as much as to you.

You felt your chest warm.

He sat. He ate. He held your hand across the table.

And when he finally fell asleep on the couch an hour later — his head on the pillow, his breathing slow and even — you covered him with a blanket and kissed his forehead.

He didn't wake up.

But his hand reached for yours in his sleep.

You held it.

A/N. i genuinely cried at this ion wanna talk abt it 😭 i really hope you guys enjoyed this! <3 broke my heart a little writing this bcz of the things im going thru rn 🥹 i hope you guys are all okay and feeling amazing !! 😼💞

Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3

[satorvsslvt]

➤⠀Carry Me Home⠀<3

synopsis. Gojo Satoru carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. You mumble "love you," in your half-asleep haze. He doesn't forget. The next morning, he teases you about it — and you both end up laughing, blushing, and tucked back into each other's arms.

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. pure fluff, established relationship, domestic fluff, soft gojo, teasing, kisses, forehead kisses, pet names (angel, love), sleepy confessions, no angst, happy ending!! <3

series. part 8 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend" series!! all parts will be found here!

word count. 0.6k+

A/N. EKEKSKEK HE'S SO ADORABLE BRO 😭😭 was kicking my feet the whole time writing this

The movie was something with explosions. You'd stopped paying attention twenty minutes in, lulled by the warmth of the couch and the low rumble of the sound system.

Satoru noticed immediately. Your breathing shifted, going soft and even against his shoulder. Your head had gradually migrated there, heavy and trusting, and he went completely still so he wouldn't disturb you.

He'd been waiting for this. Not in any weird way, just... he knew you. The way you always fought sleep like it was losing some battle, stubborn even when your eyes were drifting shut. The way you'd only ever let yourself go completely when you felt truly safe.

He loved that. That even after all this time, after sleeping beside him more nights than he could count, you still trusted him with that vulnerability.

It still got him. Every single time.

Satoru waited another ten minutes, watching the light from the screen flicker across your face, memorizing the way your eyelashes looked against your cheek. Then he hit pause, gentle and slow, and shifted to gather you up.

You were lighter than he expected. Or maybe that was just adrenaline, the familiar spike of being trusted with something fragile. Your head lolled against his shoulder, and he felt your breath warm through his shirt.

"Love you," you mumbled, not quite awake, not quite asleep.

He stopped walking. His arms tightened, pulling you closer, and he couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. His lips found your forehead, soft and deliberate.

"I love you more, angel," he whispered.

You made a small sound, something between agreement and protest, and he kept walking, heart full, carrying you through the dark hallway to your bedroom.

He lowered you onto the mattress with ridiculous care. Pulled the covers back, tucked them around you. Slid in beside you and fitted himself against your back, arm wrapping around your waist, hand over your heart.

You pressed back into him, already half-gone, and he buried his face in your hair.

"Sleep," he murmured, and you did.

Satoru woke up first, sunlight filtering through the curtains. You were still tucked against him, exactly where you'd fallen asleep. He watched you breathe for a while, cataloging the moment, the weight of your words still warm in his chest.

You stirred eventually, blinking awake with no idea where you were or how you'd gotten there. You rolled over, confused, and found him watching you with something soft and knowing in his eyes.

"Morning," he said.

"Did you—" You looked around, piecing it together. "Did you carry me?"

"Mm." He brushed hair from your face. "You said something, too."

Your eyes went wide. "I did not."

"You absolutely did." He was grinning now, unrepentant, eyes crinkled at the corners. "Something about loving me? Adoring me? Can't quite remember, you were pretty incoherent. Mostly just 'Love you, You're perfect, Never leave me—'"

"Stop it!" You buried your face in the pillow, groaning loud enough to wake the neighbors. "Oh my god, you're the worst."

He laughed, full and delighted, and pulled you back against him before you could escape. "Am I, though? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the one who tucked you in like a princess and stayed all night to make sure you didn't float away."

"You—" You tried to glare at him but you were smiling, cheeks flushed pink. "You're never letting this go, are you?"

"Never." He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "I'm gonna bring it up at our wedding. First toast. 'Remember when she confessed her undying love and didn't even remember?'"

You groaned again, but you were laughing now, and you let him settle the covers around you both, let him tuck you back against his chest.

"For the record," you mumbled into his shirt, "I definitely don't sound like that."

"Sure, angel." He squeezed you tight, still smiling against your hair. "Whatever helps you sleep."

A/N. cred to @xinwntr for the div !! :D

Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3

[satorvsslvt]

THE SHAPE OF DEVOTION !

synopsis. Five of Jujutsu Kaisen's most powerful men, each with their own preferred way to worship and claim their lover. From Gojo's theatrical intimacy to Geto's spiritual possession, Nanami's devastating precision, Toji's brutal urgency, and Sukuna's monstrous excess, these headcanons explore how each man transforms sex into something uniquely theirs: a performance, a ritual, a calculation, a claiming, or a complete consumption of body and will. <3

pairing [SEPARATE]. gojo x f!reader, geto x f!reader, nanami x f!reader, toji x f!reader, sukuna x f!reader (in order)

content & warnings. MDNI, 18+, explicit sexual content, multiple orgasms, penetrative sex, power dynamics, double penetration, non-human anatomy/mouths in atypical locations.., rough sex, size differences, breeding undertones?, possessive language

A/N. i studied their characters while writing this, so i hope these arent too ooc!! (╥﹏╥)

Satoru's favorite position is you on top, riding his cock. But what he truly craves is the raw, vulnerable intimacy of being seen and seeing, of connection that goes far beyond the physical while your bodies move together in desperate, sweaty rhythm.

