#m.gojo
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tags: GN reader, migraines and headaches, sensory overload, fluff, mutual feelings, caretaking, implied reader works at tokyo jujutsu high
wc: 1.3k
Satoru can feel it coming.
His focus wanes ever so slightly at first. The energy around him flickers like heat from a flame. Unnatural blips of light dapple his vision, closely followed by a high pitched ringing in his ears. No pain at that point, but his heart hammers awkwardly in his chest because he knows it’s inevitable.
There’s always a generous twenty minute window before his condition takes a hard turn for the worst. Twenty minutes to finish whatever he’s doing—be it fighting, paperwork, training or teaching—and leave with an acceptable excuse.
It’s lucky that Satoru spent years spitting out frivolous, inane things for the sake of antagonism or distraction. People usually waved him off, weary exasperation etched into their brow, never asking questions. Trusting that Gojo Satoru had somewhere important to be. Shoko knew from the start, and that was always one too many.
Then you came along. Too perceptive for your own good. Migraines rarely happened but whenever they did you were all glassy eyed looks and gentle nudges. Satoru, starved for touch and dreading how the pain should soon fill his skull like lead, would feel infinity warp just for the sake of letting your knuckles brush his.
This time he’s lounging in the cold, clinical hallway leading to Shoko’s office waiting for her prognosis on the transfigured corpse he brought back. The cheap luminescence irritates his eyes, and the words he’s reading coalesce into a pulsating blur that won’t readjust no matter how many times he blinks.
Suddenly the magazine on his lap is slapped shut as you lean on the back of the bench, putting the full weight of yourself onto your palm, cursed energy spiking a fraction. “You look peaked,” fingers brush back the loose hairs over his forehead as you softly continue, “Maybe you should go home and rest”.
Not for the first time he is grateful for the mask fastened around his eyes. It does nothing to stave the sensorial discomfort today but at least it conceals his thoughts. “Rude. I was reading my horoscope,” Satoru juts his chin, breathes in steady and huffs through his nose, feigning offense. The forced exhale alone is enough to make him wince.
“See,” you tell him, though not unkindly. Your hand covered his clammy forehead and he tried not to nuzzle into it, already sensing the agonising tip of a spear weedling through his temple. “You’re a little warm, too”.
A door clicks open. Regrettably your hand yanks away and Satoru grits his teeth before he can whine. The atmosphere ripples as infinity seeks to cover him whole. Shoko’s heels echo through the liminal space. Shadows cast across her face under the doorway, highlighting the goading twitch of her mouth. “Am I interrupting?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says at the same time as you reply, “No”.
Shoko scrutinised him a moment longer as Satoru wet his lips and leaned against the heel of his hand in an attempt to discreetly alleviate the pain. While you very notably do not bring up your concerns Shoko realises anyway. “It’ll take a while longer to take this one apart,” she lies smoothly, fiddling with her gloves and snapping them over her coat sleeves. “You might as well go home for now. No point loitering”.
He notices how your cursed energy settles into a relieved simmer, drawn closer when he stands from the bench. “Doesn’t usually take that long,” he commented, purely for show, barely hearing himself over the shriek piercing through his ears.
“Must’ve lost my touch,” Shoko replies dryly. Her gaze slides to you, and gentles. “Can I trouble you in getting him there?”
You nod your assent, “No trouble. I’m heading back that way anyway”.
“Oho? Gonna take me home?” Satoru drapes himself across your back then, pressing his forehead to your warm shoulder. His eyes fall closed and he inhales, the long day mixing into your scent.
You sway under the abrupt weight but you don’t shrug him off. “I’m walking with you, not carrying you,” came your disgruntled voice, betrayed by the contentment visibly spreading through your body. Patting at his hip you tell him, “C’mon, let’s go”.
The journey to the dorms is nothing short of a sensory nightmare. Residual cursed energy clings to every nook and cranny, brighter now and grating to look at. Sweat gathers at his nape as the pain intensifies. You hold his elbow, one palm curved around the pointed edge while the other slips into the crook, giving intermittent squeezes as if to reassure him there’s not long left.
Satoru is both deeply relieved and frustrated to be seen through so easily.
It’s a small mercy that nobody else is around. By the time you’ve guided him into the dorms, Satoru is holding his own head up with his hand. Your murmured incantations tether him until the wooden bed frame knocks the back of his knees and he lowers delicately onto the mattress with a staggered breath.
