───OBSESSIVELY, YOURS. part one
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁˖ . pairings: yandere! nerd (?) gojo x fem reader
summary: you fell in love with satoru gojo, slowly, stupidly, and all at once. he gives you everything—attention, devotion, a future—except the one thing you need, love.
warnings: mdni! mild dark romance, yandere, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, gojo is obsessed, explicit sexual content, nerd rich gojo but he's popular ish, angst, not a happy ending (yet, maybe?) this is part one. wc: 9k
a/n: more works? + fanart cred a/nek0zuu_ || short explanation in a/n at the end
When you first met Satoru Gojo, you, the closed-hearted girl, had fallen in love at first sight.
It was embarrassing, really. The kind of embarrassing that is also very weird, because you don’t really understand why your heart starts palpitating like crazy.
What can you say? You’ve never really had crushes before.
Upon laying your eyes on him, you finally have the comprehension on, why? Gojo was so ethereal that you felt God himself have given the special treatment when he was created.
White hair, tousled in a way that looked effortless, yet soft. Bright, baby blue eyes hidden behind glasses that somehow made him look even more dangerous… and sexy. Really sexy.
His lashes were stupidly long too, as if boosting his already beautiful appearance. And his mouth… always half-curved into a smile, like he was constantly entertained, even when he was being quiet.
And he is tall, about 6’3’’, the kind of tall that makes your head crane to look up at him. Broad shoulders, long legs, and toned muscles everywhere that makes you daydream about what else is hidden.
You had started going to office hours because no matter how hard you try, you are really bad at physics, which is very bad news to you, because that is a requirement course to graduate and earn your degree.
Because it’s not just that he’s attractive. It’s the way he carries himself like he belongs everywhere he goes. As if the world naturally makes space for him.
And the worst part? He appears to be genuinely nice. Not fake-nice. Not “I’m rich and pretending to be humble” nice.
He’s the kind of nice that makes you second guess yourself. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ve been living your whole life with your guard up for no reason.
He laughs easily, smiles at strangers, holds doors open, and somehow never looks annoyed when someone talks to him.
Like he has all the patience in the world.
Everyone on campus knows his name, even the people who pretend they don’t. He’s the heir to Gojo Corps, the multi-billion dollar tech empire that takes over the whole world, and somehow he walks around like a tamed, golden retriever.
And of course he’s smart too, because why wouldn’t he be? So when you saw his name on the course page, you thought you were hallucinating.
Office Hours — TA: S. Gojo
Your stomach dropped so hard you had to stare at the screen for a full minute just to make sure it was real because you didn’t just need tutoring, you needed a miracle.
Math was required to graduate, and you were running out of time. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how many times you sat down with your notes and promised yourself you were going to lock in, it always ended with you feeling frustrated.
After hyping yourself up, with a notebook hugged to your chest, and fingers gripping the spiral so tight it almost hurts, you are currently pacing outside the tutoring room, and you could hear your own heartbeat.
It’s so stupid. You are acting stupid, you scolded yourself mentally.
You took a breath, before knocking. A few seconds passed, and the door opened, and there he was, all in his glorious flesh.
Up close, he was even worse. His hair looked softer than it had any right to be. His glasses sat low on his nose like he’d pushed them down without thinking. His eyes were bright, almost too bright, and when he looked at you, it felt like he was actually analyzing you.
His expression shifted into a smile, easy and warm, and it made your insides gooey. “Hey,” he said, voice calm, almost amused. “Are you here for office hours?”
Your brain short-circuited, before nodding quickly. “Yeah.”
Gojo’s smile widened like that was the cutest answer he’d ever heard.
“Cool,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in.”
You stepped inside, the door clicking shut like it sealed the rest of the world away.
The room smelled like black coffee and that clean, expensive cologne of his, and when he gestured to the chair with that easy smile, your heart did its stupid flip again. He dropped onto his seat, legs stretching long under the desk, and the first session melted into vectors, forces, and his patient voice turning your panic into something almost manageable.
Weeks blurred after that—Tuesday and Thursday office hours had become your comfortable anchor.
He’d lean over your shoulder to point at your screen, sleeve brushing your arm, and you’d forget how to breathe for a second while he murmured, “See? You’re closer than you think.” You left with his neat handwriting filling your notes and the feeling of warmth blossoming in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.
You shoved her shoulder, muttering, “It’s just tutoring,” but she wasn’t wrong—he’d already insisted on a first-name basis after your second session. “Call me Satoru,” he’d said with that easy grin, leaning back in his chair like the whole world was his personal beanbag. “We’re friends now, after all.”
It feels like fate dropped you a new best friend since Satoru started appearing everywhere like he’d hacked your location.
Third-floor library, fifth row to the back, where you ghost everyone to ugly-cry over problem sets? Satoru slides in across from you, hoodie up, laptop already open, eyes widened as if he’s shocked, “They have better lighting here, right?”
Or how, your routine 3pm café break when you’re half-dead from no sleep? He’s at the counter before you finish ordering, black Amex flashing, voice all soft “I got hers too.” while the barista gives you heart-eyes, lips somewhat pouting.
It’s endless at this point. 2 a.m. vending machine run, mascara-streaked and cursing calculus calculations under your breath? Satoru materializes out of the shadows, hands you a ramune like he’s been waiting, goes “sugar helps, drink” in that gentle tone that makes your brain reboot.
He doesn’t talk to anyone else on campus—people still call him, the untouchable genius heir, who speedruns lectures and then disappears into his headphones—but with you he’s all quiet rambles about cursed late-night TikToks, or how he throws his breathy laughs at your silly jokes.
One night you’re both still in his office way past midnight, city lights bleeding through the windows, and you finally crack that demonic problem that’s been gaslighting you for days. You let out this pathetic triumphant squeak-fist-pump and he looks up, eyes sparkling behind his glasses, hitting you with the softest, widest grin.
“There she is,” he murmurs, voice low and fond like he’s been holding his breath for it. “I always knew you fucking had it.”
