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@callmebuttfatt

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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no one talks about jaafar in that brown silk shirt and i need dada real bad.
any fic writers please hear my cry.
oh daddy
Jaafar Jackson Sneaker Shopping | Complex
jafaar jackson is devastatingly handsome btw. i cant stop thinking about him.

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Michael (2026)
(x)
(x)
Jaafar Jackson at a Thunder vs Lakers Game
He is actually very handsome????? LIKE LOOK AT HIM ???????
No like at this point am not just fangirling âOH HE IS BEAUTIFULâ , nah like HE IS ACTUALLY BEAUTIFUL ISTGđ

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Jaafar Jackson Met Gala | May 4, 2026
â WEST DISTRICT âââ [Satoru Gojo x afab reader ]
summary & disclaimers; [PART ONE ?] You and Gojo have had this friends with benefits situation for months. Things are going good for the most part. Late night connivence store trips, sleepovers and casual sex without the romance. It starts to get complicated when you start to want more, but heâs content with what you agreed on.
18+ MDNI , mature themes. Rewrite of the old version i wrote but maybe split into two parts. This work contains the following; marijuana usage, one sided feelings, emotionally avoidant Gojo, cunnilings, fingering, afab anatomy but no explicit pronoun usage. Black coded reader but no explicit description used.
Itâs 2am in Tokyo. The usual hustle and bustle now quieted down to a few sparse groups of people hanging out around late night bars, or walking through the streets in small groups under umbrellas. The neon signs hanging off of the sides of buildings reflected on the wet pavement where you walked, pulling the drawstrings of your hood all the way through, shielding yourself from the pelting rain as best as you could.
The corner store you walk up to provides no real shelter, the small shopâs front entryway just broad enough for you to squeeze up close to the door, resting your forehead against the glass. You leaned down to check your phone, wiping the screen off and swiping your messages open.
S.G đ§ż
 send your lo 3:25a.mÂ
S.G đ§ż
yooooo wya 3:37a.m
You
 3:57a.m srry I was still walking
You
3:57a.m đ
You started sharing your location with S.G đ§ż
S.G đ§ż
It's ok. Iâm omw 4:01a.m
S.G đ§ż
7 mins 4:01 a.mÂ
You tucked your phone into your pocket as you turned around, squinting against the assault of tiny rain droplets hitting your face, trying to make sense of what was in front of you through the downpour and fog. Moments later, Satoruâs sleek black car pulled up a few feet in front of you, and your phone pinged.Â
S.G đ§ż
U see me? 4:10 a.m
You opened the car door, not even bothering to shake the water off the bottoms of your shoes before clambering in, the rubber floor mats squeaking under your feet. He at least had the decency to crank the heat on full blast, showing up comfortable in lounge pants and a cotton shirt.
His car radio was on low, playing something smooth and moody. When he started driving, you always thought about how he never wore his seatbelt. âIt's not pouring so bad.â he joked, trying to break the silence, you only turned to look at him, scowling. He glanced at your expression and snorted, looking back to the road. âHey, you were late this time. Thatâs not my fault.â You peeled the damp fabric of your hood back from your face, unzipping the jacket and throwing it into the back seat.
âIâm getting real tired of this shit, Satoru.â he slowed, driving one-handed so he could turn and look at you clearly. âYâknow, The offer still stands. I can still just pick you up at your place.â You waved him off, âYeah, so I can look crazy? No thanks. I donât need that kind of attention.â
Satoru laughed and slowly, his other hand creeped its way to your knee. You swallowed the butterflies crawling up from your stomach. âHow would I make you look crazy?.â You said nothing at first, and the silence stretched on as you mentally worded what you wanted to say. âWhy do we have to do this so late at night?â He also didn't respond right away, and you looked outside towards the blur of neon and fog to escape the pressure of his silence, feeling shame curl up in your belly.
