I do not use or support ai. I write everything myself in my freetime
Hi, im gloom(Pls call me that if ur gonna adress me) im a 22 year old who loves drawing and writing (ill only be writing on this page) i write for jjk and maybe haikyuu or gachiakuta. However im going to focus on jjk. I go by she/her but any pronouns are fine if u dont know.
In this introduction im going to go over what im comfortable with writing(and what im not), who and what i will write for. And my plans for writing.
Below the cut will be the rest of the information. Please read before requesting.
Who i will write for
Jjk
Its pretty straightforward, i will write mainly for jjk but maybe if a request comes in or something else for haikyuu or gachiakuta i might.
I will write for anyone in jjk(even curses). I often see posts with very vague requests and it kind of annoys me. In order to do the best i can for peoples request id like more information, so you can get what u wanted
What im comfortable with writing:
All of the normal things im comfy with writing
Angst
Fluff
Smut
Platonic
X reader
Canon x canon
What im not comfortable with writing:
Rape
incest
Non-consensual
Anything illegal
Crazy kinks like piss or other weird things.
There will be others but this is all i can think of off the top of my head. I will add if there are any requests that i don’t like. Just so no one gets the wrong idea
My plans for writing
I will probably not have a masterlist. They seem like too much work. I will do multiple part storys but ill only link the other parts on the post itself, no masterlist. Im not sure what my plans for the future are. Ive been writing a lot in my free time but never posted it. Im planning on releasing around 3 posts all together and then maybe once weekly. This might fall apart though because I’m very irregular and might have other things get in the way of posting. Im not planning on giving up on writing completely though. Just maybe take pauses.
Summary: while megumi was busy studying. Reader plays with his demon dogs, he comes to bed a few hours later only to see reader fast asleep… covered in the cutest furballs.
A/n: sorry i didnt post for a bit, completely forgot about you guys. And ontop of that ive come down with the flu, so i can barely focus. Anywho… ill be posting next wednesday on time instead of being late again.
The late afternoon light filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Megumi Fushiguro’s dorm room, painting soft gold stripes across the wooden floor and the edge of his desk. Outside, the distant sounds of other students filtering through the corridors of Jujutsu High had faded into a comfortable hush. Inside, the only consistent noise was the quiet scratch of Megumi’s pen against paper and the occasional soft turn of a page.
You sat cross-legged on his bed, back against the wall, a textbook open in your lap that you had long since stopped pretending to read. The room smelled faintly of ink, clean laundry, and the subtle cedar scent of the soap Megumi preferred. His desk was neat in the way only someone who valued order could keep it: stacked notes aligned at perfect right angles, a single black pen resting parallel to the edge of a thick volume on cursed technique theory, and a half-empty glass of water that had gone room-temperature hours ago.
You watched him for a while. His dark hair fell forward whenever he leaned in to write, the strands brushing the frames of his glasses when he pushed them up the bridge of his nose. The set of his shoulders was relaxed but focused, the kind of quiet intensity that made him seem older than he was. Every so often he would pause, press the tip of the pen against his lower lip in thought, then continue writing in that precise, compact script of his.
You lasted maybe forty minutes before the restlessness set in.
The textbook slid closed with a soft thud. You stretched your legs out, toes curling against the blanket, and let out a long, theatrical sigh. Megumi did not look up. You sighed again, louder this time, and flopped sideways so that your head landed on the pillow nearest the wall.
“You’re boring,” you announced to the ceiling.
The pen paused. A quiet, dry voice answered without turning. “I’m studying.”
“You’ve been studying for hours.”
“It’s important.”
You rolled onto your stomach and propped your chin in your hands, watching the back of his head. “I’m bored. Entertain me.”
“Read your own notes.”
“I already did. Twice. They’re boring too.”
A faint huff of amusement escaped him, almost too quiet to catch. He still did not turn around. You sat up again, scooted to the edge of the bed, and planted your feet on the floor. The wooden boards were cool against your soles.
“Megumi.”
“Mm.”
“Summon the dogs.”
That made him pause properly. The pen lowered. He turned his head just enough for one dark eye to meet yours over the rim of his glasses. “Why?”
“Because I’m bored and they’re soft and they like me and you are being a very dedicated but very dull study partner.”
“They’re shikigami, not pets.”
“They’re soft, they like me, and they are currently not here. Summon them.”
He studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable in that familiar Megumi way: the slight furrow between his brows, the almost imperceptible tightening at the corner of his mouth that meant he was considering whether arguing would take more energy than simply giving in. You widened your eyes at him, the picture of exaggerated innocence, and waited.
Finally he set the pen down with deliberate care. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
He did not answer that. Instead he raised one hand, fingers forming the familiar seal with practiced ease. Shadows pooled at his feet like spilled ink, deepening and spreading across the floorboards in a silent rush. The temperature in the room dipped for half a second, then the darkness coalesced into two distinct shapes.
The Divine Dogs stepped out of the shadow as if walking through a doorway. The white one shook its fur out first, ears pricking forward the moment it caught sight of you. The black one followed more slowly, head low, golden eyes already fixed on your face with calm recognition. Both were large enough that their shoulders came level with your waist when they stood, thick-furred and solid, the faint shimmer of residual cursed energy clinging to them like heat haze.
You were off the bed in an instant.
“Hi, babies,” you cooed, dropping to your knees on the floor. The white dog reached you first, shoving its broad head under your hands with zero hesitation. Its fur was dense and warm, the kind of softness that invited sinking fingers deep into it. The black dog circled once, then pressed against your side, heavy and steady, resting its chin on your shoulder so that its warm breath tickled the side of your neck.
Megumi watched for a few seconds, expression softening almost imperceptibly. “Don’t let them chew on anything important.”
“They have better manners than half the first-years,” you replied, already scratching behind the white dog’s ears. Its tail gave a single, solid thump against the floor. “Go back to your very important studying. We’ve got this.”
He shook his head once, the ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth, then turned back to the desk. The pen resumed its quiet scratching. You stayed on the floor for a while, letting both dogs lean into you, trading pets and soft words between them. The white one eventually flopped onto its side and presented its belly with shameless trust. The black one remained more reserved, but its eyes half-closed whenever your fingers worked along the thick ruff of fur at its neck.
After a while you climbed back onto the bed, and both dogs followed without needing to be asked. The mattress dipped under their combined weight. You arranged yourself against the wall again, legs stretched out, and the white dog immediately claimed the space beside your hip, resting its heavy head across your thighs. The black dog curled along your other side, spine pressed to your leg, chin tucked against your knee. Their body heat soaked into you almost at once, a living blanket that smelled faintly of sun-warmed earth and something cleaner, like fresh rain.
You talked to them in a low murmur while Megumi worked, nonsense compliments and soft questions they could not answer. The white dog’s tail thumped occasionally in response. The black one simply breathed, slow and deep, the rise and fall of its ribs a steady rhythm against your side. Eventually the words tapered off. You carded your fingers through thick fur, eyes growing heavier with each pass. The afternoon light shifted toward evening, the gold deepening into amber, then soft rose. Outside the window the sky began to lose its brightness.
Megumi’s pen never stopped for long. He turned pages, made notes in the margins, underlined passages with precise lines. Every so often he would reach for the glass of water, take a small sip, and set it back down without looking. The quiet of the room settled deeper, broken only by the soft sounds of breathing from the bed and the occasional distant call of a crow outside.
Hours slipped past like water.
When Megumi finally set the pen down and stretched his arms above his head, the joints in his shoulders gave quiet pops. He rubbed the back of his neck, then pushed his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The room had grown dim enough that he reached over and switched on the small desk lamp. Warm light pooled across the scattered notes and the closed textbook.
He turned in his chair, intending to ask if you wanted tea or if you planned to stay the night again, and the words died in his throat.
The bed was a quiet nest of shadows and soft breathing.
You were curled on your side in the middle of the mattress, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped loosely over the white Divine Dog’s neck. Both dogs had arranged themselves around you like living bookends. The white one lay pressed along the curve of your front, its head tucked under your chin, one massive paw resting protectively across your waist. The black dog had settled against your back, its spine aligned with yours, chin resting on the pillow just above your shoulder so that its breath stirred the hair at your temple. Their bodies rose and fell in near-perfect synchrony with your own. Your face was relaxed in sleep, mouth slightly parted, lashes dark against your cheeks. One of the white dog’s ears twitched now and then, but neither animal stirred beyond that. They had clearly decided that guarding your rest was more important than anything else.
Megumi sat still for a long moment, simply looking.
The sight was ridiculous and oddly disarming. Two powerful shikigami, creatures capable of tearing through curses with casual efficiency, reduced to oversized, furry bolsters for the person currently drooling a little onto one of their necks. Your free hand was still buried in the white dog’s fur even in sleep, fingers loosely curled as if you had fallen asleep mid-pet.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound almost fond.
