yehet-moi-ohorat @yehet-moi-ohorat - Tumblr Blog

soulmate first words au where Simon grew up with the words “oh my god, please, don’t.” plastered across his arm in dark black ink. since the moment he could read, he’d been terrified of what that meant. he’d heard those words from him mother enough times when his dad came home drunk and swinging fists towards anything that moved, he’d heard them in back alleys while undercover, some poor woman being groped by a man twice her size, and he’d even heard it once or twice from the poor fucker he’d put a bullet in after interrogations gone wrong. Every time he flinches, wondering if that was his one shot at something good he’d just killed in cold blood. Fitting, for a bastard like him, or so he told himself.

It wasn’t until a night off with the team in some sweaty, sticky bar that he runs into you. As much as he tries to ignore the girl on a shitty date who keeps pushing the man’s hands off her ass and fake laughing at his boring jokes, it grates at him for reasons he can quite grasp. Later, he’ll catch the tail end of a screaming match outside the bar. One that has your date storming off, and you sinking onto the grimy concrete in your nicest outfit. He’ll watch from the shadows, flicking the ash off a cigarette before finally saying, “Want me to kill him for ya?” and when your eyes shoot up to the stranger in disbelief he tacks on, “free of charge.”

He almost can’t make it out through your laughter, wet with lingering tears. “oh my god, please, don’t.” you chuckle, “i wouldn’t last a day in prison.” between the burning on his arm, exactly where those dreaded words are, and the way the air feels like it’s been punched straight from his lungs, simon can’t muster up a reply fast enough.

You, on the other hand, have a smile slowly forming as you rub your own burning mark. “Do you know how worried my parents were when they saw what this said? They put me in preemptive therapy and everything. Thought I’d end up in a gang or something.” The man reaches a hand out, offering to help you stand. “You’re not are you? In a gang I mean?”

Another puff of smoke leaves his lips in what you think might have been the beginning of a laugh. “No, military. Close enough, though.”

Dusting yourself off, you sneak a closer look at the shadowed stranger. your soulmate, a voice inside flutters with childish glee. “Well damn, there go all my mob wife aspirations.”

He sighs, and steps closer to you, just within the light of a flickering street lamp. Now, you can make out his features. Scars cover every inch of exposed skin, twisting and mangling what might have once been a fair face. Under your gaze, he waits cautiously, “Sorry to disappoint.” A double meaning you catch immediately.

You motion back to the bar the both of you had been in earlier, then close your fingers around his with a tug, “Make it up to me, then?”

nyxqueen97

its the way that theyre right

c-dra

Take Me Back To Eden

nyxqueen97

its the way that theyre right

lacrimadreams

Kiss Me Like You're Innocent ᥫ᭡. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Inspired by MindFuck book series by S.T Abby

Click here for synopsis

Chapter 01

pairings - Serial Killer!Gojo x Investigator!reader

WC- 6.6k

♡ ₊˚‧ WARNINGS :: Graphic depictions of violence:: No use of Y/N :: Murder/serial killings:: Blood/gore :: Psychological manipulation:: Obsession/stalking:: Trauma/PTSD :: Dark Satoru :: SMUTT -> (more tags coming soon) :: ANGST!! ::Gaslighting:: Slow burn:: Grief and Loss:: NSFW:: (probably more to come!)

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: Hi everyone! Thank you for all the support on the preview, I am so excited to continue this fic! A few disclaimers, this is my first time writing anything crime/law related. I tried my best to make it as realistic as I could but please don't judge me for any weird wording.. I tried my best. This chapter is mostly building for the ones to come, but you do meet Satoru! I hope you enjoy! (Semi-proofread) 🎧ྀི♪⋆.✮MUSIC RECS: - Super adaptable this chapter. The Weeknd, Drake, anything chill really.

Chapter 01: The Assignment

The first thing you learn working in a district investigative office is that most of your job has nothing to do with investigating. It has to do with paper. Paper and coffee.

Stacks of paper. Misfiled paper, paper someone swears they handed in yesterday but definitely didn’t. Paper you have to scan, copy, redact, staple, label, and then scan again because someone decided the original attempt “looked weird.”

And coffee. Always coffee. A glorified barista is what you were, really.

You were currently balancing both. A cardboard tray with four cups dug into your palm as you nudged the office door open with your shoulder, the hum of fluorescent lights and overlapping conversations greeting you like always. Phones rang relentlessly somewhere down the hall. Linda laughed too loudly near the break room, her deep cackle sending wavelengths of unpleasant noise through the office. A printer spat out sheets with the slow, miserable determination of a machine that should have resigned on life years ago.

Same as every morning.

“Coffee delivery," you announced as you stepped into the bullpen. Detective Alvarez didn’t even look up from his computer. “You’re a saint.”

“I know,” you said easily, sliding a cup onto his desk. “But saints usually get paid more.”

“Okay then, you’re an assistant,” he replied flatly.

“...Administrative investigative coordinator,” you corrected. He snorted in response.

You continued your rounds, handing off caffeine to the detectives who actually worked on cases while you hovered somewhere in the bureaucratic purgatory underneath them. Not quite an intern, but not really an investigator either. Technically, you helped with interviews, document processing, evidence logs– anything that kept cases moving. In reality, that meant coffee runs, photocopying, and filing reports until your eyes crossed. You liked to think that without you, a lot of cases wouldn’t be as easily solved…after all, how is a sleep-deprived detective going to notice clues without caffeine right? But the truth was your position was more disposable than a plastic cup, a supplemental role made to reach the government’s requests to employ more fresh-out-of-college skilled workers.

Which was ridiculous. Not because you were above it, but you knew you were capable of more.

You’d spent most of your life devouring crime books, court transcripts, documentaries– anything you could get your hands on. Your very concerned mother had sent you to therapy after catching you looking up “Gory murder images” on a random illegal website when you were six years old. Your college professors had called you obsessive in that half amused, half exasperated way, astonished at the pace at which you were able to dig completely through a case, more than often completing additional case study assignments just because you genuinely had fun doing it. You just called it pure curiosity, but unfortunately curiosity didn’t outrank seniority. Which meant you were still stuck doing administrative grunt work while the real cases were only three desks away.

You set down the last coffee cup and turned toward your own desk– an overcramped corner station wedged right in between two filing cabinets. A tower of folders waited for you there, along with a cat shaped sticky note reminder to finish transcribing yesterday’s witness interview.

Thrilling.

You sat down, cracked your knuckles, and lasted exactly twelve and a half seconds before your attention drifted across the workspace to the conference room. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, several detectives hovered around a spread of files laid across the table. You recognized the red tabs immediately– major case.

Your chair creaked as you leaned back slightly, trying to angle your view through the gap. If you squinted–

“Stop being weird.”

You straightened instantly. Alvarez still hadn’t looked up from his screen, but his lips twitched up into a knowing smirk. “I’m not being weird.” you replied.

