Katsukijo - 𝒌𝒂𝒕𝒔𝒖𝒌𝒊𝒋𝒐

sometimes your baby daddy is a genocidal cult leader and your loved ones should understand and be supportive of that

Someone pls continue yalls nerdjo fanfics pls😭😭😭

me as a writer

Your Turn to Roll

Sum: It's not like your Saturday hookup is going to show up to DnD right? Right??

FWB!Geto x Reader x Nerdjo

Previous // Next Part // Masterlist

WC: 3.2k

TW: Angst, Love triangle-ish, yearning/miscommunication, friends with benefits, brief smut but there's emotional dissociation during it, MDNI

a/n: apologies if this is a little rough on the edges, ac broke, fridge broke, anddd work was a bit of hell this week <3 next part willl be in one of the boys pov.

You were expecting to play Dungeons & Dragons for the first time with Satoru and his friends tonight. You weren’t expecting his friend to be Geto Suguru.

Lead singer of that indie band whose lyrics you sometimes pretend don’t make you cry. Part-time model. Full-time heartache. Your… complicated situation. Your friends-with-benefits and Saturday night habit.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, and there he was, casually leaning against the back wall, guitar case strapped across his back, dark locks tied in that loose, lazy way that made him even more dreamy than he already was. His eyes met yours - wine-dark irises that always gave your heart trouble - and for a second, time stalled. His lips parted, your name on the tip of his tongue, hushed and slightly disbelieving.

You felt it immediately, the flutter in your stomach. Not quite joy. Not quite dread. Just that familiar, fluttering echo of something you’ve been trying not to name for months.

Your situationship began half a year ago. Six months of quietly gaslighting yourself in the mirror. Convincing your heart that the tenderness was imagined. That you were mistaking comfort for coincidence, affection for habit. That Suguru wasn’t falling for you. That this was nothing more than a pastime for two lonely souls trying to feel full.

(You were wrong.)

Ironically, it all began on a Saturday night. Your friend had an extra ticket. You weren’t even into indie rock like that. Thought the whole “grungy stage presence and sad boy lyrics” thing was a bit overplayed. But the moment Suguru stepped onto the stage, the air shifted.

His voice was sharp and unpolished, captivating in a way that felt accidental, like he hadn’t meant to enchant anyone. A little wild and raw on the edges. When he looked out at the crowd, at the ocean of swaying bodies, outstretched arms, and flickering phone lights, his sharp gaze caught yours. Landed. Lingered.

You could’ve sworn your breath caught, shallow and stuttering. You attempted to laugh it off. Bite the inside of your cheek to hide the curve of your smile as his eyes softened - violet and velvety, like bruised twilight. There was something behind them. Something that reminded you of the stars. Perhaps it was just the way they tinkled from the stage lights.

Though he smiled back.  Shoulders uncoiled. Fingers loosened around the mic stand. The whole world tilted. You thought you had imagined it.  Until the end of the set when the final chord faded and he leaned down, reached for you. Pressing a rose into your palm. A real one. Its petals soft and flushed with a pale pink blush, edges slightly wilted from the stage lights.

His fingers brushed yours. Warm, calloused at the tips from all the practice you imagine he does.  A look passed between you. Not staged or rehearsed like most stars. A look that didn’t speak of lust but of a crush.

You left the venue trying to rationalize it away. While your friends squealed and complained that you should have got his number. Though you were convinced it was just a gimmick. A crowd-pleaser. That’s all. But just as you rounded the corner of the street, laughing with your friend, the sidewalk cold beneath your boots - 

“Wait.”

Breathless. Dark hair a little messy, falling into his eyes. Cheeks tinged with pink, like he wasn’t used to chasing anyone. Like he wasn’t used to trying. Then that smile, the soft, sheepish one that looked like it had been carved just for you.

Suguru handed you a napkin. Crumpled. From the bar, it’s logo branded in gold that clashed against the ink. His number, the edge smudged where his thumb had pressed too hard.

And that was that. Saturday nights became a tradition. Takeout dinners on mismatched plates. His guitar in the corner, never too far from reach. You curled up on the couch together, pretending whatever this was, was casual, laughing at reruns while his hand found your hip and tugged you closer during the commercial breaks.

Friends-with-benefits don’t usually hold your hand when you’re falling asleep. They don’t ask how your midterms went. They don’t kiss your shoulder in the morning before they leave, whispering that your coffee is on the table.

They don’t act like they love you. 

So you told yourself it wasn’t real. That he was just being nice. That the soft smiles and gentle hands and half-sincere words were just habit. That it was easier for both of you this way - safer to pretend than to ask for something that might never be returned.

You believed it. You tried to believe it. Until your thoughts started turning on you. Until they got too loud to ignore, creeping in a few months ago and sinking their claws into you when your friends would ask, are you seeing somebody? 

