꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › sharing is caring with frat!satosugu mdni
frat! satosugu x fem! reader. threesome. f! receiving öral. fïngering. unprotected double v pënetration. dacryphilia.
life with satoru and suguru is lived in the liminal space between hard and easy. it’s easy in the way your bodies seem to know the geography of each other without a map. but it’s hard, too. it’s hard to love two people so completely. it’s hard because your heart feels split wide open, a vulnerable thing that belongs entirely to two different people. it’s hard when they bicker and fight — their personalities clashing — and you’re the only thing standing between them. but even then, it’s easy, because the love you have for them is so vast it swallows the hard parts whole.
right now, it’s really easy. satoru is kissing you, his tongue stroking against yours, his hand is on your hip, fingers digging into your flesh as he grinds against you. behind you, suguru’s mouth is on your neck— lips, teeth, and tongue working in tandem to leave a trail of fire down your skin.
“baby,” satoru breathes against your lips, his hips rocking against yours again, a little harder this time. “want you so bad.”
“mmh, me too,” you sigh, arching your back, pressing yourself against both of them at once. “want both of you.”
suguru chuckles, “greedy girl,” he murmurs, his teeth nipping at your shoulder.
“can you blame me?” you gasp as satoru’s hand slides down from your hip to cup your ass, fingers kneading your flesh.
this whole thing, this all-consuming need to have them both at once, started just last week. after a round of particularly mind-blowing sex. satoru, perpetually dramatic, was pouting.
he’d been sulking for a solid ten minutes, complaining that suguru had ‘hogged’ you, that he hadn’t gotten enough time with you. you’d laughed, — blissed out and half-asleep — and muttered something about how much easier it would be if they just stopped taking turns completely.
for the next week, satoru dedicated himself to researching on human anatomy and browsing sex forums — the most he’s studied his entire college experience. he’d spent hours on his laptop, researching positions and lubes, presenting his findings to you and suguru in the most inappropriate places. he’d found a specific brand of lube that was a muscle relaxant, and he’d drawn colorful stick figures of the ‘optimal position’ in your history textbook.
suguru had watched him with a fond, exasperated expression, but you knew he was just as excited. they’re both ready. and so are you.
satoru shifts, rolling you onto your back, and they’re both there, hovering over you, eyes hungry and intense. satoru leans down to kiss you again, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your sleep shorts to the side, his fingers tracing the edge of your panties. suguru’s mouth finds your neck again. his hand slips under your shirt, lithe fingers closing around your breast, thumb brushing over your perky nipples.
“been thinking a lot about what you said angel,” suguru murmurs against your skin.
“yeah?” you breathe, heart hammering against your ribs. “and?”
“and we wanna try it,” satoru says, voice thick with desire. “right now. . but only if you do too.”
you look from satoru’s eager face to suguru’s blazing gaze, and immediately know your answer. you’ve been thinking about it too, dreaming about it. fantasizing about the feeling of being so, so full of them. “yeah,” you whisper. “i want to try.”
you don’t have to tell them twice! satoru rids himself of his clothes with a frantic urgency, while suguru helps both of you out of yours, his hands gentle but purposeful. soon, you’re all a bare tangle of limbs
“gotta prep you first,” suguru murmurs. satoru settles between your thighs, blue eyes locked on yours as he leans in, breath fluttering against your slick folds.
“gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he groans, before his tongue is on you. he’s teasing, tasting, lips closing around your clit and sucking gently, just the way you like it. his nose bumps against your slit and your fingers fly to his soft curls.
his firm hands hold your hips still, nails digging smooth crescents into your skin as he feels your legs shaking beneath them. his tongue trails between your spread folds
suguru’s fingers trails down your stomach, fingers slick with the sticky gel-like lube. “relax for us, angel,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. “let us in.”
you feel the press of his thick fingers against your core, one, then two, sliding in with ease — thanks to satoru’s skilled mouth and the generous amount of lube. he curls them, stroking that sensitive spot that makes you cry out. his other hand spreads your legs open as he plunges the lube into your tight hole, stretching you, preparing you for yin and yang to move together.
“hah sugu riiiight there, feels—hck— so good” you breathe. to which suguru grunts, his fingers working faster, inching deeper. stretching you out, opening you up. it’s not long before you’re arching off the bed as your first orgasm leaves you gasping for air.
but they aren’t satisfied yet.
“jus’ one more baby,” satoru says, his voice muffled against your puffy folds “gotta make sure you’re ready for us”
suguru slips in a third finger, the stretch has you whimpering. he’s scissoring them, opening you wider, the pad of his thumb rubbing agonizing circles on your clit as satoru moves up to capture your lips in a ravenous kiss. you can taste yourself on his tongue. the sweetest nectar that makes your head spin.
“that’s it, princess,” suguru’s lips brush against the shell of your ear. “take it. take it all for us.”
your second orgasm is even more intense, leaving you a trembling limp mess on the bed. “fuuuck,” you pant, staring up at the ceiling.
“you did so good,” suguru praises, wiping a glistening tear from your cheek with his thumb. “so beautiful when you cum for us. our perfect girl.”
“you sure you can handle both of us at the same time ?” satoru asks, looking up at you with a cocky grin, his chin sparkling with your juices. “you can barely handle— ahh”
“quit teasing her” suguru gives satoru’s hair a light, affectionate tug, making him yelp. “she’s more than capable. aren’t you, angel?”
you can only manage a weak nod, your body still trembling. satoru grins wider, completely unfazed by suguru’s scolding. he leans up and captures your lips in a deep kiss. his hands are on your hips again, lifting you effortlessly, repositioning you so you’re fully straddling his lap.
“c’mon, baby,” he murmurs against your lips. “ride me. show sugu how good you are at it” one of his hands leaves your hip to tangle in your curls.
satoru pulls away from your lips just long enough to pump himself a few times, his pretty cock hard and flushed. he lines himself up with your entrance, and you sink down slowly.
“still think i should be the one looking at her for this,” suguru scoffs from behind you.
“but— hah — i’m prettier to look at,” satoru whimpers as he bottoms out, his head falling back against the pillows, throat completely exposed.
“said nobody ever,” suguru scoffs, but he’s still stroking himself, eyes fixed on the place where you and satoru are joined, gaze hot and heavy. you groan, your head falling against satoru’s shoulder. “you guys can’t be arguing right now.”
suguru chuckles, “you’re right,” he says, his voice softening. “my apologies, pretty.” he leans in, his lips finding your shoulder and peppering a trail of kisses up your neck, teeth nipping at your earlobe. his hands come around to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing them into hard peaks. you moan, arching your back, pressing yourself against both of them at once.
“that’s it,” suguru murmurs, “we’ve got you”
you start to move, your hips rocking in a steady rhythm. satoru’s hands are on your ass, gripping you, guiding you, fingers digging soft bruises into your flesh. grinding you down onto him.
“mnghh you feel so good,” he whimpers, his hips bucking up to meet yours. “so tight . . hah. . . so wet. always so perfect for me — for us.”
suguru’s hands are everywhere, stroking your stomach, cupping your breasts, fingers tracing the line of your jaw. his body a solid weight against your back. you can feel his hard cock pressing against you
“i think she’s ready,” suguru whispers, mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. “you ready for me baby? we don’t have to go through with this if you’ve changed your mind . . ”
you shake your head, heart hammering against your ribs. “no i haven’t changed my mind sugu,” you breathe, as satoru stills his hips. “i’m ready.”
“are you sure?” suguru presses, “i’ve got no problem with me and ‘toru taking turns”
“oh so you think you’re better than me?” satoru pouts, glaring at suguru over your shoulder.
suguru doesn’t even dignify satoru’s pout with a glare, keeping his focus on you. “that’s not what i said, and you know it,” he murmurs, “i’m thinking about her. i want her to be completely sure, not caught up in the moment because a certain someone’s always whining like a baby”
“i’m not whining,” satoru protests feebly. his hands start to move in slow, soothing circles over your lower back. he nuzzles into your neck, lips soft against your skin. “he’s right, though. are you sure, baby? for real? ‘cause if you’re not, we can just. . . take turns again.”
the genuine concern beneath their bickering, makes your heart ache. you twist in satoru’s lap just enough to look at suguru, who’s kneeling patiently behind you. then you turn your head to press a firm, reassuring kiss to satoru’s pouting lips. “i’m sure,”
a slow grin spreads across suguru’s face. “just relax for us, princess. let us take care of you.”
you hear the slick drizzle of more lube as suguru prepares himself. his hands steady on your lower back. then, you feel the insistent pressure of his cock nudging against your entrance, right alongside satoru’s. satoru stills completely, his arms wrapping around your torso to hold you steady, breath heavy against your ear.
“tell me if it hurts, even a little bit and i’ll stop” suguru whimpers, voice tight with control. “‘kay baby?”
you nod as he pushes in, inch by agonizing inch. you hiss at the initial stretch, your nails digging into satoru’s shoulders, your face burying in the crook of his neck. the stretch is insanely intense. a burning sensation that borders on pain but is so, so good.
“shh it’s okay,” satoru murmurs, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close. “you’re okay. you’re taking it so well, baby. . . such a good girl for us. we’ve got you just breathe.”
the sight of you completely stretched around both of them is almost enough to make him cum on the spot. satoru’s cock is pressed against his, twitching, and he’s weeping desperate sounds muffled against your skin. you’re gasping and spasming around them, nails digging curves into satoru’s shoulders so hard he’s moaning even louder. it takes every ounce of their composure to keep their hips still.
“you okay, baby?” suguru asks, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “tell me if it’s too much.”
“it’s okay, sugu, i can take it,” you whimper, your voice thin. “just give me a second.”
“no rush, baby,” satoru traces patterns against your skin. you lean in and kiss him, your lips trembling against his. you’re clearly struggling to handle the pressure, and he’s convinced you only suggested this because of him. not because you actually want this. he feels so selfish.
you prove him so, so wrong when you pull away from the soft, staccato kisses, your eyes dark with need. “move.”
“are you sure?” satoru asks, his blue eyes wide and full of concern. “baby. . .”
“please move,” you beg, and that’s all it takes. “need it so bad”
suguru drags his cock out slowly and then pushes himself back in with the same pace. you gasp, a sharp, broken sound. satoru rocks his hips against yours pressing his cock even deeper.
you can feel their cocks rubbing against each other inside you. it’s a strange sensation, feeling both of them at once, their bodies moving in tandem. it sends sparks of pleasure through your veins.
“holy shit” satoru breathes, hips rocking against yours. “this is even better than i imagined. i can feel you, suguru. i can feel your dick twitching don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this as much as i am”
“shut up and keep moving,” suguru grunts. he’s rocking his hips slowly, slipping in and out of your core, leaking tip trailing over your walls and satoru’s throbbing length.
you can barely keep your lips together. wanton moans escape you as they stretch you to your limits and both their cocks nudge everywhere against your perfect spots. satoru is white-knuckling your hips as you moan into his mouth. he kisses you until you can barely breathe. until your head feels fuzzy and your hands are scrambling everywhere for purchase.
you’ve never felt this good before. you’re a mess. a loud, screaming mess, and you’re sure the other frat boys can hear you despite satoru’s consistent efforts to swallow your moans.
suguru arches over you, caging you between them. he kisses your neck, littering your skin with love bites, eliciting even more noise from you.
“mmh fuck . . .” satoru’s breath hitches, “shitshitshit . . n-never felt anything like this baby. . ‘s like a dream come true” his bright blue eyes are watering, his cheeks are flushed crimson as he keens desperately against your aching cunt
initially, you’d been paranoid about this hurting too much to feel good. about feeling too sore, passing out and ruining the fantasy. you’d thought the pressure would crush you beyond repair but you’re blooming like a flower around them. they’re so careful with you, so gentle, whispering sweet nothings as you babble incoherently on their cocks.
“you like this angel?” suguru asks, his voice a low growl against your ear. you nod fervently “nghh i can tell. . you’re so wet”
“d’you wanna do this again sweets?”satoru manages to utter. his eyes glisten with desire as your sopping cunt squeezes even tighter around them
you’re past the point of keeping your volume down. you’re well aware the other frat boys can hear you practically screaming. “yesyesyes fuck,”
“hah . . i told you sugu,” satoru says smugly, “‘m always right” reaching down and rubbing perfect circles on your sensitive bud. his skilled fingers have you bowing and thrashing, clamping down so hard around him and suguru that all they can do is whimper.
suguru’s head is buried in the crook of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses and murmuring strains about you squeezing the soul out of them.
“mnghh can’t help it,” you cry, your eyes are half-lidded with pleasure and pain. beads of crystal tears brimming your waterline as your hips stutter. “feels too good”
satoru’s other hand comes up to wipe them away, his fingers still circling your clit. and he didn’t think it was possible, but you somehow clamp down even harder.
“baby if you keep squeezin’ like that mmh i’m gonna cum,” satoru whimpers, his hips stuttering. “can’t hold back much longer”
“w-wait for her,” suguru groans. gaze locked on satoru’s. his cockhead bumps against your cervix for a split second and sparks of pleasure run up your spine, making you mewl loudly.
“‘m trying” satoru whines, his fingers glistening with your slick as they continue tracing your slit “ahhn . . . feels too fucking good” his abs flex as he attempts so, so hard to hold back and put you first.
“wait,” suguru repeats, his thrusts becoming a little deeper, a little harder, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements. you feel like you’re melting. “wait for our girl. let her feel good first.”
suguru rolls his hips in circles as he thrusts. chest heaving as he takes in the obscene sounds of skin against skin and the way your cunt is eagerly swallowing up everything they have to offer you.
“you cummin’ baby?” satoru hisses through his teeth. you can only let out pathetic noises in response. he grabs your jaw tenderly in his hand, coercing you to maintain eye contact with him when he notices your eyes drifting out of focus, “aht aht keep your eyes open f’me, i’m hah right here with you”
“oh, oh fuck please ahhhn” you’re seeing constellations. the combination of satoru’s desperate whimpers, his fingers on your clit, and suguru’s hips rutting against your skin sends you over the edge. you sob as you reach your high, pliant and malleable in the gentlest hands you’ve ever known.
“you did so good baby” satoru murmurs, cheeks flushed a deep rose from the effort of not cumming until you’re limp and gasping against his chest. utterly sated. he can barely keep it together. through your blurred vision you can see the debilitating effect you have on him
“so perfect, angel” suguru’s moving a lot softer now, pumping against satoru who’s cumming with a strangled cry and spilling an embarrassingly vast amount of hot, sticky ropes of semen into you, mixing with your saccharine ambrosia
you’ve barely recovered from your climax, hips squirming as suguru rocks slowly into you, chasing his own release. your body is so tender, lashes fluttering. breathing shallow and ragged. your forehead lolls against satoru’s temple as you claw at his flushed shoulders, “oh my . . fuck sugu — hck— it’s too much”
“i know baby, i know” he coos, lithe fingers trailing up your spine, making your quiver. “you can take it”
“i can’t,” satoru whimpers, wanton whimpers falling from his lips, “gonna make me cum mghh a-again”
“. . mmh be my guest” suguru breathes heavily, strands of his jet black hair tickling your neck as his head falls against the curve of your shoulder and he laces his large fingers through yours.
your lips curl into a silent scream as he shifts his hips, once, twice. cock twitching erratically as he presses flush against your ass. he cums with a deep groan, his body shuddering as he fills you up with copious pearlescent drops. suguru and satoru’s combined cum seeps out of you, painting your inner thighs milky white.
suguru stays buried in you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your back as he catches his breath and murmurs ‘i love you’s against your searing skin. you hiss as he pulls out slowly, his cock soft and slick with your fluids.
they’re still holding you. your smaller frame enveloped by their larger ones. caressing you with quivering hands, bodies twitching in unison with yours. you’re a mess, covered in beads of sweat and cum, but you’ve never felt more cherished.
“you did so good for us, pretty girl . . are you okay?” suguru asks, murmuring against your skin when he’s finally caught his breath. “were we too rough?”
you can only manage a weak, hum of contentment, your head lolling against satoru’s shoulder. your limbs feel like lead, but it’s the best kind of exhaustion you’ve ever felt in your life. “m’fine,” you slur, the words barely coherent. “never better”
satoru shifts beneath you, his arms tightening around your waist protectively. he presses a soft kiss to your sweaty temple. his face is still flushed a deep rose, his blue eyes hazy and sated. “are you sure? you’re not just saying that? we didn’t break you . . . did we?”
a breathy laugh escapes your lips, “you didn’t break me, ‘toru,” you whisper, turning your head to nuzzle his cheek.
suguru’s hand, which had been tracing soothing patterns on your hip, stills. he gently pushes a damp strand of hair away from your forehead, dark eyes full of a tenderness that makes your heart flutter.
“let us see,” he murmurs, he carefully eases back, hands gentle as he helps you lift yourself off satoru’s lap and lie down on the ruffled sheets. the movement makes you hiss as a fresh wave of sensitivity washes over you.
satoru sits up instantly, his brow furrowed with concern as he leans over you. “what? what is it baby?”
“nothing” you breathe, staring up at the ceiling. “i promise . . ‘m just sensitive”
suguru’s gaze drops to the mess between your thighs, to the way their combined release is smeared across your skin. a soft curse escapes his lips. he looks at satoru, his expression slightly tinged with regret. he leans down, pressing a reverent kiss to your forehead. “be right back, angel,” he murmurs. “i’ll get a fresh set of sheets,” he says, shrugging on his basketball shorts and padding towards the bathroom “and run you a bath.” then he’s gone, the sound of running water soon following.
satoru stays by your side, hand finding yours, fingers lacing through yours, thumb stroking the back of your hand. “it’s okay,” he whispers, “we’ll take care of you”
satoru shifts closer. he’s quiet for a moment, just stroking your hair, his touch gentle and hesitant. “i really am sorry. . ” he whispers, “if i was too rough. you felt so good, i couldn’t . .”
“don’t apologize to me, apologize to your frat brothers. .” you interrupt, squeezing his hand. you’re positive they hate all three of you by now. “it was my idea and i loved it”
he lets out a shaky breath, a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his lips. he leans down and kisses you, a soft press of his lips that’s full of devotion. “we love you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “so much.”
“i love you too,” you whisper back, your eyes fluttering shut as you drift further in the warm, hazy afterglow, “both of you”
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › gojo’s eyes glow when he’s close mdni. unprotected piv ⁝ inappropriate use of reverse cursed technique. overstimulátion ⁝ inspired by this tiktok i saw a few days ago ✶
there’s a whole galaxy in the space between satoru’s lashes. you could spend hours just watching his eyes. they’re the kind of blue that doesn’t feel real, wisps of the sky and the deepest parts of the ocean. you’ve memorized the way they darken when he’s focused, the way they soften when he looks at you, and the way they glow when he has you caged beneath him.
the first time you notice it, you’re intertwined in the dark of your bedroom. the only light source is a lunar sliver cutting through the curtains. satoru’s moving above you, a steady rhythm that has you arching into him, nails digging crescents in the sweat-slick muscle of his shoulders.
“that’s it baby” he murmurs, skin against skin echoing in the room, “keep looking— hck— at me”
his eyes light up. familiar blue flares into a something unrecognizable — a white neutron star. it’s blinding. you squeeze your eyes shut as a gasp falls from your lips.
when you open them again, the luster is dim. his usual azure gaze is fixed on you, though his pupils are blown wide, practically swallowing the color whole.
“toru. . .” you breathe, heart hammering against your ribs. “what was that?”
he stills, hips pressed flush against yours. a cocky grin spresding across his face, “what was what?” he teases, though his voice is hoarse and his breath is ragged as he leans down to graze your collarbone
he chooses that exact moment to roll his hips and the follow-up question dissolves on your tongue, forgotten in a haze of pleasure. but you don’t forget the sight.
you can’t. not when it’s seared onto the back of your eyelids
you start to anticipate it, heavy-lidded eyes squinting to commit each subtle tell to memory. you notice the way his breath hitches, the way his hands grip you tighter, knuckles growing paler with each thrust. a delicate, pretty pink flush spreading from his face to his chest. beads of sweat glistening in the moonlight
and then when he’s right there, on the verge of it all, his eyes are filled with starlight. the closer he gets, the brighter they burn. until the blue between ivory lashes is eclipsed by the intensity of his cursed energy
now it’s all you can focus on when your legs are wrapped around his waist and his name falls from your lips like a fervent prayer.
he’s rutting into you, all inklings of restraint gone. his forehead rests against yours. his pretty blue eyes, blanched out by an incandescent white, are locked on yours and they’re so, so bright you can see your reflection in them.
you’re the center of his universe.
“mhh ‘toru” your whimper, your body jolting as he shifts his angle ever so slightly. yet another orgasm ripples through you. you clench around him as your back arches off the bed.
you’ve lost count completely. they all blur into each other, leaving you boneless
“fuuuck” he chokes out, his hips grind against yours in a circular motion that has you seeing stars, “squeezin’ me like that i’m—”
his words are swallowed by the guttural sounds reverberating in his chest. his whole body goes rigid above you and his eyes are blinding white. you feel him pulse as he spills into you, marking you from the inside out. there’s so much of it.
satoru buries his face in the hollow of your neck. for a fleeting moment, there’s only the sound of your heavy breathing. the light from his eyes fades, plunging the room back into a familiar dimness.
within seconds, he props himself up on his elbows. hair disheveled, white strands plastered to his forehead with sweat, lips swollen and red from your kisses. eyes already starting to simmer again
“you’re so beautiful” he murmurs, cupping your cheek in his hand. all you can do is lean into his touch. you turn your head just enough to press a kiss into the center of his palm
then you feel it, a wave of renewable energy that washes away his exhaustion, soothes his strained muscles, and clears the blissful fog from his mind.
he’s using his reverse cursed technique for something so selfish, so human. his lips brush against the shell of your ear “‘m not even close to done with you,”
he doesn’t give you a chance to respond. he pulls out slowly, letting you feel every thick inch of him before he slams back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion.
his eyes are glowing again, nearly too much to look at. you have to fight the instinct to shield your face from the sheer intensity of his gaze. a celestial force that has absolutely no business belonging to a human, albeit the strongest
it’s the most beautiful, yet terrifying thing you’ve ever seen.
