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ā® ā ā š¾šš¶š°šø š»š¼šš² ! | okay first off, WHY is this SO FUCKIN EMOTIONAL for no absolute reason. damn. consider this a 1000 follower special! likes & reblogs are appreciated! š¹
the thought settles deep in your chest like a stone, familiar and heavy, as you lie on the silk sheets of the massive bed.
your fingers trace the embroidered patterns on your robeāsome floral design you can't see but can feel beneath your fingertips. the fabric is soft, expensive. everything here is expensive. everything here screams luxury and power and wealth.
but none of it screams love.
you hear nothing from his side of the bed.
the man is so impossibly quiet, it makes your skin prickle with unease. you've been here for three months now. three months as the wife of ryomen sukuna, the king of curses, the most feared ruler in all the lands. and in those three months, he has barely spoken a word to you.
at first, you thought it was a game.
some twisted test of patience. you were clever enough to know that political marriages were rarely about love. you'd been prepared for indifference, for coldness, for a husband who saw you as nothing more than a strategic alliance.
but this? this silent treatment that stretches night after night, this deliberate distance he keeps?
it cuts deeper than you expected.
your hand moves from your robe to your stomach, pressing against the plane of your belly. you're small. you know this. delicate in a way that makes people underestimate you. and blind. gods, the blindness. the one thing that has sent every single suitor running in the opposite direction.
princes would see your face firstāthe one they called ethereal, otherworldly, beautiful in a way that seemed impossibleāand they'd fall to their knees.
they'd whisper sweet words, promises of devotion, declarations of love at first sight. and then you'd speak, and they'd realize your eyes didn't track their movements, didn't meet their gaze. and slowly, painfully, you'd listen to them pull away. hear the hesitation creep into their voices. feel the distance grow until they were gone.
you were used to it.
but sukuna? sukuna had looked at you once, for a single moment, and said yes. the entire empire had been shocked. the king of curses, the ruthless murderer, the emperor who had never shown interest in any woman, accepting a blind bride from a neighboring kingdom? it was scandalous. impossible.
and you'd felt hope.
you hate yourself for that hope now.
because three months of silence have taught you the truth. he doesn't want you. he tolerates you. and honestly? you'd almost prefer cruelty. at least cruelty would be a reaction. at least cruelty would mean he saw you as something worth acknowledging.
but this nothingness? this endless, suffocating nothingness?
it makes you feel like you've already disappeared.
the servants guide you through your days with practiced efficiency. they dress you, feed you, lead you through the palace halls. you've memorized the layout of your chambers, the path to the gardens, the number of steps from your room to the dining hall. you've learned to navigate this world without sight, just as you've always done.
but you can't navigate him.
you don't know where he sits at meals. you don't know if he watches you. you don't know if he even notices when you're in the same room. his presence is a voidāa massive, oppressive absence of warmth that you can feel but never touch.
tonight was bad.
you'd been led to the gardens by a new servant, someone who didn't know your habits. she'd taken you left instead of right, and you'd walked straight into a hedge, thorns scratching your calves before she'd yanked you back with a flurry of apologies.
then you'd almost fallen down a staircaseāthe grand staircase with its uneven stepsāyour foot catching on the edge, your heart lurching into your throat as you'd pitched forward. a guard caught you just in time.
and the whispers.
you can't see their faces, but you can hear their voices. the concubines. the noblewomen. the servants who think you can't hear them.
"the blind empress."
"does he even notice her?"
"i heard he hasn't touched her once."
"what a waste of a pretty face."
"she must be so lonely."
"she must be so pathetic."
you'd smiled through all of it. kept your head high, your shoulders back, your voice steady. you learned long ago that showing weakness only invites more cruelty. so you'd walked through the halls with your practiced grace, your cane tapping against the marble floors, your face serene.
but inside, you were crumbling.
and now, lying in this massive bed, with your hair spread across a silk pillow and the scent of incense curling through the air, you can feel him beside you. he's so close. you know he's sitting up, his back probably against the headboard, his presence a heavy weight in the darkness.
does he ever sleep?
you've never heard him snore. never heard him shift in his sleep. he's so still, so silent, you sometimes wonder if he's even real.
a long, long time passes. the candles burn down. the incense fades. the night wraps around you like a shroud.
and you can't take it anymore.
"ryomen?"
your voice comes out soft, barely above a whisper. you hate how small you sound. how vulnerable. you'd wanted to sound strong, confident, demanding. instead, you sound like a child calling out in the dark.
silence.
you wait. count your heartbeats. one. two. three. four. five.
just when you're certain he's ignoring you, just when the familiar ache of rejection settles into your chest, a voice cuts through the darkness.
"what."
it's gruff. low. a single word that rumbles through the air like distant thunder. and it's the most he's said to you in days.
you swallow. your throat is dry. your fingers twist in the sheets.
"i...i want to ask you something."
more silence. you can feel him staring at you. you can't see it, but you can feel itāthe weight of his gaze, heavy and unreadable.
"ask."
you take a shaky breath. this is it. this is the moment you've been building toward for three months. the question that's been eating you alive, consuming you from the inside out.
"do you hate me?"
the words hang in the air between you. they sound so small. so pathetic. you wish you could take them back, but it's too late. they're out there now, exposed and raw.
"hate you?" his voice is strange. almost...confused?
"because of...because i'm...y'know, blind." the words taste like ash in your mouth. "i know it's...i know i'm not what you expected. i know i'm not the best option. i know i'mā"
"stop."
the word is sharp, and you flinch. your breath catches in your throat. you brace yourself for anger, for cruelty, for him to finally confirm what you've suspected all along.
but instead of harsh words, you feel movement. the bed shifts. his weight moves closer.
and then, without warning, a hand wraps around your waist and pulls.
you let out a frightened shriek as you're yanked from your position, your body colliding with something solid and warm. your hands fly out, grasping at fabric, at skin, at anything. you're on his lap, straddling his thighs, your chest pressed against his. he's so bigāso impossibly largeāthat you feel like a doll in his arms.
"ryomen!" your voice is high, panicked. "whatā"
"quiet."
his hand settles on your thigh. it's huge. calloused. rough in a way that sends shivers down your spine. but the touch is gentle. impossibly gentle. he strokes your thigh once, twice, a soothing motion that slowly calms your racing heart.
"you really think," he says slowly, his voice rumbling against your chest, "that i hate you?"
you can't speak. your throat is too tight. you settle for shaking your head against his chest, even though it's a lie.
a low sound escapes himānot quite a growl, not quite a laugh. his hand slides from your thigh to your chin, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes across your lower lip, feather-light.
"open your eyes."
the command catches you off guard. "what?"
"your eyes. open them."
you blink, confused. your eyes are already open. you can't see anything, but they're open. you tell him as much.
"no." his voice is strange. softer. "i mean...look at me."
"i can't see you."
