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vallification · 3 months

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In My Heart You Pay No Rent

Pairing: cowboy!gojo x reader

TW/CW: historical inaccuracies, smut, outdoor sex, first times, mention of guns, alcohol, MDNI

Too obstinate and infatuated with a dastardly outlaw to bend to the will of your father, you head to town to find the target of your distant affections, a sharp-tongued cowboy with a long list of charges decorating his reputation.

This work is part of the "Slow It Down, Cowboy" AU, a collaborative effort with @slutshamethesquirrels. Read its sister work, "All The Sweet Tea In Carolina" here.

The wild, wild west was aptly named, given the plethora of things bound to go awry in the massive stretches of empty land between each isolated township. Terrain, storms, animals, vagrants, vagabonds, money-hungry city folk swarming in droves to strike oil, and, of course, outlaws. Some days you’d see well-groomed, mild-mannered, decent gentlemen dressed to the nines strolling to the bank to make a deposit, and others you’d see sweat-soaked, sharp-tongued, wild cowboys dressed in grimy leather storming out of that bank with those gentlemen’s cash. Of course, the township’s staggering number of law enforcement officers (three)(including the sheriff) would chase after those slimy vandals, but that always ended in either a sprained ankle, a see-through hat, or a funeral.

However, as the surrounding communities began to flourish into cities, you began to see less and less of those outlaws. Daddy would mutter something about how it’s damn time, how sick to bastard death he was of those ruffians hanging around your good, decent town, how lucky you were that one of those good-for-nothin’s never thought to heave you up over his shoulder and ride off with you, because you still weren’t married, and had no one but your old Daddy to keep you safe.

Suitors, courtship, marriage, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, lawfully wedded and married and holy matrimony and blah, blah, blah. He raised you right, you were ladylike enough, you looked just like your mother, why were you so hard to marry off? You were so damn tired of that conversation, and you had begun to make it known, remembering the first time you turned your nose up at a potential romantic proposition like it was yesterday. Your poor old Daddy called you to the porch, and you were sure he’d pop something by the way he turned so red.

“The banker’s son’s coming from town tomorrow,” He mentioned, passive and gentle as he puffed on his cigarette.

“So?” You said, hip jutted out to rest against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Daddy shot you a warning glare, but as his one and only little girl, you knew it’d only ever be just that: a warning.

“He wants t'marry you. He’s got a good daddy, a good mama. Some money. More money ‘n us if you can believe 'at,” Puff, “He can take care of you.”

“I’d rather wear a potato sack on m'head than marry that man.”

It only took two more times for him to throw his hands up in defeat. There wasn’t anything wrong with any of those men, they were decent enough, and they did have the means to take care of you, but it didn’t matter. No, you weren’t keen on marriage, or babies, or domesticity; what you were keen on was your every-other-monthly ride to town, snug in your nice go-to-town dress, much to Daddy’s dismay.

Technically, you weren’t doing anything wrong when you went to town. What was so wrong about waiting at the edge of town by the dirt road, under the big southern live oak, nose faux-stuck in a book, aching for a glimpse of that white head of hair hidden under the brim of a black cowboy hat? Was it a sin to watch his tall, broad, strong frame saunter down the road and into the bar? Was it a sin to imagine what his sun-tanned, dirty, sweaty skin looked like beneath his grimy, baby blue cotton button up?

Sometimes it felt like a sin, given the way you’d hide your face in your unread book to bite your lip and blush when he looked in your direction. You still lie awake at night, face flushed pink and hands over the blankets, reminiscing about the time those dangerous blue eyes flicked up and down your figure before they gave you a wink. That was the only time you felt brave enough to push Daddy’s limits to let you ride back to town early the next morning, under the guise of helping one of the elderly ladies with her cleaning, when in reality you were scoping the outskirts of town for his shiny black horse. If you saw it, well, that meant he stayed in place for at least one night. Sure enough, around the backside of the homely little inn, that black stallion stood tied.

You weren’t sure why you did it, at least not at the time, because it wasn’t like you’d ever get the chance to do anything with that information. He was a stranger, named a troublemaker in the paper, too, and you were locked away in that ranch house 5 miles down the beaten trail like a knightless, wild-west princess.

… That is, until Daddy’s got overnight business to tend to. With a bad storm rolling over the endless sea of grassy prairie, and some pretty sleazy cowhands, he forbids you to travel the 150 mile round-trip alongside him to help drive a fellow rancher’s cattle further uphill. You tut, whine, roll your eyes, and stamp your foot in protest, but oh, no, it’s just no use, sweetheart, Daddy says. It’s a miracle that little trick still works on him, or else he might’ve remembered it’s nearly time for your ride to town.

With a shotgun shoved in your hands and a kiss pressed to the top of your head, you watch Daddy ride off, standing barefoot on the porch. For the first time in forever, now grown and far braver than you were the last time, you’re by yourself; you’re freer than the summer breeze blowing through the trees, freer than a bird, freer than the water trickling in the crick at the other end of the pasture. It’s a secret, sweet victory, and in your glee you almost go running off the porch before realizing it’s probably a good idea to put the gun down first.

—

It’s close to 10 o’clock when you trot into town on your dark bay horse, Ace, dressed in the prettiest non-fanciful dress you own. Compared to your usual attire, with bustles, corsets, undercoats galore, it almost feels like a nightgown once you’re in the realm of the rest of the town folk. You figured it was better to dress down than up, though; if anyone was to spot you riding into town, your go-to-town dress would be your first identifier.

Daddy’s not the type of man to drain his money and life away in such a grimy place, and neither are his friends; well, maybe one, but he’s done so much money and life wasting in that saloon that you doubt he’ll recognize you. Or, if he does, you doubt he’ll remember. However, you find yourself hesitating to leave your horse, once he’s tied up next to the saloon.

The lively music playing from the shabby little building is so loud, loud enough for you to hear from where you stand… outside. Inside, people are yelling, laughing, singing, shouting, swearing, and you start getting the feeling that you really shouldn’t be here.

“God, ‘ve gotta piss like a fuckin’ racehorse.”

You snap your head in the direction the voice came from, but it’s too little too late. In the dim moonlight, you watch the man stumble ‘round the corner of the saloon, drunk hands popping open the button of his thick, canvas pants. “Don’t look, Blackjack, got my dick ou— oh, shit!”

“Wh— I-I, um,” Stammering, you whip around and squeeze your eyes shut (although it’s far too late for that to do anything), your legs immediately carrying you back to your horse’s side. There’s no mistaking the snow-white hair peeking out from underneath the brim of that black hat, and you’re utterly mortified.

“Woah, sweetheart. Hang fire,” The stranger drawls, the sound of fabric rustling behind you as he haphazardly tucks his shirt back into his now-buttoned pants. “Y’look awfully familiar, y’know.”

“I don’t believe I do,” You mutter, your back still turned to the outlaw as you work at the knot securing your horse to the wooden hitching rail. If you weren’t so flustered by the man’s presence, and the eyefull you got of what’s hidden in his pants, maybe the knot wouldn’t take so damn long to come loose.

“I said hold it, miss,” He emphasizes, hooking a finger into the ribbon at the back of your dress and tugging you away from the hitching rail. Without 100 feet of distance separating you, you realize just how much he towers over you, dwarfing you in comparison… However, you’re no regular, resigned, reverent little girl, and you’re not about to let a stranger—no matter how handsome—ragdoll you around. “‘S no mistakin’ you.”

“You’d better get your grimy hands off'a me, mister, or else,” you bite back, praying for his soul should his grip tear the bow off of your dress. He’s not pulling on it anymore, but he’s still got his finger crooked into the baby blue silk.

“Ooh, yer a mean ‘un, huh?” The man sneers, snorting at your pitiful attempts to wriggle away from him without ripping the shiny, delicate fabric. Bending down to meet your ear, he lowers his voice to something just above a whisper. “Or what?”

“You’ll find out, that’s what. Let go'a me.”

“Say, yer th’girl who sits under ‘at tree over there, ain’t ya? Watchin’ me?” Pointing a long, deathly still finger at the live oak tree, he turns his head to look at your scowling face. “Well, ya don’t usually look at me ‘at way, but y’sure are her. I’d recognize ‘at hair anywhere, sweetheart.”

“If you don’t turn me loose m'gonna blow that finger clean off your hand, sir.” One final warning. He lets you go, not because of your threat, but because he wants to. It’d be a shame if he spoiled his fun so soon. Plus, the only person capable of blowing a finger clean off of his hand is himself.

“Thank you,” you mumble, glaring up at him when he returns upright, reaching behind you to make sure the ribbon is still tight, neat, and secure against your back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leavin' now.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, his voice yet again a smooth drawl, grinning ear to ear as he follows each of your steps back to your horse. “Y’can watch me for months but ya can’t gimme th’time t’introduce m’self?”

“Will you stop with that?” Punctuating your question with a hand planted on your hip, you look at him incredulously, using your other hand to jab a finger into his chest. Although your cheeks are bright pink in embarrassment, the night sky acts as your ally and disguises the girlish glow. “You— If I’d’ve known you were such a— a bastard I’d’ve saved m'self the trouble!”

“A bastard? Y’got quite th’mouth on ya, huh?” He laughs, his hand coming up to pick the hat off of his head as the other smooths his sweaty white hair back, bringing his hat to his chest so it doesn’t fall to the ground. “Quit yer caterwauling ‘n let me introduce m’self, please, ma’am, or I’ll hafta show ya a real bastard.”

From what you can tell, he is a real bastard, just the most charming bastard you’ve ever had the privilege of running into. The outlaw holds out his rough, calloused hand for yours, which you hesitantly give.

“Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, ma’am, ‘s a pleasure t’meet ya,” Satoru greets, bowing to place a kiss on the soft skin of your knuckles, only serving as fuel to the flames burning on your cheeks. You quickly take your hand away from his and hold it close to yourself. “But if ya’d like t’call me bastard, at’s okay too.”

You give him a once-over, humming in some semblance of approval at the newfound half-properness in Satoru’s behavior. That won’t last long, but you’re a lady after all, a lady who has been treated nothing but properly your entire life, which is exactly why you find yourself subconsciously wishing he’d get back to his dastardly act.

“Well, Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, I’ll be leavin' now,” You say flatly, trying to offset the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger already. It’s no use giving into the idea of staying, things have already gone further than they should have, and if you stay any longer you’re not sure you’ll know when to say when. Gathering a handful of your dress, you slip your foot into the stirrup at Ace’s side and heave yourself up into your saddle.

“Oh, for th’love of— After I introduced m’self s’ sweetly?”

Clop, clop, clop, is all Satoru hears in response as you back your horse away from the hitching post, throwing your hair over your shoulders and out of your line of sight.

“Awww, don’t leave m’lonely already, sweetheart! C’mon, I ‘on’t bite,” he calls to you as you slowly start your way back in the direction of your house. The back way, the way you came, just for extra insurance that you won’t be seen leaving the saloon. “Not ‘nless ya want m’to, at least!”

All he gets in response is a grin over your shoulder, and the same clop, clop, clop of Ace’s shoes against the dirt. Well, shit, Satoru thinks to himself as you ride away, almost walking back over to the doors of the saloon, but he’s found himself far too interested in the way your body shifts up and down in tandem with your horse’s steps. He takes one step towards the door, then swivels over to Blackjack, then the door, then Blackjack—

“Fuck, still gotta pee.”

After relieving himself, this time without flashing anyone, Satoru makes quick work of the knot tying Blackjack to the hitching rail and slings himself up into his saddle. No mind is paid to the poor waitress still waiting for his return in the dingy saloon, who’s eyeing the double-doors for his reappearance; no, he’s dead set on following your path into the horse-high grass, pulling Blackjack into a higher gear with the reins in his hands.

If you cared, you’d chastise yourself for walking the line of inappropriate behavior as an unwedded woman with a man you just met. If you cared, you’d scold yourself for taking your sweet time, for the slow trot you’ve kept Ace at when you could have hauled ass home. But you don’t care, not when you can hear Satoru’s horse almost pick up to a gallop behind you.

With one hand keeping his hat from flying off his head and one on the reins, Satoru races to close the gap between the two of you till he’s about 100 feet from you, slowing Blackjack to a trot. He hangs behind you once he’s caught up, matching your pace, watching you ride, pulling a cigarette and a match box from his stash in shirt pocket. Once it’s lit, he pinches out the match, tosses it over his shoulder, and pulls a drag from the cigarette between his lips.

“For bein’ s’hellbent on gettin’ away from me, y’ain’t very fast,” Satoru comments, smug as ever that he’s caught you—as if you weren’t trying to be caught— blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. He’s still watching the up down up down up down of your body in the saddle. “Y’got a name?”

“Not one y'need t'know,” you reply coolly. Somehow you can feel the weight of his blue gaze on your back, a type of audacity you’ve never experienced in all your born days, and it makes you blush. You’re glad he’s watching you from behind, not just to satisfy your itch for his attention, but also so he can’t see the girlish grin you can’t seem to fight off.

“Stubborn,” he tuts around his rolled cigarette, only tearing his eyes away from your backside to shake his head. “Sweetheart’ll work, then. How’s ‘at?”

“Inappropriate, really.” Another cool reply. Both of you know your feigned unaffectedness isn’t going to shoo him away; if anything, it’s pulling him in closer, making him more interested in getting you to drop that nonchalant act with each short, clipped comment.

“Where we goin’, sweetheart?” Satoru asks, tugging the reins till Blackjack gets him right beside you. He pulls another drag from the cigarette dangling between his lips before leaning over to you, pointedly blowing the smoke in your face.

You fake cough, bringing a hand up to erratically wave that damned cloud of cigarette smoke away from your mouth and nose as he laughs. Satoru shakes his head as his laughter subsides, freeing a hand to wipe at his teary eyes.

“We are not goin' anywhere. I am goin' home, Six Eyes,” you sass, punctuating your words with a hmph. All that serves to do is wind his laughter back up and lean back in the saddle, making Blackjack stop in his tracks. Ace keeps on trotting. “What’s that even mean? Why do people call ya that?”

“Whew, ‘s fun t’wind y’up, y’know ‘at?” Satoru says once he gets Blackjack to catch up to you again, killing the smoldering end of his cigarette before flicking it away. “I’ll tell ya th’story when we get t’where we’re goin’.”

Huffing at the way he overlooks your I, not We statement yet again, you instead focus on the view of your ride. Bright, silvery light of the near-full moon shines off of the smooth live oak leaves, illuminates the wide expanse of tall grass where the trees don’t grow, and kisses every square inch of the crop fields in sight. The clear sky seems to go on forever, wrapping its dark arms across the horizon and on, highlighting each star in the sky. It’s warm, humid from the system of storms not too far off, the epitome of a perfect mid-July night.

A perfect mid-July night that you just had to take advantage of. Despite the serenity of the view, internally, you’ve spent the last three miles flip flopping between excitement and anxiety. On one hand, you’ve taken action, and that’s something to be proud of; on the other, you’ve taken action to do this, with him, who’s enough a bastard without the criminal record to make any good lady’s father bust a few vessels. God, you think about your poor father, how he loosened his reins after keeping you on a tight, protective leash, and you wonder how he’d feel if he found out. His one and only daughter alone with an outlaw, a dirty, grimy, criminal cowboy, in the face of all the kindhearted, decent suitors you turned your nose up at.

“You’re nothin' but trouble,” You say, softer than anything else you’ve said to the man beside you. Anxiety has outweighed your excitement, and it’s written all over you in big, red, capital letters. Satoru could sense it before he saw it, and he’s getting the feeling you’ve never done so much as come home late.

“Aww, ‘at’s not true,” He says, feigning hurt with a pout, his pink bottom lip pushed out. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he can tease the nerves out of you. Playing with you is far too fun to give up. It’s a shame you didn’t come up to him earlier, maybe you wouldn’t be so nervous if you had. “Want me t’show ya how good I can be, sweetheart? Y’got a lil’ sneak peek earlier.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble! This 's hardly appropriate, and I hardly know ya outside of your charges listed in th'paper, and if my daddy finds out he–he’ll have me arrested, or somethin' like that. He’ll put a hole right through your head!”

Now, that just makes him laugh, which he knows will do nothing to soothe you. “I’d love t’see ‘em try,” Satoru snorts. However, knowing a sliver of your temperament from experience, he doesn’t want to push you too far yet. He’s got a secret weapon in his saddle bag, and it isn’t another gun to aid the two on his hips. “Y’know what, I got somethin’ ‘at’ll help calm those boil over nerves’a yours. Ev’r been down south’a the border, sweetheart?”