The act always started the same. When things were soft. When you were laughing together on the couch, sharing bites from each other’s plates. When he leaned back, arms spread, and looked at you like he belonged in your life. Where he wasn’t just a past time on a Saturday night. When his voice dipped low and teasing and press a kiss to your temple, scooping you up like you were something his. Something worth taking care of forever. 

He’d carry you to his bedroom, bridal style, like he always did. As if it was always your first night together. He’d lay you on those dark, silken sheets. The expensive ones that felt cool beneath your thighs. The ones you’d never let yourself ask about. But sometimes - when the light hit just right - you wondered: If they happened to be white, would someone else’s lipstick still be stained into the fabric? Would the color be red? Or a pretty mauve? Or the kind he always complimented you on?

His mouth was on yours before you could think too long, thankfully swallowing every breath that threatened to turn into a sob. The sweet alcohol laced on his tongue tangled with yours, dancing you under a sky no one else could see. Large, calloused hands full of warmth moved across your skin, still learning you, even though you knew he wasn’t. He knew you.

He touched you like muscle memory. Like he’d been here a thousand times. Not realizing you were breaking beneath the surface. Your shirt was lifted, a sharp gasp from his lips when he would gaze down at the soft skin. The slow kiss against your jaw, then down the column of your throat, finally your collarbone, where he would bite down softly. Just enough for you to hide it in the morning.

You tried to melt into him. Into the way his arms wrapped around you, gently, like they always had. Into the warmth of his chest, into the sheets that smelled like him, but still made you wonder if they’d once held someone else. You let your body go limp, your mouth fall open, your breath hitch soft enough to pass as pleasure. Anything to let him believe this was still enough.

But you didn’t feel warm tonight. You felt cold. Hollow. There was a crack running down the center of your chest and every kiss only widened it.

Though nothing has changed. Every Saturday was the same. His touch was always the same - gentle and worshipful. Knowledgeable on how to drag his name from your throat with the curl of his fingers. Knew where to bite so that it hurt just enough to make you scold him as he brought you ice. He knew how to touch you in ways that used to make you feel wanted.

But tonight - your skin didn’t ignite. It recoiled. Tightened. Like your body finally caught up to what your heart had been screaming for weeks.

This isn’t enough anymore.

You still made the right sounds.

You still wanted this.

You still managed a gasp when he kissed your sternum. Still sighed when his mouth found that spot below your ear, sucking a bruise there like he wanted to leave a mark where no one else could see it, one you didn't have to cover. A hidden claim of sorts. You let your legs fall open for him, let your body move the way it always did, habitual, practiced, choreography you’d danced a thousand times before.

You arched your hips when he pushed inside, dragging out a moan that sounded real enough to pass.

But your eyes stayed open.

You stared past him. Past the ceiling. Past the low hum of the night around you. And in that quiet space between thrusts - where your bodies met but your hearts didn’t - your breath caught. His hands squeezed your waist, trying to mold themselves into your skin. To leave something behind. But all it did was press into a wound that had been bleeding slowly for months.

The thoughts screamed louder than your voice ever could.

The roses he gave to girls at his shows, ones with names he never mentioned afterward.

How his hand lingered on another woman’s waist as she leaned over the barricade, eyes wide with something you used to feel.

The way you waited for him every Saturday night like a dog waiting at the door, always hoping, never chosen.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To shake him and ask what am I to you?

Instead, your body gave him what it always did. He moved deeper, hips grinding into that sweet spot, pulling a moan from you that felt too real for a moment, so real it only made the ache worse.

Because pleasure didn’t mean love. And love didn’t mean anything unless it was said out loud. It only made the lie worse.

Then suddenly - your voice gathered courage as it cracked through the haze. Hoarse. Shaky. Unmistakably real:

"What is this?"

His entire body stilled, the twitch of his cock inside you. Perfect timing for important questions.

Suguru was a master of rhythm. Of pacing. Of knowing exactly when to pull and when to push. But now, he froze. Like you’d struck a chord he didn’t know existed. His breath faltered against your cheek. His eyes, always half-lidded and unreadable, widened just slightly as he looked down at you.

At the way your bottom lip trembled.

The way your lashes fluttered like you were trying not to cry. How your eyes looked up at him - pleading, glassy, afraid.

You looked like a doe staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun. And he didn’t know how to lower the rifle.

Because the truth: Suguru didn’t know what this was.

He wanted to name it. Really did. He’d almost done it, a hundred times. When you curled into him on the couch, when you laughed at his terrible songs in the kitchen, when you fell asleep drooling on his chest and he stayed perfectly still just to keep you there.

He wanted to say the words. But he didn’t know how.

Suguru Geto had never been good at love. Not the kind that asked for vulnerability. That required you to give more than you take. He knew how to want. He knew how to be wanted. He knew how to hold people at arm’s length and still make them beg to stay.

But this - this aching, terrifying tenderness? This desire to keep someone, not just touch them?