"i know." his thumb traces your jawline. "but i can see you. and i want to see your eyes. please."
please.
the word catches you off guard. the king of curses, saying please? to you?
you don't move. don't breathe. just let him hold your face in his massive hand, his touch devastatingly tender.
"i don't hate you," he says, and his voice cracks on the words. "gods, woman. i could never hate you."
your heart stutters. "then whyā"
"because i'm fuckin' terrified."
you blink. "what?"
"do you know what i am?" his hand slides from your face to your hair, fingers threading through the strands. "i'm a killer. i've been killing for centuries. my hands are stained with blood i'll never wash clean. i'm rough, and violent, and i don't know how to be gentle."
"butā"
"but when i saw you..." he trails off. his fingers tighten in your hair, just barely. "when i saw you, i couldn't breathe. you were so beautiful. so small. so... perfect. and i thought, 'she's too good f'me.' , 'i'll break her.' , 'i'll hurt her.'"
his voice drops to a whisper.
"so i stayed away. because every time i look at you, i want to touch you. and every time i touch you, i'm afraid i'll destroy you."
tears prick at your eyes. you don't understand. you can't understand. this entire time, you thought he hated you. you thought he found you repulsive, broken, worthless.
but he was...
...afraid?
"you don't hate me?" you whisper.
"no." his forehead presses against yours. "i love you. i've loved you since the moment i saw you."
a sob escapes your throat. it's ugly and raw and you can't stop it.
"but you neverāyou never talked to meā"
"because i didn't trust myself." his other hand comes up to cup your cheek. "because i knew if i started, i wouldn't be able to stop."
"then don't stop."
the words leave your mouth before you can think. they hang in the air, bold and desperate.
"don't stop," you repeat. "please. i don't want you to stop."
sukuna goes still. so still that you wonder if he's stopped breathing.
"you don't know what you're asking."
"i do." you reach up, your fingers finding his face. you trace the planes of his cheeks, the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips. "you're my husband. i want you. all of you."
"i'll hurt you."
"i don't care."
"i'll break you."
"i don't care."
his breath hitches. and then, finally, finally, his lips crash against yours.
the kiss is desperate. hungry. it tastes like three months of longing, of confusion, of aching loneliness. his hand fists in your hair, pulling you closer, and you gasp against his mouth. his tongue slides against your lower lip, asking for entry, and you give it willingly.
he tastes like sake and power and something darker. something that makes your toes curl and your heart race.
he pulls back, breathless.
"tell me to stop, and i will."
"don't," you say immediately. "don't stop."
he groans. his hands slide down your back, gripping your hips, and he lays you down on the bed. you fall against the silk sheets, your hair spreading around you like a halo. you can't see him, but you can feel himāhis weight on the bed, his heat surrounding you, his breath ghosting across your skin.
"m'gonna show you," he says, his voice low and rough. "m'gonna kiss every inch of your body. gonna taste you until you scream my name. i want to make you feel so good that you forget every single doubt you've ever had about yourself."
your breath catches. "ryomenā"
"let me." his lips brush against your neck. "let me show you how much i love you."
you nod, unable to speak.
his hands find the tie of your robe. he undoes it slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping a gift he's been waiting centuries to open. the fabric falls away, cool air hitting your skin, and you shiver.
"beautiful," he breathes. "so fucking beautiful."
you feel his lips on your collarbone. soft. worshipful. he kisses down your chest, his tongue tracing a path between your breasts. his hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples, and you gasp.
"sensitive," he murmurs. "good. i'll remember that."
he takes one nipple into his mouth. his tongue circles the peak, slow and deliberate, and you arch into him with a desperate moan. he laves at you, sucking gently, nipping with his teeth until you're writhing beneath him.
"more," you gasp. "pleaseā"
"patience." his voice is a dark promise. "i haven't even started with ya' yet."
he switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention. his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin, until he reaches the apex of your thighs. you're already wetāembarrassingly wetāand he lets out a low growl when he feels it.
"fuck," he mutters against your skin. "you're soaked. f'me?"
"yes," you whimper. "only you."
he groans. his fingers slide through your folds, collecting your wetness, and you buck into his touch.
"tell me what you want."
"i wantā" you gasp as his thumb circles your clit. "m'want your mouth."
his laugh is dark and breathless. "demanding little thing, aren't ya'?"
"please," you beg. "ryo, pleaseā"
"shh." he kisses your stomach. "i'll give ya' what y'want."
he moves down your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire. he kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your knees. by the time he reaches your core, you're trembling, desperate, aching.
and then his tongue touches you.
you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. he laps at you like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, circling your clit, dipping inside you. he moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"taste s'good," he mutters against your skin. "could eat ya' forever."
he sucks your clit into his mouth, and you scream. your hips buck against his face, but he holds you down, his massive hands gripping your thighs. he alternates between sucking and licking, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher.
"that's it," he praises. "let go f'me...lemme taste ya'."
his fingers find your entrance, sliding inside you without warning. two fingers, thick and long, stretching you. he curls them, hitting a spot that makes you see stars, and you shatter.
you come with a scream of his name, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash through you. he doesn't stop. he laps at you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're sobbing from the intensity.
when you finally come down, he crawls up your body, his lips finding yours. you taste yourself on his tongue, and it's the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
"m-more," you whisper. "m'want more."
his eyesāyou can feel themāsearch your face.
"are you sure? we can stop. we canā"
"i'm sure." you reach for him, your fingers finding his chest. "i want you...please."
he hesitates. you feel the tension in his muscles, the restraint he's barely holding onto.
"m'bigger than ya'," he says, matter of factly. "a lot bigger. and i have...i have two dicks, woman. i don't know ifā"
"i don't care." you pull him closer. "i trust you."
he groans, pressing his forehead against yours.
"if it hurts too much, tell me. and i'll stop."
"okay."
"promise me."
"i promise."
he shifts above you, and you feel something heavy and thick press against your thigh. and then another. two cocks. the thought should terrify you, but instead, it sends a thrill through your body.
he aligns himself with your entrance, and you feel the tip pressing against you. he's hugeāso much bigger than his fingersāand you wonder if you can actually take him.
"relax f'me," he murmurs. "breathe."
you inhale deeply, and he pushes in.
just the tip, and you gasp. he's stretching you in a way that's almost unbearable. it hurts. there's a burning sensation, a pressure that's too much and not enough.
"shh," he soothes. "you're doing s'well. so good f'me."
he pushes deeper, inch by agonizing inch. you feel your body struggling to accommodate him, your walls clenching around his length. and thenā
a sharp pain.
fuck...you forgot.
you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. he stops immediately.
"did i hurt ya'?"
you can't answer. the pain is fading, replaced by a strange fullness. you feel something wet trickle down your thigh. warm. sticky.
blood.
his eyes slowly flicker down, and you can hear his breath stop. he's tense. too tense.
"fuck," he hisses. "you'reāyou're a fuckin' virgin?"
you nod weakly, biting your lip. your heart is pounding fast. loud. "is that...bad?"
