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The white sand shifted beneath you as you reclined. You flicked your sunglasses up to your forehead, eyes closed under the brightness of the Indonesian sun. It had been two days since you’d fled, and you were sure your cortisol levels had never been lower. The weight of your job, your life, seemed so far away, deafened by the sound of aquamarine waves breaking against the beach.
A lull in the noises of the ocean drew your attention to a repeated ringing coming from your beachhouse. You’d gotten a real bargain on that place. Well, that’s what you told yourself to distract from the gentrification. But that’s neither here nor there. With immense reluctance, you heaved yourself up from your spot in the sand, dragging your feet back inside.
It really was a beautiful place. All exposed wood, tapestry, hanging vines. A palm tree shades the entrance, and you could hardly help reaching up and flicking one of the leaves as you enter.
You knew where the noise was coming from, of course, but you tried to choke back the guilt, and assure yourself that none of this was your fault. Men do this all the time. You weren't the first person to up and leave. You weren’t the first person to trade in your iPhone for a cheap twenty-five-year-old flipphone.
Satoru’s name trawled across the screen, over and over again, each pixel marching to the sound of the ringer. Over and over and over again, and you would not answer, because eventually he’d forget you were ever engaged, or he’d forgive you for what you did. He’d forgive you for the set of zeroes that awaited him in the joint savings account one morning, and the stone-cold bed where you were supposed to lay, and the one way ticket that now rests somewhere in the Indian ocean.
Every fibre of your being screamed that he deserved an explanation. Satoru had never mistreated you. In fact, he had been the perfect future husband. A set of beautiful college sweethearts who blossomed into a set of well-established engineers. Everyone around you knew you were destined for greatness.
In fact, it had been a dream when he got down on one knee. For a fleeting moment, the constant typhoon within you calmed, and you found yourself looking to the future. A six bedroom house. Three cars. Two beautiful children. And as he slipped the ring onto your finger, you knew it was an oath to you. A promise of everything the two of you would share.
The typhoon reawakened the next morning. Your eyes snapped open, and you felt like a weight had been dropped onto your chest. The weight of everything you had wordlessly agreed to. A life in this same circus, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever a
You sighed. You couldn’t bring yourself to pick up, or decline his call. You haven’t spoken to a single other human being since you fled, and the typhoon threatened to spill out of your mouth, flooding and destroying the new life you were constructing for yourself, a Pacific Ocean away from where you came. So, you buried your flip phone beneath a mountain of swimwear, and closed the door behind you. Someday, you rationalised, he’d understand. You could only keep up the farce of content for so long. How could he expect you to stay, or to be happy?
If he loved you, he’d understand.
In the meantime, this was between you and the sea and the sun.
⟶ You guys this is probably really bad but idgaf bc its almost 2am and i havent written in MONTHS. just getting the cogs moving
⟶ contains ;; fem!reader (wears a dress), fiancé-turned-husband!satoru, never ooc because he's actually laying next to me rn, fleetingly proofread, wc 1k
The clamminess in your hand is rivalled only by your husband-to-be, as he squeezes yours within his own. In just minutes you’ll be legally bound, or, in Satoru’s words, “My housewife career can finally begin!” Whatever that means.
It started that morning. Although Satoru put a rock on your finger nearly two years ago, each and every time you set a provisional wedding date, your jobs got in the way. Again, and again, and again, and again, until a little part of you was considering calling it off entirely.
And despite the way Satoru’s heart skipped several beats every time he heard you call him your fiancé, he couldn’t ignore the little ways in which your demeanour changed every single time the date was pushed back. The ever-slouched shoulders, the ever-deepening wrinkle between your brows. And though it was true he wanted a ceremony, more than that, he wanted to see you overwhelmed with glee and affection once more.
Thus, this morning. As you blinked the sleep from your eyes, you couldn’t help but notice the quivering man tucked behind you, barely containing his giggles. You rolled over to tell him off, but your words died in your throat when you laid eyes upon a Satoru dressed to the nines. A perfectly pressed suit, clearly something high end, and a baby blue pocket square. He had propped his head up on an arm, not-so-subtly flexing his bicep beneath the layers of fabric.
