ella

"satoru, please, i'm trying to focus."

you say it with as much patience as you can muster, because for the last twenty minutes you've been stuck on the same paragraph, reading over the same highlighted sentence. but someone won't stop groping your tit.

"is this not stress relieving?" he scoffs, tilting his head at you. it's faux shock, but the annoyance it serves you is all too real.

"yeah," you mutter, biting back a moan. you refuse to give him the satisfaction. "for you, maybe."

"well, i won't deny that." satoru snickers, and you flick his forehead. he thinks he's funny (news flash: he's not). you shoot him a look; he's been hard for the past 20 minutes, but you aren't going to acknowledge that.

"fuck off. some of us aren't academically gifted—we actually need to study for our exams." you shift on the sheets of your mattress, trying to adjust your position. he hasn't given you much room, not with the space his lanky limbs take up.

"let me fuck you. once. and then i'll help you study," he pleads, pouting at you. his puppy eyes don't work on you anymore. most of the time.

"no! stop asking!"

"pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease."

you groan, burying your face in your hands. you should say no, but he's been teasing you for so long now, all you can focus on is the arousal pooling between your thighs. if you give in, you'll regret it. if you don't, you'll regret it.

you've come to learn that, with satoru, everything is a lose-lose. for you, at least. because he's beaming at you when you peak between your fingers to get a glimpse at his face. it's the face of a man who knows he's won.

"oka—" you don't even get to finish your sentence, because before you know it, he's pouncing on you, knocking you back into the pillows. something between a yelp and a laugh, a noise slips past your lips. he wastes absolutely no time in pushing your shorts aside.

"...what the fuck were you holding off for? you're so wet."

"it's not my fault! you were feeling me up." he waves you off, pulling his leaky cock out to line himself up. satoru's tip nudges against yours, and both of you let out a moan.

"this is gonna be great for relieving your stress, by the way."

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◜𝜗𝜚 . 𝓖ojo is diabolically messy when he eats you out, like it’s his goal to make you a mess of your own slick and his saliva. pausing so he can suck marks into your thighs and leave sloppy kisses behind, making sure there will be evidence of him and what he's done lingering on your lower half for days.

his teeth graze over the hickeys in your skin and he delights in how you're shuddering about it. the devotion he has to making out with your cunt is as astounding as it is breathtaking, lungs literally seizing in your chest because he's tongue deep and slurping at you like it'll kill him if he doesn't.

"why are you shaking, sweetheart?" it's purred low and twinged with a mocking amusement.

he knows exactly why you're like this, it's literally part of his whole goal. sucking on your clit before you can chastise him, eyes alight with mischief and pleasure at your whimpered moans.

large hands on your thighs pushing back and holding you so open, the noises in the room obscene and wet. and for as good as it feels, it also has you desperate. cumming on his tongue nowhere near the same as on his cock.

"satoru, please," eyes glimmering with unshed tears, "please just—"

"—what?" he grins, mouth slick and shiny with your cum, "stuff you full? you already begging for my dick?"

doing your best to glower at him but it falls a little short, especially when you're answering, "yes."

"maybe later," he half promises, "i just don't think this pussy has had enough of my tongue yet."

gojo lightly slaps at your cunt, his finger tips on your clit and making you jump—tummy flipping. this is going to be a long night...

₊˚ ⋅ mdni ; pervert bf 𝓰ojo offers you a massage 𐑂 . ݁˖

gojo’s offer for a massage was hardly innocent, you clocked that when he’d told you that you had to be completely naked. something you didn’t see as necessary but you really wanted a massage… so what the hell.

his fingers dig into all your knots, the pressure he's using perfect. your body relaxes more and more under him despite the fact you’re undressed. the more you relax, the more his hands travel lower and lower.

attentive in how he touches you, careful not to hurt you. still traveling further down your body until he’s grabbing at your ass. you grumble halfheartedly, “not my back, satoru.”

“i know what i’m doing, sweetie,” he replies coolly.

a gasp pulls from you when he pulls your cheeks apart, thumbs sliding down to part your pussy. soft groan leaving him at the sight. you’re dripping, all wet and gooey from him touching you so innocently.

"how about..." his thumb dips into your drooling hole, "...i massage your womb?"

"you're such a—" your words die in your throat because he's pulled his hands away only to rest his tip at your entrance. has he been naked the whole time too?

"biiiig stretch," you can hear the grin in his voice.

his cock splitting you open has your mouth parting with pitiful moans, you'd arch your back into him but he's leant down. pressing his entire body up against yours from above. you're immobile, only able to take his thick cock and whine about it.

gojo’s hands slip under your body to grope your tits, hips grinding against you. the tip of his cock doing as he said — massaging your womb. it feels so overwhelming, your body was already in bliss from his massage and now your cunt feels heavenly.

THUD.

satoru’s back slams against the mat.

your knee digs into the floor beside his ribs, one hand pressing his wrist flat above his head while the other traps his shoulder to the floor. your weight settles over his chest, keeping him completely immobilized.

for someone dubbed the strongest sorcerer alive, he’s been surprisingly easy to pin down this entire sparring session.

“come on satoru—focus!” you snap, breath slightly uneven from the exertion. this is the third time in the last thirty minutes you’ve taken him down.

gojo lifts his free hand in mock surrender, chest heaving up and down as he breathes out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m just… not really in it today, I guess.”

“yeah, no shit.”

but the truth is, satoru is focused. painfully focused.

just… not on the sparring.

because his problem—his entire goddamn problem—is what you decided to wear today.

"a one time thing, huh?" satoru quips devilishly, "but baby, don't you happen to own a rose toy?"

your blood runs cold. "how the actual fuck do you—?"

"please," he scoffs, "you think I don't know every inch of this apartment? every little secret?" he sits up slowly, his usual confidence reasserting itself. "I've seen that pretty pink rose tucked away in your nightstand."

"that's different," you protest quickly, but your voice lacks conviction.

"is it?" he tilts his head, white hair falling across his forehead as those brilliant blue eyes study you with predatory interest. "you just edged me mercilessly with my toy. seems only fair I return the favor, don’t ya think?"

you watch, frozen, as he disappears into your bedroom. the sound of a drawer opening makes your stomach flip. when he returns, he holds the rose-shaped toy in all its glory, its silicone petals closed in a deceptively innocent bud. the sight of it in his large hand makes something clench low in your belly.

"this isn't—you can't just—" you stammer, but he’s already climbing back onto the bed.

"can't I?" he settles beside you, one hand coming to rest on your thigh. "you made the rules, baby. toys instead of the real thing deserve punishment, right? and unless I'm mistaken..." his fingers trail up your leg, "you've used this plenty of times when you could have just asked me."

୨୧ — INFATUATION

overview: frat!gojo has been a thorn in your side since freshman year. hooking up was supposed to make him finally lose interest and set his sights elsewhere. but unfortunately for you, that plan backfired. disastrously.

cw: mdni, fratjo x sorority president reader, womanizer/maneater, smut (act shocked everyone), both are switches, he’s mouthy asf, exhibitionism, sex in library, edging/denial, thigh job, unprotected sex, very light sacrilege, fluff if you squint hard enough, 3.7K words

first satoru fic, please go easy on me! art by @/thatsallitchief

frat bros always lose interest after sex.

the saying is hammered into women’s heads like an incessant mantra before they even consider entering the dating scene during their college years. 

it was to be rehearsed like the composition of a play. the mastery of each page and stage cue vital…lest they wanted to get their hearts broken by expecting a lifetime from a guy who could only last 30 seconds at best. 

and with each recital of this grand play, women were directed that these rowdy, immature college men would act out their parts the exact same way every time. 

chase, catch, fuck, then cut you loose so they could move on to the next.

so why the hell is satoru gojo not following the script? 

“and and and, his smile ‘s just so beautiful,” you sigh dreamily, resting your head on satoru’s lap. you’re both enjoying the cozy night in your shared apartment. with no one bothering you—with no regards for the world that’s continuing its cycle outside.

satoru chuckles as he pats your head slowly, taking his time to appreciate every feature of yours. from your pink-ish lips to your pretty eyes. he’s so in love with the creation the universe has gifted him. he nods attentively, “yeah? what else?”

you giggle as he indulges you. it’s a habit of yours, to fangirl over your husband like you’re not literally his wife. satoru finds it absolutely adorable. plus, it boosts his ego. in a very good way.

“aaaand, he’s caring. that’s the one thing i love most about him,” you continue to ramble about your little ‘crush’ on the so-called ‘mysterious white-haired sorcerer’. satoru wishes he could capture this moment and keep repeating it over and over in his head.

the way you talk about your crush—him—is filling his stomach with butterflies. your husband can’t deny the faint blush on his cheeks and the fuzzy feeling in his chest. you keep getting cuter and cuter the more time passes.

when he thinks you’ve reached a state of perfection in his eyes, you prove him wrong and go beyond that. “caring, hm? he must treat my princess real good then,” satoru hums and continues petting your head. his other hand rubs your stomach—fingers creeping under the material of your nightgown.

“he does,” you nod in agreement, “he treats me so well. i don’t know how i got so lucky to have met him.” you squirm a little as you feel satoru’s slender fingers graze your midriff, going back down to your belly and then back up your chest again. his touch is so intimate and loving. you’re spoiled. spoiled rotten by his affection.

satoru sighs. his white lashes flutter shut for a second. hearing you say such stuff makes him want to check if it’s reality he’s in. if it isn’t another too-good-to-be-true dream of his. no one had loved him as much as you did.

it feels good to know that he’s wanted. needed.

“no, i think he is the lucky one,” satoru continues. his hand petting your head stops and he moves it to rub your cheek tenderly. he leans his head down, the tips of your noses touching. he whispers, “having a pretty girl like you love him so dearly… yeah, he’s won the lottery.”

your heart skips a beat. satoru’s words leave you speechless. you don’t know if you can keep up the little silly act anymore. his flirting, the teasing and the genuineness behind his words—it’s all too much.

you grab the back of his head and push his lips down against yours. satoru’s breath hitches for a second before he gives in to you. he visibly melts, eyes closing and hands tightening their grip around your body.

“mmh,” satoru lets out a content moan. he loves you. he’s glad he’s met you and he’s glad he made you his wife two years back. you’re the only one for him. death won’t do you apart—no—he promised you on your wedding day that it wouldn’t.

you kiss him like it’s your last kiss on earth. the spark between you is still as warm and strong as it was when you met. the people who’ve warned you about the ‘honeymoon phase’ are clearly all wrong. they aren’t aware of the strength your bond with satoru has. you’re inseparable.

“i love you,” you sigh against satoru’s glossy lips and he deepens the kiss after that.

somebody loves him. somebody cares for him. that’s all he needs in life. his life is complete with you in it.

he smiles against your lips and says the three words back, with more passion than ever before, “i love you too, my angel.”

nothing will ever separate you. not fate. not anyone.

inspo from this post by @blkkizzat. love her sexy brain.

there’s nothing quite as thrilling as having the man you told your exes not to worry about perched right between your legs. 

you lie on your bed, naked from the waist down while your best friend sits fully clothed and examines your vibrator like he wishes he had a microscope to give him a better look.

he moves it from one hand to the next, the very picture of indifference when he switches it on. 

satoru shakes his head when the toy quickly spurs to life and fills the room with it’s constant hum, “there’s no way wanted to throw this away,” he starts “seems perfectly fine to me.” 

your eyes narrow the tiniest bit.

“well, you're not the one who has to use it.” you grouse defensively.

and maybe you were a little more pent up than you thought, because the image of him doing just that starts to take shape. the man practically lives in sweats, so you’ve caught the print of his dick more times than you’d ever care to admit.

and in your mind’s eye, you can picture him rubbing the vibrator against his tip then all the down the thick veiny length. white lashes fluttering and neck muscles bulging as the vibrations made him twitch in need—

cerulean eyes flicker to yours, and satoru smiles like he knows exactly what you're thinking. slow, full of teeth and boyishly sexy. 

“you’re totally thinking about me using it, aren’t you?”

— minors dni, satoru x puppy hybrid! reader, possessive! reader, hybrid au, virgin! + afab! reader, humongous c0ck satoru LOL, hole training, (mentions of) p -> v penetration, fingering, masturbation, reader w/ pubic hair

⭑ ࣪ ˖ sum’z notes.ᐟ this has been in my drafts since april of last year </3 i finally decided to just split it into two parts cause i've been wanting to post it for a while now but i hadn't ever finished it SO! two parter 💪🏾

wc 3185

ding, ding!

the lady at the counter shifts her gaze towards the door. her back straightens once spotting the new visitor, and she grins.