Shoko’s text pings while you’re walking back to your dorm, cheeks burning, as Gojo is trailing behind your back, eyes practically glued onto you, not that you could see that anyways.
babe tell me why i just saw THE satoru gojo (your “tutor” allegedly) carrying your bag across campus like it’s his full-time job
y’all are gonna make the prettiest babies i’m calling it now >.<
You felt your cheeks start hurting after smiling from Shoko’s texts, your interest immediately piqued after receiving a new notification from your white-haired tutor. His latest message glowing on your screen—proud of you tonight. text me when you’re about to fall asleep—and you feel your heart do the dumbest little somersault.
Yeah you’re so deep in it you don’t even know it.
After attempting to keep things normal after that first proud of you tonight text—like you didn’t read it three times before falling asleep. Tuesday and Thursday office hours stayed your routine. Satoru stayed your quiet little anchor, steady and patient, and eyes still hard to look at for too long.
But through tutoring, you were also getting better at physics, which still felt like a miracle. It was almost embarrassing how much you wanted to impress him, how your chest warmed whenever he looked proud. It wasn’t even about the grade anymore, not fully. It was about the way his smile looked when you finally got something right.
He never rushed you, never made you feel stupid, and somehow that made it worse. It made you soften without meaning to, made you start talking more than you normally would. Little things slipped out, like what you were reading for your English seminar, or how you hated fluorescent lighting, or how you’d been living off iced coffee and spite. He listened like it mattered, like every word got filed away somewhere behind those bright eyes.
It was fine. It was sweet.
Until you started noticing tiny moments where he felt… a little off, and you couldn’t pinpoint why.
It happened the first time on a Thursday afternoon, right after office hours, when you were standing outside the building trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person again. Your physics classmate—some guy who always smelled like laundry detergent and confidence—jogged up beside you with a grin.
“Hey,” he said, sliding into your space like he was allowed to. “You’re getting better, right? Wanna go over the quiz together later?” You laughed awkwardly, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “Yeah, maybe,” you said. “I’ll see.”
“Hey there.” Satoru’s voice, right behind you, warm and casual like he was just passing through.
You turned, and there he was, walking out of the tutoring room with his laptop tucked under his arm.
His hair was a little messy like he’d run his hand through it, and he looked relaxed, almost lazy, like he wasn’t stepping into anything at all. But when his gaze landed on the guy beside you, the muscle next to his right eye ticked once.
Quick enough that if you blinked, you’d miss it.
He smiled right after like it never happened, and your classmate straightened up like he suddenly realized he was standing too close to a thunderstorm. Satoru shifted slightly, not blocking you exactly, but close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest. “You heading out?” he asked you, voice soft like he was talking to you alone.
Your heart did something dumb. “Yeah,” you said, biting your lip. “I was just—”
“Cool,” Satoru said, still smiling. “I’ll walk you.”
The guy laughed, a little forced. “Oh, uh, I didn’t know you two were—”
Satoru’s smile stayed sweet. His eyes stayed bright. His tone stayed friendly.
“Oh, it’s my favorite student’s tutoring session after all,” he said simply, like that was the only explanation anyone needed.
You didn’t know why it made your cheeks burn, and you didn’t know why it made the guy back off with a quick, “Yeah, okay, see you in class,” like he suddenly remembered somewhere else to be.
Satoru waited until he was gone before looking at you again. “You okay?” he asked, like you were the one who needed saving. His voice was gentle, but the muscle beside his right eye twitched again, softer this time, like he was swallowing something down.
“I’m fine,” you said, shoulders grazing his as you both started walking. “He was just asking about studying.”
Satoru hummed, like he was processing it. “Mhm.”
Then he tipped his head, smiling like nothing was wrong. “You don’t need him for that, though,” he said. “I already made you a review sheet.”
Your stomach flipped. “Oh… you did?” you said, blinking. “Thank you, Satoru.”
He nodded once, like it was obvious. Like it was always going to be him.
The second time happened in the library a few days later, when you were stuck on a paragraph for your English essay and your brain was fried.
Shoko sat across from you, chewing gum and judging you with her whole face while you stared at your laptop like it personally betrayed you. “You’re being dramatic,” she said, biting the edge of her pen. “Just write the stupid thesis.”
“I hate you,” you mumbled, dropping your forehead onto your notebook. “I can’t do it.” Shoko snorted. “You’re literally an English major.”
“Exactly,” you groaned. “That’s why this is humiliating.”
A voice cut in from the side, quiet but amused. “Need help?”
You lifted your head, already knowing before you saw him, because your body was ridiculous like that. It was like you could sense his presence, like your brain had started making room for him without asking permission. Satoru stood there with a coffee in one hand and a paper bag in the other, looking like he belonged in the library more than anyone else.
He didn’t even act surprised to see you.
He just smiled softly, like this was where you were supposed to be.
Shoko’s eyes widened like she just found gold. “Oh my god,” she whispered, leaning back in her chair. “Boyfriend’s here.”
Satoru set the coffee down in front of you like it was a gift. “You didn’t eat,” he said simply.
You blinked. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged, too casual. “I can tell.”
Shoko made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and disbelief. “That’s insane.” Satoru smiled politely at her. “Hi, Shoko.”
“Hi,” she said slowly, eyes narrowed in a playful way. “Why are you here?”
Satoru’s smile didn’t move. “Helping my student study.” He looked at you again, softening like Shoko didn’t exist. “You look tired,” he said, frowning slightly. “Did you sleep well?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it, because the answer was no. You hadn’t been sleeping, not really, not with finals creeping closer and your brain spinning all the time. Satoru watched your face like he was reading it, and the muscle beside his right eye ticked once, sharp and quick.
Shoko reached over and nudged your arm with her pen, eyebrows raised like she was watching a romcom unfold in real time. “Look at you,” she murmured, amused. “You’re literally glowing. This is disgusting.”
You glared at her, but it didn’t land because your face was already warm. “Shut up,” you whispered back, trying to sound annoyed when you obviously weren’t.
