#angstgojo

[reiko-writes]

Crush!Gojo x F!reader

This will contain: Extreme angst, unrequited love, heartbreak, emotional manipulation, “the other woman,” abandonment, crying, depression, no happy ending,

You're always the other woman

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The mochi box is warm in your hands, the kikufuku inside still soft from the oven you slaved over at 3 a.m. because you couldn’t sleep. The bracelet is cool against your wrist—a thin silver chain with an infinity charm you found in Harajuku, the one you told yourself was perfect for Satoru Gojo, the boy who says “infinity” like it’s a promise. You’re seventeen, heart hammering so loud you swear the entire hallway can hear it as you round the corner toward the common room.

You’ve rehearsed this a hundred times. “Satoru, I baked these for you. And… I really like you. Will you go out with me?” Simple. Brave. Terrifying.

Geto’s words echo in your head from last night on the rooftop: “He likes you, Y/N. He’s just Satoru. Give him a push.”

You turn the corner.

And the world ends.

He’s there—tall, white-haired, blindfold pushed up, mouth on some girl you don’t know. Her legs are around his waist, his hands in her hair, her fingers clutching his shirt like she owns him. The moan she makes is soft, intimate, the kind of sound you’ve only ever dreamed he’d make for you.

The mochi box slips.

It hits the floor with a wet splat, cream exploding across the tiles like a crime scene. The bracelet follows, clattering, the infinity charm spinning uselessly before it stills.

You don’t scream. You don’t cry. You just break.

Geto’s voice—“Y/N!”—but you’re already running, sneakers squeaking, vision blurring, lungs burning as you bolt through the gates, past the torii, into the city. You don’t stop until you’re home, door locked, sliding down the wall, the sobs finally ripping free—ugly, guttural, your knees to your chest as you rock.

Behind you, in the hallway:

Gojo pulls back from the girl, frowning at the commotion. “Hey, what was that about?”

She hums, nipping his jaw. “Probably one of your admirers being heartbroken.”

He laughs—laughs—and dives back in, mouth on hers, hands wandering. “Poor thing,” he murmurs against her lips, already forgetting.

You’re eighteen, a third-year, and you’ve mastered the art of avoidance. You sit at the back of class, eat lunch alone, train until your muscles scream. Gojo notices—of course he does—but he doesn’t understand. He corners you in the library one day, blindfold off, eyes wide and confused.

“Y/N! Where’ve you been? I miss my favorite girl.”

You smile, tight. “Busy.”

He pouts, leaning on your table. “C’mon, let’s hang out. Like old times.”

You want to scream. Old times? When you held my hand and called me pretty and made me believe I was special?

Instead, you say, “I have a mission.”

He frowns, but lets it go. You don’t see the way he watches you leave, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out.

Geto finds you later, eyes dark. “He asked me where you were. I told him to fuck off.”

You laugh, hollow. “Thanks.”

It’s spring, cherry blossoms drifting like snow. You’re nineteen, and you’re tired. Tired of hoping, tired of waiting for him to see you. Geto’s words from months ago still ring: “He’s scared. Just tell him.”

So you do.

You find him on the rooftop, blindfold off, staring at the sky. You baked again—kikufuku, because you’re a masochist. The bracelet is in your pocket, the same one you fished out of the trash a year ago, cleaned and polished like it could erase the memory.

“Satoru,” you say, voice steady. “I need to tell you something.”

He turns, grinning. “Shoot.”

You take a breath. “I’ve liked you for years. More than friends. I know you flirt with everyone, but I thought… maybe I was different. So I’m asking—will you go out with me?”

The silence is deafening.

His eyes widen, then soften, and for one heartbreaking second, you think—yes.

Then he laughs. Not cruel, just… confused. “Y/N, you’re my best friend. I don’t… I don’t see you like that.”

Your heart stops.

“But Geto said—”

“Geto’s wrong,” he says gently, like he’s letting a child down. “I love you, but not… not like that.”