“How often does this happen?” you ask, reduced to a whisper. While Satoru tries to find it in him to answer, your fingers cradle the back of his neck and recline him onto the pillows, so as not to jostle him further.
This is where he’d interject with a suggestive comment, smile as your pulse quickened, revelling in the effect he has on you even if you don’t intend to act upon it. But the vulnerability renders Satoru useless. He remains in pliant repose, spilling out across his bed like loose yarn, letting you work at the buttons of his shirt.
Soon enough he’s left only in his underwear, chest rising and falling in exertion, and not for any of the reasons he’d like. He hears you tug the curtains shut and pad further into the bathroom. The turning of the tap, the quick running water, all without switching on a light. You return to his side and trail fingertips over his covered brow. “Going to take this off, okay?”
Satoru angles his head in response, allowing you to work at the hook there. His blindfold comes undone, silky ends ghosting over his cheeks, and despite the lack of it he still flinches away from the possibility of light.
The tenderness is overwhelming now. Harsh throbs ricocheting through his skull. He recalls the first time it happened. Back then Satoru had simply attempted to sleep it off. Hours interrupted, restless and nauseous. Angry too. Betrayed by his own body. His bloodline. His technique. Laid trembling in a puddle of his own sweat, the pain carved out a violent loneliness inside of him.
Gojo Satoru does not get to be weak.
“I’ve got you,” your voice ripples through the mire of self loathing, and a cloth saturated in cold water is placed over his eyes, shrouding him in solid darkness once more. The cool sensation seeps into his sockets, and soothes. He shudders.
“There you are,” fingers splayed over his cheek, thumb stroking back and forth over the swell. It’s then that realisation shrikes through him. You’re concealing your residuals. Satoru lolls into your palm and sluggishly thinks of the implications. The words get caught in his throat. Every thought frays and he barely has the strength to grasp a single thread. All but one.
Stay.
“I’m staying over,” you say, as if plucking his plea from the air.
“No dinner first?” Satoru replied. He had meant to be teasing, but his voice cracks at the edges. Consciousness is sand and silt sifting through his fingers. He sighs and paws at your waist as you apply pressure to his temples in lieu of a response and begin a slow, circular motion. The pain ebbs.
“Try to sleep and maybe I’ll let you take me somewhere”.
Satoru’s arms tighten where they’ve coiled around you. He can’t see your expression, nor can he discern your energy. But he hears the promise in your voice, gentle and deliberate.
“Mmn,” he relaxed in small increments, tongue too big for his mouth. Moisture from the cloth trickled down his jaw, behind his ear. The world steadily falls away from him. “…’Kay,” he slurs.
In your capable hands, he sleeps.
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ᕕ(ಠ_ಠ)ᕗ
Yes i like M.Gojo
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I love when artists draw gojo wearing two masks. like yes thanks, I do not want to see his frankly disturbing and beautiful face. it distracts me from his breasts
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look at gojo handling all them balls no problem this is just a regular friday night for him
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I'm shaking gojo like a long sheet of metal. woomp woomp weeomp weemp woomp
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save me buff lesbian gojo save me save me…..
#rolling around helplessly on the floor#the fanart is. insane#save no longer looks like a word to me#m.gojo
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only 2d man I can accept being hairless neck down is gojo. I just know he got a favourite wax lady lmao
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gojo’s whatever the opposite of an emotional support animal is. he’s my psychological turmoil creature. my mental derangement beastie
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eating gojo’s pussy would cure me I think. kinda like drinking the elixir of life
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I like to imagine that if gojo upset you and you ignore him as a result he’d make a big dramatic show of announcing that he’s leaving to try get you talking. puts his coat and shoes on and makes a point of jiggling his keys, the works — “I really am going you know!” — only for him to get all the way to the front door and give up when he’s met with silence. he just cannot do it and you knew he wouldn’t. as expected he comes right back and pushes his head into your lap, looking up at you all pathetic and full of apologies I can’t. I love him
#he’s like GUESS ILL GO. IM REALLY GOING. IM NEVER COMING BACK#you know when kids threaten to run away from home and get#halfway down the street only to come back crying#it’s him. in my mind#me making every character as soggy as possible#m.gojo
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tags: GN reader, angst (sorry), references to eating / love as consumption, heavily implied break up, gojo isn’t a dick ok he can’t help that his heart was already eaten
wc: 1k
The window panes are dappled with rain. Your eyes single out a droplet in the ever growing silence and follows as it races to the sill, gathering into a small puddle. Orange and red embers dance on the shallow waters surface as the sun dips. You shiver as a breeze whistles against your bicep, the damp chill seeping through and expanding the cracks.
