this blog may contain NSFW + DARK CONTENT. minors, blank or ageless are not allowed on the property! this blog is firmly ANTI-CENSORSHIP! proceed with caution and read at your own risk.
house rules! ☆ latest work!
the name is NOE (no-ee)! they/them, twenty-two, cancer/infp, lesbotron 6000. consumed by gojo satoru, jjk, the hunger games, billie eilish, sabrina carpenter. wannabe writer.
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I bring a real 'actually people who are pregnant do deserve some special consideration because they are effectively at least temporarily disabled if not permanently after some complications' vibe to the party that a lot of people don't seem to like
content. gojo satoru x male!reader. smut. minors do not interact. bottom satoru + top reader. established relationship. fingering. sex with prep. unprotected sex. anal. swearing. clan leader!reader. very lovey-dovey. demanding princess satoru and his boyfie who can't say no to him. spitting in his mouth. light choking. satoru's absolutely unhinged pov. oh and breaking the bed. that too.
wc. 8.1k
message from noe. chose promise, chose due, even if it's months later... @burgojo this one is for you!!!
You don’t consider yourself a weak man.
No one does, actually. You have your reputation among jujutsu society, and it isn’t that of a weak man, not by a longshot. You’re a clan leader, a warrior. Weakness isn’t part of your identity. Vulnerability? Sure, when the time is right. Weakness? Never.
That’s what you tell yourself. You keep your pride close to your chest, lest he snatches it right from your hands.
No, generally speaking, you aren’t weak at all, but—
“Oh my God, yours looks so good, gimme.”
Satoru has a way of bringing it out of you.
“Back off.” You try to keep your voice firm, but it’s already a struggle. “It’s mine. You’ve had yours already.”
You’re trying hard not to look at him. You know if you do, you’ll cave immediately.
Satoru isn’t one to give up so easily, though. And he isn’t one to play fair, either.
“C’mon,” he whines, resting his chin on your shoulder, “just a bite, I promise. I just wanna have a taste!”
“Fine. You know what? Fine.” You cut off a tiny piece of fondant with your spoon and push it in his general direction. “Here.”
Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.
Slowly, Satoru pulls away. You feel his stare in the side of your head. Don’t look at him.
“Wow. So you just don’t love me anymore, huh? Wow. I came out here to spend some time with my beloved even though I’m exhausted, and you’re making me drink, and I don’t even like alcohol, and now you won’t even share your dessert with me, the love of your life—”
As he whines, his grip on your bicep tightens. This, more than his yapping, is what’s most effective to sway you, and he is well aware of it. He talks your ear off to create some white noise, but the real focus is there.
“—anyway, I think I deserve it, don’t you?”
You tell yourself it’s because this really isn’t his scene. Satoru only ever goes out with his coworkers to spend time with them, not because he enjoys drinking or even because he likes going out. It’s fine if you indulge him. It’s fine if you let him steal your entire chocolate fondant right from your plate, without even trying to protest.
He came to dinner for you, so it’s fine to indulge him. That’s all it is.
“Fine,” you huff. “You can have it, baby.” He lets out a cheer of victory and digs in immediately.
It totally isn’t because of the little rosy tint on his cheeks. Or his big, bright, shimmering eyes, that catch the light just right. Or even the slightest little pout he was sending your way to make you cave. You’re not weak to him. You gave him your fondant because you wanted to.
That’s what you tell yourself. But both he and you know the truth.
And honestly, it isn’t your fault! He’s just… he’s…
Yeah, no. You have no excuse.
In your defense, you have a long history of indulging him, one that started on your very first meeting.
He was just six years old, and you were barely nine. Sitting beside his lord father with his hands folded elegantly in his lap, face completely blank in a cold, haughty mask. A meeting between clans, not your first, but definitely his.
You couldn’t stop staring at him. He looked like a doll, that was your first thought back then. Soft-looking hair. Big, shimmering blue eyes. Chubby, rosy cheeks. Dewy soft skin.
Lifeless.
You couldn’t bear to see a kid so pretty look so sad. So when he slipped away with a yawn, you asked to be dismissed, and went after him. You’d hidden chocolate bars in your yukata sleeves for later. You’d planned on enjoying them back at your clan’s estate, but sharing couldn’t hurt, could it?
He didn’t react, when you sat near him on the engawa, in a small patch of delightfully warm sunlight. Silently, you handed him the chocolate bar. He took it without even looking at you. Took his time savoring it, his cheeks flushed in delight.
Then, when he was finished, he held out his hand expectantly. Tilted his head to look up at you, and you were hit with the full force of that bright, piercing gaze.
Big blue eyes shimmering under the sunlight. Lips set in an adorable pout.
“I know you have more,” he said. “Gimme.”
How exactly were you supposed to say no?
You didn’t say no. You gave him every single one you had. And he graciously accepted to share the last one with you.
That was your first meeting. You were doomed from the start.
You’d thought that weakness would disappear as you grew older together. Surely, he wouldn’t be cute as a man the way he was as a boy. You’d learn to hold your ground.
Your heart had other plans.
You fell for him, hard. And to make matters worse? He felt the same.
You should’ve known things would only go downhill from there.
He knows all about the soft spot you have for him, and he takes advantage of it at every turn. Like right now. Shamelessly stealing your dessert after he all but inhaled his own, all because he’s craving more sugar and he knows you’d never say no.
You really need to learn how to say no.
Satoru makes quick work of your fondant, licking the spoon and his lips to make sure not a single crumb remains. He’d lick the plate if you weren’t there to scold him for it.
“Yeah, that was nice,” he says with a sigh, slumping back in his chair. “Good choice, sweets.”
You want to cuss him out. “Yeah? I bet it was great.” Your voice is oh so bitter. “Would’ve loved to have a taste, baby. You know, since it was my dessert.”
Satoru rolls his eyes, wrapping his arms around your bicep again, chin once more resting on your shoulder.
“It was the least you could do, honestly,” he retorts, huffing. “We could be home right now, having amazing sex—”
“Keep your voice down—”
“—but instead, you dragged me here to watch Nanami and Shoko get wasted.” Another huff. “Besides, if you really wanted to eat that, you should’ve just said no. You should grow a backbone, babe.”
It hurts because it’s true. You still want to cuss him out. In fact, you’re turning your head, opening your mouth to do so, but Satoru moves swiftly. He pushes himself closer, lips close to your ear.
“But if you want a taste that bad, I can give you one.”
You turn to face him. His face is the picture of innocence, eyes twinkling, brows slightly raised, lips pushed into that annoying pout. But you’re not fooled. There’s hunger in his gaze, too. Like you’re the next dessert he wants to devour. You don’t hate the idea.
You’re not a weak man by any means, but Satoru knows how to bring it out of you.
“You’re the worst, you know that?” you pant against his lips, squeezing his waist roughly.
He tastes sweet. The fondant you almost had is right there, on his tongue, and you think there’s no better way to get that taste.
His hand squeezes your shoulder, and in response you push against him harder, effectively trapping him against the concrete wall shielding you from the street. His arms tighten around your neck, lips moving against yours fervently.
“Liar,” he retorts, just as breathless. “You love me. You love me and you’d do anything for me.”
It hurts because it’s true, and you push your tongue in his mouth to shut him up. He lets out a small, startled sound, and it only serves to fuel you.
Greedily, Satoru wraps a leg around your thigh, trying to get leverage to roll his hips into yours. At that rate, you might genuinely fuck him right there in this dirty alleyway.
The friction is delicious against your bulge, and you can’t help but match his rhythm, grinding against him like a horny teenager. He bites your lip and you tug his hair in retaliation, a groan spilling from his throat.
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad. Not exactly the most dignified way to have sex.
You grip his hips and still his movements, earning a whine of frustration.
“No, come on, it was just getting interesting, you jerk—”
“How about we go home, huh? So I can enjoy you properly.”
Now that catches his attention.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, let’s do that.”
Needless to say, he gets what he wants from you. He was right. You need to grow a backbone.
.
It’s rare to see your beloved look so peaceful.
The sun is shining. Birds are chirping. It’s pleasantly warm under the bedsheets. By all accounts, this morning is nothing less than beautiful.
It’s all made better by the sight of Satoru, sleeping serenely beside you.
Skin glowing under the gentle sun. Soft breaths hitting your cheek. It’s the first time in weeks that he gets to sleep in, and you’re overjoyed that you get to be there.
You’ve been admiring him for, what, maybe half an hour? Maybe more? You’re not sure. You’re not sure you care.
Eventually, a restlessness settles in your bones. You should get up. Get started on breakfast. Maybe even bring it to him in bed, he’d love that. Do his laundry so he gets to rest some more. That’s a good plan.
With your mind made up, you shift to get out of bed. The cool air hits your leg, and you almost abort the mission. Satoru’s right there, and he’s warm.
No. Nope. Come on. Breakfast.
Your leg peeks from under the blanket again. You push up to your elbow, grab the covers to throw them off your body—
“Where do you think you’re going?”
You freeze. You’d hoped you wouldn’t wake him, you were being careful, moving slowly and gently. Now he’s up, and judging by his scrunched-up face, he is not happy.
He looks adorable like this. Frowning, eyes still heavy with sleep. You coo at him, brushing your knuckles against his cheek. “Breakfast, baby. I’ll bring it to you here, okay?”
Once again, you move to leave the bed. You don’t even get to straighten up. Satoru crawls on top of you, pinning you down with his weight. His arms snake around your waist. His lips tickle your neck.
He doesn’t even dignify you with a response, as if it’s a given that you’ll simply surrender to his will. You can’t even find it in yourself to blame him: you’ve never, ever done anything to make him believe otherwise.
But you’re strong. You have a plan, and you intend to stick to it. He’ll thank you later.
So, as gently as you can, you roll to the side, deposit him on the bed, and snatch his arms from around your waist to free yourself.
Your feet are so close to the floor — almost there. You move to leave a tender kiss on his forehead.
And you make the same mistake you always make. You glance at his face.
His features are twisted into an absolutely outraged pout, like you’ve just insulted him in the absolute worse way you could ever have. Like you’ve just told him he was nothing more than a warm body, a hole to fuck. You suppose that’s exactly how he’s taking this. His brows are furrowed over his slightly widened eyes, an almost wounded look in the baby blues.
And your shaky resolve crumbles entirely.
You feel cruel. You feel like the world’s cruelest man, and you must be, abandoning your beloved like that. Like he’s a dirty sock so old you can’t get rid of the stench, so you decide to throw it away.
Quick. Fix it.
“I’m gonna make breakfast, baby,” you coo, stroking his hair. “Yeah? We can have breakfast in bed.”
He simply stares, his face falling. Unimpressed, or maybe he’s just half-asleep still?
Until he speaks. His face changes again, a brow raised, mouth curled in an almost disgusted manner. “Uh, no?”
Like he can’t believe you’d do him the insult of suggesting such a thing. Because, of course, breakfast in bed includes making breakfast, and making breakfast includes you leaving him.
You sigh, closing your eyes, and he seizes the opportunity. He grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you down again.
“Satoru, stop—”
“Nuh-uh.”
“—baby, please, I have stuff to do—”
“I don’t think so.”
He wraps his limbs around you like a particularly vicious octopus. His face is buried in your neck again. A part of you is almost offended by how confident he is that you’ll just give in.
The other part of you? It gives in.
You run your hands up and down his back, caressing softly and earning a hum of delight. In return, Satoru’s hand pats your chest. You feel his body relax on top of yours, his breath slow and soften. His eyes close once more. There’s a small smile on his lips.
Your heart leaps.
Breakfast can wait. You’ve already achieved your goal anyways.
.
You don’t spend a lot of time at Jujutsu Tech. Usually, it’s less than an hour, once a week. To drop off your recent mission reports, get some new assignments, fresh report sheets, and then back to work.
You rarely get to play the loving partner part with Satoru. Usually, when you’re there, he’s out on a mission, or teaching, or avoiding his responsibilities and buying an obscene amount of sweets and pastries.
Today, though, you walk into the office you two share, returning from admin with your new assignments for the week, and he’s there. Sitting on your desk, with his jacket draped over the back of your chair and your jacket on his shoulders. The sight is so endearing you fear you might melt into a puddle.
You almost do, but a sharp instinct snaps you out of it. This is Satoru. With his Six Eyes and his frankly excellent perception of cursed energy, there’s no way he didn’t see you coming.
This is a set-up. He wants something from you.
So when he saunters up to you, slipping his arms through the sleeves of your jacket and around your shoulders, you don’t pull away from his affection, but you don’t return it either.
“Hi, baby,” he all but purrs, kissing and nuzzling your cheek affectionately.
“Hi, Satoru,” you respond soberly. You won’t fall for his tricks. Not this time. You’re strong.
He keeps up with the affection for another moment, but quickly he realizes you’re not reciprocating and pushes himself away. With his hands curled around your shoulders, he frowns, eyebrows visibly furrowing under the blindfold.
“What, no kiss? No sweetie, no honey, no angel? Do you just hate me?”
You won’t bother with pretending you’ve been fooled. You won’t fall for his tricks. “What do you need, Satoru?”
He gasps. Puts a hand on his chest in indignation. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting I only came to see you for my own benefit?”
You cock a brow. “…Yes.”
He has nothing to say to that. He just stares, mouth pressed into a thin line. He’s been found out, and quickly too.
But he’s nothing if not determined.