You nod, numb. “Okay.”

You leave the mochi on the ledge. The bracelet stays in your pocket.

You’re walking to the dorms later that night, when you see it—Gojo, pressed against the vending machine, kissing another girl. Different from the first, but the same scene: hands in her hair, her legs around him, his mouth devouring hers like she’s oxygen.

You don’t run this time. You just stand there, the weight of it crushing you.

You were never the first. You were never even second. You were the other woman—the safe one, the friend, the one he kept on the shelf while he chased everyone else.

You go home. Pack a bag. One duffel, your essentials, the jar of origami cranes he gave you over the years—“You’re my favorite” written on every single one.

You message Geto:

“Hey. I’m leaving Tokyo for good. I appreciate our friendship so much—you were always my best friend. I love you, Suguru.”

You turn off your phone. Disconnect it. Vanish.

The next morning, Gojo bounces into the common room, blindfold off, grinning. “Where’s Y/N? She’s late.”

Geto’s there, eyes red, face hollow. He hasn’t slept.

Gojo frowns. “Dude, you okay?”

Geto turns, and the look he gives Gojo is pure venom. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you, Gojo?”

Gojo blinks. “Woah, calm down, why the last name—”

“Your fault,” Geto spits. “Y/N’s gone. Apartment cleared out. Dorm empty. She left because of you.”

Gojo freezes. “What?”

Geto shoves past him, shoulder-checking him hard. “Figure it out, asshole.”

Gojo stands there, the grin gone, the mochi from yesterday still on the ledge, uneaten.

You’re twenty-five, living in Osaka under a new name, a low-grade sorcerer with a quiet life (You had so much potential). You cut your hair, changed your style, buried the past. You don’t bake kikufuku anymore. You don’t wear infinity charms.

You’re at a café when you see him.

He’s taller, if possible, hair still white, but his eyes—those eyes—are older. He spots you across the room, and for a second, you think he won’t recognize you.

He does.

“Y/N,” he breathes, crossing the room in three strides. “It’s you.”

You stand, bag in hand. “Hi, Gojo.”

He reaches for you, but you step back. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I didn’t know—I didn’t see. Geto told me everything. The mochi, the bracelet, the girl… I was an idiot. I liked you, I just— I didn’t know how to—”

You smile, small and sad. “It’s okay, Gojo.”

He flinches at the last name.

“I was always the other woman,” you say, voice steady. “Even when I was your best friend. You never saw me. Not really.”

You turn to leave.

“Wait—” he grabs your wrist, desperate. “Please. Let me make it right.”

You pull free. “Some things can’t be fixed.”

You walk out. He doesn’t follow.

You never see him again.

Word count 6000+

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[reiko-writes]

Fuckboy!Gojo x F!reader

This will contain: penetrative sex, rough sex, fuckbuddy dynamics, emotional manipulation, unrequited feelings, angst, rejection, mild degradation, emotional distress, themes of objectification.

You and Gojo are fuck buddies and you want more but he laughs 'we just fucking remember'

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The city hums outside your apartment window, neon lights bleeding into the night sky, casting a pinkish glow across your bedroom. You’re sprawled on your bed, the sheets tangled around your legs, your skin still slick with sweat from earlier. Satoru Gojo leans against your headboard, his white hair a mess, his signature sunglasses pushed up to his forehead, revealing those piercing blue eyes that always seem to see too much and too little at the same time. He’s shirtless, his lean, muscled torso glistening faintly, a smug grin curling his lips as he scrolls through his phone, probably already fielding texts from other girls.

You’ve been doing this for months—fuck buddies, no strings, just sex. It started casually enough, a drunken hookup after a party at Shoko’s place, his charm and confidence pulling you in like a riptide. But somewhere along the way, you started wanting more. His laugh, the way he teases you, the rare moments when he lets his guard down and talks about something real—they’ve wormed their way into your heart, and now you’re stuck, craving something he’s made clear he doesn’t want.

