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you get injured on your hip on your latest mission and when you pull up your shirt and turn a bit in front of your mirror, hissing at the subtle touch of your fingertips hardly brushing over it, you notice the approach of Enjin's fixed golden hues train directly onto the dark mark colored along your smooth skin, through the reflection of your mirror. and when he approaches behind you, he gently reaches down to barely graze it. instead, carefully holds the curve of your hip and circles his thumb delicately around the deep violet mark.

doesn't say much, simply silently studies it, glances up at you through your mirror and bends to his knees to subtly plant supple kisses along the achy bruise. all while gingerly holding onto your hips, ever so careful and mindful not to harm you. tending and treating you with such delicate caress and care. stimulating those familiar pesky fluttering butterflies in the depths of your stomach. he can be gentle and cute sometimes.

you'd smile, reach to ruffle a hand through his amber hair and tell him that you're alright. he only hums against your skin, looks up at you and pulls away to reach back up to your level (well, back to his level, so to speak, he's so freakishly tall). gently perching a palm at the back of your head and pushing his lips against your forehead.

feat. fiancé! satoru gojo

contains: literally just fluff; kissing, cuddling, pet names (sweetheart, baby), nicknames (sato), female reader

word count: 0.8k masterlist

satoru gojo is a lot of things. the strongest sorcerer, the honoured one, the (good-looking) teacher of tokyo jujutsu tech's first years, and - most importantly, in your humble opinion - your fiancé.

you can't help but be a little smug about it. he might have countless admirers, swathes of people who revere and fear him. but at the end of the day, it's your home, your bed, your arms in which he finds himself.

when he finally returns one friday evening, earlier than usual, humming as he walks through the door, fingers wrapped around a box of his favourite kikufuku, it really hits you how downright adorable he is. it sounds silly, you're well aware, but your husband fiancé is so stupidly cute, with those long limbs of his, hair spiked up because of his blindfold, pouting those soft pink lips when he sees that the mochi he went out of his way to get for both of you got squashed on the way home. and when he sees you leaning against the kitchen doorframe, tiny little smile on your face as you take in the sight of your most beloved, he beams, and it feels like sunshine, warm and bright and healing. he drops the box in his hand on the table, the sugary snack paling in comparison to you.

he swoops you up in a hug, long, strong arms lifting you and spinning you around like he has since you were teenagers.

that night, the two of you were sprawled across your bed, enjin’s face pressed into your hands as he rubbed onto you like a damn cat, completely trusting you in his exhaustion after the mission— which, in hindsight, had been his first mistake.

he looked impossibly pretty from this angle; his nose glimmered in the dim light, looking far too bitable, and his cheeks— holy shit, those cheeks! made your heart thrum with an almost dangerous level of cuteness aggression.

it was that overwhelming, borderline criminal kind of feeling you got when an animal was too adorable, the kind that made you want to crush it into a hug and devour it’s cute face.

you swallowed the urge, letting your breath hitch as you clenched your jaw, trying not to lose your mind over this hunk of a man looking so unbearably soft in your hands.

lowering your head, your lips grazed his cheeks, leaving soft, affectionate kisses. you felt him exhale against you, a quiet, content sound that made your chest squeeze. your lips trailed up to the bridge of his nose, lingering there for a heartbeat before sliding to the tip, and in a split second of irresistible impulse, your teeth grazed it, a bite that made him yelp.

enjin jerked back instantly, clutching his face as a muffled “ow!” escaped his lips. he pressed a hand over his nose, blinking up at you with wide, startled eyes, a slight scowl forming despite the flushed look creeping across his cheeks.

“did you just… bite my nose?!” he squeaked, one hand still covering his face while the other pointed at you with accusatory indignation.

you tilted your head, acting all innocent. “what?”

“don’t fucking ‘what’ me!” he snapped, swinging his hand toward you in mock exasperation, and for a moment, you felt a wild, irrepressible urge to bite it too. maybe you were just… ovulating. whatever it was, all you wanted was to snack on him like a chew toy.

“you’re being dramatic,” you huffed into the sheets, letting your face sink into the fabric still holding the lingering scent of him.

“my fault?!” he barked, and you flinched at the volume. “babe, i’m a work of art, and you’re trying to damage my beautiful skin!”

“that’s the damn problem,” you admitted, voice low, almost a whisper, “you’re too cute. i just want to bite your nose and crawl under your skin.”

…

“you are… fucking insane,” he muttered, though his scowl softened at the edges, a small laugh escaping him.

and yet, seconds later, after his tiny tantrum, he nuzzled back into you, warm and trusting. you peppered his face with gentle kisses as he drifted into sleep. nibbling softly at the tip of his nose again, just a little, knowing he couldn’t feel it.

he blinks up at the ceiling, jaw clenched tight enough to ache, one arm slung heavy across your waist. the room’s bathed in that pre-dawn dark-blue haze, early morning silence humming through the thin apartment walls. no birds chirping yet. no distant traffic rumble. just the faint whir of the ac and you, warm and pliant against him, chest rising and falling in slow, infuriatingly even breaths. like you don’t have a single care, a single deadline, a single racing thought in that pretty head of yours.

he exhales sharply through his nose, willing his eyes to shut.

come on. just fucking sleep.

it doesn’t work.

five minutes drag by. then ten. twenty. his brain’s a relentless asshole—replaying yesterday’s gym prs, tomorrow’s meetings, that half-assed argument with you over takeout. every time he so much as twitches, you just… adapt. nose nuzzling deeper into the ink on his chest, leg hooking lazily over his thigh, bare skin sliding warm against his. lips parting on a tiny, contented sigh, like sleep’s some five-star resort you’re lounging in.

it pisses him off royally.

