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Thinking about Yandere Gojo that the clan is worried about not being able to control. To make him settle down they arrange for him to be married. Choosing a cold, mellow women that they believe will blend into the background and not cause any trouble for them but root him to the clan.
What they didn't account for was how attached Gojo would get to you. To finally have someone in that house to call his own. How much it would distance him from them when he had someone to be his family, wanting to take you away all for himself. Somewhere you both would see only one another and no one would see you or speak to you. No one to keep him from you.
Wordcount: 6k+
Notes: Not canon compliant and contains both yandere and violent behaviour.
The clan had chosen you on purpose despite the fact that you were no match for your so called husband. Not in looks, not in family, not in wealth and certainly not in power.
Your husband was a man renown far and wide for his power. Tall and broad with a face that would have women falling at his feet. Your aunt had informed you that they had gotten much more prestigious matches for him but had come to your uncle seeking your hand.
You didn't know why they had chosen you until you had overheard one of the women of the clan explaining to her maid that they had chosen a cold, passionless little thing like you to ensure no one could use their daughter's influence over Gojo to lure him away from their clan. You would provide just enough roots to ensure Gojo wouldn't leave, he wasn't one to abandon his own but they couldn't have him falling in love. A man in love was a dangerous thing.
The man himself frightened you at first, so large and imposing with otherworldly eyes. Your grandmother had always warned you about men who had everything, said they were never satisfied.
Your aunt and uncle though they had treated you fairly well after your parents' passing - had in the end done you wrong. You wish you had been allowed to marry a man who was more on par with you, not someone so above you that you couldn't even possibly be upset if he went out and slept with other women every night.
Despite his giant rough hands, his fingers touched you gently. Consummating your union in a way that caused you as little pain as possible despite his abnormally large size though you had nothing to compare it to. His gentle reassurances when your hands shook and tender touches weren't what bothered you. You had been made aware that a couple had to consummate on the night of the wedding but it was those eyes that unnerved you. Taking in every little twitch of movement, every expression that flitted across your face and any sound he managed to elicit from you despite you trying to hold them in.
To your surprise he returned to your chamber every night though you were well aware that couples of his clan's standing generally had separate beds. You had heard that men of his caliber had high libidos though they didn't necessarily always go to their wives to satiate their needs. The friends of your aunts complaining about how selfish men could be in bed when they thought you were out of earshot but it seemed your husband was neither selfish nor a debaucher.
He seemed to put your pleasure above his own. Somehow knowing exactly where to touch you and how even better than you yourself did. Taking you to heights you didn't know were possible but it wasn't all physical. He would show up periodically during the day just to sit across from you and watch as you read. Only on occasion interrupting to ask what you were reading about. Accompanying you on strolls around the garden until he was called away.
You weren’t bad looking, but no one would call you a beauty. It made no sense to you why he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of you. Intelligent enough but not really a wit. How he hung off of every word you said was beyond you. Sighing as though truly annoyed when called away from your side. Pressing a kiss to your forehead or stroking his large finger down your cheek reverently as though wanting just one more touch before being away from you.
It all seemed too good to be true. A husband entirely devoted to you. A household so wealthy you didn’t have to lift a finger. The wealth you had been expecting when the alliance was arranged but Gojo’s behaviour still perplexed you. You had heard of men who fell wildly in love. Their affections fiercely passionate but short-lived, attention flitting from woman to woman once they had their fill. Leaving a trail of broken hearts in their wake. Your husband must have been that sort too.
The days passed and you waited for the tides to turn. For him to grow distant, for you to become another forgotten relic in the house but if anything his attentions grew more marked. He’d sneak into the library where you spent most of your time, taking you by the hand and pulling you along to another part of the house or gardens where his men wouldn't think to look for him.
Today he had chosen a parlour in a wing of the house that anyone seldom went to. Laying with his head in your lap, the long expanse of him stretched across the floor. Seemingly content to just gaze up at you as you read your book. Your back leant against the wall.
In the first days of your marriage it had been very difficult to concentrate with him staring at you the way he did, those vibrant blue eyes impossible to ignore. Now you grew more used to it and were able to continue reading while he watched you. Your hand was enveloped in one of his large ones and you glanced down to him from your book as he brought it to his fluffy white mop of hair.
You bit the inside of your mouth to hide your smile at the surprisingly childish action and began carding your fingers through his soft hair as you returned to your reading. But not before catching the way the tops of his pale cheeks turned pink, full lips turning up hopelessly into a smile far too besotted to be aimed at someone like you by someone like him.
"Will you read to me?" Your husband asked and you glanced down to him, surprised by the request since he had never asked you to do so before. You had also never seen him pick up one of the books himself though the mistress of the house had told you Gojo had read all of the books in the library while giving you a tour.
"I miss your voice." He mumbled grabbing your hand from his hair and pressing a kiss to your palm.
"Of course Gojo san." You responded obligingly.
"Satoru." He said before you could begin to read aloud, making you pause.
"Please call me Satoru my darling. There is no one in this world closer to me than you, if my own beloved wife addresses me as formally as the rest do then I'll feel very lonely." Your husband said and though you had promised yourself to keep your heart guarded, not wanting to be heartbroken when he inevitably lost interest in you - his words still touched your heart. Making it clench in sympathy for the man who despite seeming to have it all had no one before you to call his own, much like you.
"Alright Satoru." You said, his hand squeezing around yours reflexively as though startled by the sound of his name on your lips though he was the one to have asked you to say it.
"Again." He pleaded, staring at your with his impossibly blue eyes wide and beseeching in a way you were not cruel enough to ignore.
You indulged him and he pressed another kiss to your palm. Breathing in the scent of your skin, his eyes falling shut. You took that as your cue to begin to read.
Hours seemed to pass as you read to your husband, though it could have felt that way to you due to the pins and needles running up and down your legs. Gojo seemed to have fallen asleep a while back and knowing how early he rose every day, you were reluctant to risk waking him by moving.
You continued reading aloud until you heard the sound of footsteps rushing down the hall and the call of your husband's name. Unsure of what to do, whether to wake him or not considering he was the one to have chosen to hide here. Your moment of indecision passing as you both were discovered. The men catching sight of the both of you as they rushed down the hall and skidding to a stop.
"Gojo san we've been looking all over for you." They said, bowing to you without lifting their gaze from the ground. You thought you would have to shake him awake and glanced down to your lap, surprised to see your husband's blue eyes open and narrowed at the men.
He rose to his feet in a fluid motion and turned to you, holding both hands out to you. You placed your hands in his, allowing him to tug you up. Your numb legs nearly buckling under your weight but your husband caught you by the elbows, pulling you in so you were leant against his strong frame. You tried to right yourself, embarrassed to be in such an intimate position while in company but your husband tightened his grip.
"Go on, I'll be there in a moment." Gojo said, voice stern in a way you had never heard it before. You only realized then how different he sounded when he spoke to you, always making an effort to gentle his voice.
"I should be able to make it back in time for supper but don't wait if I get late. Can't have my lovely wife fainting." The man said, stroking his thumb over the apple of your cheek.
"I will, please do not worry about me. They must be waiting for you, you should go Gojo san." You said unthinkingly, the soft reverent expression on his face dropping at the formal address.
He stooped down, wrapping an arm behind your knees and the other around your waist, hoisting you up into his arms making you gasp.
"Gojo san what are you-" You started, only realizing your error when his eyes flashed to you.
"Satoru please put me down, you'll be late." You muttered hurriedly, eyes widening in panic as the man began walking out of the room.
"Satoru please, someone will see." You said again, glancing around to ensure the guards had left.
"No one would dare look at my wife." The man said, none of his usual good humour colouring his voice making you realize he was quite serious. Perhaps he was used to this sort of treatment, having grown up as revered as an emperor but you certainly weren't and you doubted the same courtesies would be extended to you.
"I can walk, really." You said voice growing higher in worry as he neared the main hall of the house where people were sure to be.
"Your legs fell asleep because of me, I ought to take responsibility." He said, lips twisted up into a smirk as he glanced down at you.
"They're fine now. Please Gojo San." You said, squirming in his arms but he only tightened his hold.
You ducked your head into his chest as you caught sight of a maid, hiding childishly in your embarassment. Satisfaction practically emanating off your husband at your actions.
You tightened your hand in his collar, squeezing your eyes shut and keeping your face pressed into his strong, broad chest. Hopefully no one would notice it was you and think instead the man was carrying a conquest back to his chamber.
Unable to see your surroundings you didn't notice as the mistress of the manor caught sight of both of you, dropping the laces she held in her hand at seeing the way Gojo carried you through the house. Holding you clutched tightly to his chest like you were too precious to let your feet touch the ground.
From then on she stopped leaving you to your devices. Preoccupying you in silly household tasks that she was normally proud to oversee herself in an attempt to keep you away from Gojo.
He would find time between his own work to seek you out, backing you into an alcove and kissing you desperately as though he hadn't seen you in days instead of having risen from the same bed that very morning. Sometimes lowering himself to his knees before you, pressing his ear to your chest and listening to the solid drumming of your heartbeat. Arms wrapped around your waist keeping you close and urging you to run your fingers through his hair.
You would have to convince him gently to let you go, reminding him you had tasks to get to while he had his own work. Bargaining with him that you would try to return to your chambers earlier that night or rise late the next morning in an attempt to get him to release you.
It was months into your marriage before you were asked to accompany Gojo to an event. Gojo hadn't seemed thrilled about taking you but you guessed that was due to your more mediocre background. You couldn't expect him to be proud to show off before others that his wife was of such humble origins in comparison to himself. Having no idea that it was because he despised the thought of others laying their eyes on you. Outsiders getting to take up your attention and speak to you.
You normally insisted on dressing yourself, not having had a personal maid in your aunt's house but for that night you allowed your maids to dress you. Letting them style your hair as they saw fitting. For the first time since you had arrived reaching for the jewelry drawers your room had come stocked with. Selecting an elegant set of pearls to adorn your neck and ears so you would at least somewhat look the part of your new status.
Your husband had come into the room, more handsome than ever in a black kimono that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and made him look more imposing than ever. It almost made you question if you had imagined the times the man would beg you to play with his hair or stay just a moment longer with him.
His gaze locked on your reflection and he wondered closer as though in a trance. Leaning down to where you sat before the mirror, head close to yours as he trailed his fingers over the pearls adorning your lovely throat. Both loving the way they looked on you but hating that it attracted more attention to your pretty neck and collarbone.
"Do I look alright?" You asked, fingers rising to touch your necklace and ensure it was in place. Pretty eyes watching him anxiously in the mirror and he was sorely tempted to call off the whole night at the thought of those eyes on another.
"You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." Your husband murmured and you breathed out a worried exhale. Had he told you something as simple as stating that you had dressed appropriately for the occasion, it would have helped ease your anxiety much more than his usual flattery that you never could bring yourself to believe.
"When are we leaving?" You asked.
"Maybe never, wouldn't it be nicer to spend the night in the garden? You can gaze all you want at that moon you are so fond of and I can look my fill of you."
"Gojo san you joke too much. Are we to leave soon?" You asked, the hand he rested on your chair clenching at you calling him by his last name. Though you had taken to calling him by his first name in private, if anyone at all was present then you referred to him by last name as though intentionally distancing yourself from him. He was so proud to belong to you, he wished you would stake your claim on him before all to see.
"I never joke when it comes to you."
"I was told it's very important for us to attend tonight, your family wants to form an alliance with this clan and it would show our goodwill." You said.
"My family is you but yes it is important for the clan. We'll leave as soon as you are ready." Gojo said, standing up to his full height.
The maid waiting by the dresser to approach finally came forward. Her hand reaching for your hair where a strand had come undone from the neat updo.
The young woman froze when ice blue eyes flashed to her, pinning her in place. The man gestured his head so subtly at the door that you didn't even notice him silently ordering the maid to leave, too busy smoothing down your own kimono.
The maid hurried out of the room, forgoing even grabbing the basket of hair pins and oils she had brought along with her in her haste to get away. So incredibly relieved that the man hadn't come in while she and the others had been dressing you. If he looked as though he might break her hand for reaching for your hair she shuddered to think what he might do if he caught her near your unclothed form.
Gojo tenderly grabbed the lock of your hair from where it fell against the curve of your cheek, brushing it back into the updo and securing it with one of the pins. Unable to resist pressing a kiss to your soft cheek, losing himself in the sweet scent of you and the feel of your skin, brushing kisses down to the exposed curve of your neck.
"Gojo san we should go." You said and he sighed, pressing his lips to your clothed shoulder before pulling back. It seemed his wife had the most impeccable self-control. A trait he seemed to lack entirely when it came to you.
He held your hand zealously the whole way there, the both of you riding separately from the others in the house. Eyes on you as you looked out the window. The closer you two got to the home of the clan where the event was taking place, the more anxious he got.
He knew what these events were like, men on the prowl for pretty young things to coax into a dark corner alone. Taking their hands in their own and pressing kisses in an attempt to fluster them upon greeting. The way they stood so overly close and found any excuse they could to touch.
You had his utmost trust, he knew you wouldn't betray him but it was all those bastards he worried about. He often spent these events forced into conversation after conversation with old geezers trying to see if he really lived up to his reputation or if they could take advantage of his young age and leech something off of him. The thought of not being there to stop anyone's advances on you worried him.
Tempted to tell the driver to turn back to the house or better yet leave the driver by the side of the road and take you somewhere far where no one would know who the two of you were. He could build you a little house for the both of you to live in together, tending to your every need himself. Finally be able to spend every moment with you as he so wished to, feeling a physical ache in his chest when he was away from you.
Before he could act on those fantasies the driver was pulling up to the gates and being ushered in by their gateman. A doorman arriving at your door but Gojo threw open his own door before the cretin could make a move to open your door and offer you his hand.
Crossing over to your side, the doorman went stumbling back as he caught sight of the tall imposing figure with blazing blue eyes descending on him like some sort of avenging angel. Gojo pulled open your door, holding his hand out to you and you placed your delicate hand in his. Stepping out and allowing him to lead you past the doorman. Gojo's stomach twisting as you offered a small smile to the man who bid you both to have a pleasant evening.
Your smiles should only be for him but he couldn't bring himself to say anything to his darling. It wasn't your fault you were so polite and sweet. He loved that about you but wanted to keep all your sweetness to himself.
You both walked into the main hall, almost every head there turning to look at you both. You tried to keep your head high, not used to so much attention. Your husband wrapped his arm around your waist, tugging you into his side making you feel a bit less anxious.
You responded courteously to all those that came to greet you both. Able to decipher the looks on people's faces as befuddlement over why the wife of the powerful Satoru Gojo was someone so ordinary. You had never been fond of these events but all this attention and the reminders in their stares that you didn't belong next to a man like Gojo made you hate this one more than all others.
You had been filled with relief when your husband denied any requests to speak to him privately. Seeming to others as though joking about not wanting to leave his wife all alone when he was actually quite serious. However the reassurance of his presence couldn't be depended on forever. Eventually he was forced to leave your side as the head of the clan asked to speak with him.
"Stay right here okay darling? I'll be back as quick as I can." Gojo said, looking as though he wanted to say much more but was forced to turn away when his name was called again.
You tried not to let the unease show on your face as he continued to glance back at you as he moved through the crowd. So easily discernible amongst the people not only due to his formidable size but the unmistakable white hair and blue eyes standing out from all the others.
You sipped on the drink your husband had handed to you, trying to look less alone and uncomfortable than you felt. There was no one you knew here. The people you had known growing up in your aunt's home did not move in the same circles as people from Gojo's clan did.
The wife of another clan's head wandered over to you a couple minutes into you standing there. Making idle chatter, dark eyes trying to pierce through you to see if you really were as clueless to the clan's activities as you seemed to be. Eventually giving up and extending an invitation for tea that neither she nor you ever expected to be taken up.
You downed your drink in one go when she finally left. "Can I get you a refill?" a male voice asked from behind making you turn to look at a dark haired man in a silver kimono giving you a charming smile. Though no man's looks compared to your husband's.
"No, I'm not much of a drinker. Thank you though." You responded.
"Well I could get you something without alcohol then. You look a bit overheated." The man said, reaching for the paper fan you held clutched in your hand but his wrist was gripped in a vice grip before he could.
"What do you think you're doing putting your hands on my wife?" Gojo asked, stepping in between the man and you, forcing you to take a step back. His voice deadly calm but as you peeked around his shoulder to explain you were taken aback by the look on his face. Strong jaw clenched to the point where it looked painful, lips twisted into a sneer and the most frightening of all was his eyes. The blue blazing like fire that threatened to consume everything in its path.
"G-Gojo san the man was only trying to help me with my fan." You said, hesitantly resting your hand on his arm to get him to release the man's arm which he still held in a vice grip. Judging by the pained look on the man's face he was close to causing some serious damage.
"Gojo san please accept my apologies. I hadn't known she was your wife." The man pleaded, a pained sound escaping him as Gojo tightened his grip upon hearing the man's words.
He had been so foolish to leave you alone in the midst of vultures. One had swooped in and had the audacity now to admit his intentions hadn't been as innocent as his poor naive wife believed by defending himself using his ignorance of you belonging to Gojo.
"I am very sorry ma'am." The man said to you, a scream escaping his lips as a loud crack was heard and the man fell to his knees.
"How dare you speak to her?" Your husband asked and you watched in horror as he tossed aside the man's now obviously broken wrist. The man's face turning red and tears streaming down his face as he cradled his hand to his chest.
No one in the room daring to move a muscle to help the man. Gojo turned to you and you couldn't help yourself when those otherworldly blue eyes faced you, instinctively stumbling back a step. You didn't recognize this man. This was not the man who pleaded you for another kiss, blushed when you touched him first and spent his days following you around. In his place was a god of destruction. Vastly powerful and lacking mercy.
Those unnerving eyes flitted down to your feet before darting back up to yours. Gojo grabbed for your hand and you let him pull you along behind him through the hall, tugging on your hand firmly when you turned back to glance at the man still on his knees in the middle of the crowd. Almost disbelieving that what you had witnessed had really taken place.
Your teeth chattered as you were pulled outside without your coat that had been taken from you upon entering. Gojo shrugged off the outer layer of his kimono, draping it gently over your shoulders. You flinched instinctively, still too caught up in the ease with which he had wielded such terrible violence.
He wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, bending to bury his face in your hair making you freeze up. Clutching you tightly the way he usually did but for once instead of seeming endearing it felt constraining. Those arms you considered big and strong enough to protect now trapping you to him.
"Please don't be afraid of me. Not you, I wouldn't be able to bear it." He begged and you were torn in indecision. Your horror at his terrible violence over something so trivial warring with the fondness you had come to feel for him.
"I don't understand Gojo san. Why did you-" You cut yourself off unable to bring yourself to voice what he had done.
"I can't stand the thought of anyone else laying a hand on you. That bastard - when I saw him reaching out to you, the way he was looking at you, I lost it." Your husband said, the disgust palpable in his voice.
The driver came running over from where he had been waiting off to the side and opened up the door for the both of you to get in. You gently pushed Gojo's arms from your waist, ducking down to get into the car and scooting to the furthest end. Your husband following you in and sitting down in the middle seat right next to you though you wished that he would give you some space.
He was your husband however and your aunt had drilled into you the lesson that you should do your best to overlook any flaws he had. Though she had been hinting at infidelity or a nasty temper you tried to use those words to push the cold dread seeping into your veins at having to go home with this man away.
"Say something." He pleaded, grabbing your hand in his. Your hand twitching in his grasp as the image of the way he had mercilessly crushed that man's wrist flitted to the forefront of your mind but you managed to keep from pulling away.
"I don't think you needed to hurt him. He was only trying to help me with my fan." You said, keeping your eyes straight ahead on the seat in front of you.
"You're too innocent my darling. You don't understand what's on the minds of men like that. The fan was merely an excuse to get close to you, to touch you." Gojo said, voice turning into more of a snarl as he lost himself in thoughts about what could have happened had he not broken free of the old man to get back to you.
You stayed silent for the rest of the drive, allowing him to keep your hand in his. Changing out of your garments and removing your makeup and jewelry when you returned home yourself, refusing the help of the maids.
Your husband watched anxiously from where he sat on the bed as you carefully removed your accessories and set them back in their places. Heart drumming in his chest as thoughts of you rejecting him overwhelmed him. You lay down on your side of the bed and he hurriedly pushed off the layers he wore before getting into the covers next to you.
Hands reaching out with a hesitance they had never had before and slowly pulling you towards him. Heart swelling in his chest when you came willingly, allowing him to hold you close to himself as he did every night. A rush of relief making his tense muscles go boneless, the feverish anxiety he felt ebbing away. He pressed his lips to your temple, attempting to wordlessly express how grateful he was to you for not pushing him away.
Gojo breathed in your scent greedily and clutched you as tightly as he dared, mindful not to cause his darling any pain. Wishing he could just open up his ribcage and put you inside, safe and sound resting close to his heart where you belong.
The gratitude for how understanding and patient you were making tears swell in his eyes. He buried his face in your now open hair, wanting to get even closer. As though you could sense what he was thinking you opened your arms to him. He latched onto you tightly, feverishly pressing kisses up and down your throat.
Your husband made love to you that night with tears in his eyes. Voice breaking on shuddering little gasps at how you felt under him, around him. Consumed by the scent of you, the taste of you, the feel of you. Confessing his love for you like a prayer in your ear as he fell over the precipice.
He lay draped over you afterwards, head resting on your chest. You carded your fingers through the soft white locks. Trying not to think about anything but here and now.
Your husband's behaviour returned to the good-humoured, clingy man you had come to know the next morning. Though now you couldn't help but notice the instant flip in his demeanor when anyone else neared you. His eyes warning them off in a way that reminded you eerily of the the wolf your grandmother had raised on her property which guarded her land. Eyes flashing with an inhumane possessiveness at those who got too close.
You tried to look past that and focus on how sweet your husband was with you. Following you around and begging for scraps of your attention. Touching you so gently as though you were something precious and treating your every word like gospel.
No one was perfect and there were worse vices for a man to have than jealously and possessiveness. Especially when the anger wasn't turned on you. Though it was difficult to push down that little voice that reminded you the anger hadn't been turned on you yet.
You tried not to let those thoughts impact your behaviour but being the sole focus of a man like him, he noticed even the most miniscule changes in you. How your smile didn't quite always reach your eyes, how you slipped up and called him Gojo in private too now. He felt like you were slipping through his fingers and it set him more on edge than ever. Desperate to tighten his grip on you but not knowing how when everyone and everything seemed determined to keep him from you.
He became short and snappy with everyone but you. With you he was like a puppy that had imprinted or the devoted follower of a god taking up every opportunity for worship.
The clan had been aware of his strange behaviour for a while but connected the dots that it was due to you only after the incident at the event. They had no reason to believe it was your influence, they knew Gojo was more than capable of all this madness himself though it was unfortunate that you brought it out in him.
The plan was set in motion to get rid of you. It was just too bad that while the deed was being carried out, Gojo like a hound seemed to sniff out something was wrong. Returning from the urgent trip they had forced him on, destroying their men who tried to stand in his way so he couldn't get to your room where the assassin was.
They had intended to give you a quick, painless death. You had caused them a lot of trouble but you were naive to it, unaware of the ruin you could bring about. It wasn't your fault that Gojo was a madman and so they would minimize your suffering. A quick and easy piercing of your heart that they would blame on the opposing clan.
It was two birds with one stone. They'd get rid of the thing causing Gojo to stray from the path they wanted him to walk and Gojo would destroy their opposition in his rage. They were sure the anger and loss would make him stronger and more ruthless than ever.
Gojo wasn't even conscious of what he did to the men who tried to block his path to you. Seeing them crumple like flies whose wings had been caught in the rain but entirely focused on the door that led to what was most precious.
He threw it open the moment he could, just in time as the masked man you had been trying to keep away from jumped over the bed you had tried to put between the both of you as you screamed out for help. Gojo sent the man flying back with a push of his hand just as the blade grazed your soft skin.
That one bead of your precious blood that seeped from the cut making his vision explode in red. Your cries went ignored as you begged him to stop while Gojo tore the man limb from limb. His blood defiling that bed where you had laid with Gojo every night and infuriating him further.
This was proof that he should have taken you away when the thought had first occurred to him. Then at least the things blessed with your memories wouldn't have been desecrated. Gojo didn't stop long past the moment when the man stopped moving.
His rage not abated by just this amount of bloodshed when they had tried to take his everything from him. The clan had tried to take his life so he was justified in doing the same to them. Gojo moved through the house, sinking the blade of his sword through everyone he passed.
Making his way over to the shrine where the elders who he knew were behind this stayed. The news of the massacre having reached them but not with nearly enough time to run. Not that something like Gojo could be outrun. All they could do as they awaited their deaths was pray for protection.
Gojo dragged along his bloody blade over the pristine floors of the temples behind him as he walked with feet soaked in the blood of all the lives he had taken. The old men trying to maintain their composure at the sight he cut. Blue eyes blazing with an avenging fury that wouldn't be put out till it had burned down everything.
Emerging from the candle lit hall like a demon hound from hell here to drag them down to the fiery pits where he had emerged from. There would be no use of begging or pleading. He was judge, jury, executioner and the whip of divine punishment.
The Gojo clan fell that day at the blade of the man they had believed would restore their glory. The ancestral home that they had been so proud of becoming their grave.
The angel of death that delivered them to death's cold embrace returning to the house to find his dear one. His heart breaking as you scampered away from him. Hands slipping in the blood of the mistress of the house as you tried to drag yourself back.
Gojo Satoru fell to his knees before you, sword falling from his hands. Unable to take his eyes from your lovely face, pale with fear as it was but such a welcome sight to still be alight with the flame of life.
He crawled over to you, taking your face in his bloodstained hands and pressing his apology into your lips with his own. So sorry for having left you here and endangered the thing most precious to him in this world.
From now on he would never leave your side. Not even for a moment. He had killed the ones who tried to take you from him. Now you two would be together forever and not even death would do you part.
Thinking about Yandere Gojo notorious for getting into fights in school. The top student despite seeming to spend most of his time wandering the halls. Pretty face and tall build making him immensely popular amongst the students and even some teachers. Gojo who everyone talks about but few talk to unless they want something from him.
Teachers thought you would be a good, calming influence on him. The only person they could think of to seat next to him in classes trusting that neither would you be provoked by him picking a fight with you and neither would you try to flirt with him. He found you boring like the rest of your peers did until you made the mistake of defending him.
Word count: 12k+ (Supposed to be 2k but this monstrosity got away from me)
Note: Not canon-compliant, yandere and violent behaviour. Slow burn yandere, takes a while to get to the crazy.
Gojo took one look at the nerd sitting in the desk next to his usual one at the back next to the window and glanced over to the balding homeroom teacher with his brows raised. There was no way you had sat there of your own accord. You looked too puny to be trying to take him on for strongest in the school and if you were there to flirt you at least would have tried to tame down the bedhead a little.
He set down his bag on the table, seeing you jump as his textbooks knocked against the wood and made a loud noise. Reminding him of a jumpy little rabbit but still you didn't even turn to look his way. He pulled out the chair and slumped down on it, long legs having trouble fitting beneath the desk, another reason he liked to sit at the back so he had a little extra room.
"Hey rabbit, why are you sitting here?" Gojo asked.
"Sugoshi Sensei asked me to." You responded without taking your eyes off the workbook you were furiously scribbling on.
Gojo turned his glare back to the balding man at the front, rolling his eyes when the man was already looking at him. He wasn't an asshole enough to make your life hard when you clearly had no interest being here anymore than he wanted you here, but the old geezer definitely had it coming. Gojo liked resting his legs up on that desk next to him but now he'd have to sit straight while the old bore droned on.
He didn't go to his next period, choosing instead to walk over to the convenience store and buy himself a chocolate milk. Wandering around the little streets that surrounded the school instead of going to his second period.
When he got to third period he was surprised to see you sitting next to his usual spot again. The teacher of this class a middle aged woman who liked to hold him back to discuss his future and then make eyes at him while she told him about how she believed in his potential. It was too bad she wasn't his type and she certainly wasn't getting so much as a graze of his hand now with the stunt she'd pulled.
It was like you were in every class, there before he was. Taking up the desk he normally used as a leg rest. He ignored you in the rest of the classes, legs cramped by last period from being forced to fold uncomfortably on the low chairs that weren't made for people as tall as him.
He took the long way to the internet cafe he usually went to afterschool, the other kids who had taken to frequenting it because he went there taking up all the computers, except the one with the buggy mouse.
"Hey move." Gojo said to one of the kids whose name he couldn't be bothered to remember who sat at his usual computer. It had the vantage point of the screen not being turned towards the rest of the cafe so he could do whatever he wanted without everyone gawking at his screen. The kid with the buzzcut turned, standing up to his full height that was still a good six inches below Gojo.
"And if I don't?" The boy asked making Gojo smile for the first time that day.
He invited him outside politely, not wanting to risk getting banned from the internet cafe. Leaving buzzcut leaned up against a tree a couple storefronts down from the cafe with a bruised and swollen face, nearly out of consciousness but still managing to promise he would regret this making Gojo laugh.
Gojo returned to the cafe, the kids sitting inside quietening the moment he opened the door telling him all he needed to know about the topic for the day. Two of the guys left, presumably to go get their friend, though they weren't such great friends for waiting till after their friend had gotten a beating before making their move. It was a pity they were so disloyal, he could have used more of a workout today. Beating just one kid with a bad attitude wasn't enough to work out all the kinks in his muscles.
Over the next few days he went to class even less than usual, classes were unbearable as it was but having to sit in that tiny desk made them downright painful.
You had been worried when the teachers in each of your classes besides math and history told you to go sit next to Gojo Satoru. The boy with perpetually bruised knuckles who everyone knew better than to sit next to.
Gojo Satoru always sat with the utmost disrespect, long legs extended out before him and feet resting on the desk next to his, bright blue eyes either looking down at his phone or out the window.
A part of you had been convinced that you would get a black-eye for daring to take his footrest but didn't have the guts to argue with teachers. Hopefully he wouldn't hit you too hard and then they'd be forced to let you switch.
To your surprise Gojo simply ignored you after asking why you were sitting there. Being called a rabbit was strange but then Gojo never really remembered anyone's names, using descriptive terms or nicknames that no one questioned in their place.
He wasn't too bad to sit next to once you got over the initial anxiety that he was going to punch you. Quiet and didn't pester you with questions about the school work or borrowing your notes the way other kids did. Not that he'd need them, everyone knew Gojo got the best grades in the school. Though there were rumours that was due to his rich parents buying his grades but either way it left him uninterested in your school work.
Other than taking up too much room due to his hulking physique, he was actually an improvement from your past desk mates. Just if kids didn't swarm around your desks so much to talk to him, he would have been the ideal student to sit next to.
You struggled to focus on the math homework you still had to complete, having not been able to get through all the problems during lunch while a group of students loudly giggled and jeered around you.
Two of the idiots were playing catch over your head with their gym bag that smelt putrid. You held your hand up to your nose to try to block out the smell, glancing back just in time to see one of the idiots trip while trying to catch the bag, flailing to stop himself from falling forwards and onto you. You barely had time to put your hands up in front of your face, hoping only to minimize damage but a large pale hand caught hold of the boy’s hoodie, tugging backwards to keep him from falling onto you.
"Watch it sweaty pits, you nearly crushed the rabbit." Gojo said, answering your question as to who the terrible smelling bag belonged to.
"Thanks." You said and Gojo only nodded, going right back to his conversation with a girl who was practically standing on his feet while flirting.
A couple days later in third period he dropped down a chocolate milk on your desk.
"BOGO at the convenience store. You want it?" He asked and you nodded, hesitantly grabbing it. He looked away, spending the rest of the period staring out the window as usual and after carefully inspecting the carton to ensure it hadn't been tampered with as subtly as you could, you opened it and drank the chocolate milk while taking notes.
You were discomforted by the way the teacher of this class stared at the boy beside you. Walking by your desks often, resting a hand on his shoulder and asking him to start doing his work.
Her face turned red when she saw the disgusted look you hadn't even realized you were wearing seeing her grope Gojo's shoulder under the pretense of asking why he wasn't starting the homework assignment she gave. Gojo seemed to see it too and let out a bark of laughter making her look almost furious. Her glare softening as it turned on him when he rose to ask to go to the washroom, though he would most likely not come back the rest of the period.
You didn't know the boy who sat next to you in nearly every class well but knew enough from proximity alone to know that half of the rumours about him were a lie. He sadly really did earn his grades, finishing every exam and quiz first even though you spent so much more time studying than he did. And that basketball player's girlfriend everyone had accused him of seducing had been the one to fawn all over him in chemistry. Asking him repeatedly to go to her house for a study session.
So when you heard some students gossiping that the reason he was doing so well in English was because he hit on the teacher, you couldn't help yourself but pipe up to defend him.
"He's doing well because he's smart and for the record it's that creepy old woman that keeps hitting on him. If you don't know him, shouldn't you not talk about him?" You asked the group of freshman who were blocking your way into the library. Completely oblivious to Gojo who had been coming down the stairs and heard the way you defended him.
Blue eyes tracking you as you stomped past the group of horrified freshman who had seen him come up behind you to listen and feared they would get a demonstration of the infamous Gojo Satoru's fighting skills. It was lucky for them he was too preoccupied thinking about the loyal little rabbit he had never realized was brave enough to stick up for him to terrorize them.
From that day on Gojo Satoru stopped ignoring you, though you had no idea why. He pestered you about the homework you were working on, annoying you by telling you all the questions you had gotten wrong. Asking you what you did at lunch and surprised to hear you spent it in the library.
"So when do you eat?" He asked.
"I eat my lunch there too."
"They don't let you take the cafeteria food in there."
"I don't eat the cafeteria food." You said, leaving it at that but then curious about what you did eat he started following you to the library at lunch.
"Milk bread, is that really all you're eating?" He asked, fascinated by the way your ears reddened at the tips and you grumbled out about the cafeteria food being overpriced and not tasting as good as your milk bread.
"No wonder you're so short." He said and you simply blinked at him, not wanting to stroke his ego by saying he was a giant. Choosing to ignore him instead and hope he would go away.
"So where are your friends?" He asked.
"Don't have any." You mumbled, people would probably be embarrassed over that but it never really bothered you. You didn't have time for friends. You spent every spare moment in school studying or doing your homework since you worked a part-time job after school.
"Me neither." He said, blue eyes taking on a weird glint you missed since you had your head bent over your history notes.
You assumed he was merely trying to spare your feelings since he was constantly surrounded by others but Gojo didn't consider any of them to be his friend. Every one of them seemed to hover around him because they wanted something. To leech off his popularity, leech off his money or learn what it was like to sleep with the Gojo Satoru. All except you, who didn't really want to be there and never asked him for anything.
You had assumed his attention would be short-lived and once the curiosity he had about you was abated, he would go back to leaving you alone. Unfortunately that didn't happen. Suddenly he was attending every class, waiting out in the school yard till you arrived so he could walk with you to your first period. His attendance perfect in all classes besides the two he didn't have with you.
You weren't the biggest fan of the change, now with him taking up all your time with his chatter, you had less time to focus on your homework. That resulted in you having to do it at night when you got home from work which disrupted your sleep making you crankier.
You blamed it on your lack of sleep for getting you into this situation. 99% sure Gojo was about to punch your daylights out. He had been pestering you as usual while you did your math problems in homeroom silent study. Telling you in a sing-song voice that was getting on your last nerve that your answer was incorrect and he'd tell you where you went wrong if you looked at him.
"Do you ever shut up?" You asked, your voice rising over the quiet chatter of the other students which died out immediately as everyone heard what had been said to Gojo Satoru. Gojo had put kids in the hospital for far less. Your eyes widened in horror at realizing what you had said and more importantly to who.
Your face went pale as your heartbeat picked up. Blood rushing through your ears making you feel faint as you stayed deadly still, waiting for Gojo to make his move.
"Only when I'm eating. Say wanna share some of that milk bread of yours with me? I skipped breakfast to make it here on time." Gojo said and you could practically here everyone's jaws drop to the floor.
"H-here." You said, digging it out of your bag and offering it up to him with trembling hands. Hoping it would be seen as a peace offering and save your life.
"Thanks." He said, tearing it open and breaking off half. Holding the rest out to you which you took back gingerly. Flinching when he moved his hand back suddenly.
"Don't save it for lunch. I feel like eating pizza and you're coming with me." Gojo said and you nodded, wondering if this was a new form of bullying.
By the time lunch came around you had convinced yourself he was luring you off school grounds to beat you up. Somewhere secluded where no one would interfere.
You tried to make excuses to avoid going. Saying you had a test next period but the freak seemed to know even what was going on in the classes of yours he wasn't in. Then trying to tell him you had an appointment with the guidance counsellor but he merely told you to reschedule it. Telling him you were sick and couldn't eat didn't work because your stomach chose to growl loudly right at that moment making him laugh and snatch your bag. Swinging it over his shoulder and telling you the only way you'd get it back was if you went with him.
You couldn't afford to buy those textbooks again so you had to follow him. Wary eyes tracking his every movement, just waiting for him to try to shove you into an alleyway. When you made it to the pizza place without incident you were really quite confused. Asking for your bag back so you could pay for a slice after he was done ordering, his face blanking as he stared down at you.
"I ordered a whole pizza so we could share." He said.
"Oh well let me pay you for half then." You said, reaching for your bag again but he stepped out of the way.
"Don't worry about it." He said, ruffling your hair. Surprised at how soft it was. He reached for your hair again but you pushed away his hand with a glare that made him laugh. Jumpy as a rabbit and about as threatening as one too.
He'd never noticed before but you were oddly cute. Grumpy and withdrawn but in a way that came off as endearing instead of boring like he had first assumed. You glanced at him and a weird fluttering feeling occurred in his stomach, he would have thought he was sick if it hadn't been strangely pleasant.
You both sat there to have your pizza. Gojo quizzing you on all your favourite foods and polishing off slice after slice with ease. You ate about a quarter of the pizza before declaring you were done. Gojo tried to make you eat more but you told him you were full and he blamed your appetite on only eating milk bread for lunch for god knows how long.
By the time you both finished, fourth period had started and when you caught sight of the time you made a run for it. Gojo watching you for a second in stunned surprise before darting after you with a whoop. Covering double the distance with his freakishly long legs making him frequently outpace you and then circle back, cheering you to go faster.
By the time you both got to class you were winded from the run, a painful stitch in your side and Gojo was grinning ear to ear. Watching you keeled over trying to catch your breath and all he could think about was how he had never had that much fun with anyone before.
That day he tried to convince you to come to the internet cafe, very perplexed to learn that you had a part-time job to get to. He hadn't known high school students worked. Much to your chagrin he followed you to the little supermarket you worked at.
Following you around as you stocked items and leaning up against the counter as you cashed out customers. Earning compliments about what a handsome young man he was from the old women who frequented the store.
Soon that became your routine, Gojo waited outside the school for you to arrive. You sat next to him in all your classes besides two which he both walked you to and collected you from. Either followed you to the library at lunch or forced you to accompany him out by hijacking your school bag.
Annoyed the few times you managed to pay for the food but secretly relieved you weren’t just putting up with him for his money. Trying to tell you he should pay since he wasn't the one who worked hard for his money but you merely replied that surely his parents would cancel his cards if they found out he was spending money so recklessly. You clearly had no idea just how rich his parents were and he was in no rush to tell you, he'd rather you think of him as normal.
At the end of the day he would follow you to your part-time job. The middle aged man who owned the store had been very skeptical at first about having him hang around but then seeing all the female customers he attracted, he had become much more welcoming. Offering Gojo fruit cups and candy on the house.
You spent most of your day with him Monday to Friday so when he asked what you were doing over the weekend you drew the line. Putting your foot down about him not being allowed to see you on the weekend even if it meant telling the Gojo Satoru no.
Weekends were the days you spent relaxing after your hectic week. Sleeping in, eating junk food and watching movies. Studying only if you needed to which since Gojo had decided he was going to spend most of the school day distracting you, became more often.
On Monday when you got to school Gojo was there, head cast down and you only realized why when you got closer. The skin around his right eye was a terrible mix of black and blue. You had never seen Gojo Satoru with anything other than bruised knuckles before but even that had stopped for a while. When you glanced down at his hands, both palms were wrapped in gauze, knuckles unharmed.
"Have you iced it?" You asked and he shook his head, watching you silently. You grabbed the cuff of his sleeve, tugging him along behind you to the nurse's office. His eyes on your little hand that gripped his sleeve and he had the strangest urge to push his hand into yours instead. Before he could act on the impulse you were at the nurse's office.
The school nurse got Gojo an ice pack, muttering under her breath about how usually it was Gojo sending people to her office. She had been holding the ice to his face but was called away by the principal, handing it to you as she left. He expected you to just hand it to him, taken aback when you stepped close to the cot he sat on, pressing the ice pack gingerly to his bruised eye. Worried it may hurt for him to hold the ice bag since both his hands were also hurt. Your face contorting into a pained grimace as though you were the one who had gotten hurt.
He was suddenly all too aware of his heartbeat, never having felt so keenly the closeness of another person in his life. He could practically count your lashes at this distance, seeing flecks of honey in your eyes that he had never noticed before. The shape of your parted lips, your tongue that darted out to wet them making him gulp and look away. A red flush spreading over his pale cheeks worrying you that he had a fever.
You pressed your hand to his forehead, then checked your own but didn’t sense any significant difference. The feel of your skin against his had his mouth going dry.
"You look feverish but you don't have a fever. Maybe you're just overheated. Take off your sweater." You said and he complied, pulling the hoodie over his head.
Your expression went blank as his toned upper body was revealed. So pale and perfectly proportionate he looked like he was cut from marble. Shoulders and chest too broad to belong to a high schooler, waist tiny enough to make you jealous and arms packed with muscle that showed why he was considered the strongest.
“I thought you’d have something underneath. Put it back on.” You said, disgusted by how pretty he was and not wanting to be faced with such nauseating perfection so early in the morning. He complied, confused as to why you looked mad.
“Are you not going to ask what happened?” He asked. Normally he hated when people tried to stick their nose in his business but it made him weirdly upset that you didn’t care to ask.
“I’m sure you’d tell me if you wanted to.” You said simply, silence settling between you two as you continued to hold the ice pack to his eye.
He’d never wanted to tell anyone about his asshole dad before. It wasn’t like they would actually care nor could they do anything about it. It would only make his dad angrier to learn he’d blabbed to someone about what he called family conflict. Though beating your kid the few times a year you actually managed to be home wasn’t much conflict in Gojo’s perspective.
“It was my dad.” Gojo said, voice quiet and almost small in a way you’d never heard before.
“Does it happen often?” You asked.
“No he’s only home a couple days of the year.”
“Is he going to be home tonight?” You asked and Gojo nodded, eyes on the white tiles of the nurse’s office floor.
“You can sleep over at mine until he’s gone.” You said and Gojo’s head flew up. He’d been thinking of staying at the Internet cafe and only going home in the morning to shower and change. But staying at your house, getting to be in your house, with you sounded so much better.
"Is that really okay?" Gojo asked, suddenly grabbing your hand that held the ice bag in his, uncaring of the way it aggravated the cut on his palm. His dad had shoved him into the glass table and he had sliced his hands on the broken shards of glass while pushing himself back up.
You flinched back at how close he suddenly was. A near manic look on his pretty face that you mistook for desperation to be away from his dad.
"Of course, you're my friend aren't you?" You asked, slipping your hand carefully out of his so you could continue icing his face.
"Friend." Gojo muttered, tasting the word on his tongue. Mind more preoccupied with you calling him your anything. He liked that, the idea of belonging to you in some way.
Friends didn't seem like enough though, even the idiots who walked around in rowdy groups called each other friends. That wasn't enough to describe what was between the both of you but it could be a start.
That day Gojo made you do everything for him, from taking out and putting back the books needed for each class, to feeding him his lunch to passing in his classwork which he never normally did but was enthusiastic about completing when you had to write his answers for him. You had drawn the line at undoing the zipper of his pants when he needed to go to the washroom. Needless to say by the end of the day came around you were not excited about the impromptu sleepover.
Gojo looked at the little house you lived in with your mother with such curiosity and amazement as though exploring a relic from ancient times. Though compared to what you were sure was a fancy mansion or penthouse apartment, your little shack of a house probably seemed like something from another time.
Your mother was overjoyed to meet Gojo, so glad you had finally brought a friend home. A little less thrilled to find out he would be sleeping over but seeing his bruises and making her own assumptions she hadn't fought you over it. Simply telling you to ensure you ordered food for the both of your dinners instead of just getting something from the convenience store before she headed out to her night shift.
Gojo was thrilled to be alone with you in your house, turning overjoyed bright blue eyes over to you the moment she was gone. The sour look on your face could not bring down his good mood.
He sat right next to you on your raggedy couch watching TV as you both ate the convenience store bentos you had bought on the way home. Also having bought a bunch of extra snacks since you knew what Gojo's appetite was like after countless lunches spent seeing him pack away enough food for three grown men.
Your eyes began to droop as you both sat there watching episode after episode. You tried to fight it, telling yourself you needed to set out the futon for Gojo before you fell asleep but eventually lost the battle.
Gojo paused mid sentence as he felt a warm solid weight thunk onto his arm. Glancing down and his heart nearly stopping as he saw it was your head that was resting against him. For a moment he couldn't bring himself to move, heart pounding in his chest and blood rushing in his ears drowning out the sounds of the TV. Eventually he was able to gather himself enough to lean forward a bit and take a peek at your face. Heart clenching at the sight of you fast asleep.
Features that were normally twisted into an unimpressed look or glare now soft and slack with sleep. Lips parted, long lashes appearing to be resting on the apples of your cheeks. He became all too aware of his breathing and the way it made his body move up and down, trying to regulate it so it wouldn't disturb your sleep.
He was so grateful you didn't have any other friends. Just the thought of you so vulnerable in front of someone else filled him with the urge to break and to hurt.
Having you so close soothed him, normally after a run in with his father he would be out on the prowl for a fight to pick. A way to unleash the frustration and aggression that built up every time he was forced to confront the man that seemed like a demon who wore his face. However, there was nowhere he would rather be than here with you.
When you woke you couldn't help the scream that escaped you nor the way your hands flailed out smacking away the bright blue headlight like eyes that were staring a hole into you. Gojo let out a curse, clutching his hand over his eye.
Your terror abated into guilt as you caught your breath after getting the worst jump scare of your life.
"I'm so sorry but why were you watching me sleep?" You asked, trying to get a glance around his freakishly large hands to his face.
"I wasn't watching you sleep." Gojo grumbled, not very convincing when his ears were burning bright red in embarrassment.
"Do you need another ice pack?" You asked and he nodded.
You went to the kitchen to make an ice pack, bringing it back to the tv room where he was waiting. Hand still over his eyes making you feel even guiltier. You rushed over not seeing the empty bento container on the ground, slipping on it and going sprawling across Gojo's lap. Your forehead knocking into his mouth making him curse again and hand landing unfortunately right on his crotch. Telling you more than you ever wanted to know about how what they said about men with big hands was quite true.
You glanced up at him and the quiet string of curses he had been muttering stopped as he saw how close you were. If the weight of your head resting on his arm had been soothing, your warm weight in his lap was anything but. He pushed you off before you could feel first hand what you being so close was doing to him.
"Might have been safer on the street." He joked as a deflection, heart pounding as he quickly grabbed a pillow and put it over his lap.
"God I am so sorry Gojo." You said, holding out the ice pack not trusting yourself to put your hands anywhere near him at the moment.
"It's fine and call me Satoru. You're my friend aren't you?" Gojo asked.
"I don't think we're really close enough to be on a first name basis." You said.
"You just grabbed a solid handful of my junk. It's going to make me feel very cheap and used if you don't at least call me by my first name." He said and you snorted out a laugh, cheeks pinkening in embarrassment at what you had done. Gojo's heart feeling like it was being squeezed and wrung dry at seeing your smile and pink cheeks. The image softened by how sleep rumpled you still were.
"Fine Satoru." You relented and he was glad he had already placed that pillow on his lap. His name sounded so much better coming from you, like he really was something special. Someone held dear to someone.
"Now ice my eye. You really smacked me like you were trying to break open a pinata." He said instigating an argument over pinatas not being broken with bare hands though he insisted that was how he had broken open his own as a child.
You two bickered until it was time to go to bed. He seemed incredibly let down to learn he would be sleeping on a futon in the tv room.
"Can't I just sleep in your bed?" He asked making your eye twitch.
"No and if you have a problem with the futon then you can sleep on the floor." You said, ignoring his sulking as you laid everything out for him on the floor next to the couch.
"How about we stay up and talk?" He asked.
"No I need a break from hearing your nonsense even if it's just for - 6 hours." You said, checking your phone to see how many hours you had to sleep before getting up for school.
"You'd be bored without me." He said.
"I'd be peaceful." You retorted walking towards your room but turning back before you went through the door to bid him goodnight. His chest filling with a warm feeling. He couldn't remember the last time someone had bid him goodnight.
Gojo went to sleep that night with a smile on his face. Thoughts of you swarming his head, ears ringing with your voice saying his name. Those thoughts following him into his dreams. You may have wanted 6 hours away from him but he was glad he didn't have to endure that much without you.
The week passed with Gojo crashing at your place every night. The only time he truly left you were those two classes you had without him and every morning before school when he would run to his place to shower and change. Reassuring you that his dad left for work so early that there would be no chance of their paths overlapping.
You only realized his dad had left days ago when Gojo accidentally played out loud a voicemail from his condominium saying his dad had asked them to call him to set a time to come upgrade the locks since he was out of the country again. You turned to Gojo with a look of complete disbelief that morphed into rage when you saw the sheepish look on his face.
That night you forced him to return to his apartment though he begged and sulked for you to let him stayed another night but for your own sanity and clean criminal record you could not. He was driving you up the wall, you were used to being alone. Not growing up with any siblings or making any friends at school you spent your days alone and had the house to yourself at night since your mom worked.
Having another being as impossible to ignore as Gojo Satoru constantly in your space was overstimulating to your very sensitive and poorly developed social senses. Much to your misfortune the teachers in every class had decided that just making you sit next to him wasn't enough. They also decided to pair you with him for every class assignment or group project giving Gojo just the excuse he needed to invite himself back to your home.
You wanted to complain and scream but there was an advantage to being paired with the top student. Though you had to yell at him to do his work, when he did it, he did better than any of the other idiots in your classes or even you yourself could have done.
However not all assignments were done in pairs and for your English class you all had been put in groups of four to do book reports on your assigned novels. Gojo and you had been paired up with another two boys, one of which you remembered as the boy Gojo called sweaty pits who had nearly fallen onto you and another Gojo called curly for his big curly hair.
Curly seemed terrified of Gojo, avoiding eye contact as you too had done at first upon meeting Gojo. Sweaty pits was reluctant to get too close and be told off about how bad he smelled so both boys resorted to communicating with Gojo through you. For whatever reason that just made him meaner to them both and gave them more reason to be afraid.
Meeting up at the school library after school to research together had been a bust. Gojo entirely unwilling to cooperate and do his part, spending most of his time interrupting the conversations between you and the other two. Sweaty pits wasn't really an academic mind so most of the conversing was happening between you and curly and it was making Gojo boil over with rage.
He snapped the pencil he held in half when you snorted at something curly said. Seeing the boy's eyes widen at seeing your smile. Gojo knew firsthand the sight you made and the effect it had. The way your entire face lit up when you smiled, eyes crinkling and looking even brighter than usual. Something incredibly soft about you when you exhibited even the slightest amount of happiness compared to your usual prickly exterior. Only he should be able to see that side of you. How sweet you were under the standoffishness.
Gojo had immediately swiped your things into your bag, ignoring your protests and complaints about him crinkling up your notes. Grabbing your wrist when curly piped up saying that you all could meet up again whenever worked best for the both of you making Gojo's attention turn to him. Blue eyes blazing with a hatred so visceral it had the boy's voice getting stuck in his throat.
You were dragged away under the pretense of Gojo having been hungry. Enduring the whack you gave him upside the head for bending the pages of your book over not being able to wait another hour to eat. Bad mood lingering all throughout the evening and he didn't argue when you told him he couldn't come to your house after you two had eaten together.
Walking from your apartment straight to the park in the seedier part of town. Not even wasting a moment trying to find a reason but stalking right up to a group of boys older than him smoking and throwing a punch at the biggest one.
Gojo showed up for school the next day with his knuckles split and bruised for the first time in months. The whispers that Gojo was back to his usual self following him through the halls as he made his way to class, late for first period.
You glanced at his knuckles as he sat down but didn't say a word, worsening his bad mood. He didn't understand how you could act so indifferent to him. He wanted you to be nosy, to intrude into his business and demand answers. Hated the nonchalance with which you treated him making him feel as though he was the only one who wanted to know everything about you and thought of you constantly.
For the rest of the day he was uncharacteristically quiet. Emanating an aura that screamed that anyone who came near him was going to get punched. A silent, furious shadow following you around throughout the day.
Everyone was allowed to have their off days and you figured that if he wanted to tell you he would, so you gave him his space. Not instigating conversation and using the time to work through your math homework.
When you got to last period, it was almost a relief to be in a class without Gojo. His terrible mood had been near palpable, suffocating in its intensity and you were glad to be away from it.
A bag settled down on the desk next to yours and you glanced up, surprised to see Curly. He nervously played with the straps of his bag as he asked if he could sit next to you. Quickly going on to explain that it was only because he wanted to ask you some questions about the assignment.
"Sure." You responded simply, having not even realized that you two shared this class too before today.
Curly was abysmal at math and you were glad there were no group assignments for this class or you would have risked failing. His English was luckily better. When you were given time to work on the assigned homework after the lecture, Curly told you he wanted to go over the plot points you needed him to add in the summary to support your part on symbolism.
It was the last class of the day so even when the bell rang you both stayed seated to finish going through the little bit you had left. You rubbed at your eye as you watched Curly furiously jotting down notes about the parts you had asked him to include. Glancing up to ask you a question but pausing as he caught sight of your face.
"You've got some ink on your face." He said and you glanced down at the hand you'd just rubbed your eyes with, groaning when you saw it was covered in ink from having been pressed against your freshly written homework. You swiped at your face with your other hand.
"Better?" You asked and the boy shook his head pointing at where the ink still was staining your face blue. You rubbed in the direction you thought he had pointed and raised your brow at him.
"Here let me just-" The boy said, leaning a bit closer and rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone.
"What the fuck is going on here?" You heard a familiar voice growl. Glancing up to see Gojo charging into the room from where he'd been standing in the doorway. Having arrived to pick you up from your last class only to see you and Curly with your heads close together, Curly's hand on you enough to make Gojo's vision go red.
You could only gasp as a hand yanked the curly haired boy out of his chair and away from you. Tossing him to the ground like he weighed nothing and Gojo swung his leg over him, the first hit making blood spray and the audible crunching of bone breaking rung out in the quiet room. But Gojo didn’t stop there, pummeling fist after fist into the boy's face. Each hit raining down so quickly one after the other the boy couldn't even get his hands in front of his face.
"Gojo." You screamed, grabbing onto his hoodie and trying to pull him off the boy but it was like he didn't even notice you.
You couldn't make out what Gojo was saying, your screams for him to stop drowning out his voice. Your screams attracted the kids passing by in the hall and students came rushing in to the math class, not one of them daring to interfere.
"Get a teacher." You screamed at them grabbing onto Gojo's arm to stop him but he pulled free of you making you fall back onto your bottom.
"Stop it, you're gonna kill him." You wept but it was like he was deaf to the world in his rage. Finally you were pushed back as two teachers came charging in, each grabbing one of Gojo's arms and hauling him off the boy.
The hand you were using to push yourself up off the floor slipping, sending you sprawling back as you caught sight of Gojo's face. Features twisted in animalistic rage, the veins on his neck standing out. Blue eyes blazing with fury, teeth barred as he snarled out words just barely legible to you over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.
"How dare you touch her? She's mine." Gojo was screaming over and over as he thrashed around to be let go. Two other teachers running out in front of him and pushing him back as he broke free and lunged for the boy again.
You scampered backwards in fear, having landed close enough to the curly haired boy to be in Gojo's way. Your movement making his eyes dart to you, the fight draining out of him at the frightened look on your face.
The four teachers took advantage of his state and dragged him out. You could hear Gojo's screams of your name long past when he was out of sight.
For the first time you realized what a mistake it had been to befriend someone known for their violent personality. The curly haired boy was helped up by the principal and another teacher, the students following them leaving you sitting alone in the math class.
You skipped work that day, going straight home. Telling your mom you weren't feeling well and she called the owner of the supermarket for you. Letting you go straight to bed and only coming in to tell you she'd made porridge for you on her way to work.
The next day you didn't go to school. Feigning sick again but actually unwilling to go in and face all the questions that were sure to be asked about the incident. People had seen you there.
You had nothing to tell, you didn't know what had set Gojo off. You remembered what he had been yelling but his words made no sense to you. As wrong as what he had done was, a part of you still felt loyal to your friend and didn't want to say anything against him. Figuring that if you simply didn't show up then you wouldn't have to make a choice between what was right and being loyal.
Gojo had come to school the next day eager to see you and apologize for scaring you. His dad had been called the night before and though the principal had been threatening to suspend him, he'd instead just gotten off with a week of helping the caretaker clean for an hour after school. The principal’s riteous fury doused when his dad brought up how great it would be for the education of the other kids if he got all the school computers replaced.
The principal had let it go, saying boys get into fights and it wasn't worth risking their admission to university to write them up. His father's secretary had flown in and gone to see the boy's family while they were still in the hospital with him. Promising to pay for all of his post-secondary education fees including board and spending money if they didn't press charges and that was simply too good a deal for a parent to pass up.
It was all back to normal like nothing had happened except you weren't there. You didn't come to school the rest of the week and Friday when you didn't show up during first period, Gojo had had enough. He stalked out of the room with the first period teacher asking him to come back or at least take the bathroom hall pass with him if we was leaving but Gojo didn't turn back. Walking right out of school and getting a taxi to your house.
Just the sight of your house was enough to make his heart swell. He knocked on the door, staying quiet as he heard you ask who it was. His knees went weak as the door swung open and revealed you. Standing there in mismatched pajamas with bedhead worse than the first time he'd laid eyes on you and yet he'd never seen such a welcome sight.
Your eyes widened as you caught sight of him. Torn between not wanting to talk to him and ask why he’d done what he did. You stepped out into the cold, closing the door behind you. Wrapping your arms around yourself. Gojo shrugged off the jacket he was wearing, taking a step forward to drape it over you but freezing when you immediately took a step back.
"Take it." He said, holding out his jacket. Blue eyes boring into you waiting for you to finally look up at him and stop staring at the ground. It was maddening to have you before him but still have you avoiding him like this.
"I'm fine." You mumbled.
"If you won't take it then let's talk inside." Gojo said, taking a step forward to reach for your door but you stepped in front of the doorknob.
"My mom's sleeping, you can't come inside." You said and Gojo tried to tell himself it was just because you were worried he would make too much noise and wake her and not because you didn't want him in your house anymore. He knew he had made a mistake, scared you but you had some explaining to do yourself. You had said he was your only friend so why were you letting that little curly haired bastard put his hands on you?
"Why haven't you been coming to school?" Gojo asked and you finally glanced up at him, surprised to hear he had been to school. You were sure he must have been expelled or at least suspended.
It was like he could breathe again now that your eyes were on him. Air filling his lungs for what felt like the first time in days.
"You were at school?" You asked.
"Yeah they put me on cleaning duty this week. Said it wasn't a big deal." He said, sounding so blasé about the whole situation it made your stomach drop. He had beat the curly haired boy to unconsciousness, most likely breaking his nose and taking out some teeth based on the amount of blood but to him it was no big deal?
"How is beating someone to unconsciousness not a big deal?"
"He's fine." Gojo snapped, annoyed that even after not seeing him for days you were talking about that bastard.
"Why are you here?" You asked, realizing you weren't going to get through to him from a morality perspective.
"What do you mean why am I here? You haven't been to school in days, I came to see you." Gojo said, taking a step forward but you stepped away from the door to put more distance between the both of you.
"I don't want to see you right now." You said making Gojo freeze. A cold sweat breaking out on his body as the words you had just spoken rung in his ears. You didn't want to see him. He had been dying to see you and you didn't want him here. You were done with him. He wouldn't allow for it.
"Why do you not want to see me? Look I won't even ask why you were letting that little bastard put his hands on you. It doesn't matter as long as you don't do it again. Let's just go out and get breakfast. You haven't eaten yet, right? We'll bring something back for your mom too." He rambled, voice friendly and bright but eyes manic with desperation that had you balking.
"What are you talking about? Did you hit him for touching me?" You asked, having been raking your brain for days trying to figure out why he had attacked the boy and been unable to think of a reason.
"I don't like others touching you. I'm your only friend. Only I should get to touch you." Gojo said making your heart drop.
"Gojo I'm my own person. You don't get to decide who I'm friends with or who touches me." You said carefully, still hoping this was all a horrid misunderstanding and you were mistaking the implication of his words.
He latched onto your upper arms making you jolt in surprise, pulling you in close until you were nearly chest to chest.
"But you're mine. Just the thought of anyone else touching you makes me so mad I can't think straight. I hate when others talk to you, hate it when they even look at you."
You could only stare up at him in horror. Finally recognizing that glint in his eyes for what it was, mania. You didn't know when he had started thinking of you this way, something he owned and should keep to himself. All you knew was you needed to get away from him.
Not only was he dangerous, with a temper that frequently got the best of him and strength far beyond your imagination, he was also backed by a father who covered up all his misdeeds. Gojo had power and there was no threat of repercussions or consequences to stop him from using it.
"Let go of me." You said but your words had the opposite of their intended effect. He pulled you in to his chest, stooping down to wrap his burly arms around you. Resting his chin on your head and clutching you to him as furiously as a child does their favourite stuffed toy.
"No, can't let you go." He mumbled, turning his face into your hair and breathing in your familiar scent.
"Gojo let go." You demanded, pushing at his chest but with your arms trapped you could barely get enough momentum behind them for him to even feel the pressure, let alone move.
"Stop calling me Gojo. It's Satoru to you." He said, tightening his grip on you making you gasp out in pain.
"You're hurting me, let go." You ordered and Gojo immediately stepped back, horrified at the thought of having hurt you. Gojo had hurt many people in his life, but he never wanted to hurt you. You were the most precious thing to him.
"Leave and don't ever come back. I want nothing to do with you." You said.
"No darling, I'm sorry." Gojo pleaded, trembling hands reaching out to grab hold of you and look you over.
"Leave Gojo." You demanded, turning to go back into your house but his next words made you pause.
"I can't live without you, I need you." He said, voice breaking in a way that had your resolve threatening to crumble. You turned back to him, unable to turn your back on him when the boy you had considered to be your friend sounded close to crying.
"No one's ever made me feel the way you do. I feel like I can't breathe when I'm not around you. I'll die without you, don't push me away." Gojo begged, capturing your hand in his. Blue eyes filling with tears.
You could barely believe this was the boy who nearly killed someone with his bare hands just a couple days ago. But even now as he cried he showed no remorse for what he had done to that boy. He was only upset at the thought of losing you.
He couldn't stop himself as he blurted out everything he felt for you. Needed you to see the truth, how badly he needed you. How he was nothing without you.
"Gojo I've only ever thought of you as a friend, I'm sorry. I think it's best we stay away from each other, I can't return your feelings." You said, watching the tears spill over onto his cheeks at your words.
"You're lying." He said and you glanced up at him, heart clenching at the way the tears poured down his cheeks but he didn't so much as blink or wipe them away.
"You feel the same way. Why else would you spend all your time with me when you don't even talk to anyone else? You invited me to sleep over, took care of me after what my dad did. You do care about me, you're just denying it cause I scared you didn't I?"
"Gojo that's not it, I'm sorry I've never seen you that way. I did all of that because I thought of you as a friend but now I don't think we can even be friends anymore. Just go, okay?" You said turning to go inside leaving him there staring at the spot where you stood as you tore open his heart.
You didn't even want to be friends with him anymore. You couldn't love a monster like him, you couldn't even tolerate to be around him. His dad had warned him that men like them always get left behind. But he wasn't like his dad, he'd get you back. He didn't know how but he would.
Wiping at his eyes Gojo turned to leave, heading right for that part of town he had been told never to return to just a couple nights ago. He found those thugs again, there was a bigger group of them this time. One pointed him out the moment he was in there line of sight.
"Didn't we warn you not to come back here?" One of them asked, standing up from where he was leant against the wall and stepping up to meet Gojo in the middle of the pathway he was walking down.
Gojo didn't even slightly falter at his words. Throwing the first punch once again.
"Oh you're in for it today pretty boy, all our guys are coming here to make sure you don't get to walk away this time."
That day Gojo fought like he really didn't care to continue living. He had lost the one thing that made it all worth it. If Gojo had been rash before then today he was downright reckless. Uncaring about the damage he took, only continuing to move through the swarm of bodies until he physically couldn't anymore.
It took more than one swing of the metal bat to his head to get him down. Barely any of them were left standing by the time he went down and it was lucky that the ones left didn't care to be arrested, leaving him there on the ground and collecting their own men before running off.
He woke up in the hospital. His dad's secretary by his side, glancing up from his laptop when Gojo groaned as he came to consciousness becoming aware of the debilitating headache he had.
You didn’t even come to see him, he called you and sent texts that went unread until they stopped delivering. He refused to stay in hospital longer than the moment he could stand up without the world spinning around him. He had to go back to school, had to see you.
You were relieved not to see Gojo in school when you went back on Monday. Back to being left alone without him there to pester you, letting you get all your homework done during school hours. Your mom wondered why he wasn’t coming over but you told her he was hanging out with his other friends.
It felt strange now to just study throughout lunch but this was for the best of everyone. You got news that the curly haired boy, whose name you finally learned had transferred schools and you wondered if Gojo had done the same. Though you would assume that a lot more people would have been talking about it if the Gojo Satoru left their school.
You only got 3 days of peace before he was back. Whispers and eyes following him as he trudged down the hall, gauze at the back of his head and two black eyes. Knuckles scabbing over from where they’d been split over and over.
His heart leapt when he got to first period and you were sitting there in your usual spot. Hunched over doing your math homework like always. You didn’t even seem to notice the hush that fell over the class when he walked in, going to his rightful seat next to you.
You glanced over as the chair next to you was pulled back, glancing up to see Gojo watching you with a blank expression. You quickly looked back to your homework, heart skipping a beat at the feel of those eyes on you again and you let out a slow shaky exhale to try to regain your composure. It was strange to feel this nervous around someone you used to be so comfortable around.
As much as you wanted to ask if he was okay you thought it better to ignore him. He had feelings for you that you didn't return and after seeing that other side of him, you didn’t want him in your life even as a friend. Best to distance yourself and not get his hopes up.
You could feel his stare boring holes into you all throughout first period, presence seeming to fill up the room and leave no room even for you to draw in a breath. You had never been so glad to hear that bell ring, throwing your stuff haphazardly into your bag not caring if you bent the pages of your textbooks or crumpled your homework.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” Gojo asked before you could make your escape.
“I’m sorry.” You said, meaning it. You’d never meant to cause him pain. He scoffed out a laugh and you made your escape.
From that day on Gojo didn’t talk to you in class. He attended every class you both had together. Sitting silently next to you staring out the window. He got into more fights than ever before, knuckles constantly scabbed over from being split over and over again. When you’d pass him in the halls terrorizing the poor soul who’d had the misfortune of capturing his attention that day those blue eyes would stare at you accusingly. As though telling you this was all your fault.
When you walked into first period the next week and saw him on top of the teacher, throwing punch after punch in the man’s face you nearly fell backwards. It felt like another one of the nightmares you were now very prone to having of him attacking the student and you standing by, doing nothing to intervene. Those blue eyes flicked up to you as you finally managed to find your voice and scream for help.
A smirk twisting up those lips as he pulled back his fist and hit the man even harder than before, blood spraying onto perfect pale skin. He continued hitting the man long after he'd gone limp in his hold. Not taking his eyes off you even as he was dragged away by multiple other teachers.
You ran to the nearest bathroom, throwing up your breakfast and sinking down onto the ground. Entire body shaking as you remembered the look in those eyes. Like a cornered predator holding its head high even as it was torn to shreds.
For that incident he was suspended. It seemed even Gojo Satoru couldn’t get away with putting a teacher in the hospital but considering if it were anyone else they’d be in jail, you guessed his father had used his influence again. You hated the part of you that worried about the price Gojo must have paid for that interference.
For the next 2 weeks Gojo didn’t come to school. Slowly you stopped expecting to see him around every corner you turned and in every class you walked into. The owner of the supermarket stopped asking you to bring him back to attract customers and your mom stopped asking if you two had fought and when he'd come over again.
You went back to doing your schoolwork during your classes, eating your milk bread alone in the library during lunch. Walking to the supermarket, with your brain playing tricks on you and making you see flashes of a tall boy with white hair and impossibly blue eyes in your peripheral.
It was why when you heard a knocking on your door close to midnight on a Saturday, you didn't even suspect it would be Gojo. Being home alone so late at night you had no intention of opening the door. Clutching your phone, ready to call the police as the banging got progressively louder.
"What, now I can't even come around and visit?" You heard a familiar voice call out making you nearly drop your phone. You hurried to the door as he continued his banging, worried he was going to break your door.
You opened the door and there he stood. The dim streetlight illuminating his face as he glanced up from where he'd knelt down on your steps. Hood falling back and revealing his face that was covered in bruises. There was a cut across his eyebrow, edge of his jaw purple, lip split and a bandage over the bridge of his nose.
The smell of alcohol hit you as he got up to his feet, staggering slightly. Split lip pulling into a smile at the sight of you.
"What happened to you?" You asked and he was glad that you had finally dropped the uncaring act. Perhaps it was true what they said about distance making the heart grow fonder. Maybe you had spent all this time apart thinking of him just as his every thought had been consumed by you. No amount of fights or alcohol were helping. He didn't need any of that, he just needed you to feel better.
"Won't you invite me in?" He asked, ignoring your question. Wanting to see the worried look on your face a little longer. You probably thought his dad had done this to him. And well while he had a part to play, not all of it had been his dad. Just the lip really that had split when his dad backhanded him for making him abandon a deal and fly back home to set him straight. Threatening to cancel his cards and looking almost repulsed when that made Gojo start laughing manically.
He had flown back out the next day without making good on his promise. Clearly in no mood to do any actual parenting, either thinking him beyond help or believing the threat to cut him off to be sufficient.
You stepped back from the door giving him the space to enter. Unable to turn him away when he looked like he could barely stand up straight and had god knows how many more injuries. You were glad you let him in when he walked past and you caught sight of the blood that glinted red on the black hoodie he wore.
"Gojo what happened to your side?" You asked and he glanced down to the stained fabric as though just noticing it, lifting his hoodie and revealing a deep gash across his hip making you gasp.
"Jesus Gojo you need to go to the hospital." You said, rushing to follow him in and trying to catch him as he slumped back on the couch in a way that could not be good for his injury.
"Don't need anything else but you." He mumbled, reaching up to grab your hand while you were stood in front of him, legs trapped between his. Not noticing how close you had gotten in your worrying.
"I'm serious, I'm gonna call a taxi and let's take you to the hospital." You said, moving to step back but he tugged you down into his lap. Wrapping his arms around you to hold you down.
"Don't move, need this. Missed you so much." He mumbled, burying his face in the crook of your neck, pressing a kiss to the skin there. Your eyes widening at his actions.
"Gojo let go." You said, pushing at his arms around you but they wouldn't budge.
"Stop calling me that, acting like we're strangers." He whined, pressing kisses up your neck to your jaw. You panicked, shoving at his face. Accidentally hitting his injured nose and he let you go, winded from the pressure on the broken bone.
You scampered backwards out of reach, breathing hard. Glancing over at the door, wishing you had never let him in. He was drunk and completely out of control.
He was up on his feet by the time you glanced back at him and though you had been aware of how tall he was, you had never really noticed how much bigger he was than you before now. So much taller and broader than you. There was no competition when it came to strength. You could only hope you would be able to get through to him.
You stumbled back as he took a step forward, eyes darting down to your feet and back up to you. Pupils dilating as he zeroed in on his prey, each of his steps forward matched with yours trying to maintain the distance between the both of you.
You jolted in surprise as you felt your back hit something solid, taking a quick glance behind you to see you had reached the wall. But darling hadn't anyone ever told you never to take your eyes off the predator? He closed the gap between you the moment you turned your head, on you in a flash. Large hand grabbing hold of your jaw and you didn't even have time to try to pull away before he was crashing his mouth over yours.
Groaning at the taste of you, sweeter than he could have imagined. All the fantasies his brain tormented him with were nothing compared to the real thing. How soft and warm you felt under him, the smell of you that filled his senses. How perfectly your lips fit against his.
For a moment you were too stunned to move but as he licked over your lips to try to coax them into parting it was like you were kicked back into action. You pushed at him with all your might, fingers scrabbling against the solid mass of him for purchase. Soon you were running out of air and without any other options you bit down on his lip.
He pulled back with a laugh, swiping at his lip that you had torn again. Eyes catching on his blood that stained your mouth. Pretty lips slick with spit and his blood colouring them red on the side you had bitten him. Chest heaving with every breath as you watched him warily.
He saw you glance at the door a millisecond before you tried to lunge past him to get to it. But even when he was intoxicated you were no match for his reflexes, he pushed you back into the wall with ease.
Caging you there with both forearms leaned on either side of your head. He traced his thumb gently over your bottom lip, swiping his blood across it. Desperate for another taste.
You turned your head angrily and he tutted, tilting your face back towards him with a hand guiding your jaw. Careful not to apply too much pressure. Last thing he wanted was to hurt you. You looked so pretty with his blood on you but he had no intention of ever seeing your own, certainly not ever drawn by his hand.
"Don't touch me." You snarled.
"Don't be angry darling. I just missed you so much I couldn't help myself. I've wanted to do this for so long, longer than even I realized." Gojo murmured, eyes still tracked on your lips. Just wanting another taste but it had made you so angry the first time so he tried to hold himself back. You had no idea how much he had always been holding back for your sake.
"You disgust me." You spat making him freeze.
He didn't understand why you said all those hurtful things. It had ruined him to hear you say you never wanted to see him again but then tonight you'd let him in again. Been so worried over just a couple bruises and a cut that you had wanted to take him to the hospital in the dead of the night.
You had to be lying now too. It was such a terrible habit of yours. Lying about all these hurtful things, not knowing what it did to him.
"Don't say stuff like that." He admonished gently.
"You do, I wish I'd never met you." You said and he clenched his jaw. Trying so hard to hold back the rage he felt at being treated this way by the one he'd put above everything else.
