#Gojo satoru x reader

[classyrbf]

classmate!gojo part 3!

classmate!gojo who has been watching you from afar for the past week now. His eyes are always gravitating towards you in class, trying to catch any other possible connection. He’s try so hard to convince himself that you’re not his mystery girl, but at this point he should just accept it. The photo of your nails was proof enough, not to mention how much of a rush you were in. Neither of you have texted or exchanged photos since then, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t driving him crazy. Every single day since then he can’t get you off of his mind, getting so hard from the thought of you that he has to sneak away to rub one out to your pictures or videos. He just can’t help himself.

He watches you in class, in the cafe area, even sees you walking on campus, doing normal things. He would have never guessed in a million years you were the one he sought after so badly. You hide it so well. But he knows deep down under that good girl persona you have, there’s a slut waiting to caught, waiting to be fucked and used like you told him all those times over text. He’ll make you break. He sees you sitting on a bench on campus just scrolling through your phone, knowing this is the perfect time to execute his plan.

He finally breaks contact, sending you a video he took of himself last night.

gojo: i miss you

it was simple, but he was hoping it’d work. He watches intently, a small smile spreading across your face, though he’s unsure if it’s because of him

gojo: send me something, yeah? miss seeing you, baby

and like clock work, he sees you get up, heading towards the bathrooms inside one of the campus buildings. What else to do but follow. He sees you slip into the bathroom, and now he finally has you where he wants you.

you enter the bathroom, riddled with excitement that he finally texted you. Maybe he didn’t catch on that you were the one sending him photos. Good, it means you can have more fun. You enter the stall, replaying the video of him jerking off, putting the phone close to your ear so you can his moans. You smile, your hands finding themselves under your skirt, rubbing your clit through your clothed pussy. Little do you know he’s standing right outside the door, waiting for you.

You unbutton your shirt and grab onto your tits, massaging them in your hand while you send him a video. Quickly, you send him another of your wet panties, still rubbing your clit.

you: missed you too. can you tell?

and gojo can’t believe it when he receives the videos, chuckling to himself at how slutty you can be. He saves the videos nonetheless and puts his phone back in his pocket, the bathroom door opening, you walking out, completely caught off guard. Your heart thumps against your chest, mouth hanging open like you want to say something but nothing is coming out. All you know is that you can’t stop staring at him. He’s smirking at you, eyeing like a piece of candy as he moves closer towards you, leaning over to whisper in your ear, “I know you’re little secret.” You’re frozen, unable to do a thing. You couldn’t even deny it at this point. “Give em to me,” he demands.

“W-what?” You blink, voice barely above a whisper. He moves back, a smug smile on his stupidly pretty face. God, he smells so good. And his whispering? You’re even more wet than before. He knows what he’s doing to you.

“Your cute little panties. Give them to me.” He’s so casual about it and makes you even more nervous yet more intrigued. You turn to go back into the bathroom but he grabs your arm. “No, no, no. Do it right here.”

“But—” you look around to see if anyone else is around.

“What? Scared of getting caught? Sure weren’t thinking about that when you sent me all these videos and pictures. So, hand them over.” He watches as you slightly bend over, reaching under your skirt and gently pulling your panties down, letting them fall to your ankles. You sheepishly pick them up, they’re coated in your slick, an embarrassing sight. He grabs them from you, chuckling at the wet stain. “Wasn’t so hard, right?” He shoves them into his back pocket.You shake your head no, unable to keep eye contact with him. All the confidence you had over text has completely disappeared in the presence of him. What were you even thinking? He’s Gojo Satoru. “Thank you for these, baby.” He steps closer towards you, cornering you against the wall. “Send me something else later on tonight. Oh, and make sure to stop hiding that pretty face of yours too, okay? I wanna see everything.” He grabs your chin, tilting it up so you were looking at him.

“Why don’t you just fuck me already? We’ve both been waiting long enough,” you abruptly ask. It was taking everything in you not to drop on your knees and let him fuck your face.

“I can fuck you right here if I wanted to. You know how’ve riled up you’ve gotten me for all these weeks? I get so hard thinking about you that it hurts. I can’t fucking cum if it doesn’t involve you. You’ve taken over my mind, made me go on this chase to figure out who you were. So, if I wanna make you wait a little more, then I’ll fucking do it.” He gritted his teeth, gripping your chin slightly tighter. “Remember, only good girls get rewarded.” He smirked, pulling away from you before walking out of the building like nothing happened.

previous part

[snail-day]

Okay. Breathe, Satoru. You can do this. It's just a sleepover. Just your girlfriend. Just the person you're absolutely, irrevocably obsessed with. Who you're trying really, really hard not to scare off.

Standing in your apartment, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from touching everything. You’re flitting around, casual, relaxed, while he’s trying to memorize the shape of your furniture, the smell of your space, the way you hum when you walk into the kitchen.

Satoru's baby-blues locking onto the bathroom door. “I’ll, uh... shower first, if that’s okay?” like it’s the most neutral, chill request ever. It’s not. He’s sweating. His ears are pink. You nod like it’s no big deal - of course it’s no big deal - but to him? It’s a very big deal.

He gently closes the bathroom door behind him. Worries if he makes too much of a sound, he will be banned from your fine establishment. Your things are everywhere. Shampoo bottles, conditioner, your razor, a little candle half-burned on the sink, your loofah hanging from the shower knob, the loofah. He stares at it for too long.

Are we at the loofah-sharing stage? Satoru wonders, frozen in place. It’s pink. Fluffy. It looks soft, and it’s yours, and he’s fighting every stupid urge in his body. “Don’t be weird,” muttering aloud, as if he can command himself into normalcy. Still, his fingers twitch. He holds it. Briefly. Gently. Just for a second. Just to say he did.

Then comes the body wash. He squirts out the tiniest amount and rubs it between his hands like it’s precious perfume. The scent hits him and he nearly slides down the wall. You smell like this. You smell like this all the time. How is he supposed to survive? Because now he smells like you.

Pressing his face into the steam and pretends it’s your neck. He’s sick. Maybe a little pathetic. He knows it. But he’s also just so in love. What can a guy do?

When he steps out, face flushed and hair damp, he feels like a teenage boy at his crush’s house for the first time - which, in his mind, he kinda is. You’re waiting for him in pajamas, makeup wiped off, looking soft and sleepy and so perfectly you. He thinks he might pass out.

And then… brushing teeth together. Should be simple. Should be normal. But nothing is normal around you. He’s beside you at the sink, trying to play it cool while your shoulder brushes his. You hum to yourself while brushing, glancing at him through the mirror, and he nearly foams at the mouth. Or maybe that’s the toothpaste. He’s not sure.

Then he sees it.

A little blob of foam at the corner of your lips.

Something happens to him. Something dark and unspeakable. He wants to kiss it away. He wants to lick it off your mouth like a psychopath. He stares. Blinks. Shakes his head like a wet dog. Absolutely not. No. Stop it.

What’s wrong with you, scolding himself. She’s just brushing her teeth. Like a person. A very pretty, perfect person.

He spits. Rinses. Avoids eye contact. Looks at the drain. Looks at your spit down the drain. Another weird thought. One that must be suppressed.

And then it’s time. Bedtime. Final boss.

Your bed is small. Cozy. Absolutely infested with plushies. He pretends to be annoyed but he secretly loves them. Even if they are plotting to kick him off the edge of the mattress. He climbs in carefully, unsure which plush is your favorite. Unsure what you'd do if he accidentally knocked one little guy off the floor. The blanket smells like your laundry. Like home. Like the future he wants with you.

You’re already under the covers, blinking at him sleepily, smile soft and content. Wearing his shirt and not much else. The fabric rides up your thighs and he has to look away before his brain fully melts. He deserves a prize for not making a move. Deciding to lay on his back, stiff, hands folded like he’s in a coffin. He doesn’t touch you. Not even a pinky. Be good, chanting to himself. Be good. You like her. You love her. You’re not a perv, you’re not a perv.

You shift closer.

A leg brushes his. A sigh escapes your lips. Your hand settles gently on his stomach like it belongs there.

He almost cries, something between a half whimper and a wheeze leaves his throat.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his arm around your waist. You don’t flinch. Don’t pull away. You lean into him.

He swears he hears wedding bells.

You fall asleep just like that, face nestled against his shoulder, breath even and slow. And he lies there, heart racing, brain fried, blinking up at the ceiling, Satoru would be getting no sleep tonight.

His thoughts are a mess: She’s so pretty. Is she really mine? What if I kissed her forehead? No, too soon. Maybe not. God, her skin is soft. I should move in. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. No, bad. Calm down. Be cool. Be a good boyfriend. Don’t get a boner. You’re cuddling. It’s fine. Just breathe. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.

He wants to. Touch you, that is. Just your waist. Just a hand on your back. Just to pull you closer and feel your heartbeat against his chest. But he doesn’t. He stays perfectly still. He doesn’t want to push anything. You haven’t done that yet, and he’d rather die than make you uncomfortable.

Except nothing’s okay. Because he’s so in love it physically hurts. Because you’re sleeping peacefully and trusting him with this little moment, and all he wants is to stay like this forever.

How are you sleeping so peacefully while he’s over here thinking about nothing but how perfect yoh are?

[alygator77]

── the last bite

cw: pure fluff. based on me and my husband 🙂‍↕️

“You always do this…” Satoru grumbles, pouting as he watches your fork hover over his plate.

“...do what?” You blink at him, feigning innocence, eyes flicking from his cake to the irritated gleam in his impossibly blue eyes.

He exhales dramatically, stabbing his fork into his dessert. “I offer to get you your own. You say you’re not that hungry. And yet—” he gestures dramatically at your thieving fork, “the second my food arrives, suddenly you want some.”

You spear a bite of cake and pop it into your mouth, humming as the sweet vanilla melts on your tongue. “I wasn’t hungry… but then I saw yours, and, well…” You shrug, licking a stray bit of frosting from your lip.

Satoru narrows his eyes.  “…you’re lucky you’re cute.

It’s the same game every time. You insist you don’t want anything, he orders enough food for an entire table, and then he acts personally victimized when you steal a bite. But the thing is—he secretly loves it.