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › seven minutes in heaven with frat!jo mdni.
fwb gojo. fïngering. öral sėx ( f receiving ) he has a tongue piercing. semi-public. brat taming if you squint. ✶
the closet door clicks shut, muffling the cacophony of the frat party outside it. a cloud of darkness settles, broken only by the faint sliver of light seeping in beneath the door.
seven minutes in heaven with frat president satoru gojo, your complicated situationship. four hundred and twenty seconds, in a stuffy walk-in closet that smells like ancient cedar, silica gel, and the scent of the expensive cologne he practically drowns himself in
on a regular day, you’d be thrilled to finally get him alone like this. except tonight, he’s pissed at you. you can feel it in the silence that follows. in the way he doesn’t say anything at all — for once in his life— and just stands there, as if he’s daring you to say something first.
as your back brushes against the wall, you do, “what now?”
“what now?” he echoes. “don’t act clueless. you know what you did”
“it’s not like i picked him. it was just part of the game ‘toru” you exhale softly, “all suguru and i did was talk” a sharp, disbelieving scoff falls from his parted lips
“yeah?” satoru murmurs, fingers brushing against your chin and tilting it up towards him, “is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“it’s not supposed to ‘make you feel’ anything” you snap impatiently, crossing your arms over your chest, “we’re not even dating so why the hell do you care?”
“that’s a really stupid question” he scoffs, pushing your crossed arms away from your chest with ease. before you can protest, one of his hands slides around to the back of your neck, the other gripping your hip hard. he tugs you closer until there’s no space left between you. “you know why i care”
satoru’s lips crash against yours. he tastes like spearmint and strawberry vodka. his teeth graze your lower lip, a sharp sting that sends a jolt straight to your core. you gasp into his mouth and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips
he pulls you flush against him. your hands find their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping you from falling into the void.
“you’re mine,” he murmurs against your lips, the words vibrating against your blazing skin. “say it.”
you stay silent, turning your head away just enough to break the kiss. he stills. his hands on your hips tighten. “what was that?” his voice fills the space between you, “i don’t think i heard you say anything ”
you swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. “i’m not saying that, satoru.”
he chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. “oh? you will pretty, i think you just need a little . . persuasion.” before you can respond with a snide remark, his lithe fingers slip beneath your pleated denim skirt.
“so wet for me already” he coos, more to himself than you, as he traces between your legs. he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down in a single swift motion. lace brushing against your skin as they pool at your ankles. he tucks them into his pocket wryly
“satoru—” you breathe, but your protest is cut off by a sharp gasp as his fingers find your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with a precision that makes your knees weak. “fuuuck they’re going to hear us,”
“mmh? let them hear,” he murmurs against your skin. you whimper as he falls to his knees and trails kisses up your thighs “‘s about time i reminded everyone who you belong to.”
“i don’t belong to anyone,” you bite out defiantly, but your body betrays you. even as you utter the words them, your hips give a small, involuntary roll towards him
“that so?” he grins, cocky as ever as his fingers trace the slick between your legs. “your body knows who it belongs to, even if you refuse to admit it.”
without warning, he sinks two fingers knuckle-deep inside you. your body arches off the wall as you clamp down on him instinctively.
“shiiit,” he groans, “look at you. sucking me in like that. pretty pussy was made to take my fingers, wasn’t it? such a needy little thing.”
you can only whine as he begins to move. a steady rhythm, fingers curling inside you just right, hitting that spot that makes your vision blur even in the darkness. the wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into you fill the small closet.
“tell me,” he demands, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight, merciless circles. “tell me this isn’t mine.”
“this isn’t —mmph— yours” you splutter through gritted teeth, your hips buck against his hand, chasing a high you know you should resist. you know you should stay away from satoru gojo
“it isn’t?” he feigns offense as he thrusts his fingers deeper, “then why are you so wet hmm? can anyone else make you feel this good with just their fingers?”
his words are pure, unadulterated filth. you hate him for making you feel like this. you hate yourself for craving this. you want to fight him, to push him away and tell him he’s wrong, but your body is a traitor arching into his touch, silently begging for more.
“shut up,” you gasp, but it’s a weak, breathless plea that only makes him chuckle
“so rude” he tuts, thumb pressing down hard on your clit. “when i’m making you feel so good too. keep that attitude up and ‘m gonna stop”
you shake your head fervently, “don’t you — mmh — don’t you fucking dare gojo” the words are a pathetic, breathless plea as his fingers curl inside you
“ahh then say it” he slows his movements deliberately, leaving you teetering over the edge. “who else can make you feel like this? say it”
the last ember of your pride ebbs away, you break. “no one” you whisper, the confession barely audible. you squeeze your eyes shut. “no one else.”
“that’s what i thought,” he hums, satisfied. the reward for your submission is immediate. his thumb resumes its ruthless pace, his thick fingers pump into you with a renewed vigor.
“satoru please” you’re grinding against his palm. any semblance of resistance is gone, replaced by a frantic need for more. his free hand holds you in place against the wall, a firm grip on your hip that prevents you from squirming away from the overwhelming pleasure.
“please what?” he taunts, “please stop? or please don’t stop? c’mon pretty, use your words ”
you can’t answer. you can only shake your head, a silent denial of the former option. your hips buck against his hand. he finally gives you what you want.
the pressure that has been building inside you finally snaps, your body convulses around his fingers, inner muscles clamping down hard. he works you through it, drawing out every last drop of your orgasm until you’re a trembling mess in his arms.
he withdraws his fingers slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. before you can even catch your breath, he’s tightening his grip on your shaky thighs and spreading them wider. his mouth latches onto your slick folds. the cool metal of his tongue piercing is a stark contrast against your oversensitive flesh. he uses it expertly, flicking and swirling around your clit, lapping up your release.
a man starving. a dizzying haze that has you writhing and sobbing two broken syllables of his name. he wants to ruin you.
“mghh so sweet,” he murmurs against your core. “all for me.”
his tongue delves deeper inside you, fucking you with the same rhythm as his fingers moments before. your knees buckle, but his strong grip on your thighs keeps you standing upright.
“‘s too much” you cry out, hands flying to his ivory hair, tangling in the soft strands. a feeble attempt to steady yourself as laps at you in a manner that’s borderline feral. he can’t get enough. his piercing adds an extra layer of pleasure that has you seeing stars.
“cum f’me,” he pleads, his voice muffled between your thighs. “cum on my tongue and admit you’re mine.” his words, combined with the expert movements of his tongue, send you over the edge.
your hands fist his hair as your back arches off the wall. the world dissolves into blinding white light. you’re left a panting mess in his arms.
he slowly wipes his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. a smug look spreading across his face. your body is slumped against the wall. he rises to his feet, face inches away from yours, blue eyes barely visible in the dim light.
you hear the rustle of fabric, the distinct sound of his sweats being pushed down just enough. then you feel the hot, heavy weight of his cock pressing against your slick entrance. he doesn’t push in fully, not yet. he drags his weeping tip through your folds, coating himself in your saccharine arousal, teasing you like the asshole he is
“look at her tryna suck me in like that,” he murmurs lowly “want me to put it in? let everyone know how good i make you feel?”
you’re nodding before you can even think, clenching around nothing, twitching in anticipation as he nudges his tip against you
“say it then. say you’re mine,” he demands
“fuck you,” you whimper, a pathetic attempt at defiance
“oh? i know you want to,” he grins, pressing a little harder, almost breaching you. “want me to fuck you baby?” you nod, your need for him overriding every other logical thought in your head. “then say it.”
“oh my— i’m yours. are you happy now?” you surrender, brows furrowing as you glare at him
“elated,” he quips, he begins to push into you, a slow, deliberate stretch that steals the air from your lungs. the feeling of him slowly, excruciatingly so, filling you inch by inch is overwhelming. just as his hips press flush against you, a loud bang echoes against the door, making you both jump.
“alright time’s up lovebirds. get the hell out of the closet!”
synopsis. satoru’s always been head-over-heels in love with you.
contents. sfw! bittersweet fluff. best friend! gojo x fem! reader. no-curse au. one-sided pining, he’s sooo down bad and you’re sooo oblivious to it. cw. mentions of blood. consumption of alcohol. uhm okay joke’s over i miss my boy bsf like a mf :(
satoru fell in love with you on a tuesday, which — in the grand scheme of things — is a rather ridiculous thing to remember, but somehow he does.
it was the kind of tuesday where the sun baked the asphalt of the playground and the metal of the swings burned through the fabric of his shorts. he was six, maybe seven, and already a menace. all sharp elbows and a grin that got him into more trouble than it got him out of. you were swinging higher than everyone else and he wanted your attention.
( he’s always wanted your attention. craved it, even )
so he did what six-year-old boys do when they don’t know how else to get it. he waited until you were declining from the peak of your arc, and then he ran.
he pushed, hard and you flew until gravity remembered its job, dragging you down in a tangle of limbs. the world went quiet. the other kids stopped running around. and suguru, who was always scolding him even then, had a disappointed look on his face
satoru stood there, heart thumping frantically against his ribs, cheeks rosy with shame. he hadn’t meant to hurt you. he’d just wanted you to look at him. he’d taken tentative steps towards you but before he could try to help you up, you scrambled to your feet.
your knees were a mess, scraped raw and beading with tiny drops of blood. there was dirt on your palms and you had tears welling in your eyes, but you weren’t sad. not even in the slightest. you stood there, swaying slightly and pointed a trembling finger at him.
“you pushed me,” you glared at him, lips quivering as you made the demand that sealed his fate, the one that’s been echoing in his head for years “you have to get me a hello kitty bandaid or i’m telling on you.”
he didn’t have a hello kitty bandaid. he didn’t have any bandaids on him actually. but he really, really wished he did. he wished he had a whole box of them, a whole factory of them, just to give to you. he wanted to patch up the bruises he’d made. he wanted to wipe the tears from your eyes before they even fell. he wanted, for the first time in his life, to take care of someone else.
his feelings for you grew through awkward school dances, late-night study sessions, and the disastrous first dates he had to rescue you from.
they blossomed in the spaces between your laughter, in the comfortable silences you shared. they grew until they became so big he can barely contain them.
he’s supposed to be playing mortal kombat xi with suguru, but his mind is miles away. he’s waiting — he’s always waiting — for your text, your call. anything that says you need him. anything that says he’s the one you want. even if it’s just for a ride home from a date with someone else.
the blue light of the screen paints patterns on satoru’s face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw as he squints at the game. suguru’s character lands a critical hit, and satoru’s health bar plummets.
“fuck,” he curses, his fingers move over the controller, but he’s too scatterbrained to come back from this. he always is when you’re out with someone else
“you’re playing like shit tonight,” suguru comments, not looking away from the screen.
“shut up,” satoru mumbles. his phone sits face down on the cushion beside him. he imagines it buzzing, imagines your name lighting up the screen, and his stomach does that stupid flutter it always does. he hates it. he hates feeling like this when he knows you’ll never feel the same.
suguru lands another hit. game over. “told you,” he says, leaning back. “so who’s she with tonight? what’s his name?”
“don’t know,” satoru says, tossing the controller onto the couch. it bounces off a cushion. “don’t care either”
“bullshit,” suguru laughs, “you care more than anyone.”
( of course he cares. loving you is all he’s ever known and he’s terrified that one day, you won’t need to reach out. you won’t need him to pick up the pieces anymore because your date went great and you’ve fallen in love. the mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach )
satoru doesn’t answer. he just reaches for his phone, heart thumping hopefully against his ribs. he tells himself he’s checking the time, but his thumb swipes the screen open anyway.
nothing. no messages. no missed calls. radio silence.
he’s about to put it down, to tell suguru to go fuck himself. to suggest they order some doordash and pretend tonight isn’t happening. pretend you’re not out there with some stranger who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as you.
and then his phone buzzes. the screen lights up and there it is. your name. and five words that make his heart race.
can you come get me?
[ 10:26 pm ]
that’s it. you offer him no explanation. zero context. but he can hear the shake in your voice, see the tears in your eyes, and he hasn’t even heard you speak yet. he’s on his feet before he’s fully processed it.
“what is it?” suguru asks, sitting up straighter.
“nothing,” satoru says, already moving towards the hallway. “i gotta go. don’t wait up for me”
“again?”
“shut up,” he throws over his shoulder, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. his shoes are by the doormat, and he’s shoving his feet into them, not even bothering to untie them first. “you’d do the same for shoko.”
“shoko doesn’t make a habit of dating assholes, and i’m not in love with her. don’t compare apples to oranges” suguru calls after him, but satoru’s already out the door.
the drive to you is a blur of streetlights and angry horns. his foot is heavy on the gas. he’s drawn to you like a moth to a flame.
the restaurant you’re at tonight is fancy. all warm lighting and valet parking. there’s no spot, of course there’s no fucking spot, and he circles the block twice before finding a space three streets down.
he’s out of the car before the engine’s fully off, jogging down the sidewalk until he sees you through the window.
he pushes the door open and makes his way towards you. the closer he gets, the more details he can’t unsee. your shoulders are shaking and the champagne flute in front of you is empty. just how much have you had to drink?
you finally lift your head. your eyes find his impossibly blue ones, and the vulnerability in your expression is a physical blow to his chest.
( it’s the same look you had on the playground all those years ago, after he’d pushed you off and you’d scrambled to your feet, demanding he fix everything. you’re still demanding it with every breath you take. and he’s still here, doing everything in his power to make you feel better. )
“toru,” you frown, and the sound of his name on your lips makes him weak. it always does.
“i’m here,” the only comfort he has to give is himself. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest.
you’re soft and warm. you smell like expensive champagne and your vanilla perfume. your hands fist desperately in the material of his t-shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s tilting on its axis. you bury your face in his chest and he can feel the tremors running through your entire body.
he holds you tighter, one hand splayed across the small of your back, the other coming up to cup the back of your head. he rubs slow circles against the silk of your dress. he wants to absorb your pain into himself and shatter it into a million pieces.
( he wishes you were clinging to him because you wanted him, not because someone else had thrown you away. )
he waits until your grip on his shirt loosens. he keeps one hand on your back, leaning back just enough to look at you. but you don’t lift your head, you keep your face hidden against the damp fabric of his shirt.
“look at me,” he murmurs, you can feel his words rumbling through his chest.
it takes a moment, but you slowly, reluctantly, pull back. your face is a mess but you’ve never looked more beautiful to him. he wants to kiss you, to taste the salt of your tears and the champagne on your lips. but he’s here to fix this. he’ll save the wanting for later, for the quiet hours of the night when he’s alone on your couch with nothing but the ghost of your warmth and the ache in his chest.
for now, he just has to be your friend. your best friend.
he gently cups your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones, wiping away the dampness. “what happened?”
you take a shaky breath, and your gaze darts away from his, landing on the empty champagne flute. “he was just. . .” you hiccup, swallowing hard. “he was just awful from the beginning, ‘toru. he wouldn’t let me talk. he just kept going on about himself, about his job, his car, his. . his stupid rolex.”
“i thought. . . i don’t know what i thought. i just kept ordering champagne because he was supposed to be paying and i was bored. and then. . .then he said he was going to the bathroom and he never came back.”
“one of the waitresses,” you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper, “came over and said she saw him leave. she said he left with. . . with some girl he was talking to at the bar. and then they brought the bill a-and i didn’t have enough because he ordered the most expensive thing on the menu”
rage courses through his veins, so potent it makes him dizzy. he’s not just angry at the nameless, faceless asshole who did this. he’s angry at the fact he lives in a world where someone could have you, could sit across from you, look at you, and then . . leave. how? how is that remotely possible? how could anyone be so blind, so stupid? he can’t wrap his head around it.
“he’s a fucking idiot,” he snaps, “and you’re way too good for him, he never deserved you or time”
( satoru wishes you would finally see that he’s the one who does. if you gave him a chance he would worship the ground you walk on.
in retrospect he already does. he patches up the wounds left by other men, cleans up their messes, holds you while you cry over them. he remembers your café order and brings a cup that’s more creamer than coffee to your first lecture of the day. he sits through rewatches of ‘ten things i hate about you’ and the fear street trilogy without complaining. he pays for your gas and groceries. he does everything a boyfriend should do and more. but he’s not your boyfriend.
if you’d let him take you out on a date. he wouldn’t just sit across from you talking about himself. he would hang onto your every word.
he’d never leave you waiting, not for a second. he’d move heaven and earth to make you happy, to make you his. he just needs you to give him the chance to )
he knows you don’t believe him. you never do. you always think it’s your fault, that you weren’t pretty enough, or smart enough, or interesting enough. and it kills him, because he knows the truth. he knows you’re too good for a world full of mediocre men who can’t appreciate what’s right in front of them.
“yeah” you nod and he knows you’re just agreeing with him because that’s what he wants to hear. he lets his hands fall, but he doesn’t step away. he can’t. not yet.
he pulls out his wallet. he doesn’t even bother to look at the bill. he sifts out a thick wad of cash, the crisp edges digging into his palm, and drops it down onto the polished wood of the bar.
( it’s more than enough to cover the ridiculously expensive lobster and the multiple bubbly glasses of dom perignon. more than enough to cover a tip that’s so generous it’s obscene. but satoru doesn’t care.)
“let’s go,” he says.
you slide off the barstool and for a terrifying moment you wobble precariously. the ridiculously high heels you’d worn for a man who didn’t deserve them betray you. satoru’s there before you can even register your knees buckling. his hand wrapping around your upper arm, “i’ve got you,”
your body molds to his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. satoru has to physically force himself to breathe, to focus on the simple act of walking and not the way his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest.
he guides you to his car, opens the door, and helps you in. he buckles your seatbelt, fingers brushing against your side, just below your ribs. you shiver and it has nothing to do with the cold.
“cold?” he asks. you shake your head, lolling back against the leather headrest.
“no ‘m just tired,” you mumble, eyes already drifting shut. long lashes casting shadows on your cheeks. but he drapes his hoodie over your frame regardless
the drive to your apartment is quiet. satoru glances over at you at every red light, at the way streetlights tinge patterns across your face, at the way your lips are slightly parted. he wants to reach over, to brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, to trace the line of your jaw with his thumb, but he doesn’t. he can’t.
he white-knuckles the leather steering wheel and forces himself to focus on the road.
when he finally reaches your apartment and he kills the engine. he just sits there watching you sleep for a moment. he hates the thought of waking you, hates the thought of this night ending.
“hey,” he whispers, his voice barely perceptible. he reaches out, shaking your shoulder gently. “we’re here.”
your eyes flutter open. they’re heavy-lidded, and hazy with sleep and alcohol. you’re too pretty, even like this
“c’mon let’s get you inside,” he murmurs. he practically carries you through the foyer and into the elevator, his body pressed against yours, your head lolling against his chest.
the elevator ride is torturous. he’s drowning in you and it makes your head spin. his weakness is exacerbated the second he steps into your apartment. it smells too much like you. it makes his chest ache with longing.
he lays you down on your bed, carefully turning you onto your side —the way he knows you like to sleep.
your heels are a nightmare — all delicate straps and tiny buckles — and his fingers are clumsy as he works them free. he tries not to wake you, tries not to linger too long on the warm skin of your ankles.
your dress looks like it’ll be uncomfortable to sleep. he hesitates, hand hovering over the zipper at the back. he’s seen you in less — during those endless shopping trips you’d dragged him on, trying on lacy bras for your dates and asking his opinion. completely oblivious to the way his throat would close up.
but this feels different. more intimate. a line he’s not sure he’s ready to cross
“fuck it,” he mutters and turns away, heading for your bathroom. he finds your makeup wipes where he knows they’ll be, in the little wicker basket by the sink.
he grabs the small trash can from under the counter, setting it by your bedside, just in case you wake up sick. then he kneels beside you, heart pounding against his ribs.
your skin is warm beneath his touch as he gently wipes away the concealer, the mascara, and the lipgloss that’s smeared at the corners of your mouth.
he’s careful, touch light as a feather. he does this because he knows you’ll complain in the morning —about waking up with makeup on, about the inevitable breakouts — and he can’t stand the thought of you being unhappy, not even about something so small.
you stir, murmuring something unintelligible, but don’t wake. he trashes the soiled wipes and clambers to his feet. he’s almost at the door, hand on the doorknob, ready to retreat to the couch, to be the good friend he’s supposed to be. when he hears you call out to him.
“don’t go.” you sigh. he freezes, his breath catching in his throat. he turns slowly, heart hammering against his ribs.
your face is illuminated by the moonlight filtering through your curtains. your lip is quivering and he can make out the tortured expression on your face. satoru wants to wrap you in his arms and never let go.
“please,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and alcohol and something he can’t quite place a finger on. he hopes it’s affection.
something inside him breaks. something that’s been held together by sheer willpower. by the conscious effort to keep his distance, to be what you need him to be. “okay,” he practically whimpers
he crosses back to your bed hesitantly. you shift, making room, so, so trusting. “need a shirt,” you mumble, pointing a shaky finger at your dresser. he grabs the first one he finds, cotton worn thin from a hundred washes. it smells faintly of detergent and you.
you sit up, swaying and he’s there in an instant, his hand cupping the back of your head, steadying you against the headboard. “careful”
satoru focuses on the wall, on the ceiling, on anything but the sound of fabric rustling. the glimpse of skin he catches in his peripheral vision — the delicate curve of your spine — makes his cheeks flush. you toss your dress on the floor in a heap of silk and sequins and you pull the shirt on.
“bra,” you say, your voice muffled. you fumble behind your back, your fingers clumsy, useless. “. . . help”
( satoru knows you’re trying to kill him, he just can’t prove it yet )
“okay,” his voice is a strangled whisper. he’s not sure he can manage more than a syllable. his hand trembles as he reaches behind you, fingers trailing up your back, brushing against your warm skin as he finds the clasp.
it’s a piece of fabric with tiny pieces of metal, he knows it’s not going to bite him. but he’s still shaking because this feels too monumental. you shiver at his touch when he finally gets it loose. he pulls back as if he’s been burned.
“thanks,” you murmur, pulling your straps beneath your t-shirt and shrugging your bra off. you settle back against your pillows, and after a moment’s hesitation, satoru lies beside you, the mattress dips beneath his weight.
you shift closer, until you’re pressed against his side, your head on his shoulder, body fitting against his like it was made to be there. beside him.
