୨₊signed in sweetness₊୧
꒰ summary꒱ nineteen days in hell leaves marks no one else can see. when your husband satoru returns from the prison realm, he realizes your life was survival too. you survived his absence the only way you knew how. by loving him anyway.
꒰ tags/warnings꒱ angst ꭷ fluff ꭷ very hurt/comfort ꭷ grief ꭷ isolation ꭷ emotional reunions ꭷ classmates to friends to lovers ꭷ canon adjacent ꭷ minor timeskip ꭷ reader is kinda a sorcerer (but not really) ꭷ she's also a sweetheart who stress bakes and we love her ꭷ hints of an eating disorder ꭷ explicit sexual content ꭷ mdni ꭷ smut ꭷ creampie ꭷ heavy breeding kink (like... a LOT) ꭷ belly bulging ꭷ masturbation ꭷ feral gojo ꭷ overstimulation ꭷ praise ꭷ happy ending!
꒰ authors note꒱ happy valentines day 💘 i hope ya'll enjoy this little love letter of a story for our pookie! this fic is a commission for my very best friend @strychnynegirl 🫶🏻 i love you sm sweetheart! (wc. 10.3k)
“You’re too soft for this world. Too sweet.”
Sweet.
The word snapped sharply, just before the blow did. And with a harsh slap of your back against the training mat, you blinked up, breathless. Your core ached, and the ceiling beams swam in your blurred vision — just before your sensei’s shadow cut across it all.
“You know what your problem is?” he deadpanned, clipped and cold, glaring down at you. “You never follow through. You second-guess. You hesitate. You don’t stand your ground, and you sure as hell don’t hit like you mean it.”
Your mouth opened, desperate for something to say, to explain, or maybe to apologize again — but nothing came out. Because how were you supposed to say ‘I don’t want to hurt her’ or ‘I don’t want to fight’ without sounding stupid?
Sweet girls don’t belong in combat. Sweet girls got chewed up and spat out.
“Again,” he snapped.
And as you pressed your stinging palms to the mat and forced yourself upright, you caught them from the corner of your eye: your classmates. Poised in practiced stances, exchanging low murmurs and whispering smirks.
“…why is she even here?”
“Seriously. I thought this school had standards.”
“Wow. Look at her. Can’t even block a basic sweep.”
They giggled, and with a shuddering breath, you got to your feet, pretending not to hear it. Because that’s what you always do. Pretending is a skill you learned early. It’s quieter than crying, and less embarrassing than asking them to stop.
“Yes, sensei…”
From a young age, you had always known you weren’t born for battle. That was never your story. Because you weren’t the girl with fire in her veins, sharpening her teeth on spite or grinning through broken bones.
No — you were the girl who gave up the last plate of dinner. Even when your stomach ached. Even when you’d already skipped lunch and were pretty sure you might fucking pass out. But someone else needed it more, right?
And you were… fine.
Always fine.
Yeah. You were the girl who once found a bird in the yard — its wing bent backward, chest fluttering like paper. And you were desperate to save it. You tried. God, you tried. But… it died anyway. And you cried so hard that your mother scolded you like an insulant child.
‘Stop being a baby.’
‘Get over it already. You need to toughen up.’
You’d heard it all, for as long as you could remember. And still, you didn’t understand why softness was something you were supposed to outgrow. They offered those words like wisdom, but… really? It felt more like they were trying to reshape you. Like they were tweaking the recipe of who you were into a flavor more palatable, for a story worth telling.
A strong woman. A capable woman.
But… what even is strength, anyway?
The thought swelled in your chest as you paced through the corridors of Jujutsu High, sniffling back tears from your latest sparing match, and praying no one saw you like this. Across the courtyard, a row of vending machines glowed in the cold dusk like a salvation.
You just needed something fizzy. Something cold. But as you stepped up to the vending machine, your breath caught in your throat as you patted your pockets, fingers fumbling for spare change when—
THUD!
“Ughhhh. Yaga-senseiii,” a voice had whined somewhere beyond the grass. “Is it lunchtime yet?”
You flinched, blinking toward the sound — and when you peeked around the corner, sure enough, there he was. A boy. Sprawled dramatically across the lawn like a fallen soldier, limbs splayed as if flung from the heavens themselves. His sunglasses were pushed into snowy hair, with pale lashes fluttering in exaggerated agony.
“I’m dyyyying,” he moaned to the sky. “Starvation. Malnutrition. Premature and preventable death. Is this what it feels like to be forsaken by God?”
“Satoru…” Yaga let out a long, suffering sigh. “Lunch isn’t for another two hours. You’ve barely finished half your drills and—”
“Two HOURS?!” Satoru shrieked, flinging an arm over his face like a dying poet. “I can’t train like this—do you want me to waste away?! My cursed energy has dietary requirements, Sensei!” He grumbled, huffing in dismay. “Wow. This is it. This is the end for me, guys.”
Wait.
Satoru? As in… Satoru Gojo?!
Your breath hitched. You’d heard his name whispered like a myth since you were old enough to sense cursed energy; a prodigy, a legend, the strongest sorcerer of his generation. And yet… he was currently holding his own funeral in the quad. Covered in dirt. Not even pretending to be dignified.
“Here he goes again,” Shoko snorted, already lying on her back in the grass, one leg propped over the other lazily. She sighed, amused. “I give him three minutes before he starts reciting his will to the clouds.”
“Three? That’s too generous,” Suguru smirked, leaning against the base of a tree, arms crossed. “Nah… I’d give him two.”
“Pfft… I hear you!” Satoru glared, lifting his head just enough before letting it thunk back down with another theatrical groan. “Fuckin’ rude. I’m dying, and all you care about is betting on my demise.”
Yaga sighed, rubbing his temple. “Satoru, look. If I let you take a break now, everyone’s gonna say I’m playing favorites and—”
“But senseiiii,” he pouted, one hand clutching his stomach. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And y’know my technique might be limitless but my metabolism sure as hell isn’t.”
“Christ…” Yaga muttered, shaking his head, brushing his hand through his hair like he knows he’s going to regret this. “Okay, fine. Take a five-minute break. But that’s it.”
“Really?!” Satoru gasped like he’d just been resurrected. “Oh thank god, I was starting to see the light,” he chirped, springing upright and dusting himself off. “Oi! Suguru, Shoko, you want anything from the vending machine?” he called, and when he was already halfway across the lawn, panic bloomed in your chest because—
Oh no.
No no no.
He was headed right toward you. And he can’t — can’t see you like this. You tried to shove your coin in faster, fingers slipping against the metal, eyes still raw and damp. The machine clanked, with your drink tumbling into the tray just as he stepped beside you, already digging in his wallet. You reached for the bottle, fully intending to flee, but—
“Figures,” he muttered, giving the machine a light kick. “Seriously? No chocolate. No melon bread, either.” He sighed, glancing over at you. “You see this shit? Like… who the hell keeps buying all the good snacks? I mean—”
The moment his voice cut off, you didn’t even have to look to know why. Because… yeah. He’d seen you swiping at your eyes that moment, trying to hide the redness. And… damnit. How pathetic can you be?! Breaking down in front of the strongest?!
