"love is the most twisted curse of all."
ËËË keb ⥠â 19âshe her or any ! â§ eng/filo
†multifandom / main interest atm is jjk / hsrâi lab satoru n phainon <3
taylor price
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Love Begins
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@kebarney
"love is the most twisted curse of all."
ËËË keb ⥠â 19âshe her or any ! â§ eng/filo
†multifandom / main interest atm is jjk / hsrâi lab satoru n phainon <3

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âIâm not sure I understand,â Iso said with a confused frown as he lied down in bed beside you.
The second the back of his head touched the mattress, you sat on top of him, straddling his waist while covering both of your bodies with his comforter.
âItâs alright, Iâll repeat,â you smiled, savoring the warmth of his body. âBabe, I want you to tell me a bedtime story.â
Since the first time you two met, Iso had discovered a lot of feelings and emotions. He discovered what it was like to have a crush on someone when Jett finally made him on understood he had one on you. He discovered what was infatuation when you tackled him during a mission to make him avoid a shower of bullets and when you scolded him for underestimating his opponents. He discovered how fast a heart could beat when you confessed to him. He discovered how hot his face could feel when you two kissed for the first time. He discovered lust for the first time when you two sneaked in the baseâs pool and ended up making out in the water. He discovered how it was to have chemistry with someone else when you two shared earbuds to listen to the same playlist after an exhausting mission. He discovered what cuteness aggression was the first time he saw you wearing one of his hoodies.
At the moment, he discovered he was able to feel an amalgamation of all these feelings and emotions. His hands joined your hip and your back as these were their rightful places.
âA bedtime story ?â he repeated. He looked up at your face with a confusion he knew you found adorable.
âIt could be anything !â you precised. âLike your mission earlier today orâŠchildhood anecdotes. It could even be cooking recipe if you want.â
Iso tilted his head, even more confused. âCooking recipes can be considered bedtime stories ?â
Unable to resist, you cupped his face and pressed a few pecks on his lips.
âIt should be illegal to be this cute !â you cooed. You then gently bit his cheek, relishing on the small gasp that escaped him. âI just wanna listen to you talking before falling asleep. I love your voice, itâs so soothing.â
Iso blinked before nodding. âAlright. Get comfortable.â
âDuh !â you chuckled and immediately lied down on top of him, your head on his chest. âAll comfy.â
His hand found the back of your head and his fingers scratched your scalp the same way yours do so often. You let out a relaxed sigh.
âI once worked as a lifeguard,â he dropped.
âYou did ?â you perked.
âMmhmm,â he confirmed.
âIâm surprised by that piece of lore yet I shouldn't be since you love swimming. Tell me more.â
The soothing sensation of his chest vibrating at each words combined with his pacifying voice had the expected effect of lulling you. This night, Iso discovered the satisfaction of lifting the weight of the day off your shoulders.
Hi! Idk if you're still accept requests but I would like some angst comfort where GN agent reader made a huge mistake during a mission and got severely injured and was bedridden for a few days. Maybe write about Iso taking care of reader as they're down and depressed that they failed but Iso just nurse them and comfort them back to health. Yes totally not what I'm feeling right now but I can see Iso talking things out to reader and cheer her up, also if it's established relationship is up to you!
I love reading your recent fics recently and I always get giddy when reading them, so thank you for writing so much for this fandom đđ
This fic ended a bit longer than planned... I think I like the nursing-back-to-health trope a bit too much. This isn't the first time I'm writing this trope. I remember writing it with Fade, Deadlock (kinda), Yoru (two times), Gekko and Iso (now being the second time). Most of the time, it's just pure fluff. And I am an avid fluff lover. But for the sake of the request, I'll make it a bit angsty this time.
It is still a bit surprising to know that people appreciate my fanfics ^^' Thanks for sharing this though. It is encouraging.
Please, my friend, respond to me for the sake of my little 2-year-old sister who is suffering from severe malnutrition (ŰłÙŰĄ ŰȘŰș۰ÙŰ© ŰŽŰŻÙŰŻ). She canât even stand now. Every time I look at her, my heart breaks knowing she needs food that *is* available in the market after two years of blockadeâbut I canât get it for her.
We are in a critical moment. Healthy food is scarce and very expensive, but if she can get it now, thereâs hope for her to grow strong again.
Please, if you can help even a little, I beg you to support us. Your kindness means everything to us. đđ
Boost! @perlleta @soov @yeokii @ilovelinkk @kebarney
hai poopy
hi peepee

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your husband (gojo satoru) is no stranger to jealousy.
when it comes to you, itâs not just other people heâs wary of â it extends to animals and even inanimate objects such as your favorite plushie you like to cuddle to sleep in his absence. and then, the newest addition to his list of ever growing rivals appears to be a certain otome game youâve been obsessed with lately â love and deepspace â or more specifically, the dreamy 3D love interests youâve been swooning over in it.
as much as heâs trying to be mature about it â reminding himself that itâs just a game, a harmless hobby if you will â it proves very hard to stay rational when youâve spent the last fifteen minutes giving those virtual guys more attention than the very real, very touchable, objectively better looking and currently very ignored husband sitting right across from you at the kitchen table.
youâre deeply immersed in your morning ritual â sipping your coffee while casually knocking out your daily lads tasks before you go about your day. but the peaceful rhythm of your routine is abruptly interrupted by a very audible sigh coming across the table. you glance up from your phone only to meet your husbandâs blue eyes staring at you with a look thatâs a mix between disapproval and betrayal.
i said id start my writing arc this summer and i clearly did not⊠đđđđđđđđ
"THE COOKIE GAME"
The afternoon was calm and warm, with a soft sun streaming through the window and bathing the kitchen in golden tones. The light made everything look cozier: the table, the plates, the carefully placed white napkins, and Harutoâs little toys. The air smelled of freshly baked cookies, making the excitement in the room almost tangible.