He settles back against the pillows with none of his usual theatrical arrogance, blindfold discarded somewhere across the room, those impossible blue eyes fixed on you with an openness that few ever witness. There's no mask here, no playful deflection, just Gojo Satoru gazing at you like you're the only thing in his world worth looking at, and the hunger in that gaze makes your cunt clench with anticipation.

"Come here," he says softly, patting his thighs, and his voice carries none of its usual teasing edge. He reaches for you as you approach, hands warm and steady as they guide you over his hips. When you settle against him, when your thighs spread to accommodate his narrow hips, he doesn't rush to fill you. He wants to feel you first, wants his fingers to find where you're already dripping wet and swollen, wants to watch your face as he strokes you open with patient, reverent touches.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathes, and there's wonder in it, genuine awe that makes your heart clench even as his thumb circles your clit with maddening precision. His cock stands thick and heavy between you, flushed dark and straining, but he ignores his own need in favor of sinking two fingers into your heat, curling them to find that spot that makes your hips buck forward. "So wet for me already. So fucking perfect."

When you finally sink onto him, when his length stretches you open and fills you completely, your combined moans fill the room like a symphony. His head falls back with a groan that sounds like gratitude, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, but his eyes never leave yours. Those Six Eyes track every micro-expression, every flutter of your lashes, every time your cunt tightens around him in response to his depth.

"Move when you're ready," he whispers, hands settling on your hips with gentle pressure that contrasts with the hard length buried inside you. "Take what you need from me. Use my cock, sweetheart."

And you do, finding a rhythm that makes sparks dance behind your own eyelids, and Satoru watches like he's memorizing this moment, like he wants to burn the image of you above him into his perfect memory forever. Your hands find his chest, fingers spread over his pecs, feeling his heartbeat thunder against your palms as you ride him with increasing desperation.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave, and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples with devastating accuracy. "Just like that. You feel so fucking good around me, so tight, so hot—"

Soon his control frays at the edges, and he'll grip your hips with sudden urgency, pulling you down to meet his upward thrusts. The angle is devastating, his cock dragging against that spongy spot inside you that makes you cry out, and he'll do it again, and again, watching you unravel with something like devotion in his expression even as his own pleasure cracks through his composure.

Your hand drifts between your bodies, seeking your clit to push yourself over the edge, but he catches your wrist with a low sound of disapproval. "Let me," he'll growl, voice rough with affection, with need, and he guides your hand away to replace it with his own, fingers finding your clit and pressing, flicking with practiced precision. "I want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when I make you fall apart."

And when you do, when his fingers work you with devastating skill and your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your cunt spasming around him and your vision whiting out, he'll follow immediately, spilling inside you with a choked sound that might be your name. He'll keep thrusting through both your peaks, prolonging the pleasure until you're both trembling and overstimulated, until you collapse forward against his chest, his cock still twitching as he fills you with pulse after pulse of his release.

After, he'll wrap his arms around you and hold you close, still buried deep, his heartbeat thundering against your ear. He'll press kisses to your hair, your temple, the sweat-dampened curve of your neck, and when you finally meet his eyes, they're soft with an emotion he rarely shows the world.

"Stay with me," he'll murmur, hands tracing lazy patterns on your back, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust that makes you both gasp. "Just like this. I want to feel you for a while longer. Want to stay inside you until I'm hard again and ready to take you properly."

And he will, keeping you close, keeping his cock nestled in your warmth, because for Satoru, the physical connection is just a manifestation of something deeper he can't quite name. He'll whisper filthy praise against your skin, tell you how good you feel, how perfect your cunt feels around him, how he never wants to let you go, and you'll feel worshipped in a way that has everything to do with his six eyes and even more to do with his heart.

Suguru's preference is taking you from behind. But he transforms it into something almost spiritual in its intimacy, a ritual of possession and devotion that leaves you trembling and claimed.

He guides you to the bed with hands that worship every inch of skin they touch, pressing gentle kisses to your shoulder as he positions you exactly where he wants you. On your hands and knees, thighs spread, back arched in a curve that makes his breath hitch. He doesn't rush to mount you. Suguru takes his time, kneeling behind you with reverent patience, his palms mapping the landscape of your body with deliberate, worshipful strokes.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice thick with emotion, and there's something almost broken in the way he says it, like he can't believe you're real, can't believe you're his. His hands spread you open, thumbs tracing your folds where you're already slick and wanting, and he groans at the sight of you glistening for him, ready for him, open and vulnerable in a way that makes his chest ache with devotion. "So perfect for me. So fucking beautiful."

When he pushes inside, it's slow, torturous, and he leans forward to press his entire body along your back, mouth at your ear, breath hot and shaky against your skin. The position lets him surround you completely, chest to back, hips to ass, his cock buried deep while his hands find yours, fingers interlacing, pinning you in place even as he whispers filthy praise.

"Feel that?" he breathes, hips rolling in a rhythm that builds steadily, each thrust nudging that spot inside you that makes your vision spark. "Feel how well we fit together? How perfectly you take me?"

What makes Suguru devastating is the duality he maintains even as he loses himself. He can be gentle, almost tender, pressing soft kisses between your shoulder blades while his thrusts remain measured and deep, his free hand sliding around to find your clit with unerring accuracy. And then his teeth will graze your shoulder, his grip will tighten on your hands, and he'll drive into you with sudden, shocking force that makes you cry out his name.

He loves the contrast, loves feeling your cunt flutter around him when he surprises you with roughness after such careful tenderness. His fingers work your clit in tight, desperate circles, matching the rhythm of his hips, and he'll groan when he feels you clench in response, your body trying to draw him deeper, keep him closer.