“You’re staring like a raccoon trying to break into a trash can.”

“I’m observing,” you huffed.

“Observing what, exactly?”

“Professional investigative activity.”

“Through a door crack.”

You shrugged. “What can I say? I’m adaptable.”

He shook his head, but you noticed he didn’t technically tell you to stop. So you didn’t. Inside the conference room, someone flipped open a folder. Photos.

You couldn’t see clearly, but the glossy edges and black evidence markers were unmistakable.

A homicide case.

Your pulse perked up immediately and you leaned back a little farther. Someone shifted then, blocking your view. Damn.

You slid your chair two inches to the left. If you just–

“Hey,”

You jerked upright. Standing a few feet away watching you was your boss. Great.

He never came out to talk to supposed “assistants”, so you were dead. Definitely dead. Your brain instantly began cycling through your recent list of pettycrimes. Okay. Possibilities:

One: The donut incident. Two days ago, a box of freshly glazed donuts had been ordered to the conference room for a meeting with the top journalists of the city. Naturally, you had been sent to pick them up. What wasn’t part of your assignment, though, is getting stuck in traffic for over twenty minutes as an individual with a notoriously low level of personal control. So, you had taken a soft, fluffy, decadent donut. Technically before the journalists arrived, technically before getting proper permission. But in your defense, you had been hungry. Still, getting fired over a donut was going to be extremely annoying.

You stood slowly. “Uh,” you said carefully, “morning.”

Your boss jerked his head toward the hallway behind him. “My office. Now.” Oh god. Yep. It was the donut. You shot alvarez a quick look as you walked past his desk. He mouthed ‘what did you do?’ you mouthed back ‘donut.’ he looked deeply disappointed in you.

The walk down the hall felt ten times longer than usual. Your boss’s office door shut behind you with a soft click. He didn’t even sit, which somehow made the situation more tense. He leaned against his desk instead, arms crossed, studying you with the kind of expression that made people confess to crimes they hadn’t even committed yet. You resisted the urge to blurt out ‘I can replace the donut!’

Finally, he said, “You know about the multi-homicide case down the hall?” Your brain stilled.

“...yes?” Everyone knew that case. It had been dominating the office for weeks, media headlines, internal pressure from city council, and crunching time all pressing the issue forward.

Three deaths. All initially ruled accidents, then reopened.

Because of course they weren’t accidents.

Your boss exhaled slowly. “Ieiri quit this morning.”

That took a second to land. Shoko Ieiri, the lead investigator of the most brutal, grotesque cases that came to the firm. She had been your idol the second you\ had walked through the windy doors of the office as fresh meat. And she had quit?

“Burnout,” he continued. “The pressure of the media circus got to her.” He took off his glasses, chubby fingers rubbing the bridge of his nose.

You blinked. Okay. Unfortunate. But not–

“And you’re taking over.”

Your brain stalled again, this time harder. “...I’m sorry,” you said slowly. “What?”

He pushed a thick folder across the desk, your name was already clipped to the front. You stared at it like it was fresh alien shit.

“Budget’s tight,” he said. Media’s circling. I would give this case to one of the more experienced investigators because of its sensitivity, but they’re all tied up in other assignments at the moment.”

He paused.

“I know you. You’re hungry, insatiable. I know you have a real passion for this and will get it done, or at least give it your best attempt. You’re obsessive, you’ve been hovering around this office like a bloodhound since you got here.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. That…was not entirely inaccurate.

“At least cover for the first one or two months,” he said, “after, another veteran detective should have a spot opened up. List down every small thing you may notice, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

You couldn’t form words. You were pretty sure you were about to start foaming at the mouth. Your boss sighed. “You want a real case,” he said.

Your heart started pounding. Yes.

“Yes,” you admitted. He nudged the folder closer. “Then here it is.”

For a moment you didn’t move. This was ridiculous, you had spent months hoping, wishing, praying for exactly this moment– and now that it was actually happening your brain felt useless. Finally, you reached for the bright orange file. It was heavier than you expected. Inside were photographs, police statements, medical examiner reports. Three different glossy tabs dividing the victims.

You had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

You flipped to the first case. A man in his late fifties stared back at you from a blurry photo, crime scene marker beside his body.

Name: Daniel Kessler

Occupation: Real estate developer

Cause of death: fall from construction site scaffolding.

But then your eyes drifted up, focusing in on the red written ink at the top of the report:

HOMICIDE.

You turned the page to the second victim

Name: Commissioner Mark Donnelly

Occupation: Retired police officer

Cause of death: Vehicle malfunction leading to fatal crash.

Also reclassified as a homicide. Your pulse quickened and you hesitated before flipping to the third tab, already starting to take mental notes.

Name: Aaron Pike

Hm.. no flashy title. A warehouse supervisor. Dead from what had originally been labeled as a gas leak in his apartment. Also re-ruled a homicide.

Three men. Three very different lives. Two high-profile and important, one ordinary. No immediate connection. You flipped through the reports faster now. Different neighborhoods, timelines, different methods. Your boss watched you silently as you read.

Finally, you looked up. “There’s absolutely no pattern.”

“Correct.”

“Like.. nothing. No shared business, no obvious financial overlap, no familial connections.”

“Correct.”

Your brain buzzed. “But you’re saying they were all staged?”

“Yes.”

“Accidents,” you murmured. He nodded once. You looked back down at the photos of Aaron. Pudgy, simple looking, and a little greasy. Someone’s husband. Someone’s father.

Then, your eyes went straight to the dates of the kills.

February 3rd

March 3rd

April 3rd

Your head shot back up toward your boss. “The dates,” you deadpanned. “They’re.. Exactly a month apart.”

He nodded again. “Yes. For now, that’s the only evidence that points us in the direction of one single killer acting multiple times. It is possible that they were coincidences and executed by three different individuals… but given the style of the murders it seems highly unlikely.”

Something itched at the back of your brain. These weren’t a gruesome act of rage or sloppy violence. Whoever had done this had taken their time. Carefully, deliberately.

You swallowed.

Your first real case. A serial homicide. And absolutely no idea where to start. Your boss pushed a pen across the desk.

“Welcome to the deep end.”

—----------------

By the time you left the office, the bullpen was mostly empty.

Most of the detectives had left hours ago. A few desk lamps still glowed in eerily quiet corners, but the usual noise of ringing phones and muttered arguments had faded into a low hum of printers and the distant echo of a janitor vacuuming down the hall.

Your boss had said you could take the files home, but you weren’t sure if that was a display of trust or just a test. Either way, you complied. The folder sat heavy against your side as you stepped out into the evening air, the bustling city already deep into its nightly rhythm. Headlights slid across wet pavement, distant sirens bounced in between buildings, the smell of street food and marijuana hung in the cold air.