“unbelievable,” he mutters quietly.

you don’t even twitch. not a flutter of lashes, not a shift. dead asleep, zero fucks given.

he tilts his head down, studying you properly now in the dim light filtering through the blinds. your face is utterly relaxed—brows smooth as glass, lashes fanned out soft against your cheeks, mouth slightly parted in an alluring way that usually makes him weak. not a wrinkle of stress, not a hint of the chaos he knows waits outside these sheets. meanwhile, he’s wide awake, wired and stewing, trapped in his own skull.

his hand flexes against the dip of your back, fingers splaying wide over your spine.

how the fuck is this fair?

he eases his arm out from under your head; slow, deliberate, like he’s defusing a live grenade. the sheets rustle faintly. you make a small noise, a sleepy whine-hmm hybrid that tugs at something in his gut, but your eyes stay shut, body curling instinctively toward his warmth.

sukuna stares for a beat longer, something dark and fond twisting in his chest. then he leans down, brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, lightly, testing. nothing.

he presses harder, squishing the soft flesh like dough.

your brows pinch, the barest frown.

“wow,” he whispers. “dead to the world.”

he pinches your cheek.

you groan low, turning your face into the pillow with a mumbled, “mm… stop…”

there it is. sukuna smirks, eyes gleaming. “oh, so now you react.”

you roll onto your back, still deep in that hazy half-sleep limbo, lashes fluttering like you’re buffering a system restart. “what time is it…”

“early.”

“how early,” you mumble, voice thick and wrecked, one hand fumbling blindly for the blanket.

“early enough.”

your eyes crack open—one bleary, then the other. you squint up at him, brain clearly lagging. “…what?”

he props his head on one hand, elbow sinking into the mattress, looming just enough to block the faint light. “you’ve been out cold.”

“yeah,” you say slowly, like you’re explaining to a child. “that’s… called sleep.”

“no,” he replies flatly. “that’s called rubbing it in.”

you stare at him for a long beat. then another, processing.

“…did you wake me up,” you ask quietly, dangerously, “because you couldn’t sleep?”

he doesn’t answer right away, just holds your gaze, unblinking.

which, of course, is answer enough.

your expression flips like a switch: from groggy marshmallow to full-on pissed in under two seconds, impressively fast. he almost admires it.

“are you serious?” you groan, dragging a hand down your face, smearing sleep from your eyes. “sukuna, it’s literally—” you twist to glare at the nightstand clock, then gasp like you’ve seen a ghost. “—six-oh-five in the morning. on a sunday.”

“and?”

“and?” you shove up onto one elbow, hair a wild tangle framing your flushed face, eyes half-lidded but burning with righteous fury. “you woke me up because you were jealous of my sleep?”

“you looked too comfortable.”

“i was comfortable!”

“exactly.”

you snatch your pillow and swing it at his chest: it bounces off harmlessly, like swatting a brick wall.

“you’re evil,” you hiss, cheeks puffing out in outrage.

he snatches the pillow mid-swing, yanks it free, and chucks it across the room. it thuds against the dresser. “don’t exaggerate. i’m the victim here.”

“i was in the middle of a really good dream, you barbarian.”

he arches a pierced brow, leaning closer. “about me?”

you glare daggers. “about endless, uninterrupted bliss.”

he clicks his tongue, mock-disappointed. “what a waste.”

you flop back onto the mattress with a theatrical huff, arms flailing. “i hate you so much right now.”

“no, you don’t.” he shifts, caging you in effortlessly—arms bracketing your head, knees straddling your hips without crushing you, his face hovering inches above yours.

“i do.”

“you’ll survive.” his breath fans your lips, voice dropping low.

you try to twist away, hiding your scowl in the sheets. he follows seamlessly, nose brushing your temple.

“move,” you grumble, shoving at his pecs, but he is solid as granite.

“nah.”

“sukuna.”

“you gonna go back to sleep?”

“not with you hovering like a menace.”

he smiles; slow, sharp, utterly pleased with himself, fangs peeking. “good.”

you shove harder, nails digging in. “i swear to god, if you don’t let me sleep, i’m biting you. hard.”

he hums, low and amused, eyes darkening with interest. “promise, baby?”

you blink up at him.

“…don’t flirt with me when i’m mad.”

he finally cracks, laughing low and quiet, the sound rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. satisfied and victorious, he dips down, presses a quick, firm kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough to feel your pulse jump. “fine. sleep, princess.”

you eye him suspiciously, brows furrowed. “you won’t wake me up again?”

“maybe.”

you groan loud, rolling over to face away; pointed back-turning, yanking the blanket up to your chin like a fortress. “you’ll be sleeping on the couch if you do.”

“yeah, yeah.” he scoops you right back against him anyway—effortless, arms banding around your waist, chin hooking over your shoulder. your bodies slot together like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

you’re still fuming audibly, muttering curses into the pillow, but your traitorous body betrays you. shoulders softening, breaths deepening, evening out despite the grudge. drifting off in under a minute, soft snores kicking in.

sukuna watches the whole thing, lips twitching.

“show-off.” he mutters it into your hair, eyes finally slipping shut.

and this time, with you knocked out, tucked warm and safe against him, sleep creeps in at last, pulling him under.

a/n: no spoilers, but takes place in the doll festival arc. pure fluff.

The October air whistled through the throngs of fully costumed people swarming the cobblestone streets.

"Yo, the party's this way! Keep up, would ya?" Enjin puts his palm on your back, making sure you keep up with him.

The lack of chokers provided little relief from your leader's irritating voice.

"I seem to be the only one that remembers our mission—"

You're cut off by your own screech as a masked man flails his pale arms in your face. Had Enjin not held you by your right wrist, you would have cracked the man's face in half.

"IT'S THE DOLL FEST-I-VAAALLLLLL!" August gets so close you can make out his excited eyes behind his sunglasses. "I DIDN'T MAKE ALL THESE FITS SO YOU COULD JUST WORK IN 'EM! GET YOUR GROOVE ON!"

