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inside my love, by minnie riperton choso x reader thriller(?)

tw detailed internal bodily descriptions (bones and all type shi)

when the sun rises and you wake, you miss choso. but knowing that he is you now, makes up for it. probably.

choso kamo lays there on your bed in all of his sleeping glory; the faint drabble of his mummers across the sheets, tufts of unruly hair, smooth cheeks and porcelain face glossed over with a faint hue of pink.

he mutters something delicate and fragile, then turns. his legs tangle with his. chest rests right across his face. it’s just the right spot for you to hear the pulse of his heart squeezing, and the thick blood corsing through his muscle in arteries, like a needle weaving through lace.

he looks like softness in its purest form. delicate. vulnerable and tangible because he trusts you.

he smells like citrus and flesh, the latter peaking your ghoulish insticts. your body begins to rove all over him, scent enticing you more until sin and desire boil into one inside your very being.

the whetted edges of your teeth sink into his side, ripping apart the muscle laced between his ribs like ribbon, and blood surges from the wound with jagged layers of flesh and flabs of broken skin surrounding it.

he stirs awake and cries out in pain. pleads and begs that you stop, but sometimes you have to lose some to gain some, so you ignore the agony and revel in the exasperation in his voice. he manages to get the words out to question what's going on, and you feel a little bad that his last memories will be horror striken images of the love of his life, ending his life. because in all his great power, you knew he couldn't bring himself to harm you.

he layed himself open and vunerable to you - and you betrayed that. you surely loved the man, but at times where he thought you stared at him so clearly out of love, it was really the tingle in your heart and brain, the saliva secreting from the glands in your mouth and the feeling of want beginning to overwhelm you.

but it's okay, this is all for his own good, really. this way, you could do more than just hug and be inside each other; he could be a part of you. you wouldn’t have to settle for stolen moments between missions and pine for his touch between week long absences. instead, you could swallow his quaint little chunks of not - yet - corpse whole and absorb him; his cells could gush through the veins of your body, and plant themselves in the tissue of your stomach forever, he would be yours alone.

he looks you in the eye again, panting breaths of desperation before spewing out a slurry of words with that sultry voice of his you love. you aren't really sure of what he said. you’re too preoccupied, taking in the look of fear on his doll-like face, and the sallow feeling washing over his body as he wriggles under your inhumane grasp.

he must feel alone, and betrayed, and hurt, and you should probably apologise. you're not sure. you hadn't really thought this through. because the urge to consume your lover whole doesn't really have a set date and time, it's a bit more spontaneous.

you tell him, "sorry cho, it hurts a little, right? it'll be over soon."

yet for whatever reason, it doesn't quite soothe him. he always loves it when you kiss his cheek, so you do just that. your lips are dripping wet with liquid red, and it’s started to coagulate into gelatenious bits at the edges of your mouth. you stain his cheek cerise with a kiss.

his blood has a very pretty colour.

it's been about half an hour since your midnight feast of choso’s very being began, and you assume that he has probably left this world already.

you wonder if you should feel bad for what you've done, but he opened himself up to you whole, and showed his heart to you, defenseless, like he would never for another. even if unbeknowningly, he created this perfect situation himself, and you had simply taken to the opportunity, was that so wrong?

you lay next to choso, or what's left of him on white sheets sullied with red. he's usually very warm, but his body is cold to the touch now, so you pull a blanket over the two of you to warm up.

you fall asleep in minutes: warm, stomach full and next to the man you love the most. it's everything you could ever wish for. but it's a shame for you that this is sort of a one time only thing. when the sun rises, and you wake, you miss choso. but knowing that he is you now, makes up for it, you think.

improved repost (i hope) from last year + changed from gojo to choso because it seemed more fitting!! i wanna write something like this again soon i think

musatoru

white shadows

gojo is following you.

warning: thriller, stalking, scopophobia.

it was your first time visiting japan. in fact, it was the first time you’d ever left your country, facing a new world all on your own.

the air in narita hit you like a wall of humidity and an indescribable scent that mixed the petrichor of the previous storm with the acrid sweetness of someiyoshino flowers. it was a physical sensation, almost solid, clinging to your skin and your clothes.