“Satoru,” you say, voice soft as you sit up, pulling the sheet over your chest. “You ever think about… I don’t know, hanging out sometime? Like, outside of this?” You gesture vaguely at the bed, your heart pounding with the risk of the question.

He looks up from his phone, one eyebrow raised, and laughs—a sharp, careless sound that cuts deeper than you expected. “Hanging out?” he repeats, like it’s a foreign concept. “Y/N, c’mon. We’re just fucking, remember? Don’t get all clingy on me.”

The words land like a slap, and you feel your face heat, a mix of embarrassment and hurt. “Right,” you mutter, looking away, your fingers twisting the sheet. “Just fucking. Got it.”

He doesn’t notice the shift in your tone, or if he does, he doesn’t care, already back to his phone, typing out a reply to someone else. You stare at the wall, the dull ache in your chest spreading. You should’ve known better—Satoru Gojo doesn’t do relationships. He’s the campus heartthrob, the guy who breaks hearts without even trying, and you were stupid to think you could be different.

The sex earlier was, as always, mind-blowing. It started with him showing up at your place unannounced, his usual cocky grin in place as he leaned against your doorframe. “Miss me, sweetheart?” he’d said, not waiting for an answer before he was on you, kissing you hard, his hands already tugging at your clothes.

You barely made it to the bedroom, your shirt discarded in the hallway, his jeans unzipped as he backed you against the wall. His mouth was everywhere—your lips, your neck, your collarbone—his hands rough but skilled, pulling your shorts down with a practiced ease. “Fuck, you’re hot,” he’d growled, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed.

He’d fucked you hard, relentless, his thrusts deep and punishing, each one pulling a moan from your lips. “That’s it,” he’d said, voice low and rough, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Take it like a good girl.” You’d clung to him, nails digging into his back, chasing the high that only he could give you, even as your heart ached for something more.

When you came, it was with a cry of his name, your body trembling under him, and he followed soon after, spilling into you with a groan, his forehead pressed to yours for a brief, fleeting moment of intimacy. But then he’d pulled out, rolled off, and grabbed his phone, like it was just another night, just another fuck.

Now, as you sit there, his words—“we’re just fucking”—echo in your head, and the ache in your chest turns sharp, like a knife twisting. You want to say something, to call him out, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you get up, pulling on a hoodie and shorts, and mutter, “I’m gonna shower.”

He barely glances up. “Cool. I’ll let myself out.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, and lock yourself in the bathroom, the hot water doing nothing to wash away the hurt. You’re not just a fuckbuddy to him—you’re a toy, a convenience, and the realization makes you feel small, used. You decide then and there to pull back, to protect what’s left of your heart.

The next few weeks are a careful dance of avoidance. You stop answering his late-night texts, the ones that always start with “u up?” or a winking emoji. You skip the parties where you know he’ll be, the ones where he’d usually corner you with that grin and drag you to some dark corner. You throw yourself into your classes, your part-time job at the coffee shop, anything to keep your mind off him.

But Satoru doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. His texts get more insistent, his voicemails more annoyed. “Y/N, what’s your deal?” one says, his voice laced with irritation. “You ghosting me now?” You delete it, your stomach twisting, but you hold firm. You’re done being his plaything.

It’s late one Friday night, almost a month later, when the banging on your door starts. You’re in sweats, watching some mindless Netflix show, when the loud knocks jolt you upright. You know who it is before you even open the door—only one person would be this brazen at 2 a.m.

Satoru stands there, his sunglasses pushed up, his blue eyes glinting with a mix of frustration and something else—desperation, maybe. He’s in a tight black shirt and jeans, his hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. “What the fuck, Y/N?” he says, pushing past you without waiting for an invitation. “You’ve been dodging me for weeks. What’s your problem?”

You close the door, crossing your arms. “I don’t have a problem,” you say, voice cold. “I’m just done, Satoru. Done with… whatever this is.”