Haruto, your four-year-old son, was sitting in his high chair, swinging his dangling feet lightly. His little hands rested on the table, barely touching the edges of the napkin on his plate, as if he wanted to feel the mystery hidden beneath. His big, bright eyes followed every movement, also watching his parents with curiosity. His breathing was light and fast, showing his contained excitement; his mouth opened and closed, as if trying to guess what was under the napkins.
You had carefully placed the cookies: two for Haruto, one for Satoru, and none for yourself. Each plate was arranged so that surprise and excitement would be at their peak, and the goal was to see if Haruto could react with generosity.
âHaruto, sweetie âyou said in a soft, warm voiceâ, weâre going to play a game. Look at the plates, but donât lift the napkin until we tell you.
The boy blinked and nodded slightly, rocking gently in his chair. His little hands tapped softly on the table as he tried to focus on what his parents were telling him. His eyes moved constantly between the plates, trying to figure out the scene.
Satoru lifted his napkin, revealing the single cookie on his plate. Haruto tilted his head toward his own plate and did the same: two golden, crispy cookies, perfect for him. His eyes widened slightly, and his small smile revealed a spark of childlike joy.
Then, before you did anything, Haruto looked toward your plate. Something in the light, the position of the napkin, alerted him: something wasnât right. Before you could lift the napkin, his little face changed: a slight quiver in his lips, furrowed brows, eyes beginning to glisten.
You slowly lifted the napkin, and when he saw your plate was empty, Haruto let out a small, trembling âohâŠâ full of surprise and a sweet kind of pain that showed in his whole body. His lips quivered, his hands pressed lightly on the table, and a hesitant sob started to form as his chest rose and fell with each shaky breath.
âOh⊠no⊠mommy⊠you donât have⊠âhe whispered, barely audible, as a tear rolled down his cheek.
The knot in your chest tightened instantly. Seeing him so aware of the unfairness and so empathetic, despite being so small, hurt and melted you at the same time. Satoru let out a soft laugh, amused, while you looked at him with your heart full of tenderness and emotion.
Haruto looked at his own cookies, and for a few seconds, he froze, as if deciding what to do. His lips pressed together slightly, and his breathing became deeper and measured, almost as if he were holding back his feelings to do something right. Finally, he took his two cookies in his tiny hands and carefully placed them in front of you.
âMommy⊠you eat them⊠âhe said, lowering his head, tears shining in his eyes.
But Haruto didnât stop there. He gently lifted his hands and took yours with tenderness. He leaned in slightly, resting his little head against your arm, as if wanting to hug you and give you a kiss at the same time. His tears fell slowly as he sought comfort and also gave you love with that small, pure gesture.
âThank you, my love⊠youâre so generous⊠âyou whispered, hugging him carefully, feeling his small body tremble a little from the emotionâ. Youâre amazing. So you also deserve a cookie.
You grabbed a cookie from the table and handed it to Haruto, who finally took a very small bite of one of the cookies, just a tiny piece, making sure you had most of it. He pulled back slightly to look at you, still with soft sobs and shining eyes, and said in a small voice:
âI⊠I want a little tooâŠ
Satoru, with a wide smile, patted Harutoâs dark little head.
âLook how big you are, Haruto⊠so generous for your age.
The boy took a deep breath, relaxing a bit, and his sobs subsided. His small chest moved more calmly, and a shy smile appeared through the tears. Every gesture, from how he held your hands to how he rested his head on your arm while sharing his cookies, felt almost like a hug for the heart, sweet and painful at the same time.
The kitchen was filled with a special warmth: Harutoâs tenderness, your loving hugs, and Satoruâs soft laughter creating a perfect balance of gentle pain, joy, and fun. Every second seemed to slow down, making that moment engrave itself in their hearts as a unique memory, full of love, generosity, and infinite tenderness.
a/n: finally some fluff after the freak fest LOL
âdad really hasnât changed,â your daughter comments, nose scrunching up with cringe while you flip through a photo album with her, and you laugh with a shake of your head.
you sit on the sofa with her, an angelic light filtering through the sheer curtains of the living room, which sway with the gentle breeze. the photo album rests on your lap, several pictures of you, satoru, and your friends from jujutsu high fading with creased corners behind the plastic slots.
in the background, thereâs the sound of someone - your husband - cooking in the kitchen, the delicious aroma drifting to the living room.
his grin is so wide and goofy in the picture, you can practically hear his laughter through it.
you smile at the memories, reminiscing back to when you were all just students, some being silly, some cute, some random. like a telescope looking back into the past.