Don’t do it. Don’t acknowledge the pain.
Sniffling, you straightened your shoulders, clutching the can to your chest. Your lower lip wobbled, but you bit down hard, willing it still, pretending you’re fine. And gathering your resolve, your eyes flicked towards his when—
Oh.
A shaky breath pulled out of you, almost like relief, with your chest loosening instantly. Because… what a beautifully, vibrant, crystalline blue. And somehow… soft too? Like sunlight through stained glass. Eyes that looked like they could see straight through you, and hold you through it all.
“Hey… um,” with furrowing brows, his voice gentled, head tilting in concern. “You… good?”
It’s such a simple question, really. But that acknowledgement? It’s all it takes. Something in your chest gave way. “Y-Yeah… um,” you choked, nodding as more tears spilled hot. You sniffled, trying to stop them. “I-I’m… I’m fine, really. Fine.”
It’s the least convincing lie you’ve ever told, but it’s the only thing you have left. Because pretending hurts less than admitting to yourself that this is all your life will ever be.
A prison.
And despite Satoru not buying it, still, he didn’t push. Instead, he just rocked back on his heels with a quiet sigh, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he was trying not to make things worse.
“Um… so like… I’m gonna assume you’re havin’ a rough day?” he offered lightly, like he was tossing you a rope. “I mean… unless you’re crying over the empty strawberry mochi too. In which case, shit. I swear we might be soulmates.”
At that, a laugh slipped out — small, choked, but real. And his grin was crooked and triumphant, like that was exactly the sound he’d been hoping for. Like he was absurdly proud of himself for coaxing it out of you.
And god, his smile was boyishly perfect. It tugged at the corners of your own mouth, even when everything in your chest still felt unbearably messy and knotted and wrong.
“…no, that’s not it,” you muttered, wiping your cheek with the edge of your sleeve. “It’s not the mochi. But… um,” you huffed a smile, glancing up. “I get it. I do. Because, like… strawberry’s definitely the best one.”
“Ohmygod right!?” He gasped, beaming. His delightful smile grew. “Finally, someone with taste!” and with a sigh, he leaned back against the vending machine, tilting his head like a curious puppy. “So… you love sweet things too?”
“Mhm.” You nodded, sniffling.
The worst of the tears had passed. And with a quiet sigh, you leaned back against the vending machine beside him, mirroring his posture. “I… always have,” you murmured, a distant look softening your features. “I mean… man,” you huffed, smiling. “What I wouldn’t give for a crepe right now.”
“Ooooo, crepes,” he nodded solemnly. “You’ve got excellent taste.”
You both stood there, eyes ahead, the vending machine humming behind you. After a moment, he glanced over observantly, tilting his head with a curious grin.
“Okay, okay—but like… there’s this place in Shibuya that does crepes with caramelized strawberries. And… just imagine it,” he sighed dreamily. “Beautifully burnt sugar, custard, a little dusting of kinako on top? It’s insane. You ever been?”
The brightness radiating off of him is endearing, making your lips tug up further.
“…No,” you admit, looking out towards the garden. “But… that sounds, nice.”
And it was hard not to picture it — that soft cream on your tongue, sugar sticking to your fingertips, laughter curling sweet in your chest. It’s too easy to crave it, to remember what it used to taste like. What it felt like to not be afraid of wanting those things. But—
‘A lady doesn’t indulge.’
‘No man wants a girl who can’t control herself.’
When your mother’s voice echoed in memory, a bitterness curled in your stomach. A reminder you can’t escape from. And blinking slowly, you cleared your throat, pushing it away.
“…I just… um. I can’t really eat that kind of stuff anymore… unfortunately.”
You shrugged it off like it was nothing, while Satoru’s expression hardened.
“Uh… can’t?” he pressed, raising a brow. And hesitating, your lips pressed together.
“Y-Yeah…” you swallowed. “Um. Diet thing… y’know,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground, fiddling with the hem of your uniform. “It’s strict clan rules. Gotta… keep up appearances, I guess.”
The vagueness in your words wasn’t hard to miss. Satoru picked up on them, instantly. A brief silence settled between you, but you felt those sure, crystalline eyes, watching you. And for a moment? You wished you hadn’t said anything at all.
He huffed, clicking his tongue. “Man… that sucks,” and shoving his hands into his pockets, he grumbled. “That’s bullshit. Here I thought I had it rough.”
Glancing over, you could tell he was biting his tongue. And you worried that maybe… you said too much. Did you just admit to being… broken? But he didn’t let you feel heavy with it.
He flopped against the vending machine like gravity owed him an apology.
“Damn. What the hell?” he let out a long, theatrical sigh. Sliding down to the ground with his legs splayed in front of him. “You’re pretty incredible. I could never.”
Your heart raced while the cicadas thrummed in the trees. And you stared down at this boy — this ridiculous, blinding boy who somehow looked both divine and completely, utterly human.
His eyes softened with a sadness. “Um… by the way,” he murmured. “Did y’know my cursed technique drains the hell outta me? It’s… exhausting, actually.”
Holding your breath, you listened. It was like, the world tilted just a little to keep him in frame. Like he carved out a space in the universe where the two of you were allowed to just… exist.
“There’s been a bounty on my head since before I could read…” he mumbled. “So, if someone ever tried to make me give up sugar?” he huffed, bitterly. “I’d be hallucinating crepes by lunchtime. Like… full delusion. Would probably try to lick the fuckin’ grass or somethin’.”
Before you could stop it, you’re doubling over, giggling. Sliding down the vending machine, catching your breath. Because you hadn’t felt this is so long. Warmth. Acceptance. And he made existing so… easy.
“Oi! Little missy. Is my life a joke to you?!” he tried to pout, but that triumphant grin was winning from the sound of your laughter. And you huffed, shaking your head with a relieved sigh. “No… sorry,” you sniffed, leaning your head back, allowing the gentle blue of his eyes to hold you steady.
It was the sweetest shade of blue you’ve ever seen.
“But… I gotta say,” he whispered. “To not eat any sweets…? You must be really strong.”
You blinked, lips parting.
Strong?
You sure as hell didn’t feel strong. You felt like a thread pulled too tight — like if someone tugged a little harder, you’d snap in two. But… god. The way he said it made something ache in your chest.
He was… sweet.
Hesitating, your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. There was a bento buried under your books. With cookies, still warm from when you packed them this morning. Not for you, obviously. You were never allowed to eat what you baked.
But… you baked anyway. You always did. Measuring peace in spoonfuls of sugar, finding warmth in the rise of dough. Even if all you ever did was give it away. Because sweetness was something to share… something you’d never get it return.