You open your mouth to argue when you promptly shut it just as fast. Having a simple conversation with the Cleaners' wardrobe designer is about as easy as it is to get Enjin to not piss you off.

Your shoulders slump in defeat. There's no chance anyone will stop shopping or gawking at the displays of magic around them. Enjin's stupid grin widens, small dimples indenting the smooth skin of his cheeks.

"You heard the man," Enjin drags you to the next stall. "Let's get our groove on."

you really ought to focus, you've accidentally brushed your nightdress more than the tresses of your hair in the past minute. but damn it, your eyes remained glued on your husband who decided he should continue working even in your bedroom. his brows furrowed as he read over the official documents sent to him earlier, the serious expression on his beautiful face did little to divert your gaze. no, all you could do was stare at his large arms; the way they flexed when he moved the papers around. you hadn't even realised you were biting your lip until his eyes lifted to meet yours and a curious concern settled over his features.

"are you alright, dear?"

you cleared your throat, tightening your grip on the brush (a gift from zuko might you add, decorated with beautiful gems and carvings) "yes, my love, i was just lost in thought," you decide to tell him, turning to face the mirror once more. you find him in the reflection staring at you with a bemused expression and you feel the urge to gnaw at your lip return. you don't know what's gotten into you but you just want to bite him.

𝜗℘ ˖ ࣪ . ˖˙ bedtime with the fushiguro family :: dad!toji fushiguro x wife!reader. fluff. reader gets called ‘doll’ once

toji sits on the edge of megumi’s bed, arms casually draped over his knees, watching with an amused grin as you fuss over your son. you’re lecturing him about being more careful when playing with the other kids at daycare, replacing the bandages on his arms that had gotten scuffed from a tumble.

megumi sulks. his little face is scrunched up, but he doesn’t dare say a word. his gaze is cast downward and he knows better than to challenge you when you’re in your ‘mom’ mode.

toji chuckles to himself. the little brat—just like his old man, he thinks. neither of them ever have the guts to talk back when you’re laying down the law.

with a lazy smirk, toji reaches over and ruffles megumi’s hair in an affectionate and teasing way. “it's fine, doll,” he says in attempt to reassure you, “shit happens. ‘n it toughens up the kid anyway.”

Hii~~ ⚘️I hope life has been treating you better and whatever is/was troubling you went away. Feel free to vent about your thoughts anytime you want. I should be the one thanking you for sharing it. It's always nice to receive such a sweet message, so thank you.

AWKWARD CAR SEX

Warnings: nsfw

The trash rain hammered down like a relentless storm of forgotten junk—old appliances, shattered bottles, and crumpled wrappers pelting the ground in a chaotic symphony. You and Enjin had been cruising back toward the Cleaners' base after a routine sweep, but the downpour hit hard and fast, turning the desolate roads of the Abyss into dangerous zones due the objects falling from the Sphere. You two had no choice but to pull over and wait it out in the beat-up vehicle you'd scavenged.

Enjin slouched in the driver's seat, one arm draped over the wheel, his trademark cigarette dangling from his lips even though he hadn't lit it yet—too risky with the windows cracked for air. His messy black hair fell into his eyes as he glanced at you with that lazy, knowing grin, the kind that always sent a spark through you. "Well, ain't this romantic? Stuck in a junk storm with my favorite girl."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smirking back, shifting closer to him. The Cleaners' life was all grit and fights against beasts, raiders and criminal gangs but moments like this—with him—felt like a rare breather. "Romantic? More like a recipe for boredom if we just sit here staring at trash."

to someone who didn’t know better, it would seem that enjin would make a terrible dancer. he was tall and muscular, and just huge in general. he was sure to knock into everyone and crush your feet in the process.

“of course i know how to dance. i’m not good for nothing.” he muttered, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

you rolled your eyes. “i find that very hard to believe.”

“i’m self taught. i thought why not? since it impresses the ladies.” he winked at you and you pretended to gag. he frowned and put out his cig.

“don’t believe me? c’mon.” he got up and dragged you off the couch with him. you groaned as he turned on some music and wrapped an arm around your waist.

“do i have to?”

“you know damn well you want to see if i actually can." he extended his abnormally large hand out and you took it reluctantly.

the music drifted through the living room, soft and slow, wrapping around the two of you. enjin shifted his weight, guiding you with surprising ease despite his size. you stumbled slightly at first, trying to match his rhythm, but he steadied you with a firm hand at your back and a reassuring grip on yours.

his tall frame loomed over you as he moved, swaying in time with the melody. you could feel the press of his chest against yours as he led, the warmth of his body steady and controlled. each step was careful and measured, like he was testing you, but also showing off just enough to make you aware of it.

you tried to focus on the music, on the sway of your feet, on keeping your balance—but it was impossible to ignore how close he was, how his hands enveloped yours, or how his eyes sparkled with a mix of mischief and pride.

he twirled you once, guiding you with steady hands, then drew you back close, chest nearly touching yours. his lips brushed your forehead lightly, a soft, teasing gesture, and you had to fight back a smile.

“your know,” he murmured, leaning just enough to catch your ear with his warm breath, “for someone who taught themselves, i’d say i’m doin' pretty well.”

your raised an eyebrow. “pretty well?” you echoed, keeping your tone neutral. “i guess i'd say you're doing okay.”

“just… okay?” he repeated, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. he dipped you slightly, one arm firm around your back while the other still held your hand. the sudden tilt pulled a small gasp from you as the room spun for a second, your hair falling slightly toward the floor.

enjin was grinning down at you, far too pleased with himself.

“careful,” he murmured. “wouldn’t want you to admit i’m actually good at this.”

you narrowed your eyes, though the position made it hard to look very intimidating. his grip was steady. annoyingly steady.

