i don’t really know how to explain how much this account once meant to me. writing here used to make me so happy!!! interacting with people, sharing my fics, seeing everyone’s reactions! it was comforting in a way i can’t describe. ive made so many lovely lovely friends andd i genuinely loved being here, and i loved all of you more than you probably know :c
but over time, things changed sigh
the constant hate, harassment, and the doxxing have drained me more than i can put into words. every time i opened this app, i felt anxious instead of excited. i kept trying to push through it because i didn’t want to let go of something i cared about so deeply, but i don’t think i have it in me anymore guys, im so tired
the burnbook blogs especially have completely ruined tumblr for me, and honestly, they’ve ruined writing for me too. i never thought something i loved this much would start making me feel so frickin miserable. i’ve done nothing wrong, and i think people forget sometimes that there’s an actual person behind the screen reading the things they say, whether on anon or not. please be kinder to people! it costs nothing
mimuju will stay up for anyone who still wants to read my work, and i’ll probably still post on ao3 whenever i can bring myself to write. maybe one day i’ll come back here? but right now i honestly can’t imagine it :c
thank you for every kind message, every reblog, every person who made this space feel safe before it stopped being one for me. those memories are the reason leaving hurts this much
i think i just need peace for a while, theres a lot going on in my personal life atm!
[ SYNOPSIS ] — You try to be the "perfect" partner to Megumi by hiding your own needs and pain so you wouldn’t be a nuisance. This habit becomes dangerous when you get badly hurt on a mission and lie about it, leading to a tearful confrontation when he finds you bleeding in secret. w.c: 4.8k
[ PAIRING ] — megumi fushiguro x people pleaser!reader
[ TAGS ] — gn!reader, established relationship, canon compliant (?), hidden injury, blood, reassurance, hurt/comfort, use of [Name] once, megumi is a sweetheart as usual. Lmk if I missed anything! art by: @/hong_nock
"You wouldn't mind taking care of these mission reports for me, would you? You're a lifesaver!"
Satoru Gojo didn't even pause to wait for an answer, dropping a stack of heavily redacted, coffee-stained files onto your already cluttered desk. His iconic blindfold was pushed up, a devastatingly charming smile plastered across his face—the kind of smile that made it entirely impossible for anyone to refuse him.
Your head was pounding. A dull, rhythmic thud echoed right behind your eyes, a souvenir from a consecutive string of sleepless nights. You had your own reports to file, a history exam to help Yuji study for, and Nobara had explicitly told you to be ready in twenty minutes to carry her bags through Shibuya. Your throat tightened, the word no forming perfectly on your tongue.
It was right there. All you had to do was push it past your teeth.
"Of course, Sensei," you heard yourself say, the voice sounding entirely detached from your own body. "I'll have them on Principal Yaga's desk by three."
"Knew I could count on you!" He gave you a cheerful salute and vanished in a blur of limitless space, leaving you staring at the mountain of paperwork. You swallowed the sigh building in your chest, picked up your pen, and started writing.
This was simply how you survived. You made yourself a skeleton key, filing down your own edges, your own needs, and your own exhaustion until you perfectly fit the lock of whatever anyone else required. If you were useful, if you were accommodating, if you smoothed out the friction in the lives of the people around you, they would never look at you and decide you were too much trouble to keep around, that's how it should be, right?
But nowhere was this exhausting performance more prevalent than in your relationship with Megumi Fushiguro.
Megumi with his quiet nature, Megumi with his storm-clouded eyes, Megumi who shouldered so much— with Tsumiki's curse, with the expectations of having a powerful cursed technique, Megumi who you were so so so afraid of losing.
You still have a hard time believing you two are dating. The way it happened was so casual it almost felt unreal.
It wasn’t a grand confession, just a quiet surrender to everything that made you fall for him. The hallway was still buzzing with leftover energy from Yuji’s and Nobara’s laughter, but at your door, the silence felt heavy. Megumi lingered, hands shoved in his pockets, before his fingers grazed your wrist as you were about open the door. When he leaned in, it was with the soft gentleness of someone who had finally found a place to let his guard down. The kiss was brief, but you both knew exactly where you stood in each other's lives.
Yet, being his partner did not cure your affliction; it magnified it even further. You treated your relationship like fragile glass sculpture you had to constantly balance on your fingertips. You altered your entire existence to fit the mold of what you assumed was his ideal, low-maintenance partner.
You drank your tea unsweetened because he preferred bitter things, forcing the astringent liquid down your throat every morning while secretly craving sugar. You slept rigidly on the absolute edge of his mattress, your muscles cramping by dawn, just to ensure he had the lion’s share of the blankets. When he was exhausted from a mission, you swallowed your own awful, lingering trauma from the day, hiding your bruises beneath long sleeves and painting a bright, serene smile on your face so you wouldn’t add to his mental load.
And Megumi knew.
He was incredibly perceptive, and the forced perfection of your behavior was beginning to wear on him like coarse grit against his skin. He saw the way your hands shook when you agreed to take a double patrol shift. He noticed the barely perceptible flinch when he absentmindedly turned the television to a channel you secretly hated, only for you to vehemently agree that it was a great program to watch. It frustrated him.
Megumi loved you, he loved you so much it pained him, but he felt like he was dating a shadow, only moving when he did. And he did not know how to bring it up without fearing for what you would do.
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
The mission was supposed to be a standard Grade 2 curse eradication in an abandoned subway terminal. It was a joint assignment for the two of you, a rare opportunity to work together. But the intelligence from the auxiliary managers was flawed, as it so often was. The curse was a Grade 1, a massive, grotesque amalgamation of rusted metal and rotting flesh that moved with terrifying speed.
The battle was chaotic in the claustrophobic underground tunnels. Dust choked the air, illuminated only by the flickering, dying fluorescent lights overhead. Megumi had summoned Nue to provide aerial attacks, the electrical discharge illuminating the grim determination on his face. You were covering his blind spots, your own cursed energy manifesting in sharp and precise strikes.
It happened in a fraction of a second. The curse, recognizing Megumi as the greater threat, lunged toward him with a massive, scythe-like appendage. Megumi was mid-incantation, his hands clasped together, momentarily vulnerable.
Your body moved before your conscious mind could register the decision. The ingrained instinct to protect, to serve, to sacrifice, propelled you forward. You shoved Megumi hard, knocking him out of the trajectory of the blade.
The impact was deafening. The rusted metal sliced through the air and tore into your left side, ripping through your uniform and biting deep into the flesh of your waist. The agony was instantaneous, a blinding flare of white-hot pain that stole the oxygen from your lungs. You hit the concrete floor hard, the taste of copper flooding your mouth.
"Nue!" Megumi roared, his voice cracking with a rare, raw panic. The shikigami descended in a blinding flash of lightning, obliterating the curse in a concussive shockwave of cursed energy.
The dust settled, heavy and silent.
Megumi was beside you in an instant, his breathing ragged, his hands hovering over you as if afraid that touching you would shatter you completely. "Are you alright? Where did it hit you?" His eyes were wide, the usual cold indifference entirely stripped away, revealing the terrified boy underneath.
The pain in your side was excruciating, a throbbing, burning sensation that suggested the curse’s rusted blade had been laced with some kind of venomous energy. Blood was already soaking the fabric of your shirt, hot and sticky against your skin. You needed Shoko. You needed a stretcher.
But as you looked up into Megumi’s panic-stricken eyes, the old, familiar terror clawed at your throat. You caused this panic. You are making him worry. You ruined the mission. You are a burden.
The people pleaser within you seized the reins of your vocal cords.
You forced the agony down, burying it beneath a mountain of sheer, desperate willpower. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, twisting your torso to hide the worst of the bleeding from his line of sight. You plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack your face in two.
"I'm fine," you lied, your voice painfully steady. "It just grazed me. I knocked the wind out of myself when I fell."
Megumi frowned, his dark brows knitting together in suspicion. He reached out to inspect your side, but you swiftly shifted away, standing up on shaking legs. The world tilted dangerously, black spots dancing in your peripheral vision, but you dug your nails into your palms to ground yourself.
"I swear, Megumi. I'm okay. Let's just report and go home. I'm exhausted." You kept your tone light, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry I got in your way. I should have been more careful."
The apology tasted vile. You had saved his life, yet you were apologizing for being in the way.
Megumi stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The tension radiating from him was evident, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. He knew you were hiding something. He could smell the blood. But your adamant refusal to acknowledge the danger built a wall between you that he didn't know how to breach, yet he trusted your judgment, he trusted that you would tell him if the injury was serious.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with frustration and repressed anxiety. He recalled his shikigami, the shadows swallowing Nue whole. "Let's go."
The car ride back to the college was nothing less than silent torture. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your arms wrapped tightly around your waist, secretly applying pressure to the wound that was continuously oozing blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of agony up your spine, but you bit the inside of your cheek until it bled rather than make a single sound. Ijichi drove in stony silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, every now and then apologising for the mistake in the mission logs, and then expressing his relief at your well-being.
By the time you reached the dormitories, you were running purely on adrenaline and the need to lock yourself in your bathroom before you collapsed.
"I'm going to take a shower!" you announced the moment you stepped into his room, your voice breathy and strained. You didn't wait for a response, practically fleeing into the adjoining bathroom and closing the door behind you.
The moment it was locked, the facade crumbled. Your knees gave out, and you slumped against the cold tile door, an agonizing gasp escaping your lips. You peeled off your ruined jacket and the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. The wound was horrific. An angry tear across your oblique, the edges blackened with residual cursed energy. It was deep, bleeding sluggishly but persistently.
Tears of pain and exhaustion finally spilled over your eyelashes, tracing hot paths down your dust-streaked cheeks. You had to clean it. You had to wrap it. You couldn't bother Shoko this late; she had been pulling all-nighters all week. You couldn't bother Megumi; he was already mad at you.
You dragged yourself to the sink, turning on the faucet. You grabbed a washcloth, soaked it in hot water, and pressed it against the wound.
A choked, pathetic sob tore from your throat. The pain was blinding, a sickening wave of nausea crashing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your entire body trembling violently as you tried to scrub away the blackened, infected tissue.
Click.
You froze. The sound of the lock turning from the outside. You had forgotten Megumi kept a spare key on the upper frame of the door for emergencies.
The door swung open, revealing Megumi standing in the threshold. He had changed out of his uniform, wearing only a loose t-shirt and sweatpants. He looked exhausted.
But whatever exhaustion he felt vanished the instant his eyes landed on you.
He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: your pale, shivering form hunched over the sink, the blood-soaked washcloth in your trembling hand, and the gruesome, gaping wound on your side that was currently dripping crimson onto the pristine white tiles.
The air in the bathroom seemed to drop ten degrees. The shadows in the corners of the room physically writhed, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his cursed energy.
"What," Megumi breathed, his voice barely a whisper, yet it resonated with the force of an earthquake, "is that."
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. You scrambled to cover the wound with your arm, backing away from him like a cornered animal, your eyes wide and terrified.
"It's nothing!" you stammered, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a desperate rush. "I was just cleaning it. It looks worse than it is, Megumi, I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll clean the floor, just—"
"Stop."
The command cracked through the air like a whip. Megumi stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His face was a mask of cold fury, but his eyes—his deep, beautiful, stormy eyes—were wide with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like devastation.
He crossed the small space in two strides, grabbing your wrists. His grip was firm, inescapable, but agonizingly gentle as he pulled your hands away from your side. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as he finally got a clear look at the injury.
"You call this a graze?" he demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying, suppressed rage. "It's entirely infected with cursed energy. You need reverse cursed technique, immediately. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in the tunnel?"
Your chest heaved as you struggled to pull oxygen into your lungs. The panic was taking over, suffocating you. You were trapped. You had failed. You had made him angry. You had become the burden you fought so hard not to be.
"I—I didn't want to worry you," you choked out, fresh tears welling in your eyes. "You were already stressed about the mission being a Grade 1. I didn't want to slow us down. I'm sorry, Megumi. I'm so, so sorry. Please don't be mad. I can fix it, I'll go to Shoko right now, you don't have to deal with this—"
"Stop apologizing!" Megumi yelled.
You flinched violently, your shoulders instantly hiking up to your ears, your head bowing in an automatic posture of submission. The silence that followed his shout was deafening, broken only by your ragged, hyperventilating breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood hitting the floor.
Megumi stared at your cowering form, the anger draining out of him in a rush, leaving behind a profound, hollow ache in his chest. He realized, with a horrifying clarity, that you were not flinching because of the pain of your wound. You were flinching because of him.
He dropped your wrists as if they burned him, taking a step back, his hands taking place behind his neck.
"Why do you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking, the anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing confusion. "Why do you lie to me? Why do you let yourself bleed out in a bathroom rather than ask me for help? Am I that unapproachable? Am I that terrible of a boyfriend that you think I would be annoyed by you almost dying?"
"No!" you cried, your voice breaking, the absolute terror of him thinking he was at fault tearing at your heart. "No, Megumi, you're perfect. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. It's not you, it's me. I'm just… I'm just trying to be good. I'm trying to be easy. I don't want to be difficult."
"Easy?" Megumi repeated, the word sounding foreign and ugly in his mouth. He stepped forward again, crowding you against the edge of the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain on either side of your waist, trapping you in. He didn't touch you, but his presence was demanding your full attention.
"You think I want you to be 'easy'?" he pressed, his eyes searching yours frantically, demanding an honesty you didn't know how to give. "I want you to be honest! I want you to tell me when you are hurt so I can take care of you!"
You shook your head furiously, the tears flowing freely now, hot and unrelenting. Your entire body was trembling, your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break. You were breaking apart, the foundation of your entire coping mechanism crumbling beneath his gaze.
"You say that now," you sobbed, the ugly, deeply buried truth finally clawing its way up your throat, bitter and raw. "You say that now, but you don't know. You already have so much on your plate, I don't want to make it worse. If I don't do it, you will hate me, I don't want you to hate me."
The confession hung in the humid air of the bathroom, heavy and devastating.
You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for the blow. Waiting for the agreement. Waiting for him to step back, to look at you with cold realization, and walk out the door. You had finally revealed the ugly, pathetic core of your soul. You were a coward, terrified of abandonment, buying love with servitude.
But the silence stretched. And then, you felt it.
The gentle, hesitant brush of his knuckles against your tear-soaked cheek.
Your eyes flew open. Megumi was looking at you with an expression that shattered your heart into a million irreparable pieces. It wasn't pity. It wasn't disgust, but heartbreak. His eyes were glassy, his lips parted as he struggled to find words that could possibly combat the magnitude of your self-hatred.
Slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild, frightened animal, Megumi reached out. He didn't grab your wrists this time. He slid his arms around your waist, mindful of the gaping wound on your side, and pulled you flush against his chest.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.
"You are so stupid," he whispered, the words muffled against your skin, devoid of any malice, dripping only with a desperate, heavy sorrow. "You are an incredible person, so beautiful, so incredible, but stupid."
You stiffened, your hands hovering uselessly in the air, terrified to touch him, terrified to ruin this moment. But Megumi just held you tighter, his strong arms wrapping around you like a shield against the very demons inside your own head.
"Listen to me," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. He pulled back just enough to force you to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze pinned you in place."Stop acting like your existence doesn't matter, it matters to me. You don't get to decide that you're expendable."
You let out a choked gasp, your hands finally, tentatively coming to rest against his chest, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like your life depended on it.
"I care about you, so much," Megumi continued, his voice dropping into that serious, unwavering tone he used when making vows. "I care about protecting the people who matter to me. And you… you are at the very top of that list. If you are hurt, my world stops. If you are in pain, I am in pain. Hiding your suffering from me doesn't protect me; it destroys me."
He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping away the steady stream of tears falling from your eyes. His touch was warm, grounding.
"You are not a burden," he said, enunciating each word with fierce, desperate clarity. "And I am begging you, please… let me take care of you. Let me be the one who carries the weight for a while. You don't have to earn your place beside me by bleeding in silence. In fact, you don't have to do anything but be here."
The dam broke.
You collapsed against him, your legs finally giving out, and he caught you effortlessly, sinking to the bathroom floor with you held securely in his arms.
You wept. You wailed. It was an ugly, guttural, heart-wrenching sound that tore from the very depths of your soul. You buried your face in his chest, clutching at him desperately, crying for the pain in your side, crying for the exhaustion in your bones, crying for the terrified little child inside you who had spent their whole life terrified of being left behind.
Megumi didn't shush you. He didn't tell you to calm down. He sat on the cold tile floor amidst the blood and the discarded bandages, holding you. He rocked you slowly, one hand gently stroking your hair, the other resting firmly against your back. He let you fall apart completely, creating a safe, impenetrable fortress within his arms where you were finally allowed to be shattered, loud, and inconvenient.
Hours seemed to pass before the sobs finally subsided into heavy, exhausted hiccups. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen and burning. The adrenaline had completely left your system, leaving you weak and painfully aware of the throbbing agony in your side.
You shifted slightly in his lap, sniffing pathetically. Megumi immediately loosened his grip, looking down at you with a softness that made your chest ache.
"Are you done?" he asked quietly, a tiny, sad smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
You nodded numbly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "I ruined your shirt," you rasped, noticing the dark stains of your tears and blood on the grey fabric.
"I don't care about the shirt," Megumi said softly. He gently shifted you off his lap, standing up and reaching down to help you to your feet. You swayed dangerously, the blood loss finally catching up to you. He caught you around the waist, easily supporting your weight.
"Come on," he murmured, his voice gentle but brook-no-argument firm. "We are going to Shoko. Right now."
The instinct to protest flared up instantly. It's 3 AM. She's sleeping. I can just bandage it tight. But as you looked up at Megumi, at the deep circles under his eyes and the lingering terror in his posture, the words died in your throat.
You swallowed hard, the word feeling foreign and incredibly heavy on your tongue.
"Okay."
Megumi let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours. He didn't say anything, but the relief in his eyes was blinding. He practically carried you down the silent, moonlit hallways to the infirmary.
Shoko was awake, smoking a cigarette out the window when Megumi kicked the infirmary door open. She took one look at Megumi’s pale face and the blood soaking your side and immediately crushed the cigarette, immediately tending to you.
The process of healing was agonizing. Shoko’s reverse cursed technique was a miracle, but extracting the foreign cursed energy from the wound before healing the flesh was a torturous sensation. You lay on the sterile white cot, your teeth gritted, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead.
Through it all, Megumi sat beside the bed. He held your hand in both of his, his grip tight enough to bruise, grounding you in reality while the pain threatened to pull you under. He didn't look away, even when the wound looked its most gruesome. He stayed exactly where he promised he would be.
When it was finally over, and the flesh was knit cleanly together leaving only an angry pink scar, exhaustion hit you like a physical blow. Shoko handed you a clean t-shirt and kicked you both out, muttering something about needing sleep.
The walk back to Megumi’s dorm was slow. You leaned heavily against him, your body utterly drained. You felt hollowed out, incredibly fragile, like a glass blown too thin.
When you reached his room, he didn't turn on the overhead lights. He guided you gently to the bed, pulling back the heavy comforter. You crawled in automatically, immediately scooting to the absolute edge of the mattress, curling into a tight ball. It was muscle memory at this point.
Megumi stood at the edge of the bed, watching you in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. He sighed, a heavy, exhausted sound. He kicked off his shoes, discarded his ruined shirt, and climbed into the bed.
But he didn't lie down on his side.
Instead, he moved to the center of the mattress. He reached out, grabbing you gently by the hips, and physically dragged you away from the edge, pulling you across the sheets until you were flush against him in the very middle of the bed.
You gasped softly in surprise, stiffening. "Megumi—"
"Stop," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. He tangled his legs with yours, pinning you to him, ensuring there was no physical way for you to retreat to the cold periphery. "You are exactly where you belong. Take up the whole bed if you want. Kick me out if you want. But stop going all the way there."
You lay rigid in his arms for a long moment, your brain struggling to process the sensation of being held so securely, of being allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. The warmth of his body seeped into your cold skin. His heartbeat thudded steadily against your back, a rhythmic, grounding lullaby.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, you forced your muscles to uncoil. You let out a long, shaky breath, letting your weight sink fully into his embrace. You closed your eyes, his scent surrounding you, pulling you down into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, you woke to the smell of brewing coffee and the sound of birds chirping outside the window. The sunlight streaming into the room felt unnervingly bright.
You sat up slowly, testing the newly healed skin on your side. It twinged slightly, a dull ache, but the agonizing burn was gone. You looked around the room. You were alone in the bed, the covers tangled around your waist. You were dead center in the mattress.
The door to the small kitchenette opened, and Megumi stepped in, carrying two mugs. He looked rested, his dark hair a chaotic mess, his eyes softer than you had seen them in months.
He walked over to the bed and handed you a mug.
"Morning," he mumbled quietly, sitting on the edge of the mattress near your feet.