Your fingers twitched.
…should you?
Screw it.
“Um… here,” you muttered, reaching into your bag and slowly pulling the bento free. “I-If you want something sweet… I-I baked these this morning and…”
As you held them out, Satoru blinked, staring like you just handed him a marriage proposal.
“Wait… seriously?!” he grinned, hands brushing yours, taking them. “Do you just… like. Carry cookies around your bag every day? Like some kind of secret snack sorceress?”
Your cheeks burned. “What? N-No… I…” and the moment he was bringing it towards his lips, excitedly, a nervous flutter spread through your chest. Close to panic.
“I-I haven’t tasted them though!” you added quickly as he took a bite. “Since I… y’know. Can’t eat them… um. So if they’re awful—”
He moaned. “Holy shit,” eyes widening with a mouthful, turning to you. “Wait. You made these? And can’t fucking eat them?! Um. That’s illegal. You’re too powerful.”
Warmth spread through your chest, and giggling, you tried so hard — tried not to stare at the crumbs on his ridiculously soft lips; tried not to let your damn heart skip a beat the moment he deadpanned:
“Huh. Maybe we are soulmates,” with the corner of his mouth quirking up, flashing that dangerously white grin, while his pale lashes fluttered over an impossibly beautiful blue.
“I think…” he teased. “You’re gonna have to marry me one day, sweetheart.”
And marry Satoru Gojo, you did.
Because three months later, he still called you his sweetheart.
It started with cookies. Then cupcakes. Then fudge, and buttered sponge cakes in little paper wrappers. Every lunch break, like clockwork, he’d find you — sprawled beneath the camphor trees, arms tucked behind his head like a makeshift pillow, his white hair catching sunlight like it was spun from sugar.
“Oi, snack sorceress,” he’d hum, already rifling through your bag like it belonged to him. “What d’you have for me today, hm?”
At first, it was a joke.
Then? It became ritual.
You weren’t sure when he started dragging you around campus like you were his favorite person — but it happened fast. A blur of hallway detours and courtyard interruptions, always grabbing your wrist, tugging you along with that ridiculous grin. And honestly? You weren’t sure if he considered you a friend, or if you were just another satellite caught in the beauty of his orbit.
Because Satoru Gojo became your sun, and your moon. Your sky, and your stars. He was loud where you were quiet. Brilliant where you were cautious. Strong, where you were sweet. And he kept showing up. Pulling you into things. Making space. Seeing you.
“C’mon pretty girl,” he’d say, lacing his fingers through yours, dragging you out of your dorm. “No staying cooped up alone all day. That’s how curses breed!”
And when people talked — because believe me, they did — about your clan, about how your cursed technique wasn’t strong enough to warrant the family name, about how you were lucky to even be at Jujutsu High…
He’d cut them off mid-sentence.
“I’m sorry? Fuckin’ say that again?” he’d murmur, six-eyes glimmering in threat, smile gone. “And slowly. Because I wanna make sure I heard you disrespect my girl correctly.”
His girl.
He’d say it with such casual authority; like it was obvious, like it had always been true. But… he never touched you. Not like that, at least. And you’d pretend not to notice how your pulse would jump under his fingers.
It was a quiet dance of intimacy between you — one that never broke rhythm. You’d bandage the cuts on his knuckles after every mission. He’d let you fuss with his collar when it was crooked. And he’d drape himself over you like a lazy cat claiming its favorite spot.
It was a silent rule you both followed. A line you never crossed. Because the world was already asking too much of him, and the elders were always watching. You accepted that this was all it would ever… be. You were students. Sorcerers. Weapons-in-training. There was never room for a softness like that, in this world.
He needed…
Strength. Right?
Not you.
And yet, things started to change when he missed lunch the week Suguru defected. You found him that day, on the roof — knees pulled to his chest; sunglasses forgotten beside him.
“Oh… there you are,” you murmured, kneeling beside him with a small box in your hands. “Why are you up here? I was worried when I couldn’t find you?”
He didn’t respond. And the sky above him was too blue that day. A cruel, endless kind of blue. Unlike his eyes, which were hollow. Distant. Quiet in a way that broke you.
“…Satoru?” you whispered. “I… made mochi?” You offered, voice unsure. “Strawberry. With… extra custard? Um. I might’ve overfilled them though and—”
Once the lid clicked open, he was reaching for it instantly. He took a bite without a word, and dropped his head onto your shoulder; like he was too tired to hold it up.
“It’s perfect…” he mumbled around a bite, breath hitching. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
When you felt the tremble in his body, you knew. That was the first day you saw Satoru Gojo cry. And you held him close, that day; brushing your fingers through his hair, like maybe it could lull the grief to sleep. Like maybe you could carry it for him.
Because you would, if you could.
And after that?
Well… he started showing up at your dorm after curfew. He’d always teleport unannounced, with his hair damp from a shower, dressed cozy. You blinked at him, heart fluttering, still clutching your pillow.
“Hey…” he mumbled that first night, kicking his foot at nothing. “Um. I’m bored,” he stated, scratching the back of his neck, sheepishly. “And the dorm’s just… quiet. Without Suguru. So…”
That was his first excuse.
Next, it was cupcakes — when he claimed to have a craving and tried to guilt you into baking. The night after that, he brought a deck of cards and insisted on teaching you how to cheat at poker. Then came movies. Snacks. Your favorite iced tea, chilled just right. A blanket already draped over his shoulder like he belonged there.
But he wouldn’t sleep beside you. No. He’d stay until your breathing slowed, and your body instinctively curled towards him. But by morning, he was gone. Until he’d return the next night like clockwork.
That line you’d never cross. But eventually… you both stopped pretending.
One night, you were curled up together beneath a heap of blankets, half-watching a movie you’d both already seen. He cradled you in his arms, with his chest rising against your side in slow, steady rhythms. The credits rolled, and as your eyes began to drift shut, that was his cue. But…
“I don’t wanna go back,” he whispered in the quiet. Your lashes fluttered open, and turning, you brought your face to his. “…no?” you asked, and he swallowed, hesitating. “Yeah… um. It’s too quiet over there. And… everything echoes.”
The flickering light from the screen bathed him in soft blue shadows. And those beautiful eyes were… tired. But he’d managed to smile at you anyway. While you brushed your hand down his jaw, he leaned into you.
“Then… don’t,” you whispered, eyes flicking to his lips. “You can always stay here, Satoru. You know that… right?”
Brows furrowing, he nodded, searching your face for a moment, like he was searching for permission, maybe. Or courage. And the moment he leaned in, allowing your lips to finally fit together, it was like a thousand sleepless nights, a thousand unsaid wishes, poured between each trembling breath you took.
Clothes slipped off in quiet pieces. Like a secret shared in the dark.
And Satoru made love to you with slow, reverent hands — like every inch of your skin was something sacred he hadn’t dared touch until now. Your legs wrapped around his waist while he pulled you into each thrust.
