Hi guys my grammar is like most of the time bad so if you can't read what I wrote just you know there not proofed read I just like to Yap little too much updates this blog is dark themes if you don’t like it scroll away. i needed a master list 😭🙏
the slap echoes louder in your heart than on your cheek. your baby’s tiny palm had connected with your face with all the might of a god in training—soft, pudgy fingers, yes, but wielded with the strength only an infant could mysteriously summon.
“ow—!” you blink, more startled than hurt.
satoru freezes, blue eyes widening as if he just watched a tragedy unfold before him. “did… did you just hit my wife?” he gasps, tone horrified.
your baby—his baby, his precious little bundle of love—just gurgles, waving those dangerous little fists around again.
satoru clutches his chest like he’s been betrayed. “unbelievable. the one woman who carried you for nine months, who feeds you, rocks you, sacrifices sleep for you—and this is how you repay her?!”
you’re laughing now, but he isn’t. he takes the baby from your arms, holding them up eye-level like a man about to deliver a stern lecture. “listen here, kid. i don’t care if you’ve got my genes—especially because you’ve got my genes—you should know better. that’s my wife. my sugarplum, my sweetheart, my absolute angel. nobody lays a hand on her, not even you, my own flesh and blood.”
the baby just blinks, then drools.
you snort. “satoru, they don’t even understand words yet.”
“oh, they understand,” he insists gravely, bouncing the baby slightly. “they understand fear of consequences. i’ll tickle you silly if you ever dare raise your hand at your mama again.”
the baby squeals—half from delight, half from the gentle onslaught of his long fingers wiggling against their belly.
and you, still rubbing your cheek, can’t stop smiling. “sometimes i wonder who the real baby is.”
“no, i’m the best husband in the world,” he corrects smugly, leaning down to kiss your cheek right where the baby had slapped. “and i’ll protect you from anyone. even this tiny traitor i helped make.”
today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)
synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?
pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader
wc: 7.3k
content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency
a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3
The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband.
It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before.
You weren’t even sure he was human.
Or if you were still asleep.
“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.
The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes.
You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face.
Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was.
With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with.
You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming.
So he was, for better or worse, real.
“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it.
“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were.
“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too.
You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was.
“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place.
“This is home.”
You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.
“No,” you muttered. “This-”
You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion.
“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-
Wait.
How the hell did you know what his name was?
Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on?
He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either.
“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared.
You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip.
“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious.
“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.”
He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal.
And then it clicked.
It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network.
“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”
“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him.
“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.
The only stain on it.
“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes.
“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place.
But nothing stood out.
Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor?
“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”
He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.
You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page.
And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself.
If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it.
His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.
You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago.
“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone.
“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.
You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.
Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight.
Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized.
“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before.
“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you.
He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it.
You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would.
It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though.
A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face.
Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through.
It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.
Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern.
When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.
Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you.
“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you.
Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen.
You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant.
But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did.
You blinked at him.
He stared back at you.
The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first.
You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?”
“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.
You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful.
It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers
That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.
The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement.
“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once?
Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about.
You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor.
God, that really did sound fucking insane.
Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you?
There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him.
What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours?
“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though.
“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface.
“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.”
“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap.
“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them.
“Then why are you here today?”
Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife?
“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit.
“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too.
You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way.
“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole.
He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working.
“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles.
“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he?
“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold.
“Sure,” you returned his fake smile.
It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway?
“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”
Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers.
Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home.
You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road?
It was ridiculous.
He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him.
The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat.
Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer.
“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded.
“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car.
“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.
You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval.
“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown.
“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege?
That the world bent around him because he thought it should?
You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.
Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.
He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save.
Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker.
Maybe both.
When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date.
“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch.
You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face.
“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours?
“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?”
You didn't really believe anything he said.
Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.
But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going.
“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them.
Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away.
“You don’t work,” he casually replied.
“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.
“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.”
He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust.
The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it.
Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food.
“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps.
You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills.
He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.
“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.
You swallowed.
And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more.
But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed.
And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car.
The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on.
His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time.
You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.
“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.
“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.
“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world.
He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped.
People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.
As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.
Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship.
You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually.
It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him.
It was the worst in the mornings.
Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.
And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching.
His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.
Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity.
You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late.
The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it.
You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here.
He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either.
Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.
But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.
“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.
You tried to sleep it off.