Because when you reach for another piece, he doesn’t push the plate away. He just watches, twirling his fork between long fingers, head tilting slightly, strands of white hair falling into his eyes as if he cannot believe this is happening to him.

“Unbelievable...” he mutters.

And then—there’s one bite left.

You expect him to shovel it into his mouth, just to be a menace. He’s Gojo Satoru, after all. He loves his sweets almost as much as he loves annoying the hell out of you—it’s one of his favorite pastimes.

But instead, he sighs, scooping the last bite of cake onto his fork. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds it up to your lips, the blue of his eyes shimmering like liquid crystal as he waits, watching you expectantly.

You hesitate, blinking at him. “I… thought you didn’t like sharing?”

“I don’t,” he murmurs, voice lower, softer—nudging the fork closer. “But… I do like you.”

Gojo Satoru may complain, may huff and sigh like it’s the greatest inconvenience in the world, but at the end of the day… he’ll always give you the last bite.

[sinkuna]

୨୧ — Gojo notices everything about you, especially in moments like these when you’re curled up like a content little kitten on the couch. Your oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder as you wiggle your toes in those fuzzy socks, and how your nose scrunches adorably while focusing on catching that sneaky fish in Animal Crossing, completely lost in your virtual island paradise.

He also notices when you haven’t paid attention to him all day. And if Gojo Satoru isn't getting his daily dose of you, then something must be done.

"Mmn~, pay attention to meeeee," Gojo whined dramatically, flopping onto the couch with all the grace of an attention starved puppy. His fluffy white hair tickling your thighs as he positions himself between your legs, making you giggle despite trying to maintain concentration.

"Shhh, I'm trying to foc-eep~♡!" Your stern words dissolved into a pitiful little squeak as his strong arms suddenly wrapped around your legs, spreading them wide with playful enthusiasm. How those brilliant blue irises of his practically sparkled with a devilish glint made your heart skip as he noticed your lack of underwear, "N-Not now, Satoru, i want to play my-!!"

"Aww, but I wanna play too," he cooed, nuzzling against your inner thigh like an affectionate cat, "And look what pretty toy I found~ no panties? My adorable little player going commando? How scandalous~"

You try to close your legs when his warm breath ghosts across your exposed pussy, "S-Satoru!" you squealed, trying to keep your Switch steady even as heat flooded your cheeks, "don't you have literally anyone else to pester? L-like Nanami, he’s fun to annoy, right?"

He pouted dramatically, batting those impossibly long eyelashes, "I thought you knew?" He cocked his head at you while giving you the sweetest smile, "Pestering you is my favorite hobby. Besides..." he drags his tongue slowly up your slit, making you nearly drop your game, "Nanami could never taste this good."

Your gasp turned into a giggle that melted into a moan as he hummed happily like he's enjoying the sweetest dessert.

"Mmm, sweet as candy." he purred between licks, "Keep playing your game, sweetie. Let's see how long you can focus~"

Your fingers trembled on the controls as he devoured you like his favorite dessert, making exaggerated "nom nom" sounds that had you torn between laughing and moaning. The fishing line wobbled wildly on screen while his tongue dove inside, swirling around your gummy insides and coaxing out your sweet juices before moving up to wrap his soft lips around your swollen clit, sucking gently.

"Ahh! Y-you're m’impo-hah~ssible!" you whimpered, trying to sound angry even as your hips rocked against his face.

"Impossibly charming? Impossibly handsome? Impossibly good at making you cum?" He winked up at you, chin glistening with your juices.

The Switch clattered to the floor as you tangled your fingers in his white hair, giving up any resistance. The noises Gojo was pulling out of you were lewd enough to make a porn star blush, and that cocky- delighted chuckle only spurred you on more as it vibrated against your clit.

"Such pretty noises you make," he teases between slurps, his tongue swirling around your throbbing nub, "Much better than any game soundtrack."

"Sh-ut up, you men-ah~ce," you moaned, tugging his hair the way you knew he loved. His responding growl making your toes curl.

"Make me," he challenged, slipping two fingers inside your drooling cunt, pumping in and out at a delicious pace before curling them to hit that spongy spot that makes your eyes roll back. "We're just getting started. I've got lots more games we can play~"

His cock pressed insistently against his pants as he crawled up your body, catching your lips in a messy kiss that let you taste yourself on his playful tongue.

"Congrats~ you unlocked the next level. Ready for the next stage?" he asked, grinding his hips against yours teasingly. "I promise it's more fun than Animal Crossing~"

You knew your game would have to wait, especially since it now lies forgotten on the floor as Gojo shows you exactly why he’s your favorite distraction. After all, who needed virtual fishing when you had the strongest determined to make you cum until you were seeing stars?

[madamechrissy]

Escort! Satoru- part three

Pairings- Escort Satoru Gojo x shy CEO F! reader

Warnings- eventually explicit sex, freaky but fluffy- this part- obsessed ass/whipped ass Gojo, mentions of sex work, oral (f receiving) panty stealing hehe, fingering, reader is HELLA rich and Satoru is almost a sugar baby lmao, fluffy/sweet, tension - lots of it- he becomes lowkey/highkey Yan tbh, pretty woman vibes 🤭

This will be a fun set of drabbles in this style! I hope you all enjoy them lmk if you wanna get tagged in the next parts <3

<<<Part Two

Escort! Satoru 'How much for twenty minutes of your time?' your words halt him now, his hand on the doorknob, cock immediately hard, throbbing at just the sound of your voice, the intent there behind it something he's just been fantasizing about day in and day out since he first met you. 'Twenty minutes?' He puts a smirk on his face, turning to face you now, lowering those black Gucci shades just a bit, as you sit there on that desk like a whole fucking meal, sexy business skirt slipping up your thighs just so. 'Twenty minutes of my company?' he turns the lock with a resounding click, dress shoes clicking on the hardwood floors slowly, as he steps closer, until he's leaning over you. 'And what do you want in this twenty minutes?'

Escort! Satoru watches as your eyes lower, nervously shifting, as his hand slips up a thigh, gently pushing it down, so he can step right between your legs. 'Anything you're comfortable with, Satoru... I'd never ask for anything you don't want to do' why do your sweet words have to make his heart race!? Even faced with finally getting more of your time, he also can't take just how much you mean to him, how deeply he fucking feels for you in this moment already. 'I'm comfortable doing anything to your pretty body' he says then, watching your eyes dilate, your lips part, his hands slipping your skirt up just a bit over your stockings. 'So you just say what you want, sweetheart' your hand trails down his abdomen, as you whisper 'I want you to make me cum, please'

Escort! Satoru has your back pressed right on your desk now, shoving stacks of papers out of the way, you gasp at the quick motion, when he shoves your skirt all the way up, revealing black garters adorning your thighs, and already soaked black panties, which he peels down. 'Your eyes... let me...' you take off his glasses with a shaky hand, setting them next to you, revealing those baby blues with snowy lashes lowered. 'They're so pretty... Satoru, are we...' he chuckles, but inhales when he sees your perfect cunt, the strings of sticky cum attached to the panties, moaning at the sight. 'We're not fucking in just twenty minutes, no sweetheart, even if you beg, I'm not busting that fast' your thighs are shaking then, breaths quicker as he pulls those panties fully off, you don't see that he tucks them in his pocket, all you see is him get on his knees.

Escort! Satoru parts your swollen lips with two long fingers, revealing the wetness just drooling from your little hole, he feels your hands grip his expensive black suit as he breathes on it, then inhales your scent, watching the little clit twitch just from that, hearing your soft little whimper. 'Satoru um... you're... ah!' You have to slam a hand on your mouth, what if someone fucking heard you!? This is insane, you're acting so crazy for this man. You see Satoru's brilliant blue eyes looking up, lidded with desire, when he presses a kiss right over your hood, letting your lips slip back together, his fingers now shoving your thighs farther, pressing into them. 'I'm going to have you cum all over my face, sweets, you can pay my fee after' you're done once he's slipped a tongue up your slit, screaming out into your hand, cunt clenching around nothing.

Escort! Satoru is clearly a fucking expert, you've not been with anyone in so long, that just a flick of his tongue destroys you, blood rushing in your ears while your other hand grips his silky white locks. 'Mmm, taste s'fucking good, fuck...' your hips arch, as he starts lapping up your slit, to your little clit, sucking it into his hot mouth now, you're gasping in pleasure, cunt pulsing and pouring more and more arousal for his hungry mouth. 'Oh my god, Satoru... mnh!' your soft, pleading whisper makes him so hard it hurts, he's rubbing himself over his pants then, leaking precum, while your thighs close in on his head. 'Lemme see how many times I can have you cum, set the timer' he says, grinning when he stands, slipping two fingers in your snug little channel.

Escort! Satoru watches you grab your phone with shaky hands, eyeing the time. 'fifteen left, sweets' he murmurs, leaning over you as he curls his fingers up in gummy walls, slick coating you, and you set it, his lips so close to you, you can damn near taste yourself. 'You don't kiss, but you...' Satoru sighs, breath tickling your lips as you bite your lower lip, hand pulling on his tie now. 'This is five star treatment, reserved for very...' he presses a kiss on you neck, your breasts that are peeking from your blouse, 'very.... very special clients only' his fingers curl just so, you scream out against your palm again, as Satoru's close to busting watching you, tasting your sweetness on his lips. 'there's once' he's sitting you up higher as you're spasming around his fingers, sitting right in your office chair now, burying his face back between your thighs again, yanking you against him.

Escort! Satoru has the next orgasm all over his face, fuck he's drowning in you, lewd, wet squelching sounds echoing in your pretty bright office. 'That's it, cum again, let me drink you up, slutty little cunt loves it, huh?' no one has ever spoke this way, no one has devoured you like this, your hoarse voice cries out when his tongue flicks over and over again. 'Satoru, oh my god, t-too much I...' he laughs a bit, fingers scissoring in and out of your soppy hole, raising a brow. 'C'mon, you can give me one more, can't you baby?' baby, the word echoes as you nod, helpless, trying to remember, this was his job, his career, that it's just that, nothing more. But how can you when he's pulled you by the fat of your ass, and his face is fucking buried against you!? As he's drinking your soaking wetness all up, as you shatter, cumming so hard you almost fucking faint, you can't even see.