"Morning," you replied softly, your voice still gravelly from crying the night before. You wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug, seeking comfort in the heat. You brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip.
You immediately paused, your brow furrowing in confusion.
It wasn't black coffee. It wasn't the bitter, acidic brew he drank every morning. It was warm milk, steeped heavily with a sweet, floral chamomile tea, and generously laced with honey. It was incredibly sweet. It was exactly what you actually liked.
You lowered the mug, staring at the golden liquid, a sudden lump forming in your throat. You looked up at Megumi. He was watching you carefully, his dark eyes analyzing your reaction.
"You didn't make coffee," you whispered, stating the obvious.
Megumi looked down at his own mug, taking a sip of the black sludge he preferred. "I know you hate it," he said simply, not meeting your eyes. A faint, barely perceptible pink dusted the tips of his ears. "I noticed a while ago. You always grimace when you take the first sip. And you always buy that sweet stuff when we go to the convenience store, but you never drink it around me."
Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had known, and he had been waiting for you to say something.
He reached out, his long fingers gently wrapping around your ankle over the blankets.
"I'm not asking you to change everything in one day," Megumi continued, his voice quiet, steady, and infinitely patient. "I know it's a habit. I know you're terrified. But I am asking you to try. With me. Just with me."
He paused, a tiny, teasing glint momentarily breaking through his stoic demeanor. "For example. I was thinking of making eggs for breakfast. But I know you like pancakes, even though you always say eggs are fine. So. What do you want for breakfast?"
It was a test. A small, seemingly insignificant question, but between the two of you, it carried the weight of the world.
The instinct rose up instantly. Eggs are easier for him to make. He likes eggs. Tell him eggs. The familiar panic fluttered in your chest, the fear of demanding too much, of being an inconvenience.
You opened your mouth, the word 'eggs' forming on your lips.
But you stopped. You looked down at the sweet, warm tea in your hands, the tea he had made specifically for you, acknowledging your preferences, honoring your comfort. You looked at the hand resting gently on your ankle, grounding you, keeping you safe. You remembered the desperate way he had held you on the bloody bathroom floor, demanding that you exist loudly.
You closed your mouth. You took a deep breath, fighting the tremor in your voice. You forced yourself to meet his gaze directly.
"I…" you started, your voice barely above a whisper. You cleared your throat, trying again. "I would really like pancakes, Megumi. If that's okay?"
The silence in the room stretched for a single, terrifying second. You braced yourself for a sigh, a roll of the eyes, a sign of annoyance that you had requested the more difficult option.
Instead, Megumi’s face broke into a smile. It wasn't his usual smirk, or a polite curve of the lips. It was a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile that reached his eyes, illuminating his features and making your heart stutter in your chest.
He stood up, taking his mug of bitter coffee with him.
"Pancakes it is," he said softly, turning back toward the kitchen. He paused at the door, looking over his shoulder at you, his eyes filled with a certain amount of serenity that was so rare for megumi.
"And [Name]?"
You looked up, your hands gripping the mug tightly. "Yeah?"
he quietly laughs, and it softens the air around you, adding to the rare tranquility his room experiences. “fair enough. it did come as a bit of surprise to me, too, when i first tried it.”
you find yourself sitting on his bed as he’s beside you, close enough just so you’d be able to reach him, but also with some space set in-between for comfort.
he positions his hand, palm flat, on his knee, and you slip yours just underneath it to steady it, and you have to furtively smother the shiver you feel from the callouses of his palm against your knuckles, the warmth his skin emits alone.
you dip the brush into the bottle, and draw it out just as quickly, sweeping the excess by its neck before you press it against the nail of his thumb.
“there wasn’t really a particular reason why i started,” he tells you. he tips his head to the side, enough to rest it on his shoulder somewhat. he has it set loose, and it fluidly pours over his shoulders. you’d run your fingers through it just so you’d know how it feels. “just when i did, i’d thought they’d look good on me.”
“well, ’course they do,” you tell him, but the words came out more tender than you meant to.
his eyes flit to yours, half-lidded, and the innate warmth in his irises startles you.
you know that it shouldn’t because how many times have you found yourself at the end of it now? for it to be so familiar?
too many times to count, you think, if i know it’s him from the feel of it by itself.
you hear yourself say, “i mean it, you know.”
he blinks, and whatever shade of latent tension existed has dispersed as he tilts his head to let out a chuckle. “i know. it doesn’t hurt to hear some confirmation.”
he presses the back of his free hand up against his mouth to cover up a smile as you finish painting the coat, eyeing it for a bit to see if you’ve missed a spot before moving onto the next one. the rich shade of black draws attention to itself, balancing out the light-colored, loose clothing he has on right now.
“just when i did, i’d thought they’d look good on me.”
you’ve meant what you said earlier, as much as it came off as anything but. it suits him more than he thinks, more than you’d ever say.
you always thought he looked beautiful. that was irrefutable, when every single time you’re with him, you figure out another thing about him that affirms it all over again. it’s an endless little thing with him that you hope doesn’t find its end soon.
that’s what you thought, inwardly. aloud, you snicker, saying, “of course you chose black. couldn’t get your hands on, ah, white and blue?”
he snorts, and shoves his elbow into your shoulder, laughing once again when you yelp, and rush to lift the brush so it doesn’t end up painting his skin, or stain his bed. “stay still!”
“i’m trying to, i promise, but someone’s distracting me right now.”
“yeah, yourself, now come on, or i’m making you do this all on your own.”
his eyes briefly crinkles before he draws near, closing the gap of space, and murmurs, “you won’t.”
the low gravel of his tone has you pause. like he’s so sure you wouldn’t, for one reason or another.
at the end of his mild gaze, you feel your face further heat up, and you dip your head low at an attempt to hide it, as well as to focus painting his nails, now onto his ring finger. “...i’m, like, half-way done, anyways.
he lets out a huff, and he’s rather close enough that you feel it, and it doesn’t help you cool down in the slightest. “it doesn’t look like it.”
you wave him off with your other hand, and he draws back to his former spot with a smile. he lets the quiet settle in after that, and it feels… nice. to just be with him in silence. there’s no need to fill the air with things that aren’t needed at the moment. it feels comfortable with him, anyways; his presence is a calm, mild thing that makes you feel at ease.
eventually, you brush the last stroke on his pinkie, and he regards his nails for a bit while you close up the bottle, getting up, and putting it inside of his drawer.
when you close it, your eyes settle on a frame photo he has propped up on his nightstand that captures satoru, suguru, ieiri, and you pressed up against each other to fit in.
everyone was feeling the heat that day, but it’s so much clearer to see when it comes to suguru. his cheeks were flushed, a soft tint of red, with the heat that day as his face scrunched up with heady delight, brows furrowed. his hair was a mess, his bun practically coming apart, but he didn’t pay it any mind then.
the day wasn’t notable or anything, just one of the many idle ones that seemed to blur into one another, and yet, he kept it like it was a token to remember for years to come.
you feel your lips lift to a small smile as your eyes rove over his expression again, as if committing his very features to memory.
the day wasn’t notable, no, it wasn’t… you didn’t think so, save for the fact that you remember it, too, was when you realized you liked him a little more than a friend.
“looks really good. i might have to start coming to you know whenever they start to get chipped.”
you turn your head just enough to see him from your peripheral vision, and even then, with the window behind him, the sun now setting as it sifts through the foliage, it outlines the contour of his face, and softens his expression a good amount of notches into one of considerable gratitude.
suguru gives you a broad smile, and you return one as well, tucking that bit of himself into your heart, safekeeping it yourself for as long as the picture remains.
synopsis;; you realize you still loved about him after all this time—at the end. ⋆｡°·⛆⋆
genre;; hurt/comfort, bittersweet ending.
cw;; descriptions of wounds, mentions of blood.
wc;; 1,507.
sometimes, you have to remind yourself why you became a sorcerer. it's not as if you had to.
you were a non-sorcerer, specifically a window. you saw these cursed spirits at a young age, and had kept it to yourself over the course of years until you found yourself scouted by a sorcerer who didn't last long afterwards. before the semester of your first year, you were taught the bare minimum of jujutsu—its origin, its current society, and whatnot.
and the first thought you had, in all of your optimism, was: maybe i can help others this way. you remember feeling so hopeful, anticipating it, really, now knowing what direction to take your life with such unfamiliar conviction.
but, a little over a decade later, when you have to constantly reinforce that idea onto yourself again and again, as though grasping for it, as abstract as it is, you have to quietly admit to yourself that it was… naïve of you. but if you don't have that to tether you, what else do you have?
you don't know the answer to that, not even as you stare skywards. the skies are rather nice today, rich tones of warm-hued shades shifting as stipples of thin clouds drift, overspread. the air is balmy, fine—it was, at least, but now it felt a fair bit cool, every single wisp of wind that brushed your skin brought a shiver.
everything felt too familiar. like you're back to that one day, eleven years ago.
it was supposed to be a grade one cursed spirit. it was supposed to be this, to be that, but something's happened, and it was a special grade instead. it was above your assigned grade, and to deal with it, it costed you.
every breath you take pulls your chest taut, and you sputter spurts of blood from your mouth, tasting heavy hints of copper. your nerves died somewhere along your lower abdomen, you think. you can't quite feel anything there, and that's saying something when everything else aches twofold.
you felt like you weren't going to last long. you knew that, but it's just knowing doesn't help you when the real thing comes.
your eyelids grew heavy, and just for a moment, you consider closing it just for some peace of mind. you felt tired, and you wanted to rest, if just a bit. you wanted to sleep, and let this pain fade into the backdrop, nothing more.
but then you felt something on your face, something warm cupping the crest of your cheek, and it thaws the cold that started to grow on you. you instinctively lean into the palm of his hand, and exhale a soft quiet, breathless, nearly.
kento.
he bends down, hovering over you, and strands of his tousled hair falls over his lenses. he opens his mouth to say something, but you don't hear it, and in its stead a dull, consistent ringing in your ears. he notices that, and tilts his head up, shouting a series of words.
grazes scratch his face, dusting his weary features; grit from the debris catches in the wrinkles of his frayed clothes; dried blood encrusts the corner of his lips as he turns towards you again. you want to wipe it from him, just because.
it was you and him on this mission, as it's always been. even when he left, then came back, he was with you. that gap in years changed so little, yet so much at the same time.
you were friends with him back then, in your school years, and with… with yu, too. it was the three of you, it never wasn't.
yu tugged you and kento along for a drink from the vending machines on school grounds, and let him, brightly smiling, and he sighed, but he felt at peace then, too, you know it; you grabbed the two for a hug, and yu tossed an arm over your shoulder, laughing, and kento only caved in, leaning into your shoulder; kento offered to buy some sweets from a nearby bakery, and you and yu tackled him out of glee for it, nearly toppling him over.
you held a great deal of love for each of them, albeit of the different sort. for yu, it was platonic, the type that one holds for their closest friend, and for kento, it was just… different. you didn't see him reciprocating it, no, and you made amends with that; he was, first and foremost, a friend to you. you believed, with everything you had, that you three were going to stay together for years to come.
and then that mission happened.
yu died. you were heavily injured. kento was the only one able to move, and he carried the both of you back onto school grounds; he did it by himself, and if there's one you regret more than anything, it was that.
after what happened to yu, you just… kept it in. you didn't say anything about how you felt, much less delve deeper into it for what it could've meant. you stood next to kento when he lets you, as seldom as it was, so you could quietly let him know that you were there.
and when he left once he graduated, you didn't take any offense to it, not at all. he left you a single text that consisted of two words: thank you.
that was more than enough for you. it didn't matter how much it had hurt then. he needed distance as much as you did, but the difference was that he sought it out, while you stayed. because, again, what else would there be left for you if you did?
it was the least you could to for yu, too. if you can do something at all, then you might as well give it all your all. if he saw you now, would he be proud? you can only imagine.
and when kento came back? years later, when gojo introduced him in that light-hearted, airy way of his, and when kento took but a few strides to stand in front of you, and held out his hand for a polite handshake? you held it, of course, with more relief than you felt your whole life compared to then because he was here.
you were content just being near him. you can't say the same for now.
ieiri will take care of me, as she always had.
i'll be back on my feet before you know it.
i won't leave you by yourself again.
you barely hear yourself cough a groan when kento tucks his arms underneath your body, and hefts you up against his chest. it further stains his shirt, gore saturating the thin material, as he adjusts your arms to rest on your chest to prevent it from dangling.
he tilts in a bit, lips near your ear, and you feel his breath waft towards its shell as he murmurs, "keep your eyes open. don't move too much, don't do anything other than staying awake. i'll handle this."
he draws back, and you nearly whine, missing his warmth already, how close he was, when you catch sight of his expression. his brows deeply furrows, lips pressed firmly enough you would think he's trying to suppress something, as a sheen of sweat appears on his skin. his fingers dig into your clothes, trying to rein in the tremor you can feel, alongside with your own.
because he knows it too, doesn't he? how similar this all feels. if it's too close for comfort to you, then how does this feel to him?
sometimes, you have to remind yourself why you became a sorcerer. for now, you tell yourself it's because you could do at all that you might as well should.
why you stayed as one, though, is something you now realize with a start.
maybe it hurt a little more than you let on when kento had left all those years ago. maybe, with that, you'd hoped that he would come back, and, again, as if it hadn't hurt you the first time you've wholeheartedly put your trust in something, you believed it.
you think you waited for him to come back. you think you still feel the same for him as you did back then because you can't see any other reason for it.
you stare ahead, and see a figure you haven't seen for years now, but always imagined.
yu perks up, and smiles at you, radiating that youthful energy he's retained back in your school years. he waves you over, gesturing you to come close. as tempting as it is, you feel yourself weakly shake your head, and prompt off a slight spell of dizziness.
he tips his head, evidently befuddled, until he looks over at kento, and his expression clears up, understanding settling on his features. a soft flush colors his cheeks as he gives you an almost flustered smile, scratching the nape of his neck.
synopsis;; satoru giving you surprise kisses. ☀︎⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
genre;; fluff, hurt/comfort.
wc;; 792.
to hold onto gojo satoru is a little like trying to grasp onto smoke. if you told him this, he wouldn’t be surprised—no, he’d expect it because he knows what he is, and he knows there’s an innate gap between him and the world at large. you can come close as you like to lessen it, close, closer, but a bit of that space will always remain.
but, in this, you mean it differently.
sifting through the archive for a particular book? satoru pops in, rests his head on your shoulder, presses a kiss on your cheek, and disappears in the matter of a few seconds. you? you’re standing there with a hand pressed against your cheek, feeling how warm it’s starting to feel as you let the title of the volume slip your mind.
in the morgue with ieiri, checking in on a pair of first-year students? satoru drapes himself on you, and leaves a peck on the top of your head. you whip your head around just to see no one there, but you feel his warmth embrace you as a shadow of himself, and with ieiri massaging her temple, feeling a little more pale than usual with the display, it all but confirms his presence.
pulling an all-nighter on a stack of records that needs your approval? the hand holding the pen as it jots down a few notes is quickly taken by another, and takes the place of said utensil as it clatters on the desk. you belatedly feel warm lips press against the back of your hand, and when you look over your shoulder once the fog in your head disperses, you see nothing but the darkness of your room grow.
in different ways, in different scenarios, never the same, but nonetheless, it takes you by surprise all the time because, to this day, he still keeps it up.
because gojo satoru is a little like smoke. he’s hard to grasp, to hold onto, and so quick to disappear—to never come back, but leave a few remnants of his existence as a reminder that, yes, he was here.
you know that. you knew that when you first took his hand into yours, his skin soft, supple, yet cool, and lift it to your lips, leaving a small kiss of your own as you admitted your feelings to him back in your school years. the air was tepid, a bit balmy, as spring settles in, winter withdrawing from its stead; flowers were in bloom, its mild tones a cast of softer colors; treetops swaying to the current of air as it breathes in life.
yet it was not the scenery that embedded itself into your head, and framed itself as a core memory, no—it was how bright his blue, blue, blue eyes were back then as he stared at you, wide-eyed, even with his lenses in the way. a decade since, and not now could you decipher a single emotion that flit across his irises.
but it settled on a soft tone of content, and he lets out a half-hearted laugh with a smile that felt and seemed brittle as he took you into his arms, pressing you against him with no spare space to get in-between the two of you.
even when he’s gone, because he will be, because satoru is satoru, because it’s his choice, you will not regret it.
“...u’re ignoring me again! gojo satoru! the satoru!”
you blink a couple of times before you vision focuses, and all you see in your view is satoru. he pursues his lips just so, coming off as a pout that's, admittedly, cute. “wha—?”
he quickly leans in, and brushes his lips against yours, just soft enough, feathery, that it barely felt there, but it’s him, just him, and you feel the nerves of your body tie itself up into knots, loops, and whatnot because you don’t think you’d ever get used to him. a little larger than life, he is.
he pulls back, eventually, and regards you for a bit until he lets out a quiet laugh, wafting a warm puff of air against your face. the pad of his thumb strokes your lower lip in a rapt manner, just shy of enthralled, and your eyes flutter to a close at the simple motion.
“well,” he coos, tone sly, a bit lilting. “i didn’t think it’d worked that well.”
“i think it did because it’s you, toru.”
“d’aw. you do care.”
“i haven’t said otherwise.”
“so you thought it. is that how it is then?”
“toru.”
he puffs out a laugh, much like the peals of windchimes, and you let it waft into the air, dispersing it once again. for it’s gone, yes, but it existed for however long it did, and you rather focus on that.
you always offered to brush his hair. initially, geto politely declined, reasoning that there was no need for you to spend your spare time on him, and that he’s always preferred his hair a particular way. you told him the offer was always open, and that was that.
that was a few months into the first year, and, following the second year, geto came up to you, eyes mild, smile soft, if not a bit flustered, as he asked you if you would like to brush his hair.
so, the two of you sit on the edge of his bed, and, with the brush he’s given to you, you put it to use. it’s soft to the touch, almost wispy, and a light scent clings to it, smoky, faint. an epitome of him, you thought.
and from there, it becomes routine. as night sets in, and the skies grow dark, stars strewn, the moon in any shift of its phases, you’ll settle behind him, and take your time untangling his knots. the air, at first, is quiet, then gradually grows with small talk, then conversations, banter, laughter, smiles, and you grow close, closer.
geto retells one story after another about himself, gojo, and ieiri, and his eyes light up, smile broad, cheeks flushed, and outlined with a gentle shaft of moonlight as it sifts through the panels of his window, he was ethereal. you’ve looked forward to those nights, and, maybe, just maybe, so did he.
up until a point.
his hair comes apart in strands as you comb it, sorting out all the knots, nodes he’s managed to gather. it wasn’t always like this, no. not as messy. he used to care, but, between now and then, that bit of consideration dissipated. you hadn’t seen it soften his mild features since then, nor did it retain the warmth in his eyes.
quieter now, a bit reserved. his voice carries a foreign undertone you can’t decipher, and what little words he does say, it’s… it’s not like him. at least, not the geto suguru you knew.
even then, you brushed his hair. as tousled as it is, as unkempt, uncared for, you do it. because he still leans into your touch, because he lets out quiet hums here and there, as if, in this moment, he’s content; because when you pull back, when you face him, when you brush a few loose strands of hair framing his face, he gives you a smile that says more than he could spare. a ghost of it, yes, but it held a sliver of him you yearned to grasp.
those idyllic times meant a lot to you. you keep it close to your heart, even after a little more than a decade has passed. it refreshes itself, renews its simplicity of when the days were simpler, youthful. because that’s what he was then, just as much as you were, too.
the night grows quiet as the backdrop withdraws itself, until it’s you and the phantom presence of his hair in your hands, still so soft, still so silky, and how it felt to imagine, instead of the comb, it was your fingers through his hair. the whorls of your fingerprints, your fingertips, your hand pines for the innate warmth that was him.
and as the wind picks up, as the temperature drops, as you stand on your balcony, looking downwards at the din of tokyo, its tendrils gradually sweep away any remnants of warmth you were able to retain the past decade.
(and, nestled in a lavish room, adorned with rich plants, meticulous paintings, he brushes his own hair, and quietly ponders if would’ve lit up seeing how long it’s grown. more time to tidy it, more time it would need, more time with you here.)
──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !! gojo loves using the “i’m married” card whenever he gets approached, because in his mind you guys are married.
the thing about being satoru gojo is that people look at him.
he’s used to it by now— the double takes, the whispered gossip, the way strangers feel entitled to his attention just because he happens to be tall and white-haired and annoyingly beautiful(so he’s been told). it’s exhausting, honestly, but he’s learned to deal with it over the years.
the second her manicured fingers land on satoru’s forearm, he knows exactly what’s coming.
he’s seen this script a hundred times. the coy smile, the slight tilt of the head, the way her lashes flutter like she’s got something in her eye. he’s been fielding these approaches for years, long before you came along, and he’s got it down to a fine art now.