"welcome in! please let me know if you need any help."

satoru only gives a short wave as he makes a beeline to a particular section of the store, marked overhead by a sign that reads 'puppy playhouse'. there's a large play area surrounded by chest-high, glass barriers and occupied by an assortment of canine hybrids. but he's searching for someone specific.

a flash of pink catches his observant eye, and satoru spots exactly who he's looking for:

you're sprawled out on your belly in a corner of the play pen, gnawing on a squeaky plush bone and about as isolated as you can get from the other frolicking dog hybrids. you seem content with your current task, idly swinging your tail and mostly ignoring everyone else. even at this distance, you look just as cute as you did on the shop's website.

satoru trails around the glass partition until he's standing in front of you. his lingering presence attracts your attention—he's tall and broad and you can sense a powerful aura radiating off him. not to mention, he's handsome, too, with a charming smile that sends your tail swaying wildly. an ideal mate, to be honest.

your keen nose twitches at the tantalizing combination of both sweets and his natural aroma. it's intriguing and makes your senses go a bit haywire.

satoru grins as you spring to your feet, bone in tow, tail still swishing eagerly as you walk over to greet him. you're even more adorable up close, with big, round eyes, long lashes, soft cheeks, and velvety ears that flop over your hair.

"hey, miss.", satoru calls to the attendant. "i want her, please."

you learned early that loving him means sharing him with the world.

no one really warns you about that part. they talk about danger, about responsibility, about how busy he is. but they don’t talk about the quiet. they don’t talk about how heavy it feels standing in the doorway, watching him leave again.

satoru stands there now, half-turned already, like he belongs more to the outside than he does to this house.

“you’re leaving already?” you ask, even though you already know.

“mm,” he hums. “quick mission. i’ll be back before you even miss me.”

you frown a little. “i already miss you.”

that makes him smile.

he steps closer, like it’s instinct, like there’s something pulling him back just as much as the world pulls him away. his hand comes up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek so gently it almost hurts.

“you’re making it hard to leave,” he murmurs.

“good.”

he laughs softly at that, and then he leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips— it’s warm. familiar. but not nearly long enough.

he pulls back just slightly.

“…one more?” he asks.

you sigh, but your fingers are already gripping his uniform. “you say that every time, but it’s never just one.”

“..please, baby?”

“c’mere.”

and with that he kisses you again, slower this time, like he’s got all the time in the world even though you both know he doesn’t.

when he pulls away, he doesn’t go far.

“…okay, now i’ll go.”

you don’t let go just yet.

“..toru.”

“mhm?”

“be careful.”

there’s a small pause, barely there, but you feel it.

“always am,” he says, and he squeezes your hand.

“okay, seriously,” he says, not moving. “now i’m going.”

you raise a brow. “are you?”

“…just one more—”

“satoru.”

he grins, completely unashamed. “last one. promise.”

you sigh again, but you lean in anyway— because this is how it always goes.

because every “last kiss” is just him trying to hold onto something soft before he walks back into something dangerous— and you need it as much as he does.

this time, when he pulls away, he actually steps back.

“…i’ll come back to you,” he says, quieter now.

you nod. “you better.”

he lingers for a second longer, like he’s thinking about staying, but he doesn’t, instead he turns toward the door.

“…hey.”

you look up— and even with the blindfold on, you can feel his eyes on you.

“miss me properly, okay?”

you huff out a small laugh. “get out already, so you get it over with faster.”

when he eventually leaves, you can’t help feeling a little lonely— but just as you’re about to walk back, the door swings open.

“i forgot something.”

you blink. “oh? what is it—”

before you can finish, he’s already back in front of you, hands on your face, stealing one more quick kiss, soft and bright and completely necessary for his heart.

“…that,” he says, satisfied.

you look at him. “seriously?”

“can’t help it. just wanna stay home with my pretty wifey.”

he leans in, presses one last, tiny kiss to the tip of your nose this time.

“okay, now i’m really going.”

“c’mon.” you point toward the door. “you’ve got responsibilities.”

after wrapping you into a quick hug, he finally slips out for real.

and this time, when the door closes, you think that maybe waiting for him might not feel so bad after all.

“come on, just a little faster,” he mutters at first, trying to sound casual like he’s still in control. instead of listening to him, you keep your strokes slow, all cause you want to keep teasing him.

he huffs a laugh. “wow.... you’re really doing this to me?”

you shrug and keep going, building him up nice and steady until his breathing gets ragged and his hips start lifting off the bed. right when his thighs tense and he opens his mouth to moan, you stop completely and just hold him there.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “that was mean.”

“yeah?” you ask, smiling as you wait for him to calm down a bit, “am i really toru baby?”

“yes. you are fucking mean baby...”

by the third round he’s not laughing anymore. his hands are gripping the sheets hard, white hair sticking to his damp forehead, and every time you pull your hand away he lets out this frustrated groan that you just love so much.

“baby i swear i’m gonna lose it,” he says, voice getting higher. you lean down and take him in your mouth for a few slow bobs, tongue pressing against the underside, then pop off right as he starts thrusting up.

his head drops back. “you’re killing me here.”

“just wanna make my baby feel good.”

you do it again and again. five, six times— bringing him right to the brink with your hand and mouth, then stopping cold. his cock is flushed dark and leaking nonstop, twitching in the air every time you let go.

when you pull away the seventh time, something in him snaps. his eyes are wet, and the first tear slides down the side of his face before he can blink it away.

“satoru are you—”

“please,” he says, and it comes out all soft and wrecked. “i can’t keep doing this. it’s too much. just let me cum, i’ll be so good after, i promise.”

you look at him as his cheeks flushed, tears gathering faster.

“you’re crying, toru.”

he nods, not bothering to deny it anymore. another tear rolls down as he swallows hard. “yeah, look at what you’re doing to me. baby can you just— i’ll do anything please....just please.”

you finally take pity and wrap your hand around him again, stroking firm and quick. his whole body reacts instantly, back arching, mouth falling open.

“ohhh fuuuc- yes, like that..don’t stop this time, i’m begging you—”

“go on then,” you tell him. “cum.”

he lets go hard. a loud, broken sound rips out of him as he spills over your fingers and across his stomach. it lasts longer than usual, his body shaking through it while more tears slip free.

when he finally slumps back against the pillows, you wipe your hand on the edge of the sheet and crawl up next to him.

satoru turns his head, “you’re evil, pure evil.”

“you survived,” you say, poking his cheek.

“barely, give me like fifteen minutes and we’re doing that to you. fair’s fair.”

you roll your eyes but lean in to kiss the salty tear tracks anyway.

"whatever ya say toru..."

a curse hits gojo when he is on a mission with you, causing him to turn into a cat! now he has to be in your care for an undetermined amount of time, which is a problem because he is desperately in love with you.

contents. gojo satoru x fem!reader • fluff • cat gojo • yearner gojo • down bad gojo lmao • some angst • attempts at humour • ~17k words • also can you guys tell i did the ears in the pics myself??? jahsjahq

THE mission had been simple. exorcise a low-grade curse in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of tokyo, maybe file a report, maybe grab lunch after. that was what gojo had been thinking about as he stepped through the broken doorway—lunch. specifically, whether you’d let him drag you to that new ramen place or if you’d put your foot down and insist on something with vegetables.

he should have known better. things were never simple with him.

the curse had been small, unassuming: a blob of shadows and static that barely registered on his six eyes. he’d let you handle it, hanging back with his hands in his pockets, watching the way you moved through the dim light. you were good, really good. he liked watching you work. the sharp focus in your eyes, the way your cursed energy flickered like a heartbeat.

but then the curse had done something unexpected. instead of attacking, it had shrieked— a sound that scraped against his skull like nails on a chalkboard— and exploded into a cloud of purple-black smoke. gojo had thrown an arm up instinctively, infinity flickering for just a fraction of a second too late.

the smoke had gotten in. through his mouth, his nose, his eyes. he’d coughed, stumbled, and then everything had gone sideways.

literally. the world had tilted, the ground rushing up to meet him, except the ground was suddenly much closer than it should have been. his clothes had pooled around him in a heap of fabric, and when he’d tried to step out of them, his body had moved wrong. all wrong. four points of contact instead of two. a tail. fur.

he’d looked down— down at paws, white-furred paws— and the last thing he’d heard before consciousness slipped away was your voice, sharp with alarm, calling his name.

when gojo woke up, it was to the smell of rain and old concrete. he was tucked into a corner of the warehouse, half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf, and he was still a cat.

a white cat, he realized, lifting a paw to inspect it. white fur, blue eyes; because of course even as a cat he’d have the six eyes, the same impossible blue staring back at him from the cracked surface of a puddle nearby. he was small, too. not a kitten, but not much bigger than one. his tail flicked once, twice, a test. it worked. everything worked, just… differently.

what the hell, he thought, except what came out was a confused little mrrp?

he tried to speak. opened his mouth, focused, pushed words up his throat and got a squeaky meow for his efforts. great. fantastic. this was fine. he was gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he’d been turned into a cat by a curse so weak it shouldn’t have been able to touch him.

he sat down heavily— or as heavily as a cat could sit— and wrapped his tail around his paws. okay. okay. he could work with this. the curse had dissipated after that explosion, so the threat was gone. all he had to do was wait. someone would find him. probably you. you’d been right there, after all.

as if on you, he heard it! your voice, distant but getting closer, threading through the rain and the rubble.

“gojo! gojo, where are you? this isn’t funny!”

he should have meowed. he should have made some kind of noise to lead you to him. but instead he just sat there, frozen, as your footsteps grew louder. because you sounded worried and you never worried about him. you always said he was too strong to worry about, too annoying to miss. but your voice was tight, fraying at the edges, and when you came into view, picking your way through the debris, he could see your face.

you looked scared for him.

gojo’s chest did something strange. tight and warm and aching all at once, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore for months now. he liked you. more than liked you. liked you in the way that made him offer to go on missions with you even when he didn’t have to, liked you in the way that made him linger after training just to hear you laugh, liked you in the way that kept him up at night staring at his ceiling and thinking about the curve of your smile.

and now you were here, kneeling in the dust, your hands shaking as you pushed aside a broken plank of wood. your eyes swept the corner where he was hiding, passed over him, then snapped back.

“oh my god,” you whispered.

gojo blinked at you. you blinked back.

“gojo?” you said, and he could hear how stupid you felt saying it to a cat, but also how desperate. “is that… is that you?”

he meowed. it was the only thing he could do. but he made it count— looked you right in the eyes and meowed with as much yes, it’s me, you idiot as he could pack into a single syllable.

your breath caught and then you were moving, scooping him up off the ground with careful hands, cradling him against your chest. you were warm, warmer than he’d expected. your heartbeat was fast, rabbiting against his side where you held him, and your fingers were trembling as they smoothed over his fur, dusting him off.

“what happened to you?” you asked, your voice cracking. “you’re so small. you’re—god, you’re a cat. how are you a cat?”

gojo wanted to say something reassuring and to tell you he was fine, that this was just a minor inconvenience, that he’d be back to his annoyingly handsome self in no time, but all that came out was a soft, pathetic mew, and you made a sound like your heart was breaking.

“okay,” you said, pulling yourself together with visible effort. “okay. i’ve got you. i’ve got you, satoru. i’m taking you to shoko.”

he pressed his face into the crook of your elbow and let you carry him out into the rain. it was all still confusing for him too, despite how strangely calm he was feeling.

the trip to jujutsu high was a blur of motion and muffled sounds. you’d wrapped him in your jacket to keep him dry, and he’d let you, even though it was undignified and he was pretty sure his tail was sticking out at a weird angle. you ran most of the way, your cursed energy flaring with urgency, and gojo spent the journey trying not to think about how close your hands were to him and how gently you held him.

shoko was in her office when you burst through the door, soaked and breathless and holding cat-him like he was the most important thing in the world.

“shoko,” you said, “you need to look at him. it’s gojo. he’s a cat. a curse turned him into a cat.”

shoko raised an eyebrow. took a long drag of her cigarette. exhaled.

“you’re serious,” she said.

“do i look like i’m joking?”

shoko looked at you, looked at the cat… uh, him. the cat— gojo— met her gaze with unmistakably familiar blue eyes, and something in her expression shifted. she stubbed out her cigarette and gestured to the examination table.

“put him there.”

you did, reluctantly, your hands lingering on his fur for a moment before you stepped back. gojo sat on the cold metal table and tried to project as much dignity as possible. it was difficult when he came up to shoko’s elbow.

shoko examined him. she didn’t do much— a flash of reversed cursed technique, a long look at his eyes, a gentle press of fingers along his spine. gojo tolerated it because it was shoko, and because he trusted her, and because he could see you watching from the corner of the room with your arms wrapped around yourself like you were holding in a scream.

“well?” you said, the moment shoko stepped back.

“it’s a curse,” shoko said, reaching for another cigarette. “a transformation-type. annoying, but not dangerous. his body’s fine, his soul’s still his, which is the important part. the curse is embedded pretty deep, but it’s already degrading. i’d say a week, maybe two, and he’ll change back on his own.”

“a week or two,” you repeated. “he’s going to be a cat for a week or two.”