“you’re too good to me,” you whisper, “you’re the best friend i’ve ever had.”
satoru can’t respond. can’t trust his voice not to crack. he just hums, a short, pained sound that gets lost in the darkness of your room.
best friend.
the words echo in his head. he’s perpetually stuck in the friendzone. and the absolute worst part, is he’d rather be here than anywhere else in the world. he’d rather suffer like this, than not have you at all.
he listens as your breathing evens out, as you drift deeper into sleep, your body growing heavy and limp against his. his arm’s gone numb from your weight but he wouldn’t move for the world.
in the morning, you’ll wake up embarrassed, make jokes about how you owe him one, and satoru will smile, will pretend it doesn’t hurt, will go back to being just your best friend.
but right now, he lets himself pretend this is normal, pretend that he gets to have you like this always. deludes himself into thinking that when you wake up, you’ll see what’s been right in front of you all along.
You were kissed once in a dream as a teenager, you think. The man’s face blurred as your dreamy haze swallowed up fine details like smudged charcoal. Soft lips pressing against yours the way nobody had when you were awake, the way your friends had explained to you between giggles and swoons over their boyfriends.
The way you never thought anybody would want to do to you.
That was, until Satoru Gojo. Until, somehow, he managed to grin and tease his way into your life and heart, sticking to you like the sweets melting in his bag as his fingers brushed yours. You were still a teenager then, firmly stitched together, the seams just a little messy at the edges where you couldn't figure out how to smooth them down.
And Gojo noticed the messiness, noticed the way you gave him a nervous opening- a light laugh at his stupid jokes, a careful thumb over a bruise after a mission- and ran with it. Neatly unpicking away until you completely, irreversibly unravelled for him, until he could hold you gently and you wouldn’t think it was all a dream.
You felt like you were dreaming when he kissed you for the first time- your first kiss ever- standing sunlit under a cherry blossom as soft petals floated down behind his softer hair, your fingers threading nervously through white locks. The feeling of his mouth smiling against yours, so elated and relieved, certainly didn’t feel real; you expected him to stop or pull away. Because surely he was joking- nobody had ever wanted to kiss you before, and now he did? Surely not.
You suppose you’d just never pictured it happening to you, that it would feel so unreal and dreamy and terrifying all at once and that your friends would be right, that kissing somebody you love just as much as they do you is undeniably wonderful.
Over the years, Gojo gives you many kisses- before and after missions, lips pressed chastely to your cheek before he darts out the door then tenderly when he enters again, just a little ruffled and tense. His mouth on your skin feels like a salve.
Sometimes they turn heated, lips pressed to lips under the cover of darkness. It didn’t feel so much like a dream but a mirage when he’d touched you like that, in a way you were still- somewhere deep down- only half-convinced he’d want to.
Heated, soft, hidden equally between giggles and bedsheets and the aisles of your local store. Gojo kisses you a lot.
“Satoru, stop it.” You giggle, rolling away from him on the couch as he peppers kisses across your face. “It tickles!”
He laughs, strong arms wrapping around your waist as you squeal when he tugs you back in. “Shh, I’ll be quick.”
He isn’t quick. Not at all- you spend the next fifteen minutes held hostage to his soft lips pressing to your face, littering your skin with love and affection.
Your couch is gentle beneath you, cushions swallowing you up comfortably in the warmth of the room. Furniture- assembled between kisses- decorates the space (your space, you remind yourself happily) while a pretty vase of flowers sits on the windowsill.
Gojo kisses you so much, it’s become part of your routine, something nestled brightly between mundaneness and monotony. You’re used to them.
God, how complacent you’ve gotten. To wait in expectancy for him to kiss you like that, to sulk when he doesn’t until he remembers and does it twice as hard to make up for it, when you thought it was something you’d only get in dreams.
But they still cause butterflies in your stomach, an overwhelming tug of love and affection that doesn’t scare you as much now. Not as much as when you were seventeen and terrified to admit your own feelings to yourself, or when Gojo first called you pretty and you half expected to wake up with your face pressed against your pillow.
You keep favourites, even if you’d never tell him.
Your first kiss, of course, is in your favourites. It was sweet, and slightly bumbling, but enough. More than enough- you’d never felt so childishly overjoyed, giggly and sickeningly in love.
Another you reminisce on frequently, misty-eyed over making dinner or washing dishes as Gojo loudly flicks through tv channels, was your wedding day. The way his lips had brushed yours so gently, the saltiness of your happy tears mixing with the warmth of his mouth against you.
It creeps up on you, that one. Usually when Gojo hugs you, or brushes a lock of hair from your face, and the cool metal of his ring brushes your skin.
Or, the one you shared most recently. So full of love, your body trembling as his hands held onto you and he promised he’d be back soon. That kiss lingers around so much you hate yourself for it, clinging to curtains Gojo used to leave open to laugh when you scolded him and clawing at the suffocating band of your ring you refuse to remove even when it feels like the metal burns.
Your lips feel lonely. As lonely as they did when you woke up from your dream as a teenager, with the faceless man’s mouth just a false memory- imagination.
But this is so, so much worse.
Because now you know what it feels like, what it feels like to be loved so much somebody wants to press their mouth to yours and smile against your teeth. Because now, the man finally has a face, and it’s your husband.
His white hair appears every night without fail as fluffy as it was when you first saw him, blue eyes flutter closed behind pale eyelashes as he leans in and kisses you. Softly, sweetly, his fingers cradling your head to bring you closer like he’ll never get enough of you.
“I love you.” He whispers each time, your fingers curling into the fabric of his clothes. What he wears changes each time depending on how you feel, you’ve realised silently, gazing out the window into nothingness while you curl in on yourself in a cold bed, tears tracking down your temples and into your messy hair.
If you’ve had a long day, he'll be sporting his highschool uniform to remind you of an easier time filled with melting sugar and circular, dark lenses. In that variant, he’s lighthearted and the cherry blossoms fall prettily like organic confetti around you both as the sun crests hazily on the horizon while light blooms in your chest.
If you feel particularly lonely, maybe you walked past a bridal shower on your way home, maybe an advert for engagement rings showed up on your social media, it’ll be your wedding day.
It hurts the most when it’s the last one, though. You wake up in tears every time, fingers gripping the sheets next to your face like it’ll get him to stay a little longer if you hold on enough. Cotton clenched futilely between your nails in the way you wished you'd done to his clothes, begged him to stay as if it could ever change the result. Sometimes it hurts so much you end up curled in a ball on your unwelcoming bathroom tiles as your head hangs beside the bathtub.
“I love you too, Satoru.” You say back to him in the dream, before waking to an empty bed and wet eyes.
Sometimes it hits you during the day at the worst moments. Today is one of them.
You're browsing the fresh produce section, fingers loosely tucked into your pocket; you don't need fruit, you need bread- but you're taking the long way around so you don't have to walk through the aisle selling sweets lest your husband's memory creep back up on you too strongly.
"Look at youuuu!" A woman coos from behind you in the aisle, her baby sat on her hip and giggling. "Aren't you just the cutest-!" She uses her finger to kiss the baby's nose and she laughs in response, eyes full of adoration. You freeze right there as the memory smacks you right in the face and you have to quietly dip out to sob in your car.
“When our kids are born, they’ll never know a day of peace.” You giggle, legs splayed over Gojo’s lap as he grins at you, show forgotten on the tv and a half-eaten kikufuku mochi sitting in his hand. “Aw, sweetheart, what makes you say that?”
“Toru, you can’t go thirty seconds without kissing me-“
“Because you’re pretty. Cute, even-“
You laugh, tossing your head back. “Exactly my point, you’d call them too cute.”
He perks up and beams. “Are you saying we’d have cute babies?”
You smile gently. “Maybe.”
You’ll never find out.
Not now, not now you’ve been reduced to only seeing him in dreamscapes as his smell gradually fades from the pillow you’ve taken to hugging to sleep.
Once you were kissed in a dream.
And now it’s the only place you’ll ever be able to again.
ೃ࿔*:･
masterlist
a/n: okay second time posting angst ever be nice to me pls
synopsis. You waited three weeks. You set up the apartment perfectly — candles, dinner, soft music. Three weeks of counting down. Three weeks of missing him. Three weeks of planning the perfect night. And then he walked through the door — and nothing went the way you'd hoped.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. hurt/comfort, angst, established relationship, gojo is exhausted and snappy, harsh words, crying, emotional hurt, six eyes detail, soft comfort afterward, happy ending
word count. 1.7k+
A/N. this is for the lovely anon who requested this! love ya <3
You'd been counting down the days.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. You'd marked each one on the calendar, crossing off the numbers with a little more hope every morning.
Today was the last one.
Today, he was coming home.
You'd left work early. You'd gone to the grocery store, wandering the aisles, picking up everything he liked — the expensive soda, the brand of chips he pretended not to care about, the ingredients for his favorite dinner. You'd even found candles. Soft ones. The kind that made the apartment smell like vanilla and cinnamon.
You wanted it to be perfect.
You set the table. You dimmed the lights. You changed into the sweater he liked — the one he always said made you look cozy. You checked your phone. No new messages.
He said he'd be home by eight.
It was seven forty-five.
You lit the candles.
The door opened at eight thirteen.
You heard his keys hit the counter. The familiar sound of his shoes being kicked off. The sigh — heavy, exhausted, the kind that came from somewhere deep.
You stood up from the couch.
"Satoru?"
He was in the doorway. His hair was messier than usual. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck, and the skin under his eyes was dark, bruised-looking. His uniform was rumpled. There was a tear in his sleeve.
He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Hey," you said softly. "Welcome home."
He didn't answer.
You stepped closer. "I made dinner. Your favorite. And I got those chips you like, the ones from—"
"I don't want chips."
The words came out flat. Sharp. Like a door slamming shut.
You stopped.
"I just— I thought—"
"I don't care what you thought." He walked past you into the living room. "I just spent three weeks fighting things you can't imagine. I don't need candles. I don't need dinner. I need to not have to pretend right now."
Your chest tightened.
"I wasn't asking you to pretend," you said quietly.
"Then what were you doing?"
"I was trying to make you feel better."
"Well, you're not."
The words hit like a slap.
You blinked. Your eyes were stinging.
"Satoru..."
"Don't." He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "Just— don't."
He was pacing now. Back and forth, back and forth. His hands were shaking.
"You don't understand," he said. "You can't understand. You're not the one who has to—" He stopped. "You're not the one who has to watch people die. You're not the one who has to make choices that get people killed."
"I know," you said.
"You don't know."
"I know I don't know." Your voice was smaller now. "But I'm trying to—"
"Trying to what? Fix me?"
"No."
"Then what?"
"Love you."
He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was brittle and sharp and it cut through the room like glass.
"Love isn't going to bring them back."
You flinched.
He saw it.
Of course he saw it. His Six Eyes missed nothing — the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way a tear slipped down your cheek before you could wipe it away. He saw the flinch. He saw the hurt. He saw the exact moment his words pierced through you.
And it broke him.
"You flinched," he said. His voice was barely audible.
You didn't answer.
"I saw you flinch." He wasn't pacing anymore. He was standing still, staring at you like he'd never seen you before. "When I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "When I said those things. You flinched like you were expecting to be hit."
"Satoru—"
"I never wanted to be the reason you flinched."
The room was silent.
The candles flickered. The dinner was getting cold. The apartment smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and something sad.
"I'm going to bed," you said.
"Sweetheart—"
"Don't."
You walked past him. You didn't look back.
You didn't cry right away.
You sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, your hands in your lap. The tears came slowly — first a sting in your eyes, then a few drops on your cheeks, then the kind of crying that made your whole body shake.
You pressed your hand over your mouth to muffle the sounds.
You didn't want him to hear.
You didn't want him to know how much it hurt.
But he heard anyway.
The door opened.
"Sweetheart,"
He didn't say anything. He just stood there, in the doorway, looking at you.
Your face was wet. Your eyes were red. Your shoulders were still shaking.
He looked like someone had punched him in the chest.
"I'm sorry," he said.
You didn't answer.
"I'm so sorry."
"You should go." Your voice cracked. "You're tired. You don't need to—"
"I need to be here."
"You just said—"
"I know what I said." He stepped closer. "I know what I said, and I was wrong."
You looked up at him.
He looked terrible. His eyes were red. His jaw was tight. His hands were shaking.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me," he said. "I'm not asking you to pretend it didn't happen. I just—" He stopped. "I need you to know that I didn't mean it."
"You did."
"I meant that I was tired. I meant that I was angry. I didn't mean—" His voice cracked. "I didn't mean you."
He knelt in front of you.
"I've been gone for three weeks," he said. "Three weeks of nothing but fighting and blood and darkness. And all I could think about was coming home to you."
"Then why—"
"Because when I walked in and saw the candles and the dinner and the way you looked at me—" He stopped. "I didn't feel like I deserved it."
"Satoru..."
"I don't deserve you." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I've never deserved you. And every time I come home and you're still here, I don't know how to handle it."
"You could try saying thank you."
He laughed — a broken, watery sound.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"You already said that."
"I'll say it a hundred more times."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
You looked at him — at his tired eyes, his shaking hands, the way he was kneeling on the floor like he was asking for forgiveness.
"Come here," you said.
He climbed onto the bed beside you, slow, careful, like he was afraid you'd push him away.
You didn't.
You pulled him into your arms.
He buried his face in your shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
"I don't— I don't know why you stay."
"Because I love you too."
He held you tighter.
You lay there for a long time.
His head was on your chest. Your fingers were in his hair. The candles in the other room had burned out. The dinner was cold. The apartment was dark.
"I ruined it," he said quietly.
"You didn't."
"I snapped at you. I said horrible things. You went to all that trouble, and I—"
"You were tired."
"That's not an excuse."
"I know." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "But it's a reason."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I don't want to be that person," he said. "The one who comes home and makes you feel small."
"Then don't."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
He looked up at her.
"How do you do it?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Stay. Even when I'm like this."
"Because I know you."
You brushed his hair back from his forehead.
"I know the person you are when you're not exhausted. When you're not carrying the weight of the world. And that person is worth staying for."
His eyes were wet.
"You're going to make me cry," he said.
"Then cry."
"I don't cry."
"You're crying right now."
"I'm not."
"Your face is wet."
"It's allergies."
"It's November."
"I'm allergic to November."
You laughed — soft and tired.
He smiled — small and broken but real.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I'm going to make it up to you."
"You don't have to."
"I want to." He pressed his forehead to yours. "Tomorrow. I'm going to make you breakfast. And I'm going to hold your hand. And I'm going to be better."
"You're already better."
"I'm trying."
"That's all I ask."
You woke up to the smell of eggs and toast.
You blinked. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. The bed was empty beside you.
Satoru was in the kitchen. Again.
He was wearing the same apron. There was a smear of butter on his sleeve. The eggs were slightly overcooked. The toast was perfectly golden.
He looked up when you walked in.
"You're up," he said.
"You're making breakfast again."
"I messed up yesterday." He slid an egg onto a plate, his movements careful, deliberate. "I wanted to try again."
You walked over to him.
"Satoru..."
"I know I can't fix it with eggs." He set the plate down and finally looked at you. His eyes were soft. Hopeful. Scared. "But I can try. Every day. Until you believe me."
"Believe what?"
"That I'm sorry." His voice was quiet. "That I love you. That I'm going to do better."
You looked at him — at the butter on his sleeve, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands were still shaking just a little.
"Did you sleep?" you asked.
"Not really."
"At all?"
"A little."
"You need to sleep."
He set the spatula down and turned to face you fully.
"I need to take care of you first."
You reached over and took his hand.
"I'm okay," you said.
"Are you?"
"Yeah." You squeezed his fingers. "I am."
He stared at you. His throat moved as he swallowed.
"I don't deserve you," he said.
"Stop saying that."
"But it's true."
"It's not." You stepped closer. "Now sit down. Eat your eggs. And then you're going to sleep."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then, softly: "Yes, ma'am."
It wasn't a joke. It wasn't sarcastic. It was quiet and sincere, like a promise he was making to himself as much as to you.
You felt your chest warm.
He sat. He ate. He held your hand across the table.
And when he finally fell asleep on the couch an hour later — his head on the pillow, his breathing slow and even — you covered him with a blanket and kissed his forehead.
He didn't wake up.
But his hand reached for yours in his sleep.
You held it.
A/N. i genuinely cried at this ion wanna talk abt it 😭 i really hope you guys enjoyed this! <3 broke my heart a little writing this bcz of the things im going thru rn 🥹 i hope you guys are all okay and feeling amazing !! 😼💞
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
It's always been like this, just existing around you, it affects him in such specific ways that it annoys him how easily he can point out what you do to him now.
Vergil Sparda should've known he was finished when he caught himself looking at you for just a second too long. When he caught himself waiting for you where he knew you'd be. When he let you under his armored skin he swears is impregnable.
Let alone now, sleeping in your shared bed.
'Sleeping' is a loaded term, though, Vergil hardly finds himself capable of sleeping, he doesn't need it really. Maybe a few hours here and there, but being so entwined with the world of devils he's not sure he'll ever really need to sleep like that ever again for rest. That doesn't stop him from cuddling right behind you, wrapping strong arms and calloused hands around your middle. Holding you so tight to him like he's convinced you'll disappear otherwise.
Probably because he actually thinks that. He still can't begin to understand why you deal with him, how you do it so easily, how you unravel all of the pain and unease he's been building up for years.
His tense shoulders soften whenever you enter a room, he likes it when you look at him, when you smile at him, his teeth losing their gripping clench every time you do. And now, when he has you here so close, these moments where he can just hold you for hours without interruption… For someone so annoyed with how comfortable you make him feel, he sure does love bedtime.
He's tuned into your routine like a pet, a cat that hates when it's even slightly off. You'll shower first, especially in the winter, because you like trapping all the steam inside to keep you warm,
(Even if Vergil here has insisted multiple times he can provide that warmth for you…)
Then you'll brush your teeth—flossing, mouthwash—the whole nine. THEN it's skincare, even if that only entails a rag and a wash of your face. Then you open the door, drying your hair while Vergil does what he needs to do, which by the way, isn't nearly as much as you do, his business in there involves a mirroring of your dental care, sometimes a shower if he hasn't already, and watching you finish up with your hair. Seriously, he just leans against the doorway and watches you. Get used to it. FINALLY you're in bed, and his favorite part of the night begins…
…
Listening to you breath and watching you sleep for the next however many hours.
He sleeps… Sometimes. Again, he doesn't really need it, he only manages to get sleepy enough sometimes because your routine and your presence lulls him. The constant, simple, domestic nature of your activities, he would say, is so utterly boring that it brings him to sleep. We all know though that that's a lie, especially coming from a grown devil-hybrid that has maybe known calm once before, when he was a child.
He spends the night studying you, seeing how his hand measures to yours, dragging his fingertips across random plains of your body—your back right at your shoulder blades, your legs, even your face gets an appraisal—cannot stress enough that he's so not used to humans and how they look, how they behave, you're the blueprint for these studies, for humans in general in his mind.
The way you breath, the constant tic of your heartbeat, how delicate you are as the being of mortal flesh and bone you are…
He thinks that maybe if he studies you enough, he can finally understand why you make him feel the way he does. Comfortable is one word to use, but perhaps loved is a much more fitting one.
A/N: I just made some BULLLSHIIIIITTTTTTT!!! Are we fucking with the format??? Do lmk, I figured that I should give smaller fun blurbs like this a try because part of my issue with posting is I write for too long and I focus too much on details and I start overthinking and WHOOPS now I look like I'm ignoring people and late to every party! Uggghhhhh perfectionism and fear of my writing being ass barf. Anyways! I'd like to do more posts like these because they're kinda stress free I wrote this in like an hour when I should've been sleeping!!! I remembered that this cutie @high-speed-r asked for Vergil a while ago (I'm gonna be so embarassed if that's the wrong person) along with Nero stuff and ALTHOUGH I have a headcanon post loaded up for Vergie dear I figured that I should give a little, maybe messy and not proofread, blurb on him because why not! I'm gonna do Nero too, and hell Dante as well, and Nico, Lady—I'm so incredibly fixated on DMC rn that I'll f around and retheme my profile for it because GOD I NEED NEW CONTENT FAAAHHHHHH—I'm yapping, I'll stop, I love you ciao <333
Gojo Satoru is insane. Batshit crazy. Unhinged. Can be totally out of his mind.
Some people would affirm these derogatory words for various reasons.
Because he would eat tons of sugar, sleep three hours a day, and still be kicking butts with a body full of energy.
Because he is The Strongest, possessing powers only gods could pretend to have and yet controlling every ounce of cursed energy like it’s as easy as breathing.
Because in battle, once he fights against a worthy opponent, control snaps, the smile on his face distorts in eerie amusement, and has no shame in unleashing his techniques like it’s a playground.
Higher-ups, colleagues, students, opponents… That’s what they would say.
Your answer to that affirmation would be more private, a side of Gojo Satoru that only a few had the displeasure to face, yet only in the context of being his enemy. No, no. You, it’s personal. Targeted because you are you, a side of his coin that you have the privilege to behold.
Or maybe not. Maybe a doom, something to weigh on your shoulders, because Gojo Satoru has so much to support on his back, but trust you enough to accept this part of him that should be locked away, nonetheless is only a result of his condition as the Infinity and Six eyes holder. No humanity, drew a line as a living creature, until Suguru, but he left, then he had you.
A safe line, an anchor, something he can’t let go, can’t make the same mistake like ten years ago, has to keep you at his side or else he would forever have nothing else holding him back as someone rather than a weapon.
He sees you as a salvation, a feeling that makes him want to breathe not because of his duty, but because he can be himself in your company.
Every other night Satoru crashes at your place. After a meeting with the higher ups, a nightly mission, hours of paperworks. His mood swings. From staying in his bubbly persona, or rarely showing the weakness of how tired he is, to the tension of his jaw, the anger flooding in every fiber of his being after a shitty day being asked to do God knows what, like the tool that he is.
You can’t breathe, when he’s like this. His clinginess turns to spikes, his stare to lava, his voice to knives, his words to void.
Tonight, Satoru arrives late at your door. Doesn’t bother to knock, text you beforehand, he simply uses the double of the keys and enters your place heavily. His blindfold down his neck, shoes kicked, you rise from your bed to meet him in the hallway, halfway to the dream world.