“sorry,” he says, before she can even get a word out. “i’m married.”
the lie rolls off his tongue as easily as breathing. it’s not even really a lie, not in his head. you’re his girlfriend, yes, but you’re also the one. the endgame. the person he’s going to annoy for the rest of his natural life and probably well beyond that if he figures out how. in his mind, you’ve already got the ring, the shared last name, the matching toothbrushes in the bathroom. the paperwork is just a formality.
the woman’s face falls slightly, but she’s persistent. he’ll give her that. “oh, i don’t see a ring—”
“left it at home,” he says smoothly, already starting to edge away. “wife’d kill me if i lost it.”
he does have a ring. it’s just that it’s still sitting in the expensive jewellery shop that you always stare at when you guys pass by. he’s been meaning to go in and custom-make one that’s been appearing in his mind lately, one that would be unique and fitting only for you, but there’s no rush and the right moment just hasn’t shown up yet, because every time he looks at you, his brain short-circuits and he forgets how words work.
but that’s a problem for future satoru.
right now, present satoru is trying to escape this conversation without being rude, because you’re waiting for him in the car, most likely dozing off against the window with that cute pout on your lips.
he’s reaching for the strawberry milk with the cute cow on it, when he hears the click of heels behind him.
“excuse me?”
satoru doesn’t even turn around. his hand closes around the bottle anyway. “married,” he says, tossing it into his basket.
“oh! i—i wasn’t—”
“very married. disgustingly married. my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world and i think about her constantly.” he finally glances over his shoulder, offering a bland smile. “sorry.”
the woman blinks at him, then laughs nervously and retreats toward the chips aisle.
satoru turns back to the fridge, satisfied. it’s not even a lie anymore, not really. you’ve been his girlfriend for two years, and somewhere along the way— maybe when he watched you fall asleep on his couch with your glasses askew, or when you sent him a photo of a cat you saw on the street with the caption him, or when you laughed so hard at your own joke that you choked on water— he stopped thinking of you as just a girlfriend.
you’re his wife. you just don’t know it yet. there’s paperwork to do, and a ring to buy, and a question to ask, but in his head? you signed the papers months ago.
he grabs another bottle of milk because you like the chocolate one too, and heads to the checkout, basket swinging from his wrist. the cashier gives him an interested look but he only looks at you through the transparent doors that open and close, smiling when he sees you rubbing your eyes through the window and looking around sleepily.
.
.
.
the first thing satoru notices is that the afternoon sun is hitting just right against your hair, making it look like something out of a painting. the second thing he notices is the woman approaching.
he clocks her immediately— the way her eyes flick to him, the subtle once-over, the way she angles her body toward his. he’s seen this movie a hundred times. hell, he’s starred in it a hundred times.
“excuse me,” she says, all polite smile and batted lashes. “i’m so sorry to bother you, but i just had to say—you have the most stunning eyes i’ve ever seen.”
satoru feels you stiffen slightly beside him. your hand, which had been loosely linked with his, tightens just a fraction. he wants to squeeze back, to reassure you, but he’s also kind of… curious. because usually, when this happens, he’s alone. he gets to play his little game where he flashes an imaginary wedding ring and says sorry, i’m married with a soft, stupidly fond smile that he practices exclusively for the version of you that lives in his head.
but you’re right there and he’s never had to play that card with you within earshot before.
“oh,” he says, tilting his head. his glasses slip down his nose just enough for him to peer over them. “thanks.”
the woman takes the lack of immediate rejection as encouragement. “i don’t usually do this, but i was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab a coffee sometime? there’s a great place just around the corner—”
“no can do,” satoru interrupts, his voice softening at the edges. he feels your hand twitch again. “i’m married.”
the word hangs in the air. married. he’s said it a thousand times to strangers, to cashiers, to that one persistent guy at the bookstore who wouldn’t take a hint. but never like this, never with you standing right there by his side.
you go very still.
the woman blinks, glances at your interlocked hands, then back at his face. “oh. i’m sorry, i didn’t see a ring—”
“don’t need one,” he says simply, he’s not even looking at her anymore. he’s looking at you, at the way your lips have parted slightly, at the confusion and tenderness flickering across your face. “some things you just know.”
there’s a beat of silence. the woman mutters an apology and retreats. satoru doesn’t watch her go. he’s too busy watching you stare up at him like he’s grown a second head.
“married?” you repeat, your voice going breathy like it does when you’re trying not to laugh but also trying not to cry.
“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. he brings your joined hands up and presses a kiss to your knuckles, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. “i mean, not legally. yet. but in my head? you’ve had the ring for like eight months now. it’s very sparkly. you look great in it.”
you blink at him once, twice, and then you make a sound that’s half-giggle, half-gasp, shoving at his chest with your free hand. “satoru! you can’t just tell strangers we’re married!”
“why not?” he grins, bright and boyish and entirely unrepentant. “it’s gonna happen eventually. i’m just saving time.”
“you’re insane.”
“insanely in love, maybe.”
you groan, burying your face in his shoulder, and he feels you smile against his shirt. your ears are pink. he wants to bite them.
“you’ve been doing this the whole time?” you mumble into his collarbone. “every time someone flirts with you?”
“every. single. time.” he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you closer, resting his chin on top of your head. “you’re my wife in every way that matters. the government just doesn’t know it yet.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, and there’s something in your eyes that makes his chest ache— all shimmery and wondering, like you’re seeing him for the first time. you smile, small and private, and tug his sleeve. “c’mon, husband. my show starts in ten.”
he word husband hits him right in the stupid chest like a truck made of flowers.
he follows you out, already planning the ring. already knowing exactly what it’ll look like. already halfway down on one knee in his head.
you don’t know any of that, not yet. but you said it and now he’s never letting you go.
IT’S TRUE I NEVER WRITE, BUT I WOULD GLADLY DIE WITH YOU. ; SUGURU GETO
synopsis; Finding yourself passed out from blood loss, half-dead and limp on a cold and empty street, you awake to the glow of an unfamiliar ceiling. The boy you loved is waiting for you.
contents; suguru geto/gn!reader, cult leader era geto, (former) senpai!reader, literally just a long conversation, geto kidnaps you (kind of).
w/c; 4.0k
a/n; rip suguru geto u would’ve been sooooo cute pining for a cool upperclassman . alas the horrors must claim you . but it would’ve been so sweet
Your blood coats the asphalt in crimson dye.
There’s a throbbing behind your ear, vicious and heavy, like your skull split open— cracked right down the middle. Maybe it did. You can’t tell, can’t move your hands to even check, lying still on an abandoned street corner with a grating ringing in your ears, your limbs numb and unresponsive. Dead weight, you think, as the taste of heady iron blooms on the roof inside your mouth. It drips out from the corners of your busted lip, trickles down your jaw in hot and sticky streams; when you try to move your fingers a sharp jab of pain shoots through them.
One, two. Inhale, exhale. Try to think, though your mind lies buried in the rubble all around you: you’re bleeding out. Your skin is burning.
There is not a trace of cursed energy around you.
… You figure the blast must have taken out the curse, too.
(Will you die like this, you wonder? You can't text Shoko. You doubt she'd make it in time, anyway— once the faculty takes note of your absence, it'll be too late.)
When you try to sigh, more blood spills out, eager to exit your dying body. Wriggling, gurgling worms, made of plasma and platelets, scrambling from the underside of a rock to seek shelter in the sun. Hot flashes of pain wrack through you. Then a cold, cold feeling, when you're sure it'll melt you, shivers clattering down your neck to gnaw at your spinal cord. Your body feels as if doused in sea water. Dizziness, weariness. Your body feels like a casket.
You wish you had somebody to say goodbye to.
(Just as your consciousness begins to fade, a shadow flickers overhead.)
Then, nothing.
When you come to, you face an unfamiliar ceiling.
A square-shaped lamp shines down above you. For a moment, you wonder if you're at the morgue; the grating light an all-too familiar sensation, shooting star-like where it burns through the roof above her operating table. But that light is colder, more sterile.
This one is warm. Yellow ripples of light.
It lulls you awake. Pinpricks behind your eyes, absent twitches of your fingertips— you can feel them, move them, puppet strings intact— you didn't die. Unless this is heaven, but you doubt your heaven would smell of anything but summertime.
Not jasmine oil. Not soft notes of laundry detergent. Velveteen blankets cover your body, thick and fluffy and freshly washed, and all you can smell is just that.
(Homey, you think. What home would feel like.)
Warmth envelops you, and not a single one of your bones ache or splinter. There's a soreness in your limbs, and the room twists when you lift yourself upright, a wave of nausea rippling through your throat— but that's all. Inhale, exhale, and you're fine.
You squeeze your eyes shut, and open them again.
All you see is black and white; the clothes you're wearing, the blankets pooled atop your thighs. Fabric against fabric, a silky friction that almost distracts you from the fact you're wearing someone else's jinbei— it's light, loose around your shoulders, a smidge too big. Someone undressed you, helped you out of your blood-soaked uniform. Someone slipped you into this and tucked you in.
Someone is just behind the door, their fingers reaching for the handle.
(Your senses must be dulled, to only notice them now.)
It opens without so much as a creak. And in comes a woman, unfamiliar, her lips dyed cherry red— you think of asphalt, of iron— her hair reaching past her shoulders in soft strawberry waves. A tight, purple dress hugs her curves, and you're fairly sure she saw you glancing at her boobs just now. There's a hint of distaste in her eyes.
Sharp cuts of jade.
"You're awake," she acknowledges, her voice carefully neutral. Staying by the door, and watching you from a distance. "How are you feeling?"
"… Not too bad." You cringe at the sound of your own voice, worn at the edges. "Did you rescue me?"
"No." A beat, her eyes scanning the expression on your face, as if weighing your intentions. It goes on, for a moment, this silent vivisection— a look of distrust you can't help but be amused by. "… Geto-sama is waiting for you. I'll escort you to him."
— The world comes to a standstill.
"… Huh?"
"He'll explain everything," she assures you, but you can't quite hear her through the ringing of your ears. Geto. Ge-to. It's not a coincidence, it can't be—
(That's right. His room always smelled of jasmine buds, didn't it?
You snuck in there more than once. How could you have forgotten?)
"… Geto," you echo, your voice a foreign thing, the name a buried heirloom. Vacantly, you think you can still taste the iron from before. "Geto Suguru?"
"That's right," she sighs. A resounding clap breaks you out of your reverie, her hands coming together. "Come on," she beckons. "I'd rather not keep him waiting."
She turns on her heel, and exits the room. You're given no time to regain your bearings; forced to scramble out of bed, bare soles against the tatami mat on the floor, following closely behind her. No time to linger, though a pit of foreboding carves a cavern in your stomach, your innards tied in knots.
Inhale, exhale.
Geto Suguru.
(He's waiting for you. What does that mean, exactly?)
You don't know. You didn't think Suguru— Geto— whatever you should call him— was still alive, let alone still in Japan. You're forced to bear the weight of those implications, as you wade through a narrow hallway. The air smells of dust, faraway clusters of sweet-scented incense. Everything is quiet.
You can almost hear your own heart, beating slowly. Pumping hot blood to your brain.
"What's your name?" you ask, finally matching your steps to the stranger. Slipping your hands into your pockets. "That's the least you could tell me, I think."
"… Manami Suda," she clicks her tongue. "As I've already informed you, Geto-sama will tell you of the rest."
"… sama?"
"Yes."
You eye her, another question on your lips; but you swallow it down. She doesn't seem all too keen in keeping this conversation alive.
It doesn't matter, either.
(Geto-sama. That's what he goes by, these days?
It doesn't suit the cute, polite kouhai you remember. Then again, blood never suited him, either. Neither did the taste of cheap Seven Stars tobacco.
… You're pretty sure he only ever tried it to impress you.)
"We're here."
Manami stops just in front of a sealed-shut sliding door, sheets of paper catching the light from within. They shimmer, in the dim corridor, beckoning you forward. A feeling of dull dread creeps into your cells.
An all-too familiar bundle of cursed energy.
"I'll leave you to it," she continues, that same concealed edge to her voice. "But just so you're aware— Geto-sama is risking a lot by bringing you here. More than you could imagine."
She turns her head, to look at you properly.
(Jade aglow with angered love.)
"… So don't be cruel to him."
And then she's leaving.
You're left behind, left alone; staring into her eyes until she turns away. A deep, steadying breath. Inhale, and exhale. Your fingers twitch for a cigarette.
They reach, instead, for the door.
— Inside, a silhouette sits under dimming moonlight.
His back is all you can see. Silky locks of black hair, pooling on the floor, spilled ink on the tatami mat beneath him; sets of robes framing his figure, cloaking him in silk. The shoji screens are agape, leaving space for him to sit by the edge and look outside— for moonlight to flood his chambers.
It makes him look illusive.
"… You're here," comes a familiar voice, tailored with silk, and all you can think is why didn't you call me? He rises to his feet before you can get any words out. When he turns around, a smile on his lips, your breath halts at the base of your throat.
"It's been a while."
Monolids. Sharp facial lines. Eyes that gleam with fondness.
(He's beautiful. Like a lioness.)
"… It has," you echo, watching his bangs sway with the breeze. "Geto-sama."
A cat's blink. His smile falls, lashes fluttering; the backdrop for a rumbling laugh.
"Ah, don't tease me." His grin blinds your world, cuts and cuts and cuts into your tender flesh. "Though I suppose I should have expected as much."
"I suppose so," you murmur, vacantly, casting a glance around you. Nothing much to see, only scrolls across the walls, mantras of some kind. A mellow scent floats about the room, chestnuts and torn up fruit flesh— it's green tea, you realize, a teapot exhaling sweet-smelling steam from a small table in the middle of the room. It drifts between the shoji screens, and up into the midnight sky. Mist-like.
Then there's the incense, of course.
It's starting to fade, but you can still pick up on the main notes. Burning jasmine buds and smoke.
"Was Manami good to you?"
The question drags your gaze up to meet his own. Suguru tilts his head, bangs framing eyes that spark and fizzle with something joyous— fireworks, a summer festival, crammed into his eye socket just for you to see. Golden, even in the dark.
"… She was a little mouthy, to be honest." You give a shrug. "Don't fire her, though."
A chuckle leaves his lips, sharpened by midnight fatigue. "Of course not," he flicks his wrist, as if to wave you off. "She isn't an employee. She's family."
A questioning gaze. You're tempted to pry, but decide against it— it's really not your business if this robe-clad emperor has a concubine or two.
… Though that look in her eye was something far deeper.
(Something like trust.)
"Ah, but where are my manners?" Suguru smiles, blindingly, turning to gesture towards the opened shoji. "Please, have a seat. I hope you still like tea?"
You only hum. Watching him crouch in front of the table, readying two oval cups. They're pure white, flecked with painted branches, golden ginkgo leaves. There's a reverence to the way he pours— both his hands cradling the teapot, as hot water spills, trickles against ceramic, gathers at the base of the cups and begins to fill them up. Slowly, slowly, as if each drop is precious enough to warrant a moment of silence.
You're hypnotized.
A memory comes to you; winter mornings, early missions, a kouhai in the kitchen even on days he could have slept in. Him, with a thermos in hand, warm to the touch, childish patterns of cherry blossoms etched into the plastic coverage. You'd carry it with you, tucked between your arm and ribs. Like a second heartbeat.
His hands are larger, now. Calloused.
Gentle, even still.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, once you've plopped down on the floor. His robes flutter right next to you, carried by a pleasant nighttime breeze.
It glides across the apples of your cheeks. "Just fine," you answer, and you mostly aren't lying. He doesn't need to know about the quivers of your soul— that's the burden of an upperclassman. A burden you’d gladly have carried alone.
(It was always meant to be the other way around. You don't think he ever realized.)
It's difficult to free yourself from the straying of your thoughts. You aren't at Jujutsu High, anymore. You lull the monsters in your head to sleep. It's been ten years, and the blood that needed to spill has long been scrubbed off the walls. You were too late.
There's no use in thinking about inevitable partings.
"I'll assume you're the one who rescued me," you inhale, then exhale, leaning back with your palms on the tatami to gaze at the garden ahead. Beyond his chambers: bushes blooming with camellia, a pond gleaming moon-blue under the veil of night. Ripples upon the water. The night sky looks bottomless.
It's a painting, you think. A mess of oil and watercolour. The black is smudged with silver stains, no longer untouchable.
"I brought you here, yes," his voice buzzes to your right. ”After you passed out."
"Mm. I think I saw you."
“Did you, now?”
He’s looking at you. You can feel it. When you turn your head, amber eyes coil into slits; a matching smile flecked on his lips, before he raises his cup to cover it. A long, silent sip.
“I was worried, you know.” He turns to face the garden, and the moon dyes his skin cornflower blue. “I was sure I’d be too late. Just a minute longer, and you wouldn't be sitting here.”
Barely audible: a tremor in his voice. He’s beautiful, you think, but he looks more like a statue than a human being. As if to make sure that he’s really there, you give his flowing sleeves a tug. His gaze responds, flits up to meet your own— a success, a flicker, a dog jumping for a bone.
You give him a furrowed brow.
"So… you kidnapped me," you deadpan.
"Kidnapped?" he gives out a breathless chuckle. "That's a little much."
A beat.
"But you did almost die." His smile evens out, an expression of calculated calm reigning his face back into something unreadable. Tap, tap, the pads of his fingers drumming rhythmically against his bent knee. "If I hadn’t been there, you would have bled out… so, at the very least, I'd like you to reconsider your choice."
Your choice. It's spoken with an underlying note of disapproval; something that sparks a twitch at your brow, because you know exactly what he means. ”Why were you there?" you ask, a sharp snap of your tongue. "Just in time… that's awfully convenient."
Suguru's fingers come to a halt. A perfect smile, eyes closed into crescents, his voice velvet smooth. ”If I told you fate brought me to you, would that be so bad…?"
You give him a fixed stare.
Silence.
"… You're no fun," he sighs. Smile slipping right off. "I may have sent a curse or two to supervise you… on occasion. For safety reasons, mind you.”
"Of course," you exhale, weary with exasperation. You really should have known. ”You know what I hate about you, Suguru?”
He blinks. Twice, like a cat— he doesn't seem upset. You wonder if the call of his name quells him from your abrasive tone. "Let's hear it," he smiles.
Outside, in his garden, bushes flutter with the breeze. Rounded, blurry leaves, golden green ripples— from where you're sitting they look like shimmering bells, flickering about, ruthlessly torn from their branches to join the pile of crimson red petals on the ground. It's not cold outside, only pleasantly chilly. A familiar summer evening kind of feeling. You think of his child-like, high school, yet-to-be-ruined face. You think of all your talks on the roof of Jujutsu High.
You turn to look at him, sparing no apologies.
"You're a hypocrite."
Suguru looks back at you, silently.
"You made the choice to leave— and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing we could do," you chew at the tender inside of your cheek. "But I can’t choose to stay a sorcerer, because… it’s dangerous? Well, that's just stupid."
What's even more stupid is being a curse user in a world with Satoru in it.
The words are left unsaid.
"… You have no right to lecture me about danger."
There's an exhale on his cupid's brow. It spills out when he speaks, lips raised in cordiality. "If that's how you feel, so be it."
His nonchalance makes you twitch. Bone fatigue fuelling your bitter spiel— your sharp gaze burning holes into his body, as your lips part. ”I mean, what were you expecting? Bring me here, keep me here… and then what? Just hope I agree to join you?" you let out a breathy scoff, fighting off a bout of laughter. "After all these years. Zero phone calls, mind you."
"I'm sorry."
"I don't care." A white lie, a fiend for a fiend. "I just don't understand you, right now."
…
The lamp flickers, overhead. A housefly buzzes against the paperthin shoji sheets, like a mimicry of the cicadas singing on the tree-trunks outside. It fills the silence. Keeps you from thinking too much.
When he speaks, it's in honeyed vowels.
"… I didn’t mean to upset you," he nearly whispers, so gentle it could disappear in the space between you. He sounds sincere, if nothing else. "I’m not taking your choice away from you. I just couldn’t bear to see you lose your life in such a meaningless way…"
Sour bile settles at the base of your throat.
("If you'd like to, you can kill me, Senpai."
You're standing at a crossroads, at the very edge of the cauldron to hell. He turns to look at you, before he leaves for good; golden eyes aglow with purpose.
”If it's you, there's meaning to it. I won't try to resist.")
"… Meaning," you sigh, smiling ruefully. The word tastes like ash. "I'm not you, Suguru. I don't need it."
A flicker in his eyes. A disapproving sputter, in the pitch-black, silver-blue sea of his soul, like a reprimand he's opted to swallow. He was always good at that— with you, at least. He'd gobble up lectures, replace them with kind nagging. You think he wanted to remain a respectful underclassman, never treading too far beyond his bounds.
You're pretty sure it was also something else.
His expression shifts, just then— you feel it in the air. Keeping silent, his eyes flutter shut.
"… So that's your answer?"