Moving carefully so the chair would not creak, he stood and began packing up. Notes were stacked, textbooks closed and set aside, the pen returned to its place in the small cup on the corner of the desk. He rinsed the water glass in the tiny sink near the door and left it upside down to dry. The desk lamp he left on at its lowest setting, casting just enough light to navigate by. Then he crossed to the bed and stood looking down at the three of you for another quiet stretch of time.
There was almost no free space left. The dogs had claimed the majority of the mattress with the confident sprawl of animals who knew exactly how large they were and did not care. You occupied the remaining center, completely relaxed against them. Megumi considered the floor for half a second, then discarded the idea. He had slept in worse places during missions.
Instead he carefully sat on the very edge of the bed, then eased himself down lengthwise in the narrow gap that remained between the black dog’s back and the wall. It required folding himself at an awkward angle, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting along his own side because there was simply nowhere else to put it. His knees bent slightly to keep from knocking into the white dog’s hindquarters. The mattress was warm from the combined body heat of three living beings, and the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the clean animal smell of the dogs.
He shifted once, finding a marginally less crooked position, and then went still.
From this angle he could see your face clearly in the low light. The soft curve of your cheek, the peaceful set of your mouth, the way a few strands of hair had fallen across your forehead. One of the dogs, the black one, let out a deep, contented sigh that rumbled through the mattress. Your fingers twitched once in its fur and then relaxed again.
Megumi’s eyes stayed open longer than he intended.
He had not planned on this when the evening began. Studying until late, yes. You lingering in his room because you often did, yes. But the quiet weight of the dogs pressed around you, the soft sounds of your breathing, the way the entire bed had become a single warm, breathing unit: that was something else. Something that settled low in his chest and stayed there, quiet and steady.
His eyelids grew heavier. The desk lamp hummed faintly. Outside, the last of the daylight faded completely, leaving only the soft artificial glow and the deeper dark beyond the curtains. He adjusted his position one final time, careful not to disturb the careful arrangement of limbs and fur and quiet sleep, and let his gaze rest on your face.
You shifted in your sleep, nestling more firmly into the white dog’s side. A small, contented sound escaped you, almost too soft to hear. The black dog’s ear flicked once in acknowledgment, but neither animal woke. Their breathing remained deep and even, a living cradle around you.
Megumi’s last conscious thought before sleep took him was simple and unguarded.
You looked peaceful like this. Completely safe. Completely at home.
And for once, the usual weight of everything else (the missions waiting, the techniques still to master, the long shadow of the family name) felt distant enough that he could set it down for a few hours.
He fell asleep still looking at you, body crooked in the narrow free space, one hand resting loosely against the black dog’s flank as if to keep the strange, soft constellation of the three of you from drifting apart in the dark.
A/n: sorry if it sucks… i cant write the ending to angst. Give me requests on what i shld write next.
Part 1 here
You hadn’t answered a single one of his messages.
Not the late-night ones that started with jokes and ended with quiet admissions he never would have said out loud. Not the memes he’d carefully chosen because they reminded him of the way you used to laugh against his shoulder. Not the voice notes that grew shorter and more careful the longer the silence stretched. After the whole mess with the new teacher—after you’d walked in on the two of them in bed together, snuggled up and fast asleep in each other’s embrace, something in you had simply closed. Quietly. Completely.
Gojo had never been good with closed doors.
So he did what he always did when words failed him: he threw everything he had at the problem and hoped something would stick.
First came the food.
Your favorite takeout from the tiny place three stations over—the one that only made limited portions and usually sold out before noon. He waited outside in the rain for nearly forty minutes, water sliding down the back of his neck, just to secure two orders. He left the bags outside your apartment door with a sticky note written in his usual messy handwriting:
Still warm. Still yours. -S
The next morning the bags were gone. That was enough to keep him hoping.
Next were the movie tickets.
Two premium seats for the limited re-release of that old film you both used to quote at each other until the lines became a private language. He’d bought them the second they went on sale, grinning like an idiot as he typed the message:
Front row. Extra butter. Just like old times?
You left him on read.
Then the flowers.
Not the flashy, expensive bouquet he usually defaulted to when he wanted to impress someone. These were quieter-soft whites and pale pinks, the kind you once said reminded you of early mornings when everything still felt possible. He left them on your desk at the school with another note, this one longer, more careful, the words scratched out and rewritten twice:
I’m an idiot. I know. Let me try to be less of one. Please?
The flowers stayed on the desk all day. By evening they were gone. He told himself that meant you’d taken them home. He needed to believe that.
He was still telling himself that when he finally stopped circling and decided to just show up.
It was late afternoon. The training grounds were quiet, the kind of heavy quiet that settled after a long day of missions and lessons. He found you near the edge of the courtyard, leaning against the railing, talking to someone. Your shoulders were relaxed in a way they hadn’t been around him in weeks. You were smiling, it was small, real, the kind of smile that used to be his.
Nanami stood beside you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding two coffee cups. He passed one to you without looking, the gesture easy and familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times. You took it. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you pulled away.
Gojo stopped walking.
For a moment he just stood there, the last bag of takeout still warm in his hand, and watched the two of you exist in a space that no longer had room for him.
You glanced up and saw him. The smile didn’t vanish, but it changed, it became polite, distant, the kind of expression you might offer a colleague. Nanami followed your gaze and gave a short, measured nod. Nothing more.
Gojo’s usual grin didn’t make it onto his face.
“Hey,” he said, voice lighter than he felt. “Been looking for you.”
You didn’t move closer. “I know.”
He held up the bag like an offering, like a peace treaty, like the last card he had left to play. “Thought maybe we could… talk. Or just eat. Or sit in silence and pretend I’m not the worst person alive. Your call.”
Nanami’s eyes flicked between the two of you, calm and assessing. He didn’t leave. He simply stayed, solid and quiet, as if he had every right to be there.
You looked at the bag, then at Gojo. There was no anger left in your expression. Just something tired and final. something that made his chest feel too tight.
“I already ate,” you said quietly. “With Kento.”
The name landed heavier than it should have.
Gojo’s fingers tightened around the paper bag until the edges crumpled. “Right. Of course.”
You hesitated, then added, softer, almost gently, “We’re… together now. Officially.”
The courtyard felt suddenly too quiet. The air too thin.
Nanami didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk or look triumphant. He simply stood there, steady as ever, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to stop being temporary. Like he’d known, long before Gojo did, that the space beside you had become his to occupy.
Gojo let out a short, almost soundless laugh. It didn’t sound like him. “Movie tickets. Flowers. Food. And you still chose the guy who doesn’t even like sweets.”
You didn’t smile at the joke.
“I didn’t choose him because of sweets,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t waver. “I chose him because he never made me wonder where I stood.”
The words settled into him like something cold and permanent.
He looked at you then, really looked. At the way you held the coffee cup. At the way Nanami’s presence didn’t make you tense or careful. At the quiet certainty in your eyes that hadn’t been there the last time you’d spoken to him. And for the first time, Gojo understood that this wasn’t something he could charm or joke or gift his way out of.
He had already lost.
Not in some dramatic, explosive way. Not in a fight or a shouting match. He had lost in the small, quiet moments he hadn’t been paying attention to. the ones where you stopped reaching for him, where the silence between messages grew longer, where someone else learned the shape of your days and filled the spaces he had left empty.
The bag in his hand suddenly felt ridiculous. All of it did - the late-night deliveries, the carefully chosen notes, the desperate little performances of affection he’d been throwing at the wall hoping something would stick. He’d been trying to win back something that had already slipped through his fingers while he wasn’t looking.
He set the bag down on the nearest bench. The paper made a soft sound against the wood.
“Okay,” he said. His voice came out rougher than intended. “Okay.”
You looked like you wanted to say something else, maybe an apology, maybe nothing at all. but Nanami’s quiet presence kept the space between you and Gojo exactly as wide as it needed to be. There was no room left for him to step closer. No room left for the version of this story where you forgave him and everything went back to the way it was.
Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets, tipped his head back toward the sky, and let the silence stretch until it hurt. The late afternoon light caught on the white of his hair, on the edge of his blindfold, on the empty space where you used to stand beside him without thinking.
Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Behind him, the takeout bag sat untouched on the bench, cooling in the fading light. The scent of your favorite food drifted faintly on the air for a moment before the wind carried it away.
And for the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo understood that some things couldn’t be fixed with charm, or gifts, or the desperate hope that love would wait for him to finally get it right.
He had lost his chance.
And the worst part was how quietly it had happened.
Summary: gojo had spent weeks hyping up your birthday. Explaining how it would be the best one ever. Until it wasnt. His selflessness leaving you alone in your room at 11:45 with no reply
A/n: im posting early because ill be busy wednesday. Im thinking about moving it up to posting twice a week because i dont do much during the day. Also i am working on part two of movie night. I would like some ideas tho… i have no idea which way i should make the story head
I am taking requests about anything jjk not just part 2 of movie night
The weeks leading up to your birthday had been a whirlwind of whispered promises and stolen moments that made your heart feel too big for your chest. Satoru Gojo, with his effortless charm and those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through every defense you had, had turned the anticipation into something almost magical. Every time you walked together across the school grounds, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, he would lean in close, breath warm against your ear, and murmur, “Just wait until your birthday. It’s going to be the best one ever. I’ll make sure the whole world stops for you, princess.”