–

Cold iron warms in the heat of your drunken hands, the shiny metal revolver gleaming in the moonlight heavy in your inexperienced grip.

“Atta girl– now, look right down the top’a the barrel ‘n line ‘at iron sight up,” Satoru instructs at your side, knees bent so he can see what you see. The scent of gunpowder, cigarettes, tequila, and sweat floods your senses with him so close, the amalgamation sure to stick to your dress, but you can’t bring yourself to find it anything but good. From the corner of your eyes, you take a lingering look at his face, and notice a dimple on his cheek you hadn’t before. The gun. Right.

“The metal things? I’m nervous,” You mutter, fingers adjusting and readjusting their position before realizing it’ll take a while to feel comfortable wielding such a weapon.

“The metal things, yep. Ain’t nothin’ t’be scared of, sweetheart. Y’got it?” Moving behind you, Satoru now has his strong chest pressed to your back, muscular arms wrapped around you, his hands covering yours just as he warned you he would to make up for the recoil of the shot.

“Mmmm.. mhm. Now fire?” Focused eyes line up the metal fin at the end of the barrel with the ‘O’ on the ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted in the grassy field at edge of your father’s property, all the while you’re mentally preparing yourself for the explosive force and deafening noise of your upcoming shot. The physical contact, so foreign to your previously untouchable body, doesn’t help your preparation in the least, proving infinitely more distracting than the tequila.

“Go ‘head, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

Deep breaths. All you have to do is put your finger on the trigger. Before you can move your index finger, Satoru gasps dramatically and grabs your sides, making you flinch and squeal in fear. You’re cowed down, hunched over with a hand slapped over your eyes and another still aiming the gun at the sign in fear when you not only hear, but also feel him start laughing. That bastard.

Ramming an elbow back and hitting him square in the ribs is all you can do in this position other than throwing him a scolding glare. “Don’t scare me when I’ve got a gun in my hands!”

“Sorry, sorry– Had t’do it.” Glare. “I ain’t gonna do it again, I promise!” Squint. “I swear I won’t.”

Resuming the position, chest pressed closely to your back, hands clasped tightly over yours, chin comfortably rested on your shoulder, Satoru hushes his laughter in favor of letting you gather your bearings. He watches the way you squint one eye as you realign the iron sight, and the way you stick the tip of your tongue out of the side of your mouth to focus, and the way you visibly go through a mental checklist before you put your finger back on the trigger, and he’d be eternally damned if he said it wasn’t the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Something so common to him was so foreign to you, and that sentiment could be held for more than guns.

When the gun fires, you squeeze both of your eyes shut, lean back into the solid body behind you, and the world goes silent. Your eyes only open when your ears start ringing, Satoru’s impressed whistle filtering through the muffled sound snapping you to attention.

“Well, I’ll be damned. ‘At was a damn good shot, sweetheart, almost ‘s good ‘s me,” he praises proudly, standing tall as he examines the bullet hole in the sign, almost emptying out the ‘O’ entirely. “Y’got five more bullets. Wanna try yer hand at five more shots?”

The next five shots take over an hour to fire, and the last two leave no trace other than a knick in the side of the otherwise swiss-cheese sign. Each shot was sandwiched between mouthfuls of tequila from the bottle and drunken fits of laughter, both overshadowing your target practice in the end, leaving the decorative glass and revolver empty.

Raising your wobbly frame up onto your tiptoes, you snatch the black cowboy hat off of Satoru’s oddly compliant head and place it gently atop yours. It’s a little big, and it’s hot, and it smells like campfire smoke, but you wear it all the same. With the hat settled on your head, you clumsily spin his pearl-grip six shooter around your finger and strike a pose. “Who’s Six Eyes Satoru Gojo now, hm?”

For the first time tonight, Satoru says nothing. Instead, he’s just looking at you, strong arms crossed over his strong chest, expression unreadable if not for the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well, how do I look?”

“Real pretty, sweetheart… real, real pretty. Y’wanna know what they say ‘bout takin’ a cowboy’s hat? Puttin’ it on like y’got mine on ‘at pretty little head’a yours?” Satoru drawls, his low voice dripping a sweet, dangerous kind of venom that sounds like the gospel to your drunk ears. Slow, sauntering steps kill the distance between you, till he’s so close you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Eyes growing wide as you tip your head back to look up at him, your hand holding the cowboy hat on your head so it doesn’t fall off, you finally decipher why he looked like he caught you earlier. When he answers his own question, he drops his voice to a smug, deadly whisper. “Y’wear the hat, y’ride the cowboy.”

Sober, it would be hard enough to gather yourself to say anything at all, much less something so on par with Satoru’s energy, but drunk? That liquid courage, drank by the messy mouthful, is aptly named, coursing through your veins stronger than the deep-rooted conventions of the world around you. With scanning, studying eyes, you further analyze the look etched into Satoru’s suntanned face, and you figure that this is why you haven’t left the thought of him alone since you first saw him. You don’t cower away from his blue haze, not this time. This time, your eyes meet his, locked on them in a manner akin to a standoff.

“Ride the cowboy, huh? Do they say that?” You whisper back, slipping the six shooter in the black leather belt hanging off of Satoru’s hips, letting your hand drag against the holster one second too long. It makes him shift, his baby blue shirt barely concealing the hints of moving muscle beneath.

“Mmmmmhm. Don’t tell me ‘s yer first rodeo, sweetheart,” he teases, his euphemism enough to make you blush if not for your already flush-drunk cheeks.

“I bet ya wish it was, Satoru. It ain't my first rodeo.” Oh, but it is. And if he were talking about kissing you, it’d still be your first rodeo, save for the sweet cheek-kisses you’d given a boy when you were six years old. However, you’re no longer in the realm of backing down, and you won’t give him the benefit of knowing he’s deflowering you.

“Oh?” Satoru doesn’t believe that for a single second— not when you were tripping over yourself about all the trouble you’d be in if anyone found out about you doing so much as riding alongside him. That devilish set of dimples dip so deep as he grins down at you that you’re sure it’s hurting him. “Y’not ev’n a little scared t’get bucked off?”

“I ain't scared at all,” You muse, initiating your first touch of the night by placing a flat palm against his clothed stomach. Satoru’s heavyweight cotton shirt offers little padding between your hand and his skin; he might as well be shirtless, because you can feel every contour of his impressive abdominal muscles.

Something shifts in the air when you touch him, as if that single action changed the charted course of your world in an instant. The change is palpable, it’s audible, it’s visible, it’s so refreshingly different from all you’ve known and you’re going to chase it, even if it kills you, and it very well might should your father find out. Screaming cicadas and chirping crickets, trickling water and whistling breeze, all of which buzz around you in the night air seem to drown in the noise of Six Eyes Satoru Gojo.

“Yeah? Call my bluff, then. Prove it.”

It’s a dare, an invitation to dance with the blue eyed devil himself, and you’re taking it without a second thought. In the blink of an eye you take hold of his shirt collar, yanking him down to crash your inexperienced lips into his, and the world around you as you know it comes down crashing and burning with him. Satoru uncrosses his arms and plants two firm, rope-worn, calloused hands on your waist, pulling your eager frame flush against his.

The kiss is rushed, open mouthed and sloppy, and if not for your plush lips it might hurt. Each passing second against your lips is chock full of proof that you have no clue where to start or where to stop, proof that you’re running on nothing but instinct to both satiate yourself and call Satoru’s bluff. Headstrong and obstinate as ever, you urge him backwards, back, back, back in sloppy, tripping steps till there’s enough of a rise in the terrain to stop him from moving without taking a step up.

Satoru takes the reins from your imperious hold to ease the two of you to the ground, bending and hinging one joint at a time till you’re both close enough to fall to your knees in the dry grass. He’s still got one hand on your waist, traveling until it finds purchase on your hip, while the other flings the bulletless gun from the right holster away with reckless abandon. The other revolver lays aside within arm’s reach, just in case, but Satoru’s more focused on getting as far as you’ll let him go. Without the possibility of being poked, prodded, or shot, he shifts from his knees to sit flat, hauling you into his lap with a single arm wrapped around your waist.

By the time you’re in his lap, you’ve pried his shirt off, but there’s not much of the night left to waste for you to sit and admire him as you’d like to, the two of you instead working overtime at getting you undressed. You’re breathless, he’s panting between each kiss of your lips, so soft, so sweet against his that he has to fight the urge to rip off the remaining clothes you’ve got on, consisting of nothing more than your linen chemise and cotton underwear. It’s only now, almost exposed under the silver moonlight in this cowboy’s lap, that your nerves start to get the better of you; it’s not that you want to stop, because you’d rather die than stop him from just touching you, but it’s all so fast that your head is spinning and you’re shaking like a leaf.

Beneath you, where your hips sit atop his, you can feel how hard he is through the thick, rough canvas of his pants. It’s not smart to take them off— not outside, anyway— but there’s a part of you that craves to have your bare skin against his. Maybe that’s naive, but tequila doesn’t care about naivety.

After all the teasing and taunting he’s put you through tonight, Satoru won’t make you say it. He won’t make you admit that this is your first time, nor will he ignore the fact. Instead, Satoru’s strong hands slide up the sides of your thighs, under that thin, white underdress, settling on your hips with a soft squeeze before pulling you down to grind against him. The friction, the drag against that wet, sensitive, aching place between your legs makes your breath hitch in your throat and cling to him, arms thrown around his neck.

His black cowboy hat is back on his head where it belongs, tipped back enough to let you see his face, and those blue eyes you’ve come to know seem to glow up at you. They’re lidded, heavy in a way you’ve never seen before from anyone else, and now that he’s looking at you like this you’re not sure you’d want anyone else to. Another roll of his narrow hips and you’re whimpering, nothing more than putty in his hands for him to mold and shape however he’d like.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Satoru whispers, placing a searing kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, scattering goosebumps across your sensitive skin. You can feel his cock twitch from its confinement beneath you, and although your ability to gauge his size is obscured, he’s big. He’s a big man, with big hands and big shoulders, but you didn’t expect all of him to be so big. “Feels like yer shakin’ ‘n I ain’t ev’n done anythin’ yet.”

The right words seem impossible to find, much less to say, all of them so vulgar and explicit that they make your face burn with such a vibrant shade of red it’s visible even in the low light of the moonbeams. He grins against your skin at your inability to speak, knowing such phrases have never left your pretty plush lips, relishing in the fact that your headstrong nature has been reduced to nothing by his touch. In a bashful whisper, you manage to whimper out your incomplete request. “I… um, I want you to…”

More tempting words than those have never graced his ears in all his born days.

“Yeah? Y’want me t’do somethin’, baby?” Satoru murmurs, continuing to chip away at your resolve with his open mouthed kisses to your neck, his low voice rumbling against your skin, each action setting you aflame with every precious, passing second. You moan when he calls you baby, and again when his lips reach that place just under your jaw, and you want so badly to claw at his back but your hands feel so weak.

“Do y’want me t’touch you? Right…” As he trails off, so does his bruised, nicked, calloused hand from your hip, stopping when his palm is pressed smooth against your lower stomach. Barely, feather-light, his thumb grazes your clothed clit. “… Here?”

“Yes— yes, please,” You plead, your hips pushing into his touch, your eyes squeezing shut to splay your lashes over your cheeks, your body tensing at the touch; it’s so foreign, so forbidden, but you’d trade your spot in heaven for more of it.

Satoru doesn’t make you beg, no, but he stops touching you to hang his fingertips on the waistband of your offensive underwear and slide them down your legs. Only after they’re discarded in the dry grass does he offer his merciful touch again, spreading your soaked folds to gather your slick on the pad of his thumb before slowly circling your clit. Each circled swipe over that shiveringly sensitive bud pulls a shaky, breathy moan from your throat, a sound so rewarding that all he wants to do is flip the two of you over and take you right there.

“Relax, sweetheart. Feels good?” He asks, hungry eyes dropping to watch the way your teeth sink into your lower lip, then lower to watch the way you chase his touch with your hips, and then lower to watch you toy with the buttons of his pants, your hands just brushing against his solid cock. It’s not on purpose, but it feels like teasing nonetheless, making his cock jump against the thick canvas restraining it. It’s starting to ache.

The strength to speak is so hard to gather, even more so when one slick, thick finger dips past your entrance, slowly sinking into you one sweet centimeter at a time. Your pride, your ego, your purity, all the aspects of your mind that have been built up like walls to protect you come crumbling down instantaneously, rendering you defenseless against Satoru’s masterful touch as he curls that finger inside of you. Pure electric bliss radiates through your shaking body from the gentle pressure against that newfound spongy spot, and again when you feel him slip second finger into you, the new addition offering a slight stretching sensation to the pleasure. Something in the pit of your stomach feels like it’s coiling up, warm, tense, tight, and you’re unsure whether you should run to it or from it.

Each curl of his fingers pulls winds that coil up further, pulls you closer to that feeling, and overtakes your control, leaving you feeling close to tears and on the brink of something unknown. All of your pride has been stripped away, finding yourself no longer above begging and taking.

“Satoru, please,” You gasp, in an attempt to fill your pleading lungs with air as he just keeps on pulling you apart. Desperate, shaking fingers start grasping at the buttons keeping you from what you want, clumsily popping them open till you can dip your hand past them and free his cock in one swift motion. It’s thick, so hot to the touch, tip red and weeping from watching you fall to pieces in his hands. “I-I want more, please, I really want it ‘n I feel so… s-so good, please.”

With no clue what to do, you just do what feels right, swiping at the mess of precum gathered at the tip of his cock with the pad of your thumb before letting your grip drag slowly down his length. Satoru swears under his breath, words so vulgar you’d only heard them once or twice before, but from his mouth they sound like the damn gospel. His head drops back in awe of the relief your soft, soft touch offers, only snapping back up to watch your hands slow strokes up and down his aching cock. The glorious sight is enough to violently rip the thought of enjoying this from his head and kick him into a higher gear.

“I’ll give y’whatever ya want, sweetheart, y’don’t hafta beg me,” Satoru says, his voice low, breathy, laden with lust and hymnal in your ears. Slowly, he slips his digits from your cunt, his palm and fingers coated with your slick and shining in the silver light. There’s no time to waste, not when you just begged him for more, not when nights don’t last forever, but he wants to taste you so bad that he brings his soaked fingers to his lips and licks them clean, savoring the sweet, sweet flavor of you. Watching him lick his fingers clean of you is enough to make you whimper.

In no time he’s pushing up your chemise to rest on your hips, reaching around to find purchase of a handful of your ass to steady you as he pulls you higher on your knees. You’re hovering over his hips now, the tip of his cock nestling against your slick-coated folds, your shaking hands resting on his broad shoulders, and you are so completely overcome with anticipation that it hurts.

“Promise‘ll be gentle, sweetheart. Y’ain’t gots t’worry over ‘at, I swear,” He whispers against your lips, pulling your body flush against his own. Mumbling pleads for him to hurry, you want him, you want this, you beg him to make his move, and Satoru can’t deny such a pretty girl asking him so nicely. Mercifully, he lines himself up with your weeping entrance, and allows you to take control.

With shaking legs, you lower yourself down just until the tip of his cock is snug inside of you, suddenly halting. It hurts… but it feels so, so, so good. You lift yourself up to try again entirely, staring down to where the two of you meet, and lower yourself again. This time, you don’t stop for that burn, that intrusion, that stretch, wincing while sinking down so slowly that you can feel every single inch of Satoru’s hot, fat cock drag against your walls until you’re so full you can’t go down any further. Once you’re still, you’re panting, whimpering, and clawing at the lifestyle-built muscles of Satoru’s expansive shoulders.

Below you, Satoru’s in awe, his grip on the flesh of your ass so tight that his knuckles are white, his breath tortured, ragged, desperate. If he could manage to focus on something other than maintaining his self-control he’d let every nasty, vulgar, explicit thought of his at the sight of you pour from his lips, but he can’t. Inside of you, you can feel him twitch, a non-verbal, involuntary request to move from your position flush against his hips, but now that you’re so full of him you’re not sure you can. Whimpering, you open your hazy, pleasure-stricken eyes and meet his, finding them busy drinking every inch of you in his lap.

That’s all he needs to take the reins, he knows what you’re saying with nothing more than the way you look down at him: you want him to move, you want him to help you. On the brink of losing all composure, he pays no mind at all to the snarky little comments he could be making about so much for the rules being “you ride the cowboy.” Satoru wraps an arm all the way around your waist, one hand holding your side and the other still holding a handful of your ass, and he pulls you to rest against his chest so he can take care of you. It’s a small change in position, but it makes you gasp nonetheless, eyes batting shut once again and jaw falling slack around a pretty little whimper. With you tucked so sweetly against him, head between his jaw and shoulder, Satoru slowly draws himself out of you and so shallowly pushes back in.

