synopsis. you, being the oh so powerful sorcerer you are, did not even realise the extent of your injuries until you found out that you couldn't stand without the support of something— after defeating the curse, of course. shoko's busy, so, satoru, being the gentleman he is (and also the strange source of comfort you have) decides to take matters in his own hands— while being a pain in the ass, obviously.
however, you joking about your death does not help— and satoru's carefree façade manages to slip, bringing back some memories he had tried to forget.
genres/themes. satoru gojo x reader, hurt/comfort, satoru and reader are highschool friends (frenemies ?), satoru and reader bicker a lot, satoru being a menace, reader is also a menace (lmaoo), mentions of blood (reader is injured), mentions of satoru's past, reader comforts satoru.
★ jiah’s notes. i miss him so much that it physically hurts me. send help LMAOO—
word count. 1.8k
“tsk. and here i thought that you could take care of yourself, at least,” the white-haired man tuts, and you feel yourself roll your eyes to the back of your head for god-knows-what time again— and that of course earns a smirk from him. “how disappointing. and ah, don’t roll your eyes so much. you might just have a view of your non-existent brain and pass out on me. jeez, i wouldn’t want you to dirty my couch.”
“how fascinating to hear that you care about something, satoru,” your voice feigns bewilderment— a simply amazed look in your eyes as you heave a blissful sigh. “at least you’re not as heartless as i thought. hang on there, expensive leather couch.”
“so you’re admitting you’d pass out, and the fact that you don’t have a brain,” satoru huffs out a laugh, finding amusement in the way you let out a small ‘tsk’ of annoyance.
something about satoru comforts you.
no, it isn’t the comfort that people idealise— no physical contact, no silly gifts or acts of service— it was his mere presence that soothed you, while irritating you at the same time. every word that flowed between you two was either a sugary sweet taunt or a blunt insult— yet, you two found solace in each other in a way that was beyond the comprehension of everyone around you.
including you two.
“if not having a brain will make me cope with your ass, then so be it,” a small smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as you watch satoru wrap the bandage in a firm, yet gentle grip around your arm, relishing in the way his eye twitches and his usual shit-eating grin widens in annoyance.
“at least i didn’t get my ass handed back to me by a grade one curse,” the man lets out a scoff. “seriously, how do you even get this beaten-up?”
“hey, ’t wasn’t my fault i only noticed my blood after defeating it,” you say, shifting your position on that damn couch of his, as you felt a sudden urge to fidget with something, “at least it got exorcised.”
“sure,” satoru says, and you swear you could feel him rolling his eyes even through the confines of his blindfold, “very impressive. at least it got exorcised.”
hearing him say those— your— particular words in that mocking, sing-song voice makes an irritated scowl break out into your face, and oh how it makes satoru smile so smugly— making you want to curse the hell out of this menace of a sorcerer.
“you’re applying too much pressure, dumbass,” you mutter, trying not to wince as his fingers tightened the bandages which covered the skin of your hands.
satoru raises a brow, tightening them even more. “deal with it,” he deadpans. “ ’s your fault, ya know? if i keep it loose you’ll start to bleed. again. over my couch.”
the damned couch again.
honestly? you knew that he couldn’t give lesser shits about the furniture, and that he was just saying that to piss you off. and what was even more infuriating was that it was working.
really, years of experience with satoru gojo had changed nothing— and everything in your feelings towards him.
“get it over with the couch, will ya?” it’s your turn to let out an annoyed scoff, which undoubtedly makes the sorcerer let out a snicker of his own.
“sometimes i wonder how you even ended up becoming a sorcerer,” satoru wraps a band-aid around your scratched fingers, “thought you’d leave the job and become a farmer or somethin’, y’know.”
“unlike you, i had spent too much of an effort in the projects yaga gave us in highschool, so there’s no way i’d let it go in vain,” you shake your head, “it would be too embarrassing.”
besides, you’d rather die than see satoru’s laughing face if you ever decided to change your profession just because you weren’t able to handle a curse or two.
“you never change, do you?” satoru huffs out a laugh, and oh god if he didn’t wipe that agonizing smirk off his face within the next second, you’d gladly do the honours— if only you weren't in so much pain, though, “always so damn reckless. it’s a miracle you have me to tend to your wounds, or else just where you be?”