“What I need is some loving from my baby, but I guess that’s just too much to ask for.”
He steps back, turns away the slightest bit—
Your arms wrap around his waist and you pull him back against your chest, kissing his nape. You’re weak.
He smiles, snuggling into your hold.
“See, that’s more like it.”
You pinch his side. “Watch your tone, will you?” Not even a hint of bite in your voice.
His hand cradles your jaw, and his lips find yours. This time, you reciprocate, the kiss lazy, languid. You feel so much better now that your arms aren’t empty.
He pulls away, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “Missed ya.”
“You saw me this morning.”
“I’m expressing my undying love, jeez—"
You kiss him again, just to shut him up. It works. For a moment.
For a minute, he simply enjoys your embrace. Quiet in a way he only ever gets when it’s just the two of you. Basking in your warmth, the strength of your arms around him. Then, he speaks.
“Alright, let’s go home!”
Already he’s moving, your arm hugged to his chest as he tries to tug you out of the office. And again your instincts flare. He’s been suspicious. There’s something in that office that he doesn’t want you to see.
Naturally, you first think he damaged something, so you plant your feet to the ground and resist his strength, eyes raking over your desk.
“Baby, what are you doing,” he whines. “Let’s go already.”
Don’t fold. Don’t fold. This is a trap.
It wouldn’t be the first time he breaks something in the office and flees the crime scene. There’s a sizable dent on the side of your desk to attest to that. So what is it? What did he do this time?
He tugs on your arm harder. “Y/N, come on, move!”
You can’t find actual damage near your space, so you turn to his—
He moves in front of you, hiding his desk from your eyes. Ah. His blindfold is pushed up into his hair, leaving his lethal eyes uncovered. A cheap, dirty trick, almost guaranteed to make you cave. His eyes shimmering, his rosy, slightly swollen lips pushed into a pout.
You’re close to folding, but in his eagerness to get his way, he’s also revealed the source of his need for his early escape.
“What’s the hold-up, huh?” He huffs, brows furrowing slightly, his expression now impatient and needy. Jerk. You’ll kiss him.
“Satoru.”
Your low tone makes him perk up. He knows he’s been found out, so now he’s gonna pull all the stops to get out of this situation.
Brace yourself. Don’t fold.
He pushes himself against you, wrapping his arms around your neck again. Chest to chest, lips so close to yours you can feel his breath. You try hard not to look at them, but his eyes are a problem, too. Too wide. Too blue.
He hums, still maintaining the pretense of innocence.
“Satoru,” you say again. “What’s on your desk?”
He shrugs a shoulder, as if he’s completely clueless and has no idea what you’re talking about.
“Satoru.” You’re trying to sound stern. Trying. This isn’t working. You have absolutely no hold on him.
“Dunno what you’re talking about, baby. Can we go home now?” He pushes his hips against yours teasingly. Brushes the tip of his nose against yours again— fucker. He knows you’re weak for that. “We have so much better things to do, don’t ya think? Hm?”
Don’t fold. Don’t fold. Do not fold.
Gently, you grab his waist and step around him, despite his best efforts to stop you.
And it’s right there, on his desk: a high stack of papers, no doubt waiting to be completed by your partner. And judging by the sheer size, it’s been waiting a while.
You turn to him, eyes burning. “When was the last time you did your paperwork, exactly?”
He smiles. Shrugs and pokes his tongue out. “No clue.”
“Satoru—”
“Ugh, spare me, will you?” He steps away and rolls his eyes, waving a careless hand. Like you’re in the wrong here, somehow. “Why would I do that when there’s Ijichi to take care of it?”
That poor guy is gonna have an aneurysm.
“Satoru. You are not dumping all that on Ijichi.”
Satoru, the poster child of bratty behavior, has the audacity to cross his arms and sigh. “So what, you want me to do it?”
“It’s your paperwork, Satoru! Yes, you’re gonna do it.”
He turns his head away with a huff. “Nah. No way. Why would I do that? It’s boring, and tedious, and I might get a headache.”
“Enough.” You make your way to his desk and grab the stack of papers. Wow, it’s a lot. “I’m bringing that home and you’ll do it tonight.”
And he has the gall to gasp, shaken to the core. Like you’ve done something truly heinous. “What?!”
You let out a sharp sigh. It’s like getting a toddler to eat their veggies.
You turn, determined to hold your ground. Really, you’ve been over this more than once with him. You’ve had to help him catch up with his mission reports often enough.
Your eyes land on his face. Rookie.
His face is downturned. Arms crossed, eyes slightly averted. And, oh, have his lips always looked so pink?
And he drops the bomb.
“Sorry for wanting to spend time with you instead of doing some stupid paperwork, I guess.”
No. No, this is a ploy, a ruse, a maneuver to get you to do his bidding.
And, like a fool, you’re falling for it. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry. Something visceral snarls in your chest, at the sight of his face. It looks horribly wrong, fix it, fix it, fix it.
You give up. You’ll be the fool if that’s what he wants.
“Baby,” you murmur and set the papers aside, wrapping your arms around his waist. He settles in your embrace, hands braced on your chest, face buried in your neck. You feel the curve of his smile against your skin. Smug bastard. He’s not even trying to hide it.
He’s so pleased with himself, it’s like the satisfaction is radiating from him. You look down to what you can see of his face.
His eyes are squeezed shut, pushed into half moons by his rosy cheeks with how wide he’s grinning. So serene, so childishly happy that his scheme was successful. How could you ever be angry with him? You never stood a chance.
You kiss his cheek, and he hums, delighted that’s he’s won. “Alright,” you coo. “Let’s go home.”
You swear there’s a spring to his step, when you both make your way to the car. The paperwork sits untouched and abandoned on his desk.
.
Satoru thinks he might lose his mind.
Patience has never been his strongest suit, and you are well-aware of it. You know him like the back of your hand. You know that he likes his eggs poached more than sunny side up; that he always needs at least thirty minutes of lounging in bed before starting his day; that he handles heat badly and prefers lighter clothing, even when it gets colder.
You know that he hates waiting.
And, yeah, maybe it is rich coming from him, CEO of being late. He’s usually alright with it when people make him wait, even if he’ll complain about it to their face, for the simple pleasure of annoying them.
But you? You should know better.
He checks his phone again. The time switches from 18:29 to 18:30 right before his eyes. You said 18:00 sharp, emphasis on the sharp. He’s officially been waiting for thirty minutes, and that is just unacceptable.
This is such a nice day, too. Warm, with a cool breeze keeping the temperature at a reasonable level. Birds chirping, clouds gently drifting by, all that good stuff that you love. You should be here, with him. Ideally, buried inside him to the hilt, but he’d settle for a cute, wholesome date, too.
He’s enjoying neither, because you’re not here, and yeah, he’s definitely losing it.
He checks his phone. It’s probably been another twenty minutes, at least!
18:31.
Ugh, come on!
It’s been days since you last saw each other. Days! He feels unhinged, unraveled. His jaw aches in the evening, because he spends his days gritting his teeth. Any longer without you and he’ll start bouncing off the walls, clawing at the floorboards like a dog.
Any longer and he’ll start begging for your presence.
Honestly, it’s like you don’t even look at him lately. All you do is work. And because he is who he is, all he does is work, too. It’s a miracle if he gets to spend a couple of hours in the same room as you. He barely has time to think of you.
He misses you. Misses you like a limb.
He’s so exhausted that he misses you even when you’re right in front of him. He isn’t even allowed to enjoy the moments he gets with his beloved, too worried by how fast time flies. And before he can catch his breath, the moment is over. Nothing could ever make him wish he were anyone else— nothing but this. This horrible, mind-numbing lack of time.
And now you have the audacity to let your clan elders gnaw on that precious time. Time that he took in his already packed schedule to spend with you, time that was meant to be spent together.
Unbelievable. Oh, he will not let you hear the end of this.
He’s ready to give up and call you, but a splash of energy catches his attention from the corner of his Six Eyes. Getting closer, fast.
He can’t help but grin. Finally, finally.
He waits until you’re just behind the shoji door. With an overly exasperated groan, Satoru flops down onto his back, feet swinging off the engawa.
“What a jerk,” he mutters angrily, toying with the bandages covering his eyes. “I don’t deserve this. Asshole. Jerkface.”
“I know you’re not talking about me.”
Your voice sends shivers down his spine. That irritated edge he can hear? Music to his ears. He covers up the smirk that was blooming behind an exaggerated pout.
“Wow,” he drawls. “Finally remembered you’re not single, did you? Had fun at your little meeting?”
He knows you didn’t. The whole point of those meetings is to slowly suck your soul out through your nostrils. That’s why all the elders are dry and lifeless. Duh. The question is rhetorical, just the beginning of your punishment.
He hears the dull sound of fabric hitting the ground. You probably dropped your haori. Not enough clothes on the floor, but it’s a start.
“You know I didn’t.” And there’s your reply. Yeah, yeah, he knows, he’s been to enough of those meetings to know. “You’ve been to enough of those meetings to know.” You can be so predictable sometimes.
“Maybe if you hadn’t ditched me to go to the meeting, you would’ve had a better time.” He can hear the childish petulance in his own voice. Can’t be bothered to tame it, to try and hide it even the slightest bit. You deserve all that you’re getting. “I mean, I’m just saying. Maybe an afternoon with your boyfriend would’ve been more fun, but hey, who knows? Definitely not you.”
You stay quiet for a second. Two. Three. “Satoru, if you’re only here to make me feel bad, we can cut the evening short right now. I have a rematch in half an hour anyways.”
Now that is unacceptable. Actually, it’s beyond unacceptable, practically a criminal offense. “Are you joking?” He hisses, pushing himself up. “So what, I should just fuck off and die?”
You seem pissed. And tired. Maybe he should cool it. Just a bit.
“You think I want to spend my already limited free time with them, instead of you?” You retort. Your back is to him. Starving him of the sight of your face. Why?
Look at me, he wants to scream. Don’t deny me, don’t push me away.
“I’d love nothing more than to stay here and snuggle,” you continue. This time you just sound sad. He feels a pinch in his chest. You don’t finish the thought. You don’t have to. He knows exactly what you want to say.
Duties that you can’t escape. Either of you.
“Ditch them,” he demands. Fuck ‘em. With an annoyed huff, he stands from the floor and moves to drop on the bed gracelessly. “C’mon, babe, you’re really gonna spend the night with them when I’m right here?”
Finally, you turn to look at him. He takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs fill with air properly for the first time since you last saw each other. Yes, yes, exactly. That’s all he wants, all he needs, just keep looking at him like that.
Your eyes travel from his face, down the length of his body, down his slender, model legs and back up. The mood shift in you is so obvious to him, who’s gobbling up even the tiniest details that you offer him.
You’re opening up. You’re letting him in.
Yes, yes, yes. Come on.
“’S been so long since you’ve fucked me,” he drawls. “At this rate, I might forget what you feel like.”
Your eye twitches, but you’re not a man of ego. No, if he wants you to give in, he needs to bait. Then, you can punish him for all the bratty little comments.
“We barely see each other lately. You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
Hook.
He sees your face soften. You shift to face him. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, okay?”
Ooh, look at you, offering the line yourself. “Yeah?” He masks the glee in his voice, replacing it with a pathetic longing that he knows you’re weak for. His hand tugs at the bandage covering his eyes, unwinding it and dropping it to the floor near the bed. A cheap, dirty trick, but he really wants to get his way. Your gaze meets his, and he knows he’s got you. “When are you ever gonna do that?”
“Soon,” you reply with a squeeze of his calf. Gentle. Affectionate. Tender. You are just the perfect man.
“How about right now?” With a light tug to your obi belt, your yukata falls open.
And sinker.
You rise from the floor to crawl on the bed. His heart thumps painfully against his ribs. Yeah, yeah, let’s go, come on. He backs away, perfectly playing his role of the fleeing prey, until his head hits the headboard, and you seize your chance to get on top of him, hands firmly planted on either side of his head.
You tilt your head, studying him. He can see his own reflection in your dark, dark eyes, and wow, it’s no wonder you want to fuck him into next week so bad. He’d want to fuck himself too.
“Yeah. You know what?” You purr, leaning closer. “I think I will. Fuck ‘em.”
He grins. “That’s the sp—”
Your mouth is on his before he can finish the sentence, a rough kiss that he barely expects. He wraps an arm around your neck, the other around your shoulders, trying to tug you down, but you refuse him. He whines into the kiss, digging his fingers into your flesh. Hard, rough, pure muscle, god, just take me!
You pull away to kiss the corner of his lips, his cheek, the soft underside of his jaw, down to his throat, your favorite spot. Already he feels lightheaded, heart pumping ruthlessly, he’s so easy, too easy.
“I want you so bad,” you rasp against his throat, and woah, okay, starting off real strong there.
His heart throbs. His dick, too.
“Nhh, what are you waiting for, then?”
He nuzzles against your temple, hooking a leg around yours to grind roughly against you. You’re hard as a rock under your yukata.
He can’t hold back a chuckle. “Is that a knife in your pocket or are you just—” He yelps when you bite, straight into the tender flesh of his throat. “Ow, was that really necessary?”
You lower yourself against him, finally, jeez, and claim his mouth again.
“You talk too much,” you pant against his lips.
“’Cause you’re not even doing anything,” Satoru retorts without missing a beat. “Gotta fill the awkward silence somehow.”
