#saturo x reader

[tojisteddy]

size kink but reader isn’t actually small. You’re small compared to him.

And it throws you off a little bit, because you know you’re about or above average in height. You have a little weight on you, and it all mixed together with that gorgeous face that makes the man swoon just from eyeing you up across the bar.

It’s maybe your first time dating a man who you really have to look up to. Hes tall, broad shoulders, a large chest and amazing muscles. He’s the type you can easily spot in a crowd, who will take your hand in his large one and lead you through the mess of a busy Sunday market. Loves looking down on you and rubbing at all your curves while hugging you from behind. He’ll whisper it while kissing along your neck.

“So fuckin small, so fuckin pretty.” He grumbles.

But you’re not small, but he makes you feel like it. Everytime he lifts you off your feet you get spooked because he sweeps you off your feel like you weight a crumb. How he towers over you when he flirts or reaches for something past you. His shirts actually going mid thigh and barely coving your ass. How he measures where his cock is gonna reach in your pudgy stomach—

you two play fight a lot because you swear you can take him on. He’s not that much taller than you. Do you end up getting bent in half, knees to your earlobes, like it’s nothing?

Every fucking time.

Everytime he has to break you in like you’re a born again virgin, his large fingers stretching out your dripping tight walls till he smacks his leaking mushroom tip against you, rubbing through your sloppy folds. He slowly ruts himself inside you, with the power of patience, till it feels like hes stuffed you full. It’s almost a disappearing act the way you take his thick veiny cock.

“ Hah- ‘s not all the way there Mama, come on baby, biiig stretch.”

And he fills you to the hilt, till he feels his balls smack against you, covering your body completely, his large weight pressing against you ever to perfectly. your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, letting out a pornographic moan. You clench around him making him his. He presses into your stomach with the bass of his fingers, riiiiight where he can feel his tip kissing your cervix and you cream around him from that alone, sobbing at how big he is, how much he stretches you out.

“That’s my fuckin girl, take my cock so well.”

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡ Simon, Toji, König, Sukuna, Joel, John, Gojo, Nanami

a/n: for the girls who are 5’8 and above✊🏾 Joel & John 6’2 propaganda? Well, yes!!

[carnalcrows]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[toomanyfandoms2022]

Arranged marriage!CEO!Gojo marrying you in a big lavish wedding. There were thousands of people, a week long event.

Arranged marriage!CEO!Gojo who only cares about knocking you up to secure his inheritance of the family company and the billions of dollars that come with it.

Arranged marriage!CEO!Gojo whom, after your pregnancy tests were positive, went back to his bachelor life. Women, drugs, and not taking responsibility for his pregnant wife.

Arranged marriage!CEO!Gojo arranged for you both to have dinner in a public restaurant. You had reluctantly agreed since your morning sickness had begun around the clock, any type of food sending you to throw up. The paparazzi got their fill of photos of the newly wed and pregnant couple.

Arranged marriage!CEO!Gojo and the hired bodyguards did nothing to protect you as a crazy fan assaulted you, jealous that you are carrying The Saturo Gojo's baby.

Arranged marriage!CEO! Gojo who didn't care if you hired your own security, just as long as you stayed out of his business.

Bodyguard!Toji who raised his son as a widow after the passing of his wife. He took off jobs to pay for Megumi's schooling, so the kid grew up with a relatively normal life.

Bodyguard!Toji who took the most recent bodyguard job, the paycheck calling his name. He figured it's for some rich snob that wouldn't acknowledge his presence.

Bodyguard!Toji who is shocked at how normal you are. The wife of a billionaire, who is going through the trenches of pregnancy.

Bodyguard!Toji is supposed to pick you up to take you to a publicity event with other rich women. You were supposed to meet him outside of your penthouse, but you were running 10 minutes late. He entered your penthouse and found you hugging the toilet, all dolled up for the event. He helped you clean up and wouldn't leave your side through the event.

Bodyguard!Toji who drops everything to pick up your most recent craving, who joins you to your baby appointments, who is there when you find the gender of your baby.

Bodyguard!Toji who stays by your side when the doctors put you on bed rest, the baby being high-risk in your third trimester.

Bodyguard!Toji who unofficially becomes your husband, since your actual husband wants nothing to do with you or his child.

[thevellichorsoul]

When the Strongest Falls (Literally)

DRUNK GOJO

𝜗𝜚 paring: satoru gojo x reader

𝜗𝜚 wc: 3.5k

𝜗𝜚 summary: gojo satoru does not get drunk. except tonight he absolutely does.

𝜗𝜚 contents : drunk gojo being unbearable, clingy gojo with no shame, extreme fluff

The thing about Satoru Gojo is that he doesn’t get drunk.

At least, that's what everyone has always believed. He's got that whole Six Eyes thing going on, that infinity barrier, and a metabolism that seems to burn through sugar faster than a furnace. The man eats his body weight in kikufuku daily and stays annoyingly energetic 24/7.

So when Shoko calls you at 2:47 AM on a Saturday night, you’re expecting maybe a pocket dial, or her drunk-texting you about some ridiculous thing Gojo did at the bar.

What you’re not expecting is: “Come get your man. He’s broken.”

You sit up in bed, already reaching for your jacket. “Broken? What do you mean by broken? Is he hurt?”

“Worse. He’s emotional.”

“…What?”

“Just—” There’s a scuffle on the other end, and you hear Gojo’s voice in the background singing, “—please come get him before I kill him myself. We’re at that bar in Shibuya, the one with the blue sign.”

She hangs up.

You stare at your phone for a solid ten seconds before your brain reboots. Gojo. Emotional. Drunk?

You have to see.

Twenty minutes later, you’re standing outside said bar in Shibuya, and the scene before you is something that will be seared into your memory forever.

Satoru Gojo—the Satoru Gojo, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in the world, the man who once fought a special grade curse while eating a crepe,is sitting on the curb with his sunglasses hanging off one ear, his hair a complete disaster, and he’s having what appears to be a very serious conversation with a vending machine.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” he’s saying, gesturing wildly at the machine. “She’s got these little dimples when she smiles. DIMPLES. How is that fair? How is anyone supposed to function normally when dimples exist?”

Shoko is leaning against the wall nearby, smoking a cigarette and looking like she’s aged five years in one night. When she sees you, she looks genuinely relieved.

“Oh, thank god. He’s been like this for forty-five minutes.”

“What happened?” you ask, trying not to laugh at the sight of your boyfriend attempting to bow formally to a vending machine.

“Drinking contest with some businessmen who didn’t know who he was. He had six sake bombs, three whiskey sours, something called a ‘Rainbow Paradise,’ and then started making up his own drinks.” She takes a long drag. “He asked the bartender to mix ramune with champagne and called it ‘fizzy starlight.’”

“Oh my god.”

“He drank four of them.”

“Oh my god.”

“And then,” Shoko continues, looking traumatised, “he started crying because the bar didn’t have the limited edition strawberry kikufuku and started a very loud lecture about how capitalism is ruining traditional Japanese confections.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Where’s Nanami?”

“Went home two hours ago. He had two whiskeys, said, ‘This is why I don’t socialise,’ and left. Smart man.”

Gojo has now progressed from talking to the vending machine to hugging it. “You get it,” he’s mumbling. “You understand my pain.”

You take a deep breath and approach your disaster of a boyfriend. “Satoru?”

His head whips around so fast you’re worried about whiplash. Even drunk, his movements are unnaturally quick.

“BABY!” he shrieks—actually shrieks—and suddenly he’s stumbling toward you at high speed. You brace yourself, but apparently drunk Gojo has forgotten how to stop moving, because he just crashes into you like an overgrown puppy, nearly taking you both down to the pavement.

“Oof—Satoru, you’re heavy—”

“You’re here! You’re real! I’m not hallucinating!” He’s clutching you as if you might disappear, face buried in your shoulder. “Shoko said you’d come, but I didn’t believe her because I’m drunk and you’re supposed to be asleep and I missed you so much—”

“I saw you six hours ago.”