âwhy are you and dad glaring at each other in this picture? i donât think iâve ever seen him roll his eyes in your vicinity.â
you laugh again, both in fondness and amusement, knowing how right your daughter is. well, how right it is now. âbelieve it or not, we didnât get along well when we were younger.â
âyou and dad? not getting along? the most embarrassingly cheesy parents?â
âmhm,â you hum, absentmindedly. âhe was too cocky for my liking. and he hated having someone who would challenge him.â
and you hear a loud âahemâ from the kitchen, your husband clearly listening in through the open door. heâs standing at the doorway moments later, apron tied around him, wooden spoon in hand, hand on his hip in such a sassy manner.
âi didnât hate you. it was just... frustrating. but i always admired you. i mean, when youâd get all mad at me, it turned--â
âsatoru,â you bluntly cut him off.
âwhat? iâm just telling the truth.â and thereâs that smirk, lazy and smug, strewn across his lips like it pays rent there. âsometimes iâd rile you up on purpose. and i still do.â
âuh... iâm still here?â your daughter points out, clearly disgusted and wishing for the floor to swallow her up.
âyeah, how do you think you got here?â he snickers at his own joke.
âoh my god, just go back in the kitchen before something burns,â you say, shooting him a small glare. he grins, completely unaffected, eyes twinkling with mischief behind his tinted glasses.
âyes, maâam.â
you roll your eyes half-playfully when he winks at you before disappearing back into the kitchen, though aware of your conversation with your daughter.
you both continue to flick through the pages of photos, your smile softening with each one, some eliciting a giggle.
âis that uncle sugu?â your daughter asks, pointing at a picture of suguru asleep with a poorly-drawn penis on his forehead by none other than satoru.
âyeah. he got revenge on your dad at the next sleepover. theyâre such menaces when theyâre together. it was always fun, though, despite the ups and downs. iâm glad weâre all still close.â
and this time, when satoru appears at the doorway again, thereâs a softer, more genuine smile drawn upon his lips. clearly having similar thoughts as you. âdinner is ready, my princesses.â
you close the photo album and set it down gently on the coffee table as you stand up. once you reach satoru, he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your forehead, inhaling your naturally sweet scent. suddenly re-energised, like after taking a hit of coke. he guides you to the dining table.
âhow come mum never got upgraded to âqueenâ?â your daughter asks behind you two.
you smile, youthful and sunny. but not the obnoxious zenith of a summer sun. more like the nostalgic, autumn sun that brings comfort. âbecause, long before we had you, your dad told me that iâd always be his princess no matter what.â
âthatâs right. always has been my princess and always will be,â he says proudly with a grin before adding gently, âboth of you always will be.â
Gojo

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don't look at me like that â gojo satoru
synopsis. gojo canât live without your affection.
contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, ooc, teenage gojo is an idiot, lovesick!gojo, in which he calls you clingy and immediately regrets it, slight crack
notes. can you tell seeing men pathetically grovel is one of my favorite things?... also, sorry to suguru stans out there.
âI donât like that theyâve been sending you on so many missions,â you murmur, threading your fingers through your boyfriendâs silver locs. His hair has grown longer, a piece of evidence of just how little time heâs had to himself. To you. Yaga had been working him and Suguru like weapons instead of people, and it gnawed at you more each day.
Satoru flashes that signature smile of his, his shield of nonchalance. âYeah, well. Weâre the strongest, after all.â
His cerulean eyes meet yours, and you swear you see the whole endless sky inside them. And yet the softness there makes your chest ache. He looks at you like youâre gravity, the only thing tethering him to earth.
You lean in, press a quick kiss to his nose. He crinkles it but doesnât push you away. The faint blush that paints his cheeks makes you laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is simple.
âAlright, lovebirds.â Suguruâs voice cuts sharp through the quiet, pulling you back down. Heâs leaning against the lounge doorway, arms folded. âIf we want to make it to Sendai by nightfall, we should head out.â
Satoru groans like a petulant child.
i lost my jjk stickers i lost my jjk stickers i lost my jjk stickers đđđđđđ @ilovelinkk WHERE DID IT GOOO
| satoru freaking out over your daughter's vaccination
the clinic smells sharp, sterile, and your daughterâs chubby little hand curls in yours, fingers trembling just slightly. sheâs trying not to cry, trying to be brave, but you can feel her tiny heartbeat speed up.
satoru crouches next to her, hand gently over hers, his own trembling ever so slightly. âokay⊠okay, weâre fine. weâre fine,â he mutters, voice quieter than usual, but his wide eyes betray him. every tiny noise from the nurse makes him flinch.
âsatoruâŠâ you giggle, brushing his hair back, âsheâs supposed to be scared, not you.â
he swallows hard, jaw tight. âi know, i know⊠but⊠i canât help it.â his fingers squeeze hers just enough to anchor her. âi worry about my angel. sheâs only ten weeks!â
your daughter lets out a happy little squeal, gripping satoruâs hand back, eyes flicking to the nurse. sheâs trying to be brave, but her little body stiffens when the syringe comes out.
and for a second everything is painfully still â then satoru practically combusts.
he jerks, voice too loud in the tiny room. âwaitâwaitâwait!!ââ his hand clamps around hers like heâs trying to keep her from disappearing, eyes wide and ridiculous and very much human. âi meanâare you sure you know what youâre doing??â
âsatoru!!â you snap quietly, glaring at him for his outburst, âyou canât just ask that! sheâs a qualified nurse!â
âi knowâ i know! iâm just nervous!â
the nurseâs calm face doesnât even crack; she has the practiced, gentle patience of someone whoâs seen this exact performance a hundred times.