You had believed him with every fiber of your being. How could you not? Gojo was larger than life itself, the kind of person who bent reality around him without even trying. You spent nights lying awake in your dorm, staring at the ceiling with a silly smile on your face, imagining what he had planned. Maybe a picnic under the stars with all your favorite sweets, or a secret trip into the city where he would spoil you rotten with gifts and that infectious laughter of his. You had marked the days off on a little calendar hidden in your desk drawer, each crossed out square bringing you closer to the day you thought would be perfect.
The morning of your birthday dawned bright and clear, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains of your dorm room like a gentle promise. You woke up early, heart fluttering with excitement as you checked your phone. No messages yet, but that was okay. Gojo was probably out on an early mission, saving the day like he always did. You dressed carefully, choosing the outfit you knew he liked best on you, the one that made his eyes linger a little longer than usual. You even baked a small batch of cookies in the shared kitchen, the ones with extra chocolate chips because he always stole them from your plate anyway.
As the hours ticked by, the excitement began to twist into something sharper. You waited in the common area, scrolling through your phone, jumping at every notification only to feel the sting of disappointment when it was not from him. By midday, you had sent your first message: “Hey Satoru, happy birthday to me! Are you free soon? Can’t wait to see what you have planned.” You added a little heart emoji, trying to keep it light, playful like always. No response. The minutes stretched into an eternity.
You wandered the school grounds alone, the usual bustle of students and sorcerers feeling distant and muted. Every corner reminded you of him: the tree where he had first kissed you under the blooming sakura, the training field where he had shown off his techniques just to make you laugh. You tried to stay positive, telling yourself he was just busy. He had mentioned something about missions piling up lately, the higher ups breathing down everyone’s necks. But as the afternoon sun beat down relentlessly, you found yourself sitting on a bench, fingers tracing patterns on your phone screen, willing it to light up.
Another message at two o’clock: “Satoru? Everything okay? If missions are crazy, we can do something simple later. I just want to spend time with you.” Sent. Delivered. Unread. The knot in your stomach tightened, a slow burn of unease that you tried to push down. You ate lunch by yourself in the cafeteria, the food tasting like ash despite the cheerful chatter around you. Friends wished you happy birthday in passing, their smiles kind but fleeting, and you forced your own in return, hiding the growing ache behind laughter that felt brittle.
Three o’clock brought another text: “Miss you already. Let me know when you’re done?” Four o’clock: “Still thinking about all those promises you made. Can’t stop smiling about it.” Five o’clock, as the sky began to shift toward evening hues: “Satoru, please. Even just a quick call?” The messages grew more frequent, each one a quiet plea wrapped in hope that was slowly crumbling. You paced your dorm room, the small cake you had picked up from the store sitting on your desk like a sad monument to expectations. You lit a single candle and blew it out alone, whispering a wish that felt hollow even as it left your lips.
The evening dragged on in agonizing slowness. Six o’clock message: “Hoping you’re okay out there.” Seven: “It’s getting late… are we still on for something?” Eight: silence from him, your phone screen reflecting your tired, anxious face back at you. Nine: “I don’t want to bother you if you’re swamped, but today meant a lot to me.” Ten: the tears started then, hot and unwelcome, as you curled up on your bed, the string lights you had strung up earlier now casting lonely glows across the walls. Eleven: “Satoru… did I do something wrong?”
By 11:45, your eyes were raw from staring at the unchanging screen, your chest tight with the weight of unspoken fears. You had not eaten much, had not smiled genuinely in hours. The dorm was quiet except for the distant hum of night insects outside, and the balloons in the corner sagged as if mirroring your fading spirit. You wiped at your cheeks, refusing to let the tears fall freely yet, clinging to that last thread of hope that he would burst through the door any second with his usual dramatic flair and sweep you into his arms.
Meanwhile, across the city in the fading chaos of cursed energy, Satoru Gojo moved like a force of nature. He had taken on every mission assigned to his friends that day, a deliberate choice born from seeing the exhaustion etched into Shoko’s face, the rare slump in Nanami’s shoulders after back to back assignments. “You guys rest,” he had said with that cocky grin, waving them off. “I’ve got this. Infinity makes it easy.” Hours blurred into one another as he exorcised curse after curse, the sun rising and setting without him glancing at a calendar or his phone. His mind was elsewhere, lost in the rhythm of battle, the thrill of power, and the quiet satisfaction of giving his comrades a break. Time had slipped away completely, the date meaningless in the haze of responsibility he had shouldered alone.
It was not until 11:45, when he finally collapsed onto a rooftop to catch his breath, pulling out his phone to check for any urgent updates, that the truth crashed over him like a tidal wave. Notifications flooded the screen: your messages, timestamped throughout the day, each one chipping away at the carefree facade he wore so well. His heart stuttered, blue eyes widening in horror as he scrolled through them, the realization sinking in bone deep. Your birthday. Today. He had spent the entire day promising you the world only to forget the one day that mattered most to you. The words blurred slightly as guilt clawed at his throat, sharp and unrelenting. “No, no, no,” he muttered to himself, fingers flying across the screen in frantic replies, but it was too late. The damage was done.
He did not waste another second. Gojo bolted from the rooftop, using every ounce of his speed, teleporting in short bursts where he could, the wind whipping at his hair and uniform as he raced back toward the school. His chest burned not from exertion but from the crushing weight of his mistake. How could he have been so careless? You, who had always been there, patient and understanding amid his chaotic life as the strongest. You, who lit up at his dumb jokes and never asked for more than he could give until now. The image of your face, excited and hopeful in the days before, haunted him with every step. He pushed himself harder, the world blurring around him, but even his limitless power could not turn back time.
The clock had already struck past midnight when he reached your dorm building, breath ragged, hands shaking as he pushed open the door without knocking. The room was dim, illuminated only by those soft string lights, and the sight that greeted him stopped him cold in the doorway. There you were, asleep on your bed, body curled into a protective ball under the covers. Your cheeks were stained with dried tears, glistening faintly in the low light, eyes puffy and red from hours of silent crying. The small cake on the desk remained untouched, the balloons deflated, and your phone lay beside you, screen dark but still open to the thread of unanswered messages.
Gojo felt something inside him shatter. He knew he had fucked up, profoundly and unforgivably. The strongest sorcerer, who could erase curses with a flick of his wrist, stood there powerless against the pain he had inflicted on the one person who made his world feel a little less lonely. He crossed the room slowly, knees hitting the floor beside your bed with a soft thud, as if the gravity of his regret anchored him there. His hand reached out tentatively, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, but he pulled back, afraid his touch might wake you and force you to confront the disappointment in his eyes mirroring your own.
Tears pricked at the corners of his own eyes, a rare vulnerability cracking through his usual bravado. He replayed every promise in his mind, each one now a knife twist in his gut. You had waited all day, sent those messages like lifelines, pouring out your excitement only to be met with silence. Because of him. Because he had chosen to play hero for everyone else and forgotten the hero you needed most today. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered into the quiet room, voice thick and broken. “I built this up for you, made you believe in something perfect, and then I left you hanging like you didn’t matter. But you do. You matter more than anything.”
He stayed there on his knees, forehead pressed against the edge of the mattress, listening to your soft, even breaths that carried the remnants of sorrow. The night stretched on, heavy with unspoken words and the ache of what could have been. Gojo knew this mistake would linger, a shadow over the trust you had placed in him. He had let you down on the one day you had counted on, and as he watched the dried tears on your cheeks, he wondered if his apologies would ever be enough to mend the quiet heartbreak he had caused. In that moment, surrounded by the remnants of your solitary celebration, Satoru Gojo understood the true weight of failure, not as the strongest, but as the boy who had broken the heart of the girl he loved.
Summary: suguru loves getting his hair pulled during sex.
A/n: sorry im posting a bit late. Was a teensy bit late, but we good. I almost completely forgot about posting today but remebered like last minute(yikes)
The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the half-drawn curtains of Suguru Geto’s dorm room at Jujutsu High, casting warm golden stripes across the floor. The two of you had spent the last couple of hours like this—lounging on his bed, trading stories from recent missions, laughing over the ridiculous way Gojo had nearly blown up a training ground again. Suguru’s deep voice rumbled with amusement as he recounted the details, his long legs stretched out beside yours, one arm casually draped behind his head. You were both still in your uniforms, the fabric slightly rumpled from the casual sprawl of your bodies.
There had always been this undercurrent between you, something electric that hummed beneath every shared glance and teasing remark. Today it felt thicker, heavier. Suguru’s dark eyes lingered on your lips a second too long when you laughed, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers flexed against the sheets whenever your thighs brushed together. The conversation had dwindled into comfortable silence, the air charged with anticipation.
Suguru shifted closer, his hand finding your waist. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and smooth, “I’ve been thinking about you all week. The way you move during training… the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.” His thumb traced slow circles over your hip, sending sparks dancing across your skin. You swallowed, heat pooling low in your belly as his gaze darkened with intent.
