#father complex!reader

Despite what Satoru Gojo let on, he was desperate for the admiration of those around him, especially his elders. Double-especially that of Masamichi Yaga.

It would be more shocking if he didn’t have an admiration complex, being taken from his parents so young and told that all he had was his powers: likewise, he would never be loved for anything but his powers.

Maybe his hatred of you came from that desperation for praise from his father figure mentor. Because any compliment given to you was one that could have been given to him, one that was stripped of him.

Or maybe it was because he saw himself in you: the same glimmer in your eyes when receiving a compliment from Yaga, the same defensive posture, like a dog with its hackles raised in aggressive warning, the same willingness to bleed yourself dry because you won’t stop fighting if there’s a promise of a “good job, kid” at the very least on the other end. Even if the other end is six feet under.

“What’re you staring at?!” you snapped, halfway to baring your teeth like the mangy mutt Gojo knew you were. Shit, had he been staring at you? Is that why he was thinking of you in the first place? Backtrack, Satoru, backtrack.

“Just wonderin’ if the reason you always train alone is ‘cuz you know you’re too shit to spar with anyone else,” he snarked.

You fully turned around (previously only having your head turned to face him while you berated him for his staring habit). “Oh, you wanna go, you blue eyed freak?”

“No, honestly, I don’t. I prefer to, what’s the saying… pick on someone my own size? Why would I, a big dog, pick on a little runt like you?”

“Oh, you little—” you began stomping over to him before Yaga’s sharp tone snapped both of you out of your little petty bickering and back into reality. You stood up straight, facing the older man, one you thought of as more of a father than a teacher or even a mentor.

It was a behaviour you’d seen paralleled in Satoru, a behaviour you’d got in many a fight with him over before. The only way you could think of to describe it—the reason it sparked so many fights in you two—is that you felt the same way a child would if they’d spent years in the foster system, looking for a father figure in every “adoptee” but none staying for long enough to bond, and finally being “adopted” by a kind, generous man, only to find out he had another child who was in the same situation that you were always comparing yourself to. Knowing damn well that as much as you vied for his attention, you were never going to be first. Never going to be the strongest.

“Redirect that aggression, kiddo. Sparring time,” he nodded in the direction of the field you had spent many previous afternoons with Gojo in: beating and being beat, though far more the latter than the former.

──────

“Ready to tap out yet?” Gojo crooned condescendingly, making his muscles impossibly more taut so his flexed forearm would dig further into your windpipe. Your face was turning cyanotic as the oxygen flushed from your blood, little thin black lines worming their way into your vision. You were ready to pass out, continuing to feebly shove at the white haired boy with the little energy you had left, until Yama barked out two simple words:

“Tap out.”

It was clearly a command to you. Within a second you had landed two harsh taps against Satoru’s forearm—he dropped you even quicker. As if he couldn’t even stand touching you. Air flooded your lungs the same way it had left: harsh, burning, and all in an attempt to please Yaga.

“Hey, that’s not fair! I coulda still won that!” you immediately started yelling at your classmate, naturally not daring to yell at the homeroom teacher. Whether that level of respect was due to his rank in the school staff’s hierarchy or due to your over-attachment to him as a pseudo father, not even you know.

“Like hell you could’ve! I totally smoked your ass!” he snapped right back, getting even closer to your face. You were both huffy and puffy, bruised and battered—you definitely got the worse end of the stick, but it wasn’t like he got away unscathed.

His cheek was already swelling as the bone underneath throbbed with a developing bruise, blood spattering over your face as the blood that had flooded from his split lip into his own mouth had been spit back out into splatters as he yelled. If he was wearing his glasses, they would have shattered and made a handful of micro-tears and -cuts, as is evidenced by the puffiness around his reddened, punched eyes. Not to mention how he was now donning so many scratches, especially on his forearms from the latter end of the fight, when you were trying to get out of his chokehold.

“Calm down,” Yaga interrupted the spat already starting to form between you two with his cool and low voice. Your heads snapped towards him in near-synchronicity. “Now’s no time to fight.”

You both mumbled a handful of apologies under your breath. You hadn’t even realized that your head started to lower itself in habitual respect. “I’m very sorry, sir. Do you have any feedback for us, sir?”

He thought momentarily, stroking his faint beard, though it was clear he already had some made up. He—still stroking his beard—murmured, “for both of you: your hubris is your undoing. You’re pushing too hard. Can’t win a fight if you’re dead, huh?” before turning on his heel and walking back into the halls of the Tokyo campus.

You stood there, dumbfounded, before turning back to Gojo. He was already staring at you.

“Round two?” he asked before turning his face away to spit out a fat glob of blood that had trickled back into his mouth.

You didn’t even have to say yes, you just rolled onto the balls of your feet and pounced like a wildcat, grabbing his shoulders and tackling him to the ground.

authours note pt2: guys what are the thoughts on the slight layout change, w the a/n before the cut (obv any additional thoughts like this little postscript/p.s. below the fic) decisions decisions...