You punish him with another bite, on his jaw this time. Softer, like one was your limit. His obi comes undone with an expert tug of your hand, and you caress his navel with your fingertips. Starving him, still.
Impatient, he grabs your wrist and pushes your hand flat against his stomach, pulling closer with his leg, his hand tugging your yukata down your back. You pinch him in retaliation, and he flinches violently.
“Mean.” He never misses an opportunity to whine and pout. “Weren’t you supposed to make it up to me?”
You huff out a chuckle. “What, you waited for days, but five more minutes is a death sentence to you?”
“Exactly!” He slaps your shoulder and slides his hand down your chest to grasp your shaft. The hiss you let out is beyond satisfying. You’re not riled up enough, he needs you feral like a dog, he needs to be bent over and— “You made me wait days, so get to it. Never heard of ‘happy wife, happy life’?”
You roll your eyes, but you reach out to open the nightstand drawer all the same. Your hand comes back with a bottle of lube.
Oh, now we’re talking.
You sit back on your haunches to open the lube, and Satoru has to make an actual, conscious effort to keep from drooling. He swears his thighs are trembling. How is he meant to be calm when you’re right there, sitting between his legs, looking like you want to eat him alive?
He could die.
With a groan, he lies back, stroking his cock teasingly. He barely gets two pumps in before you smack his wrist with your free hand. He lets go, with a loud, frustrated whine.
“Not getting any younger here,” he complains. “Could’ve gotten myself off three times with how inefficient you are.”
You plop yourself down beside him, leaning on your elbow. “Soggy, pathetic little orgasms they would’ve been, darling.”
Satoru can’t help the outraged gasp he lets out. “Excuse me, I— angh…” Your hand’s slipped between his thighs, your middle finger circling his rim. “Let me finish my sentences, asshole.”
“Like I said,” you tease, slicking up his puffy hole, “you talk too much. Can you blame me for doing what I can to stop you?”
“Uh, yes?”
You laugh at that. God, you are so hot when you laugh, it’s unfair.
He rises on his elbows and ghosts his lips over yours, baiting you once more. You bite easily, light little pecks that make his heart flutter. Sneakily, he wiggles his hips, trying to get your finger in him.
“You’re not slick, you know,” you murmur, keeping your fingers frustratingly out.
“And whose fault is that?” Satoru retorts, head falling back with a moan as your finger pushes inside just barely, only to pull out immediately. His stomach tenses, he clamps his thighs over your wrist to keep you trapped. “Fucker.”
He’s getting sick of the phantom touch, and quickly. Alright then. You asked for it.
“Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you with pleading baby blues. “C’mon, I just wanna feel you…”
You inhale sharply, oh, this is too easy, and push your finger in. Slowly, gently, because you don’t feel like tearing his asshole apart. You’re just nice like that. Satoru rewards you with an open mouth kiss, letting you slip your tongue in his mouth, while his hips grind against your hand.
For a moment, a blissful moment, all he hears is the sound of your lips smacking together, your panting intertwining with his moans of pleasure, the slick sound of your finger lubing his hole up. Warmth blooms in his stomach, in his chest— more, more, he needs more, now.
“Give me your cock,” he pants, “come on, I’m ready, don’t make me wait.”
You don’t listen to him. Instead, you slide in another finger, and he clenches his jaw, brows knitting. Denying him— you’re so good at that. His head falls back as he pants, hips rocking in time with your thrusting, and you bend down to lick and tease at the sensitive skin of his throat.
Satoru’s losing it, though, and quickly. Your fingers are too big, too thick, too precise in their movements for him to resist. Heat coils in his stomach, his body tightens further with every stroke, he’s getting close, too close—
“Y/N, wait,” he whines, voice high and almost squeaky. You slow immediately, face leaving the crook of his neck. “Hold on, I…”
“You don’t wanna come?” You purr. Your movements haven’t stopped completely, and Satoru can’t keep in his high, breathy moans. “I just wanna make you feel good, baby. Don’t you want that?”
“Fuck you,” he hisses. He reaches up, tangles his hand in your hair, tugs hard.
You pull your fingers out of him entirely, and he groans in frustration at the emptiness, the cold. He digs his nails into your skin, and if you weren’t too far from him he’d bite.
“No need to throw a tantrum, sweets.”
“You know what I want,” Satoru whines, “come on, pretty please?”
You lean down and press your lips to his. A placating kiss, meant to stall. You let him nip and bite, let him ravage your mouth and distantly, he feels your hand brush against his inner thigh. Then, you maneuver yourself between his legs again, bending them at the knee to bracket your hips. Your cock rests against heavy against him, throbbing, leaking pre all over the place like it can tell it’s about to be inside him. You need him just as bad, so stop stalling, stop denying him—
“Deep breath for me?” You say against his lips.
He obeys. Takes a deeeep inhale, and—
You push inside him in one smooth motion, and he swallows back an obscene moan, just for the pleasure of hearing the borderline pornographic sound you let out in his ear.
“Fuck,” you pant. The satisfaction that fills him feels almost as good as your cock. C’mon, go wild. “Fuck, Satoru. Good? You feeling good?”
He would answer, he would, but he just feels so full, it’s like you’ve ripped his voice from him.
“Uh-huh.” He nods, head tilted back, mouth wide open, eyes scrunched close—
You pull out almost completely and push back in, smooth and soft and gentle. “You look so fucking good right now, baby,” you pant, settling into the rhythm.
“Yeah, I b-bet I do,” he says right back.
You lean down to push closer to him, your thrusting switching to a lazy grind into him. He turns his head, looking for your lips, and you kiss him eagerly, tongue stroking his like your shaft is massaging his insides. And it feels good, so good, so fucking good he can feel his brain melt into goo and leak out through his ears, but still he needs more. Harder. Meaner.
And you know that. This is just the warm-up.
You’re still taking your sweet fucking time though, stroking against his walls, listening to each of his moans greedily. He wants to curse you out, almost does, but he’s beyond helpless when you’re inside him like this. All he can do is moan, soft and high, lips parted like he wants you in there, too.
That gives you an idea. You lean up on one hand, the other gripping his thigh, never once breaking your thrusting.
“Show me your tongue,” your order.
And he obeys, because what else is he supposed to do? He pushes his mouth wide, pink tongue lolling out.
He sees you gather spit, and his hole flutters around you, betraying his excitement. You let the spit fall past your lips and onto his tongue, but just as he’s about to swallow, you grasp his jaw tight, stilling him.
He whines in frustration, kicking his leg petulantly, but you deny him still.
“Stay right there,” you murmur, and lean down to lick at his tongue. It turns into a harsh kiss, biting at each other’s lips with wet groans filling up the room.
You lean back and pull his leg up, onto your shoulder, and he knows he’s about to get what he needs.
“Baby,” he whines, just for the sake of it. His hips twitch, and you allow it, until he’s practically fucking himself on you, back curved gracefully, throat exposed with his heartbeat fluttering under the soft skin.
It isn’t long until you take the lead again. You grasp his wrist and yank his arm from under him, and he lets out a dramatic yelp as he falls flat on his back.
“I’ve got you,” you purr. “I’ve got you, my Satoru.”
His cock jumps. Easy bitch that he is.
You kiss his palm, tender and sweet. Then, you guide it up to the headboard.
“Hold on.”
He clutches the wood, thighs quivering. “You gonna fuck me now?” He can’t help but taunt, biting his smiling lips. “Or do I have to wait another two years?”
You don’t dignify him with a verbal response— instead you clutch his thighs, pull out fully and slam back into him. The pace you set is deep, harsh, each hit ripping a moan from him almost against his will. The entire fucking bed rocks with your movements.
And Satoru takes it, all that you’re offering, pleasure building in stomach with every slap of your hips against his ass. Fuck, he’s gonna be so sore tomorrow.
“You sound so sweet, baby,” you purr, caressing the soft skin of his thigh. “Is it— hah, is it everything you wanted?”
Blindly, he reaches up with one hand, the other clutching the headboard so tightly he almost hears the wood groaning. You grab his wrist and pin it near his head, bending over him and folding him in half like origami, his knee to his chest and fuck—
“Unh, Y/N, fuck!”
“What, am I not doing it right?" You quip. Satoru glances up, and the borderline ravenous look on your face makes his insides twist, his hole clench around you. You hiss, lips twisting into a snarl, and your hand leaves his wrist and wraps around his throat. Satoru lets out a strangled, high-pitched whimper as you squeeze his windpipe. “Yeah,” you say through a laugh, “thought so. You feeling good, sweetheart? I bet you fucking do, yeah, when was the last time you were so loud? Come on, baby, take it, have your fill.”
Nothing coherent leaves his mouth after that, nothing except your name and moans that only keep getting louder and louder, each snap of your hips scrambling his brain further. Your pre mixed with the lube sticks to his inner thighs, your hips, your balls, slick sounds replacing the slap of your skin against his.
You’re giving so much, so quickly, after days of withdrawal it feels like he’s drowning in the pleasure, drowning in the scent of your sweat and your moans and the way you say his name so sweetly still, even when you’re fucking him like you’re actually trying to break something— it’s so much, it’s too much, too fast, it’s exactly what he needed.
You’ve given up on talking him through it, as always when you’re getting close. Your thrusting is growing more frantic, falling out of rhythm, and before he knows it he comes hard, back arching off the bed like a pornstar.
“Ah— baby, fuck!”
His come splashes on his stomach, his hips, mixing with your pre and almost frothing with the friction. The groan you let out as he tightens is sinful, god he needs to hear more of those, he needs—
He hears two loud snaps in quick succession and suddenly you gasp, covering his body as the bed literally falls apart underneath you.
And for a hot second, Satoru is stunned, panting, and horribly confused. The mind-blowing orgasm doesn’t help him gather his wits, and for a moment he wonders if he even heard correctly. Maybe he’s hallucinating? Like, you were fucking hard, but not that hard, were you?
Oh shit, maybe you were.
You’re panting harshly above him, face and neck and chest all deliciously red, the veins in your neck bulging with effort. You lean up, eyes raking over him.
“You okay? Baby, you okay?”
You sound so worried, it’s honestly sweet. But all Satoru can think about is that you fucked him so hard you broke the bed.
He laughs. High and loud and bordering on full blown cackling. He can’t lie, that’s impressive. His leg falls off your shoulder, limp and heavy.
“You broke the bed—” he lets out through wheezing, “holy shit babe, you actually broke the bed!”
You roll your eyes, pushing your hair out of your face. “Was that a lifelong dream of yours or something? It can’t be that funny.”
Oh, but it is. It really is that funny. It takes a second, but Satoru calms down, while you’re looking around helplessly like the furniture can still be saved somehow. Like you’re still looking for the culprit.
All while still inside him, hard and throbbing. And no cum of yours filling him up.
He leans up on his elbows. “Wait, Y/N, you didn’t come?”
“We really have a bigger problem right now—”
“The only big problem is your cock right now, babe,” Satoru cuts in cheekily, sitting up on your lap. He swipes two fingers in his come and smears it on your balls, fondling them while he’s at it. You hiss.
“Satoru…”
“No, really, why are those still full, huh?”
You grab his wrist to still him. “Satoru, the bed—”
“—is fucked anyway,” he finishes for you. “C’mon,” he pleads. “Who cares about that? You have more important things to focus on right now. Come in me.”
To really drive the point home, he leans in to kiss at your neck, under your jaw, and wriggles his hips teasingly.
“Come on,” he pushes. “Baby, come on, I want it so bad…”
You push to lay him down, and his heart kickstarts again. You’re so easy, too easy. He loves you, loves you, loves you.
You press your lips to his and push into him with slow thrusts, keeping the pace mild but deep. Sweat drips down your jaw to your neck and Satoru leans up to lick at it, moaning in your ear.
“So good,” he whimpers, hole wet with your pre, squelching obscenely. You grip his thighs tight, rocking your hips into him.
Overstimulation sneaks up on him with each brush of your mushroom tip on his prostate, pushing his moans into throaty, high sounds. It’s quieter, this time, less frantic, yet somehow no less animal. Not with your lips stretched into a snarl as you bite at his neck, his shoulder.
He comes before you, again, his dick spurting to the best of its ability, his come almost see-through. His entire body tightens around you and his cry of your name pushes you over the edge and finally, fuck, finally warmth floods his insides as you spill in him, pushing your hips against his like you get any deeper than you already are.
He doesn’t move; neither do you. For a few seconds, you both simply lay there, panting as you come down, skin glistening with sweat and come. You catch his lips in a slow, unhurried kiss, claiming his mouth the way you know he loves.
It takes a while before you get yourself up and moving again, and in Satoru’s eyes it’s still unacceptable. Leaving him in this emotionally vulnerable time? You’re the absolute worst.
When you dare to pull out of him, your come dripping out of his abused hole, he growls in frustration.
“Come back,” he demands.
You pat his thigh affectionately. “In a second, darling.”
“No, now.”
He kicks his leg petulantly, but you don’t relent. You move away, and Satoru groans, hiding his eyes with his arm. “Asshole,” he mutters.
You return in under a minute, but even that was too long for him. He needs to be in your arms now, immediately. He needs your warmth.
Gentle hands lift his leg onto your shoulders. You swipe a wet cloth over his skin, both cleaning and soothing him. A sigh of contentment escapes him, against his will.
