Im Feeling The Overwhelming Amount Of Love - Tumblr Posts

'WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW' GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo crawls back to you for comfort after having a near-death experience .ೃ࿐

cw/ tw. mild angst, hurt/comfort, hint of being touch-starved, feelings, non-sorcerer reader, bath washing, kind of a fix-it-fic, implied friends to lovers 

an. I don't think I ever posted this on my @/satorini account, but this is my first dip into canon and I was too nervous to upload it here...heh reblogs are appreciated!

Being with Satoru is sometimes a bit overwhelming, like when he talks about things you don’t understand and disappears for days, weeks—and sometimes months—without offering so much as a be back soon.

Some days, he comes back a little different, more changed. It’s the times he looks at you from across the table of a quaint cafe, and it feels like you’re staring back at a stranger—similar to that first date when neither of you knew what to say—something close to bare indifference until it shifts into interest.

It’s why you don’t know what to say when he shows up on your doorstep after weeks of silence. Of no messages, no calls. Of worrying. Out of the jumbled mess of conflicting feelings, anger is the one that comes the easiest. “What are you doing here?”

He ducks his head, and his fingers tug at his ear. The flowers in his hand are slightly crushed, several of them wilted, with petals falling at your feet when he holds them out to you. “You still like tulips, right?”

"Allergic, actually."

"Right."

You sigh. “It’s been weeks. You haven’t talked to me in weeks. 

His lips quirked into an almost smile. “Are you saying you missed me?”

“Why are you here?”

The expression on his face shifts, turning the polished edges into something more ragged, more open. And honestly, he looks more human for it. Touchable in a sense when he often felt out of reach.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispers, his voice hitching. 

You've never heard him sound like that before. Vulnerable. Somehow smaller than life.

It’s then that you notice him lilting to the side, probably to take the weight off where he’s injured, and you find it hard to hold onto the hurt and anger you’ve been stewing over the past couple of weeks.

The hinges on your door groan a little as you open it wider. “Come on. I’ll run a bath.”

You run your fingers through his hair, washing away the dirt and congealed blood.

"What happened to your shirt?" you ask to break the silence, secretly wanting to hear his voice and know he’s okay after seeing the bath water turn pink from two passes of your washcloth across his back.

"Ruined it."

"So some poor shopkeeper let you into their store to buy flowers shirtless and covered in blood?"

"No," he sheepishly looks down at his knees, barely peeking through the bubbles. "I stole them from your neighbor's garden."

You roll your eyes. "You're lucky I like having you around."

"It didn't seem that way earlier."

"You know why I was upset.” You wash away the soap and add, “Still am."

"Would you let me make it up to you?"

"Maybe on a day when you show up on my doorstep with clothes on and flowers that aren't stolen, then yes."

"I thought you like it when I'm naked."

You huff, "I'll leave and make you wash yourself—"

He grabs your wrist so fast over his shoulder that you have to save yourself by gripping the side of the tub from almost slipping into it with him.

"Don't go. I'm sorry."

You hear the threads of panic in his voice and calmly try to reassure him. "It's okay. It’s okay. I won't."

The rest of his bath is quiet, and he lets you wash him until his hair is white again and his fingers turn pruney. You don’t leave when he steps out of the tub and slips on one of his spare boxers that have slowly taken over one side of your sock drawer. Nor do you make him wait long when you slide into bed beside him after changing out of your wet clothes and turning off the light.

It’s when he wraps himself around you that you allow yourself to admit that you were never really upset with him; rather, whether or not that ‘be back soon’ would really happen that’s been eating at you, and wondering if that's why he never actually says it. You’re not so clueless that you don’t understand the risks at stake with his job, but sometimes it’s easier to pretend you grew up in the same world so you’d worry less about the real dangers he faces. 

Plus, you missed this, just being near each other and feeling his chest rise and fall under your hands.

"Tell me you love me," the words are so soft against your neck that you're unsure if he meant for you to hear them, but then you notice the stiffness in his shoulders after a second too long of you saying nothing, and your stomach does this funny little flip as you comb your fingers through his hair. 

"Stay until the morning, and I'll say it." 

He's quiet, but you think he understands what you're not saying. It's all there in the way he holds you a little tighter, how you feel the tension melt from his body, and you have a feeling you'll wake up tomorrow morning and still find him lying next to you, snoring and softly mumbling in his sleep like he sometimes does. 

You trace the shell of his ear, counting his every inhale and exhale—coveting them in the very corners of your chest because it feels important that you do. "Always come back to me. I'll say anything you want."