It was a night filled with panting breathes, hushed moans, soft nips against your skin as the bed creaked beneath every insistent, aching snap of his hips.
“I should’ve done this sooner,” his breath hitched into a moan while his dick swelled, dragging through the slick clutch of your heat. “S-shit…” his hips began to tremble, and his mouth fell open in awe, balls tightening, desperate to spill.
“Fuck—be mine,” he begged, voice unraveling. “Please, baby… please, I—m’gonna—”
“M’yours,” you gasped.
And with a breathless groan, Satoru’s hand found yours, fingers lacing tight as he erupted deep, flooding you with his hot, pulsing release. His face buried into your neck while he jerked helplessly against your snug walls, spilling a thick, creamy warmth from his beautifully flushed tip, in eager bursts.
It left your thighs sticky, your chest heaving, and your heart, impossibly full.
That night, you didn’t just fall asleep tangled in his arms. You made a vow. He was yours. And you were his.
Always.
He proposed not long after. Multiple times, actually — half-joking at first, murmured between kisses, in the quiet lull of mornings or when he was half-asleep and clinging to you like a vine.
“Just… marry me already,” he’d whisper into your hair. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you.”
And when he finally pulled out that platinum ring — with an infinity sign delicately carved across the band — you knew he was serious. Because his hands were trembling.
“Please…?” he asked, voice barely a breath. He looked at you like you hung the damn sky. “I’ll spoil you rotten,” he promised, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Buy you whatever you want. Keep you safe. You’d never have to worry about anything again.”
But it came with a condition.
He wanted you out. No more being a sorcerer. No more trying to be something you were not. When you warned him about what people would say, he insisted—
“Let them fucking try to stop me,” he scoffed, sharper now. “I don’t give a shit. Let them fight. Let me fight. You stay home. You stay safe. I wanna come home to you, baby.”
And what Satoru says, goes. Because if the elders so much as breathed a word about him marrying you, about you, a nobody, becoming his housewife, he’d snap their spines in half and toss their relics in the ocean.
He loved you, so, so much. And you loved him.
But…
Love makes you believe in stupid things. Like the strongest man you’ve ever known is somehow untouchable. Unstoppable.
Unbreakable.
‘Hey, Satoru. Long time no see.’
It’s… funny. You’d think eternity would feel bigger.
That’s the first thought Satoru has the moment his boots hit the ground — after whatever force dragged him through space drops him into what most would consider, hell.
The prison realm.
There’s no sky. No sun. Just a horizon with no depth, no curve — like someone flattened the world into static and drained it of color. Grey stretches in every direction. The kind of grey that seeps into your thoughts. The kind of grey that tastes like grief.
‘All the information provided by my six eyes is telling me you’re Suguru Geto. But both my heart and my soul know otherwise.’
Scoffing, Satoru kicks at the cracked femur of a skeleton with his boot. They’re clattering in disjointed piles. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. A reminder of the souls who didn’t survive this prison. Because the only way out… is ending it yourself.
“Creepy little fuckers…” he mutters, dropping onto a mound of skeletons like it’s a park bench. Bone shifts beneath him with a hollow rattle. “Whatever. I’ve had worse roommates.”
It’s too flippant, too loud, too casual. Like if he keeps the joke going, the silence won’t swallow him whole.
But truthfully?
He knows. He let his guard down, became too soft. Too vulnerable. Because for one second? He believed he could afford to. But now, all the strongest man in the world can do is pace in circles… and pretend he doesn’t feel the walls closing in.
Trapped in a box with no corners.
Waiting to break.
The prison realm reveals all.
Satoru Gojo learns it on the first day. Or… is it the first hour? Actually, maybe it’s already been a week. Hard to say, when a goddamn pocket dimension doesn’t come with a clock; there’s no sense of time. He never gets hungry. Never gets… tired.
Well, at least not the tired you can sleep through. Because memories play like mirages, as if the realm plucked them straight from your bones, reaching into the marrow, trying to break you.
“Suguru…”
He hears his own voice before he sees it. And when Satoru’s eyes flick up, there he is. Himself. A younger version, standing in a crowd of nobodies, desperate to reach his best friend.
“I thought we weren’t allowed to kill unless there was a point to it?”
The skeletons seem to like this one, because it plays often. It’s usually this memory — or the few, ugly ones from his childhood; shitty ones of his parents’ hollow affection.
“There is a point,” Suguru says eventually, backed turned to his younger self. “And a cause. A significance, even.”
Satoru sits amongst the skeletons, elbows resting on his knees. His six eyes are dimmed to something distant and hollow. Watching his own past like it’s a show he can’t turn off. Like he’s been strapped into the front row of his worst failure.
“No, there’s not!” Younger Satoru snaps, hands flying outward; frustrated, desperate — clinging to something already dissolving between them. “There’s no point in chipping away at something you can’t possibly achieve!”
And this? This is where the memory always fractures. Because when Suguru turns, it’s never toward younger Satoru. It’s toward him. Toward the version sitting in the bones.
“You’re so… arrogant,” he scoffs, tilting his head with a wicked smile. “You could do it yourself, Satoru. Couldn’t you?”
Everything glitches like a dying bulb, with the courtyard tearing at the edges, while the sky bleeds grey again. The skeletons stir, chattering with taunting laughs, echoing in his mind.
‘Do it.’
Satoru squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening like he can muscle through it. But the whispers come from everywhere.
‘Failure.’
A skull rolls near his boot.
‘It’s all your fault. Isn’t it?’
Groaning, Satoru’s fingers rake through his hair while his foot taps against the bone-littered ground — restless, coiled, like he could rip this entire realm apart with brute fucking force, if only there were something solid to grab onto.
‘You should’ve done better. But no. You weren’t there for him.’
Something snaps. With a ragged, broken growl, Satoru hurls the skull across the wasteland, making it shatter into fragments of endless grey.
But… it doesn’t help.
The sounds continue to echo, and nothing changes. The whispers don’t stop, don’t fade. And with a sharp exhale, Satoru collapses — curling forward into himself, burying his face in his hands.
Crying.
“Shit—shitshitshit—my cookies, they’re gonna burn!”
At the sound of your voice, Satoru’s head snaps up so fast, it practically makes him dizzy. His lashes are still wet. His throat is still raw. And for one fragile second, he thought he imagined it.
“Baby?” he croaks, scrambling to his feet, bones clattering beneath him. “S-sweetheart—?”
The wasteland flickers. And suddenly—
Warmth.
Sugar.
Light.
It hits him full throttle, while he’s stumbling into a kitchen that smells like butter and caramel and citrus zest — so achingly domestic it almost brings him to his knees. The counters are dusted in flour. The oven timer screams. And golden light pools across the focused lines of your back. You’re wearing that flour-smudged apron you swore you hated but refused to give up.