There's no use responding. This midnight rendezvous is drawing to a close, you can feel it in your bones, in the weight of your heartbeat when you silently rise to your feet. The air tastes crispy, a mouthful of non-existent smoke. You savour it, one last time — before casting a glance towards the man at your feet.
"Thank you for the tea."
Your cup is exactly where he left it; in the too-small, too-large space between your bodies. Untouched. Suguru gazes at it, for a moment, without making a sound.
…
Right as you turn towards the door, he speaks.
"I could just keep you here, you know."
An airy scoff— you almost laugh. ”Uh huh."
"I could force you," he continues, seamlessly, as if you aren't even there. His voice takes on a chilly quality, his expression obscured. "I could keep you here, with me. Until you learn to see things from my point of view… make it so you can’t reach anyone at Jujutsu High. Make it so they'll never find you."
…
He rises to his feet. Robes swaying, like a pair of heavy bells— closing the distance between you, until you can spot every spark of gold in his eyes. His hair becomes a veil, all-encompassing, shielding you from the light of the lamp and the glow of the moon—
and his hand, ever so gently, reaches for your cheek.
("I feel like I could tell you anything. I wonder why that is?")
"But I won't."
The pads of his fingers never meet your skin.
Suguru sighs, a touch longingly. Staring at your face, as if admiring something he will never get to keep. Cautiously, he tucks a lock of hair behind your ear— something in his eyes softens when you let him. For a moment, he is quiet, like a child lulled to sleep.
The phantom of his body heat sears his name into your neck.
"… I value you too much for that," he whispers.
Blurry stars shiver in the night sky above. Try as you may not to follow their example, your voice still shakes when it pries apart your lips.
"Great. Thanks.” You snort, craning your neck away from his greedy fingers. ”What a model kouhai."
”I learned from the best." His voice is caramel, teasing you, hand falling to his side— albeit reluctantly. A moment passes, and his lips follow, crumbling under the weight of his thoughts. Falling into a thin line. ”Just… be careful. If I find you like that again, I'm not sure I’ll be able to control myself."
"I'm not like you," you remind him. "I don't want to die. Not yet, at least.”
Suguru doesn’t respond. You catch the haunting of ghosts at the corners of his eyes, shadows framing his face just right. Just another painting on the wall behind him, too smudged to see properly. Still, a smile on his lips, just a second later.
Nothing but dead weight.
"… I suppose that'll do."
The air between you grows stale. You're vaguely aware that you should turn towards the door, but something in the back of your mind won’t let you.
"... Right," you exhale, shaking your head to get your thoughts back in order. Meeting his eyes as you brush an idle hand across the fabric of your jinbei— right above your breast, the borrowed fabric smooth under your fingers. "Want this back?"
"Hm?" he stares at your hand, before realization hits. "Ah, that's alright. Keep them."
He surveys you, for a moment. Drinks you in. His gaze spans the fabric, from where the sleeves end to where the neckline exposes the knots of your collarbone. It makes you feel like he's trying to peel off your skin, cut you open like a fruit— deft fingers finding every dip in your flesh before splitting you into halves.
(… That is to say, he's practically undressing you with his eyes.)
"They suit you," he smiles. Awfully pleased.
You decidedly ignore him.
”… And my uniform?"
For a beat, the air goes silent.
"… It was ruined," Suguru glances away. "You're better off asking for another."
"So you're keeping it."
A sheepish smile creeps onto his lips. You scoff, and a chuckle stumbles through his chest, half-recklessly. It's as much of an apology as you're going to get.
"Weirdo," you shake your head, taking a tentative step back. "Well, it was good seeing you."
You watch a flicker of joy dance through his eyes, just then— his lashes aflutter, in what must be a half-hearted effort to hide it. Suguru hums, and you think of high school, because there's nothing else to do when he looks at you like you just fed him hand to mouth. When his eyes crinkle paper-thin, the hole in your heart tears at the corners.
"Likewise," he breathes, honeysuckle on his tongue, impossibly sweet. "You haven’t changed."
"Neither have you," you answer, honestly. "Not really."
Before you can see his expression, you turn on your heel. The midnight breeze takes the chance to slip beneath the flimsy fabric of your jinbei, ghosting at your naked chest. A cold hand, gliding right between your ribs, right where you’re most vulnerable. You can still smell the jasmine, the burning chestnut, the almond oil he brushes his hair with after showering. That hasn’t changed, either.
A piece of paper tears to shreds, somewhere inside of you. A farewell letter, or a death sentence.
Right as your fingers curl around the sliding door, you find your voice. Words better shared in a whisper, under a breath— better shared in the past, with heat beneath your cheeks, but you were never that kind of person. It was never going to come out naturally, and it was never going to lead anywhere.
Not anywhere at all.
"Back in high school,” you start, willing your heart not to beat— ”I loved you, too. Did you know that?"
…
"All three years," you exhale. "I loved you more than anybody else, Suguru."
You remain standing just in front of the sliding door, awaiting his response. It doesn’t come when you expect it to— doesn’t come until you start to wonder if his silence is rejection. If he's pretending not to hear. If your words, miraculously, got lost somewhere in the space between you; swept into the cluster of blurry leaves outside, or buried in the restless cadence of cicada cries.
Then, a rough chuckle spills into the air.
"… And you call me cruel," he draws a breath, sharp and purposeful. "Do you realize the kind of faith you're putting in my restraint?”
"Hm.” You cast a glance behind your shoulder, a smile splitting itself across your lips. ”Do I?”
He clicks his tongue, half-threatening. ”Tease.”
Then, in a lower voice: "I really will keep you, at this rate."
There's a heat in his gaze that wasn't there before. Pupils dilated, like a wolf ready to pounce. Laughter, breathless, bubbles up your throat and out your lips, a flurry of petals no longer stuck down your windpipe. "No thank you," you quip, flicking your wrist in a lazy wave. The door slides open with a fwoosh.
Then, in a voice more silent— more suited for partings—
"See you."
Behind you, his fingers give out a restless twitch. But he nods, right as you step over the threshold and into the corridor, cicadas crying out from the gardens below. Their songs fill the empty space with white noise.
He follows your moon-dyed back with his eyes, until it's no longer visible. A fading cobalt blue.
a collection of my favorite geto suguru fics i’ve read over the years that i want to spotlight, consisting of pieces that include fluff, angst, smut, and more. fics are divided by series/oneshots/drabbles. please heed all warnings & give all included authors their very much deserved flowers! shamelessly plugging my own geto fics as well :p i’ve marked superscript next to authors to indicate if they’ve been included multiple times in this post!
series:
best friend!geto (ongoing?) by @fricks ; i’ve reread all of the entries in this series so many times that i could beam this shit onto the back of my eyelids and reread them all over again just like that. i adoreeee geto’s characterization here (fricks is a geto expert truly) he’s such a charming little shit and the witty convos between him and reader are just tew good. i can’t decide on a favorite part cos they’re all amazing IM SERIOUS. THIS IS MY LIBRARY OF ALEXANDRIA PLEASE DONT BURN IT DOWN!!!!
dishonorable (complete) on ao3 ; regency/bridgerton aus are always divine and this fic is no exception. duke geto and reader’s chemistry is too good 🚬 love how they want to strangle each other yet they flirt with each other in the same breath. duke geto take it out its hurtingggguuuhhhh
six degrees of separation (complete) by @starmapz ² ; i read this yeaaaars ago so imagine my surprise when i dug this fic up again and realized trish wrote it 😭 the angst in this has stuck with me for YEARS . geto loves so hard and that facet really shines in this fic. the entire thing is incredibly true to his character as a whole and serves as an amazing analysis of his character. how am i even allowed to read this masterpiece without a price? like wdym this is FREE?
strangers (ongoing) by @yenayaps ; this fic will hit you hard cos jfc this is a truck of ANGST. i’ve never wanted eternal happiness and peace for two people so badly in my life. geto and reader have grown distant after a miscarriage and are in the process of learning & choosing to love each other again, and it makes me wanna bawllll. their arguments and thoughts are so grounded and feel incredibly real, making this fic all the more immersive and making the angst pack a few extra punches. i think about the diabolical restaurant scene once a month at least 😭
no. one party anthem (ongoing) by @indiewritesxoxo ⁴ ; this rockstar suguru right here is one i would suck right off the bone like hes a box of chicken wings. girl dad? charmer of the year n hes slick wit it too? THE PINING THE CHASING THE GROVELING THE TRYING TO BE BETTER FOR READER??? top tier truly. indie always shows out with her various geto series and this has gottaaaaa be one of the best. the angst and smut here are unparalleled. that hotel sex scene STAYS living in my head (gif of the duck smoking and shaking its head with a satisfied smirk). im forever rooting for geto in this fic IDGAF!!!!
meow or never (complete) on ao3 ; geto’s little shit of a cat (aptly named gojo) gets reader’s cat pregnant and chaos ensues. geto wants reader’s cookie so bad lmfaoooo just like gojo with reader’s cat… this whole fic is genuinely SO hilarious. super domestic, fluffy, and very slice-of-life too!
fwb!suguru (ongoing?) by @eraserbread ² ; elly’s prose is to die for and her word choice is so unique too so her works are always a treat to the soul. the way she writes geto.. mm… truly a five course meal. need geto and reader to communicate and stop trying to win the nonchalant-off (they’re both failing to be nonchalant). i’m shaking them. god i wanna smash these two together like barbie dolls 😢 (😏). let me get my wallet because it must be illegal to read this piece of art for FREEEEE?
lazy sunday morning and whispers in the library (complete) on ao3 ; going from domestic intimacy and first times in the first fic to some freaky exhibition shit in the second fic… yeaaaah this is my bread and butter. geto is SO romantic and sweet in these installments, especially the first part 😪 this geto needs to be in my bed by yesterday or i’m hanging myself by the ears on the nearest tower
smoking with stoner!getou suguru (complete) on ao3 ; been a while since i’ve read this but geto is slick and sexy ass motherfucker in this fic. his dialogue had me cheesinggggg I WANT HIM BAD BRAH! the exposition here is so lively and perfectly immersive, idk how to explain it but its SUCH a vibe. gojo and toji are total clowns in this fic lmfao the shit they were pulling in the background had me ctfuuuu. this fic is a certified fave
the roommate part 1 & part 2 (ongoing?) by @kenzieluvsnanami ; call this puth british with the way roommate geto is innittttt 🇬🇧 the way geto is written in these makes me nut untouched and on the spot… this man is a sexy ass fiend and ykw i like them crazy just like this. ESPECIALLY when it’s geto. love his cheekiness and tomfoolery here lmfaooo he’s entertaining asf
sometimes i peep on the handsome dad next door (complete) on ao3 ; the dilf suguru to beat all sugurus 🙂↔️ every time there was so much of a mention of either 1. his gray streaks or 2. how he interacts with nanako and mimiko, i started shaking like a little rabid dog on steroids. reader is such a freak in this LMFAOOJTKWHR just like me fr… i too would wake up at 5am just to watch geto get dressed 🤤 he’s so hot and assured and confident in this fic and it makes me wanna jump his bonessss. his and reader’s relationship and build-up is something you don’t wanna miss out on!
darling (complete) on ao3 ; the second i saw black reader x musician geto i knew this would be toe-curling. AND IT IS! op did such a lovely job of portraying the hard of hearing reader here. i adore how geto and reader use each other as inspiration for music and for writing, and seeing their arrangement develop into a relationship is so worth the read c:
breathe me in on ao3 ; fwb!suguru in this fic… i gotta light a blunt every time i think of him. i was sold the second he asked reader to come over not for sex but to cuddle and to have someone simply there with him. geto is soooo sensual to his core here like every thing he does and says feels like honey… and he’s SO smooth jfc. so fine. my sweetheart AND my little shit :,) the smut here is toe-curling
the ethics of relationships (complete) by @gojonanami ; i typically don’t read prof/students but this fic is just one of those onessss and if you haven’t read it then you’re missing out 🙂↔️ that’s how yummy this whole five course meal is. i’ve harassed so many friends with the link to this fic LMFAO i just want everyone to read this BAD… i’m due for a reread because it’s been a WHILE but so many scenes in this fic stand out in my memory. super good overall!!
brat (ongoing) by @kunareads ; producer geto and pop star reader you are so very famous to me! reader is such a vibe in this fic and it makes her relationship with geto all the more fun & enticing. their dynamic feels like snorting a line of coke in the best way possible but also i need these fools to communicate asap 😣 the formatting of this fic is SO fun and feels super interactive/immersive!!
vault boy (ongoing) by @indiewritesxoxo ⁴ ; fallout/apocalypse au!! if u havent gotten into fallout, indie makes the universe easy to understand. geto is such a sweetie pie in this fic and his humanity is devastating… MY POOR BABY :( i wanna hide him away in a bunker. speaking of bunkers, give me one to shack up with him in and we’d repopulate the entire world in just a few years TRRRRUST 🤣✌🏽
oneshots:
#INTRO2MUNCH101 by @satorena ; another situation where i read a fic years ago and became mutuals with the author later on (haiii serena). this fic is comedy fawking golddddd no joke but its also hot as hell. serena is too good at building up the chemistry between geto and reader (#welovemeanreadersbtw) and i love how desperate geto is here, he wants that cookie BAD. his fake nonchalant shit had no one fooled and every time reader called him out i was ctfu. the smut had me writhing brah WRITHING (and giggling profusely for many reasons)
rock you up on ao3 ; TA geto and professor reader is an unmatched dynamic brah YALL DONT EVEN GETTTT HOW MUCH I FUCK WITH THEM ANDDD THIS FIC… submissive geto was a very exciting surprise HEHEHEHEEEE i love seeing my man getting his shit rocked <3 the banter here is too mfing good and is something this writer very much excels at!!
why suguru’s wife is the best cook in the world! by @yunamoona ; a super good take on geto and his relationship with food AND the cutest meet cute to ever meet cute… yeah this is a banger. repeating what i said in the comments but when geto ate reader’s cookies i was smiling at my phone like a freak, because sometimes all it takes is just the act of kindness/love to be able to guide you down a path of healing :,) i love this fic sm. it’s one of a kind
what if you’re just someone i want around (i’m falling again) on ao3 ; post-jjk0 fix it fic where reader is assigned to watch over geto 😣💔 < the sound of my heart shattering. you can feel geto’s jadedness and bitterness radiating through the screen due to how vivid and deeply thoughtful each scene is written out. but despite it all, geto is such a sweetheart and lover to his core 😢
i’m afraid that’s just the way the world works (but i think that it could work for you and me) on ao3 ; an au where geto never defected and years later, reader and geto take in nanako and mimiko. such a heartwarming fic all around. i love my miminana forever and ever and they deserve the world
bed chem by @nanamiskentos ; this is sexy AND fucking hilarious, what MORE could you ask for. suguru had me curling my toessss in this fic jhtjwhrjsi his dialogue has me hot and ready like lil caesars. the descriptions here make me wanna lick my screen and digest every single word. best believe i’m cleaning my plate every time i reread this
it’s true i never write, but i would gladly die with you by @summer-oil ; post-defection fics where geto and reader used to be friends always destroy me in the best way possible :,) and ugh the prose here… no words can describe how beautiful and impactful it is. oh geto you yearner…
the haunting by @starmapz ² ; if you like horror fics this is absolutely the fic for you :3 if geto were my ex… shittttt i would crack him again and take him back too. this fic is a perfect blend of hot smut, angst, and unsettling horror. i can’t say much else cos of spoilers but the ending had me GAGGED
it will come back by @hellowoolf ; ballerina au with instructor geto and ballerina reader!! their push and pull in this fic had me reading with my hands (and puth 😣) clenched… the chemistry is SO buzzy and so loud. the smut is mfing fantasticcccc and the build-up to it is EXCELLENT. dialogue is on point toooooo everything geto says makes me giggle
top of the class on ao3 ; if my TA was as pretty (and pathetic) as geto in this fic, i’d crack tf out of them too 🤭 love the switch-up in the power dynamic here and how reader sooo effortlessly has geto wrapped around her finger
ghostface pussy killer by @saintkaylaa ; one thing about me is i loveeee a good fic where one chases the other and then they fuck nasty 😣 the aphrodisiacs being involved makes the stakes sm more intense (and hotter 😏). i’m obligated to reread this everyyyy october because this fic is peak
the best kind of remedy by @reignpage ; santa can i please get herbalist geto under my tree for christmas 🙏🏽 preferably naked and already oiled up 🙏🏽 stoner geto is absolutely and 100% my kryptonite everyyyy time and he’s extra sexy asl in this fic. DREAMY SIGH. the smut is so buzzyyyyy
a guide to hooking up by @thedivinegeneral ² ; this is a certified hood classic iykwim. every time this fic pops up on my dash or in my memory, i just HAVE to reread it. jade is really and truly the god of managing to make fics perfectly fluffy, hilarious, and smutty like whewwwww… geto and reader here are so special to me I LOVE THEM DEARLY 😣😋
how to baby trap marry your best friend! by @indiewritesxoxo ⁴ ; FUCK MY BABY DAD ALRIGHT!!! i love idiot best friends in love bro like just put the crush in the bag and pop the questionnnnn, the yearning in this kills me in the best way possible! the first time they have sex and take pictures of each other is forever branded in my head cos its tooooo hot 🚬
lessons in love on ao3 ; oh to fall in love with dilf geto and to retire with him… whimsical sigh. such a comforting slice of life fic. if my future partner isn’t this sweet and devoted and understanding, i don’t want em! geto here is really the perfect husband 😋
cry for me by @bunnieeteeth ; coach geto and figure skater reader! really cannot say much about this fic for the sake of spoilers, but also because i genuinely have no words for how this fic makes me feel. just wow. trust me when i say that this fic will have you sitting up in your seat and staring at your phone in shock. i want geto and reader to get together so bad but at what cost 💔
the torture of small talk with someone you used to know by @betterinvienna ; rockstar geto (and your ex) and photographer reader how you’ve both moved me and changed me irreversibly. geto is a first class yearner with a ticket straight to piningville because ohhhh my goddddd he wants reader back so mfing bad . he’s losing the nonchalant war #chalantking and i’m happy about it! such a good angst & hurt/comfort fic. i love exes fics. EVERY SINGLE SONG IS ABOUT YOU… WAH…. 😢😢😢🥺🥺🥺🥺
the practice of kissing by @lovelivision ; we all cheer for kissing practice fics!!! geto is such a mouthwatering tease in this fic ughhtksjrns i have got to fuck him . he’s such a cocky little shit but also sososo sweet with reader and so accommodating… his duality is unmatched!
praisekink4praisekink by @cherrys-wrld ; cherry always excels with writing familiar and cozy domesticity even during intimacy… dreamy sigh. geto is such a romantic WHY ISNT HE REALLLL (edit: i will update the link when this gets reposted!)
golden brown by @sixxels ; princess reader and knight geto you will be my undoing… the forbidden love here really packs a punch because they’re so desperate to be with each other and so in love, but they have to comply with the system :( i teared up while reading this fic. please never hurt me like this again (DO IT.)
ghost of you by @suguruss1ut ³ ; this fic is my 13th reason ☹️ post-defection geto and reader who still love each other despite geto’s actions/ideals is lethal. so lethal. this fic had me rolling around in bed thinking about it for dayssss after finishing it… it’s so heartbreaking UGHHHH 💔
#THE PARTY AND THE AFTER PARTY by @screampied ; lock me in a room with stripper!geto for about an hour (please trap us together longer though.) and he’s walking out pregnant god willing. whole fic had me twirling my hair and checking my wallet for extra cash to toss geto’s way
you & me by @getosurya ; perfect perfect perfect hurt/comfort after an argument between geto and reader. despite everything, they love each other sm and it bleeds through each and every action of theirs… this fic is so tender and reassuring that it makes me melt :,)
geto’s bride by @thedivinegeneral ² ; the effect that this fic has had on me actually needs to be studied because why am i so charmed by chucky doll geto to the point that i’ve sent this fic to multiple friends individually 😭😭 this shit had me CRYINGGGGG cos of how fucking funny it is alllll the way through lmfaooohtkwhrj and imagining certain scenes had me cracking up. i am such a sucker for sub geto in this fic… MAKE HIM WHIMPER!!!!
simply ear-resistible! by @indiewritesxoxo ⁴ ; bunny geto is the cutest fucking thing to ever existtttt 🥺😭 even if he has a massive attitude LMFAO. him retaining a few bunny traits/habits after returning to his original form actually makes me want to chew on his cheek. reader and geto are TOOOO cute here and i want the best for them :]
maw on ao3 ; there are no words to describe this fic or how it makes me feel without my description/thoughts majorly falling flat. i simply cannot do this fic justice… PLEASE READ IT.
ask me to bleed (for you i will) on ao3 ; post-defection geto and non-sorcerer reader who works at a bakery… another fic that is my 13th reason lowkey. this is another fic that i cannot do justice nor summarize my feelings for properly but i am once again urging you all to read this
purrrfect surprise by @suguruss1ut ³ ; do you like men who crawl on all fours while wearing cat ears?? look no further cos this is the fic for YOU!!! i love me some sub geto and this fic is pure peak. need him desperate justttt like this
drabbles:
(i’ve written so many summaries/thoughts already that i won’t be doing so for these fics. titles are all pretty self-explanatory for the most part, and these are all super good short reads!! 🫶🏽)
emo!suguru and his pretty pink princess by @epicderpface
suguru + independent gf by @satoruined
mornings with suguru by @hayajiku
sub!suguru wax play by @bluukive
arcturus beaming by @oporotheca
love, as if it were carved in stone by @go6jo
tutor!geto getting overwhelmed by @eraserbread ²
suguru volunteers to model for your art class and you didn’t expect him to have such a perfect dick by @gojosconsort
afterglow by @feyrinnn
kissing suguru by @sugurusbadhabit
binded bunny by @meowguru
domain expansion: unlimited creampies by @suguruss1ut ³
having not experienced teenage love, you conclude you’re just unlovable… but your "bestfriend" SUKUNA proves you veryy very wrong!!