It made him feel like a liar in his own skin. So he did what he always did. Softened his voice. Slowed his rhythm. Brushed his thumb along your trembling lip, pretending not to notice the way your breath hitched beneath him.

“I don’t do labels,” he murmured soft and slow. “But I’d like us to be sexually exclusive. For… safety reasons.” He tried to make it sound casual. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the only way he knew how to ask you to stay.

But the moment the words left his mouth, he saw it - the shift in your face. The light dimming in your eyes. The way your expression cracked, just slightly, like you were holding back a dam that was always on the verge of breaking.

You nodded. Quiet. Wordless. You didn’t say anything else. You just wrapped your arms around his neck as he pushed deeper inside you, grateful - so pathetically grateful - that you couldn’t see the way his teeth sank into his lip, biting back all the words he couldn’t say.

Eventually, he finished with your name on his lips, his sweat-slicked chest pressed flush to yours like that closeness could somehow patch over what he’d just broken. As if holding you tighter would convince you he hadn’t just let the moment slip through his hands.

Afterward, you curled into him as he tucked a blanket over the two of you. You both pretended that you were okay. Words left unsaid.

You didn't cry, however, your breath caught. You swallowed the knot lodged in your throat. You knew he heard the sound because the arm draped around your waist flinched.

He didn’t say a word. Suguru just laid there, eyes shut, forcing himself to remember the way you looked the night he met you and hating himself for not being brave enough to love you out loud.

Now here you are. Standing in the hallway of Gojo Satoru’s shockingly nice apartment building.

The boy with the guitar stands beside you, casual as his fingers move to brush the small of your back. Like he’s not pretending you didn’t spend last weekend in his bed. As if he hasn’t gone completely quiet on you since you brought up wanting to be exclusive.

And in front of you: the nerd boy. Satoru. Pink cheeks. Bright blue eyes wide and blinking like he can’t believe you’re actually standing there. His gaze flickers to Suguru’s hand. To the smile you offer him. And back again - he’s trying not to connect the dots and failing spectacularly.

You didn’t know they were friends. How could you? Suguru never talked about the rest of his life. Never gave you names, just vague details and late-night stories with no context. No connections.

But you see it now, in the way Satoru pales when he realizes who you’re with. In the way Suguru leans a little closer, voice smooth as honey. “You didn’t tell me your new player was cute.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh… thanks.” A blush creeps up your neck. You hate that it does. Unfair of your body to betray you.

Satoru’s laugh bursts out of him way too loud. A small voice crack before his hand flails mid-wave. “Y-Yeah! I mean! She's great! I mean, yeah, you - dice - yes!” Instead of making a bigger fool of himself. He leads you both inside, still babbling, tripping over his own feet every time he catches your gaze.

Suddenly, you’re wrapped in warmth. The apartment smells like vanilla and cedarwood. There’s a candle burning on the counter. The lights are low and cozy. The snack spread is ridiculous - labels everywhere, little notes in Satoru’s messy handwriting: “Nut-free!” “Gluten-free just in case!!” “Vegan??? Maybe???”color-coded bowls with tiny serving tongs (there's even a sign for no cross contamination). He bought everything you could imagine.

The knot in your chest loosens just a little. Your heart stutters. You shush it. This isn't for you. You're just a guest in the campaign. That's all. However, this place feels… safe. Like someone cared enough to make sure everyone would feel welcome.

You settle at the table beside a woman with tired eyes and a cigarette behind her ear - Shoko, you learn. She flags you down with a muttered, “Thank god it’s not a sausage-fest tonight.”

You manage a laugh. Half forced. Suguru chuckles beside you and drapes an arm over the back of your chair, muttering about how it's cramped here tonight. Your heart does a little somersault, even if your brain is exhausted.

Satoru takes his seat at the head of the table.

And oh, he’s glowing. Flipping through notes he already memorized. Fixing his glasses. Glancing up at you every few seconds. You catch him once, and he practically short-circuits, gives you a lopsided grin like he just rolled a nat 20 in charisma.

You smile back. He looks away so fast he nearly knocks over his water. (You found out through Shoko, he cannot drink for the life of him). Though, he gets up way too fast to make you a “potion.” A drink themed after your character. He even drew a little sketch on the napkin. You try not to let your face get too warm when he hands it to you. While Suguru's fingers are calloused, Satoru's are soft.

Then he dims the lights slightly and cues up a playlist labeled “Tavern (For When She Shows Up, Delete This Note Later).” He didn't. Shoko snorted.

The table quiets. He clears his throat. Suddenly, he’s in it. The way his voice shifts into something lower, theatrical, full of magic and momentum. You’re not sure if it’s the candlelight or the way he describes the flicker of lanterns and muddy roads, but for a second, you actually feel like you’ve stepped into another world.

You look at him - really look.