"no." his voice is strained. "no, it's not bad. i justāfuckāi didn't know. i would have been more careful, woman."
"you are being careful," you whisper, fingers pressing into his shoulders "keep going."
"you're fuckin' bleeding."
"i don't care. please. i want to feel you." you sniffle. god, the pleasure is making you bold. too fucking bold.
he lets out a shaky breath. "you're going to kill me."
but he pushes deeper, slower this time. gentler. his lips find yours, kissing you softly as he sinks into you. the pain fades, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that makes you moan.
when he's fully sheathed, he stops. lets you adjust. his forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged.
"y'feel incredible," he breathes. "so tight. so...fuck...perfect."
"move," you beg. "please."
he pulls out slowly, then pushes back in. the friction is delicious, the stretch exquisite. he sets a rhythmāslow, deep, deliberateāeach thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
"ryomen," you gasp. "r-ryoā"
"i know," he murmurs. "i know, doll. feels s'good, doesn't it?"
"yesāyesā"
his hand slides down your stomach, pressing against the slight bulge where he's buried inside you. the feeling makes you moan.
"look at that," he says, awe in his voice. "you can feel me, can't ya'? right here."
he presses down, and you feel itāthe outline of him inside you. it's obscene. it's incredible.
"more," you gasp. "harderā"
"y'sure?"
"yesāpleaseā"
he obliges. his pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more urgent. the bed creaks beneath you, the sound mixing with your moans and his grunts.
"gonna come," he warns. "where do you want it?"
"inside," you gasp. "pleaseāi want to feel youā"
he groans, his hips slamming into yours. and then he's coming, hot and thick, filling you so completely. you feel itāhis release pouring into you, painting your walls, claiming you from the inside. his cum is already trickling down your thigh, oozing out of your cunt.
at the same time, he's stroking his other cock. you feel the wet spurts hit your stomach, warm and sticky.
he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you. his face buries in your neck, and you feel his breath, ragged and uneven.
"i love you," he whispers, gruff. it's funny. you've always thought the word love doesn't exist in his vocabulary. but here he is, saying it over and over again. "i love you so much it terrifies me."
you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer.
"i love you too."
a long moment passes. then another. and thenā
"we're going to do that again."
you laugh, breathless.
"right now?"
"after i clean you up." he kisses your neck. "and then again. and again. and again. until ya' can't walk."
"promise?"
he pulls back, and even though you can't see him, you know he's smirking.
"promise."
you're already half asleep when he pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you'll disappear. his lips press against your hair, your forehead, your eyelids.
"my wife," he murmurs. "my perfect, beautiful wife."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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getting ready for a beach day turns into something a little more complicated after you ask gojo for one small favor.
a/n: i've been in such a writing slump lately, so i'm sorry i've been a little inactive š i've been trying to ease myself back into writing instead of forcing it, and this little gojo blurb somehow made it out of the drafts. i hope you guys enjoy it!
he's sprawled across the hotel bed, one arm over his eyes, dramatically sighing while you finish getting ready.
"you almost done?" he calls, dragging out every syllable.
you crack the bathroom door open.
"satoru?"
"hm?"
"um... can you help me?"
he pushes himself up, fully expecting a question about sunscreen or sunglassesāuntil he steps around the corner and sees you.
his thoughts stop.
you're standing with your back to him, one hand holding the front of your bikini in place while the strings hang loose.
"can you tie it?" you ask, gesturing over your shoulder. "i can't reach."
for once, satoru gojo is completely silent
"... cat got your tongue?" you tease.
he huffs out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.
"you wait until now to test my self-control?"
you grin. " i just need a knot."
"yeah," he mutters, stepping closer, "that's the problem."
his fingers brush your back as he gathers the strings
warm.
steady.
and absolutely betraying how fast his heart is beating.
"you always this nervous?" you ask lightly.
"i'm not nervous." it comes out softer than he meant.
you glance over your shoulder, clearly unconvinced.
he focuses on the knot instead.
loop. pull. cross. anything to keep his eyes down.
"there," he says.
the bow is neat.
secure.
his hands linger for a moment before he lets them fall.
"you can look now," you laugh.
"i was looking."
"oh, i noticed."
"... didn't say i was sorry."
when you finally turn around, his eyes meet yours.
long enough for his grin to falter.
long enough for him to realize he is in wayy more trouble than he thought.
he clears his throat, slipping his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose.
"...let's go to the beach."
you tilt your head.
"what happened to all that confidence?"
he opens the door, holding it for you with that familiar crooked smile.
"i left it in the bathroom."
you laugh, slipping your hand into his as you walk past him.
by the time you make it to the beach, his arm is around your waist before anyone else has the chance to look twice.
everyone's love language is different. here's how i think jjk men show their loveāand how they hope to receive it in return.
a/n: i know it's been a minute š i've been in the biggest writing slump, so i thought i'd come back with something soft and fluffy. hope you guys enjoy!! ā”
satoru gojo
love language he gives: quality time
gojo spends his life being tugged in every direction at once. missions, students, obligations, and the weight of being the strongest leave him with very little that's truly his.
so when he chooses to give you his time, it matters.
he's the type to show up at your place out of nowhere simply because an unexpected free hour appeared, and his first instinct was to spend it with you.
it never depends on what you're doing.
studying. running errands. rewatching a movie you both know by heart.
if you're there, he's content.
because with you, he finally gets to be satoruānot the untouchable satoru gojo everyone else demands.
love language he needs: words of affirmation
gojo carries himself with enough confidence to fill a room. but underneath all that shine is someone who's spent most of his life being praised for his power, not his person.
he craves reassuranceānot out of insecurity, but because genuine words hit deeper than he lets on.
hearing someone say,
"i'm proud of you."
or
"i love you for who you are."
means more to him than he'll ever say out loud.
suguru geto
love language he gives: words of affirmation
geto notices everythingāyour achievements, your struggles, the moments you're too harsh on yourself. he's always the first to remind you of your strength, the first to celebrate even your smallest victories, the first to gently call you out when you're being unkind to yourself.
when geto loves someone, he makes sure they never have to question it.
love language he needs: acts of service
geto carries far more than he ever lets on. he's used to managing everything alone, holding the world together with his own hands.
which is why the smallest gestures hit him the deepest.
you bring him a coffee without being asked, you save him a seat, you remember his tea order, you notice when exhaustion settles in his shoulders.
little things. things most people overlook.
but to geto, those moments are proof,
that someone sees him,
that someone cares,
in a way words could never match.
choso kamo
love language he gives: physical touch
choso is naturally affectionateā
not overwhelming, just steady, constant.
a hand at the small of your back. your fingers laced with his.
pulling you closer during a movie, resting his forehead against yours when's he's worn down.
touch grounds him.
it reminds him you're here.
that you're safe.
that you're his person.