âalright, cutie. one, twoâŠâ she murmurs, and before you can say anything else she moves with quiet efficiency. the needle presses to the soft skin of your daughterâs thigh and thereâs a tiny, surprised noise from her â half gasp, half hiccup â just enough to alert your melodramatic husband. satoru makes a sound that might be a cry, might be a laugh, maybe both. you canât help it: you laugh, sharp and helpless, because heâs clutching the side of the table like itâs a cliff and not a vaccination chair.
âsatoru, itâs just a vaccine,â you say, the words soft, trying to thread calm into the edges of the moment. âshe doesnât even know whatâs going on.â
he looks at you like youâve betrayed him and then like youâve saved him, all in the span of one breath. âdoesnât matter,â he whispers, voice small. âit hurt her, so it hurt me.â his fingers tremble around hers; his thumb rubs tiny circles against her knuckles. you reach out and squeeze his shoulder and he drops his head against your arm, dramatic and ridiculous and utterly, achingly tender.
the nurse is already backing away, smile easy. âall done,â she says. âgood job, sweetie.â and youâre unsure whether she was referring to your baby or your husband, who now seems to have lost all the colour in his face.
your daughter blinks, lip trembling, and then lets out a single, surprised giggleâ a sound so tiny it feels like a miracle. satoru makes a noise that could be interpreted as a sob, presses his forehead to hers, and she buries her face in his shirt for half a second. you swear you feel the whole room light up.
âsee?â you murmur, laughing through the relief. âshe did it. and you didnât have a heart attack.â
he sniffs, fingers carding through her hair, eyes glossy. âshe was so brave,â he says, like itâs the most important headline in the world. and he means it. his chest puffs out with ridiculous, proud tenderness as if the tiny victory belongs to him alone. the sight is just so comical you have to bite your cheek to swallow back the laughs bubbling in your throat.
you kiss the top of your daughterâs head while satoru whispers confessions into her hair â apologies, promises, theatrical vows to guard her from every small thing in the world. she burbles, distracted by his voice, and reaches for his face with a tentative fist. his face melts when she grabs him, all tough-lines gone, replaced with that soft, absolute thing youâve come to live for.
on the way out, satoru refuses to let you carry her, his hand permanently attached to the small of your daughterâs back. you nudge him and he grins sheepishly, still a little damp around the eyes. âice cream?â he offers, like itâs a treaty. you laugh and nod. she squeals, a real, bright sound, and for a second you watch them â father and daughter â and think that maybe the world could be a little less sharp if you let moments like this sit in the middle of it.
he keeps humming under his breath the whole walk to the car, a soft, ridiculous melody that makes you think of lullabies and late-night confessions. you buckle her in and he leans in to press one last kiss to her forehead. âmy brave girl,â he says, and itâs earnest and completely unperformative now.
you reach for his hand and find it warm and sticky with a smear of antiseptic from earlier. you lace your fingers with his anyways and donât let go.
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"IN THE LITTLE WAYS YOU FALL IN LOVE AGAIN"
It wasnât until someone asked you out loud that you started to think about it. It was an ordinary afternoon, a meaningless conversation over coffee, when one of your friends leaned in slightly toward you, with a shy smile, and asked the question almost in a whisper.
âIsnât it⊠too much? Like being with someone like that. So tall, so strong, so rich. Donât you realize that all the time?
You didnât know what to say at first. Maybe because you had never put it that way before, or because to you, Satoru was simply Satoru. You didnât reduce him to his height or his build. He was your home, your safe place, the laughter coming from the kitchen when something fell, the warmth surrounding you when he slipped into bed in the middle of the night. But still, that question echoed in your mind all day.
And it was only at night, when you saw him effortlessly bend down to pick up a spoon that had fallen under the sofa â the one you had unsuccessfully tried to reach â that you understood.
The size difference between you wasnât noticeable all the time, but when it was, it was impossible to ignore. It appeared in the quiet, domestic moments, like when he hugged you from behind and his chin rested exactly on the crown of your head, fitting as if made for that. Or when he walked barefoot across the hallway at dawn and his steps made the floor slightly vibrate, while you were barely a whisper on the carpet.
It was in bed when he left before you and left behind a huge, warm space you couldnât fill alone. It was in his hands, big enough to cover half your back when he caressed you with one palm. It was in cold nights when you woke restless and he simply pulled you against his chest with one arm, wrapping you completely, as if you were tiny.
No, you didnât feel it all the time. But when you noticed it â when you remembered â something in your chest tightened with affection. As if, for some strange reason, you were falling in love again.
Sometimes you also noticed it in the smallest spaces.
Like in the kitchen, for example. Where you moved quickly between the shelves and pots, and he barely had to take a long step to get from one end to the other. Where you needed a chair to reach the highest part of the cupboard, and he simply stretched his arm with the same ease as you grabbed a cup from the first shelf. There was something funny and familiar about that. How he always appeared behind you, leaned over, grabbed what you couldnât reach, and instead of handing it to you, he raised it above his head with a teasing smile.