“unless you find the original curse user and force them to undo it, but that’s a needle in a haystack situation. my advice? stock up on cat food and patience.”

you made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. gojo meowed an indignant sound, because cat food? he was not eating cat food. he’d rather starve.

shoko glanced at him and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “one more thing,” she said, turning back to you. “since you were the one with him when it happened, and since his cursed energy is going to be… let’s say unstable while the curse runs its course, you’re going to have to look after him. keep him close. your energy will help stabilize his while he heals.”

you blinked. “what? me? why me?”

“because you were there. proximity matters with this kind of curse. his system is already keyed to yours. if anyone else tried to take care of him, it could prolong the transformation or cause complications.” shoko’s voice was flat, clinical, but her eyes flicked to gojo for just a moment. “congratulations. you’re a cat sitter.”

gojo watched your face cycle through about seventeen different emotions. surprise. worry. reluctance. and then, underneath all of it, something softer. something that made his heart— his tiny, cat-sized heart— skip a beat.

“fine,” you said finally, reaching out to scoop him off the table. you held him against your chest again, and he shuddered at how much he liked it and how right it felt. “fine. but you’re helping me buy supplies, shoko. i don’t know the first thing about cats.”

“neither does he,” shoko said, nodding at gojo. “this is going to be entertaining.”

gojo wanted to flip her off. he settled for a hiss, which was deeply unsatisfying and only made shoko laugh.

you carried him out of the office and through the halls of jujutsu high, and gojo tried to focus on the practicalities. a week or two as a cat. he could handle that. he’d handled worse. but then you looked down at him, your expression soft in a way you never let him see when he was human, and you said, “don’t worry. i’ve got you.”

and gojo realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.

because he was in love with you. completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you. and now he was going to spend every moment of the next fourteen days pressed against your side, unable to tell you, unable to do anything except meow and hope you didn’t notice how he looked at you.

… your apartment was small. gojo had never been inside it before— you were private about your space, always deflecting when he offered to walk you home or come over after missions, but now here he was, deposited on your couch while you rummaged through a bag of supplies shoko had helped you pick up on the way.

a litter box. cat food. a small bed you’d grabbed on impulse, even though gojo had already decided he wasn’t going to use it. a brush. some toys.

“this is insane,” you muttered, pulling out a bag of dry food and staring at it in bewilderment. “you’re gojo satoru. you’re supposed to be untouchable. how did a cat curse get you?”

gojo meowed. it was a fair question, honestly. he’d been distracted, watching you.

you sighed and sat down on the couch next to him, the cushions dipping under your weight. for a moment, you just looked at him. at his white fur, his blue eyes, the way his tail curled around his paws.

“you’re still you in there, right?” you asked quietly. “you can understand me?”

he meowed again, and bumped his head against your hand. your breath hitched in wonder, yet soon you were petting him, your fingers sliding through his fur in slow, careful strokes. it felt good. embarrassingly good. gojo’s eyes half-closed before he could stop them and a low rumble started in his chest.

was he… purring?

oh god. he was purring. he was purring because you were petting him, and he couldn’t stop, and you were smiling now— a sweet smile, soft and wondering, the kind he’d do anything to see.

“you’re kinda cute like this,” you said, and gojo wanted to die. “don’t tell me i said that when you turn back.”

he filed that away for later. you think he’s cute. he was never, ever letting you forget it.

you kept petting him as the evening stretched on, and gojo let himself relax into the touch. it was fine. this was fine. he was just… gathering information. observing. definitely not enjoying the way your thumb brushed behind his ears or the quiet sound of your breathing as you settled deeper into the couch.

a week or two, shoko had said. a week or two of this. of you.

gojo closed his eyes and purred, trying not to think about how hard it was going to be to go back to normal after this. how much he was going to miss the weight of your hand on his fur, the softness in your voice when you said his name. but that was a problem for later.

-> day 1

gojo woke up slowly, consciousness filtering back in fragments. the couch was soft beneath him, softer than he expected, with a blanket that smelled like you draped over his small body. he stretched, arching his back the way cats did, and froze mid-stretch as the events of yesterday came crashing back.

right. he was a cat.

he blinked his eyes open, the world sharp and muted all at once in that strange way cat vision worked. your apartment was quiet, morning light slanting through the curtains in pale gold stripes. and then he heard a door creaking open, soft footsteps on wooden floors.

gojo turned his head and every thought in his brain promptly fell out and scattered across the floor.

you were standing in your bedroom doorway, and you were... you were barely dressed. sleep-rumpled hair falling across your face, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, shorts that rode up your thighs. you were scratching lazily at your neck, eyes half-closed, clearly not fully awake yet. and your shirt— your thin, worn-out, very comfy-looking shirt— clung to you in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

gojo could see everything.

well, not everything, not really, but enough that his cat-heart started hammering against his ribs, enough that he felt heat rush to his face even though he was covered in fur and you couldn’t possibly tell. your nipples were visible through the fabric, soft shadows in the morning light, and you seemed completely unaware. you yawned, stretched your arms above your head, and the shirt rode up higher, exposing a strip of your stomach.

gojo made a sound, a small, strangled mrrp that he immediately regretted.

you didn’t even look at him. just shuffled past the couch toward the bathroom, bare feet padding on the wood, and closed the door behind you with a soft click.

the bathroom door.

the bathroom.

gojo stared at the closed door for a long moment, his brain still short-circuiting. then his body reminded him, with an uncomfortable urgency, that he hadn’t used the bathroom since before the mission yesterday. that he was, in fact, a living creature with biological needs. and that somewhere in your apartment, there was a litter box.

he looked at it. shoko had made you buy one, a small plastic rectangle filled with gray sand-like pellets. it sat in the corner of your kitchen, pristine and unused, waiting for him.

no.

absolutely not.

he was gojo satoru. he was not going to squat in a box of sand like some common house pet. he had standards. he had dignity. he would wait.

so he waited. curled on the couch, tail twitching, ears flicking, every instinct screaming at him to find dirt and dig. the minutes crawled by. you were taking forever. what were you even doing in there? brushing your teeth? hair? he didn’t care. he just needed you to leave so he could use the toilet like a civilized being.

finally, the bathroom door opened. steam curled out, carrying the scent of your soap, and you emerged in a cloud of warmth. your face was damp, hair pulled back now, and you’d put on a bra. gojo tried not to feel disappointed about that.

“morning, cat,” you mumbled, not really looking at him as you headed for the kitchen. “hope you slept okay.”

gojo didn’t wait. he launched himself off the couch, four paws hitting the floor, and sprinted for the bathroom before you could ask questions. he slipped through the gap in the door— you’d left it open a crack— and landed on the cold tile floor.

the toilet loomed above him like a porcelain mountain.

okay, he could do this. he was smart. he was resourceful. he’d figure it out.

he jumped onto the small step stool you kept by the sink and from there onto the edge of the sink. the toilet was close now. close enough.

gojo gathered himself, calculated the distance, and leaped.

he misjudged.

the rim of the toilet was narrower than he’d thought, and his paws slipped on the smooth porcelain. for one glorious second he balanced, teetering on the edge, and then gravity remembered he was a cat and not, in fact, immune to its laws.

he fell straight into the water.

it was so cold. shockingly, insultingly cold. gojo splashed and scrambled, claws scrabbling against the sides of the bowl, but the porcelain was too slick and he was too small and the water was rising up to his chin—

“what the—”

you were in the doorway. your eyes were wide, your mouth open, and for a moment you just stared at the absolute disaster unfolding in your toilet.

“oh my god,” you said. then you were moving, crossing the bathroom in two steps, and your hands were in the water, around his small wet body, lifting him out. “oh my god, gojo, what were you thinking?”

he was dripping, soaking wet, cold, humiliated, and thoroughly pathetic. water streamed off his white fur in rivulets, and he was pretty sure there was something stuck to his tail that he didn’t want to think about.

you held him at arm’s length, your expression cycling through horror, disbelief, and something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.

“the toilet,” you said. “you tried to use the toilet.”

he meowed. it was a defensive meow, a don’t judge me meow, but it came out small and wet and miserable.

you bit your lip as your shoulders shook and a second later you were laughing; full-body laughter that bent you double and made tears spring to your eyes. you laughed so hard you had to set him down on the bath mat, and even then you kept laughing, clutching your stomach, gasping for air.

gojo sat in a puddle of toilet water and glared at you with all the dignity he could muster, which was not much, considering he was dripping and shivering and his tail was doing that weird puffy thing cats did when they were upset.

“i’m sorry,” you wheezed, not sounding sorry at all. “i’m sorry, i’m not—it’s not funny—”

actually, it was funny. he knew it was funny. if the roles were reversed, he’d be laughing so hard he’d pass out. but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

you finally got yourself under control, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “okay. okay, i’m done. i’m sorry. let’s get you cleaned up.”

you scooped him up again, more carefully this time, cradling him against your chest even though he was wet and probably smelled like toilet water. you didn’t seem to care. you carried him to the sink and turned on the warm water, testing the temperature with your elbow before you lowered him in.

“don’t scratch me,” you warned and he didn’t. as if he would. he sat in the sink and let you run water through his fur, let you pump soap into your palm and work it through every inch of him, because your hands were gentle and warm and he was too embarrassed to do anything else.

“you have to use the litter box,” you said as you rinsed him off, your voice softer now. “i know you don’t want to. i wouldn’t want to either. but you’re a cat right now, gojo. your body works like a cat’s. you can’t—” you paused, biting your lip again. “you can’t keep trying to use the toilet. you’re too small. you’ll fall in again.”

he meowed. it was a defeated meow, an i know meow, that made your face soften.

“look,” you said. “i’ll put it somewhere private, okay? somewhere you don’t have to feel weird about.”

you wrapped him in a towel afterwards— one of your towels, soft and worn and smelling like lavender— and rubbed him dry while he sat on the bathroom counter, limp and exhausted and strangely light. the humiliation was still there, burning under his skin, but so was something else. something warm.

you were being so kind to him despite the fact that he was as much of gojo as he was a small wet cat who’d fallen in your toilet and needed help. you were kind. you’d always been kind, even when you pretended not to be, even when you rolled your eyes at his jokes and called him annoying. and gojo sat there in his towel, letting you dry between his toes, and fell a little more in love with you.

“there,” you said finally, stepping back to admire your work. he was fluffy now, his white fur sticking up in all directions, and you laughed again, fondly. “you look ridiculous.”

he meowed. you look beautiful, he tried to say, but it came out as a squeak.

you didn’t understand. you just picked him up and carried him back to the couch, settling him on a fresh blanket, and went to make breakfast.

gojo curled into a ball and watched you move around the kitchen, and tried very hard not to think about the litter box waiting for him in the corner. he failed.

… you set a bowl of milk in front of him. just milk. in a little ceramic dish that you’d probably found in the back of your cabinet, the kind you’d use for dipping sauce or something.

gojo stared at it.

then he looked at you, sitting across from him at your small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands, like a normal person. you had a spoon. you were eating. the milk in your bowl looked exactly like the milk in his dish, except yours had floating bits of grain and sugar and his was just… milk.

he meowed. pointedly.

“what?” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “you’re a cat. cats drink milk.”

he was not a cat. he was a human trapped in a cat’s body, and humans did not drink milk from a dish on the floor. humans drank milk from a glass, or a mug, or at the very least a bowl that they held in their hands while sitting at a table like a civilized creature.

he walked over to your chair and pawed at your leg.

you looked down at him. “what? you want some of mine?”

yes. no. he wanted his own bowl of cereal, actually. he wanted to sit across from you and eat breakfast the way he’d imagined a hundred times before— casual, easy, stealing pieces of fruit from your plate just to watch you roll your eyes.

but he couldn’t have that so he’d settle for the next best thing.

he jumped onto the chair next to yours, then onto the table itself. you made a sound of protest, but he was already walking across the surface, navigating around your coffee mug and the morning paper, until he reached your cereal bowl.

he looked at it. looked at you. then lowered his head and lapped at the milk.

it was so good. the milk was cold and sweet, and the cereal bits that came with it added a pleasant crunch. his tongue worked in that weird cat-way, curling backward to scoop up liquid, and he couldn’t help the small sound of contentment that escaped him.

“are you eating my cereal, gojo,” you said flatly. “still got your sweet tooth as a cat?”

he meowed. yes. deal with it.

you watched him for a long moment, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth. then you sighed that long-suffering sigh you always used around him and pushed the bowl slightly in his direction.

“fine. but we’re sharing. and you’re not getting your own bowl because i’m not washing extra dishes for a cat.”

gojo lapped at the milk again, you resumed eating from the other side of the bowl, and the two of you sat there in the morning light, sharing breakfast like it was the most normal thing in the world. he was pretty content with that.

he watched you between sips. the way your fingers curled around your spoon, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face, the way your eyes kept flicking to him with something soft and wondering. you were thinking about something. he wished he knew what.

you finished the cereal before he did— you had the advantage of a spoon— and sat back in your chair, cradling your mug of coffee in both hands. gojo kept lapping at the milk, his tail curling contentedly behind him, and tried not to think about how domestic this felt.