In your sleepy daze, you reached a hand up, smoothing it over the planes of his chest, a single finger running down the line of his buttons.
“You…” you croaked with sleep. You cleared your throat. “You look nice. What’s the occasion, hm?”
He grinned. For once in his life, Gojo Satoru remained silent. Even as he pulled you from the bed, even as he leant down to kiss you as you grumbled, not a word came out of his mouth as he bustled you into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.
“Just get dressed, babe!” He shouted from the other side, voice muffled by the wood. You could still hear him giggling as you turned away from the door, but you were quickly distracted by what was hanging before you. A white dress.
You gasped in awe, grabbing at it, fingering every detail. How on earth did he know you were eyeing this one? And when could he have found the time to pick it up, what with his unforgiving schedule?
In your excitement, you hardly had enough restraint to wash your face and drag a comb through your hair before you practically leapt into the dress. And you subsequently nearly pulled the door off its hinges when you went in to fling your arms around your fiancé.
Satoru laughed as you did, sweeping you up and spinning you around. A veil fluttered behind you, and even as he set you down, he could hardly restrain himself from pulling you into a long, handsy kiss. “Are you ready?” he mumbled against your lips, his toothy smile brushing against your own.
“Where are we going?”
Right. The courthouse.
You’ve never been in a court filled with so much raw emotion, except the time Satoru dragged you to an open-viewing paternity court session. With the way he’s clutching your hand, you’d think he’s trying to pull it right off your wrist. And when you turn your head to glance at your witness, you swear Nanami is getting misty-eyed.
You whip your head back around before his crying makes you cry, too.
You hardly hear the judge as she drones through the paperwork and formalities. Although your eyes are trained on her, it’s impossible to ignore Satoru vibrating in your peripheral, nor the way his hand creeps around your waist to give you a squeeze. You speak your lines, as though rehearsed, and as each second ticks by his grip tightens, a physical reminder of how soon the two of you will be married.
Married. It holds such weight for a two-syllable word, you think. To have both of your names on one insurance plan, to pay to leave each other, to add another band to your ring finger. To adopt a child together. To pad your savings account. To be ushered forward by the man you love, picking up the pen, still damp from the clamminess of his hands, and sign your name in smooth black ink. To be wed to Satoru Gojo, the man you’ve loved for years and the man you’ll be buried beside.
The judge mutters under her bed as she sorts through the papers, before clearing her throat. “Okay. You’re married.” She looks up at the two of you, unfettered by how severely anti-climactic the scene surrounding the three of you is. “Kiss.”
Satoru seizes your waist with both hands, dips you low, and does as commanded. As your hands wind around his neck, his tongue probes against your lower lip. You laugh into his mouth, slightly bashful at the shameless intimacy while still standing before the judge and Nanami, but it doesn’t take long for the world to fall away.
Elopement is a far cry from the ceremony Satoru wanted. It hurt his heart to pass up on the opportunity to boast about his awesome life and beautiful wife to all his colleagues, but as you break the kiss and laugh into his padded suit shoulder, he can only conclude that he’d marry you in a courthouse a million times more if it meant he’d never have to stop hearing you giggle.
U guys my irls are conducting welfare checks rn bc i posted something worrying to my story but trust im ignoring them all so i can churn out x reader like god intended
U guys my irls are conducting welfare checks rn bc i posted something worrying to my story but trust im ignoring them all so i can churn out x reader like god intended
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A record shop isn’t the worst part time job in the world, really. Your boss is super lenient, and the adjacent café means free drinks all the time.
You appreciate the lack of foot traffic, especially as a college student. Whenever it’s not busy, which is most of the time, you can take the opportunity to catch up on some work, or lean against the counter and observe the clientele.
A brunette girl. She never bothers to stub out her cigarette before she enters. You can tell it grinds on your boss’s nerves, but until you get a raise, you don’t care.
A blond guy. He takes up residence at one of the café tables, rents a Walkman, and works for hours. One day you’ll ask him how he can focus for so long without breaks.
A noisy pink-haired kid, and his silent black-haired friend. Despite the noisy tendencies of the former, you’ve never had to tell him off. His friend has that covered.