âIs this what you were looking for? âheâd say, lifting it even higher.
You didnât even answer. You just turned halfway around, ignored him with a fake dignity, and he laughed as he lowered the jar and placed it on the countertop, right where you knew he would. He always teased a little, yes. But he never made you wait more than a few seconds. It was actually his way of being there. Of making you smile.
On the couch, something similar happened. You fit perfectly between the cushions. He, on the other hand, had to curl his legs a bit so his feet wouldnât stick out over the edge. Sometimes you leaned on him and your whole body rested on his chest, as if he were the sofa and you a thin blanket in winter. He liked having you like that. He liked wrapping you with both arms so you could barely move, as if he could protect you even from the drafts sneaking in through the window.
And you⊠you felt safe. So small, yes. But also so cared for.
On long days, when you came home tired, you noticed the difference in another way. He took your hand effortlessly, and his palm was so wide it almost covered yours completely. His fingers wrapped around yours like a silent promise. And when he hugged you, standing, you realized how much you had to tilt your head back just to look him in the eyes. He lowered his, of course. And kissed your forehead. Always your forehead.
âToo small for a kiss on the lips? âhe joked sometimes, with that mischievous, soft smile of his.
But it was never really because of that. It was just that there, on that exact spot on your forehead, it seemed like he was placing something more intimate. Something that didnât need words.
At airports, on trains, in any line, the difference was even more evident. He stood out above everyone. You found him just by turning your head, just by looking up a little. You always knew where he was. And no matter how crowded the places were, how chaotic the world was around you: Satoru was like a tower you could look at from any distance. Tall, strong, visible. The only fixed point when everything else moved.
And yet, it was in the quiet moments that you noticed it the most.
When he put his coat over you without you asking. When the sleeves completely covered your hands, and his scent stuck to your neck for hours. When you walked together in the rain and you ran two steps for every one of his, until he simply lifted you off the ground and carried you for a while, hugged to his side, as if you were a bag too pretty to get wet.
âYouâre too small to walk alone in the rain âheâd say, almost seriously.
And youâd laugh, hiding against his chest, letting him keep walking while you, for once, didnât make any effort.
Once you argued.
It wasnât a big fight, not one of those that break things or raise voices. It was one of those that feel more like a silence thatâs too long, like a misplaced word hanging between the two of you. You didnât want to go to sleep angry, but you also didnât know how to get close without seeming like you were giving in out of habit.
You went to bed first. You lay down on the farthest side, pretending everything was fine, even though your breath trembled a little. And then, without you hearing it, he came in. He walked barefoot, silently, and got behind you. He said nothing. He just slid an arm under your neck, pulled you toward him, and held you with that huge body that suddenly didnât seem imposing⊠but warm. His open hand rested on your stomach. His chin on your head. His chest against your back.
He didnât need to speak. He knew how to use his body as a language.
Just by being there, holding you like that, so easy, so firm, so whole⊠he was apologizing without a word. And you understood. Because when he surrounded you, when he used that size not to impose but to hold you, there was no room for resentment.
You also remembered how he waited for you.
Like that time at the hospital, after a mission that got more complicated than expected. They hadnât let you call anyone, you didnât know if he knew you were okay⊠but when you came out, a bit bruised, with poorly wrapped bandages and a tired body, you saw him. Standing, leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets and an expression that showed nothing, except in his eyes. In those bright, clear eyes that looked for you the moment you crossed the door.
You walked to him without saying anything. And he didnât speak either.
He just opened his arms.
And you went into them.
There, where you fit completely, where his hands covered your back effortlessly, where your face rested exactly at his chestâs height. Where you could hear his heart â slow, steady, present â and let the rest of the world disappear. You didnât have to explain anything. Just squeeze a little tighter and breathe with him.
In moments like that, you understood what it meant to have someone like him. Not because of his size. Not because of his strength. But because of what he did with it.
Even in the silliest things, the difference was noticeable.
Like when you wore his clothes by accident. Or on purpose.
One of his T-shirts was a dress on you. You had to fold the sleeves twice just to see your hands. And he teased you. Walked around you like you were a curious work of art, leaning over every now and then to adjust the fabric on your shoulders.
âYou could live in that âheâd say, laughing.
And youâd nod, because yes, in that moment, inside his clothes, with his scent, with his size, with his warmth⊠you felt like you could.
But of all the times, there was one that stuck with you in particular.
One morning when you woke up before him. That rarely happened. But that day, you watched him sleep. He was half-turned toward you, his face calm, lips parted. And for the first time in a long time, you saw him from the outside. Like you were a spectator.
He was big, yes. Tall. Broad. Strong.
But that wasnât what surprised you.
What made you bite your lips was the tenderness. The contrast between his size and the way he held you even asleep. One hand on your hip, light but firm. His legs intertwined with yours. His forehead almost touching yours, as if even in dreams, he sought to be close.
And you thought:
What is it like to be with someone like that?
The question came back to you, but no longer as a foreign curiosity, but as something you yourself were asking.
What is it like to be with someone like that? So tall, so strongâŠ
âŠand yet, still always make you feel like the biggest thing in his world.
It was in one of those stores without prices in plain sight.
The kind that smell like expensive perfume, with background music that never stops, not even when you walk in with eyes shining like a child in front of a toy store. The lights were dim, the shelves were miles apart from each other, and every garment seemed to have the texture of an expensive sigh. The kind of place where you feel like breathing costs more than the rent.