“Can’t believe they asked me to do this at 3 A.M, and then trying to display the decrease of the next generation in jujutsu society. They complain we don’t have enough sorcerers, when they don’t do anything when fifteen years old are sent to death. Can you believe it, y/n?”
He slowly turns towards you, coldness of his stare digging into your heart. A shiver runs down your spine. He’s waiting for your answer without any facial expression.
Honestly, you want to knock him off and tell him to text you beforehand instead of barging at your place in the middle of the night without even a “hello”. But with the way he’s acting right now, Satoru is in his angry-no empathy-mood. Maybe later…
So, you sigh in a nod, in a second he’s at your side, and you pat his back with understanding.
“It always has been like that, sadly… But your students have the chance to have you, because you’re not like them,” you answer.
A smile on his lips, Gojo lets his arms snake around your waist and brings you to his chest. Eyes half lidded, he gazes at your bed hair, down to the way you look at him.
“Hmm, and I have you.”
You snort.
“What does it have to do with anything you just said?”
His mouth stays stretched, but his eyes stop smiling. It’s a shift that is barely noticeable, almost, not to you. Up, his hand comes to your cheek, warm and invading.
“It has to do a lot,” he whispers, before he lets silence swallow you all. You hear the tick of the clock, it’s three and a half a.m. You don’t answer, don’t know what.
Satoru stiffens his hold, his fingers slightly digging deeper in the plump of your skin, you see the pink corner of his eye. “Should I kill them all, y/n?”
This, right now, this is the type of sentence he drops like a bomb then and there, does it more often than you think, always manages to turn on an alarm in your brain that screams how much you are in a position to escape.
A few seconds pass by, icy stare, heart in your throat. You can’t move, even if you wanted to, you can’t. Satoru has you locked in his arms in a way that is sinisterly strategic, trapped and unable to try to even shift a centimeter away. He knows it, it’s not a coincidence, it’s a reality.
Then, he suddenly releases you, steps back, and has back this goofy grin so characteristically like his.
“Just kidding! I’ll go shower, don’t mind me using hot water,” he announces, leaves towards your bathroom like nothing happened.
“Right,” you mutter, feeling the beating of your blood in your ears, before taking a breath and heading to the living room. You can’t sleep anymore, you’ll just watch something dumb on tv.
Satoru comes back from the shower, wearing nothing but one of your towels around his waist without a care in the world. Crosses by the living room, maybe to show off, you don’t know, goes to your bedroom, and comes back wearing the pajamas he left at your place a long time ago.
Flipping next to you in a breath, he makes himself comfortable on the couch.
“What are you watching?”
“Something dumb,” you answer in a shrug and a small tired laugh.
Satoru stretches his arms on the back of the couch.
“Sign me in, I need to cool off,” he says.
“Didn’t you with the shower?”
He stares at the TV screen, unfazed.
“Nah. Not really.”
You notice it, sometimes. When he’s not wearing his blindfold, the way his eyes, a shade of blue so deep that you would drown in, dig holes in your soul. An intensity that breaks through, makes your skin crawl, goosebumps, shiver.
“You’re staring again,” you spit as you glance at him.
Satoru is sprawling next to you, the faint glow of the movie illuminating a side of his face in the darkness of your apartment.
“Am I?” he asks in a lopsided grin.
“Yes. Satoru, you’re supposed to look at the screen if you want to watch the movie.”
He tilts his head, puts his eyes on the screen, then back to you.
“Was totally watching the soldier jump into the sea, I got peripheral vision, y’know?”
“Whatever, snap out of it,” you murmur in a sigh.
Satoru pouts, crossing his arms over his chest dramatically. A way to make the mood funnier and less heavy.
“Can’t even admire my best friend, I see how it is!”
You would have laughed, if the pressure of his stare wasn’t so suffocating, so wrong.
Your heart is beating wild, it takes a few minutes for you to manage to be back to enjoy the movie and be engrossed in the story. Until you feel it again, his stare.
No smile, no facial expression, just Satoru looking at you with nothing giving away. If you didn’t know him, you would have thought he was secretly plotting to kill you, or something like that.
This time, you manage to ignore it. Manage, yes. That’s just part of your routine, after all.
Time flies by, feeling the drowsiness take a toll on you, like hands grabbing you towards the void of sleep. You don't fight it, it’s too late to care, a win for your eyelids fluttering shut.
When your head tilts on the side, Satoru’s first reflex is to let his palm lay flat on it, and make you lean against his shoulder. The touch of his thumb is a lullaby, soothing you to fully let go, be limp. The faint sound of the movie, last rays of light, his caress, then darkness.
You’re finally asleep.
Satoru waited the exact second of it. With a skilful arm, he scoops you up against his chest, free hand turning off the TV, then carries you to your room.
Gently, he rolls you on your bed, slides his bicep under your weight, and keeps you close while he lays down next to you. His pupils don’t leave you, not even for a second during the whole process, no blinking.
Here, in the quietness of the end of the night, Gojo Satoru keeps you as close as possible. If he had the ability to open his chest and keep you locked behind his ribs, he would have done so by now.
A brush of his fingers against your cheek, he doesn’t sleep. He won’t. He’ll naturally stay here, staring at you, until he eventually has to leave for work.
Here, his Six Eyes are acting up. Glowing blue through black shadows, analyzing eerily every breath, heart beat, cursed energy, blood flow, hair, lash, skin of yours. It’s so fascinating, so reassuring, to have you here, real and alive, safe and sound, with him and only him.
For now, he’ll let his thoughts shut down. The only moment he can not think, usual brain working too fast, too much, all the time. With you, it dies down. Like it did with Suguru. You’re his medicine. A cruel one.
Because love is the most twisted curse of them all.
And this time, he’ll gladly curse you too.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
this will be a series of one shots were i'll explore this side of Satoru and how it affects his relationship with reader, a subsitute to what was once Suguru! Part 2 will drop sooner or later, xoxo
Byakuya did very few things without intention, but last night you made a sound when his teeth grazed your throat and his composure had simply… lapsed.
This morning he seen it in the light, a deep reddish-purple bloom against your skin. You reached for the high-collared kosode you usually wore as part of your uniform and his hand caught yours.
"Leave it," he said.
You looked at him, fingers still hovering over the fabric. "Byakuya, people are going to see."
He wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the mark. "Wear the one with the lower neckline."
You wore it to the division that morning and watched his reaction from the corner of your eye as you walked beside him through the main hall. Officers glanced at your throat and then immediately away, a few of them going red.
Byakuya's pace never changed, but when you passed Lieutenant Abarai, who noticed and choked on his tea, Byakuya's hand found the small of your back and stayed there.
"You're enjoying this," you murmured, keeping your eyes forward.
"I have no idea what you're referring to..." he said, his thumb tracing one slow proprietary circle against your spine.
At his office door, with three officers still in full view, he paused and adjusted the collar of your kosode, not to cover the mark but to frame it better, his fingertips lingering against the bruise.
"This suits you," he said, quiet enough that only you could hear. "I may need to be less careful in the future."
You exhaled. "Why do I get the feeling you're not joking when you say that?"
His mouth barely shifted, but his eyes said everything. Then he turned and walked into his office like he hadn't just branded you in front of his entire division.
Renji Abarai
You woke with three of them this time, a trail down the side of your neck like Renji had been mapping a path with his mouth, which was essentially what had happened.
You were standing in front of the mirror taking note of the damage when he appeared behind you, chin hooking over your shoulder, and whistled at his own handiwork.
"Damn," he said, sounding deeply impressed with himself. "The bottom one kinda looks like a butterfly."
You jabbed your elbow back into his ribs. "It does not."
He laughed and wrapped both arms around your middle, pulling your back against his chest, swaying you side to side like you were slow-dancing in the bathroom.
You reached for a scarf and his hand intercepted it, tossing it onto the futon behind you. "Nope. Absolutely not." He turned you around by the hips and examined your neck with the critical eye of an artist reviewing a canvas. "You're not covering those up. I worked hard on those."
You crossed your arms. "I have to report to the Eighth Division today, Renji. Captain Kyoraku is going to have a field day."
His grin only got bigger. "Good. Great. Perfect, actually. Tell him I said hello."
He pressed one more deliberate kiss right at the base of your throat, sucking lightly just long enough to deepen what was already there, then pulled back and admired the result.
"There. Now you're ready."
He caught your expression in the mirror which was half mortified, half grinning, and pressed his face into the crook of your neck, laughing against your skin. "You love it. Don't even try to front with me right now. You love it."
You bit your lip to keep from smiling. "You're the worst person I've ever met."
"Well, that hasn't made you get rid of me yet," he said, kissing the butterfly one more time.
Later that afternoon, an officer at the Eighth squinted at your neck and asked if you'd gotten hurt during training. Before you could answer, Renji--who just happened to be dropping off paperwork, called back over his shoulder without breaking stride, "That's my handiwork, actually!"
You were going to kill him.
Jushiro Ukitake
He found the mark before you did. You were lying with your head on his chest, half asleep in the late morning light, when his fingers drifted along your throat and paused.
"Oh," he said, very quietly, and something in his voice made you open your eyes.
He was staring at the curve of your neck, his thumb resting just beside a bruise that was already deepening in color. You reached up to touch it and he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips instead.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I'd been so--"
You cut him off. "Jushiro, don't you dare apologize."
He looked at you, surprised and you held his gaze. "I like it. I like that it's there."
His thumb traced the edge of the mark and his eyes went half-lidded in a way that told you the apology had been more reflex than regret.
Later that day you brought him tea wearing your usual kosode. You hadn't gone out of your way to show the mark off, but you hadn't hidden it either, and the neckline sat just low enough that when you leaned forward, there it was.
Kiyone spotted it first. A sharp inhale, then a hard elbow to Sentaro's ribs, followed by the crash of a dropped report stack.
"Captain Ukitake," Kiyone whispered, although not remotely quietly enough. "He looks like he's feeling better, don't you think?"
Sentaro caught on and broke into a grin. "Much better. His energy must really be coming back."
Kiyone clasped her hands together, eyes shining, and turned to you. "You're so good for him. Truly."
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing. Ukitake's hand found yours under the tea tray, squeezing once.
"They're going to tell the entire division," he murmured, cheeks faintly pink.
"Probably," you said, making no effort to adjust your collar. "That okay with you?"
He looked at the mark, then at you, and his fingers came up to trace the edge of it.
"More than okay," he said quietly. "I just hope they don't overdo crediting you with my recovery."
You laughed, but from across the room, Kiyone wiped an actual tear. "She's saving our captain one night at a time."
Shunsui Kyoraku
Shunsui never just leave one mark. He left a constellation.
He spent half the night with his mouth on your throat, humming against your pulse, murmuring things that made your toes curl, and by morning you looked like you'd lost a fight with a very affectionate octopus.
You were examining them in the mirror when he appeared in the doorway, still half-dressed, hat absent, hair loose around his shoulders. He leaned against the frame and took a long, appreciative look.
"Now that," he said, "is a beautiful sight."
You turned and raised an eyebrow. "Shunsui, there's like eight of them."
"Eleven," he corrected, crossing the room and tilting your chin to inspect the tinier ones. "You miscounted the little ones."
You wrapped a bandage around your neck before heading to the Eighth Division, layering it carefully enough that it looked like a training injury rather than a night spent underneath your captain. It worked, mostly. A few officers gave you concerned glances while Nanao studied you over her glasses but said nothing.
Then midafternoon, Shunsui appeared beside your desk with a look of theatrical concern. "That dressing looks like it needs changing. Come on, let me take a look."
You stared at him. "It's fine."
"It could get infected," he said, absolutely shameless, already steering you by the elbow toward his office.
The door closed and he unwound the bandage slowly, each layer peeling away while his eyes stayed on your throat. The marks had deepened inro rich vivid blooms of violet and burgundy trailing from below your ear to your collarbone.
"Oh~" he breathed, tilting your head with one finger to trace the darkest one with his thumb. "These got prettier."
You swallowed. "The whole office thinks I'm injured."
He grinned, rewinding the bandage with infuriating tenderness, his knuckles brushing your skin with every pass. "Good, then I'll get to change your dressing again tomorrow."
He tucked the end in and kissed you right above the edge of it. "A thorough recovery takes time, sweetheart. Let's not rush it."
Kenpachi Zaraki
He didn't even realize he did it until you winced when your collar rubbed against your neck the next morning.
Kenpachi wasn't a man who kept track of the finer details of what his mouth did, he just knew that at some point last night he had his teeth on your throat and you grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, so he kept going.
Now you were sitting on the edge of the futon pressing your fingers to the spot gingerly, and he leaned over to look at it with the same casual interest he'd give a new scar after a good fight.
"Huh," he said. "That's a big one."
You shot him a look. "That's all you have to say?"
He shrugged, grinning. "Looks good on you."
You didn't bother covering it. There was no point, really, you'd learned early on that being with Kenpachi meant abandoning any pretense of subtlety about anything.
So you walked through the Eleventh Division with the mark on full display, a dark angry bruise just above your collarbone, and watched the reactions ripple out like a shockwave. Officers stared, then immediately looked away. A few of the younger ones went red. Yumichika raised one perfect eyebrow and said nothing, which meant he was saving his commentary for later.
Then Kenpachi fell into step beside you, and you watched him clock the way every single person in the corridor glanced at your neck and then at him.
His hand landed on the back of your neck, heavy and possessive, his thumb resting directly on the bruise.
You hissed. "Ow--Fuck--That's tender, you know."
"Yeah," he said, not moving his hand. "I know."
He steered you through the barracks like that, his palm covering the mark like he was signing his name over it, and when Ikkaku opened his mouth to comment, Kenpachi stared at him until he closed it.
"You could be a little less obvious," you muttered.
He looked down at you, thumb still pressing into the bruise just enough to make your breath catch. "Why?"
Ikkaku Madarame
The mark wasn't subtle. He left it right on the front of your throat, dead center, like he had been trying to make a point.
You discovered it in the morning when you caught your reflection in the blade of his zanpakutō, which was propped against the wall, and let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.
"Ikkaku."
He was doing push-ups on the floor behind you, shirtless and completely unbothered. "Yeah?"
You pointed at your throat. He looked up, looked at the mark, and his face split into a grin. "Nice."
"Nice?" You grabbed a scarf from the shelf and wound it around your neck before he could stop you. He watched from the floor, mid push-up, frowning.
"That's rude. You know that, right?"
You ignored him and tucked the ends in neatly, checking your reflection. Gone. Completely hidden. You felt his arms wrap around you from behind, his chin dropping onto your shoulder.
"You're really gonna do me like that?"
"I have dignity, Ikkaku."
"Overrated."
You made it all the way to training with the scarf intact, feeling pretty good about yourself, until Yumichika appeared at your side, looked at your neck, and tilted his head like a bird examining something mildly offensive.
"That scarf doesn't match your uniform," he said bluntly. "Take it off."
Your hand flew to your throat. "I'm cold today."
"It is not cold today. It is the middle of summer. Take it off or I will, because looking at that color combination is causing me physical pain."
You tightened the scarf and Yumichika reached over just as quickly and tugged one end loose with a single elegant pull, and the whole thing unraveled, and there it was. Dark and obvious.
Yumichika stared at it for exactly two seconds. Then he turned toward the training yard where Ikkaku was stretching and called out, "You are an animal and I am embarrassed to know you."
Ikkaku looked up, saw your bare neck, and pumped his fist in the air. "LET'S GO."
You buried your face in your hands. "I hate both of you."
Yumichika patted your shoulder. "The mark is ugly dear. He could have at least placed it somewhere aesthetic... You can cover it back up now."
From across the yard, Ikkaku shouted, "DON'T YOU DARE."
Yumichika Ayasegawa
The mark sat in the curve where your neck met your shoulder, placed exactly where the neckline of your kosode would frame it if you wore the one he liked.
You traced it with your fingers that morning and actually smiled before catching yourself.
Then you put on your high-collared kosode anyway, because walking around the Eleventh Division with a hickey felt like announcing something you weren't ready for. When you stepped out, Yumichika was waiting. His eyes went to your collar immediately and his mouth thinned.
"No," he said. Just that.
"No what?"
"That collar. You're not wearing that." He crossed to you and tugged the fabric down to expose the mark, studying it.
"I put that there on purpose. The angle, the placement, the way it sits against your skin tone. That is my best work and you covered it with the most unflattering neckline you own."
You felt your face heat. "Yumichika, it's a hickey, not a gallery piece."
"Everything I do is beautiful dear." He was already pulling out the kosode with the lower neckline. "Change. Now."
When you emerged wearing it, he cupped your jaw and tilted your head, his thumb grazing the bruise.
"There~ Now you look like someone who belongs to me."
He walked beside you through the division with his hand resting on the exact spot, fingers splayed to frame it. When Ikkaku squinted at your neck and opened his mouth, Yumichika didn't glance at him.
"Say one word and I'll tell everyone about that little kendo tornament in the world of the living."
Ikkaku's mouth snapped shut. You bit back a laugh.
"You're terrifying."
"Thank you," he said, and pressed his lips to your temple.
Mayuri Kurotsuchi
The mark Mayuri had left was not something you wanted to explain to Twelfth Division members who already looked at you with a mixture of confusion and pity for willingly sharing a bed with their captain.
You wrapped a bandage around your throat and practiced your "training accident" excuse in the mirror three times.
You'd nearly made it through the entire morning, before Mayuri summoned you to the lab.
He was bent over a microscope when you entered and didn't look up for thirty seconds. When he did, his golden eyes went straight to the bandage.
"What is that."
You touched your throat. "I hurt myself during--"
"You did not hurt yourself during anything. Remove it."
You unwound the bandage slowly and the mark came into view. It was vivid, almost chemical-looking and high on the side of your throat where his mouth had been last night.
He crossed to you, gripping your chin and turning your head. "Excellent pigmentation. The capillary disruption is more extensive than I estimated."
You stared at him. "You're not serious. This was part of an experiment?!"
"I am always serious. This is a perfect record of applied pressure and vascular response and you attempted to hide it under gauze like a common injury."
He pulled a small jar from his coat and you flinched.
"What is that?"
"A fixative. It will prevent the mark from fading for approximately seventy-two additional hours."
Your mouth fell open. "Mayuri, I am not letting you preserve a hickey like a lab sample."
"You are, because I have already applied it." His thumb had swiped across the bruise while holding your chin, and the skin tingled faintly.
You looked at him in disbelief. He looked back with zero remorse.
"You are mine. The data should reflect that. You may leave the bandage here. You will not be needing it."
Shuhei Hisagi
He was mortified at first. You watched it happen in real time--his eyes landing on the mark, his face cycling through recognition, pride, and immediate guilt in about two seconds.
"I'm sorry," he said, already reaching for your neck like he could rub it away. "I got carried away, I should've been more careful."
You caught his hand and kissed his knuckles. "Shuhei. Breathe. I bruise easy and I didn't stop you, which means I didn't want you to stop."
The guilt faded slowly, replaced by something cautious and searching as he studied the mark, a dark uneven bloom right below your jaw.
Your uniform covered it perfectly. High collar, no problems, and you made it through the entire day without a single incident. You honestly forgotten about it by evening, which was your mistake, because your evenings were spent drinking with Rangiku.
You were three cups in, warm and loose, and you tugged your collar open to cool down without thinking twice and Rangiku's eyes locked onto your neck like a heat-seeking missile.
You didn't even get a full breath in before she grabbed your chin, tilted your head, and announced to the entire table, "Oh my god!!!~ Hisagi marked you up girl!!!"
The bar went quiet. Kira choked on his drink. Ikkaku slammed his cup down and howled. You slapped her hand away, face on fire.
"Rangiku, I swear to--"
"Just look at it! That's not even subtle, someone was making a statement last night!~" She was beaming, absolutely delighted, already turning to find Hisagi in the crowd.
He was three seats down, frozen with his cup halfway to his mouth, the flush spreading so far past the 69 tattoo it looked like his whole face might combust.
"Hisagi!" Rangiku called, raising her cup. "I didn't know you had it in you!"
He set his drink down very carefully, stood up, walked over to you, and put his hand on the back of your neck. His voice was strained but steady.
"We're leaving."
You grabbed your cup and downed the rest. "Yep. Great idea."
Rangiku's laughter followed you both out the door, and halfway down the street you felt his grip loosen and heard him start laughing too, quiet and helpless, his forehead dropping against the top of your head.
"We're never going to hear the end of that."
You laced your fingers through his. "Nope. Never."
Izuru Kira
You woke up to the feeling of something cool and adhesive being pressed gently to your throat. Your eyes opened to find Izuru leaning over you, brow furrowed in concentration, carefully smoothing a bandage over the side of your neck.
There was a bruise underneath, you could feel the tenderness, and from the look on his face Izuru been awake long enough to find it, agonize over it, and devise a solution before you even stirred.
"Izuru," you murmured, voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"
He pressed the edge down with his thumb, not meeting your eyes. "It's visible. I don't want people to look at you differently because of something I did."
Your chest ached at his words and you reached up and covered his hand where it rested against the bandage, pressing his palm flat to your throat.
"Thank you," you said, and meant it.
He finally looked at you, surprised, like he'd been bracing for you to be upset with him. "You're not mad?"
"Mad? Izuru, you woke up before me just to make sure nobody would give me a hard time today. That's…" You squeezed his hand. "Was really thoughtful of you."
The tension in his shoulders released all at once and he exhaled. You pulled him down and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.
"You're a good man, you know that?"
His ears went pink. "I just didn't want anyone to--"
"I know. That's why it means so much."
You touched the edge of the bandage and smiled. "Keep being you, okay? I'll wear your little patch job with pride."
A quiet laugh escaped him and he pressed his lips to your forehead.
"I'll apply the next one better," he said. "That one folded a bit while I was putting it on."