"After what you did today, you mean nothing to me." You said and he slapped his hand over your mouth. Taking a long slow deep breath in and out to contain his anger.
"Enough." Gojo said quietly, glancing up to look into your widened eyes watching him, the understanding of the sort of situation you were in starting to settle in.
"What a terrible temper you have, saying all these hurtful things I know you don't mean." He said, taking his hand off your mouth to smooth your hair back from your face.
"Please leave." You asked quietly making him sigh.
"Why would I leave my pretty darling all alone this late at night?" Gojo asked softly, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair that fell across your cheek. Brows furrowing in confusion as a pearly drop slid down your cheek and it took him a moment to realize you were crying.
"No, no baby don't cry." Gojo cooed as he looked at your pretty eyes glassy with tears. He swiped his thumbs gently under your eyes, cupping your face between his hands and pressing the tenderest of kisses to your lips.
"It's been so hard on both of us being away from one another but I'm here now. I won't let them keep us apart anymore." He said, pulling you in close to his chest as you choked on a sob that broke free from your chest.
"Others have tried to get in your head haven't they? Telling you terrible things about me and trying to lure you away. My poor naive darling." He cooed and you steeled yourself to do what you had to in order to get away.
"Satoru." You called softly making him pull back to look at you. Eyes filling up with hope and a smile blooming on his face.
You reached up for him, carefully cupping his jaw within both your trembling hands. Keeping your eyes on his all the while you got up on the tips of your toes. Glancing down to your target and his eyes flickered down to your lips.
He leant down and you took the opportunity of finally having him the closest to eye level as you could to ram your head forward with all the momentum you could muster in that amount of space. Your head connected with his nose and an audible crack was heard that you were sure would ring in your ears for the rest of time.
Gojo stumbled back a step, hands flying to his nose. Not even understanding at first why his fingers were suddenly stained crimson until you shoved at his chest making him fall back on his bottom.
You darted for the door, fingers just grazing the door knob before your ankle was grabbed and tugged sharply, bringing you down. You cried out as you hit the floor, chin hitting the ground so hard it made your teeth rattle.
You were flipped onto your back as Gojo crawled on top of you, drops of the blood dripping from his nose dropping down onto you. You pushed and scratched with all your might, besides yourself with the need to get away but your wrists were caught in each of his hands and pinned down on either side of your head.
You sobbed beneath him, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head so you wouldn't have to see the horrifying image he made. Blue eyes lit up with the flame of his manic obsession, blood dripping down his nose past his lips and down his chin. Dropping onto your chest and splattering you with red.
"Why would you try to run from me darling? What have I ever done to you to make you act like this?" He asked, voice sounding so hurt as though he had any right to feel betrayed.
"Look at me." Gojo said but you kept your eyes squeezed shut. Hoping this was all a nightmare and you'd wake up soon.
"I said look at me." He said releasing one of your wrists to grab your jaw and force your head straight. Grip tightening until you complied, a fresh wave of tears swelling in your eyes at the sight of him.
"Fuck, look at what you've done to yourself." He muttered, gingerly stroking over your bruised chin making you flinch.
"Please let me go." You begged making his heart clench.
"I am never going to let you go. We belong together. Now come on, up on your feet. If we stay here they'll never stop getting between us. We have to leave." Gojo said, not waiting for you to comply. Rising up to his feet and forcefully pulling you up too by your hands.
"Now listen to me good darling, once we get outside I want you to keep your head down and stay quiet. If you so much as say a word to anyone, I'll kill them." Gojo warned, waiting till you nodded before pulling you in close and tucking you under his arm. Casting one last look at the only place that had ever felt like home to him before he ushered you out.
No one knew where you two disappeared to that night. Gojo's dad spent all the money he could on finding his son and your mother never gave up but not a trace was ever found again of either of you. At the school they said regretfully they had thought you would be a good influence on him and yet you two had been each other's ruin.
Thinking about Yandere Lieutenant Gojo known as the mad dog amongst his troop. Born to a long line of military commanders and with a reputation for being more fearsome than any of those that preceded him. Entirely too unpredictable and with that sort of backing, no one dared question the things he did.
All you had wanted was protection. The military was not the place for the likes of you but now that you were there you just wanted to ride the coattails of better and more powerful men until you got discharged and a fat pension to accompany your trauma. It was supposed to be simple but you chose the wrong man to kiss up to. They had warned you about the mad dog and you really should have listened. Nothing comes for free.
Wordcount: 14k+
Notes: Not canon-compliant, alternate universe where curses are widely known and everyone can see and fight them. Yandere behaviour, non-con touching, violence and threats of violence. Crack-like until things get serious. Loosely inspired by the manwha Passion.
You bit nervously at your nails, watching all the others gear up as though they were going to play laser tag and not be exposed to real bloodthirsty curses. You hadn't thought this far when you signed up for the Special Force Against Curses. All you knew was your old neighbour who had retired from SFAC now stayed at home all day eating snacks and yelling at his television. That was all you wanted from life.
The brutal 9-5 for decades would wear you out too fast. You couldn't spend the majority of your life waiting desperately for the weekend. It would be easier to enlist, tough it out until you found a way to be discharged with pension.
You hadn't really considered all the danger you'd be exposed to. Suddenly that fat pension made sense. They could afford to dangle it over your heads knowing most of you would not make it to the finish line.
The others began retreating from the weaponry breaking you out of your thoughts and making you wonder if you had taken too long dallying. Now only the stuff no one wanted would be left but then you saw the tall figure make their way through the parted crowd. Not only taller than all the other men but that shock of white hair made him stand out all the more. The one everyone called the mad dog. Though to you he looked more like an extraterrestrial being with those freakish blue eyes of his.
You had heard the rumours. He was as strong as ten men, so fast he could take out a whole gang of curses before they even realized they were under attack. Thought of strategy and planned attacks out in ways others couldn't even perceive of. It sounded like the winning recipe for a soldier but apparently, and according to the more envious men, he was barking mad. You thought it was just jealousy of his skill.
You weren't the jealous type. No, you were the type to recognize that there were others in this world who had advantages and skills you didn't possess but just because you didn't have them, didn't mean you couldn't make use of them. The mad dog, or Gojo Satoru as you would respectfully address him, was exactly the kind of friend you needed to make it out of here alive and get to use the pension you had signed up for.
That day as you cowered behind a wall while the others attacked, you kept an eye out for that shock of white hair. Watching as the man disappeared from your line of sight and reappeared at intervals almost always brutally finishing off a curse and it became quite clear as you watched why he was called the mad dog. He had a smile on his face more frightening than the creatures as he disemboweled them, those freakish eyes of his glowing in the darkness like that of a predator.
That was a man you could hide behind and one clearly capable of protecting you from any and all threats. That evening at dinner when you had gotten your tray of food you marched it over right to Gojo Satoru’s table.
"Can I sit?" You asked before you could think better of it.
Those blue eyes gazing out the window slowly trailed over to you. Not even the slightest shift in his expression as he stared at you as blankly as he had been looking at the scenery out the window beside the table he always sat at, alone.
"No." He said, making your stomach drop. You had been planning how to approach him but you hadn't really considered the possibility he might turn you down.
"I'll give you my dessert." You bartered, his eyes flicked down to your tray.
"Blech, I don't like raspberry pudding." He said making you glance down to your tray too.
"I asked for chocolate." You exclaimed.
You had asked for the chocolate pudding but clearly the blind bat serving had given you the raspberry instead.
"That blind bat." You muttered lowly under your breath, glaring back over your shoulder at the old lady serving. Nearly jumping out of your skin in fright when a bark like laugh erupted from the man sitting before you. Eyes now sparkling when just before he had been looking at you like he wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped dead.
"That's my great aunt." He said, making your heart drop. You had really ruined all chances of friendship.
"She lost her eye sight in one eye while serving and then majority of her sight in the other in a curse attack." He continued. Not only had you ruined chances of friendship you'd gone and made an enemy of the strongest man in the troop, not to mention that he was your superior.
"I'm so-" You started but were cutoff by him speaking again.
"She's got a nose like a hound though so she definitely gave you the raspberry on purpose. Nasty old bat." Gojo said and you nearly went boneless in relief.
"I knew it couldn't always be a mistake." You said swinging one leg over the bench but a tutting sound made you freeze.
"I didn't say you could sit." Gojo said and you blinked at him like a deer in headlights before awkwardly pulling your leg back.
"Find another table, this one's mine." He said, glancing away from you in clear dismissal.
You joined one of the many other tables where the soldiers, clearly still sour that you had hid during the attack, gave you dirty looks which you ignored. Too busy trying to figure out what had happened because there had been a moment when you thought you'd found your in with Gojo Satoru.
You retreated that day but that didn't mean you stopped trying. From then on where Gojo Satoru went, you followed. If he was heading to meals then you were right behind him, tray in hand and getting the exact same foods he chose. You woke when he did and retired to sleep when he did. At first it was just to align your routine but the madman was an early riser so soon you needed to go to bed early if you were going to survive waking at dawn like him.
The only time you weren't dutifully following him around was when you all ran laps. He outpaced you several times and would eventually make it back into your blurred line of sight as you gasped and panted for air while being heckled by your commander for being a disgrace.
He mostly acted like you didn't exist. He would respond when spoken to but still made it abundantly clear you weren't welcome in his space. He had yet to allow you to sit at his table. The only time he had any sort of positive reaction to you was when he would hear something you muttered to yourself and would let out that bark-like laughter that nearly pierced your eardrums.
It was one of those mornings where you were dragging yourself to the training room. Knowing Gojo was already there and cursing him for being such an early riser when you finally saw what made the others avoid the man and speak of him as though he were the legend of a spooky ghost story and not their fellow comrade in arms.
You opened the door to the gym, still a bit bleary eyed but the fog of exhaustion disappeared the moment you took in the scene in front of you. Gojo Satoru was straddling a man on the ground beneath him, pummeling fist after fist into his face. The man's face, now a swollen, bloody mess, was completely unrecognizable even though you had been spending every waking moment surrounded by your fellow soldiers.
You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when the next punch resulted in a spray of blood splattering up from the man's nose that had been reduced to a mangled mess of bloodied cartilage. Drops of crimson spraying out onto Gojo's pristine, marble-like pale skin. The sight made more unsettling by how other than that splatter of blood across his jaw and neck, there was not even so much as a scratch on him. Not even his hair was mussed.
At the sound, Gojo glanced up making you freeze in place. Those manic blue eyes now on you, glowing just the way they did when he was hunting curses.
"Good morning." Gojo huffed, sitting back on the man as though it were not the body of a person he'd beaten into unconsciousness but a bench.
"Good morning." You breathed, whirling around when you heard footsteps coming down the hall. Your heart nearly fell through your stomach as you made eye contact with the beady pair of your commander.
Violence against fellow soldiers was strictly prohibited. If the commander saw Gojo now he would expel him and all your efforts in fraying him down would have been for naught. The others didn't particularly like you for being weak and hiding during attacks. You had spent all your time following around Gojo and the others had already formed their little cliques. There was no hope of finding another protector.
"Commander, sir, Lieutenant Hiroshi was looking for you in the weaponry. Something about needing help with a holster." You said, making the man pause. It was common knowledge the commander had the biggest crush on Hiroshi.
"A holster?"
"Yes sir, his thigh holster has come loose I believe." You said and the man didn't even bother responding. Turning right back around the way he had come.
"Lieutenant Hiroshi wasn't in the weaponry." A voice said from behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whirling back around to see Gojo stood behind you with an amused glint in his eyes and more concerningly the blood still splattered across his face.
"I know that but I had to get the commander out of here. If he saw this you would have been discharged from the military and that too disgracefully. You know you don't get pension if you get discharged disgracefully right?" You asked, unthinkingly licking your thumb and swiping at the blood on his jaw.
He flinched back, catching your wrist but you wriggled your hand out. Pushing against his chest so he was forced back into the gym and out of anyone who may be passing's line of sight. You leaned out, scanning the hall before turning back to look at the man whose large chest muscles you only now noticed your hands were still on considering he was looking down at them like he didn't understand what they were.
"Okay, now listen, you head back to your room and if anyone asks you were feeling sick so you didn't come to work out today. If you weren't at the scene of the crime, then you couldn't have committed it. I'll say I found him here like this. Just help me drag him over to the showers so I can say I only saw him after my workout."
Gojo was still watching you in complete silence as though you were speaking another language he didn't speak.
"Come on, get moving. If anyone sees you we're done for." You said.
"We?" He asked, reassuring you that he had in fact not forgotten his mother tongue out of shock. Though he didn't look the least bit flustered or shocked, only slightly perplexed but not at the situation, at you.
"Yes, we. If I get caught covering for your ass then I'll also be discharged dishonorably, completely defeating the purpose of why I enlisted in the first place so you better start putting that brain and those muscles to use." You said, walking over to the man and grimacing at the mess Gojo Satoru had made of his face. You had been about to grab his shoulders but that was too close to the mangled face so instead you moved to grab his legs which were more in tact.
"Why would you cover for me?" Gojo asked suspiciously and you huffed at seeing he still wasn't making any effort to help you. While he'd been enthusiastic about causing the mess, he was quite reluctant to join in on the necessary clean up.
His question registered and you were glad that you had been stooped down to try to lift the unconscious man's legs so Gojo couldn't see the momentary panic on your face. It probably wouldn't do to tell him that it was because you wanted to be brought under his wing until you found a way to be discharged early.
"Because we're friends." You responded, sounding a little unsure even to yourself but a quick glance up at Gojo told you he hadn't quite noticed.
His otherwordly eyes had a far off look and you wondered if he had now gone into shock before he met your eye and you watched as his gaze narrowed in on you reminding you eerily of a hawk zeroing in on their prey, sending a shiver down your spine. You really should have paid more attention to that uneasy sense of foreboding.
Instead of responding, Gojo stooped down to lift the man up by the shoulders and carried the heft of him over to the showers without taking his eyes off you but you were a bit too busy struggling to carry the man's legs to notice.
After you had both dropped the man in the showers you again told Gojo to go back to his room. Catching his wrist just as he was about to leave. He glanced back, looking at your little hand on his wrist and then up to you. Brows creased in worry for him.
"Did anyone see you on your way here?" You asked and when he took a moment too long to answer rushed to clarify.
"Besides the unconscious man."
He shook his head in negative, something about that worried expression rendering him speechless when so many horrors and wonders he'd faced hadn't been able to.
"Good, go." You said releasing his wrist and turning to fret over the unconscious man again.
Gojo walked back to his room in a daze. You didn't know who he was. He had assumed you had been following him around like a shadow because you wanted to be affiliated with the Gojo heir. Set to inherit all the wealth, influence and glory of all the Gojo clan before him but your actions today made it clear you had no idea about his family background.
It wasn't often that people tried to get close to him. Not since what used to be rumours had become so undeniably backed by proof he had provided at nearly every turn in his life that even his parents couldn't refute them without risking looking like fools. And no member of the Gojo clan would ever risk being made a fool.
He had never had a friend. At first it was because his parents simply didn't think anyone worthy of standing beside him as an equal when he so clearly surpassed all the children his age in every conceivable way. That made him used to being alone and not at all used to sharing.
Gojo knew what the others called him - the mad dog for his territorial ways. Gojo didn't take kindly to anyone trying to take what was his. He didn't go around attacking people for no reason but when they tried to use or take his things that set him off. Admittedly he had a tendency to go a bit overboard when set off.
Like this morning when he'd gotten to the gym and seen one of the others using the weight machine he woke up so damn early to be able to use without others pawing all over it. He had asked politely for the man to find another machine because that one was his but the man hadn't listened and Gojo only asked politely once.
When he'd first enlisted these sort of misunderstandings happened fairly often. People mistook living in a shared space to mean Gojo would be sharing what was his. After that misunderstanding had been clarified with some of his fellow comrades in arms, word spread and they learned to stay away from Gojo's things.
He had broken limbs and beat people to unconsciousness in front of their commander and no one had ever dared to so much as write him up. It was real cute though to see you fretting and scheming for him. No one had ever worried over him like this. People had worried because of him. Worried over the damage he could do to them, their reputations in his parent's case or other such nonsensical things.
He found he quite liked your worrying. If this was what being your friend meant then he was quite ready to have you as his first and only friend.
After that morning incident it was like a flip had switched. Suddenly you didn't need to follow Gojo around anymore because he always managed to find you first.
In the morning he was at your door, knocking to be let in and dragging you along to the gym barely awake. If you got to meals later than he did then he'd have a tray of food waiting for you identical to his and if you went together then there was no question you'd be sitting right next to him.
Somehow no one had bothered to question what you had said about finding the man Gojo had beaten into an actual coma on the shower floors. You had been terrified a full investigation would be done and in your nerves suggested that maybe he had just tripped in the showers when your commander had been questioning you about the incident.
At the time he had made it seem like he would be digging into the matter and you were going to be in a lot of trouble if caught lying but then he'd never brought it up again. Perhaps you were a better liar than you thought.
What you couldn't deceive anyone about though was your lack of physical prowess and were currently feeling the full weight of your commander's disdain as everyone running laps circled you for a fourth time while you struggled to complete your second. Gojo had ran past you six times already. Giving you an encouraging thump on the back the first time that nearly laid you out on the ground had he not caught you, and then with an encouraging cheer and laugh as though he were having the time of his life every time since.
"Having to watch you run is the only time I regret enlisting." Your commander was saying when you felt someone run up next to you. You glanced over, seeing double from exhaustion before your sight settled somewhat and you realized it was just one very pissed off Gojo glaring at the commander.
"Would you like me to give you a couple other reasons?" He asked and the commander seemed to turn as green as you probably were with how nauseous you were feeling.
"I-uh have to go check on the others." The commander said, breaking out into a full sprint across the field. Apparently not even the commander was above being intimidated by Gojo.
To not have to hear the commander's disparaging while you endured having to do the activity you hated more than anything felt like a blessing and out of happiness you flung yourself at Gojo. Clinging to your saviour with all your might.
Had it been anyone else you both would have gone sprawling onto the field with the way you practically tackled him into a hug but Gojo had just gone very still, staring down at you in shock. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him.
You were so soft and warm against him. So much smaller than him you barely reached his chest. Burying your face into him like he was your only hope.
Before he could think of how to react you were glancing up at him beaming. Your face pink from the exertion, the afternoon sun making it glow and bringing out the flecks of gold in your eyes. He hadn't so much as broken a sweat while running those laps but now all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his heart thudding against his ribcage.
Never before had he so desired for something to be his. And you were his, weren't you? It had been your idea all along to become his friend. You were the one to force yourself into his orbit and now that you had he had no intention of ever letting you out.
He allowed his arms to wrap around you, chest clenching at how right that felt. This was where you belonged, within his grasp.
You released him as abruptly as you had embraced him leaving him feeling cold and bereft. But there was still the lingering warmth of your touch and the heat that bloomed within his chest as you smiled at him in that way. Challenging him to a race you both knew there was no way you would win.
The effort however of trying to out run the Gojo Satoru had you so belligerent with thirst you couldn't be bothered to try to find your own water bottle amongst the many at the finish line. Swiping his from his hand and holding it up above your mouth so you could gulp it down.
A hush fell over the others, silence so pronounced that it made it through your haze of exhaustion. Every one of the others was looking at you, or actually upon closer inspection, not at you but behind you at Gojo.
Gojo waited for the familiar rage to rise up within his chest as he watched you gulp down his water from his water bottle. That feeling of wrongness and outrage but there was nothing. No rage, just that weird tightness he'd gotten in his chest earlier while looking at you.
It had been amusing to see you trying to beat him with your much shorter legs and how incredibly out of shape you were compared to him. He probably could have run that lap faster if he were carrying you than you had managed to on your own.
He had always liked running. It cleared his head and let out some of that pent up energy always buzzing in his veins but running with you panting next to him, gasping for air and asking if he was even human was the first time he had found running fun.
You made everything fun, life had been so dull before you. He couldn't imagine going back to that. He found everything you did entertaining. Your little habit of muttering to yourself. It was always rude or bitter comments said under your breath but he found them hilarious.
The way you made no attempt to hide that you had no interest in defending people by eradicating curses but were just here for the pension. Hiding away every time you were all sent out on a mission. Your honesty was a breath of fresh air amongst all the false bravado and nobility he had grown up surrounded by.
He threw an arm around your shoulders, feeling a strange urge to have you close that he'd never felt for anyone before.
"Let's get you out of the sun. You look like a tomato." He said and you scoffed through your panting.
"Sorry we're not all godly beings that can run laps in the sun and still look like we're filming an athletic wear commercial. Did you even sweat, you freak?" You asked, hearing a gasp from amongst the others but not paying any attention as you got up on the very tips of your toes to try to prove your point.
Gojo froze as he felt you nose into his neck and take a quick inhale. Feeling the blood rushing down south as your body pressed against his side, letting him feel the shape of you and the heat emanating off your skin. Your warm breath against his throat and the scent of you, clean sweat and soap filling his senses and making his head spin.
Suddenly he was the one that was breathless.
"How do you still smell good?" You muttered against his neck.
He couldn't help himself and pushed you away, only remembering at the last minute to not use his full force but still sending you stumbling back a couple steps.
"Oh can you not sweat? Are you like those animals that don't have sweat glands?"
You took his silence for affirmation and grimaced sympathetically.
"My bad, that's probably a touchy topic for you. It must be tough being unable to control your temperature and just overheating like a reptile in the desert. I won't bring it up again." You said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you passed him.
Letting you think he was missing sweat glands was better than trying to explain that he was actually sporting a raging boner because you had sniffed him. He let you walk away with his water bottle still held in your hand, turning to watch the commander a moment. That sight had his hard-on dying down fast enough and he scooped up your water bottle and chased after you just as you made it to the doors leading inside.
"Should we hit the showers?" He asked as he made it to your side.
It was strange that after a training session like that you and Gojo somehow had the showers all to yourselves. Usually this place was packed to the brim after a brutal training session with sweaty men all wanting to quickly shower so they could get to the dining hall as fast as possible.
"Can I borrow your shampoo? I'm all out." Gojo said and you quickly squirted some into your hand before turning to pass the bottle to him but froze at the sight that awaited you.
It wasn't unexpected. At that height and stature and with hands that were more like giant paws you couldn't have expected anything else, but this was nearly inhuman. It twitched as you continued to stare and you couldn't help the startled scream that escaped you at the sight of a monstrosity like that having any life in it.
You flung the shampoo at the man next to you and quickly turned to face forward again, hearing him chuckle.
"What, are you really acting like you've never seen a naked man before?"
"I've seen naked men but I haven't seen a weapon of mass destruction swinging between their legs before." You muttered furiously, chancing a glance at the man when you didn't get a response to see his face had gone completely blank.
"Which man have you seen naked? Was it one of those bastards?" He asked advancing on you completely ignoring the rules of the communal shower. You had assumed everyone knew that in the showers you always kept your eyes focused straight on the tiles in front of you and you never got too close to anyone else while your privates were swinging about.
"Woah, woah you stay over there and keep that thing away from me." You said, holding your hands out ahead of you in defense.
"Tell. Me. Who." He demanded.
"I've been sharing a shower with all those duds for months, of course I've seen them naked though none of them have been as shameless as you." You said, finishing up your shower and hurriedly wrapping your towel around yourself.
He grabbed your arm as you made your way past him.
"I've got clean clothes in my bag, wear those. Don't go out there like that." He ordered, eyes roaming down your body.
"Do you have a problem with the way I wrap my towel?" You asked.
Back when you were in school the other kids had given you shit for that though you never quite understood what you were doing so differently than the others.
"No, I have a problem with how small it is and how little it covers."
"It's the standard size they give everyone. Are you body shaming me right now? I'm sorry I don't have a six pack like you." You huffed.
"8." He said, a smirk twisting up his lips making you furrow your brows in confusion.
"Here, see -" He said having grabbed your hand, forcing your fingers to trail down what really was an 8 pack and counting out each row.
As he got to the bottom row and your palm brushed against the trail of hair that led to the image you were afraid was seared into your brain forever, you couldn't help but let out a yelp and snatch back your hand. Instinctively slapping him before your brain could catch up with what you had done.
Your eyes went wide as you saw his head turn. The pale skin of his cheek sporting a faintly pink handprint that perfectly aligned with the hand you would probably be losing in just a moment.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Gojo, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did-"
He turned his head back to look at you making your mouth clamp shut. He took a step forward and you mirrored it by taking a step back. He took another and you did the same, both of you playing this game until your back hit the shower wall.
He placed his palm next to your head making you jump as he leaned in. Bringing his face level to yours as you cringed back into the wall, feeling like your heart was caught in your throat. All the rumours you had heard about his temper returning to you now.
"Kiss it better." He muttered.
"W-what?" You asked hesitantly, almost entirely sure you had misheard him. Perhaps he had said something about his intentions to kill and you had heard kiss.
"Kiss it better." He repeated, turning his pinkened cheek towards you and tapping his finger against it pointedly.
"Oh, uh okay." You said, you didn't quite want to kiss your naked comrade in arms on the cheek but it was better than being disemboweled in the communal showers so you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
He grinned as though you had done something particularly pleasing and his nickname began to make more sense than ever. The man really was barking mad.
"Now grab something from my bag to wear. I'll rip out the eyes of anyone who sees you like this." Gojo said, turning to saunter back to his shower.
You watched him go, wondering what sort of lunatic you had gotten yourself acquainted with. In the coming days you'd have that thought more often than anticipated.
Gojo Satoru wasn't just a powerful man, but an odd one too and for some reason everyone else just made allowances for it. Now that you were under his wing, that meant they made the same allowances for you.
The taunting by the others and dirty looks they had given you since your first mission when you hid instead of fighting had stopped. So had the very vocal disapproval of your superiors for your lack of strength and endurance.
Hanging out with Gojo also meant getting the gym to yourself, which was a great place to take a nap while the lunatic spent hours on various weight machines building muscles in places you didn't know people had them. It also meant never having to share the showers with anyone but Gojo though you didn't know if that was an upgrade considering he seemed to have no idea how to act in communal showers.
He was always chatting away and staring right at you as he did. The others may have hogged the hot water and been more unsightly in their nude form but at least they didn't stare. That was a small price to pay for all the perks though.
Being his friend wasn't hard. When you had first approached him you'd expected to be something of a lackey, imagining fetching his meal trays and egging him on when he got into a fight with someone. Truth was he did more for you than you did for him.
He got your meals for you because his great aunt actually gave him what he asked for and he would refill your water and even buy you snacks. It was unfortunate he didn't use his power to excuse you from training entirely but you tried not to get too greedy.
Eccentric as he was, beneath the aristocratic features and muscled physique that would imply an empty mind, he was actually quite smart. Seemed to be well-educated too so why he was so intrigued by you was genuinely a bit confusing. You didn't know what it was about you that made him seem to hang onto every word.
Those intense eyes of his bore into you while you spoke, though you were starting to get used to the other-worldly blue of them. He would burst into laughter at the oddest of times, particularly when you weren't intending to be funny. Though he'd always crack at least a smile at even your bad jokes. Grabbing you by the scruff and hauling you in when you truly made him laugh, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture you'd normally think too affectionate for friends but perhaps that's how comrades were.
The sound of the pulldown machine he was currently using was faintly registering as your mind began to wake but you refused to let yourself fully rouse to consciousness. When the sound of the machine struggling against the maniac who had had dragged you here this early finally seized, you had just begun to sink back into sleep when you heard the murmur of your name.
You groaned, turning over and clenching your eyes shut. Trying to escape into dreamland so you wouldn't have to face another day of arduous training and the resulting cloud of body odor that lingered in every room of the building because of it.
"Come on, wake up." Gojo said, poking your cheek but you batted at his hand.
“You’ve been napping for two hours. Do you not sleep at night?” He asked, which were long sentences and if you were understanding them then that meant the fall back asleep ship had sailed without you on board.
“No Gojo, I don’t sleep at night.” You sighed, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes.
“Why?” He asked, passing you his water bottle and smoothing your mussed hair as you took a long drink from it. Making you choke on the water as you dodged his hand irritably.
“Because the rats I’m roomed with stay up till ungodly hours playing games and drinking.” You said, once you’d finally managed to clear the water in your airways, helped by Gojo’s thumping of your back.
“Do they make you play with them?” He asked, returning to his patting of your hair.
“No, as if I’d ever do something so childish.” You scoffed, batting at his hand.
Truth was they didn’t let you play nor did they share their booze. Apparently rewards were for “soldiers not cowards” according to those jerks.
“Then why can’t you sleep?”
“Because they’re loud and stop touching my hair or I swear to god.” You growled, slapping at his hand.
“Swear to god to what?” He asked, though his gaze was a bit far away. Staring at the wall across from you both as though lost in thought about something. Probably trying to mentally tally the reps he had done, the meathead.
“I’ll - I’ll bite you.” You said, floundering for a threat when the man was double your size.
He smirked, amused. Holding up his giant claw of a hand before you like an offering.
“Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson I'll let it pass this time.” You said, going to get up but that offending appendage forced you down by your shoulder. One of his claws keeping you seated and the other mussing up your hair until you really were livid enough to risk it all.
You caught his hand, bringing it to your mouth not paying any attention to how deceptively easy that was to do. Sinking your teeth into the soft flesh between his pointer finger and thumb like a feral pest.
Missing entirely the way those blue eyes darkened as he watched you, pupils blown wide. The hand forcing you down now cupping your shoulder and guiding you closer.
You pulled away, worried if you continued you might actually draw blood.
“My turn.” He said and you only had enough time to feel your stomach drop as he leaned in and then his teeth were sinking down into the conjecture between your neck and shoulder and you were screaming.
Pain wasn't familiar to you and to feel the teeth of a brute sinking into your sensitive flesh wasn’t something you could withstand with the grace of a soldier.
You slapped and batted at him but your hands were caught in his and easily restrained. Finally after what felt like an eternity of agony, he pulled back. Staring down at the mark he’d left in your soft flesh with a satisfied gleam in those freakish eyes of his.
He leant back in making you scream again but it broke off into an exclamation of “ew what the fuck man” as you felt something warm and wet drag over the bite mark.
You pushed vindictively at his chest when he pulled back and released your hands. Running over to the closest mirror to inspect the wound.
“You’re a fucking freak.” You called over your shoulder as you looked at the clear indents of his goddamn molars in your flesh.
“Be glad I didn’t break skin.” He said, making you yelp as he seemed to materialize right behind you like some sort of fucking ghost. Staring at your reflection with his mark on your soft skin with so much satisfaction and intrigue it turned your stomach.
You moved back intending to stomp his foot but froze as you felt something hard and large poking into your lower back.
“Please tell me that’s your water bottle in your pants.” You muttered.
“Nope.” He whispered back, popping the p in a way that had you jumping away.
“You’re a real freak. You better stay at least 6 feet away from me from now on.” You warmed.
He grabbed your wrist, hauling you in to his chest. You screamed again as the monstrosity in his gym shorts pressed into your stomach. Pushing against his chest but he kept you pinned with an arm around your waist.
“Nothing can make me stay away from you. You’re mine, I do what I want with you.” He said as easily as one tells the time and you scoffed.
“Like hell you do. Bit me like I’m a goddamn prime cut steak and then popped a boner. What a- oh my god are you a cannibal?” You asked, eyes wide in terror as you looked up at him. Mind jumping to the only conclusion you could think of in which a fellow soldier would be turned on by biting you.
“I wasn’t before but I might just become one because of you.” He muttered lowly, leaning down towards your neck as he spoke and snapping his teeth at you making you yelp again.
“6 feet, you rat.” You warned, somehow getting lucky and managing to shove him off as you accidentally brushed the beast pressing against your stomach in a way that had him going a little weak in the knees.
You watched him warily, a hand held out before you which you pulled back to your chest when his gaze dropped to it. He took a step forward and you took one back to maintain the distance.
“I-I’m warning you.” You said shakily which he ignored completely. Stalking forward until you were pressed up against the mirror with him hovering over you. That offending snake between his legs pressing against your stomach again.
“Warning me of what? Are you gonna bite me again?” He asked, tone light with amusement but those freaky blues still darkened in a devious way that didn’t sit well with you.
“I might if you force my hand.” You said, sounding uncertain even to your own ears.
The last bite had resulted in you nearly getting a chunk torn out of your neck and then getting harassed by a thing that should only exist in those bad romance novels you sometimes liked to read. You weren't really itching to repeat that episode.
“Do it here, please.” He breathed, and just for a second you could see why all the other soldiers complained he had it all.
So mesmerizingly pretty as he titled his head up, exposing the long column of his strong neck to you. Long lashes that nearly touched the apples of his cheeks when he blinked, pointed little nose and lush pink lips but then the words they uttered registered and the trance was broken.
“You’re completely fucking nuts” You mumbled, almost to yourself but he heard anyway.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me.” He said, backing off and finally you could breathe without the oppressive hulk of him looming over you. The monstrosity between his legs and the fangs in his mouth a safe distance away from you.
“We’ll see about that.” You mumbled, missing the way his eyes narrowed at your comment. No longer amused or playful.
You had known Gojo was weird but not threatening cannibalism or popping boners at his fellow comrades weird. It was making you reevaluate your chosen survival strategy.
Unfortunately while you were pondering whether it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from him, he was thinking the exact opposite. Planning how to get you more securely into his clutches.
He hated the thought of others around you. Not to mention others sharing a room with you. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner. People other than him around you while you were at your most vulnerable, asleep or changing.
That had to change immediately.
He wiped at your mouth with his thumb, swiping off the bit of sauce on the edge of your mouth. Bringing it to his own and licking it off. You hadn’t reacted to him wiping your face since he did it so often but your eyes went wide as saucers as you saw him lick the sauce off his thumb.
“You really have got to stop doing shit like that.” You said when you got your bearings back after staring at him blankly for another minute.
“Here you can have my karaage too.” He said, pushing his tray forward which was enough to distract you.
“Your roommates really bother you, don’t they?” He asked, watching you stuff your face with the karaage from his tray.
“Yeah, they’re complete assholes. Childish too, did I tell you they play games all night? Like talk about lack of maturity.”
“You should change rooms.”
“I tried, not allowed. Apparently we need to man up and learn to deal with each other’s shit.” You said, quoting the Commander.
“You can if there’s a vacancy in one of the other rooms.”
“Is there? Oh yeah the guy you put in the- I mean the guy who took a bad fall’s bed is probably empty but he’s roommates with that guy who smells like blue cheese. I’d rather not.” You said.
“My room has a vacancy.” He said.
“I thought lieutenants got their own rooms.” You said suspiciously.
“Yeah exactly, there’s an empty spot for you to take.”
You blinked at him, trying to mentally calculate if lack of sleep or risking being eaten by the snake swinging potential-cannibal was worse.
“The Commander doesn’t do his morning wake-up calls in the lieutenant’s rooms.” He said and you were sold. To not be forcefully woken to the unfortunate sight of your Commander screaming in your face that you were a waste of space and would regret not waking up sounded like a dream.
“Rooming together would be cool.” You said, already fantasizing about getting to sleep-in.
“Great, finish eating. Then we’ll go pack your stuff.” Gojo said, only then picking up his own chopsticks and beginning to eat his food.
Packing was quick when you had superhuman strength on your side. Your roommates cleared out in a matter of seconds when they saw Gojo follow you in, not that they would have tried to stop you either way.
You walked alongside Gojo who was carrying both your bags in one hand swung over his shoulder, following him to the lieutenants’ quarters where his room was.
You waited behind as he unlocked his door and then stepped in after him. Scanning the room that was surprisingly neat. You’d only ever gotten glimpses over his shoulder as he locked the door after himself.
The detail that stood out to you most though was the count of beds in the room which stood at a steady and alarming one.
“Where’s the empty bed?” You asked. Watching as Gojo set down your stuff and then sat down on the bed.
“I said empty spot, and here it is.” He said, to your utter horror patting the spot next to him on the solitary bed in the room.
“Oh no. That's not gonna work. Thanks but hard pass.” You said stepping forward and grabbing your bags. The larger one of which you were quite unsuccessful in lifting and resolved to drag towards the door instead.
Before you could even make it more than a step away while dragging the bag that probably weighed more than you considering you were never a light packer, Gojo was in front of the door. Blocking the only exit.
“The change is processed. You can’t go back now.” He said.
“Processed where?” You cried. You had this discussion less than an hour ago and certainly hadn’t put in any requests.
“In the system. Your bed’s being given to the new arrival and you’re rooming with me.”
“I didn’t submit anything, how’s that possible?”
“I did it for you.”
“The office closes at 4.”
“I processed it this morning.” He said making your jaw drop at the sheer audacity of the extraterrestrial being before you.
“What do you mean you did it this morning? I didn’t even know this was happening till an hour ago.”
“I knew you’d agree.” He shrugged.
“Well I don’t, so kindly please go tell them they can’t give away my bed and help me carry this back. I know it's mine but I don't understand what I put in here to make it weigh a ton.”
“Not happening, darling. I told you you’re stuck with me, so you might as well settle in. Feel free to shower first.” He said and it was all too much for your brain to process but one particular detail stuck out.
“Wait, you’re telling me you have a shower in your room?
“Yeah, convenient isn’t it?”
“So why the fuck have you been using the communal showers?” You asked.
“Because that’s where you shower.” He answered as though that was a completely reasonable thing to say.
“Yeah like I said, hard pass on this whole situation. I’ll drag that newbie out by his toe hair if I have to. That bed’s mine.” You said, starting for the door, intending to somehow push past him while you dragged your overly large bag.
Perhaps you could somehow use the weight of it to your advantage. You remembered them teaching you all something about throwing off your opponent using their weight so this had to be similar. Not that you ever mastered that maneuver either.
"Darling, you have two options. Be good and listen to me, start unpacking your stuff, take a shower and then come to bed or I tie you to the bed. I unpack your stuff and then shower you myself. Either way you're staying in this room." He said making you pause in your very unsuccessful dragging of the bag sent from hell.
You stared at him, trying to discern if he was quite serious and would really follow through on his threat. Nothing about those blue eyes of his was giving you any confidence that he had a single rational or normal bone in his oversized body and so you gave up.
"I'm building a pillow wall between us." You huffed.
Your pillow wall lasted about 0.3 seconds before being quite unceremoniously, and unnecessarily violently, tossed to the floor. Then you were pulled back into the chest of the lunatic who had tricked you into his den and were used like a teddy bear.
There was no dignity in any of this. That pension could not begin to cover the damages that you had incurred here in this hellhole.
It was warm though, and his bed was softer and blankets fuzzier than your own. The weight of his long limbs on you was making you drowsy even through the haze of anger that nearly blinded you.
"You're a bad man." Was all you could manage before sleep overcame you.
Gojo didn't sleep though. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have you in his arms. So soft, so warm against him. If he wanted, and god how he wanted, he could completely envelope you in his arms so none of you was left exposed to the rest of the world. Take all of you for himself.
You moaned in your sleep, arching up slightly and he loosened his hold just enough to let you turn once he realized that was what you wanted and then on top of being sleepless, he was also rendered breathless. You turned, resting your head on his shoulder easily as though even in your sleep you could tell you two fit like puzzle pieces.
His heart clenched as he stared down at you. Watched your parted lips, still not knowing what they tasted like. Gojo wasn't ignorant to the effect he had on people and yet somehow the only one he had ever wanted was entirely immune.
He pulled you in closer, lowering his head to press his lips to your forehead. Feeling a warmth bloom in the core of his being that he had never felt before. This had to be what others called being at peace. So fulfilled, like there was nothing else he wanted, nowhere else he would rather be. This was addicting.
You woke enveloped in warmth, arching up and stretching in the little space you had between the awfully heavy covers pinning you to the bed. Finally opening your eyes and then screaming in horror when you were met with two blue lightbulb like objects floating in a blurry pale shape mere inches from your face.
"What is it?" The shape asked and as your vision focused you rest your hand over your racing heart. Trying to catch your breath from the insane jolt of adrenaline seeing something so unnatural that early had caused you.
"Don't do that. Why are you staring at me with your 500 megawatt bulbs at - god 7 in the morning." You said, turning to check the clock by his bedside.
"Wait isn't this actually late for you?" You asked, remembering he normally rose at 5.
"I didn't want to risk waking sleeping beauty." He said with a smirk.
"You could be doing laps around the bed with a lawn mower and I wouldn't wake up once I'm asleep. I just can't fall asleep in noise." You clarified.
"Lucky I'm quiet as a mouse at night." He said.
"It takes a big man to admit he's a rat." You said, going to scooch off the bed but Gojo tightened his arm around you.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"To get changed for training, we're already late." You answered.
"They would understand if we skipped a day." He said.
"No, I want to see the thief that stole my bed."
You could never have anticipated that in that thief you would find a kindred spirit. A soldier who flinched when anyone came near them in combat practice or looked out at the field with utter dread painted on their face. Perhaps that bed was simply fated only to have rational heads rest on it, or cowards as the rest of the troop would put it.
It was inevitable that you two would begin to get close when you were always the last ones to finish a lap, dragging your feet and cursing having ever laid eyes on this place. Standing with your backs against the wall as the others went hand to hand as though fighting for their lives when it was just practice.
Of course there was someone who highly disproved of this camaraderie. Gojo hated the new guy. Would glare daggers into him whenever he saw you both together and was the only reason you weren't braiding each other's eyebrow hair and exchanging pension fantasies.
"Oh man if that weight had fallen on my foot I'd be lined up at admin with my direct deposit form in hand faster than Commander could call me an idiot." The new guy - Kaido said making you guffaw and nod in agreement.
"What a fucking dumbass, telling the Commander he's just fine. That was a golden ticket to pension land." You agreed.
"You're too young to be thinking about pension." A voice said from right behind you making you yelp and turn to see Gojo looming above you and Kaido.
"I think you just shaved ten years off my life. We really need to put a bell on you." You said, taking the offered water bottle from Gojo and letting him pull you back so you were stood by his side.
"Lieutenant Gojo, sir." Kaido greeted awkwardly making you laugh and elbow Gojo, glancing up expecting him to laugh too but rather seeing him looking down his nose at Kaido as though he were dirt on his shoe.
The Commander called you all in before you could say anything but it stayed on your mind the rest of the morning anyway.
"Do you not like Kaido?" You asked as you sat on the bed that day while Gojo was folding both your laundry making him pause.
"No, I don't." He said, looking up at you, taking you by surprise. You had at least expected him to deny it.
"Why?"
"Because he sticks too close to you."
"No, you stick too close to me. Kaido understands the concept of personal space." You said.
"He better. I don't like seeing you with him, stay away from him." He said making you frown.
"I like Kaido, Kaido's my friend." You defended, not noticing the way the way Gojo froze at your words.
"He's your friend?" He asked, voice deceptively level and calm.
"Yeah, unlike the rest of you try-hards he understands the appeal of the easy life. We get each other." You answered not even getting a moment to try to back away before Gojo had tossed aside the towel he was holding and was rounding the bed.
Grabbing you by the jaw, he pushed you down flat onto the bed. Knocking the wind out of you with the unexpectedness of the movement. He sat down straddling your hips, keeping you pinned in place.
"Tell me again who’s your friend." He said.
"What the fuck dude? What's wrong with y-" You asked, being cut off by your own gasp of pain as he tightened his hold around your jaw to the point where the bones creaked in protest.
"Who is your friend?" He asked again.
"K-Kaido." You answered, not quite understanding what his problem was.
His eyes darkened and grip got even tighter making you grab at his hand, afraid he really might break your jaw.
"G-Gojo please it hurts." You mumbled, words barely intelligible with the way he was holding your face.
"I'm your only friend. You don't need anyone else. Just me." He said, leaning down closer so your noses nearly brushed against each other. Enouncing each word clearly and calmly as though he weren't actively trying to crush your face between his hand.
"Fine, fine just you. Please let go, it hurts." You pleaded. Willing to say anything to make him release you in that moment.
He let go of your face, seemingly satisfied but didn't get off of you. Watching in silence as you rubbed at the clear imprints of his fingers on your face. The bruises darkening into your soft skin.
He felt a pang in his chest, he hadn't meant to hurt you. He had just lost his mind a little hearing you so casually give someone else the place he held in your life.
"Let me see." He said, reaching for your face but you slapped at his hands. Pushing him away and when he saw the way your eyes were watering with pain he backed off readily, heart sinking as he realized he had hurt you to the point of inducing tears.
"I'll get you some ice." He said.
"No need." You scoffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Scooching off the bed and heading for the door.
He let you go, knowing you needed some time to cool off. He'd always gone too far when it came to protecting his things and keeping the paws of others off of them. He'd never meant to hurt you though.
You slammed the door behind you. Immediately headed to the admin office. In the past few weeks you had often wondered if choosing to befriend Gojo had been a mistake but today had proven it. He was a far bigger lunatic than you had initially known. Volatile in his unpredictability. You were better off without someone like him by your side, either he'd get you in trouble or he'd end up hurting you seriously in one of his fits.
"I'd like to change rooms." You said as soon as you made it to the admin office, approaching the man sitting behind the desk who you'd never bothered learning the name of.
"Why?" The man asked, looking like he'd rather be doing anything but his job.
"I'm rooming with Lieutenant Gojo right now-" You paused as you saw the man's eyes widen and him sit up straighter.
"But there's only one bed so I'd like to request to be switched into any room with a vacant bed." You continued, wondering why he looked so alarmed.
"There's no vacant beds." The man said making you scoff.
"I know there has to be at least one considering Tomoya is still in a coma and will probably be in no condition to continue in the force when he wakes." You said.
"His bed was sent to headquarters." The man answered and you stared at him blankly, making his ears turn red at how stupid of a lie he had just uttered.
"Okay, well I don't have a bed so can you request headquarters to send it back so I have a place to sleep?" You asked.
"I'll put in the request." The man said.
"And how long is that going to take?" You asked.
"I don't know but I'll let you know when it's processed." He said making your eye twitch.
"Fine, thanks." You relented, getting the feeling there was no reasoning with this soulless slave to bureaucracy.
You would check Tomoya's dorm yourself. If you found the empty bed then you'd come here and demand this lying rat to process the transfer right then.
You lurked in the corridor outside Tomoya's room, icing your bruised jaw until one of his roommates finally emerged. The door opened and the pungent smell of blue cheese wafted out, singing your nose hair but you still forced yourself forward to take a peek. Letting out a triumphant "ha" which had your future roommate flinching out of surprise.
"I knew that man was a liar." You said to the soldier currently staring at you like you had two heads before marching back to the admin office. Swearing out loud when you saw the door was now closed. It probably wasn't even 4 yet.
You would be back first thing tomorrow morning. Waiting outside before the office opened to force that stinking liar to process your transfer request. That meant you just needed to figure something out for tonight. Tomorrow by this time you would have roommates who weren't actively a threat to everyone around them.
You didn’t want to see Gojo but the clinic doctor saw right through your lies about being sick and wouldn't let you into the infirmary. Upon arriving to the base you had feigned being sick quite often to get out of missions and more arduous training sessions so by now the doctor was more likely to believe Pinocchio with an actively elongating nose than you.
You couldn't avoid seeing Gojo but that didn't mean you couldn't ignore him. You walked right past him at shooting practice. Joining Lieutenant Hiroshi's group instead and avoided his gaze at dinner, choosing to sit next to Kaido instead. Feeling the full force of those otherworldly blues on you all throughout the rest of the day but refusing to look back at him.
Kaido however was having more trouble ignoring Gojo than you.
"He looks like he wants to kill us. Wait - actually he was only looking at me like that. He looks like he wants to kill me and looks like he's going to eat you as usual." Kaido said.
"Ignore him." You responded, angrily shoving another piece of broccoli in your mouth.
"Easy for you to say, he doesn't look like he wants to kill you. What happened between the two of you anyway?"
"Nothing." You barked, the word muffled and unintelligible due to the very undercooked broccoli still filling your mouth.
"Muppet?" Kaido asked in confusion making you huff in annoyance.
"I said nothing and I'm sleeping in your dorm tonight." You said after forcefully swallowing the unchewable broccoli down.
"What, why? There's no space in our dorm." Kaido whined.
"Because you stole my bed."
"I didn't steal shit, you transferred to Lieutenant Gojo's room so they gave me yours."
"I didn't transfer. That rat filled out the paperwork himself. You know what - it doesn't matter. Here, I'll give you my chocolate pudding if you let me stay." You said, pushing your tray towards Kaido.
"I don't like choc- oh it's blueberry. Fine, you can stay." Kaido said and you swore out loud when you looked down at the pudding. Being a pain in the ass clearly ran in the family.
You heard a bang across the dining hall and glanced up only to see a fuming Gojo up on his feet. His tray of food now spread all over the ground next to his table. He glared at you and Kaido as he made his way across the dining hall. Grabbing your tray from in front of Kaido and throwing it to the floor with a loud clattering sound that made you flinch.
"Stop testing my patience unless you want to see what happens when it runs out." Gojo warned, but you were too stunned by the commotion to think of anything to say. He turned to stalk out of the dining hall when you didn't respond.
"What a fucking nutter." You muttered under your breath once you were quite sure Gojo was out of earshot, glancing over at Kaido to see he was still frozen.
"Hey, you okay?" You asked, nudging him with your elbow.
"I don't know if that's spilt juice or if I pissed my pants." Kaido said making you grimace in disgust as you looked down at his pants to see that they were indeed soaked.
"Looks a little orange so unless you're very sick it's got to be the juice." You said, hoping you were right.
After clearing up the tray and giving Kaido the chance to shower and change out of the juice/sickly urine-soaked pants you two made your way back to your old dorm to retire for the night.
"What are you doing back here?" One of your old roommates asked the moment you walked in.
"I'm sleeping here tonight."
"Did Gojo get sick of his little lapdog?"
"Should we go ask him that together?" You asked, making the smirk fall right off the ugly mug of your most obnoxious old roommate.
"Whatever." He responded, going back to the stupid card game he had been playing with the others.
You and Kaido stood staring at the twin bed that looked even smaller than you remembered it. It really wasn't built for two adults to share.
"We can just lay in opposite directions." You suggested.
"Gross, I'm not laying with your feet in my face." Kaido said.
"Okay then orange-piss boy, what do you suggest?" You asked, earning yourself a dirty look from Kaido and confused glances from the others.
"Why don't you just take the floor?"
"Because the floor is hard and cold and there's creepy crawlies everywhere."
"Fine, we'll just share the bed. It's really no different than standing side by side." Kaido said.
It was very different. The bed was so cramped you couldn't even build a pillow wall without compromising the little space you had and of course Kaido had the pointiest elbows known to mankind. He wouldn't stop shuffling around to get comfortable and one of his elbows from hell would dig into your vulnerable midsection.
After the fourth time you elbowed him back which started a war you were bound to lose with your regular human elbows. You both eventually fell asleep bruised and cramped.
You were woken far too soon for it to be morning by a hand desperately slapping at you and then gripping into your pajama shirt as though about to tear it off. You slapped at the hand, trying to get back to sleep but were forced awake when you heard an odd, muffled gurgling sound followed by the voice of the last person you expected to hear.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself." You heard Gojo say making your eyes fly open, struggling to adjust in the dark room only to see him forcing Kaido's hand backwards until you heard a sharp snapping sound as his wrist broke.
Your scrambled upwards on the bed, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Gojo sat straddling Kaido's chest, chocking him with one hand. The other still holding the wrist he had broken. Kaido let out a muffled scream, turning to look at you and reaching out towards you with his other hand making you flinch back but Gojo caught that hand before it could reach you.
"What did I just fucking say? Why can't people just listen while I'm asking nicely. Everyone's always trying to get their paws on what's mine." Gojo said, tossing Kaido's hand back down to his side. Increasing the force with which he was choking Kaido, pushing his head further down into the bed.
"G-Gojo what the fuck?" You asked, shakily reaching for the hand that was choking Kaido but seeing that manic blue gaze turn on you in the darkness had your blood freezing in your veins.
The predatory look he had while hunting curses back on his face but this time there was no joy accompanying it. Just a single-minded determination to take out what he saw as a rival for his chosen prey.
"Oh darling, did we wake you? I'm sorry, I was just teaching this fucker what happens when he puts his hands on what's mine. Why don't you go sleep in our room? I'll be there in a minute."
Kaido let out a muffled whimper, his flailing growing weak as he began turning purple with the blood rushing to his head. His teary eyes met yours, forcing you into action. As much as you wanted it to be, this wasn't a nightmare. Gojo had really somehow found you here and was about to kill Kaido if you didn't do something.
"Get off of him Gojo." You cried, shoving at his chest with all your might but it wasn't enough to move him.
You glanced back, about to yell to wake the others. Only to see them already awake, sitting up in their beds. Watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes.
"Fucking help me." You yelled at them, pushing and clawing at Gojo who didn't even bother to swat at you. Instead wrapping his free arm around your waist and pinning you to his side.
You thrashed against him, pulling and scratching at his arm as Kaido's eyes bulged.
"You're gonna kill him." You screamed, near feral now in your attempts to get Gojo off but it was like trying to move a rock.
"This is what happens when you befriend someone else. Look closely darling." Gojo mumbled, resting his forehead against your head. Completely relaxed as though he weren't actively choking the life out of someone.
"You fucking cowards." You screamed at the others, looking around desperately for something to help you get Gojo off. Your gaze landed on Kaido's alarm clock and you grasped at it desperately, turning in Gojo's hold and slamming it down into his temple with all your strength.
He reared back, finally releasing Kaido and you shoved him back off of him. Watching, with your hands hovering helplessly as Kaido coughed weakly, tears still streaming down his eyes and broken wrist held against his chest as tremors shook through him.
You heard that bark-like laughter and turned to see Gojo clutching his bleeding head. Streaks of blood running down the left side of his face, over his eye making the mania of his unnaturally blue gaze all the more terrifying to witness. Blood seeping through the hand he held to his head yet he was laughing.
"Only you, darling, would dare to do such a thing. Only you could get away with it." He said, pulling you in by the wrist back towards him.
"Let go, you fucking psycho." You yelled, hitting your fists against his chest but he swept both your wrists up in his hand. Palm sticky with blood that rubbed off onto your skin as he brought your conjoined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to them.
"Never, I'm never going to let you go." He muttered, lips still against your hands. Darting his head back with a laugh as you tried to swipe at his face.
"You're not going to have a choice. When everyone finds out what you've done you're going to end up rotting in prison."
"Whose gonna put me there?" He asked, smiling indulgently as though speaking to a child.
"Me, I'm going to report you for what you've done to Kaido and I'll tell them about Tomoya too." You threatened.
"But you covered for me, you're my little accomplice. Won't that get you in trouble too?" Gojo asked, voice still light and teasing but his words made you blanche.
He let out another one of his bark-like laughs at the look on your face, darting forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek as though unable to help himself. You flinched back in disgust.
"Oh darling, I'm just teasing. I'd never let you get in any trouble and neither will I. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over things like that when you're with me. I take care of what's mine."
"There's four witnesses to you attacking Kaido. There's no way you'll get away with this." You said.
"What witnesses? Did you guys see me here tonight?" Gojo asked the others without even bothering to take his eyes off of you. He always thought you looked so cute while angry, turning as red as a tomato and glaring as though you could ever hope to intimidate anyone.
"No, sir." Came three responses making your eyes widen and you turned to look at your old roommates.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You all called me a coward but really you're the cowards." You spat, and not one of them could meet your gaze.
"It doesn't matter. I witnessed it, I'll help Kaido report you." You said, turning back to Gojo.
"My poor darling, you really don't know who I am, do you? I could kill Kaido at breakfast and no one would even dare complain about the mess."
"What do you mean? Who cares if you're a lieutenant, you can't go attacking soldiers."
"Poor, sweet thing, you don't even know who you decided to befriend. You don't even know who it is you belong to." Gojo tsked as though truly sympathetic at your naivety.
"I'm Gojo Satoru, darling. This place is only running because my family wants it to, because I want it to. I can do whatever I want here, but lucky for you, so can you. So long as you have my approval of course. Sleepovers with other soldiers are not allowed." Gojo said and suddenly everything he got away with doing began to make sense.
How he had gotten away with nearly killing a fellow soldier with as poor an alibi as yourself. Why he had a room nicer than the Commander and wasn't questioned for any of his insane antics. Where he got all that audacity from.
"I get you were upset with me so I'll let this one slide, but if you ever do something like this again, I'll have no choice but to punish you. You're mine, don't ever let anyone else get so close, let alone touch you." Gojo said, reaching for your face. Face dropping and eyes growing cold as you flinched back from his touch.
"Enough. I told you not to test my patience. Don't push me so far that I have to get strict with you. Now come on, let's go to our room." Gojo said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you.
"You're fucking insane if you think I'm going anywhere with you." You said, turning back to Kaido and ignoring his hand but it was a mistake to turn your back to Gojo.
You were yanked back around by your arm making you cry out, Gojo ducking down and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing before turning to stalk out of the room.
"I warned you." He said, swatting at your ass with one of those giant hands making you yelp.
"Put me down." You demanded, squirming and flailing to try to get out of his hold. A kick to his stomach only earned you another smack on your ass.
Your yelling must have attracted attention for you heard a door opening down the hall and the Commander's voice demanding which moron was up causing a commotion this early before he came into view wearing a sleep robe tied over pajamas.
"Help me." You called out, reaching out towards the Commander when he stood there staring as though frozen in shock. Heart sinking as Gojo got closer and the man merely stepped out of his way.
"Excuse us from training for the rest of the week, we've got a couple things to work through." Gojo said as he passed the Commander.
"Yes, of course. Let me know if you need to leave the base, I'll have a car arranged."
"That won't be necessary." Gojo responded, turning the corner so you could no longer see the man who you had expected to help you but had only stood with his head bowed down to the monster carrying you off.
Gojo didn't so much as slow down until he had made it back to his room. Opening the door with you still hanging over his shoulder with ease and dropping you down onto the bed. You immediately got to your feet, eyeing him warily where he stood before you.
He raised his hand and you flinched back making him frown as he brought his hand to the still-bleeding wound on his head.
"Fuck, you got me good." He winced, prodding at the wound tenderly and going over to the mirror hung up on the wall to get a better look.
"I didn't think you were capable of that but it's good to see you're not completely defenseless. Though, next time, maybe try hitting someone else and not your friend." He said, wiping at the blood with his t-shirt gingerly.
"You're not my friend." You said, seeing him pause in the reflection of the mirror. Eyes flashing before he closed them and took a deep breath as though trying to restrain himself.
"You're angry." He sighed, turning back to face you.
"No, I'm not angry. I'm disgusted. I can't believe I ever called you a friend." You spat.
His jaw clenched but he shook his head as though the movement would help him shake off what you had said.
"I lost control and I hurt you. I get that you're mad and I'm sorry for hurting you, I really am, but don't go saying things you don't mean." He said.
"Oh I mean it. You mean nothing to me, I don't ever want to see your face again. In fact, I'm leaving. Fuck this whole force. That pension isn't worth this shit." You said, moving towards the closet intending to pack but before you could even round the bed Gojo had crossed the room and was turning you to face him by the arm.
Your protests died on your lips as you caught sight of his face. Blue eyes alight with rage, the veins running up his neck and into his jaw standing out grotesquely from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He looked inhuman, like something animalistic and feral. For the first time you felt truly afraid of Gojo.
"Didn't I say not to push me too far?" He asked through gritted teeth.
"Didn't I?" He demanded loudly, gripping you by your upper arms and giving you a sound shake.
"Y-you did." You responded, arching up in his hold to try to get out of the painful grip he had on your arms.
"Who are you leaving?" He asked, bringing you in closer by the hold he had on you.
"Who said you could fucking leave me? Who even allowed you to think it?" He barked, giving you another shake.
"You're mine, you don't ever get to walk away from me. You're the one who barged into my life, you think you can just up and leave whenever you want?" He demanded, his grip growing steadily tighter on your arms.
"Gojo, please, you're hurting me." You said, eyes watering from the pain but you didn't dare try to pull away.
"And what about how much you're hurting me?" He asked.
"Does my pain mean fucking nothing to you? Saying shit like I mean nothing to you, that I'm not your friend. You know what, you're right. I'm not your friend. I'm so much fucking more than that. Friend doesn't begin to cover what we are to each other."
"W-what?" You asked. You knew he was weirdly possessive of you but you hadn't anticipated that he thought of you in that way.
"I'm your fucking everything. Your friend, your lover, your husband. It's all me, there is no space for anyone else. I won't let there be anyone else. I'll make you mine in every conceivable way. Put a ring on your finger, brand my name over your fucking heart and mark your pretty little neck with my teeth every damn day." He growled, and before you had a chance to react was leaning down and sinking his teeth into your neck making you scream as he tore through the flesh.
You flailed in his grasp, pushing and shoving at his chest but it was like trying to move stone. After what seemed like an eternity of agony he finally pulled away, teeth lined with your blood and lips crimson with it.
"All fucking mine." He declared, licking over his lips making your breath catch as the reality of your situation dawned on you.
You had walked right into the den of a monster, awakening the beast and now you were trapped in its grasp. You should never have befriended Gojo Satoru. Not when there was all those rumours about him. Shouldn't have thought yourself more clever than the rest, able to tame the infamous mad dog.
"Gojo I don't think of you that way." You said shakily, hoping you could at least get him to go back to wanting to be your friend, not whatever the hell this was.
"That's okay, you'll start. It's my fault, I should have been more clear. I know how oblivious you can be so I wanted to take things slow but clearly that was a mistake on my part."
"Y-you can't force someone to be with you. I don't want to be with you and I won't." You said, trying to sound firm.
"I know you're a little slow and normally I find that to be fucking adorable but I need you to get it through your head that you are mine. You belong to me." He repeated slowly as though trying to drill the words into you.
"You're the one who forced your way into my life so really this is all on you. I would have left you alone had you not started following me around and then tried to cover for me, getting all worried about me getting into trouble." He said, going from enraged to getting a far-off look in his eye as though reminiscing. He was fucking insane, his moods changed faster than you could keep up with.
"I only approached you because I needed someone who'd have my back during missions. I didn't mean for any of this to go so far." You said.
"I'll always protect you, I'll always have your back. There's no curse, institution or person that can get to you while I'm around." He cooed, not seeming mad at all to find out about your ulterior motive for approaching him.
"I don't need that from you. I'm leaving the force, I never should have joined." You mumbled, filled with regret over your greed that had brought you into the predicament.
"You're not going anywhere. I'll tie you to the bed if that's what it takes. You'll stay where I am. If you don't want to be part of missions, good, I'd rather you not be but you're staying here."
"You can't watch over me every second of every day. I'd find a way to get away so why don't you just make this easy for both of us and let me go?" You asked, making his eyes darken and that bravado that had overcome your senses drained just as fast leaving only a hollow, cold sense of fear behind.
"I told you I'm never letting you go. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. I don't want to tie you up but I'll do it if you make me and if you somehow manage to get out then I'll hunt you down and I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run." He growled making you flinch back.
"Now what's it going to be? Are you going to choose the easy route where you stay with me in our room and get to move about as you please or should I tie you up?" He asked.
"Better yet should I move right to breaking your legs so you don't get any funny ideas about running away? They'll even discharge you with pension if I break your legs, you'll still stay with me of course but it is what you always wanted." He said, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes softening when he saw the tears in yours.
"Fuck, I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." He sighed, pulling you in to his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
Terrified as you were of him you couldn't help but sob into his chest. The dread of the horrible predicament you had gotten yourself into making you seek comfort from anywhere you could get it, even if it was the source of your misery. He hushed you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. Pressing apologetic kisses into your head.
"I told you not to push me. I fucking lose it when I even so much as think of you not being with me. Just promise me you'll stay with me. That you won't ever leave and we can forget all of this."
"I-I won't." You hiccuped, finally giving in to what had been inevitable since the moment you first approached Gojo.
"We're gonna be so happy together, darling. I'll always protect you, all you have to do is stay with me." He cooed into your hair. Hushing you when his words only made you cry harder.
I posted this on twitter some time ago + now that we have the birth date of many jjk characters i have been thinking about their charts sooooo here it is!
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with everything that's happening in this life of yours and the impending war that's about to break out, you decided to pay a visit to the moon incarnation in the forest for a blessing. you didn't know then that the incarnation takes form in a human—man—who craves nothing but a company. ( 5,3k )
notes in red ... HI, i was supposed to post this three days ago, but i haven't been able to edit the layout, lol. i had so much fun writing this back then, even though i have some regrets on how i write it, too. anyways, i hope you guys enjoy this one. reblogs and comments are always appreciated! <3
you've heard tales of the moon incarnation uttered from kinds of lips, kinds of humans.
in the deepest part of the forest, north from the kingdom, standing with all the glory that's curated in this universe, lays the incarnation of the moon, light of the night.
a solitude, a divine— people who claimed to have seen the being always use those words, although they who spoke of it always say the incarnation is far more enchanting than the tales that have been passed through generations.
people's tongues always get twisted, as they try to describe how the moon appeared before them, unable to recall the words they've been familiar with their whole life. no words can really do justice to the light that appears before them, is what they'd always say.
you never came as far as to this part of the continent, seeing no point in traveling far away to a place where there's nothing but trees and rocks; a nature that'll stay there, unchanging.
"forest of limitlessness" is what people have called it through ages, decades away before you're born. and there's two kinds of reasons behind the chosen name. a name that no souls dare to question because, well, it's befitting.
the first rule that lies behind the name of the forest is the very truth of how it’s almost impossible to find the end of the forest when you're walking through it, endless. as if you're walking through a maze, you can't seem to find a way that'll lead you out of it.
it's something that's important to remember before anyone decides they're going to the forest.
after all, you might get lost.
lost, unless the incarnation itself paves the way. the people who have gone there said that the moon incarnation whispers the wind to guide the people to where the light stays or it could be anything. a kindness shown in the surroundings of trees that's enveloping every space there is.
from what the elders of the kingdom said, it's said that people whose heart is a mist of dark clouds, having ill intention, will be lost in the forest as the light way to protect lives of ones that are worth more than one soul with ill.
every soul that is lost there is said to be shattered into pieces and find ways to another life, rewriting the fate that was set from them. in other ways, no one really knows what happened to the lost souls.
the other reason is the very truth that the moon incarnation grants any wishes that the people longed for. whatever they have in mind, it shall be turned into reality. everyone who came shall utter their limitless wish and let the moon incarnation do their part.
after all, the moon incarnation is a god.
you decided to go through all the hassle there is to see the light, wanting to pray and make a wish for a peaceful soul that's slowly but surely cracking under pressure; asking for a blessing.
it's only a matter of time before you shatter with this life of yours that keeps wishing for your downfall. so, you need the blessing of the god, the light for you to be able to continue this journey of yours.
when you finally reach the front of the forest, you're greeted by a mist. it's like a gate to the forest where the moon incarnation resides. your finger touch the mist before it split into two, paving a way for you to walk through.
may the god see your soul as pure as possible.
you step into the forest, then. the mist immediately tangled with one another, again, when you walked past them. you didn't pay attention to that, eyes zeroed on the sight before you. a normal forest it is. nothing more, nothing less.
this is only the start though. you haven't walked through it. and oh dear god, you suddenly fear being one of the many lost souls that are roaming around aimlessly.
every step you take feels like a nail on the tongue, it's heavy. not to mention, you're using your armor throughout the journey. both as your way of protection and to be used to any obstacle that might be heading your way in the impending war.
sounds of armor are echoing through the forest, filling the silence with nothing but sounds of iron clashing against one another. and it was then, after countless steps, when a flicker of light greets your eyes.
fireflies.
it's staring at you before it flies away towards the other side of the forest, making you blink in confusion. however, you choose to follow it. as someone said, anything could be the sign of the light ways of telling you that you're welcomed. that's why you choose to take a step and trail behind the fireflies.
because indeed, you're one of the chosen ones. more than that, in any ways that may exist.
you follow the fireflies to the deepest part of the forest, all the things that's surrounding you are moving in a way that's welcoming. the leaves, branches, grass, flowers, rocks; everything seems to be curating a gentle melody to your ears, enveloping you with belonging.
each step you take, a new animal seems to peek amongst the trees— carefully examine the human that the incarnation has allowed to enter the divine hearth of the forest.
in the corner of your eyes, there's a deer that's staring at you with their doe eyes. the deer blink a few times at the sight of you, sending a shiver through your spine. it's eerie, in a way. they're looking straight to your soul.
all the animals a human can think of are in your view, showing their presence slowly but surely. and you couldn't help but get entrance by the sight of these animals gathering in one place, living in the part of the forest that is only the chosen one able to enter.
the sense of familiarity tugging your heart with a warm that you've long forgotten due to the fear of the impending war. you, who've been nothing but a walking shell of what you used to be, in this moment, feels that you're regressing to the younger you whose life was a field of blooming flowers.
in the distance, your ears catch the sounds of water flowing. a trickle of a drop clashing and emerging into one is feeling your senses. your heart beats faster at the way it's wrapping you in a nostalgic feeling.
finally, after the walk that seems like there's no end to it, the fireflies that have been guiding you throughout the forest fly away, far from you. and the sight that greets you? a waterfall.
a waterfall that's as blue as the sky before the whole kingdom turned into an ocean of fears and smells of death.
your breath was stolen from your lungs the moment your eyes trail around the surroundings of the waterfall. if the walk to the divine hearth of the forest was as beautiful as the imaginary heaven you've always painted on your mind, the sight in front of you is a trillion times better than it.
everything looks as if it's a place that shouldn't have existed in this world full of ash, scatter of blood, and pain overall. it's too much of an enchanting place to stand on this earth.
the trees, grass, bushes are emerald green. a color you've learned in books, a color you thought is impossible to exist. the flowers, every kind that may exist, are blooming vibrantly; the scent of sweetness and nature enveloping you. the rocks are shining, too. it's gleaming in a way that has you questioning if it's really a rock.
nothing is what you're used to.
you couldn't help but wondering if this is all just a silly dream of yours. a wish come true as a gift from the moon incarnation, from your whisper of prayers on hoping for one minute of solitude.
it could be true.
however, the stinging pain of falling from hitting the log you passed by on your way to the forest is still as vivid as the sight in front of you. this isn't a dream. after all, you could feel your feet trembling after the long walk here.
a deer shows its presence to you when you turn around, hearing sounds of shifting from behind. it's the same one that was staring at you as you made your way here.
the sound of the deer soles against the grass scratches a part of your brain and you couldn't help the step you take towards it. erasing the distance between the two of you as your gaze roams around the deer that's now only arm reach.
you let out a startled gasp when the deer pushes you gently with its horn, making you walk backwards before plopping down on a nearby rock. it was supposed to hurt you, logically, being pushed down to a solid surface like a rock— but it didn't.
because logic doesn't apply here.
not in the comfort home of the moon incarnation, a god, even in whatever forms it might take. humans, animals— it could be anything.
"... don't tell me," you whisper to yourself, into the air. when the possibility of the deer in front of you being the moon incarnation flashes through your mind, fear washes over you.
a soft chuckle, angelic as well as it's smoky. something that you haven't exactly heard before in your lifetime, bouncing around the space. wrapping the whole divine hearth in a warm blanket. it sends a thrill through you.
when you turn around, the sight that greets you is a man, standing some steps away. he's standing there with the warmest smile you've been given for the longest time, glowing brighter than the moon you saw before entering the forest.
he's the moon incarnation, the light.
you stand up abruptly, your iron armor making a sound of clashes at the sudden movement. no words came from between your lips, though. you were too lost in the scenery of your surroundings, then you got hit with a soft blow at the appearance of the man that could lighten up your life.
it's not even "could", actually. at this single moment, this second shared between you two— he's really lighting up your life just by presence alone.
"to what pleasure, am i being graced by your company here, dear knightess?" he spoke.
oh, he sounded like home. the voice of the man standing before you sounds like the most delightful melody ever written, carefully threaded for the souls as pure as white to hear, with warm love.
a loss of words is the state you're currently in. years of learning the alphabet, tracing the letters as a way to be engraved in your brain, repeating the same thing for days seems thrown out to the trash bin at the sight of him.
you understand now the reasons people always seem to never know what words to use when it comes to describe him, the moon incarnation.
divine, is far too much of an understatement. ethereal, are lacking a hint of something to fully grasp the being in front of you— any kind of word that crosses your mind sounds like a mocking endearment to him.
"i, i’m … thank you for allowing me to enter this part of the forest … um, you …" you paused midways.
what should you refer to him as? how are you supposed to know how to call a god who's in raw flesh right in front of you?
the man let out a laugh at the sight of your flustered state, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "you may call me satoru, knightess. and what shall i call you, pray tell?"
oh, dear heaven.
you didn't quite catch his eyes earlier. but now that your gaze is settled on the ones that are boring into yours, you couldn't help the feeling that a part of you is melting into a puddle, boneless and unable to move; nothing.
well, to be fair, you're nothing compared to a god. how could you ever compete with a being whose existence is the sole reason why you exist in the first place?
he takes a step closer to you, eyes taking in the sight of the knightesses who've spent a long journey, facing countless obstacles to reach the limitless forest which is far from the kingdom that he guesses she's from.
one heck of a ride, is what a human told him many years ago.
you clears your throat when he gestures to you to take a seat on the stone that the deer pushes you to. you nod your head stiffly before slowly lowering yourself, feeling unsure on how to communicate with a being that's far on a different level from you.
"thank you, satoru." your voice came in a whisper, full of uncertainty. "you may call me ... just knightess, if that's what you're most fond of."
he hummed softly at your words as he took a seat on the stone beside you, gaze falling to the waterfall that's in the center of this forest. "then, knightess, may i be told what brings you to this forest?"
blinding. the man is blinding and he's sitting beside you. well, for some reason—that you're sure happen because of him—it didn't hurt you, in any way. he's shining, but somehow you're able to tolerate and adjust the light that's radiated from him.
if it isn't by his kindness, you would've gone blind the moment he came into sight. you really are losing your brain cells when satoru, the moon incarnation, the god, makes its presence known to you.
"... i came to ask for a blessing," you answer, glancing at the man whose gaze is zeroed on the view in front of you two. not that you can blame him, the scenery is like a painting by the greatest painter to have ever existed. this space is the painter's canvas, a truly magnificent piece of work.
although, technically, satoru lives in this part of the forest divine hearth. this is his home; a place where he spends the eternal life of his.
"a blessing, you say …" he muttered. a minute of silence filled the air between the two of you before he spoke again. "i shall give you the blessing you've worked hard to achieve for. in return, would you accompany me for a talk?"
talk. the moon incarnation is asking you to engage in a conversation with him? a god is requesting something from … you.
you blink once. twice.
it's quite an odd request coming from a being that can alter the world, but in a sense it does make sense. as a god, he has no one but himself. nature and all that comes with it aren't enough to fulfill the aching void inside him. the exact one that's gnawing at him when he thinks of the life outside this forest.
not that any soul should know of the fact that the one they came for a blessing is craving for an interaction— it's not befitting his status, his sole purpose of existence.
the god is drowning in loneliness.