But you were happy.
It was one of those days when he insisted you go out together, "to treat yourself," he said. Although everyone knew â you included â that when Satoru Gojo said "treat yourself," he meant playing at spoiling you to absurd levels, as if it were his favorite sport. And in a way, it was.
The only thing he asked of you was one thing.
âJust promise me you wonât disappear between the shelves like always â he said, giving you that look, half joking, half resigned.
You smiled. Raised your hand as a sign of oath... and disappeared exactly two minutes later while he was on a call with Director Yaga, attracted by a dress hanging on a golden hanger. Literally, gold.
Satoru sighed so loudly that a sales assistant turned around to see if he was okay.
âDo you know where my wife is? â he asked her, his voice tired from already knowing the answer.
She smiled nervously.
âThe one with the light blue purse? I saw her running toward the shoe section, sir.
And thatâs when his search mission began. A three-floor store, six different rooms, a private fitting room, and you jumping from section to section like you were paid to be happy. He followed you at a steady pace, greeting the staff with that smile that looked confident but hid a slight desperation. He lost you. Found you. Lost you again.
Until you decided.
The next time you stopped to look at a huge mirror, surrounded by warm lights that returned your reflection as if you were a movie star, Satoru sighed. He did it so loudly that a customer turned to look at him curiously.
âFive more minutes â you murmured without looking at him.
âYou lie with too much elegance â he replied, pulling out his phone and checking the time.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
And when you lost sight of him between the fitting rooms and the racks of shiny dresses, Satoru simply turned around and left the store. He said nothing. He returned exactly seven minutes later, with a huge white heart-shaped helium balloon swaying at head height. The saleswoman looked at him in amazement. He just smiled as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
He found you in front of a rack of Italian blazers, happily ignoring the world. He approached silently, tied the balloonâs string to the ring on your purse with perfect precision, and patted your back affectionately.
âDone. Now yes â he said, like someone finishing an important ritual.
âWhat is this?
âMy personal tracking system. If you get lost, I just have to follow the balloon.
âDid you leave the store just to buy this?
âThereâs no price for my peace of mind.
âAnd where did you get a balloon in seven minutes?
âIâm Satoru Gojo.
âThat doesnât answer anything.
âBut I said it with style.
You rolled your eyes but couldnât help smiling. You walked a few steps toward another section of the store and he followed you at a prudent distance, hands in pockets and a smile hanging from his lips. Several people glanced at you out of the corner of their eyes. Not because of the balloon, but because of you two. Together you were impossible to ignore.
âDid you see this mirror? â you said, admiring it closely â I think it costs more than the average car for any normal person.
Satoru crossed his arms and looked at you with a raised eyebrow.
âLove, youâre not a normal person. Youâre my wife.
âThat doesnât change the price of the mirror.
âNo, but it does change the rules about who can have it.
âWas that a polite way of saying youâre going to buy it for me?
âThat was a polite way of saying youâre going to pretend to be surprised when the mirror arrives at home tomorrow.
You just laughed. That laugh he adored. The one that escaped you effortlessly, as if it was kept behind your ribs.
He took your hand, intertwining fingers, while the balloon gently swayed above you. For a moment, Satoru stopped looking at windows, prices, or curious people. He just looked at you. As if you were the only thing that really mattered in that place.
pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader
content: college!au, baby!yuji, reluctant babysitter gojo, mildy suggestive.
satoru gojo does not do children.
he doesnât do curfews, or structure, or organized religion, or anything that smells remotely like responsibility. hell, he barely does laundry. and kids? absolutely fucking not. satoru gojo does not do kids.
he didnât even do commitment until you hit him with your on-campus scooter and turned his life into a living, spinning headache. he still jokes that you concussed him into falling in loveâsays it with that smug little grin of his like itâs romantic. you always threaten to give him an actual concussion just to test the theory.
matter of fact, he only just started brushing his teeth twice a day, and thatâs because you stuck a passive-aggressive post-it to the mirror that said your mouth is not immune to bacteria, genius.
(it worked. now he has three toothbrushes, all in different shades of blue, and he rotates between them depending on mood.)
so no. kids? absolutely not.
but you?
you, he can do. in more ways than one, if you ask him.
you and your scooter of mass destruction, the one thatâs claimed four victims (including himâtwice). you in his twin XL bed, somehow hogging the whole thing, drooling on his pillow like itâs your birthright. you in the dining hall with food on your chin, stealing fries off his plate like the concept of âmineâ doesnât apply to you. you in your familyâs kitchen this spring break, standing barefoot in an oversized t-shirt while he leans against the fridge and tries not to panic over the toddler racing through the house with a bottle of maple syrup.
because that toddler? apparently thatâs your brother.
âyou have a brother?â he asked when you first brought it up, tucked into the dormâs twin XL and very much little spoon, your arm slung over his middle like a seatbelt he didnât know he needed.
âyeah, heâs an ass,â youâd muttered, half-asleep.
and satoru, being satoruâbeing an only child with a lifelong allergy to normal familial dynamics, just assumed that meant some sarcastic, acne-ridden teenager who stole your chargers and locked you out of the bathroom. he never thought to ask older or younger, never pictured crayons and juice boxes, either.
which is why heâs blinking now, horrified, as a half-dressed kindergartener barrels past him for the third time, giggling like he just did a line of powdered sugar and adrenaline.