TAG LIST [message if you would like to be added to any tag lists]: @disturbyakuya
a/n. heheheheh i felt way too devious while writing this because of the few peps I had in mind
vergil being extremely possessive and clingy is something my brain loves to drown in,,
he would definitely be the type of man to leave his clothes scattered around the place, in hopes of eventually seeing them on you,, the thought of your body, scattered with his hickeys and love bites underneath an item stained with his core essence belonging to him would send his mind into a frenzy,,,
no doubt he’d also try to find a sweet, dainty necklace with a v pendant and gift it to you so innocently, knowing he would like to mark and brand you for eternity only for his own pleasure,,
the childhoodfriends trope is now living rentfree in my head ❤️ Could you write a continuation after Vergil and Y/N see each other again? I keep imagining the moment right after they chase Arius. Dante starts acting like a low key matchmaker. Just genuinely pointing out how much Y/N has grown, that they’re single, and how it must’ve felt for Vergil to see them again after all those years. He’s always known Vergil had a soft spot for them as kids, and maybe he’s even hoping that reconnecting with Y/N might be the thing that finally makes Vergil stay. 🥹
let’s finally get into this one!! i’ve been waiting to be able to get this one through 🥹 walk with me anon!!
a/n: this a continuation to this blurb (win your heart) i recommend reading that first! f! reader
the four of you are chasing arius in an effort to get one of the arcana from him, and the trip there, well… hasn’t been going so well.
it was a mess to get to this moment, after the brothers had a brawl inside of darkcom before getting to arius.
dante and vergil have been at each other’s throats most of the time while you and lady are attempting to leash them both, at least until after this was done.
turns out, you’re on a ticking time bomb to grab one before chaos incarnate is released! isn’t that great?
well, you better get to saving the world before both earth and hell get turned into argosax’s playground.
you all come to a large, barricaded gate with a passcode. but thanks to lady, it doesn’t take long for her to blow the keypad and force the door open.
“let’s go,” lady says, her tone leaving no room for any defiance. you follow next to her while the brothers trail behind the two of you.
the inside is a ruin of the structure, statues, pottery, treasure, and many other things. something shiny catches your eye, causing you to divert your path to what you saw.
to your luck unfortunately, dante takes this as the perfect chance to get on top of his older brother. he doesn’t know how he could ever get vergil to say on earth with him after he’s spent most of his life in makai.
but oh, you. his one weakness. no matter how good an mvp is at a game, there’s always an ace to get straight to checkmate.
and you were the ace to get to vergil’s heart.
dante leans into vergil’s ear, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
“sooo, vergil. y/n,” dante grins. “been a while, huh? she’s definitely grown, i would say.”
“don’t try to divert me from what we’re looking for.” vergil hisses, but his eyes begin to glimmer with a weird vulnerability.
“come on, man! forget about me for a second. it’s been years since she’s seen you. years since you’ve seen her.” dante throws his hands in the air, gesturing towards you with his head, and vergil’s eyes follow the movement.
you’re crouched over some rubble, finger brushing against a gold bracelet that has the argosax symbol in the inside. cute, but unfortunate that it belongs to a murderous god.
something in vergil’s posture relaxes for a moment longer than he would’ve allowed it to.
as annoying as his brother was, he couldn’t deny that it has been quite some time— maybe even a little too long.
“she’s single too if that helps at all.” dante wiggles his eyebrows, and he’s quick to dodge a swing aimed to the side of his head.
“shut up.”
“you know you were wondering.”
“i was not!” vergil raises his voice, much to their dismay. dante quickly covers his mouth and the two immediately straighten up when your head snaps in their direction.
“you two good?” you ask, tone full of suspicion.
“absolutely! just brothers bonding,” dante answers immediately, his grin so wide it looks guilt and like it hurts, while vergil glares at him.
“hmm.” you simply hum, going back to admiring the little trinkets in your corner.
dante waits a moment before releasing a sigh of relief, moving his hand from vergil’s mouth.
“okay, but seriously, man.” dante continues, his eyes turning serious.
“this has make you feel some kind of way. especially after you’ve been presumed dead all this time. i know it makes y/n feel some way. and we both know you had a soft spot for her as kids.”
vergil continues glaring daggers into dante’s soul, as if he’s contemplating to use devil trigger and blow his brother to smithereens.
but he makes no move to deny anything he’s saying. “what would you know?” vergil murmurs after a minute.
“that you still feel like this because you haven’t pinned me to the wall with my own sword yet. so, go talk to her.”
dante smiles wickedly and shoves vergil in your direction, earning a groan from the elder brother.
a tall, fit shadow looms over you, to which you turn your head to identify who it is. maybe it’s d—
oh, no, it’s not.
“vergil,” you breathe his name, a small smile gracing your lips. he’s not smiling or saying anything, just staring at you with a blank expression.
he suddenly crouches down next to you, glancing to the trinkets you’re also admiring. “what’s all this?” he asks under his breath.
“‘dunno. a bunch of jewlery and things, but they all have argosax’s symbol on it.” you reply, holding up the necklace you were looking at so he could see it.
“a waste, honestly. they’re pretty too.” you huff, blowing your cheeks out slightly.
vergil’s eyes flicker between you and the piece of jewlery a couple of times before he slowly reaches out towards the necklace.
your eyes lock for a minute, and his are asking to see the piece of jewlery. you oblige, and your hands graze for a split second that has your heart skipping multiple beats.
his hand come to the argosax pendant, grasping it and crushing it with his bare fist. the pendant falls as dust to the ground, and you can only watch in awe.
vergil’s hand reaches into a small pocket, pulling out a gentle rock with a hole drilled through it, like a normal pendant.
it’s your favorite color, too.
he gently attaches it to the chain of the necklace, watching it dangle as if it were brand new. vergil turns his body to face you, swallowing lightly before speaking.
“let me.” his voice returns gravelly, a glint of something by unnamed in his eyes.
you turn slowly to have your back facing him, and warm hands come around your neck, settling and clasping the pendant around your frame.
his hands slowly retreat from you, and a hand comes to cradle the new necklace in your hand. “vergil, this is beautiful.”
you turn your head and flash a bright smile, “thank you.”
he blinks once before glancing away and is quick to stand up. “don’t mention it.”
and dante and lady who’s joined not long after, watching the whole mess go down, have smiles on their faces.
phase one complete, you really were the ace after all.
It's always been like this, just existing around you, it affects him in such specific ways that it annoys him how easily he can point out what you do to him now.
Vergil Sparda should've known he was finished when he caught himself looking at you for just a second too long. When he caught himself waiting for you where he knew you'd be. When he let you under his armored skin he swears is impregnable.
Let alone now, sleeping in your shared bed.
'Sleeping' is a loaded term, though, Vergil hardly finds himself capable of sleeping, he doesn't need it really. Maybe a few hours here and there, but being so entwined with the world of devils he's not sure he'll ever really need to sleep like that ever again for rest. That doesn't stop him from cuddling right behind you, wrapping strong arms and calloused hands around your middle. Holding you so tight to him like he's convinced you'll disappear otherwise.
Probably because he actually thinks that. He still can't begin to understand why you deal with him, how you do it so easily, how you unravel all of the pain and unease he's been building up for years.
His tense shoulders soften whenever you enter a room, he likes it when you look at him, when you smile at him, his teeth losing their gripping clench every time you do. And now, when he has you here so close, these moments where he can just hold you for hours without interruption… For someone so annoyed with how comfortable you make him feel, he sure does love bedtime.
He's tuned into your routine like a pet, a cat that hates when it's even slightly off. You'll shower first, especially in the winter, because you like trapping all the steam inside to keep you warm,
(Even if Vergil here has insisted multiple times he can provide that warmth for you…)
Then you'll brush your teeth—flossing, mouthwash—the whole nine. THEN it's skincare, even if that only entails a rag and a wash of your face. Then you open the door, drying your hair while Vergil does what he needs to do, which by the way, isn't nearly as much as you do, his business in there involves a mirroring of your dental care, sometimes a shower if he hasn't already, and watching you finish up with your hair. Seriously, he just leans against the doorway and watches you. Get used to it. FINALLY you're in bed, and his favorite part of the night begins…
…
Listening to you breath and watching you sleep for the next however many hours.
He sleeps… Sometimes. Again, he doesn't really need it, he only manages to get sleepy enough sometimes because your routine and your presence lulls him. The constant, simple, domestic nature of your activities, he would say, is so utterly boring that it brings him to sleep. We all know though that that's a lie, especially coming from a grown devil-hybrid that has maybe known calm once before, when he was a child.
He spends the night studying you, seeing how his hand measures to yours, dragging his fingertips across random plains of your body—your back right at your shoulder blades, your legs, even your face gets an appraisal—cannot stress enough that he's so not used to humans and how they look, how they behave, you're the blueprint for these studies, for humans in general in his mind.
The way you breath, the constant tic of your heartbeat, how delicate you are as the being of mortal flesh and bone you are…
He thinks that maybe if he studies you enough, he can finally understand why you make him feel the way he does. Comfortable is one word to use, but perhaps loved is a much more fitting one.
A/N: I just made some BULLLSHIIIIITTTTTTT!!! Are we fucking with the format??? Do lmk, I figured that I should give smaller fun blurbs like this a try because part of my issue with posting is I write for too long and I focus too much on details and I start overthinking and WHOOPS now I look like I'm ignoring people and late to every party! Uggghhhhh perfectionism and fear of my writing being ass barf. Anyways! I'd like to do more posts like these because they're kinda stress free I wrote this in like an hour when I should've been sleeping!!! I remembered that this cutie @high-speed-r asked for Vergil a while ago (I'm gonna be so embarassed if that's the wrong person) along with Nero stuff and ALTHOUGH I have a headcanon post loaded up for Vergie dear I figured that I should give a little, maybe messy and not proofread, blurb on him because why not! I'm gonna do Nero too, and hell Dante as well, and Nico, Lady—I'm so incredibly fixated on DMC rn that I'll f around and retheme my profile for it because GOD I NEED NEW CONTENT FAAAHHHHHH—I'm yapping, I'll stop, I love you ciao <333
Gojo Satoru is insane. Batshit crazy. Unhinged. Can be totally out of his mind.
Some people would affirm these derogatory words for various reasons.
Because he would eat tons of sugar, sleep three hours a day, and still be kicking butts with a body full of energy.
Because he is The Strongest, possessing powers only gods could pretend to have and yet controlling every ounce of cursed energy like it’s as easy as breathing.
Because in battle, once he fights against a worthy opponent, control snaps, the smile on his face distorts in eerie amusement, and has no shame in unleashing his techniques like it’s a playground.
Higher-ups, colleagues, students, opponents… That’s what they would say.
Your answer to that affirmation would be more private, a side of Gojo Satoru that only a few had the displeasure to face, yet only in the context of being his enemy. No, no. You, it’s personal. Targeted because you are you, a side of his coin that you have the privilege to behold.
Or maybe not. Maybe a doom, something to weigh on your shoulders, because Gojo Satoru has so much to support on his back, but trust you enough to accept this part of him that should be locked away, nonetheless is only a result of his condition as the Infinity and Six eyes holder. No humanity, drew a line as a living creature, until Suguru, but he left, then he had you.
A safe line, an anchor, something he can’t let go, can’t make the same mistake like ten years ago, has to keep you at his side or else he would forever have nothing else holding him back as someone rather than a weapon.
He sees you as a salvation, a feeling that makes him want to breathe not because of his duty, but because he can be himself in your company.
Every other night Satoru crashes at your place. After a meeting with the higher ups, a nightly mission, hours of paperworks. His mood swings. From staying in his bubbly persona, or rarely showing the weakness of how tired he is, to the tension of his jaw, the anger flooding in every fiber of his being after a shitty day being asked to do God knows what, like the tool that he is.
You can’t breathe, when he’s like this. His clinginess turns to spikes, his stare to lava, his voice to knives, his words to void.
Tonight, Satoru arrives late at your door. Doesn’t bother to knock, text you beforehand, he simply uses the double of the keys and enters your place heavily. His blindfold down his neck, shoes kicked, you rise from your bed to meet him in the hallway, halfway to the dream world.
“Can’t believe they asked me to do this at 3 A.M, and then trying to display the decrease of the next generation in jujutsu society. They complain we don’t have enough sorcerers, when they don’t do anything when fifteen years old are sent to death. Can you believe it, y/n?”
He slowly turns towards you, coldness of his stare digging into your heart. A shiver runs down your spine. He’s waiting for your answer without any facial expression.
Honestly, you want to knock him off and tell him to text you beforehand instead of barging at your place in the middle of the night without even a “hello”. But with the way he’s acting right now, Satoru is in his angry-no empathy-mood. Maybe later…
So, you sigh in a nod, in a second he’s at your side, and you pat his back with understanding.
“It always has been like that, sadly… But your students have the chance to have you, because you’re not like them,” you answer.
A smile on his lips, Gojo lets his arms snake around your waist and brings you to his chest. Eyes half lidded, he gazes at your bed hair, down to the way you look at him.
“Hmm, and I have you.”
You snort.
“What does it have to do with anything you just said?”
His mouth stays stretched, but his eyes stop smiling. It’s a shift that is barely noticeable, almost, not to you. Up, his hand comes to your cheek, warm and invading.
“It has to do a lot,” he whispers, before he lets silence swallow you all. You hear the tick of the clock, it’s three and a half a.m. You don’t answer, don’t know what.
Satoru stiffens his hold, his fingers slightly digging deeper in the plump of your skin, you see the pink corner of his eye. “Should I kill them all, y/n?”
This, right now, this is the type of sentence he drops like a bomb then and there, does it more often than you think, always manages to turn on an alarm in your brain that screams how much you are in a position to escape.
A few seconds pass by, icy stare, heart in your throat. You can’t move, even if you wanted to, you can’t. Satoru has you locked in his arms in a way that is sinisterly strategic, trapped and unable to try to even shift a centimeter away. He knows it, it’s not a coincidence, it’s a reality.
Then, he suddenly releases you, steps back, and has back this goofy grin so characteristically like his.
“Just kidding! I’ll go shower, don’t mind me using hot water,” he announces, leaves towards your bathroom like nothing happened.
“Right,” you mutter, feeling the beating of your blood in your ears, before taking a breath and heading to the living room. You can’t sleep anymore, you’ll just watch something dumb on tv.
Satoru comes back from the shower, wearing nothing but one of your towels around his waist without a care in the world. Crosses by the living room, maybe to show off, you don’t know, goes to your bedroom, and comes back wearing the pajamas he left at your place a long time ago.
Flipping next to you in a breath, he makes himself comfortable on the couch.
“What are you watching?”
“Something dumb,” you answer in a shrug and a small tired laugh.
Satoru stretches his arms on the back of the couch.
“Sign me in, I need to cool off,” he says.
“Didn’t you with the shower?”
He stares at the TV screen, unfazed.
“Nah. Not really.”
You notice it, sometimes. When he’s not wearing his blindfold, the way his eyes, a shade of blue so deep that you would drown in, dig holes in your soul. An intensity that breaks through, makes your skin crawl, goosebumps, shiver.
“You’re staring again,” you spit as you glance at him.
Satoru is sprawling next to you, the faint glow of the movie illuminating a side of his face in the darkness of your apartment.
“Am I?” he asks in a lopsided grin.
“Yes. Satoru, you’re supposed to look at the screen if you want to watch the movie.”
He tilts his head, puts his eyes on the screen, then back to you.
“Was totally watching the soldier jump into the sea, I got peripheral vision, y’know?”
“Whatever, snap out of it,” you murmur in a sigh.
Satoru pouts, crossing his arms over his chest dramatically. A way to make the mood funnier and less heavy.
“Can’t even admire my best friend, I see how it is!”
You would have laughed, if the pressure of his stare wasn’t so suffocating, so wrong.
Your heart is beating wild, it takes a few minutes for you to manage to be back to enjoy the movie and be engrossed in the story. Until you feel it again, his stare.
No smile, no facial expression, just Satoru looking at you with nothing giving away. If you didn’t know him, you would have thought he was secretly plotting to kill you, or something like that.
This time, you manage to ignore it. Manage, yes. That’s just part of your routine, after all.
Time flies by, feeling the drowsiness take a toll on you, like hands grabbing you towards the void of sleep. You don't fight it, it’s too late to care, a win for your eyelids fluttering shut.
When your head tilts on the side, Satoru’s first reflex is to let his palm lay flat on it, and make you lean against his shoulder. The touch of his thumb is a lullaby, soothing you to fully let go, be limp. The faint sound of the movie, last rays of light, his caress, then darkness.
You’re finally asleep.
Satoru waited the exact second of it. With a skilful arm, he scoops you up against his chest, free hand turning off the TV, then carries you to your room.
Gently, he rolls you on your bed, slides his bicep under your weight, and keeps you close while he lays down next to you. His pupils don’t leave you, not even for a second during the whole process, no blinking.
Here, in the quietness of the end of the night, Gojo Satoru keeps you as close as possible. If he had the ability to open his chest and keep you locked behind his ribs, he would have done so by now.
A brush of his fingers against your cheek, he doesn’t sleep. He won’t. He’ll naturally stay here, staring at you, until he eventually has to leave for work.
Here, his Six Eyes are acting up. Glowing blue through black shadows, analyzing eerily every breath, heart beat, cursed energy, blood flow, hair, lash, skin of yours. It’s so fascinating, so reassuring, to have you here, real and alive, safe and sound, with him and only him.
For now, he’ll let his thoughts shut down. The only moment he can not think, usual brain working too fast, too much, all the time. With you, it dies down. Like it did with Suguru. You’re his medicine. A cruel one.
Because love is the most twisted curse of them all.
And this time, he’ll gladly curse you too.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
this will be a series of one shots were i'll explore this side of Satoru and how it affects his relationship with reader, a subsitute to what was once Suguru! Part 2 will drop sooner or later, xoxo
synopsis. You almost died. Gojo Satoru almost lost you. Now he's doing everything he can to keep you safe — reassigning her missions, accompanying you everywhere, never letting you out of his sight. You thinks he sees you as weak. He thinks you don't understand how close he came to breaking. — Or: a story about fear, love, and learning to let someone fight for you.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. angst, hurt/comfort, injury/hospitalization, emotional vulnerability, healthy communication (eventually), childhood trauma (reader), insecurity, fluff ending, gojo is TERRIFIED but can't say it, reader feels inadequate, soft resolution, happy ending
word count. 2.7k+
A/N. this request came from a very lovely anon!! thank you so much for trusting me with this. i took my time with the pacing, the emotions, the slow burn of hurt and healing. the argument is tense, the communication is messy, but your love shall power thru!!!! 😼💞
The ceiling was white.
That was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. White. Blurry. Too bright. You blinked once, twice, three times, and the world slowly came into focus — the fluorescent lights overhead, the beeping of machines beside you, the thin blanket pulled up to your chest.
You were in a hospital.
The second thing you noticed was the pain.
It hit you all at once — a dull, throbbing ache in your side, a sharper sting across your ribs, a heaviness in your limbs that made it impossible to move. You tried to lift your arm and immediately regretted it.
The third thing you noticed was Satoru.
He was sitting in a chair beside your bed — slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His white hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, hiding his face. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.
He was wearing the same clothes from the mission. There was dirt on his collar. A smudge of something dark — blood? — on his sleeve.
He hadn't changed. He hadn't slept. He'd been here the whole time.
"Satoru," you croaked.
His head snapped up.
His eyes were red. Not from his technique — from crying. The skin underneath was dark, bruised-looking, like he hadn't slept in days. His jaw was tight. His lips were pressed into a thin line.
And then — his expression cracked.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Broken. Like he'd been screaming.
"What happened?" you asked.
He didn't answer right away. He just stared at you — like he was memorizing your face, like he was convincing himself you were real.
"You don't remember?" he finally said.
You tried to think. There was a mission. A curse. Something about a special grade in an abandoned warehouse. You remembered fighting. Remembered pain. Remembered falling.
Then nothing.
"I don't—" You stopped. Your throat was dry. "How long?"
"Three days."
Three days.
"You've been here for three days," he continued. His voice was flat. Empty. Like he was reading a report. "You lost a lot of blood. Your lung collapsed. They had to operate twice."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"You almost died," he said.
The words hung in the air between you.
"Satoru—"
"I'm going to get the doctor."
He stood up. Walked out of the room. Didn't look back.
You watched him go, your chest aching — from the injury, from the look in his eyes, from the way his hands had been shaking.
He was scared.
You'd never seen him scared before.
The days that followed were a blur.
Doctors came and went. Nurses checked your vitals. Physical therapists made you walk laps around the ward. You learned to breathe without pain, to sleep without nightmares, to exist in a body that felt foreign and fragile.
Satoru was there for all of it.
He was there when you woke up from surgery, holding your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. He was there when the doctors explained your recovery timeline, his jaw tight, his eyes never leaving yours. He was there when you took your first steps after the operation, hovering so close you could feel his breath on your neck.
He didn't leave.
But he didn't talk either.
Not about the mission. Not about what happened. Not about the way his hands shook when he thought you weren't looking.
He made jokes — the same stupid, terrible jokes he always made. He teased the nurses. He complained about the food. He called you "sweetheart" and "baby" and "my love" like nothing had changed.
But something had changed.
You felt it in the way he held you — too tight, like he was afraid you'd disappear. You saw it in the way he watched you — too closely, like he was waiting for you to fall. You heard it in the way he laughed — too loud, too fast, like he was trying to convince himself everything was fine.
He was scared.
And he wouldn't tell you why.
You were discharged after two weeks.
The apartment felt different — smaller, quieter, somehow less like home. You moved slowly, carefully, aware of every ache and twinge. Satoru followed you everywhere — to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the bedroom. He hovered. He watched. He asked if you were okay every five minutes.
"I'm fine, Satoru."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Because you should sit down. Or lie down. Or—"
"Satoru."
He stopped.
"I'm fine," you said again.
He nodded. Backed away. But his eyes stayed on you.
You went back to work a month later.
Not full missions — not yet. Just reports, briefings, desk work. Anything to feel useful. Anything to feel like yourself again.
Satoru had tried to convince you to take more time off.
"I don't need more time," you said.
"The doctors said—"
"I know what the doctors said."
"Sweetheart—"
"I'm going back."
He didn't argue. He just nodded. But you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his hands clenched at his sides.
He was scared.
You didn't understand why.
The first sign was the mission roster.
You'd been back for two weeks — cleared for low-grade assignments, easy work, nothing dangerous. You checked the board every morning, looking for your name, looking for something to do.
Your name wasn't there.
Not on Monday. Not on Tuesday. Not on Wednesday.