love language he needs: physical touch
choso loves with his whole heart. when he cares for someone, he wants closenessāyour hands in his, your body tucked against him, your heartbeat pressed to his chest.
after spending so much of his life feeling alone, something is healing in the simple truth that someone chooses to stay
toji fushiguro
love language he gives: physical touch
toji isn't the type to sit you down and pour his heart out. words aren't his thing, and he's never been good at explaining how he feels.
so his affection comes through his hands instead.
an arm slung over your shoulders, pulling you into his lap without thinking, a hand resting at the small of your back, a quick kiss to your forehead before he heads out.
it's instinctive.
he may not always know how to say what he feels, but he always knows how to keep you close.
love language he needs: physical touch
toji isn't used to being cared for. most of his life taught him that people don't stay, so affection hits deeper than he ever lets on.
a hand slipping into his hair, your head resting on his shoulder, your fingers brushing his as you walk.
small gestures. simple reminders that you're still here. that you're choosing him, even on the days he can't understand why.
ryomen sukuna
love language he gives: quality time
not because he's soft. because if sukuna chooses to spend time with you, that alone is a massive statement.
he's selective to the point of cruelty about who gets his attention. so if he's sitting beside you, listening to you, seeking you out, or choosing your company over being alone, that's his version of a confession.
love language he needs: words of affirmation
he's never admit it.
ever.
but he's prideful. he likes being admired, respected, wanted.
he wants someone who can meet his gaze and tell him exactly why they chose him, not out of fear, but out of genuine devotion.
kento nanami
love language he gives: acts of service
nanami isn't always the best at putting his feelings into words. instead, he shows them through consistency, through the way he pays attention.
you mention being cold once, and suddenly there's a blanket around your shoulders. you vent about a stressful day, and your favorite takeout is already waiting on the table. your car makes a strange noise, and he's booked an appointment before you've even processed it.
nanami notices.
that's how he loves, by making your life easier in all the ways he can.
love language he needs: quality time
nanami spends most of his life working, carrying responsibilities that never seem to end. so he craves the simple moments with you.
quiet dinners, slow sunday mornings, reading side by side without speaking.
nothing extravagant.
just your presence.
because no matter how heavy life gets, being with you feels like coming home.
synopsis: higuruma hiromi doesn't believe in favoritism. at least, that's what he tells himself. but when one student continually demands more of his attention than anyone else, the line between academic interest and something far more dangerous begins to blur. and everyone is starting to notice.
contains: professor!higuruma, student!reader, slow burn, academic tension, mutual attraction, power imbalance, favoritism, emotional manipulation, age gap, dark academia, forbidden romance, classroom dynamics, yearning, unresolved tension, mature themes
wc: 2k
a/n: this has genuinely been sitting in my drafts collecting dust for MONTHS š idk if i love it or hate it but i finally bullied myself into posting it. inspired by "teacher's pet" by melanie martinez <3
pic creds: @ai_003_uni on X
the first time you catch it, it's barely there.
a flicker.
a shift.
small enough you almost talk yourself out of noticing.
higuruma never raises his voice. he doesn't have to. the room organizes itself around himāstudents straightening their posture, trimming their sentences, terrified of being the next person he dismantles with his calm demeanor.
and he will dismantle you.
cleanly.
quietly.
without ever sounding unkind.
"your reasoning collapses halfway through," he tells a student ahead of you, tone steady. "you're leaning on assumption instead of proof."
the student tries to recover. he lets them. he lets the silence stretch until it becomes a weight they can't hold.
thenā
"sit."
done.
dismissed.
over.
your pen hovers above the page, ink drying on the tip.
you should be writing.
you always write.
the way he smooths his sleeve. the way his eyes move across the room not drifting, not bored, but assessing. cataloging. measuring.
and thenā
they land on you.
just for a breath.
maybe less.
but long enough to feel deliberate.
your stomach dips.
you drop your gaze instantly, scribbling nonsense so it doesn't look like you were staring.
you weren't.
you definitelyy weren't.
you definitely weren't staring at the biceps or the veins in his hands.
you weren't.
you don't stare.
you're not like the others.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
it happens again the next class.
and the next.
never blatant. never enough to point to.
just... steady.
a question aimed at you when the room goes silent.
a pause, like he's waiting for your answer before anyone else even considers speaking.
and when you do answerā
"you're close."
he never tells you that you're wrong.
everytime it's just close.
like he's trying to nudge you forward.
like he knows you can go further.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
"stay after."
he says it lightly, almost offhand, as people start packing up.
your head snaps up. face slightly flushed.
but he isn't looking at you.
he's gathering papers like he didn't just single you out in front of forty-five other people.
heat crawls up your neck anyway.
a few students glance your way.
of course, they do.
you can feel the questions forming.
why you?
you don't ask.
you just nod, even though he doesn't see it.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
the room empties slower than usual.
or maybe it only feels that way.
every sound stretchesāzippers, footsteps, a lugh near the door. you keep your eyes glued to your notebook long after you've stopped pretending to read it.
don't look up.
don't make it obvious.
when the door finally shuts, the silence shifts. thickens.
he doesn't speak.
he never rushes.
you hear papers being aligned, a pen clicking once. controlled. intentional.
"your writing."
you look up.
he's already watching you.
your pulse stutters.
what's wrong with it? you manage.
"it's inconsistent."
your brows pull together. "inconsistent how?"
he tilts his head slightly, considering.
"you can be clear," he says. "but you pull back."
your fingers tighten around your pen. "i don't thinkā"
"you do."
not sharp.
just certain.
it cuts you off anyway.
silence settles.
he stands.
and something about thatāabout him closing the distanceāmakes your chest tighten.
not fear.
just awareness.
heightened. unavoidable.
he stops beside your desk, close enough that you can see the faint wrinkles in his sleeve, the loosened knot of his tie.
"you expect to be wrong," he says quietly. "so you soften your conclusions before anyone can challenge them."
your throat feels dry.
"i'm being careful."
"no," he says. "you're being safe."
the words land too heavily.
you look up at him fully, something defensive sparking. "is that a problem?"
"for you?" he pauses.
thenā
"yes."
your breath catches.
because he's not saying it like a professor criticizing a paper.
he's saying it like it matters.
like you matter.
and that's when it starts to feel...different.
"you kept me after for that?" you ask, voice softer.
his gaze doesn't waver.
"no."
your pulse ticks louder.
"then why?"
he doesn't answer immediately.
and in that pause, something shiftsāsubtle, invisible, but unmistakable. the air feels heavier.
"you're aware of how others perform," he says finally.
you blink. "i guess?"
"they speak to be heard," he says. "to look competent."
"and i don't?"
his eyes sharpen.
"you don't need to."
your breath stumbles.
the way he says itālow, sureāmakes your stomach twist.
"that's why i expect more from you."
it should feel like praise.
it almost does.
but there's something else braided into it. something personal.
you glance down at your notebook, grounding yourself.
"that's... a lot."