it had been an economy flight of over fourteen hours, thanks to an absurd layover that drained your energy; however, finally being on your own, far from home, you pressed the worn leather of your passport against your chest –a symbol of victory in navigating unknown waters.

the train ride to shinjuku felt both fleeting and eternal under the cold lights of the carriage and the non-negotiable silence of the passengers, broken only occasionally by the soft murmur of announcements, the sliding of doors, and the rhythmic click of rails. no one looked at you, yet you felt the weight of a hundred indirect gazes reflected in the dark windowpanes or on mobile screens.

the airbnb you rented online was a vertical shoebox, a space so tiny the bed occupied nearly the entire floor. from the window, which faced an airshaft cluttered with cables and rusted AC units, the sky was nowhere to be seen –only a concrete rectangle and another building identical to yours. the hostess had been very kind, and the price was such a bargain that you couldn’t afford to turn it down.

that first night, insomnia was your only companion. the refrigerator hummed like the drone of a vagrant about to fall asleep on the sidewalk, and every creak in the building's structure felt like a footstep on the floor above. when you finally closed your eyes, the clumsiness of neighbors dropping their belongings scared away any trace of sleep you had managed to harbor.

the real reason you were there was an ethnographic study funded by your university for your doctoral degree. thus, your days were structured around your research ‘honne and tatemae: the impact of private life dynamics on systemic resilience and the hegemonic projection of japanese society’. a subject abstract enough to justify your presence and concrete enough to force you to keep moving.

you began at the heart of your neighborhood: shinjuku. getting lost in the streets of kabukichō was like diving into the entrails of a bioluminescent beast. the light from the signs spilled over the wet asphalt, staining the anonymous faces that brushed past you in shades of pink and green. you noted everything in your journal: the way people avoided eye contact, how groups of friends walked so close they formed a single entity, the loneliness of men eating alone (never walking) at ramen counters, their backs hunched over bowls as if praying at a secret altar.

but then, it began.

it was a subtle shift in the atmospheric pressure around you. at first, you thought it was just traveler’s paranoia –the typical gazes heavy with prejudice while analyzing a foreigner invading their nipponese lands.

you were in a bookstore in yoyogi, browsing a collection of daido moriyama photographs, when you felt a presence behind you, the warmth of a body just inches away. you turned abruptly, but there was no one. only a narrow, high aisle flanked by books that seemed to be watching you. the bookseller, an older man with thick bottle-rimmed glasses, looked at you from across the shop with a blank expression. he didn't even bother to offer a polite smile, he simply returned to his papers.

days later, at the tranquil meiji shrine, the feeling intensified. you were walking along the gravel path under the shade of ancient trees, the crunch of your footsteps being the only soundtrack to your visit, when suddenly, the crunching doubled. a perfect echo, almost synchronized with your own. you stopped dead. silence became absolute again, except for the distant hum of the city. you looked back, only to find the empty path snaking toward the tower in the middle of the forest. you looked ahead. again, nothing. but the echo had been there, as clear as your own heartbeat –a second pair of feet following your exact compass.

the trip to kyoto, you thought, would be a respite.

the shinkansen sliced through the landscape like a blade, and inside, the sensation temporarily faded, drowned out by the speed and the normalcy of salarymen and business titans. but in the capital of peace and tranquility, the surveillance took on a new form, more subtle and therefore more terrifying.

in the gion district, while waiting to catch a glimpse of a geiko, you saw a man standing under a stone lantern. he was tall, lanky, and wearing a dull violet uniform that looked out of place. he wasn't looking at you directly; instead, he held a mobile phone as if he were recording the alleyway. when a geiko appeared, his phone didn't move; it remained pointed in your general direction. his face was blurred, but something in his posture –the way he remained completely motionless– made your blood run cold. you crossed the street to avoid him, never ceasing to feel his eyes burned into the back of your neck.

that night, back at your ryokan, you reviewed the notes in your journal. there, among your scribbles about temple architecture and tea rituals, you found a line you didn't remember writing. the handwriting was yours, but the script was more tense, sharper than usual. it said: ‘i am watching you.’ the ink was the same color as your other entries, but it looked fresher, as if it had dried only minutes ago.