“you know,” you said quietly, “it’s weird. having you here. like this.”

he paused, milk dripping from his whiskers, and looked up at you.

“you’re always so… much. when you’re human. loud and tall and everywhere. but right now you’re just—” you gestured vaguely with your mug. “you just sit there and watch me. it’s different.”

gojo didn’t know what to do with that. he meowed softly, hoping it came across as is that bad?

you shook your head, like you’d understood him. “no. not bad. just different.”

you finished your coffee in comfortable silence, and then you stood up and carried your dishes to the sink. gojo hopped off the table and followed you, because apparently his legs had decided that’s just what he did now. followed you. everywhere.

you noticed. “are you… following me?”

he sat down and looked at you. yes. obviously.

you made a face, amused and flustered, and turned back to the sink. he watched you wash your dishes, the stretch of your back, the curve of your neck. you dried your hands and walked to the bathroom, and he followed there too.

“gojo,” you said, pausing at the bathroom door. “i’m going to take a shower.”

he meowed.

“you can’t come in.”

he meowed again, more indignant this time. he wasn’t trying to come in. he was just… standing here, in the hallwa, which was a public space. you stared at him. he stared back.

“i know you’re in there,” you said finally, pointing at his small furry face. “i know you’re watching. don’t be weird.”

you closed the door. gojo sat in the hallway and listened to the water run, and felt his face burn even though he was covered in fur. he wasn’t being weird. he was just… curious about your routine and your life. about the small, private moments you never let him see when he was human.

the door opened twenty minutes later and you stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around your hair and another around your body. you looked down at him, still sitting in the exact same spot, and your expression did something complicated.

he meowed.

you shook your head and walked to your bedroom, and he followed there too. when you sat on the edge of your bed to dry your hair, he jumped up next to you, settling into a loaf position on your comforter. you didn’t tell him to leave. you just kept drying your hair, your movements slow and practiced, and every few seconds you’d glance at him like you were checking that he was still there.

you got dressed behind the door of your closer, not before giving him a pointed look, and gojo politely looked at the wall. mostly. he was only human. well. not human right now. but his mind was human, and his mind was very aware that you were changing clothes six feet away from him, and he was very determined not to be a creep about it.

you turned around in a fresh outfit and found him staring at the wall with an intensity that would have been suspicious if you knew him better.

“okay,” you said, grabbing your bag from the desk. “i have to go. shoko wants me to help with some reports, and i’m already late.”

gojo’s ears perked up. you were leaving? now? without him?

you walked to the front door, and he jumped off the bed and trotted after you, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. you slipped on your shoes, and he sat by the door, waiting.

“gojo,” you said, looking down at him. “i can’t take you with me.”

he meowed. loud. why not?

“because you’re a cat. i can’t just show up at jujutsu high with a cat. everyone will ask questions, and shoko will never let me live it down, and—” you paused, something flickering across your face. “and it’s not safe. you’re vulnerable like this. if something happened to you…”

you trailed off. gojo watched the worry settle into your features, the way your brow furrowed and your mouth pulled down at the corners. he meowed again, softer this time. i don’t want to be alone.

you crouched down, bringing yourself to his level. your hand reached out, hesitant, petting him with slow strokes along his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. his eyes half-closed without permission and that stupid purr started up again, rumbling through his small chest.

“i know,” you said quietly. “i know you don’t. but i’ll come back early, okay? i promise. i’ll finish up as fast as i can and i’ll come straight home.”

you scratched behind his ears, right in that spot that made his back leg twitch, and gojo leaned into your touch like a desperate animal. which, he supposed, he was.

“be good,” you said, standing up. “don’t destroy my furniture. use the litter box. eat the food i left you. and for the love of god, don’t try to use the toilet again.”

he stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the closed door. the apartment felt different without you— quieter, colder, emptier. your presence lingered in the air, in the smell of your coffee and the warmth of the spot on the couch where you’d sat, but it wasn’t enough.

he wanted you back already. very pathetically. but then his ears twitched, and he looked around, a different kind of feeling creeping in.

you’d left him alone in your apartment with nothing to do for hours except… explore.

gojo’s tail curled up, slow and curious. this was your space; the space you never let him see, the space where you were just you, without your armour and your careful walls. and now he had unfettered access to all of it.

he walked back into the living room, looking at everything with new eyes. the books on your shelf, worn and dog-eared. the stack of dvids by the television. the blanket on the couch that you’d wrapped around him last night, still rumpled from his body.

he jumped onto the couch and sniffed the blanket. it smelled like you, like lavender and something warmer underneath, something that was just yours.

okay. okay, this was fine. this was an opportunity. he could learn things about you— little things, private things— and store them away for later, when he was human again and he could finally, maybe, do something about the way he felt.

he hopped off the couch and padded toward your bedroom, the door still open from this morning.

gojo paused at the threshold, his heart beating too fast. this felt… invasive. wrong. but you’d said he could roam, hadn’t you? you hadn’t said don’t go in my room. you’d just said don’t destroy your furniture and use the litter box. so he stepped inside.

your bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from sleep. your pajamas— the t-shirt and shorts from this morning— were draped over the back of a chair. a half-empty glass of water sat on your nightstand, next to a book with a bookmark sticking out of it. your scent was everywhere here, thick and intimate, and gojo breathed it in without meaning to.

he jumped onto your bed. the mattress was soft. the pillows smelled like your shampoo. he walked in a circle and he curled up right in the center of the warm spot where you’d slept.

he was going to learn so much about you today. he was going to open every drawer and sniff every shelf and piece together the version of you that existed when no one was watching.

and then, maybe, when he was human again, he’d know exactly how to love you.

… it was strange how natural it felt— padding across wooden floors on four paws, whiskers twitching at every draft, ears swiveling toward every tiny sound. his body moved differently now, lower to the ground, more deliberate. he found himself sniffing things without meaning to. the corner of the couch. the leg of the kitchen table. the bottom of the door you’d walked through.

you smelled like coffee and soap and something faintly sweet. he filed that away.

the kitchen was first. he jumped onto the counter and walked along the edge, inspecting everything. your spice rack was organized alphabetically, which made him smile. your refrigerator was covered in magnets: a tiny mt. fuji, a cartoon sushi roll, a faded advertisement for some local festival. there were photos tucked under some of them, and gojo pressed his nose close to look.

you with shoko, both of you younger, making silly faces at the camera. you with nanami, both of you looking serious and slightly uncomfortable, like someone had forced you to pose together. you with geto— gojo’s heart twinged at that one, old grief surfacing— your arm around his shoulders, both of you laughing at something off-frame.

and then one of you alone. sitting on a beach somewhere, the sunset behind you, your hair blowing across your face. you looked happy. peaceful. gojo stared at it longer than he meant to.

he moved on.

the bathroom was next. he hopped onto the edge of the sink and peered into your medicine cabinet through the gap where you hadn’t quite closed it. toothpaste. floss. a hairbrush with strands of your hair tangled in it. skincare products lined up in a specific order— cleanser, toner, moisturizer, all the same brand. a bottle of painkillers. a small box of band-aids with cartoon characters on them.

he felt like a spy, like a thief! like someone who was collecting pieces of you to keep forever.

the bedroom was the most revealing. he’d already been in there, but now he had time to really look. he jumped from the bed to your dresser, walking carefully around the scattered items on top. jewelry in a small ceramic dish. a watch with a cracked face that you never wore anymore. a folded piece of paper that he nudged open with his nose.

it was a letter. from someone named kaori. your mother, maybe? the handwriting was neat, careful, the kind of cursive that older generations used. i hope you’re eating enough, it said. you always forget to eat when you’re busy. don’t work too hard. call me when you have time. love, mom.

gojo’s chest ached. he stepped away from the letter, suddenly feeling like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. but he couldn’t stop. his paws carried him to your closet next, pushing the sliding door open with his head. your clothes hung in neat rows— work clothes on one side, casual on the other. a shelf above held folded sweaters and a shoebox that he somehow managed to knock down with his tail.

the box spilled open. photographs. lots of them.

old ones, mostly. you as a kid with missing front teeth, holding up a fish you’d caught. you as a teenager in a school uniform, looking bored at some ceremony. you with people he didn’t recognize— friends from before jujutsu high, probably, before your life had become curses and missions and death.

and then, near the bottom, a photo of you with him.

gojo stared at it. it was from years ago, back when you’d first joined. he remembered this day— some group outing that yaga had organized, forcing everyone to go to an arcade. in the photo, he had his arm slung around your shoulders, too casual and close. you were laughing at something he’d said, your head tilted back, your whole face bright with it. and he was looking at you.

he was looking at you the way he always looked at you — like you were the sun. he hadn’t known anyone had taken this picture. he hadn’t known you’d kept it.

gojo sat in the middle of the scattered photographs, surrounded by pieces of your life, and felt something crack open inside his chest. you were so much more than he’d let himself see. you had a mother who worried about you. you had a past that didn’t involve him. you had a whole world inside you that you kept hidden behind light sarcasm and rolled eyes.

he wanted to know all of it, every last bit.

the afternoon stretched on. gojo explored every room, every drawer, every hidden corner. he found the spot under your bed where you’d dropped an earring months ago and never bothered to retrieve. he found a stash of chocolate in your desk drawer— emergency supplies, probably, for difficult days. he found a notebook in your living room, half-filled with grocery lists and random thoughts and one line that made him freeze: satoru was annoying today. i couldn’t stop smiling.

he stared at that line for a full minute. then he closed the notebook with his paw and walked away, his face hot, his tail doing that weird puffy thing again.

by the time the sun started to set, gojo had mapped every inch of your apartment. he knew which floorboards creaked. he knew which window had the best view of the sky. he knew that you kept a spare key under the fake rock by the door, which was a security risk he’d be lecturing you about later.

he was curled up on the couch, when he heard footsteps in the hallway, keys jingling. your voice, muffled through the door, saying something to someone on the phone.

“yeah, i know. i’ll be there tomorrow. i just—he’s alone, okay? i don’t want to leave him alone for too long.”

gojo’s ears shot up. his tail started wagging— no, cats didn’t wag, they flicked, but it was definitely wagging adjacent. he jumped off the couch and ran to the door, his claws skittering on the wood, and sat there waiting as the lock turned.

the door opened and there you were. tired, your hair slightly windswept, a bag slung over your shoulder. you smelled like the outside; cool air and concrete and a hint of the coffee shop you must have passed on the way home. your eyes found him immediately, your face softening.

“hey,” you said, your voice gentle. “you waited by the door?”

he didn’t answer. couldn’t answer. but his body answered for him— launching forward, jumping up, paws reaching for you. you caught him without thinking, your arms wrapping around his small body, pulling him against your chest.

gojo buried his face in your neck and purred, embarrassingly loudly. he couldn’t stop it. he pressed his forehead against your jaw and purred and purred, and your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his fur.

“awe, so sweet,” you murmured. he felt the words vibrate through your throat. “god, you’re so soft. how are you so soft?”

he meowed against your skin and you laughed, carrying him inside after kicking the door shut behind you.

you walked to the couch and sat down with him still in your arms whilst he curled up in your lap like he belonged there, because maybe he did, at least while he was a cat.

“shoko had more information,” you said, your hand stroking along his back in slow, rhythmic motions. “about the curse.”

gojo looked up at you, his ears forward, his full attention on your face. you were staring at the wall, your expression thoughtful, your thumb tracing absent patterns through his fur.

“she said it’s anchored to your emotional state. something about the way the curse was designed— it feeds off… i don’t know, attachment? connection? she used a lot of big words.” you frowned. “basically, the more stressed or agitated you get, the longer it’ll take to wear off. so you need to stay calm. relaxed. which is hilarious, considering it’s you.”

he meowed. i can be calm.

“you literally fell in my toilet this morning.”

fair point.

you sighed, leaning your head back against the couch. your hand kept petting him, steady and soothing, and gojo felt his eyes starting to droop. the purring hadn’t stopped. he wasn’t sure it knew how to stop.

“she also said your cursed energy should stabilizing,” you continued. “which is good. means the curse is breaking down faster than she expected. you might only be a cat for a week, not two.”

gojo felt a spike of something— panic, maybe, or longing— and forced himself to take a slow breath. he had to stay calm.