"is it?" he asks.
you nod.
a longer pause this time.
"you haven't disappointed me yet."
your fingers freeze.
slowly, you look up.
and there it is again.
that look.
focused. intentional. a fraction too long to be academic.
your pulse jumps.
you should say something.
redirect.
you should at least try to make this normal again.
but you don't.
because part of youā
a quiet, unsettling partā
doesn't want to.
"is that all?" you ask, barely above a whisper.
he studies you.
like he's choosing between his answers.
"it is," he says at last.
but he doesn't move.
and neither do you.
the silence stretches thin, delicate, dangerous.
then,
"you can go."
it sounds different this time.
more final.
you pack your things slowly, hyper-aware of every motion, every second he's behind you.
at the door, your hand pauses on the handle.
you don't turn around.
"i wasn't holding back," you say quietly.
a moment passes.
then,
"yes," he replies.
your grip tightens.
"...then why didn't you call on someone else?"
another pause.
shorter.
because this answer is easy.
"because they wouldn't have been worth it."
your breath catches.
and you leave before you can see his expression
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
the next time it happens, you're ready.
orāyou tell yourself you are.
"you."
not your name.
doesn't have to be.
your head lifts anyway, automatic now, like your body recognizes the gravity of his attention before your mind catches up.
higuruma stands at the front, one hand braced on the desk, the other holding a paper he hasn't actually looked at in a while.
"identify the flaw in the argument."
a ripple moves through the roomāshifting chairs, a relieved exhale from someone who thought they'd be next.
you don't look around.
you don't stall.
"you're assuming intent without establishing it," you say. "the conclusion depends on a motive that hasn't been proven."
silence follows.
not uncomfortable.
expectant.
your pulse ticks once.
twice.
thenā
"go on."
not correct.
not good.
go on.
like stopping now would be beneath you.
you inhale. "without motive, the argument collapses. it becomes circumstantial."
another pause.
longer this time.
you can feel the room listening, not to you, but to him listening to you.
then you notice a small nod.
"better."
heat crawls up your neck.
you hate the way the word lands the way it does.
you hate that it feels like something earned.
"take note," he says to the rest of the class, finally breaking eye contact. "precision is essential."
a pen clatters behind you. someone mutters.
but you're still stuck on the way his gaze lingered before he looked away.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
it doesn't stop.
if anything, it escalates.
or deepens.
you're not sure which.
by the third time he calls on you in one class, it's undeniable.
not just to you.
to everyone.
you feel it in the glances, the raised brows, the shift in the room when you walk in.
you hear it, too.
not directly.
but whispers don't need volume to be understood.
"of course he picked her."
"she didn't even volunteer."
"must be nice."
you keep your head down.
you pretend it doesn't matter.
it shouldn't.
youāre not doing anything wrong.
youāre just answering questions.
thatās all.
thatās all it is.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
the next day.
āyouāre early.ā
your hand freezes on your bag strap.
higuruma is already here.
naturally
heās always there first, papers aligned, the board half-filled with notes no one ever sees him write.
āi had time,ā you say.
it comes out sharper than intended.
his gaze flicks over you, your posture, your tone, the tension beneath both.
āsit.ā
you hesitate, then obey.
the room is empty.
too empty.
the kind of quiet that feels deliberate.
he doesnāt speak immediately.
instead, he picks up a paper, yours.
your stomach dips.
āi reviewed your last submission.ā
you straighten. āand.ā
he taps the page with his pen.
āyou did exactly what i asked.ā
your chest tightens.
it shouldn't.
but it does.
"but," you say carefully, "it still isn't enough."
his eyes lift.
something like approval flickers there.
"correct."
your breath stutters.
because you knew that.
because you wanted him to say it.
and that realization sits uncomfortably in your chest.
"you're improving," he says. "but you're still holding back."
"i thought you wanted precision."
"i do."
"thenā"
"precision isn't restraint."
the words land heavier than they should.
you look at him, uncertainty tugging at your thoughts. "and you think i'm restraining myself."
"i know you are."
no hesitation.
no doubt.
just quiet certainty.
your fingers curl against your notebook.
"and you don't?" you ask before you can stop yourself.
a pause.
his expression doesn't shift.
but the air does.
"you're asking the wrong question."
your pulse jumps.
"then what's the right one?"
he steps closer.
not enough to cross a line.
just enough to make you aware of where the line is.
"why it matters to you."
your breath falters.
"it doesn't," you say too quickly.
his gaze sharpens.
"that isn't true."
you look away.
because suddenly this isn't about writing.
" i just want to do well in your class."
the words sound thin.
a quiet exhale leaves him.
"is that all."
your chest tightens.
because you don't know what answer he wants.
and that's the problem.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
the door opens.
the moment fractures.
students file in, voices rising, filling the room with normalcy.
you pull back instantly, eyes dropping to your notebook like you were always focused, always composed.
higuruma steps away just as smoothly.
like nothing happened.
"take your seats," he says, voice returning to its usual calm.
no one would know.
no one should know.
. Üā ā¹ . Ü ā” Ü . ā¹ ā Ü.
after class, you don't linger.
you pack quickly, avoiding his eyes, ignoring the way your name almostāalmost forms on his lips again.
you're nearly at the door whenā
"stay"
sharper this time.
not louder.
just...final.
a few students glance back.
of course they do.
for a moment, you consider leaving.
walking out.
ending whatever this is.
but your feet don't move.
they never do.
the door closes.
silence settles.
he doesn't make you wait.
"sit."
you don't.
something in your chest is too tight.
"i think more people are starting to notice."
there.
you said it.
the words hang heavy.
higuruma watches you.
"and?"
your brows pull together. "and... that's a problem."
"why."
you stare at him.
because he can't be serious.
"because it looksā" you stop.
because saying it makes it real.
his gaze doesn't waver.
"looks like what."
your pulse pounds.
"you know what it looks like."
a long, measured pause.
thenā
"say it."
your breath catches.
you shouldn't
but the way he's watching youāsteady, unyieldingāmakes it impossible not to.
"like you favor me."
the words are soft.
but they hit hard.
silence follows.
thick.
unavoidable.
he doesn't deny it.
doesn't correct you.
and somehowā
that's worse.
your chest tightens.
"don't you?"
you shouldn't ask.
but it's too late.
the question is already out.
he steps closer.
slow.
intentional.
"you think i do."
your breath stutters.
"that's not an answer."
"no," he says.
another step.
close enough that the air feels different.
"it isn't."
your fingers tighten on your bag strap.
"then give me one."
a pause.
and for the first timeā
he hesitates.
barely.
but enough.
higuruma doesn't hesitate.
ever.
"...you're different from the others," he says finally.
not what you asked.
and you know it.
your pulse races anyway.
"that's not fair."
his gaze sharpens. "no?"
"no," you say, steadier. because you treat me like i am."
silence.
thenā
"do you want me to stop?"
the question hits harder than it should.
you should say yes.
you should.
it would fix everything.
make things normal.
safe.
your grip tightens.