“Angel…” his voice breaks in relief, reaching for you. “It’s you. I…”
“Shit!” you hiss, turning. And when you walk straight through him like a ghost? Satoru stutters helplessly; spinning around while he watches another version of himself stand in the doorway, blinking at the warzone.
“Whoa,” Memory-Satoru deadpans, toeing the door shut with his boot. “Uhh… why are there ten different desserts in this house right now?”
Cupcakes lined along the windowsill, a half-frosted cake sagging on a stand, a pie cooling crooked on the stovetop, and a tray of macarons stacked like ammunition.
A battlefield of sweets.
Yanking on an oven mitt, you drag the tray out.
“Because. I didn’t know what I was in the mood to panic about, so I just… chose all of them, and—oh, fuck—” you hiss, dropping the tray on the stove. It clatters; revealing a burnt batch of cookies.
“Great. Fucking great…” you laugh, on the brink of losing it, tossing the mitt aside. “Ruined. Just like my goddamn peace of mind…”
As present Satoru stands amongst the midst of this memory, his eyes soften, blinking through the wetness, still clinging to his lashes.
What the hell?
You look so real.
The light on your cheekbone. The tension in your shoulders. He swears he can smell the vanilla on your skin.
It’s not fair.
“You know…” Memory‑Satoru says, carefully stepping around a bowl of frosting, grin crooked. “There’s technically a limit to how many sweets one man can eat.”
You scoff, snatching the piping bag off the counter, squeezing frosting into uneven spirals as you grumble, annoyed. “Oh. Okay… I thought your appetite was limitless.”
The words are tossed out like a joke, but Satoru can see the tension building beneath the tremble in your hands, can hear the tightness in your voice like you’re on the verge of breaking down and—
Shit.
His heart drops. He knows this memory. It was the night he left; the night of Shibuya. You’d read his mission report three times that afternoon. That damn condition in the veil stating to: Bring Satoru Gojo. You did what you always do when you’re stressed. Bake like your life depends on it.
He watches himself sigh, crossing the kitchen. “Hey, hey…” Memory-Satoru gentles your wrists, pushing them down with ease. “Oi… Betty Crocker. C’mon now, what’s this about?”
That softness in his voice, breaks you. And before you can stop it, the piping bag drops from your hands, as your body begins to tremble.
“I just—” your breath hitches, choking back a sob. “I-I… I dunno. I need something to do!”
The moment your quiet tears begin to fall, the urge to leap through this goddamn memory and hold you is unbearable. But Memory-Satoru beats him to it.
“Nu-uh… none of that,” he pulls you in from the waist, nose brushing yours. “Stop it. You hear me?” he whispers softly. “I’m coming back.”
Your glassy eyes look up at him. “…really?” you whimper, and he scoffs. “Duh,” with those blue eyes rolling in playful affection. “You know I got this. I’ll be back by dinner, sweetheart. Don’t sweat it.”
A wet giggle pushes out of you, as you nod, still crying, but smiling.
“Okay…” your hands grip his forearms, and you swallow. “Promise?”
“Promise…” the kitchen lights begin to flicker, and his voice warps when he says. “Remember, I’ll alwayyyssys come hommme to you, ba-baabyyyy…”
As the counters begin to dissolve at the edges, “No—wait—!” Satoru lunges for you “—please!”
But it’s too late. You’re already gone. And he’s left standing there, alone in a pile of bones, while the sweet echo of your voice rattles in his head. Along with that aching desperation in his chest; the need to see you again. To hold you again.
‘You abandoned her.’
He blinks, looking down at a skull that rolled to his boot. Attempting to taunt him. To break him again.
‘You let her down. Left her.’
But what the prison realm thought would break him, would actually recreate him. Because somewhere beyond this suffocating nowhere… you’re still waiting.
And Satoru Gojo doesn’t make empty promises.
That’s how it began. Trapped in this prison, your softness became Satoru Gojo’s strength.
Whenever those incessant voices slithered in — whispering, needling, trying to drag his thoughts somewhere dark and festering — he would stop. Breathe. Remember one simple truth.
This was his mind.
Not theirs.
They could replay whatever horrors they wanted. Parade ghosts in front of him. Twist memories into weapons. But they couldn’t make him stay there. They couldn’t decide what he held onto. So? He chose to reach for you.
Not power. Not pride. Not pain.
But you.
“Oooo! ‘toru, ‘toru!! Look at this!!”
You came skidding into the living room with your fuzzy socks, holding up your phone like you’d just uncovered a conspiracy. With a messy bun, wearing his hoodie. And you looked ridiculously beautiful. Ridiculously his.
“You’re gonna love this,” you snorted, plopping down beside him with a grin. “Nanami finally posted a photo with that bakery girl.”
“Wait… the bakery girl?” Satoru blinked. “No fuckin’ way. He swore they were just friends.”
“Mhm. Friends don’t look at each other like that,” you sing-songed, jabbing at the screen like the evidence was damning. “See? I fucking told you he had a thing for her!!”
He laughed so hard that for a second, he forgot what it meant to feel hollow. And when the laugher faded? He reached for another thread.
“Mmf—serioushly?”
Your mouth was full of toothpaste, wearing one of Satoru’s oversized shirts while he sat on the bathroom counter; shirtless, shameless, and already half-pouting.
“Yeah, seriously. Gakuganji wants to schedule another emergency meeting. At fuckin’ six a.m. On a Sunday!”
You raised a brow as you kept brushing.
“I swear to god…” Satoru threw his head back dramatically. “That old fossil has a personal grudge against joy. Or sleep. Or maybe just me.”
“Mmf—tha’sh shtupid,” you muttered, foamy and garbled. “Yer not fuckin’ goin’.”
He loved it.
You didn’t have a mean bone in your body — but god, you were fierce when it came to him. Always on his side. Always ready to defend him like it was instinct. He clung to those memories like a lifeline now, tugging each one forward before the dark could steal it back.
“Oh my god, ‘toru,” you’d announced, halfway through unpacking groceries like it was a timed challenge. “You’re never gonna believe what happened today.”
“Oh?” he grinned. “Do tell, baby. I’m all ears.”
He was stacking pantry goods with exaggerated care, and you paused at the fridge, smiling to yourself like it was a secret.
“Um… Megumi talked to me today,” you said, slipping the milk onto the shelf. “Like—not just a grumble. An actual full sentence. A whole conversation.”
And when you leaned your hip against the fridge door, letting it shut with a gentle thump, he remembered how your voice softened, like a confession.
“Did y’know… he said he’s scared the people he loves will disappear one day?”
It was a memory that ached, but in the best way. Because your strength was in how much you cared. How you saw through silence and soothed without trying. How you gently held Megumi’s fears — like they were precious, not problems to solve.
You were always really fuckin’ good with kids. And it wasn’t long after that moment that he saw a shift. With a deeper kind of softness blooming behind your eyes, wistful and warm.