You kept replaying the same thought over and over. You have a case. You have a case. You have a case. Not someone else’s job that needs formatting or a report that needs to be organized. Yours.

Your apartment wasn’t anything special. Third floor of a narrow brick building that had definitely been renovated sometime in the late 90s and then hadn’t been touched since. The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead as you climbed the stairs, keys already in your hand.

Inside, it looked exactly how you had left it that morning. A small but cozy couch shoved up against the wall, a desk buried under books and papers. A whiteboard leaned against the wall near the kitchen with half erased notes from a personal research rabbit hole you’d fallen down a few weeks ago about wrongful convictions. Normal crime junkie tendencies.

You dropped your bag onto the table and stood there for a second, staring at the folder like it might disappear if you blinked. Then you sat down and opened it again, refusing to take rest when there was so much unknown. The paper smelled faintly like printer ink and rusty filing cabinets. You pulled out the three victim files and spread them across the table. Daniel Kessler. Mark Donnelly. Aaron Pike. Three men who had never met each other, at least supposedly.

You picked up Kessler's file first, the real estate developer. His photo was the kind people used for professional networking sites– expensive suit, cocky yet polished smile, and perfectly combed hair that probably took thirty minutes to do every morning.

The crime scene photo underneath it told a very different story. He’d fallen from scaffolding at one of his own development sites. Twenty-three stories up. The report said that his body had hit a metal beam on the way down before landing on the pavement.

You scanned the coroner’s notes again. Broken ribs. Skull fracture with internal bleeding. All consistent with the fall, except for one line near the bottom.

Minor bruising on inner left forearm.

You leaned closer to the page. Inner forearm bruising wasn’t something you got from falling off a building, it was something you got when someone grabbed you. Hard.

You scribbled a note on your pad. Possible restraint before fall?? Not proof, exactly, but it was something.

You moved onto Donnelly’s file. The crash report was thicker than the others– probably because of his former job as a police commissioner. His car had gone through a guardrail and down a steep embankment outside the city. Initial investigation had said brake failure, but the re-opened case file had a different tone. You flipped to the mechanical inspection report. The brake line hadn’t failed from wear. It had been cut, cleanly.

You rubbed your eyes. That had to mean whoever did it had access to the car before the crash. Which meant planning. You kept reading. Donnelly had been driving home from a private club outside the city. The timeline said cameras had placed him leaving around 10:30 PM. The car crash had occurred at 10:48. A lot could’ve happened in those eighteen minutes. You checked the map included in the report and saw that the route between the club and the crash site was almost entirely residential. Quiet roads, not many cameras. Super convenient. You wrote another note. Routine was closely analyzed. Knew where he was going to be at what time. Check phone records.

You reached for the last file. Aaron Pike– the “commoner,” as your boss had bluntly put it. Warehouse supervisor, thirty-eight years old, no criminal record or flashy connections like the others possessed. He’d died in his apartment from a gas leak. You read the updated forensic report carefully. The gas line under the kitchen seemed to have loosened. You frowned. It was very difficult for the screws to be loosened over time without manual assistance due to the danger factors that could occur– evidently.

The original investigator, Ieiri, had written a small comment in the margins. Tool marks present. Adjustable wrench likely used.

You leaned back in your chair slowly. Three different deaths, but all of them equally careful, neat. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. There wasn’t even a question of an “accidental” homicide or manslaughter. This was cold murder.

You pulled your laptop closer and started typing names into search engines, Kessler first. Articles popped up immediately. Luxury developments, city council meetings, fundraisers. A few mild controversies about zoning disputes. Nothing that screamed motive for murder, though.

Next was Donnelly. Old police commendations, retirement ceremony photos. A few older news articles about what he’d worked on. An article about him accidentally shooting an innocent bystander. Your eyes widened. Now that was motivation. You jotted it down, reminding yourself to research more about it tomorrow.

Pike took longer, You had to dig through social media and local directories to be able to find much at all. His life looked pretty… ordinary. Work, a few photos with friends and his family. A wife and two daughters, poor souls. The occasional post about sports.

No scandals or obvious enemies. You frowned.

Your instinct kept circling back to the same problem– no overlap. No shared work relations or even external relations where they could have been correlated. Nothing. You sighed, rubbing your face. For a second, panic flickered.

You had just been handed a multi-homicide investigation. For your first case. You were twenty-three years old with exactly zero experience running a case, much less one this serious. Your laptop screen reflected your tired expression. Almost without thinking, you opened a new tab and typed: how to solve first homicide case

You stared at the search bar for about three seconds. Then you groaned quietly and slammed the screen shut. “Jesus,” you muttered to the empty room. You were not going to learn investigative strategy from a google search like a high school freshman writing their first research paper. You had been trained for exactly this, you reminded yourself. A criminology and psychology double degree wasn’t a puny feat to have completed. You were ready, you had to be.

You took a breath, then another. Okay. Start simple. Every case had the same basic questions: means, motive, and opportunity. The means were already clear; the killer could stage accidents convincingly, which meant intelligence and planning. Possible technical knowledge of law enforcement strategies as well. Opportunity meant access. Kessler at a construction site, Donnelly’s car in the middle of the suburbs, Pike’s apartment. The killer had gotten close to all three somehow, which either meant some form of personal contact or hyperfocused surveillance.

Motive was the real problem. You looked down at the three photos again, baffled. What connected these men? You opened another tab, clicking on a new spreadsheet and starting to build a timeline. Dates of death, recent activities, public appearances. You were almost tempted to make a red string bulletin board– but remembered you were an actual detective and not a cliche actress posing as one. Right.. Let's get back to work.

Then you investigated travel records you could access through public sources and slowly, something started to stand out. Not a connection, but proximity. All three men had spent extended time in the same part of the city the couple months leading up to their deaths. Different reasons, different buildings, but all within a few blocks of each other. Consistent visits over an extended amount of time. You zoomed in on the map. The district housed several law offices, a courthouse annex, and a handful of journalism agencies. You scribbled another note: Check records of legal complaints/investigations involving all three If someone had a reason to target them, it might have started there.

You stared at the page for a long moment. Your first real lead– small, but real. Your stomach growled loudly and you blinked. Right, food. Hunger. You stood and walked to the fridge, pulling it open. A plastic container of leftover pasta stared back at you. You grabbed it and shoved it in the microwave, hissing as you realized you almost turned the damn thing on with a metal spoon still stuck in the big tupperware.

You leaned against the counter while the food heated, your mind still half inside the case files. The microwave beeped. You ate straight out of the container at your small dining table, reading over your notes again.

Tomorrow, you’d start digging into legal filings and investigative reports tied to that district as well as looking into the court’s ruling of Donnelly’s police brutality case. Someone had crossed paths with all three victims, you just had to find out who.