"maybe i'm the problem?"
"huh?" sukuna unsticks his nose from his notes as he glances at you from across the table with a faint scowl.
the café around you is warm and alive with quiet afternoon noise. espresso machines hissing, cups clinking softly against saucers, low conversations blending into a gentle hum. the smell of roasted coffee and caramel syrup hangs in the air, sweet and comforting, wrapping around the little corner table you and sukuna claimed hours ago. sunlight filters through the tall windows beside you, spilling across the wooden tabletop where your notebooks, pens, and half-highlighted lecture slides are spread out in a messy fan.
you take a slow sip of your coffee while he waits for you to continue your ramble.
"i'm like, in college and i'm yet to experience some sort of… actually any type of romance." you swirl your straw absentmindedly in the iced drink. "like everybody in my teenage years, heck, even younger, either received a shy letter on valentines day or somebody proclaimed their love in a romantic way on a date."
sukuna’s scowl deepens slightly, though whether it's from concentration or your topic is hard to tell. he leans back in his chair, stretching one arm over the backrest while his other hand reaches for his drink.
"there's the funny rumors of people having crushes on a person and it turns into something sweet. for me? it was always in a way people would, like… fuck with me."
for a moment the only sound between you two is the quiet slurp of sukuna pulling from the straw of his strawberry milkshake, the bright pink drink ridiculously cheerful compared to the permanent unimpressed look on his face.
"am i the problem?" you finally ask, voice quieter now as you reach for your pen, "am i genuinely just not likable looks or personality wise? or both?!"
sukuna exhales slowly through his nose.
for a split second he almost looks relieved, like he’d been bracing himself for a completely different kind of conversation. he shrugs, taking another long sip of his milkshake "maybe.”
your fists slowly tighten around your pen like you're contemplating whether stabbing him with it would be socially acceptable in a public café. "you. are. such. a. dick."
sukuna snorts under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just slightly as he sets the milkshake back down. "i'm joking…"
he turns back to his notes flipping his pen between his fingers. "i don't think you are the problem…" he pauses, pen hovering for a moment before he scribbles something down in the margins. "maybeee somebody has been flirting with you for a while and you just haven't realized it."
"as if." you cross your arms over your chest immediately, scoffing. ‘i would have noticed."
sukuna stills.
his pen stops moving entirely. slowly, he lifts his head. his nose scrunches in that irritated yet annoyingly adorable way he does whenever you say something so unbelievably stupid it physically pains him. He arches one brow.
you stare at him, "what?"
he looks at you for another long second, expression flat. then he turns back to his notes again with a quiet sigh. "nothing."
you, however, are nowhere near done. leaning forward again as your pen starts tapping the edge of his notebook.
and the more you talk, the more sukuna feels his braincells quietly evaporating.
"it's just—" you begin again, waving one hand vaguely in the air. "i would like it if somebody was straightforward with me, you know?" sukuna's pen scratches across the paper a little harder. "like if he came up to me and just bluntly told me: i like you! and i want to take you on a date!”
there's a sharp clack. sukuna drops his pen harshly against the table as he looks up at you with the most deadpan expression you've ever seen.
"i like you and want to take you on a date," he says flatly. "even though we have went on multiple dates you just haven't realized it."
you beam instantly, like a light switched on inside your face. "yeah!" you nod enthusiastically. "something like that!"
sukuna’s eye twitches. "are you fucking stupid?"
"huh?" you blink.
for a moment sukuna just stares at you across the table, like he’s genuinely trying to figure out whether you’re messing with him or if this level of obliviousness is real. then, with a long exhale through his nose, he gestures broadly around the table as if presenting a collection of very obvious evidence.
his notebooks and textbooks are scattered everywhere, pages filled with his sharp, aggressive handwriting, but between the notes are your doodles. little hearts drawn lazily in the margins, tiny stars, a stupid cartoon of him with horns and the word menace written beside it. he always grumbles when you draw in his things, always mutters something about how annoying it is. and yet he’s never erased a single one.
then there’s the milkshake sitting between you both, the obnoxiously pink strawberry drink slowly melting while water droplets slides down the glass. two straws stick out of it.
as if that wasn’t already enough, underneath the table your legs are comfortably tangled together, your knee pressed against his like it has been for the last hour without either of you acknowledging it.
sukuna points at everything in one sweeping motion before his patience finally snaps. "I LIKE YOU, YOU IDIOT!"
his voice comes out louder than he meant it to, echoing slightly in the cozy café space. A couple of nearby students glance over briefly before returning to their laptops, pretending they didn’t hear anything.
you just blink again. your brain feels like it’s slowly short-circuiting as you try to process the words. "wha—?"
"I HAVE BEEN FLIRTING FOR MONTHS DUMBASS. I THOUGHT—"
you scrunch your face up immediately at the sudden volume of his voice.
"THAT—" the realization hits him and he abruptly stops, dragging a hand down his face before taking a steadying breath. he clears his throat. "ahem. sorry." the scowl on his face doesn’t soften, but when he speaks again his tone drops several levels, far more controlled even if the irritation is still very much present. "I just thought you wanted to take it super duper slow, so i waited and gave signals."
you stare at him, still trying to piece together everything he just said. "really?"
sukuna closes his eyes for a second and pinches the bridge of his nose, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of his nose bridge piercing as he rubs it slowly like he’s fighting off a headache. his shoulders sag just a little. "lord, give me strength."
you lean over the table, cheeks slowly turning pink. "when did you give me signals?!"
"uH, WeLL, I don’t KNOW!… maybe when you had those awful cramps and i told you to stay over at my place? you were curled up on my bed, whining like a tiny, pathetic kitten, and i held you all night, kissing the top of your head while rubbing your back until you fell asleep?!”
"uh— wha? i just thought…" you shrug, cheeks still warm. "i mean… you were just… trying to help me feel better, right?"
sukuna blinks at you like he’s about to explode. "what? no! then what the hell did you think that time you suddenly decided you had to have a pomegranate at midnight? i went out to the market just to get it, came back, and ended up cleaning the entire damn thing. I still have the stains on my table!”
you bury your face in your hands, groaning. "i… i felt so bad afterward! you kept grumbling the entire time about how annoying i was… i didn’t think you’d actually go and get it!”
sukuna runs a hand through his hair, his crimson strands falling into his eyes before he yanks them back in exasperation. “how do you even manage to think of it like that?!”
your cheeks flare red, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. "i… i guess i’ve felt so unloved that i shut down the possibility of anyone… liking me… for the rest of my life."
sukuna’s scowl deepens, "you’re telling me i’ve been acting like some damn wife to you and you didn’t realize shit?"
you shake your head, barely able to meet his gaze.
he throws his head back and laughs, a low, throaty sound that’s equal parts exasperation and amusement, "for fuck’s sake, woman…" he mutters, and then softer, more fondly, "you will be the death of me."
your voice comes out barely audible, trembling just slightly, but it’s enough to pull every ounce of his attention toward you. (as if it was ever directed somewhere else but you) "are you… still… up for that date?"
he leans closer, grin spreading across his face like he’s been waiting for this moment. "millions of them," his tattooed arm snakes across the table, and he pinches your reddened cheeks, smirking like a predator who finally caught its prey. "but ones that you actually notice the intentions of, dumbass."
★ rin telling me to post this so i did rahhh, i'mclearing out my drafts cause i'll be busy the next few weeks.. also self-indulgent because i have never experienced any sort of crush lol
the show? romance kaisen 🌹
the leading lady? you 🤗
your beau? all the male cast 😛
the otp? *cue crashing noises and endless bickering*
content: language, crude humor, crack fic, modern au, actor au, celebrity au, i made jjk a romance comedy, gojo x y/n and sukuna x y/n centered + slight nanami x reader, everyone is an adult, hints of reverse harem, JUST ABSOLUTE SHENANIGANS
end note:
this was partly inspired by whatever weird shit ariana grande and cynthia erivo had going on during the wicked movie marketing. also a big thank you to the delightfully unhinged r/AcheronMainsHSR for being the inspiration of the cursed text tweet. i made this for the love of the game (as per usual) and i have no plans to make part 2 anytime soon bc this took me almost a week to make have mercy on me twin 😭
a curse hits gojo when he is on a mission with you, causing him to turn into a cat! now he has to be in your care for an undetermined amount of time, which is a problem because he is desperately in love with you.
contents. gojo satoru x fem!reader • fluff • cat gojo • yearner gojo • down bad gojo lmao • some angst • attempts at humour • ~17k words • also can you guys tell i did the ears in the pics myself??? jahsjahq
THE mission had been simple. exorcise a low-grade curse in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of tokyo, maybe file a report, maybe grab lunch after. that was what gojo had been thinking about as he stepped through the broken doorway—lunch. specifically, whether you’d let him drag you to that new ramen place or if you’d put your foot down and insist on something with vegetables.
he should have known better. things were never simple with him.
the curse had been small, unassuming: a blob of shadows and static that barely registered on his six eyes. he’d let you handle it, hanging back with his hands in his pockets, watching the way you moved through the dim light. you were good, really good. he liked watching you work. the sharp focus in your eyes, the way your cursed energy flickered like a heartbeat.
but then the curse had done something unexpected. instead of attacking, it had shrieked— a sound that scraped against his skull like nails on a chalkboard— and exploded into a cloud of purple-black smoke. gojo had thrown an arm up instinctively, infinity flickering for just a fraction of a second too late.
the smoke had gotten in. through his mouth, his nose, his eyes. he’d coughed, stumbled, and then everything had gone sideways.
literally. the world had tilted, the ground rushing up to meet him, except the ground was suddenly much closer than it should have been. his clothes had pooled around him in a heap of fabric, and when he’d tried to step out of them, his body had moved wrong. all wrong. four points of contact instead of two. a tail. fur.
he’d looked down— down at paws, white-furred paws— and the last thing he’d heard before consciousness slipped away was your voice, sharp with alarm, calling his name.
when gojo woke up, it was to the smell of rain and old concrete. he was tucked into a corner of the warehouse, half-hidden behind a collapsed shelf, and he was still a cat.
a white cat, he realized, lifting a paw to inspect it. white fur, blue eyes; because of course even as a cat he’d have the six eyes, the same impossible blue staring back at him from the cracked surface of a puddle nearby. he was small, too. not a kitten, but not much bigger than one. his tail flicked once, twice, a test. it worked. everything worked, just… differently.
what the hell, he thought, except what came out was a confused little mrrp?
he tried to speak. opened his mouth, focused, pushed words up his throat and got a squeaky meow for his efforts. great. fantastic. this was fine. he was gojo satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he’d been turned into a cat by a curse so weak it shouldn’t have been able to touch him.
he sat down heavily— or as heavily as a cat could sit— and wrapped his tail around his paws. okay. okay. he could work with this. the curse had dissipated after that explosion, so the threat was gone. all he had to do was wait. someone would find him. probably you. you’d been right there, after all.
as if on you, he heard it! your voice, distant but getting closer, threading through the rain and the rubble.
“gojo! gojo, where are you? this isn’t funny!”
he should have meowed. he should have made some kind of noise to lead you to him. but instead he just sat there, frozen, as your footsteps grew louder. because you sounded worried and you never worried about him. you always said he was too strong to worry about, too annoying to miss. but your voice was tight, fraying at the edges, and when you came into view, picking your way through the debris, he could see your face.
you looked scared for him.
gojo’s chest did something strange. tight and warm and aching all at once, a feeling he’d been trying to ignore for months now. he liked you. more than liked you. liked you in the way that made him offer to go on missions with you even when he didn’t have to, liked you in the way that made him linger after training just to hear you laugh, liked you in the way that kept him up at night staring at his ceiling and thinking about the curve of your smile.
and now you were here, kneeling in the dust, your hands shaking as you pushed aside a broken plank of wood. your eyes swept the corner where he was hiding, passed over him, then snapped back.
“oh my god,” you whispered.
gojo blinked at you. you blinked back.
“gojo?” you said, and he could hear how stupid you felt saying it to a cat, but also how desperate. “is that… is that you?”
he meowed. it was the only thing he could do. but he made it count— looked you right in the eyes and meowed with as much yes, it’s me, you idiot as he could pack into a single syllable.
your breath caught and then you were moving, scooping him up off the ground with careful hands, cradling him against your chest. you were warm, warmer than he’d expected. your heartbeat was fast, rabbiting against his side where you held him, and your fingers were trembling as they smoothed over his fur, dusting him off.
“what happened to you?” you asked, your voice cracking. “you’re so small. you’re—god, you’re a cat. how are you a cat?”
gojo wanted to say something reassuring and to tell you he was fine, that this was just a minor inconvenience, that he’d be back to his annoyingly handsome self in no time, but all that came out was a soft, pathetic mew, and you made a sound like your heart was breaking.
“okay,” you said, pulling yourself together with visible effort. “okay. i’ve got you. i’ve got you, satoru. i’m taking you to shoko.”
he pressed his face into the crook of your elbow and let you carry him out into the rain. it was all still confusing for him too, despite how strangely calm he was feeling.
the trip to jujutsu high was a blur of motion and muffled sounds. you’d wrapped him in your jacket to keep him dry, and he’d let you, even though it was undignified and he was pretty sure his tail was sticking out at a weird angle. you ran most of the way, your cursed energy flaring with urgency, and gojo spent the journey trying not to think about how close your hands were to him and how gently you held him.
shoko was in her office when you burst through the door, soaked and breathless and holding cat-him like he was the most important thing in the world.
“shoko,” you said, “you need to look at him. it’s gojo. he’s a cat. a curse turned him into a cat.”
shoko raised an eyebrow. took a long drag of her cigarette. exhaled.
“you’re serious,” she said.
“do i look like i’m joking?”
shoko looked at you, looked at the cat… uh, him. the cat— gojo— met her gaze with unmistakably familiar blue eyes, and something in her expression shifted. she stubbed out her cigarette and gestured to the examination table.
“put him there.”
you did, reluctantly, your hands lingering on his fur for a moment before you stepped back. gojo sat on the cold metal table and tried to project as much dignity as possible. it was difficult when he came up to shoko’s elbow.
shoko examined him. she didn’t do much— a flash of reversed cursed technique, a long look at his eyes, a gentle press of fingers along his spine. gojo tolerated it because it was shoko, and because he trusted her, and because he could see you watching from the corner of the room with your arms wrapped around yourself like you were holding in a scream.
“well?” you said, the moment shoko stepped back.
“it’s a curse,” shoko said, reaching for another cigarette. “a transformation-type. annoying, but not dangerous. his body’s fine, his soul’s still his, which is the important part. the curse is embedded pretty deep, but it’s already degrading. i’d say a week, maybe two, and he’ll change back on his own.”
“a week or two,” you repeated. “he’s going to be a cat for a week or two.”
“unless you find the original curse user and force them to undo it, but that’s a needle in a haystack situation. my advice? stock up on cat food and patience.”
you made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. gojo meowed an indignant sound, because cat food? he was not eating cat food. he’d rather starve.
shoko glanced at him and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “one more thing,” she said, turning back to you. “since you were the one with him when it happened, and since his cursed energy is going to be… let’s say unstable while the curse runs its course, you’re going to have to look after him. keep him close. your energy will help stabilize his while he heals.”
you blinked. “what? me? why me?”
“because you were there. proximity matters with this kind of curse. his system is already keyed to yours. if anyone else tried to take care of him, it could prolong the transformation or cause complications.” shoko’s voice was flat, clinical, but her eyes flicked to gojo for just a moment. “congratulations. you’re a cat sitter.”
gojo watched your face cycle through about seventeen different emotions. surprise. worry. reluctance. and then, underneath all of it, something softer. something that made his heart— his tiny, cat-sized heart— skip a beat.
“fine,” you said finally, reaching out to scoop him off the table. you held him against your chest again, and he shuddered at how much he liked it and how right it felt. “fine. but you’re helping me buy supplies, shoko. i don’t know the first thing about cats.”
“neither does he,” shoko said, nodding at gojo. “this is going to be entertaining.”
gojo wanted to flip her off. he settled for a hiss, which was deeply unsatisfying and only made shoko laugh.
you carried him out of the office and through the halls of jujutsu high, and gojo tried to focus on the practicalities. a week or two as a cat. he could handle that. he’d handled worse. but then you looked down at him, your expression soft in a way you never let him see when he was human, and you said, “don’t worry. i’ve got you.”
and gojo realized, with a sinking feeling, that this was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.
because he was in love with you. completely, stupidly, helplessly in love with you. and now he was going to spend every moment of the next fourteen days pressed against your side, unable to tell you, unable to do anything except meow and hope you didn’t notice how he looked at you.
… your apartment was small. gojo had never been inside it before— you were private about your space, always deflecting when he offered to walk you home or come over after missions, but now here he was, deposited on your couch while you rummaged through a bag of supplies shoko had helped you pick up on the way.
a litter box. cat food. a small bed you’d grabbed on impulse, even though gojo had already decided he wasn’t going to use it. a brush. some toys.
“this is insane,” you muttered, pulling out a bag of dry food and staring at it in bewilderment. “you’re gojo satoru. you’re supposed to be untouchable. how did a cat curse get you?”
gojo meowed. it was a fair question, honestly. he’d been distracted, watching you.
you sighed and sat down on the couch next to him, the cushions dipping under your weight. for a moment, you just looked at him. at his white fur, his blue eyes, the way his tail curled around his paws.
“you’re still you in there, right?” you asked quietly. “you can understand me?”
he meowed again, and bumped his head against your hand. your breath hitched in wonder, yet soon you were petting him, your fingers sliding through his fur in slow, careful strokes. it felt good. embarrassingly good. gojo’s eyes half-closed before he could stop them and a low rumble started in his chest.
was he… purring?
oh god. he was purring. he was purring because you were petting him, and he couldn’t stop, and you were smiling now— a sweet smile, soft and wondering, the kind he’d do anything to see.
“you’re kinda cute like this,” you said, and gojo wanted to die. “don’t tell me i said that when you turn back.”
he filed that away for later. you think he’s cute. he was never, ever letting you forget it.
you kept petting him as the evening stretched on, and gojo let himself relax into the touch. it was fine. this was fine. he was just… gathering information. observing. definitely not enjoying the way your thumb brushed behind his ears or the quiet sound of your breathing as you settled deeper into the couch.
a week or two, shoko had said. a week or two of this. of you.
gojo closed his eyes and purred, trying not to think about how hard it was going to be to go back to normal after this. how much he was going to miss the weight of your hand on his fur, the softness in your voice when you said his name. but that was a problem for later.
day 1
gojo woke up slowly, consciousness filtering back in fragments. the couch was soft beneath him, softer than he expected, with a blanket that smelled like you draped over his small body. he stretched, arching his back the way cats did, and froze mid-stretch as the events of yesterday came crashing back.
right. he was a cat.
he blinked his eyes open, the world sharp and muted all at once in that strange way cat vision worked. your apartment was quiet, morning light slanting through the curtains in pale gold stripes. and then he heard a door creaking open, soft footsteps on wooden floors.
gojo turned his head and every thought in his brain promptly fell out and scattered across the floor.
you were standing in your bedroom doorway, and you were... you were barely dressed. sleep-rumpled hair falling across your face, an oversized t-shirt hanging off one shoulder, shorts that rode up your thighs. you were scratching lazily at your neck, eyes half-closed, clearly not fully awake yet. and your shirt— your thin, worn-out, very comfy-looking shirt— clung to you in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
gojo could see everything.
well, not everything, not really, but enough that his cat-heart started hammering against his ribs, enough that he felt heat rush to his face even though he was covered in fur and you couldn’t possibly tell. your nipples were visible through the fabric, soft shadows in the morning light, and you seemed completely unaware. you yawned, stretched your arms above your head, and the shirt rode up higher, exposing a strip of your stomach.
gojo made a sound, a small, strangled mrrp that he immediately regretted.
you didn’t even look at him. just shuffled past the couch toward the bathroom, bare feet padding on the wood, and closed the door behind you with a soft click.
the bathroom door.
the bathroom.
gojo stared at the closed door for a long moment, his brain still short-circuiting. then his body reminded him, with an uncomfortable urgency, that he hadn’t used the bathroom since before the mission yesterday. that he was, in fact, a living creature with biological needs. and that somewhere in your apartment, there was a litter box.
he looked at it. shoko had made you buy one, a small plastic rectangle filled with gray sand-like pellets. it sat in the corner of your kitchen, pristine and unused, waiting for him.
no.
absolutely not.
he was gojo satoru. he was not going to squat in a box of sand like some common house pet. he had standards. he had dignity. he would wait.
so he waited. curled on the couch, tail twitching, ears flicking, every instinct screaming at him to find dirt and dig. the minutes crawled by. you were taking forever. what were you even doing in there? brushing your teeth? hair? he didn’t care. he just needed you to leave so he could use the toilet like a civilized being.
finally, the bathroom door opened. steam curled out, carrying the scent of your soap, and you emerged in a cloud of warmth. your face was damp, hair pulled back now, and you’d put on a bra. gojo tried not to feel disappointed about that.