terror began to seep in, and your attention focused on details that would have been impossible to notice otherwise: the takoyaki vendor in asakusa who always gave you change with the coins in the exact same order; the way the same woman with a red umbrella appeared in the background of your photos in places as disparate as shibuya and arashiyama. it was as if the universe were being edited around you, inserting recurring elements to signal that something was wrong.

one afternoon, in an akihabara café, while trying to concentrate on your laptop, you noticed the reflection on the screen. behind you, in the dark glass of a display case filled with anime figures, you could see the silhouette of a tall man. the same one from before. you didn't move. you kept typing, pretending to be absorbed in your tasks, but your attention was now divided. the reflection didn't move. it stayed there, static, like a smudge on a windshield that won't come off no matter how hard you scrub.

you waited ten minutes. fifteen. the silhouette didn't move, didn't blink, did nothing but exist. with your heart hammering in your chest, you snapped your laptop shut with a sharp click and turned around, ready to confront him. the display case was there, the anime figures with their unalterable plastic smiles, but behind you, there were only empty tables.

the surveillance was a tangible fact. someone was not only watching you; someone was learning your routines, your fears, your thoughts. someone was rewriting your reality; they were selecting loose pieces of you and hadn't yet decided if they had collected enough to start putting the puzzle together.

the smell of hot oil, soy sauce, and grilled meat followed you like a second skin. you had spent the afternoon in omoide yokocho, the labyrinthine shinjuku alleyway known as ‘piss alley’ –a swarm of tiny bars and yakitori stalls where smoke tangled in the low beams and customers huddled on wooden benches. you’d been taking notes feverishly, documenting how the forced, intimate space broke down usual social barriers.

you emerged from the alley, coughing slightly from the smoke, and stopped at the corner to orient yourself under the neon chaos of the don quijote building. the night was humid and sticky. and then, you saw him.

he was there, standing on the other side of the street, next to a crepe stand that gave off a sugary, burnt aroma. it was impossible not to notice him. tall, a height that stood out in a crowd of japanese people and even among other races. and his hair, a snowy white, almost luminous under the signs, didn't belong to any trendy dye; it was as abnormal as he was. furthermore, he wore dark, opaque sunglasses, an absurd detail in the dark of night, like a disguise that was too obvious.

your body froze. all the fragments of paranoia, the felt shadows, the heard echoes, the imagined presences, suddenly built themselves into that single figure. the man from the shrine. the one with the phone in gion. the silhouette in akihabara. all of them were this man. there was no doubt. it was as if your brain, for weeks, had been processing disconnected data and now, suddenly, found the variable that tied it all together: him.

and he was watching you. through those dark, expressionless lenses, you knew his eyes were fixed on you. there was no hostility in his posture, no obvious threat. he was just there, observing, like an ivory statue. panic hit your stomach like a fist, cold and nauseating. you broke eye contact and dove into the human school of fish, walking aimlessly, driven only by the primal need to put distance between you.

the game had changed. it was no longer a ghost hunt. now you knew what your predator looked like.

the next day, you decided to test a hypothesis. you needed to know if it was real or if the isolation had caused you to lose your mind. your plan was deliberately chaotic.

you took the train to kamakura, a coastal city an hour away, a place of serene temples and the great outdoor buddha statue. you chose a weekday to minimize crowds. you walked through the quiet streets, visited the tsurugaoka hachimangu shrine, and sat before the daibutsu, trying to meditate, to find the peace that supposedly emanated from the bronze figure.

for an hour, there was nothing. the sun warmed your skin, the sound of laughing children and distant temple bells filled the air. you began to relax, convincing yourself that the previous night had been a strange and unpleasant coincidence. perhaps he was just an eccentric tourist in his own country.

it was when you stood up to leave that you saw him once more.

he was sitting on one of the perimeter benches about fifty meters away. same white hair. same sunglasses. this time he was wearing a light linen shirt and dark trousers. he held a book in a relaxed posture, as if he had been there all day, wasting time. because he wasn't reading. his fingers didn't move to turn the pages. the book was closed on his lap. and his head, slightly turned, was pointed in your direction.

the air escaped your lungs. it wasn't a coincidence: he always knew where you were. he always knew.