“Sweetheart?” he’d asked, raising a brow. “What’s with that pout?”
You sat cross-legged on the couch, absently rubbing slow circles into your knee. Blinking up at him with faux innocence.
“Hm? Oh, nothiiiing,” you sighed, way too dramatically. “I just… saw the cutest baby boy at the store today. With these chubby cheeks and the sweetest little laugh and—”
Ah.
There it was. Code for:
I want a baby. You fuckin’ idiot.
And god, Satoru wanted to give you exactly that.
All these memories. All these moments. It’s hard not to imagine the filthy ones too.
“‘Toru,” you whined, eyes glossy. “Please.”
You were bent over the couch, with your panties shoved to the side, your skirt flipped up as he clamped your hips, pummeling into you soaked little cunt roughly.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he rasped, voice shredded, forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. His belt was hanging open, clanking as he molded his cock against your hot, wet walls. “Take it baby. Mnh… look at that, my pretty little cock drunk girl.”
He was huffing, smacking his hips in lustful need as he watched your ass clap back, while you squirmed and wiggled, clawing at the cushions. Each quivering whimper that spilled from your lips, made him pound harder.
Sometimes he’d do that. Sneak off between missions for a quickie. And fuck, what he wouldn’t give to have that right now.
So, by day who-knows-what, Satoru decides: fuck it. He’s gonna rub one out. If he’s stuck in a cube, he might as well get to cum. He lays back on his throne of bones like a king descending into madness, one hand behind his head, the other slipping under his pants.
When his cock springs free, he hisses — hips twitching as it slaps against his stomach, flushed and pulsing, already smeared with thick, gooey strings of pre. He grips the base with a groan, and those vibrant blue eyes flicker, half lidded, cycling through every filthy image he could remember; like flipping through your nudes is his own personal VR porn.
First, it’s you sprawled across his lap in the backseat of the car, with your legs shaking, panties hooked on one ankle as he rolls your tight juicy cunt on his dick; panting, groaning.
“That’s it baby… be good f’me, hah, bounce on it,” he rubs down his flushed length, massaging his palm against the head, smearing his gooey pre everywhere. “Fuck, just like that —”
Then, it’s you with your mouth stretched wide, blinking with those beautiful glossy eyes, as you gag. Drool dribbles down your chin with filthy gurgles, and his ragged groans are shameless as his cock pummels the back of your throat.
“C’mon…” he croons, fucking up into the slick of his fist as he watches. “Just — mmnh — just a little more… lemme see you — gimme that look — yeah, that one — fuck, angel I’m—”
But the first time he’s ready to erupt, he realizes that the Prison Realm is a special kind of cruel.
Because the release never comes. He feels it, but it’s always teetering on the edge. No matter how long Satoru Gojo sits there, rubbing his dick raw, panting, groaning, hunched over in a fucking pocket dimension on a bed of bones, he stuck on the edge. Over and over. Like some cosmic joke that keeps repeating. He keeps trying but…
Nothing.
The realm doesn’t let him sleep. Doesn’t let him starve. Doesn’t let him die.
And apparently?
Doesn’t let him cum.
By now, Satoru’s burned through every memory of you he has.
Every filthy detail you’ve ever let him have — every quivering whimper, every slick glide of your cunt around his fingers, every sweeping circle of that cute little tongue. The first time you sucked him off in his office. That night you rode him while he filed his paperwork. The time he bent you over the sink after a mission, babbling through tears of pleasure as he pounded you.
He’s rewound them all. Played them back. Replayed the replays. But still… nothing. No matter how achingly close he gets. So, he’s decided he’d try to release his frustration in… other ways?
That’s when he started working out. Not to grow stronger. Not for discipline. Not even to pass the time. But to hurt. To punish his shitty ass body for its refusal for release. For its denial. Because splitting his muscles open and rebuilding them through the pain, felt better than this gnawing ache that won’t fade.
He did push-ups until his arms shook. Sit-ups until he saw stars. Threw punches until his skin cracked and his breath rasped like he’s was trying to exorcise that filthy desperation from his lungs.
It didn’t fucking work though. He still woke up, hard and aching, leaking over his waistband like a fucking teenager, with his hips grinding into the air like he’s chasing your phantom weight — like his cock remembers the rhythm even if his fist can’t bring him over the edge.
It’s maddening. But maybe… if he breaks his body enough. If he endures enough pain. Maybe he can break this curse.
Break free.
Or maybe — he thinks, as he shakes blood off his curled fist — maybe he just wants to break someone for putting him in here in the first place.
The day Satoru was released from the prison realm, was disorienting. He almost forgot what it felt like to be whole again. Because when Jacob’s Ladder cracked like God had finally blinked — in the first time since forever, Satoru Gojo breathed.
But honestly? The second he was confronted with his obligations for war, he didn’t give a shit. Call him selfish, maybe. He knew he should’ve cared about the state of the world that kept turning without him, or about the battle raging across the broken remains of his comrade’s devastation.
But you are his strength. And that’s all he needs. All he wants.
What did he miss? Were you safe? Were you whole? Were you still waiting, alone in that house?
He postponed his confrontation with Sukuna and Kenjaku, because quite honestly, he didn’t have the fucking patience. So, without another wasted moment, he folded the space around him and teleported directly home. And the moment his feet touched that familiar tile, his senses were flooded with a sweetness so thick, it was borderline suffocating.
A bomb made of confectionery detonated at ground fucking zero in your kitchen. Mixing bowls crusted with dried batter, cooling racks crowding the counters. Flour was dusted everywhere, like snowfall that had never been cleaned up.
His throat tightened as his six-eyes scanned the scene.
You must have been terrified. Burying yourself in all this sugar that you can’t even fucking eat.
“Baby?” he called, voice rough, almost disbelieving. “Where are you?”
When he was met with silence, he began moving through the hallway, slowly, like any sudden motion might shatter the fragile illusion that this was real. And the house felt painfully lived-in — with your favorite blanket draped over the couch, one of his hoodies thrown across a chair, a cup abandoned on the side table with a faint ring of dried tea at the bottom.
Proof that life had continued without him. Proof that he hadn’t been there for any of it.
His chest ached with a strange, quiet grief, and as he entered the living room, his gaze snagged on your desk, on the calendar pinned above it. There was scribbled notes in your handwriting — reminders, grocery lists, circled dates, little hearts drawn in the margins. The date read:
November 19th.
Nineteen days.
Only nineteen days had passed?!
Inside the Prison Realm, it had felt like centuries. Like he had been buried alive beneath the weight of his own mind for an eternity that had no edges. But… how long did it feel for you?
His eyes lowered to the desk itself — to the open journal resting beside a pen that had rolled onto its side, as if you’d left in a hurry. Your handwriting spilled across the page in looping lines, smudged in places where the ink had blurred. And before hesitating, his trembling fingers turned the page. To read.