"That's it," he'll growl, losing some of his composure, his voice cracking with the effort of holding back. "Let go for me, let me feel you come apart around me—"

And when you do, when your orgasm rips through you and your cunt milks his cock with desperate spasms, he doesn't follow immediately. He holds himself deep, feeling every pulse of your release, grinding hard against you until you're whimpering from the overstimulation, until your peak finally begins to ebb. Only then, only when you're softening around him, trembling and spent, does he let himself go, spilling inside you with a choked sound against your spine, his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as he fills you.

He'll stay there for long moments, still hard, still filling you, his mouth pressed open and panting against your skin. His hands will release yours to slide around your waist, gathering you close, pulling you upright so you're kneeling together, his cock still nestled deep while his arms band around your chest.

"Don't move," he'll whisper against your neck, almost pleading, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust that makes you both gasp. "Want to stay inside you. Want to feel you around me while I catch my breath."

After, he'll gather you into his arms fully, arranging you on your side with him spooned behind you, and he'll stroke your hair with hands that still tremble slightly from the force of his release. He'll press kisses to your shoulder, your throat, anywhere he can reach, and when you finally turn to meet his eyes, they're dark with an emotion that borders on worship.

"One more?" he'll murmur eventually, already stirring against your ass, his hand sliding down to find where he's still wet from you both. "Let me take you slower this time. 'Want to feel every moment."

Kento's favorite is missionary, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and he makes it devastatingly effective through sheer precision, barely restrained intensity, and a devotion that reveals itself in every calculated movement.

He approaches you with methodical patience, his tie already loosened, his shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal the hard planes of his chest. There's something about the contrast, the composed exterior giving way to raw need, that makes your breath hitch before he even touches you.

"Let me look at you," he murmurs, and his voice carries none of its usual clipped restraint. He settles between your thighs with deliberate care, his palms tracing up your sides with worshipful slowness, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you arch. His thumbs brush over your nipples, watching them tighten, watching your lips part with a small sound that makes his jaw tighten with restraint.

When he finally positions himself at your entrance, his cock thick and flushed dark and straining against your wetness, he doesn't rush. He holds himself there, letting you feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and watches your face with an intensity that should be illegal. Those usually guarded eyes track every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breath, every time your hips try to tilt upward to take him deeper.

"Look at me," he demands, voice rougher than his usual composure allows, and he pushes inside in one slow, deliberate thrust that fills you completely, stretches you perfectly, makes your vision spark at the edges. "Stay with me. I want to see everything,"

And you do, because Kento makes it impossible to look away. His forearms bracket your head, muscles flexing with every subtle movement, and he finds a rhythm that builds steadily rather than rushing toward the finish. Each thrust is measured, angled to drag against that spot inside you with devastating consistency. His hips roll in tight circles when he's buried deep, grinding against you, and then he'll pull back almost completely before sinking home again with a force that makes you cry out.

What makes Kento absolutely ruinous is his control. He'll shift his angle slightly, watch your reaction, adjust again, cataloging exactly how to make your eyes roll back, your mouth fall open, your cunt clench around him in helpless response. He'll grip your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip, changing the depth, the pressure, watching you unravel with focused attention.

"Touch yourself," he'll command, voice dropping lower, rough with his own restraint. "Want to watch you. Want to see how you look when you're getting close."

And he watch he will, his thrusts slowing to a deliberate, grinding pace that keeps you full, keeps you stretched, while his eyes track your hand moving between your bodies. He'll groan when your fingers find your clit, when your back arches and your breath hitches, his hips giving a sharper thrust that makes your rhythm falter.

"Keep going," he'll growl, and his hand will cover yours, not taking over but pressing, guiding, showing you the pressure he wants to see, the speed that matches his thrusts. "Just like that. Let me feel you,"

When your orgasm builds, when your cunt starts fluttering around him and your movements become desperate, he'll take over completely. His hand will trap yours against your clit, holding the pressure steady while his hips snap faster, harder, driving into you at the perfect angle to push you over. He'll watch your face as you come apart, watch your eyes lose focus, your mouth fall open in a silent cry — or atleast you think so — and only then will he let himself chase his own release, his thrusts turning erratic as he spills inside you with a groan that sounds wrenched from his chest.

He'll collapse against you after, but not fully, catching himself on his forearms to keep his weight from crushing you, his face buried in your neck. His breathing is shaky, his heartbeat thundering against your breast, and he'll stay there for long moments, still buried deep, his hips giving small, involuntary thrusts as aftershocks ripple through him.

"Stay with me," he'll murmur eventually, his voice rough and tender, rolling to his side and pulling you with him, arranging you against his chest without breaking the connection. His hand will stroke down your back, slow and soothing, and he'll press kisses to your hair, your temple, the curve of your jaw. "Don't pull away yet. Want to feel you around me while we rest."

And he will, keeping you close, keeping himself nestled in your warmth, his hands tracing lazy patterns on your skin until his breathing finally steadies, proving that for Kento, the aftercare is as deliberate and thorough as everything else he does.

Toji's preference is bent over what surface is closest, and he makes it brutal, primal, and devastatingly effective with a stamina that leaves you wrecked and trembling.

He doesn't bother with beds when the urge strikes him. He'll take you against the kitchen counter, your hips jerked back to meet his, your cheek pressed against cool tile while his cock drives into you from behind with force that makes your vision spark. Against the bathroom sink, mirror fogging with your breath, his hand gripping your jaw to force you to watch yourself fall apart, your own eyes glazed and desperate. Against the hood of a car in some dark parking lot, your legs barely holding you, his massive frame caging you completely while his hips snap against yours with wet, filthy sounds that carry in the night air.

What defines Toji is pure, animalistic intensity barely contained in human skin. He loves the position where he can grip the back of your neck with one scarred hand, not choking but controlling, holding you in place while he pounds into you with force that makes your toes curl. His other hand will grip your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you back to meet every brutal thrust, his pelvis slapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds that fill whatever space you're in. The Heavenly Restriction that made him a monster among sorcerers also gifted him with physical capabilities that extend to this, to the bedroom, to the way he can fuck you until you're incoherent and still be ready for more.