When he uncovers his eyes, the smile you’re giving is so gentle, so loving that his heart squeezes.
“Happy?” you ask, fingers running up and down his leg.
Satoru nods, delightfully exhausted. “I love you,” he blurts out.
You kiss his ankle. “I love you.”
Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, stealing your attention from him.
“Fuck,” you breathe when you peek at the notifications. “The elders are harassing me.”
Right. Your rematch.
Satoru chuckles. “Ditch them,” he demands. “Stay with me.”
You stay silent for a second.
“You know what?” You say after what feels like forever. “Yeah. I will.”
synopsis. you're ripped from him. he takes you right back.
content. gojo satoru x male!reader. angst. canon-typical violence, gore and horror elements. major character death. curse!reader. some swearing. excessive use of em-dash because i love it and i refuse to let ai have it.
wc. 6.2k
message from noe. requested by @corsped-groom. i purposefully left curse!reader's design vague so you can imagine him however you want, but i was picture something like the xenomorph, the unknown from dbd, or the lickers from resident evil. anyway. this one is depressing af. blame it on the song of achilles. finally read that book and i feel like it shows a little bit in the style of writing in this one. don't read it if you value your happiness... although who am i kidding. we're jjk fans. we don't value our happiness.
The smell in the alley is the first red flag.
Metallic. Sticky like honey on the roof of his mouth. He welcomes like the old friend it is.
Blood. What else was it gonna be?
Satoru steps forward, slipping in the darkness. Not familiar — he’s got no need for stealth, usually, he’s too efficient for that. His style’s more ‘Now you see me, now you’re dead.’ But there’s no streetlights in the alley, so in the darkness he goes, eyes and ears wide open.
No traces of cursed energy except yours, so faint it must be only residuals. So you were here. It’s a start.
A big bunch of nothing, a sullen voice in the back of his head says.
A start, another, more reasonable one counters. It sounds like you. We can follow residuals. We can find him.
There’s a third voice. Louder than any other, so loud that it’s getting real hard to ignore.
It’s been too long. It’s been a few hours at most. Still too long. He would’ve never taken so long to return. He would’ve come back to lick his wounds. He would’ve called for help if he’d needed it. It’s been too long.
Satoru knows you inside out, by now. All your quirks and little habits. Like how you bite your cheek when you’re focusing on something. How you never sleep on your back because you’re scared shitless of sleep paralysis. How you make it a point to keep him in the loop when you go on missions, because you know he gets nervous when he doesn’t hear from you for too long.
It’s been too long.
There’s something in this alley. Something that makes his hair stand on end, an unpleasantly familiar shiver down his spine. Something that he’s missing, but he can’t tell what it is just yet.
Something’s wrong. No visible threat for now, but he’s learned his lesson when it comes to things he can’t see — learned it the hard way. Something’s wrong.
It’s been too long.
A moist sound. Soft and sticky under the sole of his shoe — the blood that’s been stinking up the alley. A lot of it, from what he can tell.
There’s a shape just ahead. Barely distinguishable in the darkness, but there. His mind assesses, quick as a whip. Unmoving. No immediate threat. He steps closer.
It’s a body.
𖦹
Humans are just meat that talks.
That’s what Satoru tells himself, when he looks down at the body laid before him. The girl was once a bright, living thing, full of hopes and promise. Now she’s a lump of meat on cold metal. She’s not the first or the last, and the casualness with which her body’s treated in the morgue is a painful reminder. It raises his hackles.
Add this one to the pile, right?
You knew her; he did not. You stand over her together anyway, both looking at her face silently.
You were the one who retrieved her body. For the occasion, Shoko allowed you to smoke inside. You’ve already smoked two in the hallway. You light the third one over her.
“Do we know if she had any family?” You ask quietly. As if afraid to disturb her rest.
Shoko takes a second to answer. Lights her own cigarette, pockets the lighter. Takes a deep drag.
“What was her name again?” She eventually says.
“Yumeko,” you reply. You take a drag. Shoko takes a drag. Those things will kill you, Satoru wants to joke. But you look a little too sad for that, right now. “Sawai.”
“Sawai Yumeko…” Shoko turns in her seat to type at her computer. “Found her dad. Should I leave you the honors?”
“Fuck no.”
No one says anything for a while after that. Shoko sighs, puts out her cigarette, and steps out.
“So, how’d this happen?” Satoru finally asks. His tongue was getting itchy.
“The intel was wrong.” You sound weary, but not surprised. He isn’t, either. This is commonplace. “It wasn’t a cluster of Grade Threes, it was a Grade One.”
A job for him. Or for you. But not for Yumeko. Poor kid.
Another moment of silence. Satoru’s never known what to say in those situations. Pretty ironic, considering he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut most of the time. Or is it fitting? Gojo Satoru, the guy who can’t come through when it actually matters.
He threads his fingers through yours and pulls you away from the table. Away from the body and the smell of formaldehyde. You put out your smoke as you walk out.
He knows what you’re thinking — he’s thinking it, too. How many more will have to die because the people on high can’t be bothered to do their fucking job right?
“You think they knew?” you ask when you’ve stepped outside.
He hasn’t let go of your hand. It’s starting to feel like he never will. “Oh, yeah. They knew.”
And they sent Yumeko to her death anyway. Add this one to the pile.
You won’t let go of this. Neither will he. It’ll fester and keep festering.
𖦹
He doesn’t recognize the body — it’s a relief until it isn’t. Intel said one curse user, one, and you don’t deviate from your mission. Ever.
It’s not pretty. You did a number on the guy, almost savage in the violence you’ve inflicted. Like a cornered predator that lashed out. Your residuals are all over him.
You would’ve wiped them if the job had gone right. Wouldn’t have left him in such a state in the first place.
There’s two more bodies— no, three. One is collapsed in a heap just two paces ahead in a similar pool of blood. The second is to Satoru’s right, flat on his back. This one, he recognizes. The curse user you were after. A gun rests loosely in his palm, coated in dark, flaky blood. The simple sight makes him shiver, brings back memories he’d really, really like to keep buried.
The third one is farther. Hunched against the wall, head hanging limp. Covered in blood, like the others.
Dead like the others, but different. Satoru feels it immediately. Your residuals are clustered there.
He ignores the alarm bells in the back of his head, the instinct screaming at him that this is wrong, wrong, there’s something wrong about that body—
He can see the fatal wound. An entry, on what was the temple, probably caused by a bullet. Might be an exit, too. Might not. Either way, it’s not nice to look at.
These kinds of wounds are ugly on anyone, but here it’s a whole other story.
His stomach turns. The world tilts on its axis, the ground drops from under his feet— that face, that body, it’s—
His brain simply refuses to process the information, at first. Can’t connect the dots between this lifeless lump of meat before his eyes and… and…
𖦹
“It’ll be easy. One and done. I’ll be home for dinner.”
Satoru hums skeptically, burrowing his face at the junction between your neck and shoulder. The gentle morning sun warms his back, feather light like the touch you ran up his spine to pull him from sleep.
At first he didn’t understand why you woke him early just to lounge in bed, doing nothing. Not like he dislikes doing nothing with you, the opposite really. Still, a couple of extra hours of unconsciousness before facing the world would’ve been nice. He woke up disgruntled, but settled quickly, warm and mellow with the sun and your arms around him.
It makes sense about an hour of lazing around in. When you break the news to him in the softest voice you can muster, caressing his cheek with your knuckles.
Emergency in Kyoto. Experienced sorcerer needed for a curse user hunt.
They could’ve called literally anyone. But no. They called you. It feels intentional. It’s probably intentional. You’ve been a little too open and vocal about your dislike for the higher-ups, lately — they can’t have that.
It was supposed to be just the two of you today. No interruptions, no obligations, just you and him and him and you, Netflix and chill both literal and figurative. Displeased, Satoru rolls over to his side, turning his back to you. It gets cold when he rolls into the shadow, when your arms slip from his waist.
He should’ve expected it, honestly. No, really, because after all why would he have been able to have a nice, relaxing day with his man? He can’t have nice things. Ever.
You don’t leave him in the cold for too long. You chase, shifting to press against his back, eager to leave no space at all between him and you. It makes him feel better. A little. Your arm wraps around his shoulder and you reach up to poke his cheek playfully.
“C’mon, babydoll,” you purr in his ear. Bastard. You know exactly what you’re doing. “Don’t be mad. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Hm.”
You chuckle, squeezing his cheek to force his lips into a deeper pout. “Swear. You won’t even realize I’m gone.”
“Whatever.” Satoru rolls his eyes, pushing your hand off his face. He stays silent for a moment. Then, “I just think it’s funny how you’re needed for a sudden emergency on our first day off together in, like, two months.”
You exhale a little sigh through your nose, softening. The teasing urge falls away as you press a kiss on his nape.
“Yeah,” you say lowly. “I know.”
“For each you see, there’s ten that you don’t. You know, like cockroaches. It starts with one and ends up with you gone three weeks trying to take down the whole shtick.”
“I know, Satoru,” you say again. Sharper.
He turns to brace himself on his forearms, narrowing his eyes at you. “What, ‘m I not allowed to be pissed?”
“You’re allowed to be pissed.” You roll to your back, running a hand down your face with a long-suffering sigh. “Just… please.”
Right. No, you’re right. He shouldn’t get pissy with you for something that’s completely out of your hands, especially when you’re clearly just as pissed. Even worse, because you just wanna enjoy the time you have left with him before you go. He’s horrible.
He settles back down, head nestled against your shoulder and a hand braced on your chest. He pats you gently to calm you down.
“We should go out tonight,” he murmurs to make amends. “When you get back. Himawari Ramen?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.” You lean down to kiss the crown of his head, and Satoru melts into you once more, closing his eyes. “Just what I need.”
You stay like that for a moment, basking in each other’s warmth. The morning sun warms his back.
Eventually, you have to get up. He feels you shift him off you, already half-asleep. Your lips kiss his cheek and your voice says: “Love you.”
𖦹
Most sorcerers don’t have the luxury of experiencing the five stages of grief. There’s too much death happening all the time, civilians and coworkers alike. If you want to live, you accept the death and you move on. Or at least you grieve in silence and keep doing your damn job.
It’s true for Satoru as much as anyone else. He’s been affected by deaths before, sure, felt sorry for the victim or angry that another life was snuffed unnecessarily. He’s been moved. Grieved? He’s only done that once. He’s a grief-virgin in that sense.
But of course, in his world no one is spared. He just hadn’t expected it to hit immediately.
Denial comes first.
First, his brain’s refusal to process the information it’s receiving. Your face damaged and covered in blood, the sheer wrongness of the bullet hole deforming your head grotesquely. Then, his mind’s inability to face the truth.
It can’t be. It just can’t. There’s… there’s no way, right? No way.
You said you’d be home for dinner. You said you’d be back before he knew it. You said you wanted to go out for some ramen. There’s no way you’re just… what you’ve been reduced to, what he’s seeing, it’s…
Just meat that used to talk.
He stays frozen, fingers trembling, eyes bouncing all over your body in a desperate search for life. He finds nothing, nothing but residuals of your cursed energy on your clothes, and your immediate surroundings. That can’t be, there’s no way, there’s no fucking way, there has to be something, anything.
He can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. This can’t be real. This is a nightmare. Just a nightmare, and he’s gonna wake up. And you’re gonna kiss it better, hug him and tell him you love him, and you’ll go out for ramen together and it’ll be just fine. He’ll forget about the nightmare eventually and… and…
He can’t bear to look away, but each new detail only serves to hurt him further. There’s more than just the bullet wound on your skull. Your knee is busted, there’s a dark stain on your side, one of your hands is missing—
The sight of you is gnarly, cruel in its honesty. This morning you were warm and soft. This morning you told him you loved him. Now you’re a fucking corpse left to rot in a dirty Kyoto alleyway.
Denial clings, still. Because there’s no way three lowly curse users did this to you, there’s just no way. The state you’re in, and the state you left them in — how could this happen?
His thinking becomes practical. He can’t stand to think of you as a person for too long, he needs to think about something else, needs to think about what he can do to… to fix this? Find the people responsible? He doesn’t know.
He scans the alleyway, looking for tracks, residuals that he missed, anything. He comes up empty. Either there were others responsible and they covered their tracks remarkably well, or… or maybe it’s just those three curse users.
Denial falls away and anger takes its place. Not at the people that killed you. At you directly.
How could you let this happen? You’re better than this. You’re stronger than those three curse users combined, you’re— how could you let this happen? What the hell were you even doing, to get jumped and torn apart like that? Were you admiring the view or something? Petting a stray cat? What the fuck is your problem? You were supposed to be home by dinner. You were supposed to go out for ramen with him. You swore you would. Did that mean nothing to you? Is that just the kind of guy you are — the kind that breaks his promises like that, like they’re nothing?
He feels guilty, but he also doesn’t. He means it. At least, part of him means it, all of it.
The thoughts don’t last. He’s angry because he wants you back. Nothing more than that.
He crouches beside you. The hand you have left is also spotted with blood. Do you simply have no clean skin left? He brushes your hand with his fingers all the same, wondering what the hell he did to deserve this.
Isn’t he good? Isn’t he always doing the right thing? He tries and tries and tries, he gives it all he has and what is he given in return? Resentment and adoration in equal measure. One blessing that gets torn away.
He calls your name, voice surprisingly steady.
He just wants you back. Isn’t that normal? He’d do anything to have you back. Just come back.