“dead, most probably,” you say with sarcasm dripping down your words, expecting a scoff of amusement in response— but it never came.
you tear your gaze away from the dried gash on your arm to meet satoru's piercing, piercing stare— it was really a wonder how that guy manages to make you feel his eyes bearing into the depths of your soul even though you couldn't quite actually see them because of the shield his blindfold created.
satoru feels a whirl of emotions in him— eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, and you just know that he is not, in fact, amused.
not even in the slightest.
his heart is racing— and if he had his blindfold off, you’d see how his usually bright, azure eyes had a darkened glint in them— something which just screamed out the fact that he was unsettled, uncontrolled— afraid.
as the tense seconds pass, he gives you a little glare, his expression hardening.
“. . that’s not funny,” he utters, before averting his gaze down to your arm. his efficient hands wrap the gauze around your limb almost in a mechanical movement— the little frown never leaving his face, lips pressed into a thin line.
oh.
your gaze softens, watching the sorcerer quietly tend to your wounds, noticing how his gaze lingers on a particularly deep gash on your leg— how his fingers tremble ever so slightly when his touch stays on the burn for a little too long— you notice it, of course you do.
he's thinking about suguru again.
there wasn't quite a time when he didn't— at least he didn’t show it to anyone. but you, you see him for who he is— the lonely man who’s just wanted some love, and not just the title of being ‘the strongest’— the man who still yearns for his best friend to come back, even though he's . . . gone.
you always see through him.
you should've considered your words before joking about something like that, really.
no matter how much of an annoying bastard satoru may be to you, but still, he was satoru to you. not 'the strongest', not the guy who always had that stupid smile plastered on his face at all times, not the guy whom the world saw as undefeatable— no, he was something much, much more.
you watch his tense demeanour threaten to consume him alive— how his hands shake no matter how much he tries to make them steady, how his shoulders go rigid when they were usually slumped carelessly, how his bottom lip quivers— it was just a tiny movement, yet you manage to see.
how could you not see earlier that you words would've affected him? god, you felt so stupid.
“ . . hey,” hearing the soft tone in your voice makes something inside satoru snap— raising his head to forcefully avert his gaze from your injuries to your face— heart beating so loud that he’s unsure whether you wouldn’t have noticed.
but then again, you were you, and satoru was, well . . . satoru.
his eyes widen— seeing you open your arms with that soft, apologetic smile— and before the sorcerer knows, he’s burying his nose into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped tight around your injured frame; his lower body on the floor as he nuzzles into your arms on the couch.
most people would’ve hesitated, casted him a wary look of disbelief— the satoru gojo, reduced to a trembling mess just because someone joked about their death? the satoru gojo, who still blames himself for his best friend’s death? the satoru gojo, who’s known as ‘the strongest’— being vulnerable?
indeed, it is the satoru gojo, clinging onto you like a lifeline, large hands of his gripping you so tightly that he's afraid that you might disappear the moment his hold loosens.
your satoru.
arms wrapped around his neck as you shush him, bandaged fingers running through his snowy white strands whilst his shoulders shake— oh how you regretted saying that.
“ . . i hate it when you say stuff like that,” he mutters, and if you didn’t have a knack for noticing subtle things about it, you wouldn’t have seen a barely audible crack in his voice.
“ ’m sorry,” you say in a quiet, soothing tone, pulling away a bit to stare at his face, and god did your heart wrench— satoru's bottom lip was red from him biting on them so much.
gingerly, one of your hands unlatches itself from around his neck, going to gently slip under the hem of his blindfold — as you slowly pull it down, revealing those mystical eyes of his— so terrified that you feel the fear radiating off him.
he seems so, so vulnerable like this— a desperation and fright seizing his entire soul as he stares at you. you cup his cheeks, thumbs caressing his soft, warm skin.
“don’t . . . don’t joke about stuff like that,” he says in breathless, shaky whisper— eyebrows furrowing even more as his breath stutters, and from this moment on you swear to yourself to never say something like that again. not if it hurts satoru.
ever.
“i won’t,” you whisper, pressing your forehead against his, “ ’m sorry, satoru.”
you pull his head down so he’s laying it on your chest, arms wrapped around his neck as you massage his scalp soothingly.
satoru’s shoulders relax, his heart easing a bit from hearing your gentle tone, panicked eyes fluttering close as he lets out a small, shaky sigh, burying his face into your chest— so desperate for comfort, for some kind of reassurance that you are okay, that you won’t leave, that you’ll . . .
stay.
you run your hands through his fluffy locks, gently easing the tension that had accumulated within him with simple movements of your fingertips— earning a soft, relaxed sigh from him.
