Discover Top Posts Tagged with #model inspiration

How deep is your love..?

Warning: angst, lots of hurt some heal, little bit of smut, dirty talk, degradation, Gojo makes reader feel small, reader is kind of obsessed with Gojo, Gojo cheats on reader. Slight gaslighting

Synopsis: Satoru Gojo is the most well known person on the college campus. Straight A’s, Captain of the football team, and Hockey team, and even does a small modeling gig. But what happens when he Meets the shy quiet girl in his physiology class?

Wc: 12.8k

You never meant to become obsessed with Satoru Gojo.

It started innocently enough in Physiology 301, the lecture hall packed with students desperate for notes that might save their GPA. You always chose the back row, hood pulled low, pen moving steadily across your notebook. Quiet. Invisible. Safe.

Then he sauntered in late one Tuesday, white hair catching the fluorescent lights like some kind of halo, black sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was indoors. The entire room seemed to shift toward him—whispers, giggles, the football and hockey guys calling out his name. Satoru Gojo. Captain of both teams. Straight-A student who barely attended half the lectures. Part-time model with campaigns that paid more than most students’ part-time jobs combined.

He dropped into a front-row seat, legs sprawled, grinning at the girl beside him who immediately leaned in too close. You couldn’t look away.

Your pencil stopped moving. Your pulse did something embarrassing. From that moment, you were hooked—quietly, desperately, in the way only a shy girl who had never been noticed could be.

You started timing your arrival so you could watch him from three rows back. You memorized the way he doodled little infinity symbols in the margins of his half-empty notebook. You noticed how his laugh made the girl next to him blush. You hated how much you cared.

He doesn’t even know I exist, you told yourself every night as you replayed the lecture in your head.

You were wrong.

Mid-October, the library became your undoing.

You were buried behind a fortress of textbooks when a shadow fell across your table.

“Yo.”

Your head jerked up. Satoru Gojo stood there in a fitted black hoodie and jeans, sunglasses pushed up into his messy white hair, blue eyes bright with curiosity.

“You’re the one who sits in the back of physio, right? Always writing like the world’s ending if you miss a word.”

Heat flooded your face. “Y-yeah.”

He slid into the chair across from you without asking, long legs bumping yours under the table. “I’m dying on this midterm prep. My notes are shit. You look like you actually know what you’re doing.”

You swallowed hard. Helping him meant more time near him. More chances to embarrass yourself. But the way he was looking at you—like you were interesting—made your mouth move before your brain could stop it.

“I… I take good notes. I can help if you want.”

His grin was lethal. “Seriously? You’re a saint. What’s your name, quiet girl?”

You told him. He repeated it slowly, like he was committing it to memory, then pulled out his phone. “Number?”

You gave it. Your fingers trembled as you typed.

That night, your phone buzzed.

Satoru: Library tomorrow 7? Save me from failing, tutor-chan 🩵

You stared at the message for twenty minutes before replying with a simple “Okay.”

The next evening, he was already there when you arrived, sprawled across two chairs, looking unfairly good in a compression shirt that hugged every line of muscle earned from football and hockey. He waved you over with two fingers.

“Quiet girl! My savior.”

You sat, heart hammering, and spent the next two hours explaining renal physiology while he actually listened, asking questions, leaning in so close you could smell his cologne—clean, expensive, with a hint of something sweet.

When you finished, he stretched, arms above his head, shirt riding up to reveal a strip of toned abdomen. “You’re really good at this. Way better than the TA. Coffee? My treat.”

You should have said no. Instead, you nodded.

That was how it started.

Over the following weeks, the lines blurred.

Study sessions turned into coffee runs, then late-night walks across campus. He started calling you “my favorite quiet girl” in texts. He showed up at your dorm with strawberry milkshakes when you mentioned you liked them. He listened when you shyly admitted you got anxious in crowds, and he started choosing quieter corners for your meetups.

You fell fast and hard.

You learned the real Satoru—the one behind the sunglasses and the campus-king persona. The guy who felt suffocated by expectations from his family and coaches. The one who used humor to hide exhaustion after double practices. The one who, when he took off the sunglasses, had eyes that looked almost lonely.

And he saw you. Really saw you. The shy girl who preferred books to parties. The one who blushed at compliments. The one who secretly wrote little notes about him in the margins of her physiology notebook (you burned those pages later, mortified).

One rainy Thursday, he showed up at your dorm soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like an idiot.

“Practice got canceled. Room for one drowned rat?”

You let him in.

You ended up on your bed, sharing takeout, talking until the rain stopped. When he leaned in and kissed you—slow at first, then deeper, his large hand cradling your face like you were fragile—you thought you might float away.

“Satoru…” you breathed.

“Shh,” he murmured against your lips. “Been wanting to do that for weeks.”

Things escalated quickly that night. His hands were confident, mapping your body with practiced ease. He whispered filthy things as he peeled off your clothes, voice low and teasing.

“Look at you, so small and shy under me. My quiet little thing, already so wet just from kissing. Bet you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? Obsessed with the campus king?”