And you don’t see the flailing boy from the bookstore. You see someone who built this world from the ground up. Who put pieces together just so he could offer them to you.

His eyes meet yours again. A playful, shy smile curls at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s your turn to roll.”

And maybe it is. Maybe this is where the campaign begins. Where you begin. Where you stop hoping someone will choose you in the quiet…and start letting yourself be seen in the light.

tag list: @just-pure-trash, @7haze, @nevvynev, @linaaeatsfamilies, @altgojo, @beereadzzz, @spn-obsession, @bludwrite

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I love that everyone just agrees Caleb is a panty sniffer

Art by @Evil_fishie on twitter

RODEO STATION, 2 — MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

A collection of you and Megumi through the years, through Gojo’s eyes. 

content, warnings: childhood friends to lovers, canon-adjacent, satoru adopts megumi and tsumiki, reader has a cursed technique sort of delved into here

word count: 2.2k

part ii: you and megumi are ten, tsumiki is eleven, gojo is twenty-ish?, about six or seven months after gojo meets all of you, and adopts megumi and tsumiki. you can read part one here

The moment that Satoru met him, he knew that Megumi was a little troublemaker and there was little he could do to stop that. Satoru didn’t mind for the most part, and he couldn’t blame the kid either—honestly, he was more surprised that Megumi didn’t routinely get himself into more trouble, but he supposes he has you and Tsumiki to thank for that. 

He’d naively believed that you and Tsumiki both played the role of anchoring maternal figure for Megumi, but it only takes a few weeks for Satoru to learn that it’s Tsumiki that serves as the anchor for you two. Satoru then earnestly wonders if you were bullying Megumi with the way you’re able to keep him under your thumb, but when Megumi adamantly refutes this with the nastiest, most offended scowl Satoru’s ever seen on a kid before, he backs off and reasons that this is just how your relationship with Megumi works.

And, as it turns out, Megumi is the only one doing any sort of bullying. He’s ten and Satoru has been to more parent-teacher conferences than any other parent has ever possibly attended in their lifetime. He didn’t even know that it was possible for kid his age to get kicked out of school, especially at this point in the year. There’s only three months left until summer vacation, so Satoru enlists Ieiri’s help in enrolling Megumi into public school to finish out fifth grade. She also reassures him that this separation from you and Tsumiki is temporary, and that you would all be able to attend middle school together again in the fall. 

The major problem then becomes that you all get dismissed at different times. You and Tsumiki used to end your days at the same time, but Tsumiki starts staying late to take piano lessons. However, this is remedied by the mother of a friend of Tsumiki’s, who drives her home afterwards; an older woman that Satoru becomes eternally grateful for. Even so, you’re dismissed thirty minutes before Megumi, and some shuffling has to be done to align your commutes. Satoru knows that the three of you took yourselves to and from school before he came into the picture, and that most kids your age are more than capable getting home on their own, but after you told him that some old man from the Kamo clan came to talk to you after school one day, he can’t help but to worry. 

Satoru isn’t your guardian, not in the way that he is for Megumi and Tsumiki, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel responsible for you—morally, financially, emotionally, and more importantly, for his own safety because he knows he’d have both Divine Dogs biting at his ankles if something curse-related happened to you and he didn’t do anything to stop it. 

You were currently under the care of your elderly great aunt who hadn’t a shred of cursed energy from what Satoru could tell. He had Principal Yaga do a background check, and found no other sorcerers in your immediate family, nor any traceable Kamo relatives, and more importantly, you didn’t possess any sort of Blood Manipulation technique. Satoru’s seen what you can do so far to control water, has even seen you give the Divine Dogs trouble in a gentle sparring match—you’re impressive, even at your young age, so he can understand why a powerful clan might see the potential in you, but the Kamo clan isn’t historically welcoming of outsiders. If you’re not related to them, he can’t fathom why any member would physically approach you. 

The old man never revealed his name to you, but Satoru’s certain it’s either a clan elder, or the current head himself; neither of which bring him any comfort. In the spirit of their traditional ways, he doubts anyone would actually try to harm you out in the open, but Satoru still wants to keep you on close watch for a little while. He thinks he’s the best man for the job. He’s quickly proven otherwise. 

He exorcises curses with a bit of hastiness and little tact in order to be there when you get dismissed from school. Ieiri says it’s creepy to follow you from a distance, but Satoru is just doing what he can to protect you. If somebody else is following you, he wants to see who they are. They’ll never approach or reveal themselves if he hovers next to you, and if you half the pride that Megumi has, you’d run him out of town if he ticked you off by playing overprotective big brother—so, instead, he positions himself far enough away to observe you, and close enough to defend if need be. 

He never needs to. 