“…beginner’s luck,” you said.

“beginner’s luck?” he echoed, raising a brow. “after dedicating so much time to teaching myself?”

with an easy motion, he pulled you back upright, spinning you once before your hands found his shoulders again. the movement was smoother than you expected—like he’d practiced it more than he was letting on.

“you’re awfully confident for someone who just started,” you said.

he leaned closer, voice low enough that you could barley hear over the music.

“well,” he said, a hint of laughter in his tone, “i haven’t stepped on your feet yet. i’m counting that as a win.”

his thumb brushed lightly against your hand as the two of you swayed back into the rhythm of the music.

“so,” he added, tilting his head slightly, “still just okay?”

"you're actually pretty good, i'm impressed." you caved. "all things considered of course." he grinned and you immediately regretted it.

"don’t push it.”

“i think we both know it’s far too late for that now.” he laughed and you groaned.

there was no undoing it now. he looked far too proud of himself, holding you a little closer as the music carried the two of you along.

© megumour — do not copy, translate, or reupload my works.

a/n: thank you to the anon that requested this for my 1k celebration event. i loved writing it esp since i miss writing for enjin

the frustration had been building for days, really. it was a slow, insidious kind of pressure, like a pot of water coming to a boil. you’d been running on empty— too many deadlines, too little sleep, and a constant, nagging hum of anxiety that you just couldn’t shake. today, the pot had boiled over.

it started with something stupid. you’d been working on a presentation for weeks, a project you’d poured your heart into. you’d practiced your part until the words were muscle memory. and then, during the meeting, your mind just went blank. completely, utterly blank. you’d stood there, in front of your entire team, your face burning, as you fumbled through your note cards like a stranger. you’d recovered, mostly, but the damage was done. the embarrassment clung to you like a second skin.

you’d spent the rest of the day spiraling, replaying the moment over and over in your head. you could still feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your voice had wobbled. by the time you were on the train home, you were a wreck. your hands were clammy, your heart was racing and your eyes kept welling up with stupid, hot tears. you felt like a failure. you felt small.

you wanted kento. you wanted his quiet, his steadiness. you wanted to crawl inside his pocket and hide from the world.

the apartment was quiet when you let yourself in, but the soft glow from the living room told you he was home. you found him on the couch, a book in his lap, a cup of tea on the side table. he looked up when you walked in and his expression shifted immediately. the calm, neutral mask softened into something else entirely— something warm and concerned and full of a quiet sort of love that always made your chest ache.

he set his book aside without a word and opened his arms.

you didn’t even make it to the couch, you dropped to your knees on the floor in front of him, burying your face in his chest, your shoulders shaking with the effort of holding back the sob that was clawing its way up your throat. his arms wrapped around you immediately, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, firm circles on your back.

“oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

that was all it took for the sobs to escape, muffled against the soft fabric of his sweater. you clung to him, your fingers digging into the material at his sides, as you cried. you cried for the embarrassment, for the exhaustion, for the weight you’d been carrying for weeks without even realizing it.

he didn’t shush you. he didn’t tell you it was okay, not yet. he just held you, his hand never stopping its soothing path up and down your back, his lips pressing soft, lingering kisses to the top of your head. he let you fall apart in his arms and he held every piece.

when the sobs finally quieted into hiccupping breaths, he shifted, guiding you gently until you were sitting in his lap, curled against his chest like a child. he tucked your head under his chin, his arms a warm, solid cage around you.

“there you go,” he whispered. “just breathe with me, okay? in… and out.”

you tried to match your breathing to his, to the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. his heartbeat was a reassuring drum against your ear.

after a long moment, he spoke again, his voice soft. “do you want to talk about it?”

you shook your head against his chest, your throat too raw for words. you felt him nod, felt his lips press another kiss to your hair.

“that’s okay,” he said simply. “you don’t have to.”

he held you like that for a long time, just the two of you in the quiet of the living room. the sun had begun to set, painting the room in soft, golden light. eventually, your breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction.

he shifted again, gently tilting your chin up so he could look at you. his eyes were so warm, so full of a tenderness that made your heart stutter. he brushed a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb, the touch feather-light.

“there’s my girl,” he said softly, a small, gentle smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

you sniffled, feeling suddenly shy under his gaze. “i’m a mess,” you whispered, your voice raspy.

“you’re my mess,” he corrected, and then he leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to your forehead. then your temple. then the bridge of your nose. each kiss was a tiny reassurance, a whispered i love you without words.

“you are allowed to have hard days,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek now. “you are allowed to fall apart. you don’t have to be strong all the time. not with me.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his hands coming up to cup your face. his thumbs traced gentle arcs along your cheekbones.

“do you know how proud i am of you?” he asked, his voice serious now, his gaze intent. “every single day. not only for the things you accomplish. i’m proud of you for who you are. for your kindness. for the way you care about things so deeply. for the way you love.”

a fresh wave of tears pricked at your eyes, making you bite on your lip.

“you are enough,” he continued, his voice a low, steady anchor. “exactly as you are. tired, frustrated, embarrassed, crying on the floor. all of it. you are enough, and you are so, so loved.”

you let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch. “i love you, kento,” you whispered, the words feeling too small for everything you felt.

he smiled then, a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “i love you too,” he said and kissed you.

it was a soft kiss, slow and sweet. it wasn’t urgent or demanding, it was a kiss that tasted like salt from your tears and warmth from his lips. it was a kiss that said i’m here, i’m not going anywhere, you are safe. his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, tangling gently in your hair, holding you close as if you were the most precious thing in his world.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “better?” he whispered.

you nodded, a small, genuine smile finally touching your lips. “better.”

he hummed, a satisfied sound, and pressed one last kiss to the tip of your nose. “good. now, how about i make us some tea, and then we can order whatever ridiculous takeout you’re craving, and watch that terrible reality show you love but pretend you don’t?”

you laughed, the sound watery and quiet. “it’s not terrible. it’s compelling television.”

he raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “if you say so, darling.”

he helped you off his lap, keeping a hand on the small of your back as you stood. as he moved toward the kitchen, you caught his hand, stopping him. he turned, a question in his eyes.