Before you could respond, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. His tongue swept against yours, tasting of the mint gum he’d been chewing earlier. You melted into it, fingers curling into the front of his uniform jacket. When he pulled back, his breathing was already ragged. “Let me take care of you,” he whispered against your mouth. “I want to taste you. Been dying to.”
Your heart hammered as he guided you back against the pillows, his hands gentle but firm as he peeled away your clothes. He took his time, kissing every inch of skin he expose; your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the curve of your stomach until you were bare beneath him. Suguru’s eyes roamed over you with open hunger, his bangs falling messily across his forehead as he positioned himself between your thighs.
He pressed a reverent kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, working his way up with slow, open-mouthed kisses. When he finally settled, his breath ghosted hot over your core, making you shiver. “So pretty,” he breathed, before leaning in. The first slow drag of his tongue along your folds drew a sharp gasp from your lips. He hummed in satisfaction at your taste, the vibration sending pleasure rippling through you.
Suguru was thorough, almost worshipful. He licked broad stripes from your entrance up to your clit, savoring every reaction. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he delved deeper, tongue circling the sensitive bundle of nerves before sucking gently. You arched off the bed, a moan slipping free. The pleasure built steadily, your body responding to every flick and swirl.
Your thighs tightened instinctively around his head as the sensations intensified, clamping down on either side of his face. Suguru groaned against you, the sound muffled but unmistakably needy. The pressure of your legs squeezing him seemed to spur him on. You felt the subtle shift of his hips as he pressed himself against the mattress, seeking friction. He was hard, aching, and the way your thighs held him in place only made him grind forward slowly, humping the bed with restrained desperation.
His bangs had fallen forward, obscuring his eyes as he focused entirely on you. Without thinking, you reached down, threading your fingers through his long, dark hair. It was silky and warm from the sunlight. You brushed the strands aside, tucking them behind his ear so you could see his face—his flushed cheeks, the way his eyes fluttered half-closed in bliss. You kept your hand there, resting in his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp.
Suguru responded with a deeper lick, tongue pressing inside you before returning to your clit with renewed focus. He found a rhythm that had your toes curling, alternating between firm sucks and rapid flicks. Then he hit that perfect spot, the one that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your body jolted, pleasure spiking sharply into overwhelming territory. Overstimulated and gasping, you tugged hard on his hair, yanking his head back from your cunt.
He pulled away with a wet sound, lips glistening, but the sudden pull on his scalp drew a loud, broken moan from deep in his chest. His eyes rolled slightly, lashes fluttering. “Ah—fuck,” he gasped, voice hoarse. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding harder into the mattress as another moan tore from him. The hair-pulling had clearly struck something in him he hadn’t expected. “That… that’s so good. Keep pulling, please— I was so close…”
The sight of him like this—moaning, hips stuttering against the bed, bangs messy and eyes hazy with lust—sent a fresh wave of heat through you. You obliged, tightening your grip in his hair and tugging again, firmer this time. Suguru’s reaction was immediate and intense. He whined, a high, needy sound that vibrated through his whole body. His hips thrust erratically against the sheets, chasing the friction as his moans grew louder, unrestrained. You watched, mesmerized, as his face contorted in ecstasy, eyes rolling back while his mouth fell open.
With one final, sharp yank, his entire body tensed. He came hard, spilling into his uniform pants with a guttural moan that echoed in the room. His hips kept moving in shallow, desperate rolls, riding out the waves as aftershocks made him shudder. You could feel the tremors in his shoulders where your thighs still held him.
As the intensity faded and his breathing began to slow, you didn’t let go. Still slightly annoyed that he had pulled away right when you were teetering on the edge, you gave another firm yank on his hair and pushed his head back down toward your aching core. “Don’t stop,” you pouted, voice breathy but edged with demand. “I was so close, Suguru.”
He let out a soft, breathless laugh against your thigh, the sound warm and affectionate despite the lingering haze of his orgasm. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he looked up at you, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, voice rough from moaning. “Couldn’t help it… you pulling my hair like that. Felt incredible.” He nuzzled closer, pressing a soft kiss just above your clit. “But I’m not done with you. Not even close.”
Without another word, he dove back in, tongue resuming its work with renewed enthusiasm. This time he was even more attentive, sucking and licking with precise strokes that quickly rebuilt the pleasure you had lost. His hands slid under your thighs, holding you open as he devoured you, the occasional muffled groan vibrating deliciously against your sensitive flesh. Your fingers stayed tangled in his hair, guiding him exactly where you needed him, tugging lightly whenever he found that perfect angle again.
Suguru’s hips still twitched occasionally against the bed, the damp spot in his pants a reminder of how thoroughly you had undone him. But his focus remained entirely on you now, drawing you back toward the edge with expert precision. The room filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure—your gasps and moans mingling with the wet sounds of his mouth and his occasional hums of satisfaction.
He brought you higher and higher, never faltering, until your thighs clamped around his head once more. This time when you came, it crashed over you in powerful waves, your grip tightening in his hair as you cried out his name. Suguru didn’t pull away, working you through every pulse and aftershock with gentle licks until you were trembling and spent beneath him.
Finally, he lifted his head, crawling up your body to kiss you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close as you both caught your breath. “We should do this more often,” he whispered against your lips, a lazy smile curving his mouth. “I like when you get a little rough with me.”
You laughed softly, fingers still playing through his hair, and pulled him in for another kiss, the afternoon stretching lazily ahead with the promise of more.
Summary: shoko and geto both force their friends to meet eachother. Claiming they were both nerds in the same games. Misinformation either accidental or on purpose at its finest.
A/n: i changed my mind. Ill be posting every wednesday from now on just because im free that day. Here is my post fir the week and you shall see me next wednesday.
The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the half-drawn curtains of Satoru’s apartment, casting long golden streaks across the worn wooden floor. You had been dragged here by Shoko, your closest friend from college days, who had insisted that this casual hangout would be “good for you.” She knew how you preferred burying yourself in your room with your Pokémon cards spread across the desk, controllers in hand, or scrolling through endless forums debating type matchups and evolutions. Socializing wasn’t exactly your strong suit, but Shoko had a way of making refusals feel impossible with her calm, cigarette-scented persistence.
“Trust me,” she had said earlier that morning, her eyes twinkling with that rare mischievous glint. “Suguru’s friend is exactly like you. Obsessed with the same stuff. You’ll hit it off instantly.”
Suguru Geto, Shoko’s friend and the calm anchor to her laid-back chaos, had echoed the sentiment when he texted you the address. So here you were, perched awkwardly on the edge of a oversized couch that smelled faintly of takeout and whatever expensive cologne Satoru favored. The living room was a testament to comfortable bachelor chaos: gaming consoles stacked neatly on a low shelf, posters of various anime and games tacked to the walls, and a coffee table cluttered with half-empty soda cans and a forgotten bag of chips.
Satoru lounged across from you, long legs stretched out, his white hair tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed despite it being mid-afternoon. He wore a simple black t-shirt and sweats, but there was an effortless charisma about him that made the casual look seem intentional. Suguru had mentioned Satoru was “the Digimon guy,” and you had pictured someone equally introverted, ready to dive deep into strategies and lore. Instead, he flashed you a bright, almost blinding smile as Shoko and Suguru disappeared into the kitchen under the pretense of grabbing drinks.
“So,” Satoru started, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, blue eyes locking onto yours with unexpected intensity. “Shoko said you’re super into it. The whole franchise, right? The battles, the partners, the evolutions. I’ve been dying to talk to someone who actually gets it on that level.”
You blinked, adjusting your glasses slightly and tugging at the hem of your hoodie, which proudly displayed a subtle Eevee embroidery you had sewn on yourself. “Yeah, absolutely. I’ve got my team optimized for competitive play. What about you? Favorite generation? Or do you lean more toward the classics?”
Satoru grinned wider, clearly excited. “Classics all the way. The original adventures hit different. That sense of wonder when your partner first evolves, the digital world opening up. Nothing beats the early stories.”
You nodded enthusiastically, feeling a small spark of relief. Maybe Shoko was right. “Totally. The first games had that raw charm. But I love how later entries expanded the world with new regions and mechanics. My starter is always something versatile, like a Grass type for coverage.”
He tilted his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his features, but he powered on. “Grass? Interesting choice. I always went for the more balanced ones. Fire or Water depending on the arc. But the real thrill is in the partner bonds. That loyalty through everything.”
The conversation flowed for a few minutes, but something felt… off. You mentioned gyms and badges, and Satoru responded with talk of “sectors” and “DigiDestined.” You brushed it aside at first, assuming he was using fan terminology or referencing spin-offs. But as you described a recent tournament where your Lucario swept through opponents with aura sphere combos, Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed deeper.
“Lucario? Is that from one of the later card sets?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck. “I stick mostly to the core games. The anime arcs are peak though. Remember when the Dark Masters showed up? That tension.”