“SIX HOURS TOO LONG!” He pulls back to look at you, and even in the dim streetlight, you can see his eyes are glassy and unfocused. He’s also definitely tearing up. “Your face. Look at your face. How dare you have such a nice face. It’s rude. I’m filing a complaint.”

Shoko snorts. “See what I’ve been dealing with? He’s been like this about you for the past hour. Before that, he cried about mochi for twenty minutes.”

“The mochi thing was VALID!” Gojo protests, but he hasn’t let go of you. “They discontinued the seasonal flavour! That’s a TRAGEDY!”

“Okay, big guy, let’s get you home,” you say, trying to manoeuvre him toward the street where you parked.

This proves to be a monumental task. Drunk Gojo has the coordination of a newborn giraffe and the compliance of a cat being taken to the vet.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he says, suddenly stopping dead in his tracks. “I can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” He leans in conspiratorially, nearly falling over in the process, “—because I’m drunk and my girlfriend is gonna see me drunk and she thinks I’m cool and mysterious and what if she realises I’m actually a mess? What if she stops liking me? What if—”

“Satoru, I am your girlfriend.”

He blinks. Looks at you. Blinks again.

“Oh shit, you are!” His face breaks into the most radiant smile. “That’s so cool! My girlfriend is here! Did you guys know I have a girlfriend?” This is directed at the empty street. “She’s the prettiest person in the WHOLE WORLD, and she’s so smart, and she laughs at my jokes even the bad ones and—”

“Oh my god, please get him out of here before he wakes up the entire ward,” Shoko groans.

With significant effort and Shoko’s help, you manage to pour Gojo into the passenger seat of your car. He immediately tries to get back out.

“No! No, I have to tell you something important!” He’s grappling with the seatbelt like it’s personally offended him. “It’s very important! Life or death!”

“You can tell me while I drive.”

“NO! Right now!” He manages to hit himself in the face with the seatbelt. “Ow! That was mean. Why is the car fighting me?”

You buckle him in while he looks at you with the most wounded puppy expression. “Okay, what’s so important?”

He cups your face with both hands, suddenly very serious. “I love you.”

Your heart melts a little. “I love you too, Satoru.”

“No, but like—” He’s tearing up again, “—like SO much. An embarrassing amount. If loveweres measurable, mine would break the scale. It would break ALL the scales. We’d have to invent new scales just to measure how much I loveyouu and then those would break too.”

“That’s very sweet—”

“I’m not done!” A tear actually rolls down his cheek. “You make me feel normal. Not like the Six Eyes or the Gojo clan heir or the strongest sorcerer, just like… Satoru. Just me. Do you know how nice that is? It’s SO NICE. You’re so nice. Why are you so nice to me?”

“Because I love you, you drunk idiot.”

“Best reason,” he declares, then promptly slumps against the window and closes his eyes.

You think he’s fallen asleep, but as soon as you start the car, his eyes fly open.

“WAIT!”

You slam on the brakes. “What?!”

“Can we get McDonald’s?”

“Satoru, it’s three in the morning.”

“But I’m hungry and sad and dirty and drunk, and McDonald’s fixes all of those things. It’s scientifically proven. I’m a genius, I would know.”

“You’re a theoretical physicist, not a nutritionist.”

“Those are basically the same thing.”

They are absolutely not the same thing, but you’re too tired to argue. Also, he’s looking at you with those big, pleading eyes that you’ve never been able to resist.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re in the McDonald’s drive-through at 3 AM, and Gojo has his face pressed against the window like a kid at an aquarium.

“Can I get nuggets? And fries? And a McFlurry? Do they still have the strawberry McFlurry? What if they don’t? What if—”

“I’ll ask.”

He gasps. “You’re perfect. Have I told you you’re perfect? Because you are. You’re the most perfect person who ever perfected.”

The teenager working the drive-through window looks deeply uncomfortable as Gojo leans over you to shout, “SHE’S MY GIRLFRIEND! ISN’T SHE PRETTY? I’M VERY LUCKY!”

“Satoru, please—”

“DO YOU HAVE STRAWBERRY MCFLURRY?”

“Um, no, sir, just Oreo and M&M—”

Gojo makes a noise like a wounded animal and slumps back dramatically. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“You literally fought a special grade curse on Tuesday.”

“THIS IS WORSE!”

You order him chicken nuggets, fries, and an Oreo McFlurry as consolation, plus a burger for good measure. He cheers up immediately when you hand him the bag, clutching it to his chest like treasure.

The drive home is accompanied by Gojo’s running commentary on each chicken nugget.

“This one’s shaped like a blob. I shall call him Blob-othy. Hello, Blob-othy, sorry I have to eat you.” Cronch. “This one looks like a boot. That’s Boot-rice.” Cronch. “Oh, this one’s definitely a cloud—”

“Please just eat them normally.”

“There’s nothing normal about me, baby, you should know this by now.” He pauses, a fry halfway to his mouth. “Do you ever think about how potatoes are just underground apples?”

“They are absolutely not—”

“Think about it! They grow underground, they’re roundish, you can make them into different foods—”

“That logic makes no sense.”

“YOU make no sense! Wait, no, that came out wrong. You make perfect sense. You’re the only thing that makes sense. Everything else is chaos. Beautiful, potato-based chaos.”

By the time you pull into the parking garage of your apartment building, he’s somehow gotten ketchup on his cheek and fallen asleep holding a single chicken nugget.

“Satoru. We’re home.”

“Mmph. Five more minutes.”

“You’re covered in ketchup.”

“'s fine. 's a fashion statement.”

Getting him out of the car and into the elevator is an adventure. He’s draped over you like a very tall, very expensive blanket, humming something that might be a song.

“You’re so warm,” he mumbles into your hair. “Like a human space heater. But prettier. The prettiest space heater.”

“Thank you?”

“Can we get a cat?”

“What? Where did that come from?”

“I dunno. Just seems nice. A little orange cat. We could name it Pumpkin. Or Mochi. Or—” He gasps so loud you jump. “—SATORU JUNIOR!”

“We are not getting a cat named Satoru Junior.”

“Why not? It’s a good name! I have a good name!”

“Your ego doesn’t need a cat named after you.”

He pouts, actually pouts, bottom lip jutting out and everything. “You’re mean when I’m drunk.”

“I’m the same as always.”

“Exactly! Mean!” But he’s grinning, pressing a sloppy kiss to your temple. “My mean, perfect, beautiful girlfriend who won’t let me name our future cat Satoru Junior.”

The elevator dings on your floor, and you half-drag, half-guide him down the hallway. He’s singing again, something about cats and McDonald’s and love, and you’re pretty sure your neighbours are going to file a noise complaint.

Getting the door unlocked while supporting a six-foot-three man-child is challenging, but you manage. The second you’re inside, Gojo makes a break for it—or tries to. He trips over his own feet and crashes onto the couch face-first.

“Ow,” he says, muffled by the cushions. “The couch attacked me.”

“The couch is innocent.”

He rolls over, sprawling like a starfish. “Everything’s spinning. Why is everything spinning? Make it stop spinning.”

“That’s called being drunk, baby.”

“Don’t like it. Want it to stop. Want cuddles instead.”

You can’t help but smile. Even drunk off his ass and covered in ketchup, he’s still somehow endearing. “Okay, but first you need to change and brush your teeth.”

“Nooooo,” he whines, making grabby hands at you. “Cuddles now. Hygiene later.”

“Satoru.”

“Please?” He’s doing the eyes again, even though they’re unfocused and sleepy. “Please, please, please? I missed you. Six whole hours without cuddles. That’s like… math… carry the one… that’s too long.”

You sigh, because you’re weak and you love him. “Fine. But you’re changing before bed.”

“Deal!” He tries to sit up, fails, tries again, and finally succeeds on the third attempt. “Help me?”