"no."
the word slips out before you can stop it.
and the moment it doesā
you feel it.
that shift.
that line.
crossed.
higuruma goes still.
not surprised.
not confused.
just...still.
like he's absorbing it.
understanding exactly what you just admitted.
your pulse is too loud.
you should take it back.
you don't.
because part of you meant it.
and he knows.
a slow breath leaves him.
"then don't question it again."
your breath catches.
because that didn't sound like advice.
and the way he's looking at youā
steady.
intent.
certainā
doesn't feel academic.
it feels like something else entirely.
"go," he says.
softer.
but final.
you leave.
but the feeling follows youā
that buzzing awareness under your skin.
that quiet, dangerous truth settling in your chest.
hi i love your fics, youāre so talented! sorry if this is random but do you have tumblr pro? or whatever itās called? is that how you get the ombre colored text?
omgg tyy!!!, but no i use this website https://patorjk.com/text-color-fader/ i started using it bc of the wonderful @tonycries, and she has a very good tutorial on her page!
NO college is actually NOT fun because whereās nerd gojo and quarterback toji and plug choso and punk geto and frat sukuna and chair of dept. nanami and assistant prof. shiu & graduate prof. higuruma andā
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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synopsis: you and suguru geto have spent three years trying to outdo each other. somewhere between top exam scores, late-night study sessions, and arguments neither of you wanted to end, the line between rivalry and something far more dangerous begins to blur.
a/n: omgg new seriess, im very excited because i never write for geto and I KNOW he's top tier when it comes to yearning š
masterlist | part 2 |
you and geto were never subtle about it.
not enemies. not friends.
something far more complicatedā
two people who understand each other too well and pretend they don't
everyone else called it a rivalry because that was easier than naming the tension that followed you both into every room. easier than explaining why your conversations always felt like they were one breath away from becoming something else. easier than admitting neither of you seemed capable of leaving the other alone.
three years ago, the first time you met suguru geto, he looked at you for exactly three seconds too long.
not enough for anyone else to noticeā
just enough for you.
he stood at the back of the lecture hall, leaning against the wall with that unreadable calm he wore like armor. the instructor listed the top incoming students, the room buzzing with whispers.
your name had barely been spoken before someone murmured,
"thats the one who placed first."
then quieter:
"thought geto would've taken it."
you didn't look at him right away. that would've been too obvious. you set your bag down, pretended not to hear the murmursā until curiosity won.
you glanced over.
he was already watching.
calm. assessing.
like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, you were.
his stare didn't break when you caught him.
if anything, it sharpened.
you raised a brow.
he smiledābarelyāand looked away first.
it should've ended there.
instead, it started everything.
ā Ėļ½”āą±Øą§Ė
after that, geto was everywhere.
a few rows away in lectures.
lingering after assessments.
watching whenever things turned competitive.
always across from you during partnered work, even though neither of you ever chose the other.
you noticed things before you meant to.
the way he rested his cheek on his fist when bored.
the way his voice dropped when he was irritated.
the effortless confidence he carried, like the world rarely surprised him.
you wanted to be the exception.
it started smallā a correction during a debate.
he countered.
you corrected him again.
the room went silent as the two of you argued with perfect politeness and razor-sharp precision.
"your logic only works in theory."
"and yours only works under perfect conditions."
"better than relying on assumptions."
"they're called predictions."
"they're called excuses."
someone laughed quietly.
you expected irritation.
instead, geto smiledāsharp, interested.
that was the moment you realized he enjoyed this.
enojyed youā not romantically, not personally, but intellectually.
you challenged him.
and suguru geto was not used to being challenged.
from there, it escalated.
if you topped an exam, he beat your next score.
if he mastered a technique first, you stayed late until you surpassed him.
you recognized his footsteps.
he recognized your handwriting.
it became routine.
predictable.
dangerous.
"you're staring again."
the words slipped out one afternoon as sunlight filtered through the half-empty classroom.
geto sat two seats away, chin in hand, watching you write.
he didn't deny it.
he didn't even look embarrassed.
"you tap your pen when you're frustrated," he said.
you froze.
he noticed.
of course he did.
"there it is again."
"you're insufferable."
"and yet," he murmured, gathering his papers, "you keep talking to me."
"you hated how easily he said things like thatā how they lingered long after the conversation ended.
because he wasn't wrong.
you did keep talking to him.
even when you told yourself not to.
rivalry shifted into something quieter.
he saved you seats without acknowledging it.
he slid his notes toward you when you missed part of a lecture.
he waited outside classrooms like it was a coincidence.
and you let him.
your arguements changed too.
less hostile.
more familiar.
comforting almost.
you knew exactly how heād react before he did.
knew the slight narrowing of his eyes meant he disagreed with something.
knew the quieter his voice became, the more genuinely invested he was in the conversation.
and he knew you too.
far too well.
"you're tired."
you looked up sharply.
geto stood beside your desk, unreadable as always.
"i'm fine."
"you've rewritten the same sentence four times."
your grip tightened.
he noticed that too.
"why are you paying attention to me?"
the question came out softer than you meant.
he hesitatedājust a fraction.
then,
"because you're distracting."
your chest tightened at how simply he said it.
before you could respond, he reached over, took your pen gently, and circled the mistake you'd missed.
his sleeve brushed your arm.
you went still.
he noticed.
the air shiftedāsubtle, but unmistakable.
his fingers lingered near yours for a second too long before he stepped back like nothing happened.
husband!nanami who carefully threads his fingers through yours the moment a crowd forms, like his body chooses you before his mind even catches up.
husband!nanami who wakes before the sun just to brew your coffee exactly the way you prefer, quietly setting it beside you so it's the first comfort you feel.
husband!nanami who steps through the door, loosens his tie with a sigh, and immediately scans the room for youāhis real sense of home.
husband!nanami who notices your favorite snacks running low long before you do, and restocks them without saying a word.
husband!nanami who insists he doesn't want a pet, then ends up carrying the cat around like its royalty
husband!nanami who reads beside you in quiet companionship, believing that sharing silence with you is its own kind of peace.
husband!nanami who leans down every morning to press a soft kiss to your forehead before leaving for work, no matter how rushed he is.
husband!nanami who rests a steady hand on your thigh while driving, a silent reminder that he's right there with you.
husband!nanami who quietly murmurs "text me when you arrive" every time you head out, not out of worryāout of love.
husband!nanami who can read your exhaustion the moment he sees you, even before you speak a single word.
husband!nanami who pulls you into his chest without hesitation on the days everything feels heavy, holding you until your breathing steadies.
husband!nanami who learns your habits so well that he starts doing small tasks for you before you even think to ask.
husband!nanami who may intimidate everyone else, but with you, he is impossibly gentleāsoft hands, soft voice, soft heart.
synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think heās irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.
pairings: frat!gojo x uniterested!reader
wc: 1.7k
a/n: communication skills are actually beating his ass right now š, but if i had gojo, sukuna, and higuruma wanting me yall genuinely couldn't tell me shit LMFAOO
people rehearsing under their breath, checking slides for the thousandth time.
nervous energy thick in the air before the professor even walks in.
gojo barely registers any of it.
his eyes find you instantly.
of course, they do.
you're across the room instead of next to him.
sitting with your roommate by the windows, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through something on your laptop like you've got all the time in the world.
focused.
calm.
like today is nothing special.
his jaw ticks once before he forces himself to look away.
fine.
whatever.
it's not like you have to sit together anymore.
the project's done.
technically.
your presentation got moved to thursday instead of today.
which means there's no reason to talk unless one of you decides to make one.
neither of you do.
he drops into his seat with a dull thud, tossing his bag to the floor.
geto glances over.
then follows his gaze immediately.