“morning, cat,” you mumbled, not really looking at him as you headed for the kitchen. “hope you slept okay.”
gojo didn’t wait. he launched himself off the couch, four paws hitting the floor, and sprinted for the bathroom before you could ask questions. he slipped through the gap in the door— you’d left it open a crack— and landed on the cold tile floor.
the toilet loomed above him like a porcelain mountain.
okay, he could do this. he was smart. he was resourceful. he’d figure it out.
he jumped onto the small step stool you kept by the sink and from there onto the edge of the sink. the toilet was close now. close enough.
gojo gathered himself, calculated the distance, and leaped.
he misjudged.
the rim of the toilet was narrower than he’d thought, and his paws slipped on the smooth porcelain. for one glorious second he balanced, teetering on the edge, and then gravity remembered he was a cat and not, in fact, immune to its laws.
he fell straight into the water.
it was so cold. shockingly, insultingly cold. gojo splashed and scrambled, claws scrabbling against the sides of the bowl, but the porcelain was too slick and he was too small and the water was rising up to his chin—
“what the—”
you were in the doorway. your eyes were wide, your mouth open, and for a moment you just stared at the absolute disaster unfolding in your toilet.
“oh my god,” you said. then you were moving, crossing the bathroom in two steps, and your hands were in the water, around his small wet body, lifting him out. “oh my god, gojo, what were you thinking?”
he was dripping, soaking wet, cold, humiliated, and thoroughly pathetic. water streamed off his white fur in rivulets, and he was pretty sure there was something stuck to his tail that he didn’t want to think about.
you held him at arm’s length, your expression cycling through horror, disbelief, and something that looked suspiciously like suppressed laughter.
“the toilet,” you said. “you tried to use the toilet.”
he meowed. it was a defensive meow, a don’t judge me meow, but it came out small and wet and miserable.
you bit your lip as your shoulders shook and a second later you were laughing; full-body laughter that bent you double and made tears spring to your eyes. you laughed so hard you had to set him down on the bath mat, and even then you kept laughing, clutching your stomach, gasping for air.
gojo sat in a puddle of toilet water and glared at you with all the dignity he could muster, which was not much, considering he was dripping and shivering and his tail was doing that weird puffy thing cats did when they were upset.
“i’m sorry,” you wheezed, not sounding sorry at all. “i’m sorry, i’m not—it’s not funny—”
actually, it was funny. he knew it was funny. if the roles were reversed, he’d be laughing so hard he’d pass out. but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
you finally got yourself under control, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “okay. okay, i’m done. i’m sorry. let’s get you cleaned up.”
you scooped him up again, more carefully this time, cradling him against your chest even though he was wet and probably smelled like toilet water. you didn’t seem to care. you carried him to the sink and turned on the warm water, testing the temperature with your elbow before you lowered him in.
“don’t scratch me,” you warned and he didn’t. as if he would. he sat in the sink and let you run water through his fur, let you pump soap into your palm and work it through every inch of him, because your hands were gentle and warm and he was too embarrassed to do anything else.
“you have to use the litter box,” you said as you rinsed him off, your voice softer now. “i know you don’t want to. i wouldn’t want to either. but you’re a cat right now, gojo. your body works like a cat’s. you can’t—” you paused, biting your lip again. “you can’t keep trying to use the toilet. you’re too small. you’ll fall in again.”
he meowed. it was a defeated meow, an i know meow, that made your face soften.
“look,” you said. “i’ll put it somewhere private, okay? somewhere you don’t have to feel weird about.”
you wrapped him in a towel afterwards— one of your towels, soft and worn and smelling like lavender— and rubbed him dry while he sat on the bathroom counter, limp and exhausted and strangely light. the humiliation was still there, burning under his skin, but so was something else. something warm.
you were being so kind to him despite the fact that he was as much of gojo as he was a small wet cat who’d fallen in your toilet and needed help. you were kind. you’d always been kind, even when you pretended not to be, even when you rolled your eyes at his jokes and called him annoying. and gojo sat there in his towel, letting you dry between his toes, and fell a little more in love with you.
“there,” you said finally, stepping back to admire your work. he was fluffy now, his white fur sticking up in all directions, and you laughed again, fondly. “you look ridiculous.”
he meowed. you look beautiful, he tried to say, but it came out as a squeak.
you didn’t understand. you just picked him up and carried him back to the couch, settling him on a fresh blanket, and went to make breakfast.
gojo curled into a ball and watched you move around the kitchen, and tried very hard not to think about the litter box waiting for him in the corner. he failed.
… you set a bowl of milk in front of him. just milk. in a little ceramic dish that you’d probably found in the back of your cabinet, the kind you’d use for dipping sauce or something.
gojo stared at it.
then he looked at you, sitting across from him at your small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal in your hands, like a normal person. you had a spoon. you were eating. the milk in your bowl looked exactly like the milk in his dish, except yours had floating bits of grain and sugar and his was just… milk.
he meowed. pointedly.
“what?” you said around a mouthful of cereal. “you’re a cat. cats drink milk.”
he was not a cat. he was a human trapped in a cat’s body, and humans did not drink milk from a dish on the floor. humans drank milk from a glass, or a mug, or at the very least a bowl that they held in their hands while sitting at a table like a civilized creature.
he walked over to your chair and pawed at your leg.
you looked down at him. “what? you want some of mine?”
yes. no. he wanted his own bowl of cereal, actually. he wanted to sit across from you and eat breakfast the way he’d imagined a hundred times before— casual, easy, stealing pieces of fruit from your plate just to watch you roll your eyes.
but he couldn’t have that so he’d settle for the next best thing.
he jumped onto the chair next to yours, then onto the table itself. you made a sound of protest, but he was already walking across the surface, navigating around your coffee mug and the morning paper, until he reached your cereal bowl.
he looked at it. looked at you. then lowered his head and lapped at the milk.
it was so good. the milk was cold and sweet, and the cereal bits that came with it added a pleasant crunch. his tongue worked in that weird cat-way, curling backward to scoop up liquid, and he couldn’t help the small sound of contentment that escaped him.
“are you eating my cereal, gojo,” you said flatly. “still got your sweet tooth as a cat?”
he meowed. yes. deal with it.
you watched him for a long moment, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth. then you sighed that long-suffering sigh you always used around him and pushed the bowl slightly in his direction.
“fine. but we’re sharing. and you’re not getting your own bowl because i’m not washing extra dishes for a cat.”
gojo lapped at the milk again, you resumed eating from the other side of the bowl, and the two of you sat there in the morning light, sharing breakfast like it was the most normal thing in the world. he was pretty content with that.
he watched you between sips. the way your fingers curled around your spoon, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when it fell into your face, the way your eyes kept flicking to him with something soft and wondering. you were thinking about something. he wished he knew what.
you finished the cereal before he did— you had the advantage of a spoon— and sat back in your chair, cradling your mug of coffee in both hands. gojo kept lapping at the milk, his tail curling contentedly behind him, and tried not to think about how domestic this felt.
“you know,” you said quietly, “it’s weird. having you here. like this.”
he paused, milk dripping from his whiskers, and looked up at you.
“you’re always so… much. when you’re human. loud and tall and everywhere. but right now you’re just—” you gestured vaguely with your mug. “you just sit there and watch me. it’s different.”
gojo didn’t know what to do with that. he meowed softly, hoping it came across as is that bad?
you shook your head, like you’d understood him. “no. not bad. just different.”
you finished your coffee in comfortable silence, and then you stood up and carried your dishes to the sink. gojo hopped off the table and followed you, because apparently his legs had decided that’s just what he did now. followed you. everywhere.
you noticed. “are you… following me?”
he sat down and looked at you. yes. obviously.
you made a face, amused and flustered, and turned back to the sink. he watched you wash your dishes, the stretch of your back, the curve of your neck. you dried your hands and walked to the bathroom, and he followed there too.
“gojo,” you said, pausing at the bathroom door. “i’m going to take a shower.”
he meowed.
“you can’t come in.”
he meowed again, more indignant this time. he wasn’t trying to come in. he was just… standing here, in the hallwa, which was a public space. you stared at him. he stared back.
“i know you’re in there,” you said finally, pointing at his small furry face. “i know you’re watching. don’t be weird.”
you closed the door. gojo sat in the hallway and listened to the water run, and felt his face burn even though he was covered in fur. he wasn’t being weird. he was just… curious about your routine and your life. about the small, private moments you never let him see when he was human.
the door opened twenty minutes later and you stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around your hair and another around your body. you looked down at him, still sitting in the exact same spot, and your expression did something complicated.
he meowed.
you shook your head and walked to your bedroom, and he followed there too. when you sat on the edge of your bed to dry your hair, he jumped up next to you, settling into a loaf position on your comforter. you didn’t tell him to leave. you just kept drying your hair, your movements slow and practiced, and every few seconds you’d glance at him like you were checking that he was still there.
you got dressed behind the door of your closer, not before giving him a pointed look, and gojo politely looked at the wall. mostly. he was only human. well. not human right now. but his mind was human, and his mind was very aware that you were changing clothes six feet away from him, and he was very determined not to be a creep about it.
you turned around in a fresh outfit and found him staring at the wall with an intensity that would have been suspicious if you knew him better.
“okay,” you said, grabbing your bag from the desk. “i have to go. shoko wants me to help with some reports, and i’m already late.”
gojo’s ears perked up. you were leaving? now? without him?
you walked to the front door, and he jumped off the bed and trotted after you, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. you slipped on your shoes, and he sat by the door, waiting.
“gojo,” you said, looking down at him. “i can’t take you with me.”
he meowed. loud. why not?
“because you’re a cat. i can’t just show up at jujutsu high with a cat. everyone will ask questions, and shoko will never let me live it down, and—” you paused, something flickering across your face. “and it’s not safe. you’re vulnerable like this. if something happened to you…”
you trailed off. gojo watched the worry settle into your features, the way your brow furrowed and your mouth pulled down at the corners. he meowed again, softer this time. i don’t want to be alone.
you crouched down, bringing yourself to his level. your hand reached out, hesitant, petting him with slow strokes along his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his tail. his eyes half-closed without permission and that stupid purr started up again, rumbling through his small chest.
“i know,” you said quietly. “i know you don’t. but i’ll come back early, okay? i promise. i’ll finish up as fast as i can and i’ll come straight home.”
you scratched behind his ears, right in that spot that made his back leg twitch, and gojo leaned into your touch like a desperate animal. which, he supposed, he was.
“be good,” you said, standing up. “don’t destroy my furniture. use the litter box. eat the food i left you. and for the love of god, don’t try to use the toilet again.”
he stood in the entryway for a long moment, staring at the closed door. the apartment felt different without you— quieter, colder, emptier. your presence lingered in the air, in the smell of your coffee and the warmth of the spot on the couch where you’d sat, but it wasn’t enough.
he wanted you back already. very pathetically. but then his ears twitched, and he looked around, a different kind of feeling creeping in.
you’d left him alone in your apartment with nothing to do for hours except… explore.
gojo’s tail curled up, slow and curious. this was your space; the space you never let him see, the space where you were just you, without your armour and your careful walls. and now he had unfettered access to all of it.
he walked back into the living room, looking at everything with new eyes. the books on your shelf, worn and dog-eared. the stack of dvids by the television. the blanket on the couch that you’d wrapped around him last night, still rumpled from his body.
he jumped onto the couch and sniffed the blanket. it smelled like you, like lavender and something warmer underneath, something that was just yours.
okay. okay, this was fine. this was an opportunity. he could learn things about you— little things, private things— and store them away for later, when he was human again and he could finally, maybe, do something about the way he felt.
he hopped off the couch and padded toward your bedroom, the door still open from this morning.
gojo paused at the threshold, his heart beating too fast. this felt… invasive. wrong. but you’d said he could roam, hadn’t you? you hadn’t said don’t go in my room. you’d just said don’t destroy your furniture and use the litter box. so he stepped inside.
your bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from sleep. your pajamas— the t-shirt and shorts from this morning— were draped over the back of a chair. a half-empty glass of water sat on your nightstand, next to a book with a bookmark sticking out of it. your scent was everywhere here, thick and intimate, and gojo breathed it in without meaning to.
he jumped onto your bed. the mattress was soft. the pillows smelled like your shampoo. he walked in a circle and he curled up right in the center of the warm spot where you’d slept.
he was going to learn so much about you today. he was going to open every drawer and sniff every shelf and piece together the version of you that existed when no one was watching.
and then, maybe, when he was human again, he’d know exactly how to love you.
… it was strange how natural it felt— padding across wooden floors on four paws, whiskers twitching at every draft, ears swiveling toward every tiny sound. his body moved differently now, lower to the ground, more deliberate. he found himself sniffing things without meaning to. the corner of the couch. the leg of the kitchen table. the bottom of the door you’d walked through.
you smelled like coffee and soap and something faintly sweet. he filed that away.
the kitchen was first. he jumped onto the counter and walked along the edge, inspecting everything. your spice rack was organized alphabetically, which made him smile. your refrigerator was covered in magnets: a tiny mt. fuji, a cartoon sushi roll, a faded advertisement for some local festival. there were photos tucked under some of them, and gojo pressed his nose close to look.
you with shoko, both of you younger, making silly faces at the camera. you with nanami, both of you looking serious and slightly uncomfortable, like someone had forced you to pose together. you with geto— gojo’s heart twinged at that one, old grief surfacing— your arm around his shoulders, both of you laughing at something off-frame.
and then one of you alone. sitting on a beach somewhere, the sunset behind you, your hair blowing across your face. you looked happy. peaceful. gojo stared at it longer than he meant to.
he moved on.
the bathroom was next. he hopped onto the edge of the sink and peered into your medicine cabinet through the gap where you hadn’t quite closed it. toothpaste. floss. a hairbrush with strands of your hair tangled in it. skincare products lined up in a specific order— cleanser, toner, moisturizer, all the same brand. a bottle of painkillers. a small box of band-aids with cartoon characters on them.
he felt like a spy, like a thief! like someone who was collecting pieces of you to keep forever.
the bedroom was the most revealing. he’d already been in there, but now he had time to really look. he jumped from the bed to your dresser, walking carefully around the scattered items on top. jewelry in a small ceramic dish. a watch with a cracked face that you never wore anymore. a folded piece of paper that he nudged open with his nose.
it was a letter. from someone named kaori. your mother, maybe? the handwriting was neat, careful, the kind of cursive that older generations used. i hope you’re eating enough, it said. you always forget to eat when you’re busy. don’t work too hard. call me when you have time. love, mom.
gojo’s chest ached. he stepped away from the letter, suddenly feeling like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. but he couldn’t stop. his paws carried him to your closet next, pushing the sliding door open with his head. your clothes hung in neat rows— work clothes on one side, casual on the other. a shelf above held folded sweaters and a shoebox that he somehow managed to knock down with his tail.
the box spilled open. photographs. lots of them.
old ones, mostly. you as a kid with missing front teeth, holding up a fish you’d caught. you as a teenager in a school uniform, looking bored at some ceremony. you with people he didn’t recognize— friends from before jujutsu high, probably, before your life had become curses and missions and death.
and then, near the bottom, a photo of you with him.
gojo stared at it. it was from years ago, back when you’d first joined. he remembered this day— some group outing that yaga had organized, forcing everyone to go to an arcade. in the photo, he had his arm slung around your shoulders, too casual and close. you were laughing at something he’d said, your head tilted back, your whole face bright with it. and he was looking at you.
he was looking at you the way he always looked at you — like you were the sun. he hadn’t known anyone had taken this picture. he hadn’t known you’d kept it.
gojo sat in the middle of the scattered photographs, surrounded by pieces of your life, and felt something crack open inside his chest. you were so much more than he’d let himself see. you had a mother who worried about you. you had a past that didn’t involve him. you had a whole world inside you that you kept hidden behind light sarcasm and rolled eyes.
he wanted to know all of it, every last bit.
the afternoon stretched on. gojo explored every room, every drawer, every hidden corner. he found the spot under your bed where you’d dropped an earring months ago and never bothered to retrieve. he found a stash of chocolate in your desk drawer— emergency supplies, probably, for difficult days. he found a notebook in your living room, half-filled with grocery lists and random thoughts and one line that made him freeze: satoru was annoying today. i couldn’t stop smiling.
he stared at that line for a full minute. then he closed the notebook with his paw and walked away, his face hot, his tail doing that weird puffy thing again.
by the time the sun started to set, gojo had mapped every inch of your apartment. he knew which floorboards creaked. he knew which window had the best view of the sky. he knew that you kept a spare key under the fake rock by the door, which was a security risk he’d be lecturing you about later.
he was curled up on the couch, when he heard footsteps in the hallway, keys jingling. your voice, muffled through the door, saying something to someone on the phone.
“yeah, i know. i’ll be there tomorrow. i just—he’s alone, okay? i don’t want to leave him alone for too long.”
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail started wagging— no, cats didn’t wag, they flicked, but it was definitely wagging adjacent. he jumped off the couch and ran to the door, his claws skittering on the wood, and sat there waiting as the lock turned.
the door opened and there you were. tired, your hair slightly windswept, a bag slung over your shoulder. you smelled like the outside; cool air and concrete and a hint of the coffee shop you must have passed on the way home. your eyes found him immediately, your face softening.
“hey,” you said, your voice gentle. “you waited by the door?”
he didn’t answer. couldn’t answer. but his body answered for him— launching forward, jumping up, paws reaching for you. you caught him without thinking, your arms wrapping around his small body, pulling him against your chest.
gojo buried his face in your neck and purred, embarrassingly loudly. he couldn’t stop it. he pressed his forehead against your jaw and purred and purred, and your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his fur.
“awe, so sweet,” you murmured. he felt the words vibrate through your throat. “god, you’re so soft. how are you so soft?”
he meowed against your skin and you laughed, carrying him inside after kicking the door shut behind you.
you walked to the couch and sat down with him still in your arms whilst he curled up in your lap like he belonged there, because maybe he did, at least while he was a cat.
“shoko had more information,” you said, your hand stroking along his back in slow, rhythmic motions. “about the curse.”
gojo looked up at you, his ears forward, his full attention on your face. you were staring at the wall, your expression thoughtful, your thumb tracing absent patterns through his fur.
“she said it’s anchored to your emotional state. something about the way the curse was designed— it feeds off… i don’t know, attachment? connection? she used a lot of big words.” you frowned. “basically, the more stressed or agitated you get, the longer it’ll take to wear off. so you need to stay calm. relaxed. which is hilarious, considering it’s you.”
he meowed. i can be calm.
“you literally fell in my toilet this morning.”
fair point.
you sighed, leaning your head back against the couch. your hand kept petting him, steady and soothing, and gojo felt his eyes starting to droop. the purring hadn’t stopped. he wasn’t sure it knew how to stop.
“she also said your cursed energy should stabilizing,” you continued. “which is good. means the curse is breaking down faster than she expected. you might only be a cat for a week, not two.”
gojo felt a spike of something— panic, maybe, or longing— and forced himself to take a slow breath. he had to stay calm.
“so that’s good news,” you said, and you almost sounded disappointed. almost. “you’ll be back to annoying me in no time.”
he wanted to tell you that he didn’t want to go back. not yet. not when he had you like this, soft and unguarded, your hand in his fur and your body warm beneath him. not when he’d just started to learn who you really were.
but he couldn’t so he just purred louder, pressed his face against your stomach, and let you talk.
you told him about your day. about the reports you’d filed, the mission briefings you’d sat through, the way nanami had given you a look when you’d said you had to leave early. a cat, he’d said, and you’d said yes, a cat, and he’d said it’s gojo, isn’t it, and you hadn’t been able to deny it
“he knows about the mission,” you muttered. “everyone knows. shoko told ijichi—i mean, she told everyone, basically. so now the whole school knows that gojo satoru is a cat. i hope you’re happy.”
you talked until your voice went hoarse and the sky outside turned dark, the apartment filling with shadows. and then you stood up, carrying him with you, and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth. he sat on the edge of the sink and watched you, the way you moved through your nighttime routine with practiced ease. wash face. brush teeth. tie hair up. moisturize. the same steps, every night, a ritual he’d never seen before.
you changed in the bedroom with your back to him again while he looked at the wall like a gentleman. then you climbed into bed and held your arms out.