A white-haired guy. This was your favourite eye candy, by a landslide. His enormous glasses were always slipping down his nose, and he always bundled himself into a corner, surrounded by stacks of study material. From your vantage point, you had noticed that you must share a course or something. You spied familiar professors’ names as you sidled past his desk last week.
He’s phenomenal to look at, and judging by the glances he sends you, you’re sure he’s interested in you. However, whenever you end up serving him, he seems to devolve into a stuttering, blushing mess, and it’s honestly not as big a turn-on as you’d expect.
But this all goes flying out the window the day he musters up the courage to speak to you proper.
You’re at the counter, as per usual, ignoring the teen hooligans sneaking CDs into their comically large hoodie pockets. In fact, you’re so engrossed in painting your nails that when he speaks to you, you jump, sending the nail polish brush over your boss’s stack of illegitimate payslips.
“Oops. How can I help?”
He blinks at you owlishly, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish before he remembers how to speak. “I can’t pick.”
“What?”
“I can’t… pick. Which CD to buy.”
You look at him like he’s sprouted a second head, before you remember you work at a record store and he’s not just asking you if you wanna get out of here and see what he’s working with under that Digimon T-shirt. Bad luck.
“Yeah? Let’s see what you’re working with.” You take the five CDs, assessing each one. Solar Power, The Land is Inhospitable and So Are We, Brat, OK Computer, and Who Really Cares.
He stares at you intensely, trying to glean your reaction from the complicated expression on your face.
You hum. “Well, these are all good, but they don’t really have a lot in common.”
“Oh.”
“Do you have, like, a particular genre preference?” You look up at him, and you’re immediately distracted by the pretty pink flush drifting down his neck. “... ‘Cause I can’t really help you otherwise.”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I’ll just—” He moves to take them back, but you jerk away, moving all five out of his reach. He stares at you in confusion, and now you’re the stuttering idiot.
“Well—! We can listen to them all now!” You like these albums, and a little part of you wants to believe he somehow reached inside of your head and siphoned out your favourite songs. You're not passing up this golden opportunity.
“What? All of them?”
“Yes! Bring your stuff over here, and we can listen to them!” You smile, thrilled with the mastermind plan your horny brain just conjured up. You’re gonna get in his pants one way or another, even if it means sitting through five albums straight to do it.
He looks like he’s about to protest, but he practically shrivels under the brightness of your gleaming teeth. “Okay…”
Your hawk eyes remain trained on him as he gathers his belongings, relocating to sit beside you, behind the counter.
“We’ll start with Solar Power,” you say, loading up the CD. “What’s your name?”
“Satoru. Um, Gojo.”
“Well, Satoru, I hope you like this one.” You plop down next to him, grinning as the first guitar chords start ringing out across the record store. “The most important thing to remember is that all these storylines are just the author putting a spin on the vibe of the album.”
“What?” Satoru furrows his brows at you, a little confused. It takes Herculean strength to resist reaching out a thumb and smoothing out the crease between his brows.
“What, what? I’m just saying that the author isn’t necessarily saying that her plotlines are the direct plot of the album, just how she wanted to honour her favourite music in her work.”“What are you even talking about?”“What are you talking about? Just listen to the album!”
❚❚ working in a record shop isn't the worst job in the world, especially when you have such good eye candy. the same bespectacled white-haired boy who comes in weekly to stare at you.
but you're taken by surprise when he finally musters up the courage to speak to you, only to ask for... music recs?
oh yeah, your job...
press play! ▶️ (fem!reader)
⏯ SOLAR POWER
prologue
the path solar power california stoned at the nail salon fallen fruit secrets from a girl (who's seen it all) - interlude the man with the axe dominoes big star leader of a new regime - interlude mood ring oceanic feeling
⏯ THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE AND SO ARE WE
coming soon . . .
⏯ BRAT
coming soon . . .
⏯ WHO REALLY CARES
coming soon . . .
⏯ OK COMPUTER
coming soon . . .
Yayyy, another series! I like having multiple projects at once cause I can just hop on another one when I'm procrastinating ;). This is a five part album series with multiple subparts, and each album will see a fleshed out storyline, one chapter per song :)
I'm so excited, and I hope you are too! These are some of my favourite albums, and I hope you'll like how I've put them to work :3
⟶ I miss my wife it hurts so bad. #LivingWithGrief
⟶ contains ;; fem!reader, husband!satoru, fluff, fleeting suggestiveness, not proofreading don't care, slightly mean!reader, wc: 0.6k .