“keep doing that,” you hear him mutter, and you let out a hum in response, continuing to massage his scalp. “don’t . . . don’t stop. please.”
this is how two you seeked comfort from each other.
something that was beyond words— something that was beyond everyone.
including you two.
as you two lay on the couch— two souls craving reassurances from the other— time ticks by, but oh do you care? not even a bit.
“don’t leave me,” satoru whispers, and you find yourself letting out a murmur of approval, caressing his hair. “i was so scared, i can’t lose you too, i—”
“i’ll stay, satoru.”
and so, you do. as long as you’re here with satoru, he has nothing to fear.
as long as you stay.
☆ @stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.
contents. suguru geto x gn!reader. angst to fluff. hurt/comfort.
★ jiah’s notes. pspspsps sugu ppspsps
you can feel him stare at you.
warm, honeyed pools gazing at the back of your head, steady and calm. even though he’s standing at the door, you can feel his wispy breaths which make the little hairs on your neck stand up in alarm.
(sunlight seeps through the windows, dancing its own little dance across the wooden flooring, going on and on and on— even if there is no one to see.)
“. . go away,” you murmur.
and as usual, all he does is sigh.
perhaps you feel a little selfish, perhaps you feel a little. . hurt. why wouldn’t he respond? why wouldn’t he argue? why wouldn’t he just. . say something?
(a pause.)
“at least tell me what i did,” and oh how your heart drops through your chest, falling into the arms of the sunshine lingering on the wood below, “i just don’t want us to fight.”
you know you’re being irrational. you know you’re being unreasonable. you know you’re being— well— god knows what other negative things you’re being what you shouldn’t be in an argument.
(but that’s what makes you human.)
suguru on the other hand. .
even though your back faces him, you can already picturise the expression on his face— which is none at all. just slightly pursed lips and a twitch on his brow, and those god—forsaken eyes that just stare at you.
(suguru’s just trying to sweep away the eggshells that you’ve accidentally dropped onto the ground.)
shaky little steps, trying to brush away dust from the cracked edges of the porcelain.
(he doesn’t realise that kissing the scratches won’t heal them and all he does is stain the white with his blood.)
“i know you don’t want us to,” you say, and your voice cracks a little, “but i do. okay?”
you want to fight. you don’t want to go back to normal and pretend eveything’s alright. you don’t want to look at him. you don’t want to be in the same room as him right now. you don’t want to, of course you don’t— when all he does is shake his head and huff out an exasperated little sigh, like he knew best.
(like, suddenly, you are a little kid once again, trying to understand what’s wrong with befriending strangers. like what’s wrong with talking to things that don’t talk. like what’s wrong with trying to plant a sapling in a rotting forest.)
(like your feelings are something so insignificant that they’re brushed off without an explanation.)
suguru’s eyes soften.
“okay,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you ti—”
your fists clench.
there he goes again.
why does he have to be so patient? it irks you, honestly. it makes you feel stupid every time you have an argument. why couldn’t he just. . fight back? like you. you, sitting here with a broken pot in your hands, and all he does is take your bloodied fingers in his and coo your tears away, rather than asking how or why you shattered it. it makes you mad. it makes you. . it makes you— why is he so understanding? why can’t he just—. .
(. . show that he’s mad at you?)
you might’ve said that out loud, because suguru goes rigid.
“. . .”
“. . .”
you finally break.
a small sniffle escapes you. it’s a tiny thing, barely audible over the cacophony of thoughts flowing in his head. and it’s enough to make him shatter.
“you’re so. . you’re so—” warm hands wrap around your torso, and you cry against his chest, clawing at his shirt, “insufferable. why can’t you just—”
“i’m mad at you,” he hums, rubbing your back. “i am.”
(a pause.)
“how would. . how would i know?” suguru swallows at how small you sound. “w—why can’t you. . say anything?”
“i can’t say everything i feel at the moment, honey.”
“but you can say something.”
(bless his little porcelain heart. it crumbles completely, little shards sticking into his lungs and making it hard to breathe.)
a hand cups your cheek, oh so gently that you might just melt. you brace yourself internally. now, just now he’s going to say something that’ll make you feel dumb. again. and you’ll be left standing with bandaged fingers and swollen eyes again—
suguru’s lips press against your forehead.
no matter how much you want to hate him, it always grounds you. always.