“so that’s good news,” you said, and you almost sounded disappointed. almost. “you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”

he wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back. not yet. not when he had you like this, soft and unguarded, your hand in his fur and your body warm beneath him. not when he’d just started to learn who you really were.

but he couldn’t so he just purred louder, pressed his face against your stomach, and let you talk.

you told him about your day. about the reports you’d filed, the mission briefings you’d sat through, the way nanami had given you a look when you’d said you had to leave early. a cat, he’d said, and you’d said yes, a cat, and he’d said it’s gojo, isn’t it, and you hadn’t been able to deny it

“he knows about the mission,” you muttered. “everyone knows. shoko told ijichi—i mean, she told everyone, basically. so now the whole school knows that gojo satoru is a cat. i hope you’re happy.”

you talked until your voice went hoarse and the sky outside turned dark, the apartment filling with shadows. and then you stood up, carrying him with you, and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth. he sat on the edge of the sink and watched you, the way you moved through your nighttime routine with practiced ease. wash face. brush teeth. tie hair up. moisturize. the same steps, every night, a ritual he’d never seen before.

you changed in the bedroom with your back to him again while he looked at the wall like a gentleman. then you climbed into bed and held your arms out.

“come here,” you said. “you’re sleeping with me tonight. i don’t want you falling in the toilet again.”

he should have been offended, but instead he jumped onto the mattress and walked up your body— over your legs, your stomach, your chest— and settled in the curve of your neck, his small body tucked against your shoulder. you pulled the blanket up over both of you, and your hand found his back again as the room went dark.

gojo lay there in the quiet, listening to your breathing slow, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath him. you were warm. you were safe. you were here.

for the first time in a long time, gojo felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

he closed his eyes, pressed his nose against your pulse point and let the sound of your heartbeat carry him to sleep.

day 3

next two days changed a lot.

not the curse— that was still firmly in place, still humming through his small body like a low-frequency buzz. but gojo himself had changed. adjusted. surrendered, maybe, to the strange rhythm of being a cat.

it started with the little things. the way his tail developed its own vocabulary, curling and flicking without his permission. the way he caught himself watching birds through the window with an intensity that felt almost predatory, his back legs bunching beneath him before he remembered he wasn’t actually supposed to want to eat them.

by the second morning, he’d stopped trying to use the toilet.

(he used the litter box. he didn’t think about it. if he thought about it, he’d die of embarrassment, so he simply didn’t think about it. you’d cleaned it without comment, without teasing, and that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.)

by the second afternoon, he’d figured out how to open your bedroom door. he’d launched himself at it, paws outstretched, and the door had swung open on his first try. he’d felt so proud that he’d done it three more times, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.

you’d come home to find every door in the apartment wide open, including the bathroom, and you’d stared at him with an expression caught between exasperation and genuine concern.

“what are you,” you’d said, “a cat or a burglar?”

he’d meowed. both. i’m both now.

but the real change was deeper than that. it was in the way he felt when you came home— that rush of warmth, that stupid wagging-adjacent tail, that desperate need to be in your arms. it was in the way he’d started sleeping on your chest every night, your heartbeat under his ear, your hand a warm weight on his back. it was in the way he’d stopped counting the days until he turned back.

this was the life, he thought.

he woke up on the third morning— no, wait, the second morning? time was weird when every day was the same soft blur of naps and pets and you— and stretched luxuriously, his front paws extending, his back arching, his tail straightening out behind him. the sun was warm on his fur. the pillow beneath him smelled like your shampoo. and you were still asleep next to him, your face slack and peaceful, your lips slightly parted.

gojo watched you sleep. he’d never admit to that when he was human, but right now, with his cat-brain humming contentedly, he let himself look. the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks. the way your hand had ended up curled near his body, like you’d been reaching for him in your sleep. the way you mumbled something unintelligible and turned your face into the pillow.

you were beautiful. he’d always known that, but seeing you like this— unaware, unguarded, soft— made something twist in his chest.

he leaned forward and licked your nose, just a tiny swipe of his rough cat-tongue across the tip of your nose. he didn’t even think about it; his body just did it.

you scrunched up your face, snorted, and opened your eyes.

“did you just… lick me?”

gojo meowed. maybe.

you stared at him for a long moment. then you laughed— a groggy, morning laugh that turned into a yawn halfway through— and reached out to scratch behind his ears. “you’re so weird. you know that? you’re the weirdest cat i’ve ever met.”

he purred. thank you.

the morning passed in that easy, lazy way that mornings had started to take on. you made coffee and shared your cereal with him again— he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want it— and he sat on the back of the couch while you scrolled through something on your tablet, your other hand absently stroking his fur.

and that was when he saw it.

your tablet. the screen was bright, glowing with text. you were reading something and your finger was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. but more importantly, there was a keyboard. a digital keyboard, popping up when you tapped on a search bar, with letters he could theoretically press. with his paws.

gojo’s ears shot up. his tail went straight. he stared at that keyboard like it held the secrets of the universe, because maybe it did. maybe, just maybe, it held the ability to talk to you.

he’d been silent for two days. two days of meowing and purring and hoping you understood what he meant. two days of watching you guess and getting it wrong half the time. two days of wanting to tell you things and having no way to say them.

he waited until you set the tablet down to refill your coffee. the moment you turned your back, he was on it— paws pressing against the screen, trying to figure out the pressure, the angle, the how of it all. the keyboard had popped up automatically when his paw hit the search bar, and now letters were appearing, jumbled and wrong.

aklsdhf, the screen read. qweiur.

not great. but possible.

he tried again, more carefully this time. used one claw to tap a single letter. h. yes. e. yes. l. l. o.

hello.

the word sat there on the screen, glowing and perfect, and gojo’s heart raced so fast he thought he might pass out. he could do this. he could actually do this.

you came back with your coffee, and he quickly pawed the screen clear, hiding the evidence. not yet. he wanted to wait for the right moment. wanted to say something that mattered.

for some reason, that night, you were quiet.

not the comfortable quiet of the past few days, but something heavier. something that pressed down on the apartment like a physical weight. you’d made dinner— rice and vegetables and some kind of fish that gojo had eyed with interest until you’d put a small piece on a plate for him— and you’d eaten in silence, your eyes distant, your mind somewhere far away.

now you were lying on the couch, your tablet abandoned on the coffee table, your arm thrown over your eyes.

gojo watched you from the arm of the couch, his tail flicking. something was wrong. he could feel it— the shift in your energy, the way your aura had dimmed to something small and subdued. you were sad. or lonely. or both.

he didn’t like it.

he jumped down from the arm and padded across the cushions, placing one paw on your stomach, then another. you didn’t move, so he climbed all the way up, settling his entire body on your belly, and tilted his head to look at your face.

you moved your arm and looked down at him. your eyes were tired, rimmed with something that might have been unshed tears if he looked close enough.

“hey,” you said softly. “what are you doing?”

he meowed. checking on you.

you stared at him for a long moment and sighed, your hand coming up to rest on his back as you turned your gaze to the ceiling.

“you’re going to think this is stupid,” you said. “you’re going to make fun of me when you turn back.”

he wouldn’t, he absolutely wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell you that, so he just purred and pressed his forehead against your sternum.

another long pause. your hand moved in slow circles on his fur.

“it’s just…” you started, then stopped. swallowed. started again. “it’s been quiet. before you got here, i mean. my whole life has been quiet, but i didn’t notice it until recently. or maybe i noticed it and i just… didn’t want to admit how much it bothered me.”

gojo’s ears went back. he listened.

“i come home to this apartment every night and it’s empty. no one waiting for me. no one to talk to. i eat alone, i sleep alone, i wake up alone. and i told myself i was fine with that. i am fine with that. mostly.” your voice cracked, just a little. “but then you showed up. and now there’s someone here when i come home.”

you laughed, but it was wet. shaky.

“and i know you’re not really a cat. i know you’re gojo and i know you’re going to turn back and leave and this is all going to go away. but right now, in this moment, it’s… nice. having company. not being alone.”

your hand stopped moving. your breath hitched.

“i didn’t know how lonely i was until i wasn’t lonely anymore.”

the words hung in the air, fragile and heavy. gojo lay there on your stomach, his small body rising and falling with each of your breaths, and felt his insides churn with sadness.

he knew that feeling. he knew it so well it lived in his bones.

the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he went home to an empty apartment every night too. he ate alone. he slept alone. he woke up alone, in a bed that was too big for one person, in a house that echoed when he walked through it. he filled the silence with noise— with jokes and complaints and relentless teasing— because silence was the thing he feared most.

and then there was you. there had always been you, in the background of his life, rolling your eyes at his antics and calling him an idiot. but he’d never let himself get close. never let himself want more than stolen glances and missions that took too long and excuses to be near you.

but now— now he was here, on your couch, on your stomach, in your life in a way he’d never been before. and you were lonely. and he was lonely. and maybe you could be lonely together, and maybe that would make it less lonely for both of you.

he wanted to tell you. god, he wanted to tell you. he wanted to jump off the couch and run to the tablet and type out everything he’d been holding in for months. i’m lonely too. i’ve been lonely for years. and being with you— even like this, even as a cat— is the least lonely i’ve ever felt.

but his paws were clumsy and his heart was full. you were crying now, silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair, yet he couldn’t leave you to type when you needed him here.

so he did the only thing he could do. he climbed up your chest, carefully, placing each paw with intention, until he was close enough to press his nose against your cheek. and then he licked your tears.

one. two. three.

you made a sound— half-laugh, half-sob— and your arms came around him, pulling him tight against your chest. you buried your face in his fur. he let you, purring as loud as he could, hoping you could feel the vibration against your skin.

“you’re such a good cat,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “the best cat. i hope you don’t remember i said that.”

he’d remember all of it.

you fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from crying, your body curled around his. gojo stayed awake, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out. his mind was racing, full of words he couldn’t say and promises he wanted to make.

he’d tell you, not now, not like this, but soon, when he was human again and he could wrap his arms around you properly and look you in the eyes and say all the things he’d been practicing in his head for months.

i’m here. i’ve always been here. and i’m not going anywhere.

he pressed his nose against your collarbone and closed his eyes, and let the promise settle in his chest like a stone.

day 5

“shoko wants to run some tests,” you’d said that morning, stuffing him into a carrier that he’d immediately protested with the most pathetic meows he could muster. “stop that. you’re being dramatic.”

he was not being dramatic. he was being cat. there was a difference.

the carrier was small and cramped and smelled like plastic, and gojo spent the entire train ride pressing his face against the mesh door, watching the world blur by.

jujutsu high looked the same as always, but everything felt different from this angle, low to the ground, the world towering above him. you carried the carrier up the steps and through the main gate, and gojo’s ears swiveled, cataloging every sound. the crunch of gravel. the distant thwack of training dummies. someone yelling, probably one of the first-years.

shoko was already there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips, and the look on her face when she saw the carrier was the most entertained gojo had ever seen her.

“you actually brought him,” she said, pushing off the wall. “i didn’t think you would.”

“you said you needed to examine him.”

“i said it would be funny to watch him squirm in a carrier.”

you shot her a humourless look, but you were already opening the door, reaching inside to scoop him out. gojo emerged into the fluorescent light of the hallway and immediately regretted everything. he was small. he was vulnerable. he was being held like a baby in front of shoko, who had seen him at his worst more times than he could count but never like this.

“my god,” shoko said, “can’t believe that you’re the size of a guinea pig.”

gojo hissed at her. it was deeply satisfying.

“he’s feisty,” shoko observed, straightening up. “good. the curse hasn’t affected his personality.”

“can you just do the examination?” you sighed. “he’s heavy.”

“he’s like five pounds.”

“he’s dense.”

shoko snorted and led the way to her office, and gojo endured the examination with as much dignity as he could muster. she poked and prodded, flashed lights in his eyes, pressed her fingers along his spine in that way that made his back leg twitch. she muttered things to you— cursed energy flow is good, transformation is holding steady, no signs of degradation— and you listened with a furrow between your brows, your hand resting on his back the whole time.

“he’ll be fine soon,” shoko said finally, stepping back to light another cigarette. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“which is…?”

“keeping him calm. relaxed. happy, if possible.” shoko’s eyes flicked to gojo, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “shouldn’t be too hard. he looks pretty happy to me.”

gojo meowed. mind your own business.

you didn’t seem to notice the subtext. you just thanked shoko and scooped him up and carried him out of the office, and gojo thought that was the end of it. he was wrong.

because the hallway outside shoko’s office was no longer empty.

ijichi was standing there, clipboard in hand, his glasses fogging up like they always did when he was nervous. he was saying something to someone— nanami, maybe, or one of the assistants— but the moment he saw you, his mouth snapped shut.

“is that…” ijichi’s voice cracked. “is that gojo-san?”

gojo looked at him. ijichi looked back. something primal rose up in gojo’s chest— something that had nothing to do with being human and everything to do with being a cat confronted with a very nervous, very twitchy man who had once spilled coffee on his favorite shirt.

he hissed.

ijichi made a sound like a deflating balloon and stumbled backward, his clipboard clattering to the floor.

“he hates me,” ijichi whispered. “even as a cat, he hates me.”