the following week turned into a performance hell. every one of your movements felt like an act in a play whose only spectator was him. you went to the ghibli museum in mitaka, a place that requires tickets purchased months in advance. there, in the permanent exhibition hall, among the marvelling children and parents taking photos, you saw him examining a robot from laputa: castle in the sky. his presence was so incorrect, so violating, that you found it hard to breathe.

you went to an underground jazz concert in a basement in koenji, a place you found by pure chance. the venue was small, dark, smoke-filled, with a capacity of thirty people. and there he was, at a table in the corner furthest from the stage, with a bottle of water in front of him, completely motionless, a spectral figure in the gloom.

your research became a farce. your notes were full of scribbles, disconnected phrases about 'the made-in-japan panopticon' and 'the dissolution of the self under constant observation'. you were no longer a researcher, you were the guinea pig.

the breaking point came on a night of voracious, unstoppable wind.

you were in the apartment, the window open to hear the repetitive hum of those AC units and the drumming of leaves being cruelly snatched from the trees and bouncing off the rooftops. you lit a candle to combat the darkness and sat on the floor with a cup of tea. you looked toward the airshaft, that rectangle of concrete and cables.

and there he was.

on the balcony of the building opposite –the one you had never seen with the lights on– was a person. standing under the balcony eaves, partially sheltered from the aggressive current. tall. white hair. dark glasses reflecting the only light in the apartment: your candle flame.

he wasn't on the street. he wasn't in a public place. he was twenty meters from you. in the space you thought was yours, in your supposed refuge. he was watching you in your absolute intimacy, at the very moment you believed you were safe.

you didn't move. neither did he. life went on while the two of you stayed there, separated by an abyss of air and cement. time stopped. there was nowhere left to run, not when he was moving in with you.

logic dictated a solution, but logic was a corpse floating in the ocean of your panic. your research –the pretext that dragged you into this nightmare– only needed one final chapter on rural life, the contrast with the metropolis. a perfect exit.

as soon as you reacted, you searched the internet with trembling hands –not for a hotel, not for a ryokan, but for something anonymous, something isolated. you found a small rental house on the outskirts of hakone, a place called moto-hakone, described as ‘a quiet retreat for writers and artists’. the photo showed a traditional wooden structure with a small moss garden. isolation was its main selling point, which finally convinced you.

the train journey was an agony of tension. every stop, every new face, was a possible threat. you arrived at moto-hakone station under a leaden grey sky; the cold, pure air of mount fuji carried the scent of pine and damp earth. the owner, a silent, elderly man who barely spoke, handed you the key with a bow and drove off in his small truck without a word.

you were alone. truly alone.

the house was exactly like the photo: small, silent, immersed in a stillness so deep it became deafening. there was no hum of electronics, no echo of footsteps, no constant city activity. only the wind through the trees and the distant call of a bird.

for the first time in weeks, the knot in your stomach loosened slightly. maybe, just maybe, you’d managed to escape. perhaps he was an urban creature, a parasite that needed concrete and digital billboards to survive. here, in this virgin solitude, he had nowhere to hide.

you spent the afternoon organizing your notes, rereading your analyses, and drafting hypotheses. the daylight faded, plunging the room into a purple and grey twilight. you turned on all the lights in the house, creating a bubble of warmth and security in the middle of the impenetrable darkness outside.

you prepared a pack of nissin raoh shortly after, allowing the hot steam from the tonkotsu broth to warm your frozen face. you sat at the small wooden table, looking out the window at the garden which, without spotlights, looked like an abyss. strangely, you felt a hint of peace.

that was when you decided to take a walk. one last act of defiance, to prove to yourself that you were safe, that you could walk under the stars without feeling that white shadow clinging to your back. you put on your coat and went out.

the town at that hour was a cemetery. the streets were empty, the shops closed, the lights of the few restaurants out. the only sound was the crunch of gravel under your boots and the whisper of the icy wind off the lake, which reflected the splash of stars on its ink-black surface. you walked toward the pier, where the tourist pirate ships rocked gently in the water.

and then you saw him.

he was across the main street, on the porch of what looked like a small family inn –the only one, besides your rental, that had a light on. the light was yellowish, but the figure standing under it was cold, the incarnation of a deep freeze.

it was him.

