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[sugurusgurl]

Love, Eventually (Part 3)

☾𖤓 Synopsis. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. Reader x Gojo Satoru ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), death threats, mentions of pregnancy, power imbalance.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 

You wake early.

Not because you have to, just… because. The apartment’s quiet, and the light outside is the gentle kind that doesn’t rush you.

The sun filters in, soft and lazy through the penthouse windows. You move through the kitchen on bare feet, tying your hair up loosely as you go. Satoru hasn’t stirred yet—not that you’re surprised.

Yesterday, he lived on strawberry mochi and half a bar of white chocolate.

You didn’t comment.

But this morning, you open the fridge and pull out what’s left: some eggs, a bit of rice, a few vegetables hanging on for dear life. It’s not much, but it’ll do. You cook quietly, humming under your breath, letting the smell of something warm and real fill the space.

You’re just plating the food when you hear slow footsteps padding down the hall.

You don’t look up.

You just finish arranging things on the table, then say casually,

“You didn’t eat anything decent yesterday. This won’t take long.”

Satoru pauses in the doorway.

You can feel him eyeing the table, the food, maybe even you.

He opens his mouth like he’s about to toss out some sarcastic remark—but nothing comes. You glance at him.

Hair tousled, shirt only halfway buttoned, hands in his pockets. Just watching.

You smile slightly.

“Relax. It’s not poisoned.”

He lets out a quiet laugh through his nose and finally walks over.

You take your seat across from him. He picks up the chopsticks and gives the food a once-over.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says after the first bite.

“I know.”

He eats a little more. Not rushed, not pretending. Just eating. Still watching you from time to time, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re being nice out of obligation or boredom. You don’t say much else.

But when he sets his chopsticks down a few minutes later, the plate’s clean, which says enough.

“I’m heading out,” he says, standing and stretching like he didn’t just wake up thirty minutes ago.

You nod, watching him cross the room. He grabs his coat from where it’s slung over the back of a chair and slides his sunglasses on, pushing them up to rest on his head.

He’s halfway to the door when you speak.

“Satoru.”

He stops without turning. Just waits.

You walk over and hold out a small, cloth-wrapped bento box. Simple, clean. Nothing fancy.

“For later,” you say. “In case you forget again.”

His gaze drops to it. He takes it without hesitation, inspecting the wrap briefly, then tucks it under his arm.

No thanks. No teasing.

Just a small nod.

“Alright.”

He opens the door, pauses—then glances back over his shoulder.

“Don’t wait up.”

And with that, he’s gone.

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Later that morning — on assignment

The girl isn’t annoying.

Which is, frankly, a bit of a surprise.

Gojo walks a few steps ahead of her through the grounds of Jujutsu Tech, hands in his pockets, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. She’s quiet, observant, doesn’t ask too many questions. Doesn’t flinch at the sudden wave of cursed energy in the air when a second-year screws up during training nearby.

So far, so good.

“So this is where the strongest trains his students?” she says behind him, voice dry with amusement.

He glances over his shoulder. “Careful. It’s dangerous to flatter me this early in the day.”

She smiles — not shy, not flirtatious. Just easy. Familiar.

And that’s what bugs him a little. How easy she is around him.

She walks beside him now, matching his pace. “I read about you. About the incident ten years ago.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t blink.

“They say you changed everything.”

“I hear that a lot,” he says, light and flat.

She tilts her head, watching him. “Is it true? That you protected the last Star Plasma Vessel?” 

He stops walking. “I’m not really in the mood for a history lesson.”

She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Fair enough.” Then, with a grin, “But you know—if I really am the next one, maybe I’m in good hands.”

She says it like a joke. Like she means it to be funny.

But she rests her hand briefly on his arm when she says it. He doesn’t move, but doesn’t acknowledge it either. 

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The day drifts by quietly.

You tidy the apartment a little, refill the kettle, let the windows stay open just long enough to let the breeze in. There’s a kind of stillness that’s easy to get used to — one that almost feels borrowed.

You’re folding one of Gojo’s jackets when the intercom buzzes.

You press the button.

 “Hello?”

“Miss Jan? It’s Ijichi. Just dropping off something for Gojo-san.”

You buzz him up and open the door a moment later, greeting him with a small, polite smile.

He’s holding a folder, shoulders slightly tense as usual. You take it with a nod.

“Thank you, Ijichi-san. He left early this morning.”

“Yes, I was with him before he left. They asked him to escort someone to Jujutsu Tech.”

You nod again, casual. Just listening.

“She’s a transfer from Kyoto,” Ichiji adds, adjusting his glasses. “They’re considering whether she might be… well, someone significant. Potentially the next Star Plasma Vessel.”

That gives you pause for a fraction of a second — the kind you don’t let show.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, no threat. It’s more of a precaution,” he says quickly. “The higher-ups just wanted someone capable to handle the move, and… well, there’s really only one Satoru Gojo.”

You smile faintly, not quite answering that.

You offer him a cup of tea, which he politely declines this time. Something about another errand. He leaves with a bow and a murmured thanks.

The apartment is quiet again after he’s gone.

You set the folder down where Gojo will see it.

And then you return to your folded laundry, your tea now cooling beside the window. No dramatic shift in your expression, no lingering stare. Just… thoughtfulness.

He didn’t mention it. Not that he had to. But it reminds you, quietly, that you’re only meant to fit into a small corner of his world — not be a part of the whole.