"... i suppose i can do that, satoru," you reply to him after a while.
his, supposedly, name sounds foreign rolling off your tongue like an ancient language yet to be found. however, your pair of ears can catch the way it's threaded into a prayer to the air the moment it leaves between your lips.
the wind around you is blowing—kissing your skin—as his name dances along the breeze that's coating you in this feeling of familiarity and deeper to the sense of coming home that you felt earlier.
satoru's head turned to you, then. a soft, warm smile plastered on his lips. "thank you. i shall make it worth your time."
oh, you already have, you thought to yourself.
“how's the world outside of the forest?” he asked you, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
now, you paused at the question. shouldn't he, as the god, know of what's happening all around the world? he's the one being above anything that exists in this world. both breathing and what not.
he has the privilege of seeing what happened in the past, present, and future; the question doesn't suit him.
you pressed your lips into a thin line, mind wandering here and there to arrange an answer that doesn't pry into the mind of a god. it already feels odd enough to sit next to someone who should be anything but beside you.
much to your demise, one of the nature of humans that's hard to brush off is wanting to know more than they should. forcing both eyes and ears to gather things for the sake of satisfaction, for themselves.
curiosity, to be precise.
"shouldn't that be something you're able to … privy?" your brows furrowing, not knowing the word to choose in this situation.
the man's smile faltered. he didn't think that question would leave your mouth. then again, he shouldn't have underestimated the basic pinnacle of humans that made them, them.
satoru ponder your question for a while before letting out a sigh, his head turning to face the waterfall again.
"... it's a headache."
… a headache?
he glances at you, chuckling when he takes in the bewildered and confused expression that painted your face. your eyes are sparkling with the need of wanting to learn more, unraveling the truth there's to know about the man sitting beside you in the forest that's more than your mind may depict, can portray.
"the limitless knowledge of humans and this universe can send me into a spiral of headache," he continues. satoru's gaze roamed around the sight of the forest behold just for them to see. "although i am what you may call a god. incarnation, in whatever form there is, is the weaker state of me."
as you listen to his explanation, you can hear the faint hint of loneliness in the back of his voice that's crawling itself out. although, it stops halfway out of fear of being seen. after all, vulnerability isn't something that goes well with a being that's immortal.
so, even a divine being can fear something, you think.
"... does it ever get lonely here?" you asked, changing your attention to the way the tree leaves brushing against one another. creating a sound of ruffles in a soothing way.
the man beside you stood up, he paved his way towards the edge of the ground, close to the plunge pool. "what do you think, knightess? would you be drenched by loneliness if we were to switch places?"
his words tugged something inside you. it seems like he pulls a string that you never know is there. or maybe one that you never wanted to acknowledge in fear of feeling like a failure of a knight.
dread.
being one of the small number of female knights is something you're very proud of. it's a dominated male part of the world. the work as a knight is one that people would argue isn't befitting a female. the road is full of blood, sweat, regrets, betrayal, tears; all what many see isn't for females to pursue.
the feeling of dread from being alone doesn't stand side-by-side with what it takes as a knight. any knight should throw kinds of emotion to exist for them to be able to walk this earth with nothing to hold them back.
it's the very reason you always try to push away the feeling of dread whenever it washes you as you stand frozen while the thought of what's to come flashes your mind; the countless nights you spend wide awake staring at the ceiling; the days you find yourself staring into the endless horizons.
you're afraid someone knows this part of you and declared that you aren't one for the title as a knight. fear of someone saying that you're a soul who steals a place for someone out there who deserves it more than you. caging a soul that meant to be free.
silence, once again, shared between the two of you. each one battling with the turmoil inside them. it stays like that for a while before you stand up and strode to his side, kneeling on the ground as your knees pressed against the grass to touch the water and splash it around.
"they said that water holds memories."
he didn't answer immediately, mind repeating your words a few times before he spoke. "everything holds memories, not only water. both living things and non-living things."
"... like the mirror my mother passed to me which she inherited from my grandmother?" you look up at him.
the man smiled hearing what you said, feeling a sense of pride that you caught on to what he meant by saying that. "precisely. this very grass you walk on remembers the shape of the feet or footwear of every existence that have brushed against it."
"what's with the sudden talk about memories, knightess? are you recalling some?" he asked you. his gaze darting to you who's kneeling beside him, hand fiddling with the water.
"i'm a quite nostalgic person."
satoru's brows raised at your statement. a word that very much matches a human whose time is limited in this world, the other side of a coin to him whose lifetime is limitless.
it struck him, again.
he sometimes forgets that the people who visit this forest have only a little amount of time to spend compared to him who has walked this ground longer than he remembers. the life of your kind is fickle and fragile. satoru is the opposite of that.
like a fire torch, if your kind—a red, orangish fire—were to go against a storm, it'll be in the blink of an eye before it dies down.
satoru's fire is as blue as the shade of the waterfall in the center of this forest. as bright and clear as the sky during a warm, beautiful sunny day. as deep as his eyes that hold the beginning and the end of this world.
the hottest flame to exist, the hardest to put out.
"what's your most … favorite memory, if you don't mind sharing with me?" satoru reply after a while.
you blink a few times at the question, seemingly taken aback by how heavy the question is. and without you having time to stop and prepare yourself, a flood of memories came crashing down to you like waves washing the shore.
every memory that had come to life at some point in this life of yours had you rendered speechless, frozen in place. it's like someone forcefully trying to pull pictures out of your mind, your head starting to feel dizzy at the intensity.
it's like a share of your memory is an offering for him. another thing to give him beside your time in return for the blessing you had asked for.
"... it was when i'm younger, satoru." you paused for a minute as your mind portrayed the memory you're recalling. "the time when the field was still blooming, covered with all kinds of flowers. now it's just a field of nothing."
"a field of memories."
you open your mouth before letting a soft chuckle. right, everything holds memories. the ground of the field remembers the way your little feet roamed around it. the wind there still whispers away the sound of your laughter during those days— it's never really lost.
"what about yours, satoru? are there any memories from this long lasting journey of yours that stand out from others?"
it was a question that seemed impossible to answer. satoru has breathed the air of this earth as long as it has existed. the man has seen, heard, smells of anything that is known to humans. yet for whatever reason, there's a memory that's deeply ingrained in him, he can't seem to cast away.
his feet tapped against the grass as his mind traveled to the memory. "once, there's a grandma who came to visit me."
a granny? some old woman visits him? going through the obstacles of the path to this forest?
"i was surprised when the breeze announced her arrival to me. this place is quite far from places where human resides," he said. a warm smile tugging his lips as the memory plays like a moving pictures.
you listen to him intently. satoru's tone of voice changed into something of fondness, like when you first set foot into this enchanting forest.
"her soul was the purest one i’ve seen after a while that time. she was beaming with happiness and excitement. apparently, she greets every animal that comes into her view."
satoru laugh echoes throughout the forest after finishing the sentence. the memory has a special place in his heart, it seems. he's shining even brighter than he already is.
and oh, may whoever is listening save you.
because the moment you hear his laugh that's heavy with warmth, the way he shines as he speaks of a fond memory— you think that you're falling for a being who you know better than to place feelings for. satoru is a moon incarnation, a god. the two of you live in a different world.
your world has already been filled with nothing but pain and craving for a better life. you don't need the feeling of yearning for someone you couldn't have, you shouldn't fall for. you don't have the energy to walk through another torturous path of your life that you helplessly stumble into.
"the animals were delighted. they didn't stop talking about her months after she left. grandma left quite an impression on them." satoru takes a quick glance at you, his eyes trailing down on you from the top of your head. "she came to ask for a blessing for her grandchild that's about to be born."
satoru's heart beat faster. a tad quicker. the second he locked eyes with you, he felt his heart beating rapidly. it's enough to make it feel like it's going to burst out of his heart.
you're staring at him like he's the sole reason why you're here, your existence. there's stars in your eyes. sparkling in a way that makes satoru's heart ache and longed for your presence some days after.
he takes a deep breath before exhaling, continuing from where he left off. "it was her first grandchild. she wanted to make sure that her first grandchild had the blessing of the moon."
"that's ... very thoughtful of her," you whisper.
"indeed … i heard from the wind that she spent the rest of her life surrounded with love." he then quickly shifted his attention to the trees surrounding them.
satoru clears his throat. he turns around and strolls to the entrance of where you came from. "you should leave, knightess. it's never a great thing to stay here longer than an hour."
your brows furrow in confusion at the sudden change of topic. though it's quickly forgotten the moment he mentioned an hour. it barely feels like half an hour, what does he mean by that?
the man didn't look at you, his eyes set on the entrance. "time works differently here. you shall not stay longer."
at his words, you quickly stand up. your armors rattling at the abrupt action, causing a slight alteration from the calm and peaceful that's wrapping the forest.
it didn't take long before you stood before him, mind still reeling from how fast it had been and the conversation that was far from finished. it was only the starting line between the two of you.
although maybe, maybe it's better to bid your farewell now before you lose your mind and fall deeper to the warm light that he has shown you. the two of you aren't meant to stand by each other. it's an unwritten rule in this world.
while you're trying to gather your mind, he reaches for your right hand, making you startle and look at him.
his hair, whiter than anything you've seen, the true embodiment of the color white are on your view as he leans in to place a chaste kiss against your hand. it wasn't just a mere one kiss that he graced you with.
satoru's lips pressed softly against your skin as he mumbled words you couldn't catch. the kisses he sent you away with are on the back of your hand, your knuckles, your fingers, your palm— he kissed every part of you that there's to lay his lips on.
and you, on the receiving end, are standing frozen. the intimacy of the moment had you in shambles. every fiber in you screaming at the contact of his lips against your skin. the blood that streams through you suddenly feels as warm as the honeycomb your mother just harvested before you left.
before you're able to say anything else, the grass had already pulled you away from him. it's a gentle push, but still able to leave you letting go a gasp of shock. everything was moving too quickly, you couldn't comprehend a single thing that's happening.
you tried to look over your shoulder, but the breeze was blowing to your face. obstructing your sight as the hair covers your eyes. when your hair is finally out of your view, the entrance is gone.
satoru are nowhere in sight.
and you're left heartbroken, unable to bid him farewell and take a last look at him. you were taken away from the right of memorizing his face so you could engrave it to your soul, to make sure you remember how he looks when you're asked to paint a picture of him on someone's mind.
unfortunately, he didn't let you. satoru didn't give you any chance to grief the feeling that was just starting to bloom for him even by a second of the time that passed here. you're shattered on the ground, passing that phase of cracking slowly but surely, because even something as small as that— he didn't let you embrace it.
the man on the other hand is down on his knees. eyes wide as his body trembles while nature wrapped itself around him, transferring a sense of comfort. the water splashes on him, the grass is clinging to his body, the animals—deer, butterfly, rabbits—nuzzle themselves against him, the wind kisses his skin tenderly.
why, anyone might ask?
satoru, the moon incarnation, the light, the god had found himself entranced by a human he shouldn't have. he had defied the rules of the universe; no god shall fall for any being. there's no part of life where an eternal life can stand alongside a human whose life is always on the line. and even nature can feel how his heart is cracking.
he's doomed.
and he shall pay the price of the longing that came second after second, minutes after minutes, hours after hours, days after days, weeks after weeks, months after months, years after years, decade after decade, centuries after centuries— for the very truth that time doesn't really exist in his world.
while you, another soul amongst trillions, will live in the gaps of his mind and fill him with emptiness where there's no end. even when he already tried to disintegrate you into the air, telling the breeze to whisk you afar, you're left somewhere in his life.
because his mind chose to erase a little part of his long lasting life that has you in it. satoru doesn't want to live in misery and losing his identity as the god who lost his light when he's the light itself.
it couldn't happen.
then, before he even recalls and realizes it, you're nothing but a fractured memory in the moon incarnation—a god—mind. leaving nature and iron of your armor as the only thing left as the witness of the short moment shared between you two, the only thing that remembers.
after all, just like what the man had said: everything holds memories.
ა ˙˖ summary → there’s no one you hate more than satoru gojo. he’s arrogant and entirely too full of himself. when you agree to be strictly enemies with benefits, gojo takes this as the perfect opportunity to finally make you his.
⤳ warnings: this mini series will feature adult content and is not recommended to anyone under the age of 18
intro
❦ chapter one: the fuck buddy proposal
❦ chapter two: you're not my type!
❦ chapter three: the conclusion
꒰ I've already got a taglist going but you can also sign up for tags here! under others just type in: the arrangement series ꒱
wc: ~8.4k | cw: viltrumite gojo x viltrumite reader! smut, arranged reproductive pairing, reproductive coercion, breeding/pregnancy kink kinda, loss of virginity, fingering, rough sex, creampie, possessiveness, contains minor spoilers for viltrumite lore in invincible
summary: with viltrum on the brink of extinction, your father selects the strongest male of your generation to help you preserve its dying bloodline.
a/n: this one has been sitting in my drafts for a MINUTE i'm sorry babes…possible part two maybe??? also, shoutout to @yanderenightmare for the inspo to write about viltrumite gojo !!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
VILTRUM WAS ONCE a planet so bountiful its end seemed impossible to ever imagine.
A world inhabited by billions of the strongest beings to ever grace the universe, where power was not a rarity but rather a birthright, and might thrived in such abundance it bled into the very architecture of the empire itself.
Viltrum did not just survive for millennia, it had spent them conquering. The Viltrumites bent a myriad of civilizations to their knees and called it order, this is what they were made to do—to inflict brutality upon those weaker, which in turn, made Viltrum prosper. A race of people so certain of its own superiority, extinction had never once been considered a possibility.
Then…the Scourge Virus came, and with it, came ruin.
The disease spread throughout Viltrum like a curse; hollowing the planet from the inside out. Billions were reduced to mere fractions; certainty tainted with panic, and proud legacy careened into desperate survival.
What once had been a world overflowing with life, power, and conquest was left gasping for air, which may have been rightfully deserved; a karmic outcome of sorts. All of that cruelty, all that destruction they inflicted among others was now occurring to their own people, with no cure, no way of stopping it. The virus claimed countless lives, taking those who were supposedly the strongest in a short matter of time, and spreading far too quickly to ever contain it.
Now? Viltrum stands not as it once was, but as a graveyard dressed in imperial red and pearly white. A planet that was so prosperous it seemed eternal now lingers on the verge of extinction, its future balanced precariously between dwindling bloodlines and the threat of yet another war—one looming close enough to feel it in the air itself. The Coalition of Planets awaits Viltrum like carrion beyond the stars, united in grief, eager to finish what the virus started.
And in the center of it all, sits your father.
Grand Regent Thragg.
Ruler of what remains, the keeper of a rapidly dying empire and the strongest Viltrumite the planet had ever borne witness to…with the sole exception of Satoru Gojo, of course.
And he has summoned you without explanation, how typical of him. When you are as powerful and feared as he, no one dares to ask why, afraid it may be the very last thing they say.
The corridor leading to the throne room seems longer today, lined in stone the shade of dried blood; the palace, similar to everything else left on this world, does not feel alive anymore. It feels artificial, preserved, like the bones of something once magnificent is now forced to pretend it has not already rotted from the inside out.
You hate being summoned here alone, not out of fear—no, you fear nothing, not even him, but because you already have a rising suspicion as to why he has requested it.
Your eighteenth birthday had passed not long ago, you are an adult now, a fully grown one in the eyes of Viltrum. And on a planet with so few women left, you can think of only a handful of reasons a father like yours would wish to speak to you in private.
The doors part at your approach with a low groan and you step into the vast chamber with your spine straight and your chin high, red light spilling through the massive windows and painting the floor in the color of fresh violence.
Your father stands with his back to you, hands clasped behind him, staring out over the tethered remnants of Viltrum below. You stop a respectful distance away and drop into a kneel, arm crossed over your heart with your head bowed. Despite the Grand Regent being your own flesh, he still commands your respect just as he does everyone else.
“Father.”
He does not turn immediately, does not say a thing. Instead, he lets the silence stretch until the one standing within it begins to feel small; he has always wielded silence well in this way.
Then, at last, his pragmatic voice cuts through the room, “Daughter…Let me explain your future to you.”
The words settle cold and heavy in your stomach. It is how he says it, as if your future has already been decided, written into scripture before you were ever born. Slowly, you lift your head. Thragg turns then and there is nothing soft in his face, there rarely is. Yet, tonight he somehow looks even less like your father and more like what he truly is—the ruler of a wretched world, a man so thoroughly carved from purpose that tenderness had never been useful to him.
“You are aware of our circumstances,” He says.
“Yes.”
“The number of remaining females is no longer sufficient enough to justify unnecessary risk.”
Your brows draw together unwillingly, "Unnecessary risk,” You repeat flatly.
His expression does not so much as flicker, it stays as hard as stone, “You will no longer participate in combat in the same capacity.”
For a second, you simply stare at him. You understand what he means, quite perfectly, and heat crawls up your spine at once, “We are on the brink of war with the Coalition,” You say, rising from your kneel in one smooth motion, “And you want me to…sit out?”
“I want to preserve what remains of Viltrum.”
A humorless laugh escapes you, unable to bite it back, “By sidelining your heir?”
“By ensuring my heir survives long enough to matter.”
The room falls still and silent once again. Cruel—that is what it is. How can his tone remain so calm and certain as if your anger is nothing more than air moving through the atmosphere?
You take a step closer, jaw tight, “I am not some delicate thing to be hidden away while everyone else goes to war in my place.”
“No,” Thragg agrees, “You are not.”
And, somehow, his agreement is worse. Because he is not suggesting you are weak, of course not, you share his genetics, there is no way you could be weak. But…your strength no longer matters.
“As my daughter and as my heir, your purpose has changed.”
Your fingers curl at your sides, “My purpose.”
“Yes.”
The words come out sharper now, barbed with disbelief, “You would remove me from battle when our species is balanced on the edge of extinction?”
His gaze stays fixed on you, “Your value to Viltrum no longer lies there.”
Your value.
Now, it is not measured by how many enemies you can kill, but by what your body can produce. You hold his gaze anyway, looking away would feel too much like yielding and you are not ready to do that, not yet, “So that is what this is? You drag me in here to tell me I have been repurposed?”
If the word offends him, he gives no indication. Though, majority of the time he is unreadable regardless, “The future of our world will not be secured through sentiment,” He states, “It will only be secured through blood.”
You purse your lips, “And you have already chosen whose, I suppose.”
“Yes.”
No surprise there. He would never summon you for a discussion he had not already resolved in his own mind. Men like Thragg do not ask, they decide and inform. Still, your stomach twists with something tight and ugly all the same, because there are only so many names he would consider suitable for a task like this.
“The bloodlines of surviving females are too closely shared with those of the remaining males. Any offspring produced from such pairings would carry an unacceptable risk of deficiency.”
Though you were already aware of this. The survivors were not merely few in number; they were descended from the same handful of families, their bloodlines crossing so many times that there was hardly any meaningful distance left between them.
Your father’s voice stays level and unfeeling, “Your mother’s lineage was preserved separately from the central Viltrumite population for generations. Through her, your blood remains sufficiently distinct from that of the surviving males.”
You knew this as well. Your mother had been descended from an isolated Viltrumite branch, one that had resided beyond the empire’s central territories long enough to avoid the tangled ancestry now burdening those left behind.
It was what made you valuable—the fact that enough of your blood was different. However, it should not feel isolating. On Viltrum, usefulness is a virtue. Value is an honor. To be necessary is to matter. And yet your arms fold over your chest in silent protest.
“The male chosen for you, therefore…” Thragg trails off, choosing his verbiage thoughtfully, “...Could not be selected carelessly.”
You swallow once, though it does nothing to alleviate the heat bubbling in your chest, “Who is it?”
Thragg does not speak the answer. Instead, with all the chilling ease of a man summoning a soldier rather than a future father to his grandchildren, he gives a short nod to the doors and they part at once.
Satoru Gojo steps through them.
The breath leaves your lungs so fast it nearly hurts.
He is the strongest besides your father. The Viltrumite they have named the Honored One.
Of course he was the one chosen.
He enters the throne room alone, tall, broad, and pale in the flood of red light, white hair catching gold where it spills across his forehead. Even now, beneath nothing but imperial summons and the weight of your father’s gaze, he moves with that same impeccable steadiness he carries into battle—unhurried, precise, devastatingly self-possessed. Eighteen years old, the same as you, and already spoken of as if he were something much older and inevitable.
He stops at your side and lowers himself into a kneel, one fist over his heart, but you see it—an almost imperceptible flicker of his eyes in your direction, before they lock onto your father, “Grand Regent.”
Up close, the sight of him is even more striking. Now he is not merely a name or the strongest of this generation or the boy you have spent your whole life seeing from the edges of training halls and state assemblies; always near, never touchable. No, now he is here, beside you, beautiful in the severe, infuriating way only very dangerous men ever are.
And as he stands here next to you, in this context, the reality lands all at once. You see exactly why your father chose him. Worse—you see exactly how easily Viltrum would use a man like this again and again if allowed.
A male like Gojo, with blood like his, strength like his, a body like his, would never be left to breed with one woman unless someone made it impossible. Something possessive flares at that thought, shocking even you.
Your father’s voice remains level, “Satoru Gojo.”
Satoru lifts his head just enough to meet his cold gaze, “You summoned me.”
“I did,” Thragg looks between the two of you as if assessing nothing more intimate than a military resource, “The future of Viltrum requires deliberate preservation. My daughter is the only surviving female whose bloodline remains sufficiently distinct from that of our males and she has reached physical maturity. Among the surviving males, several could have served the role. But, I have chosen you.”
For the first time, something shifts in Gojo. There is a tightening in the line of his jaw as he comes to the understanding that there were others considered for this position. Older males, more seasoned veterans, men with longer battle records and centuries of experience behind them, some that have even fathered offspring before. Despite that…your father still chose him.
The knowledge pleases him, but he buries it well. It stirs some private, sharpened satisfaction that does not touch his face. His sense of superiority among the Viltrumites spikes ever so slightly.
But beside him, you catch the faintest change in his posture, as if another male standing where he now stands would have sat poorly with him.
Thragg continues, “You understand what is being asked of you.”
Oh, Satoru knows. Selective breeding is not a foreign concept to Viltrum. In reality, it is the standard to assure the most sufficient children with the perfect genetics. A simple arrangement between males and females, nothing more than a means of reproduction. Though, this time around it is much different. This is a last ditch effort for salvation.
“Yes,” He answers.
“And you accept it.”
Satoru does not hesitate, “I do.”
The words land strangely because there is no reluctance in them, no visible uncertainty. They lack eagerness, too. Nothing crude, just acceptance, like this is another duty placed into his hands. And for some reason, that bothers you more than if he had smirked or displayed smugness.
You look at him fully then and…
God, he is handsome.
That only causes the flare of possession to deepen.
Because if your father has chosen him—this beautiful, terrible thing at your side who is so composed he may as well have been curated from the same stone as the palace, then you know exactly what Viltrum would do with him when given the chance.
Use him.
Broadly, strategically, repeatedly, everywhere.
No.
If your body is to become strategy, then you refuse to become the first stop in a wider plan for his.
“If I am to bear children for Viltrum,” You announce, cutting through the room before either of them can continue, “Then I will do it with him,” Thragg says nothing, neither does Satoru. You keep your eyes on the latter anyway, “But only him. He will not take other women. Not on Viltrum. Not elsewhere. Not later. If I am to do this, then he belongs only to me.”
The words ring through the throne room like steel and for one second, nobody moves, nobody even breathes. Your father studies you with a cool, almost curious stillness. Next to you, Satoru remains composed, but there is the faintest shift in him—small enough that another may miss it. A sharpening of focus.
You already can assume what your father is thinking. Monogamy? That is unheard of on Viltrum. Especially whilst on the brink of extinction? It is an almost offensive demand. But, Thragg is in no position to argue. If this is the only way to get you to accept the terms of the arrangement, then he has no other choice.
He speaks first, opting for something you did not expect, “You are possessive.”
Your lip curls, “I feel it is practical.”
His gaze lingers on you a moment longer, then lands on Satoru, “My daughter has made her condition clear.”
Satoru’s eyes flick to you again, only for a breath, but it is long enough for you to feel the full, unnerving weight of them on your face. Then he says, just as calmly as before, “Understood.”
No sign that he finds the condition unreasonable at all, despite it being unreasonable as ever.
You are not sure why that should matter to you this much, but it does.
Your father seems satisfied enough by the answer and inclines his head, “It is done,” Then his eyes harden further with expectation, “Do not delay.”
The meaning of it burns through the room at once and you hate that your body recognizes it instantly. You hate even more that some traitorous part responds.
Thragg says nothing else because there is no need to, the dismissal implicit now, both heavy and absolute. Your jaw tightens and without another word, you turn for the doors and hear Satoru move beside you a second later; the sound of his steps falling into place with yours as the two of you leave the throne room beneath your father’s cold, watchful silence.
The corridor beyond feels longer now, narrower too, and for several strides, neither of you speaks, but the quiet between you is not empty. It is crowded with the knowledge of where you are being sent and what is meant to happen once you get there.
You can feel him beside you in a way that makes no sense and all the sense in the world; the hushed gravity of a man you have known the shape of your entire life and yet have never once stood this close to.
Distance has always separated you both and now, there is none left.
You cannot find it in yourself to look at him first, unable to trust what seeing him again so clearly might do to the uneasiness weighing on your chest. So instead you keep your eyes dead ahead, on the corridor created out of blood-colored stone, and let your mind do what it has done for years when it comes to Satoru Gojo—circle him without touching.
The boy who was always the strongest, the one your father observed differently, the one whom others measured themselves against and did not live to tell the tale. The weapon who kept becoming more beautiful with age in that unfairly infuriating way, all pale severity and blue eyes so brilliant and the kind of body Viltrum revered without need to say it aloud.
And now…he walks beside you because your father has decided that he will father your children.
You almost miss a step as the thought of that haunts you. Beside you, he is still silent as ever. Entirely too composed for a man who has just been informed he is expected to bed the Grand Regent’s daughter before the hour is out. That irritates you too. Everything about him seems to.
By the time the two of you reach your chambers, your pulse is annoyingly frantic. The doors part and you step inside first. Red light spills through thin windows cut high in the walls, dragging long shadows over everything in its wake. A broad bed sits in the center, too neatly made to feel inviting, more like another imperial command waiting to be obeyed than somewhere either of you might willingly lay. A basin gleams near the far wall along with folded linens and a low table. It is obvious the room had been carefully prepared for this moment.
You hear the doors close behind him and now you are entirely alone with Satoru Gojo, and the crushing expectation of what is meant to happen next.
For an awkward while, neither of you says anything nor dares breathe too loudly. Genuinely, it is absurd. The arrangement had already been made, the purpose is as clear as day, and the room itself may as well shout well what are you two waiting for?
Regardless, the both of you simply stand there.
Until, at last, unable to bear the silence any longer, you move to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight and a second later, after the briefest pause, he does the same. He is far enough to not touch, but close enough to be painfully aware of him anyway.
And all you can do is stir over the fact that you know exactly what is expected and still have no idea how to begin.
You burn holes into the floor, then finally turn your head, “So…” His gaze shifts to you, “You are the strongest.”
The reply comes laced with that maddening calmness, “That is what they say.”
It is such a dry response that you nearly laugh, but refuse to. You let your eyes drag over him openly since there is no point in pretending otherwise now. This is the first time in your life you have been permitted to look at him this long. There is even more to appreciate when being this close.
The broadness of his shoulders, his posture is perfect in that arrogant–Viltrumite way, the pale beauty of his face works cohesively with the white uniform he adorns. A body honed by violence, primed to be one of the most formidable killers Viltrum had ever produced. You had known, abstractly, what he was. Feared it, perhaps. Admired it too, in the private way one admires storms from a distance.
Distance was much kinder than whatever this is.
And he is looking at you too. In recognition, maybe. As if he is seeing you clearly for the first time as well and finding the view more complicated than anticipated.
“You accepted quickly,” You note.
“There was no reason not to.”
You turn your gaze away from him again, to the crimson light stretched across the floor, “None at all?”
“Your father did not summon me for my opinion.”
“And that does not trouble you?”
Satoru is silent for a moment, then says, “It is what is required.”
You huff a frustrated breath, “It is easy for you to say.”
His gaze rests on your face, “Because I was not removed from the battlefield.”
You look at him after he speaks and for the first time since he entered the throne room, something in his countenance seems to slip from pure unreadability. There is nothing so openly dangerous, but understanding, possibly? At least he is not stupid enough or selfish enough to feign ignorance.
“No. You were not,” Your voice comes out harsher for the restraint wrapped around it, “I have spent my life being raised to fight. To conquer. To rule after him, if it came to that. And now, suddenly, I am told that none of it matters as much as what my body can produce.”
Satoru says nothing and you almost snap at him for it, until you realize he is not silent out of indifference. He is simply listening. You laugh this time, though it is small and bitter, “And you—you are told you are to father the next generation and you kneel and say understood.”
He does not flinch, “Yes.”
You turn toward him more fully, “That is all?”
“That is what a man in my position is for.”
His answer is what helps you remember that he is still only eighteen too. Young, but a grown man. Spoken of like he is some towering inevitability and some warrior fated to reshape whatever war he enters, but he is really, the same as you. He is merely just another body the empire has deemed useful enough to claim fully and use in this predicament. You should not find that as disarming as you do.
“And my condition…you accepted that quickly too.”
At that, something almost flickers in his blues, “I did.”
“You do not mind being told where you may and may not go?”
The corner of his mouth shifts so faintly you nearly miss it, “No.”
You narrow your eyes, “No?”
“You asked for exclusivity,” He says, “I understood.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“Then what are you asking now?”
The question catches you off guard. You stare at him a minute too long, suddenly very aware that this is the first true exchange the two of you ever had, and it is already beginning to feel less like politics. You know you need to answer carefully, but what comes out is, “I am asking whether it offends you.”
His eyes stay on yours, “No.”
The reply is immediate enough to feel sincere, “Why not?”
Satoru pauses long enough that you see him consider the words before speaking them, “Because your father chose me for you,” He says, “Not the others.”
Your breath catches in your throat. Perhaps, buried under the composure, there is something in that answer that feels a little too close to what had flashed through your own mind in the throne room, “That sounds very pleased with itself.”
“It is only true.”
“It is rather arrogant.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, “I am simply correct.”
Then the room falls quiet once more. And now that the real questions have been answered, the reason why you are here at all sits there between you. Your eyes drift to the door and you drop some of the formalities now that your partnership has become more solidified, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting just outside it.”
Something similar to amusement ghosts across Satoru’s face, “I imagine he’d be disappointed by how long we’ve spent sitting here.”
You turn your head and glare at him, “You’re irritating.”
“Would you prefer it were someone else?”
No. You would not. Not at all.
The answer rises too quickly to be anything but true and the fact that he likely sees it in your expression before you can hide it only makes your blood run hotter. Whatever trace of amusement that had touched his face disappears again, leaving only that ridiculous poise.
Your fingers tighten in the sheets under you, “I don’t know what to expect…”
Satoru knows what you mean by that and he, too, does not know, being just as inexperienced as you, “Neither do I.”
The realization changes him. Beneath all of who he is, you can glimpse the outline of something startlingly young. Your gaze drops, unwillingly, to his hands where they rest on his thighs. Large, scarred, capable of splitting bodies open without a second thought and little effort—the thought of those same hands touching you should terrify you. Instead, it oddly entices you.
“This is for Viltrum,” You mutter, unsure whether you are reminding him or yourself.
He nods, eyes fixated on you, “Yes. For Viltrum.”
For Viltrum.
For survival. For bloodline. For the empire.
Though when the words settle, they almost immediately begin to sound thin.
And then he moves, slightly, one hand lifting from his thigh and your pulse jumps so hard it makes you angry. His hand comes to rest, soft as a whisper, against the side of your face and the touch is so tender it startles you more than roughness would have. You stare at him; this is the same man who tears enemies apart, the same man your people call honored, and yet his thumb brushes against the line of your cheek like you are something precious he must preserve.
He is…gentle? How strange.
Then, slowly, his hand slips from your cheek to the back of your neck. He leans in enough that the air shifts and you feel his breath before you feel anything else. Your fingers curl in the bedspread, somehow, he notices, “If you want me to stop…say so.”
You simply shake your head and close the remaining gap yourself; the first kiss is not graceful whatsoever. It is tentative and weird and misaligned from inexperience, your noses brush and your mouths meet with all the awkwardness of two people who have never done this before and are trying very hard not to show it. The sheer absurdity of it almost makes you pull back.
But then, his hand tightens at the back of your neck and he kisses you again, more certainly, and suddenly the awkwardness is no longer the dominant thing. Now, there is only heat. His mouth is softer than it should be, his hand at your neck is steadier than you expected, the broadness of his body when he shifts closer to you makes the bed dip beneath your combined weight, and a small sound slips out of you, causing Satoru to draw back an inch.
His eyes are brighter, mouth parted slightly from the kiss, breath no longer as measured as it was previously.
“You’re still being careful,” You murmur.
“I said I would stop if you wanted.”
“And I didn’t.”
God no, you definitely did not.
If anything, your body has only betrayed you more and more with every touch and every brush of his lips. It is becoming harder to remember that this is meant to be something practical. Something done for survival. For duty. For Viltrum.
Well, because practical things are not supposed to make your skin this hot. They are not supposed to make your stomach knot when his hand slides from the back of your neck to your waist, tightening to pull you properly into him.
Not getting another second to think, his mouth is on yours again, hotter now, and your hand fists the front of his uniform hard enough to wrinkle the pristine white. Satoru reacts by moving quicker, undoing one clasp of yours, then another gives way beneath deft fingers while your own fumble at his.
Eventually, within minutes, the bed is littered in pieces of white and grey, and when his hands find your skin for the first time, the air leaves your lungs all over again. Seated beside him, turned slightly inward, your bare thighs are practically touching. His hands rest at your waist where the last piece of your uniform had fallen away, large enough that his fingers span the width of it.
For a moment, Satoru only looks at you and there is nothing discreet about it. His eyes graze over every inch you have exposed to him—your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach, the smooth skin between your thighs, as if the sight requires study. The open astonishment on his face makes heat crawl from the center of your chest all the way to your cheeks and down between your legs.
You have been looked at your entire life, it is something you are not new to. You have been assessed for strength, examined for injury, watched in combat to determine whether the Grand Regent’s daughter might someday prove worthy of inheriting his place, but never like this. Never as though someone has forgotten what he intended to say simply because you are sitting before him completely naked and without anything left to hide behind.
Your first instinct is to cover yourself, although pride prevents it, “Stop staring.”
His gaze rises to your face, hands remaining settled at your waist, “I’m looking.”
“That is the same thing.”
“No,” He answers, almost absently, “It is not.”
His fingers begin to move before you can find a response, tracing the curve of your waist with a caution that feels absolutely absurd coming from him. These hands have broken bone and torn through flesh without hesitation, yet now his fingertips barely skim your skin, mapping you with an uncertain fascination.
The touch makes your stomach tighten and he notices immediately; his attention sharpens, following the small reaction as if he means to memorize it, “You trembled.”
“You touched me.”
“I’m aware.”
The faint arrogance in his tone nearly makes you roll your eyes, but then his thumb passes slowly over your hip and every clever response abandons you. Still, you refuse to be the only one left exposed beneath such scrutiny, letting your gaze drop to him.
Without the white severity of his uniform, Satoru appears somehow larger. You always knew he was built like he was carved from stone by gods themselves, but none of him is softened by the fabric anymore, and seeing him like this and this close is entirely different.
Your eyes travel over the firm planes of his chest, the powerful lines of his stomach, and the narrow taper of his waist. The strength Viltrum praises so proudly lives everywhere beneath his skin, every part of him honed through violence.
Then you notice the scars. There are more than you expected. Thin, silvery marks cross his shoulders and ribs, remnants of injuries severe enough to leave evidence even after self-healing had done its job. One cuts diagonally across the middle of his chest and fades dangerously close to his heart. Your hand lifts without warning, tips of your fingers following the pale line; Satoru goes still.
“What caused this?”
“I don’t remember.”
You glance up at him, puzzled as to how he could forget, “It nearly struck your heart.”
“It did strike my heart.”
Your fingers halt because of the way he says it so casually, “And you survived.”
The corner of his mouth shifts, “Clearly.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but your palm remains against his chest. His heart beats beneath it, faster and more erratic than it should be.
“You have scars too,” He mentions, hand leaving your waist long enough to comb over a mark along your side. The tenderness of the gesture feels more intimate than nakedness itself.
“Training.”
“With your father?”
“Who else?”
Something dark passes briefly through his expression, then his gaze drops again, following the line of your body, and your own attention drifts lower in response. The sight awaiting you there wipes every thought from your mind.
His cock is half-hard and intimidatingly large, resting heavy upon the cut of his lower abdomen. It twitches under your stare, thickening further as it rises with prominent veins running along the shaft; flushed tip already glistening.
You cannot help but wonder how something of that size is supposed to fit inside you, the sheer girth alone looks impossible—far too wide to take without splitting you open. Your lips part on a shaky exhale and Satoru follows your stare, and for the first time that evening, uncertainty breaks visibly through his composure. A faint blush colors the tops of his cheeks.
“That may be a problem,” You murmur, voice quieter than you intended.
His brows draw together, “You are Viltrumite.”
“That does not make every part of me indestructible.”
“It nearly does.”
You glare at him, but the edge of amusement touching his mouth disappears when he realizes that your apprehension is genuine. His hand returns to your waist as he says, “Lie back.”
Your pulse stumbles, and instantly, you think he is ready to start and get this over with. Finish the task that has been assigned to him. Get you pregnant.
But his voice…it is low and careful, so you find yourself obeying his words, shifting farther onto the mattress. Satoru helps guide you down, one hand supporting your back until your shoulders meet the sheets, and he follows you without hesitation.
The mattress lowers beneath his weight as he moves between your parted legs, kneeling there while you lie under him. His thighs press against the backs of yours, broad shoulders blocking part of the red light spilling through the windows. The position leaves you entirely open to him, legs threatening to close on instinct, but Satoru’s hands settle lightly on your knees before they can; merely holding them there as his striking eyes lift to yours, and he waits.
Slowly, you let your legs relax, and only then, does his gaze drop. The look of wonder that crosses his face is enough to make you want to hide all over again.
His hand travels down the inside of your thigh, rough pads of his fingertips running along a path that leaves your skin burning behind them. When he reaches the slick heat between your legs, his touch turns tentative—curious. He explores without a semblance of knowledge, parting your folds with two thick fingers, spreading the wetness gathered there, dragging them up to circle your swollen clit.
When your hips jerk against the mattress, he knows he may have done something right. He immediately looks up for confirmation, “That affected you.”
You swallow the thick lump in your throat, breathing out a strangled, “It...did.”
He repeats the motion, firmer, rubbing slow circles over that seemingly sensitive bud, while his vibrant blues stays fixed on your face. Pleasure sparks sharp through you, drawing a few unsteady breaths that he clearly hears, “Does this feel good?”
You look away, cheeks burning, embarrassment the main thing you feel. You are not a being who is supposed to feel pleasure, “...I think so.”
“You think?”
“I have nothing to compare it to.”
Recognition makes his expression soften, “I don’t either.”
But he keeps going, still cautious, though more deliberate now. He replicates what made you react, studying every tremor and every tightening of your hands in the sheets with unnerving concentration, “You are—learning very quickly.”
Satoru hums thoughtfully, transfixed on the sight of your pretty face and his fingers glistening in your folds, “I usually do.”
Even now, his arrogance finds a way to survive. You might have insulted him for it had another movement of his fingertips against your clit not stolen the words from you.
He watches your expression change and something hungry begins to replace the wonder in his eyes. Now that he has discovered he can make you feel good, the knowledge of that pleases him far more than it should.
Growing increasingly impatient and curious whether the act might feel as good to him as his touch seems to feel to you, he withdraws his soaked hand from your core and disappointment flashes through you before you can hide it. He notices that too, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
But he doesn't move yet, attention dropping to his fingers. They are glittering in the red light, coated so thoroughly in the viscous wetness of your cunt that it shines over his knuckles. Satoru stares, turning his hand slightly as if examining the aftermath of some unfamiliar phenomenon.
Heat rushes instantly to your cheeks, "What is it?"
His thumb drags slowly over the slick coating his fingertips, spreading it between them. The expression on his face fades from curiosity and into unmistakable gratification, "This came from you."
You scoff, slightly embarrassed by his intrigue in it, "Obviously."
He looks at you then, "Because I touched you."
The satisfaction dripping from his tone makes your stomach clench, "Don't look so proud of yourself."
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Before you can respond, he brings his coated fingers back between your thighs, dragging them one more time through your folds as though unwilling to waste the evidence; the touch pulls another small twitch from you.
Satoru is no idiot. Inexperienced, yes. But he can decipher what this means.
Your body wants him.
And in knowing that, he feels much more confident when he shifts closer between your thighs—the considerable size of him becomes impossible to ignore once again. His cock ghosts over your entrance as his hand slides beneath one of your legs, lifting it carefully as he settles over you.
One arm braces beside your head while the other remains at your thigh, trying to understand angles, bodies, where he is meant to go. Perhaps, it would be almost funny if the sight of him between your legs did not make your pulse tick so violently.
He notches the blunt head of his cock into your tight cunt, stretching you open with a burning pressure that forces a sharp inhale from your chest and every muscle in your body tenses; he stops right away, not pushing an inch further, eyes finding yours, “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You probably will.”
His jaw tightens, and for all his power, he looks wary now, “Then tell me how much.”
You reach for him, wrapping one hand around his muscular bicep and drawing him closer, “I will.”
He studies your face for another moment, searching for uncertainty, but whatever he finds seems to satisfy him. His forehead lowers to yours, breath warm against your mouth, and he pushes in another inch, yet this time, the effect on him is immediate. Satoru’s breath leaves him in a rasping, fractured sound, so unlike anything you have ever heard from him, or anyone else for that matter, that your eyes fly to his face.
His entire body goes rigid above you, the arm braced next to your head locks at the elbow, muscle drawn taut, while his other hand clamps around your thigh. His expression is almost impossible to comprehend, appearing somewhat stricken with the violent shock of sensation.
You are so warm around him…so tight, it knocks the air straight from his lungs. He parts his lips, brows pulled together, brilliant eyes gone unfocused as though every thought inside his head has been extinguished at once. How is anything supposed to feel…this good?
And when he thrusts himself inside you deeper, his hand flees from your thigh and fists in the sheet beside you, the fabric straining under his strength, seams tearing in his fingers; but he does not seem to realize any of it, too lost in the feeling of you squeezing around his cock that he keeps sinking in deeper and deeper, until he’s buried to the hilt.
He forces himself to stay motionless, every line of his body trembling with the effort to not pull back and fully stuff his length inside you again. It is quite funny, for all the ease with which Satoru can dominate a battlefield, he seems to have relatively no command here.
At the same time, while he is above you losing his mind entirely, the pressure in your lower belly becomes almost unbearable. Your fingers close around his biceps, nails clawing hard enough to leave crescent moons in skin that ordinarily resists mostly everything.
His focus returns as soon as he feels it, “Does it hurt?”
You nod slightly, biting your lower lip, “A little.”
Although you are particularly used to enduring pain, essentially every Viltrumite is—trained to withstand even the most brutal injuries, this form of pain is too intimate to handle and surprisingly, he cares a great deal about your comfort. You half expected him not to care whatsoever; a dangerous Viltrumite who has perhaps killed many of his own kind, worries of harming you. How absurd.
He becomes stiller, which should not be physically possible, but of course he defies all odds. His eyes search your face, all hints of hunger momentarily eclipsed by concern, “I can stop.”
“No,” Your answer comes too quickly.
His jaw clenches so hard the muscle pops, “But you said it hurts.”
“It does.”
“Then—”
“Just wait.”
It should not shock you that he listens, yet it does. The strongest male of your generation remains frozen over you, chest rising unevenly, hand still tangled in the ruined sheet as if it is the only thing preventing him from losing control completely. You breathe through the discomfort of being stretched out and little by little, the pain begins to subside.
Your body adjusts around his girth, the unfamiliar pressure becoming something warmer, almost intoxicating even. The grip you have on his arms loosens and instead, your hands slide upward over the hard curvature of his shoulders and onto his back.
Satoru watches every change in your countenance, nothing escaping him. He takes it all in—your breath evening out, your thighs relaxing around him, the slight, unconscious shift of your hips beneath his.
His blue irises darken, “Better?”
“Yes…”
That single word nearly destroys him, causing his fingers to twist into the sheet and forehead to drop against yours. His breath breaks hot over your mouth as your nails drag down his back, making a sound somewhere between a gasp and a growl. His free hand flies to your waist, nails digging into your skin hard enough to remind you exactly what he is, but he catches himself quickly, loosening his grip, yet you tighten your legs around him before he can pull away.
His eyes snap open as you pull him closer to you, and whatever restraint he had left starts to die. He kisses you suddenly, without precision because he is still inexperienced as ever, though desperate all the same. His mouth hovers yours when he draws back for the first time, moving only a few cautious inches, before slowly pressing forward again.
The motion sends another flare of pressure through you, but it is different now. No longer is it that immediate pain from before.
He moves once more, slower this time, withdrawing with painstaking control before easing himself back inside you. The strange heat deep in your lower belly gathers, spreading through you with every inch until your fingers sink into his back. Satoru fixates on your face as he keeps repeating the motion, watching the tension between your brows gradually dissipate, and your lips part for an entirely separate reason.
“Oh…” You breathe quietly, this feels…unexpectedly good.
He starts to move more purposefully then, deep, rolling thrusts that turn faster and rougher, though still measured for your sake—albeit barely.
The mattress creaks with each snap of his hips; the wet, filthy sound of his cock plunging into your slick filling the chamber. Your pain has nearly vanished now, transformed into a blinding pleasure that makes your vision white out and thoughts blur at the edges.
You start meeting his thrusts without meaning to, learning his rhythm and movements almost as quickly as he learns you, and the first time you do it deliberately, Satoru stops breathing.
His face lifts from yours, “You did that.”
Despite everything, you stifle a laugh, “I did it purposely.”
“...Do it again.”
He gives the demand softly, and you comply, clenching around his cock as you grind up to meet him once more. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, and the composure he wears like armor disappears totally; the sight sends a thrill through you.
This is the Honored One.
The Viltrumite who has stood untouched before collapsing planets. The weapon who has ripped through armies and returned home with boredom in his gaze. And you—are undoing him with your tight cunt he cannot seem to get enough of.
He fucks himself deeper, more urgently, though he continues watching you with almost obsessive attention. Each little moan you make seems to draw another from him. Every time your nails score his back, his grip tightens at your waist and his cock drives harder into you.
“You feel…” He starts, and stops, voice gone hoarse.
You peer up at him with half-lidded eyes, “What?”
He stares at you like he resents the fact that language has failed him, he has never been this vulnerable, “...so perfect.”
The praise makes heat bloom through you; your hands move over his back again, tugging him down until his chest presses fully against yours, and he shudders at the feel of your breasts touching his bare skin.
Then, something in him shifts. His breathing breaks apart, his rhythm loses its careful consistency, becoming uneven and instinctive as he enters you with long strokes. His eyes widen slightly with dawning realization.
He knows what his body is approaching—a climax.
Viltrum educated him well enough for that. This was the means to reproduce.
What no one had taught him was how overwhelming it would feel.
“Satoru?”
His fingers stab into your waist, “I know.”
But he sounds as though he does not know anything at all. Because he does not. He has never ejaculated before—never even felt something half as pleasurable as this.
His body tightens over yours with such sudden force that the bed groans beneath both of you, face dropping into the crook of your neck as he stuffs himself as deep as possible. You feel his cock throb and pulse within your walls, followed by the hot, thick rush of his cum flooding inside you in heavy spurts.
For several seconds, he cannot speak or move, seemingly he has forgotten how. You feel him trembling, the hand at your waist still clamped tight as he empties every last drop of his load into your womb, and when he finally lifts his head, his pale cheeks are flushed. His white hair hangs disheveled across his forehead, lips parted. His eyes, usually so clear and cutting, appear dazed.
He knows exactly what has happened. What he does not understand is why no one warned him it would feel like being split apart from the inside in the best possible way.
His gaze lingers on your face, “That was…”
Trailing off, still searching for the correct word, you are breathing no more steadily than he is when you ask, “It was…?”
Satoru swallows, “No one said it would feel like that.”
Something about his honesty makes your chest swell, but before you can really acknowledge it, you notice his attention shifting. His eyes lower between your bodies, slowly pulling out just enough to watch his cock slip free, and a stream of his cum leaks from your swollen cunt, dripping onto the sheets in thick, white globs.
The bewilderment in his expression sharpens into one darker. Because there it is.
The abstract purpose of this arrangement suddenly made visible.
He had completed the act required of him. His body had done precisely what it was summoned here to do. Yet the satisfaction spreading through him is anything but dutiful.
His seed is inside you.
His.
There had been other males your father could have selected. Older veterans with centuries of conquest behind them. Proven fathers. Men who would have entered this chamber without hesitation, far too eager to bed you, and leave once the task was done.
But…none of them had been chosen.
Satoru had.
And you had ensured that choice would be permanent.
No other male would ever father your children. No other female would ever carry his. His bloodline would continue through your body alone, just as yours would continue only through him. The thought settles somewhere deeper than pride.
You had claimed him before he ever touched you, and now, staring at the evidence of himself inside you, Satoru realizes he would have demanded the same in return. He could not tolerate another male standing where he stood now nor could he bear the thought of someone else knowing you this way, or worse—giving you a child.
No.
You are his.
But that realization comes with another, equally consuming truth.
He is yours too.
Thragg did not order that one. That was your own doing. You had looked upon Satoru and decided that you wanted him for yourself. He would not be used elsewhere other than with you.
A deeper hunger takes hold of him then, twisted with pride, possession, and something dangerously close to devotion.
He wants more of you.
Wants your body to remember him, to accept his seed again and again until conception feels less like a possibility and more like an inevitability. Wants to see you carry the living proof that, among every male left on Viltrum, he had been chosen.
And underneath all of that, sits one startling, intoxicating truth—he belongs exactly where you put him.
His hand settles low over your belly, then slides even lower to gather whatever left of himself he can to push it back inside you with two fingers, as if to make sure it takes.
Your back arches slightly, whining, “Satoru.”
His eyes lift slowly to yours, “Perhaps…we should make another attempt.”
You stare at him, searching for any concern that this first attempt may have failed, but do not find it. All you find is the want.
“To ensure conception?” You ask curiously.
He hesitates for a mere breath, “Yes.”
The lie is almost convincing, and your reply comes before any caution can reach it. You know you should not want more of him already, but you do. Desperately.
“Then let’s make another attempt.”
Satoru’s gaze darkens at the words. And this time, when he reaches for you, all the gentle restraint he had is gone. He flips you over onto your stomach with that effortless strength, pulls your hips up, and before sinking back inside your cum filled cunt to do it over again, his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear to whisper—
"For Viltrum…right?”
You arch up into him, “For Viltrum…” You repeat, however meaninglessly.
Because you are not sure whether any of this is for Viltrum anymore.
ѕυммαяу： ♡ having a sex dream about your best friend is incredibly embarrassing but when he drags the information out of you and delivers something better than your dreams, it's hard to remember why you were feeling that way. . .
Having a sex dream about your best friend—Gojo Satoru—was not on your bingo card for this year but it happened and the result of it is you avoiding any and all eye contact with him. This would be significantly easier if he wasn’t always hanging around you, it would also be easier if his favourite pastime wasn’t invading your personal space.
Your odd behaviour must’ve reached a breaking point for him because he’s sat next to you on your couch, pouting out, “Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not,” you deny despite your very obvious weird behaviour, still not properly looking at him.
Suddenly, his head is on your lap, eyes analysing your reaction to him, “You’re a bad liar.”
“Wha– What are you doing?” He has you fumbling and it only embarrasses you further. “Get off me.”
“Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me or I’ll literally never get off you, in fact… I will only get closer,” one of his hands moves to grab at your waist but you slap him away.
His head weighted on your thighs has you remembering your explicit dream of him and you can’t help but grow a few degrees warmer in temperature. “I can’t tell you.”
Gojo frowns at that and you hate how you’re noticing just how attractive he is even though he’s growing annoyed, “It involves me directly, but you can’t tell me?”
“That’s right,” you cement, like it shouldn’t even be an issue.
He sits up again and stares at you dead on, “Tell me or I’ll tell all our friends about… the incident.”
A small breath of disbelief leaving you, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” his eyes stern, he’s completely serious.
You try bargaining, “It’s not that deep, Satoru… give me another week or two and I’ll be completely over it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“So, you’re blackmailing me?!”
“I wouldn’t call it that, that’s such an ugly word,” he shakes his head.
Your brow raises at him, “What would you call it then?”
“I don’t know but not that,” he shrugs easily.
“You’re so annoying, I can’t believe I even—” you cut yourself off, realising you were about to freely give away that you couldn’t believe you had a sex dream about him. It’s frustrating that it was such a good dream too because he’s so annoying in real life.
Despite you stopping yourself, he clings to your words, “‘You can’t believe you even’ what?”
Playing dumb is your only defence but to be fair, you aren’t entirely convinced you’re playing anymore, “I don’t know.”
He stares at you for a moment before speaking again, “Okay, well, I’m calling it blackmail now, I’m officially blackmailing you.”
“Evil, evil man,” you accuse.
He motions at himself with his hands, dismissing your words, “Mhm, now tell ‘Toru all your problems.”
“Ew,” you grimace at him, “that was almost as bad as when you referred to yourself as ‘daddy’.”
Smirk on his face at your response, “Would you prefer that? I didn’t know you were into—”
“—I said almost as bad!”
“Sure, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “now tell me what’s going on, I won’t let you wiggle your way out of the main issue at hand.”
“Fine,” you groan, giving in, “but you have to promise to not be weird or make it a big deal.”
His head tilts at you, “What? Like you mean how you’ve been doing?”
“Just promise, stupid,” you grumble at him.
“I promise,” he pauses, “sort of.”
“Seriously?”
“I said I promise, now come on,” he leans in, ready to listen, “lay it on me.”
Ignoring his giddy attitude, you take in a deep breath before carefully letting it out, “Well… the other night, I was sleeping—”
“—Truly groundbreaking stuff.”
“Don’t interrupt me or I will never tell you,” you glare at him.
“My bad,” he raises his hands in surrender.
“Anyways,” your heart is hammering in your chest because it’s so embarrassing to be looking at him as you try to confess. It feels like you’re being crushed under his intense gaze, it’s making you even more nervous.
He must be able to tell you’re working yourself up, “Geez, calm down, sweetheart, whatever it is it’s not that big of a deal.” He moves to pat your head as a means to comfort you, but you flinch away.
And before you can control it, you’re suddenly blurting out, “I had a sex dream about you the other night and now I feel really funny around you.”
The reaction from him isn’t immediate, only blinking back at you for a moment before suddenly turning his head to the side as he tries to hide his laugh but the snort he lets out gives it away. Your lips are downturned as you suffer through the agonising moments of mostly silence, the embarrassment you’d already been feeling growing tenfold at his reaction.
Wordlessly, you rise from the couch and go to walk away, to go away to anywhere but here in this moment. Gojo stops you though, his hand on your wrist pulling you back to the sofa. Now closer to him than you had been before, something you’re overly conscious over. Keeping your head turned from him, annoyed at his reaction and also your lack of tact.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologises, “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”
“You need to get out of my apartment.”
“Don’t be so harsh,” he whines, “I have follow up questions.”
You pull your wrist from his grasp, still refusing to look at him, “I don’t wanna answer them, you only want to torture me.”
“Not true!”
He tries to get back in your line of sight, but you keep turning your head away. Your arms cross over your chest, almost like you’re trying to shrink in on yourself.
“I’m curious about a few things now though,” he hums at you, “since your reaction to having sex with me has been so cute.”
His phrasing is so poor that it has your head whipping to look at him and his overly pleased expression, “I did not have sex with you.”
“Right, right,” he waves off, “you dreamt about having sex with me.”
“I dislike you so deeply right now.”
“If you agree to answer my questions, I will literally never bring up the fact that you had a wet dream about me ever again.”
You point at him angrily, “It was not a wet dream! What the hell is wrong with your phrasing of things?!”
He smiles sweetly as he grabs your finger, using the hold he has on you to unfurl your hand and loop your fingers together to hold hands, “Are you gonna answer my questions or not?”
“If I do… you’ll never speak about this again, right?” You try pulling your hand from his but his hold on you is firm.
“Sure,” he agrees all too easily.
You glance down and away from him, “Fine.”
“Perfect!”
And at his incredibly joyful tone, you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a misstep somewhere along the way. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him… or maybe you should’ve concealed your reactions more effectively… or better yet, your stupid brain shouldn’t have conjured the image of you and him having sex to begin with.
Glancing at your interlocked fingers, you ask, “Can you let go of my hand now?”
“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?” His tone isn’t upset or accusatory, only curious.
Sighing at him in response, “I’m embarrassed to even look at you right now, of course it’s making me uncomfortable.”
He, thankfully, releases his grip on you. Choosing not to taunt you any further but you have a feeling it’s only a small reprieve. Just as your heartrate is finally calming, he asks, “Was I good?”
You’re completely taken aback, knowing what he’s asking but still confused by his bluntness, “What?”
“Was I good?” He repeats shamelessly. “I’d be a little offended if I weren’t.”
If you have to answer his ridiculous questions then you’re going to be purposefully vague, “You were… fine.”
He hums thoughtfully, “You won’t even look me in my eyes, and you said you’re feeling funny around me so I was either horrendously bad or really great, which is it?”
“I don’t like your questions,” you grumble at him.
“I wanna know though,” he whines, “It’s your fault for being so weird about it.”
Your body droops into the couch, head resting against the back of it, “A normal person and good friend would take this information at face value and let me live quietly with my shame.”
“I disagree,” you can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him, your own eyes closed. He continues on, “I’ll let you live quietly after you tell me everything I want to know… probably.”
You squint your eyes open at him, “There is literally nothing in this for me, you’re blackmailing this information out of me.”
He grins at you, “Are you saying you’d respond better to positive reinforcement?”
“I’m saying I’m still reluctant to answer your embarrassing questions and it’s starting to feel like if I do, I’m only giving you future blackmail material.”
“This is untrue, I’m blackmailing you, yes but I also agreed to never bring it up again if you answer my questions.”
“Oh my god!” this is getting annoying, steeling your nerves, you decide you’re just going to answer everything so you can end this quickly, “You were good, it was a good dream.”
A stupid and happy smile takes over his face, you don’t bother reading too far into it. “You said you were feeling ‘funny’, what do you mean by that?”
“Huh?”
“Funny could mean any number of things, I’m asking for specifics here,” he’s still too happy and it’s annoying you because you don’t really understand why.
“Hmm, like…” you look at him intently to better think about how you feel, your heart fluttering as you do, causing you to close your eyes as if you’re in thought, “…I feel embarrassed to have had a dream like that about you.”
He pushes back on your answer, “That’s all?”
Cracking an eye open at him as you chirp, “Yep.”
His gaze is already trained on you, apparently never having stopped looking at you, “You’re such a bad liar.”
You deflate at your failed deception, “I think we’ve just known each other too long…”
“You’ve always been a bad liar though?” He claps his hands together suddenly and it makes your heart skip a beat, “Now, out with it.”
Quiet as you start your explanation, “Every time I look at you…” he nods his head as if to encourage you, “…I think about the dream and it makes me feel funny, that’s all, can you leave me alone now?”
His lips purse as he mulls over what you’ve just said, “You sure you’re not just horny?”
“Satoru!” you chastise him, shocked and also frustrated that he’s pretty much hit the nail on the head. Ever since your dream you can’t help but look at him differently. Mind feeding you images of what having sex with him might be like—what having sex with him was like.
“I’m being genuine.”
“That makes it worse,” kicking your legs a little about it all.
He starts giggling, “You had a dream about getting fucked by me so good that just being around me turns you on.”
“Stop!” you move to sit in front of him properly, face clearly unhappy, “I did not say that.”
“You basically did,” he dismisses, “So… what did I do to you?”
It’s a bit ridiculous that he’s going in this direction, but you should’ve known he was going to do this. You need to shut him down because just his words alone are affecting you more than you care to admit, “I’m done answering your questions.”
It’s his turn to groan and grumble, “Aww, but it was just getting good.”
Rolling your eyes at him, you say with the intention of ending this interaction, “Satoru… It doesn’t matter what you did in my dream because there’s no way you’d be that good in real life.”
The smile on his face drops, “I can’t help but take that personally.”
“Take it how you will,” you shrug, “there’s no way you could live up to the dream version of you, it’s not logical.”
“Wanna find out?”
“Don’t be childish,” you brush him off, overlooking the way those words send a shock through you.
He pushes, “Treat it like an experiment, I wanna know what’s better.”
Blinking back at him, “You’re so weird.”
Quickly pointing out, “Maybe, but you’re the one who dreamt about fucking this weirdo.”
“Yeah, dreamt, it was a dream.” You shake your head in disbelief at him, “Why are you acting like you’re jealous of dream you?”
“Maybe I am jealous of dream me.”
“That’d be stupid.”
“You’re always telling me I’m stupid.”
Gojo’s eyes keep flitting to your lips every time you speak, the look in them suddenly much darker than the glee that was held in them when he was teasing you earlier. Trying to be stern but not entirely convincing when you state, “I’m not going to have sex with you for a reason as stupid as that, grow up.”
“But you’ll have sex with me for a good reason?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you tilt your head at him in exasperation, “why are you even acting like this?”
Ignoring your question and instead posing his own, “You sure you’re not curious, not even a little bit?” His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb pulling down on your lower lip, “I know I am.”
That simple touch has your heart leaping bounds, suddenly so hyper aware of how deep the effect he has on you is. It scares you, how much you want him, how much you want to say yes. You shouldn’t get carried away, he’s being ridiculous, this is all so ridiculous. Your years long and best friendship could be ruined because of this moment.
All things you’re worried about, all valid concerns, all thoughts that slip from you so quickly when he leans in and licks teasingly at your lower lip. The gasp you let out is his entrance into your mouth, his lips plush and demanding against yours. Eyes falling shut as you let yourself get lost in his kiss, full and delightful and something you’ve never felt before.
It’s messy and uncoordinated, like he’s not really focusing on how to kiss you and more on the fact that he gets to kiss you. You’re getting dizzy, body buzzing pleasantly at how he sucks on your tongue. String of saliva keeping your lips connected when he pulls back, snapping as he wipes his lower lip with his thumb, only to then push it into your mouth. Your immediate response to suck, feeling depraved but enjoying the look on his face you get when you do.
He speaks under his breath, eyes a little dazed, “Fuck.”
As soon as your tongue licks against the tip of his thumb, he’s pulling it from your mouth and hurriedly slotting his mouth over yours again. Barely giving you a moment to think before he’s kissing you so completely, consumed by his need and the delicious way he partakes in your lips.
It’s so overwhelming, to be desired like this is foreign and has your thighs clenching together. Gaining confidence when you finally wrap your arms around his neck, a move he appreciates if his groan and grabby hands are anything to go off of.
The way he parts from you is full of huffed and short breaths that only ends in him kissing you again, like he’s fighting with himself to say something, to do something more but ending up not strong enough to move on from your lips.
A pathetic moan that you don’t even recognise as your own leaving you, the sound only spurring Gojo on. Using his body to push against yours until your back is on the couch, not bothering to explain what he’s doing, far too busy and far too fixated on how you taste.
Filled to the brim with thoughts about how good his kiss is, how kissing can’t possibly be this good, how you’d let him do more. Fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that pulls a shudder from him.
What feels like far too soon he’s properly pulling back, quickly putting distance between you both so he’s not immediately gravitating back. Arms holding himself up, hovering over you, taking his sweet time to appreciate the look on your face. Pride exuding from him at what he’s reduced you to with a few kisses.
“Stop staring, Satoru,” your voice comes out more whinged and unfortunate than you were hoping.
“No.”
It’s a simple response, one that’s weighted with meaning and intention. Maybe if you weren’t only concerned with how good of a kisser he is, of how you want more, of how he looks indescribably good over you, you’d ask him why he’s acting this way. Maybe you’d even ask what this means for your friendship but when you’re in this deep and enjoying it this much, thinking that deep slips from you all too easily.
“I’m gonna touch you,” his gaze wanders over your body before looking back to you, “okay?”
Already nodding back at him, “Okay.”
And only when you verbally affirm him does he let his greedy hands travel your body, sitting back on his knees so he can grope at your thighs and hips. You can tell he’s enjoying your squirming immensely, eyes simultaneously lidded low and lit up.
Quickly glancing to meet your eyes when he asks, “What did I do to you?”
It takes your brain a second to catch up to his words, stuck on his big hands resting against your hips, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “You mean…”
“In your dream,” he slips into your waistband and starts to slowly pull your pants off, “what did I do to you in your dream, sweetheart?”
You feel your skin heat, his fingers tickling against your thighs. “I’m not answering that.”
A low hum sounds from him as your pants are finally removed and tossed to the side, “Why not?”
Keeping your legs together, self-conscious of the fact you’re in your underwear below him. Though he’s not bothered at all, groping and massaging at your thighs, “What happened in that dream is private.”
“That hardly seems fair,” his eyes bore into your own, “since I was there and all.” Paying no mind to your small protests as he manoeuvres one of your legs to rest against his side, feeling much more exposed now that he’s spread your legs.
“Satoru, you can’t just!– mmph—”
Further protesting cut off abruptly when he places his palm on your lower stomach, thumb drawing over your covered slit. His touch there was unexpected but not unwelcome, small shocks of pleasure thrumming through you.
“Did I use my fingers?” he keeps stroking your cunt, touch light and nowhere near enough to satisfy. “How about my mouth?” pausing to blatantly stare at your pussy, not even really addressing you when he adds, “please tell me I used my mouth,” his last words come out pitchy, almost like he’s begging for it to be true.
“I don’t know why you keep bothering to lie to me,” he murmurs low, using both thumbs to pull apart your folds, pressing into your hole only to be stopped by the material of your panties.
His action has you shooting up, face to his chest, your hands grab onto his shirt and all he does is chuckle at you. “Stop playing with me,” you huff at him.
Leaning down, he drags his lips over your skin gently. Leaving behind soft kisses all over your neck and chest, blowing air by your ear just to make you twitch. Voice almost a whisper when he asks again, “What did I do to you?”
“You’re embarrassing me,” you look through your lashes at him.
His smile is pleased, “Yeah, well, you’re turning me on.” Grabbing you by your hips and pulling you into his lap, your cunt pressing right into his erection, “Feel that?” He can’t help the way he gives small grinds into you, your warmth too enticing, “All your fault, so tell me what I did to you.”
The grinds he’s giving you feel too good, he’s big and so hard and couldn’t he just, “Can’t you just put it in?”
He laughs airily, surprised by your need and shifted focus, “I think you can feel enough to know that I can’t.”
“You were nicer to me in my dream,” you pout at him.
“Somehow, I doubt that—” his head drops back and a soft groan leaves him, getting lost in how you’ve started to rut down into him.
Thinking back to your dream, you decide to mention, “You did.”
Distracted reply coming from him, “Hmm?”
“Use your mouth, I mean—”
Just as you’d gotten the words out, he’s pushing you flat on your back again, not even pausing to think as he pulls your panties off in one movement. Settling between your thighs impatiently, eyeing up your cunt, “You been holding out on me.”
Your legs thrown haphazardly over his broad shoulders, “Wait just a sec—”
“—Why?” Tongue already hanging from his mouth and hovering over your pussy, just about drooling onto it.
The sight of him has your brain rebooting, “No– nothing.”
Keeping his eyes intently on you when he licks your whole pussy, smiling at how your mouth drops opens and hips squirm, “You’re cute.”
“You– you’re– hnn—” you don’t get to retort properly, his tongue flicking at your clit each time you try to say something.
“Mhm,” he’s enjoying this, you can tell, his tone too amused. “You’re so wet, practically begging for me to put my mouth on you.”
And then he shoves his tongue inside you, holding your hips down so he can fuck you with it. Delighting in the moans tumbling from your lips, cunt syrupy sweet and begging for him to stuff it full. Swallowing down all you have to give him, shudders running down his spine as his cock jerks in his pants. He’s been horny ever since you admitted to having had a sex dream about him. And if he’s being completely honest, maybe since he had his head in your lap.
It feels a little cruel that you kept it from him for so long, he would’ve gotten on his knees for you the second you asked him to. Groaning into your pussy when your hole tightens around his tongue, pressing his face closer to you. Nose stimulating your clit with how desperate he is to taste your cunt.
He’s messy in how he’s devouring you, sloppily making out with your pussy. Small groans leaving him as he relishes in it, like he’s getting just as much out of this as you are. It’s too good, back arching and thighs fighting to close, held open by his wide frame between your legs. This is the first time someone has gotten you so close so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing how easily he’s about to make you cum.
Gojo knows you’re close, it excites him, he wants your cum in his mouth, he wants to feel how you shake underneath him. But there’s something wicked inside him that wants to tease you a little more. Choosing instead to wait until you’re just about to finish before suddenly pulling back.
You whine at him, eyes wet when you look at him in confusion. He only smiles back at you, tongue licking his lower lip before he asks innocently, “I forgot to ask, did you cum like this?”
Brain taking a moment to catch up before realising he’s still asking about that damn dream, “I don’t– I think so?”
Pressing open mouthed and wet kisses over your inner thighs, remarking, “Not very memorable, was it?”
Somehow, it feels like he’s trying to compete with his dream counterpart, and the thought is just ridiculous. “It was very memorable,” you’re only hoping to be a little teasing but by the look in his eyes he takes it personally. Opening his mouth wide and chomping down onto your thigh, biting you enough to nearly break skin. You jump at the shock, “Hey!”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, licking over the impression of his teeth before pressing a kiss to it, “try remembering this instead, yeah?”
It’s a little bit cute of him to be so jealous of your dream, “You’re stupid.”
He knows he’s stupid, he’s all too aware of it but that changes nothing to him, “I’d be more careful with your words if you wanna cum,” blowing air onto your clit, reminding you of how close you were.
“Satoru…” you don’t really like how he’s got you backed into a corner right now.
He hums in acknowledgement at you, “Need something?” Head leaning against your thigh as he smiles smugly up at you.
How frustrating of him, to know exactly what you want but choosing not to give it to you for his own enjoyment. “You’re a tease,” you huff at him.
“Hmm… not usually,” his hand slides up your inner thigh, single digit slipping inside your hole, “I think that’s something you bring out of me,” pleased with the small sounds you let out at his finger stuffing you.
Gasped moan leaving your lungs, trying to tell him how unbearable he is, “You’re– hnn!—”
A sound of awe leaving him as he drags his finger out, “How obscene, you really are so fucking wet.” He says it like you should be ashamed of yourself but he’s smiling too big, eyes full of loving obsession. Clearly incredibly happy with how dripping and soaked your cunt is, “Basically drooling for it, sweetie. How embarrassing~”
You might have to kill him because he really is embarrassing you. Hell, it was already embarrassing doing this with your best friend and now he’s teasing you for his own sick pleasure, “Stop…” not able to help the completely pathetic look on your face, “…stop being so mean to me.”
Gojo feels his heart drop and then start beating a million miles an hour, you’re so cute that he can’t help but breathlessly laugh, “My bad, will making you cum make up for it?”
“Yes,” you assert.
Ah, his head is spinning, you might be too much for his poor heart to handle. He can’t bear having you upset with him though, pressing soft kisses to your pussy lovingly. It’s as if he’s apologising for being so cruel to you, deepening his kiss to your cunt by stuffing you full of his tongue again.
The way you twitch and moan under him really does drive him wild, how he’s going to stay sane while fucking you is beyond him. Lapping at your sopping cunt so devotedly, eyes dazed and pussy drunk as he watches how your eyes roll and brows pinch. Giggling to himself at how surreal it is to be tongue deep inside you, to have you this needy for him.
When he suddenly pushes your legs back, you squeak. Damn near folded in half and bent for him, “Satoru, you can’t just– mmph!—”
He doesn’t grace you with the kindess of listening properly, simply going back to eating your pussy like it’s his last meal. The way he’s holding you is pornographic in nature, a position you’ve never even thought to be in, and he’s easily manhandled you into it. Lower back no longer even touching the couch, held up by Gojo.
With how he’s positioned you now, all your dewy slick and his saliva slides from your cunt and drips crudely onto your poor couch. Head dizzied as he gets you closer and closer to finishing, building you up so much faster after the loss of your last orgasm.
“I– ah!– so close– mmph—” you don’t want him to stop, hand holding onto one of his on your hip tightly, begging that he doesn’t pull away again.
Lucky for you, he desperately wants you cumming for him. He barely brought himself to deny you the first time, there’s no way he could do it a second. Completely and whole heartedly dedicated to making your pussy cream for him, salivating at the thought alone.
Moans you don’t even register pulling from your lungs as he finally pushes you over the edge, hips shaking as you try to ride out your own high with little success. The position you’re folded in keeping you at his mercy. Orgasm feeling oh so sweet after he denied you, lashes fluttering as it washes over you.
Gojo hums happily into your pussy, drinking down all your creamy slick and then still not parting from you. Too addicted to your scent, to your taste, ignoring all rationality as he keeps licking and sucking at your cunt. Whining when your weak fingers dig into his hair and pull him back by force, shaking underneath him from how he’s nearly forced you into overstimulation.
“Too much,” your voice trembles with your words.
His lower face is a complete mess of you and you’d feel bad but the stupid smile and dazed look he’s wearing tells you that you don’t have to. “You got a great pussy,” he compliments, moving his thumbs so he can lewdly pull your cunt wider for his greedy eyes.
“Ah!– stop staring, have you no shame?”
Eyes flicking to yours when he states seriously, “None.”
You’re feeling far too exposed in this position, “Can you let me move—”
Ignoring you and instead musing aloud, “—How many fingers do you think you could take?”
“What?”
“Your hole was tight around my tongue so maybe only one?” Slipping a single finger inside you and stroking against your walls. Your back fights to arch and a soft mewl sounds from you, “ahh, that’s a nice reaction. Let’s stretch you out yeah?”
“You’re so– hnn!—” barely biting out, “You’re such a pervert.”
His head tilts at you, “Did you expect anything else?”