(like the hands which tie your shoelace for you when you’ve fallen over before, scraped knees and watery smiles.)
“okay,” he whispers. “okay.”
“. . .”
“i’m sorry,” you freeze a little, “i’m sorry, baby.”
@d3cay1ngst4tic on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.
★ contents. satoru gojo x gn!reader. yandere!satoru. unhealthy relationships. angst. conflicting feelings. mentions of blood. satoru. . kills someone (?). jiah being one MENACE of a narrator (sorry not sorry, HAH). grotesque imagery (as always).
★ jiah’s notes. bringing this back while i’m at it. i’m. i’m normal about yantoru i swear. yaaaaaay
you don’t get it, do you? yandere!satoru’s such a dog.
i mean, look at the guy. already a strayatinator prime 3000. best model in town, won’t get another stray like him anywhere else— you have my word for it. and when he loves something? boy, it’s over.
see, when i say that satoru’s a stray, i don’t mean the good ol’ fuzzy ones you find on your daily nightly walks that wag their tails and accept your empty lil’ pats or something. no, none of that— satoru was born with a muzzle in his hands and a rusty blade right where his heart should’ve been.
(. . he never learnt how to use the muzzle, though. but that’s fine. he doesn’t bite unless you ask, anyway.)
it’s hard, you say? c’mon. the guy’s basically putty when it comes to you.
. . . oh. you’re talking about the impulsiveness. right. well—
he’s— trying. he’s trying so hard for you, can’t you see that? he’s trying to be so good for you.
like now. when he’s got you pressed against himself— i suppose you’ve gotten used to the tremble in his fingertips by now, yeah?— hands somehow, just somehow pulling you even closer as the seconds scream their life away.
(should you scream, too?)
but somewhere at the back of your mind, a part of yourself doesn’t really know what to say about that. don’t do that, it chides you, ever so gently, his head hurts so much already. don’t do that to your satoru.
you wouldn’t hurt your satoru now, would you?
(clammy hands tighten ’round your ribs.)
a scream bubbles at the base of your guts, and satoru’s forehead kisses your sternum. you shove it back down.
“talk to me,” he murmurs. quiet. sounding so painfully small.
(a pause.)
“there’s. . .” your hands stitch his snowy locks onto your skin, but satoru barely flinches— he’s got to be good for you, right?— the frightened little rabbit you have for a heart skidding against your chest and colliding with his own, “there’s nothing left to talk about, satoru.”
oh, satoru looks so pretty like this.
he almost looks innocent— eyes holding broken shards of glass; some of it bleeding into a saccharine smear right beneath his right one. unfocused, like he’s not really there — but you know better.
(satoru is all there is.)
“what’s wrong?” he mumbles, holding onto your hips— the muzzle— just a fraction tighter. nothing more. “talk. . talk to me.”
lost little stray— i know, i know. you see, it’s just so hard for him to fit anywhere. weaved in too deep with the wild for sleepy little coos and born with claws that are too much of a coward to look at bloody teeth in the eye.
but i’ll tell you something.
satoru yearns.
(oh, how he yearns.)
he’d bleed his entire life away if you said you liked red. he’d cough out lilies if you said you liked white. he’d burn all his blindfolds to a crisp if you said you liked the blue of his eyes. see? satoru just— rips— himself apart for you till there’s nothing left but hollow love that’s too full for your jittery hands to hold.
so don’t be too surprised if some pieces of you get a little singed, too. it’s your fault for standing too close to a forestfire.
(although, you don’t need to worry. satoru’s always there to kiss the burns away.)
“did i do something wrong?” he rasps, poor thing, you should help him out— “they tried to hurt you. was i not. . . supposed to— talk, please. talk. . talk to me.”
(look what you’ve done.)
“i—” but the words don’t make it out of your throat ’cept for a crack— just a teensy little crack on the edges of your voice, and that’s what makes the blade between his ribs scream.
“you’re mad,” satoru’s chest heaves, and you can practically hear his soul shatter, “you’re—. . . you’re mad.”
“i—”
“i’m sorry,” a gasp against your skin and all the tiny little breaths bubbling in your lungs get pushed away when he merges his body into your own, “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m—”
(hurting, are you? it’s only fair, you hurt him first.)