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The apartment hums in its usual quiet.

He’s stretched out on the couch, one arm flung lazily over his eyes, phone resting on his chest. Notifications buzz now and then, but none urgent enough to pull him fully upright.

When he finally shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to check the time, he catches it — just for a second.

You, sitting at the far end of the room with that book again, watching him.

Not in a weird way. Not even long enough to call it staring.

But your eyes had been on him. Soft. Unreadable.

You look away before he can say anything.

He doesn’t comment, but he sees it. And now he’s wondering what that look meant — and how long you’d been sitting there like that.

He tosses the phone onto the coffee table and leans back again, arms behind his head.

“That book must be really boring,” he says casually, not looking at you.

You don’t glance up. “It’s the third time I’m reading it.”

“Then why read it again?”

“Because I like it.” You pause. “Not everyone jumps from thing to thing like you do.”

He grins. “I don’t jump. I sample.”

You finally look up, just a bit amused. “You’ve sampled five shows in the last three nights.”

“Exactly. Cultured.”

You shake your head, but your lips tug into the smallest smile.

He shifts to sit up properly, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“You hungry?” he asks, already heading toward the kitchen. “I’m thinking mochi and... whatever else doesn’t require a stove.”

You raise a brow. “But we just had dinner.”

“Dinner was for survival. This,” he gestures dramatically to the fridge, “is for the soul.”

You exhale through your nose — not quite a laugh, but close.

And as he rummages through the pantry for something vaguely edible, he hears your footsteps pad softly across the floor, joining him without another word.

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The following day.

You’d been slow-roasting the pork since late afternoon.

The smell of ginger, soy, and something warm fills the apartment by seven — subtle, but rich enough to linger in the walls. You even put actual effort into the sides this time. Stir-fried greens. Miso soup from scratch. Rice steamed just right.

It’s not a special occasion. There was just... time. And maybe, part of you just wanted to make something that felt like comfort.

You set the table, light a single candle, then pull your hair back loosely. Nothing too formal. Just presentable.

He comes in a little after eight, no loud greeting, no rush in his step.

You hear the door unlock, the familiar shuffle of shoes against the tile. You glance up just as Satoru steps in — coat slung over one arm, sunglasses pushed into his hair.

“Hey,” he says.

You smile gently. “You’re just in time.”

He looks over, eyes catching the table — the dishes lined up, the small effort in the details, then he pauses.

“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. “I actually… already ate.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, not right away.

“You did?”

“Yeah. They had food at the school — the Kyoto girl and her handler insisted. I didn’t think I’d be staying that long, but…” He trails off, scratching his jaw. “Didn’t realize you were cooking like this.”

You glance back at the table.

The candle flickers a little.

But your voice stays steady. “No worries. It’ll keep.”

Satoru shifts, seeming to sense something shift with you — something small. Quiet. But real.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Doesn’t make an excuse. Doesn’t offer to try a bite.

Just nods.

“Smells good, though,” he says after a beat, voice softer now.

You only nod once in return, already moving to grab a container and quietly pack things away.

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The days begin to blur.

He still comes home — eventually. But never before the sky turns dark. Never before you’ve already eaten and cleaned up and maybe even tucked yourself into the couch with a book you’re not really reading.

Sometimes he leaves before sunrise. You only know because the lock clicks quietly, and the soft shuffle of his shoes follows — careful not to wake you. It’s oddly thoughtful, in a distant sort of way.

There’s no argument. No tension. Just... space.

He doesn’t say much anymore. Doesn’t linger in the kitchen like he used to. No teasing jabs. No offhand comments while scrolling through his phone. Even the half-melted chocolate bars have stopped appearing on the counter.

You don't ask where he's been. You don’t ask who he’s with.

But you’re not stupid, you know what changed.

The Star Plasma girl. The one they’re still watching. Observing. Guarding.

And when Satoru does come home — usually past ten — he’s polite. Still Satoru. Still kind in the way people can be when they’re not paying attention. 

But he doesn’t notice the meals anymore. Doesn’t notice the small ways you still try to make the space feel lived in.

And maybe that’s fine , maybe it’s what this arrangement always was.

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You don’t expect him before dark.

So when the lock turns just after seven, your hands pause mid-stir over the pot, and for a moment, you assume it’s Ichiji — maybe dropping something off again.

But when the door opens, it’s Satoru.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just kicks off his shoes with less of his usual ease, shoulder shifting stiffly under his coat as he sets it aside.

His sunglasses stay on longer than they need to.

You watch him quietly as you set the last of the dishes on the table. The curry’s fresh. The rice is hot. You’d made it on instinct more than anything.

“You’re home early,” you say gently.

He exhales through his nose, finally sliding the sunglasses off and tossing them carelessly on the counter.

“Not really,” he mutters. “Just earlier than usual.”

You don’t press. Just nod once and gesture toward the table.

“Eat, if you’re hungry.”

He doesn’t respond, but he sits. You both eat in silence for a few minutes.

You glance at him once — how he chews slower than normal, shoulders still tense.

Finally, you speak. Carefully.

“You’ve been gone a lot lately.”

He doesn’t look up.

“Work’s busy.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “I just think… maybe you’re pushing yourself too hard.”

That’s when he stops, chopsticks mid-air.

His eyes flick to you, and for a split second, something flickers — tired, sharp.