You help him out of his jacket—which takes longer than it should because he keeps getting distracted and trying to kiss you—and then his shirt, which he somehow gets stuck on his head.

“I’m trapped!” he announces dramatically. “This is how I die! Killed by overpriced designer clothing! Tell my students I loved them! Tell Megumi he was like a son to me, even though he was mean! Tell the kikufuku shop to name a flavour after me!”

“You’re fine, you dramatic disaster.” You pull the shirt off properly, and he emerges with his hair sticking up in every direction.

“You saved me!” He pulls you into his lap, nuzzling into your neck. “My hero. Mysaviourr. My favourite person in the whole world and also all other worlds, including alternate dimensions.”

“Okay, Mr Theoretical Physics.”

“Did I ever tell you about the multiverse theory?”

“Satoru, it’s almost four in the morning—”

“Because in EVERY universe, in EVERY timeline, in EVERY possible reality—” He pulls back to look at you, and despite the drunken glaze, his eyes are soft and sincere, “—I love you. Every version of me loves every version of you. It’s like… cosmically inevitable. We’re written in the stars. Actually, we’re written in the FABRIC of space-time itself, which is way more romantic than stars because stars eventually die but space-time is forever—”

“Are you trying to physics your way into being romantic?”

“Is it working?”

You kiss him, soft and quick. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He beams, then immediately slumps against you. “Tired now. Used all my brain power on romance.”

“Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

This proves easier said than done. Drunk Gojo has forgotten how legs work. You manage to get him to the bathroom, where he brushes his teeth with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, staring at himself in the mirror with intense focus.

“My eyes are so blue,” he says around his toothbrush. “Like… really blue. Ocean blue. Sky blue. That blue raspberry candy is blue.”

“Very poetic.”

“Do you like my eyes?” He turns to you, toothpaste foam in the corners of his mouth. “Be honest.”

“I love your eyes, Satoru.”

“Even when they’re all weird and glowy and cursed?”

Your heart squeezes. “Especially then.”

He rinses his mouth, then just stands there, looking at you with an expression so soft it makes you ache. “Gonna marry you someday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods seriously. “Gonna get you the biggest ring. And the prettiest flowers. And I’m gonna cry at the wedding, probably. Like, a lot. Embarrassing amounts. Megumi’s gonna make fun of me, but I don’t care because I’ll be marrying YOU and you’re perfect and—” He hiccups. “—and I love you.”

“I love you too, you sappy drunk.”

Getting him into bed is the final boss of the evening. He flops down like a tree being felled, then immediately tries to get back up.

“Wait! Gotta—gotta tell you something—”

“Satoru, you can tell me tomorrow—”

“No!” He’s struggling with the blankets now, like they’ve personally wronged him. “Important! Very important! You have to—have to promise me something.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, running your fingers through his hair. “What do I have to promise?”

He catches your hand, holding it against his cheek. His eyes are already starting to close. “Promise you’ll… you’ll still be here… when I wake up. Promise you won’t… won’trealisee you could do better and… and leave…”

Your chest tightens. “Satoru—”

“'cause you could, y’know,” he mumbles, words slurring together. “Could do so much better than me. 'm a mess. 'm annoying. Everyone says so. 'm too much and too loud and too—”

“Hey.” You lean down, making him look at you. “I’m not going anywhere. Okay? You’re stuck with me.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Even when 'm annoying?”

“Especially when you’re annoying.”

He smiles, small and sleepy and so genuine it makes your heart hurt. “Love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Love you more.”

“Not possible.”

“It’s too. Love you more than… than kikufuku. More than… than being the strongest. More than…” His eyes are closed now, words barely a whisper. “More than infinity…”

And then he’s asleep, just like that, still holding your hand.

You stay there for a moment, just watching him. His hair is a mess, there’s still a tiny bit of ketchup on his cheek that you missed, and he’s snoring softly. He looks young like this, peaceful, without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Carefully, you extract your hand and go to change into pyjamas. When you come back, he’s sprawled across your side of the bed too, limbs everywhere like he’s trying to take up maximum space.

“Satoru,” you whisper, trying to move his arm. “You’re on my side.”

He makes a grumpy noise and pulls you down instead, wrapping around you like an octopus. “My side now. You’re here, so it’s my side.”

“That’s not how sides work.”

“Shhhh. Sleeping. Very important sleeping happening.”

You can’t help but laugh, settling into his embrace. He immediately nuzzles closer, sighing contentedly.

“Y’smell nice,” he mumbles. “Like home.”

And oh, if that doesn’t just destroy you in the best way.

“Go to sleep, Satoru.”

“Mmkay. But jus’ so you know…” He presses a clumsy kiss to your shoulder. “Gonna marry you. Someday. Gonna make you so happy. Happiest person ever. Gonna…”

He trails off, already asleep again, and you’re left in the dark with this impossible man, this disaster, this absolute catastrophe of a human being who somehow holds your entire heart in his hands.

“Yeah,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Someday sounds perfect.”

The Next Morning

You wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the distinct sound of someone groaning like they’re dying.

“Ugh. Ughhhhh. Why is the sun so LOUD?”

You turn to find Satoru face-down in his pillow, one arm thrown dramatically over his head.

“The sun isn’t loud, baby. You’re hungover.”

“Same thing.” He turns his head just enough to peek at you with one eye. “Did I do anything embarrassing last night?”

“Define embarrassing.”

“Oh no.”

“You named your chicken nuggets.”

“Oh no.”

“You tried to start a philosophical debate about potatoes being underground apples.”

“Please stop.”

“You told the McDonald’s worker that I’m your girlfriend approximately seventeen times.”

He buries his face back in the pillow with a muffled scream. “Just leave me here to die.”

“You also said you wanted to name our future cat Satoru Junior.”

His head pops up. “Wait, are we getting a cat?”

“No.”

“Damn.” He flops back down. “What else did I do?”

You smile, running your fingers through his hair. “You told me you loved me about a hundred times.”

“Well, that’s not embarrassing. That’s just facts.” He rolls over, squinting at you in the sunlight. Even hungover anddishevelledd, he’s unfairly pretty. “Did I at least tell you that you’re beautiful and perfect and the best thing that ever happened to me?”

“Several times, actually.”

“Good.” He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest despite his hangover. “Because it’s true. Every universe, remember? Space-time fabric and all that.”

You laugh against his shoulder. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about you. Even drunk me knows what’s important.” He pauses. “Did I really try to fight the seatbelt?”

“You lost.”

“Betrayed by safety equipment. A new low.” He sighs, pressing a kiss to your head. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Always.”

“Even when I’m a disaster?”

“Especially when you’re a disaster.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just holding you, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft and sincere. “I meant it, you know. About marrying you someday.”

Your heart skips. “Satoru—”

“Not now! I’m hungover, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet, and I’m pretty sure I still smell like McDonald’s. But someday.” He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are clear and steady and full of so much love it takes your breath away. “Someday I’m gonna make you the happiest person in the world. That’s a promise.”

You kiss him, soft and sweet, tasting like morning breath and forever. “You already do, you idiot.”

He grins against your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Now, can you please get me like seventeen painkillers and maybe some water? And also more McDonald’s. And possibly a new brain because this one is broken.”

You laugh, untangling yourself from his arms. “I’ll get you water and painkillers. The rest you’re on your own.”

“Cruellest girlfriend ever!” he calls after you. “Abandoning me in my time of need! This is betrayal! This is—oh god, why did I drink so much?”

From the kitchen, you smile and start making coffee. Because this is your life now: taking care of a drunk, dramatic, beautiful disaster of a man who loves you across space and time itself.

And honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

𑣲 likes, reblogs, comments, and follows are always appreciated and really motivate me.

[notmclovinn]

4 eyed

contains: x fem!reader, r wears glasses, cowgirl, missionary, gojo’s a tease, kinda based off the fact my glasses r always loose

a laugh comes from under you and you stop your movements— “what’s funny?” you question, looking down at the man. “your glasses. they bounce with you.” satoru gojo says with the biggest shit eating grin. “really?” you scoff, shuffling to get off of him. “noo! don’t go so soon!” he whines, following your movements— now hovering over your frame and slotting himself between your thighs.