You whimpered, nodding, because it was true. You were obsessed.

He took his time, degrading and praising in the same breath. “Such a good little slut for me… taking my fingers so well. So tight. No one else gets to see you like this, understand?”

You came apart under his touch, whispering his name like a prayer.

Afterward, he pulled you against his chest, fingers stroking your hair. “You’re mine now, yeah? My favorite girl.”

You nodded, heart full. “Yours.”

For a while, it felt like a dream.

He walked you to class sometimes. Posted subtle stories with your favorite milkshake in frame. Texted you during practice breaks. You went to his games, sitting in the stands, heart swelling every time he scored or made a save.

But Satoru’s life was a whirlwind. Football. Hockey. Modeling gigs that took him off campus for photoshoots. Parties he “had” to attend for networking.

The first crack appeared three weeks after you started dating officially.

He had a modeling job in the city—an athletic wear campaign. He texted you beforehand: Won’t be back till late. Miss my quiet girl already.

You waited up, staring at your phone.

At 1:47 a.m., a notification popped up. One of his modeling friends had posted a behind-the-scenes story. Satoru laughing in a makeup chair, a pretty woman with sleek black hair and sharp eyeliner leaning over him, brush in hand, her fingers brushing his jaw as she “fixed” his look. She was laughing too, head tilted close.

The caption: Best makeup artist in the game. Satoru’s favorite.

Your stomach twisted.

You told yourself it was nothing. Makeup artists touched models all the time. Professional.

When he came back the next day, he smelled faintly of perfume that wasn’t yours, but he kissed you deeply, lifting you off your feet.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your neck. “Let me show you how much.”

That night, he fucked you hard against your desk, papers scattering everywhere. His voice was rough with need and something darker.

“Fuck, you’re so small under me. My obsessed little good girl, waiting up for me like a pathetic puppy. You like when I come home and use you, don’t you?”

You moaned, clinging to him, because yes—you did. Even as doubt gnawed at you, you let him degrade you in the way that made you feel wanted.

He came with a groan, holding you tight afterward. “Only you, quiet girl.”

You believed him.

The cheating started small.

A month later, he had another modeling gig. This time, you saw more stories. The same makeup artist—her name was Rina, according to the tags. She was gorgeous. Confident. Everything you weren’t. In one video, she was applying lip tint to his mouth, her thumb brushing his lower lip while he smirked up at her.

You felt sick.

When he returned, you confronted him shyly in his apartment.

“Satoru… I saw the stories with your makeup artist.”

He paused, then laughed softly, pulling you into his lap. “Rina? She’s just doing her job, baby. Flirty for the camera, that’s all. You know I only want you.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, teasing. “C’mere. Let me remind you who you belong to.”

He took you on the couch, slow and deep, whispering degradation that made your head spin. “Look at you, getting jealous over nothing. My shy little thing, so obsessed she checks my stories like a stalker. Pathetic… but so fucking cute. This pussy is mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, tears pricking your eyes even as you came.

He kissed your forehead after. “Good girl.”

But the doubt festered.

It happened for real the week before Thanksgiving break.

He had a big campaign shoot that ran long. You’d planned a quiet night in, but he texted he’d be late again.

You tried to study. Couldn’t.

At midnight, you opened Instagram. A new story from Rina’s private account (you’d found it weeks ago, obsessively scrolling). It was a boomerang: Satoru in a dimly lit hotel room, shirt unbuttoned, Rina straddling his lap in just a silk robe, her hands in his white hair as they kissed. The caption: After-hours touch-ups ;)

Your phone clattered to the floor.

When he finally showed up at 3 a.m., you were sitting on his couch, eyes red.

He froze in the doorway. “Quiet girl?”

“You cheated on me,” you whispered. “With your makeup artist.”

He ran a hand through his hair, looking tired but not nearly guilty enough. “It was one time. We were drinking after the shoot. She’s been coming onto me for months. It didn’t mean anything.”

Tears spilled over. “You kissed her. More than that.”

He crossed the room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. “Baby, please. I was stressed. The campaign, the coaches riding my ass… it was stupid. You’re the only one who matters. My quiet girl. My obsessed little sweetheart who waits for me.”

He pulled you into a kiss, desperate and hungry. You hated how you melted.

That night, he made it up to you in his bed, fucking you with a roughness born of guilt and possession. “Fuck, you’re so tight even when you’re crying. My pathetic little obsessed slut, still wet for me after I fucked up. You can’t leave me, can you? Say you need my cock.”

“I need you,” you sobbed, clinging to him as he degraded you, thrust after punishing thrust.

He held you afterward, stroking your back. “I love you. Won’t happen again.”

You stayed.

But it did happen again.

And again.

Rina became a recurring shadow in your relationship.

Every modeling gig brought new stories, new “professional” touches that crossed lines. You saw her applying body oil to his abs for a shirtless shoot, her hands lingering. You saw her whispering in his ear during breaks. You saw hotel room selfies where her lipstick was smudged and his hair was messy.