“‘S ‘at alright, sweetheart?” The outlaw murmurs, your whine of a response swiftly hushing his concern and care and making him go that much more crazy. Another gentle drag of his cock out, another slow thrust of it in, the bliss of the disappearing burn making way for the delicious stretch seeping into your muscles. Then, as Satoru finds a nice, shallow, beginner-friendly pace, the tip of his cock catches on that wonderful spongy spot decorating your walls and you moan, loud and involuntary, his name leaving your lips like some sort of praise. You can’t help the sound spilling from your mouth when he finds it again, and you want to beg, plead, cry, anything to chase that feeling, anything to get Satoru to fuck you like he means it; you’re so stripped of your defenses and your self-control that you don’t realize that you are begging, pleading, crying for him to go deeper, harder, more more more.

Such filthy words leaving lips as precious as yours should be a punishable offense, he thinks, especially when they sound so good that the sweet nothings he’s whispering into your hair are cracking off at the end into broken, wanton whines. Satoru’s grip on you grows impossibly tighter, entranced by your words, your warmth, the otherworldly grip your cunt’s got around him, and if he focuses, the soft squelch of how sopping wet you are each time he pushes up into you. He keeps his pace despite your pleas, he doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t want to push you too far, because although he’s a grimy, sorry sleazebag of a cowboy, and you’re a hotheaded, ornery brat, you feel like a china doll in his arms. Breakable.

“Please, for th'love of God, Satoru, just— just fuck me, already!” You cry out, desperation kicking your respectability out the door, almost reduced to tears as you cling to him like you’re going to fall off the face of the earth if you don’t. Where was the bastard who grabbed you by the bow? The outlaw with a pistol on each hip, a cigarette in his mouth, blood splatter on his shirt? Six Eyes Satoru Gojo? That’s who you wanted now, that’s who you needed, and you appreciate the sweetness, the care, but by God it wasn’t sweet anymore. It was torture.

“Y’want me to fuck you, huh? ‘At’s what y’want, sweetheart?” God, there he was. Compared to those sweet nothings he was whispering, it sounds like a threat, his low growl of a voice rumbling through his chest while you babble yesyesyesyespleaseyesyes. Satoru almost pulls out of you entirely, leaving only the tip to nudge into your messy cunt before snapping his hips up, burying his cock inside of you in one fell swoop, slamming into you so deep that it feels like he’s trying to bruise your insides. It hurts, it elevates the drool worthy stretch of your cunt around his cock, it makes you sob his name in a way that Satoru’s sure will burn into his brain and haunt him forever. “All ‘at talk earlier, now look at ya. Beggin’ me t’fuck you,” He tuts, but his near-scolding words are draped in adoration. “‘M gon’ fuck you s’good ya won’t want ‘nyone else to.”

Not the second time, or the third, but on the fourth vicious ram of his cock into you, you find yourself trying to match his pace, rocking yourself up when he drags himself out, sinking yourself down when he slams himself in, all with shaking legs and pitifully weak knees. The sound of skin hitting skin, the gushing sound of how wet your pussy was for him, the pleasured, guttural swears moaned from the man beneath you, all of it in tandem with the way his impossibly thick cock abused each and every tender spot inside you was addictive. Everything he offered, you took, and you took more, and he watched as your manners, your upbringing, and your conditioning flew out of the window with reckless abandon, entranced by the way he’s unraveled you to reveal a woman of pure need.

Both of Satoru’s hands are settled on your ass, now, his white-knuckle grip sure to leave it’s mark when this is all over, but you don’t care. You’re too busy pushing yourself off of him, planting both hands on his strong chest, riding his cock like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do in this world. It’s sinful, he thinks, the way your hips meet his in the middle, the way you cry out his name, the way your jaw has fallen slack around each of your filthy babbles of how good you feel.

“Atta fuckin’ girl, sweetheart! Look at ya,” He praises, something primal, something venomous, something paradoxically needy coating his gruff voice. Inside you, that coil from before is wound so tight that you’ve got tears in your eyes, but you want it, you want whatever feeling comes after so bad that you’re begging for it. Satoru’s praises only serve to urge you on, his ragged, tortured moans only pulling you closer, and closer, and his fat cock slams into you one more time and you’re done. “Let go, sweetheart, y’can do it, jus’ let go, alright? Atta girl.”

Your orgasm tears through you like bullets; hot, forceful, sudden, and searing, those tears falling down your cheeks as you cry out, desperately grinding your hips down into him so you can chase the pleasure radiating from that sweet spot inside of you. Satoru tips you forward to crash his lips into yours, swallowing your beautiful cries of bliss, still fucking into you so brutally through your orgasm in pursuit of his own fast-approaching climax. The gush of your cunt around him, the way you clench down so tight, so rhythmically, god, it’s too much, and he’s swearing as he pulls out of you swiftly at the very last minute, his hand flying to his freed cock to catch the cum spilling from the tip before it can stain your linen underdress.

As the two of you still, panting against each other’s lips, a pile of sweaty, strengthless bodies, the sounds of the night around you fill the world again. Your sense has yet to return, because you should be gathering yourself and your clothes, but instead you rest atop the outlaw’s heaving chest.

Satoru takes care of getting you back home, despite a nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him he doesn’t do this, it’s not smart, it’s something a sap would do, not a travelin’ man. But you’re tired, and he’s tired, and all he wants is a nice, warm bed to lay his head down for the night. By the time the two of you lay down between your linen sheets, your dress and all its fixings are laid over the chair in the corner of your room, his grimy ones are thrown on the floor in another, and his boots are hidden beneath your bed. One strong arm is trapped beneath your head, and your sleepy, mumbled half-protests are met with one thing before your lights are out:

“Cain’t leave ya out here by’n yer lonesome, I’ll stay till yer Daddy gets back.”

And he does.

The next day starts wrapped up in each other in the golden, pink-painted morning light, a sobering repeat of the love made a few hours before out in the grassy field. Any thoughts of your daddy, what he’d say, or what he’d think are nowhere to be seen when you’re in the presence of Satoru, the bastard cowboy who’s taken your affections hostage. You wash his filthy clothes and yours, hang them out to dry, and stow Blackjack in the luxury of the barn next to Ace till Satoru needs him. You sweep away the dirty footprints his boots left on the porch. You rinse his smoke-soaked cowboy hat till it smells new again.

Satoru feeds the horses, the chickens, and the cows, all of which were your chores to do while your daddy was gone to drive cattle. He helps heave you up onto Blackjack’s back, the black stallion far taller than your own horse, and he lets you sit in front of him to take the reins. None without the fair amount of teasing, which didn’t seem like a fair amount to you; at several points in the day, you’d hop off Blackjack’s back and try to storm back to the house, but somehow the outlaw always reeled you back to ease you up into the saddle again.

When the sun starts to hang heavy in the west side of the sky, you draw him a bath, to which he doesn’t protest. Nice baths are hard to come by when you don’t stay in one place for very long, and when you spend most of your time on the run, in places so wild, so untouched as the West, they’re a godsend. Warm water and soap washes him clean, soothes his sore muscles, and makes him new again, but he doesn’t want to leave the bliss of the tub so soon. As he soaks in the suds, you enter the bathroom in your dressing robe to sit on the lip of the tub, simultaneously admiring him and admonishing him as the two of you bicker back and forth.

“I think your clothes’re dry, bastard,” You tease, head resting on your shoulder as you balance yourself to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s a little urge for him to get out, because you feel you’re just as filthy as he was and you need to bathe. Satoru keeps your eyes with his, sinking lower in the tub till his shoulders are submerged and knees are poking out over the suds, reaching a wet hand to the string keeping your dressing robe shut. He draws it slowly, eyes still locked on yours, till the knot comes loose and each side falls open to expose your bare body beneath. It makes you fluster, wanting to slouch and hide yourself, but he grabs your hand as if to say don’t. You huff. “Come on, you’re hoggin’ it. I’m filthy.”

“Get in,” Is all he says at first. Before you can protest, he speaks again. “C’mon. Get in.”

You hesitate, but stand nonetheless, slowly letting the robe slip off of your shoulders and into a heap on the floor. Not once does he stop staring at you, not even when you can’t meet his eyes, not even when you’re stepping into the tub. All he does is grab your arm and yank you to rest against his chest, back to front, not caring about the water splashing over the sides as a result of his forceful repositioning. If not for the way he settles his strong arms around you, you’d scold him for wetting your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to get onto him.

“When’s yer daddy meant t’be back, sweetheart?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Alright.”

The two of you sit in that water so long that it’s ice cold by the time you step out.

You find yourself wishing the sun would stay still in the sky, but it doesn’t; it just keeps on moving westward, like the unusually quiet outlaw dressed in a pair of your daddy’s nightclothes at the end of your bed. As the last few hours of daylight passed over the plains, Satoru became gentler, quieter, more tender than his usual dastardly manner. It struck you normally, if not pleasantly, knowing that such a wild, sharp-tongued man spoke to you so softly, so sweetly. It wasn’t lost on you that this would be your last night in his arms for a while, but you let yourself daydream that he’d be back in another month, and maybe he’d even knock on your window in the dead of night to make love to you again.

At the end of the bed, dressed in your oblivious daddy’s nightclothes, Satoru finds himself unpleasantly surprised at how bad he feels. Feeling bad wasn’t something he felt often, having seen so much death, violence, crime, and corruption, not to mention having committed those acts with his own hands. It was a rotten feeling, knowing that he’d been your first, that he’d taken you in a field, in your bed, in your kitchen, and in your bathroom, and it was a rotten feeling, knowing that he was about to shatter any semblance of faith you placed in him. Your obstinacy, your petulance, your temperament, none of these things about you changed the fact that you were too naive to realize the fact of the matter, which was that you were just another girl to him, and he would be gone before you knew it.

The guilt was unsettling. It was eating at him. It was blooming under the soft touch of your warm hand on his arm, urging him to come up to lay beside you in your stark white nightdress. Satoru looks back at you with a halfhearted grin, traversing the soft expanse of your bed until his head meets the pillows and he can slip under your covers, tangled up in you again. Your soft laugh, your hair on the pillows, your keen eyes; all of you will be different soon, so he drinks it in while he can. Maybe it’s a fucked up thing to think, but you have been one of his favorites.

“Will y'wake me up in the mornin’? Before you go?” You whisper, sleepy and warm from where you lay your head on his chest. The outlaw has you gathered in his arms, pulled halfway over his body, holding you so comfortably while you fight the tiredness that threatens to lull you into sleep. If he wasn’t preparing himself to go, he’d notice how you fit against his side like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. His voice rumbles through his chest when he replies.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers back.

“You’d better, you bastard. ‘M gonna be cross ‘f you don’t…”

As sleep takes over, you trail off, the blow of your threat softened by your rhythmic breaths. Through your window shines the silvery light of the moon, creating a soft glow around your peaceful, sleeping form, and Satoru looks away.

It’s four awake, dragging, guilty hours before he moves you off of his chest. He’d stay all night if he didn’t get a move on now, when you’re sleeping so deeply that you don’t react to the loss of warmth or his weight shifting the bed as he stands up. Satoru shimmies out of your father’s nightclothes and folds them as best he can, laying them on the surface of the mahogany nightstand beside your bed before dressing himself in his washed, pressed, clean clothes. Grabbing his spurred boots from beneath your bed, his leather belt holster, and his pitch black cowboy hat, he quietly makes his way out of your bedroom, but he stops in the middle of the doorway.

One last look. That’s all he lets himself have.

One last look at your sleeping face that he kissed countless times in the past two days, that he blew smoke at, that he admired when you didn’t look and even when you did. Your sleeping body that he viewed, touched, held. Your hair, your hands, your breathing… Soon enough, it’ll hopefully all melt into the sea of women he can’t remember the names or faces of. It’ll be a while before he sees you again, and he plans to forget you before he does. You still hadn’t told him your name. Maybe that will help.

Satoru slips out of the front door silently, slipping on his hat, boots, and belt, but before he makes it to the stables he realizes he’s only got one gun holstered on his hip. He’s not one to misplace his guns of all things, not when they’re the driving force of his survival given the path he’s chosen, so he books it to the stables and tries to retrace his steps.

“Bar… No, definitely had’m then… not th’ride out here’n either. Had’m both in th’pasture…” Ding ding ding. Satoru purses his lips, and Blackjack huffs beneath him. Of course, now he remembers throwing the revolver into the grass, far too busy with you all pretty and pliant in his lap to take care of his own belongings. Sighing, he gives his horse a gentle spur to get him on the move.

Once he’s far enough from your house to know you won’t hear him, even though you’re curled up dead asleep, he picks up to a gallop till he reaches that fated field of grass. The spot where Satoru had taken you was flat, but other than that there was little differentiating where he would have thrown the damn thing. Moonbeams would shine off of the smooth metal surface if the grass was shorter, but it’s no dice trying to find it that way. He finds it his next best course of action to hop down off of Blackjack’s back and search for it that way, but all he finds in the hour he takes is the empty bottle of tequila and that pretty, baby blue ribbon you had been so protective of. They don’t call him Six Eyes for nothing, so the fact that he can’t find the goddamned-piece-a-shit-good-fer-nothin’ revolver, mounted on top of the disgusting feeling of guilt eating at his insides, has his temper a building to a height he can’t control.

Satoru shoves the ribbon in his saddle bag and launches the bottle at the “No Trespassing” sign you used as target practice. Milky white and blue glass shatters against the wooden sign, falling in a heap of shards beneath it, the broken, jagged pieces shining like diamonds in the light of the big, white moon. The clatter of the impact makes him curse, it’s too loud, it cuts through the peaceful sounds of the night, and it’s not as cathartic as he thought it’d be. Not at all.

Nights don’t last forever, though, and the way a soft blue decorates the eastern horizon lets him know it’s time to go whether he’s got two guns, one, or none. Defeated, pissed, and swimming in guilt, Satoru hops back into the saddle and gives three gentle pats to Blackjack’s neck before spurring him on again. It’s shorter to cut through the endless acres of your father’s property, but he wants to take one last look at your house. One last look at the house you’re sleeping so peacefully in. One last look.

One last look until he rides off and doesn’t come back, not until you’re nothing more than a fuzzy memory.

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vallification · 3 months

Text

who was that guy you were with? // JJK SMAU PT. 2!

incl: nanami kento, choso kamo

content: fluff/crack, no established relationship.

how the JJK men would react to seeing you with a random man!

nanami kento

choso kamo

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk choso #choso kamo #jjk smau #vallification

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vallification · 3 months

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first time (NSFW)

"womanly advice" // JJK AU PT. 3!

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto

content: NSFW, unprotected sex, dirty talk, degradation, hair pulling, spitting, creampies, teasing, cunnilingus, f!reader, established-ish relationships

wc: 4.3k

minors/ageless blogs do not interact.

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

satoru gojo

“did you do this for meee?” gojo teases, feigning shock as he drags his fingers across the bare stretch of skin where your pajama shorts would usually be. your hand clasps over his tightly once it starts to travel further inward, your eyes wide.

“no, actually, you woke me up to come over and i forgot i sleep without pants on,” you correct, stilling his hand with an iron grip that he could easily overcome if he so pleased, but your grip falters when he begins to pepper feather-light kisses under your jaw. “p-plus, we can’t do anything, anyway.”

“you on your period or somethin’?” he murmurs against your neck, his cool breath fanning out over your quickly warming skin. it tickles, but you aren’t giggling; you blush, eyelashes batting as your eyes start to slip shut. no, you think, weakly trying to snap yourself out of whatever trance gojo’s trying to put you in, but failing miserably.

“no,” you whisper, sighing softly when gojo nips at your earlobe before kissing the spot just behind it. biting down on your bottom lip to hush yourself, you decide that some kisses won’t hurt. maybe.

“not ready? just don’t want to? ‘s okay,” kiss, open-mouthed and soft, right at your pulse point.

“no– no, i want to, i just…” god damn his mouth, you think to yourself, just wanting to finish one sentence without your voice faltering into a pathetic little whine, you swallow, your throat thick with anticipation, before finishing your thought. “haven’t shaved in a while, so…”

gojo’s lips stop working their magic on your neck, and he pushes himself up to look at you, unimpressed. “i’m a grown man.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means exactly what i said,” he emphasizes, pressing a kiss to your lips. “i’m a grown man, i don’t care.”