But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all.
And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be.
On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him.
You used to think you could get used to anything.
But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head?
“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was.
“Fine,” you lied.
You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.
“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would.
You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.”
“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?”
Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about.
“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side.
Satoru had been listening in.
But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up.
Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.
You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted?
In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning.
Something was seriously wrong with him and you.
You were both bad at pretending to be normal.
Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap.
Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.
If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it.
“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe.
“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking.
You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock.
Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd.
Even more than the situation itself was.
Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago.
“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall.
Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs.
But you never drowned.
You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?
Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you.
Here there had to be at least two hundred.
All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared.
Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same.
And you didn’t resist.
Didn’t want to.
When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out.
It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat.
Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.
Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you.
You could've lived in it.
But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy.
The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick.
“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe.
You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many.
In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react.
And you saw it.
Not just a glimpse. Not a flash.
But a full second where there was an extra arm attached.
It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again.
“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been.
“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it.
“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling.
“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband.
He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr.
How easy would it be for him to do the same to you?
“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident.
Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love.
There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of.
Something had to snap - and it was you.
And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor.
Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk.
And you tapped your nails against your leg.
“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”
“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I know,” you nodded.
You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock.
“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom.
He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out.
Your file was left on his desk.
It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered.
Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too.
His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach.
Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them.
“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.”
“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway.
“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him.
“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”
“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted.
You felt like you were going to pass out.
“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-”
You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.
“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet.
A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.
A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could.
“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening.
“Your husband.”
You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one.
What vows had he sworn?
For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not?
“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded.
Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his.
“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect.
You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset.
“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”
Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop.
“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.”
You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one.
“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light.
“You,” he easily answered.
“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window.
“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out.
“I want to go home,” you murmured.
The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his.
And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you.
Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off.
“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted.
But being scared was exhausting.
So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom.
You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward.
“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure.
“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed.
Literally.
A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?”
Gojo was extremely protective and secretive of you especially around Yuji since he knew Sukuna or any other curse would kill you in an instant if given the opportunity.
Nanami and Megumi were the only people he personally knew who actually knew you even EXISTED. Gojo had many sleepless nights because of the overwhelming anxiety of potentially losing you to a curse. "Love is the most twisted curse of all, I am so weak for you Y/N" Gojo would softly mumble in your arms while you rocked him back to sleep to calm his nervousness "I know it's unfair, but you loving me despite your fears is another reason why you're the strongest of all." You would sweetly smile.
Because his infinity was usually activated, Gojo was severely deprived of physical touch, which is exactly why it was his love language. He was always playfully slapping your ass and barging in while you were taking a shower so your naked bodies could lovingly embrace in the warm water. He would pounce on you from behind and suddenly smother you with kisses when you were least expecting. And he always insisted you played with his hair before his bedtime since it was now apparently the only way he could fall asleep.
But whenever your boyfriend wasn't the centre of your attention, he would resort to childish sulking and clinginess; it was hilarious and adorable. This morning was a perfect example. As the sun was rising you had dragged your weary body from Gojo's bed since you had an early shift at work. "Husky, please" you sighed groggily as Gojo gripped your pyjama shirt; pulling you back in his bed for your usual morning cuddles.
Husky was one of Gojo's pet names since his snowy-white bangs and vibrant blue eyes were just like those of a white Siberian husky. He was also just as extroverted and playful as one, too. "Mochiiii, please just stay a little longer. Work can wait," Gojo whined.
Mochi or little mochi was a pet-name of yours since you would always give him discounts on his mochi when you used to be a server in his favourite café. (It's how you two met).
"Husky, I'm sorry, I love you, but I must-", "What do you love about me? Is all day long enough to list every reason? You'll probably need the rest of the week, so you might as well stick with me, babe," Gojo grinned. "I would need years to list every reason why I love you husky, which is exactly why I'll be late if I stay with you", you chuckled wearily, "Guess you won't be breaking up with me anytime soon then" Gojo smirked.
Whenever you two weren't together, Gojo would spam your phone with heart emojis and dick pics.
Nanami once casually looked over your shoulder and choked in surprise from suddenly seeing a mirror selfie of Gojo flexing his muscles and stroking his dick. "It genuinely perplexes me how a man of his age can still be so crude and immature," Nanami muttered in disgust. "Oh please! You're just jealous. But don't worry, Gojo gave me this so you wouldn't feel left out, " you giggled while handing him a small envelope. Nanami tore open the envelope to only find a scribbled drawing of a penis. "Lucky us! My boyfriend both gave us a dick pic, " you chortled, "Repulsive" Nanami growled, "Don't insult my boyfriend's art skills, " you pouted.