“Your eyelashes are so long, baby,” you mumble, straddled over Satoru’s lap. You gently hold his jaw, keeping his squirmy head still to brush blue mascara on.
“Yeah, cutie? And what else?” he smirks. He's dying to kiss you, to lean forward and capture your lips with his own. How can you expect him to behave, when he has the world’s most beautiful woman in his lap and he can't lean forward and love on her?
You cap the mascara, rubbing a gentle thumb over his cheek before reaching for a lip liner. “And blue mascara looks really nice on you. You look like an 80s whore.”
He grins, his hands straying from their position on your waist, dipping lower and lower until they sprawl across your ass. He squeezes gently, trying to rock you forward against him. You resist. You're a woman on a mission.
“Anything else, sweetness?” he murmurs, his eyes become lidded as you lean forward, tracing a pencil around his lips.
“Yeah. Your breath smells like tuna.”
Satoru practically throws you off of him. “Go away! Go away and never come back!” He stubbornly turns away, crossing his arms like a petulant child. When he hears you laughing, he so badly wants to turn to you and kiss you, you with your melodic laugh, like a windchime on a breezy day. But you're so mean!
“I'm sorry! I'm kidding! I just wanted you to stop humping me!”
He mock sniffles. “So you hate me! You hate me and think I'm disgusting! You never want to have sex again!”
You can't stop your giggling, even when you're crawling back into his lap and gently guiding him back to face you. “Just let me finish, Satoru. Then I'll love on you.” You smile, combing his hair back with your fingers, before you finish up his lip liner. “Looking good.”
“Yeah? Better than you?” Satoru sure recovers fast, smirking at you as you unscrew your lipgloss. His hands have returned to rubbing up and down your waist, every so often, dipping beneath your shirt and tracing your spine, pushing you to arch against him.
“Not quite. But you'd make one pretty woman.” You drag your lipgloss wand over his lips. His lips are so unfairly pretty, you think. So pretty and pink, and they look just edible when glazed like this. You pretend you can't see him waggling his eyebrows in your peripheral.
He hardly waits for you to replace the cap on your lipgloss before he's scooping you up in his arms, swept right into a bridal carry. He steps to the mirror, pressing his cheek against yours.
You've done a good job on him. Although your husband is already stupidly beautiful, it's fascinating to see an angel wearing makeup. His high cheekbones dusted with a slight sheen, his blue eyes cradled by blue lashes, his inner corners just as dazzling as the rest.
“No, yeah. I'm hotter than you,” he says. You can't even argue. He might be, he really might.
You hum in agreement. “You're really beautiful, Satoru.” At your words, he pauses. It's so rare you deliver affection so directly.
He turns his face toward you and licks a giant stripe up your cheek.
“Aghh! Aghhhh! You're sick! Sick, I tell you!”
He can't hear your shrieks over the sound of his laughter. Even as your hands flail against him, he's giggling, dodging every slap and shove with puckered lips and an attempt to kiss you.
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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⟶ I miss my wife it hurts so bad. #LivingWithGrief
⟶ contains ;; fem!reader, husband!satoru, fluff, fleeting suggestiveness, not proofreading don't care, slightly mean!reader, wc: 0.6k .
“Your eyelashes are so long, baby,” you mumble, straddled over Satoru’s lap. You gently hold his jaw, keeping his squirmy head still to brush blue mascara on.
“Yeah, cutie? And what else?” he smirks. He's dying to kiss you, to lean forward and capture your lips with his own. How can you expect him to behave, when he has the world’s most beautiful woman in his lap and he can't lean forward and love on her?
You cap the mascara, rubbing a gentle thumb over his cheek before reaching for a lip liner. “And blue mascara looks really nice on you. You look like an 80s whore.”
He grins, his hands straying from their position on your waist, dipping lower and lower until they sprawl across your ass. He squeezes gently, trying to rock you forward against him. You resist. You're a woman on a mission.
“Anything else, sweetness?” he murmurs, his eyes become lidded as you lean forward, tracing a pencil around his lips.