Shoko leaned back in her chair, chewing her gum like she had nowhere else to be, and then her eyes slid up to Satoru with a slow, knowing smile. “So,” she said casually, like she was making conversation and not interrogating him at all, “you two just… happen to have the same schedule or something?”
Satoru’s smile stayed polite, soft around the edges. “Something like that,” he answered with a shrug. He slid the paper bag closer to you and nodded once, calm and firm. “Eat first,” he said again, softer this time. “Then you can hate your essay in peace.”
You laughed, breathless, because the way he said it made it sound like he was taking care of you without even trying. “You’re really offering to help me with English stuff too?” you asked, half-joking. “Aren’t you supposed to be a busy man?”
Satoru hummed like he was thinking. “Only for you,” he said, and the wink he gave you was so smooth it should’ve been illegal. Then he added, like it was nothing, “I can be useful in multiple ways.”
Shoko made a small noise like she was trying not to smile too hard, then looked down at her phone again like she was giving you space on purpose. But you still caught her glance up once more, quick and careful.
Like she was analyzing him too.
The third time was almost stupid, because it was so small you could explain it away if you wanted to.
You were outside your English class when your classmate caught up again, like he’d been waiting for you to step out. He was talking about the reading and how your answer in discussion was “actually really creative,” and you were responding politely, awkwardly, trying to be nice without encouraging anything. He walked with you down the path, matching your pace like it was natural, like you didn’t already feel his shoulder getting a little too close.
“Hey, so do you wanna maybe grab coffee later?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck. “Like… just as frien—”
You were about to answer when a voice cut in, warm and familiar. “There you are.”
You turned your head and Satoru was walking toward you from the opposite direction, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t in a rush. He looked normal, calm, like he’d just finished class or something, but his eyes landed on you and softened instantly. It was subtle, but it was there, like he was relieved in a way he didn’t know how to show.
“Hey,” you said, waving at him, and your heart did that stupid little flip again.
Satoru’s gaze flicked to the guy beside you, and the muscle next to his right eye jumped once, quick and sharp. It was so small you almost missed it, except you’d been noticing it more lately. He blinked and the twitch was gone, a smile sliding back into place like nothing happened.
“Oh,” your classmate said, glancing between you two. “What’s up?”
Satoru smiled at him, polite enough to pass, but his attention didn’t really stick. “Nothing,” he said easily. “Just stealing her for a second.”
He didn’t wait for permission.
He stepped closer to you, just slightly, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed, and he tipped his head down like he was telling you a secret. “You didn’t text me back,” he said quietly, like it was casual, like it wasn’t making your stomach drop.
You blinked at him. “Satoru, I was literally in class.”
He hummed like he was considering that, eyes still on you. “Mhm,” he said, completely unbothered. Then, softer, like it slipped out before he could stop it, he added, “And I missed you.”
Your brain fully short-circuited.
Your classmate made an awkward sound, like he suddenly remembered he had free will. “Uh… I’ll see you later,” he said, already jogging away.
“Yeah,” you said, still dazed. “See you.”
The second he was gone, Satoru exhaled like he’d been holding something in his chest. His smile brightened, like he didn’t have to perform anymore. He reached out and fixed your bag strap like it was crooked even though it wasn’t, fingers brushing your shoulder for half a second too long.
You tried to keep it light, because that’s what you always did when you didn’t know what to do with your feelings. “You’re kinda intense,” you said, laughing a little.
Satoru’s smile turned slower, like he was thinking. “I’m just attentive,” he said softly. His voice was gentle enough to make your chest tighten, and you hated how easily you melted for it.
He looked down at you, eyes bright behind his glasses, and added like it was a joke, “Besides… I don’t like sharing.”
You laughed like it was funny, because it was easier than admitting how good it felt. But the muscle beside his right eye twitched again, quick and sharp, and this time you understood what it was.
It starts small, the way most bad habits do. A casual “come study at my place” said like it’s nothing, like it isn’t a loaded invitation that makes your stomach flip. He says it with that same gentle voice he uses when you’re spiraling over a problem, like he’s doing you a favor. “It’s quieter,” he adds, like he’s being practical. “You’ll focus better.”
You should say no. You should go back to your dorm, eat something that isn’t a granola bar, and stop letting Satoru Gojo become your entire week. But you’re tired and your brain hurts and he’s looking at you like he already knows what you’re going to do. So you nod, because it feels easier than arguing.
His dorm isn’t a dorm. It’s a penthouse that just happens to be on campus, like someone built it for him and called it student housing as a joke. The elevator opens straight into his place, and the first thing you notice is the view, all city lights and glass and height that makes your stomach swoop. The second thing you notice is how clean everything is, like nobody actually lives here except him.
And then you notice the little things.
A throw blanket folded perfectly on the couch, soft enough to look expensive. A kitchen stocked like he’s been expecting you, with snacks you’ve mentioned once in passing. A mug already sitting by the coffee machine, the exact shade you like, like he didn’t buy it for himself at all.
You swallow. “This feels like I’m moving in.”
Satoru shrugs, like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t live in a literal rich person dream.
“Don’t fret too much about it,” he says easily, taking your bag from your shoulder without asking. He sets it down by the couch like it belongs there, like you belong there too. “Sit,” he tells you gently. “I’ll grab your notes.”
You sit, because your legs feel a little weak, and because saying no to him feels like trying to push back the ocean. He disappears into his room for a second, and you hear drawers opening, paper shifting, like he has a whole system for you.
When he comes back, he’s holding a folder with your name written on it in neat handwriting.
“Stop,” you laugh, breathless. “You’re insane.”
Satoru smiles like he likes being called that. “I’m prepared,” he corrects, sitting beside you and sliding the folder into your lap. His knee brushes yours, just barely, but you feel it anyway. “You’re going to pass. I’m not letting you fail.”
That should scare you. Instead it makes your chest warm, like you’ve never had someone say something that certain about you before.