Escort! Satoru presses one more kiss, smirking as you twitch, thighs shaking, your breaths coming so quick, your grip so tight on his hair it hurts, but it hurts so good. 'Satoru, fuck you're... some pussy eating prodigy like...' he snorts in laughter now, easing his fingers out, coated and dripping with you, making you heat up, when he places them against your lips. 'Open' you eagerly listen, sucking his long fingers, as the timer sets off, you hastily shut it off, tasting your sweetness on him, as he watches your flushed face, your glittery eyes. 'Look at you, so pretty, so fucked out, already...' you pull back your lips with a pop, running your fingers down his hard abdomen, dying to know what he looks like. 'Let me make you cum' he pauses then, because one fucking flick of your tongue and he'd probably bust all over. 'twenty minutes is over, I'm afraid'

Escort! Satoru earns a cute little pout, as you close your thighs, grabbing the phone, that bracelet glinting. 'How much?' you ask softly, Satoru eyes your bare ears, thinking next he'll buy you pretty earrings to dangle off them. 'Twenty minutes? Four hundred.' His price should freak you out, but you don't bat a pretty eyelash, his phone dings, and you've sent eight hundred instead, making him eye you. 'I said four-' you shake your head. 'Worth it' you hop off your desk, wobbling just a bit, he has to steady you now, pressing kisses against your head, so affectionate you can hardly stand it. 'Why does a girl like you need me, hmm? Have you fucking seen yourself?' He tilts your chin up, some underlying feelings pour through then, you hate how he fucking talks about himself suddenly, like he's nothing. 'Have you seen yourself, Satoru?' he blinks a bit then, lips just a centimeter apart, Satoru doesn't kiss clients, right, Satoru doesn't kiss anyone really, not when he knows that is what really means something, all he can thing of is kissing you.

Escort! Satoru watches you adjust yourself a bit, and you try to gather your papers, your things, putting them back in their rightful places. 'I have an auction I could use a date for, same price as the last charity event okay?' you say softly, Satoru's heart pounds in his chest now. 'Discounted, you're tipping me entirely too much' you giggle a little, brushing your hair back. 'How about I buy you something at the auction you'd like?' Satoru shakes his head. 'shit there is thousands...' you shrug a shoulder. 'And? If you want something I'll buy it, if not I'll just pay the normal. Are you booked Friday though?' Satoru looks at his phone now, you keep repeating to yourself - he's just doing this for his job, his money, that's it- don't get too attached. 'Nope, nothing' Satoru says, as he clears three jobs away, high paying, but he damn sure wouldn't turn down another time with you.

Escort! Satoru takes your hand, kissing the back of it with glossy, plump lips - fuck they're glossy from you - winking and playing it off so cool, like his heart's not pounding in his chest. And he tries to remember- he's just a convenience, right, he's just good at pleasing, good at acting. He can't fall so deep to think he could be more for a girl like you, watching color decorate your precious cheeks as you smile. 'Next time... if you're comfortable after...' your hand brushes against his cock, eliciting a whimper you think you must have mis heard, eyeing him now. 'I'd like to please you back' he clears his throat, precum making him stick to his boxers. 'Oh would you, shouldn't I pay you for that, baby?' you're giggling now. 'What!?' he just shakes his head. 'I don't think I could take pay for you pleasing me, but... we'll see, I'll be there.' You nod a bit. 'It's a date, then.' your casual words make you both pause, but he grins now. 'Mhmm, see ya sweets'

Escort! Satoru doesn't know why but the thought of charging you to suck him, charging you for anything, feels... off. weird. wrong. You're still going over it all in your mind, when suddenly you realize you don't have your panties. You're trying to find them, panicking, what if a client walks in and they're thrown somewhere!? You pause then, surely he... 'Satoru...' he picks up the phone, already in the back of his driver's car, stroking a hard cock. 'What is it, sweetheart? need twenty more minutes?' you laugh a bit. 'It's gonna sound insane, but... where are my panties? did you put them somewhere?' your whisper makes him pause, mid stroke, pulling them out of his pocket now. 'Panties... I think I just... had them on the desk?' you curse a bit, as he grins, putting them against his face and biting back a moan. 'Shit, I don't know! Okay... I'll text you the details from the auction.'

Escort! Satoru considers your panties the real tip, hanging up the phone and lapping that wetness off them, flavor coating his tastebuds with you, the phone blings with a location. But Satoru has trouble focusing, instead whining out at the thought of being inside of you, pretty little CEO, who's paying him far, far too much, so much so he's canceled his appointment that day too, he can't focus on anything but you, anyway. You give up searching for your panties, surely he wouldn't have taken them... but little do you know he's using the silk to stroke himself, busting his hot white load all against the fabric, shaking as he looks at the mess he made. He needs some practice, is all, before he can handle you, that's all it is, practice... right? He can't stop thinking about you, like a madness, until he's ready to see you again, and one thought rushes through his head as he meets you that night in your gorgeous red dress -

He wants to kiss you.

taglist 1 - @shydroid3000 @thisisew @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @aducksmokingquack @miya4life @ravenbc @yenayaps @nezukuwu @etsuniiru @ieathairs @kenqki @princess-bblgm @belovedxiao @ninikrumbs @ieathairs @myahfig4 @theelegantpotato @vvaoo @aldebrana @celestep004 @whoisteona @ladyneisa @lililovely78 @gamerhere @wstaley2 @allthesqueaks @slut4donghyuck @maisiefrancesca @yittten @femaholicc @jjknanamin @that-b-word-lol @devastyle @mat-mat-mat @jkslaugh97 @ovela @mxgnolia @rikiswifeyyy @kaayyhunnyy @gojos1wife1 @arabellasolstice @01ve3rz @jud3thedude @firemoonlightfly @vyluvs @artist1936 @kyelikesanime @mistytojigetolover

[yujisdreamgirl]

✮⋆˙ You’re away on a mission .ᐟ

ᯓ★ characters: gojo, nanami, megumi, yuji, toji, geto

ᯓ★ cw: jjk men being absolutely whipped💔🥀

smau masterlist || main masterlist

[hel1nn]

Gojo satoru fic recommendations pt.2 ♡ part one. ☆

— junkie ! Satoru by @satorusviper

Idk i just want a happy ending for satoru and reader here :(

— neighbour!toru by @marblesphere

Don't read it if ur uncomfortable but otherwise its a really cute gojo x reader story,theres a like 11years age gap here

— gethimback by @darkmagic-s

Jjk smau where u and ur boyfriend had a argument but its really cute

— heartbeat star by @smystermy

Only two chapters are out but its a must read

— but daddy i love him her! By @sonotpattismith

Billionaire's son toru x farmer's daughter reader

— puppy chronicles by @its-luna-noel

Puppy hybrid!reader x clan leader!satoru

— sleeping beauty by @cyberyam

Teacher x student again heh.

— gojo x reader by @4dtk

Toru fucks u in his domain >.<

— s!ze kink with toru by @meownotgood

Why am i always so hungry for age gap with toru or s!ze kink with him...:O

— gojo has a girlfriend? By @dingdongitsbees

Yuji heard gojo calling someone babe and saying i love you on a Phone with someone...

— yandere!toru x shy s/o by @cozymoko

I don't usually read yandere works but this one actually gave me butterflies 🤓☝🏻

— midnight blues by @pretty-toru

Satoru gives reader silence treatment

— Stephanie by @b3ach-bunn7

Nerdtoru x reader :3

— its just a mission what could go wrong by @satorunigojaloo

Bruh i literally searched every corner of Tumblr to find this fic but later i found out its again @/satorunigojaloo 's fic >.<

— about tradition and responsibilities by @navstuffs

Toru with a non sorcerer reader

— you might love her now but u loved me first. By @rinstars

I cried:)

— the end of everything by @wintergojo

After satoru was sealed reader finds out she's pregnant,angst to fluff

— i wanna show you off by @gojonanami

Sugar daddy toru:3

— scripted hearts by @kodaiki

Smau series and im sitting like an hungry animal for the next part.

A/n : I'll post a part three if i find more fics:b

[muli-wam]

Now That We're Here

Summary: you and the JKK men haven't had time for yourselves in awhile since they've been bailing on you for the past few weeks. It seems that their schedule is filled on your date night. Again.

Cw: cursing, angst, crack, mentions of killing, use of y/n

Pairings: Gojo x fem!reader, geto x fem!reader, Nanami x fem!reader, toji x fem!reader, Sukuna x fem!reader, ino x fem!reader, choso x fem!reader

A/n: this has been sitting in my drafts for like 3 weeks.

☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.☆°•.

[garnishclickicon]

Gojo

Tw. Bimbo reader, dark content, noncon, dubcon, corruption kink, coercion, creampie, size kink, magic sex toy/onahole/fleshlight, loss of virginity, not proof read

***

Thinking about being a childhood friend of a yandere duo.

You were just so friendly and cute, approaching them with candies in your tiny hands and offering it to them. So kind as you always play with them, and sometimes they would argue who'd be your husband when playing house. They often fought whenever they wanted to play with you but in the end, it always results to sharing you.

Middle school was a little different than Kindergarten. They get more protective when boys try to get close to you, painting them as insufferable brats that only want clout. Being neighbors with the wealthy kids, got you too much attention much to their liking, often getting bullied whenever you finally have some alone time, but this didn't get unnoticed as you wonder why that kid who pushed you on your locker, suddenly have bandage wrapped around his head and his reputation down.

Highschool is where the shift started. You wanted to explore more, finding new friends, and hanging out with other people, and they did not like that. You were just too dumb, they said. Too dumb to realize people manipulating you so that they can get close to them. Do you even realize that the girl from your class only talks to you about them? Dumb girl.

Safe to say, you never had a genuine friend in high school, not like you even had chance to form a deep level of friendship (by people who genuinely wanna be friends with you) by the way they hog all your attention and time.

College is where it gets difficult for them to spend time with you. Different schedules, classes, course. They even insisted you go to the same university as them. It's frustrating how little time you spend together, always with your stupid excuse of "working on an assignment".

Without you around, they definitely have a hard time relieving some tension. They couldn't just walt into your room and steal some panties scoot free without getting into trouble, even though they were star students and had plenty influence over the school. No, no, they won't put their reputation to ruin, they're your perfect best friends.