“literally, get off me.” you deadpan though you make no effort to actually get him off. “mmm… make me.” he hums, lips leaving soft kisses on your neck as he lines himself up with your hole, slowly pushing in.

your mouth opens though no sound escapes, “f-fuck..” you curse as you feel him fill you up. “thought you wanted me to get off?” satoru teases, straighten his back— hands gripping your hips as he begins his thrusts. “you’re so fucking annoying” you roll your eyes, soft moans leaving your mouth with each thrust.

and there he goes again, with that fucking grin. “look-“ he thrusts once more. “they’re still moving with you.” he laughs, no- he cackles at the way your glasses bounce with each thrust.

you let out a huff and take off your frames, tossing them somewhere beside you. satoru lets out a row of tuts, shaking his head at your actions. “you know you need those to see, right?” you let out a choked moan as he harshly thrusts into you— long arm reaching for the glasses, picking them up and placing them right back on the bridge of your nose.

“you’re actually so fucking annoying.” you mutter, legs wrapping around satoru’s waist, pulling him close to you. satoru hums, “yeahh, but you can’t resist me.” he murmurs, lips brushing yours as he leans in close.

note: rip saturo gojo you would’ve LOVED kevin gates

note 2: IHAM SARRAY I DIDNT ORDER DISRESPECT WITH A SIDE OF MY POTATO SALAD. IHAM SARRAY. I DDINT ORDER THE NERRVEEEEEE WITH A SIDE OF BAKED POTATO!

[sazustarz]

JUJUTSU KAISEN

hiii, yノn ! this post is to keep my fictions organised and also js to direct you on what you may REQUEST for this character and what i writeノwrite about. i'm swapping to something smaller until i've made more content. have a good dayノnight. ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ

★ NAVIGATION . . .

| key: [★] = fan fav [🔞] = smut [💥] = angst [🍥] = fluff ⸝⸝

| key: [ 💭 ] = imagine [ 💦 ] = drabble [📝] = anon ask ⸝⸝

all works written and published by sazustaz.

reblogs + reqs are always welcome !

HOLLISTER HOLD-UP ━ She wanted attention in aisle four — what she got instead was Toji closing the curtain and a spanking. /🔞/f! reader x dilf !bf toji/

toji face fucks you, mocking you while you squirt [🔞]

toji has no self control when his wife is naked sleeping [🔞]

LESSON ONE: FIND THE G-SPOT ━ She thought she was teaching the reproductive systems until Gojo decided theory wasn’t good enough. /🔞/tutor f! reader x bimbo ! gojo/

gojo shows up at your doorstep apologetic with his dick [🔞]

you catch nerdjo jerking off to you then he fucks his name into your system [🔞]

fratjo has you pinned against the door, fucking the hate out of you [🔞]

choso creams himself dry humping your ass [🔞/📝]

[★] pervy roomie choso [🔞/💭]

choso tries to be smooth but ends up fingering your stress away [🔞/📝]

[★] THOUGHT YOU WERE MAD AT THEM. YOUR PUSSY DISAGREED ━ leaving them for a few hours after you had a heated argument, just to see them waiting for you and fucking it into your brain that they want you. /🔞/fem! reader x various jjk/wc. 12.4k/est time. 1 hour 35 mins/1.5k special !

megumi loves talking to that pussy [🔞]

[itneverendshere]

satoru gojo - mvp in the stacks

pairing: hockey!gojo x female!reader - college!au

warnings: smut; himbo!gojo

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Satoru – Forward, Number 5

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Gojo Satoru was used to being watched.

In the rink, in the dining hall, at those godawful frat mixers he wasn't fond of but showed up to because people liked it when he did so.

He was a walking headline: hockey’s brightest star, face made for highlight reels, and a record from last season that still made his coach choke up mid-speech. So when a girl sat down next to him in the library and didn’t look at him, Satoru thought he might be hallucinating.

You had your laptop open, notes spread next to an intro to econ textbook, and when he sat down, knowing he was impossible to ignore, you didn't bother looking up.

“Y’know,” He started, shit eating grin practiced, “most people at least say hi before stealing my good luck.”

"Huh?" Your pen scratched across the page. “Your what?”

“My good luck. You’re in my spot.”

You glanced at him, finally, eyes flat as if he were some guy complaining about printer ink. “There are thirty tables in here.”

Yeah, okay, technically you were right. There were thirty tables, but this one? This was his table. The one with the slanted leg that made his left skate twitch whenever he sat here, the one with the gouge across the surface that looked suspiciously like a hockey stick had carved through it years ago. This was the spot he always used when he crammed before exams; he convinced himself that it carried good luck, like the way he always tied his skates left to right or knocked his stick against the bench three times before skating onto the rink.

Superstition, maybe. He'd never test what happened when he didn’t follow the rules. Did you not get it? Did you not feel the weight of what you were messing with? He could already picture it: him bombing the next game, tripping over his own damn feet on the ice, all because a pretty girl had hijacked his seat in the library and didn’t blink about it.

No flutter of apology, no wide-eyed gasp of recognition, no “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, campus legend, here, take it.”

There are thirty tables in here. Were you messing with his head?

Maybe you hadn’t recognized him. Rookie mistake.

“You seriously don’t know who I am?” He insisted, sounding more and more like a conceited asshole.

You tilted your head, brow furrowed, and said, “You’re loud.”

Loud. Loud? Girls usually called him charming. For the first time in twenty-one years, he felt himself flounder.

“Wait,” He tried again, throwing out his ace card. “You didn’t see us win the championship last spring?”

“No?” You said, pen tapping against her notebook. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

The championship was the event last year; the school practically set fire to itself after the win. Professors canceled classes. Someone spray-painted his number across the quad fountain. People still stopped him on the street to say thanks for the title.

Yet here you fucking were, sent down from space apparently, blinking at him like he’d just asked if you’d ever heard of sliced bread.

“Uh, yeah,” He chuckled, maybe you needed reminding. “National title? We were on ESPN? Big shiny trophy, confetti, me lifting the captain over my shoulders—ringing any bells?”

“None.” You clicked your pen twice and went back to scribbling.

His jaw actually dropped. He felt heat crawl up his neck, a strange, tight thing that wasn’t anger but sure as fuck wasn’t comfort either.

Most girls would’ve killed for this interaction, batted their lashes, let him explain every second of his highlight reel, begged him to sign something stupid, like their arm. You made him sound like a door-to-door salesman peddling a product you didn’t want.

Worse—Was this what being provoked felt like? Not on the ice, not in a fight with a rival defenseman, but here, in the library, by a girl who hadn’t bothered to look up properly?

“You’re screwing with me,” He accused, his cologne slipping into your airspace. “Nobody lives under a rock that big.”

You sighed and finally turned, pinning him with a look that was all irritation and absolutely no awe. “Do you ever shut up?”

The audacity.

 Satoru Gojo, manwhore, golden boy, ego the size of the rink—should’ve been insulted. He should’ve rolled his eyes, found another girl, and drowned himself in validation shots at the bar later.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice droppinp, plotting sin, “if I shut up, how would you know what you’re missing?”

Your pen stilled. He thought victory! He’d cracked through—earned a blush, a laugh, something. As if.

You turned back to your notes, cool as ice. Gojo tilted his head, squinting at you. Perhaps if he changed the angle, you’d suddenly remember who he was and start acting normal about it.

“Okay, wait.” He held up a hand, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Have we met before?”

“What?”

“Because, like…” He leaned closer, studying your face. Pretty. Definitely unforgettable. “If we’ve met, and I was—” his grin faltered for a second, “—I dunno, mean to you or something, that would explain why you’re acting like this.”

Your pen stopped moving, not quite believing the words leaving his stupid mouth.