the distance was about fifty meters, enough to see the details with terrifying clarity. the white hair, a beacon of abnormality contrasting with the warmth of the bulbs. the height, lanky and imposing. and the sunglasses. he was still wearing the damn sunglasses. in the rural night of hakone. there was no one else whose gaze he needed to hide from. there was no sun. he wore them because they were part of him, like his hair, like his presence. it was a statement. a uniform.

fear permeated every pore of your skin, stopping the flow of your blood, paralyzing your muscles. oxygen became crystal in your pharynx. you couldn't scream. you couldn't run. you could only stand there, anchored to the ground, while the entire universe shrank down to that illuminated person.

he didn't move either, nor did he show any intention of approaching. he was simply in his place, standing like a monument erected in your honor.

you hadn't escaped; you had guided him. your plan had been nothing more than another stage in his hunting game.

the idea that he was there by coincidence was a cruel joke, a fantasy your mind could no longer afford. he knew you would be here. how? hacked your computer? interrogated the old owner? or was it something worse? something supernatural?

he turned his back to you slowly, with an insulting calmness, and entered the inn. the door closed behind him. the porch remained empty, bathed in that yellowish and now threatening light.

you ran back to the cottage, blindly and without a straight path. when you finally arrived, having strayed considerably from the route due to the mental block your nerves had erected, you locked the door, bolted it, and pushed a heavy chest of drawers against it.

you were in a cage in the middle of nowhere, and your jailer was a minute away, staying in the only other inhabited house. you’d reached the end of the world, and he’d traveled it with you, waiting on the threshold to remind you that there was no place you could go where he couldn’t find you.

then, every fiber of your being –tense as a steel cable about to snap– ordered you to hide in the first place you could find. it was a choice as stupid as it was clever: a large wicker laundry basket in the corner of the bedroom. the smell of your own sweat, the dampness of the clothes, and the acrid scent of fear were overwhelming, a suffocating curtain wrapping around you. you’d curled up into a mass of bones and tremors, your shaking knees pressed to your chest and your head between them, trying to erase yourself.

you felt his eyes on the back of your neck, on your hands, in the wild beating of your heart against your ribs. you could hear his breathing in your own mind, a slow and controlled rhythm that mocked your hyperventilation. you didn't need to see him to know he had arrived. the atmosphere of the place had shifted to something denser, freezing, permeated with the essence of another person. it was the smell of something metallic, like old blood.

the first sound was that of the lock. it wasn't a violent forced entry, but a soft click, almost mocking. what key was he using? there weren't supposed to be any spares in existence, a security measure you’d counted on. panic turned to boiling acid in your throat.

the door granted him access with a single creak and, immediately, the slow, deliberate footsteps emerged. a weight on the wooden floor, then a pause. another weight, measuring the house, absorbing its geometry. you heard the chest of drawers you’d placed against the door slide across the floor with a long scrape, without any apparent effort. the strength was inhuman, composed.

he entered the living room. you could imagine him perfectly: his head turning slowly, his dark glasses scanning every corner, every shadow. you heard the brush of his fingers on the wood of the table where you’d eaten. a second of silence. then, the rustle of your notebook paper. he was reading them, consuming your thoughts.

the footsteps slowed as they approached the bedroom. your heart stopped beating for an instant, replaced by a ghastly void in your chest, and then resumed with a violence that made you dizzy and physically ached.

the door opened.

moonlight streamed through the window, silhouetting him in the frame. he was taller than you remembered, a slender and elongated figure, as if he had been compressed at the sides. he didn't move for what felt like an eternity. he stood in the frame, studying the room. the taste of bile flooded your mouth.

after a few minutes, he took a step inside. the floor didn't creak this time, yielding without protest to his gravity. he looked at the bed, empty and unmade. he crouched with a tortuous slowness and looked underneath. you saw the top of his white head for a second. nothing. he stood up. his attention drifted to the wardrobe. he opened the doors. the brush of wood was the most terrifying sound you had ever heard. he checked through your few hanging things, his hands moving the fabric with a distant curiosity.

his gaze passed by the window, trying to detect any source of escape; then, across the nightstand, the lamp. and finally, it stopped. it stopped at the wicker basket.

time no longer ran. you knew he’d solved the mystery, there was no doubt. the basket shook slightly from the uncontrollable spasm of your body.