Managing to babble out, “Weren’t so– hah– perverted– hnn– in my dream– mmph—”
“I take pride in that,” his chest vibrates with his words. Of course he takes pride in it, why wouldn’t he? Stuffing another finger inside your snug cunt and scissoring them, trying to open you up enough to be able take him, “This sweet pussy might fucking kill me, I don’t know how you’re gonna take me.”
Could he have a bigger ego? “Don’t be ridiculous– hah!—”
“I’m not just being cocky, sweetie.” Fingers brushing up against so many spots you can never quite reach on your own, “You might actually struggle to take it all.”
Eventually giving you a third finger, spread wide around his digits and leaking into the palm of his hand. He’s got you a squirming and moaning mess under him, mind melting from the mouth-wateringly sinful way he’s playing with you.
“Satoru– hnn!—”
“Something wrong?”
Now he knows damn well… “Please, just– hah—”
He laughs at your whimpered neediness, completely aware of how bad you want him inside of you. “Being real cute right now.”
“Don’t—”
“—Don’t what?” Using his fingers to tease your most intimate spots.
“‘Toru– hnn– please,” lower lip wobbling as you pout at him, “I want you…”
That’s not fair, you’re not playing fair at all. “You’re evil,” he mumbles at you, cheeks and tips of his ears flushing red with how turned on he is, “but I’ll give you what you want, since you’re so adorable.”
Thick fingers drawing from your cunt, the loss of him pulling a whine from you; it makes him smile. You’re genuinely so pathetic right now and aside from how horny it’s got him; it’s also got his heart stuttering in his chest.
“Take your shirt off,” he points at you, letting you finally lower your bottom half to the couch.
Grumpily following his instruction, feeling especially docile right now, “You’re being too bossy.”
His words come out a little muffled as he pulls his own shirt off, “Your pouting would have more effect if you weren’t also listening so well.”
“Maybe I’ll stop listening then.”
He stands from the couch to tug down his pants and boxers, brows drawn together and head tilting, “When you’re this close to finally taking it all?” Holding the base of his hard cock, tone smug.
Embarrassed for yourself at how your cunt throbs for him, desperate in a pitiful way that you’ve never imagined yourself being over him or anyone. “Are you in any position to be this big of a tease?”
“For you? Always,” he taps your thigh and leans onto the couch again, “now spread your legs for me.”
Already opening up to give him room before really thinking twice on it, hating that you’re this willing to follow his instruction. His hands on you are gentle, almost reverent in how they trail along your inner thighs.
Gojo can’t help himself, touching you as much as he can, wanting to prolong this whole experience. Your skin so soft and delicate under his touch, fingers digging into your flesh just to see proof of him touching you. Completely bare and willing under him, heart hammering in his chest at this fact.
Dragging his cock through your sopping wet pussy, shivering at just how gooey your cunt is. Not intentionally trying to torture you but doing so anyways, squirming and impatient under him the more he plays with you.
“Satoru,” voice pitchy, “please.”
Not moving immediately, only cursing as he gazes at you all lost.
You wrap a single leg around his waist and pull him forward, encouraging, “C’mon.”
Smug expression suddenly back on his face, “Alright, here we go,” tapping at your entrance a few times first. “Ohh, biiig stretch,” word drawn out and provocative as his cock head slowly slips inside you.
Big stretch is fucking right, chest squeezing as you struggle to adjust. Hands gripping onto his biceps for dear life, needing to be grounded.
One of his hands reach out and strokes against your head, you keen into his touch and he chuckles. Leaning down to whisper, “You need to breathe, sweetheart.”
His hips have stopped moving forward but it hardly seems like it, already feeling obscenely full. “H–how much– hnn– more?”
Gojo dips his head down to look at where your cunt is bulging around him, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stifles a strained laugh, “Not much at all.”
“Are you lying?” Unable to help the way your lip wobbles a bit with your question.
“Yeah,” he thrusts just a little bit more into you, “but you’re doing so well, feel fffucking fantastic.”
You’re clawing at his shoulders, feeling like you’re being stretched to your limits, “Why– ah!– why is it so big?” Somehow, you feel annoyed at him for it.
“I’m God’s favourite,” is how he chooses to reply, ego growing tenfold at how you’re falling apart just from the shallow thrusts he’s delivering.
How the hell are you meant to take all of him, “How– hah– how much?”
He can’t take his eyes off how you’re sucking him in, hands gripping your hips and thumbs drawing circles into your skin soothingly, “Why don’t you just watch for yourself?”
You shake your head at him, eyes scrunched shut, “No.”
“And why not?” Still, he’s feeding you more of his cock, your pussy pulsing around him making him dizzy, “It’s a good fuckin view.”
“Don’t– hnn– don’t torment me.”
Blinking your eyes open to give your best glare, it only comes across half hearted. Completely taken with the look on Gojo’s face, flushed pink with his pupils blown wide, teeth digging into his lower lip again to stop from whining. Eyes flicking to yours and he’s completely melting when seeing just how pathetic you are under him, moan stumbling from his lips so suddenly that it takes him by surprise.
He's just as big of a mess as you and it has your cunt positively creaming around him, turned on by the fucked out horny look on your best friends’ face. Gojo shudders at your pussy getting slicker around him, his dick jerking inside you.
“Getting this– hah– wet over your best friend…” fucking his hips quickly, pelvis now flush to yours, “…how shameless of you.”
You’re quivering around him and writhing under him, the feeling of being completely stuffed full overwhelming on its own. His taunting cruel and mocking and unfortunately turning you on that much more, upset that you’re letting him get away with it.
Lips downturned when you fire back, “You’re more shameless– hnn– pervert.”
Gojo can only be charmed by your weak insult, especially since he’s pretty sure you’re unaware of how your hips are twitching under the weight of his hold. Fighting upwards for the hope of getting fucked but kept frustratingly still by him. Your neediness has piqued his interest, now wondering how long he can stay still until you’re shedding tears out of pure frustration. Quickly growing addicted to the idea of teasing you like this.
He's so still it’s driving you crazy, able to feel his dick twitching inside you, veins throbbing against your sensitive walls. Obviously wanting it just as bad as you but still not moving, shifting one of your hands to tap at his on your hip, gaining his attention.
Eyes on his, “What are you waiting– mmph– for?”
God, the look on your face is killing him, so sweet under him. It’s almost like you’re coming apart already, his hands dig into your thighs and it has you keening under him. Pitiful whine leaving you as your hips start grinding into him quickly, trying to alleviate some of the desire you’re feeling.
“Now why on earth…” he straightens his back up more, pulling your lower half up with him, not giving the chance for his cock to slip from you, “…are you this touch starved?”
“Huh?” it’s the only response you’re capable of giving, having finally seen just how he’s shoved inside you. Cunt stretched obscene around his fat dick, dripping happily and syrupy sweet around him. Chest fluttering at the shock and excitement.
“I’m so sorry for not noticing, sweetie,” he coos at you, “I would’ve helped you if you’d told me.”
Complaining back at him, “I am not touch starved.”
“You definitely are,” he trails his hand from your hip, up your side, just to show you how you twitch into it, “it’s okay though, I’ll take good care of you.”
Pussy shivering involuntarily around him, giving away that you’re lying. How he managed to know you were deprived, you have no idea but the fact he did is embarrassing to you. He doesn’t need to be aware of how long it’s been since you were last touched so intimately.
“I—”
“—Don’t bother lying again,” he keeps caressing you where he can reach, “I’d much rather hear about how much you like when I touch you.”
Maybe he’ll start moving if you’re honest, “I like when– hah– you touch me,” pouting slightly and barely fighting off the shudder running down your spine at his touch.
“Good,” he smiles at you, all glib, “‘Cause I’m gonna touch you. Lots.”
Eyes sparkling at him, hoping, “Does that mean you’re– ah– hnn– actually going to fuck me now?”
“Why?” his head tilts at you, “Do you want it?”
Giving your best glare back at him, he’s proven to you sufficiently by now that he can read you incredibly well, much to your dismay. Muttering out, “Dream you was– hah– much more indulgent of me.”
“Ouch,” though he says that, he doesn’t seem hurt at all, “Dream me was a fool then ‘cause you’re much more fun to play with like this.”
He’s being so evil, “Can’t you just give me what I want?”
“I might,” his gaze is lecherous as his eyes rake over your body, “if you ask for it properly.”
“Satoru…” you try to call out to him as sweetly as possible, “…please fuck me?” lip quivering slightly as your neediness bleeds through your façade of togetherness, “please?”
Gojo’s heart squeezes in his chest, he’d planned on tormenting you a little more but he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his sanity any longer. Already he feels like he’s a second away from cumming, caught between wanting to give you everything you want and teasing you until you cry. He guesses he’ll just have to settle for fucking you until you cry this time, next time, he promises himself he’ll tease you properly next time.
“Satoru?”
Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, grin back on his face, “I heard you, pretty. I’ll give you what you want.”
Dragging his cock from you slowly, so slowly, the heavy weight of him pulling out driving you up a wall, insides shuddering. Broken and gasped moans leaving you, rushing out quick, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh—”
The laugh that leaves him is too attractive, amused by your gratitude for something like this. It’s cute how the thank-yous just keep tumbling from your lips over and over as he keeps pulling back to the tip of him.
“Don’t thank me for that…” his hands dig into your hips more, “…thank me for this,” slamming into you all at once with his last word.
The wind is completely knocked from your lungs, shocked whine louder than you’d want it to be. Desperately clawing at any part of him you can reach, struggling to take it and keep it together. Feeling like you’re completely melting, head spinning as pleasure thumps through your veins.
“Mmph– I– ahh—” barely coherent as your eyes fight to not roll to the back of your head, “thank hnn– you.”
Small giggle leaving him at just how adorable you’re being, heart hammering in his chest as he sets a consistently mind ruining pace. He can’t wipe the fucked out smile off his face as he keeps pounding into you, giddy with how he gets to have you under him like this.
Babbling varied compliments, “You’re so adorable,” he huffs out a whimper, “hnn– and you’re so fucking tight around me,” less coherent as he carries on, “God, and so fffucking wet– hah– what the– so hot– I—”
He feels insane, how you’re this warm and perfect around him has him at a loss. Almost like you were made just for his cock, something he’ll let himself believe because the idea of you being with anyone but him breaks his heart a little bit.
Hypnotised by how you’re sucking him back in, clinging onto his dick desperately. It’s almost like every time he pulls out, you’re begging him to fuck right back in, and of course he’ll comply. The idea of pulling out before he’s finished with you a painful thought, not willing to give up this moment even if someone walked in on the two of you.
Such a genuine thought, he’s completely certain that someone could walk in on you both and his thrusts wouldn’t even slow down. If anything, they’d speed up, finally he’d get to show off how you’re his. Possessiveness tumbling around restlessly in his head, his dick only getting harder.
All you can do is take it, take all of the jaw slacking and toe-curling pleasure he’s delivering you. Your pussy making obscene sounds as he fucks into you, skin hot from how depraved it all feels. Gojo looks so completely wrecked, eyes glazed over, lips still moving as he continues to mutter out sweet praise. Praise that would probably have your insides flipping and body growing hotter, but you can’t hear anything but your heart thumping in your own ears.
Delirious grin making its way onto his face as he’s struck with a wicked realisation, large hand sliding its way from your thigh to your stomach. Pressing down the littlest bit and watching how you squirm and shudder under him, gasping for breath and hands slapping at him, trying to speak.
“Don’t– hnn– don’t do that– ah!– too much– it feels too—”
“What? Good?” He hisses out, still managing to be taunting.
“It’s too much– hah– mmph– I’m too sensitive,” your eyelashes feel wet, like you might’ve started crying but you can’t even be sure of that right now.
His hand presses down more into your tummy, “I know you are~” he giggles a little, “it’s turning me on.”
“Seriously– hnn– don’t– I’m gonna– ah!—”
He’d completely ignored your pleas causing you to cut yourself off with a moan, orgasm suddenly washing over you. Spasming hot and snug around him, so sinful that he’s shocked by his own high, cumming deep inside you as you shake and shiver around him.
“Ohh, you’re– haah– you’re killing me sweetly,” Gojo’s head feels like it’s spinning, swimming in so much euphoria as he grinds into you.
You’ve slumped under him, trusting him to keep a hold of you, not even thinking to chew him out for making a mess of both your cunt and sofa. Brain feeling all fuzzy and melted in your skull, blissed out from how good you’re currently feeling.
Busy basking in the afterglow when your world is suddenly spinning, Gojo’s taken advantage of your rag-dolled state and flipped you over onto your stomach. Quickly realising that he’s still hard when your hips are being pulled up and his cock is sliding through your folds.
“You gotta stay with me, pretty,” he groans, positioning his tip at your hole, “we’re– hnn– not done yet.”
“Satoru– ah!—”
Both your moans are debauched and loud as he stuffs you so fucking full all at once, lungs seizing in your chest. If he weren’t holding your hips so tight, you would’ve collapsed to the couch. Your fingers dig into the cushions below you, biting back pitiful sounds that so desperately want to leave you.
“Don’t– don’t do that,” he shoves inside you somehow that little bit more, “let me hear you, sweetie.”
Sulking back, “Noo– hah– it’s embarrassing—”
“—It’s arousing,” he counters, skin on fire with how badly he wants to hear you moan for him.
He supposes it’s fine though, he’ll just have to drag those sweet sounds from you himself. Giving sharp and angled thrusts, purposefully driving right into all those delicious spots he found earlier while playing with you. Grinning wide, overly pleased with himself when you squeak out the cutest moan he’s ever heard.
He’s falling apart inside you, wrapped around your little finger and you don’t even realise it. He didn’t even intend to cum earlier, you just felt too good. All sticky cum and clingy walls, he couldn’t help himself.
Able to feel how his cum leaks out around his shaft, hear how your pussy gushes with his cock inside you. He feels borderline feral, something deeply possessive dancing around in his heart at how your cunt squelches around him, stuffed full of his hot semen.
The desire to see his face hits you, remembering just how good he looked as he got lost in how pleasurable everything felt. Whining pitifully below him into the couch, feeling far too shy to tell him how much you enjoy looking at him while he fucks you stupid.
“Satoru– hnn– it’s—” drooling onto the couch as you moan out to him, “it’s good– hah– it’s too good– it’s good~” nearly sobbing with just how damn good it feels.
“I bet,” he chuckles, loving your reaction.
Biting at him, “Hnn– shuddup—”
Easily ignoring you, “Now be honest… what’s better?”
Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head; you can’t focus on whatever the hell he’s saying when he’s fucking your gooey sweet spot so perfectly that you’re in bliss.
“Focus,” he fills you completely and stills his hips, refusing to move, “what’s better? This or your dream.”
Cunt so creamy and cock drunk for him, throbbing and pulsing so lovingly on him. He’s a little bit annoyed that he has to stop but he needs your answer. Hips twitching back into him, small noises of frustrated and deprived pleasure slipping from your lips.
He purrs low at you, “If you want me to move then you gotta answer me,” hand smoothing down your back, “you know I will torment you until you do.”
If you weren’t so turned on and delirious you’d recognise it as the bluff it is, he may have been able to torment you earlier, but his patience is barely hanging on by a fucking thread at this point. But you are that turned on and delirious, so instead you answer earnestly, “This, this is better. It’s lots better, now please. Move.”
“There ya go,” he pats your ass a couple times, “such a sweet little thing when you’re fucked full of my fat dick.”
Words meant as a warning but failing to hold any weight, “‘Toru– don’t—”
“—Don’t stress, pretty,” giving you a single thrust, “I’ll give you what you and your pussy are begging me for.”
Your response is smothered into the couch cushions, “Please.”
Groaning a giggle at how you reply, finding it cute that you’re displaying manners you don’t usually bother to with him. You must have it bad for him right now because otherwise you would not be so docile under him.
Fucking into you so you can feel it, really feel it. Intending to pull you apart so perfectly, wanting you to feel this just as much he is. Pelvis smacking into your ass obscenely, admiring the way your back arches for him, damn near presenting yourself to him.
“More– hah—” you stutter out at him, trying to explain what you need, “I want– hnn– I want you to touch me more.”
His eyes close and he intakes a deep breath, controlling himself as he registers your words. Arm reaching around you to pull you up, his chest to your back. He’s pressed so close to you, warm and comforting. You’re keening into him again, relishing how close he is to you, how much of him you can feel. Butterflies dancing in your stomach at how intimate it is and how it’s so much better because of it.
His hands grope at you, your hips, stomach, tits, anywhere he can grab, “Someone’s being greedy.”
Huffing back at him, “Hah– I am not.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” amused with himself as he breathes into your ear, thrusting desperately into your dripping cunt.
You grab hold of his hands and tug, encouraging him to wrap his arms around you properly. All too easily, he gives into your will, holding you tight. His face tucked into your neck and breathing in your scent, lips delicate as they trace your skin.
Brain hazy and muddled as you babble out your feelings to him, “It’s good– I like your dick– hnn– I like– hah– I like you.” Head turning to the side to press a small kiss to his head.
He’s quick to move so he can capture your lips with his, groaning into it. His dick grows impossibly larger inside you at your small confession, throbbing and leaking inside your tight heat.
Pulling back with a last suck to your lower lip, “Don’t say such sweet things to me, pretty,” tongue licking your ear, teeth nipping you, “or I’ll never leave you alone.”
“You– hah– you– hnn– do that anyways– ah!—”
“I’m about to become much worse,” it’s more of a promise than anything else, you thought of him as clingy before but he’s about to become so so much more worse.
The idea of that alone should probably be less appealing but while stuffed full of his aching cock, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than pathetically whipped for him. Pussy weeping around him, begging for more, for it to never stop.
His dick so deep it feels like he’s in your lungs, spasming around him as your high gets closer and closer. Pleasure climbing up your spine as you melt around him, loving his touch on your body, his breath by your ear.
Gojo moans, head tipping back before he leans forwards again, “You’ve got me obsessed with you, sweetheart,” voice cracking with a whine, “both you– hnn– and this sopping wet pussy of yours.”
Sobbing out your warning, “‘Toru– hah– ah!– I’m gonna cum—”
“Hmm?” his chest vibrates against your back, “Gonna cum because I told you I’m obsessed with you? That’s pretty lewd of you.”
Cheeks wet with your shed tears, “Don’t– hng– don’t tease.”
“Just let yourself enjoy it,” hand pressing into your stomach like he had earlier, “your cunt sure does.”
Long and pitchy moan leaving you, orgasm knocking into you like a tonne of bricks. Trying to curl forward but unable to, Gojo’s arms are firm around you, not letting you go anywhere as he keeps fucking into you. His pace suddenly much quicker as he doubles his efforts from behind, chasing his own high.
It doesn’t take him long at all to follow behind you, face burying into your neck, teeth biting into you as he shudders. Muffled whimpers vibrating against your skin, his hips jerking shallowly, he can’t bring himself to stop fucking into you. You’re too stupid to think about telling him off, not even sure you’re able to process thoughts let alone talk coherently.
Eventually he stills to a complete stop, planting kisses over his bite mark. He doesn’t want to let you go, content to hold you up like this but you’re on the verge of passing out. Gentle in how he lowers you down onto the couch, the pair of you groaning when his cock slips from you. Shared cum connecting his dick to your stuffed hole obscenely, he has to bite his lip to stifle the most pathetic sound at the sight.
While you gather yourself, he kneads your back, his large hands digging into the knots there. The massage nice and calming, helping to soothe your aching muscles after the way he manhandled you to his hearts content. Almost feeling like you could fall asleep like this, feeling so safe and warm under his ministrations.
He leans over to check you, “Stay awake,” fingers brushing against your cheek, “you’re gonna need a shower.”
“No moving,” you protest.
“Yes moving, I know if you fall asleep like this you will be pissed when you wake up,” he brushes down your spine delicately, “and you’ll be pissed at me… which I’d personally like to prevent.”
“Can’t do it.”
“I’ll help you,” he hops off the couch, “Come on.”
Groaning dramatically the whole time as you sit up, standing in front of him with the help of his hands on you. Legs wobbling under you, balance precarious. As soon as you’re on your feet, his cum leaks from your cunt and down your inner thighs. It catches Gojo’s attention who crouches down to get a better look.
“Wooow,” he comments.
Shy at his reaction, “Wh– what?”
He glances up at you and looks deep into your eyes, “I came a lot inside you,” eyes dropping to stare at your pussy obviously, “sorry but this is really turning me on…”
Barely finishing his sentence before his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, head tipping forward to lick up the mess. Mouth swapping sides to travel up each of your thighs, eyes locked onto yours as he does. It’s overwhelming you, feeling beyond embarrassed at the lewd display. His grip the only thing keeping your wobbly legs from completely giving out from under you.
Gojo’s actions are ravenous and simultaneously dazed, somehow both feral and on autopilot. Moaning into your pussy as he licks and sucks your cunt clean, tongue hitting so many over-sensitive places. Your hands dig into his hair to pull him back only to see the completely pussy drunk look in his eyes. If it had been possible, he’d probably have hearts in his eyes, so far gone.
“Stop– hnn– you need to stop,” legs shaking much more now, “too sensitive,” grip more forceful with your last tug.
He pouts back at you, “But you’re so cute when you’re overstimulated.”
Pulling back from you to stand to his full height, smirking down at you. All self-satisfied and also blissed out on the taste of your shared cum. Your tummy is full of butterflies from how he’s been treating you today, legs still weak under you as your knees cave. Thankfully, he’s quick and catches you, effortlessly picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom to wash the both of you up.
Letting yourself be wiped down by him in the bathroom, sitting on the sink as he uses a warm cloth to clean you up better than his tongue could. “I was serious you know,” he says unprompted.
Head fuzzy and a little lost on what he means, “About?”
“I’m obsessed with you.”
α.η. THIS IS A REPOST .. a repost from my old account @/lovelivision, if you feel like you've read it before, maybe you have !
a-knee-wayssss .. i hope you liked it ! i didn't change much about this one since it was basically just pure smut and also i still fucked with it teehee (๑•̀ <๑) ✧
꒰꒰. all works are the intellectual property of aliienangel .. do not plagiarise/translate/reupload/feed to ai ♡. 。
wc: ~10k (whoopsies) | cw: smut! cowboy gojo! mentions of murder, corruption kink, loss of virginity, praising, choking, oral sex (male and female receiving), cum swallowing, unprotected sex.
summary: the most wanted outlaw in town sets his eyes on the sheriff's innocent daughter.
author’s note: i literally may just write au gojo smut forever :’) also sorry for the different spacing format but i had to in order to fit everything! ( art by @404-mort )!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
YOU PUSH OPEN the jailhouse door with the ledger tucked against your chest, expecting nothing more than a hot room and your father's raised voice.
Instead, the entire place falls silent.
Cards stop being shuffled, chairs stop creaking. Someone coughs and chokes on it, the pen a deputy was using hits the desk and rolls off onto the floor.
Every pair of eyes swing toward you, the sheriff's daughter—young, pretty, innocent.
You can feel the weight of their stares. Startled, softened, like a breeze just drifted in from somewhere kinder than this dusty, violent town.
"Afternoon, miss," One deputy says, standing a little straighter.
Another removes his hat awkwardly, cheeks reddening. A third smooths his shirt as if it'll make a difference.
You blink, caught off guard by the collective shift. You're used to being recognized; Dry Creek isn't big, but you're not used to being stared at like you're something sacred in a place full of sinners.
Your father appears in the office doorway, scowl deepening the second he sees how the men are looking at you, "That's enough," He snaps at them, "Back to work. Now."
They scatter instantly. You step forward, offering him the ledger, "Pa, you forgot this."
He softens, only for you, and reaches for it—up until a sound floats from the back cells.
A low whisper, slow and deliberate, "Well...ain't this a sight."
Your father's body goes rigid. His hand drops the ledger entirely, hitting the floor with a dull thud. You flinch, "Gojo," He growls, voice already shaking at the edges.
You don't know why the name feels familiar until you turn and look. That's when everything clicks.
He sits behind the bars like the jail was built around him.
Satoru Gojo. A wanted outlaw.
His hat—weathered and dark brimmed is tipped lazily back on his head, shadowing his eyes just enough to make him look more dangerous. The shape of it, battered and worn from long rides and even longer gunfights, fits him like it was molded to the curve of his skull.
It makes him look taller, sharper. He's all sleek lines and lethal ease; lean frame draped in a dusty coat, boots crossed, wrists bound tight but held like he chose the restraints.
The weak light catches the silver-white of his hair where it escapes from beneath the hat, brushing his forehead in unruly, defiant strands. Bruises darken his jaw, a scar cuts along his forearm, another his cheekbone.
He should look beaten, but he doesn't. He looks amused, interested, hungry, and when his eyes find you under the brim of that hat, pale storm blue, wicked and watchful, it's like the world tilts.
You hear your father inhale sharply, the deputies in the room shift uneasily. There are stories about this man. Stories your father tried to keep you from hearing. Stories about shootouts, bodies, train robberies, impossible escapes. Stories that make grown men lower their voices.
And you finally understand why people fear him.
Because sitting there, relaxed, hat tipped back, smiling—Satoru Gojo looks like the kind of man who could burn down the whole world and laugh while doing it.
"Sheriff," He calls, gaze sliding over your father's shoulder to you again, "You didn't tell me your town kept angels in stock."
Several deputies exchange looks, your father steps in front of you like he's shielding you from a rattler, "You look at her again," He warns quietly, "And I swear to God, Gojo...I'll kill you where you sit."
Gojo's smile widens, slow as sin, "Oh, I'm lookin' alright."
Your father lunges forward so fast the metal bars rattle, "You think this is funny? You think I won't plant you in the dirt myself? Try me."
Gojo tilts his head, the brim of his hat dipping just enough to cast his face in shadow, and his eyes never leave you, "Nah," He murmurs, "I think the funny part is that you brought her here—like a gift."
You feel heat rush across your face; the deputies tense instantly, knowing exactly how dangerous those words are. Your father nearly loses it, "You keep talkin' like that," He snarls, "And I'll drag you out back and—"
"Pa," You whisper, grabbing his sleeve.
The touch snaps him out of it, barely. He doesn't look at you, he doesn't dare take his eyes off Gojo, "Set the book down," He orders tightly, "And go home. Now."
You start to move, but you feel it—a prickle on the back of your neck. You look once more, against your better judgment.
Gojo's already leaning forward, elbows on his knees, shackles clinking softly and the brim of his hat casts his grin in a dangerous, shadowed curve. His gaze rakes over you slowly, too slowly, the corners crinkling with wicked delight.
"Sweetheart," He drawls, voice dropping into something dark, intimate, and wrong, "Least give me your name..." Your heart thuds painfully, "...so I know what to moan while I'm dreamin' tonight."
The deputies gasp as your father erupts, "That's it!" He roars, reaching for the keys, "You're dead, you hear me? Dead!"
You yank him back with both hands, voice breaking, "Pa, don't!"
He stops, only because he's afraid he might accidentally hurt you while reaching for the outlaw. Gojo just laughs thrilled and wicked under the shadows of his hat, "You just saved my life, angel."
You flee the building before anyone can say another word, but even in the glaring sunlight, even halfway down the dusty street, you can still feel his stare—still hear his voice. Still feel the way the entire jailhouse stopped when you walked in, including the man who shouldn't have noticed you at all.
And somehow, that's what both frightens and excites you most.
You don't go anywhere near the jailhouse for rest of the day, but you hear the shouting; everyone in Dry Creek does. It starts mid-afternoon, your father's voice echoing down the street, spilling out of the open windows like rising steam.
"...get him out of my town!"
"...sick of this damn outlaw walkin' in and out like it's a saloon!"
"...and you. Geto—you're no better!"
The name catches your attention just as you step onto your porch.
Suguru Geto. You've heard of him, too.
Another notorious member of Gojo's gang. Less reckless, more composed; dangerous in a quieter, colder way.
Curiosity pricks at you. You lean just far enough to see down the street. Geto stands outside the jailhouse, silent as a shadow, arms crossed over his chest. His dark coat flutters in the hot breeze, long hair tied back neatly. He looks like the kind of man who sees everything and says nothing unless he must.
Your father storms out, shoving a stack of paperwork into Geto's chest, "Take your damn friend," He snarls, "And don't bring him back."
Geto glances over at the papers as if they bore no urgency at all. Then he looks up, calm and polite, "No promises, sheriff."
Before he can say anything else, Gojo strolls out behind Geto—hat tipped low, coat slung over one shoulder, wrists freshly unbound. He whistles as he walks, blue eyes bright even in the blistering heat, "Well," He says, breathing in the afternoon air, "That was refreshin'."
Your father nearly explodes. Geto grab's Gojo's arm, voice low, "Walk. Now."
But Gojo steps out of the hold with lazy ease, "Don't rush me. I'm takin' in the sights."
His gaze sweeps over the dusty street, then finds you. You're half-hidden behind a porch beam, laundry basket pressed against your ribs, breath catching the moment his eyes meet yours.
His smile curves, slow, knowing He tips two fingers off the brim of his hat in a smooth, teasing gesture for one person only, "Afternoon, darlin'."
Your pulse stumbles. Your father swivels like a man hit with a hammer, but you've already ducked inside, heart thumping in your chest.
After that, he's gone for two days. Two days where you tell yourself it's good he's not around. Good for the town, good for your father, good for you, but you still check the jailhouse windows when you pass.
You still listen for his voice in the noise of the saloon as you walk past and catch yourself glancing at the dirt road leading out of town, looking for a white-haired silhouette that has no business being this close to your thoughts.
On the third morning, just as the sun finishes climbing over the ridge, you hear laughter spill out of the saloon—rough, startled laughter, like something unbelievable just happened.
Two deputies burst out onto the sand in a rush, "He let us catch him!" One says, hands thrown up.
"Caught him? Where?" The bartender calls from the doorway.
"In the middle of the damn road!"
"What was he doin'?"
"Standin' there! Hat tipped, waitin' like he had somewhere to be!"
The bartender whistles low, you stop walking. Your heartbeat stutters painfully, a tremor you try to hide with a steady breath.
They haul Gojo in half an hour later, and you hear the commotion long before you see it; clanking chains, deputies swearing under their breath, your father muttering prayers that are really just curses rearranged.
You shouldn't go in. You know that, but your father forgot his lunch again and letting it sit on the counter feels worse than walking into that cell block knowing who's waiting for you.
When you step inside, the room changes the same way it always does—deputies scramble straight backed, someone tugs off his hat, someone else clears his throat like he just got caught lying.
"Don't tell me I imagined it," Gojo's voice is warm, lazy honey, "That's her walkin' in, ain't it?"
You stop dead. He's behind the bars again: hat low, shirt half-open, ropes tighter this time, dust clinging to his hair, and somehow he looks comfortable. Settled, like he belongs exactly where he is.
Your father storms out, face scowling, voice shaking, “You think this a game, huh? You think this some joke?"
Gojo doesn't move, "A joke?" He repeats softly, eyes fixated on you the entire time, "Sheriff, it's the highlight of my week."
Heat crawls up your neck. Your father slams the cell door so violently the walls shake, "Geto'll fetch you. And then you both get the hell out of my town."
Gojo's lips curve, "Wouldn't be here if I didn't like the company."
Your face warms in a way that terrifies you and your father growls your name. You flee before either man can see anything written on your face.
The sun has barely dipped when you hear footsteps outside, steady and unhurried—Suguru Geto again.
He strides down the street quietly, the way storms roll in without sound.
Your father meets him at the porch, looking as though he aged five years in three days, "Why does he keep coming back?"
Geto doesn't blink or look away, "You'd have to ask him."
"And I will," Your father snarls, "After I kill him."
Before your father can respond, Gojo steps out of the jailhouse behind him, stretching out sore muscles, "You're so dramatic," He says to Geto, rolling his shoulders, "I wasn't even here a full day this time."
Geto gives him a withering look, "You shouldn't have been here at all."
Gojo shrugs, "Couldn't help myself."
Then his head lifts. His eyes drift lazily down the porch line and find you. Again.
Light slides across his face, catching on bruises, on sweat, on the shadow of his crooked smile beneath the brim of his hat, "Evenin', angel," He calls, voice warmer than the sun behind him.
You freeze in the doorway; Geto follows his line of sight and goes still—then exhales a slow, resigned breath, "Oh," He says quietly, "Her."
Gojo doesn't even pretend otherwise. And by his third arrest, you've developed a sense of for it.
A feeling in your chest before you hear a thing, a prickling heat behind your ribs like the desert's holding its breath. When you hear the deputies shouting halfway down the street, you already know.
"I can walk myself," Gojo notes, voice as casual as a man discussing the weather, "Ain't like you boys could stop me if I didn't want to be here."
"Stop smilin', damn it!"
"Quit pullin' so hard!"
The voices are joined by the sounds of chains clattering, boots scraping, and someone groaning. You turn your head instinctively and sure enough, they're dragging him past the general store, dust coating his shoulders, shirt ripped at the collar, wrists bound so tight the rope digs into red skin.
He looks awful, yet thrilled, but the moment his gaze sweeps and lands on you—he brightens like a sunrise, "There you are," He says, breathless, but delighted.
A deputy scoffs, "Eyes forward, you bastard!"
Gojo smirks, leaning into the shove toward the jailhouse, "Can't help it if the lady's easy on the eyes."
Your heart jolts; your father appears in the doorway of the jail, fury simmering in every line of his body, "Get him inside before I do something we'll regret."
Gojo tips his hat your way as he passes, "Don't worry now," He says, grin sharp as a blade, "I'll be back out in time for supper."
You turn away before your father sees the way your breath hitches.
Later that evening, you're closing up the porch that evening when you hear low voices drifting up the street.
"...you're going to get yourself killed," Geto mutters.
Gojo's reply is a soft hum, "Not today."
"Why are you doing this?"
"You know why."
A pause, "You saw her," Geto says, not unkindly, "Didn't you?"
Another pause follows, a long one. Then Gojo's voice, quieter than you've heard it, "Yeah."
Your heartbeat kicks hard as their footsteps slow. You look up just as they pass under lamplight—Geto tall and shadowed, Gojo beside him, hat tipped back, bruises softened by the dusk. Geto notices you first. His expression shifts, understanding flickering across his features.
Gojo notices a second later, and his lips curve into a smile that steals the breath straight from your lungs. He tilts his hat, "Angel."
You slip inside before your father sees you lingering, pulse unsteady, but the truth is already in your bones. He keeps coming back. Again and again. And you're starting to understand exactly why.
The fourth time Gojo finds himself being jailed, you feel it before you hear anything.
A disturbance in the rhythm of Dry Creek—the murmurs rising, the uneven thud of boots on packed dirt, the tense hum that always settles over the town whenever he's near.
Satoru Gojo is back.
It's late afternoon when you reach the jailhouse with a stack of your father's records. The sun hangs low and golden, spilling long shadows across the street. You pause outside the door, debating whether you should even go in, but duty is duty, and your father will forget these papers forever if you don't place them directly in his hands.
You push open the door and the room snaps to attention instantly. Deputies stop talking, straighten, look anywhere but you—a silent chorus of nervous guilt as if your presence places them in the middle of something they don't want to be part of.
You hear chains shift in the back cell, "Well," Gojo murmurs, voice slipping through the room like smoke from a match strike, "Now it's a good day."
You don't turn right away, it feels too dangerous to. Your father's office door slams open, "Not you again," He snaps, marching out.
Gojo doesn't rise to the bait, he doesn't even look at your father; he's too busy watching you. Hat low, shoulders relaxed, bruises blooming along his cheekbone, but eyes bright under the brim. There's a quiet intensity to him today, something simmering beneath the lazy smirk.
"I swear," Your father mutters, "If you breathe one more breath in my daughter's direction, I will—"
"Sheriff," A deputy calls from outside, voice strained, urgent, "We got a situation with the Kamo brothers—"
"Handle it," Your father snaps without looking.
"We can't. They're demanding you."
Your father curses, torn in two directions, rage clawing to keep him here and duty dragging him out the door. For a moment, he looks between you and the outlaw, jaw clenched, breath harsh, trying to decide which threat matters more.
"Don't talk to him," He tells you, "Don't even stand near him," And then, he rushes outside, slamming the door behind him.
The jailhouse swallows the sound whole. The deputies follow after him, scrambling, leaving the room abruptly like they suddenly realized they don't want to be witnesses to whatever this is.
Within seconds, the building settles into an eerie, quiet stillness.
You're alone. With him.
You grip your father's papers too tightly as Gojo sits there, elbows resting on his knees, hat tipped back a fraction—just enough to see the small cut on his lip, the rise of his chest with each slow breath.
He looks at you not with amusement or mischief, rather something else. Something deeper and heavier than both. He breaks the silence first, "Knew you'd come," He says, like he's been holding the words on his tongue all day, "I could feel it."
You huff, the sound small in the empty room, "You didn't know anything," You murmur, moving toward your father's desk, "I'm only here because he forgot these."
"Mm," He hums, "He forgets a lot more, now that I think about it. Convenient, ain't it?"
You set the papers down with a little more force than necessary, "My pa told me not to talk to you," You say, fingers smoothing the edges of a page, "Said I shouldn't even look at you."
Gojo's grin is slow, dangerous, "And yet," He drawls, "Here you are. Talkin'. Lookin'."
You swallow, "I'm just doin' my job."
He clicks his tongue softly, "Sweetheart, your job don't require you to answer me. But you did anyway."
You hate that he's right. You hate even more that it makes something flutter in your chest, "You're the one who keeps gettin' arrested," You say, lifting your chin, finally meeting his gaze, "If you don't want me around, you could stop comin' back."
His eyes darken, heat flickering there like a struck match, "Oh, I want you around," He says, no hesitation at all, "That's the problem."
Your breath stutters and he leans forward, chains giving the smallest protest—the brim of his hat shadowing his gaze but not hiding the way it roams over you like he's memorizing every inch.
"Your daddy ain't wrong, though," He goes on, voice low, almost conversational, "I am exactly the kind of man you shouldn't talk to. Shouldn't look at. Shouldn't even think about," A corner of his mouth lifts, "So tell me, angel...why you doin' all three?"
You feel your face go hot and lie through your teeth, "I don't think about you."
He laughs, soft and pleased, "Say that again. Maybe this time I'll believe you."
You don't because you can't.
"Thought so."
You take a shaky breath, "What do you want from me?"
He tilts his head, hat shadowing his eyes just enough to make him look more intimidating, "Want?" He echoes, "Sweetheart, I want—"
The door slams open so hard the hinge screech. Your father storms back in, face flushed, breathing hard, "What did I tell you, (Y/N)?" He snaps, grabbing your arm and yanking you away from the cell, "I leave for five minutes and you're standin' here talkin' to him?"
Gojo leans back casually, but his eyes stay locked onto you, hunger filtering beneath the wicked grin, "Evenin', sheriff. We were just gettin' acquainted."
Your father nearly reaches for his gun, "Shut your damn mouth before I—"
"Don't, Pa!" You choke out.
Instead, he drags you towards the door, furious, muttering under his breath. Behind you, Gojo calls lightly, "See you soon, angel."
And you know he means it.
By the time his fifth arrest happens, Dry Creek has learned to read the signs.
It starts with the horses shifting uneasily in the hitching posts, then the deputies muttering as they spill out onto the boardwalk, followed by your father's voice carrying through the open winds like distant thunder.
"I swear on every damn saint—get him in the cell!"
You don't intend to walk toward the noise or look, but your feet take you anyway. The afternoon sun is sinking low, heat thick and shimmering on the street. Sheriff office, saloon doors, storefronts—all blurred by the dust kicked up in the chaos.
You round the corner just as two deputies drag Gojo inside. He's a mess; hat askew, shirt half-open, sleeve torn at the seam, bruises spackled across his ribs like spilled ink, a smear of dried blood at his temple. But he's grinning, of course he is.
He looks over his shoulder right as they shove him through the doorway like he felt you before he saw you and when his eyes find you standing on the boardwalk, hands nervously knotted in your skirt; his grin softens into something devastating.
"There's my angel."
You stiffen, a deputy sighs, "Quit flirtin'!"
Gojo doesn't listen.
Inside, the jailhouse hums with the tension of men who know something terrible and ridiculous is happening at the same time.
Your father is livid, pacing the room, fingers pressed hard to his temples. He spins when you enter, fury flickering into shock, "I told you to stay home today!"
"I—Pa, you forgot your key ring, so I—"
"You shouldn't be anywhere near this jail!"
You shrink under his tone, pulse beating in your throat. You know he's right. You shouldn't be here. But Gojo laughs from the cell, satisfied, "She's here anyway, sheriff."
Your father slams the cell shut, "Shut the hell up you piece of shit!"
But Gojo only leans back against the wall, eyes still on you. Your father's rage keeps rising, "I swear, if Geto walks through that door again—"
"He will," Gojo says, almost gently, "He always does."
Your father grabs the bars so hard you thought they'd snap, "I don't know why he wastes his time with you."
Gojo tilts his head just lightly with the smallest smile, like he's choosing words with care, "Maybe he knows I got business in this town."
Your father bristles, "You have no business here."
Gojo chuckles under his breath, "Wouldn't say that."
Your father turns away, muttering curses, ordering deputies around, barking instructions that sound more panicked than controlled. No one notices you take one step closer to the cell, then another.
No one except him.
A slow, wolfish smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, "Y'know...I didn't ask you to come closer."
His voice is quiet, too quiet for a man like him, low enough that the words settle right under your skin. The deputies keep arguing with your father, shuffling papers, swearing under their breath, but none of them realize what you're doing.
"But you did anyway," He continues, tipping his head slightly, brim of his hat casting a sharper shadow over those pale, wicked eyes, "Like somethin' in you couldn't help it."
Your breath stirs in your chest, too fast, too thin. You should step back, but you don't. His gaze flicks down, tracking the distance you closed with a hunger that feels almost physical. When his eyes return to yours, they're darker.
"Careful, angel," He murmurs, voice slow as a match dragging across a strip of flint, "You keep walkin' toward a man like me..." He leans in, elbows on his knees, chains whispering tight with the motion, "...and I'm liable to think you want somethin' from me."
The words hang there—heavy, intimate, wrong in a way that makes the floor feel unsteady beneath you. And you don't even realize how close you've gotten until his fingers, bound and bruised, lift ever so slightly like he's measuring the space between you
Close enough he could almost touch you, but not quite close enough that he can. His voice dips, softer now, thoughtful, "Look at that," He says, eyes tracing the inches between his hand and your hip, "Couple more steps and I wouldn't even need these bars between us."
Heat rushes to your throat, your hands tightening around the keys without meaning to, "I'm not here wantin' anything from you."
His smile is instant and disbelieving, "No? Then what're you doin' standin' close enough that I can hear your heart racin'?"
"I—I'm just giving my father his keys."
He huffs a low laugh, "Sweetheart...you could've dropped those on the desk and walked right back out the door."
Your jaw sets, even as something inside you spirals tighter, "You don't know me."
"Mm," He hums, leaning in just enough that the chains creak again, "I know when a girl keeps comin' closer on her own," His gaze lifts to yours, "And I know when she's lyin' to herself about why."
You freeze in your tracks. And before you can even respond, maybe step back or step closer—the door creaks open behind you.
Your father stops dead when he sees how close you are to the bars. His face goes red, not the wild kind, but the tight, controlled kind. The kind that comes from fear disguised as fury, "What—" He says, voice low and brittle, "—Did I just walk in on?"
You jump back a step, "Pa, I was only—"
"Only what?" He snaps, stepping in front of you like a shield, "Standin' close enough he could spit on you?" Close enough he could grab you if he weren't tied up?"
Gojo lets out a soft, delighted sound, "Sheriff, if I wanted her—"
"Shut your mouth," Your father's voice cracks like a whip, but his hands stay tight at his sides. Barely restrained, "You talk to her one more time and—"
The door swings open once more, quiet and purposeful, like a knife sliding out of its sheath. Suguru Geto steps inside. His presence cuts straight through the tension—too calm for a man like him. His eyes sweep the room once, and in that moment you know he's understood everything.
The closeness, the tone, and the obvious danger. He releases a slow, unimpressed breath, "Let me guess...he started runinn' his mouth again?"
Your father glares at him, "Get your damn friend and get him out of my jail, now."
Geto nods faintly, "Was plannin' on it."
Gojo tilts his head back, smirk widening, "You're late."
"I had to lose the men you stumbled into on that ridge," He says coolly, "You're welcome, by the way."
The cell door swings open, and Gojo rises with lazy ease, rolling his shoulders, hat tipping forward just enough to look at you beneath the brim, "I'll be hopin' to chat with you some more another time, angel."
Your father nearly vibrates with anger, but Geto is already dragging him out by the collar of his shirt, "Walk. Before you make this worse."
But Gojo doesn't even look at him. He looks at you.
Only you.
The reason he keeps coming back at all.
By nightfall, the story of the outlaw Satoru Gojo's fifth arrest has already turned itself into something like a joke.
You hear it in snatches as you move through town—men laughing too loud, cards slapping against tables, the same lines repeated with growing exaggeration.
You tell yourself you're not thinking about him when you duck under the swinging saloon doors later that night.
You have reason to be here, a respectable one. Your father's ledger is clutched under your arm; old debts from the owner, few notes he asked you to collect because he was "too damn busy" to do it himself.
When you step inside, you're immediately swallowed by smoke and sound. The piano in the corner plays something low and easy; men crowd around tables, cards and coins scattered, voice overlapping.
Glasses clink, laughter rises and breaks like waves. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and the faint sweetness of cigar smoke.
A few heads turn when they see you—the sheriff's daughter. Conversations hitch mid sentences, the bartender straightens, a man at the nearest table stands halfway before thinking better of it.
You're used to attention in the quiet daylight of Dry Creek. You are not used to being the only clean, bright thing in a place like this.
You keep your eyes forward, spine straight, heartbeat steady, and make your way toward the bar, "Evenin', miss," The bartenders offers, suddenly very polite, "Wasn't expectin' to see you here."
You set the ledger down between you, "My pa said you were behind again."
He winces, wipes his hands on a rag, "He would say that."
He reaches for the book, flipping through pages, muttering under his breath as he looks for his name. You're focused on the ink, the columns, the neatness of your father's handwriting—that familiar, safe order, right up until of a prickle crawls up the back of your neck.
"There she is..." A quiet, warm drawl slips behind you—soft enough to be secret, certain enough to be unmistakable, "...my angel."
Your hand tightens around the edge of the ledger as you turn. He's leaned one elbow against the far end of the bar, body angled your way like he's been standing there waiting for you to catch the fact he's in the room.
Hat tipped, shirt open a button too far, bandage stark against his ribs where the sleeves gapes. Bruises have turned darker along his jaw, but somehow they only frame the curve of his mouth when he smiles.
Satoru Gojo. Not behind bars now.
Loose. At ease. Dangerous in a different way.
Suguru Geto stands beside him, glass in hand, posture relaxed but eyes alert. He looks between you and Gojo once, and that's all it takes for him to understand how this is going to go, "Should've known," He mutters into his drink, "This is where you'd try your luck next."
Gojo doesn't look at him, his attention is fixed on you, "Didn't think you'd step foot in a place like this, angel. Your daddy know you're slummin' it with the rest of us?"
You lift your chin, fingers smoothing the ledger's worn spine, "He knows. But he'd have a fit if he knew I was talkin' to you again."
He smiles like you've just given him a gift, "Again, huh? That makes it sound like you were missin' me."
Your pulse kicks once, too hard, "I'm here on business. That's all."
He hums, amused, "Funny. Thought I was your business lately."
He pushes off the bar, and takes a single step closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that the lamplight hits his eyes under his hat, bright and sharp.
"My pa would drag you back to that cell himself if he saw this," You mutter, mostly your yourself.
"Sweetheart," He says, low, pleased, "He's been draggin' me back there anyway. Might as well enjoy the view while I'm earnin' it."
Geto sets his glass down with a soft clink, "You're scarin' the poor girl."
"Am I?" Gojo asks, but he doesn't look away from you, "You scared, angel?"
Your heart is racing, but you shake your head, "No."
"Good. Be a shame if you were."
The bartender clears his throat nervously, holding out a few folded bills toward you, "Sheriff's cut. Got it all squared."
You take the money, tuck it into the ledger, and should leave.
But you don't. Gojo notices, "Tell you what," He drawls, reaching back to snag an extra glass from the bar without looking, "Seems rude I haven't officially welcomed you to my favorite establishment in town."
"This isn't your establishment," You murmur.
He pours whiskey into the glass anyway, "Feels like it is," He says, "I spend enough time feedin' their gossip."
He nudges the drink across the counter toward you, slow enough that you could step away, but you don't, "I don't drink," You tell him, even as your fingers brush the rim.
"I know," His gaze drops to your mouth—slow and hungry enough to make your breath catch, "That's 'cause no one's ever handed you the right thing to wrap those lips around."
Heat explodes up your neck. You choke, your breath hitching. He smiles like he felt that stutter inside you, "Relax, sweetheart," He murmurs, voice a velvet drag, "I'm just talkin' whiskey," There's a brief pause in his words, "...For now."
Your pulse leaps painfully. The heat in your chest is different now—thicker, tighter, tinged with something darker. You know you shouldn't listen to a thing he says. Every fiber of your being says not to, but for some reason you can't walk away.
Instead, you lift the glass, barely, hesitantly, and his eyes darken with greedy satisfaction. You bring it to your mouth, "One," You whisper, "Only one."
He smirks like you just agreed to far more than a sip, "One's all I need."
The whiskey touches your tongue and you nearly choke—not from taste, but from the way his eyes drop to your mouth; ravenous, slow, tracing the way your lips part around the brim. You cough softly, heat climbing up your throat.
"Easy," He says, voice dipping low enough to crawl down your spine, "Didn't say you had to impress me."
"I wasn't—" Your voice breaks.
His smile widens, wicked and knowing, "Sweetheart...that little sound you made?" His gaze flicks to your lips again, "That impressed me just fine."
Your face burns, hand trembling around the glass. Geto shifts beside him, clearing his throat, politely pretending he didn't hear what everyone with ears definitely heard.
But Gojo doesn't look away. Not when your gaze flickers or you swallow, and especially not when your thighs press together just slightly, subconsciously.
He sees all of it.
"Go on then," He murmurs, voice deepening, "Try that again."
Your breath snags, "Try what?"
He leans in, not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the pull of him, "Say you don't want me."
Your lungs stop working. The room, the music, the voices—all of it fades into something distant and far away.
"I—"
He waits smiling, certain, as if he already knows you can't. Your lips part but nothing comes out, "Thought so," And the satisfaction in his tone makes your knees threaten to give, "You keep lookin' at me like that, angel...and folks are gonna start wonderin' which side of town you belong to."
Your breath stutters because of how he said it. Low and possessive like he's already claimed the answer, "And which side is that?"
He doesn't hesitate, "Mine."
The word lands like a hand circling your waist and heat spirals through you so fast you have to set the glass down before you drop it, which he notices, "Maybe they'll just think I'm foolish," You murmur, "Talkin' to a man my pa keeps throwin' in a cell."
Gojo's smile twitches, sharper, more dangerous, "Your daddy throws me in a cell," He says quietly, "Because I let him. And you know I do."
His gaze wanders down your throat and back up again, "You think I can't outrun a few deputy boys who trip over their own boots?" His voice dips, rough with amusement, "Sweetheart...I ride circles around men twice as fast."
You shouldn't like hearing that, but you do. He lowers his voice even more, "I walk into that jail 'cause I know you'll be close. Somewhere near enough to feel me lookin," The air leaves your lungs, "And every damn time," He mutters, eyes locked onto yours, "You prove me right."
"And why..." You whisper, warm all over, "...why does it have to be me?"
He grins sinfully and unbearably sure, "You know why."
Before you can respond, the saloon doors creak. Your father's voice cuts through the moment like a razor, "Next round's on me—if the night's gonna be this long, I'm at least gonna drink through the end of it."
Your spine locks as he strolls in with two deputies, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room on instinct. The bartender straightens. A few men lift their glasses.
You move instantly—pull the ledger closer, body angled, pretending you're just here on business. Gojo doesn't tense, he just smiles, "Well," He says to you and Geto alone, "This complicates things."
Geto exhales, annoyance laced within his tone, "Told you this was a bad idea."
"When have I ever listened to that sentence?" Gojo asks, still watching you instead of the sheriff.
Your father hasn't spotted you yet. He leans on the far end of the bar, orders a drink, mumbles something about the Kamo brothers.
Gojo's attention flicks to Geto, mischief sparking, "Suguru," He says pleasantly, "Do me a favor."
"No."
Gojo raises a brow, "You haven't heard it yet."
"I don't need to," He replies, "You just haven't said it out loud."
Gojo tips his head toward the swinging doors, where a few rough men linger—the kind who'd start trouble just for the thrill, "Think those Kamo boys might be lookin' for round two."
Geto stares, stunned, exasperated, "You want a distraction."
"Just a small one."
"You're going to get shot one day."
"Probably," Gojo agrees lightly, "But not today."
Your father laughs at something the bartender says, still blissfully unaware. Geto looks at you for one long moment, sees your stiff shoulders, your fingers brushing your empty glass, then sighs, "You owe me, Satoru."
"Put it on my tab."
He downs his drink, sets the glass aside, and strolls toward the doors like a man about to ruin everyone's night. A heartbeat later, shouting erupts outside. Someone curses and a scuffle breaks out.
The deputies rush toward the noise. Your father stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "If those Kamo bastards think they're about to start somethin' twice in one damn day—"
He storms out, deputies following. The saloon quiets. A low hum, a twitch of piano keys, murmured chatter, but no one looks at you.
Gojo does. He turns back, smile slow and triumphant, eyes gleaming, "Now," Voice fond and wicked, "Where were we?"
Your blood is still humming when he says it and he takes one step toward you, "We were..." Your voice falters, he waits, "...finishin' a conversation."
His smile curves, "That so?" He drawls, "'Cause from where I'm standin', sweetheart...we were startin' one."
His knuckles brush the bar, but he's close enough you feel the heat rolling off him and your knees threaten to give, "You know," He coos, gaze dropping to your mouth again, "You didn't even try to walk away."
"I...I couldn't."
He huffs out a quiet, prideful sound, "No," Stepping closer again—just an inch, but it feels like a mile, "You couldn't."
Your back hits the bar. You hadn't noticed you were moving. He had.
"Y'know what I think?" His voice lowers, sinks into something sinful, "I think you came in here wonderin' what I'd do if I got you alone."
Your stomach flips, "That's not—"
"It is," He interrupts softly, "And you wanna know somethin' filthy, angel?"
The air leaves your lungs. He leans down—slow, bringing his mouth near your ear, close enough his breath skims your cheek.
"If I had you alone..." He pauses. It's short, but it feels like eternity, "...I wouldn't have to guess at that little sound you make when somethin' feels too good."
Your thighs press together before you can stop yourself. A soft gasp escapes you. He sees it. He hears it. His smirk sharpens, "Yeah," He whispers, "That one."
Your heart seizes, "And you're shakin' again," He teases, gaze dragging down your throat, "Just like you were when you put your lips on that glass."
You grip the bar behind you, "This is—this is not proper."
"Proper?' He echoes, amused, "Sweetheart, you've been starin' at my mouth for ten minutes. You sure proper is your biggest worry right now?"
Your eyes widen, "I wasn't—"
"You were," He steps closer, "Still are."
His knees brushes yours, not accidentally at all, "Look at me," You do and he inhales softly like your gaze is a touch, "You keep lookin' at me like that," He murmurs, blue eyes darkening, "And I'm gonna put this whole saloon behind us."
Your breath hitches, "How?" You whisper, barely audible.
His smile turns downright evil, "There's rooms upstairs. Doors that lock. Floors that creak real quiet if you're pressed up against the wall instead of walkin' on 'em. And I got one."
Heat crashes through you so fast it weakens your legs. You've never once in your life been spoken to before like this.
"And angel?" He leans in, lips a breath from your cheeks, "You make one of those little sounds again, and I swear on every saint this town's ever prayed to...I'll take you up those stairs so fast your daddy won't hear a damn thing but the wind."
Your chest rises too quickly, breath trembling, "That's—that's indecent."
He grins, "So's the way you're lookin' at me."
Your hands clutch the bar for balance. Outside, another shout erupts—Geto's stall tactic working perfectly. However, inside, the world narrows to your heartbeat and his breath.
"Tell me no," His voice is low enough to be a sin on its own.
You should. You need to...but you can't. There's only silence out of you.
His smirk turns—slow, victorious, tender in the filthiest way, "That's what I thought," His fingers brush yours on the bar, "Come upstairs with me, angel."
The room fades around you; smoke, piano, voices turning into sound without shape. You breathe out his name, "Satoru..."
And that seals it for him.
He straightens, eyes blazing, and offers you his hand like a promise you both know you shouldn't take.
No one looks when you walk away from the bar.
No one hears when he guides you toward the stairs.
No one stops you when his hand settles at the small of your back—barely there, heat searing fabric.
The steps creak softly under your feet and his footsteps follow. Halfway up, you glance back. He's looking at you like you're something he's been hunting for weeks. Maybe longer.
The lamplight cuts across his jaw, across those blue eyes, starving and reverent all at once, "Don't be scared, angel," He soothes, "I'll be real gentle at first."
Your body floods with heat as you reach the top step. He closes the distance behind you—breath warm against your neck, hand brushing your hip.
The door to his rented room clicks softly. There's only a bed, a chair, a small table, and moonlight spilling through the window, making dust dance in the pale light.
"Okay, now," He murmurs, advancing on you slowly, "Let's talk about all those things I'm not supposed to do to the sheriff's daughter."
Your heart stumbles, "Satoru, I—"
He stops an inch from you, "Shh," His thumbs brush your cheekbones, and you swear he can feel the way you tremble.
"Look at you," He whispers, "All lit up like you're tryin' not to break."
His head dips, and his breath ghosts over the skin of your throat, "Tell me, angel...has anyone ever kissed you here?"
You gasp softly as his lips press against the sensitive skin behind your ear, a slow, deliberate kiss that sends shivers down your spine. Your knees feel weak, and you instinctively grab onto the front of his shirt.
"No," You breathe out, "Never."
"Never," He repeats, a low hum vibrating against your skin, "Such a waste."
His lips trail down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He pauses at the pulse point in your throat, feeling the frantic thrumming against his mouth.
"You're still shakin'," He murmurs against your skin, "Are you afraid of me, angel?"
"A little," You whisper, your fingers tightening in his shirt, "But...I don't want you to stop."
A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, "Good girl," He nips at your collarbone gently, and you make a soft, desperate sound, "I like that honesty."
His hands slide from your cheeks down to your shoulders, then down your arms, leaving goosebumps. He grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard lines of his body, the strength coiled in his frame.
"Your pa would have a fit if he saw this," He mutters, breath hot against your ear, "His innocent little girl, pressed up against the town's most wanted outlaw."
He presses a series of open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, "What would he say, I wonder, if he knew how badly you wanted this?"
"I—I don't know," You manage to say, your head falling back as his lips find that sensitive spot on your neck again.
"I do," He says, his voice dark with satisfaction, "He'd say he failed," One of his hands comes up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a heavy, possessive weight, "He'd say he let some no-good criminal corrupt his sweet little girl. Turn her into somethin' filthy."
His thumb strokes the side of your neck, and you can feel your pulse racing beneath it. He tightens his grip slightly, just enough to make you gaspA moan escapes your lips, and he chuckles again, the sound vibrating through you, "That's the sound I was waitin' for, angel."
He releases your throat, only to spin you around so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place as he bends his head to your neck.
"I knew you had it in you," He murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, "That good girl act...it's just for show, innit? Deep down, you're just as wicked as I am."
You shake your head, but it's a weak denial, and you both know it, "No, I'm not—"
"Shh," He hushes, one of his hands coming up to cup your breast through your dress, "Don't lie to me, angel. Not when I can feel how much you like this," He rolls his thumb over your nipple, and it hardens instantly beneath his touch, "See? Your body don't lie."
You arch into his touch, a silent plea for more, "Satoru..."
"I know," He says, his voice dropping lower, "I know what you need."
His other hand finds the buttons of your dress, undoing them with practiced ease. The fabric falls away, pooling around your feet, leaving you in just your thin chemise and underwear.
"God," He breathes, turning you to face him again. His eyes sweep over your exposed skin, and the raw hunger in them makes your stomach churn, "You're even more beautiful than I imagined," He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up, "And I've imagined this a lot, angel. Every damn night since I first laid eyes on you in that jailhouse."
His lips crash against yours, and it's nothing like the gentle, teasing kisses from before. This kiss is demanding, possessive, a claiming. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you meet it with your own, a desperate, starved dance.
You've never been kissed before. And you couldn't believe that this is what it could be like.
His hands roam over your body, learning every curve, every hollow. One slides up your back, untying the ribbon of your chemise, while the other cups your ass, pulling you even closer.
You can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your stomach, and a fresh wave of desire washes over you.
He pulls back, his lips swollen from the kiss, his breathing ragged, "Already fallin' apart, and we've barely even started."
He drops to his knees in front of you, looking up at you with those piercing blue eyes, "I'm goin' to ruin you, angel," He says, his hands gripping your hips, "I'm goin' to ruin you for every other man."
His lips find the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, "Satoru, please..."
"Please what?" He asks, teeth nipping at your skin, "Please stop? Or please don't?"
"Please don't," You whisper, your head falling back as he presses open-mouthed kisses higher and higher up your thigh.
"Good girl," He praises, and the words send a fresh jolt of desire through you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling them down, "Let's see what other pretty sounds you can make for me."
His mouth finds your core, and you cry out, your knees buckling. His arms wrap around your thighs, holding you up as he devours you, his tongue working magic you never knew existed.
Your hips buck against his face, and he chuckles, the vibrations sending shivers through you, "That's it, angel," He coos, pulling back for just a moment, "Ride my face. Show me how much you want this."
And you do. You grind against his mouth, lost in the pleasure, in the filth of it all. This is wrong—you know it is, but it's the most right you've ever felt.
He brings you to the brink, then pulls back, over and over, until you're a whimpering, begging mess, "Satoru, please," You cry, your fingers tightening in his hair, "Please, I need..."
"What do you need, angel?" He asks, looking up at you, his chin glistening with your arousal, "Use your words."
"I need...I need you to make me cum," You manage to say, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and desire.
A slow grin spreads across his face, "Well, since you asked so nicely," His mouth returns to your core, and this time, he doesn't hold back.
He sucks on your clit, his tongue flicking against it, and you finish with a cry, your body shaking with the force of it all. He stays with you through it, lapping at your juices, drawing out your pleasure until you're spent, quivering in his arms.
When he finally pulls away, he looks up at you, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, "There's that sound again," He notes, his voice husky with satisfaction, "My new favorite song."
He rises to his feet, his hands coming up to frame your face, "Now," He says, his lips brushing against yours, "It's my turn."
The kiss that follows tastes of you, a filthy, claiming act that has you pressing against him again, wanting more. His hands roam your body, relearning every curve as if he hadn't just been worshiping it with his mouth.
One slides around your waist, the other tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck.
"Look at you," He mumbles against your skin, "All flushed and tremblin' for me. The sheriff's daughter, beggin' an outlaw to make her cum," He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, "If your daddy could see you now..."
"Don't," You whisper, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
"Don't what?" He presses, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Don't remind you that you're supposed to be good? That you're supposed to be pure?" His thumb traces your lower lip, "'Cause angel, the way you're lookin' at me right now—ain't nothin' pure about it."
You can't deny it. You're looking at him like he's your salvation and your damnation, rolled into one.
"That's what I thought," He says, satisfaction dripping from his words, "Now," He adds, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, "I think it's only fair you return the favor."
He watches you as he unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall open to reveal a lean, muscular chest marred with scars and bruises. There's a raw power to him that calls to something deep inside you, something you never knew existed.
"Go on," He says, taking your hand and placing it on his chest, "Touch me."
Your fingers trace the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, a rhythm that seems to match your own.
"Lower," He commands, voice rough with desire.
Your hand drifts down, over the hard ridge of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. He sucks in a breath, his hips jerking forward.
"Yeah," He soothes, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, "Just like that."
His gaze is heavy on you as you sink to your knees in front of him, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his pants. When you finally free him, you can't help but stare. He's long and thick, head flushed a bright red, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
His hands come to rest on your head, his fingers tangle in your hair, "Show me what that pretty mouth can do besides drink whiskey."
You lean forward, your tongue tentatively flicking out to taste him. He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him into your mouth; slowly, carefully, adjusting to the unfamiliar stretch of him.
"That's it, angel," He says, through gritted teeth, "Take it all."
You do. Taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around him, your cheeks hollowing as you suck. You can feel his control slipping, the way his hips start to move, thrusting into your mouth.
"God, what a sight," He says, pulling back slightly, so you can see the starvation in his eyes, "The good sheriff's daughter, on her knees, sucking off the man he hates."
He thrusts back into your mouth, and you moan around him, "I knew it," He boasts, a delighted shine in his eyes," I knew you had it in you. All this innocence..." He pulls back, then thrusts in again, deeper this time, "Just waitin' for the right man to corrupt it."
His words are filthy, but they only fuel your desire. You want to be corrupted by him. You want him to ruin you.
He starts to move faster, his grip on your hair tightening, his hips thrusting harder, "Fuck—," He curses, voice strained, "Such a good girl, takin' all of me."
You can feel him getting closer, the way his thrusts become more erratic, the way his breathing becomes more ragged, "Gonna cum," He warns, his hips stilling, "Gonna cum down that pretty throat."
And then he does, with a groan, spilling himself into your mouth. You swallow, the taste of him salty and bitter, and when he's done, you pull back, licking your lips.
"Christ," He breathes, pulling you to your feet, "You did so well, angel."
His lips crash against yours, a hungry, desperate kiss that tastes of him and you. He walks you backward until your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it, him following, covering your body with his.
"You drive me insane," He admits, his hands roaming your body, "I've been thinkin' about this since the moment I saw you in that jailhouse. Thinkin' about what I'd do to you if I got you alone."
"And what—what are you going to do?" You ask, your voice trembling with anticipation.
He grins, a wicked, predatory glint in his eyes, "Ruin you," He says, his hand sliding between your legs, his fingers finding your slick heat, "I'm goin' to fuck you so good, you'll never think of another man again."
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, "Last chance to back out, angel," He warns, his eyes locked on yours, "Once I start, I won't be able to stop."
"I don't want you to stop," You whisper, your hips rising to meet his.
"Good girl," He coos, and then he's pushing into you, a slow, steady stretch that burns and pleases in equal measure.
You cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he fills you, inch by inch. He's bigger than you expected, the stretch almost too much, but there's a pleasure in it, a rightness that settles deep in your bones.
"Shit, you're so tight," He seethes, his hips stilling, giving you a moment to adjust, "Like you were made for me."
He starts to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually become deeper, harder. Each thrust sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you, building upon the last until you're a whimpering, begging mess.
"Satoru," You sob, your hips rising to meet his, your body moving with an instinct you didn't know you possessed, "Please...harder—"
He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound, "That's right, angel. Beg for it."
He gives you what you want, his hips snapping forward, each thrust driving him deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. Your nails dig into his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even closer.
"God—fuck," He curses, his lips brushing against your ear, "What would your daddy say if he could see you now?"
"He'd—he'd be disgusted," You manage to say, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Disgusted?" Gojo's hips slow, pulling a whimper from your throat. He props himself up on his elbows, his hair falling into those storm-blue eyes.
"No, angel," He rolls his hips, a slow, grinding motion that has you arching off the bed, "He'd be broken."
His breath is hot against your cheek, the scent of sweat and whiskey and something uniquely him filling your senses.
"He'd see that the innocence he tried so hard to lock up...it's already gone. I stole it," He punctuates the claim with a sharp thrust that steals your breath, "I'm the one who taught his little girl how to beg. I'm the one whose name she's screamin'."
One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your body to wrap around your throat again, making your head spin.
"And these hands..." He utters, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse in your neck," He knows what these hands can do. He's heard the stories. But he doesn't know they're wrapped around his daughter's pretty throat right now."
You choke on a moan, your body tightening around him at the thought. The danger of it, the sheer taboo, sends you spiraling closer to the edge.
"You like that, don't you?" He murmurs, a dark, knowing smile playing on his lips, "You like knowin' that the same hands that have sent men to their graves are the ones making you feel so good."
He tightens his grip just a fraction, and the world narrows to the sensation of him inside you, the pressure on your throat, the promise in his eyes.
"Satoru..." You gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
"Tell me," He demands, his hips stilling, leaving you desperate for more, "Tell me you like it."
"I like it," You whisper, the admission shameless and liberating.
"What do you like?"
"I like—I like your hands on me," You say, your cheeks burning, "I like knowin' who you are. What you've done."
A slow, triumphant grin spreads across his face, "I thought so."
He releases your throat, only to flip you over onto your stomach in one smooth motion. He pulls your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees, and enters you from behind in one deep, hard thrust that has you crying out.
This new angle allows him to go deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each of his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
"Fuck, angel—takin' my cock like you were made for it," One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your back to wrap around your hair, pulling your head back gently, “Tell me, angel...what's your daddy's name?"
You're too lost in pleasure to understand the question at first, "What?"
"What's your daddy's name?" He repeats, his hips slowing.
"John."
"John," He repeats, and then he's thrusting into you again, hard and fast, each thrust punctuated by a word, "John—would...be...so—disappointed."
The words are filthier than any touch, a corruption so complete it sends you over the edge. You cum with a cry, your body shaking with the force of it, your vision blurring at the edges.
He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming sloppier, "I'm gonna fill you up, angel," He promises, "Gonna leave so much inside you, you'll be carryin' me around for days."
The idea is obscene, but it sends a thrill of desire through you.
And then he does, with a groan, spilling himself inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, a final claiming that leaves you numb, trembling, and utterly his.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. For a moment, you both just lie there, breathing heavily, the only sounds in the room the pounding of your hearts and the distant creak of the old building.
Finally, he rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms. You're both sticky with sweat and other fluids, but you don't care.
You feel safe in a way you never have before, protected by the very man your father has been trying to protect you from.
"I knew you had it in you," He mutters against your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back, "All that innocence...was for me to take."
You snuggle closer, your head resting on his chest, "I never knew..." You say, your voice barely a whisper, "I never knew it could be like this."
"Like what?"
"So...good—so right, even when it feels wrong."
He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound, "That's because it is right, angel. You were always meant to be mine. Your pa just ain't know it."
You look up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "And what happens now?" You ask, your heart pounding, "When he finds out?"
Gojo's expression darkens, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, "He won't," He says, his tone leaving no room for argument, "I'll kill him before I let him take you from me."
You should be scared. You should be horrified by the casual way he talks about killing your father. But instead, you feel a thrill, a dark, forbidden pleasure in knowing that he'd do anything to keep you.
"Besides," He adds, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face, "Who says he has to find out? This can be our little secret—our dirty, little secret."
His hands roam your body, reawakening desires you thought were sated, "And believe me, angel," His lips brush against yours, "I have a lot more dirty little secrets I want to share with you."
You can't help but smile, a newfound boldness taking hold, "Is that a promise?"
His grin widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes, "Oh, it's more than a promise, angel. It's a threat."
You believe him.
And as he rolls you onto your back, spreading your legs and entering you again, you realize you truly don't want to think of another man again.
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summary: a fortune, the student council presidency, and a future already negotiated for you—complete with a ryomen engagement ring after you graduate from university. you’ve got it all… but is that really what you want? an unexpected friendship with gojo satoru makes the answer far less certain.
warnings: (18+) smut, porn with plot, fluff, light angst, college au, academic rivals/annoyances to lovers, oral (fem. receiving), p in v, criminally down bad!gojo, mentions of frat parties, alcohol consumption, marriages of convenience, family troubles, and overall rich people problems ™️, the university they go to is heavily implied to be aristocratic, brief sukuna x reader but she doesn’t fw him, anatomy & physiology facts that are probably incorrect but we shall ignore that for the sake of the plot
word count: 16.9k
art by bimyo_n!
masterlist | request
Rumor has it that everything began the moment winter break ended.
You extended the handle of your suitcase and walked toward the foyer, where you were sure your mother was already waiting. By the time you rounded the corner, she was already unlocking the front door and pulling it open.
As if it couldn’t be any more obvious that she was eager for you to leave the house and return to university.
If you had to guess, the end of each break between semesters was her favorite time of year.
Well, that and her birthday—because your father had made a habit of buying her a new handbag each season, and if there was anything she loved more than a mansion to herself, it was a mansion to herself full of designer purses.
“The car is waiting for you,” she said simply, her tone lacking the warmth of a mother wishing her daughter farewell.
You hardly noticed its absence. You hadn’t felt it in years, anyway. You’d be lucky—or unlucky, you weren’t quite sure—if she hugged you goodbye.
Just as you opened your mouth to reply, you noticed the furrow in her brow. Wordlessly, she pressed her hand between your shoulder blades to correct your posture. “How is it that you’ve somehow managed to develop a slouch? Your father and I didn’t pay for you to go to charm school for nothing to come of it.”
Your jaw tightened, the familiar urge to shrug her hand away flared, but you didn’t let it show in your voice. “And where is he? He couldn’t take an early lunch to come home and see me off?”
She released a breath that sounded more like a laugh than a scoff. “Why would he? You’re going to be back in two months for dinner with the Ryomen family. He’ll see you then.”
This time, your bitterness did reach your voice. “Oh. Right. That.”
Your suitcase was plucked from your side by the family driver and you watched as he loaded it into the trunk.
“Yes. That.” Your mother tugged at your skirt, as if that would make it any longer.
She looked at you sharply. Her message was clear, even though it remained wordless: don’t show up wearing something like this the next time we see you.
After all, appearances were important. You had learned that from an early age.
By the time you were ten, your eyebrows were already being plucked biweekly. Sometimes, thrice in one month, should your mother notice a hair out of place. At eleven, you learned what pore strips were, why they were used, and what people would say about you if you didn’t. Once you were fourteen, styling your hair came as easily as walking on two feet.
But the Ryomen family didn’t care about that as much as your mother did.
What they truly cared about was securing a fortune that would create generational wealth. They cared about fostering a bond with your parents that would lead to a prosperous business relationship. They only cared about you because you were the business—an investment that they expected to mature on schedule. Well, you and Sukuna, their son, whom you have practically been betrothed to since you were six years old.
Graduation was approaching, and you would bet your life that this dinner was a gimmick—one for both sets of parents to nudge you two closer together. Not that they cared whether you truly got along. Aligning the Ryomen fortune with your family name would make your combined estate as good as gold. They likely just wanted to ensure that the eventual marriage (business deal) would be lifelong.
Which is to say, they wanted to drill it into your head that filing for divorce was not an option once everything was said and done. How sweet of them.