By the time you finally closed the folders, it was past midnight. Your eyes burned from staring at paperwork and screens. You stacked the files neatly and slid them back into your tote bag, sighing. Your first real case. Your first real chance. As you turned off the lights and headed toward your bed, one thought repeated itself in the quiet of your apartment. This was your shot. And you were not going to waste it.

—----------------

The bell above the door chimed softly when you pushed it open.

Your favorite coffee shop smelled exactly the way you needed it to– burnt espresso, warm sugar, the faint sweetness of vanilla syrup hanging in the air. The early morning crows hummed quietly around you, the laptop keys of corporate workers tapping, low conversations, the hiss of steaming milk. It was the kind of place where unordinary people came to pretend their lives were normal. You needed that illusion too, today.

You were running on four hours of uninterrupted sleep, two crime scene photos you couldn’t get out of your head, and half a can of an aggressively neon energy drink currently clutched in your hand.

The barista called your name. “Triple espresso!”

Of course it was. What else would you order? You stepped forward at the same moment someone else did. Your shoulder bumped solidly into a chest that felt like it had been carved out of marble, the lid of your cup popping off slightly.

“Woah–”

“Sorry–”

Both of you spoke at the same time. You looked up, and for a second your brain just…stopped.

The man in front of you was tall- easily six foot three– with broad shoulders and the kind of posture that suggested he’d never slouched a day in his life. Fluffy white hair fell messily across his forehead like he had run his hand through it one too many times this morning. But it was his eyes that caught you, bright, sharp. Blue in a way that didn’t look real.

He glanced down at your hand first, at the bright pink can of the half-finished energy drink. Then at the coffee cup you were reaching for, then back at your face. One corner of his mouth lifted. “...Triple espresso,” he said slowly. His voice carried a warm amusement, making it sound like he was holding back a laugh.

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes.”

His gaze drifted back down to the energy drink. “You planning on seeing the future today or something?”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “You planning on minding your business?” Though your smile didn’t match the curtness of your words. He laughed– quiet, genuine. “Fair enough.”

His hand reached past you to grab his own drink from the counter. When he stepped closer, you caught the faint smell of expensive cologne and fresh soap. He looked like someone who had his life together, annoyingly so.

You grabbed your espresso, trying to move past him. And then– “Hold on.”

His voice stopped you and you turned slightly. He nodded toward your bag, specifically to the thick folder sticking halfway out of it. Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even realized it was visible. Across the top of the folder, in bold block letters:

HOMICIDE DIVISION.

He didn’t react dramatically, just tilted his head slightly, studying you with an expression that was far too observant for someone you’d met all but thirty seconds ago.

“...That explains the caffeine. You were up late, hm?” he said, his voice sending shivers up your spine for some unknown reason.

Your grip tightened around your coffee cup and you slid the folder deeper into your bag. “Occupational hazard.”

His eyes sparkled. “So you’re a detective.”

You lifted a brow. “I never said that.”

He shrugged easily. “True. But I’m pretty good at guessing things.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” He took a sip of his drink. “You’ve got the eyes of someone who’s been staring at a screen all night. Your shoes are scuffed like you’ve been walking around a lot, maybe even somewhere gross. And you’re carrying homicide files at”-- he checked the watch on his wrist, which you noticed looked extravagantly expensive. –”eight in the morning.”

You stared at him, only one word coming to mind. “Creep.”

He smiled like he’d just solved a fun little puzzle. “So,” he said lightly, “Investigator.”

You exhaled slowly. “Maybe.”

His grin widened. “Wow.”

“What.”

“That’s cool.”

You blinked. “..Cool?”

“Yeah.”

Most people reacted with either awkward curiosity or uncomfortable fascination when they found out what you did. Crime documentaries were a fun form of entertainment, but no one else you knew outside of work was able to fathom the idea of your everyday worklife consisting of looking into gruesome murders.

But the guy in front of you, he just looked impressed. He leaned casually against the counter. “So what kind of homicide?” he asked. “Serial? Gang? Domestic?”

You studied him carefully. “You always interrogate strangers over coffee?”

He grinned. “Only the interesting ones.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And what exactly makes you think I’m interesting?”

He thought for a second and looked at you. Not in a creepy way, not even flirtatiously exactly. He was just…assessing you.

“You just look like someone who carries a lot in her head. And of course, you’re absolutely beautiful too.” he said.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. You felt a warmth flush your cheeks. And then he ruined the moment by smirking. “Also, the caffeine thing is fascinating.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unbelievable.”

He chuckled. “You gonna answer the question?”

“Nope.”

“Wow.”

You smiled. “Professional boundaries.” “Boring.”

You turned toward the pickup counter where the barista was bagging pastries. “I like boring.”

He followed beside you, looking down at you and grinning, taking his bottom lip between his teeth for a second before releasing it. “Yeah, I dunno… somehow I doubt that.”

You grabbed a napkin and wrapped it around your espresso to make it easier to hold. When you turned back, he was already pulling out his wallet. You frowned. “What are you?--”

He handed the barista his card. “Add hers.” You blinked. “Hey–”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not–”

“Relax. It’s just coffee.”

He glanced back down at you with that same easy confidence, like he’d already decided this conversation was going to go his way. You couldn’t decide if it irritated you or made you want to take off your pants on the spot.

“I can pay for my own coffee.”

“I’m sure you can.” the corner of his lips lifted again. “But I'm choosing to. Humor me?”

The barista handed him the receipt and he scribbled something quickly, stepping back then. “There,” he said. “All set.”

You stared at him. “..You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to.” You opened your mouth to argue again, but he was already stepping toward the door. “Wait.” you called out. He paused. You realized you didn’t know why you’d stopped him. Then it hit you. “...What’s your name?”

He pushed the door open. Morning light spilled through the glass behind him, and for a second it almost made his hair look silver. He glanced back over his shoulder, the cocky smile returned.

“You’ll figure it out, detective."

And then he was gone. Just like that. You stood there speechless, holding your espresso, in a daze until the barista slid the receipt across the counter toward you. “Your friend paid.”

You picked it up. There was a name written across the bottom in messy handwriting.

Satoru Gojo.

And underneath it, a phone number. You stared at it. Then you laughed quietly to yourself.

“...Unbelievable.”

—----------------

You tried to focus, you really did. But every once in a while your brain betrayed you by replaying the image of that idiotically tall man leaning against the coffee shop counter like the entire room existed solely for his entertainment.

The smirk, the impossible white hair (how was that even natural?), the way he’d clocked tiny details about you in mere seconds. Annoyingly perceptive.

You shoved the memory aside and forced your attention back to your screen. The city map glowed pale blue against the dim light of your office. It was late again, later than you’d originally planned to stay. Contrary to what you thought, the absolute gift of a case that had been put in your responsibility didn’t mean your other duties were excused, nor did it mean a pay raise. Sure, you daydreamed about marching up to HR dramatically and expressing your views of the matter, but were honestly just grateful to have gotten the case in the first place. If you needed to supplement with a few photocopies and caffeine refills, then it was worth it for your dream, right?