There's no patience in him, no teasing buildup. When Toji wants you, he takes you, and the position that lets him do that most effectively is anything that puts you at the perfect height for him to sink deep and stay there. He'll growl against your ear, filthy and direct, telling you exactly how your cunt feels around him, how good you take it, how you're going to come on his cock whether you're ready or not.

"Fuck, you're tight," he'll grunt, his rhythm punishing, relentless, each thrust nudging that spot inside you that makes sparks dance behind your eyelids. "Squeeze me like that again. Yeah, just like that—"

He loves the sounds you make when he hits deep, loves the way your back arches when he finds the angle that makes you cry out. His hand will slide around to find your clit, rubbing rough, desperate circles that match his pace, not gentle but demanding, pushing you toward the edge because he wants to feel you come apart around him, wants to feel your cunt flutter and clench until he can't hold back anymore. His fingers are calloused, scarred, and the texture adds something maddening to the pressure, makes you gasp and buck against his hand.

"Touch yourself," he'll command when you're close, when your walls are fluttering around him and your breath is coming in desperate gasps. "Want to watch. Want to see how you look when you're getting there."

And you'll obey, because Toji's voice carries that authority, because your body is his in this moment. Your fingers will find your clit, rubbing tight circles while he keeps driving into you, his thrusts becoming erratic as he watches you, as he feels you tighten around him. He groans when your orgasm crests, when your cunt spasms around him and your cry fills whatever space you're in, and he'll keep thrusting through it, prolonging your peak until you're whimpering, oversensitive, your hand falling away because you can't take anymore.

Only then will he let himself follow, spilling inside you with a snarl that sounds almost animal, teeth sinking into your shoulder as his hips jerk in short, helpless thrusts that empty him completely. He'll stay buried in you for long moments after, breathing hard, his hand still possessive on your hip, his cock still twitching as aftershocks ripple through him.

But Toji isn't done. He never is. When he finally pulls out, he'll turn you around, lift you onto whatever surface you're using with ease that shouldn't be possible, and settle between your thighs again, already hardening, already ready for more. His mouth will find yours in a kiss that tastes like sex and dominance, his hands rough as they guide your legs around his waist.

"Again," he'll demand, not ask, guiding himself back inside you while you're still trembling, still sensitive, your cunt fluttering around him as he fills you once more. "Not done with you yet. Going to fuck you until you can't remember your own name."

And he will, slower this time, grinding deep, making you feel every inch of him, every stretch, every pulse of his cock as he builds you up again with devastating patience that contrasts with his earlier brutality. He'll watch your face as you come apart a second time, a third, until you're limp and trembling and entirely his, until he finally spills inside you again with a groan that sounds like victory.

Sukuna's favorite position is you pinned beneath him, completely immobilized. His extra arms ensuring you cannot move, cannot escape, can only take what he gives, and what he gives is more than any single man could offer.

He'll arrange you on his shrine-like bed, his massive frame looming over you, those black markings seeming to shift and pulse in the dim light like living things. His main hands will grip your wrists, pinning them above your head, while his extra arms hold your thighs spread wide, hold your hips tilted at the perfect angle, hold you open and vulnerable and entirely at his mercy. But that's not all. The mouth on his stomach, the one that can speak and devour and desire, will press open and panting against your lower belly, teeth grazing your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the sweat gathering there.

"Look at you," he'll rumble, his voice like gravel and honey, and his eyes, those extra eyes, track every tremor of your body with predatory focus. "So small beneath me. So fragile. So fucking mine."

When he pushes inside, it's slow, deliberate, and he wants you to feel every inch of his girth, every stretch, every moment of your body yielding to him. But Sukuna doesn't have one cock. He has two, positioned one above the other, and when he enters you, he fills you completely, the upper one stretching your cunt while the lower one presses against your ass, nudging, threatening, making you feel the stretch of double penetration even as only one fully claims you. The sensation is overwhelming, the fullness maddening, and he'll watch your face contort, watch your eyes widen, your mouth fall open, and he'll groan at the sight, at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him in helpless response.

"Good," he'll praise, and the word sounds almost tender despite the threat in his tone. "Take me. Take all of me."

What makes Sukuna devastating is his stamina, his creativity, and the sheer wrongness of his body that somehow translates to perfect pleasure. Those extra limbs mean he can touch you everywhere at once. One hand will find your breast, thumb rolling your nipple with rough precision. Another will slide between your bodies to find your clit, pressing and circling with devastating skill. Another will grip your hip, holding you still while he begins to move, his thrusts starting slow and deep, grinding against that spot inside you that makes your vision spark.

But the mouth on his stomach, that hungry, devouring mouth, will press lower. It will find your clit from below, tongue flicking out to taste where you're stretched around him, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The sensation of being touched there, of being eaten while being fucked, while his cocks stretch you open and his hands hold you immobile, is too much, overwhelming, and he'll feel you clench around him, feel your body try to process the barrage of sensation.

"Be still." he'll command, his voice dropping lower, while his hips will snap forward with sudden force that makes you cry out.

And when he moves in earnest, when his thrusts become punishing and the mouth on his stomach works you with devastating skill, you'll have no choice. Your orgasm will crash through you in waves, your cunt spasming around his upper cock while the lower one presses insistently against your ass, the rhythm of his hips never faltering, the mouth never stopping. He'll groan like a victory, like a claim staked, and he won't follow immediately. He'll keep thrusting through your peak, prolonging it until you're blabbering, until your vision whites out, until you're soft and trembling and entirely his.