You couldn’t worry about that now, though. You were already running late, and you needed to get back to campus and unpack. Classes start tomorrow morning, and you would hate to be seen with bags under your eyes—and your mother would certainly hate to hear about it from the monumental amount of staff at Mikage Academy, who seemed intent on notifying her of nearly every step you took over the past few years.
“Well, I should be going,” you muttered—more to yourself than to her—because you weren’t even confident she was listening anymore.
Your suspicions were confirmed when she muttered a final ‘don’t forget about the dinner’ before shutting the door behind you. She didn’t follow you out. Didn’t hug you goodbye either.
Once you were inside the vehicle—headphones on, with music blaring loud enough to drown out any chance at forming a coherent thought—you relaxed your shoulders and slouched, because there was no one here to pester you about it.
At least that was something you could be thankful for.
☆
The student council election was rapidly approaching, and that was just about all you were allowed to think about.
You knelt on the ground with a paintbrush in your hand, carefully mapping out the words Vote Y/N for Student Council President! :) on the posterboard.
The headphones in your ears were turned up a bit too high, because you hadn’t even noticed that your best friend, Utahime, had entered the empty workroom until she accidentally kicked over the can of red paint you had been using. You gasped as it splattered all over the poster, leaning back on the heels of your feet to ensure, at the very least, that it didn’t get on your clothes.
“Utahime!”
“I’m sorry!” she said quickly, tilting the can upright again.
The damage had already been done, though. She knelt beside you and carefully folded up the poster, tossing it into a nearby bin. Wiping her hands against each other, her eyes landed on you.
“Let the record show that I didn’t mean to do that and am guilty of all crimes regardless,” she paused, then smiled at you. “You know, you don’t really need to campaign. No one has run against you in, what— three years?”
You frowned as you wiped your thumb over the dot of paint on your skirt. It was small enough that an untrained eye wouldn’t notice. “I know that, but you can never be too sure.”
“Actually, you can be,” she retorted, but retrieved a fresh posterboard for you anyway. “The only way you lose this election is if a meteor penetrates Earth’s orbit and targets Mikage specifically, and in that case, we would all be dead anyway.”
You raised a brow as you dipped a fresh paintbrush into the can. “In that case, I should campaign to make sure that everyone died with an intent to vote for me.”
Utahime laughed with a shake of her head but didn’t push it any further. “I should run a smear campaign against you in the school’s newspaper. Maybe then, your effort won’t be for naught.” She paused. “Speaking of— have you read the newspaper lately?”
You were stopped dead in your tracks. If Utahime had managed to read the entirety of the university’s boring-to-death newspaper and felt it was important enough to bring up to you, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. “Yeah? Not this week’s issue, though. Why?”
“Of course you read it regularly,” she mumbled with a smile before fishing her phone out of her backpack. “There’s a new column for blind items. About the students. Can you believe that this shit actually made the final cut? It’s awesome.”
You invaded her personal space to look at her phone screen. “No way. What are they saying?”
Utahime laughed. “Just read it for yourself. I had to change my outfit because I read them this morning while brushing my teeth and laughed so hard, I toothpaste-bombed my own shirt.”
Reading the blind items to yourself, you can’t help but stifle your laugh that comes before the unease settles in. Someone had written these based on what they had observed, and despite how harmless they seemed now, the concept of that person walking among you was something that left a pit in your stomach.
A certain basketball player was seen coming back to his dorm room around 4 a.m. with multiple shades of lipstick on his neck.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has been shitting in the showers for two weeks straight.
A sorority girl tossed the entirety of her roommate’s makeup collection out the window and blamed it on someone else, resulting in their expulsion from the sorority.
A notorious rich boy blew his semester’s allowance on a new sports car.
You skimmed the rest and ensured that none of them could be about you before you handed Utahime her phone back. “I’m sure we all know who number four is about.”
She shrugged but nodded anyway. “Right? I mean, Gojo revs his engine like it’s nobody’s business all the time.” She looked down at her phone. “I wonder who’s shitting in the showers, though.”
“Maybe that one’s about Gojo, too,” you quipped, too quickly to hide the bite in your voice.
You regretted how much you sounded like your mother then, and how easily it had come out.
Your family’s disdain for the Gojo family stemmed long before you were born. Hell, before your parents were even born. The details of it all were up for interpretation at this point—nobody talked about it, and you never dared to ask—but to your understanding, Gojo’s great-great-great-grandfather had screwed over yours—somehow, some way—and this was what had come of it. You would be reluctant to believe it. After all, there were quite a few tools in your own family, and you liked to believe you were nothing like them.
But the asshat that was Satoru Gojo lived up to his reputation, as far as you’d learned. That was enough for you to write him off.
Not to mention, he was the only student here at Mikage who posed a threat to you. He was academically gifted and never let you forget it; most things came easier to him than they did you, and you hated him for it.
Well, that and the time he spilled beer all over your shoes at a frat party freshman year. He probably didn’t even remember it had happened, but you did, because some other dipshit had been recording the entire ordeal and posted it online.
The earful you’d gotten from your parents that day was enough for you to stay away from him entirely.
All the while, Utahime raised her eyebrow with a grin. “Oh, wow. You’d better hope he didn’t hear that, or else you just lost a vote.”
☆
All things considered, you were having a good day.
Even though your hair is still slightly damp from the rain and the perfume you put on only two hours ago has nearly worn off, you’re pretty confident that you’ve just aced your first Anatomy & Physiology test.
Every other person in the lecture hall is already relaxed, scrolling on their phones while they wait for your professor to hand back the graded exams—because all things considered, it’s only worth three percent of your total grade after all calculations. And yes, you have done the calculations (twice!), because heaven forbid you be uninformed about anything relating to your academics.
You glance at your watch nervously. You hope this class is released on time, because attending it was only the second thing you’ve checked off your mile-long to-do list for the day.
You have a student council meeting at 2 p.m., a meeting with Professor Yaga at 3:15 p.m. about an upcoming scholarship opportunity, and a study date with Sukuna at 4 p.m.—where he doesn’t do much of anything at all aside from scrolling through red pill looksmaxxer Instagram reels for two hours.
A test is lazily tossed back onto your desk, and you pick it up immediately.
It’s a 98%. An A.
You smile to yourself, but it doesn’t last very long. It falters the moment you feel a presence looming over your shoulder—one that carries the scent of expensive cologne. It’s light and masculine, and reminds you of summer, for whatever reason. You may have complimented it if the presence hadn’t beaten you to speaking.
“Only a ninety-eight? Poor thing. Didn’t sleep well or something?”
Suddenly, your compliment dries up, because you’d know that voice anywhere. Satoru fucking Gojo.
You snap your head around so fast it nearly spins off your spine. “Stay away from me and get a life,” you say through gritted teeth, but snatch his test from his hands despite yourself.
And there, in the top corner, written in pen, is a 100%. From what you can tell from all the talking he’s doing right now—which you aren’t listening to a lick—he’s pretty intent on rubbing it in your face.
He clicks his tongue and places his hand on the back of your seat, using it for leverage as he leans over you a bit more. “See? You got number thirteen wrong. You said the fluid inside body cells is extracellular fluid. Ouch.” He pats the back of your seat, as if it’s any consolation. “You know, I’m free Thursday afternoons. I could tutor you, and once the exam comes around, that frown will be turned right-side up—”
You stand abruptly and hand his test back to him, your wrist so rigid it may as well cut through ice. “Oh, I’m so good off that. I’d rather gouge my eyes out with an ice pick.”
Satoru tilts his head, his grin so smug it makes you sick. “Well, suit yourself. Speaking of—pretty sure ice picks are usually on clearance this time of year. Y’know, with it being spring and all.”
A single glance around the room tells you nearly everyone else has already left, and that it’s painfully obvious you and Satoru are the only ones who stayed behind to talk. You’d rather not be spotted with him again. You don’t bother hiding your eye roll as you zip up your backpack and walk away, crumpled test in tow.
“Hey, where are you going? What about our riveting conversation?” he calls after you, and you can practically hear his grin when he speaks. “It was a funny joke!”
The door slams shut behind you.
☆
You can’t stand Sukuna—no matter how hard you try.
“Can you at least turn that down?”
Sukuna grumbled under his breath before slumping even lower into the seat he dwarfed in size, but he lowered the volume of his Instagram reels just enough to pacify you. “What’s it matter, anyway? There’s nobody here.”
You huffed and tried not to take it personally, as the single person currently sitting beside him. “It matters to me because, unlike some people, I actually care about my grades. Very shocking, I know.”
It might be shocking to most—which you’d understand, because it even shocks you on most days—but Sukuna is one of the few people in your life who understands you.
Not when it comes to the things that make you who you are as an independent person. He couldn’t recite your full name if he tried, nor could he remember your birthday, favorite color, or go-to drink order at your favorite café.
Because at the end of the day, Sukuna doesn’t see you. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t have to. But after everything, he knows you better than most. He knows about the things you don’t say out loud. He knows how much you hate going home, because he hates it just as much. He knows that none of this truly matters, because your parents have had your futures lined up for over a decade, and none of your hard work plays a factor in that.
Where the two of you differ is this: you still seem to be under the assumption that hard work might relieve you of your fate, but Sukuna has long since adopted a different worldview. He thinks that if everything is going to work out in the end—a nice house, a somewhat decent spouse, a few kids in the far future—then what’s the point in trying in the meantime?
“Jeez, woman. I was just asking. It that time of the month or somethin’?”
You scoffed, but didn’t dignify him with a reply.
You don’t know what this is exactly—whatever you and Sukuna are. You aren’t dating. You have kissed a few times—experimental and primarily drunk kisses shared at parties that never amounted to anything, because, well… you just don’t like each other. You aren’t sure if you’re even friends, or if you’d want to be.
At most, you’re familial acquaintances, which is the polite way of saying that he is supposed to be your husband one day, if your parents have anything to say about it.
“I just need to focus. Yaga said I have a good chance at landing the internship, but that doesn’t mean I should start slacking off now.”
“What internship?”
You blinked.
“The internship I applied for three months ago?”
Sukuna blinked.
“The one I passed three rounds of interviews for?”
You scoffed. “For fuck’s sake, Sukuna, it’s just about the only thing I’ve been talking about for months!”
He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “Okay, okay, okay. Jeez. The only thing I’m noticing right now is that I’m not the only one being loud in the library anymore.”
A swarm of harsh replies flooded your mind, but you tamped them down—because you were 99% percent sure Sukuna was far too dim-witted to grasp whatever insult you could chuck his way anyway.
“Whatever. I need to get going.” You packed up your belongings and stood, taking a step in the opposite direction before he caught your arm. You glared back at him. “What?”
“Are you mad at me or somethin’? What’d I say?”
Once again, you didn’t give him a reply and walked away.
Sukuna leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest with a shake of his head. “Women.”
Once in the hallway, you approached the vending machine. You could use a pick-me-up, even if it were in the form of junk food. Just as you were within a few feet of it, an infuriating man with white hair slid in front of you. Satoru was quick to slide a dollar into the machine and punch in whatever he wanted.
“Oh—sorry, did you want something?” he asked over his shoulder, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.
You were fed up with men today. No, scratch that. You were more than fed up with men today. You rolled your eyes and began to walk away, and maybe Satoru had a change of heart, or maybe he realized that your fallen expression didn’t just have to do with running into him.
“Hey, no— come back, I’m serious,” he called after you. He reached into his pocket and slid another dollar into the machine. “What do you want?”
You turned around, eyeing him closely. “I don’t need your dollar, Gojo.”
Unfazed by your tone, he laughed. It was boyish and carefree in a way that surprised you. “I know you don’t,” he said simply. “Way to make me feel nice about my good deed, though. I didn’t know a single dollar could move you so much.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and he tilted his head toward the machine in response. “C’mon. Pick something.”
And because you just couldn’t catch a break today, your stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly. You placed a hand over your abdomen immediately, your face nearly losing its color.
“…Gummy bears,” you finally managed to choke out. “Please.”
Satoru smiled and punched in the corresponding code for a bag of Haribo Gummy Bears. “Decent choice for a starving woman. Not sweet enough for my taste, but decent.”
You huffed out a breath, watching him retrieve both of your chosen snacks. “Sour Patch Kids? Really?”
He handed you the gummy bears before nodding once. “Yup. Really.” He paused, a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I thought you’d like them. I mean, you’d definitely fit in with them.”
“Fit in with who?”
Satoru tore the bag open and popped one into his mouth. “The Sour Patch Kids. Y’know—with this whole mean-girl-who-hates-me getup you’ve got going on. Really sour of you.”
Your eyebrows pinched together. “That’s so stupid.”
“Yeah, but you almost smiled. Saw it with my own eyes,” he chirped back, chewing on the candy. You smoothed your expression, and he shook his head. “No, no, no— don’t hide it now. That’s just unfair. I paid a dollar for that smile.”
Your face tightened, because now you really were fighting the urge to smile, damn it. “Whatever,” you snapped as you started to walk away—then stopped, your expression tightening even more. “I mean… thank you. For the gummy bears.” You said one last thing before turning your back on him. “And don’t think this means I like you now, because I don’t.”
Satoru just smiled. “Yeah, of course, wouldn’t dream of it.”
☆
Your phone vibrated late into the night.
If it were any other day, you would’ve been fast asleep by now. You’d been strict about your sleep schedule ever since you accidentally discovered—at twelve years old, six hours into a late-night 3 a.m. deep dive—that not sleeping enough can result in the brain eating itself.
But even the fear of having a peanut-sized brain by the time you were forty hadn’t been enough to lull you to sleep tonight, which was how you found yourself watching ASMR cat spa day videos at 1 a.m.
You groaned when you glanced at the top of your screen and saw who dared to interrupt your doomscrolling.
sukuna: hey
sukuna: i can see u reading my texts.
sukuna: stop being mad at me and listen
sukuna: theres a party tomorrow night and i think you should come
sukuna: and before u get all “i need to focus and stay in and be boring all the time” on me just listen
sukuna: u should take time away from your hw and relax
You nearly smiled. This might’ve been the nicest thing Sukuna had ever said to you.
sukuna: plus i wanna go and it looks bad if we arent there together. people talk.
Never mind.
you: i’ll think about it
sukuna: cool. be ready by 9
you: i never said i was going???
☆
Spoiler alert: you wound up coming to the party.
The air is stale and smells of vape smoke and alcohol. The frat house is far too crowded, and from where you’re standing in the kitchen, everyone looks like a pack of sardines wiggling around to a 2010s pop song that no one has quite caught the rhythm for yet. And yet, for all of your complaining, you’re still here—looking your best, at that.
You weren’t as much of a bore as Sukuna made you out to be, but you could admit that you didn’t party nearly as much as you had when you first started at Mikage. The passing of time makes you more responsible, or whatever the poets say—you can’t remember, and you’re honestly a little tipsy already, truth be told.
Suddenly, Shoko nudges your side with her elbow. “Hey, party girl. You gonna stand in here all night, or do you plan on joining us at some point?”
“I didn’t even see you there,” you say through a laugh, waving a hand through the air to dissipate some of the vape smoke Toji blows only a few feet away. “Yeah, I’m coming.”
You follow her through the crowd, only managing to bump into a few people along the way while clutching your Solo cup tight to your chest. It’s warmer now that you’re enveloped in this sea of bodies; your cheeks feel hot, but you pay no mind to it. You’re not sure how long it takes before you and Shoko reunite with Utahime and Nobara, the four of you forming a little circle for yourselves—something that looks conspiratorial from the outside, but feels like a haven on the inside.
“Took you long enough,” Nobara says by way of greeting. She glances down at your cup. “What’d you find in the kitchen?”
“I don’t even know what the hell this is. I just grabbed whatever was unopened and poured it into a cup with ice. I’m hoping it’ll water down,” you reply with a shrug.
Nobara scoffs. “Toji never stocks shit for these parties—deadass, this is the worst frat. I don’t even know why we come here.”
Shoko laughs, though you can barely hear it over the music. “We come here because girls get in free at the door. I mean, if I’m gonna get shitfaced and regret my decisions tomorrow morning, I sure as hell don’t wanna pay for it.”
Utahime taps Shoko’s cup. “Yeah, speaking of getting shitfaced—you’re drinking water once you finish that. I can’t carry you back to your dorm. The last time I tried, I basically dragged you there.”
Shoko groans but doesn’t fight it. All of a sudden, the three of them lock eyes on something directly behind you, and their expressions fall.
Utahime’s face goes white as she places her hands on your shoulders. “Girl, don’t turn around. I’m so serious.”
“What are you talking about?” Your brows knit together, even as you’re already turning.
And when you see it, your eyes widen.
Sukuna is making out with some girl in the center of the room, and while the sight doesn’t make you sick, it does make you nervous. In the span of three seconds, a million thoughts rush through your mind.
You’re granted a glimpse into your future: a future where you marry a man who invites you to a party just to make out with another girl right in front of you. A future where you never feel secure enough to let your guard down, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. A future where you die even more miserable than you feel right now.
Not because you’re jealous. No, you couldn’t care less what the hell he does. It’s the principle that bothers you.
If you were expected to keep up appearances and make time to “bond” with him out of your already packed schedule, why was he allowed to do whatever he pleased?
You hope no one else is paying as much attention to him as you are, because the last thing you need is both of your parents finding out and breathing down your neck, trying to put Sukuna on a leash.
“Just classless,” Shoko hums.
You turn back around, laughing. “He’s a mess. I don’t know what the hell my parents are thinking.”
Nobara sighs. “You should run away and join the circus or something. They’ll never find you.”
You laugh to yourself, knowing they’re only trying to make you feel better. But the impending doom of your upcoming graduation feels worse than ever now. You feel suffocated—like the air is too warm to breathe—so you mumble out a half-assed excuse before slipping through the crowd and out onto the balcony.
It’s cold outside. Refreshing against your skin.
The party has spilled out onto the front lawn, and the sight is so ridiculous it brings you an odd sense of comfort. Choso wobbles on two unsteady legs with Nanami perched on his shoulders, currently trying—and failing—to fish toilet paper out of a tree. Two seconds later, they go tumbling over together, face-planting into the grass.
“That’s gotta hurt.”
You gasp, wrenching away from the edge of the balcony to look behind you.
And there he stood.
Satoru fucking Gojo.
Only now, he looks different. More casual. Relaxed, right down to the smoothed wrinkle between his eyebrows and the clothes he’s wearing now. You’ve never seen him in anything but collared dress shirts and black slacks, courtesy of Mikage Academy’s suffocating dress code.
He takes a step closer. Then another. Soon he’s beside you, forearms resting on the railing. His shirt stretches across his frame, and your eyes traitorously trace the curve of his bicep. The sharp line of his jaw. The slope of his nose.
You tear your gaze away before it gets embarrassing. Has he always looked like that?
Clearing your throat, you mirror his posture. “Hi.”
“Hey,” he replies easily. He glances at you, then back out at the lawn. “Nice party. Solid DJ choice.”
You huff. “Small talk? Really?”
Satoru shrugs. “I figured I should ease into it. You don’t exactly look like you’re in the mood for my usual charm.”
“You mean being insufferable?”
“Wow,” he says. “I was more so going for memorable.”
Your eyes meet. You’re the first to look away.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “I don’t really know how to talk to you when I’m not irritated with you and your stupid gloating.” You pause, then lift a finger. “And before you say anything—I aced the quiz yesterday. So if you came out here to rub it in, save it.”
“Oh no,” Satoru deadpans. “My entire plan— ruined right before my eyes.”
You glance at him. He’s smiling, but it’s softer than usual.
“No,” he continues, dropping his head slightly. “That’s not why I came out here.”
Your brows pinch together. “No?”
“Nope. I needed air. And maybe a tetanus shot after sitting on that couch, ‘cause that thing’s disgusting.”
You laugh despite yourself.
“And,” he adds casually, “I saw you come out here.”
You turn toward him. Somehow, his eyes look brighter at night. “Is that your official reason?”
“Mostly,” he says. “What can I say? I’m curious.”
“About?”
“About why you look like you’d rather be anywhere else than at a party like this.”
You hesitate. “It’s… complicated, I guess.”
“Ah,” Satoru nods.
You scoff, easily reading between the lines. “It has nothing to do with Sukuna. Well— okay, maybe a little. But not like that.”
He tilts his head. “You sure? Because from where I’m standing, it kinda looked like your boyfriend might have a lot to do with it.”
“Ew. No,” you say quickly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Something shifts in Satoru’s expression. “Good to know.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “Just is.”
You roll your eyes, but continue anyway, words spilling easier now. “If my parents have their way, he’ll probably be more than my boyfriend someday.” You grimace. “Which is terrifying, because he’s about as smart as a box of rocks, and I can’t be around him for more than ten minutes without wanting to bang my head against the wall.”
Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Here I thought I was harsh.”
Panic flickers through you when he doesn’t say anything else right away.
“I know it sounds stupid,” you rush on. “There are people who’d kill to have something lined up like that, and here I am complaining. My mom married my dad for business reasons and they’re… fine. I think.” You run a hand over your hair. “But I don’t want that. I don’t want to be married right after graduation. I don’t even know if I want to get married at all.”
Satoru doesn’t interrupt, but when he does speak, his voice is quieter. “That doesn’t sound stupid. In a place like this,” he gestures toward campus, “everything’s a transaction. Degrees, connections, last names.” He scoffs lightly. “My parents won’t shut up about networking. Meanwhile, the best relationship I’ve built here is with the lady who gives me extra french toast in the dining hall.”
You laugh, clearly surprised. Not only because the french toast sucks, but because you wouldn’t expect something like that from him. It should make you feel less impressed with him, but for some reason, it doesn’t.
“I’m serious,” he adds. “Peace isn’t exactly encouraged around here. If anything, you’re expected to trade for it.”
“And you?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “You don’t seem all that worried about it, for someone who comes from a family like yours.”
Satoru shrugs again, but this time it’s different. Less flippant. “Guess I just decided a while ago that I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.”
The quiet that follows is heavier than the music inside. You can hear the hollers and shuffling feet just inside, but it fades away just as quickly as it came.
“You make it sound easy,” you say.
He smiles. “Hey, I never said it was. It’s just easier than the alternative, is all.”
You nod because it feels appropriate, and you aren’t sure what else you should do. Talking with him is surprisingly easy, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to be doing it. That you should be doing it. Even now, you wish you could resonate with Satoru’s ideology, because all you can think about is how much your parents would hate this.
“My parents would hate this,” you blurt out, accidentally saying your thoughts aloud.
You look at him, embarrassed and doing your best to hide it. It feels strange, knowing just how much you’re supposed to hate talking to him yourself, but don’t.
He rubs the back of his neck. “This conversation?”
You try not to stare at his bicep, flexing right in your face.
“Yeah,” you admit. “My parents hate your family. Always have.”
“Mine aren’t exactly fans of yours either.” Satoru laughs, tilting his head slightly. The feeling was mutual—he couldn’t take much offense at it. Still, he asks, “Do you feel that way too?”
“What do you mean?”
He turns to look at you, his expression almost serious. “Do you hate me?”
You huff. “I don’t even understand the reasoning all that much. I just know that the animosity exists, and that I’m expected to respect it— and I guess I have, for the most part.”
“That isn’t what I asked,” he replies simply. “Do you hate me? On your own terms?” He pauses then, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he looked a tad nervous. “I’m sure I’ve given you enough of a reason to. More than one, I’d bet.” He glances away. “The first time we ever spoke, I spilled beer all over your shoes. I shouldn’t have been holding it anyway— I hate beer.”
“I knew you remembered!” you yell, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been holding that grudge against you for years now.”
“What? Of course I remember. I apologized immediately,” he says quickly. “Pretty sure I almost got on my knees and everything.”
You click your tongue and shake your head. “The damage was already done.”
The conversation stills for a moment, and you choke over your words before managing a more serious reply.
“For as obnoxious as you are, I don’t hate you. No. I don’t even know you well enough to hate you if I wanted to.”
“Alright, I’ll take it.” Satoru smiles to himself. “I think you’d form a better opinion of me if you let me get to know you. You’re a tough nut to crack, you know— been tryin’ for years.”
You stare at him, and he doesn’t cower in response. Not that he typically would, but you half-expected him to.
“I’m serious,” he says instead. “We should be friends.”
Your laugh comes out sharp. “Absolutely not. My parents would be livid. Beyond livid, actually—they’d probably murder me. And I mean, a true crime podcaster’s wet dream type of murder. No joke.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I think we should definitely be friends,” he says through his laughter. “I’ve always wanted to be in a documentary. Confessionals and all. A face like this is made for the cameras.”
“You’re such a jerk,” you scoff, nudging his side, barely able to fight off your smile.
“Mm-hmm. A big jerk that you’re still talking to,” he replies. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted to be my friend too.”
You don’t reply, which might have just been an answer in and of itself.
For the first time throughout this entire conversation, Satoru turns his body to face you properly. His head tilts down enough to accommodate the height difference between you.
“I think this might be the first argument you’ve ever let me win,” he grins.
You narrow your eyes. “This isn’t a win. It’s more like… a draw. A tie.”
“Sure. A draw, a tie. Potato, potahto. Whatever.” He extends his hand toward you. “So. Friends?”
You take it and shake it. “Yes. Friends.”
He smiles. “See? Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
When your hands fall apart, Satoru’s hand stills at his side—fingers flexing—before he grasps the railing. You straighten, stepping back from it yourself. The night air suddenly feels too thin, as if there isn’t enough of it for the two of you to breathe anymore. More anxiety than anything else.
“I should probably go,” you murmur. “It’s late.”
And you’ve been talking for quite some time now, which only means it’s a matter of time before someone notices and writes a blind item in that stupid newspaper column.
“Right,” he replies. “Need someone to walk you home?”
You shake your head. “I think I’ll manage.”
Satoru nods, his smile slow as it turns up at the corners. “Alright. Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
“Night,” you reply weakly before reemerging into the party.
You reunite with your friends, who seem even more over the night than you are. The four of you walk back to your dormitory together.
☆
You royally fucked up this time.
To no surprise, you won the student council election with flying colors. No one had the balls—or…clit? You don’t discriminate—to run against you throughout the election cycle.
With some surprise, however, you decided to celebrate your victory with the other board members, taking way too many shots from a bottle that was emptied far too quickly.
On a fucking Tuesday.
You mentally kicked yourself—and you would’ve done the same physically if you weren’t on the verge of blacking out.
Vision splotchy, you glanced around the dorm, only to find that everyone was already passed out cold. You couldn’t stay here—you had a meeting bright and early!
And so, with some difficulty, you finally managed to find your purse—the one you had hidden while sober, back when your only concern was someone stealing the $60 in cash from your wallet.
Widening your eyes, the bright screen was a blur of letters and colors, but you managed to open your contacts app. Typing in an ‘S,’ you clicked Shoko’s contact, praying she was awake and able to come pick you up from the off-campus housing.
The line rang twice before someone answered.
You sigh in relief. “Girl, red alert! Get your sexy ass up and come pick me up!…please.”
“Woah, Prez. I had no idea you thought about me this way. Tell me more.”
Your heart dropped straight to your ass.
“Satoru…?” you whine, more than ask.
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m startin’ to think you meant to call someone else. Bit of a blow to my ego, but I can handle it.”
Slumping against the couch, you huff. “Meant to call Shoko. Need a ride.”
Silence filled the line for a moment, then an insufferably attractive laugh broke it. “Are you drunk right now?”
You sniffled. “A little. I mean—a lottle. I-I mean, a lot. Very drunk. Drunk and stranded.”
You heard rustling on the other end, the faint jangle of keys. Your eyes fell shut. You were so damn tired.
“Okay, I just left my apartment. Where are you?”
In any other situation, you would’ve refused Satoru Gojo’s help. You were a strong, independent woman. You didn’t need a man to come to your rescue.
But the longer you sat on this couch, the more you wanted to ditch your mandatory meeting in the A.M. and pass out right here.
Even in this state, you were smart enough to know staying wasn’t an option.
“I’m at off-campus housing down the street. Please hurry. And bring water. And snacks. And a blanket. And—”
“Yes, boss, I’ve already got all of that—along with a partridge in a pear tree. Jeez, you’re needy.” He laughed, and it made you pout. “I’m only a few minutes away. Hang tight.”
⭑
“Watch your head, watch your head!”
Thunk.
“Oww,” you whine, rubbing the top of your head while Satoru busied himself fastening your seatbelt.
Rounding the front of his sports car, he slips into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life a few seconds later, but the car stayed in park. Instead, he reaches for the ice-cold water bottle in the cup holder, twisting off the cap before handing it to you.
“How much did you have to drink?” he asks, sounding almost agonized. “Don’t know if you know this, but it’s Tuesday night.”
It took you about ten seconds, a long drink of water, and a deep sigh of relief before you answered.
“I won the presidency,” you finally say, as if that answered everything.
“Ah.” He reaches for a nearby pack of gummy bears. “This good? That’s all I could find on the way.”
“Yes,” you barely cared, tearing the package open. “Y’know, Gojo…you’re kinda nice.”
He huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, really? What gave you that idea?”
Chewing thoughtfully, you started listing things your sober self would’ve never admitted.
“You came to get me even though I’m such a bitch to you. And you brought me water, and my favorite candy, and—hic!”
“And you tease me all the time, but you aren’t that mean when it comes down to it…” You sniffle. “I honestly wish you were. It’d be easier to hate you.”
He laughs, shaking his head as he finally shifts the car into drive. “Aw, sorry about that. I can be mean to you if you want?”
The drive was quiet, mostly because it was so short—the streets were empty at this ungodly hour. When Satoru parked and killed the engine, he turned to look at you and froze.
You were chewing on gummy bears with tears streaming down your cheeks.
“Are you a sad drunk?” he asks, even though he already knew. “Aw, you are, aren’t you?”
You sniffle. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He shifts toward you, more careful now, lifting the water bottle back to your lips. “‘Cause we’re friends now. I’m nice to my friends. C’mere.”
To his surprise, you let him tip the bottle, drinking without protest.
Swallowing, you frowned. “No, you aren’t.” Sniffle. “You’re mean to Suguru. And Nanami. And Toji…”
Satoru’s smile is lopsided. “You have a point. Guess I’m just nice to you then.”
“But why?” you press, not even realizing it. “You have no reason to be.”
Satoru was the type of man who had never needed to wish on stars to get what he wanted.
All it took was a swipe of one of his many credit cards or the mention of his family name. It worked without fail.
For everything except one thing, and she was sitting right beside him.
Oblivious to the fact that since freshman year, she’d made his heart race every time she was near. From the moment he met her in biology—cut down by her sharp tongue—he’d felt motivated instead of defeated.
He’d gone home that night thinking about her. Stayed up, even, planning ways to talk to you the next day. Ways to make you look at him. Talk to him. Give him the time of day.
You had no idea what you did to him, and right now, he had no place to tell you.
He leans back with a quiet hum. “For someone so smart, you can be a little dense sometimes.”
Your sniffle cut him off. His head snaps toward you, and his chest nearly caved in at the sight of fresh tears welling up.
“No, no, no, no— hey, I was joking! I didn’t mean it, I swear.”
Satoru cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away your tears. His eyes searched yours, softening despite himself. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“You’re kinda cute when you’re drunk,” he says.
What the fuck?
Why would he say that out loud? Right now? Of all times?
“You’re kinda cute all the time,” you replied easily, fingers fumbling with the pendant on his necklace. “You smell really nice, too.”
Satoru’s heartbeat doubled, but he forced himself not to read into it. Not now. Not when you’re in this state.
He cleared his throat, pulling his hands away. “Let’s get you inside, okay?”
He stepped out first, then opened your door. Your eyes met his as he reached in to unbuckle you. “Easy,” he murmured.
Getting you out of the car was about ninety-five percent Satoru’s effort; you leaned into him the majority of the way, the two of you making your way toward the side entrance. It felt like it took hours to climb the stairs—but in reality, Satoru carried most of your weight without breaking a sweat.
By the time you reached your room, he helped you onto your bed, carefully slipping off your heels. His hand lingered at your ankle, thumb brushing over the faint mark the strap had left behind. He leaned over you slightly, hand smoothing over your hair.
“Get some sleep, okay?”
You didn’t notice when he set a bottle of aspirin and fresh water on your nightstand. You just curled under your blankets on instinct, heavy with exhaustion. Your eyes cracked open just enough to catch your on-call-Uber-driver-slash-friend retreating toward the door.
“Satoru?” you called.
He paused, one foot already out. “Mm?”
“I like it when you’re nice to me.” You shook your head. “No—I mean… I like being your friend.”
Satoru smiled faintly. “Me too.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
☆
You despise how much you enjoy being friends with Satoru Gojo.
You despise how attentive he is. How he silently hands you a pencil a beat after you realize you’ve come without one. How he holds the seat down for you so you can sit more easily in the lecture hall. How he gives you one of his AirPods whenever you’re in the library together, looking for your own books respectively, yet highly aware of how far you are from him when the music begins to chop up.
You despise how much he’s gotten you to let your guard down. How he makes you laugh whenever one of your student council meetings goes awry, because the high of being reelected as council president only lasts until the first meeting. How he assures you that you can get through whatever issue you’re working through with your boardmates, because, according to him, if you were able to snag his vote, then you can just about do anything. How he references Digimon or whatever video game he’s played last into just about every other conversation, to the point where it borders on endearing and annoying—but the expression he wears when he talks about it makes you easily decide on the former.
You despise how he makes you feel. How a simple nudge to your side whenever you reply with a smartass comment makes your face feel warm. How the scent of his cologne lingers after he leaves, and how you feel disappointed when it finally dissipates. How you’ve now become acutely aware of the length of his eyelashes, the vibrance of his eyes, the smile lines that look more handsome on him than you’d ever like to admit.
But more than anything, you despise that you just can’t find anything to hate about him—no matter how hard you try.
It had only been a little over a month, and yet it’s difficult to remember what it was like when the two of you weren’t friends, or what faulty reason you had to hate him in the first place.
You doodle a bit rougher in your notebook as you wait for instruction to begin, trying to get your mind off it. Off him.
Like clockwork, he plops down into the seat beside you, lazily extending his legs before placing a small white box on your desk.
“What’s this?” you ask, setting your pen down. When you open it, you find your favorite pastry sitting inside, untouched. Your brows knit together. “How’d you know this was my favorite?”
When you look at him, he’s already chewing a bite of the muffin he bought for himself.
“We’ve been to the café twice together and you got the same thing both times. How could I not know by now?”
You take a bite of your own, chewing thoughtfully. You’ve been to the café with Sukuna more times than you can count on both hands, and not once has he remembered what your go-to order is. It shouldn’t mean so much—in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a four dollar pastry—but it does. It feels good to be known, even in the simplest way.
“Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, no prob,” he replies, setting his muffin down. “Your stomach growls when you don’t eat in the morning—I could hear it from three aisles back.”
You shove his shoulder, eyes wide. “Shut up. No, you couldn’t.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he relents with a grin, glancing your way. “It was four aisles back.”
You roll your eyes, face warm. You glance down at his muffin, and he clutches it closer to himself.
“No looksies,” Satoru says firmly. “Daddy doesn’t like to share.”
You grimace. “Ew. Gross. Don’t call yourself that.”
“Mommy doesn’t like to share?”
“Even worse.”
Satoru sighs in playful defeat, and just in time—before he can try again—your professor addresses the class and starts the lecture.
And no more than five minutes later, he doesn’t even complain when you ask for a bite of his muffin.
☆
You’re nervous about your upcoming Anatomy & Physiology exam.
The air outside is brisk, the cold biting at your cheeks as you speedwalk toward your dormitory. Even though this is nowhere near your first rodeo with the freezing-to-pleasant transition between winter and spring, it never gets easier to manage. Especially not now, with your arms full of flash cards, two folders, an oversupply of fresh scratch paper, and blank scantrons that are just about begging to be practiced on—which means you don’t have a free hand to grab a hot chocolate from the on-campus café. What a great start to your study session this is.
Your steps are quick, and from afar, you probably look like you’re lightly jogging, which isn’t the best look considering you’re wearing a thick, furry winter coat and a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. It isn’t ideal, but you planned for this venture outside your dorm room to be quick.
That is, until you trip on a shift in the sidewalk and tumble forward.
You catch yourself on your hands, which only makes you realize that your supplies are now blowing away. You manage to pick up a few things on your own and reach for a folder—only to realize someone else has already picked it up.
“Nearly gone with the wind,” Satoru sighs. “Good thing I was here to save the day. No need for thanks— it’s all in a day’s work.”
You straighten once you’ve gathered the rest of your things. “You and your gloating. Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head, then glances down. “Cute slippers.”
Your eyes follow his gaze to the fuzzy slippers you only ever dare to wear out when your feet are freezing. You shift your feet and nudge his chest. “Shut up. They’re warm!”
“And fashionable,” he lilts, and gestures to the armful in your hands. “What’s all this for?”
“Studying,” you answer, because it’s obvious. “I’m gonna make flashcards for the A&P exam and probably take a few practice tests.” You reach for the folder still in his grasp. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down a sec.” Satoru lifts the folder out of reach. “Let me help you out, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to score better than me anyway?”
“Oh no,” Satoru says flatly, face blank. “You’ve exposed my master plan once again. Whatever will I do?” Then he grins. “How could you think so little of me? I’ll score better than you without sabotage, you know that.”
“As if,” you retort, averting his gaze.
Satoru raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so confident, prove me wrong.”
You tuck your lips into your mouth, weighing his offer. On one hand, you’re hesitant to let him into your room—afraid that you might not dislike it. That you might even like being alone with him. On the other, you’ve never been one to back down from a challenge like this.
Your pride settles it for you.
“Fine,” you say. “I will. Follow me.”
☆
Rumor has it that this was where it all truly began.
Your bedroom.
It was all rather easy at first. You’d spent about an hour making flashcards, a time primarily spent in silence—save for his voice making noise pollution every so often. Mostly moans and groans about how bored and hungry he is, which fall on deaf ears.
By the time you finish the deck, Satoru’s jacket is hanging on the back of your desk chair, and he’s lazily sprawled across your bed. He’d offered to take the chair, but you insisted that sitting made you focus better. Which it does, but you’re also too nervous to sit beside him on the bed right now.
He tosses a stress ball toward the ceiling, catching it with one hand. “Done yet? I’m dying here. The fun part is supposed to be me quizzing you.”
You straighten the cards before tossing them his way, the deck landing on his stomach. “Yes, now hurry up. I don’t have all day.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, propping himself up against your pillows as he gathers the cards. He clears his throat, glances once at you, then back down. “What are the two primary functions of the skeletal system?”
It doesn’t take you more than a second. “Support the body and protect softer body parts.”
He hums and flicks to the next card. “What three things does the muscular system allow the body to do?”
You hum, rubbing your chin. “Movement, support, and… heat production.”
Another flick. “What about the nervous system?”
“It controls immediate responses to stimuli,” you answer easily.
Satoru huffs, flipping through card after card as you breeze through half the deck. Soon you’re naming the primary functions of individual muscles—temporalis, masseter, sternocleidomastoid, extensor digitorum—you’ve lost count of how many you’ve answered correctly. You’re zoned in, until he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“These are too easy for you,” he declares. “You need something more challenging.”
You squint and lean back in your chair. “What? These are plenty challenging.”
He hums, clearly unconvinced. “Nope. You need more independent practice. Stuff you can’t predict.”
“Like what?” you ask. “Since you’re so smart, I’m assuming you have an alternative method. Put up or shut up.”
Satoru exhales through his nose, meeting your gaze without missing a beat. He’s long since learned your tone, your bite. He grins and sits up straighter, lifting an arm and pointing to his own. “What does the tricep do?”
You blink. “Straightens the arm at the elbow? Duh. I thought this was supposed to be hard.”
“Shh, be patient. A master is at work.” He pauses, then asks, “What about the orbicularis oris?”
Your posture straightens against your will, gaze dropping to his mouth. Your eyes trace the curve of his lips—where that muscle would be—and you watch as the corners of his mouth tug upward. Five seconds pass—longer than any question has taken you so far.
“It allows for movement in the lips,” you finally say.
“Mm,” he sighs. “Only half credit. That’s a little vague. Name three specific functions and I might reconsider.”
The room feels warmer. You clear your throat. “Speech, whistling, and… kissing.” Your eyes flick away to your desk as you fuss with loose papers, trying to come off as busy or distracted. You add quickly, “It’s informally known as the kissing muscle. Everyone knows that.”
A low whistle leaves him as he rises from the bed, stretching his arms over his head before stalking toward your desk. He stops behind your chair, flashcards still in hand.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, still facing forward.
He sets the cards down in front of you and places one hand on the desk, leaning just slightly over you. He isn’t touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back, and certainly close enough to make your thoughts scatter.
“Told you,” he murmurs. “I’m helping you study.”
You swallow. “How, exactly?”
He exhales, breath brushing your neck. “Have you practiced for the muscle identification portion yet?”
Shit. You’d nearly forgotten about that. From what you remembered your professor saying, there would be anatomy models stationed around the classroom, highlighted with nothing more than a single muscle on each one. It would be your responsibility to name the muscle and its function on the spot.
“Not really,” you admit, shrugging. Your back brushes his chest, and you clear your throat quickly. “How do you plan on helping with that?”
Satoru brushes your hair off your shoulder, knuckles barely grazing the back of your neck before his thumb presses gently into a muscle along your upper back. “For starters: what muscle just helped you shrug your shoulders?”
You swallow thickly. Your breath leaves you shaky, and you hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps rising on your skin when his thumb traces again, slow and deliberate. Meant to tease you, you’d imagine.
“Upper trapezius,” you say, breathy despite yourself.
“Good.” You can hear the smile in his voice. His hand moves, thumb sliding to the back of your neck. “Your neck’s tense.”
“Well,” you say, forcing a shaky exhale, “it’s not every day I become a study tool. First day on the job.”
He laughs, and there’s something charged beneath it. “You saying you don’t like my method?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all,” you blurt. You glance up and freeze at how close his face is. “...I’ve liked others less. That’s all.”
A lopsided smile. “So you want to continue?”
Your answer is immediate. “Yes.”
His thumb presses more firmly at your neck. “What muscle is tensed up here?”
“Trick question,” you mutter, “still the upper trapezius.”
“Good.” His hand flattens, gliding down your back, following the natural arch of your spine as your breath catches in your throat. “Now tell me—”
Your heart is pounding.
“—what muscle is making your back arch like that?”
You scoff, trying to straighten. “You’re ridiculous.”
“That’s not an answer,” he tuts. “Don’t know it, huh?”
“Of course I do,” you stammer.
“Then tell me, smart girl.”
Your stomach twists with nerves and something far more dangerous. He shouldn’t excite you. He should make you pull away, push him out, undo whatever this is. And yet, your mind wanders to what it would be like if you didn’t. If you invited him to stay instead.
You shake your head, grounding yourself. “Erector spinae.”
He hums. “See? Not so hard.”
“It was plenty hard,” you murmur, stealing a glance up at him.
He tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes. Your lashes flutter as you switch between each of his eyes. His nose is nearly brushing yours, and it terrifies you just as much as it intrigues you. No, actually—what you’re feeling now goes beyond simple intrigue. It’s excitement. Bordering on longing.
“What are you doing?” you ask, words tumbling out of your mouth.
“Just lookin’ at you,” he replies easily. “You’re pretty.”
“Wha–? Sh-Shut up.”
He grins. “You’re cute when you’re shy, too.”
From the beginning, Satoru was supposed to be nothing more than a thorn in your side. Someone sharp and irritating. Something to endure. But when given the chance to poke where you were weakest, he’d held you instead.
His hand slides to your waist, fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. He still hasn’t pulled away, and you pray that he doesn’t. You don’t want him to.
You lick your bottom lip without thinking. His eyes drop instantly, tracking the movement—and he doesn’t bother hiding it, even after he’s sure you’ve noticed.
And when he’s least expecting it, at least as far as you can tell, you rock up onto your toes, hands fisted into his shirt, and press your lips to his.
Your lips slot into his like two puzzle pieces fitting together. His hands tighten their hold on your waist, and when you force yourself to pull away, to face the music of your decision made on a whim, you find a blushing Satoru staring back at you.
A soft, nervous laugh leaves his lips, breath warm against yours.
“Well, if you thought studying was hard…”
…Oh?
Your gaze dips.
Oh.
He’s hard.
From a single peck.
His sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a slight glimpse of the light trail of hair that leads toward the prominent bulge in the fabric. The sight alone makes your mouth water, enough for you to, within the span of a second, wonder what it’d be like to feel it. From sight alone, it looks big. Heavy.
Every warning system inside your head blares all at once, telling you that this is a bad, bad, bad, horrible, horrible, horrible decision. And yet, you lean into him again.
You kiss him once more, hands clutching onto his shirt as you tug him down to meet your mouth, which he does with no hesitation. His lips are softer than you imagined, gentle on yours.
“And which muscle is responsible for that?” you ask against his mouth.
He smiles, you can feel it. “Ischiocavernosus.”
Satoru’s large hands smooth over the backs of your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing at all. You’re lying on your bed before you realize it, and he is hovering atop in between your parted legs.
His lips tear away from yours, kisses mapping out a trail of heat along your jaw. Your hand slips into his hair, tugging when his mouth finds the sweet spot just beneath your ear.
Your back arches off the bed as a signifier.
“Found it,” he rumbles against your skin, smiling against it.
His mouth is searing, kissing down your clothed chest until he pushes your shirt up just enough to expose your belly. Open-mouthed kisses mark his exploration of your skin, hot and wet as he traces the curve of your side.
Your stomach flutters when his mouth kisses down your belly, strong hands holding your waist in place while his tongue darts out to get a taste of your skin.
Satoru’s movements, you realize, seem automatic. Like he’s thought about this before, planned for it, even—he was just waiting for you to give him the chance.
Hands suddenly paw at his shoulders, your hips squirming slightly. “Stop teasing me, Satoru.”
Satoru laughs, fingers tugging your fuzzy pajama pants down just enough to kiss your hip bone. “Fine, fine. Under one condition.”
Your heart pounds. “What is it?”
His hands smooth over your thighs as he shifts a bit lower. “Let me taste you.”
You blink a few times, clearly surprised. You’ve never been with a guy whose first move is to go down on you. “Okay… I mean, if you want to—ah!”
His hands are skilled in the way that they pull the hem of your pants down, leaning back just enough to peel them down your legs and toss them aimlessly onto the floor.
Satoru’s eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen, focused on the apex of your thighs as he flattens to his stomach. His hands move your legs to rest on his shoulders, his lips already on your inner thigh.
“Fuck, thank you,” he whispers against your skin, wet kisses inching closer to your core.
And when his mouth finds the wet patch on the gusset of your panties, Satoru knows he’s a goner.
His grip tightens on your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut, he flattens his tongue over the fabric. That only lasts a few seconds before his fingers tug the flimsy material down your legs, and his lips are latching onto the true source.
A groan escapes him the moment his tongue laps at your essence. “Tastes so sweet.”
Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the root when his lips close around your clit. Your hips would’ve bucked into his mouth if his iron grip wasn’t keeping you in place.
Even with his face buried in your pussy, he manages to speak.
“Mmh— tastes like candy, baby. Thought about this s’many times.”
The confirmation only makes you twitch, which he seems to notice if the firm press of his tongue to your clit is any confirmation.
“Ah— shit, Satoru. Right there.”
Satoru thinks that he could do this forever. Could live and die a happy man, cheeks warmed by your thighs pressing in on them and the taste of you on his tongue.
His nose bumps against your clit, tongue slipping lower to gather more of you on his taste buds. His hips begin to rut into the mattress like a dog in heat, a whimper leaving his throat when you tug particularly hard on his hair.
“S-Sorry,” you manage, fingers releasing the strands of his white hair.
Blue eyes meet yours, and he forces himself to pull his tongue off you just long enough to speak. “Baby, I don’t care. Tug on it even harder if you wanna. Your pleasure feels good to me.”
“Masochist,” you say through a breathy laugh.
His mouth is back on you. “Only for you.”
You’re like sugar on his tongue, the type of ambrosia that men should go to war for. Satoru knows he would in a heartbeat.
The feeling of his tongue kitten licking your clit has your hands shooting down, one sliding back into his hair and the other scratching at the back of his hand on your thigh.
Satoru gives it to you without a second thought, your fingers lacing with his as you press his hand down on your stomach.
His eyes crack open to watch your face, twisted in a pleasure that he’s proud to have given you. He sucks your clit into his mouth before releasing it with a slick pop.
Only, your hand in his hair presses his face back into your pussy, and Satoru is nothing if not willing to please you.
The groan that leaves him travels up your spine, and your hips begin to twitch, thighs closing in on his head. A mewl leaves your lips, clutching his hand before you cry out, the first wave of your orgasm wracking through you.
Satoru flattens his tongue, licking up every drop of your syrupy release, hellbent on committing the taste of you to memory.
His voice is deep and scratchy when he speaks. “You’re beautiful when you cum.”
Your eyes snap open, a newfound heat finding your cheeks. “Shut up.”
He’s crawling up to meet your lips with a smile, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh. Just telling the truth.” He kisses your lips, and you taste yourself on them. “Sweetest pussy. I’d go for seconds if you let me.”
You’re tempted by the offer.
Only, something else tempts you more than it should.
Satoru hisses the moment your palm presses against the bulge in his sweatpants, forehead knocking into yours. His hips twitch against your hand, and when he closes his eyes, you can tell he’s doing his best not to grind into your hand.
A quiet laugh leaves your mouth. “I think I’d rather do something else.”
His hands fist into the bedsheets in an act of restraint. “Like what?” he asks, voice strained.
You huff, free hand taking hold of his chin, forcing him to look at you. “I think you’re smart enough to figure it out.”
“I don’t wanna assume. It’s ungentlemanly, y’know?” His lips press against yours, pulling back before you have the chance to deepen the kiss. “Ah-ah-ah, can’t do anything more ‘til the lady asks.”
He’s so fucking annoying.
The pout on your lips is too cute to handle. Satoru debates kissing it away. Only, your next words stop him in his tracks.
They come out more demanding than you intended, trying to hide how needy you really are. “Stop wasting my time. I want you to fuck me, Satoru.”
His cock twitches against your hand. Maybe bossiness works best with him.
“That’s so hot,” he says, panting.
Satoru immediately reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and boxers, pushing them down his legs in a hurried, uncoordinated manner. He nearly topples over once or twice in his haste.
Soon, though, his erection springs free, slapping against his stomach. It’s somehow even bigger than you initially imagined…lengthy, and flushed a pretty shade of pink at the tip.
This time, Satoru doesn’t tease you like you were expecting him to. Doesn’t gloat.
Instead, he kisses your cheek, then your forehead, until his mouth finally finds yours, a broken sound escaping him the moment he rubs his tip through your folds.
Then, his eyes find yours, and it feels like the world stops on its axis.
Forehead to forehead. Chest to chest. Your hand in his hair, his on your cheek. With Satoru Gojo of all people. The one person in this world whom you should stay away from.
And here he is, looking at you like you’re worth more than your family name and the money bags that come with it, like he wants you for you. Nothing else.
“We don’t have to, baby,” he whispers, sweet and gentle, as if sensing the mental games you’re playing with yourself. “I’m happy to just be here with you. I mean it.”
There it is. An out.
You should stop this before it starts. You should do your best to save the peace between you and your parents—what’s left of it, anyway. You should forget about the way your chest warms up when his thumb strokes over your cheek.
But then, wise words ring out in your mind.
I’d rather disappoint my parents than disappoint myself.
And in this moment, you realize that losing Satoru would far surpass mere disappointment. It isn’t something you can bear, nor do you ever want to.
You shake your head, leaning up to kiss him, nice and soft. “I want this. So… stop making me wait.”
Satoru laughs, lips on your cheek as he notches himself on your entrance. “Yes, ma’am.”
Inch by inch, his length stretches you open, making your hands grasp at his shoulders for purchase, nails sinking into his skin. You whine at the intrusion, not used to his size by any means.
“You’re okay, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, one hand holding your cheek while the other strokes your hip. “Doing so good for me. Just a liiittle more.”
You huff, risking a glance downward, only to see he was only half inside. You throw your head back on the pillow. “Liar.”
He smiles against your lips, kissing you. “Figured a little white lie never hurt anyone.”
A moment later, Satoru pushes his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. You both release breathy moans at the same time, grips tightening on each other.
He pulls out, just the tip remaining, before sliding back inside your warmth, creating a slow, languid pace—giving you the chance to adjust to him.
You kiss him then, all teeth and tongue and want, panting hot against his mouth while your hands slip into his hair. “Fuck— faster, Toru. Please.”
The sound of his name on your tongue, so wanton while he’s inside you, spurs him on in a way he’s never felt before. His hands take hold of your hips, angling them up slightly so that he can fuck you deeper, the pace of his hips growing needier with each passing second.
“Mmh, wanted you for so long,” he says, words muffled against your skin while he kisses down your neck. “This—hah—can’t be real, baby. Feels so good.”
You drag his mouth back up to your lips, tongues sliding against each other in a fit of passion that you can hardly comprehend right now with how good he feels.
“So good,” you whimper into his mouth. “Want more, Satoru, please—”
“Shh, I got you,” he says.
And then his hands press down on the back of your thighs, folding them up against your chest. He pounds into you without sense, the new angle opening you up to him in a way that makes you see stars.
The sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, the sounds of your pleasure only adding to the conversation.
Satoru pushes your shirt up, a sound between a whimper and a gasp, leaving him the moment his gaze sets on your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple before he can think twice about it.
“You weren’t—mmh—wearing a bra the whole time?”
You whine, trying to drag his mouth back to yours by your grip on his hair, but he doesn’t let up. “Y-You ask stupid questions.”
He flattens his tongue, laving over the underside of your breast, his hips never faltering. He groans against your skin. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t give me that attitude. Haven’t I been good? Yeah?”
A pout forms on your kiss-bruised lips. “Mm— I’m not giving attitude.”
Satoru laughs, the sound raspy and deep. “You are, pretty girl, but it’s okay. Toru’ll make it all better.”
His lips are back on yours, to your satisfaction, and his hand slips between the two of you, thumbing at your clit. You gasp, stealing the air from his lungs, clinging onto his shoulders and back like a koala bear.
A warmth coils in your stomach, making you squirm against his thrusts. Your nails claw into his back, raking down his skin, surely leaving marks that Satoru will admire for days. A memento of the moment he’s been waiting for.
His cock twitches inside you when you moan again, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, tight and warm.
You whine. “Satoru—”
“Mm-hmm, I know, baby, don’t you worry,” he says, voice slightly smug as he continues to draw circles over your clit, feeling the way it pulses against his thumb. “Give it to me, sweets, know you can do it.”
Your hips buck up against his, your orgasm crashing into you. Your body tenses around him, squeezing him impossibly tighter.
If the way his pace stutters is any clue, you know he’s close. When you pulse against him, he drops his head onto your shoulder.
Satoru whimpers, so lost in his pleasure that he can no longer function. He fucks you shallowly now, and lost in your own mind, you turn your head to whisper in his ear.
“Inside,” you request, voice breathy. “Please, Toru.”
That makes Satoru cum before he can realize it.
Hot spurts shoot inside you, his sounds muffled against your skin while his own climax wracks through him. It seems like it goes on forever, but the moment he kisses the underside of your jaw, you realize that he’s finished, finally slipping out of the post-orgasm delirium you put him in.
When your eyes meet his, both of your eyes widen, expressions almost sheepish.
As if it were finally occurring to you that you just had sex with Satoru fucking Gojo, you feel a bit shy, blinking up at him and absolutely unsure what to say.
“…Hi,” you whisper.
Satoru seems to share your thoughts. He brings his hand to your cheek, knuckles brushing over your flushed skin. “Hey, baby.”
Unsure of what to do, you decide to lean back into your old reliable method. The only way you know how to talk to him is without allowing a hint of affection to seep into your voice. Be mean to him.
“Get off me,” you say, pawing at his chest halfheartedly, “you’re heavy.”
It seems that Satoru has learned you well enough to know exactly what you’re doing. Trying to push him away the moment it all feels like too much to handle, reverting to what you know best.
He lowers his head, brushing his lips against yours in a chaste kiss. “Mm, no can do, pretty. I like to cuddle after sex, guess you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”
You squirm as he begins to pepper your face with kisses, wet and dry, trying to get a proper reaction from you.
“Okay, okay!” you exclaim, laughing without realizing it. “Fine. We can cuddle…but we have to clean up first.”
Satoru beams at that. He kisses your forehead before practically leaping off your bed, searching for a towel. You aren’t sure why the sight of him prancing around your room in his birthday suit makes you feel so…warm and tingly inside.
God, what has he done to you?
You yawn, rubbing your eyes. “On the left side of the closet. Third drawer down.”
A second later, he’s back and wiping away the mess between your legs, careful with his movements. Once finished, he pokes around in your clothing drawers, managing to find a pair of fresh underwear and a pretty blue shirt that you should've known he’d pick out.
“Matches my eyes,” he preens, doing most of the work as he pulls the panties up your legs and the shirt over your head.
“Of course you’d notice that,” you scoff, trying to ignore how warm this all makes you feel.
With his boxers back on, he climbs back into bed with you, lying on his back. A surprised sound leaves him when you rest your head on his chest, hand draped over his middle.
Satoru wears a smile as he wraps an arm around you, free hand lacing with yours. “Thought you didn’t wanna cuddle.”
“I never said that,” you grumble.
He laughs to himself, the kind that signifies he’s up to no good. “Aww. Just a cute little cuddle muffin you are.”
“I’ll get off you right now if you don’t—”
He immediately stops laughing and tightens his hold on you. “Sorry, sorry. You run a tight ship.”
☆
In your experience, the morning after could go one of two ways.
You could either cringe at yourself and your decisions, make awkward small talk with the person you had shared not only your body but also a bed with, and then tiptoe out of your hookup’s room, or not-so-discreetly kick them out of yours.
Or, you could still make equally awkward small talk upon waking up, limbs still entangled and clothes mostly scattered across the floor, but not feel the gnawing feeling to run away and never speak to this person again.
And so far, you’re in no rush to make him go.
Satoru shifts in his sleep behind you, one arm draped lazily over your middle while the other pillows your head. You blink blearily as you run your fingertips along his forearm, tracing the veins in his hand until you cover it with your own. His fingers slightly twitch until they fill the spaces between yours.
His nose brushes the back of your neck, inhaling indulgently. His arm beneath your head bends and curls inward, his nails gently scratching your scalp. “Morning.”
You feel your heartbeat quicken in your chest. His voice is deep and groggy from sleep, his lips just barely grazing your skin as he speaks. It only gets worse (or better?) when he presses a kiss to the crook of your shoulder and neck, firmer now yet unhurried.
The strap of the camisole you’d thrown on last night after your shower was now pinched between his thumb and forefinger, slowly slipping it down the curve of your shoulder as his lips explored further.
“Good morning,” you manage out, voice slightly weak but not entirely from just waking up. “How’d you sleep?”
You can feel his lips twitch against your skin, probably turning into a smug grin if you had to guess. His hand stopped on your bicep, his chin now resting on your shoulder as he pulls you closer.
“Better than usual,” he says, voice rumbling in his throat. “Even with you stealing the covers from me all night, it’d be worth it every time to wake up to this.” He picks his head up just enough to look down at you. “You?”
Your cheeks are warm, and you bury half of your face into the pillow. “Better than usual. I actually feel rested.”
Reaching an arm out, you turn the clock on your nightstand toward the bed. 2:38 p.m.
“We slept the whole day away!”
Satoru hums behind you, chest rumbling against your back. “Mm, good sex tends to do that to people.”
You smile, looking back at him over your shoulder. “Oh? So that’s why you were snoring into my ear all night?”
“Precisely why,” he replies easily, before pecking your lips. “Pussy put me right to sleep.”
This time, you lean in to kiss him. When you pull away, you freeze.
Oh fuck.
Then you shoot up out of bed, eyes wide and panicked. It’d just dawned on you that, for all the days you could have had sex with your annoying-rival-to-friend, it had to be the day of the Ryomen dinner. And, of course, you had to oversleep with said annoying-rival-to-friend-and-now-hookup still in your bed.
The drive alone would take two and a half hours.
“Holy shit, I need to go,” you say, scatterbrained as you rush into your closet.
Satoru props himself up on his elbow, sounding more panicked than he likely intended. “What? Why?”
You return to his line of sight, already half-clothed in a pristinely ironed dress, bouncing on one leg as you tug your stockings up. “I have to go to dinner with my family and the Ryomens. My mom is going to kill me.”
And he’s left to watch, helpless, as you check yourself in the mirror—putting your earrings on, looking beautiful as ever…to go have dinner with another guy and his family.
Satoru knows he should be relaxed about this. He needs to chill out. You had sex, yes, but it’s not like he’s your boyfriend or anything.
(Even though he’d thought about how great that would be as he admired you while you slept.)
“Oh, cool,” he says, forcing a cheery tone into his voice. “What for?”
You press your lips together, hastily applying your makeup lest you show up late with none on. “I’m not really sure. Probably to talk about their plans for us post-graduation. That’s all they talk about these days.”
He bites the inside of his cheek.
Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Sex between friends can be…casual. Don’t read into it so much.
“Right,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck, doing his best to seem relaxed. “Sounds boring.”
You nod at him through the mirror before turning to face him. “Yeah, it will be.”
A silence settles the moment your eyes meet.
Slowly, you walk over to him—still lying in your bed, clad in nothing but his boxers. “I’m sorry I’m leaving like this.”
He waves a hand through the air, making an exaggerated pshhh sound. “Don’t worry about it. I get it.”
You give him a lopsided smile before leaning down to kiss him. He barely has time to close his eyes—to savor it—before you’re already pulling away.
“I’ll text you, okay?” you say. “You can use my shower again if you want. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Just don’t use up my body wash—it’s expensive.”
Satoru lets out a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, no promises. Have fun.”
And then you’re gone, the door clicking shut behind you.
He falls back against the mattress, dragging his hands over his face.
It’s casual, he tries to remind himself. Don’t be a crybaby.
But you kissed him goodbye.
What was casual about that?
☆
The hallways are abnormally crowded today.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket, Shoko’s messages flooding in.
shoko 💗: hi
shoko 💗: how was the dinner?
shoko 💗: did your parents finally come to their senses
shoko 💗: and drop the stupid engagement idea????
you: i wish
you: they seem even more into the idea now
you: mind you, sukuna fell asleep at the dining table with his fork hanging out of his mouth
you: like oh okay i’m seeing it now, total HUSBAND MATERIAL right here
shoko 💗: fuck my chungus life
you: fuck mine too
The sound of hushed voices in the distance distracts you, making you glance in that direction.
Only then do you realize that they’re looking right at you.
Actually, it feels like everyone is looking at you.
No, worse. It feels like everyone can see through you. Like they know exactly what you’ve been up to. What you did when no one was around.
But that’s ridiculous. How could anyone know?
Suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, you glance back down at your phone.
you: i feel like everyone is staring at me today
shoko 💗: maybe because you look sexier than usual?
you: one can only hope
You crash into someone, limbs flailing, only to be steadied by a gentle grip.
“Watch where you’re going, iPad kid,” Satoru teases, a wide smile on his face.
You pocket your phone, huffing out a laugh despite yourself. “I was watching where I was going. You just came out of nowhere.”
“Uh-huh, totally,” he says.
Without thinking, you glance over your shoulder toward the group that had been watching you earlier, the itch still unscratched.
Always observant, Satoru tilts his head. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I’m fine,” you answer instinctively.
“Talk to me,” he says, nudging your arm softly, still trying to keep things light.
Then your eyes meet his—his blue irises practically begging you to open up.
“It’s just…” Your voice trails off, growing quieter. “You didn’t tell anyone, did you? About…”
Satoru leans back slightly, like the question physically hit him.
“Uh— no,” he says. “No, I didn’t. Promise.”
You catch the shift in his expression—the way it falters, like something just closed off.
Your eyes squeeze shut. Shit. “No, it’s not that I regret it or anything, it’s just that—”
“It’s okay,” he cuts in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Really. It’s fine. You don’t have to explain.” His eyes meet yours again. “I didn’t tell anyone. Don’t worry.”
You tilt your head slightly. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes quickly. “Good. I’m glad we got that figured out.”
“Me too,” you say, though you don’t sound convinced anymore. “Did— did I say something?”
Satoru shakes his head, that boyish smile slipping back into place. “Nah. You’re good.”
You glance around again. “…Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats. “Are you going to the party this weekend? Choso’s frat is throwing.”
You nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there. I assume I’ll see you there too?”
“Yup,” he says with a nod. “Well, I’ve gotta get to class. I’ll talk to you later?”
“Yeah,” you say, turning to watch him walk away down the hallway.
Well… that conversation went well.
Right?
☆
After a few days of Satoru avoiding you like the plague, you’re starting to think your conversation didn’t go so well.
He’s only sent you one Instagram reel over the last three days—and it was about tips and tricks for studying anatomy. Was he doing this on purpose? The last time you studied for anatomy, it ended with you in bed with him.
For what feels like the tenth time this hour, you check your messages.
Satoru :D: Good morning
Satoru :D: Sleep well?
you: good morning
you: yes i did, did you?
And there’s been no response since.
You wonder if you should message him again.
Maybe his phone got swept up in a tornado. (It’s 75°F and sunny outside.)
Maybe he’s currently being attacked by alligators and desperately needs you as a lifeline. (Though you know he wouldn’t even accept your help—he’d be convinced he could take an alligator in a fight.)
Maybe he just hasn’t seen your text. (You saw him repost a TikTok about boba milk tea an hour ago.)
You tap on the text bar, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
“There’s no way you’re about to double text a man.”
You jump, quickly locking your phone. “Utahime, I was not. I was just checking our messages.”
Utahime hums, clearly unconvinced, scrolling on her own phone. “You keep telling yourself that, girl.”
Rolling onto your back, you stare at the ceiling, hands folded over your chest.
“Are you seriously sulking right now?”
“I’m not sulking!”
(You were definitely sulking.)
Utahime sighs, nudging your side. “Did you read this week’s blind items?”
You shake your head. “No.”
She tilts her head down at you. “Well, I’m pretty sure one is about you.”
“WHAT?!”
You’ve never sat up this fast in your life—lightheaded and dizzy as you reach for Utahime’s phone.
There is going to be an engagement post-graduation between a male and female from two of the most well-known families on campus.
A male who lives on floor three in the Newbrooke dormitory has still been shitting in the showers. (P.S. Can you please stop already?)
A notorious rich student was spotted talking to a girl who comes from a family that begins with the last letter of the alphabet. Are sparks flying?
A male has been making piss-poor SoundCloud music at 4 AM for the past week. (Please stop. You are better off sticking to your career path in accounting.)
A pit forms in your stomach.
Had Sukuna told someone about your situation? You want to say no—but once he’s had enough to drink, anything is possible.
But the one that concerns you more is the third item.
Could Satoru have already moved on? To a girl from the Zenin family?
Utahime presses her thumb between your eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Hey. What happened to taking these with a grain of salt? They’re probably not real. Aside from the shower shitter—that one seems pretty legit.”
You let out a weak laugh. “Yeah… you’re probably right.”
Even still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t go away.
☆
Music thrums against the walls, people packed in like sardines, moving with no particular rhyme or rhythm. Smoke fills the air, a thick fog that has no chance of dissipating.
Sukuna’s arm is snug around your shoulder, something that you would have never thought twice about before. Now, though, you notice it like a thorn in your side.
You try to scan the room, in search of your friends who you knew would be here tonight. Only, a hand on your face draws your attention elsewhere, and Sukuna is kissing your cheek in farewell before you can even realize he’s leaving you to fend for yourself.
“Later, girl,” he says, so casually, as if he had the right.
Fucking typical.
You huff and wave your arm through the air, coughing quietly. Once the smoke cleared just enough, your gaze locked in on something in the distance.
Satoru. Standing beside a girl from the Zenin family.
But even as he stands beside her, his glowing eyes are already on you.
Suddenly, it hurts to breathe. The walls are caving in on you. The music fades into a silence that becomes even more overbearing than the bass.
Anger rises in your throat. Anger you have no right to feel.
After all, Satoru wasn’t yours. You weren’t his. He can do what he wants, as can you. How could you forget that? And why did you want to?
If you were a braver person, one who could be honest with herself, you would walk across this room. You’d tell him how you feel. You would say it now, out loud and to his face. At least then, he’d know how you felt.
The problem, though, was that you weren’t any of these things. You were terrified and hesitant—so all you could do was this. Look at him and hope he can put the puzzle pieces together on his own. You can only hope he likes how it looks once it is completed.
Your feet are moving before you can realize it. A moment later, you find yourself in the bathroom, pressing your back against the door to slam it shut.
You release a sharp breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hands cover your face as you approach the sink, palms pressing against the countertop.
Then, you catch your reflection in the mirror.
You know better than this.
You know better than to wish for something that you have no right to.
You know better than to want Satoru. You know better than to envision a simple life with him. To want him in a way that is uncalculated and real.
Dropping your head, you close your eyes. Squeeze them shut, and hope that you were anywhere else but here, in this dingy bathroom with a flickering lightbulb above your head.
The door opens and shuts behind you.
You pick your head up, and there he is.
Satoru.
His chest presses to your back, his hands bracketing yours on the counter as he dips his chin into the crook of your neck. “Were you not going to come say hi?”
You roll your eyes despite yourself, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. “No. Seems like you were a little preoccupied.”
Silence stretched thin between you.
Then his hands find your waist, spinning you around to face him.
“Don’t do that,” he says, voice soft and almost pleading.
You swallow. “Don’t do what?”
“You know what,” he replies, “act like… you don’t care. Like you don’t feel anything for me, just because you’re upset.”
You avoid his gaze. “I’m not upset. It’s not like we’re dating. You can do what you want with…whoever you want.”
Satoru huffs, forehead knocking into yours before he pulls back. “How long are we going to keep doing this, baby?” he asks, hands finally coming to settle on your waist. “I don’t want anyone else. Not like how I want you.”
Finally, you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his.
It almost made you want to cry, realizing how easy things with Satoru were. How he opened himself up to you without fear, because he didn’t want an ounce of doubt to live in your head.
Maybe it was your turn to return the message.
“Me neither,” you finally admit.
His expression softens in relief.
“Good,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face.
Your lips press together. “But why’d the blog say you were with a girl from the Zenin family?”
“The same reason that the stupid blog says you and Sukuna are together,” he says with a shrug. “It’s a rumor. People see you standing next to someone—at a very healthy distance, by the way, a very platonic and normal distance—and run with it.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I don’t go around letting my rumored girlfriends kiss me on the cheek, though.”
You tilt your head, knowing full well that Satoru was capable of knowing that there were no feelings between you and Sukuna. “Careful, you almost sound upset.”
He shrugs his broad shoulders, tilting his head in the same direction you did. “Depends. Is he a good kisser?”
Your fingers are still gripping the edge of the counter. “He is.”
Satoru glances over your face, the corner of his mouth twitching once he notices the slight pout on your lips. “Better than me?”
You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you’re not a liar. “No.”
A small smirk. “Good.”
“Maybe you should get back to your friend,” you retort, shaking your head.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” Satoru coos, hand cupping your cheek, thumbing over your bottom lip.
You splutter. “What? I’m not.”
“No?”
“No.”
Satoru’s hand starts to pull away. Panic sparks in you, and your hand shoots up, wrapping around his wrist to keep his palm against your face. He smiles softly, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.
“...Only a little,” you finally admit.
Satoru’s fingers thread into your hair, guiding your forehead to his lips. “That’s okay. I was jealous too.”
“Jealous? You?”
“Jealous. Me.”
You clear your throat, and for the first time in your life, you decide to prod for further reassurance.
“Do you like her?” you ask, voice small.
He seems distracted, his lips on your cheek now in a chaste kiss. “Hm?”
“Do you like her?” you repeat, hands prodding at his chest to make him meet your eyes. “That girl you were talking to.”
Satoru scoffs, like the answer was obvious. “No. I’m a one-lady type of guy.”
That answer shouldn’t make your face feel warm, but it does. He’s turned you into mush, putty in his hands.
His thumb brushes over your hip bone. “Did you let Sukuna kiss you because you like him?”
You shake your head. “Maybe I just like kissing people. It’s fun, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, nose brushing yours. “But do me a favor, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you murmur, heart rate doubling in your chest.
“The next time you wanna kiss someone, come to me instead,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your sides. “I’m better at it, anyway. Said it yourself.”
You can’t bite back your smile now, nor do you try to. “Okay.”
“Okay, baby.”
You hoped no one noticed how long you’d both been gone from the party, but when you exited the bathroom together—lip gloss smeared on Satoru’s mouth and your hair messier than before—it likely told the entire story for you.
☆
You wake up wrapped in a Digimon throw blanket.
A small, sleepy groan leaves you as you try to move—to stretch your limbs after a night of sleep.
Only, the heavily weighted blanket on top of you, known as Satoru Gojo, doesn’t make it very easy.
His arms are wrapped so tightly around you that you’d think he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night—so he set up precautions beforehand. His cheek is pressed against your bare chest, using your breasts as pillows.
The best pillows on the market, he says.
Blinking blearily, you scan his bedroom. Now, after only two months of dating, it looks like a shrine to you.
A framed photo of you hangs on his wall, another propped up on his bedside table. There’s one on his desk too—taken on the first day of your internship—set beside his computer.
Because, as he says, “seeing you smiling in that pretty little dress motivates me to study, ‘cause I need to pay for your tastes somehow.”
You’re smiling now, glancing down at him, his cheek squished against your skin. Your fingers glide through his hair before smoothing down his back, soothing the faint sting of the scratches you’d left the night before.
A quiet whine leaves him, and he fumbles blindly for your hand, guiding it back to his hair so you’ll keep playing with it.
“Good morning to you, too,” you murmur, scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Morning, baby,” he mumbles, voice rumbling against your skin.
Without opening his eyes, he presses a kiss to the underside of your breast, his mouth already trailing down the column of your stomach.
“What’re you doing?” you ask, smiling.
“Eating breakfast,” he replies simply, mouthing at your hip bone.
Just as he reaches for the hem of your panties, his phone begins to buzz on the bedside table. Undeterred, he tugs them down an inch.
“Ignore it.”
Then his phone buzzes again. And again.
A moment later, yours buzzes too.
Slightly concerned now, you reach for it, unlocking the screen to a message from Shoko.
shoko 💗: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP
shoko 💗: [article link]
You tap the link, your eyes widening as you read the headline.
“What?” he asks, already pouting slightly at the interruption. “What is it?”
Wordlessly, you turn the phone toward him.
Satoru Gojo and Y/N L/N were spotted on the Gojo family’s personal yacht, indulging in promiscuous activities.
And to make matters worse, front and center is a picture of you sitting in his lap—his hand squeezing a handful of your ass like he’s afraid it might run away from him.