“I’m fine,” he says, not harshly, but not gently either. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

You look down at your plate.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s not your job to monitor my energy levels,” he cuts in. Not cold. Just... done.

He immediately exhales, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reel himself back in.

A beat passes.

Then, a little quieter: “Sorry. Long day.”

You nod, keeping your expression even. “It’s okay.”

The silence settles again, thicker this time. You both eat slower.

But when he finishes and stands to rinse his plate, he does it without a word.

“Thanks for the food,” he mutters. And then, without looking at you— “Sorry. I’m not great company tonight.”

“That’s alright,” you say. Still soft. Still sincere. “You came home. That’s enough.”

He doesn’t reply right away.

Just gets up, rinses his bowl in the sink, and lingers there for a moment — back turned to you, head bowed a little.

Then he quietly disappears down the hall.

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You wake to an empty apartment.

No note. No message. Just the quiet hum of the city pressing against the windows.

You’re used to it by now.

Still, you pack a warm meal into a bento box — something a little richer than usual. A gentle gesture, not a grand one. You know he hasn't been eating well. Maybe this will help. Maybe he’ll smile.

You don’t text. You don’t call.

You just go.

By the time you reach Jujutsu Tech, the sun is high, casting lazy shadows across the gravel path. Students lounge near the front steps, voices drifting in easy chatter.

You walk further in, scanning the grounds.

And that’s when you see him.

Gojo.

Not in uniform, but still unmistakably himself — walking at an easy pace through the courtyard. Next to him is a girl. Young. Pretty. Quiet.

She’s saying something softly, and he’s listening. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottled drink. He nods, chuckles at something she says, just barely.

He hasn’t seen you.

Not yet.

You stop.

You don’t mean to, but you do. Just for a second.

The bento in your hands suddenly feels heavier.

You draw in a quiet breath and step back, out of their line of sight. You tell yourself you’ll wait until she leaves. Until he’s alone.

Until it feels like you aren’t interrupting something. You wait.

Five minutes, maybe more.

They don’t separate. She stays close to his side, their pace unhurried as they circle back toward the courtyard. He says something you can’t hear, and she laughs — not loudly, but enough to tilt her head toward him, eyes soft.

It’s not anything obvious. Nothing inappropriate.

But they don’t look like strangers.

You’re about to turn around and go — box still in hand, excuses already forming — when a voice cuts through the courtyard.

“Sensei!”

You freeze.

Yuji’s voice cuts across the courtyard before you can retreat.

“Sensei! Your wife’s here!”

You freeze. So does Gojo.

His gaze finds you instantly.

He murmurs something to the girl beside him, then makes his way over — steps slower than usual, expression unreadable.

You hold out the bento box when he stops in front of you.

“You didn’t eat,” you say simply.

He takes it with one hand, glancing briefly at the neat cloth wrap.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here for this,” he mutters. Not thankful. Not cold either — just… tired. A little impatient.

Then he turns like that’s the end of it.

“Satoru.”

You say it a little sharper this time.

He stops, sighs, and looks back over his shoulder. “What?”

You hesitate only a second.

“You’re overworking yourself again.”

His jaw ticks. Not dramatic — but enough that you catch it.

“I’m doing what I need to do,” he says. “Things are complicated right now, and I don’t have time to—” He stops himself, exhales through his nose. “Look, I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” you reply evenly.

No pleading, no anger, just truth.

His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if this is about more than what it sounds like.

“You can’t expect me to slow down just because you’re worried.”

“I’m not asking you to slow down,” you say. “I’m asking you not to run yourself into the ground.”

“Jesus, Y/N,” he says. “Do you ever stop? This whole ‘worried wife’ routine—what are you doing?”

You blink.

“You’re not my wife,” he continues, voice sharper now. “You don’t need to check in on me. You don’t need to feed me. You don’t need to keep pretending when no one’s watching. That was the deal.”

Another pause. He exhales, almost impatiently.

“Go home.”

You meet his eyes.

And after a second, you nod once.

“Right.”

Then you turn and leave—quiet, steady, no drama.

He doesn’t follow. He doesn’t call out.

He just stands there, holding the bento box he didn’t ask for, watching the space where you were a moment ago.

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You don’t remember the train ride home.

Not really.

The city moved, but you didn’t. People passed. The world spun. You sat still.

By the time you reach the penthouse, the sun’s disappeared behind low clouds, the sky a dull slate. You let yourself in, lock the door, and leave the lights off.

You don’t head to the bedroom. You just sit on the couch, back straight, hands loose in your lap.

You don’t replay what he said. You don’t need to.

You’re not my wife.

Go home.

You already did.

The silence feels thicker than usual—too still, too aware of itself.

Then, without warning—

CRASH.

Glass explodes inward. You flinch as something hurtles through the living room window and slams into the floor. Sharp edges catch your skin, slicing a shallow cut above your brow.

You freeze, then reach up and feel warm blood under your fingers.

You look down. A brick lies on the floor. Dust-covered. Aged.

Wrapped around it, with a piece of twine, is a scrap of old paper. Yellowed. Torn at the edges.

You crouch. Unwrap it. Unfold.

There’s only one sentence, written in uneven, almost childlike scrawl:

"We won’t let it be born."

No name. No context. No need for either. The message is loud enough.

You stare at it, then stand slowly, the cut on your brow bleeding in a slow, steady line. You walk to the bathroom, quiet, methodical, and patch the wound without saying a word. Then, you double-lock every door and window. And this time, you keep the lights on and a fire poker within reach.