“sa—. . . satoru,” you rasp out, and satoru’s bloody breaths devour them whole without a second thought, such cold cradling your face so tenderly that it feels wrong, “you’re—”
contents. suguru geto x gn!reader. fluff. fluff. fluff. did i say fluff? yeah, fluff. tooth rotting fluff. very minor grotesque imagery. FERAL domesticity (<- i say, gnawing at the bars of my enclosure).
★ jiah’s notes. i yearn for my wife carnally. . .
[↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺]
“sugu,” you murmur.
you think suguru doesn’t quite pay attention to your words, given the absent-minded hum that passes from his ribs to rumble into your own. a crease between your brows flutters, raising its annoyed little face above the surface whilst you pass a glare onto him.
(or, try to.)
in suguru’s eyes, you’re still smiling.
a barely there upturn of your lips— but still oh so deliciously present— like the faintest flickers of fireflies flaming within him and setting this stolen moment of intimate fragility into fierce flames; like the sea waves that wallow in wonder at your whimsical little whims, kissing your feet in wild waggishness and leaving you with nothing but wanton whispers and wondrous worship.
(like the sheer idea of you, even if it’s a paper cut on his knees, is something worth bleeding all his lifetimes for.)
you’ve still got that smile on your face. suguru wonders why you do. is it because of something he said, or did? he hopes so.
he wishes to stitch your laughs to his skin, sewing each and every honeydrop of your voice to his very being, so he could boast about it to the sun itself, for it to envy the light it could never possess.
(the light he possesses.)
“sugu,” you press on, and a small huff leaves your lips— hands moving to cradle his face, eyes trying to find his own.
(they pin you down before you can even call out to them.)
“there you are,” suguru hums at your words, again, and you feel something so cooly warm twist within your chest, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
“nothing much,” he quips, laying his hand flat against your spine and feeling the warmth radiate from within.
(he needs to make you warmer.)
another hand of his comes to cradle the back of your head, and you know that you’re done for.
“you’re making that face,” of course you are, “and i’m not even doing anything.”
“right,” suguru chuckles at the dryness you reply with, and you scrunch your nose right back at him, “you’re totally not pressing me against your neck.”
“you’re correct, i’m not,” he says, pressing your head against his neck and tucking his chin at the crown of your head.
oh, you’ll get back at him someday.
(suguru will patiently wait for the day you will. for now, he’s just content with keeping you warm.)
“you’re insufferable,” you murmur, but suguru knows you don’t mean it— not when you tilt your head up to nose at the underside of his chin, not when you melt into him and holds your ground, not when you rest your head against his shoulder and he rests his devotion down there somewhere between the gaps of your bones.
not when you fit against him so rightly that it feels wrong.
(not when you both fit—
—still fit, pieces from different puzzles.)
“can we skip dinner?” you murmur, and suguru hums.
(again.)
(you gulp it down.)
(again.)
“not gonna happen,” hands of his thread through your hair with tenderness that almost tears.
“you don’t wanna cuddle with me?”
suguru suppresses a chuckle at the whine that laces your voice, eyes crinkling at the corners to fit the many saccharine suns that you oh so meticulously radiate.
(he won’t let a single one escape.)
“of course i do,” he presses a kiss against your forehead, and your eyes flutter close, “of course i do, my love.”
(lime oozes from the paper cuts you bleed from so beautifully, and suguru licks it all back up so there’s nothing left but you and him and you and him and—
you and him.)
@d3cay1ngst4tic on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works.
contents. suguru geto x gn!reader. reader has a tattoo. fluff.
★ jiah’s notes. i’m SO gonna get a dragon tattoo when i’m older. WAHH
the dragon tattoo sprawled across your back was nothing short of a masterpiece too ethereal to be true.
so dangerous yet so safe-looking, with feral eyes that almost comforted with their unseeing manner, and skin pulled back into a snarl that was both unsettling and awe-striking.
(and then there’s you.)
lazily resting your upper half over suguru’s lap, absent-mindedly picking at the rug, merely feeling when his slender fingers paint the scales of your lil’ dragon with such tender focus that you might think that he’s working on a masterpiece that required every fibre of his attention.
(he wants to keep this masterpiece to himself, though.)
“you always paint it the same colours,” you find yourself mutter, spilling out the thought as soon as it came into your mind. you’d never have to think much about your words with suguru, anyway.