You paused, tilting your head. “Dark Masters? That sounds like a fan event or something. No, I’m talking about the Elite Four challenges. My team wiped them last week on my replay.”
The air grew thicker with mutual bewilderment. Satoru sat up straighter, his playful energy shifting into something more puzzled. Shoko and Suguru lingered in the kitchen doorway, exchanging glances but saying nothing, clearly eavesdropping with poorly concealed amusement.
“Wait,” you said slowly, setting down the soda Shoko had handed you. “What exactly are you talking about? The Digimon games?”
Satoru’s eyes widened, realization dawning like a sunrise. “Digimon, yeah. The virtual pets, the Digivolutions, the whole digital realm thing. Suguru said you were a huge fan, obsessed like me.”
Your face heated up, a mix of embarrassment and dawning horror. “Pokemon. Shoko told me you were the Pokemon nerd of the group.”
A beat of silence stretched between you two on that couch. The awkwardness settled heavy, like a blanket too warm for the room. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the subtle creak of floorboards as Shoko shifted her weight. Satoru stared at you, then burst into a short laugh, rubbing his hand over his face.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, though his grin remained. “They set us up. Those two probably thought it was hilarious.”
You let out a nervous chuckle, fiddling with the zipper on your hoodie. “Yeah. Super awkward. Sorry, I just assumed… Digimon, huh? I know a bit about it. The shows were fun when I was younger, but Pokemon has my heart.”
Satoru’s expression shifted from amusement to mock offense, his eyes narrowing in that dramatic way only he could pull off. “A bit? Come on, that’s criminal. Digimon has deeper lore. The real stakes, the way the digital world mirrors our own. Your Pokemon are cute pets in a battle simulator. Digimon are actual partners fighting for survival.”
The playful jab landed, sparking something competitive in you. You straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. Antisocial shell or not, you weren’t about to let that slide. “Cute pets? Pokemon have rich ecosystems, trainer bonds that span regions. The strategy in battles, the breeding mechanics, the shiny hunting. Digimon is cool for the adventure, but it’s more linear. Pokemon lets you build your world.”
Satoru leaned in closer, the couch dipping slightly under his movement. His voice took on an animated edge, hands gesturing wildly as he countered. “Linear? Digimon has multiple timelines, corruption arcs, the Sovereigns. Every season builds on the last in crazy ways. Your type charts are just rock-paper-scissors with extra steps. Digivolution lines have real emotional weight.”
You felt your cheeks flush, not from embarrassment anymore but from the thrill of the debate. It had been ages since you argued about this with anyone who matched your energy. “Emotional weight? Try raising a Pokemon from egg to champion. The IVs, EVs, natures. Hours of grinding for perfection. And the merch? Don’t even get me started. I have shelves of figures, plushies, the full card collection from multiple sets. Games on every console. Events, tournaments. Digimon has some games, sure, but Pokemon is a cultural phenomenon.”
He scoffed, but there was laughter in it, his body language opening up as he gestured toward an imaginary shelf. “Cultural what? Digimon cards were intense back in the day too. The anime had better fights, more epic scale. Mega evolutions? Pfft. Ultimate and Mega Digivolutions change everything.”
The argument escalated in that lighthearted way, voices rising and falling without real heat. You countered with stories of your competitive battles, the rush of a perfect prediction in a ranked match, the community events where you traded cards with strangers. Satoru fired back with tales of Digimon World explorations, the freedom of the digital environments, and how the partner mechanics felt more personal than training a team for badges.
Shoko and Suguru had migrated fully into the living room by now, perching on armchairs with matching smirks. Shoko lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as she watched you both. Suguru crossed his arms, his dark hair tied back neatly, observing like a proud parent at a school play.
“Admit it,” you pressed, gaining confidence as the words tumbled out faster. “Pokemon has the staying power. The movies, the spin-offs, the mobile game that took over the world. My apartment has more Pokemon stuff than actual furniture. Cards in binders, strategy guides from every era, even custom 3D prints of my favorites.”
Satoru threw his hands up in exaggerated defeat, flopping back against the couch cushions with a dramatic groan. “Okay, okay. You win on the merch front. I can’t compete with a whole collection that sounds like a museum. Digimon has its gems, but yeah, Pokemon flooded the market harder. Fair point.”
You blinked, surprised by the quick concession. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Really? Just like that?”
He shrugged, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine interest now, the awkwardness fully evaporated. “I’m not above admitting when someone’s got the receipts. But that doesn’t mean Digimon isn’t superior in spirit. Come on, tell me your top three Pokemon. I’ll counter with Digimon equivalents.”
The shift was seamless. What started as a forced meeting on that couch transformed into a rapid back-and-forth that filled the room with energy. You launched into your favorites: “Pikachu for nostalgia, but competitively? Gengar for the shadow sneak mind games. And Eevee because of all the evolutions. The adaptability is unmatched.”
Satoru nodded along, jumping in without missing a beat. “Agumon for the classic hero vibe. His lines are iconic. Then Gabumon, that fur coat design and the wolf evolution? Chef’s kiss. And for strategy, something like MetalGreymon. Heavy hitters that evolve under pressure.”
You countered with stories from Pokemon Scarlet and Violet, the open-world freedom and Terastallization mechanics that let you experiment wildly. Satoru described Cyber Sleuth’s detective elements and how hacking into the digital layers felt immersive in a way no gym battle could match. The conversation bounced between shared loves and gentle roasts: the absurdity of some Pokemon designs versus the gritty tones in later Digimon seasons.
“Remember the first Digimon movie?” you asked, eyes lighting up. “The whole Diaboromon internet takeover. That had real tension for a kid’s show.”
Satoru grinned, pointing at you. “Exactly! Pokemon movies are fun, but that one hit different. Though I have to give it to Pokemon for the music. Those battle themes slap.”
Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed. The sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in warmer oranges and pinks. You described your extensive card binder organization system, complete with sleeves and dividers for competitive versus casual collections. Satoru shared his own collection of Digimon figures from the Tamagotchi era onward, admitting he had a soft spot for the virtual pet simulations that started it all.
Shoko chuckled softly from her chair, nudging Suguru with her elbow. “Look at them. Finally talking like normal people instead of hiding behind their screens.”
Suguru smiled, a rare full one that reached his eyes. “Told you it would work. Even if the setup was based on faulty intel.”
You caught snippets of their quiet laughter, but the focus remained on Satoru. He listened intently as you rambled about shiny hunting marathons, the dopamine hit of a rare spawn after hundreds of encounters. In turn, he painted vivid pictures of Digimon Frontier’s spirit evolution system and how it blended human and digital in fresh ways.
“What about crossovers in your head?” he asked at one point, leaning so close your knees almost brushed. “If a Pokemon trainer got thrown into the Digital World, what team would wreck the most Digimon?”
You laughed, the sound surprising even you with its ease. “Easy. A full Electric team for those virus types. But a Digimon partner could corrupt the system. Imagine a Renamon with illusion tricks against a Zoroark.”
The ideas flowed endlessly. You debated favorite villains: Giovanni’s calculated menace versus the various Digimon antagonists driven by deeper existential threats. Satoru mimed dramatic fight scenes from memory, complete with exaggerated sound effects that had you both cracking up. Your initial reserve melted away completely, replaced by the kind of animated gesturing and overlapping sentences that came with true shared passion.
At some point, Shoko ordered takeout, and the four of you ate scattered around the coffee table, but you and Satoru barely paused. He challenged you to a hypothetical battle scenario: your Pokemon team versus his Digimon partners in a neutral arena.
“Alright, my Charizard Mega X versus WarGreymon,” you proposed, popping a piece of sushi into your mouth.
Satoru shook his head, stealing a fry from your plate without asking. “WarGreymon takes it with the Dramon Killer. But your Gengar could sneak in some status effects first. Tricky.”
The playful analysis continued, dissecting movesets and abilities with nerdy precision. You admired how his mind worked, quick and creative, filling in gaps where real crossovers didn’t exist. He seemed equally impressed by your depth on Pokemon lore, quoting obscure Pokédex entries that even he hadn’t heard.
As the evening deepened, the initial forced setup felt like a distant memory. The couch, once a site of stiff discomfort, now hosted two people fully engaged, trading recommendations for games to try and episodes to rewatch. You mentioned a upcoming Pokemon event in the city, and Satoru immediately suggested crashing it together, “for research purposes, obviously.”
Shoko and Suguru watched from the sidelines, their laughter more frequent now. Shoko’s quiet giggles mixed with Suguru’s deeper chuckles as they observed their antisocial friends blooming under the shared spotlight of nerdy enthusiasm.
“You owe us for this,” Shoko called out during a brief lull, raising her drink in a toast.
Satoru waved her off with a grin but didn’t disagree. His attention stayed mostly on you. “Seriously though, we should do this again. Without the setup lies next time. I need to see that card collection in person.”
You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah. And I’ll judge your Digimon setup. Fair trade.”