“... are you sure–?”

gojo interrupts you with another kiss, this one searingly slow, saccharine if not for the implication behind it: shut up. you do, of course, submitting to his kiss with a soft sigh, his tongue taking the opportunity to swipe against the plushness of your lower lip, a silent command to let him explore.

as if he was in control of both his body and yours, in one fell swoop he changes your position, now hovering over you between your slightly spread legs. gojo’s arms cage you in, one elbow on either side of your head but conscious not to put any weight on your hair, letting his knees slide lower in the bed until his torso is flush with yours. the connection of your kiss never breaks, and gojo’s swallowing every gasp, moan, sigh, and whimper that he pulls from your throat as he glides his tongue over yours.

snaking your arms around his neck, you let your hands learn the pattern of the crafted muscles of his back, memorizing the way they feel under the gentle pressure of your fingertips. it makes him groan, something low and free as you rub at the tense, taut, covered flesh of his back.

breaking the kiss, gojo lifts himself upright to gaze down at you, your lips kissed cherry red and your cheeks blossoming a sort of pink he swears he’s only seen in magazines. one finger slides between his temple and his blindfold, crooking around it and tugging it off, leaving his view of you unobstructed. there’s something about the action that makes you melt against your sheets, wanting more than anything to press your thighs together, yet you’re unable to as he pulls them over his own.

you hadn’t noticed before, too caught up in tongues and lips, but in the low lamplight, you see gojo’s shirt. black, compressive, clinging to each and every contoured muscle of his body; his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his sides, his impressively stacked abdominal muscles that you could feel before you even saw… and then his hands take hold of the hem of the shirt, peeling it off of himself to join his hoodie on the floor, those same muscles now bare before you. you’re speechless.

“this alright?” he asks, but you’re completely absorbed in the magnificent view. the way his gray sweats sit low on his hips, the waistband of his boxers visible for a half-inch above them, the chiseled ‘V’ dipping into that waistband, the daunting trail of snow-white hair centered between it all, and the outline of… god, you can’t even finish that thought. “i think somebody likes the view,” gojo teases, so smug that if you weren’t putty in his hands, you’d kick him out here and now.

not keen on waiting for a response, he resumes his previous position, pressed against you at the hips, stomach to stomach. one of his roaming hands finds a temporary home where your left thigh meets the soft flesh of your ass, squeezing, groping, pulling you to hook that leg over his hips. the newfound position gets you closer, spreading your legs apart that much more to finally feel the thick print of his cock against your pussy, only separated by clothes that you’re coming to find offensive.

artful, narrow hips tilt forward, marking the first rut against you, and you moan at the drag of friction against your core that only you have offered yourself in the past five years. gojo swears above you, crashing his lips into yours as he continues to grind himself into you, hissing as your nails scratch desperately down his back as if you were trying to keep yourself from falling. you buck your hips up, trying to match his rhythm, but your legs are already shaking with pleasure and anticipation, which has not gone unnoticed by gojo.

“what d’ya want?” he asks, breathless and sultry as he moves to target your exposed neck with his kisses. chasing any trace of pleasure gojo’s willing to give you, your back arches off of the bed with each searing, god-given kiss, and you can barely think, much less speak, but he needs your answer like he needs air. you gasp when you feel his sharp, pearly-white teeth sink into the flesh of your neck, just beneath your jaw, and moan at his rumbling voice as he soothes the spot with his tongue. “tell me what y’want, i wanna know, baby.”

“satoru, i-i want— fuck,” you whine, far too high on the way you can feel the heat of his cock grind against your clothed, aching pussy. if you spread out far enough, the lightest drag of friction ghosts across your throbbing clit, awestruck at the jolt of electricity radiating from the sensation. another sharp nip at your neck, meant as reprimand, makes you cry out his name.

“words,” gojo tuts, sliding his hands so deliciously between your bodies and over your stomach, up to your clothed, heaving chest. softly squeezing both of your soft breasts in his hands, he can feel your hardened nipples in his palms through your shirt, and it takes every last drop of his willpower not to rip the shirt off of you like an animal. “i wanna hear you say what you want me t’do, baby, tell me so i can do it.”

“touch me,” gasping, your voice begging and breathless, having been reduced to nothing by something as juvenile as dry humping and over-the-shirt contact. “please touch me, satoru, i want you to touch me so bad, please.”

“you feel s’fucking good, fuck,” gojo whines, ragged and desperate as he fucks into you, so hard and so deep that it would hurt if it wasn’t so damn good. almost all of his weight is pressed into you, with his hands gripping the backs of your knees, folding you up so far you can see your ankles next to your head, limply swaying with each vicious thrust. “this ‘s my fucking pussy, right? ‘s mine, nobody else’s, right?”

“y-yes, yours, ‘s yours, satoru,” rambling pathetically through your unabashed, unfiltered moans, your jaw slack from a primitive sort of pleasure you’ve never experienced before this. the only time you’re even close to hushed is when gojo captures your lips in a kiss so forceful that you’re scared he’ll knock your teeth out, mixing your delirious cries with his guttural, whining moans.

“you’re so perfect, so fucking pretty when i fuck you. hear how wet you are? perfect fucking pussy’s so sloppy,” from that delicious chiseled V-line to his balls, slapping against your ass each time he thrusts into you, gojo’s skin is soaked in your slick, so wet and so much that it’s audible from between you. one hand lets go of its grip on the back of your knee, and gojo leans forward to keep it in place with his shoulder as he grabs a fist full of your hair, forcing your eyes down to where his thick, long cock disappears into your pussy.

“watch me fuck you, baby, fucking watch it,” he rasps, relishing in the way his grip on your hair makes you cry out. it’s so hard to open your eyes, too fucked out to focus on much, but you obey and watch the way your pussy seems to suck him in, and it almost makes you drool. “so fuckin’ tight, so tight, so tight, god.”

“‘m gonna cum again, satoru, i-i’m so close, please don’t stop,” you beg, words slurring together like you’re drunk off of his cock. you’re sweating, skin sticky, tingling as gojo pulls almost all the way out of you, just to slam right back inside, the burning stretch of him splitting you open more than enough to send you barreling towards your third orgasm.

releasing his vice grip on your hair, gojo’s hand moves between you to rub sweet circles on your swollen clit, the pounding pace of his thrusts unfaltering as he resumes the position. he’s drinking up the vision of you beneath him like a man that’s wandered the desert for miles, thirsty and praying for water, burning the image into his mind to remember it forever, and ever, and ever. how your face scrunches up each time the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, how your eyebrows have sloped down almost pitifully, how your glorious mouth hangs open in that perfect little ‘o’ shape around your perfect moans of his name.

“gonna cum on my cock again, baby? gonna be such a good, good girl and cum for me, baby?” gojo adores the way you babble ‘yes, yes, yes, satoru, yes’ in response to every question, rewarding your behavior with a passionate, messy, open-mouthed kiss to your lips. “let me cum in you, please baby,” he begs against your lips, pussydrunk and hellbent on fucking you till he’s got nothing left. “wanna cum in your perfect pussy, baby, don’t make me pull out.”

the drag of his cock, the way it rubs against that perfect, spongy spot inside of you, the perfect pattern he’s tracing over your clit, his voice, begging to cum inside of you, all of it’s too much to bear when you’re so fucking close. gojo moans at the way your tight, sloppy pussy clenches around him sporadically before your metaphorical string snaps.

“oh, fuck satoru yes, fuck,” crying, toes curling, back arching, pussy gushing around his cock as your orgasm tears through you like a hurricane, so wet, so sudden, so strong, gojo’s pace still so relentless as he fucks you through it. his ragged, almost animalistic moans take on a whiny, desperate tone as he watches you unravel beneath him, savoring the patterned grip and clench of your pussy as you cum because of him. so pretty for him, so good for him, so perfect—

“good fuckin’ girl, yes, baby,” he whines, soothing your over-pleasured cries and the burning coil of his own approaching orgasm with more kisses, uncoordinated and sloppy in his efforts. that familiar tightening feeling in his balls warns him that he’s so, so close, and if this were any other time he’d slow down, pull out, switch positions, anything to slow himself down, but– “you feel so fucking good, god, fuck.”

gojo’s rambling is punctuated with one final slam of his hips, fully sheathing his twitching cock inside of that perfect, sopping wet pussy he can’t stop blabbering about, succumbing to the divine sensation of release. thick, hot, milky-white cum pours into you in quick, powerful bursts, every single one of gojo’s muscles spasming with such strength that all he can manage to do is fuck his cum further inside in short, shallow, uneven thrusts through his climax.

it’s an entire minute before he can even think about pulling out of you, and the little mewl that leaves your lips when he does makes him want nothing more than to slip right back inside, but he doesn’t. sitting back on his heels, he takes in the aftermath of what he’s done: you, legs spread and shaking, chest heaving, pussy dripping with his cum, dripping down, down, down to a puddle on the bed beneath you with each clench around nothing.

“pretty,” he mumbles, gathering you in his arms as he lays down beside you. a soft kiss is pressed to your temple, your cheek, and finally your lips. “sleep?”

you don’t think situationships are supposed to do this.

suguru geto

“beautiful,” geto whispers to himself, lips ghosting against the inside of your thigh with every spoken syllable, the brushing contact against your skin doing nothing to ease the growing ball of anticipation in your stomach. at the head of the bed, you squeeze your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip, quickly growing unwilling to be patient any longer. even if you’re not looking at him anymore, geto’s magnetic eyes haven’t left your face since he started this torturous exchange.

that is until he finally allows his eyes to flick down your body, taking mental pictures at each pit stop on the journey to the sight in front of him. exposed, untouched, weeping, the beautiful place between your legs that he’s been oh-so-carefully avoiding, not only with his kiss but with his gaze. geto wanted you at the edge of sanity for this, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you when he looks back up to your face, twisted up as if you were on the edge of being in pain.

“what’s wrong, baby?” he asks, his smooth, deep voice sickly sweet as he feigns innocence. you can feel the warmth of his lips less than an inch away from your neglected, dripping core, and while you don’t have the bravery to openly react, you make up for it in sheer desperation. something of a sob, a pitiful, sad noise, leaves your bitten lips as you clutch the sheets in frustration.

“please,” is all you can muster, your voice meek, wobbling as you near tears.

“oh, don’t cry, baby… please what?”

“fuck– geto, please do something,” you beg, praying that the tears welling up in your closed eyes don’t fall, but more so that he’ll just give in, give you something, give his tongue a task that doesn’t involve torturing you any more than he already has.

“who?”

“suguru!” you cry out, those tears you prayed so hard not to fall slipping down your flushed cheeks in two steady streams, your display of desperation finally enough to convince geto that you deserve this.

not wanting any more time to be wasted, geto slowly presses his lips to your achingly untouched pussy, immediately darting his tongue out to lick a flat stripe from your sopping entrance to your throbbing clit. a low groan sounds from geto’s throat as he tastes you for the first time, mumbling something into your wet folds about how good you taste on his tongue. the relief, the pleasure, the vibration of his sultry voice against you, it’s all mindnumbing, your jaw immediately falling slack around a moan of, “yes.”

all of the teasing and taunting no longer seems like it was for nothing more than sick entertainment, the payoff proving to be so much more than worth it when geto’s sly tongue circles your swollen clit, his lips following suit and closing around the little bud and sucking. it pulls something guttural from your throat, a loud, shuddering moan ringing out through your apartment, like music to geto’s ears.

“your pussy tastes so sweet, baby,” suck, “so beautiful, you’re doing so well,” geto praises between his divine pattern of slow, sensual, deliberate licks over the entirety of your pussy, his tongue dipping inside you before swirling over your clit, sucking, then repeating the process all over again. the consistency of his godsent mouth is brutal, far too careful and calculated to make you overly sensitive, but messy and nasty enough to completely overwhelm your senses.

you’re not sure if it’s because of the teasing, or if it’s because suguru geto is just that good, but you can feel your orgasm building, winding up like a metal spring with each swipe and prod of geto’s tongue against you. the pressure and the pleasure pooling in your stomach makes your thighs start to close around the sides of geto’s face, but the moment your skin touches his, he stops, and you sob.

pushing your legs up to your chest, geto glares daggers up at you, his slender eyes shooting you a warning against letting anything get in his way. “hold them,” he commands, eyes still locked on yours as you grip the back of your knees, now using both hands to spread your pussy open to his liking. “it’d be a shame if i had to stop again, baby. understand?”

“yes, suguru,” you whimper, flustered at the position he’s got you in, so open, so exposed.

despite his temporary snap, you and geto both melt when his tongue slips back inside of you, your eyes rolling back at the delicious intrusion. it takes little time for geto to work you up to where you were before he stopped, but this time you don’t dare let your legs close, keeping them in a vice grip no matter how hard it is to fight against your own body.

each controlled, precise flick, suck, lick, slurp against your pussy makes you whine, pulls you closer to the edge, and drives you so fucking crazy that you’re not sure this is real life anymore. geto’s far too absorbed in devouring you to notice, but you’re babbling now, on and on about how you’re so close, right there, don’t stop, suguru, suguru, suguru, oh–

“oh fuck,” you gasp, unaware that an orgasm could roll through you so slowly, so gradually that you’re sure it’s a fakeout until you’re arching off the bed, vision pure white in such a powerful explosion of pleasure that it’s blinding. “suguru, fuck, fuck fuck–”

“oh, baby… look at you,” he mumbles against you, his mouth dripping with your slick, drunk on your taste as he laps at the overflowing gush of wetness from your orgasm, which continues to roll over you like ocean waves. geto savors the way your overstimulated clit twitches against his tongue, and the way your gorgeous, glistening pussy clenches around nothing. what a shame that geto’s sweet, sweet self-control has run out while you’re so, so sensitive.

the tip of his middle finger dips into you, eliciting the sweetest little mewl from your lips, gathering your slick with it before slowly plunging it deeper inside of you, letting it sink to the knuckle before dragging it back out. you’re so wet that there’s little resisitance other than the precious little clenches from the aftermath of your first orgasm of the night. a second joins the first when geto slides his nimble fingers back inside, eyes sparkling when he can see the way your pussy grips around them.

how badly he wanted your first time together to be soft and sweet, loving and languid, is completely trumped by how achingly hard his cock sits against his stomach, sensitive red tip soaked in a pool of precum from his position on his stomach. pulling his fingers free from your grip, he wastes no time with undressing, settling for pushing the waistband of his joggers down just enough to let his cock spring free, and while he doesn’t purposefully make a show of his size, your eyes can’t help but grow wide at the sight.

“come here,” geto commands again, his voice a low type of growl you’ve never heard from his lips, and if it weren’t so fucking hot you’d be scared. well, maybe you are a little scared if you add the size of his cock into the equation, but it’s hot nonetheless. you scramble to get yourself up and where he wants you, and you’ve never been manhandled before, but you assume the way he grabs you fits the bill.

geto lifts you into his lap and slides the two of you up to the head of the bed, resting your back against the cold hardwood headboard before heaving your legs up over his broad shoulders. it’s not too different from the way he had you just minutes ago, but the pressure of his body forcing you into that position is enough to have you begging him to hurry up.

snaking one hand between your bodies, using the other to grip the headboard in an effort to brace himself, geto guides his aching cock to your dripping entrance and gently starts pushing himself inside you. you wince, flinching when the stretch of geto trying to bury himself inside you starts to feel like it’s going to be impossible without being agonizing.

“s-slower,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut to try and focus on adjusting to his size, expression slightly pained as your head falls back against the headboard. “‘s so big… i don’t know if ‘s gonna fit…”

geto leans back just enough to get a clear path and spits, landing perfectly on your clit and dripping down to his length until he pulls out, sliding his cock against your slick pussy. the sight makes your jaw drop, and you find yourself no longer caring if it’ll hurt.

“you can take it, baby,” lining back up with you, geto presses his lips to yours, soothing the pained gasps that spill out as he pushes in again. the burning, stretching sensation returns, but you find something so delicious in the pain, especially when he finally bottoms out and the only way you can describe the feeling is so, so full. “now… see? i knew you could do it. so, so good for me, yeah?”

“yes,” you manage to whimper, clawing at his beautifully crafted trapezius muscles over his shirt before tangling your hands into the long, dark hair at the back of his head. “suguru?”

“yes, baby?” geto’s voice sounds so different when he’s fighting the urge to fuck into you, fighting the vice grip of your perfect, tight pussy, fighting the voice in the back of his head that’s telling him to move.