He cleared his throat, squeezing your knee once and returning his hand to the steering wheel, taking a right onto his street.Â
âitâs the only time that works for both our schedules.â He stopped in front of his apartment, a small luxury studio quietly tucked away on the outskirts of town, close to the school. He killed the engine, stepping out to walk around and open the door on your side. âWe could've done this a different day, but you wanted to see me sooo badâ You just scoffed, pushing past him.Â
It felt like second nature to treat his apartment as if it was your own. Seeing the minimalistic decoration youâve started bringing into the space gives you a strange sense of giddyness. You and Gojo have had this arrangement for months now, a kind of coworker friends-with-benefits situationship. Youâve known each other for years and privately, you would even admit that you had a little crush on him the very year you started working at Jujutsu Tech. He was always pleasant with you, polite and so handsome it made your eyes hurt to see him without his blindfold on.Â
It didnât become complicated between the two of you until you crossed paths with him on Christmas Eve. He was walking around the courtyard alone, seemingly lost in thought. You approached him then, keeping up his pace. The two of you talked, joked, and reminisced yet you could tell there was something else on his mind. It was like you werenât really reaching him. He covered his affliction with jokes and teasing. So you didnât press him for more.Â
Sometime after, you left the school together and ended up at his apartment passing a blunt and listening to music. You danced to every song he played and laughed together until your sides hurt. Satoru looked at you so silly, his eyes lowered, tinged red and glossy when he told you he wanted to try shotgunning. You kissed him as soon as the smoke left his lips, and he brought you closer to him, the two of you giggling and falling over on his couch, dropping the cherry on the leather and leaving a round burn mark he still points out to this day.
Since then, your relationship has evolved into what it is now. Every Thursday you would meet him in the city, a 20 minute bus ride from your place. Satoru would pick you up, and you would spend the weekend with him. It was fun for the most part. It meant late-night store runs for snacks and junk, frequent movie nights and all nighters, and sometimes, incredible sex that leaves your body thrumming. One thing remained, though.Â
No feelings involved. It could only be strictly casual. This was an overshadowing rule that you never let yourself forget.Â
Throughout your life so far you have taken heed to avoid these kinds of situations. Nothing good came from dealing with men who couldnât even give you commitment. Discernment has been your biggest lesson in life.
All that to say, this kind of arrangement was unlike anything youâve ever done before. Yet being with Satoru felt like bliss. He kept you close enough to know him intimately, to the point you can tell the distinction when switches from real and unguarded when you're alone to avoidant and overconfident around his peers. It felt like watching an exhausting display. He kept a physical barrier up at all times, allowing you in only when you were here, shut out from the world.Â
You donât know if your feelings started from your intrigue, or if you just got to know the bastard. Either way, âThisâ was going fine, but you were starting to care too much; he noticed.
If anybody asked, Satoru would say that he first clocked that you had some kind of crush on him the thirdâ maybe fourthâ time you hung out. It was subtle, but the lingering touches and sweet reactions you gave him weren't foreign to him, he knew what it meant when someone looked at him the way you did. At first, he considered pulling away but withdrawing from you felt like a non-negotiable. Cutting you off felt too cruel, and selfishly, he enjoyed your company. Your attention didnât feel like cheap admiration and you were never too professional or formal. It felt natural to wake up and see your face, to feel your warmth and weight in his bed, to drive around from sun up to sun down listening to music and going joint for joint.Â
It felt good to be with you, but it also felt good to do his own thing, no commitment or emotional ties to anybody. Love was his biggest scorn in life. He wouldnât allow himself to stop and make time for it, and didn't want to be bothered with it. He was satisfied with what was familiar.
This relationship Satoru had with you was easy. He only called you sometimes, and texted you on and off. Cute heart stickers and âimuâ when he was away meant much more to you then it ever would for him, but for some reason he canât bring himself to clear the air. Your heart had turned into a huge elephant in the room you didnât know he was aware of, and he would keep it that way as long as time allowed. In his mind, there was no need to complicate things. Satoru enjoyed things for what they were in the moment, long forfeiting control of his life to fate. He understood everything comes and goes, but with you it was starting to become dangerous.Â
Satoru sat on his bed, one foot on the floor while he balanced the rolling tray on his leg. The tv played soft r&b music in the background, bathing the room in a soft grey-light while the rain pattered on outside. He kept the blinds open and the window cracked, necessary to air out the room. You were in the shower and he took the time to roll a joint for the two of you to smoke before bed. Minutes later you finally came around the corner, dressed in a cute nightie and socks, claiming your spot and plucking the joint from his fingers as soon as he twisted the top off.