Gojo wasn't much of a jealous boyfriend since he was "The strongest and most handsome jujutsu sorcerer." He, however, WANTED OTHER PEOPLE TO BE JEALOUS. For instance, yesterday Gojo caught some random stranger ogling you, so he approached them and laughed, "Bet they'd pick me over you," acting like he wasn't already your boyfriend. The pervy stranger took up Gojo's challenge, and together, they approached you and asked for your number. You were super confused and hesitantly played along and picked Gojo (of course). "I already know one thing about you, sweetheart." Gojo chuckled in front of the stranger after they got rejected, "And that is?" You giggled, playing along, "You've got great standards. "
"i had a really good time tonight," you say as you come to a stop at your doorstep. gojo doesn't even look like he heard you — too busy staring at you like you hung the moon.
eventually, he snaps out of it. "o-oh yeah, me too. we should totally do it again sometime. if you'd like." he looks down at his feet, cheeks already flushing a pretty pink.
"i'd like that very much." you smile up at him and he thinks he's going to pass out. slowly, you lean in until your lips were only a hair's breadth away from his.
"are you sure about this?" gojo asks you as if the answer wasn't already obvious enough. "what does it look like?" you deadpan and he huffs out a laugh before closing that nonexistent distance between you.
your arms loop around his neck and he grabs your waist to pull you closer. "been wantin' to do this for a while now," he murmurs against your lips. your mouth parts for him and he delves deeper, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. his hands flex at your waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.
beep. beep.
you both freeze.
gojo pulls back just enough to glance down, and you follow his gaze to his smartwatch, glowing innocently in the dark.
“abnormal heart rate detected.”
you blink. then bite your lip.
gojo glares at it like it betrayed him personally. “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
you burst out laughing. “are you okay?” you sputter between giggles. “no, actually,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “this thing’s a snitch.”
“you’re really that worked up over a kiss?”
“i’m really that worked up over you,” he mutters, clearly not meaning to say it out loud. he covers the screen with his palm like it’s embarrassing. “no, i’m just—” he clears his throat. “—very fit. obviously. peak condition.”
your eyes flick back up to his—his ears are a little red. “right,” you say, smiling. “so this had nothing to do with the kiss.”
gojo stares at the watch for a second. “…it’s broken. has to be.”
you raise a brow. “you sure? you looked a little...flushed.”
he scoffs. “flushed? me?” he waves a hand. “please. my heart rate didn’t even budge. if anything, i’m probably clinically dead. that’s how calm i am.”
without another word, you reach up again, hands curling around the collar of his jacket as you pull him back in. this kiss is slower. a little deeper. you don’t rush it—and you feel the exact moment he melts into it, hands settling on your hips like he’s forgotten all about trying to act composed.
beep. beep.
you pull back just slightly and glance down. the screen glows again. gojo lets out the quietest “oh my god.”
you bite your lip, trying not to laugh. “still very chill?”
he drops his forehead to your shoulder. “i’m never gonna hear the end of this, am i?”
“nope,” you say brightly, arms winding around his neck. “but i do appreciate the honesty. from you and your watch.”
⨯ pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader
⨯ themes: fluff, suggestive, smut, rom-com, porn without plot, basically you and satoru trying out various sex positions, aftercare, physical and emotional intimacy, praise, feet kink, size difference, exhibitionsim, rough & gentle, awkward and endearing situations, satoru can not keep his hands off of you.
⨯ important: works will not be completed in any particular order but are organized in a timeline. different variations of a headcanon may exist. more tags will be added as i go. smut is labelled using the “⊹” symbol. minors do not interact. art by @/baobei_beh on twt/X.
satoru smash! is an erotic, passionate, and playful series of intimate moments and fragments in time based on your sex life with satoru. it explores your chemistry and your curiosity — from trying new positions to discovering what you both like in the bedroom and sometimes… outside of it.