“thank you,” you said quietly, meaning it with every piece of your frayed heart. “for… this. for always knowing how to…”

you trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. but you didn’t need to, he understood you without words. he always understood.

he lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. “always,” he said simply. “for you, always.”

mornings with higuruma are very quiet. just a gentle, settled silence that wraps around the two of you like the rumpled bedsheets tangled around your legs.

he wakes up like he’s surfacing from deep water. slowly, as if consciousness itself is something to be examined and weighed before accepted. his eyelashes flutter first, sometimes, or his fingers twitch against the pillow, but his eyes stay closed, suspended somewhere between sleep and waking.

you always wake up first and take a moment just to look at him.

the morning light filters through the curtains in soft gold streaks, catching the edges of his face, the slope of his nose, the faint shadow along his jaw where he hasn’t shaved since yesterday. his hair is a mess— dark strands falling across his forehead, curling slightly at the ends in a way he would absolutely fix immediately if he were awake, smoothing them back into that composed, professional demeanor he wears like armor. but here, in this bed, with you, the armor is gone. his face, stripped of its usual composure, is softer and younger, delightfully unguarded.

his mouth is relaxed, slightly parted, and one arm is loosely draped over your waist like even in sleep he’s conducting a silent roll call, counting the beats of your heart to make sure you’re still there.

you trace your fingers gently along his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath his skin, the warmth of him, the fine bones there, the way his hand shifts slightly at your touch, reacting even as he sleeps.

he stirs.

a soft sound escapes him and his brow furrows just slightly.

“…you’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and warm as honey, eyes still closed.

you grin, unable to resist. “you’re awake.”

“i can tell when you do, you know?” his thumb moves against your skin, a slow, unconscious stroke. “even when i’m sleeping.”

you blink. “that’s unsettling.”

“mm, sure is,” he says faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

his eyes finally open.

dark and warm and immediately focused on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at. except there’s no intensity in it this morning, no sharp-edged scrutiny, just affection. soft, unguarded affection that makes your chest feel too full, too warm, too small to contain it all.

“good morning, hiro,” you whisper.

he studies your face like he’s memorizing evidence— the curve of your smile, the sleep in your eyes, the way your hair spills across the pillow. his gaze moves slowly, deliberately, taking in every detail with that focused attention he usually reserves for case files and legal precedents. then his hand slides up from your waist to your cheek, palm warm against your skin, thumb brushing gently under your eye.

“good morning,” he replies and kisses you, like he has all the time in the world and has chosen, deliberately, to spend it right here with you. his lips are soft, still heavy with sleep, and when you smile against his mouth he hums quietly— pleased.

you pull back only slightly. “you taste like sleep.”

his eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare smile appearing. “…is that a complaint?”

“no. just an observation.”

“ah.” his thumb traces your cheekbone. “then i suppose i’m allowed to taste like sleep if you’re allowed to look at me like i’m something worth waking up for.”

your heart stumbles over itself. “hiromi.”

“hm?”

“you can’t just say things like that.”

“why not?” genuine curiosity colors his voice. “they’re true.”

you kiss him again instead of answering, this time a little firmer, pouring into it everything you can’t quite put into words. he makes a soft sound against your mouth, one of surprise, pleasure, that quiet hum again, and his arm tightens around you instinctively. he rolls, guiding you gently onto your back without breaking the kiss, hovering over you with that serious expression he wears when he’s pretending he isn’t absolutely, hopelessly smitten.

his weight settles over you, warm and solid and familiar. one forearm braces beside your head, taking just enough of his weight to keep from crushing you, but you’d pull him closer if you could. you always want him closer.

“hiroo,” you laugh softly, fingers sliding into his hair, pushing those sleep-mussed strands back from his forehead.

“hm?”

“are you trying to silence me?”

“I’m preventing further slander.” he says it so seriously, but his eyes give him away—warm, fond, dancing with quiet amusement. “you were making observations about my taste. i had to mount a defense.”

“by kissing me?”

“it’s a highly effective strategy.”

“you’re impossible.”

“incorrect, my sunflower,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then just under your jaw. his lips brush against that tender spot where your pulse beats, and you feel rather than hear his next words. “i’m very much alive. you’re holding me.”

you can’t help the way your chest swells at that. he says things so plainly, so matter-of-factly, it’s very difficult to not be fond of him.

you wrap your legs loosely around his waist and tug him closer, eliminating what little space remains between you. “you’re clingy in the morning.”

“I prefer the term ‘affectionate.’”

“you’re extremely affectionate.”

he noses along your jaw, breath warm against your skin. “is that another complaint?”

you grin, tilting your head to give him better access. “never.”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you, and the expression on his face steals your breath. so soft, so open. utterly, devastatingly in love. his eyes move over your features; he’s still memorizing, still cataloguing, still marveling that you’re here, that you’re his, that this is real.

he presses his forehead to yours, nose brushing against yours gently. and then, he kisses you again. once. twice. three times, each one small and precise.

“what are you doing?” you murmur against his lips.

“ensuring you feel adequately loved before we face society.”

you burst into quiet laughter, the sound muffled by the closeness between you. “adequately loved?”

“yes.” completely serious. “it’s important. foundational, even.”

“how many kisses does that require, counselor?”

he pretends to consider it seriously, brow furrowing in that way it does when he’s reviewing complex arguments. you watch him think, watch him weigh the evidence, and it takes everything in you not to kiss him again just for being so wonderfully, endearingly himself.