he eliminated the distance entirely, his shadow blocking the moonlight. a hand, large and of a ghostly paleness, gripped the edge of the basket; his fingers were long and thin, like those of a pianist or a strangler.

the lid was lifted bit by bit until it was off.

you saw him, leaning over you, his face inches from yours. through the dark glasses, you could see his fluorescent blue eyes, imprisoned in his total and absolute attention. there was no emotion on his face. no anger, no desire, no cruelty. only a kind of twisted interest, like a biologist examining an insect under a microscope.

his other hand moved with inevitable certainty and gripped your arm. the coldness of his skin sent a shiver down your spine. his strength was overwhelming, a steel pressure that left no room for resistance. he pulled you out of the basket as if pulling out a wrinkled cotton garment and stood you up. your legs didn’t cooperate, and you collapsed at his feet.

he said nothing.

and then, instinct took over. a primary, animal scream erupted from your gut before you bolted toward the window and crashed through it with your full impact, falling in a ball from less than two meters –a height that would still take its toll once the adrenaline had faded.

you heard his shoes striking behind you at a pursuing speed you knew you could never outrun.

you tripped over your own feet among the trees that stood like specters, branches like claws trying to catch you. the world shrank to the sound of your feet on the damp earth and the incessant sound of him behind you. you were about to fall, about to give up, when a new sound pierced the night.

a siren. distant at first, then closer.

the flash of red and blue lights painted the landscape with shades of urgency. a wild and desperate hope exploded in your chest. you ran toward the lights, toward the sound, screaming with tears of anguish streaming from your eyes.

the siren was deafening now, right in front of you. the police car was waiting for you, and the unknown subject hadn’t been intimidated; rather, he’d firmly escorted you to the end of this adventure.

“help! he’s gonna hurt me!”

the annoying white light of the police station flickered above your head. you were sitting on a cold metal chair, a rough wool blanket over your shoulders. a young officer, with a tired face and a cup of coffee in his hand, looked at you with a mix of pity and boredom. beside him, an older one reviewed some documents with a tablet on the dismal table. the smell of paper, stale coffee, and confinement filled the air. you were safe.

“miss,” the senior officer said, without looking up from the screen. “we have the report from the other party. the man you mentioned… uh… gojo satoru, was the one who filed the complaint.”

you grimaced; the name sounded strange in your ears. he turned the tablet toward you. there was a photo on the screen. it was him. he was smiling at the camera –a wide, dazzling smile. he wore the same dark glasses, but in the context of a professional photo, they looked like a fashion accessory, not the uniform of a predator. the photo had been taken in a studio; he was promoting a kanebo product.

“gojo satoru is a very famous streamer,” the officer explained, his tone flat, like someone who has read the same report a dozen times. “he has millions of followers. his content is travel, video games, things like that. according to his statement, the problem started about a month ago.”

you frowned. your brain couldn't process the words.

“he says he first noticed you following him in shinjuku.” he continued reading. “he says he saw you several times in the same places as him: at the yoyogi bookstore, at the meiji shrine. he thought it was a coincidence, a slightly over-enthusiastic fan. but then, he says he saw you in kyoto, in gion. and that made him nervous, because he was there with his family, on vacation.”

you hesitated. the family. the memory of the family inn in hakone hit your mind like a hammer.

“the report says he felt so harassed that he cut his trip short.” the officer proceeded, pausing for half a second to look at you. “but when he went to his private retreat in moto-hakone to relax, you appeared there. he says he saw you lurking around his property. that you looked through the windows and even tried to break into his home. he was terrified. he called the police before the pursuit, to hold you, so you couldn't escape.”

“no!” you declared, shaking your head. “no. he entered the house. he chased me!”

both officers sighed and glanced at the other; the youngest looked at you sideways with a serious expression. the eldest turned off the tablet and snorted with infinite weariness.

“miss… may i ask what you came to japan for?”

“for research,” you said immediately. “an ethnographic study on culture and its impact on performance. for my university. i have my notes, my…”

“we spoke with your university.” the young officer interrupted, his voice soft but firm. “they have no record of your enrollment this semester. in fact, they say you withdrew six months ago, citing… health problems.”

the ground opened up beneath your feet.