Only then will he let himself chase his own release, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip tightening on your wrists, his extra arms drawing you closer, holding you tighter, as he spills inside you with a sound like a roar trapped in his chest. He'll stay there after, still buried deep, still holding you pinned, the mouth on his stomach pressing gentle, almost tender kisses to your trembling belly.

"Mine," he'll whisper against your lips, his hips giving a small, involuntary thrust that makes you gasp, his cocks still twitching inside you. "Say it."

And when you do, when you whisper that you're his, he'll smile with all his teeth, with the mouth on his stomach smiling too, and he'll start moving again, already ready for more, already planning how he'll take you next, how he'll use every part of his monstrous body to make you scream.

A/N. i hope you lovelies enjoyed while reading !! <3

taglist. @hllgiw , @feralparagonsamurai

Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3

[satorvsslvt]

—⠀SATORU AS YOUR BOYFRIEND ♡

ʚ synopsis. He's loud, annoying, and absolutely insufferable — but he's also yours. Gojo Satoru is many things: the strongest sorcerer alive, a menace to society, and a man who has never been jealous a day in his life. (Until some guy puts his hand on your lower back at a work event, and he learns something new about himself.) From jealousy to heartbreak, from aquarium dates to summer festival confessions, from mood swings to carrying you back to bed — this is a collection of soft, fluffy and vulnerable moments with Satoru as your boyfriend. He's down bad, he's not subtle about it, and honestly? You wouldn't have it any other way.

ʚ pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

ʚ cw. fluff, established relationship, mutual pining, friends to lovers, soft gojo, gojo is down BAD, pet names, forehead kisses, cheek kisses, forehead kisses, real kisses, idk bro everywhere kisses, clingy gojo, jealous gojo (soft version), period comfort, mood swings, protective gojo, shoko and geto being menaces (affectionate), mild suggestive themes (kissing and tension), tooth-rotting fluff, established friendship to lovers, pining, yearning, gojo being pathetic (affectionate), gojo loves his girlfriend (and soon-to-be-wife) agenda, comfort, happy endings!!

ʚ taglist. open!!

ʚ A/N. I LOVEE writing soft fluff for gojo !! he deserves them all <3 he's so cute and i just knoww he'd be such a great partner 🥹🥹 please lmk if you'd like to be added in the taglist!! <3

ʚ credits. div: @giraisol and @suupersonic | art: unknown, please let me know if you have the artist's social media so i can credit them properly!

01. GREEN EYED MONSTER

Gojo Satoru has never been the jealous type. He's confident, untouchable, the strongest — why would he ever feel threatened? Then some guy at a work event puts his hand on your lower back, and Satoru learns something new about himself. He's very, very jealous. (And terrible at hiding it.)

02. THE WORLD'S WORST PATIENT

The common cold has met its match. Unfortunately, that match is a whiny, dramatic, blanket-buried Gojo Satoru who is convinced he's on his deathbed. You're just trying to get him to drink soup. (He wants candy instead. And cuddles. And for you to call him a good boy.)

03. KNEADLESSLY IN LOVE

Gojo Satoru can bake. He's actually pretty good at it. But tonight, he's not trying to impress you — he's trying to make you laugh. (The flour is everywhere. The cookies are burnt and are practically charcoal. He's never been happier.)

04. I'LL FIND YOU (I ALWAYS WILL)

You're tired of being his second priority. Tired of loving someone who's never there. So you leave — into the cold, into the rain, into the dark. He follows. He always follows. But this time, he's scared he won't find you in time.

05. AISLE BE THERE FOR YOU (IN THE SNACK AISLE)

You brought him for emotional support. You forgot he's the reason you need emotional support. Grocery shopping with Satoru was supposed to be quick. Thirty minutes, in and out. That was an hour ago. He's put pudding cups in the cart three times. You've taken them out three times. He's now fake-crying in the frozen foods aisle. You're dating a toddler. You wouldn't trade him for anything.

06. GOLDEN HOUR (AND SALTWATER KISSES)

The beach at 2 AM is empty, quiet, and yours. Satoru drags you there to wait for the sunrise — but somehow, you spend more time watching him. (He pretends not to notice. He's lying.)

07. I'M FINALLY HOME

He's been gone for weeks. Missions, meetings, responsibilities — always something. You miss him. He misses you. And then one Saturday, you come home to find a dress you've never seen before, and a man who's been trying to find his way back to you.

08. CARRY ME HOME

Gojo Satoru carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. You mumble "love you," in your half-asleep haze. He doesn't forget. The next morning, he teases you about it — and you both end up laughing, blushing, and tucked back into each other's arms.

09. GOJO SATORU'S GUIDE ON HOW TO SURVIVE A FAMILY DINNER

It's the first time you're bringing Gojo Satoru home to meet your family. They have no idea he's a sorcerer. You know. He thinks he's being subtle. He's not. ("The baby photos are worth it!" he says.)

10. HOPELESS (FOR YOU)

Gojo Satoru is absolutely useless at folding laundry, but he's an expert at stealing your heart. ♡

11. THE STARS YOU LIKED

Gojo Satoru pretends to forget your one-year anniversary. You try not to be hurt. He's been planning this all along. (He remembers everything.)

12. JUST BECAUSE (I LOVE YOU)

Gojo Satoru's been working on this for weeks. Late nights, crumpled paper, messing up the folding, starting over. He wanted to give you something that showed how much you mattered. (He's never been more nervous in his life.)

13. A STUDY IN SAYING "I LOVE YOU" (Part 2 of "Just Because (I Love You)")

Gojo Satoru spends three weeks writing you a letter — 520 reasons, pipe cleaner flowers, gifts and all the words he couldn't say out loud. A letter about love as something you can hold.

14. MORNING CUDDLES W/ SATORU

Waking up in Gojo's arms feels different — softer, warmer, like the world can wait a little longer. And for once, you don't mind staying in bed.