“i do,” he chuckles. “d’you want me to colour them differently?”
(oh, you look delectable like this. like an art he’d want to stare at forever and ever.)
“no,” you say, cheeks flushing a little when you feel his touch linger between your shoulder blades, gently working the tension out and making you relax like he always did. “carry on.”
suguru hums, resuming his careful ministrations on your skin— slow, but not hesitant. in a way that makes you close your eyes and bury your face into his thigh to breathe in his scent— like something distinctly him.
like the smell of something citrus. lime, you think. he’s always drinking that soda. a hint of nicotine, but it’s not obnoxious. and that fragrance that you can’t quite put a finger on, but would immediately recognise as suguru’s smell.
(your home.)
oh, love works in strange ways.
(maybe your nose, too.)
you tilt your head a little, peeking at him over your shoulder— curious, fond eyes staring at his face.
(gods, he looks so pretty like this.)
hair up, but not as tight— just to get them out of his gaze’s way while he smothers your tattoo in all the attention that it deserved. yet, stray strands already fall askew, some even tickling your bare skin whilst he hunches over you to worship that expanse of skin like he does everytime. some flecks of paint cover his hands, and his concentrated expression makes you crack a smile; before you turn back to focus on the rug again.
he notices that smile.
(of course he does. he notices every single thing about you.)
his heart gives a lil’ clench, and he smiles too.
@stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.
contents. satoru gojo x gn!reader. dark themes. ANGST ANGST ANGST. grotesque imagery. satoru being emotionally constipated yes. mentions of blood. some implications of yandere!toru.
★ jiah’s notes. ah yes its toru’s need and me against the world. c: (someone sedate me.)
“baby,” satoru calls out.
you don’t listen.
or at least, you try not to— the word reaches your ears but you simply shut it back down, snarling at it to just go away and leave you alone.
(it’s still faint enough to slither in through the cracked edges of your bones, so you hear it anyway.)
“i can’t do this,” you rasp. eyes wide, knees shaky. oh, satoru’s heart stutters in his chest. what a beauty you are, aren’t you? like a deer caught in the headlights of his eyes. rendered so painfully speechless that your heartbeat’s reduced to a mere, panicked whisper. so naïve.
(it’s okay. he knows best. he always does.)
“but you can,” he croons, and a hand reaches out to cradle your face; so warm and large against your cheeks. “of course you can, my baby.”
(like red hot needles pricking into the ice of your skin. you want to scream.)
“d—don’t—”
“why?” satoru cuts you off, his soft voice now cutting through your tendons like a rusty knife. so, so marred from love that he all but licks off the blood from the sharp blade, not caring— never caring that it sticks a finger into an open wound of his.
“why?” you take a small step back, and satoru takes one forward, “i love you, don’t i? i—i care for you. i love you.”
(of course he loves you.
why can’t you see?)
“satoru, please,” you’re acutely aware of the way your voice cracks, but satoru beats you to it again— snatching the broken pieces from your hands before you could blemish your precious skin.
“no, i won’t. i—i won’t. i love you. i lo—”
satoru thinks that he’s saving you.
from yourself? from himself? both of you aren’t sure.
(but i’m saving you, his ribs creak.)
“i love you,” thunderous eyes stare at you again and you feel like you might be sick from how loud they are. seeping, no, invading your skin like some sort of parasite— forcing its way inside to devour any semblance of ground, any semblance of control. “i love you, dammit. it’s okay. it’s—”
(it’s okay, the little voices in the tendrils beneath your eyes say, it’s okay, he loves you. don’t you see?)
but you don’t want to.
you don’t want to see how much he loves you. you don’t want the frightened shiver in his shoulders every time you turn your back to him to do something, you don’t want the nudge of his nose in your nape the moment you try to sleep.
you don’t want this— this rusty knife with both your blood and his, too anxious, too terrified by the aspect of losing you to something that hasn’t happened yet, something that you’re not sure if it exists or not.
(satoru wraps a pretty ribbon you like ’round your neck with trembling hands and calls it love.)
“it’s not okay,” you cry out, tears lacing your eyes like forbidden crystals, “it’s not okay, satoru.”
satoru pauses.
(and suddenly, he’s a lost boy again, too godlike to be human and too human to be god.)
an unloved child, who thinks all he’s good for is need. need that settles into bruises over his heart and gives them purpose, need that stings the scars on his skin and makes him feel worthy.
need, need, need.