“what? no, that’s a lie. i have my letter of introduction, i have…”

“this letter?” he asked, holding up a laminated sheet of paper that had been taken from you upon arrival. “we analyzed it. the letterhead is fake. the signature too. it’s very good though, but it’s fake.”

they looked at you. their faces had hardened slightly; a hint of concern stood out in their features.

“miss,” the youngest finally called out, leaning forward. “could the persecution delusions be, by any chance, a symptom of your condition?”

the world faded. the officers' voices turned into a distant murmur, as if you were on top of a mountain. memories rearranged themselves violently in your mind, not as a sequence of events, but as broken fragments of a story that never happened.

the man in the bookstore wasn't really watching you. you were inches from him, staring fixedly while he tried to choose a book. the echo in the shrine wasn't a second pair of footsteps. they were yours, mimicking his. in gion, that man wasn't recording you. he was recording the geiko, like everyone else; it was you who was photographing him incessantly. the silhouette in akihabara belonged to no one. it was your own distorted reflection in the glass. you sent him the note.

the figure on the balcony opposite was indeed his, yes, because you’d researched his address to stay near him, but most of the time it was just the way your candle light danced in the empty window next door.

you hadn't even rented the cottage; you snatched the keys from a man who had them half-hanging out of his back pocket before he got into his vehicle.

gojo satoru noticed the trespassing, indeed. but he didn't pull you out of the basket. you found yourself coming out of there, hyperventilating from your phobia of enclosed spaces and the very catastrophe your mind had engineered.

you weren't a researcher. you were a fan. an obsessed one. you’d seen him online, in his streams, and you’d fallen in love with the idea of him –of that white-haired man wearing sunglasses all the time, that man who seemed to live in a world of light, color and lineage. you’d built a parasocial relationship so sacred with him that he was there with you through meals, before sleep, upon waking, even on public transport.

you didn't come to japan to study culture. you came for him. you sought him out, you followed him, you stalked him, convinced that your lives were destined to intertwine.

the man who was chasing you didn't exist. it was you all along.

you’d stopped taking your antipsychotic pills several weeks ago. you weren't being watched. your mind was reeling between reality and fiction, and you no longer knew how to distinguish which was happening.

the young officer offered you a glass of water. you looked at him through a pane of tears that remained stuck in your orbits. in the distorted reflection of the camera, for an instant, you saw white hair and dark glasses again, but immediately, it showed something different from within. in that distorted curve of mirror, you finally met the face of your warden.

it was yours.

#this fic is fire you the birthday #i would genuinely get a highlighter out and start annotating this fic if somebody put a printed version of it in front of me #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #jjk fanfic #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #thriller

Read ur writing and heard from a lil birdie my fellow naija gurl is here hmmmm

(EUOHHH MY DAISIES PLSPLSPLSPLS CAN WE BE MOOTS BABAGOORLIEE)

hi girlie!!! why yes OF COURSE we can be moots 🇳🇬 🔛 🔝

+ i love the little fruit theme u have going on, your blogs r so tea😫😫

#you must be the birthday #niyapping

im fixing this chud ass blog finally neopolitan ice cream community open me with warm arms please

#niyapping

this one guy in my physics class is genuinely da real art and he doesn’t even know it fuck

#niyapping #u da real art

idk i just feel like gojo would constantly twirl his pubes in his very limited down time

#niyapping #satoru gojo #gojo #jjk

i just saw this video and it reminded me that i actually have to live past next year fuck

#niyapping

everytime someone says the word god it pisses me off

#niyapping

i miss my friends and my penjamin

#niyapping

all i do is think about you

#niyapping #like the song yurrr

sukuje

𑣲 nerdjo’s first time being a bf (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

nerdjo, who’d always be soso nervous about physical touch and kisses no matter how many times you peppered his face in them or cuddled together.

nerdjo, who loves the nights you stay over in his dorm because he got to watch admire you getting unready, sleep and wake up in the most adorable way. (in his eyes at least)

nerdjo, who gets super excited anytime you two go out together, feeling like a true boyfriend when he holds the door open for you or insists on paying the bill.

nerdjo, who shows you off in any way he can. wallpaper? you two in a photo booth. profile picture? you kissing his cheek. wallet? a picture of you in his digimon shirt.

nerdjo, who prays to whatever power rules over the universe that he’s doing this whole relationship at least decently right, too embarrassed to ask any of his friends for advice.