“And by mean,” he rushed to clarify, “I mean, accidentally cut in line in the dining hall, or stole your chair in class. Not really mean. I’m not a monster.”

The look you gave him was priceless, somewhere between are you serious and I’d rather choke on this pen cap than respond. But his brain wouldn’t shut up. It couldn’t. Because what if that wasn’t it?

What if it was…oh, shit.

“Wait—” His eyes widened. “Did we—?” He gestured vaguely, lowering his voice into something conspiratorial. “Did we hook up? And I forgot to text you back?”

Now you were gaping at him, literal disgust painted across your face. “Excuse me?”

“Because if I did,” he backpedaled instantly, heart thumping, “first of all, I’m so sorry. That’s not usually my style. Okay, maybe sometimes it’s my style, but I swear I would’ve remembered you. You’ve got a, uh…” His tongue tripped over the word face. Soul. Anything. “You’ve got an unforgettable vibe.”

He sounded insane. He was insane. What the hell was wrong with him?

You shoved your notebook closer to yourself, clearly done with this entire exchange. “Do you not remember the people you sleep with?"

Oh great, now you sounded ten times more repulsed.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That sounded bad. Out loud it sounded bad.

He’d been around the block once or twice—or more. Fine, a lot more. But what the fuck else was he supposed to do? He was the rising star of the hockey program, winning game after game, the entire school riding his name like it was their meal ticket. He tried not to get sloppy, not to get wasted too often, because staying in shape for the rink mattered. The girls flocked like moths. He’d step into a bar, and three different majors would combust in the corner booth.

Was he supposed to…say no? Let them cry? Break their little campus-sweetheart hearts? No! He liked to help. He was generous, and he had a reputation for it, actually. If his generosity sometimes looked like making out in the back of a frat house or stumbling home at 2 a.m. with glitter on his shirt—that wasn’t his fault.

So yeah, he didn’t remember everyone. But you? He’d remember you. He would’ve. Satoru dragged a hand through his hair, hoping the sheer proximity might dig him out of the hole he’d already sunk into.

“That’s not—okay, that sounded bad. Really bad. But—listen, I don’t forget people. I swear. I mean, maybe once or twice, but that’s only because—”

“Because what?”

He felt like he was back on the ice, blade catching, the whole arena waiting for him to fall. Because what? Because, shit—because you looked like that. Even with your brows drawn in irritation and your mouth set in a thin, don’t-you-dare line, you were ridiculous.

You had this softness at the corner of your eyes that stayed even when you glared, and a faint sheen of lip balm he wanted to taste.

“Because,” he blurted, smiling too wide, “I wasn’t myself that night. Probably concussed! Happens a lot, hockey players y'know."

He wanted to laugh it off, lean on his usual charm, but something about your absolute refusal to play into his script made his confidence drop to the ends of the earth.

“Okay, no, wait,” he said quickly, voice pitching up as the words tumbled out faster than he could control. “You’d know if I ghosted you. I mean—do I look like the kind of guy who would just leave someone hanging like that?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned, flat as the damn rink.

Attraction bloomed right alongside offense, until he couldn’t tell the difference between the two. How dare you. How dare you make him feel this shit and yet still attracted.

His knee bounced under the table. His grin was slipping but he refused to let you see it.

“So…” The words kept dragging, fishing for something, anything that didn’t make him sound like a jackass. “We didn’t....?”

You blinked at him, incredulous. “Absolutely not.”

Ouch.

The certainty in your voice hit him harder than a body check at full speed. No hesitation, no coy smile, only flat-out rejection.

He’d heard a lot of things from girls in his life, squeals, giggles, even the occasional I love you muttered too soon, but never those two words.

“Wow.” He whistled low, trying to play it off. “You said that with your whole chest, huh?”

“Because it’s true,” you replied, eyes already dropping back to your notes. “And if it wasn’t obvious, it will never be true.”

Never. Christ.

Offense fused with fascination, humiliation with attraction, until Gojo Satoru, the guy who’d coasted through life on charm and cheekbones, didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do with himself.

On instinct, he invaded your space again, because distance felt too much like defeat.

“Y’know,” he murmured, grin tugging at his lips, “most people would die for the privilege of saying they’ve been in my bed.”

You looked at him slowly, eyes narrowing like you’d just discovered mold on week-old bread.

“Oh my god,” you said flatly. “You think I’m upset because I missed my shot at sleeping with you?”

That…wasn’t the reaction he’d planned. Wait. Were you mocking him? That tone belonged to rival defensemen right before he dropped gloves. It belonged to teammates when they roasted his Spotify playlists. But from a girl? No, worse—from a girl who didn't know who he was? 

“That’s not—” He defended himself, but you cut him off.

“No, no, let’s roll with it,” You nodded like you were genuinely considering it. “Clearly, my life is empty and tragic because I didn’t make it onto your…what? List? Roster? Whatever you call the collection of poor souls you can’t even remember the names of.”

Roster. Christ. Nobody had ever called it that out loud. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

“And just to be clear,” You went on, pen twirling between your fingers as if this conversation wasn’t obliterating his entire ego, “you think I’m sitting here, in the library, studying supply and demand, all while secretly pining over the fact that Satoru Gojo didn’t bless me with his—” you paused, smirk dangerous “—what, five minutes of glory?”

He choked. FIVE MINUTES? That was… that was character assassination. That was slander. That was—Wait.

Wait wait wait.

His name. You said his name. His heart tripped over itself like it had forgotten the rhythm. “Hold on. Did you—? You do know who I am?”

You looked up, unimpressed. “Of course I know who you are.”

But—you—so you’ve known this whole time?”

“Obviously.” You leaned back in your chair, as if he weren’t unraveling in front of you, "We've been in the same class since freshman year."

Same class? Since freshman year? No. No, no, absolutely not.

Impossible.

He would’ve remembered you. He had to have. That pretty face? That sharp tongue? The way you looked at him like he was gum on the bottom of your shoe? That wasn’t forgettable. 

You weren’t the type who could sit in the back row and fade into the wallpaper. He would’ve seen you. Clocked you. Stored you away for later, the same way he catalogued every superstition, every ritual, every habit that kept his game tight.

Unless—you were lying. Fucking with him, testing him. Yeah, that had to be it.

If what you said was true, then Gojo Satoru, campus legend, face-on-a-banner Gojo Satoru, had gone three years without noticing someone like you.

“Nah, see, that doesn’t make sense. We couldn’t have been in the same class. I’d remember.”

“Why?”

“Why?” He repeated it like it was the dumbest question in existence. “Look at you. You’re…” His hand gestured vaguely; his brain couldn’t settle on a word. Pretty? Scary? “There’s no way I would’ve missed you.”

"I'm flattered."

Fuck. Direct hit with sarcasm.

Maybe you transferred last year and sat in the corner and wore disguises. Except—god, look at you. Your mouth was so plump even when you were unimpressed; your eyes skimmed over him like he wasn’t worth the carbon dioxide he was exhaling. No one ever looked through him, you should’ve been burned into his memory from the first second.

He was half-hard and humiliated and trying not to look like either.

"You come here often?"

You snorted in response. "And it gets worse."

"Don’t knock it. I’m trying here.”

“Don’t.” Your pen scratched another note. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

He laughed anyway, because what else was he supposed to do? Walk away? Admit defeat? Not a chance.

“So you have noticed me before,” he pushed, eyes zoning on your pretty caligraphy. Why the fuck is he assessing calligraphy now?

“I notice colds before they knock me on my ass, too. Doesn’t mean I want them.”

He gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Cold? That’s harsh, sweetheart.”

“And desperate.”

His knee bounced faster under the table, he'd never been called desperate before. But then again, he was here begging for scraps of your attention while you flicked him away like a mosquito.

"I’m not all bad. I’m fun. I’m generous. I—” he swallowed, embarrassment crawling up his neck, “I eat pussy like a fucking champ.”

Your eyes went wide with incredulous amusement. “Are you bragging about your tongue in the middle of the library?”