You asked the receptionist. She shrugged. "You'll have to ask Gojo-sama. He's the one handling mission assignments right now."
The second sign was the accompaniment.
When you finally got a mission — a simple exorcism, grade four, barely a threat — Satoru was there.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"You don't need to."
"I want to."
"I'll be fine."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"I just want to, sweetheart. Is that a problem?"
It wasn't a problem. Not then. Not yet.
The third sign was the pattern.
Every mission you got — every single one — Satoru was there. Or the mission was suspiciously easy. Or it got reassigned at the last minute to someone else.
You started paying attention.
You started asking questions.
And one day, you found the answers.
You found them in Satoru's study.
He'd left his laptop open — unusual for him, but he'd been distracted lately, jumpy, always looking over his shoulder. You didn't mean to snoop. You were just looking for a pen.
And then you saw the emails.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Mission Reassignment
The following missions are to be reassigned to other sorcerers. [Name] is not to be sent on anything above grade three until further notice.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Accompanying Sorcerer
I will be accompanying [Name] on all future missions. This is non-negotiable.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Medical Clearance
[Name] is not to be cleared for active duty until I sign off on her medical evaluation. This is not a request.
Your hands started shaking.
He'd been controlling your assignments. Your missions. Your life.
And he hadn't told you.
You found him in the living room.
He was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, a cup of cold tea in his hands. He looked up when you walked in — and froze when he saw your face.
"Sweetheart—"
"You've been reassigning my missions."
He didn't deny it.
"You've been accompanying me everywhere. You've been controlling my medical clearance. You've been—"
"I was protecting you."
"Protecting me?" Your voice cracked. "Or controlling me?"
"Satoru—"
"You almost died." He stood up. His voice was louder now — raw, desperate. "You almost died, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn't lose you."
"So you decided to take away my choices?"
"That's not what I—"
"That's exactly what you did." You were shaking now. "You decided what missions I could go on. You decided when I was cleared for duty. You decided— without asking me— what I could and couldn't do."
"I was trying to keep you safe."
"From what?"
"From this!" He gestured at you — at your still-healing body, your tired eyes, the way you held your side when you thought he wasn't looking. "From almost dying again. From—" His voice broke. "From leaving me."
The room was silent.
"You think I'm weak," you said.
"What? No—"
"You think I can't handle myself. You think I'm not good enough. You think—"
The words caught in your throat. You'd heard them before — not from him, never from him, but from everyone else. Your clan, who'd called you a disappointment. Your teachers, who'd said you'd never amount to anything. Your own mind, echoing the same cruel refrain: not good enough. too weak. why can't you be like the others?
You'd spent years trying to prove them wrong. Training until your bones ached. Pushing past every limit. Refusing to be the failure they said you were. And now Satoru was reassigning your missions like you were made of glass. Like he agreed with them.
"You think I'm not good enough for you," you whispered.
"I think I can't live without you." His voice was quiet now. Broken. "I watched you bleed out in my arms and I couldn't do anything. I sat in that hospital for three days waiting for you to wake up and I couldn't breathe."
"Satoru—"
"I think you're the strongest person I know. I think you've always been stronger than me. I think—" He stopped. His eyes were wet. "I think I'm terrified."
You stared at him.
"I'm not trying to control you," he said. "I'm not trying to protect you because I think you're weak. I'm trying to protect you because I can't— I can't do that again. I can't watch you almost die and just— just stand there."
"Then talk to me."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn."
He flinched.
You stepped closer.
"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru. I'm going to fight. I'm going to get hurt. That's what sorcerers do." You took his hands. They were cold. "But I'm also going to come back. Every time. I'll always fight to come back to you."
His hands tightened around yours.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You sat on the couch together.
He didn't let go of your hands. His thumb traced circles on your palm — a nervous habit, something he did when he didn't know what to say.
"I was weak," he said finally.
"You weren't—"
"I was." He looked at you. "When I saw you fall— when I saw all that blood— I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything except hold you and hope."
"Satoru..."
"I'm supposed to be the strongest. I'm supposed to protect everyone. But I couldn't protect you." His voice cracked. "And I've been trying to make up for it ever since."
"You don't have to make up for anything."
"I know." He laughed — a hollow, broken sound. "But I don't know how to stop."
You were quiet for a moment. The weight of your childhood pressed against your ribs — all those years of being told you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough, that someone like you didn't deserve someone like him.
"Satoru," you said carefully, "do you... do you ever wish I was stronger?"
He blinked. "What?"
"My technique. My clan. My—" You swallowed. "My status. I'm not from a big family. I'm not special. I'm just... me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Then he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"I don't love you because of your technique," he said quietly. "I don't love you because of your clan or your status or any of that. I love you because you're you. That's never going to change."
"But—"
"No buts, sweetheart." His voice was firm but gentle. "You could have the weakest technique in the world and I'd still love you. You could come from nothing and I'd still love you. You could—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You could lose everything and I'd still love you. Because it's you. It's always been you."
You pulled his hands to your lips and kissed his knuckles.
"Then let me help you."
He stared at you.
"Let me help you," you said again. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling. Don't just... act. Don't just reassign my missions and hope I don't notice."
"I didn't want you to notice."
"I know."
"I wanted to protect you without you knowing."
"I know."
"I wanted to keep you safe."
"I know." You cupped his face. "But I'm not a glass doll, Satoru. I'm a sorcerer. I'm going to get hurt. I'm going to have close calls. But I'm also going to come back."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have something to come back to."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
You caught it with your thumb.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too."
"Then trust me."
"I'm trying," he said.
"Then try harder."
He laughed — a real laugh this time, small and watery but real.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
You stayed on the couch until the moon crossed the sky.
He didn't let go of you. His arm was around your shoulders, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For smothering you. For not talking to you. For—" He paused. "For being a coward."
"You're not a coward."
"I am when it comes to you."
You tilted your head up to look at him.
"Then stop."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too, Satoru."
He smiled — soft and tired and full of love.
"Stay," he whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Satoru was still asleep — his face soft, his hair messy, his hand still wrapped around yours. He looked younger like this. Peaceful. Less burdened.
You watched him for a while.
The argument from last night still echoed in your head. His fear. His desperation. His inability to say what he meant. But he'd tried. He'd opened up. He'd let you in.
That was enough.
That was everything.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He stirred, mumbling something in his sleep — your name, maybe, or something like it.
You smiled.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
He didn't answer.
But his hand tightened around yours.
And that was enough.
Weeks later, you got a new mission.
Grade two. Dangerous but manageable. Far from the city, far from help, far from him.
You read the briefing in silence.
Satoru watched you from across the table.
"When do you leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
He nodded.
"I'm not going to ask you to stay," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to reassign it."
"I know."
"I'm not going to follow you."
You looked up at him.
"I'm going to wait," he said. "And I'm going to trust that you'll come back."
Your heart swelled.
"I will," you said.
"I know."
He smiled — soft and scared and full of love.
"Then go, sweetheart. Come back to me."
The mission was hard.
Harder than you'd expected. The curse was stronger than the briefing suggested. You fought for hours, bleeding, breathing, surviving. You thought about him the whole time — his face, his voice, the way he'd said "come back to me."
You came back.
He was waiting at the door.
He didn't say anything. He just pulled you into his arms and held you.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"Just a scratch."
"You're a terrible liar."
"You love me anyway."
He laughed — that bright, beautiful sound — and pressed a kiss to your hair.
"I love you anyway," he agreed.
You stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the door still open, the night air cold on your skin.
"I told you I'd come back," you said.
"I know."
"I'll always come back."
"I know."
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For fighting. For surviving. For—" He stopped. Swallowed. "For coming back to me."
You reached up and cupped his face.
"I'll always come back to you, Satoru."
He smiled — soft and tired and full of love.
"I know," he said.
And he kissed you.
A/N. i apologize if this looks like it was half-arsed, i swear i tried my best but i've been really busy since i'm moving houses 😭 thank you again anon !! <3
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
Itachi Uchiha helping you find pleasure from penetration.
Proofread: I tried my best! | Word count: ~8k | Warnings: MDNI! Smut, lifelong friends to lovers, pwp, fem!reader has no idea how to feel pleasure from penetration, slow burn pace, "poetic" dirty talk, a bit of praise kink, overstimulation, squirting (1st time), cunnilingus, fingering, mutual masturbation, deep (protected) penetration, and aftercare. Itachi is in his mid-20s, so not fully canon-compliant. Readers are free to scroll past if this specific character interpretation does not align with their comfort levels.
Tag list: @ichxraaa <3
A/n: shout out to Amy Daws and her book "Blindsided" that I read in 2024 and inspired this. You're the man, Amy! I truly hope you guys like it. After I was done and went back to review the writing, I felt like I wasn't sure if I liked it or not. Enjoy! 🖤
"Ah, baby, that was nice," your boyfriend exhaled, his chest heaving as he rolled off you and stared blindly up at the ceiling. His arm now resting behind his head. You stared at the exact same ceiling, feeling entirely numb.
Sex with him was always a scripted and very hollow routine. He would crawl over you with barely a scrap of foreplay, thrust his hips a handful of times, and declare himself satisfied. Just like this.
No passion.
No consuming warmth.
No lingering intimacy.
And you craved more. You wanted more. You wanted to feel like you were wanted in this relationship instead of feeling like just a toy. On your best days, if you completely detached your mind and truly concentrated, you could sometimes coax a tremor out of your own body from the clumsy, rushed way his fingers grazed your sensitive cluster of nerves. But it was never enough. You didn’t feel whole, you didn’t feel satisfied.
You lie there, the cool night air settling into the empty space between your bodies on the mattress. Your relationship had been perfectly normal so far, but entirely devoid of high thrills. He wasn't malicious; he was just the absolute pinnacle of the bare minimum. He remembered to text you back eventually. He brought you takeout, but usually only because he was already hungry and passing the food stall anyway, or had eaten on his way home and brought you the leftovers.
He would sit beside you and nod while you spoke, but his eyes were always glued to whatever scroll or game was in his hands. It was the kind of mundane, low-effort companionship that made you question if you were simply expecting too much from romance. You knew that sex wasn’t everything in a relationship, of course not. But how could you be happy if your needs were not being tended to in all areas when you had always gone above and beyond for him?
You pulled the rumpled sheet up to your chest and sat up, your gaze dropping to your hands resting in your lap. You gathered whatever courage you had left to finally bridge the gap.
"Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. I actually went to a medical-nin the other day." He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing. "Are you sick?"
"No, no, I'm healthy," you reassured quickly, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "It’s just... I haven't been able to... finish. From penetration. And I thought maybe something was physically wrong with me, but the medic said everything is completely fine. So, I was thinking... maybe we could try something different? Switch things up a bit?"
The air in the room instantly soured. The easygoing, post-coital haze vanished from his face, entirely replaced by a defensive line. "Try something different?" he echoed in a completely flat tone. "Are you saying there's something wrong with how I do it?" "What? No, that's not what I said at all," you backpedaled, you could feel your chest tightening. You wanted to avoid confrontation; this was never your end goal here.
"I'm just saying my body needs something else to get there." He let out a humorless scoff, throwing the sheets off his legs and standing up. He reached for his clothes scattered across the floor. "Right. So I'm the problem. I've never had a girl complain before, so if it's not working for you, I don't know what to tell you."
"Are you seriously getting mad right now?" you asked, stunned, watching him strap his weapons pouch to his thigh. You were fortunate enough to be able to get him to spare some time for you after he came back from his latest mission, which, now, looking at him dressing up, you wondered how he even made it out of the academy with passing grades.
Konoha must be REALLY in need of shinobi!
"I'm not mad. You’re being overly emotional with this shit! I'm just not going to sit here and be told I'm bad in bed just because your body can't figure it out," he muttered, grabbing his green vest. He didn't even look at you as he walked toward the door. "If sex is going to be this complicated, maybe we shouldn't force it. Let's just call it quits. See ya."
See ya?
See. Ya.
What the hell just happened?
Did he…?
Did he just….?
The click of the door closing echoed in the agonizingly suffocating room. It wasn't the breakup that hurt; it was the sheer audacity.
Five months of dating had ended in a five-minute conversation simply because you dared to ask for more. You were left sitting alone in the dark, half-broken and half-stunned, a sickening realization settling in your gut.
He had never added anything to your life. He had only ever been using you for your body so far.
The sounds of Konoha usually offered a comforting white noise, but today they just felt like an annoying reminder that the world was moving on while you were stuck in a humiliating standstill—like your body didn’t even belong to your own desires anymore.
It had been three days since your ex walked out.
Three days.
Three stupid days.
Three days of replaying that pathetic, five-minute conversation until your pride was completely raw, like you needed to kneel on the dirt to scrape it back.
You hadn't realized your feet had carried you toward the quieter shaded outskirts of the Uchiha compound until the scent of brewing tea grounded your wandering mind. Surely enough, Mikoto was brewing one of your favorites, and it brought a feeling of comfort to you. You’ve always felt cozy when stepping into the Uchiha side of the village.
"You are walking with the posture of someone carrying a very heavy burden." You winced, snapping your head up to look at the owner of that voice. Itachi stood near the edge of his family's engawa. He wasn't wearing his standard flak jacket, just a simple blue yukata that made him look incredibly domestic, probably on one of his almost non-existent days off. His dark eyes analyzed the exhausted shadows under your eyes and the unyielding tension completely locking up your shoulders.
“Oh, hi, Itachi. Just... lost in thought, I guess.” You tried to force a polite smile. It completely failed. “Is your mom at home? I really need to talk to her, if she’s available.”
"I’m afraid not. She left just a few minutes ago and should return before nightfall.” “I see… well, alright then.” And you simply stood there, thinking about your next steps.
Who could be the other person to help you navigate this terrible moment of insecurity and uncertainty that surrounded you completely? You needed a new lifeline.
Itachi didn't push. He simply scooted to the side, gesturing toward the polished wooden deck. “But her tea is freshly brewed. Come. Sit with me."
You shouldn't have.
You knew you shouldn’t, because your mind was simply not there at all. But at this point, you might as well just burn your bridges to your childhood friend.
All of them.
You were a chaotic mess. But the quiet safety radiating from him was a gravity you couldn't resist. You slipped off your sandals and sank onto the wood by his side, letting the tranquil rustle of the wind through the willow trees soothe your edgy nerves.
He poured the tea with meticulous care. The ceramic clinked softly against the saucer. He didn't demand answers, allowing the ambient sounds of the koi pond in front of you to do the heavy lifting. He gave your mind the exact space it needed to unravel. And unravel it did.
You hadn't planned on telling him. Why would you? Your friendship with Itachi was a completely normal one, and you had never shared any deep secrets like this. But staring into the swirling green liquid in your cup, the humiliating truth started to spill right out of your lungs.
You told him about your clinic visit, the vulnerability of asking for a change, and the immediate shattering of an ego and the pathetic, indifferent dismissal that followed. Itachi listened attentively. He didn't interrupt or offer empty platitudes. And he didn’t seem surprised at all. Or at least that’s what you thought, because you couldn’t really read his expressions. Ever. At all.
"Sometimes these things happen," he murmured finally. His gaze remained fixed on the water of the koi pond, his profile perfectly sculpted and entirely unreadable. "Everyone's body is different, and everyone's body reacts differently."
You expected him to leave it at that, not say anything else or offer any sort of comfort. Itachi’s personality was far from that, and you knew it. You knew better than to sulk in front of him. The last time you did, you were kids, and he literally poked - gently - your forehead before smiling and leaving.
He shifted his weight, preparing to stand, but his eyes suddenly cut back to yours as you turned to face him. The intensity in his stare practically pinned you to the floorboards, leaving you unable to move, to follow his movements, to stand up and leave.
"Or maybe," the words slipped out with seriousness. "He simply did not know how to take care of you properly. How to satisfy your body's needs."
He simply did not know how to take care of you properly.
You stared at him, completely in awe, with a glow of heat rushing straight to your cheeks. But Itachi merely adjusted the collar of his yukata, his expression smoothing back into its stoic mask, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on your lap.
"I promised to train with Sasuke," he excused himself, brushing past you with the fluid elegance of a ghost only he carried with such grace. “You’re welcome to stay and take all the time you need here. Drink the tea before it gets cold." And just like that, he vanished into the trees, leaving you entirely alone with a realization that set your blood absolutely on fire.
What you didn't see was how he stopped the absolute second he was out of your sight. You didn't hear the exhale that escaped his lungs, or see the way he closed his eyes, fighting to maintain his self-control. He had just intentionally crossed a line he had spent a lifetime protecting, practically begging you to look at him as a man with desires instead of just a safe, untouchable friend.
He had planted the seed. Now, all he could do was wait to see if it would grow.
His words had haunted you ever since you left his family’s house. They echoed in the quiet of your room for who knows how many agonizing days, rewriting everything you thought you knew about your own body, until the sheer weight of your intrusive thoughts finally drove you out of the house.
You had known Itachi Uchiha for almost your entire life. Growing up in the same village, with parents who had known each other for what seemed like ages, your friendship had always been a steady constant. Not awkward nor strained. You had shared countless conversations, sitting in the clearings or walking the market streets when your paths crossed. Itachi was the perfect example of a low-maintenance friendship, and you were completely fine with that.
You knew his habits.
You knew his quiet quirks.
And now you even stood outside the bakery around the corner from his clan’s compound for ten solid minutes, totally paralyzed. You debated whether to buy a skewer of tricolor dango or a sweet red bean bun before coming to see him, hoping his favorite sugar rush might somehow soften the inappropriate conversation burning in your throat.
But you walked away empty-handed because no amount of dango could change the fundamental truth about him, about how he was notoriously vague, how he was a closed-off, untouchable golden child who kept his private life locked behind an impenetrable fortress, which was exactly why you were currently making a complete fool of yourself.
What am I even THINKING?
You were on your fifth frantic lap around the perimeter of his estate, entirely unable to force your feet to step onto the actual property. You were beating around the bush, completely terrified of ruining a lifelong friendship, regardless of how close you two were. Your treacherous mind simply wouldn't let go of his voice, of his damn words.
Well, it’s not like I don’t have other friends, right? If he ditches our friendship, I’ll be just fine. Yes, I WILL be fine!
What if Mikoto finds out? She might think I’m one of those women and ban me from ever seeing them again.
Shit, shit, SHIT!
You were so lost in your own panic that you didn't even hear his footsteps approach. The only warning you received was the weight of his long fingers wrapping around your wrist. You froze as his thumb rested perfectly over your racing pulse point, feeling the frenzied rhythm of your heart.
"How many more times do you plan on walking the radious of my home?" Itachi's voice was a soothing buzz that vibrated straight down your spine.
Had his voice always sounded so good before?
When did admiration turn into desire?
Control yourself, seriously!
He didn't sound angry or impatient, or even slightly annoyed. He was just observant, his gaze, always intense, pinning you exactly where you stood. "Are you looking for something? My mom should be home toda—"
"No, I'm not...not looking for your mother," you blurted out, the words tumbling past your lips before your common sense could stop them. "Actually...I-I was wondering if we could talk? Over some tea?" He didn't hesitate, though he seemed surprised, offering a formal nod as he guided you inside the house.
The low table felt like an executioner's block as a bead of sweat threatened to drop from your temple. You sat rigidly on the cushion, watching him serve the tea with the same fluid elegance he applied to everything. Or, at least, you hoped that it was to everything.
"I was thinking about what you said the other day," you started, your voice sounding entirely too small for the stifling silence of the room. "About...body needs." He took a slow sip of his tea, nodding once. “May I ask you a personal question, Itachi?”
He nodded again, his eyebrow curving just a bit. You forced the words out in a single breath, asking him if he had ever made a woman feel good under him. The ceramic rim stalled a millimeter from his lips.
Why is the clock on the wall sounding so loud all of a sudden?
"I'm so sorry, Itachi, I shouldn't have—"
"I suppose I cannot discuss any private matters I have had with past lovers," he interrupted softly, resting his teacup back onto the table. His dark eyes held your panicked stare, but not enough to fully ground you in the moment. "But I have never received a complaint. Let us put it like that."
"I see," you whispered, feeling the heat in your cheeks burning absolutely out of control. The silence stretched thickly between you again. But Itachi was not dumb, and you’d be even dumber to think he could not see deep into your soul, with or without his Sharingan.
"I believe it is time for you to truly say what you have been wanting to say since you were pacing nervously outside.” You were the one who nearly choked on your tea this time. You set the cup down with an ungraceful clatter, staring at the wooden table as if it were the most interesting thing in the room to avoid his gaze.
"Itachi... how long have we known each other?"
"Almost our whole lives, I would say."
You swallowed the thick lump that formed in your throat for the second time, your pride completely abandoning you as you asked him the ultimate question. “Do you think you, maybe you…Perhaps we can…But only if—” You closed your eyes and took it as your turn to drop the bomb right back at him. “Do you think you could help me practice more and discover my body’s needs? Just once. To try different positions so I can finally find a release.”
Itachi went entirely, utterly, completely still. The only betrayal of his composure was the microscopic tremor of his pinky finger resting against his cup.
Had you just managed to break down his composure with your words?
His silence became a physical weight, the anxiety violently clawing at your throat. "I'm sorry," you gasped, scrambling to your feet and almost falling down when standing up. You grabbed whatever was left of your dignity while bowing your head in absolute shame. "This is terribly inappropriate. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll get going now.”
You didn't give him a single second to respond before you practically ran from the room. You fled back into the safety of your house, knowing well enough that this conversation would randomly keep you awake at 3 AM forever.
But you weren't the only one about to lose your sleep.
Back in the quiet of his house, Itachi remained entirely frozen where you had left him. He stared at the empty cushion you left behind, his Sharingan bleeding into his eyes in the room purely on instinct as his blood roared violently in his ears. You had just handed him the exact weapon he needed to claim you after so many years, and the restraint it took not to follow you home right then and there nearly ate him alive.
You avoided him like the plague for an entire week. And you planned to keep it that way for as long as necessary.
Your daily routine became a masterclass in evasion. At this point, you could easily become a covert shinobi, and you had never even set foot inside the academy.
You walked strictly to and from work, kept your head down, avoiding the usual streets that would make you and Itachi cross paths on the street. You avoided the clearings you knew he favored, and even had to deny Mikoto’s invitation to dinner when she saw you at your workplace. You practically sprinted through the market whenever you needed groceries.