He watched you as you took your pulls, he noticed how you weren't really looking at him, yet sitting upright when you felt him shift around behind you. There was something on the tip of your tongue you were thinking about, but he didnât know what you would say if he asked, thoughtfully taking the joint when you passed it back to him, laying back and setting his glasses on the night stand. He braced himself when you turned around, getting under the covers and setting the ash tray on the night table to your side.
But you said nothing, taking a few more pulls before you set the clip down in the tray, watching it burn out, still not turning around. He decided to break the ice.
âHey.â
You closed your eyes when he shuffled over, closing the space between your bodies. His voice softened, deepened into a croak.Â
âyeah?âÂ
You were being short on purpose, and he knew.Â
Satoru rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, the warmth of his breath ghosting over the back of your neck. One of his arms slid across your waist, loose and unassuming, like he was giving you the chance to shrug him off if you wanted. But you didnât. His thumb rubbed circles on your hip, a precursor for his favorite way to get you talking.
âYou have an attitude today," he mused, playfully dragging the tip of his nose across your cheek. You huffed quietly, keeping your eyes on the tv in front of you. âI donât have an attitude.â âmhmâ Satoru wasnât convinced, the mattress dipped as he shifted closer to you, tangling his long legs with yours under the covers. âYouâve been quiet since I picked you up. Iâm starting to think youâre mad at me or something.â You said nothing, the silence stretched long while he waited for your response, mindlessly caressing your flank. His touches slowly grew more insistent, bolder.Â
⚠࣪ Ëđ°ď¸ŕË. áľáľđď¸ spy au where field agent!gojo is in love with the voice in his earpiece â mission supervisor!you.
gojo gets injured on a mission and you have to be there for him.
the first sign something is wrong is the silence.
gojoâs missions are never quiet.
even when heâs deep in enemy territory, even when heâs supposed to be completely silent, thereâs always somethingâ a comment whispered too low for anyone but you to hear, a teasing remark about the guardsâ ugly uniforms, a lazy âangelâ drawled into the mic just to make sure youâre still there, just to hear you say his name back.
itâs been that way for two years.
youâve grown used to it, well, more than used to it. somewhere along the line, you started expecting it, waiting for it, noticing the empty spaces when heâs not on channel and the world feels a little too quiet. and tonight, all of a sudden, thereâs nothing.
you stare at the monitor.
his biometrics flicker across the screen, green lines dancing against black. heart rate elevatedânot panic elevated, but combat elevated, the kind that means heâs moving fast, but the movement data is wrong, unstable, jerky in a way that doesnât match his usual fluid grace.
the mission clock ticks forward. twenty-three seconds since his last transmission.
twenty-four.
twenty-five.
you lean closer to the mic, fingers already reaching for the channel.
âsatoru,â you say, and your voice is steady because it has to be, because youâre the one in control and the control doesnât panic. âstatus report.â
no answer.
just static, the soft crackle of an open line with no one on the other end. your fingers tighten on the console.
âagent gojo, respond.â
static stretches like a held breath. a few seconds later you hear a rough, torn exhale, coming out as if like it cost something to push it out.
ââŚyeah. iâm here.â
relief hits you so fast it almost hurts. almost. you donât have time for hurt. you have time for data, for assessment, for the cold precision that keeps agents alive.