Because of the additional work, you had just chosen to stay at the office instead of going back to the apartment. The sterility of your workplace helped you to focus in some odd way. You felt more professional this way.

You’d spread the files across your desk in a way that would probably horrify the evidence coordination team. Sticky notes and highlighter streaks branded each of the copies and a notebook full of scribbled arrows and question marks sat at the edge of the table, just near ready to teeter onto the floor. Your laptop sat in the center of it all.

The map was zoomed far into the specific area you were looking at– the Rutherford district. Individual building outlines were visible. Three blocks, that’s all it was– three dense, boring city blocks full of beige office buildings and elegant signage. Yet, every victim had been there repeatedly.

You propped your elbows up on the desk, your head plopping into your hands as you peered down at the files, the words all blurring into mush in your sleep riddled brain. “Okay,” you muttered to yourself. “So why the hell were you all here?”

Your cursor hovered over the first address you had reviewed: a glass fronted legal building. You’d already confirmed the tenant list earlier, a few younger corporate law firms, two defense attorneys, a bankruptcy office, and one small legal advocacy group on the third floor that you hadn’t been able to find much information about yet.

Then you clicked on the second location. A Courthouse with a recently added annex– basically a government building that held mostly administrative hearings and walk-in court proceedings. The third building was a squat brick structure that housed two news and journalism agencies and the Verity Investigative Bureau, labeled as a private organization. That one had caught your attention earlier, mostly because independent investigative bureaus were either run by incredibly brave journalists or a bunch of paranoid incels.

Your pen tapped against your notebook. Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm helped you think. Your brain started assembling the pieces again, the way it always did when you fell into that quiet investigative zone.

Aaron Pike, a low income warehouse manager, with no criminal record. Yet he had started visiting Rutherford district, where every service was either related to public relations or law, none of which he had to do with. For six months before his death, every Thursday afternoon, religiously consistent.

Daniel Kessler, the real estate developer with enough money to buy a seat in city council if he wanted one. The pattern of his visits were different in that he didn’t have one– random days, random times. But the security logs still showed him entering the courthouse through the annex multiple times in the two months leading up to his death.

Then, Mark Donnelly. Since he was a retired police commissioner, you’d fallen into quite a rabbit hole reading about him earlier. He had a decorated career and was a media darling, praised for his commitment as the leader of the city’s police. He was the definition of a hardline but “principle” cop– until the shooting, that is.

You had pulled the archived articles and sat there reading them slowly. The victim, Jacob Herring, had been an innocent bystander to a bank robbery. He was twenty-two and unarmed. Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A tragedy, really.

The case had been investigated internally and Donnelly had been cleared, the judge classifying it as a freak accident. You had stared at the old headline longer than you meant to, you couldn’t help it– something about it just felt…unfinished.

Your pen tapped harder against the desk. These three men were in professions that had no overlap, yet all had returned for Rutherford repeatedly. What could be the connecting piece? You leaned back again and opened a new tab. Then another, and then another.

Soon, the screen filled with business directories, different tenant listings as well as the company descriptions, archived local news articles, and court recordings.

You started with the easiest step, physical context. You pulled up the street view and began to walk the block virtually. Just like you expected, law offices, a coffee shop, a bank branch. The urban planning of the city had designated spots for each type of business; fast food was in one spot, dance and yoga studios in another, and law and journalism firms secluded to Rutherford district.

You had been here once before, for a mandatory jury duty, and it looked exactly like you remembered it. Bland, professional, and definitely not a spot you could come back to repeatedly without a purpose. But other than Donnelly, who had a clear reason for needing to speak with law firms, why were any of the others even involved with Rutherford at all? You supposed that maybe Kessler would have needed to review coding laws for construction of his building complexes, but with his basically CEO type position, you doubted that he would have done the dirty paperwork himself instead of just paying someone to get it done. And as for Pike… no strings matched up.

On the virtual walk, you noticed a narrow valley between the annex of the main courthouse and one of the largest news broadcast buildings. You paused there and zoomed in. The alley had a service entrance door. You clicked to rotate the view. There was a security camera mounted above it. Your brain filed that away automatically as you opened the notebook and wrote ‘Check alley camera coverage’.

You kept going, passing ground level bookstores, and then a print shop. Your brain snagged that, and you clicked the listing. It was a local business that mostly handed legal document printing, bulk copying, and media packages. You stared at the address for a second, then flipped through Aaron Pike’s file again. Your finger traced the page of the track log. There. You leaned closer to the screen.

Aaron Pike had signed into the print shop building five times in the last month before he died. You blinked. “Huh..” That hadn’t jumped out earlier, but still, you wrote it down. Then you checked the courthouse logs again. Daniel Kessler had paid a visit to the courthouse's records office for document retrieval. But.. what document? “Interesting..” you muttered to yourself as you worked. You pulled out Donnelly’s log again. Most of his visits had been to a defense law firm, which made sense. But once…

Your eyes narrowed. He’d entered the news agency building, third floor. The Verity Investigative Bureau. You leaned back slowly. You assumed that since it was a privately owned service, it must be for personal investigations. Background checks, insurance frauds. What would a cop need that for? You marked it down to look into.

You opened another search tab and started digging into legal findings connected to Rutherford district. It took a while, since the database your investigative office used was clunky and slow. You had to try multiple times to search up relevant information, but eventually something small resurfaced. It was a complaint, filed three years ago and then withdrawn. Even with the deletion attempt, it still showed up in your archive. Impressive.

Your eyes scanned the summary:

By Anonymous

There were witness statements that contradicted the client's timeline during the actual events being investigated. Those statements were not included in the final case materials.

Several staff members raised concerns about accepting the case due to known misconduct but the decision was made anyway. Many suspect foul play or bribery.

Client also seems to have connections to individuals currently involved in ethical and legal disputes in the country. That overlap made some of us uncomfortable.

I cannot say anymore, but I believe the case review process was rushed.

You exhaled, leaning closer. You connected the office's algorithm to the source to find the date of publication and stopped in your tracks. It was three days after the ruling that determined Donnelly’s fate. And it was taken down two hours later. Your eyes widened and you cracked your knuckles in nervousness, quickly opening another tab to look into the IP address of the complaint. It had been filed through one of the law offices in the district. The same building containing the defense firm that backed Donnelly’s case.

You rubbed your temple. Opening a fresh page in your notebook and writing in big letters: WHO BENEFITS?? HOW??

You stared back at the names of the victims. You didn’t know their connection yet, but you knew where the trail started. The district, buildings, records. And if someone had been digging into something there, it is more than likely someone else wanted it to stay buried.

