bake me up, buttercup
pairing — gym rat satoru x baker reader
synopsis : satoru gojo’s life is a meticulously curated empire of protein shakes, gym selfies, and the unwavering adoration of six million followers. he’s got it all down to a science, a perfect balance of macros and influence that’s starting to feel just a little empty. but when a late-night scroll leads him to your quiet corner of the internet, everything changes. it’s not about your face—he’s never seen it. it’s about your hands, steady and dusted with flour, and your voice, a warm, patient hum that makes him forget all about his post-workout cardio. suddenly, the man who prides himself on control finds himself completely obsessed with a baker who offers something sweeter and far more dangerous than any cheat meal: a little bit of peace.
or: he could break the internet with a single photo, but he’s about to risk it all for a girl who accidentally liked his post one time.
wc ࣪— 39k ִֶָ☾. tags -> f!reader, plot with porn, influencer au, modern setting, fluff, humor, banter, slow burn, food as a love language, mutual pining, eventual smut, sexual tension, making out, food play, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, praise kink, marking, satoru goes feral, unsafe sex, rough sex, size kink, it won’t fit trope, breeding kink, creampie, aftercare, domestic fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, marriage proposal, wedding fluff, happy ending
athy says, hi my lovies, i'm looking at my follower count and i genuinely can't believe we've hit 9k before this little blog of mine is even six months old. thank you, from the bottom of my heart. this fic has been simmering away in my drafts for what feels like an eternity, and i wanted to dedicate it to all of you as a thank you. it's super soft, a little cheesy, and hopefully the perfect thing to curl up with. i hope you all enjoy it!! ♡(ӦｖӦ｡)
satoru gojo has never needed hashtags to break the internet.
he knows this the same way he knows his post-workout selfies could fund a small country’s economy, the same way he knows that the gym mirror loves him more than his own mother ever did.
so when he drops his phone against his sweat-dampened chest and angles it just right—shadows cutting across the landscape of muscle he’s carved with religious devotion, that mess of hair catching the fluorescent light like spun moonlight, eyes the color of winter storms narrowed in that signature smirk—he doesn’t bother with captions longer than “cardio day.”
six million followers don’t need context. they need salvation, and apparently, he’s their god.