“Get up right now.”
You don’t move. Obviously. What does he need to do to have you back? He’ll do it. Whatever he has left to give, he’ll give it. Anything. Anything.
I love you. I love you. Please get up.
Stubbornly, you remain still, as corpses tend to be.
Please. Please. Get up. Just get up and come home.
He’s not sure how long he stays there, staring at your fingers.
Please. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You’re all I have. I love you. You can’t die. Please don’t die.
Hoping they’ll twitch.
Don’t leave me. I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t do this to me.
Silently begging.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. I love you. I love you. I—
At some point, he stands. He can’t leave you like this.
He reaches for his phone and calls the first person who’d be any help.
Ijichi’s voice is sharp and alert, even in the middle of the night. Up writing reports. Probably Satoru’s. Who fucking cares.
“G-gojo-san? It’s… it’s midnight—”
“Sent you my location.” He sounds so steady. So calm. Who even is he right now? “Call the Kyoto school and have them send a clean-up crew.”
“A-a clean-up crew? Why—”
Satoru hangs up. He doesn’t care to hear whatever Ijichi has to say. That call took all his energy. He feels drained, heavy. He needs to get out of here.
His feet stay glued to the ground.
He can’t leave you like this. He should wait for clean-up. Or maybe he should just… take your body himself. He doesn’t trust anyone to handle you right.
A sound in the alley tears him from his deliberating.
Sharp and wet, like a bone snapping. He hears it once. Twice. Then, just as he turns to see what the fuck is going on behind him—
Your body’s no longer collapsed against the wall. You’re standing, but…
He sees the wrongness of it immediately. It kills any hope that tried to flare in his chest, snuffs out the remaining light he had in him.
Your head is limp on your chest, still. It’s not like you’re standing; more like your body’s being held up on strings, like a puppet. All at once you drop to the ground in a heap, but something remains.
A dark shape, almost a silhouette. Darker than darkness, thick as blood, quiet like it’s not even there. Pure curse energy, he realizes instantly. Cursed spirit. Goosebumps run down the back of his neck, his mind assesses, quick as a whip—
Threat. Imminent threat.
He takes half a step back, ready to exorcise the curse, but— but then the weirdest thing—
“Satoru…”
It’s your voice, but it’s not. It’s wrong, off, distorted in the slightest way. A shiver runs down his back. It’s wrong. So wrong. It’s not you. It’s not you.
Except it is. It is you.
The curse lowers to the ground, slithers closer— he should do something, he should exorcise it, he should do anything other than just fucking stand there—
“Satoru, don’t go…”
He’s gonna throw up.
You push closer, blood and goo dripping from your still forming arms. You get close enough to touch him.
Your hand grabs his ankle, and his entire body tenses in revulsion. It’s cold, it’s holding him too tightly, it just feels wrong, but…
But it also feels like you. It’s still you. Isn’t it?
“Don’t go. Satoru, don’t go. Satoru, I love you...”
Satoru’s stomach lurches violently and he does the first thing he can think of: he slams his palms together and teleports the fuck away.
He lands hard on a wooden floor, tumbling to his knees immediately. He’s not sure where he is, can’t tell because the world just won’t stop spinning — it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s far, very far from that alley. Far from the bodies. Your body.
Your body.
He throws up everything his stomach has to give, shivering violently. Then, he simply rolls to his back and pants. Stares at the ceiling until the dizziness fades. Maybe it takes minutes, maybe a few hours. He simply can’t tell.
His vision evens out — his breathing doesn’t. At last he realizes where he is.
His apartment. In Tokyo. The one he shares with you.
He curls into a ball, trembling all over. Paralyzed with fear.
What did he do? What the fuck did he do to you?
𖦹
The next couple of days pass by in a blur. Satoru floats through the hours, like a passenger in his own body.
He knows he shouldn’t, but he pulls some strings and gets his hands on the report from the Kyoto crew. Reads it, again and again and again. To the point where he has it memorized. Masochism in its purest form.
Every building in an fifty-meter radius around the alley was reduced to rubble. Three civilians dead. Fifty-two injured, including thirteen in critical condition. The Kyoto sorcerers didn’t retrieve the bodies of the curse users — report states there “wasn’t enough left to retrieve.”
They found you, though. Brought you back to Tokyo.
Shoko covered your body with a thin, white sheet after the autopsy. She left him alone in the morgue, to take a breather, let him figure out what he wants to do with you.
Burn the body, don’t burn the body. In the end, it’s all the same to him. What’s this lump of meat good for? It’s not you. Just another corpse he can add to the pile.
You haven’t manifested since that first time. He can’t feel your cursed energy, and he can’t figure out why. It’s not like curses just vanish into thin air.
He can’t track you, and it makes him anxious. He can’t have you killing any more people, and if he can’t control you...
Better not to think about it. He’s great at avoiding tough topics, even in his own head.
Slowly, he reaches out. The sheet is thin, smooth to the touch.
The autopsy table’s sent flying before he has time to react.
Shit.
Satoru covers his head with his arm as you fly past him. The autopsy table hits the wall with a metallic clang!, and you grab your body midair, slamming it into the wall. Hard. Again and again and again, screeching in fury.
You’re fully manifested. On school grounds. You could not have had worse timing.
“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue!”
You’re ripped away and sent flying to the other end of the room. You slam against the wall and crawl up to the ceiling, snarling at him. You almost sound offended.
“Whatever!” Satoru shouts back.
You try to jump past him again, but he’s ready this time, and he extends Infinity’s reach to push you back. With another indignant screech, you scuttle back up to the ceiling, pacing around like a caged tiger.
Shoko chooses that exact moment to burst into the room. Positively incredible timing on her part, too.
“Gojo, what is—”
She catches your attention, and your head snaps to her. He sees you bunch together to pounce and skids in front of her.
“No!” He points a finger at you menacingly, and crazily, it’s enough to make you back down. Like you’re a misbehaving puppy and not a seven-foot tall bloodthirsty Special Grade.
Because that’s what you are. He can tell, now that you’re fully manifested. Special Grade. His doing.
“No,” he repeats, low and firm. Great. Now he’s scolding you like you’re a pet. He’s lost it.
Behind him, Shoko clears her throat. Satoru turns halfway, to face her and still keep you in sight.
“Uh... I can explain?”
She gives him a sharp look. “You sure?”
She looks up to the ceiling. You’re pacing again, losing interest in the situation but restless with buzzing energy. Yeah, okay. He can see why she’s skeptical. Satoru rubs the back of his neck, feeling overwhelmed.
“I’m, uh. Maybe sit down?”
“I’ll stand.” Shoko reaches in her white coat’s pocket for her pack and a lighter. She stays silent for a moment. Takes the time to light her cigarette, take a drag. “...It’s him, isn’t it?”
Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. It’s one thing to know what he did — what he did to you. It’s another to have someone else say it. Be a witness to it.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it’s him.”
They both look at you, pacing around on the ceiling, looking almost harmless in the cold light.
“I’m not gonna ask what happened,” Shoko says.
Of course she isn’t. She already knows. She’s had your body on the table, and looking at you now, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. A curse as powerful as that? Yeah. Doesn’t take a genius.
Satoru almost thanks her for it. He’s not ready to admit it just yet. That he’s the one he put you in that state. That he’s the one who condemned you to such an existence.
“What are you gonna do?” Shoko continues.
The merciful thing would be to exorcize you, wouldn’t it? Or at least find a way to undo what he did. Let you rest in some way.
“...I dunno,” he replies, defeated.
Shoko looks around the room. Her overturned desk, the computer and files scattered on the floor. The blood you’ve left over the wall and the ceiling. And on the other side, the bloody mess against the white tile. “At least he listens to you, right?” She lets out, dry and dead.
Satoru follows her gazes. He crosses the room to inspect the damage.
There’s not much to look at. You haven’t left much of your body for him to scoop up. Guess he’s burning you after all.
He turns to look at you. “Why’d you go and do that, huh?”
You pause in your movements. Your head snaps towards him, with a crack, almost like you snapped your own neck to look at him faster.
“You were scared,” you say lowly. He can feel your voice in his chest, like a purr. “And sad. Angry.”
It stuns him for a moment. The tunnel vision you have when it comes to him.
You didn’t even recognize your own dead body. You just saw it as a threat to him.
“Well,” Shoko sighs. “Shit.”
Yeah. Satoru couldn’t have said it better.
𖦹
Another week passes without you ever manifesting. Satoru’s life goes on as normal as it can. He goes through the motions mechanically, like he did before. Only now he has no one to talk to. No one to curl up against at night. No one to brush his teeth with. He feels less and less like a person each day. Like he only existed because you were there to perceive him.
It’s the opposite now, he supposes.
At first he couldn’t figure out how you did it, simply disappearing into thin air at will. He thought you had to go somewhere. A curse like you would be attached to an object, something of significance to you while you were alive. He combed through your stuff about a thousand times, looking for the thing.
It’s nothing of yours. It’s his apartment key. The one you offered to him about six months into your relationship, just after you bought the place.
“In case you need a place to crash,” you’d said. In case you need a place to get away, was what you really meant.
It started as an occasional thing. He’d pop up for a night. Sometimes two. Then he started staying over after every date. Then he started leaving his things there. At some point he couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to his place on the Jujutsu Tech campus.
He still hasn’t gone back to that place. The key sits untouched in his pocket. Your cursed energy is there, dormant; he couldn’t feel it because it’s too intertwined with his. He’s part of you. You’re part of him.
He barely sleeps these days, even less than before. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. He wonders what he’s gonna do with you.
Really, he’s just going in circles. He knows what he should do. He knows the practical, logical answer. You’re a curse. His job’s to eradicate curses. There’s only one way this can go.
But this is different. Isn’t it? You weren’t always like this, he’s the reason you’re like this. He should find a way to free you. Undo the curse. Let go of you.
Besides, doesn’t he owe it to you, who he claims to love? Shouldn’t he be merciful to the man he loves?
But Satoru’s never been merciful. Not once in his life. And he’s not about to start now, is he? Not even for you. Not when love is the whole reason you’re still here in the first place.
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I love you.
Who’s the real monster here, you or him?
“Satoru...”
You sensed his distress, likely, and now you’re here to protect him. Funny. He’s the scariest thing in the country.
Satoru pushes himself up to a sit, keeping his back to you. He lowers his Infinity, still. Eager to feel your touch. Your hand slips up his arm, to squeeze his shoulder. You did that when you were alive. To comfort him, without overwhelming him. Is it muscle memory? The idea that you may still be as considerate now as you were then makes him want to throw up.
“You can go back,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing here, Y/N.”
Your hand moves to the back of his neck. Your claws graze the sensitive skin. He feels the sting. You cut him.
“There’s you,” you reply.
Is it because you understand that he’s his own worst enemy right now, or did you just want to see him? He couldn’t make sense of you before — great to see he still can’t. He thought curses were simple creatures. Easy to read, easy to predict. It’s always been easy for him.
Maybe you’re just hell bent on turning the world upside down for him.
“Why don’t you come back when I’m in actual danger?”
He meant it as a tease — you haven’t shown up once while he was fighting curses, though he thought you’d be eager to help him. But you take it seriously.
“You’re never in danger,” you say accusingly. “How would I see you?”
Satoru turns to face you. “It was a joke. Jeez, don’t you curses have a sense of—”
Your grip turns harsh, and you push him to his back, pinning him. Familiar, and not.
“You just don’t want to see me!” Your voice changes, becomes less human and more other. “Just admit it!”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” Satoru grits out, struggling against your grip. It’s instinct. Curse nearby equals danger.
“You said you loved me!”
“I do!”
And just like that, you calm down as quickly as you got angry. Your grip loosens, it’s less punishing. Almost tender. Satoru’s not sure why he still hasn’t shoved you off.
“I do,” he breathes. “Of course I do.”
You lean over him, pleased. Your tongue lolls out, far longer than a human’s. It slides over his jaw, up to his ear and back to his face, to run over his lips. Satoru reaches up to grab your head and turn it away. He turns his face in the other direction, almost coy. His chest is heaving.
You push his hand off you easily and return to him. Slower, like you’re afraid to spook him. As if. You’re far from the scariest thing he’s ever seen.
You lean down and kiss him, as well as you can with that mouth full of teeth. You bite at his lips, push your tongue in his mouth. He welcomes you eagerly. He doesn’t care that he’s bleeding. He has you again. His heart is racing.
𖦹
He found the curse users that killed you.
Not the perpetrators themselves, of course, you took care of them yourself. But he tracked down the organization they belonged to.
Because there is an organization. He was right, in the end. If you hadn’t died, you’d still be in Kyoto, chipping away at it to get to the core. Far, far away from him. Maybe what happened was for the best.
The building’s deceptively mundane. Three stories, all grey concrete and big, modern glass windows. Gleaming under the setting sun. Fits the surroundings: the more modern part of Kyoto, downtown. Easily glossed over. Easily forgotten.
Technically, Satoru’s off duty right now. But a guy’s allowed to have hobbies, right? It might be a little revenge trip for him, but at the end of the day, it’s about thirty less curse users that Jujutsu society has to worry about. A win-win.
He lowers a veil, because he’s not a complete maniac. Waltzes in like he owns the place. They didn’t even put up a barrier, choosing stealth over protection. Big mistake.