Each time, you confronted him. Each time, he apologized with that charming smile, pulled you close, and fucked the hurt away with dirty promises.

“You’re so small and breakable when you cry,” he’d whisper while buried inside you. “My good little girl, obsessed enough to keep taking me back. No one else gets this pussy. No one else makes me come like you do… even if I slip up sometimes.”

The degradation mixed with the sex made you feel even smaller—pathetic, replaceable, yet somehow essential to him. You hated it. You craved it.

Your obsession deepened into something toxic. You checked her socials daily. You analyzed every photo he posted. You lost sleep, lost weight, lost pieces of yourself.

His friends noticed. One of his teammates pulled you aside after a game. “You deserve better than this shit, you know.”

You smiled weakly. “I know.”

But you didn’t leave.

There were healing moments, fragile and rare.

After one particularly brutal fight where you almost walked out, Satoru showed up with your favorite strawberry milkshake and a handwritten note—actual effort from the guy who usually relied on charm.

“I hate making you cry,” he’d said quietly, forehead pressed to yours. “You make me want to be better. Stay with me. I’ll try.”

For two weeks, things were good. No gigs. No late nights. He canceled a party to watch movies in your dorm, holding you close, whispering softer things. “You’re my safe place, quiet girl. The only one who sees past the king bullshit.”

The sex during those times was still filthy but laced with more tenderness. “My pretty little obsessed thing… taking me so well. Love how you fall apart for me.”

You started to breathe again. Your grades improved slightly. You smiled more.

But the modeling world called, and Rina was always there—professional, beautiful, convenient.

The breaking point came during finals week.

Satoru had a major winter campaign shoot in the city. He promised he’d be back the same night.

He wasn’t.

At 2 a.m., Rina posted a story from a luxury hotel: Satoru asleep in bed, sheets barely covering him, her lipstick mark visible on his neck. Caption: Long night of touch-ups. He’s all mine tonight.

You threw up in your bathroom.

When he finally answered your call at 4 a.m., his voice was husky. “Baby… it’s not—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice shaking. “I saw everything. Again. With her.”

Silence. Then a sigh. “Look, Rina and I… we have chemistry on set. It’s part of the job sometimes. But you’re the one I come home to. My quiet girl who’s always waiting, always forgiving. That’s special.”

“You cheated on me. Multiple times. With the same woman.”

He was quiet longer this time. “I’m sorry. I’ll end it. For real this time. Come to my place tomorrow. We’ll talk. I’ll make it right.”

You went. Because you were obsessed. Because the thought of losing him felt like dying.

He fucked you against the wall the moment you walked in, no preamble. Rough, desperate, degrading. “Fuck, you’re still so wet for me even when I hurt you. My pathetic little stalker, obsessed with a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. You love this, don’t you? Love being the one I always return to.”

You came hard, sobbing his name, feeling smaller than ever.

Afterward, he held you in his bed, tracing patterns on your skin. “I mean it this time. No more. You’re enough.”

You wanted to believe him so badly.

Winter break gave you space.

You went home, trying to piece yourself together. He texted every day at first—sweet messages, apologies, promises. Then less. Then the stories returned: him and Rina at a New Year’s after-party, her in his lap, his hand on her thigh.

You didn’t even cry anymore. You just felt numb.

When you returned to campus for the new semester, he was waiting outside your dorm, looking more disheveled than usual.

“Quiet girl.”

You looked at him—really looked. The campus king who had everything, yet kept breaking the one person who truly saw him.

“I can’t do this anymore, Satoru.”

His face crumpled for a moment. “Don’t say that. I need you. You’re the only one who makes me feel real.”

You shook your head, tears falling silently. “You make me feel small. Pathetic. Obsessed in the worst way. I deserve better.”

He reached for you, but you stepped back.

For once, he didn’t push. He just stood there, blue eyes dim behind his sunglasses. “I’ll always love my quiet girl. Even if I fucked it up.”

You walked away.

Months passed.

You focused on healing. Therapy. New friends. Better boundaries. Your obsession faded into a scar—a painful reminder of how love could twist into something destructive.

Satoru graduated with honors, of course. His modeling career took off. You saw him in magazines sometimes, Rina credited in the behind-the-scenes.

But late at night, when the quiet felt too loud, you sometimes remembered his voice, his touch, the way he made you feel seen—even if it came with hurt.

One spring day during alumni weekend, you ran into him on campus.

He looked older, sharper, still devastating. He stopped when he saw you, sunglasses sliding down his nose.

“Quiet girl,” he said softly. “You look… good. Happy.”

You smiled, small but genuine. “I am.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets. Something like regret flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry. For everything. You deserved better than what I gave you.”

You didn’t reply. You just looked at him—one last time—and kept walking.

The obsession was gone.

The hurt remained, but so did the healing.

Some kings never learn to treat their quiet girls right.

But some girls learn to stop waiting for them.

#gojo x y/n #jjk #smut #angst #jjk angst #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #hockey #football #model inspiration #jjk gojo #cheating spouse #cheating boyfriend #hurt/angst