You had a gut feeling that there was more to the story than just three innocent people being murdered. The calculation of each kill was impeccably crafted. There had to be a motive, a big one, and you had to find it.

Your eyes flicked to the clock. 10:47 PM. It was time to put it (and yourself) to rest for the night. You sighed, hesitantly getting up out of your desk chair and wheeling it back into your place before picking up your tote off the floor.

A crinkled sheet slipped out of the bag and landed on the floor, and you picked it up reflexively before you realized what it was.

Your receipt from the coffee shop this morning, neatly written handwriting of a phone number framing the overexpensive price total. You smiled softly to yourself, tracing over the numbers.

Would it be so bad to give your love life the attention it was so desperately begging for? You hadn’t been in a relationship since your sophomore year of college– and even that one had ended because of you constantly ditching him to work on your gory passion projects.

You shoved the thought away. No, you had more important things to focus on right now– things that were literally matters of life or death.

This was a responsibility you never thought would end up landing on your shoulders, and you sure as hell were going to prove that incessant coffee runs weren’t all you were good for.

You crumpled up the receipt paper and shoved it back into your bag with the other documents before slinging it over your shoulder.

You had to focus. Remember that you weren’t just chasing a sloppy killer, you were chasing a goddamn genius.

𑣲⋆｡˚ NOTES: And that's a wrap on chapter one! I know the cafe meeting was kind of cliche, but that's the point, it's so normal that she doesn't even bat an eye at Gojo, even though she doesn't realize her instincts are screaming at her. Please let me know your thoughts and I will see you next chapter! For those messaging me about The Roots of Us, I'm working on it and it will be out as soon as I get time to finish. Thank you so much for your support!

Current taglist for KMLYI/Long fics: @kittymeowxo @deartoru @theaggyspacekitty @lovebythuuu @ppnutz @gentlyflowing @darthasphodel @nr1gojomuncher @spookyeomgoose @nanamikento09

Click HERE to join my taglist

howyoulovelikeweaponskill

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

sheepispink

“Hi Lieutenant Riley sorry to disturb your precious time, could you please take these documents because I am very terrified of getting yelled at and I cant be in two opposite sides of base at once!” You pace at your small little desk, trying to work out the wording of your request.

Well that just sounded like you had a grudge against everything— you couldn't possibly say that. And wouldn't you waste more of his time by yapping on for that long? No you needed convincing, maybe a sob story, potentially a tragic tale. Anything at this point, you just needed to get through this on time.

It’s so close to the deadline and you’ve completed every task so far except delivering them on time. They needed to go to three places, two on the western side of base and another all the way on the east side. Both were due for briefings in fifteen minutes. There was no way you’d make it in time.

No one else was free to help either, busy with their own things, and any soldier coming by refused to even spare a glance at the new girl in admin. Although, they all were perfectly happy to smile at the secretary on the other side, offering to grab her coffee. Oh to have pretty privilege.

Your last hope was Lieutenant Riley, who’d walk through admin the same time he did every morning. It was the fastest way to his corner of base, so you naturally remembered every time he passed by. Still, he was a Lieutenant with probably a million other things to do, and you’ve seen him snap at younger soldiers in the corridors or on the field outside the windows. Besides if any of the other soldiers wouldn't help you, why would he even?

bizarrelovetriangel

Yesterday No More

cupidoll

can’t afford love

angst no resolution. he yearns. he does belittle u in this but he don’t mean it lil twin

an imagine where satoru gojo finds himself falling for a weaker sorcerer… find more of my little fics here!

manga spoilers at the very end

you and satoru knew each other from jujutsu high. you wanted to be sorcerer— or really, you had dreamed of being one. a strong one like him.. but eventually you realized that’s all it was and you wanted to move onto other things.

most of the time you’d see him it was in passing but you started to notice him peering at you through his glasses, analyzing you.

one day, he started to talk with you. maybe not in the most flattering way all the time but there would be moments. weird moments where you’d catch a look, his eyes lingering on yours for too long— like now.

veilofsixeyes

satoru gojo is masculinity personified.

those biceps—pale, carved muscle with a single prominent vein tracing each arm like a roadmap of his strength. they flex with casual power, the kind that could pin you down, hold you steady, render you completely at his mercy. and his forearms? they could crush you between them and you'd thank him for it. you'd beg him to, actually, your voice tipping to a plea while he watches with that knowing smirk.

then there's his scent—cedar and aged wood, something primal that clings to the fabric of his clothes, seeps into yours, deep into your pillows until you can't escape it even when he's gone. you could press your face into the curve of his neck and inhale like you're starving for it, sniffing his pheromones like some wild dog in heat. and he'd chuckle, that low rumble of amusement, fingers threading through your hair as he encourages you to continue. go ahead, his body language says. take what you need.

his chest is a work of art—detailed to precision, muscles carved like some greek god statue you'd admire once, then do a shameless double-take just to take it in again. that white happy trail peeks just above the waistband of his boxers (calvin klein, specifically), a teasing promise of what he's packing beneath. every line of him seems designed to make you ache.

and his hands. god, his hands. large and calloused from years of fighting, yet impossibly gentle when they touch you. they roam across your body like he's mapping uncharted territory for the first time, even though he's traced these curves a thousand times before. when he moves them through the air—those elegant, casual gestures during conversation—you almost feel betrayed that they're not on you instead. when they finally do settle against your skin, they cover at least half your body, claiming you with their size alone.

six foot five inches of pure presence. those long limbs stride with such careless ease, towering over everyone in the room, and he doesn't even seem to notice the way people have to crane their necks to meet his eyes. he moves through space like he owns it, because he does.

but your guilty pleasure? that back. broad and sculpted, muscles flexing beneath pale skin with every movement, just waiting for the drag of your nails. waiting for you to mark him the way he marks you—with evidence of desperation, of pleasure, of need that can't be contained.

nia's notes: tbh, i just need him in my bed on me, crushing me with his weight, until i cant breathe and then i'd press my lips onto his and let him kiss me till i cant breathe, and we can nap together forever

suhtorus

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ ‐ diamond on your ring

or two times he almost proposed, and the one time he finally did.

pairings ₊˚⊹ ᰔ feel free to imagine your preferred f/o ( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ

haikyuu kuroo, atsumu, iwaizumi, oikawa

jujutsu kaisen gojo, choso, sukuna

l&ds caleb & raf ♡

word c. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ 1,400-ish

One

As soon as the stadium’s speakers boomed with the announcement of the kiss cam, the sense of impending doom dawned on him.

“Aw, this is my favorite part!”

He had to force out a smile when you turned to look at him, excitement obviously brimming from you, while all he could think was: when did the game reach the seventh inning?

Was this how it was supposed to feel? Like he was about to die?

He was almost afraid to peek at the screen and find you two already there. Thankfully, the focus was on an elderly couple, the man kissing his wife’s cheek while the stadium awed.