Gojo doesn’t come home that night.

[sugurusgurl]

Love, Eventually (Part 2)

☾𖤓 Synopsis. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. Reader x Gojo Satoru ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), mentions of pregnancy, power imbalance.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 The car rolls to a stop in front of the Gojo compound—grand gates, manicured silence, and walls that feel more like boundaries than protection.

Satoru steps out first, smoothing his suit with lazy confidence. You follow a second later, heels clicking against the polished stone driveway, your breath steady despite the weight of what’s coming.

He barely glances at you before starting toward the entrance.

But before you reach the threshold—just as two elders and a handful of clan members appear at the top of the steps—you reach for his hand.

Without hesitation, without showiness. You simply slip your fingers between his and thread them together.

Your grip is warm. Gentle. Not possessive—just certain.

Satoru stops for half a breath. His head turns slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his profile. But he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he adjusts his pace to match yours.

As you step into view, all eyes turn toward you. And you—chin high, eyes calm—let your thumb brush the edge of his ring finger.

“Smile,” you whisper without looking at him. “They’re already guessing what kind of woman 

would agree to marry you.”

Satoru huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, gaze forward. But something in his posture softens.

He smiles, too.

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The Gojo clan’s dining hall is beautiful in a cold, calculated way—glass, gold, and white stone polished to sterile perfection. Everything has its place. Everyone has their role.

You play yours flawlessly.

You smile when spoken to. You laugh lightly at old women’s veiled insults and young men’s condescension. You touch Gojo’s arm just often enough to sell the illusion, but never too much to overplay it.

Gojo, for his part, lets you carry the act. He doesn’t offer help or rescue. He doesn't need to. You handle them better than expected.

Until—

“So,” says a silver-haired elder woman across the table, dabbing delicately at her lips with a cloth napkin. “Tell us about your family, dear. What do they think of all this?”

You don’t flinch. “They trust my judgment,” you say, even, polite. “Are they involved in jujutsu society at all?” the woman presses. “Surely someone of your... background isn’t entirely unrelated?”

You smile, still. But it tightens at the edges. “No, they’re not,” you say gently. “My family stays out of politics.”

Gojo glances at you, sensing something in the shift of your tone—soft, but firmer now. A subtle lock behind the eyes.

The elder hums, not letting up. “And your parents? I assume they raised you to navigate this world with such… poise.”

There’s a beat too long before you reply.

“I’m the one who raised me,” you say softly. It’s quiet. Perfectly delivered. But Gojo feels the weight of it like a pin-drop in a silent hall.

The elder laughs lightly, dismissing the moment. Someone else picks up the conversation. The topic shifts.

But you don’t touch your wine glass again.

Gojo catches it—the shift, the silence—but says nothing. Just leans back and lets the conversation move on.

You’re playing your part. That’s all that matters.

And if something about your answer lingers in his mind a moment too long—well. That’s none of his business.

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As the dinner winds down, a retainer approaches you with a subtle bow.

“The clan head would like a moment with you, miss.”

You glance toward Satoru. He’s leaned back in his chair, half-listening to a cousin's rambling. When he catches your eye, his only reaction is a lazy shrug. “Have fun,” he murmurs, not unkindly.

You nod once and follow the retainer down a long, quiet hallway—your footsteps soft against the polished floor. The ancestral walls rise around you, stately and severe. The room you’re led into is spare, formal. By the tall window stands the man you recognize from the files: Gojo Naohiro, clan head and Satoru’s father. He doesn’t turn immediately. “I appreciate you making time,” you say gently, folding your hands in front of you.

He turns then, slow and deliberate, and studies you. Not hostile. Just deeply, unmistakably evaluating. “You’re quieter than I expected.”

“I try not to speak unless I have something worth saying.” His brow lifts—just slightly. A flicker of interest. “Satoru says very little about you.” You offer a small, respectful smile. “I imagine he says very little about most things.” That earns a breath of amusement. Quiet. Surprising. “He doesn’t bring people here. Not even friends. Certainly not partners.” “I know,” you reply softly. “I didn’t expect to be the exception. I’m… just grateful he trusts me enough to stand beside him tonight.” That catches him off guard—but only just. He watches you a moment longer. “He’s unpredictable. Arrogant. Difficult even on his best days.” You nod. “He is.” 

“And you’re not intimidated by that?” There’s no hesitation. “No, sir. I think people behave like that when they expect to be misunderstood.”

Silence settles for a moment. The room feels still in a way that isn’t empty—just old. Heavy with memory. “You’ve got good manners,” he says at last. “Most women who come this close to our name either pretend to be fearless or try to impress me. You do neither.”

“I don’t want to be impressive,” you reply gently. “I just want to be enough for what he needs, for however long I’m allowed to be here.”

That seems to land deeper than you intend. He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he nods once, curt and final. “You may go.”

You bow slightly before turning to leave. Just beyond the hall, Satoru is leaning lazily against the wall. His sunglasses are tucked into his collar now, pale eyes visible and unreadable in the low light. “What’d he say?” he asks. “That I have good manners,” you say with a soft smile. “Huh,” he mutters. “Maybe he’s finally going senile.”

You walk back toward the foyer side by side. Not speaking. And Satoru doesn’t say it out loud, but part of him is starting to understand: you make this look easy… because you’ve had practice surviving harder things.