âwaitâthatâs him?â satoru squints, standing stock-still in the middle of your kitchen with a measuring cup in one hand and a paw patrol sock in the other. âare you sure?â
âyes, satoru,â you mutter, reaching for the waffles before yuji can steal another one with his bare hands from the half-jammed toaster oven. âi was there when he was born.â
âbut heâs like⊠tiny.â satoruâs voice drops an octave, like heâs trying to rationalize it out loud. his hands flap uselessly in front of him, palms up, like the sheer size of your little brother defies physics. âand small.â
you donât even look up from where youâre stabbing at the toaster with a butter knife. âthatâs usually how five-year-olds work, yeah.â
he stares at yuji, who is currently spinning in a circle with a measuring cup on his head like itâs a helmet. then back at you. then back at yuji.
âbut youâre nineteen.â
âand?â
âthat kid is, like, five.â
right on cue, yuji launches himself off the couch with a high-pitched yell, completely misses the pillow fort meant to break his fall, and slams face-first into the carpet with a thud. he pops up instantly, grinning, one sock hanging halfway off his foot, and screams something about being superman.
satoruâsweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, feels a pit open in his stomach the size of a diaper genie. his jaw slackens. his whole body goes still, except for one hand that very slowly, very cautiously, sets down the measuring cup heâd been holding like itâs a live grenade.
this was supposed to be spring break. cuddles. midday naps. maybe some second base under your momâs quilt if the stars aligned and the house was loud enough to muffle you guys.
not juice-fueled parkour and existential terror in the form of a kindergartener who may or may not have just bitten the actual couch cushion.
âwell i just said that, didnât iââ you start, but he cuts you off.
âso did your mom get bored and start over or what?â
you turn to him, blinking, toaster forgotten. âdonât be weird.â
but it was weird. because satoru had never seen you like this beforeâpulling tiny socks out of the laundry, wiping yogurt off a sticky chin, rolling your eyes when yuji screams âpoopyhead!â at the TV but still sitting beside him with a juice box in hand. heâs never seen you settle so easily into this strange, chaotic rhythm. heâs never seen you responsible.
but he doesnât say that out loud, of course. he just raises both hands in surrender, eyes wide, voice climbing.
âiâm not being weird, iâm justâ i didnât expect this. i thought he was gonna be, like, a middle school dickhead. notââ he gestures wildly toward yuji, who is now crawling under the coffee table growling like a feral dog. âânot thisâ
you sigh, finally managing to get the toast out. âheâs five, satoru. not possessed.â
ânot yet.â
âyouâre such a baby.â
âheâs the baby!â satoru hisses, pointing in horror as yuji starts licking the TV screen for no reason at all. âwhy is he doing that?! is this a test? did your parents leave me here as a test?â
you snort, smug. âwell, youâre doing great, babe.â
satoru was, in fact, not doing great.
because his first full day alone with you and yuji starts rough.
first of all, yuji refuses to sleep in his own bed. flat-out refuses. insists, with the righteous indignation of a boy who owns two pairs of dinosaur pajamas and nothing to lose, that he has to sleep in the middle of you and satoru or heâll have âbad dreams and turn into soup.â whatever that means.
so satoru, who just wanted to cuddle his girlfriend and maybe sneak in a tit grabâgets kicked in the ribs, the nose, and the thigh all in the span of twenty minutes. by 1:30 a.m., heâs dragging himself into yujiâs racecar bed with a blanket that smells like apple juice and despair, his long limbs hanging off the sides like a dying spider. he stares at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars and whispers this is not what i meant by playing house.
and it only gets worse from there.
because yuji? yuji is not just five. heâs peak five, and highly competitive in both physical and psychological warfare.
satoru finds himself arguing with him about legos, full-volume, while yuji is completely naked and holding a butter knife like heâs about to challenge him to a duel. satoru tries to take it away. yuji growls.
âyou are not my dad!â yuji shouts.
âthank god for that,â satoru mutters.
and then thereâs the incident.
it starts with yuji standing in the hallway post-bath, wrapped in a towel, eyes wide and innocent.
âi forgot how to wipe,â he says.
satoru freezes mid-sip of gatorade. âcome again?â
âmy butt,â yuji says solemnly. âit needs help.â
he debates. argues. begs. but twenty minutes later, heâs crouched in the bathroom, dead-eyed and defeated. itâs only after the ordealâafter the trauma, that you return from your errand run and casually mention that yujiâs been potty trained since he was three.
satoru nearly weeps.
but the final straw is coco melon.
you have an internship meeting. one hour. just one. and satoru, with the exhausted desperation of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, turns on coco melon to keep the beast distracted.
ten seconds in, he regrets it.
because the colors are too bright, the singing is too loud, and yuji? yujiâs vibrating with energy, bouncing on the couch like heâs mainlined fun dip. heâs not singingâheâs screaming, every syllable sharp enough to pierce the veil between worlds. satoru feels his soul leave his body somewhere between âbaby sharkâ and âclean up song.â
he sits on the floor, head in hands, trying to breathe. somewhere behind him, yuji is doing push-ups and chanting âfire truckâ like a war hymn.