“Yeah. Your breath smells like tuna.”
Satoru practically throws you off of him. “Go away! Go away and never come back!” He stubbornly turns away, crossing his arms like a petulant child. When he hears you laughing, he so badly wants to turn to you and kiss you, you with your melodic laugh, like a windchime on a breezy day. But you're so mean!
“I'm sorry! I'm kidding! I just wanted you to stop humping me!”
He mock sniffles. “So you hate me! You hate me and think I'm disgusting! You never want to have sex again!”
You can't stop your giggling, even when you're crawling back into his lap and gently guiding him back to face you. “Just let me finish, Satoru. Then I'll love on you.” You smile, combing his hair back with your fingers, before you finish up his lip liner. “Looking good.”
“Yeah? Better than you?” Satoru sure recovers fast, smirking at you as you unscrew your lipgloss. His hands have returned to rubbing up and down your waist, every so often, dipping beneath your shirt and tracing your spine, pushing you to arch against him.
“Not quite. But you'd make one pretty woman.” You drag your lipgloss wand over his lips. His lips are so unfairly pretty, you think. So pretty and pink, and they look just edible when glazed like this. You pretend you can't see him waggling his eyebrows in your peripheral.
He hardly waits for you to replace the cap on your lipgloss before he's scooping you up in his arms, swept right into a bridal carry. He steps to the mirror, pressing his cheek against yours.
You've done a good job on him. Although your husband is already stupidly beautiful, it's fascinating to see an angel wearing makeup. His high cheekbones dusted with a slight sheen, his blue eyes cradled by blue lashes, his inner corners just as dazzling as the rest.
“No, yeah. I'm hotter than you,” he says. You can't even argue. He might be, he really might.
You hum in agreement. “You're really beautiful, Satoru.” At your words, he pauses. It's so rare you deliver affection so directly.
He turns his face toward you and licks a giant stripe up your cheek.
“Aghh! Aghhhh! You're sick! Sick, I tell you!”
He can't hear your shrieks over the sound of his laughter. Even as your hands flail against him, he's giggling, dodging every slap and shove with puckered lips and an attempt to kiss you.
to the people who write abt incest on here and defend it… i have a question… if someone was to come on here and write fanfiction abt children would you say “it’s just fiction?” would you say “it’s not abt real people so it doesn’t matter?” i would hope NOT. it’s an indication that the writer is weird and likes kids… so what are we supposed to think when you write abt two people that are siblings or parent and child fucking????
like you mfs are genuinely too deep in this smut shit that it’s making y’all think writing this weird shit is normal or cool. it’s not. you’re extremely weird and you should be ashamed.
If you're familiar with the movie, you may have noticed I'm only doing one pov instead of both! This is because for those who haven't watched it (but u totally shud bc this will spoil it completely lol) I want u to experience the plot twist like YOU r the fmc ;PP
“Shoko, I’m so bored.” You drop your head into your hands, rubbing your temples.
Your coworker laughs, crouching down to see what’s on your screen. ‘Does Laplace’s demon still hold relevance in today’s world of science?’ She snorts. “Like hell that’s getting approved.”
See, you’re a columnist. For Jujutsu Magazine. You worked your ass off in college, assembled a flawless portfolio, applied to what must’ve been hundreds of jobs, all to land a column at a gossip mag. Well, your job is fine. Knowing you’re helping women across Japan isn’t too awful, but it still stings when the editor-in-chief drops your political thinkpieces into the shredder without so much as a second look.
You huff, swivelling around in your chair to look up at her. “I know. But I wanna write about what matters, just once. Geopolitics, or philosophy, or even sport! I don’t wanna be stuck rating pick up lines for the rest of my career.”
Smirking, Shoko hands you a cup of coffee. You’re sure she has a snarky retort on her tongue, probably along the lines of ‘oh, you’re too good for romance, aren’t you?’ But fortunately, she’s interrupted by Utahime. She flits by, giving the two of you a brief smile.
“Meeting in thirty minutes, ladies, don’t forget.” Then she’s off again.
You sigh. “Hey, where’s Nobara? It’s not like her to be late, right?”