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The penthouse is dim when you return, city lights glowing softly through the wide windows. You slip out of your shoes by the door, silent and precise, like you’re trying not to disturb a peace that doesn’t really exist here. Satoru walks in behind you, loosening his tie with a dramatic sigh. “Well,” he says, heading straight for the kitchen, “I think that went beautifully. No one threw a drink. No one fainted. My father didn’t exile you on sight.”

He opens a cabinet, pulls down a dark bottle with a clean label, and holds it up between two fingers. “I think this calls for a toast.” Your eyes flick briefly to the wine, then to him. “To what, exactly?” “To us.” He grins as he uncorks the bottle. “The world's most convincing fake couple. Award-worthy, honestly.”

He pours two glasses.

You take yours with a soft, “Thank you,” and sit on the edge of the couch, legs tucked politely to the side. Satoru drops beside you, one arm stretched lazily over the back of the couch. He clinks his glass against yours with a smirk. “To surviving the Gojo clan,” he says. “Round one.”

You sip. Silence settles in—not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. Just… quiet. You turn your glass slowly in your hands. “Your father seems very devoted to the family’s image.” “He’s married to it.” Satoru leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Has been for decades. That’s why tonight mattered. You’re not just my 'choice'—you’re his next political move by extension.”

You nod once. “I understand.”

He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “You always understand. It's kind of eerie.” You offer him a small smile. “Would you prefer I argue more?”

“God, no.” He laughs. “You’re like… peace in human form. It's unsettling. Especially in this house.”

You don't laugh back. Just lower your glass and set it gently on the table. “It was a good night.”

Satoru watches you for a second too long, then tosses back the rest of his drink.

“Yeah,” he says, standing. “Don’t get used to it.”

He walks off toward his room without another word. You stay behind, watching the last bit of wine settle in your glass. And for just a moment—when the door clicks shut behind him—your shoulders sink. Only an inch. Only enough to feel it.

Then, just as quickly, you straighten up. You have a role to play. And you’re still playing it.

Satoru closes the door behind him with his shoulder, the soft click echoing louder than it should in the quiet. He shrugs off his suit jacket, tosses it on a chair, and stands in the middle of his bedroom without moving.

The room is as sterile as ever—clean lines, dark furniture, no clutter. No warmth. Just a space that serves a function. Much like everything else in his life.

He runs a hand through his hair, walks to the window, and stares out at the city lights stretching far beneath him. Tokyo sparkles. Bright, chaotic, alive.

Nothing about tonight should’ve gotten under his skin. You played your part. Perfectly. Too perfectly.

He takes off his tie slowly, more distracted than tired.

You hadn’t flinched once—not when his aunts gave you that disapproving once-over, not when the clan’s elders started prying. Even his father had backed off after a single meeting. That alone should’ve made him smug

But instead, something’s… off.

There was something in the way you looked at the wineglass

Quiet.

Detached.

Like you weren’t celebrating a win—just surviving another round.

And that line—“I just want to be enough for however long I’m allowed to be here.”

He’d brushed past it in the moment. Let it roll off him like everything else.

Now it sits there. Lodged in his brain like a splinter he can’t shake loose. He shouldn’t care. That was the rule. No lines crossed. No digging deeper. But you’re too careful. Too polished. Like someone who’s been hurt in silence for a long time and learned how to hide the bruise.

He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside, reaching for a hoodie on the chair.

Pauses.

Stares at the floor for a long, thoughtful second.

Then—

“Tch. Not my problem,” he mutters under his breath

And yet, when he lies down and closes his eyes, his mind doesn’t replay the clan dinner, or his father's cold approval—  it replays a quiet voice, sitting beside him on the couch, saying: “Thank you.”

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Two days pass. The penthouse remains quiet—too quiet for two people pretending to be newly in love. You keep to your side of the space, speaking only when spoken to, never lingering in a room longer than necessary. You’re calm. Always composed. And Satoru tells himself that’s exactly what he wanted.

Still, he finds himself looking up when you pass by. Hears the soft pad of your footsteps even over the hum of the TV. He doesn’t admit it to himself—not out loud—but you’re starting to exist in his awareness in ways you shouldn't.

He’s halfway through a call with a sorcerer from Kyoto when another number flashes on his phone. A name he recognizes. He ends the first call, picks up the second

“Gojo.”

The voice is low, clipped.

“You need to keep your fiancée inside.”

Satoru straightens, eyes narrowing.

“Why?”

“Rumors are spreading. The other clans are starting to think she’s pregnant."

He scoffs. “She’s not.” “They don’t care. If they think you’re having an heir, they think you’re consolidating power. You know what that means.”

Satoru’s mouth sets into a hard line. He doesn’t respond.

“She’s vulnerable, Gojo. She’s not from any of the big families. No blood ties, no protection. If someone wants to send a message, she’s the easiest target.”

“Let them try,” Satoru says flatly.

But the man on the other end doesn’t back off.

“You’re not taking this seriously. A woman walking around with your ring on her hand is now a symbol—and someone out there wants to make sure she’s not a threat.

A pause.

“This isn’t politics anymore. It’s blood.

The call ends.

Satoru doesn’t move for a moment. He just stares ahead—eyes cold, shoulders tense, jaw locked. He doesn’t want to care. He built this whole thing with lines that shouldn’t be crossed. But now someone thinks they can touch you.