“he doesn’t hate you,” you said, but you were laughing, your shoulders shaking, and gojo felt a surge of triumph. he’d made you laugh.

he hissed at ijichi one more time, just for good measure.

you were still laughing when you turned the corner. gojo was still feeling smug, but then he saw nanami, walking down the hallway with a stack of papers in one hand and his usual expression of mild exasperation on his face. he was dressed in his work clothes— the suit, the tie, the whole thing— and his shoes were polished to a shine.

his pants were pressed to a crisp line.

gojo’s tail went straight. his ears went forward. his entire body tensed with the kind of focused energy that usually preceded something stupid.

“satoru, no,” you said, but it was too late.

he launched himself out of your arms— you weren’t holding him tightly enough, too relaxed from laughing— and hit the ground running. four paws skidding on the polished floor, claws scrabbling for purchase, and then he was moving, a white blur of fur and chaos, heading straight for nanami’s legs.

nanami looked down. nanami saw him. nanami’s expression did not change, which was exactly the wrong response.

gojo bit him.

not hard since he was a small cat, his teeth weren’t exactly weapons of mass destruction, but hard enough to be felt. he sank his tiny fangs into the fabric of nanami’s pant leg and held on, dangling from the cuff like a particularly aggressive accessory.

nanami stopped walking. looked down. raised one eyebrow.

“is this gojo,” he said.

“yes,” you said, running over to pry him off. “i’m so sorry. he’s been weird all morning.”

gojo held on. he didn’t know why. something about nanami’s calm, unflappable demeanor made him want to cause problems. maybe it was the cat instincts. maybe it was just gojo.

“he’s biting my pants,” nanami observed.

“i can see that.”

“he’s not letting go.”

“i can also see that.”

there was a moment of silence. gojo dangled from nanami’s pant leg, his jaws locked, his eyes defiant. nanami looked down at him with the same expression he wore during mission briefings— mildly annoyed, deeply unimpressed.

“if you value your teeth, gojo,” nanami said quietly, “you will let go.”

gojo did not let go.

you finally managed to pry his jaws open— which was humiliating, by the way, your fingers prying his mouth apart like he was a disobedient puppy— and scooped him up against your chest. he squirmed, trying to get back to nanami’s pants, but you held him tight, your hand pressing firmly against his back.

“i am so sorry,” you said again, backing away. “he’s not usually like this.”

nanami looked down at the teeth marks in his trousers. looked at gojo. looked back at you.

“yes,” he said. “he is.”

gojo watched him go with a profound sense of victory as he walked away.

you, meanwhile, were not victorious. you were embarrassed, your face flushed, your grip on him tighter than necessary as you carried him through the rest of the building. as if he was your actual pet.

“what was that?” you hissed at him. “you can’t just bite nanami. he’s going to bill you for those pants. do you know how much nanami’s pants cost?”

gojo meowed. worth it.

“it was not worth it. nothing is worth nanami’s disappointed face.”

but your voice was lighter than it had been this morning, and when you finally escaped the building and stepped outside, you were almost smiling again. gojo counted that as a win.

you didn’t take him straight home. instead, you walked past the gates of jujutsu high, through the streets of tokyo, toward a part of the city he didn’t recognize. the sun was warm on his fur, and the carrier was slung over your shoulder, and he had his head poking out of the top, watching the world go by.

“there’s a park near here,” you said, almost to yourself. “i used to go there a lot. before… everything.”

you didn’t elaborate. gojo didn’t push. he just watched your profile as you walked, the way your eyes softened when you passed a bakery, the way your steps slowed when you reached a small green space tucked between buildings.

the park was tiny— a few trees, a bench, a patch of grass that was more brown than green. but there was a fountain in the center, a small concrete thing with murky water, and sitting next to it was a cat.

a stray. orange and white, with matted fur and one torn ear. it looked up as you approached, its eyes wary, and gojo felt something shift in his chest.

“hey, baby,” you said softly, crouching down. you were already reaching into your bag, pulling out a small pouch of cat food— you carried cat food with you?— and shaking some into your palm. “i haven’t seen you in a few days. i was worried.”

the stray cat blinked. then it stood up, stretched, and padded over to you with the casual confidence of a creature who knew it was about to be fed.

gojo watched, frozen, as the stray rubbed against your leg. as you scratched behind its torn ear and made soft, cooing sounds that you’d never made at him, not once, not even when he was being the most adorable cat in the entire world.

the stray ate from your palm. you smiled at it and gojo, from the carrier, felt something hot and irrational bloom inside.

jealousy.

he was jealous of a stray cat.

“you’re so pretty,” you were saying to the orange-and-white menace, your fingers stroking along its matted back. “look at you. you’ve been taking care of yourself, haven’t you? good job, baby.”

gojo meowed loudly. i’m right here.

you glanced at him. “what? you want some too?”

no. he did not want some. he wanted you to stop petting that mangy alley cat and pet him instead. he was right there, in a carrier, watching you shower affection on a creature that had done nothing to deserve it.

the stray finished eating and rubbed its face against your knuckles. you laughed— a soft, happy sound— and scratched under its chin.

gojo hissed.

the stray’s ears went back. it looked at him with flat, unimpressed eyes, and then it turned its back on him and pressed its head into your palm.

how dare it.

“gojo,” you said, with warning in your voice. “be nice.”

he would not be nice. he would never be nice. not to this interloper, this pretender, this cat that was getting more of your attention in five minutes than he’d gotten all day.

the stray finished its meal and licked its paw, utterly indifferent to gojo’s rage. you stayed crouched there for a few more minutes, talking to it in that soft voice, and gojo sat in his carrier and stewed.

finally, you stood up. brushed off your knees. looked down at the stray with something like regret.

“i have to go,” you said. “but i’ll come back, okay? be safe.”

the stray meowed and walked away, disappearing into the bushes. gojo watched it go with a sense of deep satisfaction. good. it knew its place.

you picked up the carrier and looked at him through the mesh. your expression was unreadable.

“were you jealous?” you asked.

gojo turned his head away. no.

“you were. you were totally jealous of a stray cat.”

he was not. he was not. he was simply… concerned. about your safety. stray cats carried diseases.

you laughed, the sound bright and warm, and gojo felt his anger melting despite himself. you started walking again, the carrier swinging at your side, and he watched the park disappear behind you.

“don’t worry,” you said, quieter now. “you’re still my favorite cat.”

he meowed. i’m your only cat.

“for now,” you said. “who knows what’ll happen when you turn back.”

gojo thought about that for the rest of the walk home. about what it would mean to be your favorite anything when he was human again. about whether the way you looked at him— really looked at him, past the jokes and the noise and the infinity— meant what he hoped it meant.

he didn’t have answers. but he had time.

day 7

gojo had stopped counting the days until he turned back. now he was counting something else entirely— the number of times you smiled at him, the number of times you reached for him without thinking, the number of nights he fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat.

but tonight, when you emerged from your bedroom, all of his counting ground to a halt.

you were dressed up. a dress, navy blue, falling just above your knees, with a neckline that made his mouth go dry. your hair was different too, curled softly around your face, and your lips were shiny with something pink and tempting.

gojo sat on the back of the couch and stared.

you were beautiful. you were always beautiful, even in your ratty sleep shirts with your hair a mess and your face bare. but this was different. this was weaponized beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made him want to crawl inside your closet and destroy every other outfit you owned so you could never wear this dress for anyone else.

“don’t look at me like that,” you said, smoothing your hands down your sides. “you’re making it weird.”

he couldn’t help it. his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement as you checked your reflection in the mirror by the door. the dress hugged your waist. your lips caught the light. your earrings— tiny gold hoops— swung when you tilted your head.

where were you going? who was this for?

you didn’t tell him. you just slipped on a pair of heels and grabbed your purse, and crouched down to give him a quick pet on the head.

“be good,” you said. “don’t destroy anything. i’ll be back later.”

soon you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you, and gojo was alone in the apartment with nothing but his thoughts and the lingering scent of your perfume.

he sat in the dark for a long time, his tail wrapped around his paws, his mind spinning. a date. you were going on a date. someone else had asked you out, and you’d said yes, and you’d put on that dress and those heels and that lip gloss for someone else.

the jealousy was immediate and irrational and all-consuming.

he wanted to follow you. wanted to track you down and sit in whatever restaurant or bar you were at and glare at whoever was lucky enough to be sitting across from you. but he was a cat. a small, white, useless cat who couldn’t even type properly.

he looked at the tablet, sitting on the coffee table where you’d left it. the screen was dark, but he knew it was charged. he knew how to turn it on. he’d been practicing in secret, late at night when you were asleep, tapping out messages and deleting them before you could see.

tonight, he decided. tonight he would finally do it. not because he was jealous— okay, partially because he was jealous— but because he couldn’t wait anymore. couldn’t keep all of these words locked inside his small cat body.

he jumped off the couch and padded over to the tablet. pressed the power button with his nose. the screen glowed to life, and he waited impatiently for it to wake up, his tail flicking.

the keyboard appeared. gojo took a deep breath and started typing.

it took seventeen attempts.

seventeen times he typed out the sentence, and seventeen times he messed it up— pressing the wrong letter with his clumsy paws, hitting delete when he meant to hit space, accidentally closing the app entirely and having to start over. his claws were too long for the screen. his paws were too big for the individual keys. his patience, which had never been his strong suit, wore thin with every failed attempt.

but he kept going.

wil you go out woth me

delete. delete. delete.

will you go out woth

no.

will you go out woth me

close.

will you go out with me once i’m human again?

yes. yes, that was it. his paws were shaking, his heart was racing, and the sentence sat there on the screen in all its imperfect glory. he read it over three times, checking for mistakes. there was one— with was missing an h, but he’d hit the wrong key and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it without messing everything up.

it would have to do.

he added a signature, because he was gojo satoru and he couldn’t resist. — catoru

there. done. now all he had to do was wait.

the hours crawled by.

gojo curled up on the couch with the tablet propped against a pillow, the screen still lit, the message still waiting. he watched the door. listened for your footsteps. imagined a hundred different ways this could go— you laughing, you blushing, you saying yes, you saying no, you throwing him out the window.

he hadn’t thought about the possibility of you coming home sad.

but when the door finally opened, well past midnight, the energy that entered the apartment was wrong. heavy. deflated. your footsteps dragged on the floor, slower than usual, and when you flicked on the light, gojo’s heart sank.

your makeup was smudged. your eyes were red. and you smelled faintly of alcohol.

you didn’t look at him, didn’t say hello. just kicked off your heels— one, then the other, both landing crooked by the door— and dropped your purse on the floor with a thud.

gojo meowed. hey. i’m here.

“hey, gojo,” you said, but your voice was flat. wrong. you walked past the couch without stopping, heading for the bathroom, and gojo heard the sink turn on. water running. the sound of you splashing your face.

he jumped off the couch and followed you, the tablet forgotten for the moment. sat in the bathroom doorway and watched you scrub at your face with a towel, watched your shoulders shake with something that wasn’t quite crying but wasn’t not crying either.

“bad night?” he tried to say, but it came out as a questioning meow.

you looked at him in the mirror. your reflection was tired, your eyes puffy, your pretty lip gloss long gone.

“i got stood up,” you said, your voice cracked on the last word. “he didn’t even show. i sat there for an hour like an idiot, drinking wine by myself, waiting for someone who was never going to come.”

gojo’s chest tightened. the jealousy was still there, but it was buried under the realisation that you were sad. you were hurt. someone had made you feel small and unwanted, and gojo wanted to find that person and show them exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his infinity.

but he couldn’t. so he just walked into the bathroom and rubbed against your ankles, purring as loud as he could.

you reached down and picked him up, holding him against your chest. your dress was soft under his paws. you smelled like wine and disappointment and the faint remnants of your perfume.

“i had three glasses,” you admitted. “maybe four. i lost count. and then i walked home because i didn’t want to take the train and cry in front of strangers.”

you weren’t crying now, but you were close. gojo could feel it in the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers trembled against his fur.

you carried him to the bedroom and set him on the bed while you changed out of the dress. gojo turned his back and listened to the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of you pulling on your sleep shirt. when he turned around, you were curled up on your side, facing the wall, your shoulders hunched.

he climbed onto the pillow next to your head and nudged your cheek with his nose.

“not now, baby,” you whispered. “i’m tired. we can play tomorrow.”

but he didn’t want to play. he wanted you to see the tablet. he wanted you to read his message. he wanted to tell you that you weren’t unwanted. that someone was waiting for you. that he was waiting for you.

he meowed again. more insistent this time. pawed at your shoulder.

you sighed and rolled over, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “what? what do you want?”

he couldn’t answer. so he jumped off the bed and ran to the living room, his paws skidding on the floor, and nudged the tablet with his nose. the screen had gone dark— it had been hours, of course it had— and he couldn’t turn it back on. couldn’t show you. couldn’t do anything except stand there on the coffee table, tail drooping, feeling useless.

you appeared in the doorway, watching him. your expression was tired, confused.