The night stretched on with more stories, more debates that circled back to appreciation. You talked about the emotional core of both franchises: the theme of friendship and growth that defined them. Satoru admitted Digimon’s darker edges appealed to his love for complex narratives, while you defended Pokemon’s accessibility that drew in millions. Back and forth, rapid and descriptive, the words never seemed to run out.
By the time you finally checked your phone, hours had vanished. The apartment felt warmer, more alive. As Shoko and Suguru started tidying up with knowing smiles, Satoru walked you to the door, hands in his pockets but posture relaxed.
“Thanks for not bolting when we realized the mix-up,” he said softly, that signature smile returning but gentler now.
You shrugged, mirroring his ease. “Thanks for the argument. It was… fun.”
“Next time, bring the cards. I’ll bring my old virtual pets. We can settle this properly.”
The promise hung in the air like a new adventure beginning. As you stepped out into the cool night with Shoko, her arm linked through yours, you glanced back at the apartment. Satoru waved from the doorway, and for the first time in a long while, the thought of another social outing didn’t fill you with dread. It sparked excitement instead.
Back inside, Suguru clapped Satoru on the shoulder. “Told you they were perfect.”
Satoru just laughed, already mentally planning the next hangout, his mind buzzing with Digimon strategies and Pokemon counters alike. The misunderstanding had forged an unexpected connection, one built on plastic cards, pixelated battles, and the simple joy of finding someone who understood the obsession.
The weeks that followed blurred into more meetings. You and Satoru texted constantly, sharing screenshots of rare finds or heated takes on new releases. One weekend, you hosted a joint watch party at your place, your Pokemon plushies lining the shelves while his Digimon figures claimed space on the table. The debates continued, but now laced with inside jokes and collaborative fan theories.
Shoko and Suguru often joined, content to watch their plan succeed beyond expectations. Your antisocial tendencies softened around Satoru, and his own bright energy found a perfect counterbalance in your thoughtful analyses. What began as an awkward couch session evolved into something deeper: two nerds bridging two beloved worlds, one conversation at a time.
In quiet moments, you reflected on how a simple mix-up had pulled you both from your shells. Satoru would later confess the same, his voice casual but eyes sincere during a late-night gaming session. “Didn’t expect to find someone who gets it. Both sides, you know?”
You smiled, controller in hand, ready for whatever digital adventure came next. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Summary: gojo unintentionally bonds with a new teacher at the school while reader is away on a mission.
A/n: yeah this’ll be my last post for today. The Thursday coming up ill post and it’ll go on like that weekly. Also mb for just angst being my first two posts :p i would like some requests though👀
Part 2 here
The days had blurred together in the rhythm of jujutsu sorcery, where curses never slept and neither did the weight on your shoulders. You and Satoru had been together for nearly two years now, a relationship forged in the fires of shared battles and quiet nights where his usual cocky facade melted away into something softer, something real. He was the strongest, but with you, he let himself be vulnerable in ways no one else saw. Lazy mornings tangled in your shared bed, his blindfold discarded on the nightstand, his white hair messy as he pulled you closer and whispered promises about a future where the world didn’t demand so much from either of you. You were both sorcerers, assigned to Tokyo Jujutsu High, and the bond felt unbreakable.
Until the mission came.
It was supposed to be a week-long assignment in a remote prefecture, tracking a particularly elusive special-grade curse that had been evading capture. Satoru had kissed you goodbye at the school’s gates, his usual grin in place but his six eyes lingering on you a beat longer than necessary. “Come back to me in one piece, yeah? I’ll have your favorite takeout waiting. And maybe a little something extra.” His voice had been light, teasing, but the way his fingers brushed your cheek carried the quiet worry he rarely voiced aloud.
You left with a smile, promising to text him updates. The mission dragged, filled with sleepless nights and close calls, but you pushed through, counting down the days until you could collapse into his arms again.
Meanwhile, back at the school, life moved on without you. A new teacher had arrived just days after your departure, a transfer from a smaller branch up north named Aiko. She was sharp-witted, with a no-nonsense attitude that masked a surprisingly dry sense of humor. Mid-twenties, dark hair tied back in a practical ponytail, and cursed energy that hummed with controlled precision. Principal Yaga had introduced her briefly in the staff room, explaining she would be handling some of the advanced training sessions for the second-years while also assisting with curse reconnaissance.
Satoru, ever the social butterfly when it suited him, had been the one to show her around. At first, it was purely professional. He demonstrated the school’s layout with his typical flair, infinity flickering idly around him as he levitated a few training dummies to show her the sparring grounds. “Don’t let the kids fool you,” he said with a chuckle, pushing his blindfold up just enough to wink. “They look innocent, but they’ll curse you into next week if you’re not careful.”
Aiko laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the afternoon haze. “Sounds like my old students. One of them tried to summon a low-grade curse just to get out of homework. Kids these days.”
They fell into easy conversation after that. Satoru found himself lingering in the staff lounge more than usual, trading stories about botched missions. She had a way of matching his energy without trying too hard. When he cracked a joke about how the higher-ups were basically ancient curses themselves, bureaucratic and soul-sucking, she fired back instantly. “At least curses dissolve when you hit them hard enough. Paperwork just multiplies.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Satoru threw his head back in laughter, the sound echoing down the hall.
Over the next few days, the bond deepened unintentionally. Mornings started with shared coffee runs before classes. Satoru would complain about the endless reports he had to file, dramatically flopping onto a bench while Aiko sipped her drink and offered sarcastic advice. “Just infinity the whole stack away. Problem solved.” He grinned at that, appreciating how she didn’t tiptoe around his status as the strongest. Most people treated him like a walking legend or a weapon. She treated him like a colleague with an ego problem, and it was refreshing.
One evening, after a particularly grueling training session where Aiko had effortlessly dismantled a simulated curse barrier, they ended up walking the school perimeter together. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. Satoru stretched his arms overhead, his white hair catching the light. “You know, most new teachers last about a month before they burn out. You’ve got that fire though. What’s your secret?”
Aiko shrugged, kicking a pebble along the path. “Surviving worse up north. Blizzards, isolation, and curses that blend into the snow like ghosts. Makes this place feel like a vacation.” She paused, glancing at him sideways. “Plus, you’ve got a good vibe here. Makes the jokes land better.”
He laughed again, bumping her shoulder lightly with his. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But seriously, if you ever need tips on handling the Gojo special, I’m your guy.” Their steps synced without thought, conversation flowing from work to lighter topics. Favorite movies, hidden talents. Aiko admitted she had a soft spot for old horror flicks, the kind with practical effects and terrible acting. Satoru lit up. “No way. I binge those when I can’t sleep. The bloodier, the better.”
By day five, it felt natural. They weren’t seeking each other out deliberately, but the moments added up. A shared lunch where she teased him about his sweet tooth, sliding over an extra mochi she’d picked up. “Figured the strongest needed fuel for all that posturing.” He devoured it with exaggerated bliss, making her chuckle. Evenings blurred into casual hangouts, discussing strategy over takeout in the common areas. She challenged him on technique, demonstrating a unique binding vow she’d developed, and he countered with playful spars that left them both breathless and laughing.
It was friendship, pure and simple. Or so they told themselves. No lines crossed, just two sorcerers finding common ground in a world that demanded everything from them.
Then came the movie night.
It was the sixth night of your absence. Rain pattered against the windows of the house you shared with Satoru, a cozy space tucked away from the main campus. Aiko had mentioned in passing how her temporary quarters were stuffy, and Satoru, without much thought, offered his place. “It’s bigger, and I’ve got the good projector setup. We can watch that old slasher you mentioned. Beats staring at reports all night.”
She hesitated only a moment before agreeing. “As long as you don’t mind the company. And no work talk after the first hour.”
They settled in on the couch, lights dimmed, a bowl of popcorn between them. The movie played, filled with jump scares and cheesy dialogue. Satoru sprawled out, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, while Aiko tucked her legs under her. Laughter came easy during the ridiculous plot twists. “This guy’s survival skills are worse than a first-year’s,” she quipped, elbowing him when the protagonist tripped over his own feet.
“Reminds me of you during that barrier drill yesterday,” he shot back, dodging her playful swat.
As the film progressed, the tone shifted. A intense sex scene unfolded on screen, raw and unfiltered, bodies entwined in dim lighting with heavy breathing and lingering touches. The air in the room thickened. Satoru shifted slightly, suddenly aware of the warmth beside him. Aiko’s breath hitched, her gaze flicking from the screen to him and back. Neither spoke at first, the tension coiling like cursed energy ready to snap.
It started with a glance. His six eyes, uncovered in the privacy of home, caught the flush on her cheeks. She turned toward him, voice low. “This scene… it’s always the part that gets awkward in company.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his usual bravado softened. The movie’s sounds filled the space, but their focus had narrowed. A hand brushed against hers reaching for popcorn. Fingers lingered. The friendship that had bloomed so quickly felt charged now, boundaries blurring in the quiet isolation. Satoru’s mind flickered briefly to you, but the mission, the distance, the exhaustion of the week without your steady presence, it all pressed in. Aiko leaned in first, tentative, and he met her halfway.