“Right…” Shoko murmurs.She thinks for a moment, throwing back the last dregs of her coffee, before her face falls. “Do you think…”
You groan. “He dumped her.”
The two of you share an eyeroll, before she’s grabbing your wrist and dragging you out the office. You have a best friend to rescue, you know? You pull a cardigan off someone’s chair as you pass by. They won’t miss it. Besides, emerald green looks way better on gingers, like Nobara. (Last summer, you did a piece on the best pastels for every hair colour.)
Who says you haven’t learnt anything?
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Nobara says. She’s sandwiched between you and Shoko in the cab, her expression stubbornly stoic, even as Shoko dabs at her eyes.
“Totally. But we have a meeting today,” you tell her, thrusting the cardigan into her lap.
She nods gratefully, slipping the cardigan around her as she steps out the cab, gratefully taking the coffee Shoko holds out to her. She barely manages a single sip before she’s sniffling. “Why does this always happen to me? I don’t even know what happened!”
“Oh, Nobara,” you pout sympathetically. “I think you do wanna talk about it.”
She sniffles, wiping her eyes as the three of you reenter your office. “It started out so well. The first time we had sex, I cried.”
“Oh,” Shoko says, pulling a face behind her back. “That’s not like you. Like… one little tear?”
“Not really. I was kind of sobbing.” Nobara is smiling at the memory, rolling her coffee cup between her hands. “And I told him I loved him.”
“Oh my god. After how long?” You grimace.
“Five days. Well, two.”
The three of you lapse into silence. Nobara can feel the weight of your stares on her back, and she whips around, frowning. “It was how I felt, okay?”
“Okay…” Shoko nods. “So what did he say?”
“Mhm, he didn’t need to say anything. I knew how he felt.” She smiles once more. You’ve never seen Nobara so lovesick like this. “But then he got really busy! So, I just started showing up where he works and leaving messages on his answering machine. But I never caught him. Weird, huh?”
“Yeah. Weird,” you tell her.
She huffs. “Anyway. I know why he dumped me.” Nobara pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers, the three of you bundling into the elevator. You look at her expectantly, and she shrugs. “I’m too muscular.”
“Nobara, that is so not true! Loads of guys love muscular girls. You’re just— uh— a lot?” You say, awkwardly patting her shoulder. For a writer of a gossip mag, Nobara is awfully dense when it comes to romance.
“That’s easy for you to say, hottie. Guys love you! You could literally, I dunno, erase your memories of him and he’d still beg you to take him back.”
“That’s so not true. And a weird example. If I acted like you, any guy would dump me too.”
Shoko pushes open the door to the meeting room. Gathered around are all of Jujutsu’s writers, conversing quietly. As soon as the three of you are seated, bundled into each other, the meeting commences.
Mei-Mei is an imposing editor-in-chief. She exudes elegance, and poise, and every time she opens her purse a few shreddings of rejected articles flutter to the ground. If you look closely, you swear most of them are yours. “Utahime. How is your piece coming along?”
“Oh, just great,” she says, leaning forward. “It’s about avoiding oral fungi when you use makeup testers at the mall. It’s surprisingly educational!”
“Hm. Perfect,” Mei-Mei says. “And you?”
Every time Mei-Mei fixes her piercing glare onto you, you can't help but shiver. Your column is wildly successful, and yet, you always feel like you’re letting her down.
“I thought I’d try something a little different this week. I have this philosophical piece on determinism—”
“Nice try,” Mei-Mei smirks. “Your column is still fresh. Until you have top ratings, you write what Jujutsu tells you to write. Got it?”
“... Got it,” you mutter, shriveling slightly under the weight of her stare.
“And Nobara?”
“Ah—” she begins to stutter, desperately looking for Shoko for help. “I, uh, wasn’t feeling well…”
Shoko winces. “That’s one way to put it. She got dumped.”
The room murmurs sympathetically, hands reaching across each other to give Nobara a comforting pat on the shoulder, or arm, or knee.
“Shame. Use it. Write about it.”
Nobara’s eyes widen, scandalised. “Mei-Mei, I can’t do that! It’s wrong to wield my personal life like that—”
“You are absolutely right. Who will wield Nobara’s personal life?”
Utahime’s hand flies up. “Ooh, me!”