For as wild and boisterous as you are with Megumi and Tsumiki, you follow a simple, quiet after school routine. You walk with Tsumiki and her friends to the west gate to drop them off at piano practice, then cross the street to buy a snack—this differs, but you always get a carton of strawberry milk—and then walk to the train station. It’s a ten minute walk from your school to the station, and a fifteen minute walk from Megumi’s school to the station, which is why Satoru doesn’t quite know how the kid manages to keep you waiting for only seven minutes on average when he already gets out of school thirty minutes after you. 

Once he gets over the initial shock, he can’t help but to be amused. He knows that when Megumi first changed schools, he started meeting you on the train, two stops later—at the one closer to his new school. But in the last week, Megumi has walked himself seventeen blocks east, at what Satoru guesses must be an inhuman pace, just to meet you at the station closest to you. 

When two weeks have passed since the unknown Kamo elder has contacted you, and no other incidents have occurred, Satoru resigns his position as perimeter watchdog. He has a bunch of missions to catch up on anyway, and he figures that you and Megumi are safe in each other’s care for now. 

A few weeks later, after catching up on his assignments, Satoru decides to check back in. He knows he doesn’t have to, but something in his stomach is telling him to. Maybe it has to do with the fact that the curse he fought earlier today had some kind of toxic blood that has him thinking the worst could happen to you, or getting a call that Megumi had been cutting some of his classes, or that he’s tired and delusional and worried and scared, or maybe it’s just his blooming maternal instincts telling him something is wrong, but he rushes to spy on your commute home. 

He’s late. Megumi isn’t with you, and you’re already on the train when he makes it to the station and he can sense two sources of cursed energy trailing way too close behind you just as the train doors shut. His mind is racing irrationally—is this an unusual move by the Kamo clan, or perhaps someone else? Word had certainly gotten around that he’d picked up Toji Fushiguro’s kid, plus another kid with immense cursed potential, and Satoru himself and the Gojo clan have more than enough enemies. Whatever it may be, he doesn’t take his chances, using his newly honed short-range teleportation skills to make it to the next station before the train can. 

He’s panting, thinking about every worst possible scenario at once, wondering how to best deal with whoever or whatever was targeting you, especially in such a crowded place, wondering if you’re safe, if Megumi was safe—why wasn’t he with you? Has someone already gotten to him, too? Was Tsumiki even at piano practice? Oh god, if he hasn’t already been kidnapped, Megumi is totally going to kill him if something happens to you. 

Satoru rushes onto the train as soon as the door opens, eyes wildly scanning for you through the crowd, ready to strike when he finally finds you—seated towards the back of the car, reading the book that Tsumiki had loaned to you, quietly, and both the black and white Divine Dogs sitting on either side of you. 

And Satoru has to laugh at himself. If he’d stopped for even a moment (or if he’d gotten more than two hours worth of sleep in the past three weeks trying to make up all his assignments), he’d have recognized Megumi’s residuals, would have recognized the energy of the dogs, and would have pieced together that there wasn’t a single threatening aura in the vicinity. 

Oopsies. 

“Gojo?” you call to him, not too loud as to not to disturb everyone else’s commute. “How come you’re here?” 

Satoru shuffles through the crowd and holds onto the overhead rail once he’s next to you. The white dog moves to settle underneath your short legs, blinking at him with disinterest. “Got off a little early today, thought I’d surprise you brats, that’s all,” he says, then motions to the dogs next to you, “Where’s Megumi?” 

You blink at him. Satoru knows you probably don’t believe him, but you spare him the embarrassment when you don’t push it further. “He had to make up a credit today, so he’s getting on at the next stop. Do you want a sandwich? They only had ones with peppers today, so Megumi won’t eat it, but Mr. Teuchi gave me two, anyway.” 

“What, is he allergic or something?” Satoru questions, accepting your offer, and the seat next to you when he starts to unwrap the sandwich. 

“No, he’s just picky,” you tell him, closing your book to unwrap yours, too. You’re quiet, taking your first two bites, before you turn to him again, “How did you know Megumi was missing?”

Satoru chokes. It gains him a few concerned stares, and even a pointed ear from the black dog, before he regains his composure. “Um... he tells me usually he follows you home from the other stop, that’s why.” 

“Then why didn’t you try to surprise us at the other stop?”

Satoru pauses again. Since when did ten year olds get so lippy and observant? “I did, but I was late. So I sort of,” Satoru leans down, crinkling the empty sandwich wrapper in his right hand and uses his left to beckon you towards him to whisper, “Teleported here.” He pulls back, prideful, and crosses his legs, “Pretty cool, right?” 

“So, why didn’t you just teleport to the first station when you realized you were going to be late?” You question, mocking his whispering tone when you repeat the word. 

“Hey, you think doing that kind of stuff comes automatically? I can’t just pop up anyplace at any time,” Satoru groans, a bit overdramatically, “Not yet, anyway. I’ll be able to do that soon.” 

You hum, kicking your legs happily as you take another bite out of your snack. “I think I get it. Megumi says it’s hard spreading out and controlling your cursed energy over long distances, but he’s been practicing hard. He can send the dogs way far away from him now.” 