It was only a matter of time, though (he had already paid the guy after repeating him five times the seats where you two would be in).

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the beauty of seeing your excited face on the jumbotron, wearing the colors of the team he despised with all his might, mere seconds away from becoming your fiancé.

“Oh my gosh!” your excited gasp had him smiling dumbly, his head turning to face you instead of the screen. The sight was better anyway with you next to him. “Babe! It’s us–hey!”

cruxhing

simon reaching fem!reader how to ride a bike

“Now… slowly let go of the throttle,” Simon says, walking besides you in an empty parking lot.

Who had the bright idea of practicing on a goddamn R1? Oh, that’s right— you! Thankfully, Simon had bought a Ninja 400 to start you out on (how kind! It’s definitely not the fact that he fears for his R1 getting dropped- I mean you getting hurt).

Suddenly, you lurched forward, your pelvic hitting the gas tank as you almost toppled over until you caught yourself.

And you thought you could handle riding in the neighborhood; what a joke. Simon almost snorted at the thought. Instead, he stood there with his hands on his hips and his weight shifting to his right foot. “It stalled,” he commented.

You snapped your head over to him and glared, “don’t you think I know that?!” you replied, starting the bike up again.

Simon didn’t hold back a snort this time. He quickly put down his tinted visor to prevent you from seeing how his eyes brightened at your frustration. “Put it in neutral, then roll into first,” he says loud enough for you to hear.

You did as he said, slowly pulling the clutch to find the sweet spot until you hit first gear. Now, you were topping three miles an hour— look at you go!

“There y’go— Atta girl,” Simon says proudly, giving you a small clap as you continue to slowly go straight. He puts his visor back up and follows you. Gosh, he’s never seen someone sit so straight on a motorcycle before.

“How do I turn?!” you shout over the engine. Your hands gripped the handles, leather gloves tightening around it as you stared straight ahead. You couldn’t even look over at Simon in fear of steering it wrong and dropping.

No one ever told Simon that teaching someone how to ride a motorcycle would be like watching a kid ride a bicycle off of training wheels. “Steer whatever way you want swee’heart— the parking lots completely empty,” he replied, still walking besides you slowly.

“I don’t know how!” you replied in frustration, all while still going three miles an hour. Maybe five now, who knows.

“Angle it!” Simon said, biting back a smile. He watches as you try to figure out how and slowly, stirred it left. “Woah, woah!” he shouts, taking a step back. “I said angle it, not hit me goin’ at a speed o’ a snail, you mad woman!” he says, throwing his hands up.

You don’t bother to reply— too embarrassed, frustrated and struggling to figure out how to put it in second gear. You finally felt the courage to look over at Simon (more like you were so frustrated, your body controlled on its own), “don’t tell me what to do!”

Just then, the front wheel of the motorcycle hit the curb, causing you to ram into the gas tank again. Your foot hit the ground before you slowly toppled over. Time felt like it had slowed down as you dropped.

Simon scrunched his nose up, watching you stand up. When he bought the bike, the previous owner said that the bike was never dropped… Now… It’s a different story. “You done here?” he asks, walking over to you.

You dusted off your leather pants and huffed while Simon picked up the Ninja. “No. We’re staying here until I say so.”

Simon puts the kickstand down and looks over at you. A small smile formed on his lips; he loved how you always kept trying, even when it’s hard. He grabs your hands and gently pulls you in, “whatever you say,” he says, his gloved finger reaching up to pull your visor down.

starrygrave

the masses may or may not need a reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader fic OR just a reincarnated gojo fic idk…

A/N: The masses indeed need a reincarnated gojo fic! Enjoy Anon!

~1k words

Gojo Satoru does not remember dying. What he remembers is the moment after. The unbearable calm and silence of it.

No pain. No light. No memories flashing before you. Just the certainty that something essential had been taken from him.

When awareness returns, it does so violently. Breath claws into unfamiliar lungs. A heartbeat pounds far too loud in his ears. His vision swims, the world oversaturated, every sound too sharp. Like his senses were sharpened for a war that no longer exists.

This body is wrong for him. It was small, weak. Human in a way he hasn’t been for a very long time. He cries, and the sound startles him more than the sensation itself. Cursed energy stirs instinctively, then falters. Muted…..Distant and unfamiliar.

It’s there, he knows that much, but it feels like reaching for the sky and finding only fog. The Six Eyes flicker once, just once before vanishing entirely, leaving behind a migraine that feels like grief pressed into bone.

Something inside him tightens. Not anger, not regret.

Just fact.

“I lost…..” The thought arrives whole and unquestionable. And beneath it, quieter but infinitely worse,

“I left someone behind..”

He grows the way children do. Too fast for someone who once stood outside of time. Memories return in fragments instead of scenes. Not in snips or faces he’s know but feelings.

The smell of blood on concrete. A laugh too loud for its surroundings. The unbearable pressure of being relied upon.

A missing presence that his instincts search for before his mind can stop them. It takes years before he understands why his chest aches when he looks at the sky.

He meets you when he’s seventeen. You are not special at first glance, you were just like anyone else.

That’s what terrifies him. No overwhelming cursed energy, no immediate resonance. No spark that screams fate like books or movies depict.

You are just… familiar.

The kind of familiar that makes his stomach drop without warning. The kind that makes his Infinity twitch reflexively, as if his soul itself is bracing for impact.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and exhausted inside him goes utterly still. You blink first, Gojo doesn’t. You look around for anyone else staring, Gojo doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t joke……Doesn’t say anything at all.

Because for the first time since waking up in this life, the wrongness eases, even if it’s just st a little.

You don’t remember him, not consciously at least.

You always had dreams of standing at the edge of something vast and terrible, calling out to someone who never answered. When Gojo looks at you, it feels like being seen by someone who knows how you’ll die.

And how you already did.

He doesn’t tell you who he thinks you are, he doesn’t even tell himself. Because memory is dangerous, and Gojo Satoru learned too late, the cost of certainty.

Instead, he stays and watches the way you gravitate toward him without understanding why. The way your presence steadies his cursed energy when it spirals. The way his instincts once honed for battle, now exist solely to keep you close.

Sometimes, when you laugh, something behind his eyes burns. Sometimes, when you touch his arm, the world goes quiet in a way that Infinity never managed to achieve.

And on rare occasions you look at him with a sadness you can’t explain and say,

“Do I know you from somewhere?”

Gojo never answers.

He just smiles, not the sharp, invincible grin history remembers, but something softer. Something earned.

“Maybe,” he says. “In another life.”

“Well….could I know you again…..in this life?”

sourplumtext

Sylus becomes a regular at the cafe you work at and tips crazy amounts when you're on shift.

Something was wrong with this man.

You weren't the kind of person to ask customers personal questions, nor were you the type to tell customers the truth if they asked about you. In food service, that's just how it's supposed to go.