15. THE WAY SATORU HOLDS YOU AFTER A LONG DAY

You don't have the words for the kind of day you've had. But you don't need them—because Satoru already knows how to put you back together.

MORE COMING SOON . . .

[satorvsslvt]

♱⌣⌣ Green Eyed Monster .𖥔˖

synopsis. Gojo Satoru has never been the jealous type. He's confident, untouchable, the strongest — why would he ever feel threatened? Then some guy at a work event puts his hand on your lower back, and Satoru learns something new about himself. He's very, very jealous. (And terrible at hiding it.)

pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader

content & warnings. fluff, jealous gojo (soft version), established relationship, possessive but not toxic, satoru is EMBARRASSED about being jealous, protective vibes, kissing, LOTS of pet names, shoko and geto teasing gojo HIHII

series. part 1 of "Satoru as Your Boyfriend" series!! all parts will be found here!

word count. 3.4k+ (does not include text messages!)

A/N. HES SO CUTEE AWHAWH

Satoru didn't get jealous.

That was the thing about being him. He was Gojo Satoru — the strongest sorcerer in the world, the most wanted man in every room he walked into, the kind of person who could have absolutely anything or anyone he wanted. Jealousy was for people who had something to fear. People who weren't sure of themselves. People who weren't him.

And he had nothing to fear.

Or so he told himself, standing in the corner of yet another boring Jujutsu High networking event, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers that he hadn't taken a single sip from.

"You're doing it again," Shoko said, not even looking up from her phone. She was leaned against the wall next to him, already bored out of her mind, watching the room through half-lidded eyes.

"Doing what?" Satoru asked, his voice casual. Too casual.

"That thing where you stare at someone like you're calculating exactly how to make them disappear from the face of the earth. You know. Your specialty."

Satoru's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm not staring at anyone."

"You've been staring at that guy for seven minutes," Shoko replied, finally glancing up. Her eyes followed his gaze across the room. "Seven minutes, Satoru. I counted."

"I've been observing," he corrected, his tone clipped. "There's a difference."

"Mm. And what, exactly, are you observing?"

Satoru didn't answer. Because he couldn't. Because if he opened his mouth right now, he might say something he couldn't take back — something like "I'm observing the way his hand keeps finding excuses to touch my girlfriend's arms" or "I'm observing how he's standing way too close to her" or "I'm observing the exact angle I'd need to Infinity his stupid face into next week."

Shoko finally looked up from her phone, following his gaze across the room. You were talking to someone — some assistant from the Kyoto branch, some guy Satoru didn't recognize and didn't care to know. The guy was tall, annoyingly handsome, and he kept laughing at things you said. Too loudly. Too eagerly. Like he was trying to impress you.

Like he didn't see Satoru standing right there.

"You're jealous," Shoko said flatly.

"I'm not jealous."

"You're literally turning green."

"I'm not turning anything—" Satoru started, but then he saw it. The guy's hand slid down to the small of your back. Casually. Like he had any right to touch you there. Like your boyfriend wasn't ten feet away, watching the whole thing.

Satoru's eye twitched.

Shoko smirked, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Oh, this is going to be good."

You were mid-conversation — something about mission protocols, something boring that you were only half-paying attention to because this guy had been talking for five minutes and you were starting to wonder where Satoru had wandered off to — when you felt an arm wrap around your waist.

Not roughly. Not aggressively. Just... there. Warm and familiar and distinctly his. The arm tightened just slightly, pulling you back against a solid chest, and you felt the brush of lips against your temple — soft, almost absent, like he couldn't help himself.

"Hey, baby," Satoru said, his voice smooth and easy. But you felt his fingers press just a little more firmly into your hip. A reminder. A claim. Mine.

You looked up at him. His blindfold was on, but his head was tilted in that particular way that meant he was looking at the guy across from you. Not glaring. Not threatening. Just... looking. The kind of looking that made lesser men break into a cold sweat.

"Hey, sweetheart," you said back, playing along even though you knew exactly what he was doing. "I was wondering where you went."

"Got bored," he shrugged, but his arm didn't move from your waist. Not an inch. "Who's your friend, pretty girl?"

The guy — you'd already forgotten his name, something with a K maybe? — shifted uncomfortably under Satoru's unseen gaze. "I'm— we were just discussing—"

"Great." Satoru smiled. Not his real smile. The other one. The one that didn't reach his eyes and made everyone who saw it take a small step backward. "Well, we should get going, my love. Things to do. People to see."

"We do?"

"We do." He was already steering you away, his hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back — right where that other guy's hand had been. Like he was erasing the touch. Replacing it with his own. "Nice meeting you. Enjoy the rest of your night, yeah?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He just guided you across the room, his touch warm and steady, until you were standing by the windows at the far end of the venue, away from everyone else, the city lights glittering behind the glass.

"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"What was what, darling?" He was playing innocent, but his ears were already turning pink.

"You just... dragged me away from a conversation."

"I didn't drag you, princess. I escorted you. There's a difference."

"That's literally the same thing."

"It's really not."

"Satoru."

He sighed, running a hand through his white hair. His blindfold had slipped slightly during his dramatic intervention, and you could see the edge of his eyebrow, the furrow in his brow. He looked flustered. Embarrassed. Cute.

"Who was that guy, anyway?" he asked, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

You blinked. "I don't know. Some assistant from Kyoto? I think his name started with a K?"

"And he had to stand that close to you?"

"He was just talking, Satoru."

"His hand was on your back, sweetheart." Satoru's voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "I saw it. He put his hand on your lower back and left it there for way too long."

"He was just being polite, Satoru." you pointed out, though you were struggling not to smile. "Not everyone is trying to steal me away."