“No! Utahime will keep her nose out of my dating life—”
“I’ll do it.” The room falls quiet, all eyes fixing on you. You clear your throat, suddenly bashful under everyone’s stares. “I’ll write a column. About… Pushing a guy away. I’ll use every mistake that women — like Nobara — use when dating, and keep a log on what works.”
Mei-Mei grants you a rare smile, her hands clapping together. “‘How to lose a guy in ten days.’ I like it, I do. That’s what you’ll be doing.”
Ten days. It’s not a long time, but Nobara was right. Finding a guy will be easy; losing him will be hard. You glance at her to see her smiling gratefully, clearly glad her tragic personal life wasn’t dropped in the hands of Utahime. It’s nice to do good deeds.
The three of you end up trailing behind Mei-Mei downstairs. It’s clear she's eavesdropping, but you’re much too wrapped up on working out the kinks of your column. Nobara is a goldmine of what-not-to-dos.
“Ah, my three o’clock,” Mei-Mei exclaims, stopping so abruptly the three of you nearly go right into the back of her. She ushers two ladies over. A tall, sexy woman, flicking blonde hair over her shoulder, and a poised, bespectacled woman, her hair swishing around her head in a ponytail.
“Yuki and Maki. I’d like for you to meet my favourite writers.” You’re sure that’s a lie, but you’d be an idiot to turn down free Mei-Mei praise. “Shoko, for fashion. Nobara, for fitness and lifestyle. And, of course, my treasured How To columnist.”
“Hey, I read your column!” Yuki grins, gripping your hand in a firm handshake. You think, by the time she pulls back, she may have given you micro-fractures in your fingers. “What are ya working on, huh?”
“Oh, it’s—-”
“How to lose a guy in ten days,” Mei-Mei says, smiling. “She’s going to start dating a guy, and in less than two weeks, drive him away. It’s perfect, right?”
Yeah, perfect, you think to yourself. How are you supposed to find a sucker tonight?
Fortunately, Nobara and Shoko thought ahead of you. You had barely clocked out before they were dragging you to a cocktail bar. You’d never changed in a cab before, and it was unpleasant to say the least. But it was worth it to be sat opposite your best friends, two martinis deep and knowing there are men all around, ripe to be picked.
“Okay, him,” You say, tugging them in to listen to you whisper. You covertly point at a man across the room. A blond, slicked back, and it’s totally impossible to ignore the size of him. You’re certain he could fold you right into two. “I’m going for him. Wish me luck!”
Nobara giggles, giving you a light shove. You weave through the crowd, and make eye contact with him. The brief smile he gives you wakes butterflies in your stomach, and you’re all too eager to slip into the seat opposite him.
“Hey. What brings you here?” You give him your best flirty smile, setting your martini on the bar.
“Oh, hello. Just a work meet,” he returns a polite smile, gesturing to his colleagues. “I can’t stand them, but my fiancée loves them.”
“Oh.” Oops, you think. You glance back at your friends, and they wince like they can hear you from over there. When you turn your head back towards him, there's a woman hovering behind him, looking at you curiously. Pretty, you think, all decked in pink. You give them an awkward smile. “You two enjoy your night.”
First bust of the night. You sigh, turning a corner, and nearly bumping right into someone else's firm chest. You look up, and you’re met with the strangest looking man you've ever seen, like the universe heard your internal groan and sent you an apology.
He boasts carefully mussed bright white hair, dazzling blue eyes, and he’s just so tall. Easily over 6’3”, and with such a playful smirk you can’t help but be thrilled that you almost barreled into him. It takes a moment for you to be able to force out words.
“... Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi.” He outstretches his hand, gripping your own in his. “Satoru Gojo.”
“Cute,” you smile, giggling slightly.
“Thanks.”
“I meant your name.”
“Thanks… twice.” He plucks your martini from your hand, taking a sip. “You hungry?”
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»» Yay, my first series! This is a big commitment, but I'm really quite excited :3
»» GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, suggestive but no smut, I'll stay generally loyal to the plot of each film but will obviously have to take some creative liberties, probably slow uploads
⟶ first time in nerdjo's room doesn't go as planned
⟶ hi lovely new people hehehehe
cw :: sexual content, f!reader, barely proofread, first time writing nerdjo. subby!gojo, mean!reader
He froze when you froze.