Especially for regulars like Sylus, you forced yourself to ignore the darkening stains at the edges of his sleeve or the fresh scrapes on his cheekbones. You took his coffee order and then directed him to the other end of the counter where his drink would be ready and where another worker could strike up a conversation about what happened to him, but not you, never you.

He was a big tipper, but he never paid in cash. When he had just begun to come in consistently, your curiosity got the better of you and you looked through the payment history on the register to see his $100 tip on a $9 drink. It was obviously a mistake your manager would have to deal with later. The guy would call about the charge on his card anyways so you didn't bring it up. But there was no call. And then it kept happening. Whenever he came in, you checked his transaction information and shook your head.

saatorus

whisper of the heart — a nerdjo fic

synopsis — after reading about a book series that mirrored everything you’d loved about a past favourite, you were thrilled to find it in your college library. the copies were old—worn enough to still have checkout cards—but what caught your attention was the same set of initials, G.S., scrawled across nearly every one. the same G.S. who had filled the margins with sharp, thoughtful annotations. you couldn’t stop yourself from thoroughly enjoying the silly little comments written in the margins, leaving your own notes alongside theirs. it wasn’t until much later that you realised G.S. wasn’t some long-gone bookworm. it was none other than the man you had sworn to hate. gojo satoru.

pairing — nerd! satoru x reader

genre — academic rivals to lovers

word count— 32k (oops)

warnings — sexual content (unprotected sex), swearing, mentions of not eating, slight angst.

small playlist i listened to while writing

nanamis-princess

Satoru has made it abundantly clear very early on in your relationship that what’s his is yours. The sudden weight draped around your shoulders mixed with hints of citrus and amber makes you turn your head to him. “What kind of boyfriend would i be if i let you catch a cold?” He asks rhetorically with that smirk on his face.

“I will be a little late, i have something’s to take care of at work but go in and make yourself at home. I’m texting you the passcode.” Satoru hums through the line as he stands over a curse he just demolished. “are you sure? You’re not even home” you ask chuckling softly parked in his driveway. “Im positive, i shouldn’t be too long and I pinky promise to pick up some sweets on the way back- oh and those chips you like.” he smiles to himself thinking of you sitting on his bed in your pajamas munching on snacks mean while a curse desperately tries to get to him.

Standing in line with Satoru for your ice skates as you rub your gloved hands together, cringing at the gust of cold wind as while the line moves along. Looking up at him as he applies his strawberry lip gloss, looking off into the distance as the snowflakes fall, complimenting him even more you smile to yourself not expecting him to catch you. That glint in his blue eyes means he was pleased to catch you staring “Mmm.” He hums rubbing his lips together that turns into a smile “want some?” He questions briefly before leaning in to kiss you softly leaving behind the taste of strawberries and mint.

The dim lighting of this fancy restaurant makes satoru look more tempting than usual, being knocked out of your thoughts as you set your glass of water on the table. Satoru holds out a matcha piece of mochi with his chopsticks “here try, its really good.” He beams after just trying his own piece; making note to come back here together for this mochi.

Rushing around your boyfriends apartment to get ready for work after spending the night, making sure you have everything for todays meeting as you look through your bag. “Hey babe can you get my keys off the counter?” You call out slipping on your shoes by the front door before opening it. A still groggy satoru meets you by the door with his matching hello kitty pajama pants, rubbing his eye a little; handing you the keys. Looking at them then up at him “my keys toru these are yours” you chuckle a little. “Take my car i don’t have to work today.” He murmurs before giving you a hug and a kiss atop your head. “Don’t forget to pull the seat up so you can reach the pedals short stuff.” He teases with a sleep smirk on his face before shutting the front door before you can protest.

Although that isn’t the only time satoru has done something like that; standing in front of his bathroom mirror brushing his teeth while you dry off. You asked him to grab your bag from the living room with your clothes; he brought you his boxers, grey sweatpants and shirt. “This is not what i told you to grab.” You state looking to him with the fluffy white towel wrapped around you, watching you through the mirror as you come to stand next to him. Turning to you with his toothbrush in hand “weird I must’ve heard you wrong. Just wear those.” he says playfully with a wink and tint of pink on his cheeks.

succubusvalentine

ᴄʟᴀɪʀᴠᴏʏᴀɴᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ ɴꜱꜰᴡ | ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ

Simon Riley had known he was a clairvoyant since he was 10, and heard his father's thoughts about the woman he cheated on his mother with.

He quickly learned to never tell anyone about his ability, he was labeled a kook, insane, he even got thrown into a mental hospital when he was fifteen.

The only people who did believe in him, were his teammates. His Captain laughing in awe when Simon tells him exactly what thoughts were going through his mind.

But when you joined the team, he was skeptical whether or not to tell you of his ability. That didn't stop him however, from hearing you think about riding him on the desk during a meeting. That may have been the most awkward boner of Simons life.

It didn't stop there. You'd walk into the gym while Simon was working out?

"Jesus Christ I want to bite down on those sweaty fucking biceps while he fucks me dumb." Simon nearly dropped the dumbbell on his foot.

Simon licked the lid of a yoghurt container?

"Long tongue, thick too. Wonder how it would feel fucking me."

Simon was sparring with Johnny and was standing up after pinning him?

"Pin me like that, don't let me up from under you and overstimulate me until I'm in a damn wheelchair."

John laughed loudly when he realised Simon was sporting a boner, knowing exactly what was going on.

After a while it seemed you started to pick up on Simon. Not genuinely, but everyone has the 'can someone read minds?' thought when they're thinking of something dirty. Especially when Simon was staring at you from afar, having to listen to your thoughts about choking on his cock after a mission.

Simon knew women had dirty thoughts, hell he'd heard most of them. But you were a different breed. Fucking hell, you had a whole bag of dirty things.

You thought about tying him up, him tying you up, sucking his cock after a mission, you care if he was sweaty, in fact you'd like it.

But Simon didn't just use your thoughts to get a fill of his ego or to get off, he wasn't a total douchebag.

It seemed you were on your period one week, you didn't tell anyone, despite the cramps apparently feeling like hell in your guts. You merely snapped at anyone who pissed you off.

And you near cried when Simon placed a hot water bottle on your lap, with a bag of treats. And strangely, a take out box with some sliced steak and a delicious smelling sauce. He grumbled something about you needing something with high iron, before leaving.

Simon finally couldn't take it anymore when you were sat in mess hall, playing with your food as your mind went elsewhere. "Wonder how big his cock is...He's big with an even bigger fucking ego, probably a good seven inches. Maybe he's circumcised..."

"Eight and a half inches, and I'm not fucking cut. You'll see tonight in my barracks" Simon growled in your ear. Leaving you aroused and horrified as he walked away. Gaz and Johnny laughing at your reddened face.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

yehet-moi-ohorat