“please fuck me, suguru, please.”

you don’t have to tell him twice. the drag against your walls, the burn, the stretch as he pulls back just a few inches is sensational, making you grab a fistful of his black hair and tug. it makes geto moan, something so raspy and low that it sounds dangerous, and he snaps his hips back into you even though he’s trying not to hurt you. you cry out, not from a place of pain, but pleasure.

it takes a few more slow, shallow thrusts for him to feel comfortable enough to find a real rhythm, but once he does, it’s brutal in the same way his tongue was. deliberate, controlled, sensual, intimate, so deep and so consistent. eventually, you’re rambling between moans about how big he is, how good he feels inside of you, how good you’re going to be for him, whiny voice choking up with each bed-shakingly strong roooll-snap! of geto’s hips up into yours.

geto makes no grand show of it, but he’s talkative, roughly whispering against your ear in response to every little babble that leaves your cockdrunk lips, each reply straying further from: “yeah, baby?” “i know, baby, i know ‘s so big, you’re doing such a good job,” and closer to: “god, talking like such a fucking slut,” “you’re so fucking nasty, the way your slutty pussy’s grippin’ me is so fucking nasty.”

you’ve never been one to appreciate such mean words in bed, but his voice, so harsh and so degrading, right against your ear has you coming undone right there in his lap, pussy gushing around his obscenely thick cock with the most desperate cry of his name. it only serves as encouragement for geto, who’s not far behind at all, to keep fucking you like you’re going to run from it if he lets up from his agonizing pace, crashing his lips against yours to hush your cries before he spills into you.

the position allows geto’s cum to seep out of you almost immediately, dripping down his length with each sloppy, uneven thrust up into you until he can feel it dripping down his rhythmically constricting balls.

it’s gradual, but when geto’s hips finally settle, still with you on his lap, he gently lets your legs down off of his shoulders while the two of you pant in silence. the hand once used to brace himself against the headboard cradles the back of your head to bring it to his chest, and the hand once used to grip your hip for security rubs over your back to soothe your tired body.

“sorry about that,” geto mumbles into your hair, placing a kiss atop your head. “got a little rough.”

“‘s good, suguru. ‘m gonna need another shower i think.”

a/n: WHEWWWW y'all i'm pretty satisfied with this. i really hope y'all like it because i had so much fun writing it

@slutshamethesquirrels here you go ;)

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk geto #satoru gojo #suguru geto #jjk satoru #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jujutsu satoru #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru #geto x reader #vallification #womanlyadvice #jjk au #jjk x reader #valafterdark

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vallification · 3 months

Text

“womanly advice” // JJK SMAU PT.2!

incl: nanami kento, choso kamo

content: fluff/crack, no established relationship, secret crush!

the JJK men ask for your advice on how to win “someone” over!

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

———

nanami kento

choso kamo

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk choso #choso kamo #jjk nanami #nanami kento #jjk smau #vallification

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vallification · 3 months

Text

"womanly advice" // JJK AU PT. 2!

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto, nanami kento, choso kamo (all separate)

content: fluff, flirting, kissing, confessions, drinking

wc: 5.5k

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

satoru gojo

the plan was to meet gojo at the park saturday evening, which gave you wednesday night, all of thursday, all of friday, and the majority of saturday to gather your thoughts (AKA have a silent, 64 hour anxiety attack) before talking to him. both of you figured that it was a good idea to wait until the meeting to say anything else, completely cutting communication between the two of you until saturday. in theory, it was a good idea, but in practice, it completely sucked.

from thursday morning when you last spoke to him to now, friday night, you’ve felt stuck in place. for the past eight hours, you've been sitting on your couch, wrapped up in a blanket, mindlessly entranced in the worst c-list movie marathon you’ve ever seen as you anxiously await saturday evening, just as you have been since thursday. although the exchange of apologies between you and gojo alleviated some of your anxiety regarding your friendship, it didn’t do anything to clarify what actually happened. the actual conflict.

what if he says that he was just messing with you? what if he says he was just teasing you because you’ve been so dodgy and moody? what if he starts telling you about the actual person he’s been referencing to in regards to your advice? what if you acted this way for nothing because he can’t even pick one out of the hordes of women wrapped around each of his long, calloused fingers? what if what if what if what if what if—?

three soft knocks on the front door of your apartment interrupt your mind’s endless cycle of what ifs. it’s half past midnight, and you’re not expecting anyone, but you assume that it’s shoko. on occasion, she’d show up to your apartment to stay over when she couldn’t get to sleep at her own, but surely she’s not calling it a night already, right? who knows, you think to yourself as you make your way to let her in, unassuming and oblivious to who’s actually standing just outside your door.

“hey,” gojo greets, his voice as lively as usual. hanging from one of his strong arms is a few plastic convenience store bags, which you’re sure are filled to the brim with various sweets, and there’s something so distinctly him about that fact that you almost smile. a black hoodie, gray sweats, and sneakers have replaced his usual day clothes, the latter being the only thing distinguishing his outfit from pajamas. if you weren’t so shocked by his random, unplanned visit, you’d wonder if they are his pajamas.

one of his large hands rubs at the back of his neck where his undercut meets smooth, pale skin as he awaits your reply, but you can’t manage anything more than a near silent, “hey.”

“i know we planned to meet tomorrow, but i couldn’t sleep, so…” he trails off, nervously switching his weight from foot to foot on your welcome mat. to prevent any further embarrassment from your mumbling idiocy, you clear your throat and try to form a sentence.

“that’s— no, it’s fine, satoru. is everything okay? did something happen?” idiot. obviously he would have called if something actually happened. you hope he doesn’t see the way you cringe at yourself, but he does. “do you want to come in?”

“everything’s fine,” gojo reassures, now shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie to pick at the rough, peeling skin near his nails. “can i? i mean, i could have picked a better time to show up. would’ve been super awkward if you had someone over,” he huffs with a humorless (okay, slightly humored) laugh.

“oh yeah, like who? my mom?” you play along, attempting to ease both gojo’s nerves and your own. moving to open the door further, you step aside and gesture for him to enter, and you realize you’re in your own ragtag set of “pajamas,” consisting of an old stained t-shirt and boxer-style shorts. embarrassing. gojo grins down at you as he steps in, and to evade his eyes you make a show of locking the door once you close it.

“mmm, definitely wouldn’t be your mom. she’s at my place,” gojo replies coolly, still wearing that stupid grin, pushing his black blindfold up to his hairline like a headband. “she’s had a looooong day.”

squinting your eyes as you inspect him, looking up and down his figure once, twice, three times, you shake your head and wince. “surely not that long,” you sing-song.

as gojo kicks off his shoes by the door, you make the most of his occupied time and head back to your spot on the living room couch, wrapping yourself back up in your blanket. being able to banter back and forth has calmed you down enough to not feel like you’re submerged in liquid nitrogen, but you’re 85% sure your socks have holes in them, so you cover up anyway.

“you’d be surprised,” gojo sing-songs back, his eyes shallowly scanning what he can see of your apartment as he slowly makes his way to join you on the couch. it’s clean, he notes, nice and neat, but still warm and lived-in. it smells good, too, courtesy of your candle addiction. from where you sit, he looks like a giant, towering over your couch before plopping down to sit, dropping the plastic bags between the two of you.

“i doubt it,” you reply, outwardly smug but inwardly screaming. nervous, your fingers find and pick at a loose thread at the corner of your blanket, trying to find something to pour their antsy energy into. time to change the subject. “anyway, you’re like, the king of sleeping. why can’t you fall asleep?”

“well,” he starts, pausing for the sound of crinkling plastic as he opens a pack of blue gummy sharks, placing one on your covered knee, and tossing two into his mouth. “i can’t stop thinking about you.”

the way gojo says it makes it sound so simple, so matter-of-fact, as if it wasn’t a confession of some sort. part of you wonders if he’s still teasing you, because you know that he knows how to make even the slyest people seem the most gullible, and everyone knows that vulnerability is not something he’s partial to. you don’t say anything back, but you gingerly pick up the gummy shark and bite off its tail.

“i’m also confused,” gojo says once he swallows his mouthful of blue gummy sharks, proceeding to throw two more into his mouth and place one on your knee. he’s carefully inspecting another gummy, tracing its elementary-level anatomy with his eyes to keep them busy and away from you as he talks. “why did it make you so upset when i said it was you?”

and there it is, laid bare and plain in the space between you. it’s your turn to speak because you know that question isn’t rhetorical, but you don’t let the pressure con you into a rushed answer. as you think, you bite at the poor inside of your bottom lip, a bad habit which will definitely leave it raw and sore tomorrow.

“because it felt like you said it as a joke,” you answer before biting the tail off of the second shark. “like you think the possibility of that is so low that it’s funny.”

more silence ensues. it’s tense, but not tense in the same way last friday night was tense. it’s not aggressive, awkward, or commanding, but rather nothing more than a side effect of the earnesty of the situation. another blue gummy shark is placed on your knee.

“why would it be a joke?”

“why would it not be? you know that you’ve got some of the most beautiful, smart, talented women in the world wrapped around your fingers,” you reply plainly, neither snarky nor sappy. when you look up from your fidgeting hands, gojo is inspecting another gummy. “and you know that i have feelings for you. it could be framed as a joke.”

“i didn’t know that you had feelings for me,” crinkling plastic noises, “these things are good as fuck.”

that makes you both laugh, cutting through the solemnity in the room. in a weird way, your own confession feels like nothing at all— not shameful, or embarrassing, or compromising—just matter-of-fact as its weight rolls off of your shoulders. you rest your head against the cushions of the back of the couch as you stare at gojo, appreciating the way his makeshift headband keeps his soft white hair away from his face.

“is that why you were upset before?” gojo asks, setting the last blue gummy shark in the pack on your knee next to the others. “you thought i was talking about someone else?”

“when you say it like that it sounds dumb.”

“were you jealous?”

“no,” deny, deny, deny. obviously you were jealous, and he knows that now, telling by the same shit eating grin from earlier. if you look close enough, the very tips of his ears dust a light pink, while your entire face flushes beet red. “i don’t get jealous.”

“i think you do.”

suguru geto

beside you on the couch, geto looks effortlessly flawless. the top half of his silky black hair is tied back as usual, but he’s got on a plain white t-shirt and black joggers, the former just tight enough to cling to his biceps and stretch over his shoulders. now that you’re sober, it’s harder to look at him than it is to look away from him, so you sit with your whole body turned to him, your legs tucked up to your chest.

“you know, i never took you as somebody so clueless,” geto starts, leaning back into the couch with one hand behind his head, his bent arm showing off how his bicep is just that much bigger than his shirt sleeves. it’s hard not to be distracted, but his comment pulls your eyes from his muscular arm to his face.

“what?” confusion crowds your features, scrunching up your nose and stitching your eyebrows together.

“i mean, really. everything has just,” his free hand swipes over his head with a quick, light whistle, “right over your head. you know that?”

“i don’t get it,” you reply, your confusion continuing to build when geto offers everything but context. the cogs in your brain are working overtime in an attempt to prove him wrong, but… well, he’s right. in regards to romance, you are clueless. all he does is laugh this time, that same low, sultry laugh that had you glued to your barstool. “okay, i think you’re just bullying me now. did you come here to be mean to me or to let me apologize for making things weird?”

“weird?” geto muses, an almost invisible smirk tugging at his lips, now looking up to the ceiling. for a few seconds, you study his sharp side profile, and the way his adam's apple bobs in his throat when he swallows, but you tear your eyes away quickly when he tilts his head to look at you again. “i think that’s where we’re miscommunicating.”

“you know what? you are really, really bad at having open and honest conversations,” you say, your tone comparable to jabbing a finger at his chest. “i’m the clueless one but you’re the one making this difficult.”

“i’m trying to let you figure it out on your own,” he laughs, readjusting himself to face you and pulling one leg up to lay flat on the couch, bent at the knee so he’s sitting half-crisscrossed. “should i just be honest? or is your mom going to call again?”

huff. your cheeks blossom pink, and you look down at your hands in embarrassment at being called out. “she might call. it depends on what you say,” you murmur.

“are you going to avoid looking at me the whole time i’m here?”

“start talking or i’m dragging you out of my apartment, suguru.”

“i knew what i was doing that night, you know. i’m not oblivious to the effect i had on you,” he says, dipping his head down in an attempt to catch your eyes. geto’s expression seems sincere but no less smug than it has been, reflective of the way he looked at you the night this situation began. “there was no other girl, either. i just wanted to know what you liked, so i figured asking for your ‘advice’,” finger quotes,”would be the best way to find out.”

from your side of things, geto’s words drop in front of you like a bag of bricks. cinderblocks, really, a loud, metaphorical “thud” reverberating through your brain the moment his words sink in. his honesty, while refreshing, overloads your brain, and as you sit there, blank-faced and speechless, geto begins to elaborate.

“i admit that i came off pretty strong, but i figured i’d have to since you’d been avoiding me that whole week,” he laughs. “i think i did a pretty good job, though.”

“i…” you trail off, flicking through your memory of an entire language for a set of words to accurately describe how you’re feeling, or what you’re thinking, but eventually you settle for anything that manages to come out. “i am clueless. was clueless. i think my mom is going to call me again.”

“is she? does she have to?” without taking his eyes off of yours, geto leans forward, subtracting from some of the space left between the two of you. this close, you can almost smell his entire shower routine— his warm, boozy body wash, his bright, clean shampoo, his warm, musky cologne, the bite of aftershave, something creamy—

your thoughts are falling out of order with his face so close to yours. geto’s eyes fall to your lips, and yours fall to his, but you turn away before he can even think about closing the gap between them. your face feels like it’s on fire, your cheeks burning impossibly red, no doubt totally visible to the man before you. he doesn’t look away, though, instead bringing his gentle fingertips to your chin to bring your attention back to him. geto’s voice drops to a whisper, so soft, his words only for your ears.

“you don’t feel the same way?”

“i-i never— that’s— i never said, um— i do feel the, uh, the same way, so—“

“can i kiss you?” jesus christ, this sentence brings you to your metaphorical knees, breaking any and all of your resolve to not melt like ice cream in his hands. you nod, just once, and geto nods back in confirmation.

when his lips meet yours, it’s nothing like what you expected. what you expected was excitement, eagerness, too much too fast; when his lips meet yours, his kiss is so soft, so sure, so slow that you’re unsure if you’ll still be on earth after it ends. the moment geto pulls away, you’re scared that you’re going to sob, but you don’t. you don’t make a sound at all.

“okay,” geto whispers, his minty breath breezing over your lips. “see you monday.”

your eyes pop open, searching his face in confusion.

“what? why? where are you going?” you watch geto stand and stretch, trying to pay little mind to the sliver of exposed skin when his shirt rides up, before he starts making his way to the door.

“we talked this out, yeah? i know what i need to know, you know what you need to know. it’s late,” geto says coolly, slipping on his shoes and snatching his keys off of the small table by your front door. you scramble off of the couch and over by the door, flustered, standing a few feet away from him. geto grins as he stares down at you, halfway out the door. “things would’ve gotten out of hand.”

nanami kento

one thing nanami did get right was that it was a shame that you didn’t get that necklace. in the mirror, you take note that your neck looks too bare in your velvety black dress, but none of the necklaces in your collection meet the standards of what would look best decorating the empty space. however, you figure it doesn’t matter too much— instead of a necklace, you decide to pin in some dangly earrings, complementing the updo your hair is so meticulously done up in.

you spritz your wrists and neck with perfume before taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, now suddenly aware of how quickly 8:30 is approaching. your phone has yet to light up with a message at 8:27, which is slightly worrying… you took nanami as being one to appreciate punctuality to the point of always being early, but maybe he got caught up in something.

switching your closet light on, you tip-toe to reach a box at the top shelf containing one of the best gifts you’d ever bought yourself: a shiny black pair of louboutins. it’s rare that you get to wear them, but you figure that if you’re going to wear them anywhere, it’s out to wherever nanami plans on taking you. each heel slips on perfectly, neither too snug nor too loose, and a younger part of your brain thinks you feel like cinderella.

once you take a few practice steps in your heels, you’re good to go, slinging your purse over your shoulder and checking your phone again. 8:29 and nothing.

and then one minute later, someone knocks on the door.

the same smile from the jewelry store spreads across nanami’s face when you open the door, pearly white teeth showing, the left side of his mouth cocked up a bit further than the right, something you hadn’t noticed then but impossible to miss now. from behind his back he produces a beautiful bouquet of red roses, the kind wrapped in paper, not plastic, secured with a pink silk bow. his eyes, uncovered by his usual glasses, look you up and down in a way that feels honoring instead of exposing.

“i didn’t know you’d come up to my door,” you murmur shyly, entranced in the warmth of nanami’s expression. “i figured you’d text me when you got here… are those for me?”

“of course they are,” he says, his smile seeping into his voice before taking a step back so you can step forward, holding his hooked elbow out for you to take. “what man would make you walk out to his car alone? i certainly wouldn’t.”