November 3rd
Satoru, I don’t know if this is stupid. Shoko said writing might help. Whatever. You’re not dead. I need to start there. Because everyone keeps fucking talking around it like you’re gone, like you’re something we’re supposed to mourn instead of… wait for. And it pisses me off. So, I’m writing this like you’ll read it someday. Because you will. You have to. Um. Everything is chaotic without you around… people are acting like the world is on fire, and it kinda is. But I keep expecting you to walk through that door and say something stupid like… “Wow. You guys made a mess while I was gone, huh?” Anyways. Yuji is… worrying me. He keeps apologizing for things that aren’t his fault. And truthfully, it’s made me want to scream. At everyone. At the elders. At the universe. But… you know I’m not really good at that. I just… wish you were here. I don’t know how to do this without you. Please come home. I love you. xoxo
November 5th
Satoru, I didn’t write yesterday. I meant to. I just… didn’t have anything useful to say. Because everything feels loud and empty at the same time. Home is too quiet without you. A wrong kind of quiet. Like… I’m holding my breath. I mean, I thought I heard your footsteps in the hallway this morning. Stupid, right? You never walk quietly anyway, always stomping around like you own gravity. Or whatever. Anyways. I tried to clean today. But… it feels weird moving your things. Your sunglasses are still on the counter. I don’t want to move them for when you come back and look for them. Because you’re coming back. I know you are. Um. Megumi pretended not to notice when I burned dinner. He ate it anyway. Yuji said it was “smoky” and gave me a thumbs-up like that was supposed to help. They’re sweet boys. And they’re trying really hard. It makes me want to cry and hug them at the same time. But I’m trying not to let people see that I’m on the brink of a break down... especially with them. I’m trying to be strong. Like you. And everyone keeps saying we just need to hold on. So… Come home soon, okay? I love you xoxo
November 7th
Satoru, I baked today. Actually… I baked a lot. Like, an unreasonable amount. I ran out of counter space and had to start stacking things on the windowsill. They came out okay, I think. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t taste them. But I left most of them on the counter for you. Hopefully they’re not stale by the time you get home. I don’t know how long cookies are supposed to last when nobody eats them. You’re usually the one who prevents that problem. Shoko says my stress baking is “a coping mechanism.” And that I need to eat more. I wanted to tell her to mind her fucking business. Not that I’d ever actually say that but… It’s just. Why do people keep acting like you might not come back? Nobody gives a shit. People talk about you like you’re already gone. Or worse… like you were something that got misplaced. A weapon someone dropped in the middle of a battlefield and can’t retrieve. They say things like “losing Gojo was a huge strategic blow” or “we have to adapt without him” or “we can’t rely on that power anymore.” Like you were just… a tool that broke. And it makes me so fucking angry!! I feel sick. You’re not some fucking cursed object. You’re not a goddamn contingency plan. You’re not something they get to deploy and discard when it’s convenient. You’re Satoru. My Satoru. The idiot who leaves wet towels on the bed. The man who eats frosting straight out of the bowl like it’s a perfectly normal dinner. The one who complains about paperwork for forty minutes and then still does it perfectly (on almost no sleep, mind you). God I miss you. Please. Please come home. xoxo
November 19th
Satoru, I haven’t written for a while. And it’s not because I don’t have anything to say… it’s actually the opposite. There’s too much, and none of it feels like it fits inside words. It just sits in my chest like something heavy and wet that won’t dissolve. I’m going to try to convey it now. Hopefully it makes sense. My love. You make everything… lighter. Even when things are awful. Even when the world feels like it’s pressing down so fucking hard, that I can barely breathe. You just… exist. And suddenly breathing is easier. Suddenly, this shitty ass life feels easier. And… I’m realizing now how terrifying that is. Because if you don’t come back… I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to go back to a world where that kind of love doesn’t exist anymore. I worry about what you’re going through. I don’t know if you’re scared or furious or bored or alone. And somehow the not knowing is worse than any specific nightmare I could imagine. You hate being bored more than you hate pain. Hell, you once said boredom was “psychological warfare.” God. I hope you were exaggerating. And great. I’m fucking crying now. Which is extremely annoying, because I told myself I wasn’t going to cry today. Damnit Satoru. Damnit. You’ve saved me in ways you don’t even know. And I don’t care if that sounds dramatic. I don’t care if it sounds weak. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Missing you is the hardest. But I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. I’ll wait until my hair goes gray. I’ll wait until everyone else tells me I’m stupid for still believing you’re coming back. So please. Please don’t give up. Please come back to me. Not because the world needs you. But because I do. Call me fucking selfish. I don’t care. I am selfish when it comes to you. I want you here. I want my life back. And my life is you. … Anyway, I should probably go to the grocery store before it gets dark. I’m out of butter and flour and basically everything else because… surprise surprise, I keep baking like a lunatic. There was this recipe I found online yesterday that made me think of you. Something called Chocolate Lasagna? Honestly, reading it made my teeth hurt. You’d love it. You’d probably eat half the batter before it made it into the oven. I love you. xoxo
“Satoru…?”
Your voice echoes through the doorway just as Satoru finishes reading your last entry, and when he turns away, there you are. Framed in the kitchen light, eyes wide, grocery bags in hand.
Real.
His breath hitches. “Hey…” he manages, and the blues in his eyes are glossy with tears.
The bags slip from your hands.
And then? You break.
An ugly sob tears out of you, entirely raw as you slam into him, arms wrapping around his neck with bone-deep desperation. He catches you instantly, hauling you up against him so fast your feet barely brush the ground, crushing you to his chest like he plans to never let gravity have you again.
“I’ve got you,” he rasps, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” And his lips are moving against your temple, your cheek, your hair — anywhere he can reach.
“You’re real?” you gasp, fingers knotting his hair, making him groan. “Yeah. M’right here, baby.”
Before you can take in another breath, he’s crashing his lips against yours. It’s messy, desperate. With fingers clutching you in a way that feels dizzying; clamping and pulling you in desperation while he molds his hands against your tits, your ass, your hips.
He makes a broken noise into your mouth. “Oh fuck—” And with stumbling steps, your back hits the couch before you realize he’s moving, forcing you down into the cushions as he follows, still kissing you.
“I should—” he pants against your lips, trembling in restrained lust. “I should probably—” he kisses you again, groaning. “Mnh… there’s so much I have to say,” he half-laughs, half-breaks, breath hot against your mouth. “But—”
You yelp as he’s frantically yanking your pants down your hips, along with your panties, before spreading your legs open on the couch.
“I really fucking need you right now.”
Pushing up on your elbows, your chest heaves, and for the first time since he shoved you down, you actually look at him. His build is… thicker. Has he been working out? And his fingers are dragging up and down your thighs reverently, in a shaky, absent motion, while he’s staring down at your cunt with heavy lidded eyes likes its fucking salvation.
“…you do?” you whisper. And his eyes flick up. He nods, throat bobbing.