What followed was a haze of touches and whispered affirmations. Clothes shed in hurried motions, bodies pressing together on the couch before migrating to the bedroom. It was impulsive, driven by the building tension and the shared loneliness of their world. Skin against skin, breaths mingling, the kind of release that came from two people who understood the weight of sorcery without needing words. Satoru lost himself in the moment, the pleasure sharp and immediate, drowning out deeper thoughts. They collapsed afterward, limbs tangled, and sleep claimed him swiftly, his body heavy with satisfaction and unspoken fatigue. Aiko drifted off beside him, the room falling silent save for the distant rain.
Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and unforgiving.
You arrived home earlier than expected, the mission wrapping up with a decisive exorcism that left you drained but eager. Your bag slung over your shoulder, you pushed open the front door quietly, heart light at the thought of surprising Satoru. The house smelled faintly of popcorn and something else, something unfamiliar. Shoes kicked off, you padded toward the bedroom, a smile already forming on your lips.
The door creaked open.
There, in your bed, the bed you shared with him, lay Satoru. Naked, sheets twisted around his waist. And beside him, a woman you didn’t recognize, her dark hair splayed across the pillow, blanket pulled modestly over her chest. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound, widening in shock.
Your world tilted. The suitcase handle slipped from your grip, thudding against the floor. “Satoru,” you said, voice cracking like glass. Then louder, hysteria bubbling up. “Satoru! Wake up!”
He stirred, blinking groggily, his white hair a tousled mess. His six eyes focused, and the color drained from his face as reality slammed into him. You stood there, tears already spilling down your cheeks, staring at the naked form of your boyfriend entangled with another woman in the very sheets that still carried the scent of your last night together before the mission.
“Shit,” he breathed, bolting upright. Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave, his chest tightening painfully. He scrambled for clothes, grabbing boxers and sweatpants from the floor, yanking them on with trembling hands. Aiko sat up slowly, clutching the blanket tighter, her expression morphing from confusion to horror as she took in your presence. She hadn’t known. The realization hit her as clearly as it shattered you.
You yelled again, voice raw. “What the hell is this? Explain! Satoru, how could you?” Tears streamed freely now, your body shaking as the scene burned into your mind. Your life, the trust, the love you thought was solid, crumbling in the soft morning light.
Satoru crossed the room in two strides, reaching for you even as he fumbled with his pants. “Baby, wait, please. It wasn’t… I didn’t mean for this. You were gone, and we were just hanging out, and it just happened. I fell asleep before I could even think. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, desperation lacing every word. Those brilliant eyes, usually so confident, now swam with regret. He could see it in your face, the heartbreak, the betrayal. How had he let this happen? The bonding, the jokes, the movie, it had all felt harmless until it wasn’t. And now, with you standing there in tears, he felt smaller than any curse could make him.
Aiko remained silent at first, staring in shock, blanket clutched like a shield. She hadn’t known he had a girlfriend. The house had seemed empty, his stories never mentioning a partner. The sex had been quick, born of tension, but seeing this, the raw pain on your face, it twisted something in her gut.
Satoru kept talking, words tumbling out as he hovered near you, not daring to touch but desperate to bridge the gap. “It was a mistake. A stupid, horrible mistake. We bonded over work stuff, jokes, you know how it is out here. The loneliness. But I love you. Only you. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please, don’t… we can fix this. I’ll do anything.” His hands gestured helplessly, guilt drowning him. He pictured the future without your trust, without your laugh in the mornings, and it terrified him more than any battle ever had.
You were in full hysterics now, chest heaving with sobs. “Fix this? You’re naked in our bed with her! I trusted you. I was out there fighting, thinking about coming home to you, and this?” The words dissolved into broken cries, your hands covering your face as the room spun.
Aiko finally moved, slipping out of bed with the blanket wrapped around her. She gathered her clothes quietly, the shock on her face giving way to resolve. Satoru glanced at her in confusion as she dressed. “What are you doing?”
She pulled on her shirt, voice steady but edged with disappointment. “I didn’t know you were taken. You never said anything, and I thought… I thought you were single. This was too fast anyway. We met a week ago, and we’re already here? That’s not right.” She shook her head, stepping into her pants. “I don’t want any part of this. What you did to her… I won’t be that person.” She grabbed her belongings, bag and phone, casting one last look at him. Pity mixed with judgment. Then she left, the front door clicking shut behind her, leaving silence broken only by your sobs.
Satoru stood frozen, the weight of it all crushing down. The house felt too big, too empty. He had ruined everything for a night that now tasted like ash. The friendship with Aiko, the unintended closeness, the movie that had escalated, the sleep that stole his chance to process it. All of it led here. He reached for you again, voice hoarse. “Please. Stay. Yell at me, hit me, anything. Just don’t leave.”
But you were already moving, grabbing a suitcase from the closet with shaking hands. Necessities shoved in: clothes, toiletries, a few photos that now felt like knives. Your tears didn’t stop as you packed, the sound of zippers and drawers echoing like finality. Satoru watched, helpless, his apologies falling on ears too full of pain to hear them. “I was weak. It meant nothing. You mean everything.”
You didn’t respond, just wheeled the suitcase toward the door. The last glance you gave him was one of shattered love, eyes red and swollen. Then you were gone, the door slamming with a force that rattled the frames.
Satoru sank onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The sheets still warm from the night before mocked him. The world pressed in, heavy and unforgiving. He had lost you, probably forever. The strongest sorcerer, undone not by a curse, but by his own fleeting weakness. Hours passed as he sat there, replaying every bonding moment, every laugh, every step that led to this ruin. The jokes in the lounge, the shared meals, the movie’s glow on Aiko’s face, the impulsive pull. All of it worthless now.
Outside, the city buzzed on, indifferent. Inside, Satoru’s world had ended.
Summary: in high school, satoru gojos immature joke of dismissing his exhausted friends plea for help which leads to her getting hurt. Leaving him overwhelmed with guilt and tears
Tw: reader gets hurt and its quite descriptive. If u don’t like blood or anything then dont read. Or be wary
A/n: first post yay! Also i stole this top layout thingy from @gllimzz and she was chill with it. I didn’t know how else to format the intro to this and had asked her cause i like hers. Anyway here it is i hope you guys like it. Ill add like one or two more posts to start out and then ill go to posting once a week(maybe Thursdays)
Satoru leaned against the cool stone wall outside the training grounds, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the Jujutsu High campus. The air was thick with the scent of blooming cherry blossoms mixed with the faint metallic tang of cursed energy lingering from earlier sparring sessions. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, a lazy grin playing on his lips as he watched you approach. You looked exhausted, shadows under your eyes deeper than usual, your uniform slightly rumpled from the string of missions that had kept you running without pause. Your steps were heavier than normal, shoulders slumped just a fraction, but you tried to mask it with that determined expression he had come to recognize.
“Hey,” you said, voice quieter than it usually was, stopping a few feet away. The wind rustled through the leaves overhead, carrying the distant sounds of students training in the fields beyond. “Satoru, can I ask you something?”
He tilted his head, that signature smirk widening. “Shoot. What’s up? You look like you got hit by a truck. Another mission kicking your butt?”
You hesitated, fingers twisting the hem of your jacket. The fatigue had settled deep into your bones after weeks of back-to-back assignments, each one more draining than the last. Sleep had become a luxury, stolen in short bursts between reports and recoveries. Your muscles ached constantly, a dull throb that no amount of rest in the brief lulls could fully erase. The thought of another mission tonight made your stomach twist with dread. It was supposed to be a mid-level curse extermination, nothing too extreme on paper, but after everything, you knew your focus was shot. One wrong move could turn it deadly.
“I’ve been on missions nonstop,” you explained, meeting his bright blue eyes. “Barely any time to breathe. This next one… I just need a break. Some rest before it gets worse. Could you take it for me? Just this once? I know it’s last minute, but—”
Satoru laughed, a light, carefree sound that echoed off the walls. He waved a hand dismissively, his white hair catching the sunlight like fresh snow. “Whoa, hold up. You serious? Another mission and you’re tapping out already? Come on, that’s kinda weak, don’t you think? If you can’t handle a few in a row, maybe you’re not cut out for this sorcerer life after all. What, you gonna let a little tiredness stop you? I thought you were tougher than that.”
The words hung in the air between you, sharper than any curse could be. Your face paled slightly, the hurt flashing across your features before you schooled it into a neutral mask. It felt like a punch to the gut, his casual joke landing with the weight of doubt on your already weary shoulders. You had always pushed yourself, always tried to keep up with him and the others, proving your place here despite the endless grind. But hearing it from him, the one person whose approval meant more than you cared to admit, it stung deeper than expected. Your throat tightened, but you didn’t snap back. No retort, no argument. You just nodded once, turning away without another word.
Satoru blinked, his grin faltering for a split second as he watched your retreating form. The campus paths wound ahead of you, lined with ancient trees and the faint hum of barriers. He opened his mouth to call after you, but the words died on his tongue. It was just a joke, right? You knew him; he teased everyone. Suguru would laugh it off, Shoko would roll her eyes. But something in the way your shoulders tensed as you walked away made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He shook it off, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Whatever. She’ll be fine. Toughen up and all that.”