“What are you doing here?”
He had entered without a sound, but you could feel him anywhere. There was an intensity that followed him into every room, static perforating the air. His footfalls are unsettlingly light. The crinkling of thin paper. Lingering in your periphery, he weighs the little white bag between each hand, idly ironing out the creases with his thumbs.
There is a sense of accomplishment that comes with leaving a man like Gojo Satoru uncertain.
Wordlessly, he hands it to you. It’s hot, soft under the pressure of your fingers. Opening the top of the paper bag, you discover a golden brown crust and the sweet scent of chocolate. A pastry. One of your favourites.
Spoken so plainly, as if three honest words were all the explanation he needed to offer, “I miss you”.
You settle back in your chair with a deflating exhale. The small victories bleed from your body, and fatigue sets in. Swallowing a retort, you slide the pasty out gently.
I miss you, he said. The surface breaks under your fingertips and you feel it echo in your chest, jagged pieces flaking off into your lap. Covetous, you pull it apart to get to the syrupy centre where it is warmest. If you were to pull Satoru apart, what would you find?
A well crafted illusion, carefully orchestrated to keep you contented and none the wiser. Over and over again he would proffer little puzzle pieces to sate your impatience — you comforted yourself with the thought that the rest of him would surely come to you with time.
It never did.
The silence is punctuated by a soft pitter patter as the afternoon sinks into the beginnings of a dewy evening. Satoru moves to grab another chair from the far end of the classroom, and you bring the pastry to your mouth while you wait, tearing the morsel with your teeth. It’s smooth and buttery, slowly melting on your tongue.
With the twist of his wrist, the chair is spun mid air as he returns. He saddles it backwards, folding both arms atop the cresting rail with his long legs folded beneath and tapping the toe of his shoes. You know by now this means ‘I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me’.
Accepting his presence, you surrender the second half of the pastry to him. When he takes it you deftly avoid his touch. “Are you mad at me?” he murmurs, tearing the dough into two quarters without fanfare, and again giving you a square of it back before eating his own whole. Muffled between full cheeks, happily humming at the taste.
“How many times are we going to do this to each other?” you frown, measuring the little square between your thumb and forefinger. “Why can’t you just leave it be?”
Satoru licks the crumbs from the corner of his mouth and retains his faux air of nonchalance. It’s far easier to do with his mask tied firmly around his eyes. You might see his true feelings there, if he’d let you. He lets out an exaggerated, satisfied breath upon finishing, and his head lifts with a small smile.
“You’re too important to me. I don’t want to lose you over a petty argument,” he simpered, leaning forward to sway the chair onto its back legs. He tilts his chin with the intention of meeting your gaze. It is as one sided as it has always been.
You split the square again, savouring it. You chew and chew until it is ground into mush, all for the sake of holding your tongue. He means it. To him, the argument was inconsequential — something you’d fought about more than once, always seeing the other side of it. Part of you thought Satoru might enjoy conflict, if it meant proving you would choose him again and again.
This time he had dubbed you greedy for wanting more from him. Gojo Satoru, the man who eats and eats and eats to occlude the widening cavity in his chest. You, his sole source of selfishness, the one person in his world that expected nothing and accepted the slivers of his self without seeking more.
“It wasn’t petty to me,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. The last little square of pastry has flattened under your idle fiddling. “Either I am a part of your life or I’m not. I wont be someone for you to play house with anymore. I want more than this for us”.
The shadows shift with the passing clouds and the classroom darkens. He stalls. You think you can see the moment that your words register. The realisation that this cannot be resolved through gift giving and some lighthearted banter. Though an infinitesimal second in time, you bear witness to the brief loss of bravado.
It brings a choking air of finality, and your throat swells with it. Satoru remains teetering on the back of his chair, held in suspension. You silently beseech him to reach for you, for the entirety of his weight to fall forward into your embrace. Let me swallow what’s left of you. I swear can stomach it.
A backwards rock. All four legs meet the floor with a mournful thud. You can barely make out the shake in his shoulders, or the way his quivering hand curls into a fist. Then, with a drawn out exhale, the tension dissipates. Satoru drapes forward over the chair like a stringless doll, releasing an empty laugh.
“I’ll… let you think about it for a bit,” he says, forcing some vigour into his voice as he stands, brushing the crumbs from his shirt. “Maybe we both need… more time to think”.