Shit. Shit. He had. 

“I—I mean—” he stammered, cheeks flushing despite the smile he pasted on, “it’s true, really true. Ask—well, maybe don’t ask, but…” He trailed off, groaning into his hands. “Fuck.”

You laughed for the first time since he sat down.

“Wow. That’s your pitch? Not your stats, not your trophies, not the championship ring—you want me to be impressed because you’re apparently good at going down?”

His throat bobbed. “...Yes?”

He wasn’t lying. He was good. But now it sounded like begging.

"And pray tell, Satoru, does eating pussy get you to shut the fuck up?"

He chastised himself, for the hundredth time, not to look. It was library etiquette, common decency. But when you turned to ask him the question, the tilt of your shoulders and the reckless way your top didn’t quite cooperate with whatever modesty laws applied to campus left him speechless.

His gaze moved with a mind of its own, snagging, then jerking away as if burned, "Yeah?"

The part of him that catalogued strengths and weaknesses—opponents’ tendencies, teammates’ favorite pregame songs—now kept a new private stat line: your collarbone, the curve under that fabric, the casual ripple when you crossed an arm.

"So, hypothetically speaking of course, if I sat on your face, would you leave me alone?"

His brain flat-lined, then rebooted with all the grace of a freshman goalie.

“...Yes.” The word squealed out before he could process it. His knee stilled, broad shoulders leaning forward like a man possessed.

Your lips quirked. “Is that so?” you echoed, mock-sweet.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice dropping low, rough with need. “You can use me. Sit on my face, grind on me ‘til you’re done—fuck, I’ll be quiet, I swear. You won’t even know I’m here."

"Mmh, hard to believe."

He was hard under the table, fingers flexing against his thighs because he wanted to touch, wanted to taste.

You tilted your head, "And what if I don’t cum?”

His pupils blew wide, a scoff leaving his lips, voice was hoarse when it came out. “You will."

You closed your laptop with a sharp snap. His breath caught.

“Pack your shit, hockey boy."

He scrambled, fumbling with his notebook, shoving things into his backpack like the national title was on the line. His grin was back, but it was ruined—half feral, half worship.

“Where we going?”

“Somewhere you can put that mouth to work.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Fifteen minutes in, Gojo Satoru knew two things: one, he was absolutely working harder for you than he had for any championship game. And two, if this was love—ugly, humiliating, face-red love—he was already ruined.

Not on the ice, not in overtime, but here—cramped between two sagging shelves of books no one had touched since the fucking Carter administration with your back pressed to history and your skirt bunched around your hips.

He’d thought about this, the second you said pack your shit, but thinking wasn’t the same as kneeling. Thinking wasn’t the same as parting your thighs, your plushy thighs brushing over his cheekbones, tongue already itching to taste.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word falling out on a groan.

He didn’t wait for permission, nosing in, open mouth to the wet patch on your panties, starving for this exact thing. You hissed in surprise, fingers flying to his white hair as he mouthed over the fabric, sucking until it was soaked through.

The sound was echoing in the tight aisle, and he hoped someone heard. Let the whole place know Gojo Satoru was down on his knees like a supplicant for a gorgeous girl who apparently hated his guts. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, shoving the scrap of lace aside, and licked, moving his tongue because he had something to prove.

You’d mocked him, dismissed him, called him desperate, and Christ, he was.

The first drag of his tongue through your puffy folds made you gasp so daintily, his cock twitched in a way that he almost doubled over.

“There she is,” he mumbled against you, “Knew you’d sound pretty.”

He was nose-deep between your thighs, knees wrecked on the shitty carpet, tongue working like the game clock was winding down.

“God, you’re so—” you broke off on a shaky breath, “So annoying.”

He pulled back to grin, lips already swollen. “Annoying?” He gave your clit a lazy kitten lick. He pushed his tongue into you, just the tip, shallow strokes teasing in and out, never giving you the full thing.

Your thighs shook. “You motherfucker—”

“Mmh?” Gojo looked up with those crystalline eyes, gleaming, his tongue still moving. “What was that? Annoying?”

Your hips rolled against his mouth, and he let you—hell, he wanted you to. He flattened his tongue, let you take what you needed, let you smear yourself all over him until his chin was slick and his ego was obliterated.

You glared down at him, breath hitching when he did it again—short, fast little thrusts that had slick gushing onto his face.

“Soooo annoying, sweetcheeks?” His grin split wider as he dragged his tongue out and shoved it back in.

You gasped, nails scraping over his scalp. “Stop—fuck, stop playing around—”

“Playing?” he mumbled against you, nose nudging your clit while his tongue fucked you mercilessly, shallow. “Baby, I’m workin’ overtime here. I’m your MVP.”

Gojo tried to keep the jokes at first. But then he got a real taste of you—dizzying—and it shut down his whole brain.

“You—fuck—you taste…” His words dissolved into a hungry moan as he licked you open, hoping he could somehow drown in it.

Every slick gush on his tongue made his cock grow impossibly harder; it had him gripping your thighs like a bitch. His ego couldn’t hold up under it—he was whining now, actually whining, rutting his face against you.

“So good—so good, I can’t—” He gave up talking, gave up everything, burying his mouth against you.

He sucked at your clit, slurped greedily, tongue plunging inside your hole until his jaw ached. He didn’t care. He wanted the humiliation of being strung out on the taste of you, until your legs trembled against his ears. He hummed low, vibration spilling into you, because fuck yeah, he was good at this.

Gojo knew that much.

When you whimpered his name, dragged from your lungs against your will, Satoru thought he might die happy right there, knees bruised on the library carpet.

“Look at you,” you muttered. “Finally shut the fuck up.”

He whimpered against you, hips wanting to rut the air if he could, and you felt the words more than heard them, a muffled, desperate plea: “Please… just let me…”

He was gone, whining into your cunt, eating you like you were the first and last thing he’d ever be allowed to taste.

"Keep it down!" You hissed in between pants. When you tried to push him away with a shaky hand, he only growled and latched onto your clit. “Sa—toru—” Your voice broke.

Satoru pressed two fingers into you without warning, while his mouth sealed over your clit again. The combination had your back slamming into the bookshelf, books rattling, your gasp echoing far too loud in the so-called quiet.

You tried to scold him again, but he felt the words become caged in your lungs, a strangled cry took their place when his fingers stroked deeper.

Your head tipped back against the shelf, neck arched, throat bared. Lips parted, trembling with a cute cry you tried to swallow down. He’d seen girls moan before, but you? So fucking pretty when you lost control.

Your brows pinched both from pleasure and what he'd guess was the remaining hatred for his personality, lashes fluttering. He swore he saw stars burst behind his eyes at the sight. His mouth never stopped moving.

Gojo's pupils were blown, wide and adoring, drinking you in like he'd never seen a woman cum before. You squeezed around his fingers so tightly he thought his knuckles were going to snap. Your thighs clamped around his ears, and instead of fighting it, he let himself be smothered. His cock twitched painfully in his jeans, untouched, but he didn’t care. This was better.

Your back arched, breasts heaving under your top, a broken sob tearing free as your orgasm came along. You shook, hips grinding helplessly into his mouth, and Satoru’s vision blurred with tears he didn’t realize had pricked his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on you—star-eyed, dazed, a man who’d finally found something worth worshipping.

Your orgasm bled out slowly, in shivers and slow breaths, until you finally slumped against the bookshelf, thighs loose around his head. Gojo kept his mouth on you anyway, coaxing every last twitch, humming while hoping he could wring another wave out of you if he tried hard enough.

But then your hand came down on his shoulder—a pat, like he was a dog that had done a trick well.

“That’s enough,” you murmured, still breathless.

Gojo blinked up at you, face wet, utterly starstruck.

“Enough?” he rasped. He looked like he’d just been baptized and then excommunicated in the same breath.

You smoothed your skirt back into place, eyes still glazed, but your mouth turned into the faintest smirk. “Yeah. Thanks for the service or whatever.”