“oh— shit, i have to grab my wallet first, nanami. i left it in the kitchen,” but before you can take another step further into your apartment, you swear that he glares daggers at you, almost as if to say ‘you’d better not go any further.’

“no need. why would you need it?” nanami muses almost smugly, gesturing again for you to take his arm. you say nothing back, too busy thanking whichever gods can hear you out there for whoever raised such a gentleman. instead, you lock the door and take nanami’s arm, your hand resting at the crook of his elbow.

“so… i know you said she may not like this, but think of this as a practice date for me,” nanami watches your expression falter when he says that, and if he had less resolve, he’d fall to his knees and apologize right there. however, it’s for the plot. “i haven’t been on a good date in years. if tonight goes well, i’ll know i’m ready to make my move. what do you think?”

despite the dull ache of dejection in your chest, you smile and nod. “i think that’s a good idea, nanami. it’s very important to be prepared, especially if you like her as much as you seem to.”

the short trip to his car is over before the two of you want it to be, but it ends with nanami opening your door for you and ushering you into the passenger seat like a true gentleman. you don’t think you’ve been treated this well by anybody cumulatively, and you haven’t even been on the actual date yet. it only takes nanami a few seconds to get to the driver’s side of the car, but once you’re inside, you can’t help but peek into the backseat. behind the driver’s seat on the floorboard is a small gift bag with the jewelry store’s logo on it. jealousy swarms in your chest, but before you can feel any worse, the driver’s side door opens and it’s time to go.

“you look beautiful, by the way.”

you and nanami spent three of the best hours of your life at one of the finest, most beautiful restaurants in tokyo. the food was amazing, the champagne was better, but the conversation was the best part of the entire date. you don’t think you’ve ever laughed so hard, or blushed so much, or felt so heard. it’s all courtesy of nanami, but there’s no doubt that the entire bottle and a half of champagne shared between the two of you helped a little. well, you had much more than him— but nanami still had to call someone to drive the two of you home.

before you know it, the two of you are back to standing by the front door of your apartment. the humidity and the alcohol have done a number on your updo and your makeup, and the left strap of your dress is slipping off of your shoulder, but nanami swears he’s never seen something more beautiful in his life. he’s not in much better shape— his collar is half-popped, his tie is loose, and his neatly combed hair has fallen forward, lying freely on his forehead. to anyone else, it may look as if your date went too well.

it was hard to remember to grab the small gift bag from his backseat, yet somehow he managed not only that, but hiding the bag behind his back all the way from the car to the door. you’re both fighting a laugh at nanami’s last joke as you unlock your door, loudly shushing him through your giggles for plausible deniability should your neighbors complain the next day.

“i—“ hiccup, “i think i’d count this as a success,” nanami says, swaying on his feet as you finally unlock your door. “would you?”

“nanami, this was, like, not only the best date i’ve ever been on,” giggle,” but probably the most fun i’ve ever had. like, ever!” okay, too loud. the both of you fall silent for several seconds, staring at each other wide eyed as you listen for any complaints, before devolving into laughter once again.

“soooo… would you want to do it again?” nanami tries to slip that into the conversation coolly, not wanting to disrupt your giggles. please say yes. please say yes please say yes please say yes—

“… what?” you say, wondering if he’s the one who drank so much instead of yourself. “i thought you just needed one practice date?”

“mmm… i was kind of… umm, practicing for you, with you,” he says, now more than ready to abandon ship based purely on your reaction. “‘s okay if it’s a no. we had a really, really great time ‘n i’m glad.”

“wait, what?” none of this is registering in your brain at all, staring up at nanami with wide, drunk, glassy eyes. “it’s me? i’m the girl?”

“… well, yes,” nanami says, his voice starting to become much softer, much more withdrawn. “is that not okay?”

if you were sober, you swear you’d be jumping for joy. instead, you tip-toe and throw your arms around nanami’s neck, trying not to squeal in his ear but failing miserably. his eyes widen at the sudden development in physical contact, but his hands instinctively move to your waist to make sure you don’t fall down.

choso kamo

okay, maybe you’re a little heavy handed with the booze. it wouldn’t be so bad if you had just measured how much tequila you were pouring into the blender, or if you had poured the frozen margarita mixture into smaller cups instead of two huge cups with straws, one for you and one for choso, but alas. the two of you lay stretched out on your stomachs over his bed, a playstation controller in your hands and another in his, as you both poorly attempt to play mortal kombat. neither of you are doing anything remotely close to purposeful as you press the buttons, but somehow choso keeps winning.

“okay, no fuckin’ way you’re not cheating!” you accuse, overflowing with giggles as you let the controller fall to the floor. choso sits up on his knees, slurping his margarita through his straw as he celebrates his fourth win in a row.

“sorry ma’am, ‘s a skill issue,” he teases between sips, watching as your jaw drops.

“you’ve been playin’ too many games with yuji, sir!”

“maybe you should get good, ma’am!”

“think ’m too drunk t’ play any more video games anyway,” you sigh, sitting up to grab your own drink. choso nods in agreement and stands to turn off the playstation, letting the tv switch back to the blank input screen.

it had been a long time since the two of you drank together, especially so much, which was reminiscent of your college days when you would steal liquor from your parent’s house just to drink with choso in the alley behind your dorm. this time around, you can see the way the alcohol makes him flush pink, starting at the tips of his ears all the way down his neck, dipping lower to his chest where your eyes can’t see.

“maybe we can watch a movie ‘n here?” choso asks, grabbing the remote to his tv from his nightstand. “i don’ think we can safely walk over yuji ‘n his friends.”

“might trip,” you mumble, moving up to the head of the bed to rest your back against choso’s headboard. “let’s watch something funny.”

“wait, i kinda wanna play a game,” choso interrupts, plopping himself down next to you at the head of his bed. he uses one of the two hair ties on his wrist to pull his hair into one ponytail at the back of his head to get it off of his neck— drinking makes him feel hot. if you weren’t so drunk, you’d realize that he’s being kind of shifty, almost as if he’s nervous. “yuji told me i should play it ‘cause i haven’t before.”

you whine, a pout forming on your face. “you just turned off the playstation.”

“no, no! not that kind of game. truth or dare,” he says excitedly, and there’s a little voice in your head saying No. no no no no no, that it may be a fun game to play in a group setting, or with someone you’re not secretly in love with, but unfortunately you can’t say no when he looks that excited. plus, another little voice in your head says Yes. yes yes yes yes yes, you can torture yourself by finding out information about who choso wants.

“mmmm… okay, fine. you know how to play?” big sip of your drink to cushion any blows this game might throw in your direction. crisscrossing your legs, you sit up straight, holding one of choso’s pillows in your lap for comfort so your cold cup doesn’t touch your bare legs.

“yes. kinda,” he says, mirroring your position on the bed. “i wanna go first. truth or dare, ma’am?”

“hmmm… dare, sir.” choso cheers quietly when you pick dare, and it makes you laugh. he takes a few moments to think, even aha!ing once or twice before shaking his head no before he lands on a dare. when he finally shares his dare for you, you almost choke on your drink.

“okay. i dare you to tell me who you like.”

“m-me? who i like?” you stammer, completely caught off guard by the new, sudden change in direction. there wasn’t a guarantee that he wouldn’t say something like this, but you never expected it— from him, at least. choso had never been interested in your love life, and it was a fairly new thing for him to share his.

“yes. and you can’t lie or skip it because yuji said that’s cheating.”

“i don’t… i don’t like anyone,” liar. choso’s not entirely convinced either, dramatically raising a skeptical eyebrow at your response. although your face was already dusted a light pink, your cheeks now glow bright red, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him.

“was that a lie?” choso prods, dropping his head down to try and meet your eyes. “i think you just lied to me!”

“no! not a lie!” Liar. choso’s jaw drops, hanging slack in disbelief at the audacity you have to lie, and then lie about lying.

“i think we’re too drunk to play this game,” you say, placing your cup on the floor next to his bed. there’s nothing in it that you need, especially when you nearly fall off of the bed putting it on the floor. thankfully, one of choso’s big, rough hands grabs onto your leg before you can slip. that doesn’t help your case either.

“what? no, i’m not. i don’t think you are either. we’re drunk but not too drunk,” he corrects, and he’s right, and he knows you know he’s right. “if you tell me, i’ll tell you.”

“you tell me first and i’ll tell you.”

“what?! it was your dare!”

“if you don’t tell me first i won’t tell you! i’m… too embarrassed,” you murmur, hoping, praying, begging that he’ll drop this, but if anyone’s going to back down, it’s not going to be him. choso squints at you from where he sits across from you.

“why are you embarrassed? do i know him? do i not like him?”

“what? no. i mean, i guess you know him? i’d hope you like him. stop stalling! you have to tell me first or i won’t tell you.”

the both of you fall silent in a standoff, your stares the weapon of choice for this fight, and for several

moment’s you’re sure that choso will be the one to break. he’ll get tired of the quiet and this conversation will be left for another day, or will never be picked up again, but… part of you doesn’t want him to give this up. you want to know, but not before he knows.

“i like you,” choso declares, his chin held high and his eyes still participating in your weird duel. he’s definitely blushing, but other than that, he shows no sign of embarrassment, or shame, or fear… he’s also not laughing. when you don’t say anything, choso keeps talking. “i like you a lot. in, like, more than a friend way. that’s why i wanted to play truth or dare.”

“i, um… i thought that—“

“holdonholdonhe’stellingher—“ creaaaaaaaak. THUD. “—shhh!”

both of your faces immediately turn bright red, heads snapping towards the door that was previously left cracked two or three inches, which is now swung wide open. three sets of footsteps run down the hallway as you jump up from choso’s bed to slam the door shut, locking it afterwards just to be safe. you want to slam your head through the thin wooden door, but instead, you rest your burning forehead against its smooth surface.

“… was this his idea?” you ask, your voice wobbling from such an extreme level of embarrassment that you think you might cry. from behind you, you can hear a small ‘yes.’ “did he tell you to dare me to tell you who i like?” another small ‘yes.’

instead of saying anything else, you take a deep breath and force your weak, trembling legs to carry you back to choso’s bed. you stand at the side he’s sitting on, staring into his amber colored eyes which stare back into yours, both held wide and shifting nervously before placing a hand on each side of his face.

however, it’s choso that moves first, almost violently bringing his lips to yours, and it’s like a supernova explodes behind your eyes— thousands and thousands of colors, lights, sounds, feelings you’ve never felt before flood your senses, and within a second you’re melting into him. choso moves so that you’re standing between his legs, his hands moving in tandem to rest on your waist, trapping you where you stand so that you can’t leave. not that you’d want to.

eventually, you have to pull away from his lips to breathe, but your foreheads rest against each others, the both of you left eyes closed and panting.

from the living room, yuji yells, “did you do it?”

a/n: FINALLYYYYYYYYYYYY HERE COME IN HERE COME GET YALL JUICE

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vallification · 3 months

Text

“womanly advice” // JJK SMAU PT. 1!

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto

content: fluff/crack, no established relationship, secret crush!

the JJK men ask for your advice on how to win “someone” over!

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

———

satoru gojo

suguru geto

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk geto #suguru geto #jjk smau #vallification

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vallification · 3 months

Text

time to throw out your "womanly advice" // JJK SMAU!

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto, nanami kento, choso kamo

content: apologies, fluff/crack, comfort, misunderstandings

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

satoru gojo

suguru geto

nanami kento

choso kamo

a/n: YAYYYY!!! i am really satisfied with this part!!! i can't wait to sow y'all where i'm going with this stuff teehee

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #jjk geto #jjk nanami #jjk choso #satoru gojo #suguru geto #nanami kento #choso kamo #jjk smau #jjk texts #jjk au #womanlyadvice #vallification #@cafekitsune

156 notes · View notes

vallification · 3 months

Text

rushes: chapter one

tw: verbal abuse

wc: 4.3k

Droplets of brownie batter are splattered atop the marble counter, half-dried, beside the neatly packaged box filled with an assortment of fresh, fragrant, and warm homemade desserts and pastries. A sink full of dishes is left in the wake of the impressive spread, and your kitchen is reminiscent of the aftermath of a cyclone. The mess glares at you, incredulous at the fact that you’d dirty such a luxurious space, but you want to deliver the fruits of your labor before they get cold. You have yet to meet your neighbor across the hall, and if you learned anything from your grandmother, a good first impression is rarely set by empty hands.

Or messy hair. A halo of frizz stares back at you in the reflection of your microwave. Quickly, you dip into the bathroom to tug your hair tie loose, smoothing down your flyaways and combing through your hair with your fingers.

“That’s… acceptable,” You mumble, dabbing your face with the remnants of setting powder left on your brush until you’re no longer shining and slathering on some lip gloss. Paint and what you assume is flour stains your worn t-shirt and shorts. You give yourself a once over in the mirror and find the rest of you to be acceptable, too. Balance.

Before you go, you check your phone for a text from your boyfriend, but no dice. It’s been radio silence since you moved in. You placate yourself with excuses for him, because he might be tired, or busy, or… something like that. Saying that things have been a breeze lately would be a blatant lie, though. To put it lightly, Toji was hot and cold. He was too busy to help you move in, but not too busy to stop by and fuck you before you left; he was fine with you leaving, but his mood soured every time you rambled excitedly about your new place; and like now, he would ignore you for days, but pick a fight if you dared to take more than 10 minutes to answer his texts.

The unholy lack of notifications stares back at you like a prophecy. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath in, filling every corner of your lungs before exhaling sharply. You pocket your phone and grab the box.

So far, all of your neighbors have either been pretentious financier DINKs or older couples drowning in their bottomless retirement funds. Before this unreal opportunity of an internship, you would have been lucky to even know about this part of town, much less be in the vicinity of this building. Lady Luck has kissed your sweet little head several times this year, so being lonely in the big city is a small price to pay for your newfound fully funded lifestyle. You shove your complaints in the “First World Problems” file cabinet of your mind, but part of you hopes that the neighbors across the hall are at least a little friendly.

Bracing yourself for another set of snobs, you take a deep breath and knock on the door. Lady Luck spits in your face and cackles.

Your jaw drops when the door swings open to reveal snow white, cerulean blue, golden tan, six feet and three inches of him. Long, muscular arms frame his smug face as large, strong hands brace his absurdly tall figure at the top of the door frame. A shiny white gold chain hangs around his neck, sitting handsomely against his tight black shirt. Your slack jaw slams shut when you see his infuriating smirk, complemented by his infuriating dimples.

Satoru Gojo is like a cold sore. He just keeps fucking coming back.

And even though he’s skimmed through your Instagram annually, he hasn’t seen you in person in almost four years. Your sparkly, girlish energy still decorates your face, but your features are a little more mature now… Not just your features either. Those blue eyes drag up and down your body, simultaneously checking you out, re-familiarizing himself with you, and trying his damndest to fluster you.

It only works a little bit.

Disgust paints your features, your lips curling as you squint at the human embodiment of an unchecked ego. But a hand splaying out over Gojo’s ribs prompts him to make room in the doorway for another figure. Next to Gojo stands a man you don’t know, almost as tall, just as broad, all olive skin and dark hair and eyes that seem to swallow you whole. There’s not enough room for two men as tall and broad as Gojo and whoever that is to be comfortable in the doorway, yet they make it work, shoulder to broad, thick, muscular shoulder. You fix your face into the sweet smile you wore previously.

“What’s that?” Gojo asks, nodding to the box tucked in your arms. Your sweet smile momentarily reverts back into a disgusted snarl as your eyes flick back to him.

“Not for you,” You quip. Stepping one pace to the side, you plant yourself directly in front of the stranger and fix your face once more. Gojo feigns offense with a gasp, and the other man’s eyebrows fly high on his forehead, lips pressed into a tight line as he poorly conceals his amusement. You shove the box forward.

“You can have some, though,” You muse, and your new neighbor takes the box with a grin. Sweetly holding your hands behind your back, you introduce yourself and explain that you live directly across the hall, you’re new to the city, and you’re a concept design student at the University of Tokyo. From his peripheral vision, Gojo watches his roommate look you up and down as you talk, and it isn’t lost on him when Geto’s eyes hang onto the most notable parts of you. Eyes, lips, chest, hips, chest, lips, eyes. Gojo stands quietly–for what you assume is the very first time in his life–his eyes flicking back and forth between the two of you. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of… jealousy? Annoyance? Yeah, annoyance. If you cared to pay him any mind, you’d catch the glint of annoyance swimming in his ocean blue eyes.