When he leaves he does so while dragging his feet. Sluggish footfalls, the soles of his shoes purposefully scuffing the ground. The last bit of pastry is now cold between your fingers. Insipid on your tongue, as most things are in his absence.
You’re struck by the thought that this might be the last piece of him you’ll ever get. Satoru did love you. He would give you anything and everything, you knew that to be true.
Anything but himself.
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You are watching him with an amused tenderness as he fiddles with your fingers. An air of patience, like you were simply satiating the curiosity of a small, harmless animal.
There is something thrilling about that; the lense through which only you can view him.
Slow, he presses your palms together into an uneven kiss. Your skin is smooth, your fingers are shorter than his. Satoru loves you, he thinks, because he can trust you to hold his soul — cupped in these small, soft hands — without moulding it.
You mirror his actions, interweaving into the spaces between his knuckles. Locked beneath your gaze as he lay pliant in your lap, Satoru looks up at you with equal reverence. It’s as if his entire body is exhaling. He can feel his tongue in his mouth, pressing to the back of his teeth when the corner of your lips curve into a smile.
A soft murmur, “What’re you thinking about?”
You taught him that love is not earned or quantifiable — it just is.
“I’m hungry,” he sighs, forcing a whine into his voice as he tips his head back against your thighs. You follow his line of sight to the plate of sliced apples left teetering precariously on the arm of the couch.
Your brow arches, mouth thinning into a smirk. Two fingers gently brush back the hair on his forehead. “Is that Satoru speak for ‘please feed me the bunny apples?’”
You pluck one of the slices from the plate before he gives his answer. An even v-shape has been cut into the skin, peeled away to give the appearance of rabbit ears. Your finger and thumb are pinched either side of the pale mesocarp, squeezing droplets from the pulp into the seam of his mouth.
Lips part, taking your fruit into the shallow of his tongue and enclosing around your fingertips. He hums, the sound rumbling like a purr, while making a show of how he licks the juice off your skin. The grooves of his teeth sink into the apple, and you snatch your hand back before he can nip it.
Satoru was raised in a life of obscene luxury. He had everything, anything that he could want. But the neat cuts of fruit often served to him by the staff never tasted this ripe; so sweet, the sugar lingering on his palette.
You tap his nose, and he wrinkles it. “Are the lights finally out or did you just forget how to say ‘thank you’?”
“Mmn, thank you,” he mumbles with a quiet laugh, reaching to cup the nape of your neck, encouraging you to bend. Thumb tucked against the underside of your jaw, he feels your beating heart. You swallow, the muscles in your neck constricting.
He quite likes having you curled over him like this. For a moment, this is the entire world. You are all he can see; eyes softening with realisation, angling your head to align your mouths.
You kiss him full. Ah, he thinks. Much sweeter.
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"Give them back, Satoru".
Infuriatingly, he sinks further into the couch cushions and spreads himself without a care. "Hm?" he murmurs, head tilting to rest against his shoulder, "I don't know what you're talking about".
Despite being the one to confront him, you feel vulnerable standing before him like this. Heat pricks at the surface of your skin. Irritation, arousal and embarrassment intertwining in the pit of your stomach. You're all too aware that giving in to the compulsion to throttle him would only please him more.
"My underwear— the expensive ones. They're gone".
Pink and full, his lips purse into a pout. Had his blindfold been on you might've interpreted it as outright mocking, unable to see the fond amusement in his eyes. You are both fully aware of the truth, yet still he plays with you. "Another pair? Not good, baby. Maybe you're being haunted by a perverted ghost".
"He's perverted alright," you glare, arms lifting to cross over your chest as his gaze brazenly drags over your figure. He’d always said that your body was honest — you can't lie to me, baby. Look at you. You're so… — and whatever he was looking for now, you didn't want him to find it.
You knew he had taken them again. You knew what he did with them. Flimsy fabric held against his open mouth, breathing in your scent. Bunched up and wet in his fist, stroking up and down his cock. Deep down you liked it, but you sure as hell couldn't let him know that.
You'd never hear the end of it.
"Stop playing dumb and give them back," he purposefully shifts his hips, and you can see him chewing the inside of his cheek as he tries not to grin. "They were my favourite pair, Satoru".
"Yeah?" he breaks, exhaling a laugh. "They're mine too".