He laughs, that same careless sound, but it’s sharper now, almost defensive. “Done? C’mon, we were having fun. You’re really gonna act like you don’t miss this?” He steps closer, his hand reaching for your waist, but you step back, out of reach.

“Don’t,” you say, and the hurt in your voice makes him pause, his brow furrowing. “I’m not your toy, Satoru. I wanted more, and you laughed in my face. So yeah, I’m done.”

His eyes widen, like he’s just now realizing you were serious that night. “More?” he repeats, like it’s a foreign word. “Y/N, I told you from the start—we’re just fucking. You knew that.”

“Yeah, I knew,” you snap, your voice rising. “But I didn’t know it’d make me feel like shit. Like I’m nothing to you. Not even a friend—just a hole to fuck when you’re bored.”

He flinches, just barely, but you catch it, and it’s the first crack in his facade you’ve ever seen. “That’s not—” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not nothing. You’re… you’re fun, Y/N. I like being around you.”

“Then why can’t we hang out?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Why is it always just this? Why can’t you see me as more than a fuckbuddy?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tight, and the silence is deafening. Finally, he says, “Because that’s all I’ve got to give. I don’t do relationships. You knew that.”

Your heart sinks, the dull ache returning, heavier now. “Right,” you whisper, looking away. “So get out. I’m not doing this anymore.”

He stares at you, his eyes searching your face, like he’s waiting for you to back down, to laugh it off like you usually do. But you don’t, and the realization seems to hit him hard. “Y/N,” he says, softer now, stepping closer. “C’mon, don’t be like this. We’re good together. Let me show you.”

He reaches for you again, his hand brushing your arm, and for a moment, you almost give in, the pull of him still strong. But then you see it—the way he’s looking at you, not like a lover, not even like a friend, but like a prize he’s entitled to. And it disgusts you, the way you’ve let yourself be reduced to this.

“Get out,” you say, voice steady now, and you pull away, opening the door. “I’m not your toy anymore.”

He stands there, stunned, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “Y/N—”

“Go,” you say, and the finality in your voice makes him pause. He nods once, slow, and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sink to the floor, your back against the door, and let the tears come. You’re not crying for him—not really. You’re crying for the part of you that thought you could change him, that thought you were enough. But you’re done now, done letting him break you. And as the city hums outside, you promise yourself you’ll never let Satoru Gojo make you feel like a toy again.

Word count - 4500+

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[reiko-writes]

Canon!Gojo x Survivor!Freader

This will contain: attempted intimacy, flashback of sexual assaul, panic attack, emotional distress, crying, trauma response, mild misunderstanding.

When you think you're ready but you're not. (If this makes you feel distressed or uncomfortable please do not read)

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The Tokyo Jujutsu High dorms are quiet tonight, the usual chaos of students and missions replaced by a rare stillness. The moonlight spills through the window of Satoru Gojo’s room, painting silver streaks across the hardwood floor. You’re perched on the edge of his bed, your fingers twisting in the hem of your shirt, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and nerves.

Gojo stands a few feet away, his white hair glowing faintly in the dim light, his blindfold off for once, revealing those crystalline blue eyes that seem to see straight through you. He’s shirtless, his lean, muscular frame a testament to years of fighting curses, and his usual cocky grin is softened, replaced by something warmer, more intimate.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low and teasing as he steps closer, “you’re looking at me like I’m a cursed spirit about to eat you.” He’s trying to lighten the mood, but there’s a tenderness in his tone, a rare vulnerability that makes your chest ache. You’ve been together for a few months now, navigating the chaos of his life as the strongest sorcerer, and tonight feels like a milestone. You’ve talked about taking this step, about being intimate, and you thought you were ready. You want to be ready.

“I’m just… nervous,” you admit, forcing a smile. “It’s you, Satoru. You’re kind of a lot.”

