And Though I Can’t Recall Your Face, I Still Got Love For You ｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Dear Future Me…

in which gojo travels inexplicably to the future

not proofread; enjoy

one minute gojo’s walking on the street, heading over to your house to pick you up for a picnic, on the phone with megumi who’s at the grocery store buying a last minute cake, and one minute he’s…not. a flash of light from the other side of the road, too fast to avoid even with gojos unhumanlike reaction time. hes pushed forwards, or was it backwards, and a cold wind whips around him, making goosebumps form on his arms. and then suddenly, hes back, except things are a little different. take the road for example, seems much too worn out for a road newly paved last week. and your house. its painted a welcoming green, with a cute red door, not the yellow it used to be. theres a new tree in your garden, blossoming flowers gojo knew wasnt there before. his attention turns on the movement of the front door, opening to reveal…you. you look beautiful, but much older than when he last saw you. gojos breath is taken away by how you glow, your smile lighting up the sky, just like it always is. and then, unexpectedly, just as hes about to call out to you, someone walks out the door behind you.

“what the fuck…” gojo mumbles to himself, watching an older, fitter, hotter (if he may say so himself), and possibly wiser gojo walk out of the door and lock it gently, before wrapping an arm around your waist and poking at a yellow bundle you have in your hands. this is a lot for now-gojo, as we must resort to calling him, to take in. he...and you?? and his hand on your waist?? and…and.

“holy shit…” gojo breathes. the yellow bundle is a baby. now-gojo sees that now, as little hands reach out towards your cheeks, and as future gojo lifts it out of the bundle of blankets in your arms and into his chest. the wispy sunlight catches the babys face just as it is tucked into future gojos chest, and its eyes, bright blue like pools of dreams and hope, quite lovely gojo thinks, take all the weight off his shoulders and he breathes a sigh of relief so deep he physically sags down.

when gojo looks up again, he is back on the newly paved street leading up to your house. “…hello? you there?? you havent answered me in like ten minutes. i asked red velvet or cheesecake. you good-“ megumis voice streams from the speaker on gojos phone.

“ye-yeah. yeah. im good megumi. very good actually. splendid. now if i may, i have a visit to pay to someone.”

“not y/n again…” megumi grumbles as his voice fades into nothingness.

gojo smiles, a new pep in his step as he leans forward to knock on your door.

“g’mornin pretty,” he winks at you, “i gotta tell you somethin’. “

Megumi kisses you for the first time on Valentine's Day. It's a simple thing really, a gentle maneuver so swift you don't have time to question it.

The TV screen flashes with each change in angle, painting your apartment's living room with the vivid tones of cinema. The soundtrack booms against your ears— or as much as it can, coming from those tiny speakers.

Your just-as-single-and-lonely partner for today has been awfully quiet tonight, considering he picked this year's movie. You glance at Megumi, expecting to see him slouched and half asleep like usual, only to find long lashes and pretty green eyes already staring back at you. He seems surprised, caught in the act or whatever you want to say, but he doesn't shy away.

He's thinking— you can tell by the look on his face. His brows furrow and he bites at his lip. "What are yo–"

Oh.

His lips taste like strawberry soda, syrupy sweet in all the best ways. A calloused palm cups your cheek, gently coaxing you further into him. Before you can breathe, before you can blink, he pulls away, tongue darting out to savor the lingering taste of you.

He's thinking again, because he's staring at you again, and you hope to God he's wants to kiss you a second time. You'd do it yourself if you weren't so stunned, heart jackhammering out of your chest as you try to process what he just did.

There’s a pretty blush blooming across his cheeks, the tips of his ears most definitely hot to the touch. He goes to speak, lips parting on an inhale, but decides against it, opting to push back a stray hair from your forehead.

He doesn't kiss you again, and he doesn't say anything about it either. He just turns back to the TV, trying his hardest not to let his breath catch in his throat. He puts on a passive face, but underneath the mask, you know Megumi is nervous. Oh-so nervous that in trying to control his breathing, he forgets to stop the tremor in his hands. Lithe fingers toy with themselves in his lap, cracking knuckles that don't need to pop and wiping his palms on gray sweatpants.