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As conscious reaches the surface, your mind registers both the dip in the mattress and the unnatural warmth laid across from you. Body still one foot in sleep and the other in wake, you force your eyes open despite the sting, and glare into the dark.
You’re not alarmed by the silhouette beside you, their features gradually sharpening as your sight adjusts to the shadows. There’s nobody else it could be other than him. The bedroom curtains are thick but the moon is persistent, and she reflects back dimly in two distinct blue eyes, giving them an almost cat-like appearance.
“Satoru, you’re such… a fuckin’ creep…” you mumble, the words still thick and slurred as waves of exhaustion attempt to coax you back into sleep. You hear him huff, it’s a warm exhale of laughter and he’s close enough for you to feel it by your cheek.
“So mean,” he says. His voice is low, barely a whisper but cutting loud through the silence, and it is fond. The sheets rustle as he shifts, and you feel his thumb gently swipe the corner of your mouth.
“You drool in your sleep,” he emphasises with a light tap to your chin, the whole of his hand now cradling your jaw, “it’s weirdly cute”.
His palm is softer than expected, the grip barely there and loose like he wasn’t sure you’d allow it for long. Reflexively, you turn into his touch, and he inhales. The more you wake, the more you worry.
“You should be more aware of your surroundings you know,” he continues in a quiet murmur, “I could’ve been anyone”.
This was a first. While Satoru made a habit of appearing wherever you happened to be the moment he felt a modicum of boredom, he’d never crawled into your bed unannounced before. “I already sensed that it was you,” you reply, swallowing against the dryness of your throat, “and I don’t let just anyone in my bed”.
Reaching towards him you’re met with no resistance — only the fabric of his shirt. You knew from the reports that he had dealt with a special grade today, and wondered if that was part of the reason he was here. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”
It’s difficult to see completely, but you’re sure his expression wanes into affection. Even the hand at your jaw relaxes, resting heavier where it cups your face. He strokes the swell of your cheek in a back and forth motion, humming in acknowledgment. “Just wanted to check on something important,” he returns.
Your fingers curl against his chest, the repetitive caress lulling you back to sleep. “Did… did you find what… you were looking for?”
“I did,” his eyes squint slightly, a telltale sign that he was smiling — he wore plenty of them, but they always felt less plastic when directed at you.
“Go back to sleep,” is the last thing you remember hearing.
#m.gojo#dunno dunno I’m just very tired rn and was thinking about him#can you imagine waking up n seeing his face in the dark#talk about a jumpscare
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gojo is the biggest slut I’ve ever met just unashamedly spreading his legs sinking back and moaning loudly as if the neighbours can’t hear, gaze always on you as his jaw slacks and the spit pools beneath his tongue and eyes rolling back as he squeezes his cock because he loves how embarrassed you get loves how you shush him and cover his mouth how you try to fight your own arousal in favour of doing the right thing but ultimately give in to him because you can’t keep your hands off him
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thinking of scary merman gojo who finds you stranded on an island or struggling in the water due to a shipwreck. he gets you to land safely but looms over you the whole time. it’s unnerving but you can’t blame him for being curious, you are too. him sniffing at you, trying to familiarize himself with your scent. him calling you towards him at night with songs that you can’t help but listen to. he adorns you with pretty seashells and insists on feeding you fish he brings back. you don’t understand it, but you’re glad to have someone after all you went through.
a question lingers in your mind though. how did the ship crash? more follow like, what happened that night and where are all your friends?
every time you try and ask gojo he deflects and gets mean. holds you closer, a little tighter. he asks back questions like: why would you ask him these things? what does he know? isn’t he taking care of you? is this island not all that you dreamed of, something to consider a home?
you’re starting to realize he’s never going to let you leave. you belong to him now, don’t you think so? after all he’s done for you?
BABY IM REPLYING TO THIS SO LATE IM SORRY it got buried in my inbox and I totally forgot to come back to it but YES. YOU GET IT. like, you don’t know any better, and how could you!! HE knows best!! I bet he chooses an island surrounded by dense reef just to keep away ships and make sure there’s no means of escape all he wants is to have you to himself alskd he sees you as a pet! a beloved possession!!! nobody else can have you!! why should they? goddd he’s so beautiful too. BIG. covered in opalescent scales and draped in all kinds of jewellery. this is going to haunt me (;;;*_*)
#asks#cw yandere#<- to be safe!!#I also saw your other msg and don’t worry at all!!!!#this isn’t NSFT imo despite the topic so I do not mind <3 thank you for being considerate tho!!#m.gojo
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