“the minimum is ten,” he concludes.

“ten?”

“at least.” his voice drops slightly, taking on that measured, persuasive tone he uses in court. “clinical studies suggest that fewer than ten morning kisses may result in inadequate emotional preparation for the challenges of the day ahead.”

“clinical studies,” you repeat, fighting a smile. “you’re making this up.”

“i’m adapting existing research to fit our specific circumstances.”

you gasp softly in mock offense. “only ten? that seems… insufficient, mr. counselor.”

his eyes soften, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “i can be persuaded to increase the number. i’m always open to negotiation.”

“oh, you are, are you?”

“within reason.” his thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light. “i have a very reasonable client.”

so you kiss him first this time— quick and playful, a bright brush of lips— and then again, slower. you trail your lips across his cheek, his temple, down to the corner of his mouth. he closes his eyes briefly, just feeling it, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest warm and steady against your lower back. his palm is calloused in places, soft in others, and the contrast makes you shiver.

“that’s three,” he murmurs.

“you’re counting?”

“always.” his eyes open, dark and warm. “i’m keeping a record. for evidentiary purposes.”

“what evidence are you gathering?”

“evidence that i’m the luckiest man in this city.” he says it so simply, so sincerely, like it’s just another fact. “evidence that you love me. evidence that i should never, ever take this for granted.”

your heart clenches. “hiromi.”

“i’m serious.” his hand presses more firmly against your back, drawing you closer. “every morning, i wake up and you’re here. and every morning, i think— this is what i was missing.”

you sit up suddenly, pulling him with you until he’s seated and you’re straddling his lap properly. the blanket slips down around your hips but neither of you care. you cradle his face in your hands and pepper his entire face with kisses—forehead, eyebrows, nose, cheeks, chin, the corner of his jaw, the spot just below his ear that makes him shiver— until he’s blinking up at you in stunned silence, cheeks flushed, lips parted, looking utterly wrecked in the best possible way.

“that was at least twelve,” you say triumphantly.

he stares at you for a second more. his hands come up to hold your wrists gently, thumbs brushing over your pulse points. his expression shifts, something deeper flickering underneath. something tender and vast and almost overwhelming in its intensity.

“biased counting,” he says quietly.

“oh my god.”

“you didn’t give me time to tally properly. the rapid succession of kisses—” he swallows, and you watch his throat move. “—made accurate assessment difficult.”

“sounds like a personal problem.”

“it’s a procedural issue.” but he’s smiling now, that rare full smile that transforms his entire face. “i may need to request a recount.”

he leans forward and kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding up to the back of your neck. his fingers tangle gently in your hair, tilting your head just so, and the kiss goes from playful to something else entirely— something slow and sweet and so full of honeyed warmth it almost makes your chest ache.

he pulls back and when he speaks his voice is rough.

“i love you.”

your heart does a flip every single time like it’s the first confession.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone.

he closes his eyes briefly at that, like the words physically soothe him. his breath shudders out of him, slow and uneven, and when he opens his eyes again they’re bright.

“say it again,” he murmurs.

“i love you.”

his hand tightens in your hair, gentle but desperate. “again.”

you laugh softly, pressing your forehead harder against his. “i love you, hiro. i love you. i love you.”

he kisses you after each one— quick, soft presses of lips— until you’re both breathless and laughing, tangled together in the warm morning light.

you stay like that for a while.

the world outside slowly wakes up— traffic sounds filtering through the window, distant voices, the neighbor’s dog barking— but neither of you move to join it yet. instead, you shift, settling more comfortably in his lap, and he adjusts immediately, pulling you closer, wrapping both arms securely around your waist until you’re flush against him. you can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his chest, the quiet contentment in the way he holds you like you are something precious and irreplaceable.

his head drops to your shoulder, face pressed into the curve of your neck. his breath warms your skin.

“five more minutes,” he murmurs into your neck.

“you’ll be late.”

his arms tighten. “ten more minutes.”

you hum, stroking his hair, working through the faint tangles with gentle fingers. “you’re terrible at leaving bed.”

“I have excellent motivation to stay.” he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “compelling evidence supports remaining exactly where i am.”

“and what evidence is that?”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you. his eyes are soft, his hair a disaster, his lips slightly swollen from kissing. he looks rumpled and warm and utterly, completely yours.

“you,” he says simply. “you’re the evidence.”

you press a kiss into his hair, breathing him in—sleep and warmth and that clean, subtle scent that’s just him.

he squeezes you tighter.

in the quiet of the room, wrapped in warmth and lazy kisses and whispered reassurances, hiromi is nothing more than a man hopelessly, completely in love with you.

his hand slides up your back, slow and soothing. his lips find your throat again, pressing feather-light kisses along your pulse. he murmurs something against your skin— too soft to hear, but you feel the vibration of it, the warmth of it.

“what was that?” you ask.

he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “i said i’m going to kiss you at least ten more times before breakfast.”

“only ten?” you tilt your head teasingly to the side.

his smile is slow to widen. “that’s the minimum.” his hand cups your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “i can always be persuaded to increase the number.”

you lean into his touch, heart full to bursting.

“i’ll persuade you, baby,” you whisper, but he is already kissing you; once, twice, three times— and full of everything he is, everything he feels, everything he’s become since you came into his life. and you kiss him back, matching him kiss for kiss, heart for heart, love for love.

outside, the world keeps turning. there are cases to prepare, arguments to craft, a city full of people waiting for him to put his armor back on and step into that courtroom. but here, it’s only him and you.

and when you finally do leave bed— an hour later, after far more than ten kisses— he holds your hand all the way to the kitchen, and kisses your knuckles before he lets go to make coffee, and looks at you across the table like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked.

Your birthday

Summary: it's your birthday, and you are feeling down. He does something simple but special to cheer you up. Just between the two of you.