“I see,” Satoru turns his chin down, eyeing the Divine Dogs with a gentle smile. He almost says that it’s easier to send shikigami on their own, especially those like Megumi’s, and particularly when you anchor them to another source of cursed energy such as yourself, but you look way too proud of Megumi for him to burst your bubble. He also declines to say that Megumi probably doesn’t send the dogs to you on days like this just for the sake of practicing. 

A crush isn’t quite exactly the motivation Satoru pictured when he told Megumi he’d have to work hard and get strong, but whatever works, works. 

Ten minutes later, the train comes to a steady halt. Megumi is the first new passenger on board, and unlike Satoru, he doesn’t need to turn his head wildly, every which way to find you. You’re like a beacon to Megumi, he easily finds the both of you in the last seats in the car, and steadily makes his way to you. 

Megumi greets you before he greets Satoru, taking the seat across and facing you before he turns to the taller man with a much less receptive frown, “What are you doing here?” 

“I believe the word you’re looking for is hello, Megumi,” Satoru teases, reaching across to ruffle his already unruly hair. Megumi grumbles, batting his offending hand away.

“Gojo ate your sandwich,” you chirp. 

“What?” Satoru yells, incredulous, “I did not. You gave it to me—tell him!” 

You have much more fun watching Satoru scramble than defending his honor. It’s only when Satoru gives his best pout that you admit to Megumi that you offered up his sandwich, consoling him with the fact that it included his least favorite ingredient and making it up by pulling out two cartons of strawberry milk for him. Megumi accepts them both with quiet thanks, cheeks growing pink to match the cartons, and you smiling widely when he takes his first sip. 

Satoru had a hunch those were for Megumi. So, this isn’t one-sided. Good for you kids. 

It’s another twenty-six minutes before it’s time for you all to get off the train. The Gojo-Fushiguro residence and your great aunt’s house are in opposite directions, but are both just a short five minute journey from the station exit. One you can certainly make on your own, and still, Megumi insists that you let the dogs walk with you and that he’ll release them once you’re home. 

“It’s good practice,” Megumi mumbles, shooing you on your way uphill, “I want to know how long I can keep them out, too.” 

You have that same look on your face that you had earlier, like you don’t quite believe Megumi, but just as with earlier, you don’t say anything, sparing Megumi and Satoru a formal goodbye and a wave before heading home. Satoru and Megumi turn to walk back to their own house, he can’t help but to smile every time Megumi turns his head to look back at your silhouette. 

Satoru decides that you’re not Megumi’s anchor, you’re the lighthouse that guides him to shore, a light that he follows with faith and reason; a safe haven that Megumi seeks to protect. Satoru can admire that, but he wonders what happened that could make the most unruly kid he knows pledge his allegiance like that. Megumi would have refused Satoru’s aid if he hadn’t agreed to let you stay in his life, and although he’d chalked it up to puppy love before, Satoru’s beginning to wonder if there’s anything he, or anyone, even could do to separate the two of you. 

Likely not, he concludes, when two weeks later, your class goes on a field trip and Megumi is the one who comes home exhausted and crashes onto the couch immediately. When Satoru asks, all he gets is a tired grunt; but shortly after Megumi falls asleep, he can feel a few extra shadows at his feet, and a glimpse of the white dog before she completely vanishes into the darkness. 

Satoru chuckles, leaning down to ruffle Megumi’s hair before heading to the kitchen to make a snack for Tsumiki. If this is the rate that Megumi trains to keep his loved ones protected, then Satoru has no worries about him getting strong enough to keep up with him.

nerd!gojo is so cute! please give him a kiss on the cheek for me.

you stare at the note you found in your locker. it's written in glittery purple ink, which only adds to the insult.

gojo, "cute"??? give him a kiss on the cheek???

like an ill omen summoned by its name, a terrible presence looms over your shoulder, "watcha got there?"

"hate mail." you say dispassionately as you quickly shove gojo away.

when you face him, you see gojo's face change - smooth features and rounded eyes hardening into anger.

"hate mail?" gojo frowns, "in your locker? who would send that?!"

"you want a list?" comes geto's snarky voice. "she's kind of a bitch."

you shoot him a glare, but gojo speaks before you can.

"don't talk about her like that."

the room feels a little bit colder. since when did gojo sound so... mean?

"i'm just saying," geto says, shrugging, "you'd know better than anyone, she's always on your ass."

"yeah, my ass," gojo turns to you, a pout on his face, "you're not bullying other people, are you? i don't have any other bullies."

only satoru gojo could get into an argument this stupid.

"no," you drone, "your drain on my time and attention is uncontested."

rather than being ashamed of this, gojo looks absolutely tickled.

even when you punch him in the shoulder, his good mood is undampened.