The rest of the afternoon blurred into normalcy for him. He met up with Suguru near the dorms, the two of them sprawling out on the grassy hill overlooking the training fields. The sky had deepened to a soft orange, streaked with clouds that promised a quiet evening. Suguru sat cross-legged, fiddling with a small leaf he found, while Satoru lay on his back, munching on a stolen mochi from the cafeteria.
“Man, these missions are getting repetitive,” Suguru muttered, his dark hair falling over one eye. “You hear about that second grade that popped up downtown last night? Handled it easy, but the paperwork’s a drag.”
Satoru chuckled, popping another piece into his mouth. “Tell me about it. I could do those in my sleep. Hey, did you see Shoko earlier? She’s been buried in the infirmary again with all the scrapes everyone’s bringing back.” His mind wandered briefly to your request, but it slipped away like sand through fingers. The conversation flowed easily between them—banter about techniques, complaints about the higher-ups, plans for sneaking out later. Laughter filled the space, pushing any lingering unease far into the background. Satoru was good at that, letting the moment carry him, his youthful energy a shield against deeper reflection. The sun dipped lower, painting the world in warm hues, and for a while, everything felt right in their little world of curses and camaraderie.
Hours passed in that comfortable rhythm. They sparred lightly as the evening cooled, Satoru’s Infinity making it impossible for Suguru to land a solid hit, both of them grinning through the exertion. Dinner was a noisy affair in the common area, with Shoko joining briefly, her cigarette smoke curling lazily as she poked fun at their antics. Satoru teased her right back, the earlier exchange with you fading completely from his thoughts. Why dwell on it? You were capable. Everyone had their off days. He didn’t need to babysit.
It wasn’t until the sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the main courtyard that the illusion shattered. Satoru was mid-laugh with Suguru when he spotted Ijichi, the assistant’s face pale and strained, rushing across the grounds. In his arms—or rather, supported with frantic care—was a bloodied, broken figure. The sight hit Satoru like a curse unraveling his Infinity. The body was limp, clothes torn and soaked dark red, bruises blooming across exposed skin like violent flowers. One arm… it ended abruptly at the elbow, a jagged, gruesome stump wrapped hastily in blood-soaked fabric, the missing limb nowhere in sight. Trails of crimson dripped onto the stone path, marking a horrifying trail toward the infirmary.
Satoru’s heart dropped, a cold plunge into ice. Time seemed to slow as recognition crashed over him. That face, even swollen and streaked with dirt and blood, was yours. Your hair matted, eyes closed in unconsciousness, breathing shallow and ragged. The world tilted on its axis. “No,” he whispered, the word barely audible. His legs moved before his mind fully processed it, sprinting across the courtyard, white hair whipping in the wind.
“Ijichi! What happened?” Satoru’s voice cracked with urgency as he caught up, Infinity flickering unconsciously around him. The assistant didn’t slow, his glasses askew, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Emergency from the mission site,” Ijichi panted, voice tight with panic. “Curse was stronger than reported. Ambush. We need to get her to Shoko now.”
Satoru reached out instinctively, but pulled back, afraid his touch might worsen things. The blood, the missing arm—it was real, visceral, the metallic smell assaulting his senses. His chest tightened painfully, breaths coming short. This was you, the one who had asked him for help just hours ago. The one he had brushed off with a stupid joke. Guilt clawed its way up his throat as they burst into the infirmary building, the sterile lights harsh against the dimming evening outside.
Shoko was already there, alerted somehow, her expression shifting from calm to sharp focus in an instant. “Lay her down. Carefully. Satoru, out. Now.”
“But—” He started, voice hoarse, but Suguru’s hand on his shoulder pulled him back. The door to the operating area closed with a final click, leaving Satoru standing in the waiting room, the space feeling oppressively small. Chairs lined the walls, a few magazines scattered on a low table, the clock ticking loudly on the opposite wall. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy, mixing with the faint trace of blood that had followed you in.
He sank into a chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The room spun slightly, or maybe it was just his mind reeling. Suguru hovered nearby, murmuring something about getting updates, but Satoru barely heard. His thoughts fractured, replaying the afternoon in excruciating detail. Your tired eyes, the way your voice had wavered when you asked. The laugh he had let out, the careless words spilling from his mouth like they meant nothing. “If you can’t handle another mission, maybe you aren’t cut out to be a sorcerer.” Who says that? To you, of all people? Someone who worked harder than most, who never complained until today. He had seen the hurt, the way you shut down, but he hadn’t chased after you. Hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t even thought about it again until this moment.
Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and unbidden. He wiped at them furiously with the back of his hand, but more came, silent tracks down his cheeks. The waiting room was quiet except for the distant murmur of medical activity behind the door. Shoko’s voice filtered through occasionally, clipped commands to assistants, the clatter of tools. Each sound twisted the knife deeper in Satoru’s gut. You were in there, fighting for your life, because he had been too stubborn, too immature to just say yes. It was one mission. One stupid, replaceable assignment. He could have handled it with his eyes closed, Infinity shielding him from any threat. But no, he had to make a joke, had to poke at your vulnerability when you were already at your limit.
His mind spiraled, painting vivid pictures of what could have been. If he had taken it, you would be resting now, maybe complaining lightly over dinner about how he stole your glory. Your arm would be intact, not severed in some brutal curse attack. The bruises, the blood—they wouldn’t exist. He imagined you smiling at him later, that soft look you sometimes gave when he wasn’t being an idiot. Instead, here he was, heart pounding with a fear he rarely felt, the kind that clawed at his insides and made his usual confidence crumble. “She’s strong,” he told himself, but the words rang hollow. Strong didn’t matter when exhaustion clouded judgment, when a partner bailed out of laziness disguised as teasing.
Satoru stared at the floor, the tiles blurring through his tears. He replayed every interaction from the past weeks—your quiet endurance, the way you kept pace despite the toll. He had admired it, even if he never said it outright. And now? This. The clock ticked on, minutes stretching into what felt like hours. His hands trembled slightly as he clasped them together, Infinity useless against the internal storm. Regret flooded him, wave after wave, each one heavier. Why hadn’t he noticed how drained you were? Why turn a simple request into a jab? He was supposed to be the strongest, but in that moment, he felt weaker than anyone.
The thoughts looped endlessly, guilt wrapping around his heart like a curse he couldn’t dispel. You wouldn’t be going through this pain, this surgery, this fight for survival if he had just stepped up. No reason to deny it, really. He had no conflicting mission, no exhaustion of his own. Just his big mouth and that immature streak that still lingered. Satoru pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stem the flow of silent tears, but they kept coming, soaking into his sleeves. The fear of losing you gnawed at him, sharper than any physical wound. What if you didn’t make it? What if the last words between you were his careless dismissal? The idea hollowed him out, leaving a void that echoed with self-reproach.
He shifted in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and let his mind drift deeper into the what-ifs. Picturing the mission site as it must have unfolded: you, pushing through fatigue, cursed energy flickering weakly. The curse emerging stronger, overwhelming your defenses. The strike that took your arm, the agony that followed. Blood loss, shock, the desperate retreat. All because he hadn’t been there. His Infinity could have ended it instantly. He could have protected you, turned the whole thing into a non-issue. Instead, stubborn pride and a joke had led to this.
Tears continued their silent path down his face as the waiting dragged on. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t speak to Suguru who paced nearby or Shoko when she briefly emerged with updates that were too vague, too cautious. His world narrowed to the door separating him from you, and the crushing weight of his own words echoing in his skull. The strongest sorcerer, reduced to this—scared, crying quietly in a sterile room, wishing he could turn back time. You had trusted him enough to ask, and he had failed you in the worst way. The guilt consumed him, a relentless tide that left no room for anything else. If only… if only he had taken that mission. You would be okay. Whole. Safe. But now, because of him, you faced the brink, and all he could do was sit here, heart shattered, reflecting on the idiot he had been.
The regret deepened with every passing second, his mind a whirlwind of memories and hypotheticals. He recalled the first time he saw you in action, the spark in your technique that had caught his attention. The shared laughs during lighter days, the way your presence made the heavy burdens of their world feel a little less suffocating. All of it contrasted brutally with the broken form he had glimpsed. His tears fell unchecked now, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. The infirmary lights buzzed overhead, indifferent to his turmoil. Satoru clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to burst through the door, but he stayed put, trapped in his thoughts. You had to pull through. He needed the chance to make it right, to apologize, to never let his immaturity cost you again. But for now, in this agonizing wait, all that existed was the echo of his joke and the devastating consequences, replaying over and over in his head.
In the quiet of the waiting room, Satoru Gojo sat alone with his thoughts, the strongest reduced to silent weeping, every fiber of his being wishing he could swap places, take back the hurt, and shield you from the nightmare he had indirectly caused. The reflection continued, raw and unrelenting, as the clock ticked on.