(oh, what is satoru gojo without need?)
“but i love you,” he says again, and you only barely register how. . . small he sounds. clinging to the same words with sweaty hands, using them again and again and again until he’s got the toy which he so desperately wants.
“i—. . . love you,” satoru swallows.
(a broken record of need on his tongue.)
he wipes away the blood on your face which his fingers had left, brows pinched and the thunder in his eyes so, so panicked that they’ve broken something too fragile.
(frantic hands trying to fix broken china with bloodied fingers.)
“i love you,” his voice is but a rasp, “i— you love me, too, right? you love me too—” his knuckles brush away the decay off your cheeks, and tremble when all they do is stain your precious skin even more.
“no, no, no, no, no— hey, hey, sweetheart,” satoru swallows and you close your eyes, “look at me, please, look at me. you love me, yeah? you love me. you love m—”
clammy hands wrap around you before you fall—
— and a lost child with bloody hands and bewildered eyes cradles your face, oh so tender with the way he holds on so tight.
(what good is it, really, the love of a sheep in wolf’s clothing?)
@stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works.
contents. satoru x gn!reader. fluff. angsty, but it’s a good kind of angst. (?). hurt/comfort.
★ jiah’s notes. i’m missing satoru like a mf bro
you can feel something within you.
it’s a tiny thing, worthy of being unnoticed. worthy of being whisked away by other thoughts that keep you occupied all day long. but you still hold onto it, warming its hand and giving it a little squeeze, though you’re not sure why.
it’s not something significant, yet you notice it anyway.
(like a leaf landing on your shoe when trees shed their woes away.)
it scratches at your insides. it tries to squeeze itself through your ribs and your heart attempts to shush it, pacify it, but this thing is a petulant child. it bawls and bites the hand that tries to feed, hiding away in a corner somewhere.
(but it stays.)
you put a hand over your chest, trying to locate where it is. where are you? you don’t say it out loud, but for some reason, you know it’ll hear you. odd little thing it is, so predictable and lost.
i’m not gonna come outside, it says, and you can hear the hurt in its voice— the way it cracks a little. you can feel it curl up onto itself, shielding itself from everyone and everything, hoping that it’ll never be seen again.
(you give up.)
your fingers absent-mindedly tap the mug you’ve been holding, barely registering the soft tinkling of metal against ceramic when you stir the contents with a spoon. it sounds a little familiar, though, a distant voice at the back of your head whispers. sounds like a certain someone.
you realise what the little thing’s been all along.
(you should’ve seen it coming. cheeky, odd thing, fooling you once again.)
it’s longing.
you can feel exactly where it is now.
it is the lump in your throat that refuses to be swallowed down. it is the lingering glance your eyes give the clock whenever you catch a glimpse of the sky outside your window. it is the way your feet carry you to a room on their own. it is the way you pick up two spoons instead of one when you pile some ice cream onto your bowl.
(it is the burn beneath your skin and the rattling chains over your bones.)
you flop down on the couch, eyes fixated on the blank screen of your television. you raise the cup to your lips and have a sip— you don’t even know what you’re drinking.
(a pause.)
for one thing, it’s sweet. too sweet, in fact.
(a sickening sweet that makes the sting of the curled up longing blaze like an open wound.
all because of a certain someone.)
you miss him.
you miss him, gods, you miss him. you feel like you’re dying.
a moment ago, you had placed your hand over your chest whilst trying to find out where the something within you lay, and in the next moment it’s all over you— consuming you whole from the inside out. gnawing at your soul and trapping the air before it could escape, and you start to lose your breath.
(you can’t take it anymore.)
your shaky hands let go of the mug and it spills some coffee on the floor; your feet carry you towards your room in such hurried steps that it might as well look like you’re sprinting away.
(running away from it.
the damned longing.)
and before you know it, you’re pressing satoru’s name on your screen.
it rings mechanically, but you feel it echo within your mind like a haunting melody.
please, you think. plea. request. demand. you’re not sure what you’re begging for. you just are. please, please, please, please—
(a pause.)
“hello?”
it’s quite remarkable, the way the tension within you deflates.
(how could it not?)
his voice is the evening summer breeze that brushes away stray strands of your hair when you close your eyes. his voice is the lingering aftertaste of gum on your tongue, the one that you wish stayed a little longer. his voice is the soft coo in your ear that soothes your chained bones and coaxes the longing away.
