Satoru Gojo, who lives for your eyes ⋆˚࿔
Gojo’s the type to make you believe you’re the one with the striking, crystalline blue eyes the way he yearns for your gaze.
When you’re the last to wake up, the first thing you’ll see is him staring at you with his head propped up by his arm against the pillow, almost as if seeing your eyes gives him permission to move. He can’t even hide the full smile somewhat covered by his hand.
“It’s not good to stare,” you tease groggily.
“I can’t help it,” he responds swiftly, resting his head back down on the pillow, eyes still on yours. “The morning doesn’t feel right until I see you.”
If you’re simply reading a book on your sofa, or watching another episode from another selection of your binging conquests, he leaves a trail of kisses up your arm, just waiting for you unlock your gaze and channel it in his direction.
“Need something, Toru?” You ask, a chuckle seeping through your curiosity. Your eyes remain on the flashing screen.
“I just—need to—leave—my baby—a few—kisses,” he spoke in between each peck against your skin.
“And I love that. But what do you really need?” You ask once more, eyes still fixed on the television.
He pauses. You almost turn to him at the sudden lack of pecks across your skin, but you refuse to give in just yet.
“I need you to look at me,” he finally admits softly, almost pitifully.
And just like that, you turn your attention to your crybaby boyfriend, who has his chin resting up against your arm with his bottom lip pulled out.
“For someone who says I’m the spoiled one, you sure do get whatever you want all the time,” you jeer.
But he doesn’t respond to you. He just stares into your eyes.
You could feel the hairs on your arm raise when you see the sparkle in his eyes. His orbs wide, just looking up into yours, as if he’s studying every detail there is to offer in your pupils. He looks as if time has just stopped itself for this very moment, granting him his long-awaited wish.
“Satoru?” You called again.
He blinks repeatedly and shakes his head, knocking himself out of his trance.
“You okay?” You ask, reaching to cup his face.
“Perfect, baby,” he responds, resting his cheek in your hand.
And when you’re both getting ready for bed that night, brushing your teeth at the shared mirror in your bathroom, you ask him:
“You do realize you have like—the most one of a kind eyes of all time right? Like by far the most beautiful eyes on the planet?”
He simply spits out the remaining bit of water and toothpaste into the sink bowl and shrugs. He looks at you in the mirror, smiles, and says:
“Maybe, but they’re not yours.”
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