Most importantly, you completely abandoned the bakery on that corner. The mere thought of accidentally bumping into him while he bought his favorite sweets was enough to send your heart into a nauseating spiral.
If I never see him again, I will literally never have to explain myself.
It was a flawless, if cowardly, plan.
Right up until it wasn't.
You didn't know that your absence was driving him absolutely feral. You thought you were being slick by dodging him in the market, but Itachi was not stupid. He had known you his entire life. He knew your routines, the corners you favored, the alleys you used to cut through the village, and the exact minute your shift ended, even if you had overtime.
He let you play your little game of hide-and-seek, giving you exactly one week to panic and process the tension snapping between you two. Because at the end of the day, you could avoid his paths all you wanted, but he knew exactly where to find you when the time came.
You had just returned home from an exhausting shift, kicking off your sandals with a heavy sigh of relief. The only good part of your day was the beautiful sunset hue that seemed to embrace you while you walked back to the comfort of your place. The absolute second the door clicked shut behind you, a melodic knock echoed through the wood. You froze, very aware that you were not expecting any visitors or deliveries.
Another knock.
Patient.
Unyielding.
Your hands felt entirely too cold, slick with a sudden sweat, as if your body intrinsically knew exactly who was behind that door.
Maybe, just maybe, if I stay perfectly still, the person will go away, right?
Wrong.
Another knock.
Gathering what little courage you still had, somehow, you pulled the door open, completely (un)prepared for the sight waiting on your porch. Itachi stood cloaked in the evening shadows as the sunset gave away the space to the dark night sky. In his right hand, he held a small, dark silk pouch, his long fingers wrapped loosely around the drawstrings. "Hello."Your lungs instantly forgot how to function.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not him!
"I-Itachi, h-hi," you stammered, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the doorframe for dear life. "Uhm, can I help you?"
"You ran quite fast last week," he stated, stepping over your threshold without really waiting for an invitation, effectively trapping you in the entryway. "You did not give me the chance to deepen our conversation. I felt like I had no say in it." You swallowed hard as his intoxicating scent completely invaded your personal space, your home.
"I thought about your offer for the entire week," he continued with his voice dropping into a hypnotic cadence. "I am deeply honored that you trust me with such a delicate vulnerability. Though I kept thinking if our bond would deepen after such an offer, or break entirely.”
He stopped mere inches from you, using the back of his heel to slowly push the door shut behind him. "But I need you to know," he added, completely serious. "Regardless of the outcome today, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you." You stared at the small silk pouch dangling from his fingers, your mind entirely blanking out.
Outcome of today? What is… Wait, what?
"Wait... what do you mean, the outcome of today?"
"You came to me asking for help," his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "What kind of friend would I be to deny you your personal struggles? To abandon you in a predicament like this."
Your brain completely short-circuited. You stood frozen in your own entryway, acutely aware of the massive heat radiating from his large frame. "Right," you squeaked, your voice jumping a pathetic octave. "So... where do we... uhm, what do we..."
Itachi watched your agitated stammering with an unreadable expression, though amusement seemed to swim in his eyes. "For starters, we can relocate to your bedroom," his tone as smooth as glass with no signs of nervousness whatsoever. "If you are comfortable. If you still want this."
"Right. No, I want this," you babbled. "My room. Okay! Right."
He tilted his head just a bit, his gaze lazily drifting over your shoulder toward the small living room. "Unless you would prefer I take you right there on your couch." Your breath completely stopped.
"What?"
"What?" Itachi echoed. You opened your mouth to argue, but no sound came out. You spun on your heel instead, marching down the short hallway and past your living room toward your bedroom, purely to escape the weight of his stare. He followed silently behind you, his quiet footsteps a terrifying reminder of exactly what you had just invited into your house.
Danger.
The second you crossed the threshold of your bedroom, the reality of the situation crashed directly into your spine. This was your sanctuary, and Itachi Uchiha was standing right in the middle of it. You stood entirely too rigid at the edge of the mattress. Your hands were trembling so badly that you had to clasp them together on top of your thighs.
He didn't miss the movement. He didn't miss anything. "You are nervous,” he observed, setting the silky pouch onto your nightstand.
"Well," a borderline hysterical little laugh escaped your mouth. "I've never exactly had an appointment to have sex before." A low puff of genuine amusement escaped his chest. He crossed the small distance between you, his hands coming up to gently cup the sides of your flushed face. But as his dark eyes searched yours, the carefully constructed mask of 'the stoic best friend' finally slipped.
For a fraction of a second, you saw a raw devotion burning in his gaze, like a silent admission of exactly how hard it had been for him to stand by and watch you doubt yourself because of somebody else.
"I would call it a walk-in, if you will,” he purred, stepping closer to you. His thumbs brushed soothing circles against your cheekbones, melting the tension straight out of your muscles. “But it is just practice."
You hadn’t realized what Itachi was doing until now, but the moment his touch found your face, you knew his game was on. He was building the pace, slowly setting the tone and the vibe in ways that your body was not used to. Tonight, Itachi would give you what no one else could, and you really weren’t ready for it.
The bedroom felt too small with Itachi standing in it. Your hands were still clasped tightly on your thighs, your knuckles white, your eyes squeezed shut as if darkness could somehow rewind time and take back the foolish offer you had made.
"You are doing it again."
"Doing what?"
“You’re nervous, overthinking. Trying to force your body to feel something through willpower only.” His thumbs brushed your cheekbones again, slower this time. "Let go. You don't need to try so hard."
A shaky exhale left your lungs. It was exactly what you had always demanded from yourself ever since you had started dating your ex 5 months ago —just relax, just try harder, what's wrong with you?
But Itachi was offering some kind of peace of mind to you like a gift.
"I can't just turn it off, Itachi," you whispered. “After the breakup, that conversation made me feel like I was...broken."
"You are not broken," his tone left absolutely no room for argument. "You have simply never been taken care of properly. We’ve already covered this part, didn't we?”
His hands slid from your face, his long fingers finding the hem of your shirt. "May I?" You nodded, and Itachi leaned in. His mouth covered yours. It wasn't rushed or demanding like you had previously experienced; it was more of a ruinous yet soft claiming that completely silenced the racing of your mind.
You let out a tiny gasp, and he swallowed the sound, his tongue sliding effortlessly past your lips to taste you for the very first time that night.
The kiss was a physical tether, melting the rigid tension straight out of your muscles as he guided your back down against the sheets. You went willingly, melting into the bed as the heavy dip of his weight followed you down. He didn't break the kiss as his hands gripped the hem of your shirt, only removing his mouth from yours when pulling the fabric up and over your head before tossing it to the floor.
His bare palms settled warmly against your waist. The contrast of his touch sent a delicious shiver straight down your spine as he positioned himself completely into the V of your thighs. That immediately made your cunt pulse.
He caged you in with his arms, hovering just inches above your chest like a heavy blanket of night-blooming florals and adamant focus. Your upper body was completely exposed, only the delicate fabric of your bra holding your breasts as they practically begged to be set free, to finally feel his touch.
Itachi slowly pulled back from the kiss, his lips slick and his breathing slightly heavier. "Look at me," he rasped, his hot breath grazing your collarbone. The deep sound of his voice now becoming a sweet melody in your ears.
You forced your eyes up to meet his, drowning in the pure intensity of his gaze as it mapped every inch of your exposed skin. He wasn't looking at you like an object, or an obligation, or a chore to be rushed through, but like you were a prayer he had no right to whisper, but every intention of answering.
His gaze dragged over the swell of your breasts barely contained by the thin fabric, the rapid flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat betraying your panic. You felt entirely too seen, stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with the clothes you were shedding.
Was this really a good idea?
His palms traced a worshipping path up your ribcage, his calloused thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the lace. A cracked sound escaped your throat before you could trap it. Your eyes squeezed shut on instinct—that desperate need to force your body to warm up and feel something, like you had to do all the work, to concentrate, to wring out the pleasure you had been told you were incapable of feeling.
“My eyes are right here, sweetheart,” Itachi whispered close to your mouth. “I am the one holding you tonight. And I intend to treat you exactly how you were always meant to be treated.” You opened your eyes, promising yourself you’d not close them anymore unless you were feeling too much pleasure; that was the only exception.
His right hand moved to the clasp of your bra, the fabric gave way, and he slid the straps down your shoulders, tossing the lace aside to join your shirt on the floor. The cool air of the room kissed your skin, but Itachi was right there to warm it, his palms settling heavily over your breasts. He didn't maul or grab; he weighed them in his hands, his thumbs teasing lazily over your tight and hardened peaks, coaxing a ragged moan from your throat.
“Does it feel good?” He asked, and you nodded. “What about now?” His mouth dropped to one of your breasts and closed on it.
The shock of his wet heat against the sensitive peak was a lightning strike that arched your back off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your lips before you could stifle it. He didn't rush; his tongue swirled in slow circles that seemed to pull the tension right from your marrow and replace it with a liquid heat that pooled heavy and demanding between your thighs.
Your fingers found their way into his hair, the dark silken strands sliding against your skin, anchoring you to that moment as he alternated between gentle, teasing flicks and the firm, suctioning pressure that made your toes curl. It was unlike anything you had ever felt— not the mechanical fumbling you were used to.
It was focused.
"So responsive," he cooed against your skin, the vibration of his words humming straight into your blood. "I have barely touched you, and I have a feeling that you are already soaking wet." His mouth strayed to your other breast, sucking and slowly nibbling your nipple.
Your hips rocking up and down, trying to glue onto his. The embarrassment should have burned you, but his voice was dripping with such genuine reverence that it only fanned the flames.
His mouth began a descent, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your ribs, over the soft plane of your stomach, dipping teasingly into your navel. Every inch of skin he claimed felt worshipped, marked by a concentration that terrified you as much as it thrilled you.
When his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, you instinctively tensed, whispering that this was the moment the disappointment would set in.
“You have nothing to prove here," he cooed again, sensing the spike in your heartbeat. He slid the fabric down your legs, taking your underwear with it in one fluid motion, leaving you bared to him completely. The heat of his gaze searing into your exposed cunt was absolute fire.
He settled himself between your thighs, his shoulders pushing your legs wider, wider, until you were completely splayed open for him, settling his broad shoulders between your thighs. He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, then another higher up, his hot breath fanning over your dampening folds.
"Itachi—" you gasped, your hands flying back to his dark hair."It's okay," he whispered against your skin. "I got you," his eyes locking onto yours from his vantage point, looking like a dark angel ready to devour you whole. He lowered his head, and the first slow drag of his flat tongue against your folds obliterated every coherent thought in your mind.
You wrapped your legs around his heavy head and let his tongue swim toward salvation.
Your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as he began to work you with a patience that promised to ruin you. He consumed every part of his act. His tongue painted long stripes through your folds, gathering your slick before circling your clit with so much care that it made your vision blur. The movements of his muscle made you roll your eyes every time its warmth pooled over your cunt again.
His mouth blew a breeze of cool air on your clit, and that alone made you squeeze his head between your thighs.
"Oh, fuck. Itachi, do that again, please..." You cried out between a moan, you could feel his smile as he blew again, before sucking on your clit ferociously. But it was the slow intrusion of his finger that shattered you. He pressed it deep, crooking upward in a beckoning motion that hit a spot inside you that felt foreign—too sensitive, too raw.
You gasped, your hips jerking away instinctively, but his free arm spread out heavily across your pelvis, locking you in place against the mattress.
"No, stay with me," Itachi commanded, his voice muffled against your cunt and stripped of the gentleness he had when he first took you in his arms. He added a second finger, the stretch making your breath hitch, and began a relentless scissoring motion that opened you up, thrusting in tandem with the rhythm of his mouth.
You had never experienced anything so delicious like this, even after the countless sex nights you had with your ex. You didn't need to focus now on trying to feel the pleasure because it was consuming every inch of you.
The pressure built rapidly with a tightening coil in your lower belly that felt close to pain but infinitely better. This specific sensation, a deep, throbbing need to release something that felt dangerous, like holding back a tidal wave with a crumbling dam, was new.
"A-ah—'tachi," the nickname slipping out unbidden as your fingers tightened desperately in his hair, trying to pull him away. The sound of his name—his name, falling from your lips—sent a jolt straight to his core. He had spent years listening to you talk about so many things, your life, your work, your relationships, but the absolute high of hearing you sob for him made his jaw clench with a possessive need.
His free hand held your wrist, removing it from his hair. Only his eyes were visible, the rest of him hiding under your wet folds. "Unless you want me to fully stop, I suggest you don't try to take me away from this sweet cunt."
You whispered a "right," almost embarrassed, and he went back to work, sucking your clit into his mouth just as his fingers curled ruthlessly against that spongy patch inside you. His movements picking up a faster pace, like he knew you were only a few seconds away from coming undone for the first time in the night.
A quivering heat swelled in your belly, your muscles contracting tighter with every wet suck of his mouth, with every thrust of his fingers. You felt yourself clenching desperately around him, the wet sounds filling the quiet room.
"Itachi, wait, I feel like I'm going to—something is—"His tongue struck your sensitive clit, and the coil snapped. Your back bowed off the bed, a moan tearing from your throat as a gush of liquid heat surged from you, soaking his hand and chin. It was violent, overwhelming, a crashing wave that wiped out every memory of shame and replaced it with pure ecstasy. You pulsed around his fingers, your cunt fluttering wildly as the pleasure tore through you in spasms that left you boneless.
Itachi didn't pull away; he worked you through it, prolonging the aftershocks with gentle laps of his tongue, swallowing your every drop until you were a trembling gasping mess beneath him. When he finally lifted his head, his face was glistening with your essence, his eyes burning with a possessive pride that made your heart stutter. For the past few days, you thought you’d never meet a soul who could speak your body’s language, until there was Itachi.
Itachi, fluent in you.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your mind. The wetness beneath you was undeniable, the evidence of your pleasure painting his skin. "I... I didn't know I could..." You swallowed with a wrecked and barely audible voice. "Can you... do that again?" you asked breathless, entirely stunned by your own body. A small laugh escaped his chest—the most beautiful and unguarded sound you had ever heard from him. "I can do it as many times as you need."
He immediately obliged, his mouth descending onto you again. He coaxed a second, softer climax from you with just his tongue, his hands holding your hips down so you couldn't squirm away from the overwhelming sensation. When he finally pulled away and stood, you pushed yourself up on trembling arms.
"My turn," you said reaching for him as you sat on the bed, knees so wide open your cunt almost touched the sheets. He let you unbuckle his pants, set his cock free as he removes his black shirt, let you wrap your fingers around his thick, heavy length. But as you moved to take him into your mouth, his hand caught your chin.
"You do not have to perform for me."
"I want to make you feel good too," you argued. He smiled and took your hand, the same one that was touching him, on his. "Come," He moved to sit on the bed with his back touching the headboard. With a simple gesture, he called you over. "Let me touch yourself while you do it. I want to know you are feeling good, too." He guided you onto your side so that when your head would go down to suck him, your ass would go up.
You wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, taking him deep into the wet heat of your mouth, and his hand slipped between your thighs. He cupped your soaked mound, his middle finger gliding lazily through your slick folds, alternating between gently circling your oversensitive clit and pushing a finger inside you.
squelch.
squelch.
squelch.
A muffled moan vibrated around his shaft. You stroked what you couldn't take of him with your hand, falling into a synchronized rhythm. The dual sensation of pleasing him while he played with your throbbing flesh left you completely electrified.
"Good," Itachi praised, his voice strained for the first time. His hips snapping forward to chase the slick heat of your mouth, a desperate curse falling from his lips. His hips twitched, pushing himself a bit deeper into your mouth. "Just like that, baby— fuck, you feel so good." You whimpered around him, sucking harder, your own hips grinding against his palm.
The wet sounds of your mouth on him and his fingers on you were not the only sounds echoed through the room. As you sucked Itachi's balls, he moaned your name loudly. It was messy, sensual, and unhinged, and yet, you felt safer in this vulnerable position than you ever had before. You were growing wetter every second next to him.
Itachi pulled away before he could finish, lifting your head so he could see you, your mouth full of his juices. You looked so hot right now that if the goal wasn't to help you out, he could easily claim you as his right there, making your cunt sore. He was breathing heavily, his posture cracked, his chest heaving while he craved more of your touch, but knew he needed to save all of this energy for what was about to happen.
He reached for the dark silk pouch on the nightstand, the one you were curious about when you saw him holding it, but forgot about. He opened it, pulling out a small gray foil packet.
A condom.
Of course, he came prepared.
He tore it open with his fingers and rolled the latex down his thick length with practiced ease. It made you think how many times he had done it before. "Let me make you feel good now," you crawled over to him, as he guided you to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The broad pink head of his cock nudged your entrance, and you froze, your eyes wandering down to his chest. What if it didn't work? What if you still couldn't—
"Keep your eyes on mine." His hands settled on your hips, stilling your trembling. "I'm here for you, for your needs.” His hand brushed your jaw, his fingers grabbing your chin to make you focus on him. Your eyes found his gaze waiting for you, your arms around his shoulders, and your face came closer to his. He analyzed every single feature. Your eyes, your nose, your lips. Everything.
Taking a deep breath, you slowly sank down. The stretch was a fulfilling pressure as he glided into you inch by inch. You stopped when he was fully seated inside you, adjusting to the fullness. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, twerking on his cock. Itachi leaned forward, his mouth finding your collarbone as his thumb found your clit. He rubbed the swollen nub in tight circles, matching the grinding cadence of your hips.
"That's it. Such a good girl. See how well you are taking me?" The friction was different. Deeper. The angle pushed his length directly against that pleasant spot inside you, while his thumb sent electric shocks rocketing through your nervous system.
You rolled your hips faster, chasing the sensation. “I-Itachi—" you moaned, feeling every nerve on your body, every sensation, every inch being consumed by him. Itachi leaned his head back against the headboard, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged, looking at you like you were both his salvation and his downfall.
You kept going, your second orgasm collapsing over you as his fingers played with your nerve bundle. But still, he knew this was not the one you were craving, not the feeling you were chasing after.
“C’mere,” he rasped, his hands tightening on your hips. He shifted, turning your bodies so now you were the one under him. His hands shoved your thighs up until they touched your belly, your kneecaps close to your nipples. He sank right back, leaning forward as his hands supported his body. This angle was even deeper.
"Slower this time,” he growled, his voice thick with pulsing need. "Feel where I am inside you. Feel how your body responds."
"You feel s'good inside of me right now."
"Good, I want to feel your cunt clenching around my cock until you can't take it anymore," he breathed, reaching one of his hands to cup one of your breasts. Itachi's dirty talk game was different, full of praise for you and you only. You could literally cum just by being overwhelmed by his words.
Instead, you gasped, pleading for more, and he let out a hissed curse through his teeth.He began to thrust into you.
Deep. Unrelenting.
"Ah—'tachi please, keep going," you mewled, your hips writhing to capture every inch of him. Because of the angle, his cock dragged continuously against your G-spot with every stroke. The pressure was building again, that same wave from before, but this time it was intensified by the feeling of him moving inside you.
"Itachi—" you whimpered, your nails digging into the forearm close to your waist. “too much— Oh, ’ts too deep.” Hearing you beg for him, moan his name, completely wrecked him. You weren't thinking about your ex, or your insecurities, or your brokenness. You were only thinking about him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hips thrusting with an incessant force, hopelessly addicted to the sweet sound of his name on your tongue.
"You can take it," he smiled, looking down right at you. "Let me make you whole, baby." He didn't stop, didn't slow down, his hips snapping up into yours with a wet, slapping sound that echoed obscenely in the room.
Sluck.
Sluck.
Sluck.
You were almost quivering around his cock buried deep into your spongy walls when he burst you out of your pleasure bubble. “On your stomach for me,” he said, stopping the thrusts and helping you sit down. You scrambled to comply, positioning yourself on the mattress. He moved behind you, his large hands smoothing over the curve of your spine, down to your hips. He grabbed your ass, pulling it up, while one hand sat on your back, gently forcing it to lower down, your face against the bed.
He pressed into you again, slowly this time, sinking to the hilt until his hips were aligned against your ass. He was so deep, so fucking impossibly deep, that the pressure against your front wall felt perfect. He started slowly but hard. Each thrust was a plunging punch of pleasure that rattled your bones. The intensity was too much, unlike anything you had ever felt during penetration.
The pleasure was building from the inside out, fusing with the throbbing ache in your clit, creating a feedback loop of sensation that threatened to shatter your mind. To make you fall apart in a matter of seconds.
"Faster," you begged, dropping your chest lower to the mattress, your fingers clawing at the sheets. "Please, Itachi, deeper, faster. I need to feel your cock pounding on me—"
A low snarl vibrated through his chest. He was helping you, but still, there was just so much he could do to hold himself back during a moment like this, while he's making you take every inch of his cock inside your sweet cunt.
He obliged instantly, his grip on your hips turning bruising as he picked up the pace. He slammed into you with primal urgency, his hips meeting your ass with a wet slap.
Plap.
Plap.
Plap.
"Look at you," he panted, his voice rough, his hands taking a fistful of your hair and pulling it back. "Taking me so beautifully. Feeling so good. Do not fight it."
"Nnnngh...Itachi, I can feel every inch of your cock."
"Am I making you feel good, baby?"
"So good, 'tachi. I feel like I'm ready to—" you couldn't even form a proper cohesive sentence at this rate. The storm inside you was winding tighter than ever before, a physical pressure that bordered on pain but felt like transcendence. Itachi's cock was buried in your cunt, hitting your g-spot, making you feel like this topped any other form of pleasure known to a man.
Every thrust knocked the breath out of your lungs, his heavy balls slapping against your clit with each stroke, sending jolts of pure pleasure up your spine.
"Yeah, sweet girl?" You let out a soft moan, agreeing. "I will leave such an imprint on you, deep on your body, that anyone you entertain after me will have to know me in order to understand you, to savor you."
His words were your undoing.
With a final deep thrust that pressed you flat into the mattress, the coil snapped again. You screamed his name, you cursed loudly, your vision blurring white as the most intense climax of your life ripped through you. It started deep inside your womb and radiated outward to the tips of your fingers and toes, forming a beautiful wave of unadulterated pleasure.