The lobby’s empty.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, clutching his key in his pocket. “You wanna come out? Have some fun with me?”
This time you answer immediately. The pressure of your presence is crushing, even for him — the curse users are bound to come running.
You prowl on all fours, rubbing against him affectionately. “Yes, Satoru?”
“You wanna help me clear out this place?”
You face contorts. You’re trying to smile.
“Okay!” You let out cheerfully.
Satoru catches movement in the corner of his eye. The curse users are starting to spill in. Two, three, four. They see him — see you — and step back warily, arms and weapons raised in self-defense.
Good, he thinks, suddenly thirsty for blood. You should be fucking scared.
Seven. Eight. Nine. They keep coming. He sees you bunch together, prepared to pounce. Anticipation buzzes under his skin.
“It’s Gojo Satoru!” One of them shouts. “Fall ba—”
He never finishes his sentence, because in an instant you’ve leaped and ripped his head off.
It’s a slaughter, to put it plainly. It’s his first time seeing you like this, feral and hungry and horrifying in so many ways. Not so different from when you were alive. Not so different from him.
He doesn’t step in. Doesn’t intervene once. He lets you have your revenge, lets you bite and tear and rip, lets you prowl through the building to find the rest of them.
Doesn’t let a single one of them touch you. Not like they’d ever come close to exorcizing you, anyway. You overwhelm them as well as he would’ve.
The walls are slick with blood, by the time you’ve killed the last one. You are, too. You prance back to him almost happily, crawling all over the walls and the ceiling. You even bring him back an arm, like a cat showing off its hunting prize. His heart is racing.
He doesn’t call clean-up when he lowers the veil and leaves. They can fucking rot.
𖦹
TWO YEARS LATER.
After swallowing a corpse’s mummified finger and a high school principal’s handmade doll coming to life, Yuji was convinced he’d seen the weirdest jujutsu had to offer. Monsters are real and they kill people, and he can do something about it? Okay, cool. He can do that. How weirder could it get?
Clearly, much weirder. Gojo-sensei’s full of surprises.
The first years’ first official training session as a class starts out nothing out of the ordinary. Some warm-up. Then, taking turns sparring against each other. Yuji’s in the middle of beating up Fushiguro when Gojo steps on the field, waving cheerfully.
“Hey everyone! How’s it going?”
Yuji waves back, just as enthusiastic. “Going great, sensei!”
Somewhere on the floor behind him, Fushiguro grumbles. Seems like he doesn’t agree.
Gojo steps closer, hands in his pocket, and as always when he gets close, Sukuna’s hackles raise, cursed energy spiking slightly. Yuji thinks nothing of it, neither does anyone else, but this time—
This time something pops up behind Gojo-sensei. Arms, legs, until a full-blown curse is leaping in front of his teacher, screeching at him.
Yuji leaps back, and behind him he hears his classmates doing the same.
“A curse?!” Nobara lets out. “Isn’t the school supposed to be protected?”
But Gojo-sensei doesn’t look the slightest bit worried.
“Hey, hey, everyone, let’s all take it down a notch!” He pushes your head down forcefully, and you relent, rubbing against his legs and— purring? “Everything’s okay, he’s just a little riled up right now!”
“Gojo-sensei.” Yuji tilts his head incredulously. “Why are you petting the curse?”
“Hm? Oh, right.” Gojo moves to grab under your chin, shaking your head affectionately. You smile. Or at least Yuji thinks it’s a smile? Maybe? “Everyone, this is my husband, Y/N! Don’t worry, he’s totally harmless! Mostly!”
Like they’re in each other’s head, Yuji and Kugasaki turn to look at Fushiguro. Fushiguro looks away. Shrugs. Then turns his back to them completely.
“Fushiguro!” Nobara grabs the boy’s chin to forcefully turn his head. “Give us explanations!”
“Ask him explanations, not me!”
Gojo chuckles at their antics, scratching under your chin. You roll over to your back. Like... a cat.
“Don’t worry,” Gojo says lightly. Like this is completely normal and he’s wondering why everyone’s making such a fuss. “Think he might’ve just sensed Sukuna and decided to come see what’s up! He won’t hurt you. I think.”
Not too reassuring, but... Well, if Gojo says it’s fine, then it must be, right? Yuji gives a salute. “Got it, sensei! I won’t attack your curse husband!”
Behind him, Fushiguro and Kugisaki both sigh.
“You’re way too easy-going, Itadori.”
“I have a feeling this teacher is a problem...”
this one was a delight to write, honestly. it flowed really smoothly. also i genuinely had to stop myself from writing a full blown smut scene between satoru and curse!reader. anyway thanks for reading!
ABSOLUTE CINEMA YOU KNOW IT YIPPEE!!! i just have to yap abt my thoughts, it's impossible not to AAAAAAAAA
He can see the fatal wound. An entry, on what was the temple, probably caused by a bullet. Might be an exit, too. Might not. Either way, it’s not nice to look at.
These kinds of wounds are ugly on anyone, but here it’s a whole other story.
His stomach turns. The world tilts on its axis, the ground drops from under his feet— that face, that body, it’s—
everything is so good here !! the clinical intro assessment/the staunch professionalism, then the self-protective attempt at carelessness w the "might be // might not". the humour thats not really humour when he gauges the aesthetics of the wound. then the abrupt, jarring change in style (sharp, fragmented) & prose (from thoughts, mentality -> physical sensation; like after you cry and feel hollow, and you know you should be thinking abt something more "important" but all you can focus on is the heat around your eyes and how icky it feels)
“Don’t go. Satoru, don’t go. Satoru, I love you...”
Satoru’s stomach lurches violently and he does the first thing he can think of: he slams his palms together and teleports the fuck away.
A FELLOW AVOIDANT GOJO JUST LIKE ME FR :D no but i sobbed. hes repeating satoru's thoughts n making them his own :((
You’re ripped away and sent flying to the other end of the room. You slam against the wall and crawl up to the ceiling, snarling at him. You almost sound offended.
“Whatever!” Satoru shouts back.
lol. 10/10 no notes, i love how playful yet exasperated he seems. perhaps a glimpse into their dynamic before? :3
Your head snaps towards him, with a crack, almost like you snapped your own neck to look at him faster.
ohhh this is so perfect. he's so attached he'd break his own body to just look at satoru :( gives a good sense of how far he would go for him/how much he loves him, hes his whole world n nothing matters except satoru <3
You lean down and kiss him, as well as you can with that mouth full of teeth. You bite at his lips, push your tongue in his mouth. He welcomes you eagerly. He doesn’t care that he’s bleeding. He has you again.
CRYING AGAIN EXCUSE YOU >:( the desperation. the determined wilful ignorance. blood and horror and the experience of queerness something something. teeth & tongue are treated like a normal thing, no unsettling prose to evoke creepiness - encapsulated perfectly in the short punchy sentences, very frank, plain, vulnerable. there's nowhere to hide in the simplicity of "he doesn't care // he has you again". it's cathartic in a way, especially after the alleyway denial & the scenes where he contemplates duty vs desire.
imagine apologizing for a long reblog IMAAGGIIIIIIIIIINE
do you see MEEEEE apologizing when i'm screaming in the tags?! NO! SO NEEVVVEERRRRRRR apologize
JUUUUNNNN! YOU GET IT YOU JUST GET IIITTTTT thank you for all the love on this fic and THANK YOUUUU FOR SHARING YOUR THOUGHTS!!!!!!!
and if you wanna get EXTRA angsty... read rotten first and then read this. because it's the same reader yyyuuuupp.
i really wanted to include a glimpse of the dynamic they had before reader died because fundamentally, that curse is... not him. it resembles him, sure, but it's more satoru than reader. reader is dead and gone, and that Thing is an echo that satoru put in a jar because he refuses to let the love of his life go. i love the blurred lines. is it really reader, trapped in some kind of afterlife limbo by satoru's curse, or is it just a manifestation of satoru's grief and memories? what's the truth? the best part is satoru doesn't care what the truth is. he has his man back. if it's not the Real One, he doesn't care, because it's close enough. it thinks like you and talks like you and acts like you and it loves him. close enough. and if it is the Real One? if he really did curse his lover to an existence that he deems vile and that you both dedicated your lives to eradicating? he's selfish enough that he doesn't care. you'd do the same for him anyway. right?
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When I read that Male Reader fanfic with Satoru Gojo, I could only think of this picture here
OWLY MENTION ‼️‼️‼️‼️
i forgot about that art omggg yes that is exactly the vibe i was going for!! i love the idea of curse!reader being super protective of satoru even though he most definitely doesn't need protecting. and satoru loves it too he likes feeling like a princess.
Hiii, I saw your requests were open and thought I would drop an idea,
I really like the idea of other characters from jjk getting the yuta treatment. Like maybe Gojo has a bf who he loves dearly who is also a sorcerer and they get killed by something that has no curse energy so they comeback as a curse that is attached to him. Love me some angst. No rush, I really enjoy your writing! Hope you have a good day,night, evening!
it took me a while, but IT'S HERE! unhappy reading, my friend.
synopsis. you're ripped from him. he takes you right back.
content. gojo satoru x male!reader. angst. canon-typical violence, gore and horror elements. major character death. curse!reader. some swearing. excessive use of em-dash because i love it and i refuse to let ai have it.
wc. 6.2k
message from noe. requested by @corsped-groom. i purposefully left curse!reader's design vague so you can imagine him however you want, but i was picture something like the xenomorph, the unknown from dbd, or the lickers from resident evil. anyway. this one is depressing af. blame it on the song of achilles. finally read that book and i feel like it shows a little bit in the style of writing in this one. don't read it if you value your happiness... although who am i kidding. we're jjk fans. we don't value our happiness.
The smell in the alley is the first red flag.
Metallic. Sticky like honey on the roof of his mouth. He welcomes like the old friend it is.
Blood. What else was it gonna be?
Satoru steps forward, slipping in the darkness. Not familiar — he’s got no need for stealth, usually, he’s too efficient for that. His style’s more ‘Now you see me, now you’re dead.’ But there’s no streetlights in the alley, so in the darkness he goes, eyes and ears wide open.
No traces of cursed energy except yours, so faint it must be only residuals. So you were here. It’s a start.
A big bunch of nothing, a sullen voice in the back of his head says.
A start, another, more reasonable one counters. It sounds like you. We can follow residuals. We can find him.
There’s a third voice. Louder than any other, so loud that it’s getting real hard to ignore.
It’s been too long. It’s been a few hours at most. Still too long. He would’ve never taken so long to return. He would’ve come back to lick his wounds. He would’ve called for help if he’d needed it. It’s been too long.
Satoru knows you inside out, by now. All your quirks and little habits. Like how you bite your cheek when you’re focusing on something. How you never sleep on your back because you’re scared shitless of sleep paralysis. How you make it a point to keep him in the loop when you go on missions, because you know he gets nervous when he doesn’t hear from you for too long.
It’s been too long.
There’s something in this alley. Something that makes his hair stand on end, an unpleasantly familiar shiver down his spine. Something that he’s missing, but he can’t tell what it is just yet.
Something’s wrong. No visible threat for now, but he’s learned his lesson when it comes to things he can’t see — learned it the hard way. Something’s wrong.
It’s been too long.
A moist sound. Soft and sticky under the sole of his shoe — the blood that’s been stinking up the alley. A lot of it, from what he can tell.
There’s a shape just ahead. Barely distinguishable in the darkness, but there. His mind assesses, quick as a whip. Unmoving. No immediate threat. He steps closer.
It’s a body.
𖦹
Humans are just meat that talks.
That’s what Satoru tells himself, when he looks down at the body laid before him. The girl was once a bright, living thing, full of hopes and promise. Now she’s a lump of meat on cold metal. She’s not the first or the last, and the casualness with which her body’s treated in the morgue is a painful reminder. It raises his hackles.
Add this one to the pile, right?
You knew her; he did not. You stand over her together anyway, both looking at her face silently.
You were the one who retrieved her body. For the occasion, Shoko allowed you to smoke inside. You’ve already smoked two in the hallway. You light the third one over her.
“Do we know if she had any family?” You ask quietly. As if afraid to disturb her rest.
Shoko takes a second to answer. Lights her own cigarette, pockets the lighter. Takes a deep drag.
“What was her name again?” She eventually says.
“Yumeko,” you reply. You take a drag. Shoko takes a drag. Those things will kill you, Satoru wants to joke. But you look a little too sad for that, right now. “Sawai.”
“Sawai Yumeko…” Shoko turns in her seat to type at her computer. “Found her dad. Should I leave you the honors?”
“Fuck no.”
No one says anything for a while after that. Shoko sighs, puts out her cigarette, and steps out.
“So, how’d this happen?” Satoru finally asks. His tongue was getting itchy.
“The intel was wrong.” You sound weary, but not surprised. He isn’t, either. This is commonplace. “It wasn’t a cluster of Grade Threes, it was a Grade One.”
A job for him. Or for you. But not for Yumeko. Poor kid.
Another moment of silence. Satoru’s never known what to say in those situations. Pretty ironic, considering he can’t keep his fucking mouth shut most of the time. Or is it fitting? Gojo Satoru, the guy who can’t come through when it actually matters.
He threads his fingers through yours and pulls you away from the table. Away from the body and the smell of formaldehyde. You put out your smoke as you walk out.
He knows what you’re thinking — he’s thinking it, too. How many more will have to die because the people on high can’t be bothered to do their fucking job right?