âreport.â
âminor complication.â
the word minor means absolutely nothing coming from him. youâve learned that the hard way, through too many missions where minor turned into major turned into him stuck on a rooftop or temporarily captured while you watched through cameras you couldnât do anything about.
you bring up the tactical cameras and your stomach drops.
the hallway on screen is destroyed. absolutely wreckedâ walls scorched, ceiling panels dangling, sparks raining from exposed wiring like sad little fireworks. two bodies on the ground, clearly not moving, clearly not getting up. one emergency alarm flashing red in the corner, painting everything in urgent pulses of light.
and gojoâ
is leaning against the wall, one hand pressed to his side, blood dark on his shirt, spreading quickly. too much of it, too fast, soaking through the black fabric in a way that makes your vision tunnel.
âsatoru,â you say sharply. âyouâre injured.â
ânoticed.â his voice is lighter than it should be, too light, which means heâs trying to hide how bad it really is.
your hands move quickly across the keyboard, pulling up evacuation protocols, calculating distances, routing the nearest available team.
âevacuation team dispatched. eight minutes out.â
he exhales a quiet laugh. it sounds wrong. wet around the edges.
âgenerous.â
your pulse spikes. you can feel it in your throat, in your temples, in the way your fingers tremble just slightly before you force them still.
âdonât joke.â
ânot joking.â
his breathing stutters, then steadies, barely.
on the camera feed, you watch him slide down the wall until heâs sitting. his legs give out halfway through the motion, and he lands harder than he meant toâ you can tell by the way his whole body flinches and the sharp sound he almost makes before swallowing it down.
your monitor tracks the drop in his blood pressure. ninety over sixty. eighty-eight over fifty-eight. dropping rapidly.
âstay upright,â you say immediately. bleeding + supine = bad, which you know because youâve memorized every trauma protocol in existence, because you canât lose him.
âi am upright.â
âsatoru.â
âfine.â
he shifts against the wall, trying to find a position that hurts less, but unfortunately there isnât one.
you hear the sharp inhale he tries to hide. the way it catches in his throat. the way his teeth must be hurting from clamping down on whatever sound wants to escape.
your chest tightens.
eighty-five over fifty-five.
eight minutes is too long; you know it, he knows it, but neither of you say it.
âtalk to me,â you say instead, because the silence is worse, because if heâs talking heâs conscious, because you need to hear his voice.
âabout what.â
âanything.â
he laughs again, softer this time. almost fond.
âyou just want to hear my voice.â
âyes.â
the admission surprises you both. you barely process it and he goes quiet for a second, but you donât want to take it back.
ââŚthatâs new. you usually deny it.â
âiâm denying nothing right now. just keep talking.â
eighty-two over fifty. his eyes are closing on the camera feed. you can see itâ the way his lids droop, the way his head tips back against the wall. you feel your own heartbeat spike.
âopen your eyes, satoru!â
âthey are open.â
âtheyâre not.â
he chuckles weakly, âspying on me?â
âalways.â
he smiles at that, a small and tired smile directed to you in a way his usual grins never are.
âcreepy. i like it.â
âkeep your eyes open and iâll be as creepy as you want.â
his chuckle turns into a wince, blood pressure dropping again. seventy-nine over forty-eight. youâre already recalculating, checking the evac teamâs position, calculating how fast you can clear the roads and make them move.
âtell me something,â you say, pulling up his file, his stats, anything to keep him focused. âsomething i donât know.â
âmm. like what.â
âfavorite color.â
âblue.â
âso obvious.â he huffs out a breath at that, then scrunches his face. âfavorite food.â
âanything sweet.
âalso obvious.â
he hums quietly, thinking. the sound is strained.
âfavorite memory.â
silence, longer than you want.
ââŚsatoru?â
ââm thinking.â
the cameras show his hand pressing harder against his side. the blood is still spreading, still too fast, and you bite your lip to not comment on that, opting to check out evacâs route instead.
âfirst time i heard your voice,â he says finally.
you freeze, fingers stilling over the keyboard.
âtwo years ago. first mission together. you said âagent gojo, channel checkâ and iââ he pauses, breathing slow and careful. âi stopped moving. just stood there like an idiot. geto was yelling in my other ear. didnât hear a word.â
your heart does something complicated.