And that’s a different kind of problem

He grabs his phone again, thumb hesitating just before your contact.  He doesn’t call.

The phone clicks silent in Satoru’s hand. His eyes stay on the screen, even after it’s gone dark.

Pregnant. Target. Blood.

The words rattle in his head, cold and measured, like facts from a report he doesn’t want to read.

“Pregnant,” he mutters. “Right. Like she’d let that happen.”

The soft click of a door opening breaks the silence.

You step in, still barefoot, sleeves rolled slightly above your wrists, hair pinned loosely at the back. You pause when you see him, eyes catching the tension in his shoulders, the uncharacteristic stillness in his posture.

“Is everything all right?” you blink.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just slips his phone into his pocket and turns to grab a glass from the counter.

“Fine,” he says casually. “Just business.”

You study him for a moment—quietly, without pressing. “You don’t usually look like that after a business call.” Your voice is gentler than usual, aware of the tension.

Satoru pours water into the glass, not looking at you. “Maybe I’m just tired of people wasting my time.”

You don’t believe him. He can see it in your posture. You’re too observant, too calm to miss the shift. But you don’t push. You never do.

“Okay,” you say softly. “If you need anything—” “I don’t.”

His tone is sharper than he means it to be. A beat of silence follows. Not heavy. Just quiet.

You nod once, with that same unshakable grace you always carry. “All right.”

You start to turn back toward the hall. But something in him stalls. “Hey.”

You look back and his gaze meets yours, steady.

“Stay inside tomorrow.”

You blink, just once. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” Flat. Controlled.

You don’t challenge him. Just study him for a second longer… and then nod.

“Okay.”

Then you disappear down the hallway again. The silence you leave behind feels louder than the conversation.

Satoru exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter, dragging a hand through his hair. He told you nothing. Protected you, he thinks.

But the problem isn’t just outside.It’s that, for the first time since this started, he doesn’t know whether keeping you in the dark is for your safety— or his own.

[sugurusgurl]

thinking about doing that tiktok trend with satoru where you pretend to be another woman that goes up to him in public but he fails every time…

not because he’s unfaithful but because he keeps forgetting that you’re pretending to be someone else and he can’t stand being mean to you.

“wait no I can’t do this— so you’re someone else?”

“yes you can just use that vivid imagination of yours to pretend I’m someone else”

“oh okay.” satoru tries to focus, getting back into his ‘acting’ mode. “let’s try again”

you go back to your starting position and walk towards him with the purpose of toppling into him.

“oh sorry!! wow you’re soooooo handsome, I didn’t mean to bump into you, can I get your number?” you run your hands over his biceps, keeping up your flirtatious gaze

“No. Stay away. I have a beautiful girlfriend waiting for me at home actually.”

“Oh do you?” You cross your arms, meeting his eyes. There’s a playful smirk on your face as you tease him.

and because it’s you Satoru can’t help but smile at your face.

“Satoru!!” you slap him lightly, “you failed. again.”

“But you’re really pretty right now baby, I can’t help but get distracted, I’m sorry!”

[sugurusgurl]

satoru has never been good at waiting.

not for dessert, not for mission briefings, not for six a.m. meetings with principal yaga. and especially not for you.

he was vibrating in place at the altar, tapping his foot, fiddling with the hem of his suit jacket, pushing his blindfold up then down again, his infinity flickering like a faulty streetlamp. nanami stood beside him, utterly unimpressed.

“if you can’t stand still, leave,” nanami muttered, adjusting his tie. he had been roped into officiating the wedding by gojo himself—“because you’re the most boring trustworthy person i know, nanamin! who better to marry us?”

gojo hadn’t stopped pacing since.

“i can’t stand still,” gojo groaned, dramatically flinging his head back. “she’s taking forever.”

“she’s walking from the other end of the garden,” nanami said without looking up from the little booklet in his hand. “twenty meters, not a marathon.”

gojo didn’t respond.

because then—he saw you.

you stepped out from behind the rows of flowers, the sun haloing you like you were something sacred. everyone turned to look, but his breath caught like he was seeing you for the first time.

your dress. your smile. the way your eyes softened when they found him.

you didn’t get more than five steps in before he moved.

“satoru—” nanami hissed, but he was already gone, a blur of white and soft laughter, suit barely holding on to him as he ran down the aisle like a man possessed.

his grin was so wide it’s a miracle his face didn’t split in two. he’s moving fast, ignoring suguru’s hissed “satoru, wait!” from the groom’s side and shoko’s half-hearted “oh, for god’s sake” from the front row.

gasps and laughter broke out among the guests. nanami pinched the bridge of his nose.

“of course.”

gojo reached you, grabbing your waist and lifting you up off the ground before you could say a single word. his lips were on yours before you could even catch your breath, one hand curled at your jaw, the other around your back, anchoring you to him like he never planned to let go again.

you laughed into the kiss, hands clutching his shoulders, and he just whispered, breathless against your lips, “couldn’t wait. couldn’t—baby, you’re so beautiful, i swear i was gonna pass out—”

“you were supposed to wait at the altar,” you teased, brushing his cheek.

“i did wait. like… ten full seconds,” he grinned, kissing you again quickly before scooping you fully into his arms.

“what are you doing—”

“shortcut. come on,” he beamed, already carrying you down the rest of the aisle, bridal style, as if it was his job now to deliver you to the altar. “if i waited for you, i’d die. nanamin, we’re ready!”