nerdjo, who absolutely dreads the week you get your period, overwhelmed whit what he should do, how he could help because god help him, he has no clue whatsoever.

nerdjo, who feels like the biggest idiot, beating himself up that he knew all those incredibly hard formulas but not what kind of pads his girl needs as he stands in the feminine hygiene aisle.

nerdjo, who literally read a whole book and watched a dozen videos on menstrual cycles that night.

nerdjo, who needs you smiling and happy at all times, making sure you had everything you possibly needed whenever you wanted.

nerdjo, who’s phone must be on dnd when studying, it’s really that serious, yet changed his settings so that ‘my lovely lady’ ‘s notifications were allowed.

nerdjo, who tries so hard to get it all right each time you two try something new and is all the more grateful for your reassurance the times it doesn’t go as planned.

nerdjo, who enjoys having little things of you around. the ribbon from your birthday present to him on his nightstand. your deodorant in his bathroom shelf. your panties under his pillow.

nerdjo, who cherishes everything about you. every single thing you do is sacred in his eyes, he quite literally feels like he’s in the presence of an angel.

nerdjo, who’s biggest nightmare is waking up without you by his side. without you in his life. but is reminded everyday that he doesn’t need to fear such a thing happening at all.

6eyesmunch

this is so sweet that im literally gonna be sick everywhere

#followed #ts is peak #made me want to go write something #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #nerdjo #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk fluff #satoru gojo x reader

somethings will never really leave you

6eyesmunch

“i think you’re the one for me, and if not, you’re the prototype.”

prototype, outkast gojo x reader smut/fluff/angst

“satoru.”

“mhm?”

“if i had one wish, it’d be that we grow old togther.”

he holds your hand, lacing his fingers in between yours and turns to reply before pausing for a moment.

“let’s. we’ll be all geriatric and wrinkly, with dentures and that weird old people smell.”

since a child you’re the first soft thing gojo satoru has had, and you can tell. you know it by the way he’d held back the rough edges of himself at first; covering them with cheap laughs and half turned smiles when conversations turned dreary.

afterall, he’d spent the first fourteen years of his life stuck in his own head, and with the future of the jujutsu world on his shoulders before he could even write his own name.

then when he found the closest thing to a family he’d ever really had, they were ripped away from him one by one - first haibara, then suguru and the rest.

so he keeps people like you, who make his soul shine again at arms distance, in hopes that when you leave, and not if you leave, because for sorcerers the world has no mercy, it might hurt the slightest bit less.

one day or the other, he starts to let you soften the rough edges of his nature. when blood soaked memories start to seep inside his head again, he finds himself soaking in your presence, head layed over your lap and your fingers combing through his cotton white hair.

“ you’re like a cat, you know?” you always tell him when he curls up on you like that.

you can feel his lips on your skin turn to smile, and he breathes out,

“ i love you, you know.”

he always says ‘you know’ . it’s never really a question, and instead more of a declaration. a reminder that he looks at you with eyes that saying the moment he stops looking at you, his heart will stop too.

and not long after, he finds his nights off spent spent with tangled legs, damped bodies and his azure eyes on you - watching the rhythmic up and down of you on him. he’s always rough, but gentle enough for it to feel just right.

he brushes your cheek and places kisses worth a lifetime on your cheek in between thrusts, admiring you with a perfect poise somewhere in the middle of lust and tenderness. it makes you melt underneath him. when all is done, and your bodies are spent, he holds you like gravity holds the universe togther.

recently, every breath of you he takes is his life force. he’s tender with you, because he cherishes you.

“if i had one wish, it’d be that we grow old togther.” you say.

“let’s. we’ll be all geriatric and wrinkly, with dentures and that weird old people smell.”

but life isn’t that kind, and all good things must end, of course.

fun fact did you guys know that “impending sense of doom” is genuinely a serious medical symptom

i think im in loooooovee with u

i recently discovered that i actually like writing but only when im experiencing an impending sense of doom

i really wanna go bake some bomb ass brownies rn fuck

seriously regretting various considerably important life decisions rn

hashtag flop era but manifesting otherwise cause yeah

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk smut #jjk x y/n #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo jjk #jjk gojo #gojo fluff #gojo angst #jjk angst

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