“Suguru Geto. I’m working on my masters there, actually. Computer science,” Suguru, as you now know, explains, holding the box in one arm to gently shake your hand. The beige hoodie he’s wearing smells amazing. Ambery, peppery, heavy… almost sweet but not quite. His voice is the same, rich and smooth and warm. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Suguru Geto’s eyes are violet. And intense. Your phone buzzes one, two, three times in your pocket. Toji.

“... Anyway.” Gojo breaks his silence and pockets his hands as he leans against the door frame. Your sweet smile remains even though your eyes tell a different story, annoyance clipping your friendly demeanor. In his usual style, Gojo holds your gaze of unabashed dismay with one of unshakable confidence.

“Glad to see you’re still painting. Is that creature you’ve got on your Instagram funding this?” Gojo snickers, and is rewarded with another eye roll.

“Is your daddy funding that?” You retort, tiptoeing and batting your eyelashes as you gesture past the two men crowding the doorway. Geto rubs over his face to wipe away the laughter that’s begging to tumble out of his mouth. “Or did that end when he bought you your degree?”

“Woah, is that… hostility? Are there some lingering feelings you’d like some closure for, sweetheart?”

“No time, babe. You’ve probably got an appointment for your biweekly penicillin shot.”

“You wanna call and ask your little boyfriend if he wants to come with me?”

By the time Gojo finishes that sentence, your phone is ringing in your pocket, and Gojo grins. Annoyance has metamorphosed into daggers in your eyes, glaring at the ever so smug bastard standing so coolly before you with your fists balled at your sides. Turning on your heel, you march across the wide hallway to your door, and before it slams shut behind you Geto calls out one more pleasantry.

“Knock for anything!”

—

Gojo forgets about the little white box full of desserts for an impressive eight hours. It definitely helped that the damn thing was hidden in Geto’s room, even then, the box hadn’t crossed his mind since your door slammed shut behind you. Instead, he was thinking about the swish of your hips, the way your stained shirt nearly fell past your tiny denim shorts, the way you totally checked him out before your feigned disgust set in. Sweets don’t have a perfect ass.

But the sweets were still important. Geto returns from his shower with the box in hand, immediately pulling Gojo from his quickly wandering thoughts.

“She said it’s not for you,” Geto reminds, smug and faux-snide as he chastises. Delicately, he tugs a loose end of the silky pink ribbon until the bow it's knotted in is freed. He tosses the ribbon to land awry on top of white hair, and in a huff Gojo snatches the silky pink length of ribbon off of his head. As if to taunt him, Geto oh-so-cautiously pries open the tabs that once kept the box closed, careful to keep the sweet contents obscured from Gojo’s eyes. “Ooh…” Gasp!

“Suguru, I wanna see— what’s in— the box!”

A flurry of hands lurch forward, push away, reach around, until Geto is using his legs to keep Gojo out of the box’s reach. “Oh, wow…”

“What is it? I wanna see!”

“Really, wow. That’s so cute. Is that—?”

“Suguru!”

“Aw, it’s pink! I think it’s strawberry…”

Another flurry of grappling arms, legs, and hands. Geto’s leaning off the side of the couch now, cackling around a fingerful of frosting. Pink sugar sprinkles litter the corner of his grinning mouth, and Gojo gasps in offense. “You must have really pissed her off, Satoru. I think this frosting is homemade. You’d love it.”

“That’s not fair!” Wriggling to climb the length of Geto’s body, Gojo’s hands almost reach the box before Geto rolls out from under him. The box is unscathed when he lands on the floor with a thud, and he sticks a leg out to keep the pouting Gojo away. They're both huffing from their struggle as Geto takes another smug swipe of frosting. So far defeated, Gojo plops himself back on the couch with crossed arms and watches Geto taunt him with your box of prohibited treats.

After a heavily surveilled mouthful of a homemade strawberry cupcake, topped with buttercream frosting and pink sugar sprinkles, Geto hums in amusement. “So what’d you do? Is she someone from college?”

“Nothing. No.” If Gojo pouts any more than he already is, his face might cramp. You used to make those cupcakes all the time, and over half were always devoured in the span of an afternoon by him alone. Not only that, but Gojo knows there’s more than just your strawberry cupcakes in that box. He can smell chocolate.

Gently setting the cupcake down in the box, Geto moves onto the next little dessert. He breaks a piece off of one of the softest chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had the privilege of eating and pops it into his mouth. Does he have the same sweet tooth as Gojo? Absolutely not, but it’s so fun to watch him throw a tantrum. Plus, it’s all really that good. “You had to have done something. These are amazing. I don’t even like chocolate like that.”

Gojo lets out a whine, dramatically wilting over the side of the couch like an unwatered flower, back curved along the arm rest as his head and arms hang. “She’s theatricizing. I want a cupcake.”

“So you did do something? Is she your ex-girlfriend, Satoru?”

He whines again, louder this time, hyperbolically drawn out and frustrated and ragged. Gojo slides along the armrest until he’s on the floor, flat on his back with his legs propped up over the side of the couch. A man of his stature, sprawled out on luxury, dark wooden floors like a toddler is quite the sight. However, Geto wants the details. He doesn’t laugh.

“If you stop pouting and tell me I’ll give you the box.”

“She was a year below me, we dated in my last year of high school and I broke up with her.” Silence. Geto’s waiting for the rest of the story, shoving another piece of soft cookie in his mouth. Gojo throws his hands up in exasperation, but it does nothing to placate his roommate. He pulls his legs down from their position on the couch, propping himself up on one elbow and letting his head rest limply on his shoulder with a huff.

“I broke up with her a week before her birthday so I could be single for college,” Gojo murmurs, hurried and hushed, leaning over to reach for his reward. His fingertips are just a hair shy. “Gimme the box.”

As he promised, Geto slides him the box. It doesn’t come without a disapproving tsk, though, which Gojo ignores in favor of finishing off the bitten strawberry cupcake. Casually gathering the excess frosting off the side of his mouth with his fingertip and casually sticking it out, Geto casually takes Gojo’s frosted middle finger into his mouth to casually suck it clean. Which could mean nothing. Neither of them linger on the action very long; sharing is like a second nature to them, and that’s all that was.

“I mean,” Gojo starts through a mouthful of cupcake. “I don’t think she’s actually upset. It was such a long time ago. If anything,” Another pause for another bite. “It’s a schtick. I let her down pretty gently, if you ask me.”

All he gets in response to that is a raised eyebrow. If Geto knows anything about the sugar fiend sitting adjacent to him, it’s that he has an extremely skewed view of what it means to let someone down gently. A muffled stream of sounds tears his brain away from the secondhand embarrassment of thinking about a less mature version of Gojo “letting someone down easy.”

Gojo’s not privy to the sass packaged in that single quirked eyebrow, nor the noise, too busy on a spiel about your famous strawberry cupcakes through a mouthful of the second one. “I knew these would be in here. She used to make them, like, every week. Did you know that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Shhh.” In the fleeting, stunned moment of silence his hushing offers, Geto can hear the voices slightly clearer than before. It’s an argument, he can tell that much, but he can’t tell which apartment it’s coming from.

“… Um, anyway. As I was saying, can you tell that she uses real strawberries to—“

“Satoru, shut up,” Geto emphasizes, waving a dismissive hand in Gojo’s direction and heaving himself up off of the floor. Watching incredulously as Geto slowly saunters towards the front door, Gojo’s slack jaw opens and shuts around a silent exclamation of offense. But just when Gojo finds the words to constitute a thorough chastisement, he freezes, stiff as a board on the floor. He hears it.

From the living room, it sounds like weird, warbled, distant mumbling, incoherent sounds traveling through thick doors and thicker walls. It’s impossible to decipher even with ears as keen as his own, and for a moment, he allows himself to relax. Whatever it is isn’t his business, and he’s sure Geto is only curious about the hushed sounds because the two of them are the only ones who make such cacophonous noise in such a quiet place. However, the relief he feels is fleeting. He can now distinguish two things about the muffled racket, the first of which being that it’s coming from across the hall—from your apartment— and the second of which being that it’s a man’s raised, agitated voice.

In an instant, Gojo leaps off of the floor, long legs carrying him in determined strides to the front door until his feet are planted firmly at Geto’s side. With an ear pressed against the door, his violet eyes, usually so composed that they’re unreadable, are held wide open, swimming with uncertainty, discomfort, and concern. For Gojo, who’s already dancing on the edge of entering fight or flight, it’s an alarming sight to see. His shoulders are tense, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are worried by sharp teeth, obviously disturbed by something Gojo didn’t quite catch from his place in the living room. From Geto’s perspective, things are not much better. Beside him, Gojo’s reminiscent of a guard dog on high alert, all adrenaline and potential energy and paradoxically controlled instability. He’s got a white knuckle grip on the door handle, his blue eyes flicking back and forth and up and down in a way Geto would describe as erratic if he wasn’t so familiar with him.

Neither of them need to say anything. It’s written in olive, and golden tan, and black, and white, and violet, and cerulean. Gojo stares through the peephole in the door, catching the moment your apartment door swings open.

It’s him. The guy you have littered all over your social media accounts. Not quite as tall as himself or Suguru, but muscular, broad, denotatively handsome in a sharp, steely way. If he didn’t know any better, Gojo might even say that he looks like the dangerous, violent type. That thought doesn’t go away when Gojo watches him lean down, purposefully imposing over your much smaller frame, until he’s eye to eye with you, saying something Gojo can’t make out with either his eyes or his ears but he knows it’s not something good. He hears a mumble, and assumes that’s what prompts the man to scoff and stand up straight again.

“You’re always fuckin’ complaining about something. Fuck’s sake,” He says with a shake of his head, his body language anything but loving or caring or whatever boyfriends are supposed to be. Geto looks down at the floor once your boyfriend’s words to you register in his head, while Gojo looks straight ahead like a laser sight on a sniper rifle, scarily still.

“I’m going home. I’m not staying if you’re going to act like a fucking crazy bitch just because I’m too busy to text you. Some of us have real fuckin’ jobs.” Without a second look at you, the man starts down the hall and disappears into the elevator. It’s cruel. It’s hard to watch.

Your apartment door is left wide open, with you standing pitifully still and shrunken in the doorway, the antithesis of the version of you that gave Gojo’s wit a run for its money just eight hours earlier. Never before has he seen you look so… scared. So stripped. So small. Something about the way that man has left you nothing more than a shivering shell of yourself makes his stomach twist. Gojo watches your bottom lip quiver as you stare at the floor, and the tears that roll freely down your flushed face as you weakly close the door.

Solemn, sobering silence fills the air of their apartment in the aftermath of what they just witnessed. Gojo doubts that, next to him, Geto isn’t also simmering with a nauseating mixture of nasty emotions, but even if neither of them can muster up anything to say in the moment, they both know it’s different. It’s personal for Gojo, it’s visual, it’s visceral, it’s more than something that happened to the sweet new girl across the hall. As if he were on autopilot, Gojo grips the door handle again, waiting for Geto to move out of the way.

“What are you doing, Satoru? I don’t think now is the best time…” Geto whispers, casting an apprehensive gaze to the hand on the doorknob.

“It’s fine,” Gojo whispers back, and although Geto’s unsure of how true that statement is, he steps away from the door. There’s something unfamiliar stirring in his blue eyes. Something bigger than what he’s thinking of.

Shutting the door behind himself, Gojo bridges the gap between his apartment and yours in two slow steps. It feels weird to stand in the same spot as him; it feels weird to stand in the place of someone who spoke to you like that, swearing at you, shouting at you. To Gojo, it almost feels like standing in the wreckage after a disaster, wondering why the earth kept spinning after something so awful.

He can’t get the image of you standing in the doorway out of his head. Gojo sees every version of you he knows flash in and out of that doorway. The version of you that was so happy to wear his hoodie, and the version of you that was so nervous to show him your art for the first time. The version of you that was dressed head to toe in cheesy Christmas pajamas. The version of you that was soaked from the rain at his house. The tiny version of you that was caught in pictures lining every wall of your parent’s house. The version of you that stood in front of his door in shock that he was your neighbor. The versions of you that were all so lively, and witty, and sharp, and strong, all crushed into nothingness by a piece of shit that didn’t care to look back at you as he walked away. A sorry fucking bastard that purposefully towered over you just to scare you, and that yelled at you like you were a kid, and that swore at you, and that called you a fucking bitch.

It isn’t until now that the questions start to roll in. Is he always like that? Is this a common occurrence? Is it worse than what he just witnessed? Does anybody know? Has anybody else witnessed this? Has anybody helped? Has anybody said anything? How long has it been like this? You looked scared, you looked embarrassed, you looked hurt, but you didn’t look surprised. The thought makes his skin burn. Part of him wonders if Geto was right about this not being the best time to bother you, but by the time he finishes that thought he’s already knocking on your door.

You’re just on the other side of the door when he knocks. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, it’s replaced by a type of exhaustion that runs through your veins and seeps into your bones, heavy and achy and sore. You’re tired. You’re embarrassed and ashamed. You want to go to bed.

“It’s me. Open up,” Gojo says through the door, uncharacteristically reserved and gentle. The softness of his voice catches you off guard, juxtaposed against the venomous words spat at you ten minutes before like the merciful coolness of the night after a brutally hot day. Your throat feels tight all over again, choked up from something as simple as someone speaking to you so gently. Tears well up in your burning eyes as you stifle a sob, and you know the sharp inhale can be heard through the hardwood. It’s a nauseatingly sad sound, and Gojo frowns. “Come on.”

It feels impossible to turn the knob, impossible to pull the door open, and impossible to stand once you’re no longer guarded by two and a half inches of mahogany. Right now, standing in front of Gojo feels worse than being naked, like you’re more exposed now than you ever have been when undressed. You want to run away from the vulnerability. You want to slam the door in his face and hide. You don’t want his pity. But you know whatever he’s here to give you is not pity.

“Hey,” He starts, his fidgeting hand rubbing at the back of his neck where his skin meets his undercut. You recognize the action, born from the same fidgeting movement as when you really knew him, when his hair was longer, when he would twirl the hair at the base of his head around his slender finger over and over and over again. It’s not a nervous tic, though. It’s just something to do with his hands. Focusing on that is easier than focusing on the concern in his eyes.

“Hey,” You reply in a whisper, your voice hoarse, warbled from teary eyes and a trachea that feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire. Shame smothers your weak body like a weighted blanket, but you hang onto what’s left of your pride and force yourself to keep your chin high.

For him, it’s easier to focus on the lock of hair left out of your haphazardly tied ponytail than the way your hand shakes against the doorframe. “I’m not here to fuck with you or anything. Suguru wanted to exchange numbers for…”

If you need them. For when you need them. For when you’re feeling unsafe. For when that sorry fucking bastard scares you again.

For when you want to make sure it’s the last time that piece of shit scares you.

Gojo’s steely blue eyes flick down the hallway, tracing the path to the elevator. You watch his jaw clench.

“… Emergencies.”

Swallowing, thick and dry like your throat is coated in a layer of cotton, you nod. If he caught you at any other time, you’d roll your eyes. You’d make a snide remark and squint up at him. You’d tell him you can handle yourself. But there’s a reason he’s caught you now. Gojo wouldn’t have done this at any other time and you want to throw yourself in a heap on the floor and cry.

Wordlessly, the two of you exchange numbers. It’s nothing more than two new contacts, yet Gojo passes your phone back and it feels two tons heavier in your exhausted, shaking hand. You mutter a “thank you” and step back into your apartment, but Gojo catches the door with his hand and makes sure to meet your weary eyes with his own. For a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re seventeen again. His five words of parting linger in the air around you for the rest of the night.

“Just… don’t be a stranger.”

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #satoru gojo #jjk geto #suguru geto #stsg x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader #gojo x you #geto x you #stsg x you #vallification

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vallification · 3 months

Text

“womanly advice” // JJK AU

incl: satoru gojo, suguru geto, nanami kento, choso kamo (all separate)

content: angst, hurt, comfort, jealousy, unrequited feelings, drinking, flirting! no established relationship/pre-relationship.

wc: 3.4k

please like, reblog, and tell me your thoughts!!!

satoru gojo

you sway to the music pouring from the bar speakers, pressed against other warm bodies on every side, caught in the middle of the dance floor. shoko is pressed against your front, and her movements are abnormally stiff and laggy despite the copious amount of whisky and coke flowing through her veins. following her line of sight, your eyes land on the bar where gojo sits with geto at his side, both hunched over and whispering to each other animatedly. shoko’s expression is a mix of curiosity, concern, and confusion, but she continues to dance with you despite being distracted.