“you’ve ruined the timing of the entire ceremony,” nanami said as the two of you arrived in a fit of giggles and flushed cheeks. “you kissed her before the vows.”

“worth it,” gojo said, nuzzling into your temple as he set you down.

“you ran to me,” you whispered, eyes bright.

“i always will,” he murmured. “every damn time.”

[sugurusgurl]

Love, Eventually (Part 1)

☾𖤓 Synopsis. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. AFAB!Reader x Gojo Satoru. ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), power imbalance.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“You’re acting like I’m torturing you,” Satoru says flatly. “Relax—it’s barely even a real date.”

He didn’t ask you so much as hire you. You’re being paid to pose as his future wife. The whole thing’s just a performance—an easy fix to get his clan off his back about settling down. He has zero emotional investment in it. All he needs is to parade you around, keep the elders happy, then stage a clean breakup. No complications. No feelings. Just business.

“You’re not torturing me,” you say with a small smile, tucking your hands into your lap. “I’ve had worse company.”

You glance at him, amused. “Though you do talk a lot for someone who claims this isn’t a real date.” He grins, but you don't let him derail the moment.

“Look… I said yes because you needed someone, and I—” you pause, eyes drifting to the skyline behind him, “—needed the money. That’s all. I’m not expecting candlelight or grand gestures.” Your voice stays soft, steady. “Just clarity.”

You turn back to him with a gentle kind of humor. “So don’t worry. I’m not secretly in love with you or hoping you’ll fall for me during dessert.” A beat. “I’m just here to play my part... and maybe get through this without embarrassing either of us.”

You smile again, quiet and genuine this time.

“But I do appreciate the view. Even if it comes with a side of sarcasm and sunglasses indoors.”

Gojo leans back in his chair, lips quirking into a smirk. “Wow. So polite. So composed. And yet—somehow—that still felt like a read.”

He taps his fingers against his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “I offer you luxury dining and the honor of my stunning presence, and all I get is ‘thanks for the view.’ Brutal.”

But there’s no real sting in it. Just amusement.

Then—something shifts. His voice lowers, just a touch, like he’s actually paying attention now.

“You’re different, y’know. Most people either try to impress me, flatter me... or avoid me like the plague.” He leans in a little. “You’re doing none of that. Which makes me wonder what your story is.”

He doesn’t push, though. Just shrugs, looking away for a beat. “Anyway. Money or not, you showed up. That already makes you better than half my clan.”

He smiles again—this time a little more genuine. “So I guess I owe you... dessert?”

The laughter and city lights from the restaurant fade as the two of you step out onto the quiet rooftop terrace. It’s colder here, wind brushing against your arms. You hug yourself lightly. Gojo slips his hands into his pockets, then glances sideways at you. The teasing in his voice is gone. He’s serious now—well, Gojo-serious.

"Alright, Y/N," he starts, tone smooth but grounded, "it’s time I stop dragging this out and tell you what you’re really signing up for."

You meet his eyes. Calm. Waiting.

"You’ll move in with me. Officially. The clan needs to see you under the same roof. They’re old-fashioned like that—marriage only counts if it looks the part."

You blink, once. Not surprised, just taking it in.

"We’ll get married. Legally. It doesn’t mean anything," he adds quickly, waving a hand. "It’s a show. A performance. And when the elders finally give up on the heir obsession—or if I find someone I actually want to marry—we’ll file for divorce."

His voice doesn’t waver. Not once.

"You’ll be paid. Generously. Monthly allowance, full coverage for whatever your quiet little secret is," he adds, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s inviting you to confirm but won’t ask out loud. "And when it’s all over, you walk away with enough to start over. Clean."

You’re silent. Processing. He knows you’re smart enough not to answer too fast.

Then, finally, "There’s one rule, though." His gaze sharpens. "No falling in love. With me, obviously. This isn’t some fairy tale. We’re not friends, we’re not soulmates. We’re partners in a business deal. You hold up your end, I hold up mine." He lets the quiet settle, his face unreadable now. "So—do we have a deal, Y/N?" You don’t answer right away. The wind pulls gently at your hair, and for a moment, you just watch the city below—distant, alive, and far removed from the strange little arrangement that’s about to shape your life. You breathe in. Then out. “Okay,” you say softly. No dramatics. No bargaining. Just that.

Gojo studies you, like he’s waiting for a catch. A reason. A flinch. You give him none. “If those are the terms... then yes.” Your voice is steady, polite. Professional. But your eyes don’t meet his for long.

He opens his mouth, maybe to ask something—but you step away from the railing and straighten your coat.

“Just send the paperwork.” You don’t wait for his reply. You’re already walking back inside. And Gojo, for once, doesn’t follow right away.

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The door swings open with a soft click. Gojo doesn’t bother to help with the bags.

“You can take the guest room upstairs. First door on the right,” he says without looking back, already halfway into the penthouse.

His place is exactly what you’d expect—open floor plan, expensive without being flashy, clean in a way that feels… unused. Like no one really lives here. You nod, not expecting a warmer welcome. You pick up your things and head up. He doesn’t offer to show you around. Doesn’t ask if you’ve eaten. Doesn’t make conversation.

By the time you come back downstairs—suitcase tucked neatly away, shoes lined by the door—he’s sprawled on the couch, a pair of sunglasses still on despite the dim light from the windows.