Warning: mentions of depressive behavior ? Don't know if that's a warning

You don’t tell anyone it’s your birthday. You turn off your phone that morning and bury yourself under the covers, the weight in your chest too heavy to pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You haven’t been for a few days now—the slow creep of dread and sadness curling around your ribs like vines feels heavy, and today, those vines have finally managed to sink you into your bed. You hate how your birthday always does this to you. It makes you feel alone, like you’re watching your life from the outside. It's a shit show you stopped enjoying a long time ago.

Although everyone always expects smiles and gratitude and joy, and some years you can fake it, this year, you can’t. So you isolate yourself.

You don’t know how, but Sasuke knows. He doesn’t call. Doesn’t text. Just knocks on your door sometime after sunset.

You almost don’t answer.

But you drag yourself out of bed, an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, and shuffle barefoot to the door.

He’s standing there with a brown paper bag in one hand and a candle in the other. A single, tiny candle. The wax is shaped like a star. It's an unusual image, considering it's about Sasuke Uchiha we are talking about.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says, voice low and careful, “but I thought maybe you’d let me in.”

You just nod and step aside.

He doesn’t comment on your appearance, doesn’t ask why your eyes are puffy, or why your voice is so small when you offer him tea. He just walks in like he’s done it a hundred times—and he has—and sits on your couch.

From the bag, he pulls out two onigiri he made himself, a small square container of your favorite dango, and something wrapped in cloth.

“You didn’t want a party,” he says. “So this is just us.”

You blink at the food. It’s simple. Thoughtful. Very much like him you'd say.

"You didn't have to"

"I wanted to"

Then he unwraps the cloth—and it’s a book. An old one. A little battered around the edges but clearly cared for. He sets it down on your lap gently.

“I read it while I was gone,” he mutters. “Made me think of you. So you can keep it if you want to.”

You don’t say anything at first. Your chest tightens, and you feel it. The sting in your eyes, the lump in your throat. You pick up the candle, shaped like a star, and you light it. Just one. And that one candle made your chest warm up.

You sit beside him, your shoulder against his, and lean your head on him. He shifts only slightly so he can press his lips to your hair. For the first time today, you didn't feel quite so heavy.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs. He doesn’t ask you to smile. He doesn’t push you to say thank you. He just sits with you in the stillness of your apartment, the candle flickering gently on the low table, casting soft shadows across his face.

You’re quiet for a long time, watching the wax melt slowly, the scent of rice and sweet soy sauce curling in the air.

“It’s stupid,” you whisper finally, barely audible. Sasuke looks at you. Just looks. Patient. “I don’t know why it hits me like this. Every year. I just feel… like I didn’t do enough. Like I’m behind everyone else. Like I’m not where I should be.”

He doesn’t dismiss your feelings or try to logic them away. Instead, he says, “You’re here.”

“You’re here,” he repeats, softer, caressing your cheek with his thumb “You’re alive. You kept going for another year. That’s enough.”

The words land like something sacred, and suddenly you’re crying again, not the quiet sadness from earlier but something warmer, but you can't name it. You hide your face in his shoulder, and he lets you. He holds you, arm wrapped around your waist, fingertips rubbing slow circles into your back.

Eventually, he feeds you onigiri, tearing off little pieces with his fingers and coaxing them past your lips.

“You need to eat,” he murmurs. “I didn’t spend twenty minutes getting the rice right for nothing.”

You laugh—wet and shaky, “Since when do you cook?”

His lips tug up, just a little. “Since I started living alone, .” He says as if it's obvious.

He shares the dango with you, giving you the last skewer without hesitation. When you yawn, he doesn’t say anything—just tugs the blanket from the couch and wraps it around both of you. He stretches out behind you, letting you lie between his legs, your back pressed to his chest, his chin resting atop your head.

“Next year,” he murmurs as your breathing evens out, “we’ll go somewhere. Somewhere warm. With stars.”

"What if I say 'no'?"

"Who said you have a choice?"

Omfg, yes ⚘️

The room is spinning even though you're flat on your back.

You've lost count how many times you came—five? Six? Seven?—somewhere after the third time he flipped you onto your stomach and fucked you through another shattering orgasm, the edges of your vision started going fuzzy. Now everything feels liquid and way too hot. Your limbs are heavy lead, chest heaving like you've run a marathon, and the pleasure that was electric is starting to tip into something overwhelming.

Your eyes flutter, rolling back involuntarily as another weak spasm ripples through you. The world narrows to black spots dancing at the corners.

Enjin notices your body melting and going limp. He’s still buried deep inside of you, hips slowed but not stopped, still grinding in lazy, shallow circles like he can’t help himself. But the second your head lolls to the side and your breathing turns ragged—too fast and too shallow, he freezes for a second.

He knows these sighs. It has happened before.

“Hey—hey, babe.” His voice drops from that rough, fucked-out growl to something low, urgent, gentle in a way that cuts straight through the haze. One big hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking under your eye. “Look at me. Yeah? Right here.”

You try. Your lids are so heavy. Everything blurs.

He pulls out slowly—careful, so careful—and the sudden emptiness makes you whimper pathetically. He shifts his weight, bracketing you with his arms, caging you in without crushing you. His forehead presses to yours as your sweat-slick skin sticks together.

“Eyes on me, princess. C’mon.” He kisses you—soft at first, just lips brushing lips, coaxing. When you don’t respond fast enough he deepens it, slow and deliberate, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to pull your consciousness back through the kiss alone. One hand slides to the back of your neck, cradling, grounding. The other finds your wrist, thumb pressing over your racing pulse.

“Breathe with me, yeah?” he murmurs against your mouth. “In… out. That’s it. Good girl.”

You manage a shaky inhale. The black spots recede a little.