"...ah," he says.
gojo doesn't look at him.
"don't."
"i didn't say anything."
"you were about to."
geto smirks, opening his laptop.
"you've been very defensive lately."
"gojo's always defensive," shoko says as she sits beside him.
then she spots you.
her eyebrows rise.
"...oh."
he regrets showing up today.
"you're both insufferable."
"you looked over there before you even sat down," shoko says.
"because i can see."
"mhm."
he ignores her, leaning back as the room shifts around him.
his phone ends up in his hand without him noticing.
blank screen.
no notifactions.
his thumb taps once against the side before he locks it again.
thenā
your laugh cuts through the noise.
soft.
quick.
still enough to pull his attention like a magnet.
you're smiling at something your roommate said, head tilted, easy and unguarded.
not the stiff politeness you've been giving him lately.
synopsis: finding out the jjk men have been stealing/keeping your underwear
contains: PERVY JJK MEN (i love them), suggestive themes, panty stealing/underwear theft, possessiveness, voyeuristic behavior, invasion of privacy, embarrassment, non-consensual implications
a/n: ayee something a bit spicy because i made a 92 on my first final š
content warning divider creds: @cafekitsune
satoru gojo
you don't intend to snoop through his things.
not at first.
it starts with something tinyāyour favorite ring, maybe, or that watermelon lip balm you swear you had when you walked in. something that should've been easy to spot.
gojo, naturally, is useless.
he's sprawled across the bed like it's his throneāwhich, irritatingly, it kind of is, he's watching you with that lazy, too amused expression that never bodes well.
"you're tearing the place apart," he murmurs.
you don't look at him, already kneeling by his dresser, pulling open a drawer.
"then help me, i know you're stealing my stuff gojo"
"i could help."
he stays exactly where he is.
you let out a sharp breath and start digging through the drawer yourselfāshirts, random junk, things that are unmistakably himāuntil your finger brushes something softer. smaller.
you freeze.
just for a second.
then you pull it out.
and the moment your brain registers what you're holding, your stomach sinks.
everything clicks.
not just this.
not just today.
all of it.
the missing things. the way he never actually helps you look. the way he watchesāreally watchesāevery time you start getting annoyed.
you turn your head.
slowly.
and he's already staring at you.
smirking.
not startled. not confused.
just... waiting.
like he's been waiting for you to catch up.
"satoru."
"hmm?"
you hold the pink lace thong between two fingers, your grip a little tighter than before.
"...you wanna tell me why this was in your drawer?"
a pause.
thenā
"you went through my stuff?"
you just look at him.
because now you understand.
"... how many?"
that finally gets something out of him.
not denial.
not even a joke to dodge it.
his smirk shifts, barely, but enough to tell him you've hit the mark.
"enough," he says lightly.
your stomach twists. "you've been taking them?"
"taking is dramatic."
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "then what do you call it?"
he pushes up onto his elbows, eyes flicking to the item in your hand, then back to your faceāslow, deliberate, assessing.
"collecting," he says.
like it's the most reasonable thing in the world.
heat crawls up your neck. "you're unbelievable."
"you say that like you didn't notice."
that stops you cold.
because he's right.
some part of you did notice.
the patterns. the way he always seemed a little too entertained. a little too focused on you when you were searching.
you just didn't want to admit it.
didn't want it to be true.
but now it is.
and he's still watching you.
still tracking every flicker of embarrassment, every shift in your breathing, every bit of tension curling tight in your chest.
like thisā
this was exactly what he wanted.
suguru geto
you don't call him out immediately.
you watch.
that's the only reason you notice it at all.
a pattern.
little things disappearing, reappearing, shifting just enough to make you doubt yourself, but not enough to ignore. you feel it every time.
and suguruā
suguru is always nearby when it happens.
quiet. attentive.
too composed.
so you wait.
and when you finally speak, it isn't an accusation.
it's a test.
"you've been in my room."
he doesn't even lift his head.
"have i?"
the tone is light. effortless.
like the answer doesn't matter.
you step closer. "yes."
that gets his eyes on you.
there's a softness thereā but it doesn't settle anything inside you.
if anything, it tightens the knot in your chest.
"... half of my underwear is missing."
a pause.
brief.
measured.
"are they?"
your breath stutters.
"you know they are."
he studies you for a moment, gaze tracing your features like he's reading something you haven't said aloud.
like he understands exactly where your mind is going.
"and that bothers you?"
the question hits wrong.
not mocking.
not evasive.
sincere.
like he genuinely wants to hear your answer.
"...shouldn't it?"
he hums under his breath, thoughtful.
then he sets aside whatever he was holding, giving you his full attention.
that alone feels deliberate.
"if something of yours ends up with me," he says slowly, "it isn't lost."
your pulse jumps.
"...then what is it?"
another pause.
he doesn't look away.
"kept."
the word lands between you.
warm.
unsettling.
final.
and the worst part?
he doesn't look the slightest bit remorseful.
choso kamo
you usually don't go in his room.
it's not forbiddenāhe's never said thatābut it feels...personal in a way that keeps you lingering at the threshold.
today is different.
you're looking for him. or for something of his. you're not even sure anymore.
the room is quiet. undisturbed.
you walk in anyway.
"cho?"
silence.
your eyes drift, settling on the dresser.
you don't think about it.
not really.
your body just movesā hand reaching out, sliding the drawer open with a casual curiosity that evaporates the moment you see what's inside.
your breath stutters.
"...oh."
you see your red lacy thong staring back at you.
you don't touch anything.
you don't have to.
you recognize every piece.
"i was looking forā"
"i know."
his voice comes from behind you.
he isn't startled.
he's just...still.
watching you.
quiet.
your throat feels tight. "...those are mine."
"yes."
no hesitation.
no attempt to lie.
just the truth, offered plainly.
you swallow. "...why?"
for a moment, he doesn't answer.
his gaze dropsānot away, not in avoidanceābut just below your eyes, like he can't quite meet them right away.
not out of guilt.
something gentler.
heavier.