âthatâs notââ
âthought you sounded like morning.â
âmorning?â
âyeah. quiet and soft and like something good was about to happen.â
seventy-five over forty-five. the evac team is four minutes out. four minutes is an eternity.
âyouâre bleeding out and youâre telling me this now.â
âfigured if iâm gonna dieââ
âyouâre not dying.â
ââmight as well be honest.â
âyouâre not dying, satoru.â
âokay, angel.â
he doesnât believe you, you hear it in his voice.
see it in the way his eyes keep closing, the way his head keeps tipping back, the way his hand is slipping against his side because thereâs too much blood now, too much for pressure to stop.
âtell me something,â he whispers.
âuh.â
âanything. justâkeep talking. like i am.â
you swallow, think for a second.
your mind is blank except for the numbersâseventy over forty-two, three minutes out, dropping dropping droppingâand the image of him on that screen, too still, too pale even in the red emergency light.
âmy mug,â you say.
ââŚwhat.â
âthe one you brought me. with the tea. itâsââ you pause, steady your voice. âitâs exactly like my favorite one at home. chipped rim. old. iâve had it for years.â
âi know.â
âhow?â
âtold me once. after a mission. you were tired. said you missed your stupid mug. wanted to bring it to you and meet you, but circumstances.â
you donât remember that, but he does. he remembered forâwhat, a year? longer? tracked down the shop, the neighborhood, the exact style, justâ
âwhy?â
he shrugs on the camera. winces.
âwanted you to have something familiar. when things get hard.â
sixty-eight over forty.
âevac is close,â you say. âtwo minutes. stay with me, okay?â
âhere.â
âkeep talking.â
âyou first.â
âiââ you search for something, anything. âi check your channel first. every morning. before any other agent.â
ââŚyeah?â
âyeah. i scroll through the roster and i look for your name and iââ you stop to breathe deeply. âi feel better when i see it.â
he smiles, shaking his head entirely too softly for someone whoâs bleeding out on a destroyed hallway floor.
âhey.â
âdonât.â
âangel, iââ
the channel crackles.
âevac team arriving now,â you say.
your voice turns steady again, professional. the same tone youâve used a thousand times across a thousand missions. but your fingers are moving faster than they should across the console, pulling up angles youâve already checked, routes youâve already confirmed, vitals youâve been watching drop for the last three minutes.
âfinally.â his voice is thin, thinner than youâve ever heard it, stretched like a wire pulled too tight.
his eyes find the camera. he mouths something. you canât read it. the feed cuts.
heavy footsteps echo through the comm. boots on concrete, urgent and pounding. someone shoutingâ coordinates, medical supplies, clear the corridor. the sounds of extraction youâve heard a hundred times, but never like this, never when itâs him.
then a medicâs voice cuts in.
âweâve got him.â
your entire body relaxes for exactly one second until another voice chimes in.
âheâs losing consciousness.â
your heart drops like something falling off a cliff, straight down, no bottom in sight.
âsatoruââ
you hear the stretcher shift. the clatter of equipment being moved. fabric rustling as someone cuts through his suit, applies pressure to the wound youâve been watching bloom red on your screen for what felt like hours but was really only minutes.
his biometrics are everywhere. heart rate slowing. blood pressure dropping. oxygen saturation flickering like a candle in wind.
ââŚangel?â
his voice is barely there now, like heâs reaching for you through fog.
âiâm here!â you press the words into the mic like you can press them into him as if you say it firmly enough, steadily enough, heâll feel it in his chest and hold on.
âgood.â
you can hear the medics working. can hear the ambulance doors slam. can hear the siren start before the vehicle even fully moves.
âstay on the line.â
his voice is so quiet now. so young. so far away from the man who vaulted over barriers and cracked jokes in the dark.
âi will.â
you wonât move. wonât breathe. wonât do anything except sit here with your hand pressed to the console like you can reach through it, like you can hold his hand across all this distance.
he takes another shallow breath.