“You think they knew?” you ask when you’ve stepped outside.
He hasn’t let go of your hand. It’s starting to feel like he never will. “Oh, yeah. They knew.”
And they sent Yumeko to her death anyway. Add this one to the pile.
You won’t let go of this. Neither will he. It’ll fester and keep festering.
𖦹
He doesn’t recognize the body — it’s a relief until it isn’t. Intel said one curse user, one, and you don’t deviate from your mission. Ever.
It’s not pretty. You did a number on the guy, almost savage in the violence you’ve inflicted. Like a cornered predator that lashed out. Your residuals are all over him.
You would’ve wiped them if the job had gone right. Wouldn’t have left him in such a state in the first place.
There’s two more bodies— no, three. One is collapsed in a heap just two paces ahead in a similar pool of blood. The second is to Satoru’s right, flat on his back. This one, he recognizes. The curse user you were after. A gun rests loosely in his palm, coated in dark, flaky blood. The simple sight makes him shiver, brings back memories he’d really, really like to keep buried.
The third one is farther. Hunched against the wall, head hanging limp. Covered in blood, like the others.
Dead like the others, but different. Satoru feels it immediately. Your residuals are clustered there.
He ignores the alarm bells in the back of his head, the instinct screaming at him that this is wrong, wrong, there’s something wrong about that body—
He can see the fatal wound. An entry, on what was the temple, probably caused by a bullet. Might be an exit, too. Might not. Either way, it’s not nice to look at.
These kinds of wounds are ugly on anyone, but here it’s a whole other story.
His stomach turns. The world tilts on its axis, the ground drops from under his feet— that face, that body, it’s—
His brain simply refuses to process the information, at first. Can’t connect the dots between this lifeless lump of meat before his eyes and… and…
𖦹
“It’ll be easy. One and done. I’ll be home for dinner.”
Satoru hums skeptically, burrowing his face at the junction between your neck and shoulder. The gentle morning sun warms his back, feather light like the touch you ran up his spine to pull him from sleep.
At first he didn’t understand why you woke him early just to lounge in bed, doing nothing. Not like he dislikes doing nothing with you, the opposite really. Still, a couple of extra hours of unconsciousness before facing the world would’ve been nice. He woke up disgruntled, but settled quickly, warm and mellow with the sun and your arms around him.
It makes sense about an hour of lazing around in. When you break the news to him in the softest voice you can muster, caressing his cheek with your knuckles.
Emergency in Kyoto. Experienced sorcerer needed for a curse user hunt.
They could’ve called literally anyone. But no. They called you. It feels intentional. It’s probably intentional. You’ve been a little too open and vocal about your dislike for the higher-ups, lately — they can’t have that.
It was supposed to be just the two of you today. No interruptions, no obligations, just you and him and him and you, Netflix and chill both literal and figurative. Displeased, Satoru rolls over to his side, turning his back to you. It gets cold when he rolls into the shadow, when your arms slip from his waist.
He should’ve expected it, honestly. No, really, because after all why would he have been able to have a nice, relaxing day with his man? He can’t have nice things. Ever.
You don’t leave him in the cold for too long. You chase, shifting to press against his back, eager to leave no space at all between him and you. It makes him feel better. A little. Your arm wraps around his shoulder and you reach up to poke his cheek playfully.
“C’mon, babydoll,” you purr in his ear. Bastard. You know exactly what you’re doing. “Don’t be mad. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Hm.”
You chuckle, squeezing his cheek to force his lips into a deeper pout. “Swear. You won’t even realize I’m gone.”
“Whatever.” Satoru rolls his eyes, pushing your hand off his face. He stays silent for a moment. Then, “I just think it’s funny how you’re needed for a sudden emergency on our first day off together in, like, two months.”
You exhale a little sigh through your nose, softening. The teasing urge falls away as you press a kiss on his nape.
“Yeah,” you say lowly. “I know.”
“For each you see, there’s ten that you don’t. You know, like cockroaches. It starts with one and ends up with you gone three weeks trying to take down the whole shtick.”
“I know, Satoru,” you say again. Sharper.
He turns to brace himself on his forearms, narrowing his eyes at you. “What, ‘m I not allowed to be pissed?”
“You’re allowed to be pissed.” You roll to your back, running a hand down your face with a long-suffering sigh. “Just… please.”
Right. No, you’re right. He shouldn’t get pissy with you for something that’s completely out of your hands, especially when you’re clearly just as pissed. Even worse, because you just wanna enjoy the time you have left with him before you go. He’s horrible.
He settles back down, head nestled against your shoulder and a hand braced on your chest. He pats you gently to calm you down.
“We should go out tonight,” he murmurs to make amends. “When you get back. Himawari Ramen?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.” You lean down to kiss the crown of his head, and Satoru melts into you once more, closing his eyes. “Just what I need.”
You stay like that for a moment, basking in each other’s warmth. The morning sun warms his back.
Eventually, you have to get up. He feels you shift him off you, already half-asleep. Your lips kiss his cheek and your voice says: “Love you.”
𖦹
Most sorcerers don’t have the luxury of experiencing the five stages of grief. There’s too much death happening all the time, civilians and coworkers alike. If you want to live, you accept the death and you move on. Or at least you grieve in silence and keep doing your damn job.
It’s true for Satoru as much as anyone else. He’s been affected by deaths before, sure, felt sorry for the victim or angry that another life was snuffed unnecessarily. He’s been moved. Grieved? He’s only done that once. He’s a grief-virgin in that sense.
But of course, in his world no one is spared. He just hadn’t expected it to hit immediately.
Denial comes first.
First, his brain’s refusal to process the information it’s receiving. Your face damaged and covered in blood, the sheer wrongness of the bullet hole deforming your head grotesquely. Then, his mind’s inability to face the truth.
It can’t be. It just can’t. There’s… there’s no way, right? No way.
You said you’d be home for dinner. You said you’d be back before he knew it. You said you wanted to go out for some ramen. There’s no way you’re just… what you’ve been reduced to, what he’s seeing, it’s…
Just meat that used to talk.
He stays frozen, fingers trembling, eyes bouncing all over your body in a desperate search for life. He finds nothing, nothing but residuals of your cursed energy on your clothes, and your immediate surroundings. That can’t be, there’s no way, there’s no fucking way, there has to be something, anything.
He can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. This can’t be real. This is a nightmare. Just a nightmare, and he’s gonna wake up. And you’re gonna kiss it better, hug him and tell him you love him, and you’ll go out for ramen together and it’ll be just fine. He’ll forget about the nightmare eventually and… and…
He can’t bear to look away, but each new detail only serves to hurt him further. There’s more than just the bullet wound on your skull. Your knee is busted, there’s a dark stain on your side, one of your hands is missing—
The sight of you is gnarly, cruel in its honesty. This morning you were warm and soft. This morning you told him you loved him. Now you’re a fucking corpse left to rot in a dirty Kyoto alleyway.
Denial clings, still. Because there’s no way three lowly curse users did this to you, there’s just no way. The state you’re in, and the state you left them in — how could this happen?
His thinking becomes practical. He can’t stand to think of you as a person for too long, he needs to think about something else, needs to think about what he can do to… to fix this? Find the people responsible? He doesn’t know.
He scans the alleyway, looking for tracks, residuals that he missed, anything. He comes up empty. Either there were others responsible and they covered their tracks remarkably well, or… or maybe it’s just those three curse users.
Denial falls away and anger takes its place. Not at the people that killed you. At you directly.
How could you let this happen? You’re better than this. You’re stronger than those three curse users combined, you’re— how could you let this happen? What the hell were you even doing, to get jumped and torn apart like that? Were you admiring the view or something? Petting a stray cat? What the fuck is your problem? You were supposed to be home by dinner. You were supposed to go out for ramen with him. You swore you would. Did that mean nothing to you? Is that just the kind of guy you are — the kind that breaks his promises like that, like they’re nothing?
He feels guilty, but he also doesn’t. He means it. At least, part of him means it, all of it.
The thoughts don’t last. He’s angry because he wants you back. Nothing more than that.
He crouches beside you. The hand you have left is also spotted with blood. Do you simply have no clean skin left? He brushes your hand with his fingers all the same, wondering what the hell he did to deserve this.
Isn’t he good? Isn’t he always doing the right thing? He tries and tries and tries, he gives it all he has and what is he given in return? Resentment and adoration in equal measure. One blessing that gets torn away.
He calls your name, voice surprisingly steady.
He just wants you back. Isn’t that normal? He’d do anything to have you back. Just come back.
“Get up right now.”
You don’t move. Obviously. What does he need to do to have you back? He’ll do it. Whatever he has left to give, he’ll give it. Anything. Anything.
I love you. I love you. Please get up.
Stubbornly, you remain still, as corpses tend to be.
Please. Please. Get up. Just get up and come home.
He’s not sure how long he stays there, staring at your fingers.
Please. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. You’re all I have. I love you. You can’t die. Please don’t die.
Hoping they’ll twitch.
Don’t leave me. I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t do this to me.
Silently begging.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. I love you. I love you. I—
At some point, he stands. He can’t leave you like this.
He reaches for his phone and calls the first person who’d be any help.
Ijichi’s voice is sharp and alert, even in the middle of the night. Up writing reports. Probably Satoru’s. Who fucking cares.
“G-gojo-san? It’s… it’s midnight—”
“Sent you my location.” He sounds so steady. So calm. Who even is he right now? “Call the Kyoto school and have them send a clean-up crew.”
“A-a clean-up crew? Why—”
Satoru hangs up. He doesn’t care to hear whatever Ijichi has to say. That call took all his energy. He feels drained, heavy. He needs to get out of here.
His feet stay glued to the ground.
He can’t leave you like this. He should wait for clean-up. Or maybe he should just… take your body himself. He doesn’t trust anyone to handle you right.
A sound in the alley tears him from his deliberating.
Sharp and wet, like a bone snapping. He hears it once. Twice. Then, just as he turns to see what the fuck is going on behind him—
Your body’s no longer collapsed against the wall. You’re standing, but…
He sees the wrongness of it immediately. It kills any hope that tried to flare in his chest, snuffs out the remaining light he had in him.
Your head is limp on your chest, still. It’s not like you’re standing; more like your body’s being held up on strings, like a puppet. All at once you drop to the ground in a heap, but something remains.
A dark shape, almost a silhouette. Darker than darkness, thick as blood, quiet like it’s not even there. Pure curse energy, he realizes instantly. Cursed spirit. Goosebumps run down the back of his neck, his mind assesses, quick as a whip—
Threat. Imminent threat.
He takes half a step back, ready to exorcise the curse, but— but then the weirdest thing—
“Satoru…”
It’s your voice, but it’s not. It’s wrong, off, distorted in the slightest way. A shiver runs down his back. It’s wrong. So wrong. It’s not you. It’s not you.
Except it is. It is you.
The curse lowers to the ground, slithers closer— he should do something, he should exorcise it, he should do anything other than just fucking stand there—
“Satoru, don’t go…”
He’s gonna throw up.
You push closer, blood and goo dripping from your still forming arms. You get close enough to touch him.
Your hand grabs his ankle, and his entire body tenses in revulsion. It’s cold, it’s holding him too tightly, it just feels wrong, but…
But it also feels like you. It’s still you. Isn’t it?
“Don’t go. Satoru, don’t go. Satoru, I love you...”
Satoru’s stomach lurches violently and he does the first thing he can think of: he slams his palms together and teleports the fuck away.
He lands hard on a wooden floor, tumbling to his knees immediately. He’s not sure where he is, can’t tell because the world just won’t stop spinning — it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s far, very far from that alley. Far from the bodies. Your body.
Your body.
He throws up everything his stomach has to give, shivering violently. Then, he simply rolls to his back and pants. Stares at the ceiling until the dizziness fades. Maybe it takes minutes, maybe a few hours. He simply can’t tell.
His vision evens out — his breathing doesn’t. At last he realizes where he is.
His apartment. In Tokyo. The one he shares with you.
He curls into a ball, trembling all over. Paralyzed with fear.
What did he do? What the fuck did he do to you?
𖦹
The next couple of days pass by in a blur. Satoru floats through the hours, like a passenger in his own body.
He knows he shouldn’t, but he pulls some strings and gets his hands on the report from the Kyoto crew. Reads it, again and again and again. To the point where he has it memorized. Masochism in its purest form.
Every building in an fifty-meter radius around the alley was reduced to rubble. Three civilians dead. Fifty-two injured, including thirteen in critical condition. The Kyoto sorcerers didn’t retrieve the bodies of the curse users — report states there “wasn’t enough left to retrieve.”
They found you, though. Brought you back to Tokyo.
Shoko covered your body with a thin, white sheet after the autopsy. She left him alone in the morgue, to take a breather, let him figure out what he wants to do with you.
Burn the body, don’t burn the body. In the end, it’s all the same to him. What’s this lump of meat good for? It’s not you. Just another corpse he can add to the pile.
You haven’t manifested since that first time. He can’t feel your cursed energy, and he can’t figure out why. It’s not like curses just vanish into thin air.
He can’t track you, and it makes him anxious. He can’t have you killing any more people, and if he can’t control you...
Better not to think about it. He’s great at avoiding tough topics, even in his own head.
Slowly, he reaches out. The sheet is thin, smooth to the touch.
The autopsy table’s sent flying before he has time to react.