The time moves weird in his apartment, like it doesn’t count the same way it does everywhere else. He explains things slowly, patient and calm, and every time you get something right his eyes brighten like you just gave him a gift. When you finally yawn and blink at the clock, it’s almost midnight.
“Oh my god,” you mumble. “I should go.” Satoru glances at you, then at the time, like he’s considering something.
“It’s late,” he says, voice soft. “You should sleep over.”
You laugh, because obviously not. “Satoru—”
“You can take the spare bedroom,” he adds quickly, like he’s making it easier. Like he’s not asking for anything weird. “I have extra blankets. You’re exhausted.”
You hesitate, because it’s not a bad idea. Because your dorm is across campus and your body feels heavy. Because the idea of leaving him suddenly feels… wrong, like you’re walking away from something safe.
And that’s how it begins.
It becomes a pattern without you noticing. One late night turns into two. Two turns into “just until midterms are over.”
Then suddenly you’re showing up with your tote bag like it’s normal, kicking off your shoes at the door like you live there. Satoru never comments on it, never makes a big deal out of it, just makes room for you like the space was always meant to hold you.
Shoko finds out the way she finds out everything, by seeing you walk out of the elevator with messy hair and Satoru’s hoodie draped over your arms. She stares at you like she’s watching a car crash in slow motion. “Oh,” she deadpans, voice flat. “So you’re not even pretending anymore.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the heat in your cheeks. “It was late,” you say, like it’s an excuse. “We were studying.”
Shoko’s gaze flicks over your face, then down to the hoodie, then back up. “Mhm,” she says, not convinced. “Studying.”
You shove her shoulder, laughing, but your stomach twists anyway. Because she’s right. Because you stopped pretending the second you realized how easy it was to be around him.
You tell yourself it's a coincidence. That campus is small. That you’re both busy and just happen to overlap.
But then it keeps happening.
You mention offhand that you like a certain brand of pens, and the next time you’re at his place there’s a pack of them sitting on the counter like it’s always been there. You complain once about your dorm being too loud, and suddenly he’s offering you noise-canceling headphones like it’s nothing. You say you’re cold, and he drapes a blanket over your shoulders without even looking up from his laptop, like your comfort is automatic.
It’s sweet. It’s too sweet.
And the worst part is how natural it feels, like your life is slowly rearranging itself around him and you’re not even fighting it.
One afternoon, you’re walking with Shoko to grab food when you see that English classmate again. He waves, smiling like he’s still trying, and Shoko nudges you with her elbow. “He’s cute,” she says, teasing. “You should give him a chance.”
You scoff, because you’re supposed to. “I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?” Shoko asks, grinning. “Physics? Or your emotionally unavailable billionaire tutor?”
You choke on air. “Shoko.”
She laughs, but you can tell she’s watching you more closely now. Like she’s starting to realize this isn’t just a crush. Like she’s noticing how you don’t really look around anymore, because you’ve started expecting Satoru to be there.
And then, like the universe is proving her point, Satoru appears at the end of the walkway.
He’s not rushing. He’s not searching. He’s just walking like he has all the time in the world, eyes scanning the crowd until they land on you. His expression softens instantly, and your heart does that stupid flip again, like it’s trained.
Shoko groans under her breath. “He’s literally summoned.”
You laugh, but it comes out shaky, because she’s right. Because the timing is always too perfect.
Satoru stops in front of you, his gaze warm behind his glasses. “Hey,” he says softly. “Have you grabbed lunch?”
You blink. “Yeah, we were about to.”
He nods once, satisfied, like he just checked something off in his head. “Good,” he says, and his right eye twitches faintly, so quick you almost miss it. Then he smiles again, sweet and easy. “Come with me.”
Shoko makes a sound like she’s trying not to laugh. “Do you want me to leave or…?”
Satoru glances at her politely, then looks back at you like Shoko is background noise. “She can come,” he says, like he’s generous. Like he’s allowing it.
You should feel weird about that. Instead you feel warm.
Because he wants you near him. Because he likes you close. Because when he says “come with me,” your body listens before your brain can argue.
Later that night, you’re in his penthouse again, curled up on the couch with your laptop open and your legs tucked under you. Satoru is at the desk, focused, typing something with that calm intensity that makes him look even more unreal. The city lights glow behind him, turning his white hair silver, and for a second you forget how to breathe.
You glance down at your notes, then back up at him. “Satoru?”
He looks over immediately. “Yeah?”
You hesitate, fingers tightening around your pen. “Do you ever get tired?” you ask quietly. “Of… everything?”
Satoru’s expression doesn’t change much, but the muscle beside his right eye twitches once, sharp and fast. It’s gone as quickly as it appears, replaced by that soft smile like he’s fine, like he’s always fine. He stands up and walks over to you, slow and unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be.
When he stops in front of you, he reaches out and smooths your hair back from your face, gentle like he’s done it a thousand times. “I’m okay,” he says softly. “I just like being with you.”
You try to laugh it off, because you don’t know what else to do with that. “That’s a weird hobby.”
Satoru’s smile widens, amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice warm. “But it’s mine.”
And you hate how much you like it.
You hate how easily you let him have you, piece by piece, without even realizing you’re handing yourself over. You hate how your dorm room is starting to feel unfamiliar, like you’re only visiting it now, like you keep forgetting where you’re supposed to belong. You hate how your life is starting to look like his, like it’s being gently guided into place with soft hands and pretty words.
And then you blink, and you’re here again.
On his couch, legs already half-tangled in that stupidly soft blanket, laptop shoved aside because your notes stopped mattering like twenty minutes ago. The city lights spill through the windows, catching in his white hair and turning it silver, and he’s sitting too close. Knee pressed firmly to yours, arm draped along the back of the couch, fingers grazing the nape of your neck like he’s been dying to touch you there all night.
He notices the shift in your breathing instantly.
"You're shaking," he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates through you. His thumb traces your pulse point, slow and deliberate, counting every frantic beat. "Tell me why."