âdonât hang up, okay?â
âi wonât.â the words are a rope youâre throwing into the dark and hoping he catches.
his heartbeat slows further. the monitor dips. he is unconscious.
the line goes quiet except for the medics working. the sirens. the sound of someone counting compressions.
you donât move. you canât.
you donât even realize time has passed and youâre still gripping the console until someone gently touches your shoulder.
your hands are white-knuckled. shaking so finely you didnât even notice. the plastic beneath your fingers is warm from hours of contact, from the desperate press of your palms like you could transfer something vital through sheer proximity.
âwe stabilized him,â a medic says.
you turn slowly to see him standing in the doorway of the control room. young. tired. kind eyes behind wire-frame glasses.
âheâs alive.â
your hands are shaking.
you look down at them like they belong to someone else.
âheâs in surgery now,â the medic continues, softer. âtouch and go for a while, but the team is good. the best. heâs got a chance.â
you nod because you donât trust your voice.
the medic hesitates, adds, âyou should go home. rest. thereâs nothing you can do tonight.â
you look back at the console. at his frozen biometrics, at the last reading before the line went silentâheart rate 42, dropping, dropping, droppingâ
âIâll stay.â
the medic watches you for a long moment.
then nods.
leaves.
you sit alone in the humming dark and wait for news that feels like itâs taking years to arrive.
â
three days later, gojo wakes up to a painfully white ceiling.
he blinks slowly. once. twice. his eyelids feel like theyâre made of sandpaper. his mouth tastes like something died in it.
the room smells like antiseptic and something floralâ someoneâs been bringing flowers, apparently. thereâs an IV in his arm, taped down carefully. a bandage wrapped tight around his ribs, visible above the thin hospital gown.
machines beep quietly beside him.
sunlight filters through half-closed blinds.
he takes inventory: everything hurts, but everythingâs there. arms work. legs work. head feels like itâs stuffed with cotton, but thatâs probably the drugs.
ââŚwow.â
his voice is rough. scraped, like heâs been screaming, whichâactually, he has no idea if he has. the last few days are a blur of pain and darkness and one voice, one voice that kept saying iâm here, iâm here, iâm here.
geto, whoâs been sitting nearby, looks up from his phone.
âoh. youâre awake.â
âunfortunately.â
he laughs, bright and surprised. âyou scared everyone.â
gojo squints at him. the movement makes his head throb.
âdid i?â
âyeah.â geto stretches, cracking his neck. âlike, everyone everyone. the whole division was in a mood for like two days.â he grins, a mischievous expression taking over his face. âespecially your supervisor.â
his brain, sluggish and drug-addled, still manages to latch onto those words like a lifeline.
ââŚcontrol?â
âyeah.â
he nods toward the chair beside his bed.
âsheâs been here like every day.â
gojo freezes. the IV tugs slightly against his skin.
âwhat.â
âsat right there.â geto points to the empty chairâplain, vinyl, the kind thatâs been in a thousand hospital rooms. âpretty quiet though. didnât talk to anyone. just watched your monitor and stared at you.â
gojo stares at the empty chair.
âyeah. came in every morning around 6am. stayed an hour or so. came back in the evenings. sometimes late at night, tooâ night shift said she showed up at 2am once, just sat in the dark.â
his heart monitor beeps a little faster.
âyouâve all seen her.â
âobviously.â
âher face.â
geto tilts his head, smirking. âjealous?â
gojo slowly sinks deeper into the pillow. the ceiling is very white. very blank. very good for staring at while your entire world view collapses.
âthis is the worst day of my life.â
geto bursts out laughing. gojo closes his eyes.
two years. two years of wondering. two years of building a face in his imagination from nothing but voice and instinct and desperate hope.
and theyâve all seen you.
âi need new colleagues,â he mutters.
geto laughs harder.
that evening, once the room is quiet againâ visitors gone, shift changed, just the soft beep of monitors and the distant sound of hospital noiseâ gojo reaches for the small comm unit on the bedside table.
his fingers hesitate just above it. the plastic is cool, nothing like the voice it carries.
he thinks about the empty chair. about you sitting there in the dark at 2am. about you watching his chest rise and fall, counting each breath like it mattered.
then he presses the button.