“There you are.” Relief floods his voice, raw and real. He kisses your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your eye where a tear slipped out without you noticing. “Scared the shit outta me for a second.”

You try to speak—something like “sorry”—but it comes out as a broken little sound.

“Nah. Don’t.” He shakes his head, yellow eyes searching yours, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You don’t apologize for coming so hard you almost black out on my cock. That’s a fuckin’ compliment.”

A weak laugh bubbles out of you despite everything. He grins—small, crooked, still worried but trying to play it off.

“But we’re tapping out,” he says firmly. No room for argument. He rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat thumping steady under your ear. One arm bands around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go. The other hand strokes down your spine—long, soothing passes.

“Stay with me, yeah?” he whispers into your hair. “No passing out. I need those pretty eyes open so I can see when you’re ready to yell at me for being too greedy.”

You manage a tiny nod, fingers curling weakly into his chest.

He exhales—long, shaky—like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. Then he presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering.

You mumble something incoherent into his skin, something about him being mean to you, and he chuckles, the sound vibrating through you.

He can barely contain himself.

He's hissing through his teeth—eyebrows scrunched in that ugly—concentrated way that only makes him look hotter.

"Do a little—" he spins a finger through the air. Urging you to twirl for him right then and there.

You do, and he recoils like you've hit him with a physical force. "Wooooo!" He howls.

"Enjin!" You cover your mouth, stuck between feeling flattered and tumbling over from laughter.

He's acting like he's never seen you without uniform on. But to be fair, this is only the third time he's seen you so dressed up.

His whistle rings through the bedroom —soft and low. "Mm mm mm," he shakes his head, hands patting every inch of himself like he doesn't know where to put them.

"Damn." his head bops up and down.

Finally, he reels you in. Delicately, as if his rough hands could slip and wrinkle the material.

You're grinning. Swaying side to side —all giddy and sweet.

"You like it that much?" you ask.

With a dramatic head tilt to the side. He huffs like you've personally offended him. "Like?"

Without warning, you’re swept clean off your feet—head dipping backward before he twirls you upright again. He's nodding slow and satisfied, like he’s taking mental photos.

"I love it," he says a little softer this time, before savoring your forehead in the sweetest kiss.

But then he detaches immediately. Stepping back to return to his original position.

"Now step out and come back in," he says, clasping his hands together in front of his face.

You deadpan. "Huh?"

"I just...need to see it again."

You start laughing for real now. As in— hands on your knees, and stomach aching kinda laughter. Even as you walk towards the door, step out and close it. Your giggles echo through the hallway.

You take a minute. Just to catch your breath before opening the door.

He sees you again. Clutches his chest. Then falls backward on your bed, dramatic as ever.

He wheezes—weakly lifting his head just to sigh.

"One more time,"

A/n: I think we all need a hypeman like Enjin

彡 When Sasuke comes home after a few days away from you, he is definitely the type of partner to absolutely cover you with his body while the both of you sleep. Coming home late from his journey finding otsusuki links, way past midnight, so he knows his wife is bound to be asleep indefinitely. That, however, doesn't stop him from cleaning up and getting under the covers with you.

Your sprawled on your side, your leg out, you could pass as being on your stomach, but that doesn't matter right now. All your husband was concerned with was how absolutely at peace and how cute you look, snuggled up into the blanket. He lays down beside you, an arm immediately wrapping around your waist, careful not to wake you as his body presses tight against yours.

A peaceful sigh leaves your lips and you unconsciously relax in his arms. His upper leg moves over your own, his body practically mounting you at this point. Sasuke presses a soft, few chaste kisses from your jaw to your neck, relishing in the fact that he was, once again, home with you. Suddenly, you stirred softly in his arm. A confused hum leaves your throat.

"Sasuke," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you were still inevitably groggy, barely even coherent. Sasuke lets out a soft hum, "Sleep," he replies and you make another soft noise as you press further back into your husband, finally relaxing knowing he is home, safe and sound.

Suddenly, you had the overwhelming urge to turn around, to feel even closer to him. You now face him, slotting your upper leg between his thighs as you press close to him, arm wrapping around his torso while he other bunches at his chest. A soft chuckle leaves his lips, "You're moving around a lot for someone who should be asleep."

You completely ignore his statement. "Kiss," you ask, pouting your lips slightly, but it wasn't a question, it was more of a demand that he couldn't say no to, not that he every would, he would never deny you. Sasuke's lips meet yours softly, now you really now this isn't a dream, your body warms up with a soft and fuzzy feeling that only he could evoke from you. "Go to sleep now," he replies, arms tightening around you.

"Love you," you say.

"I love you," he replies, only a soft smiling rising on his face realising that you've fallen asleep.

satoru gojo x fem reader

in which satoru just loves kissing his girlfriend more than anything else in the world <3

contents: somewhat nsfw but nothing explicit (16+ ? but do what you want), fem reader (no use of y/n), use of pet names (baby, sweetheart), soft dom satoru/slight sub reader, light desc of scars (not detailed), use of swear words, kissing / making out + implied smut [thigh riding] (at the end)

edit: suguru version (that very much got out of hand) for my satosugu hotties

word count: 1345 masterlist

—♡—

for all his otherworldly qualities, being the strongest, the honoured one, satoru gojo considers himself a simple man. he really does appreciate simple pleasures: a good bowl of ramen, his favourite sweet treats, the love of his pretty pretty girlfriend... you get the idea.

translation: there is nothing he loves more than kissing you.

he loves kissing you in any context, any way, really. a peck on the cheek as you sit side by side on the train, a brush of his lips against your forehead when he used to walk you to your dorm last thing at night, a rather sloppy french kiss when he finally sees you again after a gruelling, trialing week without you thanks to a mission abroad.

(he likes the last one best out of those. shocking, right?)

but he likes it even more just after that, when he has you like this...

under him on his bed, that is.