See, Gojo is sexy. He doesn’t realise it, but you certainly do, and you’re all too aware of the way your panties dampen when he stretches to reveal a sliver of porcelain skin beneath his hoodie, or when the corners of his lips twitch skyward when he gets a perfect score, or when his glasses slip down his nose, fogged up, sliding down with every pant against your lips.
His hand is already down your jeans, kneading your ass, his other hand fumbling with the lock of his door. It’s hardly the first time you’ve left the library halfway to intercourse, but he’s never fucked you in his bed. That has to change, you know?
He swallows down your moans, each and every one, and god, when you start groping at his half-chubbed cock he swears he starts seeing stars.
He pulls you inside. The door is barely slammed behind you before you’re ripping clothes off each other, your t-shirt abandoned at the door, his sweatshirt lost somewhere behind the couch, your bra swinging from his bedroom door handle like a goddamn trophy. You’ll never get it back.
You stumble inside, fumbling with your fly, desperate to get this fucking loser inside you, when you see it.
Yeah, you see it.
Gojo flushes redder than you’ve ever seen him, including the time you found him taking a long inhale as you walked up the stairs ahead of him. He stutters, aghast at your sudden silence, but you drown him out,
Because he has a fucking hammock.
Swinging between two posts where a bed should be, prettied up with a Star Wars blanket, and a full sized body pillow. Upon closer inspection, it’s adorned with a photo of you. Cute or creepy? You’re undecided.
“What the fuck is that?” you mutter, your lips curling, half disgusted, half intrigued. Your hands fall from his shoulders, dangling uselessly at your sides.
“I-It’s better for your back…” Gojo mumbles, positively crimson. He practically quivers when you look back at him, shrivelling under the weight of your judging stare.
It takes you a second, but after a moment of recalibration, you sigh. “Okay. We can work with this.”
And just like that, you’re back in the mood. His hands slide around your waist. Down, down, down, until he’s pushing your jeans to the floor, splitting your fragmented attention between the kisses he trails up your neck and the way his fingers tease at the gusset of your panties.
In tandem, your hands roam over his chest, comb through his hair, murmuring sweet nothings in his ear, ‘don’t stop, you’re so good at that, fuck, baby,’ as you let him guide you towards his bed. Sorry, hammock.
As he pushes you down, leaning over you, you lose your footing. And fall.
It takes a while for your brain to catch up with gravity. One second, Gojo was laying a particularly sweet love-bite behind your ear, the next, you’re entirely tangled up in his web of deceit and Star Wars.
You groan, your head brushing the ground. “I was wrong. Didn’t realise this doubled as bondage gear. I was unaware of your play,” you snark. You know any attempt to escape is futile, what with the way one arm is pinned beside your head and the other is knotted behind your back.
What a predicament to find oneself in. You’ve fucked with many guys, including half of Gojo’s friend group (he doesn’t know this), yet not one of them thought to mention the dweeb sleeps in a hammock. Well. You’ll have a bone to pick with them.
Gojo squawks, panicked, fumbling, his hands unable to decide where to land, where to start. “Oh my god, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—”
“Yeah, whatever, you’re sorry! Get me out!”
He gets to work immediately. He’s practically in tears as he uprights you, untangling you with ease (as though he frequently finds himself in such a dilemma), soothing his hands over where his nerd nest dug into your skin.
And it’s tempting to shove him away. It’s tempting to retrieve your trophy bra and stride out the door to never see him again, ‘cause who are you to have sex in a hammock? What is this, Survivor Gone Wild Gone Sexual? But when you look down at him kneeling, his face pressed into your stomach, lips quivering and tears dripping down your navel, you know you’re weak. You remember he’s sexy, and he doesn’t fucking realise.
But he knows what his teary eyes do to you. “I’m sorry, baby, we should’ve gone back to your place… This is all my fault…” he sniffles. The subtext is clear.
Don’t leave me.
And, geez, what kind of villain does he take you for? To leave him over his jizz-stained body pillow and dingy hammock?
“Don’t call me baby, stupid. Just make it up to me. On the floor.”
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