satoru gojo does not do children.
but he does love you.
and as he drags his heavy, noodle limbs upstairs that night and flops onto your bed face-first, he grumbles into the pillow, âif i ever agree to a second kid, drown me.â
you kiss the back of his head and murmur, âso youâre saying thereâs gonna be a first?â
he groans. âdonât twist my words. iâm too young to be a dad. i havenât even hit my peak yet.â
you grin.
satoru falls asleep with your hand in his hair and the quiet sound of coco melon still playing in his nightmaresâuntil yuji comes barreling out of his room and drops the peopleâs elbow onto satoruâs spine because the lights flickered once and he got scared, and suddenly, satoruâs back in the racecar bed, limbs cramped and soul rapidly exiting his body.
but then, somehow, it softens.
you nap on the couch, and he watches over both of you with one leg bouncing nervouslyâbecause what if yuji dies under his watch? he doesnât. he just puts too much random shit in his mouth and eventually curls up under satoruâs oversized hoodie like a sleepy dog, then asks if satoruâs marrying his sister (satoru says youâre already married).
you cook dinner. satoruâs eats half of it before remembering to serve yuji his plate. yuji doesnât care. he just shovels mac and cheese into his mouth and beams up at you both like heâs living in a disney channel promo.
âthis is nice,â yuji says, eyes wide and cheeks stuffed, âi like you guys.â
and something about that sticks in satoruâs chest.
because your hand is on yujiâs shoulder, steady and patient, and youâre laughing softly when he gets cheese on his chin, and youâve got a hole in your sock and a tiny line between your eyebrows that only shows when youâre tired, and satoru thinksâfuck. this is the most difficult week of my life, but this? this is too easy.
because satoru adores you, and he never thought heâd end up with someone like you. someone who laughs with their whole body, someone who always answers the phone, someone whoâd let a boy like him into the soft, sacred parts of her life. like her family. like her home. like her future.
and later, when yujiâs finally asleep in his own room, one sock on, one sock off, upside down in the bed like a broken dollâsatoru presses himself into your side and buries his face in your hoodie, arms wrapped around your waist like heâs trying to glue himself to you.
he kisses your cheek. âyouâd be a good mom,â he murmurs, voice so quiet it startles even him.
you blink, caught off guard.
he doesnât meet your gaze. just keeps twirling a loose thread on your sleeve like itâs suddenly fascinating, and adds, ânot that iâm saying we should have a kid. obviously not.â
youâre still staring.
âbut,â he goes on, a little more rushed now, âif we ever did⊠accidentally or notâiâd want it to be with you.â
silence.
then: âsatoru?â
âhm?â
âwhy are your hands in my pants?â
he exhales, dramatic and exhausted. âlook, man, i just wanna touch my girlfriend once this week without getting body-slammed by a five-year-old in footie pajamas.â
you snort, loud and ungraceful. âromantic.â
âiâm fighting for my damn life out here, babe.â
and maybe he doesnât do kidsâbut he does do you. he watches you carry that kid on your hip like itâs nothing, humming some dumb song while you pour cereal into two mismatched bowls. and for the first time since met yuji, something tugs at the back of his chest that isnât fear or panic or apathy. something warm. something that looks a little like future.
he imagines you years from now, still humming, still barefoot in the kitchen, but in a place you both picked out. with sunlight and crumbs and someoneâs child screaming in the background, and you yelling âsatoru, get your kid!â while he pretends to be asleep on the couch. and maybe heâd grumble and whine and roll off the cushions with all the grace of a man half-hungover, but heâd do it. for you, heâd do it.
(heâs already doing it now, isnât he?)
and later that week, when yujiâs finally knocked out and you two actually have enough energy to not be confined to your childhood bedroom for once, youâre in the kitchen making popcorn, humming some tune under your breath. satoruâs sitting on the floor next to the island, head leaned back against a cabinet, knees drawn up like heâs been through war.
âyou good?â you ask, furrowing your brows at him, hands still busy tearing open a packet of instant butter sauce.
he nods slowly, but heâs staring at you. at your pajama shorts and your oversized shirt and the messy bun held together with two pens. at the sharpied mustache still half-faded on your upper lip from earlier, when yuji decided you had to be âsheriff.â and satoruâgod, satoru thinks heâs a lot in love.
âthis domestic shit is gonna be the death of me,â he mutters, eyes hazy with something that looks an awful lot like devotion. âi think i really do wanna get you pregnant.â
you choke on your spit. violently.
he grins, completely unbothered. ânot, like, tonight or whatever. unless youâre down. i meanâlook at you. youâd be hot pregnant.â
âsatoru,â you gasp, horrified.
âwhat?â he shrugs, scooting over to rest his chin on your hip. âiâm just saying, iâm mentally prepared to ruin my whole life for you.â
you stare at him, stunned, popcorn long forgotten. and satoru, sweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, looks up at you like heâs already made peace with it. like heâs already living it. like itâs not ruin at all.
and later, when youâre curled up together on the couch, popcorn between you, yuji snoring in the other room, you thinkâmaybe he doesnât do kids. maybe he doesnât do quiet, or rules, or five-year-olds wielding butter knives.
but he does you.
and he always will.

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âY/n had pale skin and blue eyesâ
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