You can't meet his eyes. If you do, you'll break. "Because I want you," you whisper. "And I've never…"
Satoru exhales sharply, like the words punched the air out of him. "Me neither." His voice cracks on the admission, raw and unguarded. "But I've imagined it. You. Every night since you first sat across from me in office hours, biting your lip when you got a problem wrong."
The confession lands heavy. Your thighs clench involuntarily.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "Tell me to stop." It's half plea, half command. "Or tell me you want me to ruin you."
You surge forward and kiss him.
It's messy from the start—teeth clashing, tongues sliding, his hand fisting in your hair to tilt your head exactly how he wants. He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate, and the sound unravels you. You claw at his hoodie; he yanks it off one-handed, then tears yours over your head so fast the fabric burns your skin. Bare chest meets bare chest, his body fever-hot and hard against yours, heartbeat slamming in sync with your own.
He hauls you into his lap without breaking the kiss, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave fingerprints. You grind down and feel him—thick, rigid, straining and he hisses, head tipping back against the cushions.
"Fuck," he rasps. "You have no idea."
You roll your hips again, deliberate, and his control splinters.
In one fluid motion he flips you—your back hits the couch, him looming above, glasses crooked, hair wild. His mouth descends on your throat—biting, sucking, marking—while his hands shove your leggings down your thighs.
When you're bare he stares, chest heaving, eyes dark with something feral. "Beautiful," he breathes. "So fucking perfect."
Then his head drops and his mouth is on you.
You cry out the instant his tongue touches your clit—flat, hot, dragging slow before he sucks hard. He eats you like he's starving, no gentleness, just relentless circles with the tip of his tongue, two long fingers sliding inside and curling immediately to that spot that whites out your vision.
You buck against his face; he pins your hips with one forearm, growling low when you try to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure. "S’toru—too much—,” but he doesn't relent.
After seeing your enjoyment, he intensifies—sucking harder, fingers thrusting faster, free hand reaching up to pinch your nipple until you're sobbing his name. The orgasm crashes through you. It was violent and shattering—your whole body locking as you come on his tongue and fingers, thighs clamping around his head. He licks you through every shudder, slower now, softer, until you're trembling and oversensitive and weakly pushing at his hair.
When he finally rises his chin glistens, lips swollen, eyes wild. He crawls up your body, kissing you deep so you taste yourself on him, and the raw filth of it makes you clench around nothing.
He's already ripping the packet open with his teeth, rolling it on with shaking hands. Then he's back, cock nudging your entrance, thick head catching and making you whimper.
"Look at me," he orders, voice gravel.
He pushes in slow—agonizingly slow—watching your face the whole time. The stretch burns, borders on too much, but he pauses every inch, kissing your tears away, whispering "you're doing so good, baby, taking me so well" until he's buried deep. You both freeze, foreheads pressed, breathing ragged.
"Fuck," he chokes. "You're so tight. So perfect for me."
The first thrust is controlled—deep, rolling—but when you arch and moan brokenly he snaps. He fucks you hard, hips snapping, every stroke dragging against that spot that makes you see stars. You wrap your legs around his waist; he hooks one arm under your knee, folding you open wider so he can go deeper, harder, relentless.
"Mine," he growls against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse. "Say it."
"Yours," you sob, nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. "Yours, Satoru—fuck."
He reaches between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight frantic circles while he pounds into you. You're climbing fast—too soon, too intense—and he feels it, feels you fluttering.
"Come again," he demands, voice cracking. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you fall apart."
You shatter, screaming his name, walls clamping down so hard he chokes on a curse. He fucks you through it until his rhythm stutters and he slams in one last time, burying himself deep as he comes with a broken groan, hips jerking, spilling into the condom while his whole body shakes.
He collapses on top of you, crushing you in the best way, face buried in your neck. You're both trembling, slick with sweat, hearts pounding like they're trying to fuse.
After long minutes he lifts his head, glasses crooked, hair destroyed, looking at you like you rewrote his reality.
"Was that… okay?" he asks, voice small now, almost vulnerable. You laugh—breathless, your whole body aching, before pulling him down for a slow, soft kiss.
"More than okay," you whisper. "You're… too good at this."
Satoru smiles boyishly as if he’s shy—it was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. "Good," he murmurs, nuzzling into your throat. "Because I'm not letting you leave this couch tonight."
After, you lay there tangled together in the dark, breathing slow, bodies still buzzing like you touched something you weren’t supposed to. He doesn’t let you go, not even when you shift, not even when you try to turn your face away from how intense it feels. His arm stays locked around your waist like a promise.
It doesn’t happen overnight.
It’s more like a slow blur, the kind you only notice when you look back and realize you’ve been smiling for weeks straight. Office hours turn into coffee after, coffee turns into late-night studying, and late-night studying turns into you sitting on his couch with your legs tucked under you like it’s always been yours.
Satoru never pushes. He never says, stay longer, or don’t go, or I want you here.
He just looks at you with those bright eyes behind his glasses and somehow, you always folded.
But then, you start leaving things at his place by accident.
A hair tie on his bathroom counter. A lip balm in his hoodie pocket. A random paperback you swear you brought over once and then never saw again until it’s suddenly sitting on his nightstand like it lives there now.
You notice it one morning while he’s making coffee, barefoot in his kitchen like it’s normal. Like you didn’t used to be a girl who slept alone and kept her life locked up tight.
You pick the book up slowly. “Why is my copy of Wuthering Heights here?”
Satoru doesn’t even look up from the coffee machine. “You left it.”
He hums, amused. “You did.”
You narrow your eyes. “Are you stealing my stuff?”
Now he looks over, smile soft, like you’re adorable for accusing him. “No,” he says, too calm. “I was just bringing it over just in case you want to read it before you sleep.”
Satoru’s right eye twitches once, quick and sharp, then disappears like it never happened. He sets your mug down in front of you, the exact way you like it, and his voice stays gentle. “Drink,” he says. “You get mean when you’re missing your caffeine mix.”
