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Boblin week day 5: old / memory

scrolling through pinterest for inspo i found a vintage prom dress and one thought led to the other. imo Linda probably cringes really hard at her actual prom date (chosen by her mom) so this ''collage'' is the way she found to look at her prom pictures and actually enjoy it lol. @boblinweek

MY ONLY ONE

gojo satoru x gn reader based on this tweet <3 pure fluff

i’m such a loser for him !!! sorry if this is cheesy LOL

“Can I ask you something?”

Perched on the edge of your bed, Satoru’s thumb beats percussively against his thigh, eyes sparkling with an anticipation you can practically feel vibrate off of him as he awaits your response.

The tone of his voice is far too exuberant to not be considered suspicious; you find yourself raising an eyebrow in question, curious and skeptical. Granted that his long history of inquiries have towered over concerning more than they have entertaining, his excitement, to say the least, is a bit unsettling.

But still, he is Satoru, after all — your satoru, so while you know better than to trust that soft, soft smile of his, pulled tight at the corners of his mouth — the same one he wears when he’s only seconds away from getting himself into trouble — you choose to indulge him anyway.

“Of course.”

He perks up even more, like a dog wagging its tail in front of its owner. It’s more adorable than you’d like to admit to yourself. “Do you know how to whistle?”

“Whistle?”

“Yep!” he singsongs, leg bouncing incessantly against the hardwood floor, the action only proving himself to be a restless bundle of energy. “Just learned Geto could do it, so I was curious about you.”

Knowing him, this is much more innocent than you thought it would be. Your shoulders, which have stiffened unbeknownst to you, immediately deflate as you feel every trace of unease withdraw from your body. You’d expected something a bit more worrisome or horrific, since he’s always had a knack for following his sporadic impulses, but this is a pleasant surprise.

“Can you not whistle?”

From beside you, Satoru huffs, movements put to a halt as he whines: “I can! I never said I couldn’t!”

You laugh at his defensiveness, full of mirth. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Can’t a man be curious about the love of his life?”

“They can,” you confirm with a shake of your head, though it comes out sounding more of a question than an answer. “It’s just a little scary when it’s from you.”

Any normal person would have stomped a foot down, would have jut their chin out indignantly before leaving the room, vexed and seething. But Satoru is Satoru, and he’s always had an awful habit of using statements like this as fuel for his bottomless pit of an ego, so he only grins.

“Oh god,” you groan upon seeing his expression.

“Answer my question pleaseee,” he says, voice reedy.

“Satoru,” you huff, eyes rolling in exasperation. “I’m pretty sure everyone can whistle.”

“Prove it,” he challenges.

“Prove it?”

“Or else I won’t believe you.”

“Are you a child?”

He giggles in response. “Maybe. I wanna see.”

So you prove him wrong; you pucker your lips, leaving just enough space for air to pass through. But before you can let out a sound, he leans in, gently pressing his lips against yours to give you a light kiss before pulling away and batting his lashes triumphantly.

You blink, taken aback. Once, twice — slowly, as if those milliseconds of darkness would somehow provide you with clarity once you opened your eyes.

It was so quick, akin to the strike of a match against a lighting strip, so brief yet so explosive. It felt like a million things all at once, his lips on yours, like fireworks. There, then no longer, but still remaining all the same. You wonder how any of that is possible, but this is Satoru you’re talking about — the same man who blithely takes selfies after beating the shit out of anyone who needed to be handled, the same man who sulks like a petulant child when you deny him his kikufuku mochi before meals, the same man who always, always draws out the best from you even when you don’t believe in yourself.

Oh, you think. Oh god. Him and his dumb tactics.

It’s adorable. He’s adorable. You hate him.

He’s biting on his lip, trying to fight back a smile that falls somewhere in between bashful and thrilled. You know better, though. Know that even amidst those two emotions, he’s also nervous. Incredibly so. Those soft strands of hair you’ve carded a hand through several times do nothing to conceal the faint pink dusting the tip of his ear, neither does it hide the spreading flush on his cheeks. “Oh, Satoru,” you croon, melting.

“That was good, right?” He fiddles with his fingers, eyes wide and expectant. “It was cute, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” you assure, reaching over to cup your hands around his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. You resist, only slightly, the urge to pinch him until the butterflies in your chest disappear. “You’re so cute. So cute, Satoru. I love you.”

“I’m so cute,” he repeats after you, beaming with pride at your approval. “I’m so smart too. You hear that, baby? Your boyfriend is the smartest person alive. He’s the strongest too. And you love him! Me! I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You laugh in return.

You want to tell him that — for one, he’s actually the dumbest person to ever exist, in your humble opinion. There’s not a day that goes by without him wearing your patience thin or asking you how to do the simplest of tasks. But that isn’t really important, since you love him all the same. Though, for two, and most importantly, you want to tell him that it’s not him who’s lucky. It’s you.

You’re the lucky one. The luckiest, really. You don’t think you could ever find love with someone other than Satoru. He’s the only one who could ever define that conflicting concept and make it make sense. He’s the only one who could build apart your broken heart and turn it into something more beautiful than just fragmented pieces. He’s the only one. He’s it for you.

In the end, you don’t tell him either. It’s not like he’d ever entertain any possibility of you loving him more than he does you anyway, so it’d be a losing game. Instead, you tap a finger on his nape three times, gently, to redirect his attention to you. When his eyes meet yours, crystalline blue irises gazing at you with so much love that it unravels you, you tell him, “you really like your kisses, huh?”

“I’d die without them,” he states dramatically.

You chuckle lightheartedly. “Next time, you can just ask,” you begin, leaning towards him — closer and closer until you two are only a breath apart. “But honestly, you don’t need to. You never have to.”

Then you close the gap and kiss him, slowly, because there’s no need to rush when you have all the time in the world. This too, feels like a million things all at once. It alchemizes you. Turns you into a lovesick mess. Has you grasping at his hair for more — more, more, more. And then you think that, maybe what Satoru said moments prior to this wasn’t so dramatic after all, because with his lips on yours, you’re sure you’d die without his kisses, too.