"I touch your back when we talk," he said, stepping closer. His hands found your waist again, pulling you gently toward him. "He doesn't get to."

You stared up at him — at his pink ears, his slightly furrowed brow, the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth like he was trying not to say something he'd regret.

And then, slowly, you smiled.

"Satoru," you said, drawing out his name like a tease. "Are you jealous?"

"No."

"You are. You're totally jealous."

"I'm not jealous. I'm protective. There's a difference, princess."

"Name one difference."

"The difference is—" He stopped. Paused. His ears went from pink to red. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You're so jealous, baby."

"I'm not—" He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. His arms wrapped around you fully, pulling you against his chest. "You're impossible, you know that?"

You laughed, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy white hair. He melted into your touch instantly, his whole body relaxing against yours, a soft hum escaping his throat.

"I don't get jealous," he mumbled against your shoulder, his voice muffled. "I'm not that guy, sweetheart."

"You're literally that guy right now, my love."

"I'm never that guy."

"You're being that guy, darling."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't, pretty boy."

He sighed. His arms tightened around you. "...I really don't, baby. I really, really don't."

Later, when you got home, Satoru was quiet.

Not the bad kind of quiet — not the distant, unreachable kind that made you feel like he was a thousand miles away even when he was right next to you. Just... thoughtful. Introspective. His hand found yours on the couch, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm while he stared at the ceiling.

"You know I trust you, right, sweetheart?" he said finally, his voice soft.

You turned to look at him. His blindfold was off now — just his eyes, soft and blue in the dim lamplight, reflecting something vulnerable. Something honest. He looked young like this. Unprotected.

"I know, Satoru," you said.

"It's not that I don't trust you, baby." He paused, searching for the right words. "I just... I don't trust them. I don't like the way they look at you, my love. Like you're something to be... taken. Like I'm not standing right there. Like you're not mine."

"Satoru—"

"I know it's not rational." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just a hollow, self-deprecating sound. "I know I'm being stupid, princess. I'm Gojo Satoru. I'm not supposed to feel... threatened. By anyone. I'm the strongest. I've faced down curses that would make grown men weep. But when I see someone touch you — when I see someone look at you like they have a chance—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "I want to remind them that you're mine. And I hate that, pretty girl. Because you're not mine. You're your own person. You can talk to whoever you want. You can let whoever touch—"

"Satoru."

He looked at you.

You leaned over and kissed him. Soft. Slow. Deliberate. You poured every ounce of reassurance you had into that kiss, and you felt him exhale against your lips, felt his shoulders drop, felt his hand come up to cup your cheek like you were something precious.

"I am yours, baby," you said against his lips. "I'm yours and I'm my own person. Both things can be true at the same time."

He stared at you for a long moment — at your eyes, your lips, the small smile playing at the corner of your mouth. Then his shoulders relaxed completely, and he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he mumbled against your skin. "For being weird tonight. For being jealous. For dragging you away like a caveman."

"You weren't weird, my love. You were... cute."

"Cute?"

"Jealous you is very cute, darling."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one eyebrow raised. "I'm never being jealous again, princess. I'm above it."

"Sure you won't, baby."

"I won't. I'm the strongest. I don't get jealous."

"Mmhmm."

"I'm serious, sweetheart."

"The strongest jealous boyfriend."

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch. "I'm leaving you."

"You're not going anywhere, pretty boy."

He sighed. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until your chest was pressed against his and you could feel his heartbeat, steady and warm. "You're right, baby. I'm not."

The next time it happened, you were at a small café down the street from your shared apartment.

It was a Saturday morning, the sun was golden through the windows, and you'd just wanted a quiet coffee before heading back to curl up on the couch with Satoru. Nothing fancy. Nothing worth noting.

Except the barista was cute.

You noticed — because you had eyes, not because you were interested. He was tall, lanky, with kind brown eyes and a friendly smile. The kind of guy who probably had a dog and went on hikes and remembered people's orders.

"One oat milk latte," he said, sliding the cup across the counter. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his smile widening. "It's on the house today. For the pretty customer."

You laughed politely, reaching for your wallet. "Oh, thank you, but I can pay—"

"She said she can pay."

Satoru's voice came from directly behind you, smooth as silk and cold as ice. His hand appeared on your lower back — firm, possessive, deliberate — and he stepped up beside you, towering over the counter like a warning sign.

The barista's smile faltered. "Oh, I didn't realize—"

"Clearly." Satoru's smile was razor-sharp. "Thanks for the coffee. Very generous. We'll be going now, baby."

He took the cup from the counter, wrapped his other arm around your waist, and guided you out of the café before you could even process what had happened.

The door swung shut behind you. The morning air was cool on your flushed cheeks.

"Satoru," you said, turning to face him. "Did you just... jealous-interrupt me again?"

"No, baby."

"You did. You totally did, my love."

"I was being efficient, sweetheart. He was wasting your time."

"He was being nice, Satoru."

"He was being flirty, pretty girl. There's a very big difference."

You stared at him — at his red ears, his stubborn jaw, the way he was holding your coffee like a trophy. He stared back, unblinking, refusing to admit defeat.

"You're impossible, darling," you said finally.

"You've mentioned that before, princess."

"I'm dating a toddler."

"You're dating the strongest sorcerer in the world, actually."

"You're a jealous toddler, baby."

"I am not—" He stopped. Took a breath. Ran a hand through his already messy hair. "Okay, sweetheart. Fine. Maybe I'm a little jealous."

"Maybe?"

"...A lot jealous, my love. I'm a lot jealous. Are you happy now?"

You smiled — wide and bright and full of affection — and reached up to cup his face in your hands. His eyes fluttered shut immediately, his whole body leaning into your touch like a sunflower seeking the sun.