âhello?â
static.
for one horrible second, he thinks you wonât answer. that somethingâs changed. that three days of silence meansâ
ââŚsatoru?â
your voice fills his ears softer than usual. stripped of the professional edge, the careful distance. just you, saying his name like a question and an answer all at once.
he smiles immediately, chuckling with relief.
it hurts his ribs. he doesnât care.
âheard you were spying on me.â
âyou were unconscious.â
âstill counts.â
he can hear you breathing, the faint background noise of wherever you areâ not the control room, somewhere quieter. somewhere with soft ambient sound.
âhow are you feeling?â
âalive.â
âgood.â
silence stretches between you, comfortable, but charged with something unspoken.
âyou visited me,â he says quietly.
âyes.â
âeveryone saw you.â
âi suppose.â
âexcept me.â
âuh. you were asleep.â
he pouts openly even though you canât see him, stares at the empty chair and imagines you there, silhouetted against the half-light, watching him breathe.
âunfair.â
âi wasnât there for you to see.â
âstill unfair.â
your voice softens. he hears itâ that tiny crack in the armor, the one heâs been collecting for two years. âi wanted to make sure you woke up.â
he turns his head toward the empty chair, where you sat. the ghost of you in the room.
âyou stayed a long time.â he murmurs into the space.
ââŚsometimes.â
the room is quiet.
his heart monitor beeps steadily beside him. steady. because of you.
âcontrol.â
âyes.â
âi think i really like you.â
in the silence that settles, he counts the heart monitor beats. seven. eight. nine. tenâ
âsatoru.â
âyeah.â
âyou donât even know what i look like.â
âdonât care.â he stares at the ceiling, smiling faintly. âi liked you before that mattered.â
your breath catches softly in the headset, just barely, but he hears it. he always hears it, documents it.
âyouâre recovering from blood loss.â
he laughs, then winces as his ribs protest. âdonât do that.â
âdo what?â
âturn it into a medical diagnosis. i almost died. let me have this.â
he imagines you pressing your fingers to your eyes. imagines you in whatever quiet space youâve found, probably the same tired clothes youâve worn for three days, probably running on no sleep and too much coffee.
âwhat do you want from me?â
his answer is immediate, no hesitation, just the truth, scraped raw and honest.
âcome see me again.â
the words hang in the air heavy with meaning.
âwhen iâm awake,â he adds quietly. âso i can finally see the person who wonât shut up in my ear.â
he waits as you stay silent, listening to the heart monitor beeping, fingers tight on the comm unit.
âokay, satoru.â
his heart skips a beat. he feels it, the machine registers it. somewhere, a nurse is probably going to check on him.
âokay?â
âwhen youâre discharged.â
your breath is a little stuttery, which can only appear when youâre nervous. he can hear it. youâre never nervous.
âiâll come see you.â
gojo grins at the ceiling, wide and sunny and so bright it should light up the whole room.
âgood.â
âgood.â
for the first time since the mission went wrong, he feels completely calm again, because now he has something to wait for.
after the line goes quiet, after the static fades and heâs alone with the beeping machines and the too-white ceiling, gojo presses the comm unit to his chest, right over his heart where the bandage ends.
he closes his eyes and tries to imagine itâ what youâll look like, what youâll wear, whether youâll smile. whether youâll let him say your real name. whether youâll let him thank you properly for sitting in that ugly chair while he slept.
â
(the next morning, gojo wakes up to geto in the chair again.
âyouâre smiling in your sleep,â geto says flatly. âitâs disturbing.â
âiâm always smiling.â
ânot like that. that one was creepy.â
gojo's smile widens.
âheh.â
geto narrows their eyes. â...what happened.â
ânothing.â
âsatoru.â
âcontrolâs coming to see me.â the words tumble out before he can stop them. getoâs eyebrows shoot up.
âwhat, really?â
âwhen iâm discharged. sheâs gonna see me again.â
âsheââ geto pauses. âshe agreed to that?â
âyeah.â
geto stares at him.
gojo stares back, grinning.