As your body kept trembling, calling out his name, Itachi groaned yours like a prayer, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt, filling the condom with his release. He pulsed inside you, his whole body shuddering with his own climax.
Itachi did not collapse on top of you like a lazy man would. Even as the final tremors of his release wracked his frame, completely undone, his control held perfectly. He stayed kneeling on the mattress right behind you, his large hands keeping an anchoring grip on your hips to steady you both. He simply held you there, letting you catch your breath against the sheets as you lay completely unraveled and utterly remade.
Only when your coarse breathing finally started to slow did he move. He withdrew from inside of you, the sudden loss of his heat drawing a low whine from your throat, your hips dropping fully to the mattress as you melted into the bed.
You heard and felt him leave the bed, making his way to your bathroom to ditch the condom full of his white, almost transparent seed. When he returned to you, he stretched his large frame out on the mattress right behind you. His strong arm closed in around your waist, cradling you gently backward until your spine was pressed against his chest.
He pulled the heavy duvet over your bare shoulders, tucking you in as his face buried into the crook of your neck. His right hand stroking your hair.
"Are you alright?" he asked eventually, his deep voice a whisper, music to your ears.
"Better than alright," you turned around to face him, your fingers leaving the comfort of the duvet to trace the chaos lines on his face. He closed his eyes, feeling your touch. "I think I'm fixed. Thank you, Itachi."
"You were never broken," he corrected, his mouth pressing a kiss to your palm. "You just needed someone who could handle and give you the pleasure you needed."
(omg my first divider <3)
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dante, vergil, nero and v sparda x fem!reader (seperated). wc: 1692. fluff, period and cramps obviously, i realized that im so bad at writing headcanons in this request so im sorry if its bad lol. requested.
huge huge HUGE shoutout and thank you for ml janey - @all4yamato - for helping me so much this request— without her i'd still be struggling with this request. go check her blog too!! she's awsome and i love her sm mwah mwah <3
DANTE notices your mood swings and the pain expressions you make quickly before you tell him that you got your period and his attitude would change immediately. He deeply cares for you and he’s willing to do anything to take care of you, even when it means leaving his wacky personality for a while.
He’d tone his jokes down if they might make you upset or mad, he tries to cook your comfort food that helps with cramps —he burns it, but the attempt counts.— and he massages your aching body without you asking him. He just knows what you need without any communication.
And he’d be your human demon heated blanket. He knows he runs warmer than the average human—and can control it—so he uses this ability to soothe your cramps and keep you warm.
Dante noticed the huffed groan as you try to adjust your position in bed when you were cuddling with him, so he gets to work to try to make you feel better and ease the pain. He might be terrible at taking care of himself and neglecting himself, but he’d never neglect your pain and he’s willing to do anything to help you.
Oh, he WILL baby you and coo at you when you tell him your cramps are killing you, he’d say something like “aww, my poor baby. C’mere.”
He makes you lie against him, and your back against his warm chest as he wraps his arms around your waist. His —now demonic hand just like in dmc4— hands slid down your —his— baggy shirt to rest on top of your lower abdomen. Being a half-demon, he can control his body temperature and the body parts he can devil trigger in, and he is using it for his advantage to help you. His clawed hands grew warm, working like a heated pad and a massager as he drew soothing circles to ease the cramps.
You melt under his touch, letting out a sigh you’ve been holding for so long as the pain goes away. And when you think this is enough, oh boy, he’s not done.
He began leaving trails of kisses on your exposed shoulder from your extra baggy shirt to your cheek, lingering for a second leaving a warm kiss on your temple.
“Atta girl. Just let me help you, hmm?”
VERGIL lived alone and isolated in hell for 20 whole years so he knows nothing about periods and how painful they can be. Yet, he doesn’t believe you’re exaggerating when your cramps kick in— but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to understand it and try to help, he just needs patience.
Just like Dante, he notices when you grunt whenever you move around the house and kneel to get something. At first, he thinks you are injured and immediately perks up to check on you and make sure you’re okay.
When you tell him about your cramps, he’d ask you how to help you to soothe the pain away without hesitation, annndd he has a notebook only to write down ways to help you during the time of the month and everything about periods in general—he won't admit it but he also has a calendar to track your cycle—. And don’t freak out when you find him being a little bit too clingy and always lingering around when you get your period, that’s just his way of making sure you’re okay —and because he’s awkward and still trying to understand human anatomy.—
Vergil perked up when he heard you groaning in the kitchen as you slightly bent down towards the open fridge to grab some painkillers, thinking you got hurt during a recent mission and dismissed your injuries.
“You’re hurt. You should’ve said something earlier.” He scolded you with a firm yet soft tone —after all, he can’t get really mad at you—, hovering over you and checking your body for any hints of injury with his eyes.
“I’m not hurt, verge. It’s just period cramps. I got my period this morning.” You calmed him down by saying you’re not injured and it’s only your cramps. His shoulders dropped down in relief and his expression softened as he realized it’s only your period and you’re not hurt.
"And how can I help you?” Vergil never fails to fill your stomach with butterflies from how sweet and caring he is— even though he’s bad at showing affection and not understanding most things due to him being in hell for two decades and not embracing his human side most of the time, he still tries to help you, to make you feel loved and not alone, and that’s enough for you.
When you both lie next to each other in bed, you sigh while you try to soothe the pain with a hand on your lower abdomen. Without a word, he put his large, calloused hand on top of yours, covering it as he nudged closer to you and allowed you to put your head on top of his chest.
“Please, let me take it off you.”
NERO is more… human than his father and uncle. He had a seemingly normal life— a human life, so he knows about periods and how to deal with cramps. And just like them, he notices the switch in your overall personality and the moment he notices it, he's activating protective boyfriend mode.
he so would handle your mood swings and demands. He's always available for cuddles if you want some, and he'd so respectfully give you time if you don’t want to at the moment. And if you're hungry and craving something, he'd so lock in to cook you whatever you want and it'd be made with love too.
Between the four, Nero knows what to do the most. He gets pads/tampons on his way back from missions when he notices that you're running out of them in the morning, he gets you your favorite snacks and he keeps your heater fully charged and ready to use in case you need it. —which you won't need after discovering his devil bringer.—
Nero saw that you were standing with your shoulders stiff as you cut fruits in the kitchen. he walked up behind you and wrapped one arm around you as he propped his chin on your shoulder, his hand splayed over your stomach out of habit. "Hey, sweet stuff. Are you okay? You seem a bit tense…"
You instinctively leaned back against his chest, his warm palm easing the pain. "Yeah, don't worry. I just started my period this morning and cramps are killing me."
Nero frowned a bit when you mentioned cramps. Why didn’t you tell him in the first place when it first started? He immediately took the knife out of his hand while fussing about not saying anything to him. He gently took your arm and pulled you out of the kitchen and to the couch so you can rest while he takes care of you and does the rest of the work.
He came back with a bowl of fruits and a drink on the side. He tucked himself behind you —after taking permission from you of course, he's a gentleman after all, and respects your space when you're on your period— and wrapped his arms around you to warm you up with his body heat.
After that, you'll never get off the couch and do something, because Nero is trapping you on the couch and will not let you lift a finger as long as he's breathing. He'll take care of everything, and when I say everything, I mean every single thing. He'll clean, he'll cook, he'll feed your pets if you have any and he'll always be available for your needs too.
V hasn't been around much to about periods and the cramps and such. His past self was a slave to mundus and literally died, and his human side was neglected. So yeah, he knows absolutely nothing.
Yet, that doesn't mean he won't do what he can to help you during that time of the month. He'd made shadow lie on your lap to warm your abdomen and will make Griffon shut up so he won't disturb you and make you get irritated more than you already are due to cramps.
V will even offer to read to you while he plays with your hair because he knows his voice calms you down and lulls you to sleep.
When it first happened, V would be reading the book he always carries with Shadow curled around his feet in Nico's van's steps after a mission. Looking up only when a sigh came out from you as you exited the mini bathroom caught his attention.
You sat down next to him with your hand on your lower abdomen, rubbing it to make the pain go away for a little bit. V immediately closed his book to turn his full attention to you when he noticed you're in pain.
"You seem like you're in pain. Did something happen during the mission I wasn't aware of?" he said in that calm voice of his that never failed to make you forget everything and just focus on him only.
"Nothing happened... I just got my period and the cramps are killing me." Shadow lifted her head to look at you as soon as you started talking.
He looked at you confused, muttering "your cramps?" as he tried to remember what are those. You slightly chuckled as you explained what cramps are and what's happening to you at the moment, while also complaining about not bringing your heat pack with you and how it'd help you with the pain. Suddenly, a lightbulp appeared on top of his head.
He looked at Shadow, who was already getting up, and tilted his head towards you, shadow got closer to you and lay her head on your lap in the hope of being helpful. V wrapped his arm around your shoulder to pull you close and to lay your head on top of his shoulder before kissing the top of your head.
"That must be painful, dearest. Hopefully, I can be helpful to soothe the pain away a little."
synopsis. You almost died. Gojo Satoru almost lost you. Now he's doing everything he can to keep you safe — reassigning her missions, accompanying you everywhere, never letting you out of his sight. You thinks he sees you as weak. He thinks you don't understand how close he came to breaking. — Or: a story about fear, love, and learning to let someone fight for you.
pairing. gojo satoru x f!reader
content & warnings. angst, hurt/comfort, injury/hospitalization, emotional vulnerability, healthy communication (eventually), childhood trauma (reader), insecurity, fluff ending, gojo is TERRIFIED but can't say it, reader feels inadequate, soft resolution, happy ending
word count. 2.7k+
A/N. this request came from a very lovely anon!! thank you so much for trusting me with this. i took my time with the pacing, the emotions, the slow burn of hurt and healing. the argument is tense, the communication is messy, but your love shall power thru!!!! 😼💞
The ceiling was white.
That was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes. White. Blurry. Too bright. You blinked once, twice, three times, and the world slowly came into focus — the fluorescent lights overhead, the beeping of machines beside you, the thin blanket pulled up to your chest.
You were in a hospital.
The second thing you noticed was the pain.
It hit you all at once — a dull, throbbing ache in your side, a sharper sting across your ribs, a heaviness in your limbs that made it impossible to move. You tried to lift your arm and immediately regretted it.
The third thing you noticed was Satoru.
He was sitting in a chair beside your bed — slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His white hair was a mess, falling over his forehead, hiding his face. His blindfold was pushed up around his neck. His hands were clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.
He was wearing the same clothes from the mission. There was dirt on his collar. A smudge of something dark — blood? — on his sleeve.
He hadn't changed. He hadn't slept. He'd been here the whole time.
"Satoru," you croaked.
His head snapped up.
His eyes were red. Not from his technique — from crying. The skin underneath was dark, bruised-looking, like he hadn't slept in days. His jaw was tight. His lips were pressed into a thin line.
And then — his expression cracked.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said.
His voice was hoarse. Broken. Like he'd been screaming.
"What happened?" you asked.
He didn't answer right away. He just stared at you — like he was memorizing your face, like he was convincing himself you were real.
"You don't remember?" he finally said.
You tried to think. There was a mission. A curse. Something about a special grade in an abandoned warehouse. You remembered fighting. Remembered pain. Remembered falling.
Then nothing.
"I don't—" You stopped. Your throat was dry. "How long?"
"Three days."
Three days.
"You've been here for three days," he continued. His voice was flat. Empty. Like he was reading a report. "You lost a lot of blood. Your lung collapsed. They had to operate twice."
You stared at him.
He stared back.
"You almost died," he said.
The words hung in the air between you.
"Satoru—"
"I'm going to get the doctor."
He stood up. Walked out of the room. Didn't look back.
You watched him go, your chest aching — from the injury, from the look in his eyes, from the way his hands had been shaking.
He was scared.
You'd never seen him scared before.
The days that followed were a blur.
Doctors came and went. Nurses checked your vitals. Physical therapists made you walk laps around the ward. You learned to breathe without pain, to sleep without nightmares, to exist in a body that felt foreign and fragile.
Satoru was there for all of it.
He was there when you woke up from surgery, holding your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. He was there when the doctors explained your recovery timeline, his jaw tight, his eyes never leaving yours. He was there when you took your first steps after the operation, hovering so close you could feel his breath on your neck.
He didn't leave.
But he didn't talk either.
Not about the mission. Not about what happened. Not about the way his hands shook when he thought you weren't looking.
He made jokes — the same stupid, terrible jokes he always made. He teased the nurses. He complained about the food. He called you "sweetheart" and "baby" and "my love" like nothing had changed.
But something had changed.
You felt it in the way he held you — too tight, like he was afraid you'd disappear. You saw it in the way he watched you — too closely, like he was waiting for you to fall. You heard it in the way he laughed — too loud, too fast, like he was trying to convince himself everything was fine.
He was scared.
And he wouldn't tell you why.
You were discharged after two weeks.
The apartment felt different — smaller, quieter, somehow less like home. You moved slowly, carefully, aware of every ache and twinge. Satoru followed you everywhere — to the kitchen, to the bathroom, to the bedroom. He hovered. He watched. He asked if you were okay every five minutes.
"I'm fine, Satoru."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Because you should sit down. Or lie down. Or—"
"Satoru."
He stopped.
"I'm fine," you said again.
He nodded. Backed away. But his eyes stayed on you.
You went back to work a month later.
Not full missions — not yet. Just reports, briefings, desk work. Anything to feel useful. Anything to feel like yourself again.
Satoru had tried to convince you to take more time off.
"I don't need more time," you said.
"The doctors said—"
"I know what the doctors said."
"Sweetheart—"
"I'm going back."
He didn't argue. He just nodded. But you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his hands clenched at his sides.
He was scared.
You didn't understand why.
The first sign was the mission roster.
You'd been back for two weeks — cleared for low-grade assignments, easy work, nothing dangerous. You checked the board every morning, looking for your name, looking for something to do.
Your name wasn't there.
Not on Monday. Not on Tuesday. Not on Wednesday.
You asked the receptionist. She shrugged. "You'll have to ask Gojo-sama. He's the one handling mission assignments right now."
The second sign was the accompaniment.
When you finally got a mission — a simple exorcism, grade four, barely a threat — Satoru was there.
"I'm coming with you," he said.
"You don't need to."
"I want to."
"I'll be fine."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"I just want to, sweetheart. Is that a problem?"
It wasn't a problem. Not then. Not yet.
The third sign was the pattern.
Every mission you got — every single one — Satoru was there. Or the mission was suspiciously easy. Or it got reassigned at the last minute to someone else.
You started paying attention.
You started asking questions.
And one day, you found the answers.
You found them in Satoru's study.
He'd left his laptop open — unusual for him, but he'd been distracted lately, jumpy, always looking over his shoulder. You didn't mean to snoop. You were just looking for a pen.
And then you saw the emails.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Mission Reassignment
The following missions are to be reassigned to other sorcerers. [Name] is not to be sent on anything above grade three until further notice.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Accompanying Sorcerer
I will be accompanying [Name] on all future missions. This is non-negotiable.
To: Jujutsu Headquarters
From: Gojo Satoru
Subject: Medical Clearance
[Name] is not to be cleared for active duty until I sign off on her medical evaluation. This is not a request.
Your hands started shaking.
He'd been controlling your assignments. Your missions. Your life.
And he hadn't told you.
You found him in the living room.
He was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, a cup of cold tea in his hands. He looked up when you walked in — and froze when he saw your face.
"Sweetheart—"
"You've been reassigning my missions."
He didn't deny it.
"You've been accompanying me everywhere. You've been controlling my medical clearance. You've been—"
"I was protecting you."
"Protecting me?" Your voice cracked. "Or controlling me?"
"Satoru—"
"You almost died." He stood up. His voice was louder now — raw, desperate. "You almost died, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn't lose you."
"So you decided to take away my choices?"
"That's not what I—"
"That's exactly what you did." You were shaking now. "You decided what missions I could go on. You decided when I was cleared for duty. You decided— without asking me— what I could and couldn't do."
"I was trying to keep you safe."
"From what?"
"From this!" He gestured at you — at your still-healing body, your tired eyes, the way you held your side when you thought he wasn't looking. "From almost dying again. From—" His voice broke. "From leaving me."
The room was silent.
"You think I'm weak," you said.
"What? No—"
"You think I can't handle myself. You think I'm not good enough. You think—"
The words caught in your throat. You'd heard them before — not from him, never from him, but from everyone else. Your clan, who'd called you a disappointment. Your teachers, who'd said you'd never amount to anything. Your own mind, echoing the same cruel refrain: not good enough. too weak. why can't you be like the others?
You'd spent years trying to prove them wrong. Training until your bones ached. Pushing past every limit. Refusing to be the failure they said you were. And now Satoru was reassigning your missions like you were made of glass. Like he agreed with them.
"You think I'm not good enough for you," you whispered.
"I think I can't live without you." His voice was quiet now. Broken. "I watched you bleed out in my arms and I couldn't do anything. I sat in that hospital for three days waiting for you to wake up and I couldn't breathe."
"Satoru—"
"I think you're the strongest person I know. I think you've always been stronger than me. I think—" He stopped. His eyes were wet. "I think I'm terrified."
You stared at him.
"I'm not trying to control you," he said. "I'm not trying to protect you because I think you're weak. I'm trying to protect you because I can't— I can't do that again. I can't watch you almost die and just— just stand there."
"Then talk to me."
"I don't know how."
"Then learn."
He flinched.
You stepped closer.
"I'm not going anywhere, Satoru. I'm going to fight. I'm going to get hurt. That's what sorcerers do." You took his hands. They were cold. "But I'm also going to come back. Every time. I'll always fight to come back to you."
His hands tightened around yours.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You sat on the couch together.
He didn't let go of your hands. His thumb traced circles on your palm — a nervous habit, something he did when he didn't know what to say.
"I was weak," he said finally.
"You weren't—"
"I was." He looked at you. "When I saw you fall— when I saw all that blood— I couldn't move. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything except hold you and hope."
"Satoru..."
"I'm supposed to be the strongest. I'm supposed to protect everyone. But I couldn't protect you." His voice cracked. "And I've been trying to make up for it ever since."
"You don't have to make up for anything."
"I know." He laughed — a hollow, broken sound. "But I don't know how to stop."
You were quiet for a moment. The weight of your childhood pressed against your ribs — all those years of being told you weren't enough, that you'd never be enough, that someone like you didn't deserve someone like him.
"Satoru," you said carefully, "do you... do you ever wish I was stronger?"
He blinked. "What?"
"My technique. My clan. My—" You swallowed. "My status. I'm not from a big family. I'm not special. I'm just... me."
He stared at you for a long moment. Then he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
"I don't love you because of your technique," he said quietly. "I don't love you because of your clan or your status or any of that. I love you because you're you. That's never going to change."
"But—"
"No buts, sweetheart." His voice was firm but gentle. "You could have the weakest technique in the world and I'd still love you. You could come from nothing and I'd still love you. You could—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You could lose everything and I'd still love you. Because it's you. It's always been you."
You pulled his hands to your lips and kissed his knuckles.
"Then let me help you."
He stared at you.
"Let me help you," you said again. "Talk to me. Tell me what you're feeling. Don't just... act. Don't just reassign my missions and hope I don't notice."
"I didn't want you to notice."
"I know."
"I wanted to protect you without you knowing."
"I know."
"I wanted to keep you safe."
"I know." You cupped his face. "But I'm not a glass doll, Satoru. I'm a sorcerer. I'm going to get hurt. I'm going to have close calls. But I'm also going to come back."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have something to come back to."
A tear slipped down his cheek.
You caught it with your thumb.
"I love you," you said.
"I love you too."
"Then trust me."
"I'm trying," he said.
"Then try harder."
He laughed — a real laugh this time, small and watery but real.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
You stayed on the couch until the moon crossed the sky.
He didn't let go of you. His arm was around your shoulders, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"For smothering you. For not talking to you. For—" He paused. "For being a coward."
"You're not a coward."
"I am when it comes to you."
You tilted your head up to look at him.
"Then stop."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
He pressed a kiss to your forehead.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too, Satoru."
He smiled — soft and tired and full of love.
"Stay," he whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Satoru was still asleep — his face soft, his hair messy, his hand still wrapped around yours. He looked younger like this. Peaceful. Less burdened.
You watched him for a while.
The argument from last night still echoed in your head. His fear. His desperation. His inability to say what he meant. But he'd tried. He'd opened up. He'd let you in.
That was enough.
That was everything.
You pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He stirred, mumbling something in his sleep — your name, maybe, or something like it.
You smiled.
"I'm still here," you whispered.
He didn't answer.
But his hand tightened around yours.
And that was enough.
Weeks later, you got a new mission.
Grade two. Dangerous but manageable. Far from the city, far from help, far from him.
You read the briefing in silence.
Satoru watched you from across the table.
"When do you leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow."
He nodded.
"I'm not going to ask you to stay," he said.
"I know."
"I'm not going to reassign it."
"I know."
"I'm not going to follow you."
You looked up at him.
"I'm going to wait," he said. "And I'm going to trust that you'll come back."
Your heart swelled.
"I will," you said.
"I know."
He smiled — soft and scared and full of love.
"Then go, sweetheart. Come back to me."
The mission was hard.
Harder than you'd expected. The curse was stronger than the briefing suggested. You fought for hours, bleeding, breathing, surviving. You thought about him the whole time — his face, his voice, the way he'd said "come back to me."
You came back.
He was waiting at the door.
He didn't say anything. He just pulled you into his arms and held you.
"You're bleeding," he said.
"Just a scratch."
"You're a terrible liar."
"You love me anyway."
He laughed — that bright, beautiful sound — and pressed a kiss to your hair.
"I love you anyway," he agreed.
You stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other, the door still open, the night air cold on your skin.
"I told you I'd come back," you said.
"I know."
"I'll always come back."
"I know."
He pulled back just enough to look at you.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For fighting. For surviving. For—" He stopped. Swallowed. "For coming back to me."
You reached up and cupped his face.
"I'll always come back to you, Satoru."
He smiled — soft and tired and full of love.
"I know," he said.
And he kissed you.
A/N. i apologize if this looks like it was half-arsed, i swear i tried my best but i've been really busy since i'm moving houses 😭 thank you again anon !! <3
Plagiarism not authorized. Do not feed my work to AI. Feel free to req!! <3
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