"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru," you said softly. "You don't have to scare off every guy who looks at me, pretty boy."

"I know, baby." He opened his eyes, and they were soft now. Warm. Vulnerable. "But I want to."

"That's not healthy, darling."

"I never claimed to be healthy, sweetheart." He pressed a kiss to your palm. "I just claimed to be yours."

You laughed — bright and surprised and so full of love it made your chest ache — and he kissed you right there on the sidewalk, coffee forgotten, the world fading away around you.

"You're ridiculous, Satoru," you whispered against his lips.

"I'm yours, princess," he corrected, his forehead resting against yours. "There's a very big difference."

Later that night — after the café incident, after you'd spent the afternoon curled up on the couch together while watching bad movies, and after Satoru had apologized approximately seventeen more times (you'd stopped counting) — his phone started buzzing.

He glanced at the screen. Rolled his eyes.

"It's Shoko," he said, already reading through the messages. "She's being annoying."

"Nothing new there," you said, leaning over to look.

The group chat was, as always, chaotic.

Satoru's fingers flew across the screen, his expression indignant.

He hesitated for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then, with a dramatic sigh you could hear from across the couch, he typed:

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Satoru shot you a look of betrayal. "You're supposed to be on my side," he complained.

"I'm on no one's side," you said sweetly. "I'm an agent of chaos."

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "traitor" before turning back to his phone.

You watched his thumbs hover again. He was typing, deleting, typing again.

Satoru stared at his phone for a long moment. His ears were turning pink again. You could see him trying to come up with a comeback.

He failed.

You burst out laughing — actually laughing, the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Satoru tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him and flopped backward with a dramatic groan.

"They're the worst," he declared, staring at the ceiling.

"You love them," you said, still giggling.

"I tolerate them. Barely."

"You literally just said you don't hate Shoko."

"Don't quote me at me."

You grinned, crawling over to curl up against his side. His arm came around you automatically, pulling you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You're cute when you're flustered," you said.

"I'm never flustered."

"Your ears are red."

"The room is warm."

"It's November."

"The heater is warm."

You reached up and tugged gently at his earlobe. He swatted your hand away, but he was smiling — that soft, private smile he only let you see.

"I love you, you know," he said quietly.

"I know, baby."

"Say it back."

"I love you too, Satoru. Even when you're a jealous mess."

"I'm not a jealous mess."

"Your phone says otherwise."

He groaned, burying his face in your hair. "I'm never looking at that group chat again."

"Sure you won't, pretty boy."

"…I really hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't."

He sighed, his arms tightening around you. "…No, I don't."

That night, you were lying in bed, half-asleep, the sheets tangled around your legs and Satoru's arm draped across your stomach. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city outside the window, and everything was quiet and warm and safe.

"Hey, baby," he whispered.

"Mm, Satoru?" you mumbled, barely conscious.

"I'm sorry. For being... like that tonight. At the café."

You opened your eyes, blinking in the darkness. He was propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair was a complete disaster — flattened on one side, sticking up on the other — and his eyes were soft in the dim light. He looked adorable like this. Unprotected. Yours.

"Like what, my love?" you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.

"Jealous. Possessive. Weird." He paused, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip. "I've never been like this before, sweetheart. With anyone. I've never cared enough to be."

You reached up and brushed his white hair back from his forehead, your fingers trailing down to trace the line of his jaw. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

"I know, Satoru," you said softly.

"I don't like it, princess. Feeling like I could lose you. Even when I know I won't." He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "It makes me act... not like myself, pretty girl."

"Maybe this is yourself, darling," you said, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Maybe you've just never cared enough about anyone to feel it before. Maybe jealousy isn't weakness, Satoru. Maybe it just means you love me."

He was quiet for a long moment. His eyes searched yours in the darkness, looking for something — reassurance, maybe. Or permission.

"That's... actually really insightful, baby," he said finally.

"I have my moments, my love."

He smiled — that soft, private smile he only gave you in moments like this, when the world was asleep and nothing existed except the two of you — and leaned down to kiss you. Slow. Sweet. Full of everything he couldn't say out loud.

"I love you, sweetheart," he whispered against your lips.

"I know, pretty boy."

"Say it back, princess."

"I love you too, Satoru. More than all the baristas in the world."

He laughed — a real laugh, warm and surprised — and buried his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he never wanted to let go.

"I'm still going to glare at anyone who touches you, baby," he mumbled into your skin.

"I would expect nothing less, my love."

"And I'm not sorry about the Kyoto assistant."

"I know you're not, darling."

"Or the barista."

"Definitely not the barista."

"And if anyone ever puts their hand on your back again, sweetheart —"

"Satoru."

"—I'm not saying I'll do anything violent. I'm just saying I might, pretty girl."

You laughed, pulling him closer until there was no space left between you, and pressed a kiss to the top of his messy white head.

"Go to sleep, Satoru," you murmured.

"Can't, baby."

"Why not, my love?"

"Too busy being jealous of your dreams, princess."

"My dreams, darling?"

"You might dream about someone else, sweetheart. Someone with better hair."

"No one has better hair than you, pretty boy."

"That's true." He paused, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Wait. Was that a compliment, baby?"

"Go to sleep, Satoru."

"...I love you, my love."

"I love you too, darling."

"More than the barista?"

"Satoru."

"I'm just asking, sweetheart!"

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. And when you felt his breathing even out a few minutes later, his arms still wrapped around you like he was afraid you'd disappear, you pressed another kiss to his forehead and held on just as tight.

Jealous Gojo was a lot.

But he was your jealous Gojo.

And you wouldn't have him any other way.

A/N. if you can't tell, i am NOT talented at writing jealousy, so i hope you guys still enjoyed this!! 😭

next up: sick gojo.. or maybe a cooking disaster?.. 🧐

Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3