Who are you to deny your husband?
“Okay…” you breathe. “I’m yours.”
“Fuck— yes. Okay.”
He fumbles with his pants, yanking them down, not bothering to fully undress as his cock slaps up, pulsating, flushed, oozing from the tip.
“Sorry baby, but—” leaning over, he spits — a warm, wet line landing between your legs before he grips his cock, dragging through your folds with a strangled groan. “—don’t have—ngh—time to prep, or be gentle today.”
When he shoves it in with eager force, you gasp out a moan. Your cunt clamps tightly around his swollen girth, and his body folds forward, heaving. The sound that tears out of him is part relief, part strained.
“Oh fuck yes,” he moans, pulling back only to pummel in again, prying your slick walls open, watching that tiny hole stretch so sweetly for him. “Fucking missed this perfect little pussy.”
You’re mewing as wet plaps begin to echo, the couch groaning beneath you. Each grind of his hips builds in urgency, while his hands firmly hold you steady at your hips. His breath fans your neck. And—
“M’not—ffuck, not gonna last…”
You blink. “W-What?!”
That’s when you realize just how fucking desperate your husband was, while he growls, biting down on your neck so hard you moan while his dick erupts. He whimpers against your skin, dick jerking wildly, spurting a thick creamy release, dumping a load so massive, the creampie floods you with full force.
Your thighs are sticky, warm and wet. And in all your years of being with Satoru, you’ve never, never seen him cum so fucking fast. But—
“Fuck. M’so backed up, that’ll probably get you pregnant,” he pants, shoving himself up only to grab your legs and fold you in half. “But let’s be sure of it, hm?”
It’s hard to register his words when he’s pinning you down, prodding your cum filled cunt in an animalistic movement, making the sticky seed bury deeper into your tiny hole, while you squirm beneath him helplessly.
“O-Oh my—” you cry, pussy fluttering as he drills you in loud, squelching motions, huffing and delirious with it. “S-Satoru—” you whimper, as he hovers over you, those thick forearms flexing, abs clenching. “Ahn—"
The blue in his eyes are wild, molten. He drops his forehead against yours, snowy hair falling into your gaze, warm breath fanning your lips as he snaps into you insistently.
“Gonna give you a baby,” he whispers breathlessly between smacks. “That’s what you wanted, yeah? So you’re gonna fuckin’ take it. Now be a good girl and cum on my cock, hm?”
He was insane. And take it, you did. His hand slides down to your puffy clit, rubbing quick little circles against the nub, making your back arch and hands scramble against his broad shoulders, nails digging into the skin, making him groan.
“Ohmygod,” you breathe, “S-Satoru, yes—I’m—”
And the moment your eyes squeeze shut, with that sweet little cunt gripping him tight as you gush your creamy release all over his rigid dick, Satoru’s head throws back in a breathless moan, breaking into a laugh.
“That’s my fuckin’ girl. Such a good girl,” he breathes, pounding you. He splays his hand on your tummy, palm flat as he continues to mix your cum together with his hips. His cock bumps it from underneath your skin, bulging your belly as it curves up.
“Haaa—here it comes again baby—” he warns, voice straining, body stiffening as he rails you faster.
It’s desperate. Each rough snap is met with his soft ahhs as he doubles down, his oversensitive cock expanding, twitching against your tight, hot walls until he moans. “Fuckfuckfuck, cumming—!"
And his balls tighten as the tip of his cock spills again, pulsing and spurting with each eager jerk, with hot gooey cum shooting inside your already overstuffed pussy. And your poor, overstimulated cunt can’t take it. This wild desperation, this domination. While he uses you like the relief he needs, dumping load after load into your tiny little hole, flooding you with his seed.
You were definitely getting your baby.
Satoru fucked you for hours.
On the couch. The floor. Against the hallway wall where your back bumped picture frames crooked. Halfway to the bedroom before he lost patience and dragged you down again, like distance itself was unbearable.
You were bent over the table, with his balls slapping against the plush of your ass when he groaned. “Hah… think I’ll give you more of my cum.” Whispering hotly in your ear. “Go on then. Say thank you, baby.”
He was fucking insane.
When his head dropped on your shoulder blades with you on your hands and knees, he broke into a breathless laugh, borderline manic. “Gonna have you waddling around the house,” he drawled, gripping your stomach, holding you firmly, pistoning into you like a toy. “All pretty and round… carrying my baby. Fuck.”
You’ve never seen him like that. Not to this extent, at least. And every time you thought he had finally burned himself out? Nope. He surged back with another wave of urgency. Rougher. Deeper. Like something inside him refused to settle.
“Everyone’s gonna know you’re mine,” he growled, pushing your head into the pillow that was covered in your drool; bullying your cervix with more creamy ropes of cum. “Haaa… thas’ it. My perfect little housewife… takin’ her husband’s cock so well.”
It was a hunger he couldn’t satiate. Like he was clawing back into existence though your warmth alone. And maybe, in his mind, if he stopped—even for a second? He worried you’d vanish. The way everything else had, in that cube of hell.
Because…
Beneath the bruising grip of his hands? Beneath all the breathless kisses, all the broken groans — there was something else. Something raw threaded through him, stripped down to the bone.
Fragile.
“God I love you,” he gasped, mixing his cum is slow rolling thrusts. “Fuck… I love you so much. I…” and with a shuddering breath, his eyes squeezed shut, pained. “I c-can’t lose you. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t—”
There was a crack in his voice, while his fingers dug at your hips frantically like… he was afraid you might vanish. And it was acutely obvious to you that what this poor man needed, was relief. A relief so intense, it bordered on panic. The strongest man alive, reduced to something so incredibly human. So painfully…
Satoru.
His laughter had always been your sunlight. His strength, your shelter. But it’s your strength that brought him home.
You.
Soft where the world is cruel. Stubborn where it tries to grind you down. Foolish enough to keep loving him even when loving him means standing in the shadows of everything that wants to consume him.
Sweet, perfect you.
And despite it being a sweetness people mistake for fragility, it’s the one thing in this world Satoru would tear heaven and earth apart for, just to protect. The one thing he would crawl back from oblivion for, again and again, no matter the cost.
A sweetness baked into every corner of his life. Warm, and soft.
Worth the wait.
꒰ authors note꒱ @/strychnynegirl my love... i hope i was able to capture all the love you have for our pookie in this fic 💖 it makes me so sad to think about what was goin on in satoru's mind during the prison realm :') and with the new season out, his absence is heavily felt. thank you guys sm for reading. happy valentines day!
Beautiful, heartfelt and extremely personal Valentines commission done for me by my amazing best friend @alygator77 Thank you for seeing me when other's don't, for making me feel like being me, isn't wrong and for loving me so much and thank you for putting my love for Satoru and what he gives and means to me into this "love letter" to him. It made me laugh and cry and I love you with all my heart! 🥰😘💗💞💕❤️🔥💝💓