"nerd," you grouse, stalking off to your next class, which gojo naturally follows.

it sucked being in the same classes as him, but at least it meant you could get his help. he really is a huge nerd. all those hours you put into it, and he seems to understand everything effortlessly.

the class feels like it takes hours. you pay diligent attention, take so many notes, and somehow, gojo comes out of it completely chipper.

you're left in peace for a few blessed minutes afterwards as he bolts out of the room for some reason or another.

is he finally starting to fear you as his bully? took him long enough -

"here!" pressed into your hands, your favorite snack from the campus vending machine.

gojo smiles at you, that big, boyish smile that makes him look extra stupid. "sorry i messed up last time."

you don't know what comes over you. maybe it's pure delirium brought on by hunger. or the joy from having something nice to eat.

maybe it's a new form of torture, humiliating him by making him endure a kiss from his bully.

it's just a kiss on the cheek. it's whatever.

he stands there, still, face completely red, blue eyes wide in shock. gojo looks even dumber than usual, which shouldn't even be possible.

you fan your face for a moment as you turn to leave.

"come on, you idiot. we've got a test to study for."

gojo whistles some unbelievably stupid tune, practically skipping the whole way to the library.

"i can't believe it! she kissed me on the cheek!!! a real kiss!" "uh-huh." "don't uh-huh me, suguru, it was REAL! anyways, it all makes sense now. she was just hangry. no wonder she shoved me into a locker. it's my fault for not taking better care of her..." "would you listen to me if i reminded you that you're not dating and this is all pure delusion?" "not dating yet." "so a no, then," suguru says, rolling his eyes as he returns to his work. satoru's already finished with the homework and scrolling through his text message history with you, no doubt spamming you again with memes or pictures or just remarks. but you haven't blocked him yet, have you? suguru smiles to himself, closing his notebook, tucking away a shimmering violet pen.

a little nerd!bakugou x bimbo!reader drabble bc i love nerds!! :3

"mmh, i dunno, you're just so pretty, baby." you exhale shakily, batting your lashes seductively at the flustered boy sitting inches away from you with textbooks surrounding him on your bed. you were supposed to have a study night with your boyfriend, but it's hard when he looks like that! his cute reading glasses falling down his nose, a simple black tank, and messy blonde hair after a long day. katsuki's nose twitches as he readjusts his position. your hand falls to his knee, your thumb rubbing in small circles while waiting for him to make eye contact with you. he shyly drops the pen in his hand, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a nervous sigh. "we haveta study babe. ya promised, r'member?" he huffs, grabbing ahold of your hand while you slightly pout your glossy lip. you whine, scooting closer to him so you can feel his hot breath fanning against your face. "but honey..." you whine in a sugary-sweet tone. "i need you.." you whisper, pawing at the collar of his shirt. "fuck this." katsuki spits, throwing the textbook of his lap and pulling your neck towards him into a heated kiss.

I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME - Masterpost

🏒❤️ A Hockey Romance feat. modern!Sukuna

Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Sukuna x Reader (female) Genre: College AU, Hockey AU, fluff + smut Playlist: I wanna be your Endgame Warnings: 18+, smut, fuckbuddies to lovers, semipublic/public sex, dirty talk, creampie, oral, handjobs, fingering, hickeys, mentions of cigarettes + alcohol. Reader is a creative writing student. Sukuna is an ice hockey player + history student. This story will have approximately 13 chapters. Minors don't interact. Header by me. Divider @/benkeibear

Chapter 01

Chapter 02

Chapter 03

Chapter 04

Chapter 05

Chapter 06

Chapter 07

Chapter 08

Chapter 09

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 - coming soon -

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Accompanying art for this series:

Smoke break with Sukuna by @sweetlandspos

Sukuna during practice by @samaraxmorgan

Thank you so much for those beautiful and sexy pictures!!

To get added to the taglist please comment or send me an ask (18+ only) ♥️

very niche drabble from my drafts but honestly i would die without posting anything new in a day so i hope y'all will like this and see the vision LMAO, will have different parts <3 since lyra have pointed it out, just saying now that the reader is the cashier :D

isekai'd as game protag nerdjo x isekai'd as saintess npc reader, fluff.

the sunlight catches in your hair again.

satoru doesn’t mean to look. really. he doesn’t. but it’s kind of impossible not to when it glows like that—when every strand shimmers gold in the light of the descending sun like threads spun from divinity itself. it’s almost offensive, honestly. like the devs knew exactly what they were doing when they coded your idle animation to lean forward with a hum and tuck a loose wisp behind your ear just so.

he shifts his weight from one boot to the other, arms crossed, mouth tight, trying to look casual and not like he’s completely entranced by the way the snow melts before it even touches you.

he shouldn't be staring. he shouldn't want to.

because he already has a crush.