Despite them being a duo, they were quite different in terms of personality. One is patient and mature, thinking logical and more on the rational side. While the other is playful, outgoing and rash. Both have their charms that got everyone around their fingers. However, they wouldn't sleep with just anyone, no. It's hard to get their dick hard, always imagining your cute face whenever they try to fuck a desperate bitch to finally release some tension.

But your impatient friend had enough of some random girl, high pitch moans that's not yours annoying his ears. It's miserable to even hump his own hand, so hard and cold, different to what he imagine your tight warm cunt to be. This just won't cut it. He needs more, to finally feel your wet insides without you knowing.

So what's a good way to relieve tension?

Some good ol' fleshlight.

The moment it arrived at his doorstep, he straight up bolted to his door. Slamming the door close as he finally gets his hands on the toy after days of waiting. Fuck, he can't wait to use this thing.

It's like the half body sex toy he used to watch in porns. He was quite impressed by the details it had, he gotta give props for that, but that's not what he's after for. After reading the instructions, more like skimming and skipping most of the words. He use lubricant, using plenty of it and spreading it around the artificial pussy lips. Rubbing and feeling the flaps, like how he usually does. It's kinda weird that he's doing this for a toy, but he could just imagine it being your cunt, practicing his moves. After a few moments did he slide his thick finger inside the walls of the toy... How weird, the texture was oddly real, like it was alive. Well, that's probably some mechanic shit that the factory put there or something. This is his first time using a fleshlight and it cost a fortune through some sketchy website so it better be worth it.

***

You jolted in your sit in class, listening to your professor's discussion about physics until you suddenly feel something brushing on your thighs. Your head panning around the room before looking ahead, brushing it off. It was probably the wind.

You yelp when something began rubbing your cunt, earning a few concern looks for you and your professor glancing at you before going back to his discussion. You shrink in your sit, head hanging low as you pressed your lips together. Confused and scared by the phantom touch assaulting your nether region. Clutching your skirt, you try to maintain confused whimpers as the touches didn't stop.

You're scared.

The moment something pushed inside you, you stand up and excuse yourself, running to the nearest restroom. Your feet quick as you open a random stall and sit on the toilet. Your breathing heavy as you shakily lifts your skirt, looking at the wet patch on your panty.

What's happening? Why are you wet? How can something touching you there? You're not imagining this, right?

Your mind raced as you become more terrified. Is a ghost haunting you? Tears pool on your eyes, sniffling as the assault become more aggressive.

***

Fuck, this fleshlight was the best thing he ever bought. How was this even made? Whatever. He continues to pump his thick finger, inserting another one and he jump a bit as he felt the walls suck on his fingers. Damn, it can even do that? Just how realistic can this toy be? He's not complaining though.

He decided to touch the clit earning another tight squeeze. What a sensitive toy. He continues to play, eventually adding another finger. It was weird how the warm walls didn't run out of lube, if this were any normal toy it'd need to be lubricated after few minutes but this toy seems to produce it on its on.

He pulls out his fingers as he inspects the inside, it's undeniable that it's fake but the way it pulsates around nothing makes it a bit questionable on how it works.

Would your cunt also look like that? He could imagine your wrecked heaving face after fingering you. Poor little you never had something inside, let alone this thick fingers. He couldn't wait for the moment he'll ruin you.

***

You're straight up crying as an additional thick sensation pumped your insides. Squeezing your thighs shut, like it's gonna do something to stop the phantom. Everything inside you screams to remove the intrusion but you didn't know how. Opening your legs slightly, your shaky fingers removing your panty to see what's happening inside your cunt... but nothing was there. Only a gape.

Your fingers shifts towards the gape, gasping as the invincible touch was able to touch you yet you couldn't even see or feel it. Squirming uncomfortably, as you open your legs more to try and get "it" out with your fingers. Uselessly grabbing air, whimpering and sobbing as you fail to interrupt with its continuous pumping. Your stomach twisting and an unfamiliar coil was starting to unravel, your breath hitching and legs shaking.

But it's abruptly stop as the phantom pulled away.

Finally, relief and a little bit of disappointment fills your chest. Slumping on the toilet, panting like you run a marathon. You shift a bit as you sit upright, freezing as something thick pokes your entrance.

No way...

Your brain panics, your gaze staring at the way your hole widens and your legs subconsciously spreading more to prepare yourself for the inevitable. You clutch the wall of the stall, each hand gripping the surface. Tears streaming down your face and your cheeks getting hot.

This can't be happening.

You felt the thick thing stretch you open.

***

Something about fucking a fleshlight should embarrass him. But nah, with you in his mind there's nothing to be ashamed. This is just practice to him after all, he'll do this things eventually.

With his heavy cock around his fingers, he taps the opening of the fleshlight. His other hand grips the hip. Rubbing along the slit, he collects lube running on the head of his cock, catching the clit in the process. He lets out a breath, as he finally starts pushing his cock inside.

He's quite big, so he's a bit worried if he'll fit in some shady toy but he's sure he'll fit in you just right, even if he had to force himself in your tiny cunt.

But there's no need for consideration when it comes to a toy.

He sheath inside in one thrust.

Hissing at the way the walls clings to him, tightly wrapping around his cock and pulsating as if rejecting a foreign object. Shit, why does it feel like a virgin?

Warm, wet, and tight. The perfect toy pussy for him, this could even rival a real pussy if he were being honest. No time for adjusting as he starts to thrust. Pounding the onahole, roughly gripping the hips and fucking hard. Shit shit shit why does this feel so good? This stupid toy feels a whole lot better compare to a random slut.

His hips going hard and the way he feels the inside pulsating, sucking all his worth making him groan. Such a tight fake cunt.

He wonder if he can break the toy.

***

With a silent scream, your head jerk up as the big stretch was too sudden for your body to take. Legs wide open as you try to create space for the large object. You sob as quiet as possible, as the phantom starts pounding hard at your sensitive cunt. You want to scream but held back, tears blurring your vision as you pray for it to end.

Whimpering and sobbing was the only thing you can do. Waiting for the thrusting to stop, you teeth bite your lip to stop noise from escaping. It doesn't sound like you at all, it's weird, you're scared and confused.

Your mind tries to think of a distraction, to think of anything but the mysterious assault. How is this even happening? What did you do to deserve this? Why you?

Your breath hitched as you feel the tight coil in your stomach again. Moaning a little as you feel pleasure rising though you. Your hands clasp over your mouth, muffling your noise. You shake your head as the coil gets tighter and tighter, your legs shaking as you stutter words of apology to whoever's doing this.

And it snaps.

Your vision going white, body stiffening and eyes going into the back of your head.

Ah. You never felt this... good before.

It takes you a few minutes to recover. Your limbs feel like jelly, your chest rising up and down in a slow manner, and you greedily gulp air.

You were tired and exhausted but you were glad the assault has stop after that. You groggily starts to lift you panty's up however you felt something dripping down your hole.

... you wonder what it was.

***

After that day, the mysterious phantom would touch you at random times, when you're showering, classes, or even in bed late at night. It was torturous, you were becoming paranoid and it didn't go unnoticed by one of your best friend.

He's helping you study in the library as you'd ask him for his guidance in physics. You would've asked your other friend, but you can just imagine him play with your hair or something along of not really helping you study.

You're breathe hitch as you feel the phantom ghost rubbing your cunt. Shrinking on your sit, uncomfortably rubbing your legs.

"Something bothering you?" He ask, looking a bit concern of your shiftiness.

"O-oh, it's nothing. Just a little tired lately," You reassured, smiling as you pretend to be fine.

His sharp gaze examined your face before dropping the subject, deciding to just help you study.

"If you need something to talk to. I'm right here, ok?"

You smiled forcefully, "I-I will... Thank you."

***

You could never bring yourself to tell someone about it. No one would ever believe you.

You're laying in bed waiting for the phantom, already memorizing the way it'll touch you. You brace for the touch as you can't help but feel helpless. Are you going to live like this your entire life? You don't want to...

But would someone be willing to listen to you? To believe you? You don't wanna bother your best friend, you knew how busy he's gotten the recent days and you're doubtful that he'll even listen to your story when he's the rational one. That means...

Your thoughts were interrupted by the intrusion as you clutch your pillow and close your eyes. You're panting as the phantom starts its routine.

You're scared... You're scared that it's starting to feel good.

No. You don't want to be alone anymore on this.

You need help. Badly.

You shakily gets up from bed, putting some jacket on as you heads towards someone who can help you... At least you believe who will do.

***

"Oh? What's my little darling doing here at this late of night?" He grins as he opened the door with the sight of you.

You fidget with your jacket as you feel small under his gaze, "P-Please help me."

He raised his eyebrow, his grin replacing with a thin line. Yeah, he's playful but he'll never joke around when you're having a problem, "Come inside, we'll talk there, sweetie."

Sitting on his couch, you took a deep breath as you prepare to tell someone about this problem of yours. He won't make fun of you right? He won't be weirded out, right? He's a reliable person and your best friend.

He sits beside you, a serious and concerned expression on his face. It was rare to see him like this, which encourage you to finally tell him.

By the end, you were crying and hiccuping in your hands about the experiences you encounter with that phantom. Feeling his hand rub your back, cooing at you in comfort. He pulls your head to rest on his chest, telling you that everything's going to be fine.

You sob out a thank you, finding relief to finally get it out of your chest.

Unbeknownst to you, the man was smiling.

***

He didn't know if God was on his side. But, he didn't expect this would happen.

Who would've thought that the toy he was playing with was connected with cute lil you?

He didn't believe it at first but the way you described the timing was too much of a coincidence. Sweet little thing, don't worry you won't experience any scary thing from now on.

"Sweetie, do you want me to chase that scary invisible phantom away?" He cups your cheeks in his hands, locking gaze with you.

You sniffle before nodding, "Y-Yes, please..."

He gave you a toothy smile before gently pushing you down on his couch. His fingers swiping away your tears, "Listen to me, ok? I need you to trust me on this." His nose touching with yours as he leans close.

"O-ok... I trust you."

Dumb little girl.

You shouldn't have said that.

Now you've sealed your fate.

***

He wonders what was going on with you back when he helped you study in the library. Something was very off about you, and you were clearly uncomfortable to brought it up.