“We’ll have dinner with the clan on Friday,” he says, scrolling through his phone. “Formal. You’ll be briefed beforehand.”

You nod again. Quiet. Steady. He glances at you just once.

“You don’t have to hover. We’re not roommates.” His voice is light, but the implication is clear: don’t make yourself too comfortable.

You give a small smile—not offended. Just... unsurprised.

“Noted.”

You turn and disappear into the kitchen, silently opening cabinets, learning where things are without asking. Gojo doesn’t ask what you’re doing. Doesn’t say thanks when you place a cup of tea beside him ten minutes later. He doesn’t even look at it. He only speaks again as you’re walking away.

“Oh—and if anyone asks, we’re disgustingly in love.” There’s a smirk in his voice, but he doesn’t look up. You pause in the hallway, just for a breath. Then keep walking.

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The guest room is tidy. Spacious. More than enough for one person—but not warm. Not lived in. Like the rest of the place, it feels like a backdrop for something performative. Temporary.

You sit on the edge of the bed, coat still on, your bag at your feet. For a long while, you don’t move. Then, slowly, you reach for the zipper and begin to unpack—neatly, efficiently. One folded shirt after another. A worn sweater. Travel-sized toiletries in a pouch you’ve clearly used a hundred times. It’s not much. You didn’t bring much. You slide open the drawer of the nightstand and tuck something inside—a small framed photo. It’s turned face-down before the drawer closes. Next, your phone. You check it. A message sits unread, and you hesitate before opening it.

From: Nurse He had a bad night. Still stable now, but the fever hasn’t gone down. Let us know when the next transfer can be made.

Your fingers hover over the screen. Then you type:

I'll send it before Friday. Please tell him I’m okay.

You stare at the words for a beat too long before hitting send.

When the message is gone, you set the phone on the nightstand, face down beside the drawer that holds your reason.

And you exhale. Not shakily. Not dramatically. Just tired. You lie back, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. Letting the quiet press down. You knew what this would be. Cold arrangements. Polished lies. No space for real things. But that’s fine.

It has to be.

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Three days later.

The morning sun filters through the penthouse windows, too bright for how little sleep you’ve gotten. You’re already seated at the long kitchen island when Gojo finally walks in—coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.

He doesn’t say good morning.

“We’ll leave at six. Dinner starts at seven sharp. Don’t be late.” His voice is clipped, matter-of-fact, like this is a meeting, not a marriage.

You nod. “What do I need to know?”

He slides a folder across the counter toward you. You open it: photos, names, brief descriptions—members of the Gojo clan. Their roles. Their expectations. The alliances they’re trying to broker through him. You skim silently, taking mental notes.

“They’ll be watching everything,” he adds, sipping his coffee. “How you dress, how you speak, how you look at me.” His tone turns slightly mocking. “So try not to look too bored. Or terrified.”

You don’t react. Just turn the page.

“Pretend we’re disgustingly in love, right?” you say mildly, recalling his words from the other night.

That earns a glance from him. Brief. Amused. “Exactly. Light touches, soft looks, subtle affection. They eat that stuff up.” A beat. “You can act, right?”

You give him a soft smile, the kind that could pass as adoring if someone didn’t look too closely.

“I agreed to this, didn’t I?”

He doesn’t respond. Just moves on. “My father will do most of the talking. Don’t interrupt him. Ever. If anyone asks how we met, we keep it simple: a chance encounter, turned whirlwind romance.” He says it like it’s a joke, but there’s no humor behind it.

“And if someone corners me privately?” you ask.

Gojo raises a brow. “Say something vague. Gaze longingly in my direction. Maybe brush my arm on your way out of the conversation. I’ll take it from there.”

You nod again, silent as you absorb every word. You don’t write anything down. You don’t have to.

Finally, he stands.

“There’s a dress in your room. Picked it out yesterday. Should fit.” He starts to walk away, then pauses, glancing over his shoulder.

“You’re good at this. The calm, collected act. Makes my job easier.”

You smile faintly. “It’s not an act.”

He doesn’t respond. Just disappears down the hall.

And you’re left alone again, fingers resting on the folder full of strangers—people you’ll need to fool into believing you belong in a life that isn’t yours.

You close it.

And get to work.

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You stand in front of the mirror, smoothing the fabric of the dress he left for you.

It fits perfectly. Of course it does.

You’ve done your hair the way the clan profile suggested would “photograph well.” Your makeup is soft, elegant. Nothing too loud. Everything about you tonight is meant to look effortless, like you were made to stand beside him.

Like you belong beside him.

The door to your room creaks open slightly—Gojo doesn’t knock.

He leans against the frame, dressed in a tailored black suit that makes him look even more untouchable than usual.

He whistles low.

“Not bad,” he says. “They’re going to eat you alive.” You smile faintly, then turn away from the mirror. “Good. That’s what you’re paying me for.” He watches you for a second longer, unreadable. Then—

“One more thing.” His voice shifts—lower, quieter.

You pause. Waiting.

He walks into the room and reaches into his jacket pocket. When he pulls his hand out, he holds something small, metallic. A simple gold band.

A wedding ring.

“Put it on,” he says. “From this moment on—you're my wife.”

You take it without a word, sliding it onto your finger. The metal is cool. Heavier than it looks. He watches the way your eyes linger on it just a moment too long. And then, softly, like it’s nothing, “Just don’t forget it’s all fake.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “I won’t.”