âbut you're insufferable. why would she want that after already talking with you couple of hours ago day?â
gojo gasps, wincing right after from the sting on his side, âexcuse you?â
âthis is going to be a disaster.â gojo relaxes into the pillows, deciding that he is too happy to be affected by getoâs bullying.
âprobably.â
âyou donât even know what she looks like.â
âdonât care.â geto sighs the sigh of someone who has been dealing with gojo satoru for far too many years.
âyouâre impossible.â
âi know. who cares? iâm gonna tell her i love her.â)
LOVE ME AGAIN | PT. 2 â˝^â˘âŠâ˘^âź
Characters: Tattoo Artist!Geto x Bookstore Owner!Reader x Author!Gojo
Summary: Young love is sweet; itâs easy to believe that such a pure thing can last forever. Seven years ago, childhood friend and college sweetheart, Satoru Gojo, shattered all illusions of a shared future after breaking your heart. Fast forward to your late 20s. You keep yourself busy with your bookstore, a good crowd of friends, and a certain dark-haired man who tries to break down your hardened walls. What happens when Satoruânow an accomplished bestselling authorâwalks back into your life, convinced that your love story deserves another chance? Do you allow him to pick up the pen again or rip out the pages of your history altogether?
Word Count: 1.3k
Content: f!reader, 18+ mdni, suggestive, angst, hurt/comfort, gojo still being an oblivious softhearted asshole, geto being a green flag, reader processing a breakup and who she is outside of it
Notes: im going to be so honest im torn trying to decide who reader will end up with lmao i love gojo and geto equally
Taglist: @loreleis-world @kingraspberry12-blog @we-rice-boi @witchbybirth @alebrasil0101 to be included, please have your age in your profile. lmk if i forgot you!
masterlist | chapter ii. blue | navi | divider by @pixopix
You remember all your firsts with Satoru. First shared furniture, first lovemaking, first real argument as a couple, and most importantly, the first and last time the man tore you into tattered pieces.Â
Thereâs no me without you, heâd claimed. Itâs always been us.Â
A sweet lie that a younger you believed. Maybe heâd fooled himself too, drunk on your history together. Who were you without Satoru, really? Who was he without you?
SIRENS
CHAPTER SIX - VIOLET (DANIEL CAESAR)
SYNOPSIS You agree to go to group counselling because you can't fix grief the same way you fix everything else. Every week, the same people sit in a circle talking about the things they lost, the things they regret, the things they can't change. You say you're fine, Satoru says he's busy. Neither of you believe each other. Each session ends the same way, with both of you heading to the door at the same time, pretending it doesn't mean anything.
Sirens by Sonder - 'If i closed the door and shut my mouth, I wouldn't be here right now'
PAIRING Lawyer Gojo x Surgeon Fem reader
CONTENT mdni, mentions of death, grief, depression, anxiety, grief group counselling, forced proximity, first conversation lol, modern au, surgeon reader and lawyer gojo, silly gojo, SLOW BURNNNN, please understand this is a slow burn.
WORD COUNT 5.9K
CHAPTER INDEX <<CHAPTER FIVE >>CHAPTER SEVEN (PENDING...)
CURSING AT FATE WILL NOT REWIND THE BOOK OF TIME
An altar adorned with the sacred verses of manumission awaits in the pits of the netherworld for sepulchral souls like you. A sanctuary where the lone spirits intertwine in blind faith, a crescendo of illusion lingering as a silent canticle.
Strings of golden glitter trickled down onto the swaying leaves as they played a waltz, trying to attract the attention of the bitter humans. The glimmers were a rarity in a world where light had been replaced with ash-consumed skies.Â
Your soles caressed the harsh concrete as you sauntered through the vast park, oak trees dominating the land, their manes fading from light brown into a pale green, the vibrancy still not potent.Â

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me after the author mischaracterizes me in a xreader fic
no hate tho
Spent the last hour on this instead of working, guess what this is about đĽ°
DO U GUYS HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH WORK THIS WAS MY BACK IS BROKEN