“Service?” Gojo repeated, stupefied, still kneeling there on the shitty carpet.

You shouldered your bag from one of the shelves, legs falling down from his shoulders, stepping back into the aisle like nothing world-ending had happened.

“Try to stay quiet on your way out, champ.”

Then you were gone.

He stayed crouched, staring at the space you’d vacated, catching up with the fact that you’d just gotten off on his tongue and left him hard and dripping in the library stacks.

Realizing he didn't even know your name.

Not that it mattered—he would remember it the moment he found out, no matter what. A slow, crazed look took over his face as he tilted his head back against the shelf, chuckling at himself.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smiling like a lunatic. His heart was sprinting, and his cock was still painfully hard. He pressed his fingers to his mouth, committing the taste of you, the sound of you, the whole impossible picture to memory.

“Oh, I’m gonna marry you, sweetcheeks.”

[girlquill]

✶ bully!gojo headcannons

✶ bully!gojo noticed you first in class. you sat near the back, towards the wall where you history teachers eye sight was the worse. you didn’t like being called on. gojo couldn't understand why, you were so smart, why wouldn't you want to be a show off.

your natural instinct was to be humble and let others shine, to help others only when they asked or were truly embrassing themselves in front of the class.

you were quiet and kind, strong and opinionated. you never took no for an answer

and neither did he....maybe that's why satoru was so drawn to you. he never really could quite hold anything beautiful and real in his hands long enough for it to leave, alive. long enough for it to beg for freedom.

he didn’t take you for the begging type. but then again he didn't really know the real you.

✶ bully!gojo who doesn't need for you to approve of the way he treats you. he knows what's best for you, his friends can be trusted, his favorite restaurants won't give you food poisoning, unlike yours (it really was only that one time).

gojo doesn't need for you to understand why he does the things that he does but he does hope that you just go along with it.

you do at school

so why not out in the city together.

don't deny that your a couple, those sweet old ladies knew what they were talking about when they asked.

he may not have verbally or physically asked you the question, but isn't it in the way that he holds you back from beating up the perky rich girl at frat parties. isn't it in the way that he caresses your face to piss off your crush, or ex. and kill any hopes that potential suitors have.

surely you aren't so blind, that you can't peice it all together in your pretty little head, that when he demands you never take his dog tags off of you, so that everybody knows who you belong, that he wasn't doing it just because he liked to humiliate you.

oh honey, no, he doesn't share. your off-limits. period. he's just being a good great boyfriend, exactly like the kinds of guy you ruefully confess about having someday, why not now ?

today

with him !

✶ bully!gojo who loves making you cry. tears welling up in your eyes, nose and cheeks all red and rosy, hands tightened into fist at your sides, oh what a sight you are to behold

if only he could take you back to his dorm room, force for you to stay with a bit of blackmail persuasion and actually and finally witness tears spill from your eyes. sobs and whimpers leave your lips and the sleeves of your shirt hopelessly wipe and rub at your face

his jeans just get tight thinking about it

"silly baby didn't i tell you to leave this little number at home, for me, and only me to get to see. why didn't you listen buba now this dress gotta go - " he scolds you, voice gruff and tinged with annoyance.

he had one large hand wrapped around the back of your thigh to keep you steady and standing and the other cautiously wiping at the bright green stain on your new designer dress

his glacier blue eyes flicker up to analyze your face.

inside of the women's restroom, satoru gojo was down on his knees at your feet, wet paper towel in hand, carefully dabbling wasabi sauce spilt on your lacey white dress. you had bought the dress for yourself as a gift, you had saved up money from various tutoring and art jobs over the summer and wanted to wear something to show for your newfound independence.

gojo paid for everything. you two had gotten into an argument about it, you blocked his number and presence off of your phone. enraged he attempted to talk to you in class, between your breaks as TA and after, he even crashed a blind date just to apologize. your date didn't take it so well. the satoru gojo, in his dark pristine, tailored suit and lavish flower bouquet in hands at your table, acknowledging only you, begging for your forgiveness.

you politely excused yourself from the table, gojo's cuff tight in your hand, you two stormed off outside. you chewed him out till all the air left your lungs, his face turned red and your vision swooped.

he didn't try to contact you anymore, no more random emails wishing you good morning and good night. no more bot looking accounts commenting underneath your post. you were free, for a while

you had only spilled wasabi sauce on your self, that was it. why gojo took it upon himself to be the one to now grab your sleeve and storm off with you out the dining hall and into the nearest bathroom was beyond you.

maybe it was because you had started to cry because you had had only a few minutes left before you had to go back to your desk as a TA and finish grading papers

and really really wanted to enjoy your sticky mango rice with strawberries and wasabi

there you go again, fighting back tears, chewing on your bottom lip " it's my dress i get to decide what i wanna do with my dress you don't tell me what to do satoru"

he chokes back a moan, he loves the way you bark out his name. there's so many others ways, good ways you need to say his name...

all in due time

he purses his lips, smacking them. quietly and terrifyingly calm, he finishes up cleaning the stain. slow and precise he clean his hands, the tight black tee he's wearing stretched out across his muscles catches your gaze. you play with you cuticles. the hot guzzling water, fogs up the windows in front of him. only tufts of his white hair is visible.

rising the soap off of his hands, he stays underneath the scolding hot water, long, for too long. he stifles a whimper of pain, letting the water continue to hit his hands. punishing him.

you snap your head up, heart racing

what was that sound ?

gojo closes his eyes, biting his cheek. the temperature in the room has risen, the air is humid and thick, it hurts to breathe in more than a few gulps. you shake your head trying to clear your eyes from burning with mascara. you turn around and lean over to turn off the facet. you glance down at his hands, they're cherry red, pruned and irritated. smokes curls around the two of you, pulling you closer together.

your breathes are shared, in sync. he snatches his hands out from underneath the water, and brings them to your waist, pulling you in between his thick thighs, chest and the sink. he bends down, bending you along with him. he twists the faucet the water runs sweet and cool.

but the mist and electricity still lingers

gojo fixes his chin to rest against your temple, his jaw dangerously low by your ear, gripping your hips and bringing you closer to him, all of him, he breathes "getting that dress was no accident, they were sold out and it cost way more than you had, doll. wearing it out on that date, and I told you to keep it at home for me, was because I knew - " he runs his teeth over the back of your ear, grazing your ear lobe. You twist your head away, over your shoulder. with his thumb and pointed finger he squeezes your chin, with a warning, and draws your eyes back to the mirror. your stomach flutters. he's so much more bigger than you. "he didn't deserve the sight of you, in this. I told you to cancel your date and put that dress up until we made up and you could give me a show. Baby, this dress has to go but you can keep it on for today if it'll make you feel better" He kisses crook of your neck.

✶ bully!gojo hates it when you don't make eye contact. if he's speaking your eyes must be on him at all times.

staring off into space

what ?

do you not wish for him to be there anymore.

trying to keep up listening to two conversations, chiming in, and packing up notes from class. gojo shrugs his shoulder, lazily, with undertones of arrogance, drop your friends and whatever their talking about and let him talk your ear off, and handle packing your bag, he's more important anyway

lastly, there is no such thing as 'dissociating', you just have an attitude and don't have the right words to explain yourself

don't worry he'll help you find the words

✶bully!gojo who insists on driving you any and everywhere

you know those korean milkshakes that you love so much that can only be found in grocery stores on the other side of town, let him drive you there. your worth the half hour trip and waste of gas.

