*pulls up chair to the middle of the cowboy katsuki Saloon* tell all the nasty gojo thoughts. we're multiculturally horny in this town.
I’m thinking about the time Gojo Satoru almost tells you he loves you.
If you’d ever admitted to anyone that the man you’d been sharing a bed with for over a year now had never confessed anything close to that sort of affection, they might look at you like you were crazy.
There have been times when he wants to say it for sure, although he doesn’t share that information with you. Times when his tall form has to leave your side before missions, where he lets the words float through his chest only to seal his lips together at the last second, the dying words leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Times when you’ve lost more than you could save, tears wetting his shirt as he holds your trembling form in the dark, lips pressed into your forehead.
And rarer, but still just as strong, the urge to say it in moments like these. Where your sweaty body is sticking to his in the haziness of a morning that’s yet to see the sun, more night than anything else still.
Your fingers dig into the firm planes of his stomach, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin. He wishes you’d leave more marks, remind him there’s still someone he trusts enough to let close to him, for those days where the loneliness feels like it’s going to swallow him whole.
You’re prettiest like this, when your guard is down and you’re whimpering his name, hips lifting off him until only the tip of his cock is nestled inside you. The exhale you let out when you sink back down is something that’ll echo in his head when he sees you next, as if you only feel relief when he’s inside to you like this.
His hands slip over your thighs, content to do nothing but hold you as you find a rhythm, mouth parting in a whine when the tip of his cock brushes against the spot he knows will make you see stars. He makes no move to repeat the action, content to watch you like this, until you’re pleading with him to make you cum, pleading for him to fuck you properly.
Your hooded gaze meets his as he lazily drags it over your body and the way you look at him has him sucking in a sharp breath. It knocks him off his feet, the look in your eyes in these moments.
He’s used to admiration from other sorcerers for his gifts, by women for his looks, but the way you look at him is different than any of that.
It looks like you see him, see through all the legends and the cocky exterior, to the broken man he knows he is deep down. And you don’t shy away from it, either, even when he thinks that he ought to look away, hide himself from your gaze.
Your fingers brush over his forehead as you shakily push his hair away from his eyes, the damp strands sticking against one another. You lean forward, lips pressing softly against his in a reminder that you’ve got him, and then you’re gone again, the whisper of your lips leaving him wanting so much more.
He wants to say it then, wants to still your movements with hands splayed wide across your hips so you focus on him. He wants to see your hazy gaze tip down at him, knowing you’re holding back a whine at the loss of movement.
He wants to sit up, pull you as close to his chest as possible and say it. I love you. He wants to let the words roll off his tongue and into your mouth as he kisses you sweetly, a sharp contrast to the way you were just bouncing yourself on his cock.
He wants to take his time, roll his hips up slowly afterwards, arms wound around you as he keeps you lodged against him, pull sweet cries from you as he chants against your damp skin. I love you. Over and over again. To make up for all the times he didn’t.
And he almost does. Fingers digging into your hips to slow your movements as he shifts, back coming off the pillows beneath him. He thinks his expression might be giving him away, because you soften when you look at him, a complaint dying on your tongue as you whisper out a curious “‘toru?” into the space between the two of you.
But the cry you let out when he shifts you down his lap isn’t one of frustration or pleasure, it’s pain, and he stills immediately.
His eyes are drawn to the white bandages wrapped tightly around your torso, from where a curse had nearly gutted you three weeks ago. His thumb smoothes over a frayed edge as he goes cold at the sudden reminder that you’re not untouchable.
That he’s already almost lost you one too many times.
He feels a pang of regret as you shift around guiltily, palms pressed into his shoulder as you mumble out an apology. He forces a smile, as he lets those three words die on his tongue for the last time, and tilts up to kiss you, silencing your worries.
You relax in his hands immediately, and he takes extra caution to keep his face hidden against your throat as he lays you beneath him, sure that you’ll see right through his act if he gave you the chance.
Instead, he makes love to you like he might never again, hands soft where ever he touches you, body caging you in against his mattress. He spends the entire time mumbling praises into your skin, hoping it’s enough to satisfy what his heart wants to say. For a peaceful moment, his bedroom is his fortress, somewhere he knows he can protect you, and that’s enough.
But after he cums, he finds himself staring down at the bandages wrapped around you again, digging into your skin from how heavily you’re breathing, and he’s reminded once again his heart can’t take losing anymore people he loves.
But it doesn’t count if he never says it, right?
