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୨♡୧ HOMECOMING — gojo satoru x reader. sfw. domestic fluff.
gojo’s side of the bed is empty when you wake up—just like it had been last night.
a yawn keeps you from frowning but your eyebrows knit together in either mild annoyance or worry, maybe a mix of both. you had stayed up the previous night expecting to at least hear the door open because satoru had promised he would be home and you always put your faith in his word. though, as your eyelids began to droop with drowsiness, you knew you wouldn’t be awake to welcome him back.
you expected to wake with him beside you, fluffy white hair hiding his cerulean gaze. his absence, while bothersome, makes a sense of unease sprout in your chest. satoru isn’t one to stray from his plans—not when it comes to you. if he still isn’t home even after the sun has risen, its rays threatening to peek through your curtains, then something held him up. as much as you try to ignore the details of his work, you’re well aware of the dangers gojo faces when he’s away.
any lingering frustration you feel withers away at the thought that something bad must have happened. you aren’t sure how much you can do having just woken up but you toss the comforter to the side and jump out of bed, sliding into your slippers. you reach for your phone in hopes of getting in contact with someone; gojo, shoko, anyone who might be in the know. you’re scrolling for his contact when you hear a commotion from the kitchen—a swear and the sound of a pan falling.
the noise would have alarmed you if you didn’t recognize the voice—it’s satoru. breathing out a sigh of alleviation, the tension melts from your shoulders as you toss your phone on the bed and make your way down the hall. when you reach the kitchen, you’re met with the sight of him, one hand on his hip and the other pushing snowy hair away from his forehead. if you had to guess, the cause of his distress is likely the half-cooked pancake splattered on the stovetop. it’s impossible for you to muffle the laugh that bubbles up from your throat.
the sound catches gojo’s attention and his head whips in your direction. much to your relief, he’s made it back to you safe and unscathed. it’s almost enough for you to disregard the mess he’s made upon his return. almost. you grin, jerking your head towards the batter spotting the stove. “making breakfast?”
sensing your jovial mood, gojo mirrors your smile as he approaches you, setting his hands on your waist. “something like that.”
he dips his head down to press a feather-light kiss to your hairline before tipping your chin up to give you a deeper one on your lips. he tastes of coffee sweetened by sugar and creamer, the syrupy flavor remaining even after he pulls away. his right hand comes up to caress the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and you lean into the warm, comforting touch.
“sorry i didn’t make it home last night. the higher-ups held me longer than i expected.” you can feel the authenticity of his former statement and the irritation of his latter. your head is nodding in understanding before you know it. gojo continues, “breakfast in bed was supposed to accompany my apology but…”
“you’re a terrible cook?” you finish his sentence, glancing at the mess he managed to make before meeting his eye once more.
“hey.” he pouts, poking his lip out in a show of petulance. his theatrics make you breathe out a short laugh. “one mistake is not a reflection of my cooking skills.”
that much would be true if it were anyone other than gojo. you’re aware of his track record in the kitchen and it’s composed of many incidents similar to this one. though, you think you’ll cut him some slack this time around because his intentions were so pure.
you wrap your arms around his midsection and give him a squeeze, hugging him like you wish you could have last night. satoru cradles the back of your head, smoothing a hand over your hair in soothing strokes. you rest your chin on his chest, right over his heart, and look up at him through your eyelashes. “bad cooking aside,” he frowns at that but stays quiet, which makes you smile, “i appreciate the gesture. so, thank you.”
everything about your expression from the soft smile gracing your lips to the sparkle in your still-sleepy eyes tells gojo that you really are grateful for his botched attempt at an apology. though, as far as he’s concerned, you deserve more than an inedible, half-cooked pancake and a spoken “sorry.” he’s more than equipt to give you that. placing another quick kiss on your forehead, satoru pats your butt with his next words. “get dressed.”
“sorry?” your eyebrows raise in question and partial surprise at the unexpected love tap.
“i might not be very good at making breakfast but i can certainly buy it.” he swallows his pride for your sake, suggesting a new idea that’s still related to his initial plan. “go put on something nice and i’ll take you to that cafe you like.”
you grin at gojo’s proposal and his determination to make up for not keeping his promise. while you would have settled for his simple apology and mere presence, you’re finding it difficult to turn the offer down. “okay. but you have to clean this,” you gesture to the mess behind him, “up, please.”
he nods. “for you, anything.”
thanks for reading! consider commenting or reblogging if you enjoyed ❤︎
His perfect Sunday ft. Ukai
Ukai Keishin x gn reader
Word count: ~600
Tags & warnings: fluff, alcohol (wicked hangover), + 1 ass grab
Note: Soft (and hard) for him. Predictable.
Keishin groans, turning around in an attempt to elude the beams of light sneaking their way into the bedroom from the edges of the blinds.
When he can no longer avoid the sun, he cracks his eyelids open and reaches up to rub the sleep from his eyes. The blurry bedroom slowly comes into focus.
His arms are sore as he brings them back down, a reminder of whatever he got up to last night, he can barely remember. His mouth and throat too feel parched and raw when he swallows. Pure muscle memory was the only thing that gave him the wherewithal to make it back to the apartment this morning, stumbling in and locking the door behind him.
His eyes land on the glass of water beside him and he gulps it down in a rush, ignoring the drops that dribble out of the corner of his mouth and land onto the sheets. More awake now, he inhales the heady aroma of coffee and freshly-cooked rice wafting into the bedroom. A grunt escapes him as he pushes his body up to sit at the edge of the bed. The movement makes his head spin and his stomach lurch unpleasantly.
He knows he can’t drink like he used to anymore, but he sure as hell tried to relive those younger days with Naoi yesterday. Both of them wanted to celebrate the beginning of another season, hopefully one that will see their teams face off at nationals again just like in previous years.
At least he doesn’t feel the familiar pounding of a morning-after headache. You’d cocked an eyebrow when he assured you that you didn’t have to worry, he doesn’t drink like that anymore. But you knew him well enough to be incredulous. He was grateful for that when he fumbled his way to the kitchen after getting home, gulping down the bottle of Pocari and two tablets of ibuprofen you’d left out for him, knowing he actually doesn't drink like that anymore, but that he definitely would drink like that if he was out with Naoi.
So, even though he feels like shit this morning, it’s because of you that he doesn’t feel like absolute fucking dogshit.
He shuffles to the kitchen to find you at the stove. A song plays quietly from the speakers and you’re humming along, dropping cubes of tofu into a pot, dappled sunlight dancing across your arms and legs as you sway to the music.
He’s starting to feel better already.
“Morning drunkard,” you murmur affectionately as you pour him a mug of coffee. “When’d you get back?”
“Way too late,” he rasps, gulping down a mouthful before immediately spitting it back out.
“FUCK that’s hot.”
You roll your eyes. “You always do that.”
“Warn a man next time,” he grumbles, grabbing a towel to wipe up the counter.
“Do you seriously need me to tell you that coffee is hot?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans against the refrigerator door, his stomach gurgling as he watches you stir what smells like miso soup. “Thanks for leaving the stuff out last night babe.”
You wave off his thanks. “Breakfast will be ready in a minute. And you know you’re getting too old to drink like that, right?” You tease, lips quirking playfully.
“I’ll show you old…” he growls, putting his mug down with a clunk and reaching out to grab a handful of your ass. “C’mere, I’m starving.”
Your laughter rings out as you obediently switch off the stove, sidling over to wrap your arms around his neck and press your chest against him. “And what do you want me to do about that, old man?”
Keishin wastes no time giving you an answer.
If only every Sunday could be like this one.