You press your palm to your forehead. “I told you we shouldn’t have taken the yacht out that day.”
Satoru hums, clearly distracted. “How do I save this picture? You look really sexy in this.”
“Satoru, focus!” you say, lightly swatting his shoulder. “What should we do?”
He shrugs, fingers resuming their slow work of tugging your underwear down your legs. “Right now, I’m thinkin’ I’ll finish my breakfast. We’ll figure the other stuff out later.”
You think you should protest—but the moment his mouth finds you, every argument dies on your tongue.
Because you know that he’ll make good on his promise. This will be figured out, one way or another.
And as long as you have Satoru by your side, you think you’ll be just fine.
Rumor has it you brought him home the next weekend to meet your parents.
Rumor also has it that from that moment on, the arranged engagement with Sukuna was off.
masterlist | request
a/n: heyyyy yallll!!! how are you?
me?? posting 2 fics in one month?? #imonaroll #unstoppable
no, but seriously, if you read this all the way through thank you so much!! it’s the longest fic i’ve ever written so it’s a lil experimental for me. this is also my first time writing for gojo in about two years and it’s my second time writing him ever sooo i’m still figuring out how i want to characterize him lol
anyway i hope you enjoyed, as always please let me know your thoughts <3
I had femjo on the brain when I had thought how perfect she'd work in an obsession AU.
Like imagine she's been working so hard lately trying to charm the cute girl (reader) in her physics class. They've gone so far in just a few months. They eat lunch now just about every day, they hang out at Toru's place to watch movies, and they even go shopping on the weekends. Toru's tested the waters and tried flirting and she actually flirted back! She's decided that she'll confess and ask out reader that weekend. Only for reader to cancel last minute, not just their weekly movie nights but every single outing as well. Apparently she has a boyfried now that she's head over heels for. Some wimpy bastard she recognizes from their class. He always sits in the back and makes up the dumbest excuses to talk to reader. It's obvious he had a crush on reader but Toru always made sure to keep him far from her. They never talked let alone made eye contact how did he make his move? Toru has tried talking to reader and asking what's going on, but the most reader will say is that she loves her new boyfriend so so so so so so much and she doesn't have time for friends or anyone who's not him.
It's all so strange and not like reader at all. Toru would be proven right when weeks later reader's 'boyfriend' is desperately knocking at her door covered in blood and vomit holding some magic sticks. He's begging her to help him and tells her he made a wish that reader would love him more then anyone in the fucking world and now it's gone wrong. He knows reader is her friend and wants Toru to wish he'd never made his wish so he can try again and make her love him a normal amount. And suddenly all the pieces start falling into place. Toru smiles and pretends to go along with it, she won't use up her precious wish on this loser. Not when she has other ways to deal with scum like him. She'll save her wish for reader. She's sure reader will say yes if Toru asks her, once she's back in her right senses and her pathetic excuse for a boyfriend is dead. And if she doesn't… well she already knows the magic stick works.
i think ive reread this like five times now i cant help it INCREDIBLE i love that femjo lowkey took ians place instead of bear.
in the end, it doesnt matter if the you love her or not. once everything is revealed and she basically makes herself the hero of your story...you have to at least try to date her right?
summary ;; Your boyfriend disappeared nights ago, leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence. So… who is answering the texts from his phone? When a grotesque photograph confirms your worst fears, your only ally is a wary detective who seems to find the tragedy a little too "artistic"—and who might just like you a little too much.
pairings ;; serialkiller! gojo x reader
w/c ;; 27k
warnings ;; MDNI, yandere!gojo lowk, UNRELIABLE NARRATOR!!, toxic relationship, dark romance (?), more like psychological thriller but oh well, blood, heavily described crime scene and dead body, stalking, grieving, alcohol and smoking, swearing, intoxicated makeout sesh, weird sexual fantasies, guns, angst w no comfort lowk, gojo is cray cray in this one dont say i didnt warn you
a/n ;; have been working on this 3 nights in a row my eyes BURN. lowk wanted to try something new, and since im really into psychological thriller i though hmm why not give it a try, hope you guys like it too <3
as always, dont forget to subscribe, comment (your feedback is greatly appreciated), reblog and like or wtvr those youtubers say now xx
if you like reading with music on, give this playlist i made specifically for this fanfiction a try! maybe you'd like it
art creds @/_3aem on X ; headers @/suupersonic
m.list
Being in a serious relationship by the time you were twenty-five was one of those quiet dreams you kept tucked away. You never expected much from life. You’d understood from a young age that love shouldn’t be like the movies. It wasn’t about grand gestures or rain-soaked confessions. It was something comfortable—the sound of coffee brewing in silence after a grueling night of overtime, or someone knowing your McDonald’s order by heart when you muttered that you "deserved a treat." It was the simple, bone-deep security of knowing your bed wouldn't be cold, and that there would be a warm body to pull you into sleep.
That was what Kento Nanami taught you for almost a year now.
Being with Kento wasn’t "crazy." You didn’t have sex in his office (even though it was a secret fantasy of his) and there wasn't some funny "How I Met Your Mother" story behind your union you could tell at parties. You were just two colleagues who hit it off at a local bar after work and decided to give it a shot.
It was comfortable.
Sometimes, he felt more like a roommate you could kiss and sleep with, but you never complained. He was a pillar. He let you badmouth the idiots in accounting while he calmly peeled an orange, his only response being a low, "Don't pay them so much attention, [Y/N]. They aren't worth the gray hairs."
You remembered one Saturday particularly well. You’d been sobbing over the ending of Titanic for the fifth time that month, your face a blotchy mess of tears and smeared mascara. Kento hadn't teased you. He hadn't even looked up from the financial report he was reading, but he had reached out, his large, warm hand finding yours on the sofa. He squeezed it once—briefly, firmly—before getting up to refill your water glass.
"Hydrate, [Y/N]," he had said, setting the glass down. "You're going to have a headache in the morning if you keep this up."
And, without fail, he bought you your favorite Starbucks every morning. An iced coffee with exactly two pumps of vanilla, one you bought at your first date ever. He remembered. Not one, not three. He was a man of precision.
But precision came with a temper—or rather, a coldness. Of course, you fought. And by "fight," it usually meant you yelling until your throat was raw while he stood there like a stone wall, refusing to give you the satisfaction of an outburst. When the tension peaked, he’d pack a small bag and head to a motel for a night or two to "cool off." He claimed the distance prevented him from saying things he’d regret. You knew which motel it was, the one three blocks down with the decent Wi-Fi. You knew he’d be back when the dust settled.
So, when you had that explosive argument over the misplaced quarterly documents last night, you didn't even flinch when the front door clicked shut. You didn't think twice when you woke up to an empty apartment. You knew he’d come around eventually. You even felt a petty sort of satisfaction thinking about him sitting in a cramped motel room while you had the bed to yourself.
He was such a jerk sometimes. So rigid. So stubborn.
But you also knew your cup of iced coffee would be sitting nicely next to your laptop as soon as you sat down at your desk the next morning. With the plastic straw (he knew how much you hated the paper ones once they get soggy), and two pumps of vanilla.
But as soon as you arrived at work, much to your susrprise, the desk was empty. There was no condensation on the wood; no scent of vanilla in the air.
You glanced over at his cubicle. It was dark. Nanami was never late. Which meant he was absent. Your heart gave a small, confused thrum. Clocking in late meant working overtime to make up for the lost minutes, and if there was one thing Nanami Kento hated with every fiber of his being, it was working a single second past 5:00 PM.
You sat down, staring at your blank monitor. You swore the fight wasn't that bad. Had he actually overslept? No, Nanami’s internal clock was more reliable than the Japanese rail system.
Biting your lip, you pulled out your phone. The anger from last night was being rapidly crowded out by a nagging, cold itch in your chest.
To: Kento
I’m at my desk. Where are you? If you're trying to punish me by skipping coffee, it’s working. I’m grumpy. Come to work.
You expected him to let the message sit. You expected him to ignore you for at least an hour to maintain his "cool-off" period.
Instead, your phone vibrated almost instantly.
From: Kento
I’m sorry about the coffee, babe. I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. I’ll make it up to you.
You stared at the screen. He had answered within seconds. And he called you "babe." Nanami rarely used pet names in writing, he found them "inefficient."
To: Kento
You’re sick? Do you need me to bring you something? Medicine? Soup? I can come by during my lunch break.
The reply came back before you could even set the phone down.
From: Kento
No, don’t do that. I’m just going to sleep it off. I don’t want you catching anything. Just stay at the office and have a productive day. I’ll text you later. Love you.
You leaned back in your chair, frowning at the screen. Love you. The words looked right, but the timing felt wrong. Nanami was usually a man of few words, especially when he was supposedly "resting."
But then again, maybe the fight had scared him into being more affectionate. Maybe he was finally learning how to apologize. You sighed, forcing yourself to open a spreadsheet, trying to ignore the way the "Kento" at the top of your chat felt just a little bit like a stranger.
Nanami didnt come home that night. Nor the day after.
Concern was eating you alive. It was true that Kento was a man who preferred to carry the world on his shoulders without a groan of complaint, but you had spent the last year slowly dismantling those walls. But since you’d been together, you had slowly taught him how to open up, that being "efficient" didn't mean being alone. You took pride in taking care of him, especially when he was vulnerable.
Being alone in the quiet apartment reminded you of that day in late November. You had been together for well over six months by then, and he had just officially moved in. He’d claimed your apartment was more "logistically sound" due to its proximity to the office, but you knew it was because he liked waking up next to you. However, the move-in day had been brutal; the autumn rain had hammered down on him as he hauled his luggage up the stairs, soaking him to the bone.
It had started with a subtle deepening of his voice and a stubborn refusal to eat his dinner. By midnight, Nanami was a furnace, his skin radiating a heat so intense it made you recoil when you touched his shoulder.
"Kento, you’re burning up," you had whispered, reaching to peel back the heavy duvet.
"I’m fine," he’d grunted, eyes squeezed shut, his jaw locked in that rigid, professional line even in his delirium. "It’s just a seasonal bug. I have a report due at eight."
"You aren't going anywhere," you countered, pushing him back down.
You spent the night hovering over him like a guardian. You pressed cool washcloths to his forehead, ignoring his grumpy, muffled protests that you were "wasting your sleep cycle." You forced him to sip lukewarm ginger tea, and when the fever finally broke his resolve, he had curled his large frame around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You're too kind," he had murmured, his voice thick and scratchy against your skin. "It's illogical to stay awake for me."
"Shut up and sleep, Kento."
Of course, your care came at a price. Three days later, the fever broke for him, only to settle deep in your own lungs. You had woken up shivering, unable to even lift your head from the pillow. Nanami, still pale but functional, spent his entire weekend off—time he usually guarded with his life—tending to you.
He had been a clumsy but devoted nurse, bringing you toast that was slightly too burnt and tucking in blankets so tightly you could barely move, but he stayed. You ended up tangled together on the sofa, surrounded by mountains of tissues and half-empty Pocari Sweat bottles. Both of you miserable, sneezing in sync, and yet, completely at peace.
"We look pathetic," he’d noted, his voice a dry rasp as he meticulously adjusted your wool socks.
"We look like a couple," you’d countered.
He hadn't argued then. He had just pulled you closer.
Now, you sat on that very same sofa, clutching your phone to your chest as you bit at the skin around your nails, a habit Nanami hated and constantly encouraged you to break. The lights were all off, save for the soft, rosy glow of the strawberry lamp on the coffee table. You had insisted on buying it, and though he’d argued it wasn't a "necessity," he’d eventually carried the box to the car with a quiet, fond sigh.
The strawberry light felt mocking now, casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
You tried calling him again. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
Your texts remained unanswered. Some were marked with the heart-sinking blue of a read receipt, proving he was looking at them and choosing silence. But the last three? They remained on "Delivered."
The silence of the apartment was broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic thumping of your own heart. You looked at the "Delivered" status of your last message. Please just tell me you're okay, you thought to yourself.
Suddenly, the status changed.
Read.
Your breath hitched. You waited for the typing bubbles, for an explanation, for an apology. Instead, your phone vibrated with an incoming photo.
The thumbnail was dark. You tapped it, your blood turning to ice. It was a photo of your apartment building, taken from the street below. Specifically, it was a photo of your living room window—the one you were sitting next to right now—with the distinct red glow of the strawberry lamp visible through the glass.
The phone buzzed again.
From: Kento
The lamp looks nice from out here. Happy we bought it.
Your heart plummeted. Nanami never talked like that. He was a man of few words. And more importantly, Nanami would have just walked through the front door.
You almost tripped on the carpet, your phone hitting the floor with a thud as you sprinted toward the balcony doors. Ripping them open, the biting night air slammed into your chest, stealing your breath. You leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the pavement below.
Nothing.
The street was a graveyard of parked cars and empty sidewalks. Not a single soul was standing under the streetlamp. Where was he? Was he hiding in the shadows of the alley? Did he think this was a joke?
No. Nanami would never do that. He was a man who measured his words and his actions with surgical precision. He found "pranks" to be a monumental waste of time and an insult to one's intelligence. He would never play with your heart this way.
Your hand flew to your mouth, teeth tearing at the raw skin of your cuticles until you tasted the metallic tang of blood. What the hell was happening? Were you even texting your boyfriend anymore?
The sudden blare of your ringtone made you jump, the sound echoing off the balcony glass like a cruel laugh. It was his favorite song. The screen lit up, displaying a photo you’d taken on Miyako Island during your first vacation together—Nanami looking away from the camera, a rare, microscopic soften to his lips while you beamed beside him.
Everything you owned, every safety net you had built, was tied to this man. And now, the tether was fraying.
As you picked up the device from the carpet, the name on the screen made your stomach drop through the floor.
Incoming Call: Kento’s Mother.
She never called you. She was a sweetheart, always sending cards for the holidays, but you were never close enough for one-on-one conversations. Certainly not for a call at midnight on a weekday.
The realization hit you like a physical blow: he wasn’t answering her, either.
With trembling fingers, you swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Dear?" Her voice was thin, vibrating with a frequency of panic you had never heard from her before. "I'm so sorry to call so late. I... I can't get a hold of Kento. I've called ten times. Is he with you? Is he alright?"
Your throat closed up. You looked back at the phone in your other hand—the one that had just sent you a photo of your own window. The one that was currently marked as Online.
"He's... he's not here, Mrs. Nanami," you whispered, your eyes darting back to the empty street. "We, uh.. we had a fight a few days ago—"
"Oh, heavens," she breathed, a sob breaking through. "The police called me, dear. They found his car. They found his car near the docks, but... but the blood, they said there was so much—"
The line went static. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing to your ears.
Your phone vibrated against your ear. A new message.
From: Kento
Don’t listen to them, babe. They’re just trying to upset you.
You stared at the screen, your breath hitching in a throat that felt like it was filled with glass. The "Kento" at the top of the screen stayed Online.
From: Kento
I’m right outside the door. I forgot my keys. Let me in?
Through the receiver, you could hear the muffled, frantic sounds of a household collapsing in real-time. A chair scraping harshly against a floor, the heavy, staggered breathing of Kento’s father, and then a sudden, sharp cry.
"Minako! Minako, look at the screen!" his father’s voice boomed in the background, cracked and unrecognizable. "Turn it up! Turn it up right now!"
"What is it? Takehiko, what are you—"
The phone was dropped; you heard it hit a hard surface, but the line remained open. The audio was a chaotic blur of sobbing and the distant, clinical hum of a television news broadcast. You stood paralyzed in the center of your living room, the pink glow of the strawberry lamp casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach for your ankles.
"...repeating our top story," the news anchor’s voice was a low drone coming through the phone. "...the body discovered in the early hours near the Harumi waterfront has been identified as 28-year-old Kento Nanami. Authorities are warning the public to remain vigilant, as the scene suggests a level of premeditated brutality rarely seen—"
A shriek tore through the phone. A raw, guttural sound of a mother’s soul breaking in half. It was a sound so jagged it felt like it was physically cutting your skin. He’s dead? He can;t be, he just texted you a few seconds ago. Were you hallucinating? He’s not dead. He’s at your door. You should open up and hug him. Tell him you were dumb. That you misplaced those fucking documents. Apologize and tell him it won’t happen again—
Your own phone, still clutched in your other hand, vibrated with a violent intensity.
From: Kento
Don’t listen to her, honey. You know how she overreacts.
Your eyes darted to the screen. The "Online" status glowed like a radioactive coal. Your thumb hovered over the glass, shaking so hard you could barely aim it. Whoever you were talking to was not your Kento. You knew that. But you couldn’t understand it. You didn’t want to understand it. He’s at your door..
To: Kento
Where are you? Who is this?
The reply was instantaneous. No bubbles. No delay.
From: Kento
I’m right outside. I told you, I forgot my keys because I was in such a rush to see you. My hands are full, too. Can you be a good girl and open up?
A cold, paralyzing dread washed over you. The silence of your apartment felt predatory. Slowly, your head turned toward the front door. The heavy oak was bolted, the chain was on, but it felt as thin as paper.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It wasn't a knock. It was the rhythmic, playful clicking of a fingernail against the wood.
From: Kento
I know you're home. I saw the strawberry light on, babe. Open the door, and let's have that coffee. Two pumps of vanilla, right?
You stared at the door handle as you approached the front door. It didn't move. Behind you, the television in your own bedroom—which you were certain was turned off—suddenly flared to life, the blue light spilling into the hall like a ghost.
The news anchor's voice began to fill your own home, echoing the one on the phone, creating a horrific, stereophonic loop of your boyfriend's death.
"Kento?" you whispered, your voice failing you.
From the other side of the door, a muffled chuckle vibrated through the wood. It wasn't Kento’s deep, rumbling baritone. It was lighter. Airy. Like someone who had just heard a very funny joke.
From: Kento
Read receipts are on, babe. I know you're seeing this. Don't make me come in through the balcony.
Your breath hitched, coming in shallow, jagged gasps that burned your throat. Your thumb scrambled over the screen of the phone that was still connected to Kento’s mother, but the line was a graveyard of static and distant wailing. You hung up, your fingers slick with sweat and the blood from your chewed cuticles, and dialed three digits that felt like a lifetime to input.
1-1-0.
"Emergency services, how may i help?"
"Please," you whispered, backing away from the front door, your eyes fixed on the sliver of space between the floor and the wood. "Someone is at my door. My boyfriend... the news says he’s dead, but someone has his phone. They’re texting me. They’re outside."
"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. I need you to tell me the address of your location,” and after you told the dispatched, it took a few seconds before he talked again, ” i’m dispatching officers to your address now. Are you in a secure room?"
"I'm in the living room," you choked out, retreating until your back hit the glass of the balcony doors you had left wide open. The cold air licked at your neck. "Please, just hurry. He says he can see me."
"I have help on the way. Do not hang up the phone. Is the door locked?"
"Yes, but—"
Your phone vibrated. A new notification from "Kento" slid down from the top of the screen, partially obscuring the call timer with the dispatcher.
From: Kento
Calling the police? That’s not very "comfortable," is it? After all the time we spent together you’re scared of me.
The dispatcher’s voice continued in your ear, a tiny drone of instructions you could no longer process. Your gaze was glued to the door. The tapping had stopped. The silence that followed was worse—a heavy, suffocating pressure that made the air feel like lead.
Then, the door handle turned.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The metal groaned under the pressure, the lock straining against a force that shouldn't have been there. You watched, paralyzed, as the deadbolt began to creak, the wood around it splintering with a sickening, slow-motion crack.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?" the dispatcher barked.
You couldn't answer. You were watching a slip of white paper being slid under the door. It wasn't a note. It was a polaroid.
You lunged forward, driven by a morbid, terrifying compulsion to see. You picked it up.
The chemical smell of the developing film hit you first, sharp and acrid, but it couldn't mask the visual horror. It was a high-contrast, flash-burnt image of the motel room. Nanami was seated in the floral armchair, but he had been turned into a gruesome piece of performance art.
His throat had been opened—not a clean cut, but a jagged, wide grin of red that exposed the pale rings of his windpipe. To keep his head from lolling forward and ruining the "pose," his own signature cheetah print necktie (one that you gifted on his birthday) had been threaded through the wound and tied tightly to the back of the chair, hoisting his chin up at a mocking, jaunty angle. The background was the worst part. The beige floral wallpaper was completely obscured by thick, arterial spray.
From: Kento
I did put up a fight, you see..
You dropped the polaroid as if it had burned your fingers. The image of Kento—so still, so hollow—seemed to pulse under the flickering light of the hallway. Your knees gave out, and you hit the floor, the dispatcher’s voice now just a frantic, distant buzzing in your ear.
"Ma'am! I need you to stay with me! Officers are two minutes out! Can you hear me?"
You couldn't answer. You were staring at the gap beneath the door.
The tapping had stopped. The playful, terrifying clicking of a fingernail against wood was gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating silence that felt like the world had held its breath. No handle turning. No splintering wood. Just... nothing.
Then, a soft thud sounded from the other side of the door. The sound of plastic hitting the floorboards.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. You waited for the door to burst open, for the "Kento" on the other side to finish the job. But the silence stretched, long and agonizing, until the far-off wail of sirens began to cut through the night. You couldn't even scream, the air just rattled in your chest. The sirens were deafening now, blue and red lights strobing against your ceiling like a frantic heartbeat.
"Ma'am? The officers are pulling up. Can you unlock the door for them?"
You didn't move. Not until you heard the heavy thud of boots in the hallway and the authoritative shout of "Police! Open up!"
With trembling hands, you reached up and slid the chain back, fumbling with the deadbolt. When the door finally swung open, you didn't see a monster. You saw two officers with their guns drawn, their flashlights cutting through the dark. And there, sitting perfectly centered on your "Welcome" mat, was a single Starbucks cup. The plastic was stained with red, sticky fingerprints. Inside, the coffee was light, creamy with milk—but as the flashlight hit it, you saw something dark and solid swirling at the bottom among the ice cubes.
Your phone buzzed in your limp hand. One last notification.
From: Kento
I saved the best part for the bottom of the cup. It’s the part that saw you the most.
The condensation was still fresh, beads of water rolling down the plastic.
One of the officers kept his weapon raised, clearing the kitchen, while the other knelt beside you. "Are you hurt? Is anyone else in the apartment?"
You couldn't speak. You just pointed at the cup.
The officer frowned, leaning in to look at the label printed on the side.
You looked past the officers, down the long, empty apartment corridor. There was no one there. No shadow, no killer. Just the lingering, cloying scent of expensive cologne and the fading light of your strawberry lamp, blinking out for the final time.
The fluorescent lights of the station hummed with a low, irritating buzz that vibrated in the base of your skull. You sat on a hard plastic chair in a corner of the precinct, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life. The scratchy wool blanket draped over your shoulders felt heavy and smelled of mothballs and stale coffee, but you clutched the edges of it until your knuckles turned white. It was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
The night had been a blur of flashing lights, gloved hands bagging evidence, and the cold, clinical voices of detectives.
"Exsanguination," one of them had muttered nearby, not realizing you could hear. "Abdominal cavity was opened wide, and the carotid was severed. He didn't have a prayer."
You squeezed your eyes shut, but the image from the Polaroid was burned into your retinas. The coffee cup you had seen on your doorstep sat in a clear plastic evidence bag in an interview room, the dark, solid mass at the bottom now confirmed to be Kento’s left eye. The "part that saw you the most."
A detective with tired eyes and a wrinkled suit crouched in front of you, offering a paper cup of water. "We’re still working on the phone, ma’am. The GPS pings for Kento’s device went dead the second the sirens hit your street. He’s ghosting us."
You took the water, your hands trembling so violently that the surface rippled. "He was right there," you whispered, your voice sounding like someone else's. "He was at the door."
"We know. We found the... residue on the mat." The detective sighed, looking at your hands. "He's sophisticated. No prints on the cup, no DNA at your house. Even the coffee was paid for in cash three districts away."
They had taken your phone, too. It was sitting in a forensics lab, being picked apart for digital breadcrumbs that you knew deep down wouldn't be there.
As the detective walked away to consult with a colleague, the station doors swung open, letting in a gust of that same cold night air from your balcony. You flinched, pulling the old blanket tighter. You were safe here, surrounded by armed officers and cameras, yet every time a phone rang in the office or a printer whirred to life, you jumped.
You couldn't help but stare at the evidence locker down the hall. You knew the killer had turned the phone off. You knew he was gone. But in the silence of the station, you could still feel the phantom vibration of a notification against your chest.
The sky over the cemetery was a bruised, heavy grey, as if the world itself had lost its color along with Kento. The service was a blur of black umbrellas and the stifling scent of lilies. A cloying, sweet decay that made you want to gag. You stood by the open grave, shivering next to the closed casket. It had been an explicit request from the Nanami family; his death was so gruesome they couldn’t fathom seeing their son’s body in such a mutilated state.
You felt like a ghost among the living. Every time a distant relative squeezed your hand or whispered a hollow condolence, a surge of nausea rolled through you. They didn’t know. They hadn't seen the Polaroid, or the way the blood had dried into a dark crust around the rim of your favorite coffee cup.
The burial felt final, but the horror felt ongoing. Every shovelful of dirt hitting the wood sounded like that rhythmic tap-tap-tap on your front door, a dull thud marking the end of the only man who ever made you feel safe.
Kento’s mother was a shell of a woman, supported on either side by relatives, her weeping the only sound in the oppressive silence. You wanted to comfort her, but you couldn't move. You felt like you were made of glass—one wrong step and you would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.
"A closed casket is a mercy," a voice spoke up, slicing through the heavy air.
You flinched, your head snapping to the side. Standing a few feet away, leaning against a weathered headstone, was a man who didn't fit the somber, broken atmosphere of the cemetery. He was tall (impossibly so) and dressed in a black suit that looked custom-tailored to his lean, athletic frame.
A pair of dark, round sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose, masking his eyes. Even through the tinted lenses, you felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and analytical, stripping you bare.
"Though, for someone like Nanami," the man continued, pushing off the headstone and walking toward you with a predatory grace, "mercy was never really part of the equation, was it?"
"Who are you?" you asked, your voice a raspy shadow of its former self.
He stopped just inches from you, tall enough that you had to crane your neck to look at him. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge.
Special Investigations. Satoru Gojo.
"I'm the one handling Kento’s... paperwork."
Behind the glass, his eyes were a startling, electric blue. So bright they seemed to catch the gray light of the afternoon and amplify it. They were beautiful, but they were devoid of the pity everyone else had been drowning you in.
"I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours looking at the things he left for you," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "The coffee. I’ve read the messages. Most detectives would call it a crime scene. I call it an obsession."
"The police station is full of bureaucratic idiots, [F/N]. They think this is about a murder. But you and I know the truth," He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low hum that stayed between the two of you. "I know you're holding onto that Polaroid," he whispered, his expression hardening into something professional and dangerous. " If you want to find the person who turned your life into a horror movie, you’re going to have to stop acting like a victim and start acting like a witness. Meet me at the station at midnight. Don't let anyone follow you."
You shivered, a cold sweat breaking out on your neck. "You're supposed to help me."
"Oh, I am," Gojo smirked, a flash of brilliant white teeth that felt more like a threat than a comfort. "I’m going to be your shadow. I’ll be the one checking your phone, the one standing outside your door, the one watching your every move so he can't get close."
He turned to leave, but as he walked toward the cemetery gates, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Your heart plummeted. With shaking hands, you pulled it out.
From: Kento
He's much taller than Kento, isn't he? Do you think he'll look as good as Kento did in a Polaroid?
The cold night air bit deep, settling right into your bones with a cruel, aching persistence. You probably looked like a woman possessed, your head snapping left, then right, then over your shoulder until your neck felt strained. Every shadow cast by the skeletal trees seemed to move, stretching toward you like grasping fingers. You were convinced you were next in line. It was a logical progression, wasn’t it? First Kento, then the person who found what was left of him.
Working with a detective in the dead of night felt like walking into a trap, but you had nowhere else to turn. The killer was probably out there right now, lurking in the blind spots of the streetlamps, laughing his ass off while he watched you deliver yourself on a silver platter.
You didn’t know why you had agreed to meet him at midnight. It felt illicit, like a betrayal of the very justice you were seeking. Maybe it had been a mistake to withhold the Polaroid that night when the uniformed officers were swarming the scene, their radios crackling and their faces bored. But how could you have handed it over? To them, it would just be "Exhibit A," a piece of glossy paper to be tossed into a plastic bin. They would never understand that the photo was a personal mockery—a jagged, visual scream intended for your eyes only. You hadn't told a soul. Not the family, not the first responders. No one.
Shuddering, you sat down on the frigid concrete stairs of the precinct, the dampness of the stone seeping through your clothes. Your fingers shook so badly you could barely grip the pack of cigarettes in your bag. You lit one, the flame of the lighter dancing wildly in the wind, a tiny spark in the vast, oppressive dark. You had promised Kento you’d never smoke again, but Kento wasn’t here to nag you about the consequences. He wasn't here to gently take the pack away and replace it with a lecture on lung health.
As you exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, your eyes began to water. It wasn't the sting of the black tobacco, rather it was the crushing, suffocating realization that he was truly dead. There would be no more nagging. No more him. Just the cold, and the fear, and the silence.
"Better chew on a lollipop."
The cigarette was snatched from between your lips before you could even register the movement. In its place, the hard, sweet sphere of a strawberry-flavored candy was shoved into your mouth.
"I’m trying to quit, too," Gojo murmured, his towering figure casting a long, distorted shadow that seemed to swallow yours whole. He leaned against the stone railing, casually flicking your lit cigarette into the gutter where it hissed and died. "Don't make it harder for me."
He sat down on the step above you, his knees nearly brushing your shoulders. Even in the dark, he seemed to radiate a strange, restless energy that made the hair on your arms stand up. He had ditched the formal suit jacket from the funeral. He was in a black tactical turtleneck that made his white hair look like a fallen snow. Those dark glasses were pushed up into his hair, revealing eyes that were far too bright, and entirely too focused on you.
"You're twitching," he observed, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that vibrated through the concrete steps. "Looking for someone?"
"The killer is still out there," you whispered, the candy clicking against your teeth. "He knows I have it. He knows I saw."
Gojo tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement. "And yet, you didn't give it to the boys in blue inside. Why is that? Afraid they’d lose it? Or afraid they’d see what I see?"
You gripped your bag until your knuckles turned white. "They wouldn't look at it the right way. They’d just see a body. They wouldn't see the... message."
"Smart girl," Gojo said, his expression hardening into something unreadable. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The scent hit you again—lilies. It wasn't just a faint whiff; it was an overwhelming, cloying sweetness, the kind that fills a room where a casket has been open too long. It was the smell of the funeral, sticking to him like a second skin.
"The other cops don't know about this, do they? Just you. And now, me."
Slowly, you reached into your bag. Your hand was trembling so violently that the Polaroid fluttered like a dying bird as you pulled it out. Gojo took it from you, his fingers unnervingly cold where they brushed your skin.
He held the photo up to the dim, sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. He didn't flinch. He didn't show horror or disgust. Instead, he studied the grotesque mutilation of Kento’s body with a terrifying, clinical fascination.
"Look at the way the light hits the incisions," Gojo whispered, pointing a finger to a dark corner of the image. "It’s intentional. The killer wanted to create a specific silhouette. It’s almost... artistic. A masterpiece of grief."
He looked at you then, a faint, sharp smile playing on his lips—a smile that didn't reach his glacial eyes.
"You did the right thing bringing this only to me. If the department saw this, they’d have to follow protocol. They’d have to ask questions you aren't ready to answer." He slid the photo into his inner pocket, patting the fabric. "I'll keep it hidden. No one else will ever see what he did to him. I’ll make sure this stays our little secret."
He stood up and offered you a hand. His grip was firm, inescapable.
"The station is empty tonight. By the way, the hallway cameras are disabled for 'maintenance,' so you can cry without the fear they’ll capture your tears on the CCTV" he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "Come inside. I have the actual crime scene files in my office, the ones the public isn't allowed to see. Let's see if your little picture matches the rest of my collection."
The heavy iron doors of the precinct hissed shut behind you, sealing out the wind but trapping you in a silence that felt heavy, almost pressurized. The hallway was a long, sterile throat of flickering fluorescent lights and linoleum that squeaked under Gojo’s expensive shoes. He didn’t lead you toward the main desks or the bustling dispatch center. Instead, he steered you toward the "Special Investigations" wing, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. It was a protective gesture, yet his palm felt unnaturally cold through your coat.
"My office is more... private," he murmured, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. "The detectives upstairs? They’re good at filing taxes and catching shoplifters. But they don't have the stomach for what you’re carrying."
When he opened the door to his office, the air hit you with a strange, confusing sweetness. It was thick with the scent of those lilies again, perhaps a stray bouquet left over from the precinct’s memorial for Kento, or maybe just the lingering ghost of the cemetery. He didn't turn on the overhead lights, choosing to only click on a small desk lamp that cast a warm, narrow amber glow.
"Sit," he urged, his voice softening as he guided you into a leather chair that swallowed you whole.
He didn't sit across from you. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the desk, towering over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp line through the amber light. He watched you chew on the lollipop for a moment, his eyes tracking the slight movement of your jaw with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"So," he began, his voice light but his gaze heavy. "Let’s talk about the last time you saw him alive. The neighbors mentioned a bit of a... vocal disagreement. Care to elaborate?"
You swallowed hard, the strawberry flavor of the candy turning bitter. "The quarterly documents. I... I misplaced them. He was stressed. He was always stressed about work, but that night, it was different. He snapped."
"He snapped," Gojo repeated, his tone soft, almost sympathetic. He leaned forward, his face dipping into the light. "And what did he say? Did he look at you with that cold, salaryman stare? The one that makes you feel like an unfinished task?"
"He told me I was irresponsible," you whispered, your voice cracking.
"The official report says Kento was at that motel for a 'business stay.' But the motel was three blocks from your apartment," Gojo said, his voice losing its playful edge. It was cold now. Professional. "Men like Nanami don't pay for a room with thin walls and bedbugs unless they’re running from something. Or someone."
"He said he couldn't think straight with me around that night. He grabbed his keys... he said he was going to a motel just to get some peace. He always went there after we had a more.. aggressive fight. I knew the motel, it was close to my home, so I payed no mind to it."
Gojo’s pen paused, the tip hovering just above the paper as he hummed a low, discordant note. The strawberry candy in your mouth felt like a stone, making it hard to swallow, though you couldn’t tell if you were choking on the sugar or the thick, suffocating tension vibrating between the four walls of his office.
"I tried to text him the next morning," you continued, your voice trembling as you forced the words past the lump in your throat. "He didn't show up for work at his usual time, and for Kento... that was impossible. He’s never even been a minute late."
Gojo didn't look up, but his hand began to move again, the scratching of the pen sounding like claws on parchment.
"He answered immediately," you whispered, shivering despite the heat of the room. "The bubbles popped up the second I hit send. He told me he was feeling sick. That he was staying in bed at the motel to sleep it off."
"So," Gojo continued, his gaze dropping to your bag where your phone lay hidden. "Someone sat in that room with his body, watched his phone light up with your name, and decided to have a conversation with you. They played 'Kento' for eight hours just to keep you away from that motel room while they... finished their work."
He stood up, the movement fluid and predatory, and walked toward you until he was looming over your chair. He held out a hand, palm up.
"Give it to me," he commanded.
"My phone?"
"The texts. I want to see exactly how this person mimicked him. I want to see the specific words they used to keep you from checking on him."
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of those funeral lilies cloying and thick again.
"Because if they were texting you from his phone while you were waiting for an apology, it means they weren't just watching him. They’ve been watching you. They know how you fight. They know how to make you stay put."
His fingers brushed yours as he reached for the device, his touch a startling contrast of ice-cold skin and burning intensity.
"Let’s see how well this killer knows your relationship, [F/N]. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they were invited into your life long before that night at the motel."
You didn’t hand it over immediately. Your fingers locked around the smooth casing of the phone inside your bag, a primal instinct screaming at you to keep the last "conversation" you had with Kento to yourself, even if it was a lie.
Gojo didn’t lose patience. He didn't pull away. Instead, he simply waited, his hand still outstretched, his crystalline eyes tracking the frantic pulse jumping in your throat.
"It’s not him," Gojo reminded you, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a caress and a blade all at once. "The person who sent those texts... they were probably touching his hair while they typed. Maybe they were using his own thumb to unlock the screen. Every second you hold onto that phone like it's a memento, you’re letting that person sit in your lap."
That did it. The bile rose in your throat, and you jerked the phone out, thrusting it into his palm as if it had suddenly turned red-hot.
Gojo took it, his thumb sliding across the glass. The light of the screen reflected in his glasses, dancing across those unnerving blue irises. He scrolled slowly, his expression shifting from clinical interest to a dark, amused twist of his lips.
"’I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. '" Gojo read the message aloud, mimicking Kento’s clipped, efficient tone with haunting accuracy. He clicked his tongue. "He even used the correct punctuation. No emojis. Proper capitalization. They weren't just guessing. They were studying him. They knew his syntax."
He started pacing the small office again, the phone looking like a toy in his large hand. He stopped at the window, looking out at the rain-slicked streets of the city.
"You said you fought about the documents. The quarterly reports. Tell me, did you find them before or after the 'sick' text?"
"After," you choked out, your hands twisting in your lap. "I found them tucked into the side of the recliner. I was so relieved... I texted him to tell him. I told him I’d bring them over with some soup to make him feel better."
"And what did 'Kento' say to that?"
"He told me... he told me to stay home and eat the soup myself. That he’d see me at the office the next day." You closed your eyes, the memory of that mundane, domestic rejection now feeling like a death sentence. "I felt so hurt. I thought he was still just punishing me for being messy."
Gojo turned around, his silhouette framed by the harsh, artificial light of the precinct hallway. He walked back to you and leaned against the desk, right in your personal space. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw—a gesture that should have been comforting, but felt like a predator marking its territory.
"He didn't want you at that motel because he wasn't done yet," Gojo murmured. "The coroner's report... there were things done to him that take time. Precision. Whoever did this is a craftsman. They needed those eight hours of silence you gave them. They used your guilt as a padlock on that motel door."
He leaned down further, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, revealing the full, electric intensity of his gaze.
"They know you, [F/N]. They knew exactly which buttons to push to make you retreat. They knew that if 'Kento' acted cold, you’d give him space. They killed him and they used your relationship as a weapon to buy themselves a head start."
He straightened up, sliding your phone into his pocket alongside the Polaroid.
"The station is a tomb tonight, but I can feel someone’s eyes on the back of my neck. We aren't staying here." He grabbed his coat, his movements sudden and sharp. "We're going to your apartment. If they’ve been watching you, they’ve been inside. I want to see what else they’ve 'misplaced' in your home."
Gojo’s car was a sleek, obsidian beast that looked far too expensive for a detective’s salary. It sat idling in the precinct’s restricted lot, a low hum vibrating through the asphalt. He didn't open the door for you. Instead, he watched with a detached, clinical curiosity as you climbed into the leather interior, which smelled of expensive tobacco and that same chilling, lingering scent of lilies.
As he pulled out of the lot, the city of Tokyo blurred into a streak of neon smear and rain-slicked concrete. Gojo drove with a reckless, terrifying sort of grace, one hand draped over the steering wheel while the other remained dangerously close to the phone he had confiscated from you.
"You’re shaking again," he noted, his voice cutting through the soft jazz playing on the radio. He didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you felt the weight of his attention like a physical pressure. "Is it the cold, or is it the realization that your 'safe' space isn't actually yours anymore?"
"I don't know," you whispered, pulling your coat tighter around your chest. The heater was blasting, but you couldn't stop the tremors. "I keep thinking about the documents. If I hadn't lost them... if I hadn't started that fight... he wouldn't have been at that motel. He’d have been on the couch. He’d be alive."
Gojo let out a sharp, dry laugh that lacked any warmth. "Guilt is such a boring emotion, [F/N]. It’s a waste of energy. The killer didn't wait for a fight; they waited for an opportunity. If it wasn't the motel, it would have been the grocery store, or the walk home from the station. They wanted him in a box, and they wanted you to be the one to close the lid."
He swerved around a slow-moving taxi, the tires chirping against the wet pavement.
"Think back," he commanded, his tone shifting back to that of an interrogator. "The week before he died. Did anything feel... off? A misplaced set of keys? A window you were sure you’d locked but found ajar? A scent in the hallway that didn't belong to either of you?"
You stared out the window, trying to piece together the fragments of a life that had felt so stable only days ago. "Kento complained about his dry cleaning," you said slowly. "He thought the shop had swapped his shirts because they smelled like a different detergent. He was... he was very particular about his scent. He hated floral smells. He said they were distracting."
Gojo’s grip on the wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. "Floral. Like lilies?"
The blood drained from your face. "Yes. Exactly like lilies."
"Interesting," he murmured, a dark spark igniting in his eyes. "So they weren't just watching. They were nesting. They were moving through your life, sampling the air, trying on his clothes, perhaps even watching you sleep while he was working late at the office."
The car turned onto your street, a quiet row of brownstones that now looked like a lineup of tombstones under the sickly orange glow of the streetlamps. Your apartment was on the third floor—the windows were dark, staring down at you like hollow eye sockets.
"Stay behind me," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum as he killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening. He didn't reach for a service weapon; instead, he adjusted his glasses and stepped out into the rain, his tall frame cutting a jagged silhouette against the darkness.
As you followed him toward the entrance, the air felt thick, charged with the same ozone-scent you’d smelled at the precinct. He paused at the heavy oak door of your building, his hand hovering over the handle. He wasn't looking at the lock. He was looking at a tiny, almost invisible smear of damp earth on the brass—the same grey mud from the cemetery.
"He’s been here today," Gojo whispered, a jagged, terrifying smile spreading across his face. "He went to the funeral to watch you cry, and then he came here to wait for you to come home and do it again. He’s a romantic, isn't he?"
Your hands shook so violently the keys clattered against the lock, a frantic metallic weeping in the quiet hallway. As the door swung open, the intimacy of the moment hit you. A suffocating realization that the only man to cross this threshold besides family was Kento. Now, he was in the earth, and you were inviting a stranger into the vacuum he left behind.
You flicked the switch, bracing for a slaughterhouse. But the living room was a portrait of mocking normalcy. The air still carried the sugary, artificial notes of the vanilla perfume you’d applied hours ago. Everything sat exactly as you’d left it: the discarded book on the armchair, the half-empty water glass.
Then you saw the coffee table.
Resting with agonizing precision next to your whimsical strawberry lamp was Kento’s cheetah-print necktie. It was smoothed out, perfectly centered, as if prepared for a morning meeting. But the silk was stiff, matted with a dark, rusted crust of dried blood.
"He was here," you choked out, the vanilla scent suddenly turning cloying, like a shroud.
Gojo didn't offer comfort. He moved past you, his tall frame cutting through the pinkish glow of the lamp. He leaned over the tie, his nose inches from the blood.
"The mud outside was a distraction," Gojo murmured, his eyes tracking a path you hadn't seen. "He wanted you to look at the floor so you wouldn't notice the change in the air."
He straightened up, his blue eyes flashing with a predatory brilliance.
"Can't you smell it under the vanilla? It’s not just blood."
You stepped forward and inhaled. Beneath the sweetness was the heavy, suffocating scent of funeral lilies. The killer just left a souvenir and he had re-scented your home with the smell of the cemetery. How nice of him.
"He's been watching how you live," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hum. He pointed toward your bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. "The tie is a bridge. He’s inviting us to see what he did to the one place you thought was private."
The sight of the tie—the very one you had watched Kento dimple with practiced, steady fingers a thousand times—was the final thread to snap. The horrific contrast of his professional dignity lying matted with gore next to your silly strawberry lamp was too much.
The air felt like it was being sucked out of the room. Your knees buckled, the strength leaving your legs as if your bones had turned to water. You didn’t just cry; you broke. A jagged, strangled sob ripped from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief that seemed to echo off the walls of the apartment that was no longer a home, but a crime scene.
"I can't... I can't do this," you gasped, burying your face in your hands. The vanilla perfume, the lilies, the blood—it all swirled into a nauseating cocktail that made your head spin. "He was just here. He was supposed to come back and yell at me about the documents. He wasn't supposed to be... a message."
You felt a shadow fall over you, blocking out the light of the lamp. You expected Gojo to remain clinical, to keep his distance and analyze the salt content of your tears.
Instead, you felt the heavy, solid weight of his hands on your shoulders. He dropped down to his haunches, bringing himself level with you on the floor. With a firm but surprisingly gentle tug, he pulled you forward until your forehead rested against the soft, dark fabric of his turtleneck.
"Let it out," he murmured. His voice wasn't the sharp, teasing baritone from the car. it was low, grounding, and oddly rhythmic. "Breath, [F/N]. Just breathe. I’ve got the room. I’ve got the door. Nothing is touching you tonight."
He didn't hug you in a traditional sense, rather he held you like a shield. One of his large hands moved to the back of your head, his long fingers sifting through your hair, a gesture that was terrifyingly intimate for a man you’d known for less than a day.
"They want you to feel small," he whispered against the crown of your head, his eyes—those electric, crystalline blue eyes—fixed unblinkingly on the darkened hallway. "The person who left that tie wants you to curl up and disappear so they can finish the set. But I don't like it when people touch my things. And right now? You’re my only lead."
It was a cold comfort—typical of him—but the sheer, immovable strength of his body gave you something to tether yourself to. You clutched at his sleeves, your tears dampening the black fabric.
"He’s going to kill me, isn't he?" you sobbed into his chest. "what more does he want from me?! He took him away, and now he’s after me. He has to be, right, Gojo?"
Gojo’s hand stilled in your hair for a fraction of a second. He leaned back just enough to look you in the face, his dark glasses discarded on the floor. Up close, his eyes were almost blinding, glowing with a fierce, protective arrogance. "Say something, jerk. Dont look at me like im fucking crazy."
"You’re angry, [F/N]. It’s normal. Dont worry, he'd have to get through me first," Gojo said, his lips curling into a sharp, dangerous smile that promised violence rather than peace. "And I'm very, very difficult to get through. Now, wipe your face. We aren't sleeping in this tomb. You're packing a bag, and you're coming with me."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek, his touch surprisingly warm despite the icy aura he usually projected.
"Don't look at the tie again," he commanded softly. "Look at me. Only me. We’re leaving the ghosts behind for tonight."
The following nights were a hollow, sleepless void. How could you close your eyes? You were huddled in a bed in a sterile motel room—the same kind of liminal, cheap space where Kento had met his gruesome end. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a threat. Outside your door, in the adjoining room, the detective sat awake, the blue light of his laptop illuminating his sharp features as he deciphered the cryptic messages left by a man who wanted your blood on his hands.
Returning to the office after your brief bereavement leave felt like a chore, a heavy performance you weren't ready to give. Your boss had been kind, his voice hushed and eyes pitying when he granted you afew weeks off, but being back was worse. The building felt like a tomb. There were no jokes in the breakroom, no humming by the copier—only muted greetings and heavy, lingering condolences. You felt like a walking bruise, wondering if you were the one filling the halls with this suffocating grief.
Now, you sat on the edge of the company roof during your lunch break. The wind whipped at your hair, and a cigarette trembled between your fingers. You held your phone to your ear, the line crackling with Gojo’s voice as he yapped incessantly about security protocols. Your eyes were unfocused, trailing the tiny, ant-like people on the street below.
"I'm telling you, he’s almost certainly using Nanami’s keys," Gojo said, his tone authoritative yet strangely casual. "You need to change those locks today. Not tomorrow. Today. Who knows what that fucker did for the past weeks when you weren’t home."
The silence of the rooftop was a relief compared to the stifling pity of the office downstairs. You took a long drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat—a welcome distraction from the phantom scent of lilies that still seemed to cling to your skin.
"Are you even listening to me, [F/N]?" Gojo’s voice sharpened through the speaker. "Or are you doing that thing where you stare into the middle distance and pretend the world isn't trying to eat you alive?"
"I'm listening," you lied, your voice sounding thin and brittle even to your own ears.
"No, you aren't. If you were, you’d be panicking about the fact that your front door is basically an open invitation right now," he sighed, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair, feet likely propped up on a desk covered in crime scene photos. "Remember, the killer didn't just take his life. He took his pockets. His wallet, his phone, and his keys. He’s playing house with you, [F/N]."
You watched a black car pull up to the curb five stories down. For a second, you wondered if he was in there. Watching.
"I changed the locks once already, Gojo," you whispered, ash falling onto your lap. "It didn't stop him from leaving the tie."
"Because he didn't use the door that time, sweetheart," Gojo replied, his tone dropping into that low, predatory hum that always made your heart skip. "He wants you to think he’s a ghost, but he’s just a man. A man with a very specific, very ugly obsession. I’ve been looking at the quarterly documents you found. There’s something coded in the margins; dates, times, locations. All places you’ve been."
You froze, the cigarette halfway to your lips. "What?"
"He wasn't just tracking Nanami. He was using Nanami’s work to track you," Gojo said. You heard the flick of a lighter on his end. "Get off the roof. Go back inside where there are people and cameras. I’m picking you up at five. And for heaven's sake, put out the cigarette."
He hung up before you could protest, leaving you with nothing but the hum of the city and the terrifying realization that your grief wasn't just a consequence—it was the killer's intended destination.
You stared at the dead screen of your phone, the wind on the rooftop suddenly feeling less like a breeze and more like a cold hand on your neck. Places I've been, he had said. If the killer had been tracking your locations through Nanami’s work, why hadn't Gojo mentioned it at the precinct? Why wait until you were alone on a roof to tell you that your every move was a documented map?
You crushed the cigarette butt under your heel and headed for the stairwell. As you descended back into the muffled silence of the office, you couldn't shake the way Gojo had said "Get off the roof." He hadn't sounded worried. He had sounded impatient. Like a director waiting for his lead actress to get back on her mark.
The black car was idling at the curb exactly as the clock struck five. Gojo didn't get out. He simply leaned over and pushed the door open from the inside.
"You're three minutes late," he said as you slid into the leather seat. He wasn't wearing his glasses now. His eyes were startlingly clear, his gaze sweeping over you with a terrifying, clinical hunger. "I almost thought you’d decided to go for a stroll. That would have been... unwise."
"The elevator was under maintanance," you murmured, reaching for your seatbelt. „had to take the stairs,” Your hand brushed his as you reached for the buckle, but you didnt move. It felt nice to feel another hand. You missed human connection.
"You look like you're waiting for a death sentence, [F/N]," he said softly, his eyes fixed on the road. "Relax. Your shoulders are up to your ears."
"It's been a long day," you whispered, clutching your bag. "And being back at the office... everyone looks at me like I’m already a ghost."
Gojo reached out, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. "People are tedious. They mourn because it makes them feel alive, not because they care about the dead. But we’ve been at this for nearly a month now, haven't we? Through the precinct, the motel, the funeral..."
He paused, casting a brief, sidelong glance at you. Without his glasses, his blue eyes seemed to occupy more space than they should.
"It feels a bit stiff, don't you think? Calling me 'Detective' or 'Gojo' while we’re middle-of-the-night confidants. Call me Satoru. I think I’d like to hear you say it."
The sudden drop in formality felt like a trap. "I... I don't know if that's professional."
"Professionalism died with Kento," he said, his voice dropping to that low, honeyed register. "And in exchange, may I use yours? Just '[Y/N]'? It makes the darkness feel a little less crowded."
You nodded slowly, unable to find the words to refuse. "Okay... Satoru."
A small, satisfied smile played on his lips. "Perfect. See? You’re already breathing easier.”
The ride with Goj… Satoru was surprisingly relaxing, the calm before the eventual storm. Returning to work meant facing colleagues with a grieving heart, but the true sting awaited at his desk. You expected to see his cubicle dark and empty; instead, those jerks had already replaced him. To them, he was merely a headcount. Easily swapped, quickly forgotten.
The guilt gnawed at you. If only you hadn't fought with him that night, maybe he’d still be occupying that space. Maybe you wouldn't be paralyzed by fear in your own bed, longing for his warmth instead of the memory of his cold, mutilated body in that Polaroid. That image was a ghost that refused to leave.
Lost in the suffocating spiral of those thoughts, your hand drifted to your mouth, and you began nervously chewing your nails. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until a large, warm hand enveloped yours, gently firm as it pulled your fingers away from your lips.
You looked up, startled. Satoru was smiling, but it wasn't his usual boisterous grin; it was softer, meant to ground you. As the car drifted to a halt at a red light, he shifted in his seat to face you fully, his thumb tracing a small, comforting arc over your knuckles.
"I have some good news," Satoru said, though his voice carried a strange, heavy undertone you hadn't heard before. "We found a lead," he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "Geto Suguru, twenty-seven years old. Word from the precinct is that they spotted him on one of the CCTVs near the docks on the night of the murder. They even found a few strands of his hair at the motel crime scene."
Satoru tapped the screen of his phone, zooming in on a blurry figure with long, dark hair. "He’s a former associate. A real piece of work. The kind of guy who thinks he’s an artist when he’s really just a butcher."
You stared at the image, your breath hitching. It felt too easy. After weeks of dead ends, a name and a face had just... appeared?
"Wait," you whispered, squinting at the screen. "If they found hair at the scene, why did it take a month for the lab to report it? You said the first responders didn't find anything."
Satoru just leaned back, his long fingers drumming a rhythmic, hypnotic beat against the leather steering wheel. "The police department is a circus, [Y/N]. They lose files, they contaminate samples... I had to do a little 'private' digging to get the lab to prioritize the right evidence."
He reached over, his hand lingering just a second too long on your knee as he took his phone back.
"Don't worry about the logistics," he murmured, the light turning green. "Just know that we’re closing in. He’s the one who’s been following you. He’s the one who left the tie. And now that I have a name, I can make sure he never touches you again."
"Good news?" you repeated, your voice trembling, but this time with rage instead of fear. "You think a name is good news?"
Satoru’s smile faltered, his head tilting in confusion. "I mean, we're closing the case, [Y/N]. This is what we wanted, right?"
"What we wanted?" You turned in your seat, ignoring the seatbelt cutting into your shoulder. "Kento is in a box in the ground, Satoru! He’s gone! There is no 'good news' in a world where he was butchered like an animal! You’re talking about CCTV footage and hair samples like we’re playing a game of Clue!"
You slammed your hand against the dashboard, the sound echoing in the confined space.
"Don't you get it? Every time you 'detective' your way through this, you’re acting like his death is just a puzzle for you to solve! You didn't see him! You didn't feel his skin when it was cold! You just want to catch a 'butcher' so you can feel like a hero!"
Satoru flinched at your outburst. But he didn't even look angry. He just watched you with a terrifying, calm detachment, his blue eyes tracking the way your pupils shake and analyzing the rage on your face.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that made your blood run cold. "I’m the only reason you aren't sitting in a precinct being interrogated by idiots who think you did it because of that fight. I’m the one keeping the ghosts away."
"Then maybe you should stop!" you hissed, your chest heaving. "Maybe I'd rather deal with the ghosts than with you treating my life like a goddamn hobby!"
The light turned green. Satoru didn't move. The cars behind you began to honk, a cacophony of noise that felt like it was inside your skull. He reached out, his hand moving slow and deliberate, and gripped your chin. He forced you to look at him, his fingers cold—so cold—against your skin.
"Be careful, [Y/N]," he whispered, the scent of lilies suddenly thick and suffocating in the car. "Anger makes people careless. And when you’re careless, you start looking for monsters in the wrong places. Now, sit back. We’re going to dinner— matter of fact, i know you’ve been neglecting yourself, and you’re going to act like the grateful woman I’ve spent a month keeping alive."
At that, you were practically fuming. The air in the car felt thick, like it had been replaced by his ego and that sickeningly sweet smell of death. You slapped his hand off your face with a sharp crack (more force than you’d ever used in your life) and the sting on your palm only fueled your fire.
"I’m done," you hissed.
Before he could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt in one frantic motion and shoved the door open.
"I’ll go home by bus, I’ll eat dinner by myself, and you can go fuck yourself, Satoru!"
You scrambled out, your heels hitting the pavement with a jarring thud. Horns immediately erupted behind you, a chorus of impatient swears for the black car to move. You didn’t look back. You slammed the door shut and bolted for the sidewalk, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The cold evening air hit your face, and for the first time in weeks, it felt clean. No lilies. No vanilla. Just the grit and exhaust of the city. You shoved your way through a crowd of commuters, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall in front of him again.
Behind you, Satoru didn't move the car. He sat perfectly still despite the symphony of honking vehicles. Through the tinted rear window, he watched your retreating figure. He didn't look angry, he looked amused.
He reached into the passenger seat and picked up the silk handkerchief you left at home. The one that smelled of the cemetery and your sweet vanilla perfume. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, ecstatic second.
"Spicy," he whispered to the empty cabin. "I like it when they fight back. It makes the breaking part so much more rewarding."
The following week was a dull, agonizing crawl. Work, home, grocery store, home. That was your entire world for seven days. Satoru hadn't called, and you weren't about to be the one to break the silence. Your pride was too fragile, and even though a small, nagging part of you felt guilty for snapping at him (after all, he was the only one who seemed to care about finding Kento’s killer) you remained stubborn. You were determined to reclaim some semblance of the "comfortable" life you once had, even if that life now felt like a poorly fitting costume.
Saturday night arrived, and you decided to treat yourself. You were still in your work clothes; a charcoal pencil skirt and a pair of black tights that featured a jagged run down the left calf. You’d meant to replace them, but the unplanned nights at the motel had drained your savings, forcing you to stretch every yen until the next paycheck.
The sizzle of a fifty-percent-off steak filled your small kitchen, a lonely sound in the quiet apartment. You leaned against the counter, swirling a glass of grocery-store wine. As you sipped the cheap, acidic liquid, you caught your reflection in the window. Your eyes had lost their spark, a light that felt buried deep in the damp earth alongside Kento and the comfortable, predictable life you once knew.
By the time the steak was half-eaten, the bottle of wine was more than half-gone. The warmth of the alcohol began to blur the sharp edges of your grief, replacing your caution with a dangerous, lightheaded bravado.
Then, the phone on the counter buzzed.
Satoru.
You stared at his name for three long rings before sliding the bar to answer. You didn't say hello.
"You took your sweet time," you drawled, your voice sounding silkier and slower than usual. You took another gulp of wine, leaning back until your head hit the cool wall. "I thought you’d finally realized I’m a lost cause and went to find a prettier victim to 'protect.'"
There was a pause on the other end, then a low, vibrating chuckle that sent a localized shiver straight down your spine.
"Victim? Is that what we’re calling you now, [Y/N]?" Satoru’s voice was like velvet over gravel. "I prefer the term 'person of interest.' And for the record, I’ve looked—there isn't anyone prettier."
You giggled, a loose, airy sound. "Liar. You just miss having someone to boss around. You miss telling me to put out my cigarettes and change my locks." You swirled the wine, watching the dark liquid stain the glass. "Admit it, Satoru. You’re bored without me."
The line crackled with a sudden, heavy stillness. On the other end, Satoru’s breathing hitched—a tiny, almost imperceptible break in his usual composure. He was used to being the one in control, the one tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. Your sudden, wine-soaked boldness seemed to have knocked him off his axis.
"You’re drunk, [Y/N]," he finally realised, his voice unusually strained. "You’re talking nonsense. You should probably put the glass down and go to bed."
"Don't be a bore, Satoru," you giggled, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the cold linoleum floor. "You're always so... intense. Kento wasn't like that. Kento was... safe."
You took another sip, the wine tasting like iron and cheap grapes. "Did you know we had a schedule? Every Tuesday was pasta. Every Friday was a movie he’d already seen. He’d fall asleep ten minutes in, and I’d just... sit there. Listening to him breathe."
"He cared about you," Satoru said, his voice tight.
"I know he did," you whispered, leaning your head against the kitchen cabinet. "And I stayed because it was comfortable. It was like a warm blanket that was just a little too short, you know? My toes were always cold, but the rest of me was fine. It was boring, Satoru. God, it was so boring. But it didn't hurt. Not like this."
The silence on the other end of the line stretched thin, humming with a tension that the cheap wine couldn't quite dull. You could almost hear the gears turning in Satoru’s head, that clinical, detective side of him warring with the dark spark that ignited every time you challenged him.
"Safety is overrated when it's built on a lie," Satoru finally said, his voice dropping an octave. There was no teasing left in it, only a jagged, cold edge. "But since you’re so fond of the truth tonight, here’s a piece of it: Geto Suguru is a ghost. I’ve spent the last week tearing through every database from here to Kyoto, and it’s a dead end. His files are scrubbed. Not just deleted—scrubbed."
You blinked, the kitchen light suddenly feeling too bright, too clinical. "What do you mean? You saw him on the CCTV. You found his hair..."
"I mean someone went through the system with a blowtorch and left nothing but ash," he interrupted, and you heard the distinct sound of a lighter flicking open, then a sharp, impatient exhale. "I can't track a man who doesn't officially exist. There are no recent bank statements, no medical records, nothing for over a year. He’s gone off the grid completely."
You leaned your head back against the cabinet, the wood hard against your skull. The wine made your thoughts feel like they were swimming through honey. "So... he's a ghost? That's why he can get into my apartment? That's why he could kill Kento without anyone seeing him?"
"He’s a ghost who knows how to haunt," Satoru replied. You could hear him shifting, the sound of fabric rustling. "If I can’t find him in the files, it’s because he’s already inside the perimeter. He’s not a lead anymore, [Y/N]. He’s an apex predator who has successfully erased his own trail."
"Is that why you didn't call?" you whispered, a sudden, sharp spike of vulnerability piercing through your liquid courage. "Because you were afraid you couldn't catch him?"
"I didn't call because I was busy trying to find a reason to keep my distance," he admitted, his voice barely a breath against the receiver. "But you just told me you're tired of being comfortable. And since Geto has effectively vanished from the face of the earth, there’s no one left to pretend this is a standard investigation."
The floor felt colder beneath you. You looked at the shadow of your own hand on the linoleum, trembling just slightly. You didn't know that Geto’s files were scrubbed because Satoru had scrubbed them himself. You didn't know the reason there were no records for the past year was because Geto was rotting in a shallow, unmarked grave Satoru had dug with his own two hands.
"You’re sitting on the floor, aren't you?" Satoru’s voice had shifted. The clinical distance of a detective was gone, replaced by something dark, thick, and demanding.
"Maybe," you whispered, the wine-warmth humming in your ears. "It’s cold. I like the cold. It reminds me I’m still awake."
"Stay there," he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. "I’m ten minutes away. If you’re going to unravel, [Y/N], you aren't going to do it alone."
The click of the line was the only warning you had. True to his word, ten minutes later, the heavy thud of the knocker vibrated through the wood of your front door. You scrambled to your feet, your charcoal skirt twisting around your hips, the run in your tights feeling like a jagged scar against your skin. When you pulled the door open, Satoru was leaning against the frame, his white hair wind-riffled. He held a bottle, something far more expensive than the acidic swill sitting on your counter.
"You look like a disaster," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form with a look that was decidedly not professional.
"And you look like you’re about to tell me more bad news," you retorted, stepping back to let him in. "I see you didn’t come empty handed?"
"It’s an apology for the silence," he said, moving past you into the small kitchen. He didn't ask where the glasses were, he simply found them. He poured two deep, violet-red glasses of a heavy Bordeaux, the scent of oak and dark fruit immediately masking the smell of your burnt steak.
He sat on the small kitchen stool, his long legs taking up nearly all the space in the cramped room. You sat opposite him, the proximity making the air feel thick. As you drank, the conversation about Geto became a background hum. Satoru talked about "erased fingerprints" and "shadow networks," but your focus was on the way his throat moved when he swallowed, and the way his large, elegant hands toyed with the stem of his glass.
The "bravado" from earlier returned, amplified by the superior vintage. "You never answered me, Satoru," you said, your voice leaning into that silky, slow drawl. "About the 'prettier victim.' Is that why you're here? To make sure your favorite specimen hasn't completely spoiled?"
Satoru set his glass down with a controlled deliberate click. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his face inches from yours. The scent of him, cold air and something expensive, overwhelmed the wine.
"I told you," he whispered, his voice vibrating in your chest. "There isn't anyone else. There never was. You think this is an investigation? You think I’ve been spending my nights in the archives for the sake of the precinct?"
He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your face up. The touch was electric, a sharp contrast to the dull ache of the past week. "I’ve been trying to find a version of this story where I don't want to ruin you myself.” Liar. "But you make it so difficult when you talk about how 'safe' Kento was. How 'boring' it was to be loved by a man who didn't understand the fire in you."
"And you do?" you challenged, your breath hitching. "You understand it?"
"I started the fire, [Y/N]," he murmured.
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled you from the chair, his hands sliding down to your waist, dragging you against the hard, unyielding line of his body. The kiss was anything but gentle, it was an invasion, tasting of dark. It was the "intense" reality you had claimed to want, a world away from the "comfortable" Tuesday pasta nights.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft white hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if you could merge your skin with his. He groaned low in his throat, as he hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, scattering the remains of your lonely dinner.
His hands, those large, capable hands that had "scrubbed" the evidence of a dead man, were now tearing at the run in your tights, widening the hole until he could feel the heat of your skin against his palms.
"Kento never touched you like this, did he?" he rasped against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "He never made you forget your own name."
"I don't want to remember it," you gasped, arching your back as his mouth moved lower, marking you in the amber light of the kitchen. "Just... don't let me be safe, Satoru. Not tonight."
"I’m never letting you be safe again," he promised, his voice dark and final.
As he pushed you back against the cold cabinets, his body a heavy, scorching weight over yours, the last of the "comfort" you had clung to dissolved. You were no longer a victim or a person of interest. You were his. And as he moved within you, fierce and relentless, you didn't see the dark triumph in his eyes, the look of a man who had finally closed the cage and watched his prize walk right into the center of it.
The notification banner at the top of your screen felt like a physical blow.
From: Kento
I miss you. Did you forget about me?
Your hands trembled so violently that the phone nearly slipped from your grip, clattering against the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He was still after you. After weeks of silence—weeks where you had almost convinced yourself that the nightmare was fading into the background of your mundane life—he was back. He was still playing with him, using a dead man’s ghost to pull the strings of your heart.
Huddled in a cramped toilet stall in the company building, you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, ripping a few open in a desperate attempt to get air into your lungs. The walls felt like they were shrinking, the sterile scent of bleach suddenly smelling like the iron tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of lilies.
You were hyperventilating, the ragged, shallow gasps echoing off the metal partitions. The last time your chest had felt this tight, this constricted, was the night you had finally broken down and invited Satoru over for takeout. Money had been tight, and the thought of splitting a bill and sharing a meal with a warm, living body in your silent apartment had seemed like the only way to survive the evening. But a simple, unexpected knock at the front door had unlocked the cellar of your fears, sending you into a spiraling panic.
You remembered the way Satoru’s hands had felt that night. Not cold and clinical like a detective's, but heavy and grounding. When the knock had sounded, you had collapsed against the kitchen counter, your vision blurring into static.
Satoru hadn't panicked. He hadn't even looked at the door. He had stepped into your space, his large frame shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't pull you into a hug; instead, he took your wrists and pressed your palms flat against his chest, right over his heart.
"Listen to me, [Y/N]," he had whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to bypass your ears and go straight to your bones. "The door is locked. I am the lock. You don't need to breathe for the whole room, okay? Just breathe for me. Match me."
He had forced you to look into those eyes—those impossible, infinite blue eyes that seemed to pull the chaos out of your head and drown it in an ocean of calm. He didn't let go until your heart rate slowed to match the steady, powerful thrum under his ribs. He had taught you the "5-4-3-2-1" method, grounding your senses until the apartment stopped spinning.
In the stall, you tried to find that anchor again. You pressed your back against the cold metal wall, trying to conjure the memory of his heartbeat.
Five things you can see, you whispered to yourself, your voice a fractured wreck. The grey floor. The silver latch. The shadow of my shoes...
Your phone buzzed again in your lap. Another message.
From: Kento
You look so pretty today. I love that blouse on you. Blue. My favourite color.
The air left your lungs again. He was here. He was in the building. He was watching you. Your fingers flew over the screen, bypassing your recent calls and heading straight for the one name that made the world feel solid.
You didn't care about your pride anymore. You didn't care about the wine-soaked confession from a few nights ago or the fact that he was "scary." You needed the lock. You needed Satoru.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Satoru," you choked out the moment he picked up, your voice breaking. "He's here. Satoru, he's in the building. He's using Kento's phone."
"I know," Satoru’s voice came through the line, eerily calm, accompanied by the muffled sound of footsteps on carpet. "I'm already in the lobby, sweetheart. Stay in the stall. Lock the door. I’m coming up to finish this."
The minutes that followed were a grueling test of your sanity. You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, your fingers dug into your thighs so hard you could feel your nails piercing the fabric of your skirt. Every distant flush of a toilet or the hum of the ventilation system sounded like a footstep, a breath, a blade. You tried to focus on the grounding technique Satoru had taught you, but the memory of his heartbeat felt worlds away from the cold, sterile reality of the office bathroom.
Then, the heavy door to the restroom creaked open.
Your felt your heart skip a beat. You pulled your feet up onto the seat, huddling into a ball, eyes fixed on the gap at the bottom of the stall. You waited for the black shoes of a stranger, for the scent of lilies to drift under the door.
"[Y/N]? It’s me," Satoru’s voice called out. It wasn't the playful, melodic tone he used when he was teasing you. It was low, resonant, and carried a sharp edge of authority that sliced through the silence.
The tension in your body snapped like a violin string. Relief, violent and overwhelming, flooded your chest. You unbolted the latch with trembling fingers and threw the stall door open. You didn't walk—you collided with him, crashing face-first into his chest before he could even reach out for you.
Only then did the dam break. A jagged, broken sob escaped your throat as you clawed at the expensive fabric of his suit, your face buried in his shirt. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered, your tears hot and frantic as they soaked into his chest.
"Shhh, I’ve got you," he whispered. His hands came up, one resting firmly on the small of your back while the other cupped the back of your head, pressing you closer. "You’re okay. I’m here."
As he shifted to hold you more securely, your hands slid down his torso, and your knuckles brushed against something cold and heavy holstered at his hip. You pulled back just an inch, your blurry eyes catching the dull, metallic glint of a small revolver. The sight of the weapon was a jarring reminder of the violence that followed him, but in your state, it felt like a promise of safety.
Satoru’s gaze dropped, sweeping over your disheveled appearance. In your panic, you had left several buttons of your blouse undone, and the thin fabric was pulled wide, revealing the lace of your bra and the frantic rise and fall of your chest.
His jaw tightened, a flash of something dark and unreadable flickering in his blue eyes. Without a word, he reached up and unbuttoned his own charcoal blazer. He shrugged it off and draped it over your shoulders. It was heavy and still held the warmth of his body, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the faint, ozonic scent of police station he’s been previously. It swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh, effectively shielding you from the world.
"Button up, sweets," he murmured, his fingers lingering on the lapel of the jacket near your neck. "You’re shivering."
"He was... he was right there, Satoru," you choked out, clutching the oversized blazer around you. "The messages... he saw me. He saw what I was wearing."
Satoru’s expression went stone-cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, his thumb sliding across the screen with clinical precision.
"I know. I've already alerted the security team to lock down the floor," he said, though his eyes never left your face. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you, tall and indestructible. "He’s not getting out of this building. And he’s certainly never getting this close to you again. I made a mistake letting you out of my sight for a week. I won't make it again."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek. His touch was lingering, almost possessive. "From now on, you stay where I can see you. Understood?"
The following night, precisely at midnight, you found yourself back in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of his private investigation wing. The office was swallowed in darkness, save for the solitary, amber glow of a desk lamp that carved Satoru’s silhouette out of the shadows.
To keep your hands from shaking, you were mindlessly chewing on some expensive butter cookies he’d claimed he bought specifically for you. But even the sweetness felt like ash in your mouth. What dominated the room now was the massive corkboard that had appeared since your last visit. It was a chaotic, spider-webbed mess of red string, grainy surveillance photos, and typed police reports.
In the center of the web sat a photograph of the infamous Geto Suguru.
Seeing the face of the man who had supposedly butchered Kento made your stomach turn. His long, dark hair and the cold, narrowed slant of his purple eyes made you gag. If you could, you would have reached into the photo and gouged those eyes out with your bare fingers. You hated him with a visceral, jagged intensity—never knowing that the man you despised was just another victim, discarded and buried by the true architect of this nightmare.
"I’m sorry for the late hour," Satoru said, his voice smooth and low, vibrating through the quiet room. He stood by the window, his back to the light, making him look like a towering wall of shadow. "But things are moving faster than I anticipated. I didn't want you sitting at home alone when I found... this."
He stepped toward the desk, his long fingers sliding a weathered, leather-bound notebook across the polished wood toward you.
"I went back to the location his car was found," he lied, his tone dropping into a grave, professional cadence. "The crime scene technicians missed it. It was thrown in some bush a few feet away from the parking spot. It’s Geto’s diary. Or at least, his manifest of obsession."
You reached for the book, your fingers trembling. As you pulled it closer, you noticed a stack of police reports pinned to the corkboard beside the diary. You leaned in, your brow furrowing as you scanned the dates stamped in red ink.
March 2024. June 2024. August 2024.
"Satoru," you whispered, your heart beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "These reports... all of them. They’re from a year ago. Some even eighteen months back. Why is there nothing recent? Why does the trail stop so long ago if he only just killed Kento?"
Satoru didn't miss a beat. He stepped into the light, his expression a perfect mask of grim concern. He leaned over the desk, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes reflecting the amber lamp light like molten glass.
"That’s what makes him so dangerous, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice thick with a fake, heavy solemnity. "He went underground to prepare for you. He spent over a year scrubbing his life, living in the walls, becoming a ghost so that when he finally struck, there would be no paper trail left to follow. He wasn't idle for those eighteen months. He was practicing."
He tapped the leather cover of the diary.
"Read it. He talks about 'waiting for the fruit to ripen.' He was waiting for you to get bored of Kento. He was waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and claim what he thinks is his."
You opened the first page, the ink looking fresh despite the "age" of the book. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and utterly terrifying.
"She wore the blue dress again today," the first entry read. "The one that makes her look like she’s already drowning. Kento touched her arm at the bus stop. I’ll have to take that arm first."
The cookie you had been chewing felt like a lead weight in your throat. You looked up at Satoru, the "hero" who had found the evidence the police were too blind to see, unaware that the ink on those pages was barely dry.
The paper felt cold beneath your fingertips, but the words burned. You read the entry again, your stomach twisting into a hard, sick knot.
"I found a strand of her hair on the bus seat. It’s thinner than I expected. I keep it in my mouth sometimes, just to feel her against my tongue..."