✶ bully!gojo who can't let a day go by without shoulder checking you into a locker,

stick his foot out to make you trip and fall straight into him, or his chest.

sometimes if he's in a pissy mood, he'll do much more worse things : spread rumors about you, tell your newest crush that your not over your ex. lie to your teachers and get you sent to detention. what ?... he can't help that he loves spending time with you

✶ bully!gojo who loves to spoon feed you all of your meals

(he sleeps over in your bedroom complaining about how to tired he is to drive back home. he doesn't want to get in trouble in with his parents. they're already hard on him enough as it is. giving you his signature puppy eyes, your stubbornness resolves and you let him stay.

somewhere in the middle of night, he takes down the pillow forte that you have separating you two. he scoops you up towards the head of the bed, and readjusts himself to lay down on your chest. hands on either side of your head, caging you, face head down between your breast. your so soft, warm and squishy.

gojo makes you breakfast before your parents get up, they now think your such a sweet kid.

he scoops you up by the waist with one hand carrying you inbetween his chest and biceps to the island where he perches you ontop. standing in between your legs he grabs a big plate of fresh fruit, eggs and bread and one by one he hand feeds it all to you. he doesn't let you go until the entire plate is cleared.

oops wait there's a bit of jam left on the plate let him swoop it up with fingers and bring it as an offering to those succulent lips. wide-eyed and afraid you lean down, slowly you wrap your lips around the tips of his fingers and suck the jam clean off. he curls his fingers, pressing down on your tongue, he leans in and groans. with a wet pop, he takes his fingers out of your mouth

"baby imma need you somewhere else soon, okay, yeah, doin that exact same thing" he half begs, half whimpers.

pink plump lips brushing past the outershell of you ear.

you try your best to close you legs, heat pooling at your core, with his trained heightend senses he can smell everything, including how damp and moist the air just got

he pulls you towards the edge of the counter, by your belt loops "don't be greedy with her, it's rude not to share"

you gasp, pushing him away. you mutter something sharp underneath your breathe, something about etiquette and taking manner classes

gojo can't help but to laugh and tease you calling you a prude

✶ bully!gojo who can't help but baby you and treat you like your dumb when you make a mess of yourself : spilling sauce on your dress, knocking ink over onto your jeans. racing to leave class so that he can't catch up to you and taunt you for being a know it all, but you slip and fall on a peice of paper.

he can't help but to feel bad for you. he death stares anyone who dares to help, shouldn't everybody know by now who you belong to...shouldn't you ?

he hates it when you hurt yourself, those soft callous free palms of your should never be inconvenienced by bruises, blood and broken skin. he whips out the expensive lotion he had stolen from your bathroom counter and gently puts it on your hands

"stupid girl shoulda just let your self fall" he chides you, the gentleness of his hands don't match the dark expression in his eyes.

anger and worry set ablaze.

you had fallen and as you were going down you tried to catch yourself putting your hands out in front of you. it only got you more scraps and bruises.

lucky me

rubbing the thick off white cream into your calloused palms, he blows as you whine. the lotion feels cool and his fingers feel good, one of his big hands clasp your wrist together, the other working overtime to care for them both. he blows on your wrist, the liquid stings

"satour enough i'm okay let. me. go" you demand, pulling your wrist with all your might away from him

he freezes, narrowing his eyes, his gaze bores into yours. he raises his brows, silently challenging you to give him orders again.

oh how he would love to see you try

you may not like it yet, and yes it will take time to open your mind and to get him to get you to accept his apologies and advances but trying something like that in public, around friends, in front of people who talk.

darlin he's got a reputation to matain, if he didn't bend you over his knee, lift your skirt up and spank you for the entire world to see however where you going to learn your lesson.

you don't talk back

you obey.

well.... as much as he can get you to anyway

✶bully!gojo who corners you during transitions between class, he lures you in acting all confused and impatient about an upcoming philosophy project.

he just can't for the life of him understand. any of it. he can't risk failing this class (he's right behind in the top 10) or his parents will...., he pretends to shudder just thinking about it. you frown, feeling sorry for him...some what

something feels off

he reminds you of an old high-school crush who would after practice and games would call you over to ask you excitedly, a million times over : did you see me ?, were you impressed, did you notice me blowing kisses to you, look i'm wearing *your favorite color*

overtime the intense love and affection grew to become rather bothersome and quite frankly annoying.

you dumped him the summer before your freshmen year of uni, he didn't understand why, he thought the two of you were just so happy and in love and happy

gojo thinks that he's making you feel the same, just not with the longing feel to throw yourself out of a window. whenever he asks questions you've already answered but he likes the sound of your voice. he finds himself suddenly interested in your answers when you try but fail spectacularly to hide your frustration

"what's wrong now, hmm, me tryna be a better student bothering ya" gojo says, teasingly. he runs his tongue over his pearly white canines. the soft flourscent libary lights catch the metal piercing on his tongue. you do too.

he follows your line of sight, and grins.

he licks his lips

you watch

"when did you get a piercing ?" you ask, running a hand through your hair. doing anything else other than staring at his tongue and wondering what other places he could put it was hard, and so was he.

swiftly gojo grabs a book and plops it down over his jeans, covering the crotch area.

you fiddle with a charm bracelet he got you.

gojo spreads his legs open wider, sprawled out across the chair like he owned it. not just the chair, but the entire side of the table, and the space he occupied. he leaned back, confident and sure, locking his fingers behind his head he rested on them.

"last time i asked you what you wanted to see in my mouth other than for sweets and sarcasm"

you roll your eyes, the memories already replaying in your head. you felt a sudden since of deja vu ping in your chest, nervously, you twist the charms dangling from your wrist.

he eyes it, raising a brow, wondering what's got you so bothered. he swallows a smug grin, of course he knows what's got you bothered what he really wants to know is why you're acting like your aren't bothered.

your clear your throat, and nodding your head "yeah but that was me being sarcastic satoru you didn't actually have to get it done it's not like i'm your girlf-" you slap your hand over your mouth before you blurt it out. those four devastingly life changing words that will could upend your entire life. you muster up a half grin, pretending to laugh

"i'm not that so getting that done wasn't necessary" you joked

you can't look up at him, you can't face him, fore you know what awaits you at the other end of that table. lust, desire, affection, agitation. all boiling, and cooling and freezing over into dozens of brilliant shades of blue that make up those hypnotic enchanting eyes.

satoru leans forwards, elbows on his thighs, biceps squeezing together rolling up his sleeves. he narrows his eyes, mouth drawn into a tight line, he bends his head to catch your eyes. frozen like a deer in headlights your head raises to meet his gaze "it was necessary y/n. i got it for pleasure and.... to pleasure someone else, if she takes the opportunity and gives me a chance"

your heart clenches "you should never mix business with pleasure gojo"

he cocks his head to the side, pouting

you dig your fingernails into your palms, still sore and scuffed your dig hard enough to draw blood

"y/n you know that your more than just both of those to me, right ?" he says, barely above a whisper. he searches your eyes for anything to flash by. give him something. throw him something to anchor his emotions and mind, to let him know that what you both feel isn't imagined. isn't somewhere alone and free falling in his head. and torturing his heart

"i shouldn't be"

"but your are"

"but i shouldn't be"

"how unfortunate then, hmm"

"m-maybe" you bit your lip and tug at your hair. unnamed emotions pull at your heart. your stubbornness and refusal to see his feelings and how he does care for you. in perhaps his own twisted, and unique way. gets kicked out from underneath you like a three legged table when you peer down at your hands and realize how small and how cold they feel without his big, hot furnace like ones entangled in yours.

how if you say no, and seal the door to your fate by picking up all your things and walk out, never looking back. means no more secret, intimate moments of tracing his tattoos, no more forced close proximity which you must admit you really like. no more hands and legs thrown over your body keeping you close and caged in as you both sleep. no more coffee dates disguised as tutoring lessons, no more sneaking away from school and cutting class. no more satoru gojo and those stupid perfect eyes and smile beaming at you, watching you with pride and desire and happiness.

no more of any of that.

"m-maybe if you ask her again, without blackmail, without force, without insults, she might say yes"

screw being cautious .

satoru gojo gives you a shit eating grin "atta girl" he winks and whistles.

you giggle, rolling your eyes "yeah, yeah whatever"

screw patience, satoru gojo thinks to himself

i've gotchu now

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