“what are you doing?”

he pawed at the tablet. meowed. pawed again.

you walked over and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. the screen stayed dark. you pressed the power button, and gojo held his breath, waiting for the message to appear, waiting for you to see—

nothing. the tablet was dead. out of battery, probably, because he’d left it on for hours like an idiot.

“did you want to play a game?” you asked, and your voice was so gentle, so kind, so completely unaware of what he’d been trying to do.

gojo deflated. sat down heavily on the coffee table and wrapped his tail around his paws. no. i wanted to tell you i love you.

you picked him up anyway, cradling him against your chest, and carried him back to the bedroom. the tablet stayed behind, dark and silent, its message lost.

you climbed into bed and he curled up on your chest, the way he did every night now. your hand found his back, your fingers tracing slow patterns through his fur. you were quiet for a long time, your breathing slow, and gojo thought you’d fallen asleep.

“i’m going to be sad when you turn back,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “isn’t that stupid? you’re gojo satoru. you’re annoying and loud and you never shut up. but you’re also… here. you’re always here. you sleep on my chest and you wait by the door and you make me feel like someone gives a shit whether i come home or not.”

gojo’s little heart clenched.

“and when you’re human again, it’s going to be different. you’re going to be different. you’re going to go back to your life and your missions and your stupid jokes, and i’m going to go back to being alone. and things are going to be awkward because i spent two weeks talking to you like you were a cat, telling you things i’ve never told anyone, and you’re going to remember all of it.”

your voice cracked.

“you’re going to remember all of it, and you’re going to look at me differently, and i don’t know if i can handle that. i don’t know if i can handle you knowing how lonely i am and pretending you don’t.”

you swallowed. your hand kept moving on his back, steady and soothing, even as your eyes filled with tears.

“so yeah. i’m going to be sad. because right now, like this, you’re mine. you’re my cat and you sleep on my chest and you don’t talk back and you don’t judge me. and when you turn back, you won’t be mine anymore. you’ll just be gojo. and gojo doesn’t… gojo doesn’t belong to anyone.”

gojo wanted to scream. wanted to claw his way out of this tiny body and wrap his arms around you and say i’m yours, i’ve always been yours, i’ll always be yours. but he couldn’t. he could only purr, loud and desperate, and press his face against your collarbone.

“you’re a good cat,” you whispered. “the best cat. i’m going to miss you so much.”

you fell asleep like that, tears drying on your cheeks, your hand heavy on his back. gojo stayed awake, watching your face in the dim light, his heart so full it hurt.

he would tell you. tonight was ruined, tonight you needed sleep and comfort and the quiet presence of something that loved you. but soon. tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. he would find a way to type that message, or he would wait until he was human again and say it with his own voice.

i’m yours. i’ve always been yours.

he curled up against you, his small body pressed to your chest, and closed his eyes.

day 8

gojo woke up warm.

not the usual warmth of your body pressed against his small cat form, but something deeper. fuller. his limbs felt long again, his spine straight, his hands—

his hands.

he had fingers. ten of them, attached to palms, attached to arms that ended in shoulders that felt broad and solid beneath the blanket. his legs were tangled with yours under the sheets, and his chest was pressed against your back, and his arm was wrapped around your waist like it had always belonged there.

he was human again.

gojo lay there in the gray morning light, barely breathing, cataloging every sensation. the weight of his own body. the stretch of his skin. the familiar hum of infinity settling back into place around him like a second skin. his six eyes were online again, drinking in the world with perfect clarity— the dust motes floating in the air, the texture of your pillowcase, the soft curve of your shoulder where your sleep shirt had slipped down.

and you. curled against him like he was something safe, your hand clutching his forearm, your breath warm against his wrist. you were still asleep, your face relaxed, your lips slightly parted.

gojo watched you and felt like his heart was going to crack right open.

he didn’t move. didn’t dare. this was a dream, surely— he’d fall through it if he breathed too hard, wake up small and furry and alone on your pillow. but your weight was solid against him, and his fingers were real when he flexed them, and the morning was too quiet and too perfect to be anything but true.

he’d turned his infinity off and turned back. sometime in the night, while he’d been curled against your chest, listening to you breathe, the curse had finally released him.

you stirred. your hand tightened on his arm, and you made a small sound— the same sound you made every morning, the one he’d come to recognize as not yet, five more minutes— and pressed back against him.

gojo’s breath caught.

you were so warm, and you fit against him like you’d been made to, and your sleep shirt had ridden up sometime during the night and his bare thigh was pressed against the bare skin of yours and he was very, very naked.

oh god. he was naked.

the realisation hit him like a truck. he was naked in your bed. his clothes— his human clothes— had been left behind in that warehouse a week ago, destroyed or lost or scattered to the wind. and now here he was, skin to skin with you, your body tucked against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he should move. extract himself, find a blanket, find something to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and his. but you were so comfortable, and he was so happy, and the morning light was painting gold stripes across your face, and he couldn’t. couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything except watch you wake up.

your eyes fluttered open.

for a moment, you just blinked— unfocused, still half-asleep, your brain clearly not processing what your eyes were seeing. a man. in your bed. an arm around your waist. a chest against your back.

and then you saw his face.

“good morning,” gojo said, and his voice came out wrong— rough and low and cracked from a week of disuse, like he’d forgotten how to shape words with a human mouth. but it was his voice, his, and he watched your eyes go wide, watched the sleep evaporate from your face, watched you suck in a breath that made your whole body go rigid.

“gojo?” you whispered.

he smiled. it felt strange on his face— too big, too bright, too human after a week of cat expressions. but he couldn’t help it. you were looking at him like he was a ghost, and he wanted to reassure you, wanted to tell you he was real.

you turned in his arms, fast. your hand came up to touch his face— his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth— your fingers were shaking. “you’re human. you’re—when did you—how—”

“sometime last night,” he said. his voice cracked on the last word. “i woke up like this. with you.”

you stared at him. your eyes were bright, wet, and your lips were parted, and your hand was still on his face, and gojo thought he might die if he didn’t kiss you right now.

so he did.

it was clumsy— his nose bumping yours, his lips missing their target before he corrected, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck with fingers that still felt too new. but when his mouth finally found yours, everything else fell away.

you made a sound against his lips; a small, surprised, oh sound that melted into something softer, and then your fingers were in his hair, and you were kissing him back, and gojo satoru had never been happier in his entire life.

he pulled back too soon, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. your eyes were closed. your lips are pink and slightly swollen, and he’d done that, he’d done that, and he wanted to do it again and again until he forgot how to do anything else.

“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” he said, and his voice was still rough but he didn’t care. “years, maybe. i don’t know. i’ve lost track.”

you opened your eyes, looked at him. your expression was dazed, confused, overwhelmed— all the things he was feeling reflected back at him.

“you’re naked,” you said.

gojo laughed. it came out raw and bright, and he felt it in his chest, in his throat, in every part of him that had been small and silent for a week. “yeah. i noticed.”

“you’re naked in my bed.”

“technically, i’m naked in our bed.”

you made a sound— half-laugh, half-groan— and pushed at his chest, enough to put a few inches between you. “gojo. satoru. you need to—you need to put something on. i can’t—i can’t think when you’re—”

“when i’m what?”

“naked!”

he grinned.

“i’ll find something,” he said, and he meant to get up, he really did. but his legs felt strange beneath him; weak in a way they’d never been, unsteady after a week of four paws and a tail. he swung them over the side of the bed and stood up, and immediately his knees buckled.

you caught him. your hands on his arms, your body pressed against his side, holding him upright. “whoa. easy. easy. you’ve been a cat for a week. your body needs time to adjust.”

gojo leaned on you, more than he needed to, maybe, but you were warm and steady and he liked the way you fit against him. “i’m fine. i’m perfect. i’m better than fine.”

“you can’t stand.”

“i can stand. i’m choosing not to.”

you sighed and guided him back to the bed. he sat down heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, and looked up at you. you were still in your sleep shirt, your hair a mess, your face flushed from the kiss. you were beautiful. you were so beautiful he couldn’t look away.

“stay there,” you said. “i’ll find you something to wear.”

you disappeared into the closet and gojo sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember how to be human. his hands looked right. his feet looked right. everything was in the right place, more or less, and his cursed energy was humming along like it had never left. he flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, stretched them out again. human. human. human.

but then his eyes landed on the tablet.

it was still on the coffee table in the living room, where he’d left it last night. dead battery, probably. but the message— his message, the one he’d spent seventeen attempts typing— was still there. waiting.

“here,” you said, emerging from the closet with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. “they’re not your size, but they’ll work until we can get you home.”

he pulled on the clothes, they were tight in some places and loose in others, and they smelled like you, and stood up again, more carefully this time. his legs held.

“i need to show you something,” he said.

you frowned. “what? satoru, you can barely walk. you should sit down. i’ll make breakfast, and then we can—”

“no. it’s important.” he took a step, then another. his body remembered how to do this, even if his muscles had forgotten. “the tablet. last night, before you came home, i—i typed something. i wanted you to see it.”

your frown deepened, but you didn’t argue. you just followed him as he walked, with one hand on the wall for balance, to the living room. the tablet was still on the coffee table, dark and silent. gojo picked it up, found the charger you kept by the couch, plugged it in.

the screen glowed to life.

he navigated to the notes app with fingers that felt too big and too clumsy, and there it was. his message.

will you go out woth me once i’m human again? — catoru

he turned the screen toward you.

you read it. once. twice. three times. your lips moved silently, shaping the words, and gojo watched your face cycle through confusion and recognition and something that looked a lot like hope.

“you typed this,” you said. it wasn’t a question.

“with my paws,” he said. “it took seventeen tries. i was going to show you last night, but your tablet died, and then you were sad, and i couldn’t—i couldn’t make you look at it when you were already hurting.”

you looked up at him. your eyes were bright again, but not with tears this time. with something else. something that made his heart stutter in his chest.

“you wanted to go out with me,” you said.

“i want to go out with you. i’ve wanted to go out with you for a really long time. i just—” he swallowed. “i didn’t know how to say it. and then i was a cat, and i couldn’t say anything at all, and i thought i’d missed my chance. but i’m human now. and i’m asking. properly. will you go out with me?”

you stared at him for a long moment. the tablet hung between you, the screen still glowing, the misspelled words still waiting.

suddenly, you laughed.

it was a wet sound, shaky and bright, and you were crying, but you were smiling too, and you set the tablet down on the couch and stepped into his arms like you belonged there.

“yes,” you said against his chest. “yes, you idiot. yes.”

gojo wrapped his arms around you and held on. you were warm and solid and real, and you fit against him the same way you had in bed— like you’d been made to be there, like the universe had designed the two of you to slot together.

“i heard you,” he said quietly. “last night. what you said about being sad when i turned back. about not being yours.”

you went still in his arms.

“i heard all of it,” he continued. “and i need you to know—i am yours. i’ve been yours for a long time. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”

you pulled back just enough to look at his face. your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, and you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

“you’re not going to forget?” you asked. “all the stuff i said? all the embarrassing, lonely, pathetic stuff?”

“never,” he said. “i’m going to remember every single thing. i’m keeping all of it.”

you laughed again, softer this time, and you reached up to wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

“absolutely,” he said, grinning now, wide and bright and full of so much joy he thought he might burst. “i’m going to be the most insufferable boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’m going to tell everyone. i’m going to tell nanami. i’m going to tell ijichi. i’m going to tell that stray cat.”

“don’t you dare.”

“too late. i’m already planning the speech.”

you hit his chest and he caught your hand, holding it against his heart. you could probably feel it pounding. he didn’t care.

“look,” he said. “i was a cat for one week, and it was the best week of my life. because i was with you. because you took care of me. because you let me sleep on your chest and eat your cereal and fall in your toilet—”

“oh my god, we’re never talking about the toilet again.”

“—and i fell in love with you,” he finished. “i was already in love with you. but being a cat made it worse. better. more. i don’t know how to explain it.”

“you don’t have to explain,” you said. “i know.”

and then you kissed him.

it was better than the first one— slower, deeper, more certain. his hands found your waist, and your hands found his hair, and the morning light filled the apartment with gold, and gojo satoru thought that maybe, just maybe, getting turned into a cat was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

you pulled back eventually, breathless, and rested your forehead against his.

“catoru,” you said, and you were smiling. “you signed it catoru.”

“i panicked.”

“it’s cute.”

“i’m cute.”

“you’re something.”

he laughed and you laughed, the sound filling the apartment like sunlight.

outside, the world was waking up. missions waited. curses waited. the endless, exhausting work of being a sorcerer waited. but right now, in this moment, none of that mattered.

gojo was human again. he was in love. for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t alone.

“so,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “breakfast? i’m thinking cereal. from your bowl.”

you groaned. “you’re never going to let me eat alone again, are you?”

“never,” he said, and he meant it. “never, never, never.”

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. you took his hand and led him to the kitchen. gojo followed.

the end.