A bile-flavored heat rose in your throat. You instinctively reached up, touching the ends of your hair as if you could feel his phantom touch lingering there. The thought of a man—of Geto—sitting where you sat, tasting a part of you, made the air in the office feel thin and tainted.
You slammed the diary shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. You couldn't do it. Your hands were shaking so violently that the leather felt like it was vibrating with the same sickness that filled the pages. You pushed the book away, your chair screeching against the floor as you tried to create distance between yourself and that ink.
"I can’t... I can't read anymore," you choked out, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "It’s too much, Satoru. It’s not just stalking, it’s... it’s a desecration."
But Satoru didn't let the silence settle. His hand, large and steady, reached past you and reclaimed the book. He didn't put it away. Instead, he flipped it open to a later page, his eyes scanning the lines with a terrifying, clinical focus.
"You need to understand the depth of it, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that made the hair on your arms stand up. "You need to see exactly why Kento never stood a chance."
He began to read, his voice steady, almost melodic, as he recited the words he had drafted in the dark.
"He is a shackle. A heavy, iron weight around her neck that she calls 'love.' Every time he touches her, he leaves a mark of mediocrity on her skin..."
"Stop it," you whispered, but Satoru stepped closer, his presence looming over you, the amber light casting long, distorted shadows of him against the wall of evidence.
"I need to cut the chain," he continued, ignoring your plea. He was reading with a strange kind of intensity, as if he were savoring the weight of the syllables. "I need to see her scream so that, for once, she feels something more intense than 'comfortable.' Red is a much better color for her than grey."
The room felt like it was spinning. The word comfortable hit you like a physical blow. It was the exact word you had used to describe your life with Kento just nights ago, while you were slumped on your kitchen floor, drunk and vulnerable.
"He knew," you whispered, your voice trembling. "He knew I was bored. He knew I felt trapped. How could a monster understand me better than the man I shared a bed with for almost a year?"
Satoru closed the diary slowly, the "thud" of the cover sounding final. He looked down at you, his blue eyes unreadable behind the glow of the lamp. He didn't look horrified for you; he looked like a man who had finally proven a point.
"Geto wasn't always a monster, [Y/N]," Satoru said, his voice dropping into a low, conversational tone that felt dangerously intimate. "Before he went off the rails, he was a detective. A good one. He had this... obsession with 'wrongdoers.' He wanted to purge the city of anyone he deemed a 'monkey'—the people who made the world stagnant, boring, and corrupt."
He stepped closer, closing the distance until the tips of his shoes brushed yours.
"The problem was, Geto started seeing everyone as a wrongdoer. He became a threat to the very society he was supposed to protect. He was judge, jury, and executioner." Satoru leaned down, his voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper. "And he was obsessed with you because he saw how Kento was stifling you. He thought killing Kento was an act of justice. A 'cleansing.'"
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Is that why you couldn't find his files? Because he was a detective? Because he knew how to hide?"
"Exactly," Satoru lied, his face a mask of perfect, tragic sincerity. "He knew the system because he helped build it."
The weekend before everything shattered—long before the drunk confession and the suffocating glow of the evidence room—you found yourself sitting in a quiet office on the edge of the city. It was a space of muted tones and soft shadows, smelling faintly of medicinal herbs and the ghost of expensive tobacco.
You hadn’t chosen to be here. Satoru had practically choreographed the appointment, handing you a card with a name embossed in silver: Dr. Shoko Ieiri.
"You’re fraying at the edges, sweets," he had whispered that morning, his thumb tracing the dark circles under your eyes with a tenderness that felt like a bruise. "I can’t be the only one holding you together. Talk to Shoko. She’s... an old friend. She knows how to handle people like us."
Now, sitting across from her, you realized "people like us" meant the broken and the haunted. Shoko was beautiful in a way that felt exhausted, her eyes heavy with the weight of a thousand secrets she’d been paid to keep. She didn't look at you with Satoru’s manic intensity, rather she looked at you with a clinical, bone-deep weariness.
"Satoru said you were having trouble," Shoko began, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. She didn't have a notepad out. She just watched you. "He’s been very... vocal about your well-being lately."
"I feel like I'm losing him," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And the worst part is, I’m letting it happen. Every day Kento feels further away, like a photograph left in the sun until the faces are just white blurs."
Shoko tilted her head, her gaze tracking the way your fingers restlessly picked at the hem of Satoru’s oversized hoodie, the one you had started wearing like a second skin. "Loss isn't a single event, [Y/N]. It’s a series of disappearances. What are you letting go of today?"
"The guilt," you admitted, the word tasting like copper. "I’m growing closer to Satoru. He’s been my shadow since the funeral. He handles the bills, he handles the police, he even handles the way I breathe. But when I’m with him—when he makes me laugh or when I feel that spark of something that isn't grief—I feel like I’m cheating. I feel like every step toward Satoru is a shovel of dirt on Kento’s grave."
You looked up at her, your eyes burning. "I loved Kento. He was my home. But Satoru is... he’s a sun. It’s hard not to look at him. And then I hate myself for looking."
Shoko reached for a silver case on her desk, clicking it open but not taking a cigarette. She just stared at the contents. "Satoru has a way of becoming the only thing in a person's peripheral vision. He’s been like that since we were students. He doesn't just enter a life, he occupies it until there’s no room left for anything else."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a warning. "Grief makes us grab for the nearest hand in the dark. Sometimes, we don't realize that hand is the one that turned the lights off in the first place."
The comment felt strange, a jagged edge in a smooth conversation. "He’s the only one who cares about the case," you defended. "The police have basically given up. Satoru is the only one who sees Geto for what he is."
A flicker of something (pity, perhaps) crossed Shoko’s face at the mention of the name Geto. She looked like she wanted to scream, but instead, she reached for her prescription pad. The pen scratched against the paper with a rhythmic, decisive sound.
"You aren't 'cheating' on a dead man by trying to survive the day," Shoko said firmly. "But your brain is stuck in a loop of trauma and hyper-vigilance. Satoru told me you aren't sleeping. He told me you're starting to imagine things."
"I'm not imagining the stalker," you snapped, a defensive heat rising in your chest.
"I didn't say you were," Shoko replied calmly, sliding the slip of paper toward you. "These are antidepressants. Specifically, they help with the obsessive loops of grief and the paranoia that comes with prolonged trauma. They’ll help lower the volume of the noise in your head."
She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a final plea.
"Take these. They won't make you forget Kento, but they might help the fog lift enough so you can see Satoru for what he actually is, rather than just a liferaft."
"And what is he?" you asked, clutching the prescription.
Shoko stood up, the session over. "He’s a man who hates to lose. Especially when it comes to things he thinks belong to him. Be careful, [Y/N]. Clarity can be a very dangerous thing when you’re living in a house built on lies."
As you walked out, the prescription felt heavy in your pocket. You felt relieved that Satoru had sent you here, convinced that his "concern" was the only thing keeping you alive.
The next day, you were beyond exhausted. Both mentally and physically, you were a wreck. All the all-nighters you’d pulled (either because of Satoru’s late-night "updates" or the paralyzing grip of fear) were finally crashing down on you like wild ocean waves. Your diet for the past few weeks had consisted of lukewarm vending machine snacks, half-priced expired convenience store meals, and enough energy drinks to make your heart flutter like a trapped bird.
To say all you wanted to do was dig a hole and die in it was an understatement—no pun intended.
You were huddled in the breakroom, trying to coax a bit of warmth out of a paper cup of bitter coffee, when voices drifted in from the hallway. You froze.
"I’m just saying, it’s a bit much, isn't it?"
It was Reina, a girl from accounting who had always looked at you like you were something she’d stepped in. Her voice was sharp, laced with that faux-pity that made your skin crawl.
"I saw that guy who came to pick her up the other day. White hair, designer suit, looks like he stepped off a runway," Reina continued, followed by the sound of a locker slamming shut. "Of course she’d move on that fast. We all know [Y/N] only likes the high-end models. She doesn't deserve guys like that."
"But what about Nanami?" another voice asked, though it sounded hesitant.
"Please," Reina scoffed, and you could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Remember when she friend-zoned Tanaka from HR a few months before she got with Nanami? Tanaka was sweet, stable, and actually had his life together. But the whole office knows why she turned him down—he was average. Plain. Just another face in the crowd."
You gripped your cup tighter, the cardboard beginning to give way under your fingers.
"Nanami was only a placeholder," Reina whispered, her voice dropping but still perfectly audible in the quiet room. "He was decent-looking enough to keep her satisfied for a while, but the second a guy like that detective shows up? She drops the act. She’s probably thrilled to have an excuse to be around someone with money and looks for once. It’s pathetic, really. Using a tragedy to trade up."
The coffee splashed over your knuckles, stinging and hot, but it was nothing compared to the white-hot flash of rage and grief that ignited in your chest. You weren't even thinking when you stood up. Your vision blurred at the edges, partly from the lack of sleep, partly from the pills Satoru had insisted you take, but mostly from the sheer, jagged unfairness of it all.
You didn't see a colleague. You saw a target for every ounce of pain you’d been forced to swallow.
"Say that again," you rasped, stepping out of the breakroom.
Reina jumped, her hand flying to her throat as she saw you. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were bloodshot. "I—[Y/N], we were just—"
"Say it again," you hissed, your voice cracking as you took a step toward her. "Tell me more about how I didn't love him. Tell me how I'm 'trading up.'"
The girl’s face went from pale to defiant. "Look at yourself! You’re a mess, and you’re riding around in luxury cars with a man who looks like he owns half the city while your boyfriend isn't even cold yet. It’s disgusting."
The snap was audible. You didn't just slap her. No. You lunged, your fingers hooking into the lapel of her blouse as you drove her back against the lockers. The sound of metal hitting metal rang out like a bell, and for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like a victim.
The impact of Reina’s head hitting the lockers made a hollow, booming sound that seemed to vibrate through your very teeth. For a second, the office fell into a deathly silence, the only sound being your own ragged, hyperventilating gasps.
"You don't know anything!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat, raw and jagged. "You think this is a choice? You think I wanted this?"
Your nails dug into her shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, you wanted to keep going. You wanted to claw the judgmental smirk off her face, to make her feel even a fraction of the suffocating, lightless void you woke up in every morning. Reina’s eyes were wide with genuine terror, her hands fumbling at your wrists to pry you off.
"Someone get HR!" she shrieked. "She’s crazy! She’s actually lost it!"
The intervention was swift. Two men from the sales department grabbed your arms, hauling you back. You fought them, kicking and snarling like a cornered animal, until the adrenaline peaked and then vanished, leaving you limp and sobbing in their grip.
By the time the police arrived, called by a trembling office anager, you were sitting on the floor, your back against the very lockers you’d slammed Reina into. You looked hollowed out.
The fluorescent lights of the police station were unforgiving as always. You sat in a small wooden chair, your head spinning from the antidepressant you’d taken that morning on an empty stomach. You felt like you were floating three inches above your own body.
An older officer, Officer Ito, sat across from you, tapping a pen against a stack of paperwork. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
"Look, Reina is pressing charges for assault. She’s got a bruise on her shoulder and she’s claiming workplace trauma," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But I see your name in our system. You’re the complainant in the Nanami homicide, right?"
"Yes," you whispered, clutching the hem of your blazer, which felt like the only thing keeping you from dissolving. "I’m... I’m being stalked. Geto Suguru. Detective Gojo said he’s the one who did it. I’m just... I'm not in my right mind."
Ito paused. He stopped tapping his pen. He looked at you, then at the computer screen, then back to you. A strange, twisted little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a dry, cynical laugh that sounded like dead leaves skittering on pavement.
"Detective Gojo, huh? Satoru Gojo?" Ito shook his head. "Honey, I don't know what kind of game that hotshot is playing, but Geto Suguru hasn't stalked anyone in a long time. We found his body in a warehouse over a year ago. Blunt force trauma to the neck. Case is long since closed."
The world stopped.
"Dead?" you repeated, the word tasting like copper. "But... the diary. The messages. Satoru showed me the evidence room. He said he was tracking him."
"Then he’s tracking a ghost," Ito said, standing up to grab a coffee. "Maybe he’s just trying to keep you calm, but the man’s been in the ground for fourteen months. You can’t be stalked by a corpse."
You didn't remember leaving the station. You didn't remember the taxi ride back to Satoru’s penthouse. Your mind was a frantic, looping reel of the last few weeks.
If Geto was dead... Who wrote the diary? Who killed Kento?
The answer was so loud it was deafening, but your drugged brain kept trying to reject it. You walked into the penthouse, your footsteps silent on the expensive marble.
Satoru was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights reflecting off his white hair like a crown. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, looking every bit the savior you had prayed for.
"You’re home late," he said, his voice smooth as silk. He didn't turn around. "I heard about the incident at work. I’ve already handled the legal side of it. Reina won't be a problem anymore."
You stood by the door, your hand on the latch. "Satoru... I saw a policeman today. At the station."
Satoru went still. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Oh?" he murmured, finally turning to look at you. His blindfold was off, those terrifying, beautiful blue eyes locking onto yours with the precision of a hawk. "And what did the policeman have to say?"
You looked at the man who had held you while you cried, the man who had clothed you and fed you and "protected" you. You wanted to scream 'Why did you lie?' but the sheer power radiating off him made your throat lock. You realized with a jolt of pure horror that if you confronted him now, you would never walk out of this room.
"He... he said the case is difficult," you lied, your voice trembling. "That there are no leads. He said I should just... trust you."
Satoru’s tension vanished instantly. He smiled, that dazzling, blinding smile that you used to find comforting. He crossed the room in two long strides, cupping your face in his large, warm hands.
"Smart man," Satoru whispered. "You look exhausted, [Y/N]. Your brain is working too hard. Here."
He reached for a small silver tray on the side table, picking up a glass of water and a small, white pill. Not your usual antidepressant. This one was different.
"Take this. It’s a sedative. Just for tonight," he urged, his thumb stroking your lower lip. "You’ve had a traumatic day. Let me take the weight for a while. Drink."
You looked at the pill. You looked at the man who had murdered your life just to build a new one around you. You took the pill, and as the water hit your throat, you realized Satoru wasn't just the cure.
He was the one who had made you sick in the first place.
The truth was, you didn’t know what the medicine Shoko gave you was actually supposed to do. Genuinely. You hadn't bothered to read the side effects or the clinical pamphlets, you had just trusted the weary weight in her voice. But as the days bled into one another, you realized the "leveling" she promised was more like a total burial.
The realization hit you one afternoon. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching a framed photo of Kento, the one taken at a small seaside bakery where the flour had dusted his nose and he’d actually let out a genuine, unburdened laugh. It was your favorite piece of him. You waited for the familiar, agonizing chest pains to arrive. You waited for the sob to catch in your throat, for the hot tears to blur the glass, for the visceral scream of why? to tear through your mind.
But nothing happened.
Your heart beat in a steady, dull rhythm. Your eyes felt dry, almost sandy. You looked at his face, the man who was your entire world once, and felt like you were looking at a stranger in a textbook. You were hollow. The medicine had built a glass wall between your soul and your grief.
"I can't feel him," you whispered into the empty room, your voice flat. "Kento, I can't find you."
"That's because you're finally healing, sweets."
The floorboards didn't even creak. Satoru was suddenly there, casting a long, elegant shadow over you. He sat on the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight, and draped a heavy, warm arm around your shoulders. He didn't look at the photo. He only looked at you.
"I... I should be crying, Satoru," you said, turning the photo toward him, your hands trembling despite the chemical chill in your veins. "Why can't I cry? It’s like I’m forgetting how to love him."
Satoru’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, gently pulling your head to rest against his chest. You could hear his heart.
"You aren't forgetting," he murmured, his chin resting atop your head. "You're just evolving. Shoko’s medicine is doing exactly what it’s meant to do—it’s silencing the noise so you can finally hear me."
He took the photograph from your limp fingers and set it face-down on the nightstand. The click of the frame hitting the wood sounded like a coffin lid closing.
"Kento wouldn't want you to be a slave to the past," Satoru lied, his voice a honeyed caress that vibrated through your skull. "He was a simple man. He’d want you to be taken care of. He’d want you to be happy. And you are happy now, aren't you? No more screaming. No more waking up in a cold sweat."
You leaned into him, not because you wanted to, but because the pills made the alternative—standing up, fighting, feeling—seem like an impossible chore. You felt like a ghost haunting your own body.
"I feel so empty," you breathed against his shirt.
"Empty is good," Satoru whispered, his grip tightening just a fraction, a silent claim of ownership. "Empty means there's finally room for me to fill the gaps. Just breathe, [Y/N]. Let the medicine do the work. I’ll do the rest."
At the time, you thought it was mercy.
You placed the dark pill on your tongue and swallowed quickly, washing down the acrid, sour flavor with a gulp of water. Shoko had prescribed you low-dose antidepressants to be taken once a day, but since Satoru himself said those were useless for your "unique condition," you believed him. He has been friends with Shoko for a long time now. He surely knows what he’s doing, right? You switched to the new pills he provided instead. A higher dosage, twice a day, with eight to twelve hours between them. Or was it twelve to twenty-four? You couldn't quite remember. The days had begun to bleed together into a soft, hazy blur, but it didn't matter. Satoru was always there to remind you.
The evening was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the kitchen’s pendant lights. Satoru had decided that tonight was a celebration because you were "finally feeling like yourself again." He had brought home a bottle of vintage Romanée-Conti and a bag of handmade pasta that cost more than your monthly rent used to.
One moment, you were staring at the big window in the living room, trying to remember what you had been doing—had you been looking for your keys? Watching the rain? Was it raining, huh?—and the next, you were standing by the stove. The transition felt like a jump-cut in a film, the middle of the reel simply snipped away by a pair of invisible shears.
His voice didn't come from behind you. It seemed to resonate from within the very air. His chest was a solid, immovable wall against your back, and his arms draped over your shoulders like heavy silk ropes. He was guiding your hand, which held a wooden spoon, stirring a thick, red sauce that bubbled like a lava pool.
"The wine, [Y/N]. Sip it. It’s a 1945 Romanée-Conti. It tastes like history," he whispered into your ear. His breath was hot and smelled faintly of expensive sugar.
You lifted the crystal glass. Your arm felt like it belonged to someone else, moving with a strange, lagging latency. The wine was deep, almost black, and as it hit your tongue, it didn't taste like grapes. It tasted thick, cloying, and deceptively sweet, like overripe fruit beginning to ferment into rot.
"Is it good?" he asked, his chin resting on your shoulder, his white hair tickling your cheek. He looked like a masterpiece in the amber light. "I bought it to celebrate. You're so much better today."
"I... I don't remember buying the pasta," you slurred, the words feeling like marbles in your mouth. You looked down at the counter. When had the flour gotten there? Why were there three plates set when it was just the two of you? You blinked. Once. Then twice. There were only two. Were you hallucinatinh?
"I did everything, my love," he hummed, his hand sliding down to cover yours on the spoon, forcing you to stir faster. The rhythm was hypnotic. Swish. Thud. Swish. Thud. "You just had to show up. You’re the guest of honor in your own life now. Isn't that wonderful? No more decisions. No more 'grey' days."
He picked up a strand of pasta with his bare fingers, oblivious to the heat, and held it to your lips. You opened your mouth instinctively, like a fledgling bird. He fed you, his thumb lingering on your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the skin until he forced your mouth to close.
"Delicious," he whispered, though you couldn't actually taste anything through the cotton-wool fog in your brain.
He began to sway, pulling you into a slow, rhythmic dance while the sauce hissed and spat on the burner behind you. The room felt like it was spinning on a tilted axis. The expensive cabinetry, the designer appliances, the smell of garlic and expensive perfume, it was all so perfect it felt nauseating. It was a dollhouse version of domesticity, and you were the porcelain figure he was repositioning to suit his whim.
"You love me, don't you?" he asked. It was a directive. He tilted your head back, his fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh of your jaw to keep you from looking away from his blinding gaze.
"I... I think so," you breathed, the ceiling fan above him swirling into a halo of distorted blades.
"You do," he corrected with a smile that was far too wide, his teeth gleaming like ivory. "You love me because I'm the only one left. Everyone else... they were just shadows. I'm the only thing that's real."
He kissed you then—a deep, suffocating kiss that tasted of iron and vintage wine. You leaned into him, not because of passion, but because your legs no longer felt capable of holding your weight.
The cold night air, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of the kitchen you were just in, bit at your exposed skin and flushed your cheeks a deep, frantic crimson. One moment, the smell of garlic and thick, red sauce had been drowning you, the next, you were inhaling the thin, icy oxygen of the heights and the thick smoke of Satoru’s freshly lit ciggarete.
Where were you? You blinked, your eyelashes heavy with the sedative’s weight. This was the balcony, a sprawling concrete tongue lashing out into the void of the city. You were so high up in the sky that the world below had ceased to be human. The people were ants, the cars were glowing embers, and the sound of the wind was a low, mournful howl that seemed to be screaming the things you couldn't remember.
"Careful, [Y/N]. It's a long way down for someone who can't even stand straight."
Satoru’s voice didn't come from the door. He was already there, leaning against the railing with a glass of that ink-dark wine in his hand, looking like a god who had grown bored of the stars.
He moved toward you. He didn't walk so much as he glided across the space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body began to fight the night chill on your skin. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around your waist to steady you as you swayed.
"Did we... did we finish dinner?" you asked, your voice a slurred whisper that the wind tried to steal. You looked back at the glass doors, but they seemed miles away, the interior of the penthouse glowing like a distant, unreachable planet. "I don't remember walking out here."
"You didn't," he murmured, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He pulled you flush against him, his arm a heavy, unyielding bar of iron around your middle. "I carried you. You were so tired, sweetheart. You fell asleep for a little while right there at the table. I didn't want the smell of the food to make you nauseous, so I brought you out for some fresh air."
He lied with such effortless grace that for a second, your drugged brain wanted to thank him. He steered you toward the edge, forcing you to look down at the dizzying drop. The height made your stomach lurch.
"Look at them," Satoru whispered, his chin resting on your shoulder. "All those little people down there, scurrying to jobs they hate, coming home to lives that don't matter. They're so small, aren't they? So fragile. One gust of wind and they’d just... vanish."
His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip.
"I’m the only thing holding you up here," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum that seemed to echo inside your ribcage. "Without me, you’d be just like them. Lost in the grey. But up here, with me, you’re part of the sky. You’re the only thing I need to see, [Y/N]."
You leaned back into him, your strength failing. You couldn't remember the policeman's laugh. You couldn't remember Kento’s laugh, either. All you knew was the freezing wind on your face and the terrifying, absolute safety of Satoru’s arms.
"You're shaking," he noted, a dark, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He turned you around in the narrow space between his body and the railing, lifting your chin until you were forced to drown in those infinite blue eyes. "Is it the cold? Or are you finally realizing how much you need me to keep you from falling?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He tilted your head back, his lips pressing against the pulse point in your neck, right where the blood was thrumming a frantic, trapped rhythm. As the city lights blurred into a singular, glowing smear, you felt the last of your will dissolve. You were miles above the truth, trapped in the clouds with the man who had turned your life into a beautiful, terrifying hallucination.
Another week dissolved into a hazy, indistinguishable blur. If someone had pulled you aside and asked what had happened over those seven days, you wouldn't have been able to give them an answer. You couldn’t remember yesterday, or the day before that. Even the present moment felt like a fever dream. A strange, echoing sense of déjà vu where every action felt like something you had already performed in a previous life.
It was uncomfortable. It made you want to cry, yet no tears would fall. It felt as though your tear ducts were blocked by a backlog of sorrowful memories, memories that felt like they didn't quite belong to you. And yet, the strangest part was that you didn't feel sad.
You just felt like you were floating.
Driven by a sudden, jagged spark of instinct that managed to pierce through the fog, you decided to see Dr. Ieiri again. You waited until Satoru was away at work, presumably (hopefully) still investigating Kento’s case. You hadn't heard any updates in months. Or maybe you had? The memories were like smoke; the harder you tried to grasp them, the faster they thinned out.
The office was a tomb of silence, the only sound the rhythmic, liquid clicking of a clock on the wall that seemed to beat out of time with your own heart. Shoko Ieiri sat behind her desk, a silhouette framed by the dying light of a Tokyo afternoon. She didn't look at you when you sat down. Instead, she was meticulously cleaning a pair of surgical scissors with a piece of gauze, the rhythmic snip-slide the only sound in the room.
"You're late for your follow-up, [Y/N]," Shoko murmured, her voice a low, raspy vibration. "Or perhaps you’re early for the next collapse. It’s hard to tell these days."
"I... I can't keep track of the time," you admitted, your hands trembling in your lap. You tried to focus on a jar of cotton swabs on her desk, but the edges of the glass seemed to bleed into the shadows behind it. "Satoru says it's the grief. He says the brain shuts down the 'unnecessary' functions when the trauma is too high. He’s been so patient, Shoko. He brings me my medicine every night. He says I’m getting better, even if I feel like I’m disappearing. He’s too nice.."
Shoko stopped cleaning the scissors. She finally looked up, her dark, sunken eyes tracing the sluggish movement of your pupils. She didn't ask about the dosage. She didn't ask about the symptoms. She simply reached for a cigarette, her movements deliberate and hauntingly slow.
"Satoru has always had a very specific definition of 'better,'" Shoko said, blowing a thin, grey ribbon of smoke into the space between you. "To a man who sees everything, a person who sees nothing is much easier to manage. It’s a matter of perspective."
"What do you mean?" The fog in your head pulsed, a dull throb behind your eyes.
Shoko leaned back, her chair creaking like a floorboard in an empty house. "Tell me about the 'ghost' he’s chasing for you. The one who killed Kento. Suguru, wasn't it?"
"Yes," you whispered, the name feeling like a curse. "He’s everywhere. Satoru finds his traces constantly. A hair, a scent, a message... he says he’s closing the net. He says once he catches him, I’ll finally be safe."
Shoko tilted her head, a ghost of a bitter smile playing on her lips. She didn't deny Geto’s existence. She didn't tell you he was dead. Instead, she picked up a small, anatomical model of a human heart from her desk, turning it over in her hands.
"A predator doesn't always hunt to kill, [Y/N]. Sometimes, they hunt to herd," she said cryptically. "If you want to keep a bird from flying away, you don't necessarily have to clip its wings. You just have to make it believe the sky is full of hawks. You make the cage the only place where the hawks can't reach."
She set the heart down with a heavy thud.
"Satoru is an artist of the 'Impossible,'" she continued, her gaze locking onto yours with a sudden, piercing clarity that cut through your sedation. "He can make an entire city vanish if he chooses. He can make a dead man walk, if that dead man is the only thing keeping you running into his arms. He’s very good at filling the 'grey' spaces with monsters of his own design."
You felt a cold shiver crawl down your spine, despite the heat of the office. "Shoko... you’re scaring me."
"Good," she rasped, leaning forward until the scent of tobacco was all you could breathe. "Fear is an instinct. It’s the only part of you he hasn't been able to medicate into silence yet. Why do you think he gives you those black pills himself? Why doesn't he let you go to the pharmacy? A doctor prescribes to heal, but a master prescribes to maintain."
She glanced at the door, her expression shifting back to that mask of weary indifference.
"I can't give you a new prescription, [Y/N]. Not while you’re already 'well-tended' by the strongest man in Tokyo. But I will tell you this: the next time he tells you he found a trace of a ghost, look at his hands. Really look at them. See if there’s any dirt under his fingernails from the grave he’s digging for you. Or if there’s any ink on his skin from the 'diary' he’s writing in your name."
She stood up, the session abruptly over.
"Don't look for the ghost chasing you, sweetheart. Look for the man holding the key to the door. Clarity isn't a gift Satoru gives, it’s a threat to his peace. And Satoru hates being disturbed."
The meeting the other day made your head spin. You couldn't understand everything Shoko hinted at, but you knew one thing: Satoru wasn't the protector you thought he was. In fact, he might be the very monster you had been looking for over the past four months.
For the last twenty-four hours, you had played a dangerous game. You swallowed the pills he gave you, only to rush to the bathroom and forcefully heave them into the toilet the moment he turned his back. The physical toll was exhausting, but the mental clarity was electric. You felt lucid, brave enough to seek the answers you craved on your own.
You were going to solve this case yourself. The detective assigned to it wasn't doing his job properly, or perhaps he was. Either way, you were going to do it better.
During the weeks you stayed at Satoru’s penthouse, thinking he was protecting you (only to realize he was practically caging you with the beast you were fleeing), you had memorized his schedule. You knew when he was at work, when he was at home, and the gaps in between where he simply vanished.
You walked straight into the lion's den: the police station. You weren't there to seek Satoru’s comfort. You were there to find Officer Ito, the man responsible for the charges that dumb bitch had tried to press against you. He was the only one who had spoken to you like a human being, and the only one left who might tell you the truth without Satoru’s shadow looming over the conversation, since you understood Shoko wanted to part in this.
You found Ito in the basement’s archive room, a subterranean tomb of windowless concrete and the smell of decaying glue. He looked up from a stack of paperwork, his eyes widening behind his spectacles. Seeing you without your "shadow" was clearly a shock to his system.
"Miss [F/N]?" Ito stood up, adjusting his glasses. "Gojo isn't with you? I thought he had you on..." a leash, he was probably trying to say. "well, I thought you were resting."
"I’m tired of resting, Officer," you said, your voice steadier than it had been in months. You sat across from him, leaning into his space. "I need to ask you about the lead suspect in Kento’s case. Geto Suguru. I need to see his file. Not the one on the computer—the hard copy."
Ito froze, his hand hovering over a stapler. He looked at you with a mixture of confusion and a dawning, terrible realization. "The Geto file? [F/N], why are you asking me about that again? I told you months ago, back at the station when this all started... Suguru Geto is a closed case."
The fog in your brain, already thinning from the lack of black pills, suddenly tore wide open. You remembered. A fleeting comment in a hallway, a stray remark officer Ito had—something about a "deceased associate." Satoru had been right there. He had laughed it off, told you Ito was confused, that he was thinking of a different case. And in your grief-stricken state, you had believed the god and ignored the man.
"You told me he was dead," you whispered, the words tasting like copper. "But Satoru said... he said Geto was stalking me. He showed me the CCTV. He said Geto killed Kento."
Ito let out a shaky breath and walked to the back of the room. He pulled a thin, battered folder from a drawer labeled EXHIBIT: CLOSED and slapped it onto the desk.
"I don't know what Gojo has been feeding you, but I saw the body myself a year ago," Ito hissed, leaning in so close you could see the sweat on his brow. "Shinjuku warehouse. It wasn't a mystery. Satoru was the one who called it in."
Ito paused, a haunted look crossing his face as if he were seeing the scene play out on the office's peeling wallpaper.
"He was sitting in the dirt right next to the corpse, his hands stained to the elbows. But it was his face, [F/N]... I’ve never seen him like that. He looked so devastatingly sad, like the world had ended right there in that warehouse. His eyes, well.. what I could see of them, and even the tips of his ears were bloodshot, bright red, like he’d been crying for hours. It was a mess. He just looked up at us and told us he’d 'taken care of it.' We didn't ask questions. You don't ask the strongest detective in the country questions when he decides a case is over."
You opened the folder. There it was. The coroner's photo—a man with long dark hair, his eyes closed, looking peaceful in a way that made your skin crawl. Beneath it was the cremation authorization, signed in Satoru’s arrogant, sprawling cursive.
Your eyes scanned the medical examiner’s summary, freezing on a single, clinical line, Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma; catastrophic head injury.
Ito’s voice softened then, a rare note of genuine pity cutting through his nervousness. "They were inseparable, you know? Best friends since their college days. Classmates, partners... they were the 'strongest duo' everyone talked about back then. It’s a tragedy, honestly. I’m just sorry they had to be separated by fate like that. To lose someone who was practically your other half... it changes a man."
The paper felt like ice against your fingertips. Separated by fate. Ito believed it was a tragedy of circumstance, a mourning friend found at a crime scene. But as you stared at the description of the injury—the sheer violence required to cause "catastrophic" trauma—the fog in your mind vanished.
Satoru hadn't been "separated" from Geto by fate. He had been the one to end him. And now, he was using the ghost of the man he killed to keep you from realizing he had likely done the exact same thing to Kento.
The realization tasted sour on your tongue.
The walk home felt refreshing, even after hearing such news from Gojo’s colleague. It felt good because, for the first time in months, you knew. The truth was a cold, sharp blade, and finally, you could begin to plan your revenge.
To truly settle this realization deep in your bones, you needed one final piece of evidence: Kento’s phone. The device Satoru had used to torment you with "Geto’s" messages for what felt like an eternity. You didn't know if he still had it; now that he had you physically in his grasp, the digital psychological warfare was no longer necessary. He might have snapped it in half or tossed it into the Sumida River, but a flickering hope remained in your heart that his arrogance had won out. You suspected he kept it as a Plan B, a fallback in case your behavior ever ceased to be to his liking.
The penthouse was silent, the air heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, lingering smell of the incense he liked to burn. You moved toward Satoru’s bedside table, your footsteps light enough to be a heartbeat, your breath hitching in your throat as you gripped the handle of the bottom drawer.
When it slid open, the air seemed to drop ten degrees.
There, nestled amidst the pristine luxury of his life, lay the wreckage of yours. You reached in, your fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edge of a smartphone. It was Kento’s. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, a violent impact having shattered the glass, but through the fractures, you could see a dried, brownish-red residue caked into the speaker grille.
You picked it up, your thumb trembling as you pressed the power button. The lock screen flickered to life, showing a photo that made your blood turn to ice: it was a candid shot of you, taken from a distance, sleeping in a motel room you clearly remembered now. It was right after your first meeting.
Beneath it lay the Polaroids. You pulled them out, and a small, dry flake of something dark fell onto your hand. You didn't need to be a forensic expert to know it was blood—Nanami’s blood, preserved like a sick pressed flower between the glossy sheets of film.
The images were a descent into hell. They weren't taken from the perspective of a witness, rather they were taken from the perspective of an artist admiring his work. One shot showed the interior of the car, the upholstery shredded by a force no human should possess. Another was a close-up of Kento’s hand, still wearing the watch you gave him, resting in a pool of ink-dark gore. But the last photo, the one that made the bile rise in your throat, was a selfie.
In the frame, Satoru had abandoned all pretense of the polished, untouchable detective. He wasn't wearing his signatureglasses. His white hair, usually so meticulously styled, was wild and disheveled, sticking out in jagged clumps as if he had been running his hands through it in a fit of manic adrenaline.
His face was a map of slaughter. Crimson droplets were sprayed across his pale skin like macabre freckles, and a thick smear of dark blood was wiped across his jawline. But it was his eyes that froze the blood in your veins. Those crystalline blue eyes who looked at you with so much love, were wide, unblinking, and vibrating with a terrifying, ecstatic glow. He was smiling, a jagged, wide-mouthed grin, while in the background, visible through the shattered glass of the driver’s side window, Kento’s lifeless silhouette sat slumped, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.
Satoru looked beautiful, and he looked like a monster. He looked like a man who had finally achieved exactly what he wanted.
The paper felt like it was scorching your skin. Every drop of blood on his face in that photo was a drop of Kento’s life, and he had worn it like war paint.
Your hand spasmed, dropping the photos back into the drawer, where they landed next to the velvet pouch. You tipped it over, and Geto’s black ear gauges rolled out like heavy, dead eyes. They felt weighted with a century of sin. Gojo had kept these pieces of the people he "loved" as if he were building a shrine to his own isolation.
Click.
The sound of the front door unlocking felt like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
"Sweets? I’m home early," Satoru’s voice drifted down the hallway. It was melodic, sickeningly sweet, vibrating with a cheerfulness that felt like a serrated blade. "I stopped by that little bakery you liked. I remember you mentioned it... or maybe I just dreamt you did. Everything is so blurry lately, isn't it?"
You heard the heavy thud of his boots on the hardwood. He wasn't rushing.
"I didn't see you in the living room," he continued, his voice getting closer, now just outside the bedroom door. "You aren't hiding, are you? You know I hate playing hide-and-seek when I've had a long day."
You scrambled to close the drawer, but your trembling hands betrayed you. The wood groaned as it slid shut, a sound that felt deafening in the stillness.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Att the exact moment you threw yourself face-first onto the bed. You couldn't let him, of all people, ever see your tears again. Not after seeing that photo. Not while the image of his blood-splattered, manic grin was burned into your retinas.
"You brought the strawberry tart, yeah?" you asked, your voice muffled and thick against the pillow.
You felt the mattress groan under his weight as he sat beside you. Satoru reached out, his large, warm hand coming to rest on the small of your back.
"I did, babe," he murmured, his tone playful but edged with that ever-present, suffocating possessiveness. "Though I’m starting to think you love the pastries more than the man who buys them."
You forced yourself to roll over, blinking back the last of your moisture. You sat up and leaned into his space, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I'm just... so hungry for something sweet. But Satoru?" You tilted your head, softening your expression into something fragile and longing. "I really want to drink some umeshu with the tart. It’s been so long, and I want to feel... warm tonight."
Satoru let out a long, exaggerated groan, flopping back onto the pillows with an audible pout. His lower lip tucked out, a childish expression that looked hauntingly wrong on a man you now knew was a murderer.
"Again? [Y/N], I literally just walked through the door," he complained, his voice a sing-song whine. "I’m tired, it’s late, and the good cellar is all the way downstairs. Can’t we just stick to the tea?"
You didn't give him a chance to refuse. You crawled over to him, straddling his lap and placing your hands on his chest, right over the heart that beat with such terrifying steadiness. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his jaw, then his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin.
"Please, Satoru?" you whispered against his ear, your voice a desperate, honeyed plea. "For me? I've been so good lately. I just want to celebrate being here with you."
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, then leaned in to capture his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was an act of pure survival, a sickening performance that made your stomach churn, but you poured every ounce of feigned affection into it.
When you pulled away, Satoru’s eyes were slightly glazed, his pupils blown wide. The pout shifted into a slow, dark smirk of triumph. He liked this. He liked you begging. He liked the physical proof that he had finally "broken" you into loving him.
"You're very spoiled, you know that?" he rasped, reaching up to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He gave your lower lip a playful tug. "Fine. If my girl wants her plum wine, she gets it. But don't think I won't expect a 'thank you' later."
He stood up, dumping you gently back onto the silk sheets. "Stay put. If I come back and you've fallen asleep, I'm waking you up."
As his footsteps receded toward the kitchen, the warmth drained from your face instantly. The mask fell. You had bought yourself the window you needed. Now, you just had to hope your hands would stop shaking long enough to use it.
You waited, lungs burning from holding your breath, until the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the hallway. Now it was your time. This was for Kento’s stolen future. This was for poor Geto’s desecrated memory. This was for the four months you had spent drowning in a fog of his making.
As soon as the silence settled, you scrambled off the bed, your movements frantic yet precise. You didn't head for the door, instead you headed back to that dark oak drawer.
You pulled it open again, the sight of the blood-flecked Polaroids hitting you like a physical blow to the stomach. Your hands shook as you reached into your own pocket and pulled out your phone. With trembling fingers, you began to document the horror.
Snap. The cracked screen of Kento’s phone, the dried gore caught in the crevices.
Snap. The selfie of Satoru, his face a mask of splattered red, smiling over Kento's corpse and all the other Polaroids he was probably meant to send to you. Just like that time four months ago.
Snap. The ear gauges, sitting in your palm like cold, black stones.
You made sure every shot was clear, the digital flash illuminating the darkness of the room for a split second each time. You uploaded them to a hidden cloud drive, a digital trail he couldn't scrub away. Once the last file finished syncing, you painstakingly placed every item back exactly as you had found it, aligning the Polaroids and the silk pocket squares with the obsessive care of a ghost.
Your eyes darted around the room, landing on the armchair in the corner. Satoru’s blazer was draped haphazardly over the back, a casual, discarded skin. You knew how he operated; for all his arrogance and God-like power, he was still a man of the law, or at least, he played one during the day. As a high-ranking detective, he was required to carry a service weapon, a small revolver he kept for the rare moments when his raw strength was too conspicuous for the job.
You approached the blazer, the fabric smelling of his cloying, expensive cologne and lillies—a scent that now made you want to retch. Your hands dove into the pockets, searching for the weight of his authority.
First, the outer pockets: a handful of sweets and a crumpled receipt.
Then, the inner holster pocket.
Your fingers brushed against something cold, heavy, and unmistakably metallic. You pulled it out. The revolver felt tiny in your hand, but its weight was grounding, a solid, undeniable reality in the hall of mirrors Satoru had built around you. This was the tool he used to "protect" the city, the very same one he likely kept within reach while he watched you sleep.
You checked the cylinder with trembling fingers. Fully loaded. Six rounds. Six chances to end the nightmare he had scripted for you.
You heard the distant chime of the elevator. He was back.
You quickly tucked the revolver into the waistband of your jeans, pulling your oversized sweater down to hide the lethal bulge against your spine. You didn't have time to be his "sweetheart" anymore.
You didn't wait to see his face. You bolted for the en-suite bathroom, the heavy marble door swinging shut with a solid thud just as you turned the deadbolt.
Your back hit the cold tile, your breath coming in ragged, silent gasps. You pressed your hand over your mouth to stifle even the sound of your breathing, the cold weight of the revolver pressing against the small of your back.
"Sweets?" Satoru’s voice was right outside the door, muffled but vibrantly cheerful. "I’m back. I found the bottle, it was tucked behind the vintage reds. It's perfectly chilled, just the way you like it."
You didn't answer. You stood frozen, staring at the door handle.
"Come on out, [Y/N]," he sang, though the syrup in his tone was starting to thin. "The tart is already plated. I even cut the strawberries into little hearts for you. Don't let it get warm."
Silence. The air in the bathroom felt like it was being sucked out of the room.
"I know you're in there," he said, his voice flatter now. The cheerfulness was a mask slipping off a marble statue. "I can see your shadow. Why aren't you answering me? Did I do something wrong?"
Still, you remained a ghost. You reached behind you, the grip of the revolver meeting your palm. The metal felt like the only real thing left in the world.
"Answer me, [Y/N]."
The request was no longer a song. It was a command. He rattled the handle—once, twice—a sharp, violent sound that echoed off the bathroom’s tile walls. When you didn't respond, the silence that followed was even more terrifying. It was the silence of a predator deciding whether to play or to kill.
"This isn't funny," he hissed. You could hear the sudden, sharp intake of his breath. The playful "Satoru" was gone, replaced by the man who had stood over Geto’s body with bloodshot eyes. "I went out for you. I bought this for you. I have spent every waking second of the last four months making sure you were safe, and you're going to ignore me?"
He slammed his palm against the door. The vibration rattled your teeth.
"OPEN THE DOOR."
The roar of his voice made the mirror above the sink tremble. The sweetness had curdled into a dark, jagged rage. "I have been patient. I have been kind. I have let you mourn a man who wasn't half the man I am! But if you think you can lock me out of my own room—out of your own life—you are mistaken."
The handle turned again, but this time it didn't rattle. It twisted with a slow, terrifying pressure, the metal beginning to groan under a strength that surpassed human limits.
"I’m going to count to three, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice now dangerously low, vibrating through the wood and into your spine. "And if this door isn't open, I'm going to stop being the 'hero' you think I am. One..."
"Two—"
His counting was cut short by the ringing of a phone. Not his. His. Inside the dark oak drawer next to the bed, Kento’s phone had surged to life.
The handle stopped turning. The terrifying pressure against the door vanished as Satoru froze. In the heavy silence of the bedroom, the ringing was deafening. The specific, upbeat default ringtone that Kento had never bothered to change. It was a cheerful sound that, in this context, felt like a funeral dirge.
Inside the bathroom, you stared at your own phone in your shaking left hand. You had dialed the number from memory, a ghost calling a ghost. On your screen, the contact name Kento stared back at you.
You heard the drawer slide open with a violent, desperate shove. Satoru’s breathing had changed; it was no longer the rhythmic huff of a predator, but the jagged, panicked gasps of a man watching his carefully constructed lie shatter.
You pressed the phone to your ear and waited.
The ringing stopped. He had picked it up.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You didn't wait for him to try to explain. Your voice was a cold, dead thing, stripped of all the "sweetheart" and "Satoru" and "love" that had been poisoned over the last four months.
"Do you like the photos, Satoru?" you whispered into the line.
There was no sound on the other end but the faint, erratic whistle of his breath.
"I saw them," you continued, your eyes fixed on the bathroom door, imagining him standing there, holding a dead man’s phone. "I saw your face. I saw the blood. I saw the way you were smiling while Kento was dying behind you. I saw Suguru’s gauges. I saw the obituary."
"Sweets," he started, his voice cracking, a pathetic, high-pitched tremor underlying the name. "It’s not... you don't understand the context. I was—"
"You weren't saving me," you interrupted, the revolver in your right hand feeling heavier, more certain. "You were harvesting me. You killed the only man who I truly loved just so you could be the only one left for me to look at. You played with Kento’s phone for months to make me think I was losing my mind. You watched me cry for a man you slaughtered."
The silence on the other end was absolute now. The strongest man in the country, had finally run out of scripts.
"I'm not coming out for the tart, Satoru," you said, your thumb clicking the safety off the revolver. The sound was small, but you knew he heard it through the door. "And I'm not drinking the wine. I’m done being the lead actress in your sick little play. I know who you are. I know what you did. And I know that the only ghost in this house... is you. I’ll make you pay."
On the other side of the door, a low, guttural sound escaped him—a laugh that dissolved into a sob. It was the sound of a mind finally snapping under the weight of its own obsession.
"If you know who I am," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the door and the phone simultaneously, "then you know I’m never, ever going to let you leave this room."
The silence that followed was more suffocating than his rage. Then, the wood of the door groaned. Not from a turn of the handle, but from the sheer weight of him leaning his forehead against it.
"You used me," he whispered, the words trembling with a terrifying, jagged edge. "I went out into the rain. I brought you gifts. I held you while you screamed Kento’s name, and you... you were acting."
His voice rose, cracking like breaking glass. "You were lying to me! All those smiles? The way you leaned into me? Was any of it real, or were you just waiting to stick your hand in my pockets like a common thief?"
"I gave you everything!" Satoru screamed, his voice now a raw, guttural roar that stripped away every ounce of his refined beauty. "I cleared the path for you! I got rid of the distractions! Kento didn't love you—not like I do. He would have left you. He would have grown old and boring and forgotten you. But I made you eternal! I kept you safe! And this is how you repay my devotion? By calling a dead man's phone to mock me?"
He slammed his fist against the door again, and this time, the hinges shrieked as they began to warp.
"You think that little toy in your hand makes us equal?" He laughed, a high, hysterical sound that lacked any trace of sanity. "I am Satoru Gojo! I am the only thing keeping the world from swallowing you whole! If I hadn't taken Kento’s place, you’d be nothing but a memory in a graveyard. I gave you a home! I gave you me!"
Through the cracks forming in the door, you saw a flash of electric blue.
"Open the door, [Y/N]," he hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, subsonic vibration that made the water in the sink ripple. "If I have to break this door, I’m going to break every bone in your hands so you can never hold another phone again. I'm going to make sure you never have to look at another photo, or hear another voice, or think another thought that isn't about me."
The air in the bathroom was thick with the scent of pulverized wood and the metallic tang of your own terror. You realized with a sickening jolt that the door wouldn't hold for another second. Satoru’s raw, unhinged obsession provided all the strength necessary to shatter your world.
Your fingers, slick with cold sweat, fumbled with the deadbolt. Click.
The sound was tiny, but in the vacuum of his sudden silence, it sounded like a guillotine blade dropping. You threw the lock and scrambled backward, your socks sliding on the tile until you hit the far wall of the shower. You were gasping, the revolver held in both hands, shaking so violently that the barrel traced erratic circles in the darkness.
Satoru stepped into the doorway. He looked like a man possessed. His white hair disheveld, his face was flushed with exertion, and his pupils were blown so wide they swallowed the iris. He looked at you, then down at his own service weapon in your hands, a dark, twisted smirk curling his lips.
"There she is," he whispered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and agonizing adoration. "My brave girl. Are you going to do it, [Y/N]? Are you going to kill the only man who truly knows you?"
He took a step forward, his hand reaching out as if he expected you to simply hand over the gun. "Give it to me. We’ll go eat. We can pretend this never happened."
"Don't come closer!" you shrieked, your voice breaking.
"Or what?" He laughed, a jagged, broken sound. He took another step, his presence filling the small space until you felt like you were drowning. "You don't have it in you. You're too soft. That’s why I had to do the heavy lifting. That's why I had to take care of Kento—because he was a weight you weren't strong enough to drop!"
The image of the blood-splattered selfie in the drawer flashed before your eyes. The grief, suppressed for months under his gaslighting, surged up as pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Your finger tightened on the trigger.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the cramped bathroom, a physical shockwave that barked through your wrists. The bullet meant for his heart went wide as he pivoted, tearing through the meat of his thigh instead. The sudden collapse of his leg sent him spiraling. There was no grace in the fall—just the sickening thud of his skull meeting the stone floor, followed by a silence far louder than the gunshot.
The ringing was the first thing to settle in. A high, piercing whistle that seemed to drill into the back of your skull, drowning out the world. It turned the bathroom into a distorted pocket of reality where the smell of acrid gunpowder hung heavy and gray in the air.
Your hands were vibrating, the pistol feeling like a lead weight that you couldn't quite let go of. You stared at the spot where he had been standing a second ago. Now, there was only a smear of crimson on the white tile and a heap of dark clothing.
"Gojo?"
The name felt like glass in your throat, but you couldn't even hear your own voice over that relentless ringing screaming in your ears.
The adrenaline that had fueled the shot evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror. You stumbled forward, your knees hitting the floor beside him with a jarring thud. You didn't remember dropping the gun, but it clattered away, spinning across the tile.
"Satoru? Satoru, get up."
Your vision blurred as hot, frantic tears spilled over. You reached out, your fingers slick with the blood blooming from his thigh, but your eyes were fixed on his face. He looked terrifyingly still. His head was turned at an unnatural angle, resting against the stone floor where a dark shadow was already beginning to pool beneath his white hair.
"No, no, no..." The sob finally broke through the ringing, a jagged, wet sound. You hovered your hand over his chest, terrified of what you’d find. Or what you wouldn't.
You leaned down, pressing your ear to his sternum, straining to hear anything over the pulse thudding in your own head. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then, a slow, thready thump. Then another.
He was breathing.
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped you, quickly turning back into a wail. He wasn't dead, but the way his eyes remained shut, veiled and vacant, made the room spin. You looked at the blood on your hands, then at the gash on his leg, and finally at the bruising already forming at his temple.
The man who had just taunted you with Kento’s death, the man who had filled the room with his suffocating shadow, looked small. Broken. You had done this. You had actually pulled the trigger.
You grabbed a towel from the rack, your movements clumsy and frantic as you tried to wrap it around his leg, your tears dripping onto the fabric. "I'm sorry," you whispered into the ringing silence, even though a part of you still tasted the bile of his insults. "I’m so sorry, please don't die. Please."
The ringing in your ears began to dull into a low, rhythmic hum. You reached out with a trembling hand, not to check his pulse this time, but to pat down the pockets of his dark jacket. Your fingers found the familiar rectangular crinkle.
You pulled out the pack of cigarettes and his lighter. With one hand, you fumbled for your phone, dialing 119 with blood-slicked fingers.
The operator’s voice was a tinny, distant chirp against the fading whistle of the gunshot. "Emergency services, what is your—"
"Ambulance," you interrupted, your voice eerily steady now, devoid of the jagged panic from moments before. You gave the address in a clipped monotone, watching the cherry of the cigarette glow bright as you took a long, dragging inhale. "Gunshot wound. Male, late-twenties. He’s unconscious. Hurry."
You tossed the phone onto the bathmat and leaned back against the tub, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the stagnant air.
Through the haze, the scent hit you, heavy, cloying, and surreal. It was the expensive, floral notes of his lily-scented perfume, a fragrance that had always felt like a funeral shroud, now mingling with the metallic, iron-rich tang of the blood pooling around your knees. It should have been revolting. It should have made you sick.
Instead, you leaned into it.
The adrenaline wasn't a spike anymore, it became a steady, honey-thick current flowing through your veins, sweet and addictive. You looked down at Satoru’s pale face, then at your own crimson-stained palms. The horror had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
He had been right. About Kento. About the "heavy lifting." About the strength it took to let go of the world's morality and just act.
You took another drag, feeling the smoke settle in your lungs like a secret. The suffocating weight he had placed on you for months hadn't crushed you—it had forged you. As you watched the blood soak further into the white towel, you didn't feel like a victim anymore. You felt powerful. You felt alive in a way that was violent and shimmering.
The perfume and the gore, the beauty and the butchery. It was an intoxicating cocktail, a sensory map of the man lying at your feet. And for the first time, you didn't just see him. You understood him.
The monster hadn't won. It had just moved into a new home. You were exactly like him now.
Home in three days. Do not wash!
Forever yours, Satoru
fanfic for @cherrys-wrld PUSSYWHIPPED event <3
part of Tales, Myths, Romances collection
pairings: Napoleon Bonaparte!Gojo x Josephine!Reader
content warnings: historical au, pussydrunk Gojo, fingering, oral (fem. rec.), Gojo is obsessed, manhandling, mentions of breeding, mentions of pregnancy, based on true romance
WC: 3.2k
a/n: funfact, Napoleon actually didn't write the "Home in three days" letter, but it's so iconic I decided to include it. Other letters in this fic are based on his real ones (you can read them online!), which he sent to his wife, Josephine. I tried to keep the events historically accurate! MWAH <3
divider by @cursed-carmine
art @/teaforgods
"My Empress," the gentle voice of your maid called your mind back, as you sat in the rose garden.
Pink petals folded under the pads of your fingers, sweetish fragrance tickling your nose as it clouded your thoughts for a sheer second. Your maid waited patiently, looking at your waist bent over the freshly bloomed roses. A present from your husband.
"Yes?" you asked, glancing back at your young girl. And before she could speak again, with eyes lost somewhere in the smile on your face, you noticed it. The letter. "Another one?"
She nodded, delivering you a small, folded paper. "It came just now."
Your fingers grasped the familiar texture. The same one you've caressed for the past few days. "Which one is it this week?"
"Fifth one, my Empress."
You sighted and sat down on the wooden bench to read another pleading of your husband.
My love, days go by, and my heart seems to tremble from the sheer lack of your presence. I wake up in the night, missing the sweet smell of your skin. Oh, how tormented am I! My dear love, what an extraordinary influence you have over me! It's been only three months without seeing your precious face, but I cannot stand it any longer!
My sweet darling, write to your husband more often.
Forever yours, Satoru
Your lips curved in a smile, eyes sparkled cheerfuly and it didn't go unnoticed, as your maid followed carefully every reaction appearing on your hearty face.
As, oh dear, her Empress and Emperor were such a lovely couple! Married just a few months ago, but it seemed as Emperor had been wrapped around his lady's sweet finger, following her dear step by step. Such a raw and passionate man he was, tormented by his wife, with or without her by his side, as even with her, he acted as a man tortured. And you, a sweet rose of France, loved him dearly, but took quite a pleasure in making your husband walk by your ankle like a dog. Because the gentleman who soon would control the whole of Europe had just one little weakness – you.
"My Empress, should you write back?" she asked politely, with her head dipped, glancing at your fingers clenched on the paper.
"He's in Italy, isn't he? How often must my husband write, for me to get letters almost every single day," you wondered out loud, already thinking about the one you'll get tomorrow.
All of them were sweet and dear, quite bold even, but always needy. You remembered the one from yesterday, and your cheeks suddenly flushed like cherries.
My love, I've received your two letters, but why so few? Are there days when you don't write to me? Oh my darling, your letters are the joy of my days and the blaze of my nights. Leave a little kiss for me next time, so I can see your sweet lips again! I'm hopeless and sorrowful without you. Since I left, my mind has been nothing but depressed. Join me soon in Italy, you'll love it here, my love. I'll buy you dresses and jewellery, build a mansion in Venice if you wish for it, but please come by and let us enjoy this time together.
I miss you dearly, and we shall reunite soon. A kiss on your heart, and one much lower down, much lower!
Forever yours, Satoru
Oh, how foul he was, but such passionate too, and you could almost feel his lips fondling your thighs and breasts. He was obsessed indeed, and you have wondered whether your husband was in good health, as no man should be that possessed by madness!
You didn't write every day, but should you? In fact, you liked him a bit frenzied, sore, begging for your attention. You replied to him once, just after his first letter, and it seemed he held onto it dearly, waiting desperately for the next one.
But it wasn't coming! And he was sour about that.
Thus, after not replying to him for a month, it seemed that the Emperor himself got quite mad!
My love, I write to you every day. Sometimes twice! Yet I see no letters of yours, do you still love me? I don't love you; on the contrary, I detest you! A cruel witch you are, unkind to your poor husband. What are you doing in those days when not thinking of me? Where does your heart go if not towards your husband? My love, do you enjoy tormenting me that much?
Forever yours, Satoru
And upon reading it with a sly smile, you decided to answer his begging.
My husband, I would answer you sooner, but each time I begin, another letter arrives! You write as if the world ends, but it's been only three months. I adore your passion, but heavens, you are exhausting!
Do you love to suffer, my dear? You're writing as if I deceived you! Stop sulking and come home soon.
Oh, how angry he was! For there was no trace of your lips nor smell of your sweetness, and your words he awaited were washed of any fondness. How cruel of you!
My darling, the day when you say "I love you less" will be the end of my life. My love for you is saddened, my heart enslaved, and my mind frightens me... will you ever stop loving me? I cannot go a day without loving you; I cannot even drink my tea without you tormenting my thoughts. Oh my darling, if your love will extinct, I'll throw myself under the guillotine!
Why must you be so mean to me? Shall I end my life for you to cherish me a bit more?!
Forever yours, Satoru
And as much as you loved to torture him, something panged in your chest upon imagining your poor husband maddened by the playfulness of yours.
So this time you've decided to write him a hearty one, with a cherry kiss left at the end, fragrance of your favourite perfumes sprinkled on creamy paper.
Your maid took it for delivery, and you waited impatiently for the next response from a man who would trade whole Europe just for the single glance of your lovely eyes!
But, surprisingly, you didn't receive any letter the next day, and another one too, thus a little frown has formed between your eyebrows, and your maid has been seeing you waiting by the window every single day. She hated to see her lovely Empress in such mania, with those sweet, pushed lips and arms crossed on her dear chest, as she walked back and forth in the rose garden.
Oh, how strange it was to not read his pouty tears daily! Was he dead indeed?
Your eyes were thus awaiting a delivery desperately, everyone in the palace on tenterhooks, seeing their young Empress so impatient!
Days were going by – two, four, six. Over two weeks passed, and then three, with no letter coming in, and the loveliest French rose withering slowly in the sweet gardens of her mansion. You walked all days sourly, with nothing to cheer you up. Even the company of your favourite ladies turned out to be poor, for a certain sadness always dripped from your gentle voice.
And then, after a month of torment, it finally came. Not just one letter, but two!
Your maid ran towards the garden hectically, with sweat dripping down her temple and eyes filled with cheerfulness. "My Empress," she screamed over the rose bushes. "My Empress, it's here!"
And your head sprang up, hips lifted from the bench, book long forgotten, as you took the letters from her trembling hands.
The first words written by your husband left you speechless.
My love, the coldness of your heart has melted, and nothing affected me more than your last letter. I shall accuse you of witchery, as my soul has been possessed solely by thoughts of you! The kiss of your lips I put to mine and wondered what it would be like to feel the softness of your skin. My love, oh my love! I cannot live like that any longer. I carry your portrait over my heart and imagine it beating together with yours. The letters take so long to deliver, and I'm getting older each day. What if I die on a battlefield without ever tasting you again? My poor heart, oh, my love, I yearn to kiss you once again and taste that sweetness on my tongue. My madness is strangling me, passion burns my soul, for I'm dying to be by your side!
Forever yours, Satoru
You coughed, cheeks burning feverishly till your maid asked, "My Empress, do you feel alright?" and you could best give her a nod, for the muscles of your throat clamped tight in embarrassment.
You've heard that your husband carries your portrait, as he said nothing has brought him more luck than having you by his side. A true lucky charm, as he loved to remark, with fondling your skin gently and leaving sweet traces upon your thighs.
You tucked the paper and opened the second letter. But, well, how shocked you were – you and the maid standing right over your shoulder – upon seeing just a single sentence! But as you read it, a sudden tremor moved your heart, and sweat dribbled down your neck.
Home in three days, do not wash!
Forever yours, Satoru
"Oh," you could only mutter, mind blank, eyes staring at the pinkish roses of your garden.
And then it suddenly hit.
"My Empress," your maid started, rubbing her fingers nervously. As she also saw the date written on the letter, and if she counted correctly, the Emperor should be–
"It's today," you mumbled quietly, as if to yourself. But your head moved her way, eyes bulging. "Shall he arrive tod–"
You didn't manage to finish it, however, as a sudden commotion in the mansion made you rise from the bench and walk frenzily through the rose bushes. The screams and horses, the agitation that could only accompany the arrival of one man.
Your husband!
The long garments moved together with the fast pace of your feet, breasts sitting plumply in a long, pinkish dress as it slouched off your shoulder slightly, not prissy at all, but rather vulgar for other men to see. Your hair pinned up, brows cressing gently as you walked inside the mansion, straight to the front gate.
But, couldn't you get to the main door as it opened suddenly, and no one but your maddened husband walked inside.
He stood tall, with broad shoulders, still dressed in his blue jacket with gold buttons and light trousers that hugged his legs loosely. The snowishness of his hair blinded you and (almost) weeping eyes looked your way as if lost in agony, with nothing but love lifting up the corners of his lips.
"My love," he grumbled with a strangled voice and opened arms. "I have been waiting for our reunion too long!"
You laughed cheekily, walking towards your husband at an unhurried pace. Arms wrapped around his neck gently, fingers playing with soft strands of his wet hair, as if he was running your way all day and all night, with nothing but sweat dripping down his spine. "My dear, why so early? Shouldn't you leave Italy in a month?"
His muscular arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest.
Oh, how you enjoyed the look of those crystal eyes, so open and truthful, burning with passion that was clearly eating him alive!
"I couldn't wait," he said, taking your hand and leading you quickly through the corridors of your mansion. "You're such a vile woman! Cruel, wicked, playing with your poor husband's heart like a child," he looked over his shoulder, a bit of playfulness shining in his eye as you giggled softly. You knew the route of the corridor, leading straight to your chamber. "There's nothing to laugh about, my love! I'll show you how much I longed for your touch."
And maybe he was right. You shouldn't laugh, indeed.
℘℘℘
He pushed you on bed the moment the heavy doors of your room closed behind, and almost ripped the undergarments off your drenched legs. His knees hit the floor as you opened your thighs, smooth and drenched, showing the sweetest, the juiciest meal he could ever dream of.
You glanced at him with this cheeky smile dancing on your plump lips and wicked eyes, knowing the impact you had on him. He was nothing more than a tormented man!
You watched him while leaning on your elbows – eyes following snowish hair reaching down, fingers pushing the dress up till your hips, trembling at the sheer thought of finally tasting the sweetness of your pussy after months of nothing but releasing himself to your picture.
He seated you right at the edge of the royal bed, with velvet skin blushing feverishly under his raw kisses and long fingers digging hard into the plush of your thighs.
"M-my Emperor," a pitched moan pushed through your lips, as you tilted your head back. Soft linen of your bedding dipped under your sprawled body, thighs opened wide, skin melting under his lips on the inner thighs. Wet lips going down down down, from the bend of your knee right till the drenched mound.
"Oh my kitty, how I've missed you," he mumbled, as if already drunk, lost, with his head diving deep into the rolls of your cunt, giving it a heavy and nasty smell. "My sweet pussy, mhmmm, I've dreamed about you every night."
"My Emperor, please stop calling her like that. You're so filthy," your strangled voice tried to scold him, but Gojo Satoru, the soon-to-be most powerful man in the whole continent, was deaf to your pleadings.
For there was nothing he dreamed of more than getting drunk on the honeyed saps of his pussy and the plushness of your thighs around his cheeks.
And the moment his tongue finally landed between your folds– SNAP!
The rest of his sanity finally cracked, and a long growl drove through his lips, going straight into your fluttering cunt. You pushed white strands sticking to his forehead, watching the gentle furrow between his handsome brows, eyes closed, tongue working you out – slurping, licking, pushing every nerve of your wet cunt. He pushed a finger in, scooping out more of your creamy cum, tasting you as if he came back starved, with juices dripping down his chin and tongue put flat to your clit.
"My Emperor, aren't you just desperate? Didn't they feed you there?" you giggled, rolling your hips together with a pace of his tongue, riding his face in a fever. "A-ah, slow down a bit, I'm not running anywhere!"
"Ngh, I told you not to wash–mmmmm, I love the smell of your sweat," he mumbled, already giving you a headache. Nasty, nasty man! "My sweet kitty, m-my pussy, thought about you every night, every day, nothing but thought of tasting you again, giving me a strength to fight– nghhh–"
"My Emperor, please, enough!" you cried, hips rolling up and down, thighs trembling as his second finger pushed inside. He caressed your clit with his tongue, smoochering it with kisses, sucking it wetly till his cheeks sucked in.
He growled again, tremors going straight into your cunt, the pads of his fingers finally finding the plush spot that made your toes curl.
"Oh my love, do you feel good? Does my Empress feel good? You're so sweet, god you taste so delicious." his muscular arm landed on your lower belly, pulling you closer to his warm breath. "She missed me so much, sucking my fingers in so desperately. My Empress, you may detest your husband, but she will never betray me!"
Your head lulled back, eyes crossed, when he sucked on your clit again, massaging the plush spot inside with his fingers. His fat fingers already filled you well, as your walls clamped on them tight, flapping everytime he bent them to that spot. Oh, he knew this was your favourite combo, making droplets of sweat form around your temple and thighs tremble in excitement, as you tried to lock them around his head.
"My dear, just s-shut up and m-make me cum," your voice was of the purest melody, tickling his ears with passion and lust, making his heavy cock leak through the pants even more, as he tried to release himself by rubbing against the bed's wooden leg.
The look on his face was enough to feel a sudden warmth in your belly. He looked absolutely defeated, lost like a child, with beefy arms hugging your thighs, pulling you closer and closer, till the hilt of his nose brushed your clit. His lips devouring you with slurpy noises, pure filth pushing through them every time he had a chance to open his mouth – wish I could lick your creamy cunt before every meal, and, I could fight a thousand wars if it meant to have her as my prize, or, next time don't wash for a week, no, two weeks, I wish to taste the purest flavour of my pussy.
You reprimanded him every time, with your syrupy moans and scoldings making him even harder, but at some point, even your throat gave up. You just couldn't win against him, and this tongue stuck to your cunt flat, working on your trembling clit till you finally, finally, felt the warmth spilling out.
Your back arched deliciously, thighs clamped around his head, fingers dug deep into his scalp, and you cried for the one last time. The pleasure was blinding, and even your pleadings couldn't stop your husband from drinking allll the juices dripping straight down his throat, with a quiet thank you thank you thank you, murmured straight to your hole. His throat bobbed, fingers trembled, as a moment later, a wet patch formed on his trousers.
His cheeks were wet, but it didn't stop him from rubbing them against your inner thighs, feeling the softness of your skin on his. You were ready to believe that his mind was possessed indeed, as his eyes looked almost like two little hearts, looking at you with a burning lust.
"My Empress, my love, oh how I love you," he climbed the bed, and you moved slightly back. Only then have you noticed the wetness on his trousers, so filthy and embarrassing, nevertheless warming you up once again.
How pathetic your husband was, truly miserable, with his lips smooching the curve of your breast gently, fingers working the dress out, almost ripping it off your body.
"My dear, aren't you tired? We have all night, you mustn't be so reckless–"
"I mustn't," he mumbled, fingers already scooping up your plump tits, rough pads fidling with hardened nipples. "But I must finally make an heir. That's what I've been thinking about for the past few months, my love" his crystal eyes glanced up, seeing a little tremble of your lips and quickened breath. Oh, how obsessed he was with his lovely Empress! "Do you not wish to bear my child? To have my seed, riiiight here," his lips travelled down, till he placed a gentle kiss on your belly's pouch. Finger digging deep, one hand hooking behind your thigh. "Say it, my love."
His voice was stern, but nevertheless begging, waiting for your answer. You liked to torment your husband indeed, but this time, under his heavy gaze and muscular arms, broad back bulging under his jacket and messy snowish hair, you could do nothing but nod you head.
He smirked, eyes curving like a moon, as he folded you easily like a paper doll.
An experiment gone wrong leaves you with a curse that looks just like your best friend. Like the day couldn't go even worse, said best friend walks in on you and the curse in a most precarious position.
CW: MDNI/18+ only, porn with little plot, reader has a Cursed Technique, the curse is technically Gojo but it's also its own entity?? oral (m receiving), threesome, improper use of CT, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, riding, spitroast, gojo and the curse like to ragebait each other WC: 5.1k
art by @/3-aem, divider by @cafekitsune
Getting walked in on wearing nothing but lacy panties and a bra by your best friend was already humiliating enough. Getting walked in on wearing nothing but lacy panties and a bra by your best friend while you’re practically straddling a curse that looks just like said best friend is even worse.
Satoru stands in the doorway, jaw almost dropped onto the floor, hand still limply holding onto the doorknob as he swallows once.
He isn’t the type to knock—unfortunately for you—but never in his life did he think he would walk in on this.
…What even is this?
At first he just saw your ass, clad in those lacy panties you’re wearing, perched on your knees. The sight had immediately gone to his cock, pathetically throbbing in the confines of his underwear as it took him exactly 0.2 seconds for his gaze to snap to the way he could see the outline of your pussy lips through the thin material of your panties.
But then his gaze traveled further. And the throbbing immediately ceased to exist, his half hard-on deflating like a sad little balloon.
Because he was staring at a reflection of himself, sitting on your bed.
Correction, he was staring at a reflection of himself with six actual eyes—all blinking back at him in unison. And he merely blinked back, actually dumbfounded. For a second, he thought his Six Eyes were overloading, showing him things that weren’t actually there.
But then he lifted his blindfold up, and sure enough, it was still there. A clone of his staring right back at him—or no, not a clone, a curse. A curse that looks exactly like him.
What the fuck?
It’s only when you squeak and turn around to face him that he remembers why he even went here in the first place. For you, his cute little best friend which he missed oh so dearly.
Seems like she missed him, too.
Because why in the ever living fuck are you straddling a curse that looks just like him?
Which he wants to ask, mouth already parting to ask, but the words die out on his tongue, syllables forgotten completely. Your tits are practically spilling out of your bra—which he gets such a good view of when you’re completely turned around, mortification written all over your face.
“Satoru! You’re here…” you squeak out, not bothering to try and hide your embarrassment. You can feel your face start to burn as you realise the position you’re in right now.
You can see the way he’s eyeing the curse that’s sat beside you on the bed—weirdly enough not moving an inch, only tilting its head slightly as it assesses his… counterpart? “I- uhh- might’ve done something?”
“There is a curse sitting next to you that looks exactly like me, I’m gonna need a little more than that, sweets,” he finally manages to mumble out, still eyeing the curse. If it made so much as one wrong move, he would hollow purple it to oblivion.
He finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him with a final thud that resonates through the uncomfortably silent room. Walking over to your bed, he wraps an hand around your upper arm, dragging you over to where he’s standing.
Startling, you let out a little gasp, almost falling to the side. Your back is pressed against Gojo’s chest. That same chest you’ve eyed way too many times for someone that claims to be just his best friend.
His arms come down to circle around your waist, one of his hand already making the little hand signal for hollow purple in case anything goes wrong. At the same time he places his chin on top of your head. “So, wanna tell me why that’s here?”
Your mind is scrambling to explain the situation—how you even got into this position to begin with—but all you can think about is how one of Satoru’s big hands is splayed over your bare tummy, making your entire mind blank.
“It was an accident,” you begin, picking at your cuticles slightly as you look down. Your bare thighs are staring back up at you. Why the fuck did today of all days have to be the day he walked in?
When you don’t continue, Gojo just hums. His thumb stroking small, soothing circles into your soft skin as he leans down so his lips graze across the shell of your ear. “Really? You’re meaning to tell me you—what, made a curse that looks just like me, all while you’re in your underwear, nearly straddling the thing, just on accident?”
A small mhmm falls from your lips as a shiver shoots down your spine. Satoru’s soft lips grazing the shell of your ear while you look at the curse. Those blue eyes blinking back at you, wandering all over your near-naked form.
“‘Was just trying something out,” you breathe out.
Which is true. You weren’t planning on making a curse, let alone one that looked exactly like your best friend—which is The Strongest sorcerer of today’s age.
You were playing around with the little vials of colors you have stacked under your bed. They weren’t just colors, though. No, these were emotions, negative ones. Not just any negative emotions, but those of Satoru Gojo.
Your cursed technique was as beautiful as it was painful. Being able to see pain—both physical as emotional—in the form of colors is not for the weak.
While it can be beautiful—colors swirling on people’s skin—it can also be painful to look at.
That was exactly what Gojo was to you: painful and beautiful to look at.
His Six Eyes give him constant migraines, strong enough that he has a bright white halo around his head at all times. Think of looking at the sun without any eye protection, but from up close. Or just holding a torch to your eye as you try not to go blind.
Can you imagine it? Yes? Well then, now you know what Gojo looks like to you. A walking mini sun amongst humans.
Luckily you didn’t have to look at it, though. Because you can take someone’s pain away, storing it in different objects or yourself. The former you found out relatively late—only finding out you could do it when you were nineteen years old.
At first, Gojo refused to let you take away his pain, because you would always wince whenever you took it from him. His headache so painful, it was even painful to you, which was saying a lot.
Your pain tolerance is through the roof. Which, yay for you, but also it wasn’t always like that. It took you years of taking other people’s pains before you got kinda numb to most of it. A broken bone felt like a nearly healed bruise to you.
Still, Gojo’s headaches are fucking painful. It has made you wonder more than once how he even wanders through life like that.
It was only when you found out that you could store someone's pain in objects that Gojo let you take his headaches away. Only if you promised to actually store it in something, and not just take it for yourself.
Over the years you’ve collected hundreds of little vials that all were Gojo’s pain. There are more vials, obviously, for combat purposes, but you weren’t interested in those today.
No, when you dragged the little box with vials onto your bed, your hands immediately found the little tubes that were all labeled Gojo.
You could see the actual colors in the vials—bright white for his migraines, light blue for sadness, black for grief, green for jealousy, etc.—where they are completely transparent to anyone else. That, of course, excludes Gojo Satoru.