He thinks of you very often even when he's busy and swarmed with school works. Sometimes, getting frustrated to even continue and wants to just go to your place. He massages his aching temple, resting on his chair before a box caught his attention.

Oh yeah, that stupid guy gave him that a few weeks ago.

He recalls their conversation about it, saying that it'll help him release some stress. Well, he's plenty stressed now so why don't he test it out now?

He saunters to the box, sitting on the floor to unravel it. Only to be surprised by the object inside it.

An onahole...

If he was his usual self he would've flung this across the room and throw it to the garbage bin. But sometimes he needs to be relieve as well, plus he's a man too,

He's not that picky too.

This'll do for him.

A temporary replacement while thinking of your cunt.

[sixeyesonathiel]

love comes in small sizes

chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!

pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity

series masterlist. | other works here. | next.

you and satoru gojo have always been something.

it’s just never been labeled.

from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.

it’s not just him, though.

because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.

“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”

“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”

his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.

“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”

shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”

you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”

“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”

shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”

suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”

your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”

but suguru just hums, unconvinced.

and maybe he has a point.

because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.

and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.

it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.

you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.

so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.

but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.

so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

but then, one summer night, something shifts.

it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.

“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”

he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”

it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.

you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”

his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”

“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.

“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”

“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”

you snort. “sure, satoru.”

but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

and then, just as you’re about to look away—

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”

your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.

he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.

your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.

“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.” 

he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—

you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.

he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.

and maybe he does.

because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.

he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.

the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.

after that night, everything changes.

not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.

but then, it happens again.

it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

but you don’t.

it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.

it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and then, it just keeps happening.

but it also happens in other ways.

like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.

or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”

or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.

it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.

like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

like he knows you won’t.

and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.

shoko notices first.

it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.

“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.

“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”

your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.

“yeah, okay.”

suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.

“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.

satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”

but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.

still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.

until it does.

until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.

his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.

and worse than that—suguru is slipping.

you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.

one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.

you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.

one year passes.

twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.

suguru is gone.

satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.

he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.

except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.

you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.

“come inside, satoru.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”

you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.

“you can’t keep doing this.”

he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”

you don’t smile back.

you don’t say anything at all.

but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.

and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.

before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.

“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”

your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.

“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.

his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.

and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.

he just wants.

it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.

it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.

when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.

his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.

not yet.

a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.

“satoru, we need to talk.”

he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”

“it’s not about that.”

your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”

his smirk falters.

it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.

he doesn’t like it.

you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”

“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”

“satoru, this is serious.”

your voice cuts through his like a knife.

his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”

you flinch.

it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.

too late.

your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”

his pulse kicks up.

it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.

he doesn’t let you.

“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”

“satoru—”

“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”

a long, heavy pause.

your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—

he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.

you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—

“nevermind. i’m leaving.”

he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”

but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.

“i’m serious.”

his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.

but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.

and it makes him panic.

so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.

“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”

the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.

because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.

your mouth opens—then closes.

whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.

he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.

then you turn around.

and you walk away.

but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.

he doesn’t.

so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”

he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.

(you don’t.)

six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.

he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.

(he does.)

at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.

the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.

but then the quiet comes.

it always does.

he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.

he dreams about you.

sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.

but other times, the dreams aren’t good.

sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.

he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.

but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.

so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with. 

at least he pretends to.

and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.

he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.

not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.

six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.

your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.

for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.

somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.

“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”

you freeze.

not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.

then, finally, you turn to him.

and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.

your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.

and then you open your mouth.

your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.

“gojo.”

not satoru. never satoru.

his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt tl say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.

he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.

“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”

there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.

and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.

“it’s not for me.”

not for you.

his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.

and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.

the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.

hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”

but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.

but it’s enough.

enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.

your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.

“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”

was. past tense. final.

his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.

you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.

but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—

“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—

but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.

small. deliberate.

he doesn’t see it.

doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.

she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.

she watches.

studies.

eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

he doesn’t see her.

doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.

he can only see you.

satoru doesn’t breathe.

not at first.

not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—

before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.

looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.

when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.

the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.

but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.

she blinks. once. twice. assessing.

and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”

satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.

she is… dazzling.

for all the wrong reasons.

because that is his nose. those are his eyes.

the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?

his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.

satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.

“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”

the reaction is instantaneous.

she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.

both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.

“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”

satoru blinks.

for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. he opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”

“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”

he startles.

it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.

only fondness.

or maybe he’s imagining things.

he’s still trying to process it when—

“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.

“let’s get back to business.”

his brows furrow. “business?”

“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”

satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.

because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.

the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.

he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.

“you have white hair.”

her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.

“you have blue eyes.”

satoru’s pulse stutters.

before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.

then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.

“i guess you’ll do.”

…do what now?

he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.

there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.

his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

the answer comes before he can find the question.

“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”

satoru chokes.

the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.

he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”

the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.

“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”

something in his stomach lurches.

his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.

his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”

“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.

but it is a big deal.

a very big deal.

his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.

“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”

his throat tightens.

“pity.” he repeats, blankly.

“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”

his breath catches.

she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”

satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”

she preens. “i know, right?”

and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”

his stomach drops.

the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.

“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.

“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”

satoru stops breathing.

his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.

the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.

holy shit.

“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”

he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”

“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”

his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”

“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”

his pulse jumps. “…or else?”

she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.

“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”

his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”

“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.

in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.

his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.

her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”

satoru can only stay there. staring.

his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.

his daughter just found him before he ever found her.

his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.

she’s real. she exists. she is his.

and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.

satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

he comes to terms with something horrifying.

his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.

the absolute audacity.

the sheer talent.

his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.

he has never been more proud.

“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;

“she so gets that from me.”

a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly

tag list: @akeisryna

comment to be added on the tag list xx

[chiyokoemilia]

chapters of us (a bookstore romance)

ᰔ series. chapters of us (a bookstore romance)

ᰔ pairing. - architect/carpenter gojo satoru x bookstore owner reader

ᰔsummary. your love life is as quiet as the shelves of your bookstore. seeking a change, you sign up for a dating app and become captivated by a picture-less/nameless profile—belonging to none other than gojo satoru, a charming architect with a complicated past. your online connection sparks with undeniable chemistry, but you remain unaware that the man you’re drawn to is also your neighbor next door. when he unexpectedly walks into your cozy bookstore, your world shifts. as you navigate feelings for both the mystery man online and the neighbor who feels like a heartbeat away, hidden truths loom over you. can love blossom amid secrets, or will the shadows of your pasts eclipse your stories before it even begins?

ᰔ word count. tbs

ᰔ fic warnings. contains explicit sexual content, guy-next-door, romantic tension, rough sex, age difference (gojo is 32, reader 23), themes of self-doubt, angst, insecurities, heartbreak, and emotional trauma. explicit smut, rough sex, self-destructive behavior, violence, he falls first and is down bad, illnesses, divorce, complicated relationship/pining, alcohol use. happy ending. ᰔ genre/tags. age difference (9 years), neighbors to lovers, slow burn, romantic tension, emotional depth, self-discovery, secrets, heartbreak, healing. 18+ ᰔ status: in progress ᰔ ao3 + wattpad

ᰔ navigation: chapter list: prologue | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | epilogue

ᰔ story details: c.o.u q&a, gallery: gojo’s aesthetic, readers aesthetic, bookstore, workshop, gojo headcannons, ᰔ taglist: — (open! comment if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters)

ᰔ taglist: — @madamechrissy @berrylovesmegumiiii @dragonxbabe @huathmoon94 @introvertatitsfinest @dark-agate @cheezitcracker @frozenmallows @lovebittenbyevans @lovelyjkook @kaemaybae @seternic @dazailover1900 @jotarohat @httpstoyosi @gojosatorubrainrot @satorurize @kaemaybae @sanriosatoru @reactwithjan @myahfig4 @rirk-ke @teatimebeliever @alula394 @daydreamingastronauts @winniethepooh-lover @berrylovesmegumiiii @gojoscumslut (open! comment if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters)

© chiyokoemilia. please do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works.

[stxxrlights]

𝐖𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒! 𝐍𝐎!

headcanons of jjk men based on this ask

you placed all your skin care and make-up materials. you set up the camera all while your boyfriend was just staring at you. "what are you doing?"

"setting up the scene. i'm tryin' to record a short tiktok video"

"about what?", he asked his eyebrow raised.

"don't worry about it", you flashed him an innocent smile, trying hard to hide your actual intentions.

☆𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

"hello guys!", you clapped your hands enthusiastically with a big smile on your face. gojo's face also lit up,until...

"get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend", you said picking up one of the bottles. you instantly felt a looming presence behind you. he was staring into your soul with wide blue eyes.

"what's this about huh? we like making jokes now", he placed his hand on your shoulder causing you to shudder.

"it's just a silly little tiktok video, gojo-"

"gojo. damn. not even toru, baby, my blue eyed cupcake, you really are serious", he shook his head in defeat and it made you feel bad.

"toru, it was just a prank. i'm sorry"

"i knew it!", he pointed at you with a huge grin throwing you off. "you can't live a single day without my gorgeous ass", he ran his hand through his hair, a stupid smirk on his face. you narrowed your eyes at him clearly unimpressed.

"maybe i should get ready to break up with you"

☆𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

he was watching you like a hawk. just waiting for you to say something dumb. "get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend-"

"alright. enough of this shit", he said and grabbed the phone, which was still recording.

"suguru give me back my phone!"

"we can't keep doing this baby. i know you like the idea of getting under my skin, but enough is enough. we've been through so much together and you are not leaving me, neither am i going to leave you", he says and stands behind you and holds the camera up so that it's now recording the both of you.

he squishes your cheeks with one hand and then presses kisses all over you squished cheeks while you giggle at his antics. "if you do something like this again, no kisses for you, do you understand", you nod and he gives you a close-eyed smile.

"good girl"

☆𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

nanami didn't really wanna bother you with any more questions. he kept on reading his newspaper as a mischievous smile spread across your lips.

"hi~ get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend", at that he looked at you his brows furrowed.

"boyfriend?", he placed the newspaper down.

"yes, boyfriend", you reply, feigning innocence. "anyways guys-"

"sweetie, we're married", he takes off his glasses and places them on the table.