He chuckles, closing the distance and kneeling in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees. “A lot? Me? Nah, I’m just your friendly neighborhood Gojo.” His fingers trace small circles on your skin, warm and reassuring, and you lean into his touch, trying to anchor yourself in the moment. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, you know. I can wait. Forever, if you need.”

His words are sincere, and you believe him, but you shake your head. “I want this,” you say, voice firmer now. “I want you.” And you do. You love him—the way he makes you laugh, the way he protects you, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world who matters. You’ve been building to this, wanting to share yourself with him fully, and you’re tired of letting fear hold you back.

He searches your face, those impossibly blue eyes soft with concern, then nods, leaning up to kiss you. It’s gentle at first, his lips warm and familiar, and you melt into it, your hands finding his shoulders. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against yours, and you feel a spark of heat, a flicker of desire that pushes your nerves aside. His hands slide up your thighs, under your shirt, and you shiver as he lifts it over your head, leaving you in just your bra and shorts.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His hands are careful but confident, unclasping your bra with ease, and you feel a rush of vulnerability as it falls away. He pulls back to look at you, eyes dark with want, and for a moment, you’re okay, lost in the warmth of his gaze, the safety of his presence.

But then his hands move lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts, and something shifts. A memory—unwanted, unbidden—crawls to the surface. Hands, not his, rough and forceful, pinning you down. A voice, not his, cold and mocking. The smell of damp concrete, the weight of someone else’s body, the terror that choked you. It’s been years since that night, since the assault that left scars you thought you’d buried, but it’s here now, vivid and suffocating, like it’s happening all over again.

Your breath catches, and you freeze, your body locking up. “Satoru,” you whisper, voice trembling, “wait—stop.”

He doesn’t hear the panic, not at first. His lips are on your collarbone, his hands tugging your shorts down, and he chuckles, low and playful. “Oh, c’mon, Y/N, you’re teasing me now?” He thinks it’s part of the moment, a game, and he presses closer, kissing your neck again, his fingers brushing against your bare skin.

The memory surges—hands gripping too tight, your screams muffled, the helplessness—and your chest tightens, air refusing to come. “Satoru, stop,” you say again, louder, but your voice cracks, and he pauses, pulling back slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, still half-smiling, like he’s expecting you to laugh it off. He leans in again, testing, his hand sliding up your thigh, and that’s when it breaks. The panic crashes over you like a wave, your heart racing so fast it hurts, your vision blurring with tears. You shove him, hard, your hands slamming against his chest, and he stumbles back, eyes wide with shock.

“No!” you cry, your voice raw, and the tears come, hot and unstoppable, as you curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your bare torso. “Don’t—don’t touch me!”

Satoru freezes, his hands hovering in the air, his playful demeanor gone in an instant. “Y/N?” he says, voice soft but laced with confusion and concern. “What’s—fuck, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you?” He’s on his knees again, but he doesn’t touch you, his hands clenching into fists as he watches you sob, your body shaking uncontrollably.

You can’t speak, can’t breathe, the memories clawing at you—flashes of that night, the alley, the hands, the pain. You’re not here, not with Satoru, not in his safe, warm room. You’re there, trapped, helpless, and the weight of it crushes you. You press your hands to your face, trying to ground yourself, but the sobs keep coming, raw and broken.

“Y/N,” Satoru says again, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. He’s stunned, his usual confidence shattered, and you can hear the panic creeping into his tone. “Talk to me, please. What’s happening? Did I—did I do something wrong?”

You shake your head, but the words won’t come, your throat too tight. He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s approaching a wounded animal, and you flinch, curling tighter into yourself. “Don’t,” you choke out, and he stops, hands dropping to his sides.

“Okay, okay,” he says, voice steadying, though you can hear the strain. “I’m not touching you. I’m right here, but I’m not touching you. Just… breathe, alright? I’m here.”