“You do,” he cuts in, smiling wider, before pinching your cheeks. “It’s cute.” Your chest warms so fast it’s embarrassing. You look down at the coffee like it personally betrayed you, then mutter, “I hate you.”
Satoru leans on the counter across from you, chin resting on his hand, gaze fixed on your face like he’s watching something he likes. “No, you don’t,” he says softly.
The first time he buys you something, it’s so casual you almost miss the moment it becomes a problem.
You’re walking off campus after class, complaining about your essay and how your professor thinks suffering builds character. Satoru listens the way he always does, quiet but attentive, making those little sounds like he’s following every word.
You pass a boutique and your eyes flick to the window for half a second.
But Satoru slows down like someone tugged at his sleeve. “That one?” he asks. You blink, confused. “What?”
He nods toward the display. A dress. Soft fabric, delicate straps, the kind of thing you’d only wear if your life was romantic enough to deserve it. You laugh awkwardly. “It’s cute, but I’m not spending money on that.”
Satoru tilts his head, studying you. The muscle beside his right eye twitches once, like something in him catches.
Then he takes your hand like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Come on,” he says. “Just try it.”
You dig your heels in immediately. “Satoru, no.” He looks back at you, expression calm, almost amused. “Why not?”
“Because it’s expensive.”
“And?” he says, like you’re speaking another language. He smiles like that explains everything, before continuing, “You deserve all the pretty things.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not—”
“It is,” he interrupts gently, squeezing your hand once. “Just try it. If you hate it, we leave.”
You hesitate. “And if I don’t hate it?”
Satoru’s smile turns slow. “Then we’ll deal with that.”
In the dressing room, you tell yourself you’re doing this as a joke.
You tell yourself it’s harmless. But when you step out and Satoru looks up from his phone, the air changes.
His gaze drags over you, slow and careful, like he’s memorizing you. His expression goes still, not shocked, not dramatic, just… focused. Like the world narrowed down to the shape of you in that dress.
The muscle beside his right eye twitches once, your gaze focuses on it, noticing how it would tick every time it feels like he’s suppressing some type of emotion. Then his face softens into something warm. “You look beautiful,” he compliments quietly.
You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Oh, really?”
Satoru stands up, slow, and walks closer. He reaches out and fixes the strap on your shoulder, fingers brushing your skin like he’s testing how much you’ll let him touch. “Always, sweetheart.”
Your chest feels too full. “You say stuff like that and it makes me stupid.”
Satoru’s mouth curves. “Good,” he says softly, like it’s honest. “I like when you’re stupid with me.”
You smack his arm, flustered. “That sounded insane.”
“It’s true,” he says, unfazed. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.” You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Stop.” Satoru’s eyes flick to your mouth. “Make me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t push. Just watches you like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.
You swallow, heart pounding, and whisper, “You’re so annoying.” Satoru smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “But you like me.”
And you hate how right he is, always.
After that, it becomes a pattern you pretend you don’t notice.
A necklace appears on his kitchen counter like it materialized out of thin air. You pick it up, staring at the little diamond catching the light. “Satoru,” you say slowly. “Why… is this here?”
He looks over from his laptop like you’re asking about the weather. “Ah, I picked it out for you, sweetheart.”
He shrugs. “Because I wanted to.”
“That’s not a reason,” you argue.
Satoru’s right eye twitches once, quick and sharp, and then his voice turns softer. “It is for me,” he says. “I like my beautiful woman wearing beautiful things, you deserve it. ”
Satoru stands up and walks over, taking the necklace from your hand. “Come here,” he says, like you’re already going to listen.
He fastens it around your throat, fingers lingering at the clasp, and when he’s done he brushes his knuckles over your skin like he can’t help himself.
“There,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”
You whisper, “You’re spoiling me.”
It’s kind of scary how fast it becomes normal.
Wearing the things he buys you, I mean. The dress that sits in your closet like it owns the space. The necklace that always catches the light when you move. The heels you swore you’d never wear because they look like pain, but somehow they feel like him—expensive, careful, chosen.
At first you told yourself you were just playing along. Just letting him spoil you because it was sweet, because it made him happy, because you liked how his eyes looked when you wore something he picked. But then you blink and you’re standing in front of your mirror on a random Thursday, adjusting a bracelet you didn’t buy, like it’s always been yours.
Shoko notices, obviously. She always does.
She stares at your throat one morning while you’re waiting for coffee, gum snapping between her teeth. “Okay,” she says slowly, eyes narrowed in amusement, “so you’re wearing diamonds to a nine a.m. lecture now.”
You roll your eyes like you’re not blushing. “It’s not diamonds.”
Shoko leans in, squinting at the pendant. “It’s literally sparkling.”
You try to laugh it off, but your fingers still drift up, touching it like it’s a pulse point. Like it’s proof of something you can’t explain without sounding insane. “He just… got it,” you mumble, because it’s easier than saying he wanted you to have it.
Shoko makes a noise like she’s trying not to smile too hard. “Of course he did.”
And the thing is, Satoru never makes you feel guilty about it.
He doesn’t act like he’s doing you a favor, doesn’t hold it over your head, doesn’t even bring it up after he gives it to you. He just watches you wear it like it makes something in him settle, but you love it all, his undying attention for you.
Shoko practically drags you by the wrist. “If you don’t leave that penthouse for at least two hours, I’m calling a wellness check,” she says, dead serious.
You scoff, trying to sound offended instead of guilty. “I don’t live there.”
Shoko shoots you a look that could end wars. “Girl, you don’t even live in your own dorm anymore.”
“That’s not—” you start, but your voice dies halfway through because… she’s not wrong. You’ve slept in your own bed so little lately that the sheets feel unfamiliar. Shoko smirks, like she can hear your thoughts. “Exactly. Now come on. I wanna see you exist in public like a normal person.”
The party is one of those campus events you can’t really dodge, the kind the school advertises like it’s “community-building” when it’s really just an excuse for everyone to dress up and pretend graduation isn’t creeping up behind them with a knife. People are laughing too loud, taking too many pictures, clinging to plastic cups like the punch is going to fix their futures.