"i know"

"then what do you mean by boyfriend", he crosses his arms over his chest, his brow raised at you his expression turning serious. you started feeling nervous, but you were not gonna back doen.

"boyfriend as in boyfriend. doesn't really have more of a meaning to it-"

"mmm... when did my rank lower? hmmm...?", he stood up and walked towards you. you gulped when he leaned down his face now mere inches away from yours. "you're my wife and i'm your husband, okay darling. i will remind you of that fact always", he places a lingering kiss on your lips. "meet me in the bedroom. i miss my wife"

☆𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

you was sat out of frame just scrolling on his phone when such disgusting words came out of your mouth. "get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend"

you turned as you say his expression dramatically change, his mouth wide open in absolute horror. then he closed it and his jaw clenched as his eyes narrowed at you. "what did you say, baby girl?", he asked now standing, his height imposing.

"like i said don't worry about it", you shrugged him off trying to stiffle a laugh.

"something funny to you, mama?", he crossed his arms over his chest.

"no why would you think that?", you asked your hand over your mouth not making eye contact with him.

"kids these days ain't got no manners. what wanna be rapper caught your eye, hmmm?"

"lol, what?"

"does that sound delusional? almost as delusional as you breaking up with me.", he said and got back to his phone.

" un-fucking-believable"

☆𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍

"what's the point of all this?", he asked, his signature scowl on his face as he analyzes the products on the table.

"it's all just for fun", you reply and he continues examining the products.

"hey~ get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend"

"hate to be that guy", he scoffed and let out a laugh which threw you off guard.

"what the hell are you talking about?"

"you're gonna end things with your side home. good to know you finally realized i'm should be the one and only". you blinked at him, unable to believe what you were hearing.

"kuna, you're my boyfriend. i don't have any side hoes", he looked at you, his scowl deeper.

"you sure have big balls woman. you think i'll believe that you wanna break up with me. have you seen me? i make perfection feel insecure", you rolled your eyes at him.

"this isn't fun anymore", you stop recording and he smirks at this.

"now come here and give me a kiss, as a proper apology"

"you're such an ass", you get out of your chair and go to hug him.

"i know"

☆𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

he was just lazily laying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. he was calm, no thoughts in his head, until he heard what you had just said. "get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend", you waved at the camera all cutely and he sat up quickly looking at the back of your head in confusion.

"what?", he asked and you turned around in your chair to look at him.

"what?"

"what did you just say?", he narrowed his eyebrows at you.

"get ready with me to break up with my boyfriend?"

"mmm...", he shook his head. "nobody is doing anything today. what kind of idea even is this? you're on your phone too damn much"

"choso-"

"no. i don't wanna hear it. now come here and lay down with me", he outstretched his arms out but you ignored him turning back to the camera.

"anyways, before i was so rudely interrupted...", he sucks his teeth and gets up and grabs your phone and stops the recording.

"choso-"

"shhhh! you'll get it once we're done cuddling. which will be never"

comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[gojosoups]

I can just imagine being married to Gojo and witnessing him make one of the toughest, yet somehow easiest, decision ever.

To sacrifice himself for his students.

To selflessly (but also selfishly, in a way) take on the burdens, knowing that, even if he won’t wake up for one more day or spend another morning with you, he knows, in his heart, that he’s doing this for you.

For you and the students.

And all he asks in return is your support, even if that means watching your husband being taken away from you by the hands of his killer—Megumi, who you raised together, now possessed by Sukuna.

[fangdokja]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝐉𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋

It’s offensive, really.

Gojo watches you from the shadows, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his bicep, a slow, methodical rhythm masking his irritation.

Him?

Of all the celestial pricks to be assigned to you—of all the holy creatures that could have draped their divine little wings over your fragile mortal existence—it had to be him.

Ryomen Sukuna.

An angel. A guardian.

It’s laughable. A sick fucking joke.

Gojo’s jaw ticks as he watches Sukuna hover over you, his massive, tattered wings casting jagged shadows along your walls. The angel’s touch is barely there, a phantom’s caress along your cheek, but the audacity of it stirs something violent inside Gojo.

You shouldn’t have protection.

Not from him.

Not from anyone.

He finds you alone.

The angel is gone, his presence lingering only in the faint, numbing warmth in your chest—the feeling of safety. It vanishes the moment Gojo steps into your space.

You know what he is before you even turn to look at him.

The temperature drops. The air grows dense, thick with something unseen. The lights flicker.

Then—click. They go out completely.

"Boring," Gojo drawls from behind you, the amusement in his voice sharp, cutting. "So predictable. Running to an angel? You could’ve done so much better, sweetheart."

Your spine goes rigid. You don’t turn around.

It won’t matter. You know he’s already closer.

A warm breath against your nape. A slow, deliberate hand curling around your throat.

"What’s wrong? You were so quick to let him touch you. What, you only like hands on you when they’re holy?"

Your breath catches when he squeezes.

Not enough to choke. Just enough to remind you that he could.

"You don’t even know what you’re dealing with, do you?" His grip slides down, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then lower, lower, until he’s gripping your hip like he owns you.

He does. Sukuna had warned you about him.

A demon in disguise. A devil who’d never needed to lie to lure in his victims—just a smile, just a whisper, just a touch.

But you hadn’t taken the deal. And that—that’s why he’s here.

"You really think he can keep me away?" His voice dips lower, teasing, taunting, but beneath it is something vicious. "Cute."

You flinch when he flips you around, slamming you against the nearest surface. Your hands push against his chest, but he’s immovable.

His mouth ghosts over yours.

"Let’s test something," he murmurs. "Let’s see if you still feel saved when I’m inside you."

The first tear of your clothing is loud in the silence.

You scream. The air distorts—heat, rage, divinity.

A celestial roar echoes through the space, shaking the walls, shaking him.

And for the first time in centuries, Gojo laughs.

"Well, well," he grins, as golden flames rip through the room. "Guess we’ll have to share."

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

Test-Phase TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @imnotabot28 , @han11dh

[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter five

train up a child

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 4.2k

content: angst angst angst. a series of flashbacks where we learn why satoru and reader are Like That. toji/shoko/suguru cameo. childhood emotional abuse, neglect, misogyny, slight anxiety depiction.

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

eight years old

the room feels like a cavern, cold and echoing, silence stretching between the walls like something alive. satoru stands in the center, small and sharp-eyed, his white hair a stark contrast against the dark wooden panels. he’s still catching his breath from the last exercise, his hands flexing at his sides, tiny sparks of cursed energy flaring between his fingers.

instructors stand along a wall, murmuring amongst themselves. a few clan elders are present as well, hands folded behind their backs. their gazes press down on him, waiting, evaluating.

“you can’t rely on that power alone,” a man says. “the six eyes are nothing without control. without discipline.”

satoru frowns. he’s heard this before—how his power means nothing if he can’t bend it to his will. how he’s an instrument, meant to contain the clan’s legacy and strengthen it.

but he’s a child. what is an instrument? what is a legacy?

“we don’t have the luxury of failure,” the man continues. “the gojo name is strength and prestige, and you will not disappoint. understand?”

satoru nods, brows drawn together. he’s already learned that questions only invite criticism.

“do it again,” someone commands, and satoru squares his shoulders.

he clenches his fists again and concentrates, letting his cursed energy pool around him. it’s heavy today, like it’s fighting back. but he’s not supposed to say that. it would sound like an excuse. so he forces it down, lets the power surge out, forming his infinity around him.

the instructors throw objects at him—stones, wooden rods, shards. infinity stops them all, but the strain leaves his shoulders trembling. he thinks about saying something—about how it doesn’t feel right today—but the look on the elders’ faces stops him.

“good enough,” one of them mutters, the words dripping with dissatisfaction. the bombardment stops, and satoru’s chest loosens.

but the relief doesn’t last. another elder steps forward, his gaze colder than the rest. “good enough is hardly acceptable. perfection is the standard here. his duty is to uphold it.”

satoru swallows down his confusion, the thing he hasn’t yet recognized as resentment. he doesn’t understand why it has to be this way—why he has to be this way. but he knows better than to question it when all eyes are on him.

“yes, sir,” he says, his voice small but his expression unwavering.

deep down, something begins to harden. a seed of defiance, of something too raw to name. he’ll get it right next time. he has to.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

your bedroom is quiet, bathed in the last slivers of sunset seeping through lattice windows. you sit on the floor, hands folded in your lap, willing your shoulders to stop shaking. your eyes burn as the tears spill over, and you reprimand yourself. you’re supposed to stay composed, even when it hurts.

your mother enters without a sound, her presence sweeping over you like a blanket. she sits beside you, movements fluid and controlled, her eyes averted from your tear-streaked face.

a soft hand rests on your shoulder. “you shouldn’t cry over something so small,” she says gently. “you’re stronger than this, aren’t you?”

you nod, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. her gesture only makes you feel smaller. her fingers trace through your hair, fixing the strands that came loose from your ribbon.

“there, now. we can’t have you falling apart every time something doesn’t go your way.” her voice is calm, almost soothing. but there’s something hollow in it, the words falling flat. “you must learn to carry yourself properly. you’re too old to be crying like this.”

you want to say something—to apologize, to promise that you won’t cry again—but your throat feels too tight. instead, you just nod, trying to control your breathing.

her touch lingers, brushing away stray tears with the corner of her sleeve. “your father expects more from you. we both do. a good daughter knows how to conduct herself. understood?”

“yes,” you whisper.

her hand drops away, and the space between you feels cold, like you’re being left behind. she rises to her feet with that effortless grace, pausing at the door.

“you’ll do better next time,” she says, a faint smile curving her lips. it’s more of a statement than an encouragement. “i know you will.”

when your mother leaves, the room is too quiet. you pull your knees to your chest, squeezing your eyes shut. it’s not the first time you’ve been comforted like this, and it won’t be the last.

and it’s not real comfort at all. just another reminder to be as quiet as possible. your mother’s words echo in your mind—you’re stronger than this. you’ll make sure of it next time.

eleven years old

the path is gravel, crunching softly beneath satoru’s sandals as he walks alongside an instructor whose name he barely remembers. the man drones on about refinement, control, mastery—things satoru has already heard a thousand times.