“what’s going on?” you ask, your voice slightly raised so she can hear you over the music once she tears her eyes away from the pair of boys at the bar. she maneuvers herself around to face you and brings her lips to your ear so she doesn’t have to be as loud, and says one word: “you.”

it’s said so plainly, but it almost sobers you up with how much that one simple word shocks your system.

your eyes widen in confusion, eyebrows stitching together as you pull back to look at her face. you search for any indication that she’s joking, that she doesn’t actually know what the problem is, that she’s just teasing you, but you come up short. shoko raises her perfectly maintained eyebrows in a knowing look, as if you should know exactly what she means, but your silence tells her that you know nothing of the sort. thin eyebrows raise impossibly higher on shoko’s forehead as a metaphorical nudge in the right direction, which is met with your unwavering, lost stare. her expression now matches yours, contorted in confusion, and she pulls you aside from the sea of bodies.

“are you playing dumb right now?” shoko asks, both of her hands planted firmly on your shoulders. you shake your head and try to look back at gojo and geto, as if you might be able to piece everything together with context clues, but shoko forces you to keep looking at her. “be for real with me right now. are you stupid?”

“is this about me not texting him back the other day? because we talked about it and i thought he was just being dramatic, i didn’t think he was actually upset at me,” you ramble, bewildered at the notion that gojo was actually that hurt at your “improper text etiquette.” jaw hanging slack as you talk, shoko mirrors your state of bewilderment, wondering how you got this far in life while being so oblivious. “i mean, he’s an adult man, shoko, i don’t know what you want me to do about—"

“oh my god.”

“what?” you bark, your patience spreading too thin to keep playing contextual tug-of-war with shoko, who says nothing before disappearing into the crowd.

now that you’re alone, confused, and frustrated, the dance floor loses all of its appeal and you accept your new position against the wall. you find a little bit of comfort in your glass, which is still half full despite its time in your hand as you danced. the ice has melted, watering down the fiery contents of the glass, but you bring it to your lips and nurse it anyway. it’s a pitiful attempt to get back to your prior level of drunkenness, because you don’t want to face this right now. not sober, at least.

what was “this,” anyway? “this” was the fact that you gave gojo exact instructions on how to successfully woo someone else and you were sick over it. looking at him made you sick, laughing with him made you sick, being around him made you sick; it made you sick to think that there was someone he wanted so bad that it threw him off his game. that was why you were avoiding him. there was no way that you were ever that someone, and that hurt. it was easier to withdraw from gojo prematurely than to sit and wait for whoever that someone was to take your place.

it's juvenile, and it’s shameful, and it’s not something a true friend would do, but you can’t help it. you didn’t think it would hurt his feelings, but by the time you noticed how close you two were it was too late. he knew your coffee order, your morning routine at work, your bed time, your weekend schedule, and you knew his. guilt (or alcohol) stakes its claim in your chest, uncomfortable and heavy, and your throat starts to feel tight, and you can feel your eyes start to brim with tears, and you need to get out of here.

once you leave the bar, you manage to get fifty feet down the sidewalk before you hear the door open, and you hope that it’s not gojo with every fiber of your being. from behind you, you can hear him calling your name, the alcohol, shoko, and geto prohibiting him from straying too far from the bar in his effort to search for you. you keep your back turned to him out of embarrassment, not because of him, but because you don’t want him or anyone else seeing you cry.

gojo finds the opportunity to break out of the two pairs of hands grasping the back of his white shirt and takes it, his long, drunkenly-wobbling legs sprinting down the side walk to you. he grabs your forearm to spin you around, desperate for you to face him, but you yank it out of his hand and hold it up to hail a taxi instead.

“come on, don’t do that,” gojo pleads, his words slurring together like wet ink smudged on a page.

“stop,” you say, commanding your voice to be as steady and calm as you can manage while being upset. he throws his arms up in exasperation at your reaction.

“it’s you!”

you spin around when he says that, and while a big part of you would love to believe that, there’s a sea of women who feel exactly the same way. you bridge the gap between the two of you and meet his eyes with your own, pointing up at him.

“that’s fucked, satoru. don’t say shit like that. that’s seriously fucked,” chastising him, you search his glossy, striking blue eyes for that familiar teasing look, but you don’t find it. you wish that you did. gojo’s face twists up in an inebriated amalgamation of bewilderment, confusion, and frustration.

“how is that—what? how is that fucked? it’s fucked that i’m being honest?”

“you’re not, and that’s why it’s fucked, satoru. that’s—why would you say that?” you scoff, and like an angel sent from whatever heaven awaits you, a taxi rolls up to the curb. throwing open the door, you can hear gojo frustratedly begging you not to get in, to wait, to talk to him, but you get in anyway.

as the cab drives away, you turn around in the backseat, and watch gojo crouch down on the sidewalk as the distance between you grows further.

suguru geto

from where you sit a few barstools down, you watch geto tie up his long, dark hair, leaving the view of his face completely unobstructed. even in the dim light, you can see the skin of his face and neck flushing pink, glistening with the lightest layer of sweat, courtesy of the stuffy atmosphere of the bar and the alcohol flowing through his veins. he’s laughing at whatever story gojo’s telling, and he looks and sounds so beautiful that it feels criminal to even think about looking away from him.

in your drunk, awe-stricken state, you want to chastise yourself for the time you spent moping about geto’s feelings for someone else, the time you spent ignoring him, and the time you spent groveling with jealousy over whoever geto’s got his eyes on. to you, there’s no conceivable way that whoever they may be is lucky enough to have this view—it’s seriously flawed rationale, but you won’t remember that thought when you sober up.

at some point between geto tying his hair up and now, gojo had wandered off to talk to strangers and shoko had wandered off to flirt with the hot bartender, leaving the two of you alone. you pull yourself from your trance to play off your staring problem, looking around the place a few times before settling your eyes on the neon sign hanging from the ceiling above the front door. he’s already caught you, though, and you hear his low laugh as he slides into the seat next to you.

“you okay?” he says, his smooth voice thick and sweet in your ears like caramel. all you can manage is a nod, still looking anywhere but at geto. to prevent yourself from saying something idiotic, you bring your drink to your lips, sipping at it slowly and relishing the burn it spreads through your chest. you can feel his eyes on you, his gaze ever-so intense, seemingly unfazed by your avoidance. it almost feels like he enjoys that you can’t meet his eyes. “you mad at me?”

“no,” you manage to murmur into your glass. you glance at him from the side of your eyes, and you praise yourself for looking away earlier while you had the chance. geto’s eyes are nearly half-lidded, his usually silky brown irises now shaded almost black in the dim light of the bar, and god, you feel like a pitiful deer at the mercy of a hungry tiger. there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes you want to spill everything you’ve ever thought or felt about him in a pathetic effort to make him stop looking at you like that.

“what’s the matter then?”

“pffft, nothing, i’m just—” you gesture vaguely around you to the dingy bar before throwing back the last of your drink, flinching as it goes down. “i’m just doing this. which, y’know, means nothing is the matter at all. in fact, i don’t think i’ve ever felt better. so—"

“look at me,” geto interrupts your rambling, and you look at him immediately. he’s got you exactly where you didn’t want to be, because you’re not sure you have the strength to defy anything he asks of you now that his eyes have yours locked in place. your eyes only leave his when they flick down to his lips, which look impossibly soft when he speaks again, beckoning to you like a siren would a sailor. “i miss you.”

for several seconds, he just stares at you, and you can almost feel the friction of his eyes dragging over your face—once, twice, three times, over your lips—before they lock back onto your own. you feel like a loser, frozen in place, unable to control your own body as geto pins you in place with something so simple as eye contact. in the back of your mind, you weigh the probabilities of what his intentions are: is he messing with you for fun, or is he into this? you pay no attention to which way the scales tip, you’re on autopilot, mentally scrambling to gather every last bit of self-control you have and standing up.

“i have to call my mom right now,” you blurt, and your jellified legs carry you out of the building and down the sidewalk as far as they can manage.

nanami kento

if you weren’t a coward, you’d admit that the reason for the heavy feeling that hangs on your shoulders is nanami’s admitted affection for someone else, but since you are a coward, you blame it on the monotony of your life. that wasn’t exactly a lie; you have settled into a comfortable routine, and although it’s nice to feel so stable, it’s lonely and lifeless.

sometimes you wonder if you’re too strict with your dating criteria, but every time you reevaluate your standards, there is nothing that sticks out as unattainable. not that it would matter, though, because you know exactly who you want. but he doesn’t want you. rationally, you’re not sure why he would want you (even if the other person wasn’t in the picture), because outwardly, you’re nanami’s opposite. you’re quicker to humor than you are stoicism, you’re louder than you are quiet, and you could be a lot more mild-mannered than you are.

it wasn’t like you were the type to feel worthless because you’re single; you’ve been single for several years now, and it didn’t phase you until you started getting closer to nanami. he was something out of a storybook, a fairy tale even, and you can still feel the devastation you first felt when he asked you how to win someone else over.

your mind drones on and on down the pathetic, beaten path of self-pity as you browse through the store’s selection of glittering necklaces and earrings. the glass countertops of the display cases are spotless, scratchless, and shiny, perfectly showcasing the expensive jewelry inside, resting peacefully atop red velvet pillows. retail therapy helped distract you when you felt sorry for yourself, at least. there were few experiences that matched the feeling of buying something new to take your mind off of your sad reality.

in the display case below, you spot something simple but gorgeous: a white solitaire diamond necklace with a thin, yellow gold chain. it’s got the perfect price tag, too, in the range where you won’t feel too guilty for buying it, but the purchase will still scratch the itch that retail therapy feeds on. before you can ask for a closer look, an inexplicably familiar scent washes over your senses. oud, sandalwood, amber, something peppery and warm—it’s something you relish each time it makes itself known, and it’s so distinctly nanami that you whip your head around to search for him.

the familiar blond scans the contents of the various displays, dressed impeccably as usual, but without the watch that habitually decorates his wrist. he looks regal, in a way, and you wonder what life would look like standing next to him, clutching his arm, willfully ignorant to the rest of the world… the watch. you try to think back to earlier in the day when you saw him, if you saw the watch, but then you remember how you dodged him each time he appeared. it makes you feel a little guilty, but he was probably grateful for it. a twinge of sadness follows that thought.

you lower your eyes back down to the solitaire necklace and half-heartedly attempt to block out the alluring scent of nanami’s cologne, but it’s no use. from the edge of your vision, you watch him recognize you, weigh his options, and then begin to approach you, so you try to discreetly fix your face into a more pleasant one.

“hey,” nanami says, taking the place at your side. the ease in his voice is almost jarring juxtaposed against the usual tone he took at work, and you mentally curse him for it, because it doesn’t help your case in the slightest. you try to fight the schoolgirl smile growing on your face, but it wins easily once you look up to greet him.

“hey, nanami. what are you doing here?” you ask, despite wishing you didn’t, so you could go back to feeling sorry for yourself in peace. that’s not really true, though, is it? no, not when he smiles down at you, a smile you’ve only seen grace his sharp features once or twice before. the feeling that follows in your chest could only be the work of butterflies. you hope you aren’t blushing, but the familiar warmth settles on your cheeks anyway and betrays your wishes.

nanami lifts his suited forearm and twists his wrist, signaling the absence of his usual watch, “well, i had to get my watch cleaned, so i’m here to pick it up. i get it cleaned every six months, and i like looking around while i’m here.” his usually tired brown eyes seem to sparkle down at you, and you feel like he’s casting some sort of heart palpitation spell on you. “can I ask what you’re doing here?”

“oh, y’know, just some retail therapy,” you laugh, wondering if that will disguise the near-breathlessness in your voice. he leans down to get a better view of the necklace in front of you, humming in approval at its design.

“it’s beautiful. I saw you looking at it before I came over here, I think you should get it,” nanami says, his sparkly brown eyes locking on yours as he returns upright again. “you’d look beau—”

as an associate interrupts nanami about his watch, you use this window of opportunity to book it out of the store. your eyes are wide, your cheeks pink, your heart racing at the proximity and sincerity of your short conversation with prince charming. there was no conceivable reality where, if that conversation was resumed, you didn’t make a fool of yourself. later, you’ll kick yourself for it, but you’re a coward a heart.

the necklace ended up in good hands.

choso kamo

friday movie nights at choso’s apartment were a cherished tradition for the two of you. well, the five of you now, if you count yuji, nobara, and megumi, who preferred friday nights at choso’s because he was a bit less intrusive than gojo was when they stayed at megumi’s. yuji’s father gifted him a big fabric binder of blockbuster movie DVDs that yuji was adamant about watching all of, which of course bled into friday movie nights. funnily enough, the three teenagers never made it through the last movie of the night, always ending up in a sleepy pile on the floor.

choso sits opposite of you on the couch with the neckline of his hoodie pulled up over his mouth, completely absorbed in the movie playing on the screen. you’ve already seen it before, so you only pay attention in bits and pieces, with the spaces in between dedicated to watching choso from the corner of your eye. sometimes you wonder if he does the same, but you never catch him in the act. his hair is down, pushed away from his face since its free from its usual twin confinements, and you wonder if whatever girl he likes has seen him this way.

you wonder if she’s sat on his couch watching movies, or slept in his bed because she was too tired to drive home. you wonder if she’s worn his shirts and boxers after taking a shower in his bathroom, or if she’s done the dishes with him after making a mess in his kitchen. heat rises in your face as jealousy rears its ugly head in your stomach, and while you watch him from the side of your vision, you pray to whatever will listen that you stay the only person who can say they’ve done any of that.

choso’s oblivious to your feelings on the other end of the couch. it almost makes you angry at him.

you wonder who she is. you wonder what she looks like. you wonder if she’s as mean and nasty as you are when you’re jealous.

one thing you’ve always hated about yourself is that you never fail to cry when you get upset. it doesn’t matter if you’re sad, or mad, or frustrated, or jealous, it’s almost certain that your throat tightens like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, and your eyes begin to well with hot, fat, pathetic tears. those tears almost always fall before you can catch them, and the choked down, heaving breaths almost always make a sound before you can silence them.

choso is your best friend, and he is no longer oblivious to your feelings on the other end of the couch. ish.

he sits up, his dark eyebrows stitched together in concern when he notices the tear that sits on your cheek, shining in the light cast by the movie on the screen. choso places a big, calloused, comforting hand on the bare skin of your knee as he tries to figure out the source of your upset, but he doesn’t find one. you flinch unnaturally at his touch, but he doesn’t move his hand.

“are you okay? what’s wrong?”

“the- I’m- it’s just the movie,” you fumble, your whispering voice warbled by your tears. the movie in question? superbad. choso gives you a funny look, his eyes flicking between your crying face and the screen, only becoming more concerned from there.

“are you on your period?” he asks, and you bring your hands up to wipe at your eyes as you start to laugh at his question.

“you’re not supposed to ask girls that, choso,” you fake-scold, which makes him laugh too. however, he’s still concerned, because you’re still teary-eyed.

choso wiggles his way over to you, now sitting on the couch in the proper position with your legs slung over his lap. one of his strong arms snakes its way behind you to pull you closer to his chest until he’s semi-holding you, resting his chin on top of your head. you try to reel your tears back in, but once you’re pulled to his chest, the entire dam breaks and you start to cry as silently as you can manage so you don’t wake the sleeping pile of teenagers.

“what’s wrong?” choso whispers, holding you as tightly as he can in this position. he’d held you while you cried before, but it was never like this. there was always a reason known to him, something obvious, but there isn’t this time. he wonders if it’s connected to your weird behavior this week, or if you’re depressed, or—he doesn’t know, but something must have happened.

“you can tell me,” he murmurs when you say nothing, frowning at the way you seem to sob a little harder after he says that.

“no, I can’t,” you whisper through your fingers. choso pulls back, just enough to see your face, confused by your response.

“why not? you always tell me everything.”

you bite your bottom lip to try and make it stop quivering, and you shake your head, burying your face back in choso’s chest. his chin resumes its rightful place on top of your head, but he’s still as confused as ever. choso says nothing this time, holding you in silence.

twenty minutes pass, only filled by the sound of rolling movie credits and soft sobs that devolve into the occasional sniffle. your arms are now wrapped around choso’s torso, weakly clinging to him as he holds you halfway in his lap.

“can I sleep like this, sir?” you whisper, your voice wavering, on the edge of tears again as you do a pathetic salute. you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to sleep like this again. choso laughs and maneuvers the two of you so that he’s in more of a reclined position, kicking his feet up on the couch without compromising your place in his arms.

“yeah, of course, ma’am.”

a/n: i have been writing this for 7 hours. you better like it or else. i'm jp but the smau will resume with this context for the next update :)

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk choso #jjk geto #jjk gojo #jjk nanami #choso kamo #suguru geto #satoru gojo #nanami kento #@cafekitsune #vallification #jjk au #womanlyadvice

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