(your satoru’s voice.)
“satoru,” you breathe out. really breathe out. it sounds more like a gasp than anything, and you’re more than aware of the little crack in your voice.
(but you go on, anyway.)
“satoru.” you repeat again.
it feels so much better to have it on your lips that you want to say it till you can’t speak. till you can’t breathe.
(it’s the only thing keeping you alive, anyway.)
“yeah, baby?” he murmurs. you can feel the tiredness clinging to his light tone. your poor baby, he must be so tired. and you? you’re calling him just because you couldn’t handle his absence.
(but a tiny part of you allows you to be a little selfish. just this once.)
“. . . hello? honeybun?”
his voice startles you a little. you realise that you’ve been zoning out since the past minute.
(just this once, you finally swallow the lump in your throat.)
“yeah,” you say, “yeah— yeah. ’m here.”
“good,” he laughs a little. you feel those chains unravel themselves. “i was starting to wonder whether you’d fallen asleep on me after calling me in the middle of the might. not that i’d mind.”
“no, i just. . . i—” your cheeks heat up a little. “i . . have you eaten?”
(a pause.)
oh, satoru’s heart is in shambles right now, but he wouldn’t change the ache on his chest for anything. you probably can’t see it, but he’s not even bothering to blink away the tears that spill down his cheeks like little, forbidden crystals.
(the strongest was just so weak for you.)
“yeah,” he manages to say, after a while, “yeah. i’ve eaten, sweetheart. you?”
“i have,” you murmur.
(i miss you, you think. i’ll wait.)
“good,” he murmurs back.
(i miss you, satoru thinks. wait for me.)
@stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.
contents. satoru gojo x gn!reader. teensy bits of angst. hurt/comfort (ish). reader overthinks a LOT. kissing? LMAO. satoru being a whiny little shit.
★ jiah’s notes. is my unannounced and unintentional and uncalled for more than one month break worth compensating for???? IM SO SORRY GANG
“so mouthy,” satoru murmurs; his words licking a stripe of skin up your neck, “but you shut up real quick, don’t you?”
(this is so, so horrendously wrong.)
“thinkin’ again,” a hum against your jaw and something cold crawls up your spine, “haven’t i kissed this brain of yours silly enough?”
“you need to try harder than that,” you bite back and his head dips, pretty little lips parting with a sugary oh, ivory strands hushed, bearing a chill that sets the furnace you have for skin ablaze.
(this is wrong.)
“c’mere, then.”
you hate this.
you hate every little gasp of his that flies free when you lean into that stupid face of his, you hate the way his hands creep up to your midriff, playing you with such sick knowledge, like you’re some sort of instrument that only he knew how to play, you hate the way this stolen spark of yours in this eyeless rooftop has teeth so sharp that it tears down both of your throats till there’s nothing left but boneless words and oh so messy, messy strings that bleed all over you.
(strings that you wrapped yourself up into willingly.)
but hey, it isn’t entirely your fault, right? a meek little voice somewhere at the back of the fog taking over your mind says, it’s his too.
that’s just him. you hate him.
(wrong, wrong, wrong, your ribs scream. you’re not sure what they’re referring to.)
you try to squeeze your heart back inside.
(it won’t fit there anymore.)
not when satoru’s filled it to the brim— not when every time your fingertips linger on his skin, something saccharine oozes from your eyes— not when every time his lips twitch something oh so swift constricts ’round your throat— not when every time his eyes hold yours, something akin to delicious dread bubbles somewhere between your bones.
(but you still try to make it fit, anyway.)
“stop thinking,” satoru whines against your lips, and it’s only then that you realise where you are.
no one around to nuzzle into the nocturnal velvet’s sweet little flickers of faraway lights.
no one else but you.
just you. just him.
(just you and him.)
“sorry.”
the other just grumbles in response, nosing into your neck like some overgrown cat.
(like he’s trying to merge your heart with his own so it’s not too heavy for you to carry alone.)
“sorry my ass,” satoru chides, and you feel his teeth graze the insides of your mouth at some point, “don’t think so much, dummy. we’re okay.”
“we’re okay,” you say, almost too soft, like you want it to lull you to sleep so this poor brain of yours can think about the good things for a while.
just for a while.
(just enough to make you kiss him again.)
@d3cay1ngst4tic on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works.