“come here,” you said. “you’re sleeping with me tonight. i don’t want you falling in the toilet again.”
he should have been offended, but instead he jumped onto the mattress and walked up your body— over your legs, your stomach, your chest— and settled in the curve of your neck, his small body tucked against your shoulder. you pulled the blanket up over both of you, and your hand found his back again as the room went dark.
gojo lay there in the quiet, listening to your breathing slow, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest beneath him. you were warm. you were safe. you were here.
for the first time in a long time, gojo felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
he closed his eyes, pressed his nose against your pulse point and let the sound of your heartbeat carry him to sleep.
day 3
next two days changed a lot.
not the curse— that was still firmly in place, still humming through his small body like a low-frequency buzz. but gojo himself had changed. adjusted. surrendered, maybe, to the strange rhythm of being a cat.
it started with the little things. the way his tail developed its own vocabulary, curling and flicking without his permission. the way he caught himself watching birds through the window with an intensity that felt almost predatory, his back legs bunching beneath him before he remembered he wasn’t actually supposed to want to eat them.
by the second morning, he’d stopped trying to use the toilet.
(he used the litter box. he didn’t think about it. if he thought about it, he’d die of embarrassment, so he simply didn’t think about it. you’d cleaned it without comment, without teasing, and that was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him.)
by the second afternoon, he’d figured out how to open your bedroom door. he’d launched himself at it, paws outstretched, and the door had swung open on his first try. he’d felt so proud that he’d done it three more times, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.
you’d come home to find every door in the apartment wide open, including the bathroom, and you’d stared at him with an expression caught between exasperation and genuine concern.
“what are you,” you’d said, “a cat or a burglar?”
he’d meowed. both. i’m both now.
but the real change was deeper than that. it was in the way he felt when you came home— that rush of warmth, that stupid wagging-adjacent tail, that desperate need to be in your arms. it was in the way he’d started sleeping on your chest every night, your heartbeat under his ear, your hand a warm weight on his back. it was in the way he’d stopped counting the days until he turned back.
this was the life, he thought.
he woke up on the third morning— no, wait, the second morning? time was weird when every day was the same soft blur of naps and pets and you— and stretched luxuriously, his front paws extending, his back arching, his tail straightening out behind him. the sun was warm on his fur. the pillow beneath him smelled like your shampoo. and you were still asleep next to him, your face slack and peaceful, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you sleep. he’d never admit to that when he was human, but right now, with his cat-brain humming contentedly, he let himself look. the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks. the way your hand had ended up curled near his body, like you’d been reaching for him in your sleep. the way you mumbled something unintelligible and turned your face into the pillow.
you were beautiful. he’d always known that, but seeing you like this— unaware, unguarded, soft— made something twist in his chest.
he leaned forward and licked your nose, just a tiny swipe of his rough cat-tongue across the tip of your nose. he didn’t even think about it; his body just did it.
you scrunched up your face, snorted, and opened your eyes.
“did you just… lick me?”
gojo meowed. maybe.
you stared at him for a long moment. then you laughed— a groggy, morning laugh that turned into a yawn halfway through— and reached out to scratch behind his ears. “you’re so weird. you know that? you’re the weirdest cat i’ve ever met.”
he purred. thank you.
the morning passed in that easy, lazy way that mornings had started to take on. you made coffee and shared your cereal with him again— he’d stopped pretending he didn’t want it— and he sat on the back of the couch while you scrolled through something on your tablet, your other hand absently stroking his fur.
and that was when he saw it.
your tablet. the screen was bright, glowing with text. you were reading something and your finger was scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. but more importantly, there was a keyboard. a digital keyboard, popping up when you tapped on a search bar, with letters he could theoretically press. with his paws.
gojo’s ears shot up. his tail went straight. he stared at that keyboard like it held the secrets of the universe, because maybe it did. maybe, just maybe, it held the ability to talk to you.
he’d been silent for two days. two days of meowing and purring and hoping you understood what he meant. two days of watching you guess and getting it wrong half the time. two days of wanting to tell you things and having no way to say them.
he waited until you set the tablet down to refill your coffee. the moment you turned your back, he was on it— paws pressing against the screen, trying to figure out the pressure, the angle, the how of it all. the keyboard had popped up automatically when his paw hit the search bar, and now letters were appearing, jumbled and wrong.
aklsdhf, the screen read. qweiur.
not great. but possible.
he tried again, more carefully this time. used one claw to tap a single letter. h. yes. e. yes. l. l. o.
hello.
the word sat there on the screen, glowing and perfect, and gojo’s heart raced so fast he thought he might pass out. he could do this. he could actually do this.
you came back with your coffee, and he quickly pawed the screen clear, hiding the evidence. not yet. he wanted to wait for the right moment. wanted to say something that mattered.
for some reason, that night, you were quiet.
not the comfortable quiet of the past few days, but something heavier. something that pressed down on the apartment like a physical weight. you’d made dinner— rice and vegetables and some kind of fish that gojo had eyed with interest until you’d put a small piece on a plate for him— and you’d eaten in silence, your eyes distant, your mind somewhere far away.
now you were lying on the couch, your tablet abandoned on the coffee table, your arm thrown over your eyes.
gojo watched you from the arm of the couch, his tail flicking. something was wrong. he could feel it— the shift in your energy, the way your aura had dimmed to something small and subdued. you were sad. or lonely. or both.
he didn’t like it.
he jumped down from the arm and padded across the cushions, placing one paw on your stomach, then another. you didn’t move, so he climbed all the way up, settling his entire body on your belly, and tilted his head to look at your face.
you moved your arm and looked down at him. your eyes were tired, rimmed with something that might have been unshed tears if he looked close enough.
“hey,” you said softly. “what are you doing?”
he meowed. checking on you.
you stared at him for a long moment and sighed, your hand coming up to rest on his back as you turned your gaze to the ceiling.
“you’re going to think this is stupid,” you said. “you’re going to make fun of me when you turn back.”
he wouldn’t, he absolutely wouldn’t, but he couldn’t tell you that, so he just purred and pressed his forehead against your sternum.
another long pause. your hand moved in slow circles on his fur.
“it’s just…” you started, then stopped. swallowed. started again. “it’s been quiet. before you got here, i mean. my whole life has been quiet, but i didn’t notice it until recently. or maybe i noticed it and i just… didn’t want to admit how much it bothered me.”
gojo’s ears went back. he listened.
“i come home to this apartment every night and it’s empty. no one waiting for me. no one to talk to. i eat alone, i sleep alone, i wake up alone. and i told myself i was fine with that. i am fine with that. mostly.” your voice cracked, just a little. “but then you showed up. and now there’s someone here when i come home.”
you laughed, but it was wet. shaky.
“and i know you’re not really a cat. i know you’re gojo and i know you’re going to turn back and leave and this is all going to go away. but right now, in this moment, it’s… nice. having company. not being alone.”
your hand stopped moving. your breath hitched.
“i didn’t know how lonely i was until i wasn’t lonely anymore.”
the words hung in the air, fragile and heavy. gojo lay there on your stomach, his small body rising and falling with each of your breaths, and felt his insides churn with sadness.
he knew that feeling. he knew it so well it lived in his bones.
the strongest sorcerer in the world, and he went home to an empty apartment every night too. he ate alone. he slept alone. he woke up alone, in a bed that was too big for one person, in a house that echoed when he walked through it. he filled the silence with noise— with jokes and complaints and relentless teasing— because silence was the thing he feared most.
and then there was you. there had always been you, in the background of his life, rolling your eyes at his antics and calling him an idiot. but he’d never let himself get close. never let himself want more than stolen glances and missions that took too long and excuses to be near you.
but now— now he was here, on your couch, on your stomach, in your life in a way he’d never been before. and you were lonely. and he was lonely. and maybe you could be lonely together, and maybe that would make it less lonely for both of you.
he wanted to tell you. god, he wanted to tell you. he wanted to jump off the couch and run to the tablet and type out everything he’d been holding in for months. i’m lonely too. i’ve been lonely for years. and being with you— even like this, even as a cat— is the least lonely i’ve ever felt.
but his paws were clumsy and his heart was full. you were crying now, silent tears sliding down your temples into your hair, yet he couldn’t leave you to type when you needed him here.
so he did the only thing he could do. he climbed up your chest, carefully, placing each paw with intention, until he was close enough to press his nose against your cheek. and then he licked your tears.
one. two. three.
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-sob— and your arms came around him, pulling him tight against your chest. you buried your face in his fur. he let you, purring as loud as he could, hoping you could feel the vibration against your skin.
“you’re such a good cat,” you whispered, your voice muffled. “the best cat. i hope you don’t remember i said that.”
he’d remember all of it.
you fell asleep on the couch, exhausted from crying, your body curled around his. gojo stayed awake, watching the shadows move across the ceiling, listening to your breathing even out. his mind was racing, full of words he couldn’t say and promises he wanted to make.
he’d tell you, not now, not like this, but soon, when he was human again and he could wrap his arms around you properly and look you in the eyes and say all the things he’d been practicing in his head for months.
i’m here. i’ve always been here. and i’m not going anywhere.
he pressed his nose against your collarbone and closed his eyes, and let the promise settle in his chest like a stone.
day 5
“shoko wants to run some tests,” you’d said that morning, stuffing him into a carrier that he’d immediately protested with the most pathetic meows he could muster. “stop that. you’re being dramatic.”
he was not being dramatic. he was being cat. there was a difference.
the carrier was small and cramped and smelled like plastic, and gojo spent the entire train ride pressing his face against the mesh door, watching the world blur by.
jujutsu high looked the same as always, but everything felt different from this angle, low to the ground, the world towering above him. you carried the carrier up the steps and through the main gate, and gojo’s ears swiveled, cataloging every sound. the crunch of gravel. the distant thwack of training dummies. someone yelling, probably one of the first-years.
shoko was already there, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from her lips, and the look on her face when she saw the carrier was the most entertained gojo had ever seen her.
“you actually brought him,” she said, pushing off the wall. “i didn’t think you would.”
“you said you needed to examine him.”
“i said it would be funny to watch him squirm in a carrier.”
you shot her a humourless look, but you were already opening the door, reaching inside to scoop him out. gojo emerged into the fluorescent light of the hallway and immediately regretted everything. he was small. he was vulnerable. he was being held like a baby in front of shoko, who had seen him at his worst more times than he could count but never like this.
“my god,” shoko said, “can’t believe that you’re the size of a guinea pig.”
gojo hissed at her. it was deeply satisfying.
“he’s feisty,” shoko observed, straightening up. “good. the curse hasn’t affected his personality.”
“can you just do the examination?” you sighed. “he’s heavy.”
“he’s like five pounds.”
“he’s dense.”
shoko snorted and led the way to her office, and gojo endured the examination with as much dignity as he could muster. she poked and prodded, flashed lights in his eyes, pressed her fingers along his spine in that way that made his back leg twitch. she muttered things to you— cursed energy flow is good, transformation is holding steady, no signs of degradation— and you listened with a furrow between your brows, your hand resting on his back the whole time.
“he’ll be fine soon,” shoko said finally, stepping back to light another cigarette. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“which is…?”
“keeping him calm. relaxed. happy, if possible.” shoko’s eyes flicked to gojo, and he could have sworn she was hiding a smile. “shouldn’t be too hard. he looks pretty happy to me.”
gojo meowed. mind your own business.
you didn’t seem to notice the subtext. you just thanked shoko and scooped him up and carried him out of the office, and gojo thought that was the end of it. he was wrong.
because the hallway outside shoko’s office was no longer empty.
ijichi was standing there, clipboard in hand, his glasses fogging up like they always did when he was nervous. he was saying something to someone— nanami, maybe, or one of the assistants— but the moment he saw you, his mouth snapped shut.
“is that…” ijichi’s voice cracked. “is that gojo-san?”
gojo looked at him. ijichi looked back. something primal rose up in gojo’s chest— something that had nothing to do with being human and everything to do with being a cat confronted with a very nervous, very twitchy man who had once spilled coffee on his favorite shirt.
he hissed.
ijichi made a sound like a deflating balloon and stumbled backward, his clipboard clattering to the floor.
“he hates me,” ijichi whispered. “even as a cat, he hates me.”
“he doesn’t hate you,” you said, but you were laughing, your shoulders shaking, and gojo felt a surge of triumph. he’d made you laugh.
he hissed at ijichi one more time, just for good measure.
you were still laughing when you turned the corner. gojo was still feeling smug, but then he saw nanami, walking down the hallway with a stack of papers in one hand and his usual expression of mild exasperation on his face. he was dressed in his work clothes— the suit, the tie, the whole thing— and his shoes were polished to a shine.
his pants were pressed to a crisp line.
gojo’s tail went straight. his ears went forward. his entire body tensed with the kind of focused energy that usually preceded something stupid.
“satoru, no,” you said, but it was too late.
he launched himself out of your arms— you weren’t holding him tightly enough, too relaxed from laughing— and hit the ground running. four paws skidding on the polished floor, claws scrabbling for purchase, and then he was moving, a white blur of fur and chaos, heading straight for nanami’s legs.
nanami looked down. nanami saw him. nanami’s expression did not change, which was exactly the wrong response.
gojo bit him.
not hard since he was a small cat, his teeth weren’t exactly weapons of mass destruction, but hard enough to be felt. he sank his tiny fangs into the fabric of nanami’s pant leg and held on, dangling from the cuff like a particularly aggressive accessory.
nanami stopped walking. looked down. raised one eyebrow.
“is this gojo,” he said.
“yes,” you said, running over to pry him off. “i’m so sorry. he’s been weird all morning.”
gojo held on. he didn’t know why. something about nanami’s calm, unflappable demeanor made him want to cause problems. maybe it was the cat instincts. maybe it was just gojo.
“he’s biting my pants,” nanami observed.
“i can see that.”
“he’s not letting go.”
“i can also see that.”
there was a moment of silence. gojo dangled from nanami’s pant leg, his jaws locked, his eyes defiant. nanami looked down at him with the same expression he wore during mission briefings— mildly annoyed, deeply unimpressed.
“if you value your teeth, gojo,” nanami said quietly, “you will let go.”
gojo did not let go.
you finally managed to pry his jaws open— which was humiliating, by the way, your fingers prying his mouth apart like he was a disobedient puppy— and scooped him up against your chest. he squirmed, trying to get back to nanami’s pants, but you held him tight, your hand pressing firmly against his back.
“i am so sorry,” you said again, backing away. “he’s not usually like this.”
nanami looked down at the teeth marks in his trousers. looked at gojo. looked back at you.
“yes,” he said. “he is.”
gojo watched him go with a profound sense of victory as he walked away.
you, meanwhile, were not victorious. you were embarrassed, your face flushed, your grip on him tighter than necessary as you carried him through the rest of the building. as if he was your actual pet.
“what was that?” you hissed at him. “you can’t just bite nanami. he’s going to bill you for those pants. do you know how much nanami’s pants cost?”
gojo meowed. worth it.
“it was not worth it. nothing is worth nanami’s disappointed face.”
but your voice was lighter than it had been this morning, and when you finally escaped the building and stepped outside, you were almost smiling again. gojo counted that as a win.
you didn’t take him straight home. instead, you walked past the gates of jujutsu high, through the streets of tokyo, toward a part of the city he didn’t recognize. the sun was warm on his fur, and the carrier was slung over your shoulder, and he had his head poking out of the top, watching the world go by.
“there’s a park near here,” you said, almost to yourself. “i used to go there a lot. before… everything.”
you didn’t elaborate. gojo didn’t push. he just watched your profile as you walked, the way your eyes softened when you passed a bakery, the way your steps slowed when you reached a small green space tucked between buildings.
the park was tiny— a few trees, a bench, a patch of grass that was more brown than green. but there was a fountain in the center, a small concrete thing with murky water, and sitting next to it was a cat.
a stray. orange and white, with matted fur and one torn ear. it looked up as you approached, its eyes wary, and gojo felt something shift in his chest.
“hey, baby,” you said softly, crouching down. you were already reaching into your bag, pulling out a small pouch of cat food— you carried cat food with you?— and shaking some into your palm. “i haven’t seen you in a few days. i was worried.”
the stray cat blinked. then it stood up, stretched, and padded over to you with the casual confidence of a creature who knew it was about to be fed.
gojo watched, frozen, as the stray rubbed against your leg. as you scratched behind its torn ear and made soft, cooing sounds that you’d never made at him, not once, not even when he was being the most adorable cat in the entire world.
the stray ate from your palm. you smiled at it and gojo, from the carrier, felt something hot and irrational bloom inside.
jealousy.
he was jealous of a stray cat.
“you’re so pretty,” you were saying to the orange-and-white menace, your fingers stroking along its matted back. “look at you. you’ve been taking care of yourself, haven’t you? good job, baby.”
gojo meowed loudly. i’m right here.
you glanced at him. “what? you want some too?”
no. he did not want some. he wanted you to stop petting that mangy alley cat and pet him instead. he was right there, in a carrier, watching you shower affection on a creature that had done nothing to deserve it.
the stray finished eating and rubbed its face against your knuckles. you laughed— a soft, happy sound— and scratched under its chin.
gojo hissed.
the stray’s ears went back. it looked at him with flat, unimpressed eyes, and then it turned its back on him and pressed its head into your palm.
how dare it.
“gojo,” you said, with warning in your voice. “be nice.”
he would not be nice. he would never be nice. not to this interloper, this pretender, this cat that was getting more of your attention in five minutes than he’d gotten all day.
the stray finished its meal and licked its paw, utterly indifferent to gojo’s rage. you stayed crouched there for a few more minutes, talking to it in that soft voice, and gojo sat in his carrier and stewed.
finally, you stood up. brushed off your knees. looked down at the stray with something like regret.
“i have to go,” you said. “but i’ll come back, okay? be safe.”
the stray meowed and walked away, disappearing into the bushes. gojo watched it go with a sense of deep satisfaction. good. it knew its place.
you picked up the carrier and looked at him through the mesh. your expression was unreadable.
“were you jealous?” you asked.
gojo turned his head away. no.
“you were. you were totally jealous of a stray cat.”
he was not. he was not. he was simply… concerned. about your safety. stray cats carried diseases.
you laughed, the sound bright and warm, and gojo felt his anger melting despite himself. you started walking again, the carrier swinging at your side, and he watched the park disappear behind you.
“don’t worry,” you said, quieter now. “you’re still my favorite cat.”
he meowed. i’m your only cat.
“for now,” you said. “who knows what’ll happen when you turn back.”
gojo thought about that for the rest of the walk home. about what it would mean to be your favorite anything when he was human again. about whether the way you looked at him— really looked at him, past the jokes and the noise and the infinity— meant what he hoped it meant.
he didn’t have answers. but he had time.
day 7
gojo had stopped counting the days until he turned back. now he was counting something else entirely— the number of times you smiled at him, the number of times you reached for him without thinking, the number of nights he fell asleep to the sound of your heartbeat.
but tonight, when you emerged from your bedroom, all of his counting ground to a halt.
you were dressed up. a dress, navy blue, falling just above your knees, with a neckline that made his mouth go dry. your hair was different too, curled softly around your face, and your lips were shiny with something pink and tempting.
gojo sat on the back of the couch and stared.
you were beautiful. you were always beautiful, even in your ratty sleep shirts with your hair a mess and your face bare. but this was different. this was weaponized beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made him want to crawl inside your closet and destroy every other outfit you owned so you could never wear this dress for anyone else.
“don’t look at me like that,” you said, smoothing your hands down your sides. “you’re making it weird.”
he couldn’t help it. his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement as you checked your reflection in the mirror by the door. the dress hugged your waist. your lips caught the light. your earrings— tiny gold hoops— swung when you tilted your head.
where were you going? who was this for?
you didn’t tell him. you just slipped on a pair of heels and grabbed your purse, and crouched down to give him a quick pet on the head.