Of course the fucker could see that there was something in the bottles with his pretty Six Eyes. Clear that there are traces of cursed energy in them. Which is also how he knows you store his pains into the little vials.
One time you tried to be sneaky and take the pain for yourself—give yourself a little cursed energy boost—only for him to get angry with you, asking you why you didn’t do what you promised to do; put the pain in the little vial.
That was the last time you ever tried to take his pain for yourself, even if you were low on cursed energy after a grueling mission.
So, vials it was. They kept stacking up over time, never storing too much pain into them, because god knows what would happen when you did. Honestly, over ninety percent of the bottles were all Gojo’s pain, because you couldn’t stand to look at him and see it all around him.
You also couldn’t see him when he was in pain like that. Like I said, he is like a walking mini sun. So, you wouldn’t be able to see his face if you didn’t take any of his pain away. Not that it mattered much anyway, considering he often times wears his blindfold.
Well, he takes it off when he’s around you, knowing you could just take his pain away if the information ever got too much. Those pretty blue eyes unobstructed by anything.
Which is what you were thinking about when you had woken up. A stupid thought festering in your mind, refusing to let go.
Would you be able to use Gojo’s pain colors to make the color of his eyes?
You were never successful before, his shade of blue was a shade that you simply could not recreate. But… what if you were to use his own color pallette against him? Surely you would be able to get the pretty blue that is your friend’s eyes.
So you got to work, twisting open tens of vials, mixing the pain colors with each other. Bright white turned into a very light shade of blue, into a darker shade of blue that still wasn’t close to his eyes.
It was when you shifted in your bed that everything went wrong.
The vials—all unscrewed—toppled over. Colors only you could see spilled out like paint, seeping into your blanket, finding purchase in the thing. It got all muddy—blues, greens, purples, reds, yellows mixing together.
Before you could even think of putting them up right again, something started happening.
At first it was just the colors forming a small ball inside your blanket. Not alarming enough for you to stop capping the bottles, but enough that it grabbed your attention slightly.
It was only when it got bigger and bigger that you stopped what you were doing, scooting back to where your pillows were.
After only a few seconds, there was something sitting on your bed. Well, no, not something. Your best friend in curse form was sitting there, blinking down at you.
Safe to say a small scream tore from your throat, ready to exorcise the thing right then and there.
But… it looked kinda cute. Plus, it wasn’t immediately attacking you! Which was a good thing… right? So you let it stay.
It was insane, it really was. But it was also kinda fascinating with how accurate it looked like Satoru. Everything you could see was the same—except for the literal six eyes on its head.
Which led you to your current predicament.
“What could you have possibly wanted to try out that resulted in this?” Gojo asks you, eyes not once leaving the curse that is sitting on your bed, completely unbothered. “Does it matter? All I know that it’s here right now.”
The white-haired man behind you just rolls his eyes at that. Leaning forward, he waves his hand in front of the curse’s face a few times. “Why is it just sitting there, though?”
“It doesn’t react to anything.” To prove your point, you lean forward yourself, much to Satoru’s dismay who immediately tightens his hold on you, and poke the curse. True to your word, it doesn’t react to being touched. No twitch, no extra blink, not even a tilt of its head. “See? No reaction.”
“That’s very hard to believe. Having such a pretty girl sitting in front of me nearly naked, I surely would react,” Gojo murmurs. Wide eyed, you look at him over your shoulder—noses almost touching from the proximity. Surely he didn’t mean it like that, did he? But then you feel it—that bulge pressing into your back. “Oh, would you look at that. Seems like even curses can’t help but react.”
The curse is eyeing the way your thighs are pressing together, the way your mouth is slightly parted with shock, the way your tits are sitting in your bra. All three sets of eyes trained on a different part of you.
For a second, it makes Satoru jealous. Jealous that the curse can technically see all of you at once. Its eyes practically devouring you while you look between the two—sorcerer and curse.
But he has something the curse doesn’t: the Six Eyes. Yes, it has six eyes, but not the Six Eyes. Which means it can’t see the way your panties are starting to cling to your folds, despite having your thighs pressed together.
Another thing the curse also doesn’t have, but Gojo does, is have its hands on you. Because his palm is still resting on your tummy, the smooth expanse of your skin underneath his fingertips. It can’t feel the way you’re slightly squirming.
Still, the thing does not move anything other than its eyes. Hands laying limp beside it, cock throbbing in its confines, but doing nothing to hide or alleviate it.
“Wanna see if we can make it react even more?”
Which is how you ended up here—with Satoru, your best friend, sitting behind you. His long legs trapping you between them, your own legs hooked over his, panties pushed to the side so the curse has a full view of your puffy, glistening folds while Gojo’s fingers are plunging in and out of your cunt.
Your nails dig into Satoru’s forearm, leaving behind angry crescents in their wake. Toes curling as you throw your head back with a slight whine.
“Uh-uh. C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on the curse,” Satoru tuts, fingers stilling until you lift your head enough to look at the curse. Once he sees you look at the thing again, he continues. “There we go, such a good girl for me.”
The praise makes your stomach do a little flip, the words going straight to your core. Your walls clamp down on Satoru’s fingers, having him grin behind you.
His other hand trails up from your stomach to your bra-covered tits. Now that won’t do, will it? With a little tug of his hand, he undoes the clasp with ease—a skill you didn’t know he possessed, nor wanted to know to be quite frank.
It’s when your tits are in full view for both men—if you can even call the curse that—that there is slight movement from the one in front of you.
The curse doesn’t do anything wild, just slightly shifts where it’s sat, but it’s the most it has done since it appeared—or rather formed. Its pupils from the top pair of eyes expand even more, but not as much as the lower pair of eyes, which are still focused completely on your pussy.
It might not be much, but it is a small step in the right direction.
That thought immediately flies out the window when Satoru’s digits graze over a spot inside of you. Your back arches with the touch, a moan ripping from the back of your throat as your hand clamps down even further onto his forearm. “O-oh shit.”
From there on out you can only think about the way Gojo moves his fingers inside of you, bullying your g-spot with those long, thick fingers of his.
And if that wasn’t enough already, his other hand has started to grope one of your tits, squishing the flesh between his fingers before he starts caressing your nipple, nail grazing over the little nub, before he rolls it between his fingers.
Your head falls back onto his shoulder, looking at him instead of the curse. He doesn’t scold you this time, just keeps at it as he looks at you. “Nawhhh, doing so good for me.”
You don’t even hear the condescending undertone in his voice, way too focused on the pleasure that’s shooting through you right now.
When you don’t reply, Gojo stops playing with your nipple. Instead bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, tilting it so you have direct view of him already looking down at you. “Feeling good, sweetheart?” When you nod your head, he just chuckles. “Thought so.”
Your thighs are starting to shake on top of his, sweat starting to break out on your forehead as you teeter closer to the edge with each pump of his fingers.
Seems like he knows it too, judging from his smirk. He keeps your head tilted up, eyes flicking from your own down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. Just like the curse, Gojo’s pupils are blown out, a small ring of blue left behind.
“C’mon, show it how pretty you look when you fall apart on my fingers.” And you do just that. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull as your hips buck wildly, to the point where he lets go of your jaw in favor to press your hips down, keeping you flush against him.
After riding out your high, Gojo removes his fingers from your cunt. A small whine slipping from your lips as he purposefully lets his fingers glide through your messy slit.
You’re panting against Satoru’s shoulder, breath ghosting over his neck as you come down from your high. Nuzzling further into his broad frame, you let yourself relax slightly as Satoru rubs soothing circles into your hip.
“You two done yet?” Well that certainly grabs both your attention. Heads snapping to the sound of the voice, you’re met with the curse grinning.
Of course its voice sounds exactly like Gojo’s, but it still throws you for a loop—especially considering the fact that same voice just talked you through it, told you how good you were taking his fingers, how pretty you looked when cumming.
“You—” You have to swallow once, twice before getting your voice back to its steady octave. “You can talk?”
“Of course I can, who do you take me for?” Gojo the curse replies, tilting its head slightly. Those white bangs fall across his forehead, covering one of its eyes before it pushes the hair back with its hand; the first actual movement you’ve seen from the thing.
You sit up fully now—still in your naked glory, not even bothering to cover up considering it has already seen you get split open of your best friend’s fingers. Said best friend doesn’t share that same sentiment, though. He covers your boobs up with his hands, his legs trapping yours between his so he can keep them close for you as he glares at the curse over your shoulder.
It just makes the curse chuckle. Yes, it chuckles at his counterpart’s antics. “Oh? Now you cover her up? Weren’t you the one who suggested doing all of this to begin with?” It vaguely gestures towards you when it says ‘this’.
Gojo just rolls his eyes, pulling you further into his chest. “Yeah well, show’s over. You can turn those ugly eyes away now.”
“These are the same eyes as yours, so you’re really only insulting yourself,” it immediate counters, crossing its arms over its chest.
Gojo opens his mouth to say something back. Probably a jab at the fact that the curse and him don’t share the same eyes for he has the Six Eyes and not six eyes, when you speak up first.
“Wait. Wait wait wait, you can talk and move and who knows what else,” you begin, looking the curse over that’s starting to get more animated by the second. It immediately snaps its mouth shut, those bright blue orbs blinking down at you. “But I asked you if you could talk or even move, so why didn’t you before?”
Because you did ask it if it could do anything except for just sitting lifelessly there. At first you thought it might not have been able to understand you when it didn’t so much as reply to you, its eyes merely following your movement. But it also didn’t react when you started poking it.
The curse only grins, those pearly whites on full display as one set of eyes crinkle with the motion. …Fucking odd to look at, if you’re going to be completely honest. “You only asked rhetorical questions: ‘Can it even talk?’ If you had just asked me, I might’ve given you an answer.”
Your mouth falls open at that. So it didn’t answer you because it was a rhetorical question instead of a normal one? What the actual fuck is wrong with this thing—other than it being a curse, obviously.
“I- you- eughhh. Okay, so you didn’t reply to my question because it was rhetorical. Fine, whatever. But why didn’t you react when I was touching you?”
There is a faint undignified noise from behind you. Satoru’s grip immediately tightens, keeping you closer to his body. So close, that he’s practically squishing you against his chest now, glaring even harder at the curse that’s just fucking grinning at him.
Sure, he walked in on you almost straddling said curse that looks just like him, but the way you said you touched it makes his mind race in directions he’d rather not go down.
Before you can even try to turn your head to raise a brow at your best friend, the curse chuckles. “You should listen better to him—” It nods towards Satoru, “—I was just enjoying having such a pretty girl touch me, especially when she was almost naked, crawling onto my lap—”
“All right, that’s quite enough,” Gojo growls from behind you, cutting the curse off before it can spill even more about whatever fantasies it came up with whilst the two of you were alone. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Seems like she doesn’t want me to go, though.” The curse nods at you, white hair bouncing with the motion.
And only a few minutes later, you’re bouncing uuuup and down Satoru’s ridiculously large cock. Your own hair swaying with the motion as your boobs bounce each time you lift your hips, only to drop down a second later.
The curse—who much to Satoru’s dismay is still here, breathing and touching you—stands in front of you in its own naked glory. Unfortunately for your brain, it couldn’t help but notice how much it looks like Gojo, from the biceps to the abs all the way to the way its cock almost matches Gojo’s in size.
The only difference between the two is that the curse somehow is clean-shaven while the man below you is neatly trimmed.
Your lips are wrapped around the curse’s cock head, tongue lapping at the slit which is spilling pre on your tongue. The taste extremely bitter—and you can’t help but wonder if it’s because it’s a curse or if it has to do with something else.
Oh well.
Gojo’s hands are clamped around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he helps you bounce on his shaft.
He wasn’t happy with the arrangement, rather wanting to just exorcise the curse and maybe—if you were still willing to—fuck your brains out with his cock this time. But you had told him you wanted to see what the curse could do. So, with much reluctance, he let it stay.
The only thing he had said that it would only get your mouth, and nothing more, claiming your cunt for himself.
So here the three of you are; you getting bullied on two cocks that you would never even think of getting fucked by. One of your hands gripping the curse’s thigh to steady yourself, while the other jerks off whatever can’t fit in your mouth.
Your cheeks hollow out when you suck a little harder, having the curse groan out. Its hips twitch as one of its hands find purchase in your hair, not pulling or pushing on it, just holding himself onto it.
That, of course, doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired sorcerer beneath you. A glare covering his face as he looks at the hand that’s on your head. The hand that shouldn’t exist in the first place.
Fuck, he can’t believe a stupid curse gets to have your mouth before him—that a curse gets to have you at all. He’s right here! He would gladly use your mouth if you were to ever ask him. Those lips stretching around his girth as you fail to fit him completely in your mouth, drool spilling form the corners of your mouth as you look up with tears in your eyes.
Well, whatever. He can always use that mouth of your next time, erase the fact that something foreign was in there to begin with. No matter the fact that the curse looks just like him.
Holding you up, he starts pistoning his hips into yours. The sharp thwack thwack thwack of his pelvis hitting your ass echoing through the room as his balls continue to hit your clit.
The change in pace has you gasping out, mouth detaching from the cock that was currently occupying your mouth with a loud pop! Much to your surprise, it whines at the loss of touch the moment your lips leave his cock. Not that you can focus much on that when Satoru is fucking up into you like he’s possessed.“F-fuck, Satoru, right there!”
“That’s it, pretty. Say my name again, c’mon,” he grunts out. Much to the curse’s dismay—and Gojo’s own satisfaction—you do just that, blabbing ‘Satoru, Satoru, Toru’ over and over again, completely forgetting about the other presence in the room.
That is, until it announces its presence to you by tapping his cock on your lips, smearing some pre on them. Opening your mouth, you stick out your tongue slightly. The curse, not one to waste any time, immediately slides in.
“Taking me so well. You can do better than that, though, can’t you? C’mon, lemme feel that throat of yours,” the curse encourages you this time. The sound of its voice has you all the more delirious. Fuck, why did they have to sound the exact same?
Your walls clamp down onto Satoru’s shaft when you hear the voice. That obviously won’t do in his eyes. So he lifts you completely from his cock, the emptiness having you whine out.
That doesn’t last long, though. Satoru moving the two of you around until you’re on your hands and knees, pressing a palm onto your spine to make a mean arch, before he slips back inside of you with one swift thrust.
“There we go, much better like this,” he whispers. Both of his hands are palming the fat of your ass, watching the way it jiggles every time he drives his hips forward, bottoming out with each mean thrust.
The curse merely rolls his eyes—all six of them—before he starts driving his hips forward at the same time as Gojo’s thrusts, his balls slapping against your chin each time. The tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag around it.
“Open that pretty throat of yours. Know you can do it,” it encourages you, cupping your jaw as it thumbs away a stray tear that started to fall. You do as told, relaxing your throat so it can slip even further into your mouth, smooth pelvis nearly touching your nose. “So pretty like this, sucking my cock, hmmm?”
“Stop talking to her like that,” Satoru snaps from behind you, finally lifting his head to glare at the curse who only smirks back at the agitated white-haired man. “What, you mean like this? So pretty for me, aren’t you, sweetheart.”
You can only nod your head, a small mhmmm falling from your lips as your teary gaze travels up to those blue eyes looking down at you. Your brain long gone, not even bothering to make a distinction between the two anymore.
There’s a small noise in the back of Satoru’s throat that almost sounds like a growl. This time, instead of saying anything, he just lets one of his hands circle to your poor oversensitive clit, giving it a few slaps before circling the bundle of nerves.
It has your entire body jolting and twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you’re starting to get closer and closer to the edge.
“Why don’t you cum for me, sweets?” Satoru whispers into your ear, his entire frame bending forward to press against your back, letting you feel all of him. He grinds his hips into yours, letting his tip graze against your cervix as you still try to suck onto the girth that’s filling your mouth.
It’s all too much—too many sets of eyes looking at you, too much cock filling you, and too much pleasure.
So it’s to no ones surprise when you cum with a cry. “Oh fuck, thaaat’s it. Trying to milk me dry, huh?” The man behind you mumbles when he feels your walls contract around him, thrust turning more sloppy by the second.
The cursed spirit in front of you groans, letting his head fall back as his eyes—yes, all of them—roll to the back of his skull. Milky seed coats your throat and mouth without so much as a warning, most of it spilling from your lips as you try to swallow it all down—something you’ll get scolded for by Gojo later.
Said guy isn’t far behind himself, pulling out of you with much reluctance, he pumps himself a few times before his own cum covers your ass and lower back.
Of course the silence doesn’t last long, the curse speaking up this time. “For someone who denies me that pretty pussy, you didn’t even make her squirt. A pathetic performance, really.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll show you a pathetic performance in a second.”
Seems like you have a long night day ahead of you.
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The Sun God had never been in love. Until he saw a lovely nymph, whose beauty made his heart race with a feeling impossible to capture in the sweetest words. Until he was struck by Cupid's arrow of love, sending his mind spiralling into an obsessive lust. Until he decided to... soothe you a bit, like a true, filthy scum. But well, Satoru Gojo was truly just a man in maddening love!
included in tales, myths, romances
˖𖤓 ݁˖ pairing: ꒰ Apollo!Gojo Satoru x Nymph!Reader ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18 + :: Greek Mythology AU :: half mythologically accurate :: MY WIFE FEMJO MENTIONED :: yandere Gojo Satoru :: obsessiveness :: possessiveness :: virgin reader :: masturbation :: strong reader :: she's also meannn :: Satoru is a SCUM in love :: drugging (with aprodisiac) :: lose of virginity :: Suguru is a scum too :: we're fucking on the beach :: posessive sex :: breeding :: mating press :: oral sex :: pussydrunk Satoru ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ words: ꒰ 11.4k ꒱
˖𖤓 ݁˖ notes: I need to learn how to write short fics, because it was supposed to be 6k. Anyway, it is half-mythologically accurate, as I, of course, added a few changes. There's not much said in mythology about Daphne's (nymph's) character, so I played with it a bit. Enjoy!
The common truth seemed to be that Apollo had been stricken by the wicked arrow of love by Cupid himself.
During the fight of sorts, Apollo, always so proud and pugnacious, killed the serpent Python. He slew him with a thousand arrows as the beast wrought devastation across the lush lands of mankind.
And so the God defeated it grandly, with his handsome cheeks and eyes kissed by the Mother Sea itself, shining majestically beneath the golden rays of the Mediterranean sun.
The end of the story it could be, yet the God of Music and Poetry and Sun, to put it bluntly, did not know how to shush a cheeky mouth of his that boasted round and round.
One day, flushed with foolish pride, he saw a God of Love, Eros, bending his bow, arrow drawn taut. A boy of young age who seemed too sweet not to tease, and as Apollo was known for his wicked, playful mind, he poked the little divinity with a laugh.
A laugh it was supposed to be, yet he went too far.
He joked a few too many times, laughing at how Eros shouldn't handle a weapon reserved only for the truest men. After all, who killed the serpent Python if not Apollo himself?
He had every right to be arrogant, yet the Gods and Goddesses couldn't stand the wicked smirk and unwavering haughtiness that always clouded his mind. He was beautiful and sleek, yet no one on Olympus's peak could ever match his arrogance and boldness.
Apollo was powerful, yet Eros was unkind. After he poked and played and had his fun, Apollo left Eros alone in the forest, giving him no mind. He didn't know, however, that the God of Love would prove far more wicked than he had thought.
As with his hurt pride, Eros plucked a few creamy feathers from his wings and prepared two arrows. They were completely different, one creating love, the other banishing it entirely. A savage decision, truly, yet how could a prideful man of Eros's sort leave Apollo without the fruit of his wrath?
So he drew the arrow of love and shot it right through his bones. Letting it seep deep and gravely, spreading the lustful obsession of the most wicked charm. The utterly deadly one, making one obsessed and wretched over the darling of their desires.
Usually, his arrows were meant to strike those who wished to be deeply in love. Yet, as the rage was ravaging Eros's mind, he decided to make Apollo the most obsessed yet unhappy man in the entire world.
As for the other one, meant to banish the love, he shot at the daughter of the River's God.
The most beautiful nymph of all, with a face carved by the waves themselves. A chin utterly kind and cheeks wholly sweet, as eyes carried a gentleness of petals' peppered kisses. A wild birdie she was, basking carefree beneath the searing sun, as she lay and drank and danced without giving a mind to no mankind nor other little divinities. Nothing plagued her cheeky mind, and no worry could ever haunt her velvety forehead.
After all, she was the River God's most precious child, and he allowed her everything, guided by a parent's blissful love.
Her giggle bloomed in the nearby trees, and tender gaze lit the powdery midnight sky. A true beauty of utterly rare sight, so impossible it seemed too not be caught in Apollo's sight!
The God of Sun and Music and Poetry had never been in love. He enjoyed the bodily pleasures rather often, yet had never come upon a thing so deadly and wicked called love.
He knew that Gods and mortals joyed in it with the passion seething in their blood – for there were Hades and his Persephone, Aphrodite and Ares, even Orpheus and Eurydice, too, although it seemed that love of humankind was of a rather cruel sort.
Apollo, or, well, Satoru Gojo, as his true name was, never gave it much thought. The Goddesses and Gods were utterly beautiful, true, yet none of them had ever made his heart race with the swell and tenderness that all the poets wrote of.
He had never felt this tickling pinch his spine, nor the sudden blissful pain puncturing through his heart. No lover had ever bewitched his soul in an almost maddening way, and so he thought that the thing called love was simply not a part of his fate. Even if, that was rather fine too.
And yet… the serpents of fate are wicked.
Another summer evening it was, while Dionysus threw a joyous party as Gods usually liked to do. With wine spilling all over the golden cups and jolly laughter swirling through the tall grasses of the midnight land.
Gods there were of all sorts – trees and rivers and plants, each with loveliest offspring too, joined the grand feast.
It happened thirty moons or so before Eros shot Satoru with an arrow of maddening love. One evening, when the God who devoted his mind to no one set his eyes on… you.
A Goddess? Dearests, no.
As if you were the Goddess, he would fear that Aphrodite, driven by jealousy, would quickly pluck your eyes out. For the moment you entered the banquet held on the hidden beach, where waves rolled in deep foams, and moonlight spilt its cold kisses onto the heavy stones, Satoru needed to hold his breath.
This feeling, which he had read – written – about so often, suddenly bloomed in the swells of his heart. His hand flew towards his chest, crumpling the ivory tunic that covered the sizzling skin. His mind was struck, as if by a trickery spell, making him lose interest in the men and women chirping by his side.
The lyre in his hands felt heavy as he plucked the crystal strings, producing an unpleasant tone. But how could he not, if his eyes were devouring a beauty he'd never seen before?
And that evening, he followed you like a lost pup. With an ocean gaze lingering longer on the swells of your body, wrapped in a flimsy dress, and on your sweet cheeks, giggling foxily as the salty breeze smooched them. The flicker of the candles peppering long tables cast a lovely flame upon your skin, basking it in gold and warmth, as he imagined licking it clean.
Satoru Gojo was a poet too. A God of Poetry, after all, yet his mind was miserably empty whenever he tried to put your beauty into words. No one had ever shone brighter than you, and no giggle forced this weird, foreign feeling to seep through the marrow of his ribcage.
He was always responsible for the music and jolly, while his dearest friend Dionysus spilt the wine into guests' cups. The merry atmosphere tickled him in a pleasant way, and the mere thought of going back to one of his temples with a few little birdies forced a cheeky smile upon his brazen lips.
The women, Goddesses, and little divinities who didn't wish to be smooched by Satoru's muscular arms were indeed few. Yet the nymph who bewitched his mind in the utmost wretched way didn't bestow him with lovely eyes even once.
Dionysus noticed Apollo's frown crumbling, so he jumped to his side with a whisper, "Hm, isn't she your type, my dearest God?"
Satoru glanced at the slyness on Suguru's lips and bit the inside of his soft cheek. "That's the problem. And yet it seems I'm not quite hers."
Suguru pushed a raven lock of his hair back behind his ear, and lavender eyes oogled your giggling body with a slight grin. "Do you wish me to give her a bit of my special wine?"
The special wine was simply spiked with an aphrodisiac. Some Gods loved to use it to heighten their own sexual pleasure, while others too… made the object of their desires a bit mellow. A bit more balmy and sweet, and so Satoru already imagined your body melting beneath his fingers as he held it dearly within his delicate grasp.
Feeding you the special wine would be easy. And yet, Satoru didn't wish to be a bastard.
"Oh, but you are," Suguru chuckled, sensing the thought in his friend's mind. "I don't think there's any God more selfish than you."
Satoru knew it was the truth, for his character was rather… oh well… let's simply say he wasn't known to be the kindest and most lovable pick among the women. The most beautiful one? Surely. The best in offering sexual pleasures? Indeed. Yet he was the most arrogant bastard on the Mountain's peak, and every creature living beneath the Midetarrean sun knew of it far and well.
You most likely knew it too, so that's why the stars bouncing off your eyes did not look his way even for a second.
His head fell against Suguru's shoulder, the heavy wine coating his tongue with a sweet taste. His mind buzzed with a clash of drunken and desperate thoughts, a pulsing desire already flowing like liquid through his veins.
"I want to approach her in a nice way," he muttered, feeling Suguru's body tremble with wicked laughter.
"You can only dream, my God. She had rejected all attempts to woo her. The men and the Gods were rebuffed before they could grasp the weight of her eyes," Suguru hummed, feeling Satoru's head suddenly grow heavy on his shoulder.
"Is it her father's fault?"
Suguru shook his head. "The River God wishes for nothing more than to see his grandchildren's blooming cheeks. It's she who sniffs at all her suitors. After all, she is a virgin huntress, bound by Artemis's chastity laws." Satoru's head grew heavier. "You'd better forget about her, my God."
But how could he! His heart raced for no one but her. And even if she was a virgin beauty, Satoru didn't mind it at all, for he truly believed in the power of his charming soul. The arrogant confidence of the Sun God was truly impossible to dim!
And so that evening, Apollo decided to fulfil your father's deepest wish and become a man worthy of his daughter's hand. The one who would turn the virgin huntress into his most delicate, lovely petal.
At first, he began strolling around the meadows you usually spent your time in. Where the river curved and bent like a serpent's snake, and crystal droplets smooched your body, immersing you deep. You often sat with other sisters, and Satoru would approach you all with his foxed smile, dripping with a few sweetish words about your utter charm.
The other nymphs giggled, blushing gently at the lyricism spilling from his lips, as if the words of the most passionate, heart-throbbing kind were meant for them indeed. They looked at your unfazed face with a sly smile, knowing that their sister would reject Apollo's advances as she did with all her other suitors.
The Sun God knelt on the riverbank, looking down at your naked body hidden beneath the water's gentle swells. He could see nothing but the swell of your breasts, with perked nipples smooched by the river's kisses. You were meant to stay a virgin, true, but no one said you couldn't use the charms of yours to make the men spill miserably right beneath your feet.
So you glanced, for the first time, at God's idyllic face and waved your hand with a soft sigh. "I don't need your courtship, my God. There's nothing you can say that will force my mind to change. And to answer the question you most anticipate – no, I won't marry you."
Other suitors would back away instantly, feeling the intimidating air your glance carried across the lush plains. Your head tilted wickedly, lips curving into a playful beam, as if you knew the wretched state you always left them in.
Because a man's nature was to challenge his luck. Who didn't think that maybe their fate would be to change the virgin's mind? As all of them thought of you as the gentle, timid petal, not knowing that the virgin huntress was indeed a true beast hidden beneath the loveliest female cheeks!
But the Apollo, of course, couldn't be more turned on by your harsh rejection. The truth was that he almost didn't hear a word. No, instead he focused on the way your lips curved into a tricky smile. How crystalline droplets clung to your half-dipped breasts, with liquid sun spilling all over your warm skin. He traced them one by one, dripping from the damp hair and down the chest. His eyes seemed to be enamoured by your heavy gaze, slightly squinted and teasing, as if you already knew that your rejection would pinch his wretched heart.
And so a truthful, "My Goddess, you're ethereally beautiful with this wrath-wrinkle of yours," fell with his deep, obsessed sigh.
The nymphs gasped, covering their lips with gentle hands. Their mingling eyes glanced between your squinted gaze and the God's wretched sigh, as they awaited how this concern would unfold.
"I'm not a Goddess, and I don't need your praise," you said, your voice dripping with disinterest. "Find yourself another muse, my God. There's no need to waste your precious time on a simple nymph."
You bounced off the river's edge and swam to the other one, where the Sun God knelt. With the golden halo smooching his pale cheeks and ivory tunic crumpling on muscular shoulders. Feet clad in long, serpent sandals, golden laurel laying high on frosted head.
You've seen men of his sort, yet he was the first to look down on you with such a wretched gaze. Like a doomed lover, trapped in a circle of unrequited love, as if his heart had never swelled for any beauty but your gentlest soul.
He watched you carefully as you swam his way, unhurriedly, slowly. Water flowed over your body in soft waves, and warm wind shook the sole strings of your hair as it fell.
Your arms rested on the lush grass as you looked up at him through a curtain of wet lashes. "My God, I think it's time for you to go."
Satoru smiled – foxily, slyly, yet truthfully – before his hand reached out to cup your lovely cheek. You quickly pulled back, letting the tips of his fingers only catch a whisper of your soft lips.
His head tilted, a few creamy strands falling loosely over his straight brows. "I don't wish to hurt you, my Goddess." He grabbed the hem of his tunic. "I simply hope you'll grant me a chance."
He was kneeling, propping himself on his toes, as his fingers itched to grab a single lock of yours.
"I won't. I pledged Artemis my virginity. I'm a huntress, not your silly muse. Leave this place, or you'll taste the blood of my arrows."
And these words had indeed been bold, as all three realms of this world knew that no man had been more skilful in archery than Apollo himself.
If anyone else had spoken them in such a daring manner, the wrath of Apollo would bring painful consequences.
Yet when he heard it in this lovely yet viper-like tone of yours, a shiver ran down his spine. His hair stood on end as if electrified, and an ethereal aura smouldering around his figure suddenly intensified.
He wasn't afraid, oh surely no.
But rather, the swelling enamour, pinching his fingertips, washed over his heart. Your wicked personality wasn't an issue of any sort, but rather made the Sun God burn with an unexplainable desire. Heat that seeped down to his loins as he took a whistling breath.
"My Goddess, do you know who you're threatening to?"
You knew, of course, yet the urge to play with his boastful ego suddenly proved stronger than the choice to simply leave him be. You've met men like him before – too proud, too arrogant, the ones who'd never heard the word no. Yet of all you'd rejected, Apollo – Satoru Gojo – was the worst of all.
He was the Sun God, after all, who took satisfaction in the fact that the world, indeed, revolved around him. A personification of vanity and smugness, surpassing even Narcissus's pompous pride.
He knew what spell his wicked beauty cast over the nymph's petal cheeks. He knew the virgin maiden would fall for him most pitiably, needing only a single glance from his lustful eyes. His touch was soft, and his hands roamed over the women's tender bodies in the most loving way, yet never leaving them with the true tenderness that should fill his heart.
Satoru Gojo was a simple scum you wished to have nothing to do with. A cheeky smile tugged at your lips as you rested your arms on the river's edge and lifted half your body out of the water.
He didn't try to hide the ocean gaze, immediately snapping down towards your perked nipples, with crystal droplets dripping down the lush glass. Your head tilted, eyes turning kitty-like, as the blessed kisses of sunshine, of his sun, peppered your wet cheeks.
"To just yet another miserable man," fell almost mockingly, prompting a sudden movement around his hips. You've noticed it, and so you turned your lips into a disgusted grimace. "Go away, my God, and know my mercy. I won't be that nice next time."
You fully lifted yourself from the water, standing next to his kneeling body, naked. His gaze followed up your thighs, the mound of your pussy, the plush of your belly, tracing every crystalline line carving into your body. When it finally met your eyes, his throat bobbed.
"My Goddess, you're truly underestimating my feelings for you."
A scoff slipped past your lips as your eyes rolled. "For the God of Poetry, I expected more flowery words."
And so, ignoring whether he wished to say anything next, you simply passed him by. Going deeper into the woods, leaving the Sun God with nothing but the lingering fragrance of your blooming skin in the air, and the painfully, wickedly wretched pleasure bubbling in his loins.
𖤓 𖤓 𖤓
You truly thought that he would give up.
That the Sun God, like any other man, wouldn't wish to pursue a woman who looked at him with nothing but a deep scowl between her beautiful brows.
And yet, for the next thirty moons, he always seemed to be there. Somewhere around, following you like a shadow, with eyes and lips and mind always speaking loudly, giving you neither peace nor serenity among the quiet fields of your home.
Whenever you went hunting, his arrows sliced through the air faster than yours, striking the animals and beasts with power that crumbled the heavens themselves, and a gasp always slipped past your lips.
Quiet, voiceless, yet somehow leaving you speechless upon seeing the strength the Sun God possessed.
He found you every single day, appearing like a spectre by the riverbank, a bow slung over his muscular shoulder, gold and softly feathered, mingling beneath the rising sun.
"Where are we going today, my Goddess?" He jumped to your side with a smile, immediately sniffing the fresh, flowery scent that clung to your sparkling hair.
You gave him no mind, simply following deeper into the warm, moist woods. The sun was barely high, and so you watched the trees wake from the slumber's tight arms.
"I'm going for breakfast, and you can do whatever you want."
Yet you knew that no matter how mundane your day was, Satoru Gojo would follow you nonstop. Just to steal a glance at your lips as you wrapped them around the orange's sweetest juice, the sugary stickiness dripping down your blooming cheeks. To watch the way your back bent whenever you drew yet another deadly arrow. How muscles beneath your flimsy tunic worked, and the sweat bubbled at the back of your neck as he traced it with a hungry gaze.
A few weeks had to pass before you started to tolerate his daily company.
He still acted bold and proud, often boasting like a peacock right in front of your irritated eyes, yet tried to keep his hands away, even though you'd noticed how his fingers curled whenever your tunic brushed their tips.
But then one day… something had changed.
You didn't know what, but well, he did.
Eros's wicked arrow had struck his bones, making his gut leak with maddening love. He was aware of the wretched ache in his heart, yet only after being struck by a love-spell of sorts did something beastly unlock in his mind.
As for the arrow meant to banish love, Eros shot it towards Apollo's dearest one. As all the Gods on Olympus already knew of his wretched state, Eros played his dirty trick, ensuring that the sweetest nymph would never glance at Apollo again.
But… well. A man in such haunting love is truly a hellish creature himself.
When the love-bound arrow struck his back, he took it with a wicked pleasure. Yet, when he saw another one flying boldly towards the curve of yours, he grabbed it swiftly, before the leaking peak could ever brush your skin.
It was a sudden movement as he stepped closer, his hand shooting toward something over your shoulder.
It happened yet another day, as you both walked the serpentine paths through his temple's lush garden. There's a little cove I wish to show you. How about a quick dip? After spending a month in his presence, you sighed and nodded, as nothing gave you more wicked pleasure than seeing him lose his mind at the sight of your naked body in fresh mountain waters.
And so, while your tunic fell to the ground and a warm wind brushed your hair with a soft tickle, he suddenly stepped closer.
Too close. Before a sudden crack of splintering wood sounded behind you, he drew an arrow, his long fingers clenching it.
"What is it?" you furrowed, looking at the long wooden arrow crushed in his strong grip.
He threw it to the side, taking the ivory tunic off his body. "Nothing, probably someone's lost arrow. Give it no mind."
But how could you, when something deep in your chest panged? You were a huntress, after all, so how could you not notice an arrow slashing at your side? There was never a moment when you would let your guard down, and yet, being in Satoru's presence somehow pulled a blissful laziness to seep into your mind.
He was always there – looking, watching, carefully observing each of your moves. Swooshing away a few men who dared to approach your side while he kept his eyes on you for too long.
To tear their limbs apart and unleash plagues across their lands with a single arrow. Something… you didn't know about, since there was no need to trouble your sweet mind. To reveal a sinister side of him that would shatter the gradually improving image you held of him.
His mind was already wicked. Heart wrenched by the pull of love so strong that it seeped into him from the inside. So the moment the love arrow struck his back, the feelings he had tried to keep within his heart suddenly burst with brutish, uncontrollable force.
He simply needed to make you his.
So you hummed softly, taking the first step into the little cove, with water slipping in from the nearby sea. A crisp chill hugged your limbs as you took a deep breath.
He watched you with a smile before dipping into the water too. "Rather good, isn't it?"
You nodded, leaning your arms over one of the sizzling stones. "Mhm."
Your bashful eyes roved over his ethereal body, lingering a moment longer on the broad, muscular back and meaty thighs. A warmth seeped through your loins, so you quickly looked away.
But he saw it. Of course he did, and so his body drifted a little closer, just to feel the saltiness wrapping your skin. Your hair fell loosely over your wet shoulder, and warmth crept up your soft neck.
The slight ache from the morning's hunt still pinched your muscles, so you turned to him again, only to see that he had suddenly come far too close.
A soft cough escaped your throat as you pressed yourself closer to the stone. "Could you, hm, give me a quick massage, my God?"
Satoru chuckled. "A massage? Is that how you wish to use the powerful Sun God?"
A scoff slipped past your lips as you turned back and rested your cheek against the warm stone. With eyes slightly lidded, you knew he, anyway, would give you whatever you wanted.
"Is there anything else you're good for?" A cheeky question slipped past your lips, followed by a low sigh.
He stood mere millimetres from your arched back, and the heat radiating from his body was smouldering your drenched skin. Long, thick fingers settled gently on your shoulders before he began pressing the muscles. Your body melted beneath his strong touch, and your mind went all fuzzy – nothing but soft moans and sighs would fill the little, hidden cove.
"I'm sure you can find a few things you could make good use of," his voice dripped with seduction, tickling your hair-covered cheeks.
A tsk fell past your lips. "You have only filth in your mind."
Well, how could he not? When your back arched so deliciously, with water hugging solely your slightly dipped hips? He could see the swell of your ass almost brushing his thighs, and if he took a little step forward, the tip of his leaking cock would surely brush your skin.
It was a blessing that you lay pressed to the stone in a blissfully unaware state, not knowing that the Sun God was going through pure torture right behind your back. With the fat, long cock sticking to his abdomen, little pearls of precum dripping down the veiny curve.
"You make me act filthy, my Goddess."
A month ago, you would have smacked his cheek and left him be. But now, with his fingers digging deep into the muscles of your back, a lovely laugh slipped past your lips.
"It's a pity I'm a wretched virgin, hm?" You straightened your spine, as if trying to give him a better view. "My God, you truly have extraordinary restraint."
Oh, how he loved this cheeky side of yours. The pure filth spilling from your virgin lips, eyes taking on a nasty look whenever you caught him staring at your nipples peeking through the tunic. The way you always undressed yourself in front of him without blushing like a birdie, taking full pleasure in the fact that he couldn't touch you as he wished.
Who said that a virgin should be timid and cowardly? If you could keep your chastity while still enjoying the wretched state you put men in?
And which God would be more fun to tease than the one who slipped through numerous affairs?
Satoru hummed, pressing your back a little harder. Slipping lower, and lower, through your ribcage and waist, rolling the little dimples just above your hips. "Have I? I'm afraid this restraint might one day snap."
A shudder ran down your spine as you tried to keep your head steady. Your bow lay still on the river's bank, and if he tried to misbehave even a bit, you would simply shoot him clean.
And yet, your hips rolled, as if trying to chase the pleasure his touch gave. "I'll be there when it happens." You looked over your shoulder, not missing the squint he gave you… "And I'll make sure to bring you to your senses," …and the reddened tip sticking to his hips. "I think you might wish to take care of it. Maybe with one of your muses?"
Or whores, as you actually wanted to say.
His cock trembled as you looked at it, and Satoru could only chuckle. Nastily, mischievously, with the fingers pulling your hips a bit closer. Yet not close enough for your wet pussy to feel the meaty shaft graze her lips.
"You are my muse, Goddess," he leaned closer, his warm breath brushing your cheeks. "Do you wish to hear the poems I've written about you?"
The sizzling sun licked your spine, eyes followed as his plush lips leaned to your ear. "Are they as filthy as your mind?"
He nodded, fingers slipping down towards the swell of your hips. Rolling deep circles, loosening the tightness in your muscles. "How could they not?" Snowy hair almost tickled your ear. "Who do you think I pleasure myself to? You may be a virgin, my Goddess, but I have my needs too."
With a sudden movement, he flipped you over, pressing your back to the warm stone. His thick cock stuck to the white trail of his abdomen, yet still not touching your dripping cunt.
You may've pledged chastity, yet you couldn't control your body's simple needs.
"You can't do anything to me," you said, yet something in your voice quivered.
His head tilted wickedly, and his eyes shone as he gripped the fat shaft. "But you can watch, hm?" A thumb swirled over the pearly tip, smearing the sticky cum over the reddened head. "Or is it also against your chastity?"
Maybe it was. Yet your head shook as back pressed closer to the stone. The water swelled over your hips, leaving your breasts bare to his starving gaze.
"Hm, thought so." His fingers slipped to your cheek, brushing a few wet locks away. "My Goddess, you truly are a wicked creature."
Pleasure, distress, haunting desire clashed with each other in your mind, yet your body froze in place. Lips fell only slightly open, eyes bulging like porcelain plates, seeing the fatness he gripped. Leaking with creamy droplets of precum, soaking his long fingers and veiny thickness.
Saying he was large would be an understatement.
Something in your belly squeezed, imagining his bulging head hit the deepest–
"Stop," the word slipped out in a shudder as you turned your head away. With warm cheeks and a trembling lip, as if the Sun God's look of himself pleasuring himself solely on your blooming face were against every pledge you had made. "Go and find one of your filthy muses."
Satoru chuckled before his fingers pinched your chin, turning your head back. He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing yours. "I can't think of anyone but you, my Goddess. Look what a wretched man I am because of you." His thumb brushed your lower lip, then slipped boldly onto your tongue. "Do you truly wish to put your Sun God through such a tor–"
Yet before he could finish, your hand met his cheek. A slap bounced off the water, turning his face left. To bring it back to face your wrath, you slapped it again.
His creamy face bloomed like the softest rose, and a shiver of pleasure ran down his spine. Excitement pinched his heart as fingers clenched around the fat shaft with a low, groany moan.
He bit the inside of his cheek, looking down at your face, burning with rage. "Slap me again, my Goddess, and I'll make you arch that pretty ass of yours for me again."
You didn't know where this sudden change had come from, yet the man standing in front of you was not the one who had pestered you for the past thirty moons.
No, as Satoru Gojo, who now stood mere millimetres from your body, with his musky scent clouding you tight and his fat cock trembling at the sheer look of yours – look much, much madder.
Wretched, obsessed, with the flame dancing behind his watery eyes and a wicked smile tugging at his rosy lips
Another shiver ran down your spine when he started pumping his shaft faster. Smearing the creamy cum all over the bulging veins, throwing his head back yet still following the gentle rise of your trembling breasts.
The rage bubbled beneath your heart, and a tiny thread of heat smouldered on your cheeks. He leaned a bit closer, and closer, and closer, until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He didn't touch you in any other way, yet the sole impact left you breathless.
"My Goddess, you smell so good," he took a deep breath close to your neck, letting another groan escape his lips. "So delicious, ah, I can only imagine how sweet the scent is down there."
A shuddered breath escaped your tightened throat, feeling his muscular, massive body looming over yours like a deathly threat. Long fingers pumped his cock faster, breathless moans hit your drenched skin, before he finally stilled.
With the gentle, petal kiss upon your shoulder and his cheek nuzzling against your skin.
Something warm spilt over your belly. And you didn't need to look down to know what it would be.
"You're disgusting," fell in pure wrath, as you pushed him away. "Nothing but filthy scum. I hope this satisfied your hunger, because the next time I see you, my God, not even your wicked arrows will be able to save you from my rage."
You left the water with a shuddering, vexing tremor washing over your spine, and this little, agonisingly rubbing feeling that spilt hotly all over your mind.
Satoru followed your body with a slick smile, the saltiness of your skin still tasting heavy on his lips.
The Sun God was of a cunning nature. Wicked and wrathful, always doing things one way. His way.
Three weeks had passed before he had a chance to see you again.
His heart heaved in agony as he couldn't find you anywhere. As always, he came at the first break of day to join you on the morning hunt, but you simply weren't there. Waiting for him with a scowl, yet still giggling at all his foolish jokes and accepting a bit of help.
He was waiting by the river's bank from morning till night, yet you hadn't appeared even once. As if the waves themselves had trapped you beneath the surface.
He asked around – the nymphs, the Goddesses, the plains – yet everyone said they hadn't seen you for days. Or maybe they simply lied to him, as you couldn't simply disappear.
And so for the next three weeks, he walked through the lands like a shadow. He barely enjoyed anyone's company, sitting in his temple only to get drunk on the sweetest wine, letting his creamy skin be scorched beneath his own, merciless sun. A shadow of a man he was, as his heart simply couldn't bear the separation you imposed with such anger.
After two weeks, he met his twin sister, Artemis, to whom you pledged your chastity. He loved his sister dearly and knew her like the back of his hand. Thus, with a single glance, he could tell she knew everything that had happened between the two of you.
And based on her furrowed forehead and tsk that fell when she saw his grinning face entering her temple – she wasn't happy.
"I won't tell you where she is," she murmured, brushing her long, creamy hair aside as she enjoyed the warm kisses in the sun.
She lay on the sofa by her pool, with nothing but a long tunic gently wrapped around her body. Satoru hung over her wrinkled forehead and pressed a finger to satin skin. "My sister, such a beautiful woman you are, and yet you always seem so angry."
Shihori smacked his hand, glancing up at his brother with the same blue eyes. "Because you always make me angry, fool."
Satoru lifted her legs and rested them on his thighs as he joined her on the sofa. "Tell me where she is."
Shihori couldn't care less about her brother's wicked wish, so she shook her head. "You know she pledged her virginity, hm?"
Satoru hummed, playing with the long tunic as he brushed his sister's ankles. "I do."
"So you also must know what will happen if she breaks her vow?"
Of course he knew. That's why he came here.
"What if I told you I love her?" he asked, drawing his sister's attention. "I want to make her my wife. Give her to me, and I promise I will be in your debt forever."
Shihori propped herself up on elbows, letting long white hair brush her rosy cheeks. She was as beautiful as her younger brother – by a minute only. Possessing the same archery skill and a power that trembled the heavens.
With a slim chin and wicked eyes, matching the proudish smile. Strong and bold, with neatly carved muscles bulging beneath her satin skin and an authoritative tone that always made Satoru slightly squirm. But she was his older sister, after all, so how could he not feel the utter love and respect for the same blood?
"And why would I do that?" Shihori lifted her straight brow. "Why would I change my rules for this little nymph?"
"Because you love me," Satoru grinned. "And I suppose it would be rather proper to remind you that enjoying women's company also counts as losing one's virginity. My dearest virgin-goddess sister."
Shihori squinted, kicking his side with her foot. "Whatever I do with my nymphs is none of your business."
Satoru grabbed her ankle before biting her big toe, just as he used to tease her when they were children.
"I suppose some Gods would be interested in how the protector of young women and their virginity fucks with her dearest followers," he chuckled as she kicked him again. "You're no better than me, my sister. The same scum-blood runs in our veins. So let me have her, and I won't say a word."
Shihori glared at him. Morality and the need to give her little brother everything were clearly at war in her mind before she waved her hand and lay back down.
"Fine, I won't punish her. Just don't do anything stupid," she laughed, feeling Satoru's sweet kiss on her cheek. "She'll join another feast in a week. Just wait for her there. Oh, and bring me some of this Suguru's special wine."
Satoru tilted his head, another wicked grin already tugging at his lips. He knew his sister wasn't the saint everyone took her for, yet he had no idea how coy she was.
"And what do you need an aphrodisiac-spiked wine for?"
She opened one eye, shooting a set of daggers straight at his heart. But before another bark could pass her plush lips, Satoru chuckled once again. "Ah, what was this rumour, hm…" His eyes gleamed with a foul grin.
"What rumour?" Shihori asked through her teeth, yet the rosy warmth hit her cheeks.
Satoru stood up from the sofa, giving his muscular back a long, groany stretch. He scratched his chin before looking over his shoulder towards his sister. Oh, her anger only fueled his playful mind.
"Nothing, just that our dearest stepmother has been surprisingly benevolent lately," he observed, another wave of warmth wrapping around her neck. "I suppose it's because Hera truly enjoys the company of her stepdaughter. I wonder what makes her so happy that even Zeus no longer gets scolded for all his affairs."
Shihori slipped a pillow from beneath her head and threw it at his head. "Go out, before I change my mind!"
And so he left, with a crackling chuckle bouncing off the temple's walls and his older sister burning from embarrassment.
Yet now, with his sister's blessing, there was nothing that could stop him from pursuing your love.
And so he knew that the next time you met, he would make you his, whether you liked it or not.
𖤓 𖤓 𖤓
The moon spilt coldly over the feast's heavy tables as the Gods and Goddesses gathered around the flickering candles. The night was warm, as the summer breeze tickled the cheerful cheeks of the giggling nymphs, who listened to Satoru playing soft harp tunes.
An ivory tunic, as always, fell down his muscular shoulders, as the moon spilt dripping kisses on the lightened side of his face.
Finger played softly through the harp's gentle strings, yet lingered on your laughing cheeks. Something panged deep in his chest at how carefree you were with other divinities. You sipped your wine without giving Satoru much thought, as if you hadn't disappeared from Earth for the past three weeks.
Your laugh sliced sweetly through the air, tickling his ears. He desperately tried to force eye contact, yet you gave him nothing but the lovely side of your cheek.
An irritated tsk escaped his lips, an unpleasant anger bubbling deep in his chest. A few Gods approached you with a smile, forcing another wave of rage to wash over Satoru's spine.
Before he could step in, seeing how you slowly warmed yourself to some small God's side, a low, chuckling whistle slashed through the air.
"It seems like things didn't work your way," Suguru said, brushing Satoru's arm with his. "What? She rejected you?"
Satoru sighed, rolling his tense shoulders. "She's just a little nervous."
Suguru squinted his lavender eyes, clearly dissatisfied with such a roundabout answer. Raven hair tickled Satoru's cheek as he tilted his head. Satoru rarely saw his friend concerned with anyone but him, yet his forehead furrowed with a gentle wrinkle.
"Give her some of this wine," Satoru mumbled.
Suguru drew in a long breath, shooting his head towards Satoru. "But you said–"
He started, but Satoru quickly added. "I know what I said." He bit the inside of his cheek, his eyes squinting furiously. "Give her a little. Just to soothe her a bit."
Suguru chuckled, hitting his friend's back. "As you wish, my God."
"Ah, also, prepare a bit for Shihori."
Looking over his shoulder, Suguru rolled a laugh. "Your sister? What does she need it for?"
Satoru gestured with his chin towards the start of the table, where three of the brothers and their wives sat among the elite. With Persephone straddling Hades's hips, a quiet goddess wrapped around Poseidon's arm, and Hera… sitting utterly bored and giving Zeus's drunken laugh no mind.
Suguru followed his gaze before a devilish laugh escaped his throat. "Don't tell me she fucks with the queen mother herself?"
Satoru crossed his arms over his broad chest and let out a soft hum. Suguru tilted his head, admiring Hera's gentle cheeks. "Well, she's quite beautiful. No wonder she's stopped going crazy over Zeus's affairs lately."
Satoru watched as his friend took another pot of wine before rejoining the Gods. His golden tongue whispered the sweetest secrets, and the divinities laughed and blushed beneath Dionysus's soothing lines. After all, a God of Laughter, Wine and Theatre, he knew exactly how to play on people's minds.
You weren't an exception. As he approached and wrapped his arms around you and your friend, a gentle laugh made your eyes lift. Satoru bit the inside of his cheek, catching Suguru's sly glance, while his fingers clenched around your soft arm.
But still, he poured you another cup of the sweetest wine, watching you close as you took a sip. And another, another, another, before humming softly about how delicious it tastes.
A few minutes passed before something warm began to spill across your chest. A kind of fog clouded your mind – sweet and gentle, yet sizzling like the sun.
The nymph sitting right next to you grabbed your arm, looking at your hottish face with a furrow. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need some water?"
You drew in a sharp breath, feeling her cold skin against yours. Your head shook as a soft "I'm fine" barely passed your lips.
Excusing yourself, you rose from the chair and headed to a quieter part of the beach, where gentle waves lapped inside the small cove. Surrounded by the forest and shielded by tall trees, the spot offered a peaceful retreat. The salty breeze gently touched your cheeks, while your throat felt parched, and you scratched it with long nails.
The fog clouding your head was getting thicker, denser, spreading all over your body till the fingertips tingled with a pinching pleasure.
Something wet dripped down your inner thighs, and as you hid yourself behind a tree and slipped a hand beneath the long dress, you felt the stickiness coating your sizzling skin. But more so… the moment your finger brushed your swollen folds, a low bounce of the softly rolling waves.
"Fuck," slipped in a whisper, as you felt the burning pleasure fill your lower belly.
You looked around, seeing that neither mortal nor God peered into the little cove. The bay seemed completely private, with nothing but moonlight spilling onto the smooth sand and soft whispers rolling off the crystal waves.
You took a deep breath, unconsciously rubbing your thighs together. Just to feel a faint friction, yet too embarrassed to slip your finger up again.
You've never felt it before. This… sensation.
Pleasure.
Or maybe you did, yet your mind refused to accept that Apollo, or Satoru Gojo, was the only man who woke a dangerous flame deep in your chest.
Maybe you simply wished to forget about the warmth that boiled deep within your lower belly when his muscular body stood right in front of yours. The look on his handsome face, lost in utter pleasure, and his long fingers wrapped around his filthy cock.
You tried not to think of it again, as the moment the image of his shaft slipped again into your mind, another moany sigh rolled past your lips. Your pussy clenched around nothing, letting another batch of stickiness coat your thighs. Trickling down the skin, till you've noticed a little, wet drop landing on the sand.
"Fuck, fuckfuckfuck," you cried, feeling the burning sensation pinch your skin harder. Perking your nipples, softening your body, as if preparing you to accept the pleasure that needed to be spilt.
Bracing yourself against the stony wall, you took a few steps. On trembling legs, you felt the weakness slowly seep into your marrow. You walked slowly, trying to go deeper into the nearby forest, just to reach the river.
Somewhere safe.
You moved slowly, with wetness dripping down your legs and heavy breaths escaping your burning lungs. Your eyes were misty, nearly teary, as the feverish, floral heat enveloped your entire body.
Waves rolled past your bare feet, sandals long forgotten somewhere in the back. Your burning body couldn't bear the dress clinging to your skin, so you began to undress unconsciously.
One cloth after another, before falling down your knees, to crawl towards the river's banks.
"Do you need help, my Goddess?"
Someone's voice filled your balmy mind.
No, not someone's.
His.
Of the God whom you wished to see the last, as the sole fragrance of his skin pinched your senses in an utmost sinful way.
And, oh, he must've watched you now in such an embarrassing stance!
Kneeling with your sizzling body, you shed the sea-drenched dress behind you. The intense desire overwhelmed your reason as you presented yourself fully before his daring gaze.
"Go away," you barely breathed. "You can't see me in such a state."
But Satoru merely chuckled before you heard his heavy footsteps coming your way. Ocean eyes hummed at all the garments you'd left behind before settling on your clenched thighs and slightly arched back as you tried to crawl towards the nearest river.
He squinted, seeing the wetness dripping down your thighs and a gentle shimmer from your swollen pussy.
"My Goddess, it seems that you do feel unwell," He chuckled, taking another step your way. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Your head shook as you tried to crawl faster, only to get away from him as fast as you could. An attempt to stand up ended in a miserable fall onto the sand, drawing a soft giggle from Satoru's lips. He knelt by your side, brushing away a few strands of hair sticking to your cheeks.
"Oh my," he hummed, seeing the utter loveliness of your drugged face.
With cheeks sweet as fresh cherries and eyes softened by an alluring scowl. A gentle pout tugged at your lips as you unconsciously nuzzled against his skin. Another hand cupped your cheek as he held your face in a possessive grip. His big thumbs, tight yet delicate, brushed your skin.
"What is it, my Goddess?" He whispered, allowing a lenient sigh to spill past your lips. "What happened here, hm? Are you a bit too drunk?"
You nodded, thinking of nothing but the pleasant grip of his fingers.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were slowly giving in.
A miserable attempt to push him away ended solely with you even more pathetically landing on the soft sand. Your back hit it with a dull thud, as Satoru placed his fingers on your knees. Thumb rolled gently in circles, as if he knew how much pleasure your body took from each brush of his skin.
"Say it," he muttered, leaning closer. Plush lips brushed one of your knees, eyes never leaving your fogged face. "Say that you want me to help you, my Goddess. I know how to make you feel good."
Oh, and you knew too, which is why your knees tried to close again. But his grip was too strong, and he brutally forced them forward, folding you in half.
With your bare pussy dripping filthy onto the sand and perked nipples waiting to be softly brushed by his thumb.
The moonlight kissed his handsome, sharp side as he leaned in once again. To hang right over your face, observing with wicked pleasure the tears forming beneath your lids. As if he could see the fuzzy mess of your mind, with morality and a simple, human need drawing a brutal tight.
"I c-can't," you mumbled, feeling the heat drip down your tongue. It felt much heavier than before, barely touching your feverish roof. "Stop, I can't, the chastity–"
"Shhh," Satoru cooed, pressing your thighs to your chest. Till the swell of your ass glued off the drenched sand. "Artemis will forgive you."
His nose traced the plush of your cheek. Lips peppering your skin softly, leaving traces down your chin. His tongue swirled sweetly around one of your nipples, through the burning neck, perked breasts.
You wished to fight it – you truly did, yet a sugary moan slipped past your lips.
"No, she–ah!" you cried, as he softly bit your nipple.
"It's alright, my Goddess. Don't resist it," he murmured, with one hand feeling your breasts as his lips traced a path down your body. He gently bit, grazed, and nipped your skin before resting his cheek against your mound. "Allow me to take care of you. Just say you want it," he whispered, as his finger rolled your nipple, causing another cry to escape your lips.
"I'm a v-virgin, wait…" Your hand landed on Satoru's head, tugging softly on his hair.
Satoru groaned, feeling your gentle finger scratch his scalp. "I'll take good care of you. It won't hurt, I promise," he mumbled right into the drenched mound of your cunt, as the fragrance of sugary juices already hit his senses. "Fuck, my Goddess. Just let me have a taste. I won't put it in…" promise?
You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling his warm breath almost brush your core. Not quite, yet the mere sight of him, lying so handsomely between your thighs, was enough to force a nod.
A nod, which would never happen if your mind wasn't on the verge of spilling. If your body wasn't melting beneath his touch, thighs spreading even wider, just to open your cunt to his starving mouth.
It was utterly embarrassing, humiliating, mostly sinful act and yet… when his tongue finally licked the juices off your clit, a shuddering moan bounced off the cove's stones.
He didn't waste a time, pushing the drenched muscle right inside your spasming cunt. Slurping, ravishing on the waves of wetness that spilt from your hole in unnaturally large bursts. Droplet after droplet, trickling down his chin and landing softly on the sand.
"My Goddess, fuck, I knew you would taste so good," he slurred, letting your juices stick to his lips. "My sweetest love, mhm, I was waiting a month for you."
Your fingers clenched around his hair as you tried to slightly pull him back. "W-wait, that's–nghhh–too much, my God!"
Your body had always been much weaker than his, but now, with neediness running through your blood, it seemed impossible to do anything but allow yourself to be wrapped in his lips.
He took your hand, slipping it down your belly. Down to your clenching cunt, only to press your two fingers against the swollen clit.
"Do you feel it, my Goddess?" He chuckled, looking up at your warm cheeks. "Do you feel how wet you are? That's what you wanted to take away from me."
He directed your pads to press softly, pinchily, till another moan spilt past your lips. His tongue slurping on your tight core, fingers of one hand rolling your nipples. Squeezing the plush breasts, till a painful pleasure tickled your spine.
And the other hand…
"Wait!" You screamed, quickly catching his wrist. "N-no penetration… just…" Oh dearest, how embarrassing it was to say out loud! "… use your tongue. I can't lose my virginity."
My sweet foolish nymph, Satoru thought, before an innocent, "Of course, my Goddess," fell past his plush lips.
The waves and waves of ethereal pleasure washed over your spine as he devoured your sweet pussy with a starving need. Nose all glued with your juices, cheeks nastily squeezed by your trembling thighs, tongue working on your clit and hole, trying to stretch her as much as he could.
His creamy forehead furrowed with a wrinkle, brows tight, as you pushed a few soft strands of his hair away.
"My God, please t-take a breath," you cried, yet the spilling lustfulness seeped like a flame through your skin. "I'm–mhmm–t-there's something…" Before you could point at your lower belly, his hand pressed right there.
Squeezing your little pouch, as if trying to feel the slick, filthy cum splashing beneath your skin.
"You need to cum, my Goddess," he mumbled drunkenly, sucking on your plush clit. "But for that, I need to put my finger in."
You bit your lower lip, looking down at his wretched face.
His cheek nuzzled against your soft thigh, kissing the clit softly. "Please? Just a finger. I promise, it'll be fine."
Oh, he looked stunning. With those alluring eyes and innocent pout, as if aware that his angelic face alone was enough to make your head spin.
So you nodded, rather unconsciously, and watched him push one finger in.
"Oh," slipped moany at the new feeling. "Oh, my God, mhmm, i-it's–"
"Now you can cum for me," Satoru whispered, going back to sucking your clit.
He knew where your sweet spot was – how couldn't he? – so within a second, you started squirming beneath his grip.
One of his hands rested on your belly while the other was deep inside your tight, clenching walls. He kissed, brushed, and lightly peppered your most sensitive spot with his finger until your thighs finally clenched around his head.
Locking him in a tight, shuddering embrace as he drunkenly moaned over your spilling juices. With a single flick of his tongue, you melted beneath his maddening touch, squirting all over his cheeks, chin and nose, till the Sun God was left nothing but a wretched man, hugging nastily to your velvety skin.
Your head felt a bit less feverish, with the crimson fog finally clearing from in front of your eyes and fresh summer air finally filling your lungs.
For a mere second, you felt normal again.
Satoru still lay between your spread legs, kissing the slippery skin of your inner thighs softly.
"Welcome back, my Goddess," he muttered, licking the last juices dripping from your pussy.
You watched him with pure terror swirling behind your eyes. "I… this feeling…"
"Mmm," he hummed, softly biting a plush of your thigh. "Someone must've spiked your wine, my Goddess. Have you angered anyone recently?"
Oh, he was such a scum.
Your lovely brows furrowed, a drop of sweat slipping down your temple. "No, I… I don't know. There was…" you, wanted to slip, yet you bit down on your tongue.
Satoru pouted, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. "My Goddess, I vow to find that bastard and slash his throat," he whispered, kissing your thigh and moving upward, even biting gently into your calf. "But for now, brace yourself for another wave."
And true to his promise, the heat once more kissed your cheeks. It climbed up your neck, seeped into fingertips, curled beneath lower belly, and caused another slick to slide down your cunt.
A fogginess once again swirled in front of your eyes, and an anxiety bubbled somewhere deep in your tightened throat.
Satoru flipped you onto your belly, with a soft, "Shhh, it's fine, my Goddess. You'll be fine."
Gentle, wet kisses landed on your shivering spine, leaving hottish traces down the skin.
"What a-are you doing?" fell shuddered.
But you didn't catch his reply. Truly, you heard nothing at all but the swoosh of his tunic as it landed close to your sand-plastered face.
"My God–ah!" Slipped in a pitched moan, as something fat poked on your swollen pussy.
The heat was teasing, gently pinching your damp folds, rolling waves of intense pleasure whenever Satoru stirred your cunt. His fingers spread the heat in a soft hum, and something heavy, round, pressed against your tight entrance.
"My God, what–"
"My love," Satoru let out an utterly innocent whimper, as if trying to stifle the tears wracking beneath his lids. You couldn't see the devilish smile tugging at his lips, his face tightly pressed into the sand. "Allow me to make you feel good. I can make the pain go away, just let me…" His swollen head slipped in a little, forcing a shattered moan from your throat.
"Wait!" You tried to crawl away, but he pressed a hand between your shoulder blades. Keeping you tight in place, with his massive body fully resting on yours.
"It's okay, my love. It won't hurt, I promise," he hummed, another hand massaging the swell of your hips. Spreading your drenched folds a bit farther to see the tip of his cock getting sucked by your weeping cunt. "My Goddess, don't make her wait any longer. She's just wishing to get fucked, ahh."
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to stop your hips from slamming against his. As, dearest heavens, the way his sole head stretched your cunt brought an unparalleled, maddened pleasure, bubbling deep inside your belly. The pledge you made re chastity was trying to fight the aroused, lustful thoughts. The thick, warm fog that made your body liquefy beneath his touch, and your mind go all hot.
"My virginity–" You started, yet Satoru quickly snapped back.
"I talked to my sister, love. She won't punish you," he whispered, leaning down to lick a long stripe down your spine. "Because now you're mine. So say you want it, hm? Say you want me to fuck your tight cunt and fill her up."
He bit, licked, kissed your skin, while slowly, oh so painfully slow, poking your drenched hole.
"Just the tip, my love," he whispered, brushing away a few strands of hair hiding your lovely side. "I don't want to hurt you, my Goddess. I'll slip just a little tip."
And with an arousal fogging your mind, you nodded. Forcing a wicked laugh past his plush lips as he kissed your cheek.
"Mhm, that's right, my love," his cock slid through your tight walls, snugging inside your plush warmth. "Oh fuck, my Goddess, you truly are a fucking virgin."
You drew in a sharp breath, feeling his heavy cock slip into your belly. It was anything but the tip, forcing a sudden burst of tears to roll down your cheeks.
The pain mixed with pleasure as his shaft forced its way deep inside your pussy. You could feel every pulsing vein throbbing against your walls, the pumped head smooching your sweet spot, as he pushed and pushed, while pressing your body to the sand.
A moany cry bounced pitifully off the crystal waves before he quickly rolled you again.
This time, your back hit the sand, thighs folding up to your chest.
And when you looked up at his face… oh.
The Sun God hung over your crying cheeks with nothing but an utterly wicked, handsome smile. Eyes shining beneath the cold moon, adding to their ocean-blue hues a kiss of sin. He giggled, kissing the single tear that soaked your cheek.
And an angel, no, rather a demon, keeping you in his tight, possessed embrace.
Your hands pressed to his chest, as he pushed harder. "My God, you said just the tip," fell harshly, seeing a grin coiling in his gaze.
"My Goddess, you truly are ruthless," he leaned down to place a soft kiss on your lips. "How could I ever lie to you? I'm barely in, I promise."
Yet when you tried to look down, his strong fingers grabbed your chin, keeping your eyes fixed on his.
"You don't trust me?" He pouted, peppering your skin with soft kisses. "Don't look down there, my love. Focus on me."
Your head lulled right as he bit the side of your neck. Licking, sucking on it gently, while still forcing his cock through your walls.
It wasn't just the tip, and although you should be angry, the way he kept you folded left little room for movement. With his single arm pressing your legs tight, fingers keeping your chin up, and massive, heavy body leaning on yours.
He started to move faster, faster, faster, pumping you poor, weeping cunt with his heavy cock. It hit every inch of your lower belly, brushing past the sweet spot and smooching up to the slowly swelling womb. You could feel his round head nuzzle deep inside your pulsing warmth, as your tight walls wrapped around him, as if trying to lock him in.
A low hiss slipped past his rosy lips as you cried out in painful pleasure. Your blood ran hot as he tried to fuck each drop of aphrodisiac from your veins, pushing your body deeper into the sand.
The nasty squelch bounced off the water, spilling deep into the cave and catching in your scattered hair. He brought your face back, giggling at the sight of your utterly fucked eyes.
"My beautiful Goddess," he whispered, before slipping his hand down your belly. At this point, with heat bubbling in your belly, your thighs stayed open, pressed to your chest, as if your body was freely inviting him in. "My sweet, beautiful Goddess. Tell me how good you feel."
His demand forced wrath and balmy submissiveness upon your fucked mind, and so a sweet, honest, "G-good, ahh, you're filling me s-so good," fell embarrassingly past your lips.
As no matter how much you wanted to refuse, it did feel good. Dearest, it felt amazing, handling his hefty cock fully sliding inside your warmth, till wet balls hit your lifted ass. Head kissing your womb, veins pulsing in rhythm with your plush walls, as they pushed out waves and waves of fresh cum. Coating his full length in your juices, till whenever he pulled out, a crystal thread formed between your cunt and his creamy, happy trail.
His hands kneading your softness turned your mind to balm, and fingers playing with your swollen bud forced a moan, so you truly, shamefully so, allowed your body to give in to his touch.
"My God, nghh, I'm going to–"
Before you could finish, he crashed his lips against yours. He slipped a groan deep inside your throat as he started to fuck you faster. More relentless, brutal, forcing upon your virgin cunt a strength you weren't used to.
"My God, p-please–ahhh–slow down," you cried into his lips, yet received only a low chuckle.
"I know how to make you cum, my love. Your pussy needs to be fucked properly," he licked the tears dripping down your cheeks before capturing your lips again. "You're close, hm? I can feel it in your belly."
His hands pressed to your lower pouch, feeling his cock hit the soft skin, before slipping down to your cunt. Rolling your clit in mean, squelching pinches.
"S-satoru," his name finally escaped your throat, as you wrapped your arms behind his neck. "So good, you're–ngh–filling me–ahhh."
He chuckled, seeing your lidded eyes and messy blabber falling past your lips. "I know, my Goddess, your–ahh–pussy feels so fucking good. My sweetest, I promise to take good care of you."
He hid his face in the crook of your neck before finally going still. Your back arched, nipples pressing to his chest, before a soaked cry ripped from your throat. Juices gushing all over his abdomen, cock, as he hit your womb painfully, filling it with sticky ropes of cum. Till you felt the heavy creaminess sticking to your walls, stuffing you heavily, madly full.
A filthy fog once again seeped into your mind, and for a single minute you felt your strength return to your body. For a mere moment, it allowed you to smack his fair cheek. It left him fully unfazed, with a cheeky grin still plastered to his handsome face and a low chuckle forcing its way past his lips.
"My Goddess, is that how you should treat your future husband?" he asked, then brutally turned you back onto your belly. You tried to crawl, kicking him back, but he simply smacked your ass. "Come on, my love. Don't try to fight me. If I hadn't found you, who knows who would?"
Your breath hitched when you felt his cock harden again. Still snuggling deep inside you cunt, as you felt his shaft stretch your poor, weeping walls.
"I–ahh–I fucking hate you," you snapped through gritted teeth, your hips slowly rocking against his. Whatever you'd drunk still flowed in your veins, forcing another fog over your mind. "I hate you, so, s-so–mhm Satoru, just, fuck, p-please–"
His fingers dug deep into your perked-up ass, ocean eyes glimmering at the sight of your arched back. Sweat beaded on your neck, and your teary gaze looked over your shoulder in a furious, desperate, pleading manner.
He chuckled, taking a little vial from his tattered tunic. Opening it with his teeth, he handed it your way.
"What is it?" you asked, trying to sound at least a bit suspicious.
His eyes squinted, lips turned wickedly up. "Just a simple water. You'll feel a bit better."
"Drink it first."
"You don't trust me?"
You bit down your lip, shaking your head a bit.
Satoru hummed before taking a sip of the liquid without hesitation. It seeped warmly through his body, dripping down to the burning loins.
Seeing that he truly acted normally, you took it from his fingers and drank it all in one go. But… oh.
You shot head his way, seeing nothing, but a nasty grin. "This…"
He leaned closer, pressing his hand back between your shoulder blades. His face drew nearer, then he licked your lips with his wine-sweetened tongue. "Tastes similar, my love?"
A wave of heat was rolling faster, an even stronger aphrodisiac flowing through your veins. Breathing became harder, your mind already blind, as he pushed your melted body into a deeper arch.
"I love you so much, my Goddess," he whispered, peppering your sizzling cheek. "I'll make you feel so good. So fucking good, I promise. My sweet, beautiful wife. Just trust me."
summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?
genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work
notes from the author: im aashi, and this is my first series on this app :p for anyone who would like to know, this does end with a happy ending. ty for reading!
masterlist | drabble | fanart
chapter index
01 ⸺ the debutante
you begin to get ready for your presentation for your debut this season, and satoru steels himself to find a wife. you don't get the reception you'd wanted from some, and satoru will soon curse himself for letting his tongue loose (6.3k)
02 ⸺ the aftermath
after an eventful first ball after your debut, you continue the season with thinly veiled vexation towards gojo. but fate is not on your side; you and gojo keep encountering each other, matching fire with fire (7.8k)
03 ⸺ the manor
you and gojo have just uncovered your mothers' matchmaking scheme: a plan that sends you both to his extravagant countryside manor in kent, arriving a week earlier than the rest of the ton. the question remains—can you endure gojo's insufferable nature during this secluded stay? (8.3k)
04 ⸺ the game
satoru has some revelations about you. both you and satoru share some quite...happening days at the manor, including an eventful game of pall mall. (4.9k)
05 ⸺ the fall
gojo comes up with a strange yet tempting arrangement, but the accident that follows it may cause epiphanies for the both of you. (11.8k)
06 ⸺ the house party
you are bedridden, recovering from your wound, when gojo delivers season-changing news. the house party that follows buzzes with tension, and an unexpected arrival that sends ripples through the ton. (7.4k)
07 ⸺ the rebound
after the arrival of your dearest brother, you pursue a new angle to the season, one to prove that you, the diamond, will not be scorned. new opportunities with duke nanami arise and with it jealousy and bitterness fester in the ballroom. (6.8k)
08 ⸺ the lake
both you and gojo discover contradictory feelings lodged deep in your heart, and a confrontation (with an unexpected ally) leads to a rather....wet conclusion. (4.6k)
09 ⸺ the embers
sukuna takes you on an excurion into town at night, where you both meet a stranger that gives you illustrative insight into gojo. on the other hand, satoru has to suffer his best friend's most terrible plan as of date (10k)
10 ⸺ the art gallery
duke nanami suprises you with an inquiry, and the panic caused by it leads to an encounter with a very unexpected person (4.7k)
11 ⸺ the geto manor
those who you hold to your heart begin questioning you about your intents and thoughts about gojo. you are not yet ready to answer them, yet you keep encountering the infamous man particularly in the ton's latest excursion (9.0k)
12 ⸺ the proposal (soon!)
drabbles/headcanons
01 ⸺ gojo unable to wake up on time after a wild night (suggestive)
02 ⸺ avoiding gojo after getting your period (suggestive)
03 ⸺ gojo walking in on geto at a brothel (nsfw, not canon)
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