⨯ pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader
⨯ themes: fluff, suggestive, smut, rom-com, slice of life, domestic, pregnancy sex (satoru is a pregnancy perv), first time parents, girl and boy dad satoru, pregnancy symptoms, giving birth, postpartum, breastfeeding, diaper changes, anxiety, patience, toddlers, teenagers, awkward and angsty phases, innuendos in front of the kids, late-in-life and (happy) accidental babies, breeding.
⨯ important: works will not be completed in any particular order but are organized in a timeline. different variations of a headcanon may exist. more tags will be added as i go. smut is labelled using the “⊹” symbol. minors do not interact. art by @/momoya348 on twt/X.
the papatoru diaries is a heartwarming series about family. each work is an entry recorded in a diary, consisting of little to big moments and fragments in time that follow gojo satoru and you, his wife, through the chaos that is pregnancy and parenthood. each stage of life brings new challenges and joys. as your boys and girls grow and begin to navigate the world, you and your husband face the changes together.
⨯ pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader
⨯ themes: fluff, slightly suggestive, rom-com, slice of life, yearning, satoru’s high school days, sheltered first year satoru, experiencing lots of fun & trying new things, friendship, underage drinking, mentions of proposals & marriage & pregnancy, crushes, love at first sight, teentoru is a nervous wreck under the cocky exterior, he is innocent until he’s not, reader is a jujutsu student but it is not the main focus and will barely be mentioned.
⨯ important: works will not be completed in any particular order but are organized in a timeline. different variations of a headcanon may exist. more tags will be added as i go. art by @/momoya348 on twt/X.
satoru days is a soft, nostalgic series of little moments and fragments in time from gojo satoru’s high school years. each work is a journey consisting of him discovering himself as he gets his first real taste of freedom after growing up sheltered within the gojo clan. he makes friends, falls in love (with you), and discovers the simple joys of life for the first time.
⨯ pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader
⨯ themes: fluff, suggestive, smut, rom-com, slice of life, yearning, firsts, dating, satoru’s usual antics, proposals, marriage, mentions of pregnancy and babies, clingy and overbearing behavior, love at first sight, emotional and physical intimacy, implication of soulmates, happily ever afters — always.
⨯ important: works will not be completed in any particular order but are organized in a timeline. different variations of a headcanon may exist. more tags will be added as i go. smut is labelled using the “⊹” symbol. minors do not interact. art by @/momoya348 on twt/X.
loving satoru is a romantic series of moments and fragments in time that capture the journey of your relationship with gojo satoru — from the first time you meet, to all of the milestones you share together. it is a mix of your firsts, the little things you come to love and learn about one another, dates, proposals, your wedding day, and married life.
who do y'all think is the best victim of it?? i say satoru. i think he'd not even complain lmfao he's whining “'re you pregnant? are ya pregnant with my baby now, pr'ncess?” into your shoulder like a loser.
at your wedding — or technically — the gojo clan’s formal ceremony that was stiff with tradition, satoru had dropped into a deep ojigi (bow) before you. and it was scandalous — the talk of the century as word spread to every sorcerer across the country. it had been known and described as being too deep and too low for a man bowing to his wife — an act of defiance. the gasps that rippled throughout the room along with the disapproving clicks of tongues were the definition of scorned and displeased. bc his behavior was so improper and undignified — blasphemous, even. but satoru stayed there a moment longer than necessary — just to drive the point home. he specifically did this during the ceremony he didn’t even want to have. bc he hadn’t planned on doing a wedding for his clan at all, hated the idea — hated them. and he hated how they didn’t approve of your marriage because you weren’t a sorcerer. but once he threatened to cut them off entirely — they folded. those old geezers couldn’t risk being on bad terms with their own — especially not with the strongest. then and even now, his bow was a message — a loud and clear one. with a smug grin on his lips, the reverent action was a declaration: “she’s the only one i bow to. ever.” and you flustered of course — bc he made sure that day that everyone saw how you are the one he’d kneel and deeply bow for. the one person he will listen to forever — his goddess. that no one’s input or opinion or existence mattered next to yours. it was a vow — one that would be remembered and talked about — in awe and jealousy — for generations to come.
all clan head satoru does is fuck his wife all day btw . he barely has time for his duties bc he can’t stay away from you btw . his cock gets hard the moment he catches a whiff of your scent lingering on his clothes during an important meeting btw . he dismisses everyone and goes straight to you to fuck you again btw . his robes are always a mess for this reason btw . he doesn’t wear underwear for easy access and the reason everyone knows this is bc of strong gusts of wind btw .