[ an. hope you guys liked this!! might be a little rushed sorry about that. comment if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist!! ]

“c’mon baby,” he whines, voice all breathy and cocky, his blue eyes sparkling looking greedy. “i’ve been good. spit in my mouth, please?”

you laugh, because this six-foot-whatever menace who can literally warp reality is pouting like a brat because he wants your spit.

“you’re so fucking weird, toru.”

“you are weird,” he corrects instantly, tongue already poking out a little. “now c’mon.... i’m dying here. my dick’s so hard it’s bout to file a complaint.”

you roll your eyes but lean in anyway, gripping his jaw with one hand, thumb pressing into the soft skin just under his bottom lip. he opens wider, eyes half-lidded, that signature gojo smirk twitching at the corners because he knows exactly how nasty this is.

you gather it slow on purpose, letting him watch, then spit directly onto his waiting tongue. thick, warm, right in the center.

the sound he makes is downright criminal. a broken little moan-groan that vibrates straight through his chest and into yours.

“fuck— again,” he gasps, “do it again. spit like you mean it.”

you do it again, messier this time, letting some of it miss and drip down his chin. he doesn’t even wipe it. just lets it slide while his eyes roll back.

“you’re actually getting off on this, huh?” you tease, grinding down slow on the massive bulge straining against the fabric. “big bad strongest and all it takes is a little spit to make you stupid?”

“shut up and degrade me properly,” he whines, but he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue still out. “call me a nasty little slut or sum. i’m literally leaking for you right now.”

you laugh again, i mean you can’t help it. before you do the request, you reach down and shove his sweats just low enough to free him. he’s flushed dark at the tip, already dripping down the shaft.

“open wider, pretty boy.”

he obeys instantly, loving every second of being absolutely humiliated by you.

you spit again, then lean down and lick into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue while you sink down onto his cock.

satoru’s whole body shudders. he moans into your mouth, hands scrambling on your hips, already babbling.

“more!! fuck— spit on me while you ride me. please baby i’ll do anything. i’ll buy you a country. i’ll cancel infinity for the rest of the night. just keep spitting in my fucking mouth—”

“shush it toru ~~~”

you don’t remember when exactly you told gojo satoru about the toy.

you’d said it in passing, casual tone at first. but then you started throwing snarky comments, something about “not needing a man” with that big pink dildo stuffed in your nightstand.

you, of course, hadn’t meant it as a challenge but god, he heard it like one.

so now you’re on your back in his ridiculous king-sized bed, chest heaving, legs spread, hands gripping the sheets, while gojo lounges beside you like it’s just another lazy night in his penthouse.

his snowy hair’s a mess, his shirt’s off, but his pants are still on when you realize the fucker hasn’t even touched himself.

he’s too focused on watching your pussy take something you once claimed was “the biggest thing you’d ever had.”

“so this is the one, huh?” he drawls, tapping the blunt head of the thick, obscenely pink dildo against your slick folds, making you jump. “the one that makes you forget all about me?”

“sh-shut up,” you huff, cheeks burning, hips twitching as he teases the tip over your clit. “you’re the one who wanted to see—”

“and i am seeing,” he grins. “and baby, this? this is fucking criminal.”

and then satoru pushes it in slowly, the girthy tip torturing you. his movie is deliberate, stretching you inch by ridiculous inch, the way only a toy that size could go in clean, too long to not kiss your cervix by the time it’s halfway in.

you whimper, then gasp, then sob a little.

because he doesn’t stop. doesn’t give you a second to adjust. satoru is mean when he just feeds it in while his other hand settles on your inner thigh, keeping you spread.

“look at that. fuck. your little pussy’s just eating it up,” he murmurs, eyes glued between your legs like it’s the only thing that matters. “i thought you were exaggerating, but shit, you’re fuckin’ bottomless.”

you want to hide your face. but there’s nowhere to go.

his hand’s still there, thumb pressing against your thigh while he watches you struggle to take the whole thing.

“hurts?” he asks, almost sweetly.

“no,” you bite on your breathe, even though you’re squirming.

“then take it,” he says, rougher now, pushing the last few inches in. “come on, don’t play shy with me now. i know you can take more.” and oh you do.

you take it like a good girl, like a whore, really—gasping, toes curling, back arching off the bed when the toy in his hand finally bottoms out.

“fucking hell,” he mutters, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “you’re full. stretched to the brim. i can see your stomach bulging, baby.”

he palms it. presses down on your lower belly, just to feel how far it goes.

you cry out. the pressure makes you clench. your pussy flutters around the silicone, desperate, drenched.

“still think you don’t need a man?” he smirks.

“fuck you,” you whimper.

“i am,” he grins. “well, almost but we’ll get there.”

he starts thrusting it with his hand, shallow at first. then deeper, meaner, watching every ripple of your thighs, every gasp, every time your breath catches and your cunt clenches.

“you should see yourself,” he says, voice low, rough, hungry.

“eyes rolling back. drooling. fuckin’ gushing around some toy like it’s heaven sent. what, this thing fucks you better than i do?”

you shake your head because you can’t even speak.

the wet slap of the toy is too loud now. your thighs are shaking, your body flushed and covered in sweat. you’re so close—

“gonna cum already?” he teases, tongue running across his teeth. “go on. let go for me. i wanna see it. drown this toy if it makes you feel that good.”

and that’s all it takes.

the pressure’s too much. the stretch. the filthy praise. the rough pump of the dildo against that soft spot inside you.

you cry out onto his side then you soak the sheets.

squirting all over his wrist, your thighs, the toy still stuffed inside you. satoru doesn’t stop until you’ve got nothing left. until your hips twitch and your breath hitches and your cunt spasms around the silicone like it’s begging for more.

he finally pulls it out with a wet pop, the toy dripping and shiny with your mess.

he whistles, impressed.

“fuck. you really can take it.”

you’re too far gone to be embarrassed. your body is limp, still twitchy and leaking between your thighs.

gojo turns to you and finally lets that lazy grin soften, blue eyes dark with mischief.

“next time,” he murmurs, hand sliding to your pussy again, fingers stroking your overstimulated clit, “i’m replacing that pink shit with my cock.”

he nudges your cheek with his nose softly. “and we’re gonna see which one ruins you worse.”

you don’t remember when exactly you told gojo satoru about the toy.

you’d said it in passing, casual tone at first. but then you started throwing snarky comments, something about “not needing a man” with that big pink dildo stuffed in your nightstand.

you, of course, hadn’t meant it as a challenge but god, he heard it like one.

so now you’re on your back in his ridiculous king-sized bed, chest heaving, legs spread, hands gripping the sheets, while gojo lounges beside you like it’s just another lazy night in his penthouse.

his snowy hair’s a mess, his shirt’s off, but his pants are still on when you realize the fucker hasn’t even touched himself.

he’s too focused on watching your pussy take something you once claimed was “the biggest thing you’d ever had.”

“so this is the one, huh?” he drawls, tapping the blunt head of the thick, obscenely pink dildo against your slick folds, making you jump. “the one that makes you forget all about me?”

“sh-shut up,” you huff, cheeks burning, hips twitching as he teases the tip over your clit. “you’re the one who wanted to see—”

“and i am seeing,” he grins. “and baby, this? this is fucking criminal.”

and then satoru pushes it in slowly, the girthy tip torturing you. his movie is deliberate, stretching you inch by ridiculous inch, the way only a toy that size could go in clean, too long to not kiss your cervix by the time it’s halfway in.

you whimper, then gasp, then sob a little.

because he doesn’t stop. doesn’t give you a second to adjust. satoru is mean when he just feeds it in while his other hand settles on your inner thigh, keeping you spread.

“look at that. fuck. your little pussy’s just eating it up,” he murmurs, eyes glued between your legs like it’s the only thing that matters. “i thought you were exaggerating, but shit, you’re fuckin’ bottomless.”

you want to hide your face. but there’s nowhere to go.

his hand’s still there, thumb pressing against your thigh while he watches you struggle to take the whole thing.

“hurts?” he asks, almost sweetly.

“no,” you bite on your breathe, even though you’re squirming.

“then take it,” he says, rougher now, pushing the last few inches in. “come on, don’t play shy with me now. i know you can take more.” and oh you do.

you take it like a good girl, like a whore, really—gasping, toes curling, back arching off the bed when the toy in his hand finally bottoms out.

“fucking hell,” he mutters, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “you’re full. stretched to the brim. i can see your stomach bulging, baby.”

he palms it. presses down on your lower belly, just to feel how far it goes.

you cry out. the pressure makes you clench. your pussy flutters around the silicone, desperate, drenched.

“still think you don’t need a man?” he smirks.

“fuck you,” you whimper.

“i am,” he grins. “well, almost but we’ll get there.”

he starts thrusting it with his hand, shallow at first. then deeper, meaner, watching every ripple of your thighs, every gasp, every time your breath catches and your cunt clenches.

“you should see yourself,” he says, voice low, rough, hungry.

“eyes rolling back. drooling. fuckin’ gushing around some toy like it’s heaven sent. what, this thing fucks you better than i do?”

you shake your head because you can’t even speak.

the wet slap of the toy is too loud now. your thighs are shaking, your body flushed and covered in sweat. you’re so close—

“gonna cum already?” he teases, tongue running across his teeth. “go on. let go for me. i wanna see it. drown this toy if it makes you feel that good.”

and that’s all it takes.

the pressure’s too much. the stretch. the filthy praise. the rough pump of the dildo against that soft spot inside you.

you cry out onto his side then you soak the sheets.

squirting all over his wrist, your thighs, the toy still stuffed inside you. satoru doesn’t stop until you’ve got nothing left. until your hips twitch and your breath hitches and your cunt spasms around the silicone like it’s begging for more.

he finally pulls it out with a wet pop, the toy dripping and shiny with your mess.

he whistles, impressed.

“fuck. you really can take it.”

you’re too far gone to be embarrassed. your body is limp, still twitchy and leaking between your thighs.

gojo turns to you and finally lets that lazy grin soften, blue eyes dark with mischief.

“next time,” he murmurs, hand sliding to your pussy again, fingers stroking your overstimulated clit, “i’m replacing that pink shit with my cock.”

he nudges your cheek with his nose softly. “and we’re gonna see which one ruins you worse.”

fuck buddy!gojo, angst, unrequited love + smut smut smut

the room is dim, the only light coming from the gauzy moon through slatted blinds, throwing lines of silver across the motel-style sheets and the sweat-slicked stretch of his torso.

his shirt’s long gone, somewhere near the foot of the bed with your discarded panties, and his hands are gripping the backs of your thighs like they’re the last thing tethering him to earth. you’re on top, straddling him for now—but you’d pulled him in for missionary earlier like you always do, because that’s how you like it: close, connected, but not intimate. not really. not in the way he wants.

he’s deep inside, and the air smells like sex and skin and you—god, just you—and all he can do is keep his mouth shut so the words don’t spill. because they’re always right there, tangled up in the back of his throat. don’t go. stay. let me be yours. choose me. but he bites it all down, swallows it like poison, lets it rot under his tongue. that was the deal. you use each other. you fuck, you don’t feel.

and satoru was fine with it. at least, he told himself he was.

but tonight? you’re softer than usual. not sweet, no, never sweet—you’re too self-assured for that. but there’s something in the way your fingers curl against his jaw, the way your gaze lingers on his face instead of glazing over, looking past him. it feels cruelly close to affection. cruel because he knows it’s not real. not to you.

you whisper something like “feels so good, satoru,” and it guts him.

his hips buck up instinctively, chasing the friction like a desperate animal, but it’s not about the orgasm anymore. hasn’t been for a while. he just wants to stay in you—wants to keep your warmth, your weight, your scent, the feeling of your chest brushing his with every roll of your hips. he wants to live here, buried inside you, pretending it means something to you too.

you moan, soft and breathy, your lashes fluttering as your walls clamp down around him, slick and pulsing and perfect. your nails dig into his shoulder blades, leaving red half-moons he’ll trace over later in the mirror. trophies. evidence. signs that he was wanted, even if only for the night.

you cum with a soft gasp, grinding down like you’re trying to squeeze the last bit of use out of him, and he watches you with something reverent in his eyes. lips parted, eyes glassy, his chest rising with the effort not to say your name like a prayer. not to say i love you.

you collapse onto his chest, sweaty and boneless and beautiful, and he wraps an arm around you out of habit, not because you asked. you never ask. you never stay for long.

and that’s what breaks him. not the sex. not the silence. not even the way you use him without malice. it’s that you never stay.

he swallows a sob and it turns into a shaky exhale, nose brushing your hairline. you don’t notice the way his jaw trembles, the way his other hand shakes when he cups the back of your head. you never do. but when you murmur something like “good fuck, toru. thanks,” and slide off of him to grab your things… his heart cracks open with a quiet, pathetic whimper.

“yeah,” he whispers to the ceiling, blinking back tears that blur the lines of moonlight across his vision. “anytime.”

because you’re already gone. and he’s still in love with someone who never promised him anything.