“be good,” you said. “don’t destroy anything. i’ll be back later.”
soon you were gone, the door clicking shut behind you, and gojo was alone in the apartment with nothing but his thoughts and the lingering scent of your perfume.
he sat in the dark for a long time, his tail wrapped around his paws, his mind spinning. a date. you were going on a date. someone else had asked you out, and you’d said yes, and you’d put on that dress and those heels and that lip gloss for someone else.
the jealousy was immediate and irrational and all-consuming.
he wanted to follow you. wanted to track you down and sit in whatever restaurant or bar you were at and glare at whoever was lucky enough to be sitting across from you. but he was a cat. a small, white, useless cat who couldn’t even type properly.
he looked at the tablet, sitting on the coffee table where you’d left it. the screen was dark, but he knew it was charged. he knew how to turn it on. he’d been practicing in secret, late at night when you were asleep, tapping out messages and deleting them before you could see.
tonight, he decided. tonight he would finally do it. not because he was jealous— okay, partially because he was jealous— but because he couldn’t wait anymore. couldn’t keep all of these words locked inside his small cat body.
he jumped off the couch and padded over to the tablet. pressed the power button with his nose. the screen glowed to life, and he waited impatiently for it to wake up, his tail flicking.
the keyboard appeared. gojo took a deep breath and started typing.
it took seventeen attempts.
seventeen times he typed out the sentence, and seventeen times he messed it up— pressing the wrong letter with his clumsy paws, hitting delete when he meant to hit space, accidentally closing the app entirely and having to start over. his claws were too long for the screen. his paws were too big for the individual keys. his patience, which had never been his strong suit, wore thin with every failed attempt.
but he kept going.
wil you go out woth me
delete. delete. delete.
will you go out woth
no.
will you go out woth me
close.
will you go out with me once i’m human again?
yes. yes, that was it. his paws were shaking, his heart was racing, and the sentence sat there on the screen in all its imperfect glory. he read it over three times, checking for mistakes. there was one— with was missing an h, but he’d hit the wrong key and he couldn’t figure out how to fix it without messing everything up.
it would have to do.
he added a signature, because he was gojo satoru and he couldn’t resist. — catoru
there. done. now all he had to do was wait.
the hours crawled by.
gojo curled up on the couch with the tablet propped against a pillow, the screen still lit, the message still waiting. he watched the door. listened for your footsteps. imagined a hundred different ways this could go— you laughing, you blushing, you saying yes, you saying no, you throwing him out the window.
he hadn’t thought about the possibility of you coming home sad.
but when the door finally opened, well past midnight, the energy that entered the apartment was wrong. heavy. deflated. your footsteps dragged on the floor, slower than usual, and when you flicked on the light, gojo’s heart sank.
your makeup was smudged. your eyes were red. and you smelled faintly of alcohol.
you didn’t look at him, didn’t say hello. just kicked off your heels— one, then the other, both landing crooked by the door— and dropped your purse on the floor with a thud.
gojo meowed. hey. i’m here.
“hey, gojo,” you said, but your voice was flat. wrong. you walked past the couch without stopping, heading for the bathroom, and gojo heard the sink turn on. water running. the sound of you splashing your face.
he jumped off the couch and followed you, the tablet forgotten for the moment. sat in the bathroom doorway and watched you scrub at your face with a towel, watched your shoulders shake with something that wasn’t quite crying but wasn’t not crying either.
“bad night?” he tried to say, but it came out as a questioning meow.
you looked at him in the mirror. your reflection was tired, your eyes puffy, your pretty lip gloss long gone.
“i got stood up,” you said, your voice cracked on the last word. “he didn’t even show. i sat there for an hour like an idiot, drinking wine by myself, waiting for someone who was never going to come.”
gojo’s chest tightened. the jealousy was still there, but it was buried under the realisation that you were sad. you were hurt. someone had made you feel small and unwanted, and gojo wanted to find that person and show them exactly what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his infinity.
but he couldn’t. so he just walked into the bathroom and rubbed against your ankles, purring as loud as he could.
you reached down and picked him up, holding him against your chest. your dress was soft under his paws. you smelled like wine and disappointment and the faint remnants of your perfume.
“i had three glasses,” you admitted. “maybe four. i lost count. and then i walked home because i didn’t want to take the train and cry in front of strangers.”
you weren’t crying now, but you were close. gojo could feel it in the way your breath hitched, the way your fingers trembled against his fur.
you carried him to the bedroom and set him on the bed while you changed out of the dress. gojo turned his back and listened to the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of you pulling on your sleep shirt. when he turned around, you were curled up on your side, facing the wall, your shoulders hunched.
he climbed onto the pillow next to your head and nudged your cheek with his nose.
“not now, baby,” you whispered. “i’m tired. we can play tomorrow.”
but he didn’t want to play. he wanted you to see the tablet. he wanted you to read his message. he wanted to tell you that you weren’t unwanted. that someone was waiting for you. that he was waiting for you.
he meowed again. more insistent this time. pawed at your shoulder.
you sighed and rolled over, looking at him with red-rimmed eyes. “what? what do you want?”
he couldn’t answer. so he jumped off the bed and ran to the living room, his paws skidding on the floor, and nudged the tablet with his nose. the screen had gone dark— it had been hours, of course it had— and he couldn’t turn it back on. couldn’t show you. couldn’t do anything except stand there on the coffee table, tail drooping, feeling useless.
you appeared in the doorway, watching him. your expression was tired, confused.
“what are you doing?”
he pawed at the tablet. meowed. pawed again.
you walked over and picked it up, turning it over in your hands. the screen stayed dark. you pressed the power button, and gojo held his breath, waiting for the message to appear, waiting for you to see—
nothing. the tablet was dead. out of battery, probably, because he’d left it on for hours like an idiot.
“did you want to play a game?” you asked, and your voice was so gentle, so kind, so completely unaware of what he’d been trying to do.
gojo deflated. sat down heavily on the coffee table and wrapped his tail around his paws. no. i wanted to tell you i love you.
you picked him up anyway, cradling him against your chest, and carried him back to the bedroom. the tablet stayed behind, dark and silent, its message lost.
you climbed into bed and he curled up on your chest, the way he did every night now. your hand found his back, your fingers tracing slow patterns through his fur. you were quiet for a long time, your breathing slow, and gojo thought you’d fallen asleep.
“i’m going to be sad when you turn back,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “isn’t that stupid? you’re gojo satoru. you’re annoying and loud and you never shut up. but you’re also… here. you’re always here. you sleep on my chest and you wait by the door and you make me feel like someone gives a shit whether i come home or not.”
gojo’s little heart clenched.
“and when you’re human again, it’s going to be different. you’re going to be different. you’re going to go back to your life and your missions and your stupid jokes, and i’m going to go back to being alone. and things are going to be awkward because i spent two weeks talking to you like you were a cat, telling you things i’ve never told anyone, and you’re going to remember all of it.”
your voice cracked.
“you’re going to remember all of it, and you’re going to look at me differently, and i don’t know if i can handle that. i don’t know if i can handle you knowing how lonely i am and pretending you don’t.”
you swallowed. your hand kept moving on his back, steady and soothing, even as your eyes filled with tears.
“so yeah. i’m going to be sad. because right now, like this, you’re mine. you’re my cat and you sleep on my chest and you don’t talk back and you don’t judge me. and when you turn back, you won’t be mine anymore. you’ll just be gojo. and gojo doesn’t… gojo doesn’t belong to anyone.”
gojo wanted to scream. wanted to claw his way out of this tiny body and wrap his arms around you and say i’m yours, i’ve always been yours, i’ll always be yours. but he couldn’t. he could only purr, loud and desperate, and press his face against your collarbone.
“you’re a good cat,” you whispered. “the best cat. i’m going to miss you so much.”
you fell asleep like that, tears drying on your cheeks, your hand heavy on his back. gojo stayed awake, watching your face in the dim light, his heart so full it hurt.
he would tell you. tonight was ruined, tonight you needed sleep and comfort and the quiet presence of something that loved you. but soon. tomorrow, maybe, or the day after. he would find a way to type that message, or he would wait until he was human again and say it with his own voice.
i’m yours. i’ve always been yours.
he curled up against you, his small body pressed to your chest, and closed his eyes.
day 8
gojo woke up warm.
not the usual warmth of your body pressed against his small cat form, but something deeper. fuller. his limbs felt long again, his spine straight, his hands—
his hands.
he had fingers. ten of them, attached to palms, attached to arms that ended in shoulders that felt broad and solid beneath the blanket. his legs were tangled with yours under the sheets, and his chest was pressed against your back, and his arm was wrapped around your waist like it had always belonged there.
he was human again.
gojo lay there in the gray morning light, barely breathing, cataloging every sensation. the weight of his own body. the stretch of his skin. the familiar hum of infinity settling back into place around him like a second skin. his six eyes were online again, drinking in the world with perfect clarity— the dust motes floating in the air, the texture of your pillowcase, the soft curve of your shoulder where your sleep shirt had slipped down.
and you. curled against him like he was something safe, your hand clutching his forearm, your breath warm against his wrist. you were still asleep, your face relaxed, your lips slightly parted.
gojo watched you and felt like his heart was going to crack right open.
he didn’t move. didn’t dare. this was a dream, surely— he’d fall through it if he breathed too hard, wake up small and furry and alone on your pillow. but your weight was solid against him, and his fingers were real when he flexed them, and the morning was too quiet and too perfect to be anything but true.
he’d turned his infinity off and turned back. sometime in the night, while he’d been curled against your chest, listening to you breathe, the curse had finally released him.
you stirred. your hand tightened on his arm, and you made a small sound— the same sound you made every morning, the one he’d come to recognize as not yet, five more minutes— and pressed back against him.
gojo’s breath caught.
you were so warm, and you fit against him like you’d been made to, and your sleep shirt had ridden up sometime during the night and his bare thigh was pressed against the bare skin of yours and he was very, very naked.
oh god. he was naked.
the realisation hit him like a truck. he was naked in your bed. his clothes— his human clothes— had been left behind in that warehouse a week ago, destroyed or lost or scattered to the wind. and now here he was, skin to skin with you, your body tucked against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
he should move. extract himself, find a blanket, find something to preserve the last shreds of your dignity and his. but you were so comfortable, and he was so happy, and the morning light was painting gold stripes across your face, and he couldn’t. couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. couldn’t do anything except watch you wake up.
your eyes fluttered open.
for a moment, you just blinked— unfocused, still half-asleep, your brain clearly not processing what your eyes were seeing. a man. in your bed. an arm around your waist. a chest against your back.
and then you saw his face.
“good morning,” gojo said, and his voice came out wrong— rough and low and cracked from a week of disuse, like he’d forgotten how to shape words with a human mouth. but it was his voice, his, and he watched your eyes go wide, watched the sleep evaporate from your face, watched you suck in a breath that made your whole body go rigid.
“gojo?” you whispered.
he smiled. it felt strange on his face— too big, too bright, too human after a week of cat expressions. but he couldn’t help it. you were looking at him like he was a ghost, and he wanted to reassure you, wanted to tell you he was real.
you turned in his arms, fast. your hand came up to touch his face— his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth— your fingers were shaking. “you’re human. you’re—when did you—how—”
“sometime last night,” he said. his voice cracked on the last word. “i woke up like this. with you.”
you stared at him. your eyes were bright, wet, and your lips were parted, and your hand was still on his face, and gojo thought he might die if he didn’t kiss you right now.
so he did.
it was clumsy— his nose bumping yours, his lips missing their target before he corrected, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck with fingers that still felt too new. but when his mouth finally found yours, everything else fell away.
you made a sound against his lips; a small, surprised, oh sound that melted into something softer, and then your fingers were in his hair, and you were kissing him back, and gojo satoru had never been happier in his entire life.
he pulled back too soon, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. your eyes were closed. your lips are pink and slightly swollen, and he’d done that, he’d done that, and he wanted to do it again and again until he forgot how to do anything else.
“i’ve wanted to do that for months,” he said, and his voice was still rough but he didn’t care. “years, maybe. i don’t know. i’ve lost track.”
you opened your eyes, looked at him. your expression was dazed, confused, overwhelmed— all the things he was feeling reflected back at him.
“you’re naked,” you said.
gojo laughed. it came out raw and bright, and he felt it in his chest, in his throat, in every part of him that had been small and silent for a week. “yeah. i noticed.”
“you’re naked in my bed.”
“technically, i’m naked in our bed.”
you made a sound— half-laugh, half-groan— and pushed at his chest, enough to put a few inches between you. “gojo. satoru. you need to—you need to put something on. i can’t—i can’t think when you’re—”
“when i’m what?”
“naked!”
he grinned.
“i’ll find something,” he said, and he meant to get up, he really did. but his legs felt strange beneath him; weak in a way they’d never been, unsteady after a week of four paws and a tail. he swung them over the side of the bed and stood up, and immediately his knees buckled.
you caught him. your hands on his arms, your body pressed against his side, holding him upright. “whoa. easy. easy. you’ve been a cat for a week. your body needs time to adjust.”
gojo leaned on you, more than he needed to, maybe, but you were warm and steady and he liked the way you fit against him. “i’m fine. i’m perfect. i’m better than fine.”
“you can’t stand.”
“i can stand. i’m choosing not to.”
you sighed and guided him back to the bed. he sat down heavily, the mattress dipping under his weight, and looked up at you. you were still in your sleep shirt, your hair a mess, your face flushed from the kiss. you were beautiful. you were so beautiful he couldn’t look away.
“stay there,” you said. “i’ll find you something to wear.”
you disappeared into the closet and gojo sat on the edge of the bed and tried to remember how to be human. his hands looked right. his feet looked right. everything was in the right place, more or less, and his cursed energy was humming along like it had never left. he flexed his fingers, curled them into fists, stretched them out again. human. human. human.
but then his eyes landed on the tablet.
it was still on the coffee table in the living room, where he’d left it last night. dead battery, probably. but the message— his message, the one he’d spent seventeen attempts typing— was still there. waiting.
“here,” you said, emerging from the closet with a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. “they’re not your size, but they’ll work until we can get you home.”
he pulled on the clothes, they were tight in some places and loose in others, and they smelled like you, and stood up again, more carefully this time. his legs held.
“i need to show you something,” he said.
you frowned. “what? satoru, you can barely walk. you should sit down. i’ll make breakfast, and then we can—”
“no. it’s important.” he took a step, then another. his body remembered how to do this, even if his muscles had forgotten. “the tablet. last night, before you came home, i—i typed something. i wanted you to see it.”
your frown deepened, but you didn’t argue. you just followed him as he walked, with one hand on the wall for balance, to the living room. the tablet was still on the coffee table, dark and silent. gojo picked it up, found the charger you kept by the couch, plugged it in.
the screen glowed to life.
he navigated to the notes app with fingers that felt too big and too clumsy, and there it was. his message.
will you go out woth me once i’m human again? — catoru
he turned the screen toward you.
you read it. once. twice. three times. your lips moved silently, shaping the words, and gojo watched your face cycle through confusion and recognition and something that looked a lot like hope.
“you typed this,” you said. it wasn’t a question.
“with my paws,” he said. “it took seventeen tries. i was going to show you last night, but your tablet died, and then you were sad, and i couldn’t—i couldn’t make you look at it when you were already hurting.”
you looked up at him. your eyes were bright again, but not with tears this time. with something else. something that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“you wanted to go out with me,” you said.
“i want to go out with you. i’ve wanted to go out with you for a really long time. i just—” he swallowed. “i didn’t know how to say it. and then i was a cat, and i couldn’t say anything at all, and i thought i’d missed my chance. but i’m human now. and i’m asking. properly. will you go out with me?”
you stared at him for a long moment. the tablet hung between you, the screen still glowing, the misspelled words still waiting.
suddenly, you laughed.
it was a wet sound, shaky and bright, and you were crying, but you were smiling too, and you set the tablet down on the couch and stepped into his arms like you belonged there.
“yes,” you said against his chest. “yes, you idiot. yes.”
gojo wrapped his arms around you and held on. you were warm and solid and real, and you fit against him the same way you had in bed— like you’d been made to be there, like the universe had designed the two of you to slot together.
“i heard you,” he said quietly. “last night. what you said about being sad when i turned back. about not being yours.”
you went still in his arms.
“i heard all of it,” he continued. “and i need you to know—i am yours. i’ve been yours for a long time. i just didn’t know how to tell you.”
you pulled back just enough to look at his face. your eyes were red, your cheeks wet, and you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.
“you’re not going to forget?” you asked. “all the stuff i said? all the embarrassing, lonely, pathetic stuff?”
“never,” he said. “i’m going to remember every single thing. i’m keeping all of it.”
you laughed again, softer this time, and you reached up to wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”
“absolutely,” he said, grinning now, wide and bright and full of so much joy he thought he might burst. “i’m going to be the most insufferable boyfriend you’ve ever had. i’m going to tell everyone. i’m going to tell nanami. i’m going to tell ijichi. i’m going to tell that stray cat.”
“don’t you dare.”
“too late. i’m already planning the speech.”
you hit his chest and he caught your hand, holding it against his heart. you could probably feel it pounding. he didn’t care.
“look,” he said. “i was a cat for one week, and it was the best week of my life. because i was with you. because you took care of me. because you let me sleep on your chest and eat your cereal and fall in your toilet—”
“oh my god, we’re never talking about the toilet again.”
“—and i fell in love with you,” he finished. “i was already in love with you. but being a cat made it worse. better. more. i don’t know how to explain it.”
“you don’t have to explain,” you said. “i know.”
and then you kissed him.
it was better than the first one— slower, deeper, more certain. his hands found your waist, and your hands found his hair, and the morning light filled the apartment with gold, and gojo satoru thought that maybe, just maybe, getting turned into a cat was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
you pulled back eventually, breathless, and rested your forehead against his.
“catoru,” you said, and you were smiling. “you signed it catoru.”
“i panicked.”
“it’s cute.”
“i’m cute.”
“you’re something.”
he laughed and you laughed, the sound filling the apartment like sunlight.
outside, the world was waking up. missions waited. curses waited. the endless, exhausting work of being a sorcerer waited. but right now, in this moment, none of that mattered.
gojo was human again. he was in love. for the first time in a very long time, he wasn’t alone.
“so,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. “breakfast? i’m thinking cereal. from your bowl.”
you groaned. “you’re never going to let me eat alone again, are you?”
“never,” he said, and he meant it. “never, never, never.”
you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. you took his hand and led him to the kitchen. gojo followed.
the end.
[ an. hope you guys liked this!! might be a little rushed sorry about that. comment if you wanna be added to my permanent taglist!! ]
⋆.𐙚 ̊ post shinjuku!satoru doesn’t like his scars, luckily his wife thinks otherwise
morning light spills through the curtains in soft gold, warming the room.
satoru is only half-awake, which means he’s quiet in a way the world rarely gets to see. right now he‘s just your husband, shirtless and his hair a little messy from sleep, lying on his side facing you.
you look down his body, until the long scar crossing his abdomen comes into view.
even softened by time, it cuts through him like a memory that refuses to leave. like the world tried to end him and failed, but left proof anyway.
your fingers move before you think.
you trace his chest, over the old healed lines, over all the injures he had to endure. and when you reach that scar, your touch slows instantly, like your hands already know where to soften.
he exhales, like he’s fully awake now.
“do you think my scars are ugly?” he asks, a small frown on his face.
that catches you off guard.
you look up at him properly now, taking in the details you usually miss when he’s performing his usual confidence— the faint tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders aren’t as relaxed as they pretend to be.
“why would you think that?” you ask gently.
“i don’t know,” he says, almost too casually. but it doesn’t land casual at all. “most people look at them with pity.”
you shift closer without thinking, your hand still resting against his waist.
“each one of them is like a little achievement,” you say quietly. “proof you never gave up.”
for a moment, he doesn’t respond.
then, finally, he lets out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh— but it breaks halfway.
“god,” he mutters. “that’s unfair.”
“what is?”
“you.” another pause, like he’s trying to steady himself. “saying things like that so easily.”
your hand drifts again, but slower now, more careful. over his ribs, his side, and finally over his heart.
“i don’t think it’s easy,” you admit, your hand moving to feel his heartbeat.
“you know what’s funny?” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. “i thought i’d come back and everything would feel the same.”
you wait, but he doesn’t finish right away. like the words are heavier than he expected.
“it doesn’t?” you ask softly.
his hand finds yours.
“not really,” he admits. “i used to be untouchable, but now i am littered with all these scars.”
your thumb brushes over his knuckles.
“i still think you’re as handsome as ever,” you say. “you‘ve done so much, toru.”
he shifts a little closer, like your voice is something grounding him back into the present. his forehead almost touches yours now.
“as long as my lovely wife thinks so..” he hums, “it’s just.. i kept thinking i‘d get to feel normal again.”
you glance up at him. “hmm, you were never really normal to begin with.”
that gets a small, real chuckle from him.
“rude,” he says.
“but that‘s not a bad thing,” you smile.
his arm slides around you then, slowly pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
“you’re staring again,” he whispers.
“i’m allowed,” you say.
“wife privileges?”
“mhm.”
he hums, settling deeper into the bed, into you, into the quiet.
his hand rests at your back now, steadying you.
“i like this,” he admits after a moment.
“yeah?”
“yeah,” he says, softer. “quiet mornings. just you and me.”
your fingers trace his scar one more time.
“me too,” you whisper, placing a delicate kiss on his lips.
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