“you’re not listening,” the man snaps.

and he’s not. not really. his attention is elsewhere, his gaze drifting over the estate grounds, eyes half-lidded as if the sunlight itself is dull. the words filter through his mind like wind threading through leaves. meaningless.

he’s bored out of his mind.

but then, a prickle—faint but undeniable, slithering down his spine. the six eyes catch it before he does, sharpening his presence with a clarity that startles him. an unfamiliar presence. dangerous.

he turns, gaze snapping to the far end of the walkway where two figures pass. a man is there, someone satoru doesn’t recognize. black hair, stony expression, large build. but it’s the way he stands—soundless, predatory, and without the faint hum of jujutsu—that holds his attention.

his heartbeat quickens, and for the first time in his life, satoru feels something he’s not accustomed to feeling: uncertainty.

“eyes forward.” the instructor’s voice cuts through the moment like shattered glass. satoru’s head jerks back around, the man’s scowl deepening.

“you think you’re above learning?” the words are practically spit at him. “pay attention. your arrogance is going to get you killed one day.”

his mouth opens to argue, to tell him it wasn’t arrogance, that something—someone—was there, but there’s no room for argument. no room for anything other than obedience.

“what was i just saying?” the man demands.

satoru’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. there’s a stubbornness in his silence. a challenge. because if they won’t hear him, then what’s the point of explaining himself at all?

the man’s expression turns into a sneer. “if you think the six eyes make you untouchable, you’re more of a fool than i thought.”

it’s not the first time he’s been scolded for things that feel insignificant. but today his frustration turns into something colder, something hardened under the weight of expectation.

he holds the man’s gaze, unflinching. he won’t apologize.

“again,” the instructor growls. “this time, with your attention where it should be.”

satoru’s arrogance is blooming. not from confidence, but from the constant requirement to prove himself. the only thing he knows is that he can’t afford to be wrong. not when everyone expects him to be right.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the room is too quiet. too empty. every sound feels too loud, like it’s trying to fill the space where words should be.

you sit alone at a low table, knees pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. the tea set in front of you remains untouched, its warmth leeching into the cool air. your mother and father aren’t here. they haven’t been here all day.

your mistake had been small. stupid, even. you had spoken out of turn when your parents’ guests were present. your voice had slipped into the conversation without thought, your curiosity blooming too quickly to be contained.

a quiet look from your father, a disappointed look from your mother. that had been all. no scolding, no raised voices. just silence.

it’s worse than punishment. worse than anger.

they simply pretend you don’t exist.

the hours drag on, pulling you apart piece by piece. you can’t focus on your studies. your hands shake when you try to write, the brushstrokes uneven, smeared. you spend the afternoon retracing your own mistakes, as if perfect calligraphy will somehow fix everything.

your mother passes you in the corridor without so much as a glance. your father’s voice filters through the walls of his study, discussing matters of importance as if you’re nothing but a shadow. the staff moves about their tasks, too frightened to acknowledge you.

it’s not just rejection. it’s erasure. and it’s not the first time.

your parents’ approval is everything. without it, you’re withering from the inside out.

this desperate silence is a weapon, you realize. a means of forcing submission without a single word. it’s punishment disguised as calm. indifference is worse than cruelty.

by the time night falls, your chest feels crushed. your hands ache from gripping the brush too tightly, your eyes burn from straining to perfect each line.

when you finally gather the courage to find your mother preparing for bed, it feels like dragging yourself through ice.

“mom,” you whisper, your voice trembling in the stillness. “i’m sorry i spoke out of turn. it won’t happen again.”

your mother pauses, her gaze sliding over you with the dispassion of someone studying a textbook rather than a child.

“we expect you to conduct yourself properly,” she says, her tone smooth and detached. “if you wish to be treated with respect, you must earn it.”

the words hit like cold iron, settling heavy and unmoving in your chest. acceptance is conditional. love is conditional.

you nod, a tiny, frail movement, your hands clutching at your sleeves like that alone will keep you steady. her gaze lingers before she turns away, her attention already drifting somewhere you can’t follow.

you stay awake for hours, replaying her words over and over, carving them into your mind. because if you can just be perfect, then maybe you’ll be allowed to exist.

fifteen years old

the air in the city is different from the air on campus. dirtier, sure, but lighter. satoru shoves his hands in his pockets, grinning as he takes in the busy streets and the scent of fried food drifting from nearby stalls. he’s not even sure where they’re going, just that they’re not supposed to be there.

“you think he’ll notice we’re gone?” shoko asks, lighting a cigarette.

suguru hums. “probably. but it’ll take him a while to track us down.”

“yeah, and by the time he does, we’ll be long gone,” satoru replies. “we can just blame it on someone else. say we got kidnapped or something.”

shoko snorts. “yeah, because that’s believable. who’d kidnap us?”

“hey,” satoru starts, feigning a wounded look. “we’re kidnappable. valuable, even. they could ransom us.”

shoko rolls her eyes. “the kidnapper would probably pay yaga to take the two of you back.”

suguru grins. “at least he’d be getting a deal.”

they wander through crowded streets, weaving between stalls and vendors, occasionally pausing to look at something interesting. satoru buys enough dango for them to share for the next three days, handing them sticks without looking.

“trying to buy our loyalty?” suguru asks, biting into the sticky sweetness.

“just making sure the two of you don’t pass out from low blood sugar. you’re welcome.”

shoko rolls her eyes but takes a stick anyway, a smile on her lips. “think yaga’ll be pissed?” she asks, glancing over at suguru.

he shrugs. “probably. but it’s not like we haven’t done this before.”

satoru huffs. “he’ll probably lecture us for an hour and then make us clean something. big deal.”

“maybe next time you should think about that before dragging us out here,” shoko says pointedly.

“me? i didn’t drag you anywhere.”

“you literally said, ‘come on, let’s go before the old man finds out,’” suguru adds with a raised brow.

“yeah, well, you didn’t have to listen.”

“you made a compelling argument,” shoko says. “it’s definitely better than sitting around listening to yaga drone on about discipline or whatever.”

they lapse into easy quiet, tokyo bustling around them. it’s nice, just being here. out of bounds, out of reach, somewhere that doesn’t feel so suffocating.

when they finally head back, it’s mostly because shoko’s tired of just standing around. satoru drags his feet, almost hoping yaga’s not waiting so he can claim victory. but as soon as they step back onto school grounds, yaga is there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“you’re back late.”

shoko and suguru immediately point at satoru. “his idea.”

suguru shrugs when the man’s glare turns to him. “i tried to talk him out of it.”

yaga’s eyes land on satoru, who just grins. “don’t blame them. i was bored. figured it’d be good to let off some steam. they just followed.”

yaga’s expression doesn’t change, but satoru swears he can see a twitch in his eye. “so you dragged them into trouble because you were bored?”

“pretty much.”

“detention. all three of you. and you’re cleaning the training grounds.”

shoko snorts. “how are we supposed to clean grass and trees?”

yaga just keeps glaring at satoru, who sighs, thinking about how he’s going to get out of the worst of it. suguru’s shooting him a glare that clearly means you owe me, and shoko’s already wandering off like she doesn’t plan on helping at all.

worth it, satoru thinks. totally worth it.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the sun dips low on the horizon, casting the world in hues of orange and gold. your lessons ended hours ago, your hands still sore from calligraphy practice. but now, the house is settling into evening routines. your mother is somewhere behind closed doors, your father gone on business.

no one’s paying attention.

you’ve always been able to hear the festival from your room. every year you catch conversations carried on the breeze, the low thrum of drums, the high-pitched laughter of children. this time, you don’t just listen.

you slip from the house with careful footsteps, out through the rearmost garden where the lanterns haven’t been lit yet. it’s reckless. dangerous, even. but that’s the point.

the festival stretches through the village square down the hill, music and voices tangled together in a wild, joyful mess. you can hear it clearly now, the noise a pulsing thing that makes your skin prickle.

you move closer. grass tickles your bare feet as you duck behind trees, creeping down the hill until the sounds of celebration grow loud enough to drown out your heartbeat.

you catch glimpses of children chasing each other through the square, their laughter bright and unrestrained. paper lanterns swing overhead, painting everything in soft light. the air smells of roasted meat and sugar, and your mouth waters at the scents.

it’s beautiful. you edge closer, letting yourself sway a little to the music, copying the steps you see from afar, stumbling when your feet don’t cooperate. but it doesn’t matter.

no one’s watching. no one’s there to scold you. for once, it feels like something is yours.

you twirl, your arms thrown wide, a laugh slipping out before you can swallow it down. your hair comes loose from its careful tie, strands whipping against your cheeks.

you’re just about to spin again when a voice cuts through the noise.

“miss? what are you doing out here?”

you freeze, heart leaping to your throat. you know that voice—warm, familiar, one of the staff who’s always been kinder than the others. the one who sneaks you sweets from the kitchen when no one’s looking.

you whip around to see the woman standing a few paces away, her expression hovering somewhere between worry and exasperation.

“do you have any idea what kind of trouble you would be in if someone else found you out here?” her voice is urgent, but her tone is softer than the words.

you swallow hard, guilt starting to curl in your chest. “i—i just wanted to see it. just once.”

her eyes soften. “you shouldn’t be here. come, let’s get you back before someone notices.”

you hesitate, your feet still rooted in the dirt. but you allow her to guide you back up the hill in silence, the sounds of the festival fading into the distance. by the time you reach the estate, the air feels thicker. the woman pauses, her gaze flickering over your disheveled hair, dirt clinging to your robes.

“you shouldn’t do that again,” she says, gentle but firm. “but i understand.”

it’s not a reprimand. not really. and it’s the closest thing to kindness you’ve heard in weeks.

when you’re left at your door, you stand there for a moment, listening to the fading footsteps. the memory of the music lingers like a thread you’re unwilling to let go of.

you slip back into your room, but even as you sit down to fix your hair and make yourself presentable, you can’t help but smile.

the thrill of it lingers. you did something you weren’t supposed to do. and no one can take that away from you.

nineteen years old

elders are gathered around the table like birds of prey, their eyes sharp and their words sharper. satoru leans back in his seat, hands folded behind his head, his posture deliberately relaxed. because if he looks too engaged, they’ll take it as obedience. if he looks too bored, they’ll take it as disrespect. it’s a careful balance.