You don’t even notice the guy at first.
He’s just… there. Standing a little too close while you’re waiting for Shoko to come back with drinks, laughing at something you say like it means more than it should. He asks about your major, tells you he liked what you said during a panel discussion last week, leans in like the music is louder than it actually is.
You’re answering politely, already half-distracted— and then the air shifts.
Satoru steps in smoothly, like he’s always been meant to stand exactly there. One arm slips around your waist, casual but firm, pulling you back until your spine fits flush against his chest. His chin dips toward your shoulder, breath warm against your skin.
“There you are,” he says lightly, eyes never leaving the guy’s face.
The smile is still there. Perfect. Pleasant.
The muscle beside his right eye twitches.
“Oh,” the guy says, faltering. “I didn’t know you were—”
Satoru tightens his hold just a fraction, thumb pressing into your hip like punctuation. “She’s with me,” he says, voice calm, almost bored. Not angry. Not loud. Just certain.
You feel it then—the way his body goes still, alert. Like he’s restraining something rather than reacting.
The guy laughs awkwardly, already stepping back. “Right. Sorry. My bad.”
“Yeah,” Satoru replies pleasantly. “It is.”
The moment he’s gone, Satoru exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you closer, like he’s making sure you’re real.
“You okay?” he asks you, softer now.
You nod, heart beating a little too fast. “He was just talking.”
“I know,” Satoru says. His gaze flicks over the room once more, quick and assessing, before settling back on you. The twitch is gone, replaced by that easy smile. “I don’t like it.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “You don’t like anything.”
He leans down, voice low enough that it feels like a secret. “I don’t like sharing.”
A beat passes, heavy and quiet, like the night is holding its breath with you. Then his hand slides down and laces with yours, fingers warm, certain. “Let’s go home,” he says gently, like he’s offering relief, not control, and you don’t argue because crowds make your skin crawl and because his voice has always been good at smoothing the edges of things.
You let him lead you out, past the noise and the flashing lights, his grip steady the whole way. When someone brushes too close, he shifts without thinking, placing himself between you and the world like it’s instinct. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t look back, just keeps you tucked at his side until the air outside feels breathable again.
In the car, the city blurs by and neither of you talks. His thumb moves in slow circles over your knuckles, grounding, possessive in that quiet way he has. You watch the reflection of streetlights slide across his face and catch the smallest twitch near his right eye before it smooths out again, like something he swallowed down.
When he says home, your feet follow like they already know the path.
The door shuts behind you, and the penthouse feels too quiet all at once.
Not peaceful. Not comforting. Just empty in a way that makes your chest ache. Satoru moves like he always does—taking your bag, setting it down neatly, toeing your heels out of the way like he’s done it a hundred times. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He already decided you are.
You stand there longer than you should, fingers curling into the skirt of the dress he bought you. The necklace rests heavy against your throat, catching the light every time you breathe. You hate that you didn’t take it off. You hate that you don’t want to.The penthouse is too quiet when you get back, like it’s holding its breath.
Satoru closes the door behind you with the same care he always does, gentle, controlled. He takes your bag automatically, sets it where it belongs, reaches for your hand like it’s instinct. When you don’t give it to him right away, his fingers hover in the air for a second before curling back in on themselves.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says softly. “Come sit, baby.”
You don’t move. The city lights spill in through the windows, catching on the jewelry he bought you, the dress he picked out. Suddenly it all feels wrong—too pretty, too deliberate.
“Satoru, is this just…” you start, then stop. You swallow hard. “Is this because you’re lonely? Or because you just want me in your bed?”
The question lands harder than you expect.
Satoru blinks, genuinely caught off guard. His right eye twitches once, quick and restrained. “Sweetheart, why would you say that?”
“Because you never say it,” you snap, turning to face him fully now. “You touch me, you keep me close, you get jealous when anyone even looks at me—but when I ask you what we are, you talk like it’s optional. Like I’m something you can adjust to.”
He steps closer immediately, hands gentle but insistent as they settle on your waist. “That’s not fair,” he says quietly. “I take care of you. I choose you every day.”
“But do you love me?” Your voice shakes. “Or am I just your friend with benefits?”
His jaw tightens. The twitch comes back, sharper now. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, lowering his forehead to yours. “It’s hard for me to perceive all these emotions, you know that I am practically bred to not feel emotions.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
He exhales, slow and measured, like he’s trying not to lose control. “I care about you deeply,” he says. “You’re important to me. I don’t think about anyone else. I don’t want anyone else near you.”
“That’s possession,” you whisper, eyes tearing up. “Not love.”
His grip tightens just a fraction. “Why does the word matter so much to you?”
“Because it matters to me,” you say, tears burning. “Because I love you. And I need to know I’m not just filling an empty space in your life, and you can just disregard me whenever.”
Satoru goes quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is calm—too calm. “If you want us to be dating, then we are. If you want me to call you my girlfriend, I will. Labels don’t change what I already do for you.”
You laugh, broken. “That’s the problem. You’re willing to give me everything except the truth.”
He tilts his head, studying you like he always does. “I’ve never thought about dating the way you’re describing,” he admits. “I didn’t grow up with that. I didn’t need it. But you do—and I can accommodate that.”
The word makes your chest ache. “Accommodate?”
His right eye twitches again. He reaches up, cups your face, thumb brushing under your eye like he hates seeing you cry. “Baby,” he says softly, “I want to marry you after we graduate, and we’ll move to Tokyo together. And there, I’ll support you however you want to live your future, and anything you want, however much money, or dreams you have, I’ll give them all to you, fuck, for you.”
“But you still won’t say it,” your heart is slowly breaking painfully, and you still have not processed if he is either stubborn, or he just doesn’t love you. He doesn’t, your brain insisted. That’s what you had made yourself believe. And that silence answers you more clearly than anything else.
You pull back, shaking. “I love you,” you say again, like maybe repetition will make it real. “Do you love me?”