Shit.
Satoru covers his head with his arm as you fly past him. The autopsy table hits the wall with a metallic clang!, and you grab your body midair, slamming it into the wall. Hard. Again and again and again, screeching in fury.
You’re fully manifested. On school grounds. You could not have had worse timing.
“Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue!”
You’re ripped away and sent flying to the other end of the room. You slam against the wall and crawl up to the ceiling, snarling at him. You almost sound offended.
“Whatever!” Satoru shouts back.
You try to jump past him again, but he’s ready this time, and he extends Infinity’s reach to push you back. With another indignant screech, you scuttle back up to the ceiling, pacing around like a caged tiger.
Shoko chooses that exact moment to burst into the room. Positively incredible timing on her part, too.
“Gojo, what is—”
She catches your attention, and your head snaps to her. He sees you bunch together to pounce and skids in front of her.
“No!” He points a finger at you menacingly, and crazily, it’s enough to make you back down. Like you’re a misbehaving puppy and not a seven-foot tall bloodthirsty Special Grade.
Because that’s what you are. He can tell, now that you’re fully manifested. Special Grade. His doing.
“No,” he repeats, low and firm. Great. Now he’s scolding you like you’re a pet. He’s lost it.
Behind him, Shoko clears her throat. Satoru turns halfway, to face her and still keep you in sight.
“Uh... I can explain?”
She gives him a sharp look. “You sure?”
She looks up to the ceiling. You’re pacing again, losing interest in the situation but restless with buzzing energy. Yeah, okay. He can see why she’s skeptical. Satoru rubs the back of his neck, feeling overwhelmed.
“I’m, uh. Maybe sit down?”
“I’ll stand.” Shoko reaches in her white coat’s pocket for her pack and a lighter. She stays silent for a moment. Takes the time to light her cigarette, take a drag. “...It’s him, isn’t it?”
Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. It’s one thing to know what he did — what he did to you. It’s another to have someone else say it. Be a witness to it.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, it’s him.”
They both look at you, pacing around on the ceiling, looking almost harmless in the cold light.
“I’m not gonna ask what happened,” Shoko says.
Of course she isn’t. She already knows. She’s had your body on the table, and looking at you now, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. A curse as powerful as that? Yeah. Doesn’t take a genius.
Satoru almost thanks her for it. He’s not ready to admit it just yet. That he’s the one he put you in that state. That he’s the one who condemned you to such an existence.
“What are you gonna do?” Shoko continues.
The merciful thing would be to exorcize you, wouldn’t it? Or at least find a way to undo what he did. Let you rest in some way.
“...I dunno,” he replies, defeated.
Shoko looks around the room. Her overturned desk, the computer and files scattered on the floor. The blood you’ve left over the wall and the ceiling. And on the other side, the bloody mess against the white tile. “At least he listens to you, right?” She lets out, dry and dead.
Satoru follows her gazes. He crosses the room to inspect the damage.
There’s not much to look at. You haven’t left much of your body for him to scoop up. Guess he’s burning you after all.
He turns to look at you. “Why’d you go and do that, huh?”
You pause in your movements. Your head snaps towards him, with a crack, almost like you snapped your own neck to look at him faster.
“You were scared,” you say lowly. He can feel your voice in his chest, like a purr. “And sad. Angry.”
It stuns him for a moment. The tunnel vision you have when it comes to him.
You didn’t even recognize your own dead body. You just saw it as a threat to him.
“Well,” Shoko sighs. “Shit.”
Yeah. Satoru couldn’t have said it better.
𖦹
Another week passes without you ever manifesting. Satoru’s life goes on as normal as it can. He goes through the motions mechanically, like he did before. Only now he has no one to talk to. No one to curl up against at night. No one to brush his teeth with. He feels less and less like a person each day. Like he only existed because you were there to perceive him.
It’s the opposite now, he supposes.
At first he couldn’t figure out how you did it, simply disappearing into thin air at will. He thought you had to go somewhere. A curse like you would be attached to an object, something of significance to you while you were alive. He combed through your stuff about a thousand times, looking for the thing.
It’s nothing of yours. It’s his apartment key. The one you offered to him about six months into your relationship, just after you bought the place.
“In case you need a place to crash,” you’d said. In case you need a place to get away, was what you really meant.
It started as an occasional thing. He’d pop up for a night. Sometimes two. Then he started staying over after every date. Then he started leaving his things there. At some point he couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to his place on the Jujutsu Tech campus.
He still hasn’t gone back to that place. The key sits untouched in his pocket. Your cursed energy is there, dormant; he couldn’t feel it because it’s too intertwined with his. He’s part of you. You’re part of him.
He barely sleeps these days, even less than before. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. He wonders what he’s gonna do with you.
Really, he’s just going in circles. He knows what he should do. He knows the practical, logical answer. You’re a curse. His job’s to eradicate curses. There’s only one way this can go.
But this is different. Isn’t it? You weren’t always like this, he’s the reason you’re like this. He should find a way to free you. Undo the curse. Let go of you.
Besides, doesn’t he owe it to you, who he claims to love? Shouldn’t he be merciful to the man he loves?
But Satoru’s never been merciful. Not once in his life. And he’s not about to start now, is he? Not even for you. Not when love is the whole reason you’re still here in the first place.
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. I love you.
Who’s the real monster here, you or him?
“Satoru...”
You sensed his distress, likely, and now you’re here to protect him. Funny. He’s the scariest thing in the country.
Satoru pushes himself up to a sit, keeping his back to you. He lowers his Infinity, still. Eager to feel your touch. Your hand slips up his arm, to squeeze his shoulder. You did that when you were alive. To comfort him, without overwhelming him. Is it muscle memory? The idea that you may still be as considerate now as you were then makes him want to throw up.
“You can go back,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing here, Y/N.”
Your hand moves to the back of his neck. Your claws graze the sensitive skin. He feels the sting. You cut him.
“There’s you,” you reply.
Is it because you understand that he’s his own worst enemy right now, or did you just want to see him? He couldn’t make sense of you before — great to see he still can’t. He thought curses were simple creatures. Easy to read, easy to predict. It’s always been easy for him.
Maybe you’re just hell bent on turning the world upside down for him.
“Why don’t you come back when I’m in actual danger?”
He meant it as a tease — you haven’t shown up once while he was fighting curses, though he thought you’d be eager to help him. But you take it seriously.
“You’re never in danger,” you say accusingly. “How would I see you?”
Satoru turns to face you. “It was a joke. Jeez, don’t you curses have a sense of—”
Your grip turns harsh, and you push him to his back, pinning him. Familiar, and not.
“You just don’t want to see me!” Your voice changes, becomes less human and more other. “Just admit it!”
“I’m not playing this game with you,” Satoru grits out, struggling against your grip. It’s instinct. Curse nearby equals danger.
“You said you loved me!”
“I do!”
And just like that, you calm down as quickly as you got angry. Your grip loosens, it’s less punishing. Almost tender. Satoru’s not sure why he still hasn’t shoved you off.
“I do,” he breathes. “Of course I do.”
You lean over him, pleased. Your tongue lolls out, far longer than a human’s. It slides over his jaw, up to his ear and back to his face, to run over his lips. Satoru reaches up to grab your head and turn it away. He turns his face in the other direction, almost coy. His chest is heaving.
You push his hand off you easily and return to him. Slower, like you’re afraid to spook him. As if. You’re far from the scariest thing he’s ever seen.
You lean down and kiss him, as well as you can with that mouth full of teeth. You bite at his lips, push your tongue in his mouth. He welcomes you eagerly. He doesn’t care that he’s bleeding. He has you again. His heart is racing.
𖦹
He found the curse users that killed you.
Not the perpetrators themselves, of course, you took care of them yourself. But he tracked down the organization they belonged to.
Because there is an organization. He was right, in the end. If you hadn’t died, you’d still be in Kyoto, chipping away at it to get to the core. Far, far away from him. Maybe what happened was for the best.
The building’s deceptively mundane. Three stories, all grey concrete and big, modern glass windows. Gleaming under the setting sun. Fits the surroundings: the more modern part of Kyoto, downtown. Easily glossed over. Easily forgotten.
Technically, Satoru’s off duty right now. But a guy’s allowed to have hobbies, right? It might be a little revenge trip for him, but at the end of the day, it’s about thirty less curse users that Jujutsu society has to worry about. A win-win.
He lowers a veil, because he’s not a complete maniac. Waltzes in like he owns the place. They didn’t even put up a barrier, choosing stealth over protection. Big mistake.
The lobby’s empty.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, clutching his key in his pocket. “You wanna come out? Have some fun with me?”
This time you answer immediately. The pressure of your presence is crushing, even for him — the curse users are bound to come running.
You prowl on all fours, rubbing against him affectionately. “Yes, Satoru?”
“You wanna help me clear out this place?”
You face contorts. You’re trying to smile.
“Okay!” You let out cheerfully.
Satoru catches movement in the corner of his eye. The curse users are starting to spill in. Two, three, four. They see him — see you — and step back warily, arms and weapons raised in self-defense.
Good, he thinks, suddenly thirsty for blood. You should be fucking scared.
Seven. Eight. Nine. They keep coming. He sees you bunch together, prepared to pounce. Anticipation buzzes under his skin.
“It’s Gojo Satoru!” One of them shouts. “Fall ba—”
He never finishes his sentence, because in an instant you’ve leaped and ripped his head off.
It’s a slaughter, to put it plainly. It’s his first time seeing you like this, feral and hungry and horrifying in so many ways. Not so different from when you were alive. Not so different from him.
He doesn’t step in. Doesn’t intervene once. He lets you have your revenge, lets you bite and tear and rip, lets you prowl through the building to find the rest of them.
Doesn’t let a single one of them touch you. Not like they’d ever come close to exorcizing you, anyway. You overwhelm them as well as he would’ve.
The walls are slick with blood, by the time you’ve killed the last one. You are, too. You prance back to him almost happily, crawling all over the walls and the ceiling. You even bring him back an arm, like a cat showing off its hunting prize. His heart is racing.
He doesn’t call clean-up when he lowers the veil and leaves. They can fucking rot.
𖦹
TWO YEARS LATER.
After swallowing a corpse’s mummified finger and a high school principal’s handmade doll coming to life, Yuji was convinced he’d seen the weirdest jujutsu had to offer. Monsters are real and they kill people, and he can do something about it? Okay, cool. He can do that. How weirder could it get?
Clearly, much weirder. Gojo-sensei’s full of surprises.
The first years’ first official training session as a class starts out nothing out of the ordinary. Some warm-up. Then, taking turns sparring against each other. Yuji’s in the middle of beating up Fushiguro when Gojo steps on the field, waving cheerfully.
“Hey everyone! How’s it going?”
Yuji waves back, just as enthusiastic. “Going great, sensei!”
Somewhere on the floor behind him, Fushiguro grumbles. Seems like he doesn’t agree.
Gojo steps closer, hands in his pocket, and as always when he gets close, Sukuna’s hackles raise, cursed energy spiking slightly. Yuji thinks nothing of it, neither does anyone else, but this time—
This time something pops up behind Gojo-sensei. Arms, legs, until a full-blown curse is leaping in front of his teacher, screeching at him.
Yuji leaps back, and behind him he hears his classmates doing the same.
“A curse?!” Nobara lets out. “Isn’t the school supposed to be protected?”
But Gojo-sensei doesn’t look the slightest bit worried.
“Hey, hey, everyone, let’s all take it down a notch!” He pushes your head down forcefully, and you relent, rubbing against his legs and— purring? “Everything’s okay, he’s just a little riled up right now!”
“Gojo-sensei.” Yuji tilts his head incredulously. “Why are you petting the curse?”
“Hm? Oh, right.” Gojo moves to grab under your chin, shaking your head affectionately. You smile. Or at least Yuji thinks it’s a smile? Maybe? “Everyone, this is my husband, Y/N! Don’t worry, he’s totally harmless! Mostly!”
Like they’re in each other’s head, Yuji and Kugasaki turn to look at Fushiguro. Fushiguro looks away. Shrugs. Then turns his back to them completely.
“Fushiguro!” Nobara grabs the boy’s chin to forcefully turn his head. “Give us explanations!”
“Ask him explanations, not me!”
Gojo chuckles at their antics, scratching under your chin. You roll over to your back. Like... a cat.
“Don’t worry,” Gojo says lightly. Like this is completely normal and he’s wondering why everyone’s making such a fuss. “Think he might’ve just sensed Sukuna and decided to come see what’s up! He won’t hurt you. I think.”
Not too reassuring, but... Well, if Gojo says it’s fine, then it must be, right? Yuji gives a salute. “Got it, sensei! I won’t attack your curse husband!”
Behind him, Fushiguro and Kugisaki both sigh.
“You’re way too easy-going, Itadori.”
“I have a feeling this teacher is a problem...”
this one was a delight to write, honestly. it flowed really smoothly. also i genuinely had to stop myself from writing a full blown smut scene between satoru and curse!reader. anyway thanks for reading!
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A woman not shaving or wearing a dress or wearing makeup or wearing femme clothes or having styled or long hair or caring how she looks or using a masc name or whatever else is actually a neutral thing and not a sign of her being depressed or giving up or being sad or whatever
The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
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i think we should be ridiculing them more for this. you don't get to try and go all "queer website" when your staff likes to go on nuking sprees targeting the trans fem users