You try to focus on his voice, on the familiar cadence of it, but the memories keep pulling you under. The room feels too small, the air too thick, and you’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Satoru stays where he is, kneeling a few feet away, his eyes locked on you, wide and worried. He’s never looked so lost, the strongest sorcerer reduced to a man who doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I’m sorry,” you finally gasp, the words barely audible through your sobs. “I’m sorry, I—I can’t—”

“Don’t apologize,” he says quickly, his voice firm but gentle. “You don’t need to be sorry. Just… tell me what’s going on, Y/N. Please. I need to understand.”

You take a shuddering breath, trying to anchor yourself in the present. His room, his bed, his voice—it’s Satoru, not him, not the man from that night. But the fear is real, visceral, and you hate how it’s stolen this moment from you both. “I… I had a flashback,” you whisper, the words heavy with shame. “Something happened… a long time ago. Someone—someone hurt me.”

His face changes, the confusion giving way to something darker, a quiet fury that he reins in immediately. “Hurt you?” he repeats, voice low, almost dangerous, but he keeps it soft for you. “Y/N… you mean…”

You nod, unable to say the words, and fresh tears spill down your cheeks. “I thought I was over it,” you choke out. “I thought I could do this, with you, but… it came back. I saw it, felt it, and I—I panicked.”

Satoru’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he’s angry—at you, at himself—but then he moves, slow and deliberate, grabbing his hoodie from the chair and draping it over your shoulders. “Here,” he says softly, “you’re cold.” He doesn’t touch you, just holds the hoodie out, letting you pull it on yourself, and the familiar scent of him—sandalwood and sugar—grounds you a little.

“I didn’t know,” he says, sitting back on his heels, his hands clasped tightly together, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “I’m so fucking sorry, Y/N. I thought… I thought you were just playing, and I—fuck, I’m an idiot.”

You shake your head, wiping at your eyes. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to know.” The shame burns, the idea that he sees you as broken, tainted, but when you look at him, there’s no pity in his eyes—just pain, like he’s hurting for you.

“I should’ve stopped,” he says, voice cracking. “I should’ve seen it. I’m supposed to be the strongest, right? Supposed to notice everything. But I missed this.”

You take another shaky breath, the panic starting to ebb, his presence a tether pulling you back. “You couldn’t know,” you say, voice small. “I didn’t want you to. I just… I wanted to be normal. For you.”

He laughs, a bitter sound, and runs a hand through his hair. “Normal? Y/N, you’re the most incredible person I know. You don’t need to be anything but you.” He hesitates, then adds, “Can I… can I sit closer? I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay.”

You nod, and he moves to sit on the bed, a careful distance away, his eyes never leaving yours. “Tell me what you need,” he says, voice steady now, though you can see the guilt etched into his features. “Anything. I’ll do it.”

You don’t know how to answer, so you just reach for his hand, your fingers trembling as they curl around his. He squeezes back, gentle but firm, and it’s enough to keep you grounded. “I’m sorry I ruined this,” you whisper, and he shakes his head fiercely.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, voice low but intense. “This—us—it’s not about sex, Y/N. It’s about you trusting me, and me earning that trust. I fucked up, but we’re gonna figure this out together, okay? However long it takes.”

You nod, tears falling again, but they’re softer now, less panicked. “I don’t want to be scared forever,” you admit, voice barely audible. “I want to be with you. Really be with you.”

He smiles, small and sad, but full of that unshakable Gojo confidence. “And you will. When you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.” He pauses, then adds, “And if anyone ever tries to hurt you again, I’ll fucking end them. That’s a promise.”

You laugh, a shaky sound, and he grins, the tension breaking just a little. He pulls you into his arms, careful and slow, and you let him, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, a reminder that you’re here, now, safe with him.

“Let’s just stay like this for a bit,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “No pressure. Just us.”

You nod, closing your eyes, letting his warmth and his words pull you back from the edge. The memories are still there, but they’re quieter now, overshadowed by the man holding you, the man who stopped the moment you needed him to. And for the first time in a long time, you believe you might heal, with him by your side.

Word count: 3000+

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