“now that you’ve assumed your role as head of the clan,” one of them starts, voice brittle with age, “the matter of your marriage must be discussed. you’ve evaded it long enough.”

he rolls his eyes. “yeah, because keeping the clan safe and doing all your dirty work is just me avoiding responsibilities, right?”

frowns deepen across the room, but no one denies it. the corners of his mouth twitch up. a small victory, but not a real one.

“you’ve been indulged because of your abilities. but this is not a matter that can be put off indefinitely,” another one insists, tone dripping with condescension.

“and what exactly is the rush?” satoru’s smile is all teeth, its sharpness dulling the unease in his gut. “pretty sure the world’s not ending tomorrow. or is there something you’re not telling me?”

they don’t appreciate the sarcasm. he knows this, and it’s half the point.

“you are the future of this clan,” one of them says. “your bloodline is the most important thing we have. without a proper successor, everything is at risk.”

ah. there it is. not his safety. not his happiness. the purity of the gojo bloodline. the legacy. the replication of a weapon.

“yeah, yeah. i get it,” he says with a shrug, feigned indifference cloaked over his shoulders like armor. “you want me to knock someone up so you can have your precious heir. message received.”

“do not be crass, boy.”

“i’m just saying what you’re all thinking.” his gaze flickers from one face to the next from behind his bandages, searching for a hint of humanity. he finds none. “but sure, go on. tell me when the wedding is.”

“you misunderstand.” the oldest of them leans forward, his knuckles pressed into the table. “the decision is yours. but it must be made.”

it almost sounds like he has a choice. but he knows better. there’s no freedom here, just the illusion of it. a cage painted to look like an open field.

“great. then i’ll do it when i feel like it. now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“your duty to this clan is not something you can avoid indefinitely.”

it twists something sharp in his chest.

funny, he thinks. i thought my duty was to be your attack dog.

“i’ll do what’s required of me,” he says, the words coming out flat and cold. “but don’t pretend like it’s for me.”

they’re still speaking, but satoru’s thoughts have already drifted. he’s imagined his future before, even if he never admits it. he’s never expected love to come easily. he’s never expected his life to unfold like some fairytale.

but he’s always believed that marriage could be real. something worth building over time. companionship, understanding, the kind of warmth that comes from years of learning each other’s habits and secrets. a partnership built on effort instead of happenstance.

but the elders don’t speak of partnership. they speak of bloodlines and duty and preservation. it’s not marriage to them. it’s breeding.

their gazes are heavy, but he meets each one with a calculated grin. when he finally leaves the room, the door sliding shut behind him, his hands are clenched so tight his knuckles ache.

they want him to be something he’s not. something obedient. something easily controlled.

and if he has to marry someone to meet their expectations, fine. he’ll do it. but it’ll be on his terms.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・──

the air is cool, sunlight filtering through paper screens in pale, gentle patterns. your mother sits across from you, hands folded neatly in your lap, her eyes distant but not unfocused. there’s a heaviness in her posture today, a weight she’s trying to carry with grace.

this conversation feels important. something you should pay attention to. something your mother has prepared for.

“you’re of age now,” she begins, her voice steady. “there are things you need to understand.”

you nod, your fingers woven together in your lap. this isn’t the first time your mother has taught you something—proper greetings, scripture recitations, the art of composure. you expect this to be the same.

“a woman’s duty,” she starts, “is to serve her husband. to provide for him in the home. to be a source of stability. of comfort.”

the words are familiar. you nod again, the phrases sliding into place like pieces of the puzzle you’ve been assembling your whole life. you’ve always been taught to be good and useful.

“there are aspects of marriage you’ve been sheltered from,” she says, each word placed with precision. her hands smooth over her skirt, fingers shaking slightly before stilling again. “things that are not meant to be pleasant for you. things that must be endured.”

a furrow forms between your brows. “endured?”

“yes.” her gaze sharpens, something like caution in her eyes. “it will hurt. that is to be expected. but pain is not the point. it’s simply a consequence of what’s necessary.”

your confusion deepens. what’s supposed to hurt? you open your mouth to ask, but the question feels forbidden. “necessary?”

“to produce children.” her voice softens, but it’s the softness of a practiced recital. “your ability to fulfill that duty is most important. nothing matters as much as building your family.”

the words hang in the air. you try to grasp them, to make them fit into the structure of your understanding. but they don’t settle. they twist and tangle, leaving you more confused than before.

“pleasure is indulgent,” your mother says, her tone taking on a rhythmic, rehearsed quality. “it is a sin. your responsibility is not to enjoy the act, but to endure it. to perform your duty and bear children as you are meant to do.”

her eyes are distant again. and this time, you see it—the melancholy straining through the calmness. like she’s teaching you something she never fully learned herself.

“do you understand?”

not really.

but you nod anyway, because it’s the right answer. the only answer.

her shoulders relax, just barely. “good.” she rises to her feet, the movement practiced, graceful. “you will pray for guidance,” she says. “for strength and for humility.”

the lesson feels like something fragile. something she’s been rehearsing for a long time. precious and ugly at the same time.

“of course.”

her eyes stay on you for a moment longer, like she’s waiting for something. forgiveness, maybe. or understanding. but she leaves before you can offer either. the door slides shut with a sound too soft to be comforting.

the silence that follows is heavier than the words she left behind. it presses down and you feel hollow, like something was taken from you and replaced with expectation.

you should feel grateful for her guidance, for her wisdom. but instead, all you feel is a quiet ache that you don’t know how to name.

[2cupids]

cw! pervert!satoru, semi-public, cumming inside, assplay. mdni (17+).

pervy yoga instructor!gojo whose bright and outgoing personality has brought him a large following. pair that with his good looks and it’s made him one of the most followed yoga teachers in the country. his classes are always in high demand, with people coming from all over just for one class. it’s not uncommon having to book a class months in advance sometimes and wait in the queue for the next available spot, especially in the spring and summer months.

but masked behind his good looks and charm, lies a twisted mind of perversion. he’s constantly trapped in a room with women of all shapes and sizes; it's like he’s a kid in a candy shop who can take his pick from the wide ranging selection whenever he wants without the risk of ever being caught.

his sharp eyes pick up any and everyone whose form is improper while watching the women get in position, quickly walking over to each one to fix it. his smooth voice flows through the room as he speaks into the mic next to his mouth, instructing people to tighten up their form, now noticing the even larger number of women who are doing it wrong. 

of course no one bats an eye at what looks to be gojo just being a helpful and attentive teacher as he goes around to help and he knows it. but his true intentions are much deeper than just placing a hand on a woman’s lower back to help adjust her posture. 

what no one knows is how excited he gets as his fingertips gently touch the material of her yoga top or pants, and if he’s lucky, sometimes her exposed skin. any position where a woman’s ass is in the air or that exposes some cleavage is undoubtedly his favorite. and he always manages to conveniently position himself at the front or back of the room during these positions, wherever the view is the best from honestly.

obviously many women throw themselves at him, from bored housewives to young college students, even the older women who come to keep their bodies healthy. he always politely declines, much to everyone’s dismay, which earns him many groans and displeased looks thrown his way as he gives them that handsome smile and thanks them for finding him attractive. 

satoru gojo isn’t looking for a relationship or even a fling, at most he just wants a one time thing. if he’s being honest though, he’s far more content with continuing to appear as an unassuming man to hide his deeply rooted deviant mind. a man that goes home and fervently fists his cock while flipping through every perverted memory and thought.

that is until you come around. now he wants nothing more than to feel your body against his, no matter what it takes.

you’re a fresh face he notices in his class one day but he tries not to pay you too much attention, knowing how sad he’ll be if you happen not to come back and he doesn’t get to ogle that beautiful body of yours anymore. so when you begin to make regular appearances, he’s more than just thrilled, he’s ecstatic.

during class, his eyes not only flicker towards you more than any other woman in the room as he speaks, but they linger on your body longer as he makes his way around the class, too. often times he’ll find any excuse to touch you even though your form doesn’t need the slightest bit of fixing. the women with keen senses pick up on the small details that most normal people would overlook when it comes to gojo and his attention. you’re suddenly given unwelcomed looks of spite from them, completely unaware that they’re jealous you’ve caught the hot yoga instructor’s eye instead of them.

it’s not until one day as you’re rolling up your mat that you’re suddenly aware of the special liking gojo has taken to you. you’re the last one left in the room with him and he approaches you, appearing to make small talk with you, but his glances at your breast don’t go unnoticed. after a few minutes, he lets you go and wishes you a nice afternoon, but not before he lets his hand go to your back as you’re about to walk away.

the next few classes go by without incident and gojo starts to think he won’t get his way after all, maybe he should’ve just given into one of the other dumb broads in the first place. he’s starting to feel dejected and seeing you regularly only makes him feel worse. soon, he’s back to his usual self though, showing every woman in the class an equal amount of attention again, telling himself to give up and forget you.

weeks later, you find yourself to be the last one to leave class again today. 

now, the way everything went down from that point is up for debate, depending on who’s asked, gojo or yourself. the only thing that’s not up for debate right now is how gojo’s got you pressed up against the mirror in the studio with your back nicely arched as satoru digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your ass which is sure to leave marks, keeping your cheeks spread wide so he can watch his cock disappear into your juicy pussy with each thrust.

condensation fogs up the area of the mirror where your face is pressed to the glass, eyes shut as gojo’s deep voice tells you all the dirty thoughts he’s had of you. an opaque white ring clings to the base of gojo’s pale dick, a result of your juices leaking onto his shaft from the constant friction. deep blue eyes glance up at your pretty and fucked out face, taking in the sight of you. 

you’re really all his at this moment. submitting your entire self to him, letting him use you to his liking just like a fuck toy. without even realizing it, his hips come to an involuntarily halt as spurts of hot cum shoot into your pussy making your soft walls flutter around him.

gojo doesn’t go soft, he’s still extremely hard and ready for more, so without another thought he wastes no time in maneuvering both your bodies onto the floor, manhandling you into a perfect position for fucking that he’s taught in class before.

the fat tip pokes at your slick lips for the second time as he starts round two. he spits on your puckered asshole before slipping his thick thumb inside while roughly snapping his hips into your supple flesh.