It's your turn to stare at him, to wonder if you can ask all the questions racing through your head, like what the hell that was for and what he meant by it.

An explosion on the screen steals your attention for a split second, and when you turn back to the boy who just kissed you— the boy who is nervously fidgeting on your couch after the fact, you can't help the soft smile that tugs on corners of your mouth.

You don't say a word. Instead, you lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder and pretending not to notice the tension leave his body.

Valentine's Day was always fun with Megumi, but this year feels a little extra special. Perhaps there was some extra love floating around just for the two of you.

💌 — :0 whaaa?! a letter?

i hope you enjoy this little drabble for the cutest holiday in the world. inspiration struck when i was daydreaming about my stupid bf, and i couldn't resist writing about him. also, i wrote this incredibly fast, so i'm sorry for the quality/any mistakes lol. happy valentine's day to all the lovely people in my computer screen. xoxo, somi <3

Dragon fruit Plushie

gojo satoru.

a freshly turned seventeen year old, with crass and violence only ever painting him—most get tired of him. because when the pretty thing opens his mouth, without you present to offer silent sympathy, it never ends well.

as the passage of time carries on, change in gojo is little, but hefty in others surrounding him; accustomed and changed befitting to survive through his moods.

but the.. curiosity (maybe even frustration from people who see him in a romantic plight) only becomes covered in layers, instead of dying down. to question his character, the incessant wonder for the reason of his friskiness.

and he’s aware— observes the dull remarks or lingering eyes with nothing more than a shrug that is a second too quick and barely noticeable pout, the jut of his lower lip acting as a childish gateway to his feelings.

in his head, taking the title as the strongest, fingertips skimming heaven, it has no setbacks.

despite his denies, his power never came without stripping something; ousting him from the realm of elysian and chaining him to humanity. giving him traits of a god but characteristics of a human.

and what they failed to give him, was a proper tongue.

in moments like these, more specifically.

finding you sitting on the engawa shrouded in shadows, while he took his usual midnight walk when sleep didn’t come.

his stomach drops without reason, yet his feet carries him towards you, sitting close enough to bump shoulders. you’ve bumped hips, shoulders and heads before, forever affectionate and familiar— this time it feels wrong. your body motionless and swayed slightly with his movement.

he clenches and unclenches his hands, staring out towards the training grounds as you are. his normal banter isn’t coming to him, and you haven’t said a word.

with a few blinks, his eyes rest on the side of your face, and he turns into a jumble of nerves and shock when he sees your eyes cloudy and a wet trail of tears left behind. tears that have been shed not long since he joined you because your skin glistens.

he gulps, hard.

and when his hand softly touches your thigh, caressing the flesh with hesitant strokes, your gaze flits on him. immediately he drops eye contact, focusing on drawing patterns on your skin as his complexion pinks with your attention. you tilt your head slightly in his direction, drinking in his attempt of comfort.

you lean on him gently, your face finding its home on his neck. the feeling of your wet eyelashes on his skin sends shivers down him. your chest rises and falls, and with each breaths he counts, the uncertainty in his touches dwindles. your lips curve upwards when you feel his arm travel across your waist, tugging you closer.

(you know the reason for his bravado. though you’ll hand it to him that it’s nothing but subtle.

articulating his emotions will never come to him easy. he will never know how to start or say it right. awkward and tense at times of vulnerability, so he resorts to puffing out his chest and making it worse, sticking with the hot headed persona.)

as he angles his head on top of yours, quiet in hopes to calm the turmoil brewing behind your eyes, you have half a mind to tell him he’s not as bad as he fears.

but for now, you like being the only one who cracks his facade.

The Onion’s journalism is the only journalism that matters. Holy fuck.

not pulisic sacrificing his ability to have children for a goal

different viewpoints

“To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”

ralph waldo emerson