Satoru’s eyes soften—but he stays quiet. “I don’t know if that’s what this feeling is,” he says finally. “But I know I want you with me, forever, and I want to keep you safe and happy baby.”
“So you want me,” you stated. “Just not the part where I’m allowed to be loved.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you mean.”
He reaches for you again, voice dropping, sweet and coaxing. “Stay tonight,” he murmurs. “Please. You’re overwhelmed. We’ll talk later. You don’t have to decide anything right now.”
You should go. You know you should.
But his hands are warm, familiar. His voice is gentle in that way that always pulls you back. And some stupid part of you still believes that if you stay long enough, he’ll learn how to love you.
Satoru exhales in relief immediately, pulling you into his chest like he was afraid you’d disappear. His right eye twitches faintly as his arms wrap around you, secure and possessive.
“Good,” he whispers into your hair. “I’ll take care of you.”
And over the next few days, you pretend everything is fine.
The days leading up to graduation blur together in a way that almost feels intentional.
Satoru keeps you close, like always. He kisses your temple when you’re half-asleep, pulls you into his chest when you drift too far away on the couch, murmurs soft nicknames into your hair like they’re instinctive. He feeds you, dresses you, reminds you to rest. He buys you things without asking, not because he thinks you want them, but because in his mind, that’s what love looks like—anticipation, provision, certainty.
You tell yourself this is happiness.
At night, when the city hums outside the penthouse windows, he talks about the future like it’s already real. Tokyo. The apartment he picked out. The quiet mornings you’ll have. The way he’ll make sure you never struggle.
“I’ll propose properly,” he says one evening, voice warm, arm heavy around your shoulders. “Somewhere beautiful. You’ll like it.”
You laugh softly, your fingers playing with his soft white hair. “You’re really sure about all this.”
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Of course I am, baby. I take care of what’s mine.”
Graduation week arrives too fast. The night before, he reassures you again, hands framing your face like he’s steadying you. “Tomorrow’s just a formality,” he murmurs. “After that, everything about our dream life would begin. You don’t have to be scared. I’ve got you, always.”
You nodded, smiling as your eyes pretend to close, face against his chest, as you’re savoring the last moments of peacefulness.
The morning of graduation, Shoko texts the group chat asking where you are. Satoru answers easily, not worried yet. “She’s probably getting ready,” he texted back, glancing at the clock. “She always takes a while to get ready.”
An hour passes. Then two.
Shoko starts calling your phone. Straight to voicemail.
Satoru’s jaw tightens, heart beating faster than ever. There is no way… but what if..
He goes to the bathroom first. Then the bedroom. Then every room in the penthouse, like you might suddenly appear if he checks the right corner. Your side of the closet is empty. The jewelry box he bought you is untouched—every necklace, every ring still there, laid out neatly like you never wore them.
The penthouse doesn’t even feel warm anymore and it’s too quiet. He’s already moving by the time the thought finishes forming. Your dorm is the same. Bed made. Desk cleared. The expensive laptop he gave you sits unplugged, exactly where you left it. No note. No explanation. Just absence.
He tries your phone again, nothing. Opening his tracker app, he tracks your phone to see that the location is unknown. Satoru should have known at that point that you have been acting weird.
Back at the penthouse, he tears through drawers, closets, anywhere you might’ve hidden something. His hands shake for the first time in years when he finally notices the envelope on the table.
He doesn’t open it right away.
When he does, the handwriting nearly breaks him.
If you’re reading this, I hope I’d be far gone and you can’t even find me.
I love you. And that’s the problem.
I love you in a way that hurts me every day I stay.
You give me everything except the one thing I need, and I kept telling myself it was enough. That if I tried harder, waited longer, loved better, you’d feel it too.
But I don’t want a future built on “maybe.”
I don’t want to be someone you take care of because it makes sense. I want to be chosen because you feel it.
I know you would give me the world. I know you’d support my dreams. But I want to build something on my own, even if it’s harder, even if it’s lonelier.
I can’t marry a man who doesn’t know if he loves me.
I love you too much to stay.
Please don’t come looking for me.
The paper crumples in his fist.
He calls you again. And again. And again.
When you finally pick up, he exhales like he’s been drowning. “Where are you, baby?” His voice is hoarse, but there’s something sharp under it now. “Tell me where you are, please.”
“I’m not telling you,” you say quietly. There’s a pause. Then softer. “Come home sweetheart.”
“Why?” His control is slipping. Just barely. “You don’t have to do this. We were supposed to—”
“I’ll come back,” you interrupt, heart pounding, “if you answer one thing.”
“Do you love me?” you ask.
You let out a shaky breath. “You don’t need to answer. I don’t want to force you.”
“I love you,” you say quickly, before he can fill the space. “I just want you to know that. Even if we’re not meant to be, I hope you take care of yourself.”
Your voice softens. “Bye, Satoru.”
“I care for you,” he says, urgent now. “I—”
The call ends. The phone slips from his hand.
The penthouse feels wrong without you. Too big. Too empty. He stands there for a long time, staring at nothing, chest tight with something he doesn’t have a name for.
And for the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo fully understands what it means for him to be at a total loss of control.
author's note:
hi my loves,
if you have managed to get all the way this far it means that part two is currently still under works. this is my second two part fic on tumblr so i do sincerely hope you guys enjoy. this yandere idea has been on my mind for the longest time ever and it took a couple writer's block to finish it. anyways please reblog and comment if you do like it so i'll have more motivation for more.
quick explanation since i try to make this fic MUCH shorter than it was originally. it will be revealed more eventually in the second part of the fic, but gojo's essentially has some sort of condition where he cannot feel emotions, and all he has been perceiving is the reader's attention and how he is aware of the reader's feelings towards him. he is very fond of her but does not understand that he loves her. that's it the beautiful complex in their bond. and yes the reader receives PHYSICAL ACTIONS of how some love languages are, but also reader feels like she has been strung along because how will you do all the things love do but you CAN'T say you love me? more will be explored in part two.
with much love,
cyrene ♡
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