back home—real home—there’s a girl who works at the little corner store where he always buys his merch and energy drinks and plastic gacha keychains. she wears cute earrings. remembers his name. slips extra digimon stickers into his bag when she thinks he’s not looking.

he can’t seem to recall what she looked like, probably because of this whole isekai thing but he was sure about one thing. he was going to ask for her number, eventually. probably. maybe. someday.

but still he could not peel his gaze away.

you’re kneeling by a bed of bluebells—early bloom, thanks to your passive skill, blessing of spring. soft petals brush against your fingertips as you gently trace the outline of each flower, humming a song he’s pretty sure isn’t in the game’s ost. a small smile plays on your lips. the world around you feels alive in a way it never did when he played this on his old console—birds chirp too realistically, snowflakes glint too sharply, the wind carries your voice just enough to tease at the edge of his hearing.

and he’s just standing there. holy sword at his side. cape slightly crooked. heart lodged firmly in his throat.

“you’re staring again,” their rogue probably says behind him. maybe it’s their archer this time. he doesn’t hear. or rather—he refuses to.

because how the hell is he supposed to focus on defeating the demon king when you smile like that?

he’s the hero now. the chosen one. satoru gojo, level 99 celestial knight. maxed-out stats in everything that mattered: strength, speed, light magic resistance, charisma so broken it’s been nerfed twice since launch. and yet here he is—still taking psychic damage from the way your lashes flutter when you blink at him.

he’s been here for weeks ever since dozing off in a middle of some cutscene. isekai’d straight into his favorite game—celestial hearts: divine war of fate—which was absolutely not supposed to be a dating sim. it was about strategy and honor and battle mechanics. not about feelings or pretty saintess girls in glowing white cloaks and soothing voices who keep patting his head when he looks tired.

“sir gojo?” you say gently, glancing over your shoulder at him, smile soft and patient.

your eyes catch the light and sparkle—sparkle, literally sparkle. like someone turned the shader settings all the way up just for you. “you look flushed. are you feeling alright?”

“y–yeah,” he says, cracking audibly. god. why did his voice do that. he clears his throat. straightens up. resets his face to what he thinks is a neutral, knightly expression. “must be the sun. y’know. too hot.”

you blink. your lips part in polite confusion, and you glance up at the sky.

“but it’s snowing.”

“…right.”

his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing restlessly in his gloves. damn this game. damn the developers. damn their incredible, stupid attention to detail. your hands—bare, of course—hover over the flowers again, cupping one like a tiny offering. your sleeves fall past your wrists, white and gold embroidery catching the breeze. he knows your bio by heart: “saintess of the divine spring, miracle maiden of light,” the usual npc flavor text. maxed healing. high affinity scores. probably a tragic backstory somewhere in your questline.

but none of that mentioned how your laugh sounds like windchimes strung across heaven’s gate.

“sir gojo,” you say again, standing now, brushing imaginary dust and flower petals from your skirts. your movements are dainty, practiced, but your brows draw slightly inward with genuine concern. “you’ve been standing still for a while. are you sure you’re not overheating?”

his cape flutters awkwardly in the wind. his fingers go rigid. he can’t even blink.

girl. please.

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again, as if maybe this time something normal will come out.

“maybe i’m…” his voice trails off as he wills his brain to function. “overheating from your… divine radiance?”

the words leave him like a spell miscast.

a pregnant pause.

then—your eyes go wide. your lips twitch. and you laugh.

not a dainty giggle this time, but a laugh. soft and delighted and surprised all at once, curling from your throat like a melody no bard could replicate. you lift your sleeve to hide your smile, cheeks faintly pink—not blushing, no, the game probably just coded you to respond to compliments with a heat shader—

he’s going to die.

he’s actually going to drop dead right here in the middle of a flower field over a non-playable character.

somewhere deep in the forest, a bowstring snaps with unnecessary violence. someone—probably the mage—lets out a strangled, exhausted noise of pure despair.

satoru barely notices. he’s busy fighting for his life.

you’re still smiling at him. the wind rustles the bluebells. your hair glows like god’s personal sunbeam. the scene is perfect. it looks like a damn cg cut-in. he expects text to pop up any second with your name and some sappy line like “i’m glad you’re here, brave knight.”

but instead you just say, softly, with an amused little tilt of your head, “you’re strange, sir gojo.”

“i get that a lot,” he mumbles.

and somehow, impossibly, you smile brighter.

he has to beat the demon king. return to his world. back to traffic, vending machines, anime reruns, and microwaved curry. back to a life without hand-drawn skies and snow that melts against your skin and the way you say his name like it’s a blessing.

but you’re looking at him now like he’s the one glowing.

and satoru thinks—maybe. maybe just a little longer.

a few more days of fumbling compliments, of you laughing at his dumb jokes, of trying not to combust every time your hands brush his.

a few more days of your soft voice calling him “sir gojo” like you don’t even realize you’ve already enchanted him more deeply than any demon ever could.