"...iāi'm sorry."
the words are soft.
careful.
you blink. "chosoā"
"i shouldn't have taken them."
he steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he's approaching something fragile.
like he's trying not to make this worse.
"i know that."
your chest tightens.
there's no defensiveness in his voice. no excuses.
just acknowledgment.
and something else beneath it.
"...then why did you?"
that's what makes him pause.
not being caught.
not the confrontation.
that question.
his fingers flex at his sides before he stills them.
"...because they're yours."
it's simple.
too simple.
you stare at him.
"that doesn'tāchoso, that doesn't make it okay."
"i know."
soft. immediate.
he lifts his gaze then, finally meeting yours, and something in his eyes makes your breath catch, steady, earnest, almost pleading.
"i wasn't trying to disrespect you."
you hand tightens on the edge of the drawer.
"... it feels like it."
that hits him.
you see it.
a flicker across his expressionāsmall, but real.
not shame.
hurt.
"i...i didn't think of it like that."
honest.
completely.
his steps closer again, careful, like he's giving you room even as he closes the distance.
"i just... wanted something of yours."
your pluse jumps.
the room feels smaller.
quieter.
"...you could've just asked cho."
another pause.
longer this time.
"... i didn't think you would say yes."
there's not bitterness in it.
no self-pity.
just quiet certainty.
and somehow, that makes it harder to breathe.
his hand moves thenāslow deliberateāreaching past you to close the drawer, as if he's removing the evidence, removing the weight of it.
"...i'll return them," he says softly.
then, after a momentā
"if you want me to."
not defensive.
not assuming.
just waiting.
for you.
ā Ėļ½”āąØą§Ė
i also wrote half of this on my phone pls don't judge š
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synopsis: everyone on campus seems to have an opinion about Satoru Gojo. frat president. genius. untouchable. you just think heās irritating. but between late-night study sessions and quiet moments away from the noise, you start to see a different side of him, one no one else seems to notice.
pairings: frat!gojo x uniterested!reader
wc: 2.3k
a/n: yall finals are next week, pray for me š, butttt that means maybe back to a consistent posting schedule š¤š¤
the tv is still on, murmuring to an empty roomā except you're there, curled up small on the couch, blanket slipping, phone barely hanging on between your fingers.
gojo stops in the doorway.
"...you waited for me?"
it's the softest he's sounded all night.
he shuts off the tv with a flick, then kneels beside you, brushing you hair gently away from your face. you don't wakeājust lean into his familiar touch.
he huffs a quiet laugh.
"could'nt fall asleep without me, huh?"
he lifts you with practiced ease, arms wrapping around you as you instinctively curl into his chest. something in him melts at the way you fit there.
when he sets you down, he doesn't step away.
not right away.
he presses a slow kiss to your forehead.
"next time," he murmurs, tucking the blanket around you, "just call. i'll come home."
suguru geto
the apartment is still when he walks in.
too still.
geto toes off his shoe, expecting to find you asleep in your room, only to spot you curled up on the couch instead, the lamp beside you casting a gentle glow over your face.
he stops in his tracks.
you must've been waiting for him.
his expression softens immediately, something tender and a little guilty settling behind his eyes.
"hey..." he murmurs, knowing you won't wake.
he kneels beside you, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. his fingers linger, slow and careful, like he's afraid to disturb you.
then he gathers you into his arms.
you stir faintly, your hand curling weakly into his shirt before relaxing again.
"i've got you," he whispers.
by the time he settles you into bed, his movements are practiced, quiet, full of care. he pulls the blanket up around you, adjusts your pillow, the leans down to a soft kiss to your forehead.
"don't wait up next time," he says, though the small smile tugging at his mouth gives him away.
he knows you will.
choso kamo
he tries not to make a sound.
really tries.
but when choso steps inside and sees you asleep on the couch, he stops completely.
you look so small like that.
curled up, clearly waiting for him.
his brows knit together, worry softening his expression.
"...you stayed up for me?" he whispers to no one.
he approaches with slow, cautious steps, unsure if he should wake you. but the peaceful look on your face keeps him still.
so he doesn't.
he gathers you into his arms instead, lifting you with tenderness he rarely shows out loud. he notices everythingāthe steady rhythm of yor breathing, the way you head naturally finds his chest, the warmth of you settling into him.
you shift, pressin closer.
he freezes.
then lets out a quiet breath.
"...you're okay," he murmurs, almost to himself.
when he lays you down, he tucks the blanket around you with careful precision. adjusts it. checks again.
his hand rests on your shoulder,
not moving.
just guarding you in the quiet.
toji fushiguro
/p>
the tv's still buzzing when he comes in.
figures.
toji barely gives it a second lookāuntil he spots you.
out a cold on the couch, blanket slipping off, clearly having tried. to stay awake for him.
he lets out a low breath.
"dumbass."
but it's soft. almost fond.
he nudges your leg lightly. nothing.
"...really?"
he hesitates for a moment, then bends down and lifts youācareful, steady, nothing like the rough edge he shows everyone else. one arm under your knees, the other bracing you back.
you curl into him instinctively.
he goes still.
"...yeah. thought so."
he carries you to bed, sets you down, and pulls the blanket over you. it's quick, almost carelessābut he lingers anyway, eyes tracing your face in the dim light.
"...don't wait up."
a pause.
"...unless you want to."
ryomen sukuna
he catches it the second he walks in.
of course he does.
you're sprawled across the couch, fast asleep, clearly having tried to wait him out. he stops, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he takes in.
"...you really passed out waiting for me?"
his voice is flat, unreadable.
a low scoff follows.
"pathetic."
and yetā
he moves toward you anyway.
he stands over you for a moment, gaze lingering, then slips his arms beneath you and lifts you with effortless control. the motion is smooth, deliberateātoo careful for someone who pretends not to care.
you shift, your face brushing faintly against him.
he goes still.
"...annoying," he mutters, though his grip only settles more firmly around you.
when he sets you down, his voice stays sharp, but his movements betray him. the blanket is pulled up, smoothed out, adjusted with precise care.
his fingers hook under your chin, tilting your face enough for him to look you over.
"don't start making this routine brat."
but he doesn't turn away.
not yet.
kento nanami
nanami gets home later than planned.
much later.
he loosens his tie as he steps inside, ready to apologizeāuntil he sees you asleep on the couch.
waiting.
he exhales, the sound soft and weighted.
"aw honey... you should've gone to bed."
it's barely spoken,
he sets his briefcase down, rolls his sleeves up, and approaches with quiet care. his hand brushes your arm, gentle and warm.
you don't wake.
so he lifts you.
slowly. steadily. like he's afraid to disturb the moment. you lean into him without thinking, and his hold shifts to support you fully.
"i'm sorry," he murmurs, voice low.
when he lays you down, he moves with practiced gentlenessāblanket pulled up, pillow adjusted, everything made comfortable.
he pauses beside you.
then leans in and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
